This last Saturday, my husband and I attended a wedding together. With most of my husband's friends already married by the time we met, and most of my friends either eloping or eschewing marriage entirely, we've only watched as a handful of our friends and family have exchanged vows.

I love weddings. I love the pomp and circumstance, the fancy clothes and the happy tears. Saturday, I pulled on a strapless sundress for the first time in years and held my husband's hand as my dear friend married her beau. The ceremony was outdoors at a lovely hilltop vineyard, and while the couple shared smiles and the minister cracked the assembled crowd up with pithy observations, birds sang in the trees. I get a little happy-weepy just thinking about it.

As much as I enjoyed the wedding, it was the time with my husband that was really wonderful. We don't get out much, he and I. With three busy kids and a full plate of outside responsibilities, we are rarely out without the kids, let alone dressed up and well-fed.

We didn't know many people at the wedding, so when we arrived, we lingered on the edge of the crowd and sipped champagne. If you are planning a wedding? Serving drinks and appetizers before the ceremony rocks. When my sister arrived, we visited for a few minutes, and then I noticed that my husband had started schmoozing away with other guests. He was smiling and chatting away, and when he saw me looking at him, he grinned and waved me over to his side.

I've always considered myself the social butterfly of the family, so it was with great surprise that I watched as my husband smoothed our way from the baked brie to the bar and back with effortless conversational skills. I was really proud to be on his arm, and loved watching him in action.

By the time we sat down at dinner, and he took pains to keep my wine glass full and offer me choice tastes from his entree, I was literally eating out of his hand. I must have been glowing. Or gloating. I don't know. I am a lucky woman.

And later that night - with the kids spending the night at my parents' house... he was also lucky. Quite lucky.

You gotta love those hot date nights.

Posted by mommybloggers at 11:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Bloggers are often asked why. Why do we write online? Why share the little details of our day to day existence with total strangers? Why record the minutia at all?

For mommybloggers, the questions continue: What will your children think? Aren't you ashamed to admit you aren't perfect? Do you really think anyone cares if you have sore nipples or changed 900 diapers or spent all night helping your son finish his science project?

The answers to these questions are personal, of course. But here at Mommybloggers.com, we know that we've found validation, humor and support from reading the little details. We think that is valuable beyond measure.

We've been touched by some really wonderful entries this week, and we wanted to share them with you:

Emily McKhann of Been There wrote a beautiful post about her dear friend Erin's legacy:

While most of us don't know when our time will come, as she did, pausing to remind ourselves that, yes, we are indeed mortal gives us a chance to recalibrate and consider our life choices. When we take time to think about what we want in life, both in the present and down the road a bit, we can maybe even find our own unique ways of living with meaning and purpose.

Aldon Hynes of Orient Lodge takes up Emily's theme, and makes it personal:

On June 5, 1989 a solitary man stood in front of a column of tanks in Tiananmen square. The image is emblazoned on the minds of many who long for a more democratic China. Eight years earlier, the Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report had a report about five gay men in California who suffered from a rare form of pneumonia seen only in patients with a weakened immune system. For those concerned with AIDS, it was a key moment.

Yet for many of us the day will be remembered as a friend’s birthday or some other important event in our personal lives, or want have any significance. Yet these moments that make up a dull day may not be special to us, but to someone we love, they may have special meaning some day.

Y, over at Joy Unexpected, made us laugh and cry with her heartfelt post about blogging through the pain life can dish out:

I recently confessed to Liz that I find it hard to write the way I used to, because I feel more guarded and protective of my feelings. She said something that I think about almost every day.

“You have to speak your truth.�

And she’s right. She’s right because I have hundreds of saved emails from women who have written to me to tell me how much they can relate to the things that I write. I’ve had women tell me very personal things that have made me weep because I know how they feel and NO ONE should feel that way about themselves. I have emails dating back to 2005, because those emails have meant the world to me and sometimes, when I’m having a really bad day, I’ll go back and read them. I feel so grateful to every single person who has taken the time out of their lives to send me an email telling me their stories, or offering their moral support, or giving me advice, or telling me their praying for me and my family.

Finally, our own Jenn Satterwhite touches on her recent blogging dilemmas, and the conclusions she has reached:

You see when I let myself be free here on THIS blog, the other stuff that I need to do elsewhere falls into place. THIS is my house. THIS is where I should feel at home to be whatever I need or want to be.

Please go read these extraordinary posts - but before you go, share your reasons for blogging with us!

Posted by mommybloggers at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

My four- (AND A HALF, just ask her) year old daughter has become quite the force of nature. I've heard this is common with youngest children, but it is hilarious and simultaneously scary to see it playing out before my eyes.

We took the kids out for chinese food last night. Rather than hit one of the nicer restaurants, we headed for the mostly take-out joint in a strip mall and sat around a round formica table. We were each given a glass of water and a menu to check out. We ordered, sipped our hot tea, and sat chatting calmly while the food was being prepared. As our waiter walked by, my youngest threw her arm in the air and said:

"Um, excuse me? Could you bring me some more water...with ice this time, okay?" I shot her raised eyebrows and a scowl. She straightened up in her chair and added a perky "Please, waiter?" She returned my look, eyebrows arched. Then she shrugged, and went back to dumping sugar packets into her teacup. When the ice water appeared, she nodded like a monarch and said "Thanks!" She didn't add "you are dismissed" but she was thinking it.

This is not to say that she's rude, per se. I mean, okay. Yes. Sometimes she is rude. But this recent rash of speaking her mind has been more assertive than anything. My baby is able to order for herself at a restaurant, determine where she would like to go, and what she would like to wear while going there. She doesn't like being overruled, either. Hoo-boy. No. She's NOT a baby, she WANTS what she wants, and I better just be on my way.

In fact, she has my outfits all picked out too, for that place that I can hurry up and go to. She hears it's hot. I should dress for eternal flames.

I had fantasies that my youngest child would be slow to grow up. She'd naturally rely on me longer than her independent siblings, and relish being my baby.

Ha! Bwahahahahaha.

Yeah. That gig is over. She's done with being my baby, and onto being my boss.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been sleeping like the dead the last couple of weeks. The return of spring, and the rude slap of daylight savings time have made me greedy about my time under the covers. I struggle to the surface each morning, feeling as though my body is wrapped tightly in cobwebs.

My oldest daughter, she who gave up naps at 15 months old, she who sees no need for rest at all, ever, has become a creature of the comforter as the dawn approaches, too. My other two children still spring out of bed as soon as my husband's alarm goes off, and dance up and down the hall with their chipper voices and agile bodies. My oldest, however, yanks the blanket over her head and burrows deep into her pillow, fighting to get a few more minutes of sleep.

As annoying as it can be to have to wake her repeatedly, and put up with her moods in the morning, it is also a happy thing for me. Finally, this child of mine is demonstrating that she shares my genetics. Poor thing. But still! She's been rather unlike me all these eight years, and I've found myself remarking how like her father, her aunt, her grandmothers she is. But this heavy morning sleeping thing - that is all me.

For sure, there are other similarities. Our booming, deep voices. Our love of sweets and horses. Our artistic abilities, and utter lack of follow-through with our art projects. I see those things, and I see my influence. Somehow, seeing her dreaming in those last minutes before she wakes, I know her. I know exactly what it feels like to be pulled from a deep slumber, reluctantly leaving the vivid dreams of early morning behind. It makes me cranky, too. I know how it feels to leave behind the cobwebs and find yourself squinting against the too-bright light of the morning.

I stumbled around bleary-eyed this morning, nudging children towards our hour of departure for school. My daughter's face was puffy, mouth turned down into a pretty pout as she contemplated her breakfast options. I reached my arms out to her and pulled her close.

"Were you having a good dream?" I whispered.
"You have no idea how good," she whispered back. "We had a flying car filled with ice cream."
"Ooh! Nice one! You want some sausages and toast?"

