Month: April 2004

On Being a Good Mother

I sometimes hear mothers say with great confidence, “I am a great mother!” This is often in tandem with a complaint about a mother-in-law’s meddling ways and criticisms, but still. There are women–mothers–who absolutely know that they are doing a fabulous job.

I am not one of them.

I worry. A lot. About whether my kids will be the ones who inhale glue or walk on railroad tracks or become fixated on pornography. I waste time wondering if my boys will grow up and marry cold-hearted women who are bossy and sarcastic and then blame me. I am terrified that my kids really won’t remember anything except the times I scream, “This is driving me crazy!”

Maybe that’s why I take so many pictures. We always look really happy. The kids seem to be having a great childhood. Yet, I have no confidence that I am a wonderful mother.

See, a wonderful mother plays Monopoly with her kids whenever they ask. She makes a hot, homemade breakfast and packs a delicious, nutritious lunch that her children eagerly eat. She doesn’t wear June Cleaver pearls, but she does have on matching clothes and a cute haircut. And make-up. She never yells and her laundry is always caught up. Oh, and she doesn’t fly into a frenzy when yet another glass bowl bites the dust right next to the baby’s feet. She needs no time to read, to think, to shop, to write, to talk with grown-ups. She is completely, slavishly devoted to her children, even the older, smelly ones.

I fret that the boys are going to freak out some day about the fact that they are adopted. I worry that they have fantasized a Perfect Mother in their heads–she probably resembles the Perfect Mother I have in my head. I torture myself with the reality that the twins cannot remember the times they slept on our floor in the middle of the night and the times we took them to playgrounds and the times they ran through the sprinkler and rolled in mud and shrieked with laughter. They’re approaching the “I’m bored, this is not fair, no one ever listens to me” stage of pre-adolescence. They can’t remember the first four years of their lives when they were the center of our universe.

Most recently, I have worried that the addition of the younger children has robbed the older children of everything–of our time, of our money, of our attention. YoungestBoy was born just as the twins went to kindergarten. I couldn’t be the Room Mother. I couldn’t go to their baseball games. I couldn’t practice with them so their baseball games weren’t so humiliating. I answered, “No, the baby is sleeping,” too many times to count. I shushed them constantly.

They have to share a room. They have to share their toys. They have to be nice to YoungestBoy, even when he’s being a pain in the neck.

And then, just when things were getting manageable, we had Babygirl. YoungestBoy was four and a half.

I do not recommend this spacing. At all.

I wish for each of my kids that they could be Only Children. I wish they had their own room, their own space, their own solitude. (Or maybe that’s just what I wish I had!)

I can only be cut into so many tiny little pieces. I feel like the kids get their piece and whine, “No fair! He got a bigger piece!” I am never enough.

My hope is that what my kids lose–attention, time, money, things–are outweighed by what they gain–companionship, lessons in getting along with people, lifelong friendships with their siblings, experience, compassion, generous spirits.

My ultimate fear? They grow up, never find meaningful work, never find lifelong love and blame me.

(Yes, this is another premenstrual syndrome entry. My neurosis comes in regular cycles. How convenient.)

I’m Married to the King

That’s right. Did you know I was a Queen? Yes-sir-ee-bob, I’m the Queen of Laundry and I’m married to the King of Naps.

How can a person nap when he’s slept until 8 a.m.? How can he nap in the morning and then nap in the afternoon? How can he fall asleep at 10:30 p.m. when he’s napped half the day?

If I nap, it means only two things: I am pregnant or I am sick.

If I nap, I will be unable to sleep well at night.

If I nap, I will wake up grumpy and out of sorts and dazed.

He is kind of cute, though, stretched out in the recliner, mouth agape, hands folded on his stomach as if he’s laid out in his coffin, escalating snores. Long Live the King!

Eighty-One Dollars Worth of Fun

Update: I feel perfectly fine today. Weird, huh?

We went to The Fair today. Not the big fair, but the Spring Fair, held on the same fairgrounds as the regular fair. Earlier in the week we’d talked about going, but then I decided it was just going to be too expensive and the kids already did a lot of fun things this week.

But this morning, my husband returned from taking Babygirl for a ride in the car and reported that the weather was nice and that he was thinking about taking the boys to the fair. So we all went.

Admission: $26 (And that was half-off)
Ride Tickets: $15 for 20 (4 or 5 tickets necessary for each ride)
Lunch: $26.25 (for me and three boys)
Games: $13.75

The kids each had between $10 and $15. They were eager to spend it on games, but I insisted that we first watch a demonstration. We walked all the way across the grounds, found Barn J and arrived in time to watch Border Collies demonstrate how they herd animals. In this case, they were herding about five ducks with great stealth and skill.

