15 Minutes

Since transitioning my third-born to the same childcare as my second-born, I've switched from having three pick-ups (one of which used to take me across state lines) to just two. And as such, my life has begun to feel a little less frantic, slightly less crazed. But arriving at the decision that those 15 minutes (30 plus counting a.m. drop-off) were 15 minutes worth having has been anything but easy.

Granted, I've been running and operating far beyond (as my therapist-sister likes to remind me) "my threshold." But what the big sister hasn't realized is that my focus over the past year has been solely on the threshold. Getting past it. On time. I've been running into the preschool with my second's coat in hand shouting like some demonic basketball coach, "Let's Go! Let's Go! Let's Go!" I've been miming at the window of the Y Aftercare Program for my first to grab his coat and backpack and to "Hurry Up!" I've been hurdling playkitchen sets, ignoring the smiles of other small, sweet faces that have accompanied those of my child, and checking in with caregivers and teachers in fitful spurts--stopping only to gather required information about lunches half-eaten or forgotten, homework yet to be completed, numbers of diapers changed. I made the decision to switch the care of my child to the place where my second-born was at because I was tired of the sticky anxious runningrunningrunning feeling I would get as soon as 4:30 appeared in the corner of my company provided laptop. (On your mark, get set, go!)

When I was the mother of one I could stop for half an hour to chat about my son's day, to check in with the teachers about their day, or to discuss what they were planning to do with the children in the weeks to come. When I was the mother of two children, I could still stop to check-in, attend school functions with a stroller in tow (Look at Mommy multi-task!), and make it to work on time. But as the mother of three children the challenge really is to "keep all the balls in the air." Seriously, the juggling metaphor works here. Go look in your junk drawer and find three like-weighted objects to toss in the air. Have you dropped one of them yet?

So what's the big deal? Why would you agonize over a decision that would make your life easier? Well, honestly, Lisa was the big deal. Lisa, and Ann, and Loni--the three women who cared for my baby girl. I remember the first time my husband and I visited "the program," rather the first time we met Lisa and Ann. We looked around skeptically. "So, I notice you don't have any baby equipment or bouncy seats. How will you get her to sleep?" Lisa and Ann looked first at each other and then back at two apparently dim-witted parents and smiling (chuckling?) answered, "Well, we'll hold her in our arms." The sparse decor and worn rocking chair faded to black and I was convinced in that single moment that my baby would get everything she needed and then some.

Now my L___ was their only baby at the time she started, so by virtue of the situation it was a child-to-caregiver ratio to drool over. But I soon realized that with their mixed-age family childcare, my daughter was loved not just by three ladies, but by the kids who came to Lisa's after school. She was petted and read to and adored by a whole host of children. She was loved by the sweet boy with the blond hair who made her a Valentine. She was paid attention to by the bus driver. (Even the bus driver knew my daughter's name because the school-age girls talked about her so much she had become a familiar character to the driver.) In the summertime when I picked my babe up, she might be stealing sips from a glass of lemonade with Lisa's husband, or be sitting in the lap of their teenage daughter. Or I would walk through the door to find Loni vacuuming the floor with one hand and holding L____ in her other. Loni would joke with me that my daughter was in fact a Princess, and that she had been teaching her a princess wave. (Show Mama Your Wave! Blow a Kiss!) I often had the sense that on Loni's watch my daughter's feet rarely touched the ground. And that was fine by me. Who doesn't wish for their child to be so loved? Who doesn't pray for the world to cradle their babe, to treasure them, to hold them up to both see and be seen?

L___ was no easy baby. She had reflux and Rinitadine from a dropper three times a day. She had plagiocephaly and torticollis likely caused by her "precipitous delivery," and which required physical therapy and repositioning to avoid the helmets used to cure her "flat-head syndrome." She teethed like a fiend, and demanded her way. But Lisa and Ann never blinked. There was not one sigh about spit-up or afternoon play therapy and for this I will be forever grateful. So how could I let go of all of this? Because I had to. Because I had come to dread the fifteen minutes there and the fifteen minutes back. Because I was tired of placating children #'s 1 and 2 with donut holes, irritated with having to cajole them into the car (Quickly! Quickly!) It had to be done. Right?

The goodbye although official, is unofficial between me, Lisa, and L___. In the final minutes of the day Lisa chimed in with a cheerful, "Bye Goose!" like it was any other day, a cheerfulness that I appreciated. We had decided we would not say goodbye, that Lisa would remain our back-up snowday plan for all three, that we would visit every now and then. This was a very good plan, until it was actually time to say goodbye. L___'s diaper bag uncharacteristically heavy on my shoulder, children shyly coming up to get her attention, L___ leaning forward out of my arms to give kisses all around, my baby girl smiling and laughing as she tried to get someone to chase her to the door.

My sister, the therapist, has told me that sometimes the most critical moments occur at the door to the therapy space, that people will open up about something just as their hand is on the doorknob, their toes crossing the threshold. And true to practice as we stood at the door, Lisa motioned again to my daughter about a spider and rain, a waterspout and the return of the sun L___ spreading her chubby baby fingers up up up toward Lisa's.

Make sure you tell 'em the itsy-bitsy spider is her favorite.

My heart in my throat, my voice washed away by the rain. "Let's go, Miss L___. It's time to go."

Critical Path

In Project Management there is a process whereby you create a visual map of all the deliverables you need to produce in your project. The deliverable is built via a list of associated tasks. Those tasks requiring the most time to build/create/manage the named deliverable are therefore considered most critical to the successful outcome of your project, and are aptly referred to as being on the "critical path." In Project Management lingo, this map is called the "WBS," or Work Breakdown Structure, although I'm sure we could come up with a fun new interpretation for the Work BS. At any rate, using Post-it notes and wall space it's pretty easy to map out a project, break things down, and make it all seem more manageable. But why am I talking about work in this sacredly not-at-work blog space? Let me connect the dots:

The past several mornings as I've been getting ready for work (packing lunches, laying out clothes, making sure teeth [3 sets+my own] get brushed and shoelaces are tied) I've realized that my PMI course instructor might be right when he says, "Everything is a project, and the desired outcome of every project is to change human behavior." In fact, he may even have something useful for mothers in that GBC bound coursepack. I wondered if it might be fun to create a little WBS for my daily a.m. project, which for the purpose of this exercise I've named, "Project 1.0: Getting Out The Door On Time." The start of my project? 5:45 a.m. The end time? 8:00 a.m. with my left hand on the doorknob and my right hand toting my bag/purse/lunch and changeorder inducing Pillow Pet/handful of Matchbox cars. You get the picture. Or do you? Let's take a look:

Core Project Team:

Project Manager - Mom

Contractor - Dad

Sub-Contractor for Tasks Affiliated with Children No's 2 and 3 - Child No. 1

______________________________________

Step 1: Buy some Post-it notes in your favorite color(s).

