Tell Me A Story

"Tell me a story, Mom." Eric says.  We are in the car driving to swimming lessons.

"What kind of story?" I ask the question even though I know the answer.

"About when you were a kid." He says.

So I start talking.  This time I tell about Sunday afternoons at Nana's house.  Last time I told the kids about sledding down the hill behind our house.  Another time I talked about building forts in the woods.

My stories don't have lessons or morals.  They don't have characters or plots.  I just tell what I remember.  Playing with friends.  Eating dinner.  Swimming.  Laughing. The kids always listen attentively.

When I finish, Beth chirps "Tell another."  So I do.

I wonder what stories my children will tell when they grow up.  I imagine Emily will tell her kids about gymnastics class.  She'll talk about her pink leotards and how she would practice by tumbling around the living room.  Beth, I am sure, will tell stories about the pool.  She'll recall splashing in the sprinklers and zipping down the slide.  Eric may talk about soccer, or hockey or swimming.  Or he might tell about playing kick the can at the end of the street on cool August evenings.

I hope they will all tell their kids about the day our neighborhood threw a block party.  They can talk about decorating their bikes with yellow and blue streamers for the parade.  They can talk about the horns and kazoos that everyone tooted as they waited for the big event to start.  They can tell how the police officer showed up to lead a hundred bikes, trikes and scooters around the neighborhood. And how she gave out stickers and let the kids sit in the squad car.

They can recall how the fire department brought the big truck to our street and let all the kids climb inside.    They can talk about trying on the fire fighter coat and boots.  And they can talk about how Beth sat in the ambulance and asked a hundred questions.

They can talk about what happened when he firemen hooked the hose up to the fire hydrant and sprayed our street.  They can tell about how the kids shouted and danced.  They can talk about being dripping wet and feeling like it was the happiest day of their lives.

They can talk about how we played a movie on our garage door and everyone ate popcorn and wrapped themselves in blankets and sat on our driveway.  They can talk about being carried into bed and falling asleep the minute their heads hit the pillow.

I'm not sure what story my kids will tell when they are all grown up.  I just hope that whichever one they choose, I am a part of it.

Fragle Rock and Muskrat Love

A few nights ago, after the children were tucked in bed, I was watching The Daily Show.  Suddenly, John Stewart let of a string of words that resulted in a long, loud bleeeeeep courtesy of the station censors.

I'm not certain exactly what John said, but the audience was howling so it must have been good.  I admit, I laughed too - probably twice as hard since I had to fill in the blanks on my own.  Still, part of me wondered whether the same bit would have been just as funny without the expletives.

I'm not the grammar police.  Or the vulgarity brigade.  Or any part of the language law enforcement community.  And St. Peter knows I've used my share of four letter words in my life.  But I'm a Mom now.  So I need to be very careful about what I say - lest little ears hear and repeat.

Take last week as an example.  I was getting out of the car with my purse and brief case in one hand and a pile of Emily (4) and Beth's (2) school papers in the other hand.  My purse snagged on the corner of the car door and the contents spilled on the floor.

I wanted to say "*****."  But instead I said "Danga langa langa."

Beth looked at me and frowned.  "Mommy, why did you say ****."

I gasped.  "I did not say ****.  I said danga langa.  And where did you hear that word?" (Note to parents, repeating the offensive word is the exact WRONG thing to do in this situation.)

Beth perked up.  "That's what Daddy says when he drops things."

I could feel my cheeks getting red.  Daddy, it appears, is continuing his streak of teaching the munchkins how to talk like sailors.  A few years ago, he taught Emily to say "****** ******."  That's right! ****** ******!  Can you believe it! And she was barely three years old.  While the maritime profession is both old and honored, I'd prefer my children to be out of diapers before they adopt these seafaring ways.

In his defense, Ken is muttering these words under his breath and holds the erroneous belief that no one else can hear him.  It's like chewing gum.  The person chewing it doesn't think anyone else can hear them chomping like a cow crunching their cud. But we can.  Oh yes, we can.

Ken uses the same philosophy when he mows the grass and sings while wearing his headphones. He seriously believes that no one else in the world can hear him screaming the lyrics to Muskrat Love above the roar of the lawn mower.

