No Mom Is an Island: Just Another Day at the Pool

I pride myself on being independent. My husband could (but probably wouldn't) tell you that I can be difficult from time to time--it's hard to know whether to open the car door for me or not (yes please) or if I'd appreciate a man gassing up the car from time to time (yes please). This independent prideful streak follows me into motherhood.

My van is stocked with baggies filled with gold fish crackers, raisins, lollipops (to stave off those humiliating temper fits), and chewing gum--because my little woman loves some Trident. I carry three types of wipes: bottom, nose, and spills. My glove compartment is stocked with extra toddler panties, bandages, and sunscreen. I am the mom who carries Neosporin and bug spray to the soccer field. I have a potty trainer, and in my purse I carry extra wipes, extra panties, and hand sanitizer.

In short, I rely on no one.

Except.

That's just not true.

Because no mom is an island, nor should she try to be. And if ever I questioned whether I could (or should) be an independent mom, the answer was issued today as a resounding "no," a "no way," an "absolutely not."

Gigi is potty training pretty well. Or rather, she's pretty well potty trained. And, as any mother of a child of potty training age or older can tell you, there's one phrase that rallies the mommy ranks: "I need to potty, Mommy!"

Our moment rallying the mommy ranks? The swimming pool. I had issued the edict from on high: "You do not poop in the pool. If you poop in the pool, they will close it. And everyone will be mad. You do not poop in the pool."

Fifteen minutes into our swim, I saw the panic in those big blue eyes and heard the call, "Mommy, I need to potty! My tummy hurts."

Dripping and shivering, we scooted to the bane of my existence, the family restroom. The door was closed. Locked. Occupied. Panicked, I banged on the door, only to hear the dreaded, "There's someone in here!" Another mom offered up a changing room, to which I responded, "But she needs a potty now!"

And with that, I was no longer an island. The door cracked open, and a mom's face appeared. "Are you both girls?" she asked. "Yes!"

She swung the door a bit wider, blocking the opening with her rather large bottom. "Come on in," she welcomed me and my potty trainer, "We're all girls in here anyway."

Crisis averted. Gigi pottied as a shy 10-year old girl skinnied out of her bikini in the shelter of her mom's shadow.

I flushed Gigi's shame (or no shame--she made it to the potty!) and gratefully squeezed out of the family restroom, blocking the opening as Gigi and I made our way back to the pool.

I hope Gigi will be an independent woman. I know she's mastered the art of being difficult from time to time. More than anything, I hope that someday she'll have the opportunity to learn the same lesson I learned today: no mom is an island, nor should she try to be. Hillary Clinton told us that it takes a village to raise a child. The hard part about that is recognizing in myself that I need that village. And, the villagers won't always be the care givers I've carefully interviewed or the family that I love. Sometimes, as a mom, you accept your villagers as they are in the moment you never thought you'd be in. And you flush your pride, accept the help, and recognize that there will always be mothering moments that can't be solved with baggies full of snacks or extra panties.

'Twas the Week Before Christmas

'Twas the week before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was silent, not even a mouse (well, not really a mouse, more like a cat, but rhyming and all those poetic nuances...).  The children were nestled all snug in their beds, with giant buckets nestled next to their heads (because, you know, stomach flu).  And I in my yoga pants, and dad in his work shoes had just settled in for a long nightly dance (scrubbing the kitchen floor and billing more hours--shame on your dirty minds). When what to my eyes did appear? An elf dressed in drag and eight tiny reindeer. (Hamilton Hank Holidae has had some pretty wild times this year--If I could keep him out of my heels and jewelry, we'd call the year a success).

It's the week before Christmas. My tree is up--and as of a few days ago, it's decorated too. The storage bins are stored--as of two days ago. And, sometime before Christmas Eve, I hope to get the polyester pine needles vacuumed from the rug.

Christmas season is busy. There's a lot of pressure to find the magic, and if you can't find the magic, to make it. I've tried.