Step 2: Name your project, and list all deliverables. Deliverable are things. (Think nouns.) My named deliverables are Child No. 1, Child No. 2, and Child No. 3, and Workplace-Ready-Mommy complete with polite, smiling demeanor, okay, with a touch of cynicism for good measure.

Step 3: List all tasks associated with each deliverable. This is all the BS you have to go through to get the W done. (Think verbs.)

Step 4: Order tasks sequentially beneath each deliverable.

Step 5: Freak out about the fact that there are more tasks you could list within each deliverable, but you don't know what they are yet (assumptions/risk) and move on to fret over lack of resources and scheduling.

Step 6: Consider the amount of time each task will take. Write it on each task. (Child No. 1 will take 5 minutes to get ready for school, but Child No. 2 will take a full two hours and 15 minutes.)

Step 7: Order the tasks sequentially. (To the left is the start of your project. To the right is the end of the project.)

Step 8: Share your WBS with someone else so they can point out all of the pieces you've forgotten, and validate whether you're on track with naming the critical path. ("Man! What is up with that? Why is there so much more to do with Child No. 2?) Reassign ownership of tasks if needed.

Step 9: Freak out about the time you spent on the WBS that could have been spent completing the tasks.

In Project 1.0: Getting Out The Door On Time, there are known risks. Child No. 1 may not feel like reading Child No. 3 a board book while the Project Manager is in the shower. If the PM assumes that Child No. 1 will be helpful every morning, it may cause breakdowns in later phases of the project. Child No. 2, despite numerous attempts to wake him, may not get out of bed (even for waffles with strawberries on top) until, well...until he feels like it. Child No. 3 may have a stinky diaper after pink attire has been snapped, buttoned and zipped. (Time estimate, 5 minutes for diaper change, nb. estimate contigent upon willingness of child to cooperate.) The Contractor may sleep through his alarm, and the PM may be exhausted from a busy week at her other full-time job. It gets complicated real fast.

So what's the point of the process? To have a picture of the work you need to do. To determine what is most critical to the successful completion of the project. To direct your attention to the big picture so that you don't get mired down in the details. To lend perspective. The Getting Out The Door On Time project may contain 90-95% of the very same tasks each day, but when you're dealing with an 8 and 5 year old, and a 16 month old, all bets are off. I guess in the end all that really matters is that once you're at the door, you're not too frazzled to forget to blow a kiss or call out with joy, I love you!

Step 10: Ruminate on the fact that "life is what happens while you're busy making other plans." (John Lennon)

one hour photo

8 year-old sits
buckled into back
seat
alert/intent
on world past car window, reads
sign fastened to faux brick
on bigbox pharmacy:

[1 Hr - Photo]

don't you think that's a little too long?
(he quips)

I suppose--

too long for the child watching
mother upload photos
instantly

too long for the child begging tiny video clips play (again!) to hear
younger brother laugh (again!) at the sound of
his own laugh/to watch baby sister take steps, snatch at a leaf, grab a toy (again! again!)

what's lost for the lack of paper?
what's gained in time?

I snap photos/upload images/attempt to capture

the moment.

de·fer /diˈfər/ Verb

Let's face it. My last blog post missed the mark. I wrote about yogurt, and at that, rather badly. I don't make time for multiple drafts, and so sometimes I push on with a topic even when I know it's not working, simply because I am desperate to get something posted. My apologies, readers. Honestly, the last post reminded me of the kind of writing I might have produced on a test when I was in public school--forced, lacking in vision, and generally speaking, irrelevant. Moving on...

A good friend of mine recently began her own blog, and I have to admit, I look forward to each new post. Her writing is at once poetic and bold, with a dash of humor to keep things interesting. She is able to pull off what I think of as peeling-back-the-onion-honesty, without anyone getting hurt in the process. Best of all she has a good sense of when to begin and end a post. Her blog "Work Play Eat Dream" was recently highlighted as a blog to check out on Boston.com. (That's impressive stuff in the world of blogging. ) I hope you'll check out Sarah's blog at: http://workplayeatdream.blogspot.com/

Yogurt Culture

Stonyfield Farm makes some darn good yogurt. My sons like the drinkable "Super Smoothies" (Wild Berry) that come in a cardboard sleeve printed with green grass and happy cows. It's good stuff...unlike say, GoGurts ("I want the Shrek ones!") that kids can squeeze up and out of a plastic tube like some flimsy toothpaste tube sans cap. ("No, we're not buying that! I'm not even sure it's yogurt!") Oddly enough, when I shrieked about the bad Shrek yogurt, I wasn't even sure what made bad yogurt bad, and good yogurt good. I was just going off comments I'd heard my sister make.

People like to make their own yogurt, and that seems to make it "good." In fact, yogurt-makers save scrapings from their last batch of old yogurt to inspire the next batch. (Dubious, I know.) My sister, lover of the homemade yogurt, even has her very own yogurt maker. (Is it like a snow cone maker, only no Snoopy?) Thanks to the internet, I've discovered that yogurt is simply fermented milk heated to around 80 degrees Celsius (Fahrenheit, please!) to keep bad bacteria from entering the goo. And, this much loved breakfast/lunch/dinner food has been around for 1,000's of years. (Who knew?)

My uneasy relationship with yogurt began just over ten years ago. The first taste of yogurt I had was in the dorm cafeteria my freshman year of college, (Dannon, "Strawberry on the Bottom.") It was disgusting. I was sure the cup of grainy goo I'd dipped my institutionally washed spoon into had gone bad. And not bad in a good way. But, sportos, sorority girls, dreadlocked hacky-sackers, poets and dreamers all seemed to be eating it up. The cups of unnaturally colored butterscotch pudding lined up in cases by big women in hairnets seemed safer. The yogurt culture was not for me; I played it safe.