The fog has lifted now, and the kids are off to school. I'm drinking my reheated coffee and planning my day. In the back of my mind, though, I'm envisioning a flying car filled with ice cream, pastel droplets oozing from the tailpipe.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm slowly but surely becoming acquainted with the other parents at my children's elementary school. I know their faces, even if I'm not sure which kid belongs to which parent yet, or in some cases, greeting the other parents with "Hi, Susie's mom!" You would think that after three years at this school, with two children in attendance, I would have more of a handle on these things. Of course, given my NDS (noun deficiency syndrome) - it is remarkable that I can remember my own children's names.

"Hey, you! Middle child! You! Um...brown hair girl!"

I see the faces, I try to remember the names, and I chit-chat at the park, while the swirl of parents and children move around me. It is all a large blur, except for the Mona Lisa.

Mona Lisa is the nickname I've given to a mother that I do not know. I see her almost every day, pulling her stroller from the back of her van, walking across the playground, in between the classrooms. I'm fascinated by this mother, because I have never seen her with less than a smile on her face. She always looks genuinely happy.

This woman is always surrounded by her (also smiling) children, who orbit her with beaming faces. Even when she was full-term pregnant and at that awkward wobbling stage, she simply glowed as she escorted her children to class, and played at the park with her little ones. I've never seen her frustrated, heard her utter a cross word or really, even heard her call to her children to 'come on already.' This could be because I'm part deaf from all the 'come on-ing' I do, but really, I'm starting to believe this woman is either a saint, or an expert in mind control. She is a mystery.

I've also noticed that she always sits alone at the park, rarely exchanging words with the other mothers, totally focused on her kids. I've asked about her, and no one seems to know her. Everybody comments on her smile, though. We all want to know why she appears so content. And some of us want to know what she's taking. Maybe keeping her distance from all the malcontents is her secret.

I've toyed with the idea of marching up to her and demanding to know why she's so happy all the time. I recognize that it isn't probably the right approach. I stand with a gaggle of chattering moms, complaining about homework or field trips or dishes piled in the sink, and glance over at this radiant mommy, cooing to her baby and smiling at her children on the swings. Her eyes are always twinking, her cheeks are always curved upwards into a gentle smile. It is clear that she is happy. She looks like a woman in love.

I've been tempted to run over and shake her, hoping that her pixie dust would make me fly, too. Her peaceful face has been a part of my daily grind for years. Seeing her reminds me to smile more. She reminds me to look at my children with love, walking at their pace instead of barrelling ahead to the van, hollering over my shoulder.

I think it is time to introduce myself to Mona Lisa. I'm afraid that I'm not kind enough, gentle enough, polite enough to befriend someone who seems so gracious. Then again, maybe she'd appreciate a little crazy. Only one way to find out, right?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

My oldest is turning eight in March. For the last 10 months, I've been subjected to endless one-sided discussions about how many kids she wants to attend her party, and whether she wants to have a slumber party, a dinner party, a Harry Potter-theme, a dog theme or a horse theme. There have been countless changes in her plans, and many faux-invites written up and abandonded.

Before Halloween, I asked her to put a halt to the party planning until we got through the holiday season. She kept it on the downlow, and I assumed that she forgot about it. That is, until New Year's Day when she heaved a sigh of relief and pulled out her notebook full of ideas that she had been updating at school.

"Mom, NOW can we talk about my party?"

The thing is, we're tightening all our financial belts this year, and trying to create a more realistic spending/savings ratio. An extravagant party just isn't in the cards. I've told her gently. I've told her bluntly. I don't seem to be able to penetrate her party-planning haze.

I guess it is a good thing that she claims to never want to marry. Bridezilla-in-training is what I've got going on here.

"Mommy, can you make an ice sculpture of a mermaid?"

"Yeah...um...no."

There is no way we are going to cave to her demands, and really, she's not demanding at all. She's just planning. And planning and planning and planning.

Continue reading "Ice Mermaids" »

Posted by mommybloggers at 11:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (0)

Our own Meghan Townsend has posted a very thought-provoking entry over at her personal blog:

The company that makes Hummer Utility Vehicles wants my toddler to buy their cars. And no. I’m not kidding. My daughter is not even two and a half, and corporations are already focusing on ways to get her attention.

A recent article I read in the Minneapolis Star Tribune (Ads seek kids' grip on family purses, December 4th 2006) offered up a slap in my consumptive forehead. In fact, the piece scared the dickens out of me. Large Corporations, it seems, are after my two year old daughter’s mind. They want to influence her. They want her loyalty. They want to convince her that their car is the best car, and she can’t even drive, and won’t for nearly 14 years.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:05 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

I think it has finally happened. I've become one of those moms.

The ones who stay up until midnight to register their child for the good preschool at 12:01am, so they don't lose their spot to more motivated parents.

On Wednesday night, I sat blearily in front of the computer until my eyes were swimming, and then I wandered to my bed, determined to read until the magical hour when registration opens. I set the alarm, and drifted off, only to be jolted awake moments later by the alarm. I quicklly logged on, entered the registration information, and then stomped back to bed. My husband turned over in his sleep and murmured "Way to take one for the family, Jenny."

The fact that I've told no less than everyone I meet that I did this remarkable feat (which, gimme a break, I used to stay up to midnight and beyond all the time. It's only the last six months that I've been going to bed before the wee hours) tells me that I'm entering territory that I don't necessarily want to be on.

Martyred Mom Land is no place for me. And yet, just this morning, I was bellyaching to another friend about having four birthday parties in two days to attend. She nodded sympathetically, and suggested that I pick and choose.

Yes! I could do that, except my son is invited to two, my oldest is invited to two, and my youngest is invited to two. In assorted combinations. Now would be a good time for a bout of the flu, if you get my meaning.

It isn't that I'm doing anything remarkable for my children by registering them, or taking them to more parties than I've been invited to in five years in one weekend, or whatever. It is that I'm feeling put-upon about it. And then I use that as a conversation topic. Aha! Perhaps the reason for the drought of party invites.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

Since the birth of my oldest, I've been an emotional ninny at moments that defy explanation. Fireworks get me every time. Parades, too. Walking into Disneyland. Pretty much any music with a swooping crescendo somewhere. Christmas lights.

Boy, don't you want to hang out with me?

The latest entry in the weird crying jag roster is Christmas carols. I can handle Jingle Bells and Santa Claus is Coming to Town, but don't even get me started on O Holy Night. Seriously, I have to skip that one. Just thinking about it makes me cry. And I'm not even religious.

My son came home from school singing a delightfully off-key version of The Twelve Days of Christmas last week. He is clearly my son, because he's got through the six geese a laying down, but after that, all the stuff is pretty much interchangable.

"On the tenth, no wait, eleventh day of Christmas my true love gave to meeeee...what was ten again? Pipers? Drummers? Ladies? Let's say ladies."

And so on, and so forth.

We also enjoy throwing our heads back and howling "FIVE GOOOOOLDEN RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!"

So, anyhoo. We're driving along the other day, and my son and I get started on the Six Days That We Actually Remember and The Rest That We Sort of Mumble Of Christmas. Soon the girls were howling along, and inspired by whatever that version of the song that has the true love giving "Three French Toast, Two Turtlenecks and a Beer" (anyone?) we started mangling away the remaining lyrics.

Five onion rings
Six buffalo wings
Seven trash cans
Eight traffic lights
Nine hamburgers

And... I forget the rest, because that's what I do. I forget the lyrics to this song, even if I'm partially responsible for making up the new lyrics. It is a talent. Surprisingly, it doesn't make me cry.

We were driving home, shouting along in a singalong that raised eyebrows and earned startled looks from fellow motorists. When we pulled into the driveway. We all shouted out the final verse and then sat there with the van walls vibrating from the shockwave created by our voices.

