"Because It Makes Me Happy"

D: "Son, what are you doing?"

Spiderman: "Nothing, Daddy."

D: "It doesn't sound like Nothing. Tell the truth. What are you doing?"

Spiderman: "I... was throwing blocks."

D: "Do you think that's a good idea?"

Spiderman: "Uh...."

D: "Is that what blocks are for?"

Spiderman: "Um... no."

D: "Then why are you doing it?"

Spiderman: "Because! It makes me happy."

D: "Yes. Well, I'm glad it makes you happy. But stop doing it."

Parenting: Crushing Little Dreams with Reality since 2008

Baby Jesus, the Potato

   It began with an errant ball, flung by an errant five year old, which tore through my childhood nativity set with a vengeance. (This happened during a piano lesson, of course.)
  Bits of Precious Moments porcelain scattered over the carpet, and Joseph was declared dead at the scene.   One wise man was rushed to the crazy glue, and is expected to make a full recovery.
  My mother heard the news, and said, "Oh! I know exactly which nativity scene you need!"

   That's how a collection of plastic vegetables in bathrobes came to be in our home. Veggie Tales has made a nativity set, featuring Larry as wise man, Jerry Gourd as a cow, Laura Carrot as Mary - you get the idea. I would cry blasphemy, but my children have been very pleased with it. They move the french peas dressed as sheep all around the little stable, and are happy to talk about the Christmas story.

   Which is how I found myself, at the end of a long day, being faced with the following:
   "Mommy! Look!" my son cried, pointing to the scene he had carefully created. "Look! Everyone is standing around Baby Jesus, the potato!"

   Jesus Christ, the Messiah, the King of Kings, the Idaho Russet.

   Oh, Glory.
 

Say the Crazy Out Loud

   It has been a while.


   I haven't posted in over a month. Not because we led lives of complete monotony in the interim (you must know us better than that), but because I'm a coward. Sometimes, the Tired sets in, and Life stops being funny. And I'm too afraid to admit it out loud.

   As the great philosopher Lucy says, "The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone". So here I am, back at the empty blog page, wondering what I should say to oust the demon of terror and vulnerability.

    I know! I will tell you the most embarrassing thing that's happened since the hysterectomy surgery in July.

    It started with a complication. Another doctor's appointment, another exam, another "Uh, that shouldn't happen", another "We fixed it this time. Really". SO much fun.
    But it was worse than usual, because when they scheduled the first available appointment, they scheduled me with the cute doctor. The young doctor, who is too handsome and kind for OB work. And through no fault of his very professional exam, I realized that my young life was over.
    I was old. I was having hot flashes.
   And broken. I couldn't have any more babies.
   And ugly. I couldn't seem to lose the surgery weight.
   No one would ever flirt with me again. Ever.


   I drove home thinking, "I don't want random people to flirt with me anyway. Yeah. So there."
   I went back to my chores thinking, "Besides, beauty is on the inside. That's what they say!... to ugly people. Yeah."
   And I spent a whole week in silent battle against Self-Pity, Self-Loathing, and all around Self. I fully admit that Self was the evil, and Self was the problem. It's amazing how easy it is to become Self-absorbed. But that's for another time.
    This time, I want to mention the importance of saying the crazy out loud. I want to confess that when I try to conquer the inner fears by myself, I almost always fail. I should have told my husband that I needed a kiss and a pep talk. But I didn't. Because I'm too cool, and too spiritual, and too strong to ask for help.
    So I waded about in the Slough of Despond for a bit.

    The following Friday, my dear husband took me out to dinner while the kids played at Grandma's. I put on makeup, and a dress, and painted my toenails. I was as pretty as a post operative woman can be, I suppose. But as I sat in Jason's Deli, smiling at my amazing husband, all I could think was:
   - I really hate myself. How can he stand to be seen with me?
   - Smile. That will cover some of the flaws.
   - I should just tell him how I feel. Communication is good. I should talk to him.
   - No! are you crazy? It's a date! You finally have a date! Don't ruin it!
   - But I hate myself.
   - I hate you too! But you don't want him to think you're crazy!
   - I'm not crazy.
   - You're talking to me, so you're certifiable.
   - We'll just sit here and feel old and ugly and gross, then?
   - You'd better believe it. We're fine. Now shut up. He's going to notice you're talking to yourself.

