So….Where Ya Been Lately?

It’s been over a week since I last blogged in my blog (note how I cleverly use “blog" as both a noun and a verb).  And I know you have all been holding your breath in anticipation of my latest update. 

“Where is she?” you are undoubtedly asking yourself.  “What adventures has she been undertaking?” “What austere thoughts is she thinking?” “What’s on television tonight?”

Well, here’s the scoop.  Last week I took on one of the biggest, most exciting, most thrilling adventures of my life.  I spent a week in Erie, Pennsylvania, with my three kids.  Please hold your applause until the end of the program.

Why aren’t you applauding? I just said I spent the week in Erie, Pennsylvania with my three kids.  You should be shocked and awed!

Maybe if I explained it more.  Did I mention that I drove by myself - without Ken or any other adult (or close approximation as the case may be)?  For NINE hours?  In a minivan? With three kids under the age of 8? And then I drove nine hours back to Illinois? With the same three kids?  AND WE ALL SURVIVED!

“Why such the big fuss?” You say.  For the love of Pete, there were three of them and one of me.  The enemy had me surrounded.  I was outnumbered and, in some cases, outwitted.  Seriously, this has the making of a fabulous reality television series.  We can call it "When Mini-Van Moms Meet their Match."

“We’re going to Pennsylvania to visit my cousin Mary?” Emily (5) told her preschool teacher with a smile the week before the trip.  Beth (3) hopped around next to hear clapping her hands.  I grinned awkwardly.  Three months ago, when I had first conceived the plan, it had seemed like a good idea.  A quiet drive through Ohio with my little darlings.  What could be more fun (other than a root canal)? But as D-day grew closer, I started to doubt myself.

What if the car broke down on the interstate?  What if I got lost as soon as we left our little neighborhood?  What if the kids were really, really, really bad from the moment we left home until the moment we returned?  I woke up in a cold sweat dreading the task that lay before me.

Like most things that we dread, our trek across the Mid-west wasn’t nearly as horrifying as I had imagined.  The car ran smooth all week.  Thanks to our friendly little GPS, a device we affectionately call George, I always knew exactly where I was going.  And, the kids, with a few minor exceptions, behaved. 

We arrived in Erie on Sunday afternoon.  After that, we spent the week visiting our cousin Katelin and her fiancee, Doug.  We saw some of the sights with my sister, Theresa, and her daughter, Mary (4).  Beth enjoyed playing at the splash table at the Erie Children’s Museum.  Eric (8) was thrilled to skip stones into Lake Erie on Presque Isle.  And Emily made it her goal to ride every water slide at Splash Lagoon.

And I somehow managed to navigate across four states and limited my yelling-at-the-kids moments to only the most necessary times. 

So what did I learn?  Firstly, the things we dread so much are often not as difficult as we had imagined.  I thought a vacation without Ken's assistance would be difficult but it wasn't that bad.  Secondly, I am capable of taking on more than I thought I could, if only I give myself the chance.  Next year, maybe we'll try flying somewhere warmer.

And, finally, I learned that when your three year old says “Mommy, I have to pee really, really bad” you should immediately pull your car to the side of the road and let her do it on the highway rather than insisting she wait until you drive twenty miles to the next rest stop.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and wash the pee stains out of Beth’s car seat.  

(P.S. Ken was in South Carolina golfing all week and missed out on the fun.)

Don't Poke the Bear

Don’t talk to me.  Don’t look at me.  If you can avoid it, don’t come within a hundred yards of me.

I am in a bad mood.  

It’s quarter after six and I’m trying to get out of the house in time for an early meeting.  I overslept, of course.  I couldn't find my shoes or a pair of matching socks.  And my keys have gone missing as well.  So now I am rushing around to get myself together and out the door.

When I walk into the kitchen to get my coffee, Ken gives me a chirpy “Good Morning.”  I growl at him. 

“Why are you in such a good mood?”  He says, sarcasm dripping from his chin.

I growl again.

I don’t know why I am in a bad mood.  I just am.  Maybe it’s the fact that I have not had time to exercise this week to release my pent up aggressions.  Maybe it’s the fact that I had to drag my butt out of bed for a 7:15 meeting.  (7:15, really?  Who does that!)  Maybe it’s the fact that Beth (3) climbed into my bed at 4 a.m. asking repeatedly for hugs and kisses and that I didn’t fall back asleep until two minutes before my alarm went off.

I could go on.

“You know.” Ken says.  “There are people in the world who are much worse off than you.  Tsunamis.  Earthquakes.  Nuclear meltdowns.   And you’re complaining about a few missed minutes under your covers?”

I raise my right eyebrow at Ken and down a half liter of coffee.  “Don’t poke the bear.” I snarl.  I refuse to be guilted out of my bad mood.  Because sometimes, a bad mood is what I need. 

As it happens, I recently read an excerpt from Allure Magazine which supports my theory.  Allure reported that research has shown that “grumpy people were more detail-oriented, less gullible, and made higher-quality, more persuasive arguments.”  By these standards, I will be the most successful person in my office today.