Our elf, Hamilton Hank Holidae, is doing his best to bring magic to the household despite suffering from a wicked case of the Elfin Flu this week (which he passed along to the children). HHH has dyed the milk green, decorated our tree with panties and undies, and pooped chocolate chips in an effort to get Gigi potty trained (he really is magic!).

Of course, I blame the pressure that society places on moms to create magic for the fact that my children now believe that elves poop chocolate chips; Santa packages the elf poop year round; sells the elf poop in bags; and uses the proceeds to finance his annual around-the-world sleigh ride.

I welcome the peace that our little Lutheran school brings, and with it, the real Christmas story. We try to remember that Christmas isn't just Santa and elf poop. Gigi knows that baby Jesus is in the nativity scene, and RJ will tell you, "Sometimes people don't have a place to sleep, like Joseph. He had to lead the pilgrims all across the desert to find a room at the inn."

Ahem. Perhaps it's time to review the Christmas story one more time.

This year, the season is moving just as quickly as it always has. We've added a bout of stomach flu to the mix. I've thrown more than my share of hissy fits in bad traffic this week. Gigi was quick to tell me, "Mama, you can get your blanket." And RJ, my little philosopher, helped me remember, "Mom, I need to tell you something: you--are not in control. God is."

The house is a wreck, but I blame the elf. We've looked at Christmas lights--more than once. We baked cookies and made a birthday cake.  After a hiatus, I started recording some of RJ's better one liners:

"When I grow up, I can drink whatever I want. If I want a glass of wine, I can have a glass of wine." True wisdom; I've found more than my fair share of holiday magic with a glass of wine in hand.

Christmas Eve is a week away. I'm anxiously awaiting HHH's nightly antics (because if that little monster spills sugar or syrup one more time, I'm going to lock his jolly little self out on the patio).

In the meantime, I remember that I am not in control. And no matter how how real life seems to me, it's magic for these little ones right now:

(See that angel in the floor? Yeah. She's covering a hairball. We're not perfect. 

But she looks pretty magical.)

He was just a little pumped for his little Lutheran school Christmas program. He told me he liked his sweater. I feel like there's not a big chance of him being a lumberjack when he grows up. 

This. This is the most perfect Christmas program live action shot ever taken. 

He's an old soul. As in, a 45-year old enjoying coffee after a long morning on conference calls. Or, a 5-year old enjoying the traditional drink of Christmas programs past and present: red Koolaid. 

Another program, another night with the bestie. 

Early Christmas surprises from Gma Cathy gave mom a whole hour of free time--obviously not spent picking up the living room. 

Treating her right. Gigi is learning the joys of a small cup of tea on a cold afternoon. (I find my magic where I can.)

And, for at least one more night, HHH has managed to bring more magic--and hopefully a small fire extinguisher to put out what appears to be a moderate elfin fireball. 

I, for one, am happy that I am not in control of this holiday season. 

Princess Phunkeller Surrenders Her Title--Temporarily

Last Tuesday, when Snowmageddon 2013 was but a figment of my weatherman's imagination, I debriefed Thanksgiving break with one of my friends, who also happens to be RJ's bestie's mom. "I'm deprogramming the kids right now," I told her. "We've worn pajamas for three days, and it took RJ 35 minutes to put on one sweat sock and a pair of underwear this morning." "We have rules for the mornings, but sometimes it's just so much easier to ignore them and let them have fun!" she responded.

Exactly. As a lawyer, my world revolved around rules. Local rules, federal rules, state rules. There are rules for everything. And there are rule enforcers. Judges don't hesitate to take away privileges if you break a local rule.  In my house, I am the judge, the jury, and the corrections officer. I am also, according to my two-year old, a princess. My name, therefore, has become Princess Phunkeller (phonetically? Princess Fun Killer. The killer of all things fun. The bedtime reaper. The play date ender.)