But safety and familiarity brought some strange flavors to Freshman year. I had the boyfriend from high school (at another university, 2 hours and twenty minutes away via Greyhound) and the high school friends with whom I ventured onto campus with, only to realize how difficult it was to stay connected, our relationships sitting like unpopped popcorn at the bottom of a very large kettle. But then, there were the rich mochas at Espresso Royale Cafe, and greasy burgers at the Union. Be Bim Bop super cheap just off the main drag, and ice cream instead of dinner at Stucci's. The falafel place and the Chinese restaurant with the dry yellow cookies decorated with an almond in the center. And beer. Of course there was beer.

But what was college if not a supreme exercise in uncovering the tastes that were most interesting/exciting/comforting? The man-boys, the beer, the courses in lit crit, all of them were just filters allowing light to either enter the room, or not. My senior year I worked in the inter-library loan office. The first half of the job entailed standing at the copier with crumbling books that professors from other universities needed copies from because the books couldn't travel from their home in Special Collections. It was boring/easy. The second half of the job required reshelving the books. I was given a small cart, and would steer my charges into the elevator and descend into the stacks. Their were rumors that people had sex in the stacks, were raped, even murdered. But it was too peaceful down there to worry about most of it. The floors had translucent panels to allow light from above to filter down, and the wrought iron rails spoke to a more decorative, a more dignified time in campus history. I would lose myself in those stacks, return one book to the shelf, then pull down three more to page through. Heavenly, I tell you.

But, my shift at the library would end, and I would return the little cart and reenter the world. College was really movement from one culture to the next in an endless, dizzying parade. But sitting here, in my house on this evening, with my three children tucked safely into bed, I wonder what all of those experiences add up to for my life now, as a mother. What becomes of all of those memories and past selves? Looking backward has its purpose, is comfortable and familiar. Looking forward is three times as hard. I guess, like loving yogurt, some things you just have to learn from your kids.

Art Studio

The kitchen in our home serves as a multi-purpose room. Although you can't pull a basketball hoop down from the ceiling, or fold the chairs out of the dining table, our kitchen does serve as a space for food preparation, homework, art-making, entertaining, laundry, band-aid application, etc. I put a stop to some of that x-treme functionality today by moving the art-making to a new home in our home, the dining room. Up until today the dining room has served primarily as a place to fold the laundry washed in the aforementioned kitchen, or to dump junk mail, bills, and school notices. While I think it's pretty common that dining rooms rarely get used because of modern day life/the break-down of the family and all of those other American culture reasons, that's not what I'm interested in writing about tonight.

Instead, let me tell you about my real motivations for making an art-making space/fledgling studio in the heart of my home.

William Morris, father of the Arts and Crafts movement in America (Google him if you like) is credited with saying, "Have nothing in your house which you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." That statement has been running through my head for some time. I think it's what makes me constantly move and rearrange, and filter and sort my belongings. If it's not beautiful or useful, why I am I hanging onto it? (This I know; sentimentality can fill a lot of plastic storage bins in the attic.)

My oldest child attended a preschool housed in a beautiful old Victorian. The reason I enrolled him at the school was primarily because I liked the space. Inside the space, Art, Beauty and Order reigned. It was love at first sight. Glass jars lining the walls, each with a different color of hand-dyed yarn inside. Light tables with glass beads scattered across their tops. A fireplace upon which families were invited to place framed photos. Mobiles composed of branches and twigs some twisted with ribbons and bells and shells hanging from the ceiling. And there were even rules barring the Stupid toys, licensed merchandise, and plastic of all varieties from entering The Space. (I'll kvetch about the snack basket another post.)

The nursery/preschool/pre-k/kindergarten is much more a school than a daycare, and because they know this about themselves, they charge an arm and leg for "before and aftercare." They cater mostly to families with the ability to flex around a shorter school day, which leaves me, the full-time-work-outside-the-home-mother with my nose pressed against the true divided lights, gazing in with desperate longing. But, the standing outside, looking in situation is a sad math fact at this point. Tuition rates + three children = my second-born is unable to attend. It tugs at me in the worst sort of way as I would like nothing more than to give him that unique "Reggio Emilia" experience.

At the core of a true Reggio Emilia program is art studio. There are no predetermined projects in this space. In the spring when the local PS is gearing up for each and every student to cut a yellow tulip out of construction paper, "My School" students are completing ink sketches daubed with pale watercolors to post at the end-of-year art exhibition. (Disclaimer: As an advocate of the public schools, I feel compelled to say public schools are tasked with teaching All children. And we should celebrate the fact that they do in fact take on such a monumental challenge. The Reggio Emilia school only has to teach those who pay, those who choose Harvest Celebrations over Thanksgiving Feasts.)

But. Even so. I want that. I want that space for my middle artist-child. So, after a good three or four weeks of sulking and letting it sink in that neither my schedule nor my wallet can accommodate said desires, I decided to figure out a way to bring "My School" home. And here is my plan... The dining room will be our family studio. I/we will collect and arrange things of beauty to inspire us. I/we will dream up small art exploration projects for our family. As a family we will do what my husband and I initially came together to do, create things with purpose and integrity, live protected by love, always move in the direction of beauty. For now, I'm really just setting the scene. I've recycled most of the plastic, moved some art supplies to the middle of the dining room table, and am satisfied on this evening to have kept my chin up, gotten creative, and found a way to get what I want. Well, almost.

The Art of Parenting?

While sitting in the waiting room at the doctor's office yesterday, I came across an interesting article in a rumpled copy of The New Yorker (October 2009.) It was enough to keep my mind off the muscle-y knot/pinched nerve in my right shoulder, so I thought I'd post it here:

http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/atlarge/2009/10/19/091019crat_atlarge_zalewski

For the record, our bookshelf houses both How Do Dinosaurs Say Goodnight and Harriet, You'll Drive Me Wild! I don't view the books as any sort of antidote to "bad behavior," rather they are a good starting point to talk to my kids about the need to listen, and the fact that mothers are human, too. (That said, Harriet is a messy kid who seems to have trouble with spilling things. And, the dinosaur-kids have parents who could intervene in all the madness a little sooner.)

But is the new narrative really Bratty Kids And Their Doormat Parents or is it something else?