But seriously, there is some truth in the matter.  Bad moods, some would argue, are as necessary as good moods.  Bad, after all, is the complement of good.  One cannot exist without the other.  It’s like Yin and Yang. Night and day.  Sunny and stormy. 

Think about it.  If you were never sad, how could you truly appreciate the power of happy.  If you never felt low, you could never understand the glory of having your spirit  up-lifted. 

So that’s my plan folks.  Today, I intend to honor my bad mood.  I intend to savor it.  To relish it.  To celebrate it.  To thoroughly enjoy it.

And while I do, if you are wise, you will stay out of my way.  And don’t poke the bear.

Photos courtesy of and through all rights declared at this location: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Brown_bear.jpg  and http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20110228193028/muppet/images/1/1d/Ss3.jpg 

Don’t be a Jerk

You may know that I am a bit of a geek.  My geek-ness extends to enthusiastically reading the Jedi Apprentice series of children’s novels, watching Star Trek reruns on SciFi and wiki-stalking Apple Founder Steve Jobs. 

A few years ago, as any good geek would do, I signed up for a Twitter account. You know, Twitter…..that thing Charlie Sheen is creating as exhibit A for his future commitment hearing. 

As fate would have it, I followed a friend, who followed a friend, who followed a friend, who followed this guy who went by @wilw.  I started following Mr. @w because he was funny and sarcastic and because a lot of other people were following him, so it seemed like the cool thing to do.  And being a geek, I’m always trying to get in good with the cool kids.

After several days of reading 140 character bursts of Mr. @w talking about his dog, his wife and/or his latest computer game, I decided to click his profile link and read his blog.  It was at this point that I discovered that Mr. @w was not just some random guy on Twitter with a sense of humor.  It turns out he was a celebrity.

Mr. @w, I learned from his blog, was actually actor Wil Weaton who played Wesley Crusher on Star Trek The Next Generation.  Refer to paragraph A above to see why this would be meaningful to me. Wow, I thought, I am having a very significant near celebrity experience. Hallelujah!

At this point, I feel compelled to admit that Star Trek The Next Generation was not my favorite Star Trek show.  It was my second fave.  And the purest be damned, but I am going to blaspheme and say that the original Star Trek series was also not my favorite either.  I rank it third.   I am, unfortunately, in that small segment of geeks who appreciated the nuances of Star Trek Voyager.  I guess I am a sucker for a lost in space story.  But I digress. (I rank Deep Space Nine at the bottom if you must know.)

Getting back to the point, I have since become a fan of Mr. @w, not for his celebrity, but for his comments on the human condition.  In particular, I have become a proponent of his motto which is "Don’t be a Dick."  Of course, being a Mom and a lady of refinement, I can’t walk around saying “Don’t be a Dick.”  So I have modified the saying for more delicate sensibilities to be “Don’t be a Jerk”, which I believe to be less crass while conveying the same meaning for my PG audience.

Anyway, here is the philosophy in a two steps:

Step 1. Don’t

Step 2. Be a Jerk.

Wow.  Pretty simple.  In fact, these four words sum up the golden rule. You know that one.  "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."  In other words, don't mess with other people.  Don't treat other people poorly.  Don't respond as a jerk because someone else acts like a jerk.

Let me give you an example.  You are driving to work and some buffoon in a red sports car cuts you off and then whips YOU the finger.  Hey, he was the one who crossed three lanes of traffic.  He’s the jerk! Right?

At this point, you have two choices.  Choice one, whip him the finger and tailgate him for the next three miles.  Or, choice two.  Don’t be a jerk.  Just because someone else treated you like a jerk is no reason to respond in kind.   This is called taking the higher road.  Not only will you feel much better if you do it, but your chances of being charged with criminal intimidation with a motorized vehicle are much slimmer.

So, as you go through your day, remember “Don’t be a Jerk.” (With recognition to @w for having summarized the thought so eloquently in the first place.)  Oh, and live long and prosper.

Read Me a Story

“Read me a story.”  Beth (3) smiled.

Beth snuggled close to Emily (5).  Emily snuggled close to Eric (8).  Eric snuggled close to Ken. 

Eric was wearing his flannel Transformer PJs, which Santa had brought for Christmas.  The girls were wearing matching pink nightgowns with a decal of Minnie Mouse on the front.  Ken was wearing his nighttime t-shirt and shorts. Everyone cuddled together on Mom and Dad’s big comfy bed.

“Tonight’s story is Fancy Nancy.” Ken said as he cracked open the pages of a pink book.  Emily and Beth leaned closer and reached out their fingers to caress the texture of the pages.  Eric rolled his eyes.  He would have preferred something about spaceships or ninjas.

Our bedtime routine is simple.  Jammies.  Teeth.  Stories.  Kisses. Sleep.  Even though all of the steps are important, Stories are the keystone on our schedule.  They have been for years.

We started reading stories to Eric the day he was born.  Back then, it was Goodnight Moon and Pat the Bunny.  Ken and I would take turns swooshing on the glider in the baby’s room with the lights dimmed as Eric drifted off to sleep.  It was the most enchanting moment of our day.