The woman asked if any child would like to volunteer to herd the ducks–to demonstrate how difficult it really is to get the ducks to go through the various obstacles. YoungestBoy raised his hand and was chosen along with another boy in a red shirt.

Watching them chase the ducks was worth the price of fair admission. Ducks quacking, kids laughing, ducks scattering. When a duck is separated from the remaining ducks, they call it a “duck split”, which YoungestBoy thought was very funny. He pictured the duck in a bowl with whipped cream and chocolate syrup on it.

But enough educational stuff, Mom. There were games to play, rides to ride!

I went on a ferris-wheel type ride with YoungestBoy and TwinBoyB. TwinBoyA opted not to ride. He is not fond of rides at all. While we rode, TwinBoyA played a game involving a dart and won himself a stuffed animal. YoungestBoy and I played a game involving balls and racing horses. I won, but of course, gave him the animal (an orange monkey). Then we had a string of bad luck and lost dollar after dollar after dollar playing games. In disgust I said, “We may as well just toss our money down that drain!” (We conveniently passed a storm drain at just that moment.)

Kids are optimists, though. I wasn’t, but most kids are. They were sure they’d win, so they kept spending until their pockets were empty. Even my pockets were empty by the time we left. We did manage to bring home four little stuffed animals and one poster.

My husband pushed Babygirl around in her stroller the whole time–he mostly just kept her moving and that kept her happy. She put on her very sad face when we first entered the fair gates, but when she spotted the animals–llamas, sheep, dogs–she cheered up. She’s a slow-to-warm-up baby. (She immediately went down for a nap when we got home. I’d like to nap myself, but I have other kids to take care of and a mountain of laundry with my name on it.)

YoungestBoy and I rode one more ride–some contraption that circled around and then swung up and down. I think it was called a “hurricane.” I don’t know, but the centrifugal force kept YoungestBoy plastered to my side and caused an ache in my neck. At the peak of the excitement, I had a sudden vision of the cars being flung into the air and grabbed the bar a little tighter. YoungestBoy thought it was great fun.

When we left, YoungestBoy said the day had been the best day of his life. I guess that was worth $81.

On the way home, my husband’s cell phone rang to report that our friend in the hospital has been moved from one hospital to another. He’s undergoing emergency surgery for a brain-bleed. This does not look good. So, my husband’s at the hospital. I feel so sad for our friend and his family. Sigh.

How To Be A Jerk In One Easy Lesson

Secretly feel annoyed that your husband, the pastor, is going to visit a church member (who happens to be a close friend) in the hospital tomorrow. So what if it’s Saturday and he’s supposedly taking the week off and you’ve been with kids non-step for days, weeks, months, years? So what if the man is recovering from surgery so he can then undergo intensive chemotherapy? So what? What about you?

See how easy it is to feel like a jerk? Pout invisibly (of course) a little about being unimportant to your husband and remind yourself that you will never again leave the house in the daylight without kids. Think about not going on vacation in approximately 15 years. Ponder the injustice of your life.

Then remind yourself that the Hospital Guy is in worse shape than you are and kick yourself in the pants. You big jerk.

Why It’s Good to be 39

Here are a few reasons why I like being 39:

1) I don’t think everyone in a room is talking about me when I walk in.

2) When my husband is upset, I figure that’s his problem, not mine.

3) I have a lot of experience. I’ve planned a wedding and funeral and everything in between. I’ve admitted someone to the hospital, given birth to two babies at home and slept in a hospital overnight after my 3 year old had surgery. I’ve hosted baby showers and sung at weddings.

4) I realize my worth as a person doesn’t depend on how good my hair looks. What’s inside my head matters more and I know that now.

5) My life is turning out all right. All that worry in my teens was for nothing.

6) Not much surprises me. I am no longer devastated by people’s betrayals or shocked by their downfalls. I’ve seen a lot.

7) I’ve been thin and I’ve been fat and though thin is better, I’m the same person inside. I am not my body. I’m just inside here.

8) I have learned from experience. I know how to make mashed potatoes and how to iron a shirt and how to get a company to send me free diapers.

9) I don’t care what people think. I trust my own judgment.

10) Being 39 is better than the alternative. My dad died when he was 47. Time is short. I am grateful just to be alive.

My Twins Turn 11 Today

The twins turn 11 years old today. What’s funny is that they’ve been arguing about when they are “officially” and “technically” turning 11. TwinBoyB says not until 11:30 p.m. when he was actually born. TwinBoyA doesn’t care about the details. He says he turned 11 as of 12:01 a.m. this morning. The more things change, the more they stay the same. I think these children will argue until they live separately. Or even longer. Who knows? I can hardly believe I have two boys on the cusp of adolescence–even though they are starting to smell and have greasy hair and grow hair in strange places. ::shudder::

I have baked a chocolate cake and am looking forward to making homemade frosting, mostly so I can lick giant globs of it off my fingers. Because everyone knows that frosting doesn’t have any calories if you lick it off your fingers.