And then we busted out laughing. You can keep your O Holy Night. I'll take The Eleven, no, Twelve Days of Random Stuff any time.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 2:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been looking forward to setting up our Christmas tree and hauling down the boxes of decorations. For the first time in many years, the kids are actually old enough to reason with. I've got high hopes that the kids will leave most of the ornaments on the tree this year, sparing me from repeated redecoration efforts.

The problem has always been this: the kids are set-players. I have lots of ornaments that come in sets. Rather than allow these sets to be scattered pleasingly over the branches of the tree, the kids want all the families to stay together. This means we have a clump of snowmen over here. A clump of reindeer over there. A colony of gingerbread people. A little family of angels.

This is not the way it is done. And yet, it is the way we do it.

This year, however, I had it all explained, with the help of a few catalogs showing beautifully decorated trees. The kids seem to get it that we are decorating a tree, not creating ethnic neighborhoods. So far, so good, right?

We carried the tree inside yesterday, and set it up in the stand. We put the lights on the tree, and cleaned up the downed needles. Taking a breather while we enjoyed the glowing lights, we saw a grey streak cross the floor at high speed.

The cat climbed to the top of the tree in about 5 seconds flat. Before we even realized what had happened, the cat was swaying perilously at the top of the tree, and the dog was barking at the base of the tree.

Yeah. Forgot to factor the new cat into the holiday decorating scheme. I mean, I got her an ornament, but it didn't dawn on me that she would want to live in the tree.

I filled a squirt pistol and took aim. She hissed at me and began a rapid descent, encouraged by a few more squirts. The dog did the honors and chased her the rest of the way out of the room while I danced around, shooting off a few celebratory rounds in front of the twinkly tree.

"Mom, should you be putting water on those electric lights?"

Hmm. No, I probably shouldn't. But then again, the cat hasn't set a single wisker towards the tree since.

This would have been helpful when the kids were still wee babies.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 7:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Waking up to the smell of noxious burning is never a good thing.

See, I was under the delusion that since all three kids are home from school today, I might actually get to sleep in beyond five am. When my husband and kids all leaped out of bed at quarter past five, I assumed he would wake me when he wasn't able to supervise them any longer.

Uh, no.

The three kids were in and out of our big bed, and I drifted in that half-sleep, half-awake state that has been so common over the last eight years. I was aware, but not aware.

"Mommy, there's a leg bag in the microwave." My son shook my shoulder. It didn't occur to me to question him about this "leg bag" thing.

I immediately leaped out of bed, in fire-fighter mode. As I passed by the bathroom, my husband yelled "Are you cooking something? I don't like what I'm smelling..."

I raced to the kitchen, trailing kids, to find that my nearly-four-year-old had put an ankle weight in the microwave and turned it on. For two minutes. It was black, smoking and bubbling as I wrenched the door open, to be greeted by a cloud of foulness.

I don't know what I said, exactly, but it had a lot of primal screaming for punctuation. My kids stood in a semi-circle around my quaking frame, upper torsos leaning backwards like shrubs in high winds. (I just typed quacking. I might have been doing some of that, too.)

My husband appeared, and we rapidly fanned out, opening doors and windows. The indoor-only cat took the opportunity and ran out the door, to the howls and hysterical tears of my oldest. The smoke detector never went off. I don't know if that is a good thing, or not.

Yes, at seven o'clock this morning, you could have found me in the backyard, shaking a bowl of cat kibble and calling "kitty kitty kitty kitty." At seven-o-five, you could have found me on the deck, separating my two oldest children, with one of my palms on one forehead, one of the other forehead. Every time the cat made an appearance, my daughter would grab at her, and my son would simultaneously charge, freaking the cat out and sending her scrambling under the deck.

"It is seven o'clock in the morning. The neighborhood is still asleep. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

I finally captured the cat, and locked her in the bathroom. Then I made a huge mug of coffee and turned on some Bob Marley. I've been walking around fanning the air in my house with a giant plastic lid to a giant plastic container, swaying my hips to the beat.

The kids are spending the night at Grandma's tonight. Every little thing is gonna be all right.

Our contest is live! Use that search function and get your answers in before Sunday night! Click here (or up on the "Fun") to play!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:58 AM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

With eight years of parenting under my belt, I've been on cruise control. I've been borderline jaded as the latest milestones come and go for each of my three children. There are benefits to spacing your children closely, one of which is a strong sense of parenting deja vu. Seen it, heard it, diapered it and blogged about it.

Yeah, I thought I had my inner neurotic mother permanently squashed into a neat little compartment, where her nagging doubts and constant overthinking would be muffled by the thick skin I sprouted as part of my veteran mom perks. This last month, however, had my inner neurotic mother springing up out of her little hideaway on a regular basis. I can't seem to keep the lid on her, and she's making me crazy.

I'm rolling my eyes at myself even as I type this. My oldest has been taking horseback riding lessons for half a year, and although she loves riding, and was progressing all summer long, she has suddenly hit a wall of some sort. It started with a pulling back from tacking up her horse with no assistance, and then she insisted on riding only ponies, and then she began to refuse to canter.

"But you love horses!" I insist.

all around the mulberry bush...

"You used to do it all the time!" I cajole.

the monkey chased the weasel...

"Please, just get in the van. I've already paid for these lessons, so you're going," I demand.

The monkey thought 'twas all in fun...

"Why are you afraid? What is the matter? Either get off the horse, or do what your coach says!" With a sudden lurch, inner neurotic mother blows the lid right off her cage.

Pop! Goes the weasel.

While her coach and I both agree that she obviously needs a break from riding, and my daughter agrees, there are still three prepaid lessons to go this month.

Veteran mom says to listen to my heart (the kid isn't having fun, and it doesn't matter what the reason is.)

Inner neurotic mother says solve the puzzle! Conquer the demon! Slay the dragon! There is work to do here!

Veteran mom says that if I'm so worried about the lessons going to waste, I should shut up and take them myself.

Inner neurotic mother says that I'm really close to understanding what caused the change in my daughter's enthusiasm, and by the next lesson, she could be hot to trot. Literally.

Veteran mom says that clearly I've got too much invested in my daughter's riding.

Inner neurotic mother says that if I let her quit without getting her over the fear she's fighting, I'll be doing her a huge disservice. What if she gets the idea that if the going gets tough, you quit? What about that, Veteran Mom? Huh? Huh?

I hate inner neurotic mother. But she won't get back in the box.

Help me hear the voice of reason - do I try to get to the bottom of this, and have her finish out this series of lessons, and then take a few months off and see what she wants to do? Or do I save myself the aggrevation and trust that quitting an activity isn't going to turn my child into a cowering underachiever?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 6:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Never fear! We have new interviews and new content on the way!

These last few weeks will go down in history as the weeks when Real Life Fought Back. Jenn's recent illness, Meghan's leave of absence, and my own family's needs have unfortunately dropped our productivity to a slow crawl. If I owe you an email, I'll be doing my best to catch up over the next few days.

My children had a three-day weekend this last weekend, and it brought all my online ambitions to a halt, once again. I would drift towards the computer, longingly, and then notice the sink full of dishes. I would plan to curl up in my bed with the laptop, only to drop into a deep, twitching sleep the moment my body hit the mattress. I planned on composing a stockpile of meaningful entries, only to get caught up in the breathless recounting of some adventure my kids planned on tackling.

Instead of blogging, we made art projects. We played in the sunshine and tried to learn how to play Pokemon. We read book after book after book and snuggled. We reconnected. I wouldn't exactly call it stopping to smell the roses, but in my case, blowing a few dish soap bubbles served the same purpose.

They also made me insane, but that is a whole 'nother entry.

It felt amazing to just walk away for a few days. It gave me the chance to catch my breath, and to appreciate what I have (and to really eyeball what I need to work on) here at home.