Kids need to be taught to modulate their own behavior in order to feel some sense of security as they grow up into the world. Modulating behavior means learning self-control and tolerance of situations that can feel bad (like a muscle-y knot/pinched nerve in one's shoulder that hurts but doesn't give you free license to act like a dinosaur at work because you'll lose your job.) Since when did boundaries and expectations become a bad thing?

Slow Down

Life's like a road that you travel on

When there's one day here and the next day gone

Sometimes you bend, sometimes you stand

Sometimes you turn your back to the wind

There's a world outside ev'ry darkened door

Where blues won't haunt you anymore

Where the brave are free and lovers soar

Come ride with me to the distant shore

We won't hesitate

To break down the garden gate

There's not much time left today

Life is a highway

I wanna ride it all night long

If you're going my way

I wanna drive it all night long

- Rascal Flatts

After several weeks devoid of Thursdays, I'm back (if somewhat sheepishly) to this blog. What happened to all of that momentum I had been building? Somewhere between Isabel Allende's advice to "write every day" and Sisyphus and his damn rock I lost speed. But I *swear* I have not been doing nothing. Really. I've been busy with many somethings like driving halfway across the country with children 1, 2, and 3 in tow (plus spouse) in a small (micro) Mazda 5. Without a DVD player. (But I did print out "Free! Printable!" travel bingo cards the night before.) The good news is that from New England all the way to the Midwest it took two [TWO] tanks of gas! (Take that, Toyota Prius!) Before the trip there was rushing and laundry and packing, and afterwards more laundry and unpacking and exhaustion. There was getting ready to leave work for 5 whole days. ("Don't forget to turn on your Out of Office message.") And, oh yes...there was a $140 speeding ticket on I-90 (in Massachusetts of course) and some puke on I-80.

The speeding ticket landed in my lap with great efficiency. I was doing a leisurely 79 (so says the ticket) and making very good time, might I add. I came around a scenic bend in the road when The Officer laser gunned me, pointed directly at me with his forefinger and promptly directed me to pull over to the side of the road. Despite the fact that The Officer was several feet away, I still felt his finger point all the way through the windshield and land on my chest. Yeeouch! It was oh shit/brakes on hot summer asphalt/tall black mounty boots/window rolled down/license and registration/rear view mirror/another poor sucker pulled to the side of the road while we waited for The Ticket/$$$/Be careful pulling back into traffic. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Massachusetts state troopers, hear me when I say they are a force to be reckoned with. If you are pulled over, remove your sunglasses, hide your cellphone, and keep your mouth shut. I'll save the "I cut off a cop entering a traffic circle in Dorchester," and he told me that "[I] was the reason [he] couldn't get home safely to [his] wife and two kids every night" for another time.

Let's return to the moment of truth...the I'm getting pulled over/oh shit business of state troopers. What is notable about that moment is that all of the passengers in my vehicle, even the 13 month old, fell silent. Hear-a-pin-drop silent. (Well, except the spouse who briefly quipped, "I told you to slow down.") Now, Child No. 1 is a very in tune with rules and rightness, and I fully expected to be reprimanded by him, or for him to tell The Officer very matter-of-factly, "My mom was speeding." But there was nothing. Not a peep. I expected Child No. 2 to giggle, or ask The Officer if he liked mushy bananas which currently amuses my son. But he sat silently while Mommy Got A Ticket. Child No. 3 buckled securely into her five-point harness quietly sucked on her Nuk. Not a sound, not a single fussy moment to perhaps show The Officer that Mommy Was Distracted By All The Noise In The Car. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Perfect silence. In a family with children, perfect silence always indicates something very bad has happened or is currently happening. The ticket was one hundred-forty dollars that I could no longer spend worth of bad! So, after receiving the ticket there was only one thing for me to do. Keep driving. You know, "life is a highway" and all that. It was clearly a message from the universe telling me to Slow Down, to the tune of $140.

Since going back to work full time (f/t WOTHM) I have been running. My friend/co-worker laughs at me because I actually "cross state lines" in order to complete one of my three pick-ups. I work 6 minutes from my home, but to round up each of my three children from each of their respective after-school/preschool/childcare programs it takes an hour to get home, if I rush. I've been running in heels, pushing a stroller across gravel to get to baseball games on time, crazed to be on time, get there on time, make good time. Getting out the door and later back in the door with hats and shoes and daycare bedding, snack for 18 rug rats, school notices, changes of clothes, toys to share with friends, money for popcorn or ice cream or book fair, and homework (don't even get me STARTED on homework for elementary school kids) oh, and don't forget my planner for work with reminders to myself to make dentist appointments and follow up on completed health forms all of which has brought a level of crazy I would liken to feeling seasick on a roller-coaster. I want to get off the ride, really I do. I am getting off. I will slow down. Really.

Afterword: The puke happened on the trip back home, again while I was driving. Child No. 2 ate an entire Starbucks's apple fritter, and a bag of Teddy Grahams, and possibly half of a chocolate brownie "Z-Bar" all before 9 a.m. It was surprisingly easy to scrape the puke off both his clothing and car seat. Car sick puke is one thing. Stomach virus puke is another. I'll clean up car sick puke any time.

Slippery Slope

Remember the Myth of Sisyphus? Poor sucker, Sisyphus, condemned to roll that giant rock back up to the top of the hill again, and again, and again, because the damn thing kept rolling back down. (Do you also remember the high school English class where you squirmed in your seat while the teacher quoted bits from Edith Hamilton's Mythology? Ah-hem: "Let's begin on page 24 with, "The Myth of Sisyphus.") The memory of the high school English class, of Hamilton's dry-as-crackers book, and the myth itself makes me marvel at how I ended up first an English major and later a high school English teacher.

With all that is published in the world, how is it that the best we can summon into the curriculum is the Myth of Sisyphus? What bleaker life can there be to present to a bunch of 17-year olds? Maybe it's included because sitting at that school desk, and later in/at your cube at work you will identify with the mythological man. I don't know if its heat or the humidity ("it's the humidity") that's got me in such a funk thinking about Sisyphus, but it seems lately that despite my best efforts I simply cannot get to the top of the hill. I'm in a slump, stuck on a slippery slope, with Sisyphus. (Can you say that five times real fast?)

