At Least I’ll Be Able to Play the Damn Fiddle

I’ve obviously taken a little hiatus from writing and can honestly say that I’ve been suffering from a case of the blahs. Though there are various external circumstances that have been contributing to the blah feelings, I’m wondering if my sadness stems from something deeper. After reading a bit in a book my friend Katharine bought me called, “I Was a Great Mother Before I Had Kids,” I wonder if I’m not suffering as a result of simply not being able to be perfect.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but I really think it’s true that in modern-day parenting, that is this vague, unattainable goal that we subconsciously actually think we can achieve, which of course sets us up for terrible disappointment and failure. Where does this idea come from in the first place? Before we become parents many of us do think about the kind of parents we will be. I know that I consciously thought that I would be able to produce the most well-adjusted, well-rounded, kind kids the world has ever seen based on my marvelous parenting skills. I thought that if my husband and I could introduce things in positive ways and engage happily in various activities, that my children would not see anything in life as a chore and would be thrilled to try everything. Folding laundry is fun! Being nice to my brother is great! I love all sports! I can’t wait to take music lessons! I want to potty train! I want to try new foods! I just can’t wait to read! Of course I’d love ice skating lessons! I like the process of learning things and always give my best effort! I feel very comfortable shaking hands with grown men at age five! And the list goes on. And the list is absurd. And sadly, I must admit, I really, really believed deep down that this would all be true. Despite how unaware I was that this was the case. I never would have admitted that and would have said that it’s just important to accept the child as he is, that kids are all different, and it’s important to celebrate their unique qualities.

So, you might see where this is going. Kind of looks like a train wreck. Fast-forward a few years and I’m looking at two boys going on age 8 and age 5 respectively. I’ve learned a few lessons along the way. For example, when a child seems to walk to the beat of his own drummer and not be concerned with the mainstream, no amount of Star Wars and Speed Racer videos, Pokemon cards and other trendy toys will make any difference whatsoever. And I’m ashamed to admit it, but I brought these things home. What mother in her right mind says, “honey, why don’t we turn off that educational science video and put in Star Wars?” or, “Oh, I’m glad you’re enjoying that book. I see some boys your age playing with Pokemon cards, would you like some?” I have dragged home videos, sports equipment, tacky and poorly made plastic theme toys based on cartoon characters that are directly marketed at kids during commercials and are the bane of many parents’ existences, in the hope that my older son would suddenly see the light and start demanding this crap regularly and maybe fit in better with the kids at school. However, to this day, the only two purchases he has made with his own allowance money are an Audubon field guide to wild mushrooms and a Swiss Army knife. My younger son, however, likes all the gadgets I bring home and plays with them until they break. But then, he too loses interest. Star Wars had a life span of about 4 months in our house. It’s all but forgotten now. And I’ve learned that no amount of totally fun socializing events will turn a moody introvert into an extrovert.

I guess part of me wants to make sure that I’m not DENYING my children the stuff that will help them fit in. It’s very likely that I’m looking at my kids through a veil of my own insecurities. I think they’ll be great at something I’m not because I’m giving them the opportunity to try something early. I want them to fit in and feel “normal” the way I never really did. I worry that my husband and I somehow gave them inferior genes since we have two boys and neither my husband nor I are great athletes. I ache when my 7-year olds says, “I’m not really a fast runner.” Aaack, my husband and I are not fast runners, how could we even THINK of having kids? Then he says,  “and sometimes when I run I get stitches in my side.” I gasp again because I always got stitches in MY side as a kid. How could I do this to my poor little boy?

Despite all this pain and my personal realizations about how crazy I guess I really am, there seems to be a glimmer of light shining. After all these years of giving—of cooking and cleaning and cutting toenails and arranging play dates and filling out forms and picking preschools and arranging lessons and bringing home toys and books and giving pep talks, I asked for fiddle lessons for my 40^th birthday. For me. Why? Because I have always absolutely loved the instrument, but was too afraid to try. But I decided that if I do try, I may have 40 years or so to enjoy playing, and there is no time like the present. I’m enjoying the lessons. I think the instrument fits me (it’s small). It’s a relief to think that I’m doing something for me. I’ve done freelance work over the years and have found some time to paint, but painting takes a long time with set up and clean up. I can practice fiddle for 5 minutes at a time, so it’s perfect for now when I have so little free time.