And they whirled and they twirled and they tangoed
Singin' and jingin' the jango
Floatin' like the heavens above
It looks like muskrat love

Just try and get that ear worm out of your head. Ha! To this day, Ken doesn't understand why the minute he pulls the Lawn Boy out of the garage, the neighbors scatter like a flock of pigeons.

Unfortunately, what Ken fails to take into account is the inevitable operation of Murphy's Law for Parents.  MLP states that "the information your children will retain and repeat is directly inverse to the social acceptance or desirability of said information." 

Your seven year old will forget to say Happy Birthday when he talks to his Poppy on the phone.  But he won't miss the chance to tell Poppy that he can't put Mommy back on the phone right now because she's peeing, but don't worry, she's almost done because now she's flushing. Gee, thanks for the update.

And even though you may want your two year old to remember and repeat her address and phone number, which you spend two hours drilling her on, she is more likely to remember and repeat the conversation she overheard between you and your sister.

"Daddy, Mommy says you is a jerk."
"No, honey.  Mommy didn't say Daddy is a jerk. Mommy said Daddy is acting like a jerk."  There is a big difference after all.

Here's another example.  Let's say you walk into your four year old daughter's room and trip on a princess dream castle that has been carelessly tossed on the floor.  The spires of the castle dig into your foot like a nail. This causes you to lose your balance and fall head over heals towards her bed. 

In a vain attempt to save yourself, you reach out your hands and grasp a book shelf.  But you fall on your *** anyway.  As you are laying on the floor looking at the ceiling, the book shelf topples over and a hundred copies of The Magic School Bus bombard your head. 

Naturally, that's when you yell "****!"

You spend the next hour nursing your wounds and patiently explaining to your child why leaving toys all over her room can hurt someone.  She nods, indicating that she understands. 

Two days later the room is a mess again, the child having completely forgotten the cleanliness lecture.  But that same night you find your precious four year old tossing her yellow duckie toys into the bath tub while yelling "****."  That lesson is the one that sticks.

Of course, the above examples are purely hypothetical.  Right? Right.

To avoid teaching my children the wrong vocabulary, I considered hiring a personal censor to follow me around.  Then, whenever some ******* cuts me off in traffic, I could shout "Outta my way *** ****" and all the kids would hear would be a long, loud bleeeeeeeeeep.

But since personal censors are hard to find, I've resorted to making up words instead.  Danga Langa, Britches, Shoe Shine and Fragle Rock are among my favorites.  Used in a sentence it would sound like this: "Those Danga Langa Britches left their Shoe Shine all over the Fragle Rockin place."

I admit the sentence doesn't make a lick of sense; but, at least I don't have to worry about my kids repeating it.

(P.S. Disclaimer: Ken does not listen to Muskrat Love on his head phones.  This is just a test to see how much of my blog he will actually read. :-) But the part about him singing and mowing is the Fragle Rockin truth.)

Real Love Is About Farting In Bed

It was just after ten o’clock. The children were bathed. Stories had been read. Everyone was tucked snugly into bed. Smokey, our fourteen-year-old cat, lay beside me purring softly. The house was peaceful.

Ahhh....solitude.

I was sitting in bed enjoying a few moments of television before lights out. Ken sat next to me reading a book. That’s when it hit me, the smell of rotten eggs.

“Good golly, Ken.” I said as I hopped out of bed. “What did you have for dinner, a dead skunk?” I wrinkled my nose and coughed. “That’s disgusting.”

Ken did what every husband does in this situation. He laughed loudly, smiled like a proud puppy and said, “That was a good one.”

I frowned at him. “I’m going to get the Febreeze.”

Some people think true love means flowers and diamonds. Some people think it means romantic dinners and exotic trips. Some people think it means lavishing your loved ones with sentimental poems and songs. But I’m here to tell you that those people are wrong.

The real sign of true love is when you can fart in bed knowing that you won’t find yourself sleeping alone in the morning.

Ken and I have been together for over twenty years. We’ve been married for over sixteen. At this point, he has seen me at my best and he has seen me at my worst.

When we met, I was young and lean. There was plenty of free time for us to enjoy shared activities, like playing volleyball or going to the gym. I spent more time fussing with my hair and makeup and shopping for the latest styles. Ken loved me then.