  I went back to my root beer and smiled.

  And then - I'm not kidding -  my OBGYN walked through the door of the restaurant. Straight past me at my table in the random little deli twelve miles from the doctor's office. The cute, young doctor, with his cute, young wife, and their cute, young kids. The whole family trooped right by.

    My dear husband was startled by my nearly spitting root beer out my nose, and more startled by the following whisper: "We have to talk. We have to talk right now. I don't always believe in signs from God, but this is the weirdest one I've ever gotten, so we're going to talk right now and I need you to hear me.
   "I might be going crazy, but I need you to know that sometimes - I hate myself. And I can't imagine how you could love me anymore because I had a hysterectomy and now I'm so old and ugly. And I feel useless every time I see someone with more than two babies, and I know that's crazy because I'm grateful for the two babies we have, but I'm just trying to get the crazy out in the open because... because.... uh... I... see..."

    Then I had to explain about the cute doctor, how much I never, ever, EVER wanted to see a doctor who has seen my unmentionables in public. I really didn't want to see him while I was on a date. And I really didn't understand the cosmic injustice that had brought that particular doctor to this particular deli on this particular night.

   Except that it made me say all the horrible things I'd had stuck in my head all week. It sounds simple, but it was one of the hardest things I'd ever done. In my husband's praise, I must say that he didn't flee the scene. He blinked a lot and said, "Oh," several times, which I consider the work of a very courageous man in the face of so much root-beer-spilling craziness.

   Interestingly enough, saying all the scary bits took the teeth out of the beast. When I heard all the terrors named, they started to lose their power. Not because they weren't valid, but because they weren't true. And they would never be really true unless I gave them the power to wander unchecked through my head.

   I won't lie to you, you readers who have followed so much and laughed along with me, because the plain facts are that I sometimes still fight those fears. But I'm guessing that many of you do too. Those fears will always have power while we fight them alone. So I encourage you to run to your spouse, or your best friend, or your mentor, or someone safe - and tell them the Crazy out loud.

   Because no one, I mean no one, should have to see their OBGYN in a deli.

 
 

The Cuteness of Northern Aggression

   This morning, I woke to the sound of my son's voice.

    Upon tiptoeing to his room, I found that his little sister was cuddled up next to him in bed. The blanket was being happily shared, and she listened, enraptured as he read aloud to her. It was a moment of pure sweetness.

   Which is why I bolted downstairs as quickly and quietly as possible. (I got to drink my coffee alone!)
   Then I prepared breakfast and called upstairs. The padding feet were quick to respond, and they fell upon the toast with the fury of ravenous children.

   "Did you read to your sister this morning?" I asked, smiling down on my eldest.
   "Yeff," my son answered around a mouthful of Raisin Bran.
   "And what book were you reading?"
   "It was about the Sill Wear."
   "The... what?"
   "The SILL WEAR, Mommy."
   "Uh-huh."

    I didn't question him further. Asking him to repeat twice apparently insults his status as a Reader Who Doesn't Need Help, so I let it go and finished prepping the bags for a day at homeschool co-op. But when I dashed upstairs to help in the search for a Sock That No One Can Find But Mom, I glanced at the book lying on the bed.

   It was a Magic Treehouse Book. Awww.

  Civil War on Sunday.

   Uh....



    Less Awwww. More Errrrr. 

    I think I'll lay out "Amelia Bedelia" for tomorrow.
   

General Area

    My son made a friend at the park. They occupied the swings for half an hour, talking about video games and how the other boy was three years older, but Spiderman was going to turn six, and THEN seven, and THEN he would almost be eight. And I was grateful to the older boy for nodding and accepting this explanation without asserting his dominance. It's always a pleasure to meet a kind and wise eight year old.

    Then Spiderman asked, "Where do you live?"
    The boy replied, "Over there. On Fox Glen Drive."

    They swung gently back and forth. 
    Then the boy asked, "Where do you live?"
    "North America," Spiderman answered promptly.


    I'm glad he doesn't give our address out to strangers, but I hope it's not the first stages of protective paranoia. If he's preparing for a life of avoiding the CIA, he's off to a good start. I'd like to see Jason Bourne track down that address.