We'll be turning the spotlight on some amazing writers in the next few weeks - stay tuned.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: We're so excited to have the chance to interview you, Liz... can we call you Liz, or do you prefer Badgermama?

LIz: Liz is fine, though I answer to Badger, Lizzard, Dr. Lizardo, whatever.

Mommybloggers: You're a published poet, and an all-around prolific writer. Is blogging an offshoot of your 'real' writing?

LIz: Blogging started that way, as an offshoot, but now I wonder if it has become my "real" writing. It's a little bit diary and a little bit epistolary. I have two book recommendations for women who have been blogging a lot and taking it seriously: 800 Years of Women's Letters edited by Olga Kenyon, and Private Pages: Diaries of American Women 1830s-1970s. Those are good starting points if you want to feel hooked into a literary tradition of writing women. Blogging is its own genre now, but it would be good for us to strengthen the connections in our minds between blogs and the amazing rich history of diaries and letters that have been important in women's literature for hundreds of years.

Before I had blogs, I kept paper notebook journals. Usually I had 3 or 4 at once: a main catch-all one to carry with me, a small one to carry in a pocket, one for especially significant moments that has lasted for years and is slow to fill up, and a dream journal. I also was used to working back and forth between two notebooks on drafts of poems and translations, and I still do this. Letters to my friends could run 20 pages handwritten, easy. My notebooks go back 22 years at this point. I wrote and published a ton of xerox zines. So it's not like my overblogulating came out of nowhere.

I do love my poetry best, and my poem translations. But it has always been my ambition to be one of those writers who does a little bit of everything. I can't help being heavily textual. Blogging is super exciting because it puts me into direct touch with other people who are like that.

Mommybloggers: Tell us how Badgermama came about - what inspired you to make the leap? How has the response surprised you?

LIz: I had been writing on my big old catch-everything pseudonymous badgerbag blog. I went to BlogHer's first conference, and really liked the mommyblogger panel and discussion. After that I felt it was important for me to identify at least partly as a mommyblogger, since I'm a mom and I blog sometimes about that identity and about parenting. I was a little frustrated at always being left out of the categories, because of writing about a little bit of everything, and not having a focus. there was (and still is) a lot of advice floating around the blogospher about how to be successful or popular or make money as a blogger, and one key concept was focus. I thought, "What if I go through my archives and pull out all the parenting and mom stuff, and put it together?" I did a little bit of that for badgermama, and then found that I wanted to write there, in that context. Once I made the blog and it had a concept, I wanted to write different stories, and say different stuff, than I wanted to write on my One Blog to Rule them All. I have found, now, the the importance of context.

So my own internal response surprised me. The same is true of sf.metroblogs.com; I sometimes write about my affectionate feelings for place and local geography, but as soon as I had the password for metroblogging, I found I had more to say than I had realized. Once I had a mommyblog, I found a little bit of a new voice.

I also felt that it might be important to let my freak flag fly in the context of being a mom. For other women, to say "here's what that's like - here's my experience - " By "freak flag" I don't mean "I have silly hair". It's that I approach everything intensely. I enjoy my life very intensely and I want to share that, in a way, to give validation to anyone else who has a hunger for life and experience.

It's that someday I hope I'll do something really cool and amazing and be able to write about that. For now, it's just my daily life and my thoughts. And our daily lives, the way we experience them, are important. We should value that now, as we live our lives, not later when we remember them from our hospital beds, or never, or only in the imaginations of our grandchildren after we're dead.

Here's a hard thing to talk about. One response I didn't expect was that other moms and other mommybloggers started acting like I was famous or something. That was just weird. But it made me realize it must be important to say what I'm saying. That people come up to me, and want to meet me, is really nice, but it can also sometimes be a sort of pressure; people want something from the experience of meeting me, they expect something. I want to be able to give it, whatever it is. I hope this does not sound stuck-up, I'm just trying to be honest, and it's a new thing for me. It's new for me to have people meet me and feel they know me, when I don't necessarily know them; and it's new for me to feel a certain responsibility for what I say, because I know people are listening or reading.

Continue reading "Mommybloggers dish with Liz Henry" »

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The flyer came home yesterday. I broke into a cold sweat as it drifted into my lap, the glossy texture causing it to slip away from other, more mundane school bulletins.

School Portrait Time.

Have mercy.

I don't care how photogenic your little Susie is around the house. Sure, little Johnny radiates pure sunshine on YOUR camera. There is something sinister in the art of school photography, and there is nothing you can do to prevent your child's portrait from resembling a gargoyle.

I had a dry run the first year with my oldest. I dressed her up cute, and fixed her hair in tidy pigtails. I reminded her to smile nicely for the camera. (Okay, I admit it, I even rehearsed how to smile with her. Sigh, smile. Sigh, smile. No, put your shoulders down. Uncross your eyes. Stop gritting your teeth. Sigh. Look natural, damn it! NATURAL!) I walked her to the classroom door and pushed her through, hissing one final admonishment (Natural!) and returned home, confident. Several weeks later, the arrival of the pictures revealed the ugly truth.

Not only had they scheduled the kindergartener's photos for the last hour of the day, after lunch and two recesses (hello?) but they had improved my daughter's pigtails by removing the elastics and arranging her now-loose tresses in chunks. Her smile looked like she had a knife point pressed to her spine.

You know, natural.

Then, because I apparently didn't think about it too hard, I dressed my daugher cute from the waist up. She had funny, muddy shoes on, and her class picture features her skort's wrinkled hem and mud-splattered socks prominently. I'm the Mother of the Year! Woooo!

I just kept 'em. No point in trying to improve on it with a retake. I'm just not a gambler when the odds are so clearly stacked against me.

Last year rolled around, and I had two prisoners for the School Photo Firing Squad. I tried a different tack with my daughter.

"Honey, show me how a princess smiles." This resulted in praying hands wedged between her left shoulder and cheek, and a weird, afflicted expression. Okay, no. Barf. Stop the simpering!

"Can't you just smile normal?" Oh yeah. She can't. I forget these things because of the trauma that parenting has inflicted on my poor brain.

I just turned to my son and patted him on the shoulder. I looked him in the eye and sighed. Whispering, I asked him to show me his handsome smile. I got a hideous grimace, cheeks taut over clenched teeth. It was going to be what it was going to be, no matter what I asked for.

Again, the tradition of keeping the youngest kids for last (The hell? Seriously?) left my children in crumb-scattered glory. I remembered to dress them to their shoes this time, but I didn't bank on grass-stains on the knees of my son's khaki pants, nor did I anticipate my daughter's decision to tuck one side of her collar into her shirt, and leave the other side out. Oh, and I totally disagree with the school's decision to have a wind tunnel available for the kids to play in that day. I'm just saying.

The photos we received were hilariously bad. We kept those ones, too.

And now, here we go again. What background do we choose? Purple Passion? Emerald Memories? Smoky Haze? Do we go for the soft filter, for the flattering, Cybil Sheppard lighting - because seven-year-olds need so much help with that?

Do we know enough people to warrant the purchase of a package? Do I want a photo of my child on a bookmark that says "D-Lish?" The decisions are killing me dead. El dia de fotos esta aqui, and I'm not ready.

Sigh. Smile. It's only natural.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 4:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

My seven-year-old daughter and I tend to approach life from a very different place. She is much more dramatic, and loves to plan thing years in advance. I'm hard to rile, and keep my focus fixed on the here and now, much to her chagrin. We joke that my daughter is a carbon copy of my mother, who doesn't understand the way I function either. As different as we all are, it is always a surprise to find traits that we share.

Recently, my daughter attended a birthday party for a classmate. I took her to Target to select a gift, and she chose a stationary set and a few plastic animals. I wasn't sure how that would go over with the birthday girl, so I carefully tucked aside the gift receipt.