A few years later we were married.  Back then, I worked sixty hours a week at a job I hated. The pay was lousy and the stress was unbearable. Our finances were tight. Sometimes I would come home from work and cry. Other times, I would lash out at Ken. “I can’t live like this anymore!” I would scream. Ken loved me then.

Time passed. We moved to the mid-west.  I was pregnant with our first child, Eric (now 7 years old). My stomach grew huge. My feet were swollen. My face was puffy. For nine months, I was grouchy, sick, and tired. "I can't even touch my toes." I lamented. Ken loved me then.

Three years later, Emily (now four years old), was making her way into the world. We had left the house at three o’clock in the morning when my contractions started. A few hours later she was born.  My hair was matted and wet. My eyes were black and swollen. My cheeks were bright red.  “Leave me alone.” I warned when Ken tried to rub my arm and comfort me. Ken loved me then.

Two years later, I was sitting on the couch holding our new baby, Beth (now two years old). My shoulders were sagging. My hair had not been brushed in days. I hadn’t showered that day because I had been up all night with the baby. When Ken tried to send me to my room for a much-needed nap, I snapped at him. "I'm the Mom." I said. "I can handle this on my own." Ken loved me then.

Real love isn’t about baubles. It isn’t about cards and gifts. Real love isn’t about dancing the night away in trendy nightclubs or jetting off to tropical islands.

Real love is the person who will sit next to your hospital bed at two in the morning and spoon feed you ice chips even when you are growling at him. Real love is the person who looks you in the eye and says, “Let me book you a plane ticket so you can visit your parents. Don’t worry; I’ll take care of the kids while you are gone.”

Real love is the person who, when he notices your car is low on gas, drives out in the middle of a snowstorm to fill your tank so you can get to work on time in the morning. Real love is the person who smiles and says, “You look beautiful” even though you know you have put on a few extra pounds over the years.

Last week Eric and Emily were playing together on the floor in the family room. I was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper.

“What was that noise?” Emily said.

Eric looked at me and frowned. “Mommy farted.”

Emily defended my honor. “Mommy doesn’t fart. She toots.”

The children looked over at me waiting for me to settle the dispute. I scanned the room and then pointed at Trixie, our other cat. “It must have been the cat.” I said.

Ken, who had been sitting nearby strumming his guitar, snicker softly. I waited to see if he would play along or give me away.

“Trixie, you are a bad kitty.” He said with a chuckle.

Now that’s real love.

It's a Good Thing

“Please don’t make me do this.”

I was terrified. My heart was beating fast. My palms were sweaty. My knees were shaking. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed with fear.

What was causing you so much fear, you may ask. Were you about to give birth to your first child, three weeks early without having prepared the nursery? No, it was worse than that.

Had you just walked into the dentist office on the day of your root canal? No, it was worse than that.

Were you about to enter a cage of man eating tigers dressed in steak flavored pajamas? No, it was much worse than that.

Much, worse.
Much, much worse.

I was about to give a speech. In public. And I was afraid.

What is this thing called fear that makes us feel scared? That tears us up inside. That makes us want to run away, or worse, throw up.

Medical professionals say that fear is a chain reaction in the brain that starts with a stressful stimulus and ends with the release of chemicals that cause a racing heart, fast breathing and energized muscles Psychologists say that these physical responses are intended to help us survive dangerous situations by preparing us to either run for our lives or, if needed, to fight for them.

This is also known as the fight-or-flight response. Fear -- and the fight-or-flight response in particular -- is an instinct that every animal possesses.

Fear, it turns out, is a good thing. If we couldn't be afraid, we wouldn't survive for long. We’d carelessly walk into traffic, crossing against the green. We’d jump out of airplanes without parachutes. We’d sleep in caves full of poisonous snakes. We'd die.

Fear is so ingrained in our genes that scientists have concluded our fear and our response to it are essential to the survival of our race. Lucky for us, human development has given us fear. Our ancestors who feared the right things survived to pass on their genes to us. People who didn’t…..well, they were eaten by dinosaurs.

When you think of fear in terms of survival, most common fears make sense. Like fears of bugs, mice, snakes, and bats. These are dangerous, poisons animals. They carry disease. They could bite or scratch us. They could kill us. People who react with fear to these animals are merely drawing on an ingrained instinct to protect themselves. It’s about survival.