What happens if you lift Sisyphus out of his own myth, secure the boulder at the top with a couple of 2-by's and offer him a Sam Adams for his hard work? What would the man do? Well, he could meet up with Sir Isaac Newton and talk gravity, or he could visit remedial English classes and encourage kids to "stay in school." He could even stop by my house, knock at the door and tell me to post my blog on Thursday's, get some exercise, and eat right in order to avoid his fateful forever. And you know what, if he stopped by I'd probably invite him in.

"If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious." - Albert Camus

The Other SouleMama

Despite the fact that school is officially out for the summer, you have some homework to do. Please visit The Original SouleMama at: http://www.soulemama.com/. Come back to see me when you're done...




Amanda Blake Soule, author of both The Creative Family and Handmade Home is a resident of Maine, mother of three? four? knitter, seamstress, photographer, maker of homemade laundry powder, builder of fairy houses, and generally a woman the likes of which I am not. And, I absolutely adore her blog. Her snapshots of her home/studio/family life are a colorful and interesting collage of a life that cuts across the divide of homeschooled vs. public schooled, fairy-house building vs. Lego constructing. I am fascinated by her work, and the beauty she always seems to pull from each project or family outing. Although I'd like to say that I stumbled across her on my own, I can't. A friend of mine from college mentioned the SouleMama blog to me a few years back when she was Googling (pre-Facebook) to see where I may have landed in life. Sadly, I was unable to claim it as mine, but became a fan of this SouleMama who I was most definitely not.


The Original SouleMama, as I've come to think of her, has a keen sense of how to capture and portray all that is beautiful in life. But, being The Other SouleMama, I'm a touch skeptical. Where is the real Amanda Blake Soule Mama in all of this? Where are the meltdowns that don't make it into the blog? When it's 4:00 in the afternoon and her baby is tired out, does she ever throw down the needlepoint, lose her temper, curse the dirty diaper? Or is it really truly all ice cream and sandy baby feet? Is she just better than I am at the glass half-full thing? One thing is for sure, I know that when I blog I edit out moments that don't fit the picture because that's what you do when you write. You present a certain narrative.


So what is the narrative I'm trying to present? Honestly my world looks almost nothing like hers. (I'll admit to you that I'm a little jealous.) Of course, there are the fleeting moments of beauty while getting the kids ready for daycare/preschool/elementary school, or on the weekends in between laundry and groceries and more laundry. But homemade laundry powder? Really? For me the challenge is finding time to get to Target to buy a bottle of High Efficiency "Up and Up" brand detergent. For the love of god! I've got an Excel spreadsheet telling me where Child No. 1 is to go on what day, during which week of the summer (with, might I add, a per week cost calculated in the bottommost cell of the table!) To The Other SouleMama, this is a thing of beauty. All joking aside (actually, the Excel table really exists) the last time I actually made something was almost a full year ago. It was a small collage for a friend, and something I worked very hard to squeeze into my evening, much like this blog.


So what's a mother to do? This stay-at-home mama/working-outside-the-home mama distinction is reality. Whether at home or at work, I believe all mother's struggle with The Decision. What other decision is there to make? Come on folks, where is the part-time work with benefits? Where is the schedule with afternoons off so that your child too can participate in special after-school programs like chorus and art studio? The Decision weighs on us all heavily. We wonder, what is it the "right thing" to do? Is this what is "best" for my children? There are days when I am certain that my children are happy, my work is of value, and I am satisfied with my choices. Other days, the anger bubbles to the surface, and the "choices" appear to me as two closed doors to which I have lost the key. While I don't necessarily begrudge The Original SouleMama her beautiful knitted baby vests and homemade rompers in vintage fabrics, I would like just a peek or two into the messy sewing basket. Is her life really so, so composed?


While at work a few weeks ago, I was busy processing and logging papers into a database. As you can imagine, the work had my full and complete attention so much so that I started to eavesdrop on a conversation two temps were having a few cubes over. Temp #1 was informing Temp #2 that she was getting out of town, leaving for the big city to find a job, get a place to live. Temp #2 listened to her plans, smartly offering the correct amount of admiration for this move away from the hometown. Temp #1 proclaimed confidently, "There's just nothing here for me." When I got home that night, I told my husband the story of the temps, and how it made me chuckle inside to hear this young girl desperate to head out into the world, to find something different, to make a move. It made me chuckle because I could relate to her story, having fled the Midwest at 22 for similar reasons. My husband asked me, "So, knowing what you know today, what advice would you give to her?" Without hesitation, I said, "No matter where you go, you are still there."


The same holds true for mothering. I will never have a blog like the SouleMama blog. I grew up eating ground beef-a-la-Sloppy-Joes, and thinking the beach was something you looked at through a car window. I've gone hiking once in my life (in Arizona; it was really hot) and have never once set foot in a kayak. I can crochet a long, narrow, crooked scarf that no one would ever want to wear. And although I've never built a fairy house, when I was little my sister and I would float dried leaves in the rainwater pooling in the gutters that lined the sidewalks. It was magical to my three-year old self.


If I've learned anything from my adventure out into the world at age 22, or from mothering each of my children as they chart their course it is this: Seek beauty. Truth is hidden in the details. Pay attention at all costs.


[Hats off to The Original SouleMama on this Wednesday evening, soon-to-be Thursday morning. Thanks, for inspiring The Other SouleMama to create a blog of her own. Good Night, all.]

Father's Day

It is 1941. My father is three (or is it four years?) old and his young mother and much older father live in an apartment building in downtown Detroit, mere blocks from the river bearing the same name. Rail lines back up to their apartment building which is located on a street busy with both living and making a living. Wartime industry is still chugging and grinding and forging in America. His father is a crane operator, his mother is learning to be a homemaker, learning how to cook simple meals from her husband. Money is tight. His father brings home the money. It is his mother’s job to make it last, stretch it out, buy shoes for the baby.

Now, picture a quiet Saturday morning in spring. My father has crawled out of bed early, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He is awake much earlier than both his mother and father who are still huddled beneath cool sheets. The sun is just beginning to appear in hazy pinks and smoky yellows through the small window above the kitchen sink. Pigeons are perched, or pecking here and there in the courtyard, and from where my father stands, on a chair he has pulled up to countertop/kitchen sink/window, my father (happy, eager boy) watches the pigeons in delight.