At home, she insisted on wrapping the gift herself, and rejected the floral paper I had selected. She packed her gift in a battered Amazon.com shipping box, and then taped plain white paper all over it.. Then she decorated it with drawings in an assortment of markers.

I bit my lip while she decorated. I offered to help her wrap it, and I was shooed away. She quickly signed the card and sealed it into an envelope before I could slip the gift receipt inside. Then she spent an hour crafting an elaborate set of pictures, folded into a book for her friend, which she taped to the sealed card. Her final offering was a large, construction paper badge that proclaimed her friend as a member of my daughter's imaginary club of horse lovers.

It was all a labor of love for my girl. And I knew that this would probably end badly.

At the party, my daughter's gift was shuffled around the table while the birthday girl opened conventionally wrapped gifts right and left. As the pile of licensed merchandise grew, my daughter sat on the edge of her seat, eyes gleaming. Finally, her gift was the only one left, and her friend pulled it towards her. She shredded the typing paper without a glance at the drawings, and ripped open the sad box, extracting the stationary and the animals. She took a 10 second look at them, handed the animals to her baby brother and pushed her chair away from the table.

My daughter spoke up. "Did you see the card I made for you?"

Her friend returned to the box and pulled the card off of the side. She opened the book of pictures and spent about five seconds trying to decipher the story before tossing it into the pile of other cards. She offered a mother-prompted thanks and raced off to play with the other guests.

My daughter's face fell. She took a shuddering breath and then straightened her shoulders. She pushed back in her chair and ran off to play with the girls.

My heart broke a little for her at that moment.

Continue reading "Little Treasures" »

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I just found out yesterday that our neighborhood is hosting its annual yard sale on Saturday. We always mean to participate, but being scattered and lazy usually makes me opt out.

I'm thinking that this might be the year, though. Two out of three kids are in school. I've got a garage full of miscellaneous crap. I've even got stickers that I could use for pricing...

The problem, of course, is the kids. I have to get them away from the action. My friend has her daughter set up a lemonade and cookie stand while she merrily sells off her toys. I can't fault her logic on that, and I might have to set up a competing lemonade stand for our corner.

Because boy howdy do I have toys to unload. We have giant boxes of toys that no one plays with any longer. The problem is trying to get rid of them without the kids seeing them. Because as soon as they spot something, they immediately profess their undying love for whatever it is.

I'm a marshmellow. I need to grow a backbone.

Faster than I can slap a rubbermaid lid back on the object of newly found adoration, they've wisked it off to be abandoned under the couch, or in the backyard.

So. I have two days to sort, spit-polish and slap price tags on all our, er MY unwanted crap. Hopefully, it will change my feng shui, or at least let me approach the garage.

But! What do I do with the kids? Will a lemonade stand be enough to keep them from raiding the tables? Will they even stay at their table? Or should I just leash them to the tree and let them call out to passersby like merchants in a medieval market?

I need some tips, here. Gimme your best garage sale ideas, people!

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

My three-year-old was hunched down in the dirt, poking at some unseen object with a stick. I slid the back door open and called her inside for dinner. She froze for a moment, and then resumed her poking. I called again, and she shot half a glance at the door. In a surprise move, she dropped to a tightly curled squat, and covered her head with her hands.

Ooookay. Clearly she considered herself hidden, and beyond the range of my vision.

I played along. I wandered into the yard, searching high and low. I pretended to trip over her, and a small "tee-hee!" escaped from the armadillo-like child on the ground. My apparent stupidity just got funnier and funnier, and she found it very hard to contain herself.

When I started pretending that she was a giant snail, her sides were shaking with mirth. I called to her siblings to come and see this giant snail, and picked her up off of the ground. Her arms and legs shot to the four corners and she yelled,

"I'm not a snail! I'm a GIRL."

Heh.

I carried her into the bathroom, and washed her hands and face. At the table, she regaled her siblings with stories of how she really fooled me. Apparently, she must have been a snail in another life, and switched to a girl up in heaven.

My son suddenly started braying and elongating his neck, making really alarming noises. He raised his fist to his forehead, and extended three fingers. As soon as it began, it ended, and he gave me an expectant look.

"Oh, wow. That was a great triceratops impression." I said.

"Well, you see..." he started. He was once a triceratops, you see. Before he was a boy. He was all the dinosaurs, and when he got up to heaven, he knew it was time to be my boy. But that is why he can totally do great dino impressions. Because he has first hand memories.

This launched a big discussion about dinosaurs in heaven, and an argument over the status of carnivores. Did they try to eat the People Angels? Or were they now Celestial Vegetarians, happily eating clouds?

My oldest, eager to get in on the action, decided that her angelic lineage was from the magical unicorns who could become mermaids family. Of course. That makes total sense.

My youngest alternated between participating in the discussion, and sucking her thumb while pondering the latest startling revelation about her family. After a few intense minutes sucking, she popped her thumb out, and asked, "What were you in heaven, Mommy?"

My son sighed dramatically, and my seven-year-old rolled her eyes.

"She was always our mommy. Duh."

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

When did you start blogging and why?

Back when my oldest daughter was a newborn, I sought out other mamas on the internet - my real-life friends were not having children yet, and I needed a community. I quickly found support and friendship via message boards - friendships that have endured to this day. But as my childen got a little bit older, and I got comfortable with the day-to-day challenges of mothering, I began to outgrow some facets of the discussion boards.

Several of the other mamas from my favorite discussion board began blogging, and after admiring their efforts for a few months, I took the leap. On July 13, 2004, I started Three Kid Circus, and well, I never looked back. Hey, wait a minute. I just passed my two-year bloggiversary!

*putting on party hat, inserting blower into mouth*

So, where was I? Ah yes. After blogging in relative obscurity for a year, I had the honor of being one of the panelists for the first Mommyblogging discussion at BlogHer 2005. Mommybloggers.com is an outgrowth of the passionate response Jenn, Meghan and I heard from the women at the conference - both the positive and the negative.

In June of 2006, I joined the ClubMom blogging team as "BigSlice." Big Slice of Life, Small Slice of Cheesecake documents my attempts to lose 50 pounds. I'm losing v e r y s l o w l y. Nonetheless, it has been a fantastic exercise is accepting myself, appreciating who I am, and what I have to work with, and moving forward.

*toot, toot*

How do you use blogging to build friendships?

Blogging allows me to do the one thing that makes my heart pitter-patter the most - talk uninterrupted. With my three little monkeys, it often feels like I'm never going to finish a sentence, let alone a thought. For a glory-hound and self-important ass like myself, this has proven extraordinarily painful. I have things I want, nay, need to share with the world. Blogging has given me a place to shout my shopping lists and recount my days.

As self-centered as that sounds, it is this drivel that has brought me wonderful friends. Friends who tell me I'm funny, or that they feel the same way at the end of a rough day. Who doesn't love that? Not only that, but through Mommybloggers, we've had the chance to interview and feature some of the brightest talent out there, and it has been really inspiring.

How would you describe your writing style?

Wordy. Descriptive. Humorous.

Okay, I just cracked myself up. because how wordy and descriptive is a single word sentence?

What don’t you write about? Anything considered a no-no in your book?

I generally don't blog about politics, religion or family members without their permission.

How do you feel about meeting bloggers in real life? Are you nervous? Will you have great expectations? What do you home to take away from the BlogHer experience?

BlogHer 2005 was such a positive experience for me. For the first time, I realized that I am part of a larger community that is changing perceptions, making a real difference, and telling our own stories, day by day. It was incredibly moving. To be able to visit with some of the women who I read, and to swap war stories with new friends was just incredible. I can't wait.

So soon we’re going to meet each other at BlogHer. Important question. How do you party?

Obnoxiously. The undiluted Jenny away from her family experience includes lots of squealing and jumping, plenty of cocktails and laughing. I'm immature in a way that I can't even express. You'll just have to see it to believe it.

Have you written anything controversial?