We repeated the routine when Emily popped into the world three years later.  I read her first story before she left the hospital.  I was dressed in a hospital robe and Emily was swaddled tightly in a pink blanket.  Eric, three at the time, had come to meet his baby sister and had brought a book about racecars to share with her.  

I wasn’t sure if Emily would like racecars but as she didn’t complain, I gave it a go.  Emily nestled quietly in my arms and listened to the purring of my voice while Eric sat with us on the hospital bed touching the colorful pictures.

When Beth was born, Eric (five at the time) and Emily (two at the time) each brought a book for their new sister to read.  Beth practically earned a magna cum laude in story time before she completed her first twenty-four hours of breathing.

I suspect that I’ve read every children’s book there is to read.  I’ve done The Cat in the Hat and the sequel, The Cat in the Hat Came Back.  I’ve practically memorized The Bear Snores On.  And, I know more about the adventures of Winnie the Pooh than your average forty (ahem) year old attorney is expected to know.

A few weeks ago, I roamed into Beth’s room to do some de-cluttering.  Under her bookshelf, I found a tattered copy of That’s Not My Bunny.  My mind drifted back to a blustery autumn evening when Beth and I read “Bunny” together for the first time.  I could see her stroking the Bunny’s ears and tails and giggling at every turn of the page.

Was it time to pass Bunny on to another baby, I wondered.  I turned the book over in my hands and felt the familiar smooth cover.  Not today, I decided.  There were still too many memories leaking out.

Not too long after that, our family rediscovered the public library.  We were there to attend a Boy Scout event for Eric.  As we paraded through the rows of books, Emily’s eyes grew to the size of saucers.  Beth squealed.  Even Eric, despite trying to maintain the dignity of his uniform, bounced as he walked.

Before leaving the pack meeting, I promised each kid that they could borrow one book to take home.  One book.  One book, I said! So, can someone explain to me why, despite my stern rules, we left with armloads of books instead?

Story time is a powerful time of connection for our family.  The quiet evening ritual allows us to release the cares of the day and enjoy the comfort of a soft bed.   It relaxes our minds and teases our imaginations.  

Now that Eric is in the second grade, he is capable of reading to himself.  He explodes through chapter after chapter of the Jedi Apprentice and Magic Tree House series.  Yet every night, after his teeth are scrubbed, he climbs under the covers, huddles close to his sisters and listens to Dad read.   

"Then Fancy Nancy does a double flip.”  Ken said as he pointed to the story’s hero.  Beth and Emily gasped.  Eric rolled his eyes….again.  I smiled. 

And as the children nuzzled closer to their Daddy, I sat quietly among them, feeling their warmth and remembering the hundreds of stories we have shared.

I Do It

Eric (8) bared his teeth and smiled at me.  “Look Mom, my tooth fell out.  Do you think the Tooth Fairy will bring me some money?”  This was Eric’s third baby tooth to pull loose from its moorings.

Eric had been working his front incisor with his finger and thumb for the past few days.  Shortly after Eric had hopped out of bed in the morning, the tooth surrendered and dropped out of his mouth and into his hand. 

As I examined the gap in Eric’s smile, Beth (3) wandered into the room.  “Mama, look.  My toof is wobbly.” 

Beth pushed her finger against her front tooth.  She was clearly imitating her brother’s actions over the past four days.  I patted Beth softly on the head.  “Honey, you need to keep your little teeth for a couple of more years yet.”

“Can I tafe it out when I’m five?” She asked.  “And toof fairy will bring me a dollar?”

“Sure.”  I laughed. 

In some ways, Beth is the most mature of my children.  She learned to walk faster than Emily (5) and was climbing the ladder to our swing set a good six months ahead of Eric’s progress.  Beth refuses to be left behind.  If her older brother is going to lose a tooth, Beth is eager to join in the game – even if she doesn’t quite understand the rules.

I admire Beth’s determination.  She doesn’t understand the meaning of “can’t.”  In her mind, if big brother and big sister are capable of something, she is capable of it as well.  You can’t tell her she is too little or too young.  She won’t accept it.

There are days when I wish I could be more like Beth.  Yesterday was a good example.  My friend Kristin is talking about running a full marathon this fall.  “You should do it too.” She said.

I frowned before answering.  Even though I owe Kristin a big one (for climbing the AON building with me in January), I didn’t feel ready to commit to twenty-six miles of running.  So I pulled out my list of excuses and began reciting them.  In the end, Kristin let me off the hook.  For now, I told myself, a half marathon would have to suffice.

Later that day, I sat with Beth on the sofa and helped her untie her shoes.  When Beth noticed Emily sitting on the floor taking care of her own footwear, she pushed my hands away.  “I do it Mama.”  She said. 

I pulled my hands back and watched Beth struggle with her laces.  Five minutes later, she displayed the results for me.  I wasn’t sure how she did it, but somehow Beth had managed to untie her laces.  Beth, however, never doubted herself. 

And I felt certain that this wouldn’t be the last time I would hear her say “I do it.”