I’m enjoying my Monday night fiddle lesson enough to not be willing to enroll the kids in an activity on the same night for fear I’d have to give the lessons up. If my husband has to travel for work, I plan to drag the kids to the half hour lesson with me. Dinner may not be so spectacular on those nights. But I’m thinking that ironically this may be one of the greater gifts I can give them. It will give them a chance to see that I respect myself enough to do something just for me. It will also give them both a chance to see someone go through the process of learning something new, being bad at first, working at it, and slowly improving. These won’t be lessons I will lecture them with, they will just learn by watching, if they choose to. And maybe they won’t notice it or think about it now, but it will inspire them to try new things and not be afraid of failure when they’re older. Or, maybe it won’t. But whether or not they love tennis or always remember to say “please and thank you,” at least I’ll be able to play the damn fiddle.

And They Are Who They Are

Before I had kids I would have told people that I’d have no problem with any kind of child I had: outgoing or shy, athletic or artistic, straight or gay. I enjoy all kinds of people and always have, as long as they mean well and are kind. I felt that I could accept any kid I got, and then help instill the values that my husband and I find important: being kind and honest, open-minded, hard working, and generous, etc. I figured that the reason some parents struggled with they way their child is was because they had rigid hopes for the child that didn’t necessarily fit with the child’s interests, for example, they would only be happy with a child who wanted to become a doctor or lawyer and captain of a varsity sports team. You get the idea. And I knew that would never be me.

And it isn’t me…not really. My kids are very different from one another and I truly am amused, amazed, and delighted by them just for being who they are. But, I worry more about Jasper probably more than I ever will about Hugo, because I realize that his experience being a person that is a little different might be harder for him. I thoroughly appreciate him, that’s not it. What other child, upon hearing I brought home a DVD on the history of government, squeals with glee and wants to leave the dinner table to watch it right now? I love that about him. He just can’t get enough knowledge, and now I pretty much have to google every question he asks me because I don’t know the answers. But, although his lofty intellect far exceeds his years, his social skills do not. I cringe on the playground when he walks around by himself and doesn’t approach other kids. He does have friends, but he does much better with them one-on-one. If there is a group, he doesn’t know what to do. If a friend he usually plays with plays with someone else, he won’t go over to them. He just doesn’t know how. I see how painful this can be for him and my heart aches, and I find myself secretly wishing he were just a little different. Why can’t he be more outgoing? Why can’t he be more comfortable around other people or in groups?

I get angry at myself for having those thoughts. But I do see what a much easier time his little brother has. He’s not shy. If he wants something, let’s say a snack or a chance to try out a skateboard, he will march over to boys five or six years older and a foot taller than he is and ask them. His interests overlap with other boys’: ball sports, roughhousing and race cars, so it’s easy for him to find someone to play with. Fitting in, for him, is just never a problem. I remind myself that it’s my job to parent the kids I have, and that they do not enter the world fully formed. Everyone has challenges, and my task is to help my children navigate their way in the world and to give them tools to face their challenges.

As I walked my son to school this morning and he talked about his difficulty on the playground, I told him that lots of people feel shy. We talked about ways to start conversations, and how it’s just nice to say hello. After school we stayed to play at the playground to take advantage of the beautiful weather.  I saw Jasper wander around alone for a while. He didn’t go near any other kids and my heart just sank. An unfortunate mother on the playground got an earful from me as I unburdened my soul to her about how I worry about him. But then, Jasper found his friend, Hannah, and they played off to the side together. Then I noticed another shy boy see them and run across the field to hide behind a tree to watch them. In this moment I saw another painfully shy kid with no idea how to approach two other children he knew he liked to play with. I thought, here is a teaching moment! I need to tell Jasper to invite that boy to play. But, before I ever made a move I saw Jasper go over to him, and before long they were all playing together and soon after that a couple more kids joined in. Needless to say, I was overjoyed.

