It's October and that means I am a married single parent.

I do not enjoy single parenting.

Yes, I am married. But hubby's off on one of his many, many, MANY business trips and I'm back to doing all of the daily stuff by myself. October is going to be a busy month for Daddy's travel schedule. Any parent will tell you that parenting is one REALLY hard job. And when Chris is gone, there is no break for me. No coffee break, no sneaking off for a cigarette and a chat with the gal in the next cubicle. I don't even get to go to the bathroom uninterrupted; Megan can't let Mommy go off on her own for more than 6 seconds, so she usually toddles in to keep me company while I'm trying to pee. So, when Chris is gone, the routines really wear on me.

The worst part is the loneliness. I run into other parents at preschool drop-off, I chat with the moms in the parent-child classes I teach, I connect with a friend via late-night text messages. But aside from these fleeting interactions, I literally go for days without having a single meaningful conversation with an adult. I absolutely understand why solitary confinement could be considered torture.

Of course, I love my kids and chatting, playing, singing, dancing and just being silly with them. But, at the end of the day, I need to vent, share the stories about the silly moments, discuss something that has nothing to do with child-rearing. In the absence of these things, I engage in self-destructive behavior to ease the loneliness, like getting sucked into computer usage (as this post is case in point), mindless television, and eating...and eating...and eating. I do all of this to put off doing all of the evening chores without benefit of a companion to share the work and a few laughs. Then I go to bed too late. And then I'm sleep deprived and even more grumpy the next day. When does Daddy get home again? And how much caffeine is too much?

The problem is exacerbated by not having help from family; mine lives 6 hours away and no one in my husband's family can help me out, so I'm on my own. If we could invent some form of instantaneous travel, my mom could help me put the kids in the tub and send them to bed. Beam me up, Grandma!

October is not going to be fun, since Chris's travel schedule is packed. There is a silver lining; thank goodness for the theater tickets to break up the monotony a bit. (Thanks, hon!)

Okay, I'll stop whining now. I certainly don't like hearing it from my kids, so you probably don't like reading it from me. :)

It's official; I am a suburban housewife.

There are lots of clues to my current identity. It could be the prune-like fingertips from washing more sippy cups than I care to imagine. Perhaps it's the package of baby wipes that is constantly on my person. Of course, there's the mommy wardrobe of t-shirts and yoga pants. The most obvious sign, of course, is the appendage hanging off each leg (i.e. the children).

Last night I took this role one step further. I hosted a Tupperware party. Yes, Tupperware...those plastic containers your grandmother used to store her cakes in? Well, I cleaned the house, served some hors d'oeuvres, made some apple cider hot toddies (yum), and let a stranger into my house to sell my friends some plastic containers.

Okay, perhaps I am oversimplifying things a bit. Getting the house ready was actually a huge challenge, since the kids manage to make enormous messes in under 3.5 seconds. And after dumping the artichoke dip on the floor TWICE, I was forced to serve a modified version of it, since I had already used up some of the ingredients. Plus, despite the grandmotherly stigma, Tupperware does have some pretty cool products that are darn useful in the kitchen (love my Fridge Smart containers!).

But, I'll admit, when I was younger and dreaming of someday owning a home and raising children, this wasn't quite what I had in mind. Yet, here I found myself, completing the puzzle and adding "hosted Tupperware Party" to my mommy resume. And sad, but true, when the party lady was talking about how great the dishtowels are, I already had one slung over my shoulder, as I usually do.

I had to; it's the suburban housewife uniform.

"Why is Daddy's heart broken?"

His heart is broken because you won't let him do ANYTHING. No diaper changes, no baths; you won't even let him read you a bedtime story! Of course his heart is broken!

The mommy-dependence is really wearing on me. Of course, at 2, it's understandable that Megan wants her mom. I am the stay-at-home parent and am responsible for the majority of her care. Dad travels a lot for work, so when he's away, I'm the only caregiver. Being hyper-attached to the primary caregiver is natural at this age.

Of course, I might just be rationalizing here, so if I'm off base, let me know.

Now, Ryan is starting to chime in with the "I want Mommy" whine, too. He's just imitating his little sister, but it's aggravating to me and truly disappointing to my husband. What dad wants to be shunned, especially when he's away from his kids so frequently?

I am on a mission to replace our babysitter, who is off to a new life as a college student. Finding a quiet place for an interview poses a challenge, however. Of course, babysitters are likely to tell me "no, thanks" when they hear the screaming toddler in the background, adamantly refusing a bath from Dad while trying to bang down my bedroom door to find me. Who wants to take care of a kid who's capable of cracking glass in her screams for her mother?

Think she'll let the sitter take care of her for a week while Dad and I go to Aruba? A mom can dream....

PANIC!!!

It is official...I am without a babysitter.