My father sees the special treat his mother has left on the countertop from her trip to the market. (Donuts!) The bag rustles as he takes one cake donut from the first row of the tray. The crumbs spill down upon his little boy belly, and a few crumbs land on his toes. But he is a good boy who listens to his mother, and so he picks up a few crumbs to tidy up. (But the birds! They look hungry too!) My father notices the window is ajar, and a slight breeze ruffles his soft-still-baby-hair. He tosses the crumbs out into the courtyard and watches as one pigeon flies over to peck at the crumb of cake donut. (What fun!)

Chewing his donut, he thinks to break off a larger piece for the pigeon in the courtyard. The pigeon steps closer; my father leans out the window to toss the piece of donut at the bird. (But look! Now there are two pigeons!) Delighted, my father throws the remaining half of his donut into the courtyard. Three more pigeons swoop down to join the excitement. My father is smiling, and laughing his little boy laugh, eyes bright with the wonder of the treat and the birds. He reaches into the bag again, and lobs a whole donut through the window. A flock is forming! (Look at all the birds!) In a flurry of excitement he reaches into the donut bag again and again, until there are no donuts left at all. The birds swoop and peck and eat donuts with my father.

His father is awake now and enters the kitchen to see crumbs/open window/birds outside. There is a pause, then soft laughter. “Well, I guess we need to buy more donuts.”

N.B. When my father tells the story, he builds it bird-by-bird, describing the exact number of donuts left in the bag, the exact number of pigeons at the window. By the time he reaches the climax when all of the donuts are gone, you can actually picture him as a small boy quivering with excitement on his tiptoes leaning out the window to feed the birds. I love this, my father’s story, because he is four again when he tells it. When he spins his tale, my dad laughs this huge laugh that sounds like a lion playing a baritone. He laughs and roars and laughs so much that he cannot stop laughing. I think it comes down to this: What matters is the laughter, of my father at age four, of his father standing in that kitchen, of my sons as they listen to grandpa’s story about the donuts.

Pediculosis Capitis

In celebration of Memorial Day weekend, my oldest invited over a few friends from school. (Well, actually about 10-15 friends and approximately 200 of their viable offspring.) And I really wasn't prepared for the sheer number of guests in my home and the utter demands they would place on our family. Honestly, our house guests insisted that we bag up all of the children's stuffed animals, blankets and even the sofa cushions. They requested that the entire house be vacuumed. (Well, it did need it. Who am I kidding?) And they demanded that every last scrap of bedding, bath towels, and clothing be washed in very hot water and dried even hotter. Annoying little buggers, really. Yes, my friends. We Had Head Lice.

Apparently head lice is "going around" my son's 2nd-grade classroom, and let me gripe for a moment that the nurse's notice about the same failed to reach my doorstep. (How was I to know that the "gnats" I'd noticed a few nights earlier --That's funny! They must have flown into your hair when you were on your scooter!-- weren't gnats at all.) In retrospect, it was not funny. At all. Head lice is/are (for the love of god there are so many, I think I need the plural here) something you don’t want to know about, or be an expert in, or find yourself Googling frantically about for some fool-proof method of certain death for the lil’ critters. I've learned that there are two camps in the battle with head lice. The first camp likes to use products from the kitchen (mayonnaise, olive oil, even peanut butter) in combination with Saran Wrap, and/or plastic shopping bags and/or shower caps. The second camp goes straight for the chemical treatments like, RID or Lice MD. I'm a big peanut-butter lover, and enjoy scooping it out by the spoonful on occasion so the thought of trapping lice and nits in a perfectly good jar of Skippy just seems wrong. I went straight for the chemicals.

Unfortunately, lice have become resistant to the chemicals. So, instead of killing the lice the RID (WalMart $13.94 for 8 fl. oz) just makes them a little woozy. They drift down onto your child's forehead after basking in the chemical pool and act a little stunned, moving just slowly enough so you can pick them off. Now, I have to stop narrating to say that during all of this, my son was very matter-of-fact. No, he was more than that. He was a champ. I hate that term, but seriously there's no other way to describe it. As he was holding the washcloth over his eyes, waiting for the ten minutes to be up, he only exclaimed in mild panic once stating, "Mommy! I can feel them crawling!"

I on the other hand had a freak-out of epic proportion necessitating some nerve-calming pharmaceuticals. (Yes, yes. This was out of view of my sweet, infested boy with whom I tried my darnedest to appear calm and in control of the situation.) Post-medicinals I really set to work figuring out next steps. The "treatment" as people like to say in the World of Lice, isn't going to treat the whole problem. There's the house to clean (see paragraph 1) and Don't Forget Your Car! Head lice purists know that there is really only one way to end the madness. Through careful, thorough, persistent nit-picking you will ensure the lice are gone for good.

Now, I think of myself as "nit-picky" about certain things. For example, I don’t like it when the hand towel falls on the bathroom floor, or when people spit toothpaste into the sink and forget to rinse the bowl. (Who wants to look at a blue glob of goo when washing their hands?) Never mind the irritation caused by a crooked picture on the wall. (Can someone get me a level, seriously?) Okay - so there's a bit of OCD in the mix. Whatever. Back to the blog: These sorts of things get under my skin; they annoy me. But nothing compares to real nit-picking. Picking nits off your child's head, which takes hours, gives new meaning to the phrase, "go over with a fine tooth comb."

My husband has become a champion nit-picker. Should you find yourself in a similar situation, you should consider giving him a call. His particular dose of obsessive behavior that in the past enabled him to comb through architectural drawings, shines through in his nit-picking skills. He is thorough, meticulous, and very, very calm. I am still impressed; we are still combing and checking. In the course of one day he picked those 200 or so nits from our son's head. (I think there’s a job opportunity there.) Apparently other people have realized there is money to be made in doing a task nobody wants to do. "Hair Fairies" located in LA and Chicago will pick your nits for $75/hour. No hair fairies on the East Coast. I checked. Here's the full story if you're interested: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6556831

As of 10:20 p.m. on this all-is-getting-calmer Thursday evening, I am hopeful that we are through the worst, that the rest of the family has been spared, and that some day soon my home will not smell like Lysol. Until next Thursday, friends. Please keep your fingers crossed our house guests don't return.