Fear of Heights. That’s obvious. People are afraid of heights for a simple reason. Because we can't fly. It’s about survival.

Enclosed Spaces, like elevators. It’s just the instinct to avoid being trapped in a corner where a predator can catch and devour you. It’s about survival.

But speaking in public? It’s one of the most common fears in the world. Yet it has nothing to do with survival. Unlike a poisonous snake, or a man eating tiger, speaking in front of people isn’t going to kill me. Or is it?

As humans, our survival depends on our relationship to our community. In ancient times one of the worst punishments to bestow on criminals wasn’t death…..it was banishment from the community. It was isolation from those on whom we depend to survive. Being shunned by the community, being thrown out of society meant putting your survival at risk.

When we fear speaking in public, our real fear isn’t the speaking. Our real fear is that we will be rejected - shunned and ostracized from our community. Our fear is that we won’t survive. That we will die.

Unfortunately, in today’s world, public speaking is often necessary. A presentation at work. A meeting at city council. A church group. Boy scouts and girl scouts. Every day we are presented with situations where we have to communicate in front of groups of people. We can’t avoid it.

Now we have the rub. Fear, which ensures our continued survival, and the reality of our world. What do we do to resolve the tension?

The first thing to do is realize that, no matter how bad it feels, you aren’t going to die. There have been no reported cases of public speaking causing death. It won’t kill us. And though we are risking rejection by our community, the reality is that we probably aren’t going to be voted off the island for what we say.

The next thing to do is to practice and prepare. Walking into a situation where you know your material helps alleviate your sense of screwing up in front of everyone. It will give you confidence that they will accept you. That confidence will show, which will increase your chance of success.

Additionally, don’t expect perfection. Give yourself a break. No one is perfect. There is a really good chance you will screw up. You will make mistakes. Maybe more than one. After all, you’re only human. But even with your flaws, your friends and family still love you. And society isn’t likely to cast you out into the desert. Instead of fearing your mistakes, look at them as opportunities to learn and grow.

Finally, use your fear. Fear creates energy, the wobbly knees, the sweaty palms, the racing heart – its energy. Your job isn’t to quash the energy, to push it aside or avoid it. Your job is to channel it and use it for your own purposes. Embrace the energy. Draw on it. Use it in your voice, your hands, your passion, your purpose.

When you look at it in the right light, fear isn’t so bad after all. As Mark Twain said, "Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear -- not absence of fear."

Remember, fear is good thing.

Magic Claps

Beth (2) bounced up and down and clapped her hands.  "Mommy, I use my my magic claps!" She shouted with a smile.

We were standing in the parking lot outside the grocery store.  Beth hopped on her tiptoes and clapped furiously. Emily joined in.  Finally, the back door of our minivan slid open.  Magic. 

"Mommy, my magic claps worked!" Beth was thrilled to learn that she could control our car just by clapping her hands. 

Now Beth uses her magic claps all the time.  She smacks her hands together to raise and lower the garage door. She can make a sliding door at the mall swoosh open and shut just by brushing her palms together.  She can even make the car horn beep - one time for each clap. 

Beth believes she has a magic touch.  She never suspects that I am controlling the car doors and horn with my key fob.  She doesn't notice when I press the button on the wall to open and close the garage door.  She hasn't figured out that the doors at the mall operate on a sensor.  She believes in magic and that is enough. 

Yesterday, on the way to Emily's gymnastic class, I asked Beth about her beliefs.  

"Beth, do you like magic butterflies or humming birds?" I asked. 

"Butterflies!" She shouted.

"Do you like angel kisses or pixie dust?" I said.

"Angel kisses!"

"Do you like the Easter Bunny or Santa Clause?"

"I like the Easter Bunny AND Santa Clause." She chimed. 

I chuckled.  Smart kid.  She knows what to believe. 

I, on the other hand, don't have a clue.  I don't know what to believe.  Big Bang Theory or Garden of Eden?  I have no idea.  I wasn't there.  An infinite universe or the end of all time?  I don't know.  I probably won't be around then either. 