I found a lovely girl about a year ago, who happened to be my son's swim instructor. She clicked with him right away, and as my son so rarely does this with anyone over the age of 12, I asked for her number right away.

She came once in a while to play with the kids so I could go to the post office or organize the basement. Sad, but true; this is mostly what I used the sitter for. The kids loved playing with her, and it freed me up to actually do a load of laundry without a child trying to climb me like I'm a tree. We also used her for a monthly "date night," but that was an easy gig, since we put the kids to bed ourselves and let her watch TV while we ate dinner out at a ridiculously late hour. (The kids didn't mind playing with her, but allow someone else to put them to bed? No way!) Of course, by the time we actually got out of the house, both of us were far too tired to even pay attention to the conversation, so date night was always pretty foggy.

But, as high school students are apt to do, she graduated and left for college. She strongly considered staying close to home for school, and it took considerable strength on my part not to beg her to make that choice. I chose the less selfish route of encouraging her to spread her wings and go away to school. I know...what WAS I thinking?

So, here we are, without someone to call up when I need to go to the doctor or hubby and I need a little sanity on a Saturday night. Sittercity, here I come. Hope it works!

Has it really been this long?

DId I really go the whole summer without posting anything? Oh, dear. Where did the time go? Summers always make me think this. I attended more years of school than I care to count, and after all of that schooling, I decided to teach for a living. Go figure. Thus, my life has always moved in the pattern of a school year. For most, renewal happens on January 1st. Good-bye to last year, resolutions for the new...you know what I mean.

For me, September has always been the time for renewal. Put away the beach bag, get out the school bag. Being on hiatus from the classroom has had its privileges. For example, I know the best days to take the kids to the Museum of Science so as to avoid summer/holiday crowds AND field trips! I've also discovered that people do, indeed, get out and about between the hours of 7 a.m. and 3 p.m. (Silly me! I always used to think that the world came to an abrupt halt between those hours!)

But here we are; it's September again. Being home with the kids has been nice in many ways (incredibly draining in others), but I'm missing that school bell, the PA announcements, the groans when I share tonight's homework assignment or the date the next essay is due. I'm trying to delight in the last bit of time I have left before Ryan starts Kindergarten next year and I cannot take him to the science museum the first day after Spring Break (tip to all the SAHMs out there...one of the least crowded days to go!) Yet there is still that small section of my heart yearning to sign hall passes and find out what the big kids did with their summers.

Happy September!

Here we are again...

Hubby's away and I'm parenting solo for a few days. Here are some are things I really wish I didn't do when he's away.

1. I wish I didn't get hooked on the computer and stay up waaaaaaaay too late and end up exhausted and full of regret the next day when I'm falling asleep during the afternoon marathon of Chutes and Ladders.

2. I wish I didn't procrastinate on the disaster-area clean-up by getting hooked on the computer. See item #1.

3. I wish I didn't eat so much. I eat when I'm lonely. Well, I do lots of eating at inappropriate times, but it's especially bad when I have only the TV, the computer, and lots of dirty dishes and scattered toys to keep me company.

He'll be back in a few days, but in the meantime, I shall spend way too much time aimlessly surfing the web, procrastinating on chores, and I'll eat way more calories than I should be consuming...ugh.

Vocabulary lesson

An exchange I had with my Big Boy today:

BB: "My sister is the bad guy and I am the Super Hero."

Mama: "Really?"

BB: "Yeah, she has a sword, but I have an expensive sword to shoo the bad guys away and save the people."

Mama: "Okay. So, what does 'expensive' mean?"

BB: "It means only Super Heroes and grown-ups can use it."

When I refer to my camera and my iPod as expensive and ask him not to touch them, this is how he has interpreted the meaning. I love this definition!

How do I know when an issue really is an issue?

Is the absolute inability to listen to one's parents an innate characteristic of a four-year-old, or should I be concerned? I'm pretty sure he has a filter for my voice. I tell him to stop doing something; no response. The voice gets louder and louder until the seventh or eighth attempt, when I am essentially yelling. I've been teaching him sign language, so sometimes I even yell at him in sign. (He can tell it's "yelling" by how emphatic my signs are and how angry my face looks. It might be more quiet, but it's essentially the same as raising my voice.)

At this point, I finally get a response, except it's anger and frustration at the fact that I am yelling at him. So, what's the deal? Is he testing my limits to such an extreme that he refuses to listen until I'm red in the face? Or should I be worried that he's so focused on what he's doing that he tunes me out completely?

This stage of development seems tricky to me. It seemed easier when I was just looking for the milestones the books tell me to expect. We wait and wait for the newborn to roll over and express grave concern when such a milestone seems late to us. But the doctor assures us that there is always a range for these things, and eventually, the babe does roll.

My approaching-two-year-old is supposed to throw tantrums and tell me "no!" I expect this. But I KNOW my big boy understands what I am asking of him. Must he wait until I've asked him so many times that I am feeling like the hold music on the pediatrician's phone?