On the walk home Jasper told me that at the playground he saw someone behind the tree and he went to see who it was. He said that when he saw the other boy he said, “Hi Rowan, do you want to play with us?” And, sure enough, Rowan did. Jasper was so proud of himself, and so pleased with the positive result. I surged with pride then, just so happy that he tried out this new skill and that it worked. So tonight, I can rest a little easier knowing that we have made some progress on this hurdle, even though I know there are many more to come. 

Got Control?

It’s been a disappointing couple of weeks. First, there is just that winter gloom that appears in February in Maryland: weather with a tendency towards the raw and bitter, without a hint of the snowy winter-wonderland that can redeem the darkest months of the year. The gloom around here has been compounded by Jasper’s pneumonia, which finally released its grip two days ago and Jasper went back to school and felt well for the first time after 11 days. My image of the last few days of near-quarantine are of Jasper diligently carrying around a box of tissues, of which he has become a connoisseur (he prefers Kleenex; Puffs are too “creamy” and the generics too rough), and a plastic bag to deposit the contaminated ones in to keep them off the floor. His nose and cheeks were bright red from all the wiping and nose blowing, and are just starting to heal.

I find sickness so hard to deal with. Of course I feel so sad for my sick child. But I have selfish concerns too. If my child is sick, I don’t get to see anyone either. I have to put aside my plans and projects because suddenly any free time I thought I would have dries up. It’s hard playing nursemaid for days on end. And canceling all the plans is distressing. At age 7, Jasper knows just what he’s missing. The play dates get canceled, he missed the Valentine’s Day party at school and the 100^th day of school celebration. He missed his art class, and a play we were planning to go with friends. And we all missed a ski trip. The kids had been watching snowboarding, skiing, and “extreme jumping” videos on the web in preparation and couldn’t wait to try to slide down some little hills at our local ski slopes. No matter how much medicine and soup I fed Jasper, no matter how many times I took his temperature and had him nap, I just couldn’t make him get better. Perhaps the most disappointing aspect to the missed people and plans is the fact that dear friends of ours are leaving for Zambia on Monday and won’t return until the end of May. I couldn’t see them or help them at all with packing or childcare, and the kids couldn’t play together. We did finally get to see them today for a little while to say goodbye, but since I couldn’t be part of the process of seeing them off, it’s a little surreal to know now that I won’t have another opportunity to see them until we welcome them home in three months.

I can maturely and rationally realize that with all the grief and horror in the world, a sick child who will get better is nothing to complain about. But it’s not just the missed events that frustrate me. My job is to keep the family on a schedule and I essentially plan our lives. I make the doctors appointments, schedule the teacher conferences and play dates and dinners with friends. I make sure there’s enough time for homework and food shopping and meal preparation. I plan the date nights and visits with grandma and grandpa. I get the kids to and from school on time, make sure they have enough time to play outside in the fresh air and make sure we get to the library. And when I’m not doing that I have my own projects: volunteer and freelance work, and projects around the house. And when one of the kids gets sick, it all stops. I can’t do my job, or more precisely, my entire job description turns on a dime. I cancel everything that was planned and make new arrangements for trips to the doctor and pharmacy. I become aware that in this phase, my entire life is dictated by illness, and that any control I think I have over what happens is largely an illusion.

The reality of parenting is how little control we have so much of the time. We can’t control what our children like or want to do or how they feel. We can’t control our own schedules because so often a tired or sick child will force us to change our plans. In my case I realize that at times, I just feel helpless.

I remember hearing about a study of Centenarians. The researcher wanted to discover what traits these long-lived people might share. One trait that seemed to appear in person after person was an ability to manage stress and roll with the punches. I don’t think of myself as particularly controlling and still love doing things spontaneously. But as I find myself having less control in my life, I find myself wanting more. For now I am grateful that Jasper is healthy and that life is back to a more predictable pattern. I appreciate that now, at least for a little while, I can once again feel that I have some control. 