Beth is more solid in her convictions.  She believes that, whether its flying ponies or fairy princesses, nothing is impossible.  She believes she can do anything and be anything.  She believes she controls her life.  She believes she controls the world.  

In Beth's world, nothing is impossible.  All it takes is a firmly held belief and a magic clap. 

Burping Up Butterflies

The airplane was packed. I had been up since 5:00 a.m. After driving an hour to the airport, waiting another thirty minutes to check in and suffering a two-hour delay before our flight boarded, I was exhausted. I wanted to lean back in my chair, close my eyes and fall asleep.

But I couldn’t. Eric, who was two and a half at the time, was sitting in the seat next to me.

“Mama, color with me.” He said. He pushed a red crayon into my hand. Instead of resting, I was tracing a picture of Clifford the Big Red Dog.

Just then, the plane bucked. My stomach bounced into my throat as the plane dropped. I felt like we were falling out of the sky. Turbulence.

I heard startled “Ohs” from the other passengers as the plane bumped and bounced. The captain made his “fasten your seatbelts” speech. When I looked at Eric, I saw wide eyes and a pale face. His cheeks were puffed out, as if he were preparing to cry.

Air travel was not new to me. I had flown from sea to shining sea. On the surface, flying didn’t phase me. Most passengers sitting near me would describe me as relaxed. But what they would not suspect is that inside, in the darkest recesses of my brain, there was an itty bitty piece of me that doesn’t believe air travel is possible.

I know, it’s crazy. But just when a plane is getting ready to take off at the airport, a tiny little brain cell pipes up and says, “What the hell are you doing, you’re not a bird! People can’t fly.” Then my brain cell says, “The only reason this plane can fly is because all of the people on the plane believe it can.  If you don't believe it can fly, it won't."

After telling my brain cell to shut up, my normal routine is to try to relax and convince myself that if I do believe that flying is possible. Clap your hands kids if you believe in Tinker Bell. Eventually I talk myself into breathing deep and resting until the flight is over. So, when a 727 suddenly bumps and drops, my tiny little brain cell that doubts the reality of flight wakes up and yells “I told you so.”

Being an emotional mess is not an option when you are a mom. Moms don’t get to be sick. We have to tough it out and get the kids their breakfast. Moms don’t get to be scared. If the four year old wants to ride the roller coaster, we do it. Moms aren’t allowed to be tired. We have to press on and get our babies through each day. It’s our burden and our gift.

On this particular flight, giving into my insecurities was a luxury I didn’t have. Eric was counting on me. I needed to look strong and be strong.

As the plane jolted and jerked, I tried to ignore my paranoid brain cell and to look and sound relaxed. I leaned over to Eric and put my hand on top of his. “What was that, Mama?” He asked.

“We’re bouncing on the clouds.” I smiled as I said it. “Did you get butterflies in your belly?”

He nodded, eyes still wide.

“If you have butterflies in your belly, you need to let them out.” I said.

“I don’t know how.” He said.

“The only way to get butterflies out of your belly is to burp them out.”

For the next twenty minutes, Eric and I made pretend burping noises and giggled as the butterflies flew out of our bellies. When the plane bumped especially hard, I said, “That was a big butterfly, you need a bigger burp.” Eric burped louder.

When I finally felt the wheels contact the runway, I let out a long breath. Eric wasn’t scared anymore, he was laughing and happy.

“Mama, can we do that again.” He giggled.

“Maybe some other time.”

To Don't

The clock on my desk showed 8:05 in bold red letters. I had just arrived in my office. I tapped my fingers on my desk and fidgeted in my chair as my computer warmed up. Impatient to start the day, I sipped my jumbo cup of coffee and scanned my To Do list.

Item 1 - return phone call from G.
Item 2 - finish research for P/C.
Item 3 - reschedule 10:00 for Friday.

The list went on and on. And on. And on.

I sighed. The tasks had changed from yesterday. Yet they were exactly the same.

I'd plow through half the list by lunch. By the end of the day I would accomplish everything I had set out to do. And I would have accomplished nothing.

If checking off all the items on my list was so important, why didn't I feel satisfied? I crumpled my To Do list and dropped it in the trash can next to my desk. I needed a change in attitude.  I needed a change in direction.  I needed to break out of my rut.