You know, I really haven't. I think that sharing opinions can be controversial, because there is always someone who has another view of any topic. Don't get me wrong, I have very strong opinions about politics, religion, feminism - I just don't usually write about them. There are other writers who are a thousand times more eloquent than I'll ever be.

Are you and your blogging persona the same person?

Well, yes and no. My blogging persona is calmer, and more reflective. In reality, I approach life like a bull in a china shop.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: Hello, there, Dorothy! Or should we call you Surrender? Which is it?

RIta: Actually, I’m Rita. I’ve been blogging as Dorothy for about two years now, but I’ve given up on the idea that nobody will ever know who I really am. It’s sort of like trying to force a nickname at band camp.

Mommybloggers: We are all big fans of your blog - how did you discover blogging? Have you
always been a writer?

RIta:My friend C. over at Average Jane forwarded me an entry by Alice Bradley of Finslippy. The entry was about judging mothers and how to do it best. My daughter was three months old at the time, and I felt like everything I did was wrong and someone would be coming very soon to take her away from me. This was before I saw Britney Spears driving with Sean Preston in her lap and realized it’s sort of hard to remove children from their mothers for using the Costco brand of Enfamil.

I’ve been a writer since about age twelve. My first poems centered mostlycon unicorns. In high school, I was heavily influenced by Edgar Allan Poe and wrote a lot of bizarre stuff that I now can’t remember writing. Or even
thinking. Who was that girl? Embarrassing.

I wrote a horrible first novel that never went anywhere while I was temping at Mutual of Omaha and living in my parents’ basement between Chicago and Kansas City. When I got to Kansas City, I decided I needed help and got a
master’s degree. If you want to hate yourself, go to a graduate-level writing workshop. I’m now working as an editor, and that makes me really happy. I think going through the motions of getting the master’s made me own
my writing more, and that’s a good thing. But you don’t really need one.

Mommybloggers: One thing that really stands out in your writing is your obvious affection for your family. Even with difficult subjects, you always manage to create a positive spin. Are you always so upbeat?

RIta: No. It’s all done with mirrors.

I really use this forum to try to find the humor in situations in which I’m secretly doubting myself or paralyzed by anxiety. I’m prone to melodrama and melancholy, actually. I use the blogging to find the lighter side – to see the situation from the outside, like someone else would. It really, really helps.

Mommybloggers: We ask all our guests - what do you think of the term "Mommyblogger?" Are YOU a mommyblogger?

RIta: I love labels. I think we should have more of them.

Seriously, though, it doesn’t bother me. I have categories on my blog –parenting, marriage, writing, teaching, politics, working for the man…I have strong feelings on all of those subjects. I write about my daughter most
because a) I’m shocked on a daily basis by the lack of control involved in parenting and b) I want to have a record of these years. I went to a friend’s baby shower in Chicago a few weeks ago, and her mother gave her a
baby book containing all of these little slips of paper with funny stories about her childhood. I was so happy to realize I’d have a digital version for the little angel.

Mommybloggers: Tell us about your growing up years. We'd love to know where you came from, and what your ambitions were.

RIta: I’m so tempted to quote The Jerk by that question.

I grew up in small-town Iowa, population 5,000. One-fifth of the town lived at the Iowa state hospital school for the mentally retarded. I don’t know why I put that in, but it’s hard to leave it out. I am the older of two daughters. My sister is a very talented writer and editor who works for a textbook-publishing company in Chicago. My mom was a teacher and my dad is a farmer who fell back on mechanical engineering.

What else? I was a fat kid whose mother had cancer twice when I was in middle school, which led to an eating disorder that lasted through high school and college. I haven’t blogged much about that yet, but it also colors my personality. I’m a self-doubter and a perfectionist. It’s hard for me to be nice to me, and blogging helps me, as I said, view my life through someone else’s eyes. We’re always nicer to other people than we are to ourselves.

I met my husband through a proprietary Lotus Notes database. It’s a long story. He impressed me with his killer wit and kindness. My dad always told me to marry someone you secretly think might be a better person than you are. I think I did. But I still like to make fun of him, anyway. He’s a great dad and an amazing human being. I’ve been a lot less critical of myself since he’s been in my life. He’ll never read this, though, because he doesn’t read my blog. Does anyone’s husband read their blog? Besides Heather Armstrong’s?

Mommybloggers: Teaching writing to students with challenges must be rewarding, but difficult. What is the one lesson you try to pass on to all your students?

RIta: Tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, tell them what you told them. Do that, and you’ll be fine.

Mommybloggers: You've written about the freedom you feel when you blog, and how it affects your ability to self-censor in other areas of your life. Is there anything you avoid writing about?

RIta: I try not to be cruel. I don’t think blogging is a good forum for that. If I’m going to be cruel, I write a short story and
disguise the characters. I also try to avoid writing a lot about my family or my husband’s family. They didn’t ask to be part of my blog, and so I try to keep it to stuff that’s purely mine. My sister and I have a deal that we can’t steal each other’s lives for our own stories, and I think that applies to my blog, too. It’s unfortunate, because she has so much material that I’d love to use.

Mommybloggers: For many of us, reading and writing about motherhood helps us to become better, more relaxed parents. Is this your experience?

RIta: Oh, absolutely. I’ve written you, Jenny, about the little angel’s sleeping problems, and I’ve also written to other mommybloggers. Everyone’s always been so nice, and I’m always amazed at how many people actually write me back with great stories.

Mommybloggers: Your blog is full of colorful descriptions and vivid details. Do you approach life from a writer's point of view, or do certain details from your day just leap out at you?

RIta: I can’t turn it off. I make people uncomfortable. Last week I noticed one of my male co-workers has started
shaving his arms, and I couldn’t help pointing it out.

Mommybloggers: We are so excited to meet you at BlogHer... you are going, aren't you? What are your goals for the conference?

RIta: Yes, I’m going! I’m so excited to meet some of the people I feel like I already know. I’m trying to build traffic for Surrender, Dorothy right now. I’m part of the BlogHer ad network and am working on a separate writing project that involves motherhood, so my first goal is to figure out this world and how I might live in it more fully in the future. You never know where life’s going to take you, but blogging has opened some writing doors for me and given me much more confidence to delve into certain subjects. See you there – I’ll be the one with the wine glass.

Mommybloggers: Finally, here are the questions that we subject all our interviewees to - a
la Inside The Actor's Studio:

What is your favorite parenting related word? reward

What is your least favorite parenting related word? night-time parenting

*What is your favorite creative censored curse word used around children? Melonpicker (this is a substitute for "motherfucker")

What is your favorite hiding place in your home where you go to get away from it all? The Internet

What is the hiding place you have been found in too often and can no longeruse? my bed

If Oprah exists, what would you like her to say when you arrive at the Oprah Winfrey show when she features the Mommybloggers? I loved your latest book.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)

So, there I was, sitting on my deck, scowling at my children. They stood thigh deep in our inflatable wading pool, frozen in a tableau of cartoon violence.

My oldest had one arm wrapped around an innertube, her other arm raised overhead, hand in slapping position.
My son had one leg inside the innertube, and pointed a water noodle menacingly at his sister.
My youngest was sitting on the inflatable seat inside the pool, barking like a dog.

I had ordered a freeze to assess the situation. The kids, used to being ordered to stop, shush, stand, sit, hurry, and wait were puzzled by the sound of their mother, bellowing FUH-REEEEEEEEZE!

So there they were, mid-fight, and there I was, shooting optical daggers, and the only sound was the rustling of the leaves and the barking of my three-year-old.

I broke the silence. "What is the problem here?" I demanded, fists on my hips.

They both hurried to tattle at once. "He took..."
"She took..."
"I had it first"
"It was mine..."

I raised my hands like a conductor, and made the CEASE! hand motion. They fell silent.

Awesome.

"Arf! Arf! Arf arf arf arf!" added my three-year-old.