Imagination

The other night we had friends to our house for dinner. They brought their two daughters, one of whom had just broken her leg a few days before while skiing. She was sporting an impressive cast on her leg, and was already developing some interesting new ways to get around such as pulling herself upstairs backward. Jasper and Hugo were impressed, and drew pictures and their names on her cast. After dinner, the kids disappeared upstairs and played and let us grown-ups eat in peace. The next morning I went into the upstairs play room to tidy up and noticed that each and every stuffed animal in the boys’ collection had a “cast” on it. The casts were made out of toilet paper and some extra chair stuffing I had lying around, and were secured on the animals with tape. Some of the animals were lying on cushions that had been pulled off the couch that were serving as hospitals beds. Arms and legs were splinted; one polar bear even had his nose wrapped! I just had to laugh.

I love the raw, powerful imaginations that kids have.  I love how those four children could immerse themselves in the same imaginary world and rescue all those poor, ailing animals. I’m sure child psychologists could comment on the compassion and empathy that the children were acting out in that scene.  I think I appreciated that moment even more because in this day and age, so many people are lamenting that children no longer have enough free time to play, and that when they do have free time they just want to watch TV or play video games. I am thrilled to know that in my little corner of the world anyway, the child’s imagination is alive and well!

For the Love of Animals

Now that our children are 4 and 7 years old and old enough to appreciate and help care for a pet, my husband and I thought it would be a good time to get a couple kittens for our family. Our children were thrilled. We looked at the animal control web site, filled out the application, and followed their instructions on bringing the whole family to choose and meet our new pets. We arrived on Saturday, and went from cage to cage, looking at litters of kittens caged together and cats on their own, and so many that it breaks your heart. Although there were many charmers, there were two female siblings that we all fell in love with. We held them, and they snuggled on our boys’ laps. We all decided that these were the ones for us, and took their cards up to the front desk to schedule our interview. After we left the shelter we went to the pet store, and then arrived home loaded with cat litter, food, grooming tools, and toys. Our sons chose names for our new kittens, “Lavender, because it’s a pretty name for the cat,” and “Lava, because the kitten’s fur looks like fiery rocks.” On Wednesday, I arrived for the interview with my youngest son. I was surprised to be greeted and led down the hall by a woman who did not smile. She began asking questions in an accusatory tone that immediately made me defensive as though we were guilty until proven innocent. She grilled me about two cats we had that now live with my husbands’ sisters (they took them when we were going through a time of huge transition). She made me feel as though we had made a horrible choice to find new homes for them, even though we had responsibly found safe and loving homes for them (and would have taken them back but my sisters-in-law wanted to keep them). She asked me our views on having cats declawed, and since we have learned details about this procedure in the past I told her we don’t believe in it (although I could see how someone might not understand what the procedure entails and might say it’s okay to do). She then asked me how I felt about allowing cats outside, and I replied that I think that cats tend to like to go outside and be in nature. She then told me our application has been rejected, and we can’t have the kittens. “What?” I asked, shocked. She told me it is illegal to let cats outside in Frederick County. I told her I’d never heard that, but asked, “what if we are willing to obey the law?”  She replied that she couldn’t believe that we would after my response, and she sent us on our way. I felt that I had been led into a trap.

Needless to say, my children are absolutely devastated and we are utterly stunned. Let’s see, we are very responsible people who hold jobs, volunteer for the PTA and are actively involved in our community. We own a home and have perfect credit scores. We have well-cared for and loved children and a loving home. I am a stay at home mom and my husband often works from home, so any pet in our care would have lots of company, all the time. Almost every aspect of our lives is a reflection of responsible, thoughtful decisions we have made. As my friends said later, “but you guys are the poster people for who should have a pet!” We think so too.

I did some research. It is not illegal for cats to be outside, but they may not leave the property. The people at the veterinary clinic I called did not know this either. Then I read an interesting article in Maryland Newsline Business, dated October 24, 2008*, entitled, “Economic Crisis Hits Home for Pets.” In the article I read, “At Frederick County’s only shelter, pet surrenders are up 10 percent and euthanasia rates are up 18 percent this year over last, said Director Harold Domer. The shelter has a capacity of 241 animals. All of its foster homes are full.” Executive Director Dr. Lizel Salmon stated further, “The shelter is currently over capacity with more than 250 animals needing homes.”