Princess Phunkeller has high standards. There is no running in the house. The furniture is not gym equipment. There will be no of licking your sister. Same goes for the couch. Pee goes in the potty. (Breaking news--Gigi is potty trained!) And for the love of all that is good and right, pants are not optional!

It's just so much easier to ignore the rules sometimes and let them have fun. And sometimes, as the mommy, I want nothing more than to get to be the fun parent. The cool guy. The one who lets them stay up late, eat popcorn upstairs, and watch four episodes of The Justice League.  Sometimes, I just don't want to wear my Princess panties.

When it became apparent that Snowmageddon was in fact going to become reality, I temporarily abdicated my throne and surrendered my royal title.  Rules were ignored. We've been snowed in, for the most part, for nearly 6 days with a few breaks now and again. We had a few meltdowns, not of the street clearing kind--of the kind that ended with RJ in timeout for his own safety.

The first rule to go? "It's too cold to play outside." It was 16 degrees:

Gigi wished I hadn't given up my princess title and had in fact put on my Princess panties that morning. She was in desperate need of someone to kill this fun. 

Her brother, on the other hand...

well, he had snow pants and Batman boots, 

which make a happy boy indeed. 

Add an afternoon of driveway work with daddy, and his day was complete. 

They humored me since it was Gigi's first real snow. 

The second rule to go? 

Don't eat snow. We didn't eat yellow snow--some rules just aren't meant to be broken, ever. 

The third rule to go? 

No crayons on the carpet. I gave up the dream of a grown-up living room. As my friend (who just moved her train table in to her living room) says, "They're only little for a little while." 

(I have not abandoned the rule about nose picking. Gigi likes to live dangerously.)

We've survived Snowmageddon. So far, our little Lutheran school is promising class tomorrow.  I certainly hope so; my scepter is getting rusty where I left it out in the snow. It's time to start enforcing some rules again. But every now and again, it's so nice to eat some snow, put my feet on the couch, and enjoy life with these little commoners: 

Thankful

It seems like I just finished my thankful list for last year, and here we are again. Another year. Another thousand plus one reasons to be thankful. I don't mean to sound snarky. I am thankful. I really do have another thousand plus one reasons to be thankful this year.

I'm thankful for the friends who, when I left the law firm, told me that three months after leaving, I'd look at where I was and wonder why I ever worried. They're a smart bunch. They were right. I left the firm at loose ends. I curled as small as I could in the front seat of the swagger wagon and sobbed after I exited stage left for the last time.

I wasn't a debutante. I barely got asked to prom, and I certainly wasn't schooled in social graces. But last week, I had my coming out party--or so we joked at the office. We hosted our annual pro bono recognition luncheon, and suddenly, I found myself at the podium in front of some of the most kind-hearted, generous, and talented attorneys and students that I've had the pleasure of knowing. I've heard good reports on the luncheon. Folks tell me they enjoyed the speakers and the food. But for me, it was about so much more than pumpkin cheesecake and award certificates. This was the first time in a number of years that I felt like I could hold my head high. No spreadsheet of billable hours lurked in the back of my mind (or anyone else's). No judgment was passed. In junior high, I tried to make myself as small as possible, hunched in my chair, avoiding eye contact, and hoping that I could escape the hallway rush without running into anyone. For the past few years, I walked through the door of my figurative junior high. Cursed with knowledge of my billable hour totals and the reality of part time, I slunk into the coffee room, avoided eye contact, and hoped I could escape into an empty elevator everyday to pick up my children from school. I lost sleep over debts that weren't mine and prayed for opposing parties to find extra dollars between their couch cushions so that I wouldn't really have to be the one taking the family farm.

I made it through junior high and found my place. And, this year, I'm thankful that I've found my place once again. I'm in no way operating at 100% (yet), but I'm thankful for a position that makes me feel good about who I am.  I'm learning about access to justice, meeting new people, and taking notes on pro bono clinics. It's exciting, and (I think) it's important.  And so, it seems that my new job is my "plus one" to be thankful for this year.