Revolving Doors

If you’ve ever lived in a city, you know there are certain unspoken rules of operation for things like revolving doors. For example, partitioned revolving doors are not meant to be shared (even during rush hours) rather they are meant to spin continuously in order to allow as many people in and out as needed during busy times. Emily Post has written up some specific rules of etiquette about the use of revolving doors (see: http://www.etiquettedaily.com/2009/05/revolving-door-who-goes-first-2/) which seem to have something to do with men and women and upper body strength. But I’m not really headed in that direction. I’m really headed in the direction of way-finding.

Generally speaking, city living teaches you about making your own space because there is so little to go around. A city demands that you find your own way. Although nature seems to get all the attention in terms of educating our children, I think there’s something to be learned from our cities. (A few important lessons come to mind: Don’t make eye contact with a homeless person unless you feel like chatting or opening your wallet. Don’t wait until you’re first in line at Dunkin’ Donuts to order; shout over the heads of the three people in front of you when the lady in the purple and orange hat calls out, “What can I get you?” Don’t hesitate to hold up traffic while parallel parking on a busy street. Damn it – that spot it yours!)

In my current life of overgrown lawn/corporate office edu-job I think about the real urban education I want for my kids. As a Midwestern-born suburbanite who couldn’t wait to get out of town and move to a big city (romantic and naive as it now seems to have done so at age 19, and again at 22) I am troubled by my children’s upbringing in a place so lacking in diversity. Living in New Hampshire, I find my children responding to “difference” as well, “different.” And this bothers me. What’s so wrong with difference anyway? How many parents have likewise taken the approach of, “Yes, you’re right. He is tall/short/fat/thin/different. And isn’t that amazing that there are so many different kinds of people in the world!” Because that is what I have done with my children – in the grocery store, at the gas station, at the playground often in loud tones so as to soften the very direct statement my little one has just made.

But back to way-finding– what do my kids really need to know in order to lead happy, productive lives? Is there some preferred distribution of rural and urban skills similar to fund selections for your 401(k)? Let’s see, we’ll do 35% Suburban Sidewalk Skills, 25% Urban Dwelling, and 40% Rural/Outdoor Education. Do class field trips to an apple orchard, or planting a tree in the yard count for Rural/Outdoor and/or Suburban Sidewalk? At what point does Urban Dwelling become possible, age 18? Does a trip to the New England Aquarium count as partial credit toward the Urban Dwelling category? What I do know is that I want my kids to participate in as much as I can make possible, and find time for— baseball leagues, summer camps, Saturday pancake-making, scooters up and down, and up and down the sidewalk, walks around the block, trips to Boston, or Manchester, or Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

My youngest will be turning one in another month, and I’ve been trying to grab at every moment I can with her, my last baby. What will she want out of life? Where will she go? How will I help her get there? A wise old person once told me that as parents, the best we can do is to give our children a compass, and point them north. I want to tell him what great advice it was, and how hard it is to do every day when the world is spinning past with so many complicated and often unspoken rules to consider.

Three Things

Child Number 1 has a small doe-colored freckle in the middle of his forehead, just below his hairline. My husband and I nicknamed this freckle after a feisty terrier we encountered one day long ago at the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown. Martin and I were lying in the grass one sunny weekend (long before kids, long before anything resembling the present) when a woman from the neighborhood walked by with her wiry little dog. The dog came up to sniff and check us out, wagging and wriggling the whole time. We pet his fur; he licked our hands. Upon parting, the owner called out in her thick Boston accent, "Come ahhn, Chahhh-lee! Let's go!" We resolved to one day have a dog as good as little Chahhlee. After Child Number 1 was born, and we came to know his personality in bits and pieces, we found the naming of that one lovely freckle after that happy, tail-wagging terrier to be a perfect fit for our small boy. Sometimes I lift the blond hair on No 1's forehead when he least expects it, when he's eating cereal--his eyes still full of sleep and dreams, and greet "Charlie the Freckle." I give the boy a kiss, and with my best Boston accent exclaim, "Hey Chahhlee!" I know I've performed this small ritual correctly, if he wiggles away, gives a withering look, and sighs "Maahhhm!"

Child Number 2 is both observer and observed. He points out plastic bags in trees, the shape of shadows, airplanes passing through cloudless skies. His focus is always on some object, or movement, or idea out in the world that captures his attention for the moment, the day, the week. And that object/movement/idea in the world that captures him so wholly is then discarded just as quickly-- becoming merely an empty nest, an overturned jar sans cricket, a page of a book already read. It is the project, the process, the movement itself that is of interest to my smaller boy. It is not the toy car; it is the road he finds to drive across. It is not the box, rather all that the box might become. (I wonder, what child is this?) What child is this who refuses to move along lines more solid, more objective, less subjective? What child is this, who is so often occupied by some other more alluring world? He is his father's son. He is the butterfly moving from leaf to leaf, beautiful to watch, undeserving of capture.

Child Number 3 is moving now; practicing pushing/standing/touching/ grasping over and again and again; grabbing fistfuls of grass in dimpled fingers; rolling and laughing (some ancient chime is sounded in the heart at the tiny-strong sound); vocalizing. Bahh-baaa, she says at the door. Bahh-baa-baa. Baby teeth below (just two) and two more tiny tooth nubs at the top. Tiny baby gums gum-gumming at crackers, berries, cheese. Stretching toward brothers and brother's plastic toys; (No-No Baby. That's Not For You. The big brothers scold softly at first, then more seriously.) Holding picture books; tearing pages; grabbing at the world with two chubby hands. Hands that form tight fists in frustration; hands scratching toward familiar faces; hands fluttering and twisting to some orchestra sounding its final note, and only baby girl holds the baton. Bravo, baby girl. Bravo.

Cleaning House

The phrase "cleaning house" has all sorts of interpretations depending on its usage. Cleaning house in its literal form can mean ridding rooms of dust and dirt, whereas "cleaning house" in its newer Recession Era usage can mean having an excuse to get rid of low-performers at the office. Neither interpretation sounds particularly appealing. But just for fun, let's go back to the more literal usage. There are thousands of us (millions, even?) seemingly invested in this idea of cleaning house. We buy brooms and mops, storage bins and closet organizers, and subscriptions to "Real Simple" magazine (http://www.realsimple.com/) where we find advice on simplifying even our application of make-up. (Really?) Why are we all so feverishly cleaning and decluttering? Why the bumper stickers proclaiming "simplify" next to the ones giving "peace" a chance stuck to the bumper of every old faded car on the road? Well, clearly to make room...for more stuff.