I look at our empty cat food bowls, the unused cat toys and scratching post. I think of Lava and Lavender in a tiny cage in an overcrowded shelter instead of being with a loving family and wonder if a “suitable” family will ever be found for them. I think of how I feel I was tricked with a question few people know the answer to, and how horrible it is that they made my children meet the pets first. I think about the disservice done to my family and those poor little kittens. I think about the statistics I read in the article about how the euthanasia rates are up this year, and hope that that won’t be the fate of the kittens we weren’t allowed to adopt.

Of course I understand the need to protect animals from possible neglect or abuse, but I think a better way to choose adoptive owners is to simply find extremely responsible people who are willing to make the best decisions for the pet and assume responsibility for the pet for the duration of its life. I think it would made sense that good parents would probably be good pet owners, as the responsibilities are similar: to love and care for dependent creatures and make the best decisions possible for them. We are constantly making new decisions about how to parent our children based on new research on what kids should and should not eat, should and should not watch or play with and how they should or should not be disciplined. We would do the same for our kittens and make all the best care decisions for them when presented with laws and current philosophies on what’s best for their wellbeing.

Apparently the Frederick Animal Control center doesn’t agree, and would rather euthanize homeless cats than place them with a family like ours.

* http://www.newsline.umd.edu/business/specialreports/foreclosures/foreclosurepets102408.htm

Growing Up

One of the joys and of course, heartbreaks, of having kids is watching them grow up. It makes me sad that my youngest child is rapidly leaving babyhood behind (he’s almost four)! And today, Jasper wanted to sit on my lap to read a story. He is almost seven, and still very snuggly, but for whatever reason today he just seemed huge. He was heavy, and his body, as I was pulling him on to my lap, felt so thick. I looked down at his hands and was shocked by the long fingers, the fingernails that are almost as big as mine, and by how strong and thick his hands seemed. The skin was even a little rough. I wrapped my arms around his bigger-than-I-remember chest and attempted to peer over, and then around, his head to read the story. It must have been a comical sight, because I felt like I had someone the size of myself on my lap. I probably squeezed him just a little too tight right then, trying to really drink in the moment, just because I still could.

One aspect of them getting a bit older though is that there is more that you can share with them on a higher level. The knowing glances I might exchange with Jim or a friend when I know they are thinking the same thing as me in a social situation or when I know they will find something funny, I can now share with Jasper.

Jim has been traveling so the other day Jasper, Hugo and I were eating dinner together. Hugo said, “mommy, after dinner can we wrestle?” I replied, “oh honey, mommy doesn’t really wrestle, but if you want we can snuggle after dinner.” He thought about that and said, “okay, we can snuggle and then maybe snuggle-wrestle.” Jasper looked very amused and said, “Hugo, what is snuggle-wrestle?” and Hugo answered, “when you snuggle rough!” Right after which point he hopped up on the chair behind me and grabbed my shoulders and started yanking them back and forth. It was so sudden and silly and unexpected that Jasper and I just looked at each other and burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed and Hugo just kept yanking my shoulders, laughing too. Jasper was giggling so hard that he could hardly breathe and every now and again would squeak out a “snuggle rough! Ha, ha, ha, ha,” and I had tears in my eyes unable to stop giggling and to stop Hugo from shaking my shoulders. Then, Hugo lost his balance and plummeted to the floor and landed with a huge THUD. Jasper and I glanced down at him, and it was clear he wasn’t hurt and we burst out laughing again. Hugo, who is practically made of bricks, enjoyed how entertaining he was obviously being and started laughing again too.

I thoroughly enjoyed just cracking up like that with my kids, but also really enjoyed how although we were all laughing together, Jasper and I were able to share how funny we thought Hugo was. Hugo is a really funny little kid. He is expressive and enthusiastic and earnest, and is at a stage where he is constantly misusing language and trying to sound authoritative. For adults, he can be just hilarious to be around, but I love how more and more, Jasper appreciates and gets a kick out of his little brother just the way his father and I do.

 

I feel a little sad every time I trade their clothes or shoes for the next size up, and sometimes I miss having a little baby to hold, but I am also really looking forward to seeing what kind of people they turn into as they grow up and have our bonds evolve from hands-on care to intellectual connections.  