Changing gears entirely . . .

I am always very hopeful in spring. Each spring I think this is the year I’m going to get the whole flowerbed weeded. I have flowerbeds that some lunatic must have planned. They are a good eight to ten feet wide as they approach the corner of the yard. I’ve never managed to get all the weedy grass dug out of them before I give up (in June, usually). But this year, I’m making remarkable progress. And last night, to celebrate, I bought twenty dollars worth of perennials to plant. I can’t wait. Spring hopes eternal.

We’re on our third day of cloudy skies and occasional rain. The babies do not quite understand why we can’t go outside. Yesterday, I took Babygirl for a stroll around our circle, but it started to rain and by the time we got home, I was wet. My naturally curly hair was out of control.

We sent off the taxes today. We paid $54. I hate paying taxes. Our estimated quarterly payment was due today, too. That’s the one that really hurts. If more people had to write a check to the government every three months, more people would vote Republican.

The most embarrassing thing happened today. My husband (continuing his “week off”) had a friend come to “help him” with a few household repairs. They replaced the shower nozzle in our bathroom and the toilet seat, too. Both of these things I could easily do myself and I hated that someone else did them. I was embarrassed that this man thinks I’m not able to do such simple stuff. Of course, I’m also completely irrational and hated the fact that he saw my bedroom, which probably has laundry on the floor and an unmade bed–because my husband doesn’t get up at the crack of dawn like I do and it’s kind of hard to make a bed when someone’s still in it. I’ve tried, believe me. I also sleep nice and tidily and when I emerge from a bed, it’s a simple matter of pulling the covers up and fluffing the pillows. I am a neat sleeper, unlike some people I know who shall remain nameless.

Family

My husband and I were talking today about how long we’ve been married. Almost 17 years. That breaks my family record–my parents were married 13 years. Then my dad’s second marriage lasted 7 years. My mom’s second marriage lasted 5 years, her third marriage lasted 1.5 years, her fourth marriage lasted three or four years. Then she gave up marriage and just lived with a man for about 7 years.

My husband isn’t sure how long his parents were married, but as near as we could figure, their marriage lasted about 15 years. His mother’s longest lasting marriage is going strong at 25 years at least, and his dad’s marriage has lasted probably 35.

Anyway, he was saying, “I am doing my best to get away from dysfunctional people.”

And then he paused. “But my siblings keep calling!”

You know what they say. You can pick your friends. You can pick your nose. But you can’t pick your friend’s nose.

And you can’t pick your family, either.

Rise and Whine

I hate mornings.

This morning, the ringing of the alarm at 6:30 a.m. was extremely loud. I think someone moved the setting to “LOUD.” I hate being the first person to wake up in the house. I know. I’m a terrible housewife and mother. My children never wake to the sound of me singing while I fry bacon in the kitchen.

I open my bedroom door and notice Babygirl has turned on her light already. She’s awake early, too. Then I smell it. She has had an explosion in her diaper. I have changed thousands of diapers in my lifetime and this was the worst. I will spare you the details–like how the diarrhea covered her stomach–and just tell you that I had to carefully strip her and put her straight into the bathtub.

I hollered to my husband (who was still in bed because he’s taking the week off) so he could help me. I was expecting DaycareKid to arrive any second and realized I couldn’t get the door if I were bathing Babygirl. So, my husband ran the bathwater–he added bubbles, though, which was a big mistake. Babygirl hates bubbles. She screamed during the whole bath (which lasted about three minutes).

She’s been clinging all morning and fell asleep on the floor just now while watching Sesame Street. I suppose she has a little tummy bug. She’s been eating and drinking all morning, though.

My husband took the boys out to lunch. Yesterday, he took them to spend their birthday money, so everyone has new video games and they are mostly not arguing.

A new friend of mine shared with me her secret for dealing with birthdays for kids older than 10. She offers them $100 in cash–in lieu of a party and birthday gift. I offered my kids this deal, and even though it cost me $200, it saved me stress, hassle and money! And I don’t have to sit at Odyssey I while a bunch of pre-teen boys holler around me and play laser tag. What a brilliant idea! Their actual birthday is tomorrow, so we’ll have cake and sing Happy Birthday and take pictures.

Half-way through Spring Break. Someday, I will have Spring Break, too, and I will read a lot of novels and lay in the sun and shop for an entire week straight.