Do your kids listen to you? How can I get mine to do it? Desperate (and highly repetitive) mom seeking advice...

This is what I've been doing this week

I serve as a Worship Associate at my church and we led worship this weekend. So, my writing time was spent working on the following reflection that I shared during the service. I thought it was fitting to post it here. Some of you might relate...


I spent some time in my basement last week, searching out items to contribute to the All Souls yard sale. I spotted an item tucked back in a corner that I thought would be good to send along to a new home. This corner contained many crates that have been stored since I cleaned out my classroom. The crates contain files and books that represent hours upon hours of work developing lessons and assessments for all of the books that I have taught in my high school English classes.

But the item that caught my eye wasn’t a crate full of files or books; it was a stool, like the kind you might see in a 1950s diner. It has a black vinyl top that swivels and chrome legs. It was a fixture in my classroom for many years, as I used it to lead the class. I couldn’t imagine teaching without it.

But I haven’t taught since my second child was born and it might be a while before I teach again, so I cleaned it off and thought I would let it go. Then I sat on it, and as I looked around my basement from my perch, I realized that I was not ready to say goodbye to my teaching stool.

This is the crossroads at which I find myself. I invested a lot of blood, sweat and tears (not to mention tuition money) to become a teacher. It was a job that was incredibly hard, but I loved it. Yet motherhood was a goal I always had for myself, too, and I set aside my profession to have children. I imagined that I would return to the classroom someday, perhaps when the children were old enough to be in school themselves and more independent. But my experience as a mom so far tells me that juggling these two roles would be extremely challenging. I imagine that the ever-present stack of papers waiting to be graded would always interfere with my ability to relax and enjoy time with my family. While I cannot accept the idea that I will never teach again, parenthood has led me to reconsider my career. I have been contemplating options that do not require me to bring home such a workload; jobs that require my focus during work time, but allow me to set aside work when I am home. Teaching is not such a profession.

So I find myself at a crossroads. My role as a mother is incredibly important to me, but how long do I set aside all else? I have pushed the “pause button” on my profession, but for how long will it be before restlessness sets in? How can I find a purpose outside of changing diapers and making meals that does not interfere with my ability to be available to my children?

What does one do when at a crossroads such as this? Ever make a list of pros and cons? Did it help you make an informed choice, or did it just confuse you even more? This is my tendency; sometimes I overanalyze a decision so much that I end up never deciding at all.

Of course, not every decision is as monumental as this one feels to me. We are faced with seemingly inconsequential choices that have very little impact on the story our lives will tell. Make coffee at home or stop at a drive through? Go to the gym or just head home to relax? Some might have more substantial consequences. Pay this bill, or put it off for a month in favor of another one?

As I was contemplating the topic of today’s service, I took to the internet to do some research. I came across a sermon delivered at a Unitarian church in Surrey, England by Reverend Linda Hart. She made reference to a short story by Kevin Brockmeier titled “The Human Soul as a Rube Goldberg Device: A Choose-Your-Own-Adventure Story.” So, I made a trip to the library in order to read this story for myself. In this style of storytelling, the author uses the second person point of view, and the “you” in the story has a variety of choices as the day unfolds. Once the story is set up with the task of starting an ordinary day, you are offered the choice between putting on shoes to go out for a walk (turn to page 120) and spending “a quiet morning at home” (turn to page 154). Other choices are as mundane as choosing between grocery shopping and cleaning the bathroom mirror, or even between turning left and turning right. But not all of the choices are as simple. After witnessing a father turn down his son’s request for a skateboard by assuring him that he can buy all the skateboards he wants when he gets older, the reader is offered the following choices:

Is your adult life anything like you thought it would be? If so, turn to page 118. If not, turn to page 152.

And at the end of another scene, these choices:

Would you say that you’re not wasting your life? If so, turn to page 126. Would you say that you are? If so, turn to page 164.

Each choice leads the “you” in the story to contemplate different aspects of your life, from taste in music to the relevance of specific memories. Yet, regardless of what you ponder along the way, all choices eventually lead to page 146, where you find yourself lying flat on your back, facing an untimely end. (And, depending on which path you chose to take, this demise could happen in a variety of places, such as in front of your refrigerator, on the sidewalk, or in a coffeehouse bathroom.)

The choices we make on a daily basis will lead us all to the same end met by the character in the book. No matter which path we take, all roads lead to this destination. It’s no wonder that I find myself considering my options so carefully; if the path is all we have, it should be a good one, right?

But too many choices can paralyze a person and lull them into inertia. It is much easier to remain where we are than to choose a path and venture down it. After all, the crossroads seems pretty comfortable; no risk involved here, so just set up camp and hang out! And of course, choosing one path is a decision NOT to go down another. That’s a choice AGAINST a perfectly good set of adventures. Why would anyone want to turn that down?