A Blip In Time

I was having a chat with my parents the other day about plastic surgery, and mostly about the horror of poorly done face-lifts or people that have had too many, and consequently look like scary wax statues from a creep show and not like real people any more. I was trying to not be overly judgmental since I’m not yet forty and don’t know how I’ll feel about all this 20 years down the line and try to avoid being a possible hypocrite in the future by condemning something that I don’t know how I’ll feel about then. I said to my parents, “well, I don’t know how I will feel since I’m still sort of youngish” to which they instantaneously responded, rather fiercely, “you’re not even 40! You’re very young! If you live to be 95, 40 is very young!” I will admit, a flash of what I might possibly look like after aging another 55 years did pass in front of my eyes (and a face lift, even a bad one, didn’t seem like such a bad option), but more, I thought about all that time I potentially have left in life to live, and, of course, work. And this brings me back to a frequent obsession of mine, which is, will I ever be able to re-enter the work force? This concern just paralyzes me sometimes, and often because I think of graphic design as such a young, hip, field. I feel that approaching 40 almost guarantees a degree of obsolescence in the field, and that maybe I should go hang out with 40-year old Hollywood actresses that can’t get work any more or can only get roles being cast as Keira Knightly’s mother or a bitter old alcoholic nun.

However, my husband keeps pointing out that in less than two years I will have a LOT more time, and consequently will be able to work more, or work on building a business, and it’s really, really unlikely that nothing would ever happen on that front. It seems really unlikely that I will sit there for 53 years or so without being able to find any interesting employment whatsoever. Even older people, who often own companies, need graphic designers. And they may actually prefer working with someone who can spell because I have not spent my youth TM-ing people and does not have a nose ring or my parents negotiating my hourly rate for me.

I am realizing what a blip all this is, having children that are really young. Jasper, at almost 7, is starting to exit the “really young” phase and in a few years Hugo will be almost 7 too, and although we will still be parents until our time on Earth is done, we will not have “really little” kids ever again. So, I will try to live in the present (I try this every so often) and enjoy my little kids and the time I have with them. In a couple years I hope that I can resume my career, or perhaps one day even switch to a new one. The time I spent minimally employed will be hard to remember 5, 10 or 45 years down the road. I won’t regret the time I spent with my kids way back when, though I wonder if I will be reminiscing about these years with an oddly waxen expression on my face. 

Am I a Hormone Puppet?

I don’t love to think that I am ruled by by hormones, but I am realizing I need to admit this is true. What else can explain why no important factors actually change from day to day in my life, but the way I VIEW it all can be radically different one day to the next. Just take my last post. I was irritable, cranky, quite bitchy and rather depressed there for a few days. Suspiciously, at the same time, a few rather large and oddly-placed pimples appeared on my face. There is the one over my lip that looks like a cold sore, the little pimple group on my chin, and a couple in the middle of my cheek, that are all just starting to scab and fade away today. And gosh, I’m feeling better. As my pimples disappear my mood lightens and I feel a little lift in my step. Was I really not finding much pleasure in my kids the other day? Today I think they’re wonderful!

It’s times like this that I’m happy that I have boys. I am surrounded by men, and although us mothers seem destined to be thought of as crazy by our children (and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the hormones), I’m hoping that my boys will be a little more forgiving than an equally hormonal daughter might be. There’s the reality that they simply don’t get it. Repetitive noises are making mommy scream for some reason today, but the boys just shrug their shoulders and eye me with curiosity and confusion. Then the husband wanders through the room, making a wide arc around me, and I just know they are waiting until “normal mommy/wife” comes back and the lunatic that looks like mommy leaves again.

It stinks, because if you admit to being ruled by hormones then you admit to not having complete control. I don’t know why I feel like yelling, “go away!” every time someone comes near me in the kitchen, and I didn’t really feel like that last week and won’t next, but there is nothing I can do about the fact that right now I could throw a tantrum that would impress a three-year old. So, I comfort myself knowing that I usually act the way I would consider normal, the way other people and my family members expect me to act, and then the raging, blood-shot eyed freak that I become only appears every once in a while, sort of like if mommy turns into a werewolf every full moon.