In my drawer I found a large pad pf bright pink paper.  I had picked it up at a conference last year but put it away because it didn't look professional enough.  I pulled out an orange magic marker.  No one had used it since the last time Eric visited my office and spent the afternoon drawing giraffes.

On the top of the page, I wrote in big block letters "To Don't." Then I started my list.  It looked like this:

1. Don't compromise on your values.  If you lose your values you lose everything. 
2. Don't focus on the negative.  Look for the bright spots around you.
3. Don't sit in front of the computer all day.  Get up and talk.
4. Don't work through lunch.  Enjoy time with your friends.
5. Don't forget to call Mom and Dad and say I love you.
6. Don't forget to hug your babies tight before they go to bed.  Then hug them again.
7. Don't miss a chance to tell Ken how much he means to you.

I pulled out a roll of tape and posted my new list on my computer.  Finishing this list felt like it was going to be much more rewarding experience.

Sitting in Detroit

I am sitting in the Detroit Airport. I have been up since 5 a.m. My flight has been delayed, again. I'm wondering if I'll ever get to Pennsylvania.

The trip was unplanned. For someone who thrives on routine, a sudden flight across half the country is unnerving. Yet here I am.

My ten o'clock meeting had seemed so pressing yesterday. Yet I cancelled it. My lunch appointment had to be postponed. The report that was due won't get done. Things that had seemed important are not so important now.

I am on my way to Pennsylvania to give my Dad a hug.

My sister called on Sunday. "Uncle Henry passed away."

Dad got on the phone. His voice cracked as he spoke of his brother. They had just spent a day together on Saturday, laughing and joking. Those days were gone now.

Suddenly, I felt the need to go home, to be with my Dad. Arrangements were made with great haste. A million details were set in minutes.  I was on my way.

Now I am sitting in an airport in Detroit. I'm on my way to Pennsylvania to give my Dad a hug.

The Worst Mom In the World

I am the worst mom in the world. At least that's how I felt as I hauled Emily (4) kicking and screaming out of the gym.

It was an early Saturday morning in July. I had signed Emily up for gymnastics class a few weeks before. This was her second class.

Emily's first class had been the previous week. I was a bit nervous. She had never been in a gym before, except at a few birthday parties. I was worried that Emily wouldn't listen or behave.  My worries were not misplaced.

The moment Emily walked into the brightly lit gym and gazed upon the trampolines and tumbling mats, I knew we were in trouble. Instead of listening when the teacher spoke, Emily wandered off to explore a stack of tumbling mats. When the other kids were tottering on the balance beam, Emily was trying to peek under the uneven bars. While her classmates stood quietly on the side to wait their turn, Emily giggled and spun in circles.

It's her first day, I told myself. Be patient. She'll do better next time. Wishful thinking.

Week two wasn't any better. Emily was running her teacher ragged with her random wandering, climbing and spinning. The last straw was when she carelessly draped herself across a balance beam in use by another classmate. This was getting out of control, I thought, and dangerous.

I stomped onto the exercise floor. "Send her out, Katelyn." I called to her coach.

Emily walked slowly towards me. She could see I wasn't happy.

"We are going home." I said.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Emily threw herself to the floor. Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I'll be good." She said.

I could feel the eyes of the other parents burning into the back of my neck. Emily continued to wail and flail.  For a moment I considered giving in and sending her back to the floor with her friends.  Instead, ten minutes later, I carried Emily, still screaming, into our house and deposited her on her bed.

"I want to go to gymnastics class." She shouted as I walked out and shut the door.

In the kitchen, I pulled out the newspaper and sat down at the table. I could hear Emily shouting and stomping in her room. It was one of her best performances.

Over an hour later a welcomed silence descended on the house. I heard the door to Emily's room creek open, followed by the sound of her little feet on the stairs. When I looked up, Emily was standing a few feet away from me.

"Come here, little one." I said.

Emily crawled onto my lap. She layed her cheek against mine.  I kissed her on the forehead. "Do you think you'll be a better listener next week?" I asked.

Emily nodded. I hugged her closer. "I love you Mommy." She whispered as she planted a wet kiss on my cheek.

"I love you too, Honey Bee." I whispered back.

Maybe I wasn't the worst Mom in the world after all.