"Everyone out of the pool!" I announced, and threw them towels. "Dry off. You do not bicker and complain and tattle. No."

Outside the pool, they started up with the "no fair, jt's not my fault, I didn't do anything, he started it" baloney, and I reared back and roared "Fuh-REEEEEEEEEZE!" once again. I added a "SIIIIIIIIIII-lence!" to the routine, and they stood there looking put out, but quiet.

"Arf! Arf! Arf!" added my three-year-old.

I searched my pea-brain for some sort of climax to this parenting display. Aha! Carmen gives her kids sentences.

"You will each write sentences!" I declared.

They seethed in relative silence while they dried off and got dressed, and then I set them up at the table with a pad of paper each and a sharp pencil. I was feeling quite proud of myself, because hey, these kids of mine are naughty enough that they will have excellent penmanship by the time the school year begins.

"I will not fight with my brother." I announced for my daughter.

"I will not fight with my sister." I announced for my son.

From the living room, my youngest announced "arf! arf arf arf!"

After the first sentence, my daughter kicked my son under the table. My son scribbled on her paper. I seperated them, and started loading the dishwasher.

I got one plate and one fork loaded before my son started to giggle. "I tooted!" he whispered.

"Keep writing, young man."

"Ppppppft." said my daughter.

(Arf arf arf trickled in from the living room.)

I hid my smirk valiently, and loaded another plate into the dishwasher.

"Ppppppft." said my son.

My daughter lost it. My son lost it. Their shoulders shook with silent mirth as their foreheads bopped above their notebooks. My three-year-old crawled in on all fours and sat beside the table, barking.

I sat my 'doggie' up at the table and handed her a notebook and crayon. I headed around to check the work of my daughter and found that she had written I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother.

My son had drawn a very nice stegosaurus, with a cloud emerging from under its tail.

Next time, I'll enforce the sentences with more gusto. This time, with the "wind" beneath my "tail" I couldn't keep a straight face, nor make a point. I made them clean the floor instead. Pffffting the whole time.

Arf, arf, arf.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 8:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Watching my children grow and thrive is one of my greatest joys. That said - growing up is a messy, lumpy business. Dimpled baby knees give way to long, coltish limbs complete with scabs and bruises. From the forehead rug burns of babies who scoot on their foreheads to the snaggly teeth of a seven-year-old, there is a ragged edge to growing up.

I had ideas about this whole "watching the kids grow" business. Oh yes. It would be one photogenic stage after another, with nary a stray hair. With the arrival of my first daughter, it took about, oh, two hours after arriving home from the hospital to realize that growing can be torturous...for everyone within a ten-mile radius.

This week, I've been musing on my own growth, which has been ungainly and adolescent-like. As we've moved through the years together, my personal growth has been simultaneously stunted and vigorous. Each new parenting stage requires a new set of skills. It isn't always easy or pretty to gain these skills, either. My daughter's palms are calloused from learning to swing on the monkey bars. I have a wrinkle on my forehead gained from constantly raising my eyebrows to deliver the "Excuuuuuse me?" look. Not pretty, but effective.

I don't know why I assumed I would automatically have limitless patience or a balanced approach to discipline. As a child, I was always flighty, and disorganized. As a young adult, my life was ruled by my whims. I lived in the moment, never planning beyond the next weekend. I believed that you could do things 'right.'

Then "me" was replaced by "we" as I became a wife and mother in rapid succession. I found myself caring for other human beings. Wait, that doesn't truly reflect the situation. I was responsible for keeping other humans not only alive, but in good spirits and well-balanced. Clearly, I was supposed to be all-seeing, and all-knowing, with a full arsenal of solutions.

What I had instead were my own selfish notions about how much sleep I was entitled to get, and a few funny facial expressions I could do on command. This was not a promising start. I lurched through my children's infant years, hoping that I was faking it well enough to keep everyone from revolting and demanding a new mommy. Actually, at the time, I thought I was doing a fantastic job. It is only with the benefit of hindsight that I cringe inwardly at my awkward progress.

We've moved in herky-jerky fashion through these last eight years. For every stage, we've rebelled and excelled and swung our arms and legs about until we finally made it to the next stage. I used to treat each milestone as a stand-alone accomplishment. But in parenting, like in life, there is no done. There is only more growth. More chances to learn. More reasons to laugh and cry.

There have been times when I've stared at my son's forehead, wondering why he can't stop bashing his head when he plays dinosaur. When I've caught my kid picking their nose, big as you please. When I've scheduled a portrait, only to have one kid with a black eye, one with a scaly patch on her nose and another who can't find shoes. It makes me shake my fist at the heavens, and wonder how to parent differently to make life run smoother.

Let's not forget the time (ahem, last night) that I forgot the tooth fairy was due to visit. For the second night in a row. My lack of organization haunts me on a daily basis. Luckily, I'm still in possession of some tall-tale-tellin' skills, and that busy, busy evening that the tooth fairy had was something else, but she'll surely come tonight.

All their faults. All my faults. All my husband's faults. And still, we love each other.

I still live in the now. I am still flighty and disorganized. I suspect there is a 'right' way to do things, but I just don't see how I'm ever going to find it, as busy as I am. Still, I'm not totally inept. I have learned to comfort with a touch, understand without words, and fail spectacularly on a daily basis. I see my own shortcomings in my children, and through them, I can see the beauty in imperfection. We are a family of flawed, yet wonderful beings. It isn't proper, I suppose. But I'm growing into it.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:14 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Living in Northern California, we are rarely subjected to hot, muggy days. While I'd hardly call 80 degrees hot, the humidity has been very high, resulting in wild hair for me, and cranky attitudes for everyone around me. Since I am a sainted mother, I was not the least bit cranky, not me. No way. Never.

Despite the heat and the damp, for some reason all three kids made their way into our king-sized bed last night. I clung to the outer 12 inches on one side, my husband claimed his 18 inches, and in between, we had a mass of squirming kids. I woke at 5 am to a chorus of snores. Aside from the occasional kick to the kidneys, or my three-year-old's determination to suck her thumb and hold onto my ear, it was a fine night of sleep. Really, it was. And I wasn't the least bit cranky. Stop laughing.

We've always welcomed the kids to our bed, for the most part. As nursing babes, it was easier. As we added kids to our family, the babies often slept in a bassinette right next to my pillow, but it has never been uncommon for the kids to appear in the wee hours of the night for a snuggle. Since my husband sleeps as though he's been clubbed unconcious, it is usually up to me to see the kids back to bed. When I'm on my A-game, everyone goes back. But often, like last night, I don't even notice when they arrive, and I wake up surprised by the sheer number of critters in my bed.

Now that my kids are seven, five (almost six) and three, their soft baby limbs have been replaced by rock hard muscles and feet almost as large as mine. The crown of my seven-year-old's head rises to my shoulder. It is a far cry from co-sleeping with a mushy, sweet-smelling infant.

And yet...we still enjoy it. Not all the time, of course. There are many nights when our bed remains blissfully empty of stragglers. Sometimes we get a solitary visitor. Sometimes, like last night, we get them all. They sweat, grunt, snore and burrow themselves under the covers. They put their feet on the pillow, and press their faces into my neck, creating a feverish swelter in the room.

I love that they still need snuggles and crave the comfort of our embraces. My dreams are peaceful when my children are kicking and drooling all over each other like a pack of puppies in my bed. As the morning light creeps into my bedroom, I can count my blessings and admire their softly rounded cheeks and splayed limbs without hearing "Moooooom! Stop looking at me!" I know that someday, this too will fade, like the breastfeeding years, like the desire to hear Backyard Bedtime and Goodnight Moon, over and over and over again.