I have been saying for years that I need to record these moods, so I can figure out when to expect them and see if there is a pattern. I’m not sure what exactly I could do about the onset though, it’s not like I can book myself a three-day spa visit every month. Even though I haven’t kept track, I don’t think my moods are consistent. And my periods keep changing. A few months ago I was certain I was hemorrhaging to death, and the doctor informed me that such occurrences are normal in women around age 40. “But I’m only 38!” I insisted, but she ignored my comment and said these changes are part of aging. That hurt. I also think that it’s harder to deal with “the werewolf” when she comes and invades my body, because I can’t be alone these days just because I want to be. The werewolf isn’t really all bad, she just isn’t good around people. In years past, I can thank the werewolf for the incredible cleaning frenzies that left even the top of the refrigerator sparkling. The werewolf was certainly responsible for all the bulk items being poured into glass jars and neatly labeled with Sharpie Markers. The werewolf likes to get things done. But the werewolf does not like distractions, is not patient, reasonable or sweet, and the werewolf does not have much of a sense of humor.

So, if I can’t tame the hormone werewolf, what can I do with her? She’s not here now, but I am absolutely certain she will visit again in a month or two. I can put videos on in an endless loop for the kids or call a sitter, which might help, but no matter what I still have daily responsibilities to perform and life must go on. Maybe I can just make a sign and when I am feeling a certain way I can hang up the “werewolf on duty” sign so my family knows just what to expect.

I’ll think about it. In the meantime, I’ll enjoy the bit of sanity that my current hormone levels are affording me at the moment and put some zit cream on the last few straggler pimples on my face. 

Sick of Your Kids?

That’s not really something you’re ever supposed to say, is it, that you’re sick of your kids? I mean, aren’t we supposed to gaze on our precious little treasures every day with renewed awe and adoration?

But, I’ll admit it, I am totally sick of my kids. It doesn’t help that my entire family of four was away together non-stop for six weeks. And I’ve been together non-stop with my kids for the last 1 ½ weeks since we’ve been back. I can feel the hair on my body bristle at every whiny note in their voices. I’m a little worried about the next week together non-stop before school starts.

Whatever it is that makes my kids so utterly themselves right now is just a little too much for me to bear. The poop and fart jokes are really old, and my three-year old’s obsession with his penis is really, really old. The three-year old, Hugo, has three distinct personalities (I hope this won’t be a problem down the road): the “I’m still a little baby and can’t do anything” personality, the “I’m tired and can’t hear you or follow directions” personality, and the “man of the house” personality where he talks in a low voice and offers to carry heavy things and “help.” Right now, I am only enjoying his third personality. My older son, Jasper, doesn’t have such specific, distinct personalities, but he is very moody and overly sensitive. It is driving me crazy how much he can play the victim or get so upset when his much smaller younger brother tries to steal a lego from him or says something outrageous and obviously untrue like, “I saw a bird as big as daddy eat a goat in the park.” His bookishness is driving me a little nuts too—he would rather stick his face in any Audubon book than do almost anything else. And he follows me around the house telling me obscure facts about volcanos, tree frogs, birds and tree bark.

Even the boys differences are annoying me. We went for a bike ride this evening. Hugo was on his own bike, and Jasper, who is six, sat in the bike trailer and read a book. How can I have two children who are so different?

Oh, but I hate feeling this way. I know that recently I looked at them with genuine admiration for their quirks and differences. Now I find myself having thoughts like, “boarding school might be a nice option,” and “gosh, divorced people that live near each other can have the perfect arrangement—one week with the kids, one week without.” I am trying to find a way to recapture that feeling of delight at who they are, and the awareness that they’re growing so quickly and I need to appreciate it now. I think a nice, long break from them would help. I guess I just have to wait until school starts. 