But we are not meant to set up camp at our crossroads. Choosing NOT to choose is merely one of many options, and the adventure ends there. Then are we just relying on fate to get us through, taking the power of choice out of our hands completely?

So as I stand at my crossroads, I must remind myself that choosing a path does not imply lifetime commitment; I can return to the crossroads and try again. Or perhaps the direction I select will offer new choices and options, ones that I never imagined having at all.

The speaker in Robert Frost’s well-known poem contemplates the options and accepts the fact that we must choose. “And sorry I could not travel both and be one traveler, long I stood and looked down one as far as I could to where it bent in the undergrowth.” The speaker chose one path and “kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.”

But the paths we choose result in the person we are. Frost’s speaker “took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” We know not what that difference is until we reach the end of our maze of paths, but when we look back we will know that these choices have made all the difference.

A cure for a hangnail...

...and you thought I was going to say "hangover!"

My rough and tumble boy, with his innate skill at the perfect takedown, freaked out over a bloody hangnail. Pain was not the issue; it was the blood. Ironic, since his superhuman strength is sure to draw a lot of blood over the next few decades.

Hubby had to handle it, as I was out running errands, but he discovered that the best tactic for getting cooperation was a chocolate cookie. The promise of such a treat was the only thing that got him through a simple nail clipping. Now, if I could only use such bribery to get him to brush his teeth. But then again, that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?

Can you believe it?

Mommy had a VACATION!

This weekend I had a wonderful little getaway to New York to spend time with my dear friends from college (otherwise known as "the girls").

I am amazed at the rejuvenating power of a little time away. This is an indulgence all mothers should be lucky enough to have. (And all mothers should be lucky enough to have dear friends like mine!)

What a drastic difference between a day that is all my own and one spent caring for children. I had breakfast without hopping up from my chair several dozen times to get something for the kids ("I want juice! I want more oatmeal! I need a napkin! I want the blue cup, not the yellow one!"). We went to a broadway show and ate out at restaurants that didn't offer crayons and paper placemats. I woke up on my own schedule, not at the pre-dawn request to watch a show on TV. Perhaps the greatest luxury of all was that I spent time gabbing with my friends without interruption. I actually finished all of my sentences!

And, as all good things must come to an end, I came home today. But the best part of the weekend was the greeting I received when I walked in the door. Getaways are nice, but "welcome home" greetings are nicer. If only I could bottle those tight hugs and excited squeals and open them up on the days the kids are whining for more oatmeal.

Do I have to?

There's been something creeping into my consciousness lately. It's something incredibly difficult to accept, especially as I am now in the throes of caring for very young children who really do need me for so much.

Soon, far sooner than I am willing to admit, they won't need me so much.

Eventually, they won't really need me at all.

I sit down to type this after having gone in to soothe my crying daughter who is not yet two years old. She sleeps well normally, so this act of mothering is a somewhat rare occurrence. I welcome such disruptions now, because I know they give me a chance to sit in the dark and rock her to sleep, singing a quiet lullaby and staring at her beautiful face as she drifts off. I did this so much when she was an infant and now these opportunities are fading so fast, so I jump at the chance to comfort her. (This is where the "maybe I should have a third" thinking is generated.)

Of course, I hope my children will always rely on me in some way. I hope I will be able to give guidance when asked, a compassionate ear when needed. Eventually, though, they will not need me the way young children need their mother.

I don't think I'm going to be very good at this "letting go" thing. I'm a perfectionist. I like to be in control. "Letting go" is not a skill set listed on my resume. I know my kids are young still, but I am not anticipating this act of parenting to be in any way palatable. Perhaps I can just put it off forever...

Happy Mother's Day...and may the blogging begin!

Mother's Day seems like a perfect day to start this project...this attempt to process the adventures and challenges of motherhood.

I've been wanting to do this for a while. I know there are a bajillion "mommy blogs" out there, but I totally understand the need. At the end of the day, my brain feels like a swirling pool of daily drudgery and nuggets of joy; mommy guilt and parental wonder; perfectionistic regrets and hopes to do better tomorrow. At some point, sitting down to let it all drain out my fingertips and onto a keyboard feels like therapy. And where else am I going to get therapy at 11 p.m.?

This is not about drawing followers or scoring freebie product samples. Right now it's purely about the therapeutic value for me and only me. Sure, it might evolve over time and become something vastly different. Most things do. (And, let's be honest. I'm not going to turn down freebie product samples.) Perhaps there will be readers who find me and discover that my experiences resonate. But at the moment, I just need to do this.

So, on this day set aside to recognize and honor all that moms do, I choose to begin. Having kids is easy (well, relatively speaking, but throw in fertility issues and that complicates things). Raising kids is hard. Writing about it helps.

And away we go...