My other thousand thankful moments mostly come from weekends like these:

I'm thankful for friends, RJ's and mine. Friends make every meal a little more savory, every game a little more fun, and every day a little more memorable. 

I'm thankful for little family memories, like hunting for the elusive Edmond turkey--even if he was hiding in the library looking up recipes for vegetarian stuffing (I have a problem. My children will someday learn the depth of their mother's storytelling habits. Until then, Skippyjohn Jones is still cooking up the bean burritos at Taco Bell, and his cousin is the siamese cat next door.) 

I'm thankful for warm winter coats and fuzzy hats. 

This year, I'm thankful that I can run a mile with my boy because last year at this time...a mile was far, far too much to ask of my legs. 

I'm thankful for little chairs for little bottoms and for child appropriate programs that entertain little ones and keep them out of the kitchen. 

I'm thankful that sometimes they get along. 

I'm thankful for sturdy furniture. (She picked out those boots herself. I would not have selected Batman snow boots for her ensemble.)

I'm thankful for playful peek-a-boo games in the middle of a busy afternoon. 

I'm thankful that I didn't destroy the bird. It was edible. It was more than edible. Dare I say, it was actually quite tasty!

I'm thankful that RJ has a heart for service. He served the bread and seated everyone for Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not sure how I feel about him seating the boys at one table and the girls at the other, but so long as the girls got the chocolate pie, I suppose it's okay. 

I'm thankful for my ShopVac. Because without it, I could have never cleaned up this mess. Who knew that Pyrex could explode?!

I'm thankful for solid transportation and an uncle who's willing to share his for the best picture ever. 

I'm thankful for solid transportation for my boy and that even though his knees hit the steering wheel, he still finds little bulldozers to be big excitement. 

I'm thankful for pleasant afternoons and safe streets to play in. 

I'm thankful that she's no speed demon (yet). 

I'm thankful for piles and miles of fall leaves. Without them, we would have lost out on a good morning of family fun. 

I'm thankful for these two little people. They keep me hopping. They taught me that two little people can change one big career.

And now, just as my smarty pants friends predicted,  I can't believe that I was ever worried. 

And for that, I'm most thankful of all. 

But Did You Have Fun?

Every spring, and every fall, I find myself wondering how I get myself into these situations. It's windy and cold, or alternatively, it's windy and hot. It's early in the morning, or it's just shy of nap time. We're running late because we can't find the lawn chairs, and RJ wants Gatorade instead of plain old water.

It is soccer season. I resisted putting RJ in soccer so young. Kids need time to be kids, I reasoned. Why put him in sports this early? Isn't this really something for the parents, not the kids?

You be the judge:

This wasn't posed. 

Neither was this. 

Not even the same game. 

This little boy doesn't think he's too little for soccer. 

He thinks he's pretty hot stuff. 

I think so too. 

But, after every game, good or bad, he has one question to answer: "But, did you have fun?" 

If the answer is ever "no," we'll have to rethink things. 

For now, 

Soccer makes him feel about a foot taller. 

And just for old time's sake, 

His first game ever.  Can I get an "awwww"? 

He was a little pumped. 

His cheerleader, on the other hand, hadn't quite grasped the concept of getting on her feet to cheer on bubba. 

He grew into the uniform and the hair. 

And she started getting the hang of the spectator sport. 

For now, and for this season, RJ knows he's a superstar. 

And Gigi is quite content to be along for the ride... 

most of the time, anyway. 

I used to be a nervous soccer mom, waiting for the inevitable meltdown--hoping it wasn't my child who was doing the melting. I carried RJ to the car after his games because he was too tired to walk. I realized that toddler soccer certainly wasn't something for the parents. He still lets me tuck him in for a solid nap after each game, but there's not much melting down these days.  In fact, his answer to the big question has only gotten louder with each season: "Yes! I had fun!" And for my little boy, there really is nothing more important than fun.