This stuff/clutter/cleaning house thing is all the rage. On the one end you have retailers selling stuff to help us organize our stuff (i.e.Target selling large plastic bins by the pallet the day after Christmas) and at the other end, you have people like the man who threw nothing away for a year: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=17778816 who seemed to want to make a statement about all the stuff, and yes, the need to simplify. To simplify has become the mantra of the middle class. We say it in breathless whispers to one another...I just want to simplify. I'm trying to simplify my life, my house, my wardrobe. It's tempting to simplify because who the hell wants to complicate? But it is complicated.

Before we start dumping stuff overboard it seems we need to look at our motivations for doing so. I think we need to acknowledge that this is a middle-class behavior esteemed highest by those with the opportunity to acquire the most. (And yes, I include myself in this group.) Although I'm risking generalities here, I doubt that the poor kids I taught in Salem, MA (yes, I said "poor" which is what they were) hold the same affinity for ditching material goods. In fact, many of those kids were fixated on that elusive "American Dream," white-picket fence and all. I wonder how many of those kids 10 years from now might subscribe to "Real Simple" magazine? I wonder how many of them might realize that the dream of stuff, much like the dream of simplification is still focused on the thing, but is not the thing itself?

Forgive me for not remembering where I read or heard the following, but it seems an apt way to end this post: Our children don't want more stuff. What they want is us.

The Trance

Sending invitations out for this blog has created more pressure to write than I might have expected. (And the weekend with its 45-degree weather and mean winds did little to inspire, so I chose not to write.) It nagged at me though, the Not Writing-ness of my weekend. Which is why I got up early this morning to begin an entry before the whole house was awake and wanting.

Today I ask you to look back at my last post referring to Isabel Allende’s deceptively simple do-it-yourself instructions for becoming a writer. And here is what I have to say: Ms. Allende – You forgot to mention moods…of which I have many. Regardless of moods or moodiness, you need to write. And to provide a parallel for this in the realm of motherhood, this is much like the fact that you need to say, prepare a snack for Child Number 1 (and a slightly different snack for Child Number 2, and again different for Child Number 3.) again and again, day-in, day-out because of the incredibly relentless nature of children. (Oh, yes—and the fact that children really do need to eat.)

Ms. Allende did not refer to the discipline it takes to write, rather she spoke briefly about the trance-like state she is lifted into upon entry into that other world of magical composition. But discussion of discipline or not, it was clear that she orders life to her liking by scheduling her first day of writing a new book to fall on the same January day. Leading up to that date she rushes about doing laundry, cleaning house, gathering up her papers and research. Clearing the space, if you will. Making room. (A reference to Virginia Woolf here would be too easy, right?) But this makes sense because writing does engross. Writing does make one criss-cross the world and come circling back again. Mommy’s writing. I can’t look at— Not right now— You’ll have to get your own snack—

For those of you who have the time to do so, you may want to listen to the NHPR radio broadcast of the interview at http://thedianerehmshow.org/shows/2010-05-05/isabel-allende-island-beneath-sea . The most surprising/unexpected moment of the night was her insistence that we as an audience sit up and pay close attention to the issue of slavery. She spoke about its prevalence across the globe, and how we have slavery “even here in the United States.” She got very loud about this, and leaned directly into her microphone to suggest that any naysayers could Google it, or go directly to: http://www.freetheslaves.net/

The way I see it, and can ultimately relate to the idea of slavery is to view it as a continuum; at one end you find the looser use of the term “slavery” to suggest being a slave to other people’s expectations of you to say, buy a home, shop at The Gap, or make a certain amount of money. At the other end are the stories – not stories at all – of young girls forced into the sex slave industry, children chained to posts in rug-making factories, or whole families indebted, indebted beyond generations as yet unborn.

So do I make the easy connection here? Do I say that my life is so much easier than that imagined child in Pakistan, and therefore the simple indulgence of sitting at a computer on a Monday morning is a gift? Do I ask, dear Reader, for your forgiveness in complaining about moods, and making excuses for my inability to follow-through on a task? The trouble is I’m just not convinced it’s that simple. Each of us is burdened with a unique set of abilities and disabilities. Depending on the setting, an ability can make us appear different, when all we want at that moment is to appear the same as everyone else. A disability can at times splinter off like light hitting a crystal and cast color into the room. But hear me when I say this—each of us carries a burden. Some of us encounter financial troubles, while others face health issues. Whatever the trouble, the burden, the thing that enslaves us, it is our job to seek freedom.

Discipline

Writing is akin to raising a child. It requires tremendous discipline, and not the sort that is loud or aggressive in nature, rather the sort that is measured and even-handed as much as possible. At Portsmouth's Music Hall this past Wednesday evening, Isabel Allende responded to an audience member question (albeit predictable) about what it takes to write. Of course, her response was, "to write" and to write daily--that it would act as a cumulative building up of energy and muscle much like that of an athlete. (Again, a resounding -- of course.) So, through the rosy lens of my post-Margarita haze, I thought to myself that I might be able to do that- to write daily. Maybe I would only have the chance to write for five minutes, but five minutes would be better than zero minutes, right? In college I used to write essay upon essay upon essay. Where did that discipline go? Was it simply the structure of a classroom and teachers working their magic? Or was is my own drive to, Do well! Succeed! Get the "A!"

So now to the raising a child piece. My three little ones have been giving me many lessons in discipline. Enter Stage Left, Child Number 2, strong-willed, fiercely independent, artist-at-age-4, and relentless in his uprisings against any traditional form of discipline. He cannot be bought or bribed (except perhaps with the occasional donut hole, and then only for mere minutes of "good behavior.") Rather he forces me to engage with him in a very different way. A measured way. He demands that I be disciplined in my approach to him. This is a very challenging task.

I am finding that discipline is far less about punishment than it is about teaching. How do we remove the social baggage, the emotion, the hazy gauze of past experience that blinds us momentarily when dealing with our children? How do we access the truth of the thing, the moment, the narrative? Therein lies the real work.

Thursday's Child

Really, there is only one way to begin this blog:

Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

(Traditional English Nursery Rhyme)

We have far to go, friends. The question is, in what direction?