Sharing

   Spiderman (age 5) and Princess (age 2) sat down to dinner.
   There was Quiche, which was not in favor, Cornbread, which was almost edible, and green beans, which were the greatest thing to happen to a dinner plate in forever. We eat a lot of green beans. And broccoli. They're on the "I'm-not-up-to-fighting-through-dinner" foods. We don't know why.

   Anyway, the kids sat down to dinner because Daddy wasn't home yet and Mommy was getting ready for piano lessons. (I know, I know - the shattering of the nuclear family began when we stopped sitting together for meals. Some nights, we have a real dinner with manners and everything. Honest.) And they whined about the menu, and sighed when there was a promise of dessert - because that dessert was forever unattainable while a slice of quiche stood in the way.

   And while I prepared for lessons (wardrobe change,checking teeth for green beans, etc.), I warned my son not to whine. So he did.
   So I sent him upstairs to "think carefully" about his next move.
   After five minutes, he recanted the whine and promised faithfully to be sweet. He returned to the dinner table. And shrieked.

   "MOMMIEEEEEE!" he cried. "MOMMIEEEE!" (My children accent the last syllable. The long 'e' sound is easier to shriek than the short 'o' vowel.) I came to his aid, expecting blood.
   "Mommy!" he accused, finger pointed at his little sister. "She took my cornbread!"
 
   The princess paused, mid-chew. Angelic eyes swiveled from the big brother to me. She swallowed, then tottered to his side, cornbread held out (dropping crumbs over the freshly swept floor). "Here," she said, "Here you go." 

    Her brother took the piece back, pacified, and placed it safely on his plate (where he was certainly not going to eat it). He said, in tones of grateful relief, "Thank you."

    The Princess beamed. "MOMMIEEE!" she cried, delighted with herself. She ran to me with a triumphant grin. "Mommy! I SHARED!"
    
    
   We're getting there...

"WHAT did you DO?!?"

   
    I am not the woman who drops the kids in a perfect 'educational community' with rainbow-colored walls and lots of IQ testable toys before jetting off to an executive meeting. I am Wife first (dinner on the table), Mommy second (wipe the noses), Housekeeper third (ha-ha...ha...), and a Piano Teacher.

   Someday, my studio and my house will not be at the same address (that's the dream, anyway). Someday, I will not mix homeschooling, bathroom cleaning, and lessons in the same afternoon. Someday, I will be Professional.

   But the parents of my students are very understanding - especially since the fees are discounted on account of the 'I-may-have-to-dash-upstairs-and-put-out-a-fire' clause. And my kids almost understand the need to play quietly while Mommy teaches lessons. Sometimes, I get through a half hour without screaming interruptions.

   Not yesterday.

   Yesterday, the baby went viral (runny nose), and my son went crazy (he turned five with a vengeance).
 
   I was addressing a particularly feisty Telemann passage, reveling in the excellent technique of my ten-year-old student, when I overheard the parent in the living room tell my son to wash his hands after he blew his nose for the umpteenth time.

   Son sighed, rose, and stomped past the studio. "I hafta wash my hands," he growled.

   "You obey Mrs. B," I told him.

   "Ugh." He shut the bathroom door with less than perfect respect, but I didn't have time to address it. Fingering is everything in these jumpy baroque fantasias, so I had to stay focused.

   Two measures later, Son shrieked.

   The door was flung open.

   Student and I spun about. "What is - ?" I began.


   "MOMMY!" he cried. "WHAT DID YOU DO IN THE TOILET???"

   Student looked at me. Parent looked at me. Son looked at me.

   Silence.

 
  Then I remembered. "Son," I said, "it's called toilet bowl cleaner. I know it's blue, and distressing, but all you have to do is flush it away. It will clean out the bowl. I forgot that I put that in there, okay?"

  "Oh!" Son nodded. "Okay." He slammed the door.



   Silence.

   "Well," I admitted to my student, "that could have been phrased better."

    She collapsed into laughter.



   Someday, I'm going to have a studio with a door. That closes. And then I'll wear high heels to my lessons, and severely dark blouses, and scary narrow spectacles that I don't really need. And I will ooze Professional. But until that distant day, I will treasure these moments of pure humiliation.  They keep me humble.