Those Alumni Magazines

I recently received my alumni magazine. You know what they’re like, filled with news of renovations, new endowments new faculty, and of course, all the gossip listed at the back, graduation year by graduation year. To be honest, I rarely read it when it comes. Frankly, it’s just not as interesting as all the other reading that I don’t have time for. I never send in information about myself, either. I did a couple times years ago, but I remember painfully trying to figure out what to write to “keep people up to date,” but at the same time not sound boastful, or boring, or like I had something to prove. I remember seeing the information about me in print and realizing with horror that they printed it all, word for word. It was too long and seemed boastful and boring at the same time and I definitely sounded like I had something to prove. I mean, what do you write? “Gosh, I am anxiously awaiting the birth of my second bundle of joy! Meanwhile, I am getting my masters’ degree and just returned from a fabulous trip to Cuba!” Or, “I am still working at my same job and living in the same place. I like to catch a movie now and again.” See what I mean? It’s hopeless.

 

Anyway, my magazine arrived last week when I was recovering from the stomach flu and suffering from a respiratory infection. My husband was traveling and both my kids were as sick as I was. Even though I felt like hell I had no choice but to nurse my two children back to health. Because they were sick they were both in horrid moods all week: irritable, whiny, clingy, argumentative and overly sensitive. I dragged myself through the week, coughing up phlegm and applying lots of cover-up to my red, sore nose to try not to look sick. I could not exercise, had little interest in cooking and could not seem to keep my calendar straight and consequently missed appointments and felt I was letting people down. For some reason, I thought it would be a great time to read through my alumni magazine.

 

There was a movie featured on the cover. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “I’ve heard of this movie!” Then I flipped the magazine open and learned that a fellow alum had been nominated for an Oscar for directing this award-winning film. I looked at the photo of my fellow grad, standing on the red carpet at the Academy Awards ceremony, glowing, in a designer dress. I know her. She graduated the same year I did. I read all about her and the movie and proceeded to read about another grad from my year who is CEO of a really cool environmentally responsible company based out of Alaska. He is also an accomplished tri-athlete and dog-sled racer or something like that. Oh, this is not the first time I’ve encountered a very successful former classmate. I’ve gotten used to hearing one former classmate’s voice on NPR every time I turn on the radio. I see another one’s name in the New York Times Bestsellers list, and see that a television show is coming out soon, based on her books.

 

I decided to read news from different class years and stumbled on a profile of one recent alum who just ran multiple legs of a 189-mile relay race, was a math/art double-major, ended up at Harvard for grad school and now has an incredible job—and she only graduated four years ago. Needless to say, at that particular moment reading about these alumni, I thought, “how on Earth did I get in to college in the first place?”

 

I feel like the world is just filled with uber-people. Some successful people can chalk it up to hard work and a little luck to get their big break. People like the recent grad though blow me away. How does she manage to accomplish so much in so many areas at once? I read about them and get kind of sweaty (and having a fever didn’t help one bit last week). I wonder if I should be doing more, though I don’t know how that is even possible when I can’t keep up with the laundry.

 

I think about my approach to life, and maybe there is just some deep fundamental part of my character that separates me from the people glowing on the pages in front of me. Maybe I’m not that ambitious. I don’t really drive myself hard. For instance, many people talk of the days they were on a sports team of some sort and “ran until I puked.” Yuck, I always viewed that as some kind of disorder. I would run until I was sweaty and a touch out of breath, and call it a day. Then maybe another day I’d push a little more and then stop. When I was old enough I would push a little more, stop, then meet friends for beers which felt so well-deserved after getting sweaty and a little out of breath. I didn’t just have that approach with athletics, I remember in college that some friends would pull all-nighters to cram for exams or to write a paper. I would work a bit late, get sleepy, decide a “B” grade isn’t so bad and go to bed. I tend to work until whatever I’m doing is “good enough” and then call it quits.

 

Overall, when I’m not feeling sick and awful, I think my approach to life seems fairly balanced. Maybe I’m not destined for greatness, but I’m also probably not going to have a nervous breakdown. I don’t think my approach is very American though. I sometimes think it’s more “European” though I’m sure many Europeans would be very insulted to read that. I just don’t think that they tend to be as extreme as us, that it’s not necessarily part of European culture for everyone to constantly strive to be the best at everything. Maybe I’ll live abroad for an extended period in the future to test my theory. But for now, it’s getting late and I’m feeling sleepy, so I’m off to bed.