My husband feels the same way. In the daylight hours, it seems that we are always on guard, always teaching and correcting. At night, it is effortless to pull them close and hold them like the babies they once were. The frustrations we struggle with during the day melt away, and all is forgiven.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

With Father's Day right around the corner, I finally relented and allowed my husband to hire a landscaper to come and clean up our yard. We bought our house six years ago, and slowly but surely the yard has become clogged with weird shoots from odd plants, crab grass and prickly weeds that offend eyes and scratch legs. I kept assuming that either he or I would develop a green thumb and a love of pruning and weed pulling. Instead, we both developed wicked allergies.

The landscapers came yesterday, and trimmed the hell out of our yard. Our overgrown jungle is transformed into a bare, spartan landscape of a few decent plants, and a lot of bare dirt. The mammoth hedges that grow along our fence look raw and shocked. This is apparently what happens if you leave them to grow unchecked for years. They have been trimmed to within an inch of their lives, and the fresh white cuts at the ends of the branches are glowing like my legs after the long winter.

There is a curious sensation in my heart, looking at the open spaces. I've been blanketed in my own overgrowth for a long time. I cringe for the hedges, stripped bare and looking vunerable. But I also know that inside a month, they will be sending out fresh, green growth, and healthier than ever. Sometimes you have to take bold strokes to get the changes you want. Sometimes you have to cut off the tangles to start growing again.

This year has been tough for me. Never a natural multi-taker, I have found my limited skills stretched to the breaking point again and again. The overgrown habits of a woman with three babies at home have kept me locked away under the brambles. I have been unable to slip free of my old expectations, to step away from that identity with any grace.

I have become an early riser.
I have become more active.
I have children who challenge and out-pace me.
I have reserves of strength I never knew about.
I have new goals for myself.

I have all these things, but I have a screen of brambles keeping them hidden. I cling to my identity as a stay-at-home-mom, although I am technically working from home. I cling to my identity as a hobby-blogger, instead of the writer that I know I truly am. I cling to my identity as an overweight, lazy woman even as I take broad steps to become a fit, thin woman. I am afraid to clear the brambles and discover that I am new.

It's time to prune these overgrown expectations of my life. I'm afraid it might hurt. But I have the ability to conquer my fear. I want to let the sunlight fall on these new traits. I want to own them, and to let myself grow.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (0)

Today was back-to-school day after Spring Break. I should have been clicking my heels together and pirouetting down the street in joy. Instead, I rose an hour before waking the kids, made pancakes, selected outfits. Finally, I entered my bedroom and stood beside my king-sized bed, looking down at the flushed, sleeping faces of my three babies.

More often than not, shortly before dawn, the kids will migrate into our room for a few snuggles before the start of the day. It can be crowded, but there is something very secure and peaceful about hearing their breathing, and seeing them heaped into the middle of the bed like a tangle of puppies, bracketed by my husband on one side, me on the other. At seven, five and three, they are surely old enough to sleep all night in their own beds. That last hour before dawn, well...it is a nice way to wake up, being kissed and cuddled by your kids.

Feeling like Suzie Homemaker, I kissed and singsonged them awake. "Get Up! La la la! It's a lovely day! Tra la la!" I shooed them toward the table, where they sat, grumpy, in front of plates stacked with little towers of pancakes, a perfectly square pat of butter melting on top. (Tra la la la laaaaaa!)

"Eat up, my dears!" I made a sweeping, spokesmodel gesture at the table as I put the syrup down with a flourish. "I made these pancakes for you!"

"Grumble mumble bumble."
"I'm not really hungry, Mommy."

"Ooh, my goodness! How about just one, and some juice... orange juice! Mmmmmm!" I toyed with the idea of claiming that it was freshly squeezed orange juice, but come on. That's pushing it.

My eyes landed on my youngest, who was slapping her syrup-coated plate with open palms.

"Oh! No! Oh! Um..." I grabbed a wet paper towel and pushed the plate away as I wiped her hands.

CRASH! I whipped around to see a glass of orange juice tipped over, puddling on the table, running town the leg and pooling on the floor! "Oh! Um! Oh! No!" I grabbed the entire roll of paper towels and did a quick mop up while the kids offered encouragement.

"You missed some, Mommy!"
"My shirt is wet, Mommy!"
"Wookit Meeeee!"

This last interjection from my youngest announced her successful reaquisition of her syrup covered plate, and her application of silver-dollar pancakes to her cheeks. Syrup ran down her neck and she beamed at me as my eyes rolled up in my head and my hair turned gray.

After a hasty clean-up and re-wardrobing, we headed out the door to walk to school. I was fuming. Here I got up early, made a hot breakfast, had a good head start, and the little monsters were unappreciative. Striding through the cool, foggy mist, I pushed the stroller ahead of me like a battering ram. My eyes focused sharply on my older two as they whizzed along on scooters.

"Watch out for the driveway! Stop at the corner! Hey, wait up!" The entire way to school, I was in a low-grade panic. Finally, I kissed them, tucked the scooters away in the stroller, and turned back towards home. My daughter was chanting some little song about syrup and worms, and I let myself breathe as I walked back into the mist.

After the first few blocks, I mellowed out. The manic pancake episode was suddenly funny. The fact that my daughter can't just ride her scooter, no, she has to do arabesques and other tricks, that was funny too. Watching my son expend three times the effort to scoot than he does to walk was adorable. I found myself enjoying them, and enjoying myself in the process. I decided that I'm a much better mother when the children are asleep. Nevertheless, even on the days when my best intentions get trampled, I still find myself laughing. Not in victory at my successes, but rather, at my failures, and the surprising outcomes that living with three unpredictable gnomes bring to any activity.

I'd like to believe that if I were more consistant with the early rising, and the tra la la ing, that my youngest wouldn't create body art with every meal, and that my children would wake with a song in their hearts and a hearty appetite. I'd like to believe that orange juice won't be spilled if I serve it with panache. No matter how I prepare, it seems that life around here is never going to be a well-scripted drama. Alas, we are all improvisational, experiemental theatre, all the time. Truth be told, I like it that way.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: Well, hello there, lovely Elaine! Thanks for participating!

Elaine: Always a pleasure to blabber.

Mommybloggers: We adore your clear, detail-rich writing style. Have you always been a writer?

Elaine:My mom is an amazing writer who always encouraged an imaginative life, supplying us with paints and pallets and clay and anything else we could afford to get our hands on. In high school, I started writing for the school newspaper and quickly made my way to editor-in-chief, enjoying the concise descriptive world five column inches allowed. I have a BA in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing (and a minor in Women's Studies) but college kinda sucked the creative urges out of me for a long time. Seriously, I only read magazines and fluff novels for a couple of years out, I was so burned up by the intensity of that experience. Blogging is finally getting me back to writing.

Mommybloggers: How did you get into blogging? Is it a platform to share your thoughts with others, or a more personal exploration?

Elaine: When my first daughter was born a good friend came to stay with us for a month. She talked about finding the journal her mother kept during her first year of parenting and was so delighted to read about that transition into motherhood. Even when the pages held nothing more than, "You cried all day, you little shit" it made her laugh and feel so much closer to her mom. I wanted that for my kids. I actually started out writing every post directly to my daughter, but found that to be a bit limiting. I also use blogging as a way to process all the emotional crap involved in parenting. So many people seem to think that parenting should be one thing, when your personal experience can be so incredibly different. I end up writing a lot of sappy stuff, but when I'm lucky those girls of mine give me some brilliantly funny material! I guess I do this for my girls and for myself. It's allowed me to return to writing in a really supported way.

Mommybloggers: You chronicled the home birth of your second daughter on your blog, as well as many other family events, both joyous and heartbreaking. How has your family reacted to your blog?

Elaine: Anya's birth was so freaking liberating and fantastic, I kind of felt obligated to preach the brilliance of homebirthing. But then, I'm obnoxious that way and will openly talk about cloth diapers, cosleeping, vaccine choices, breastfeeding and the like. My family is aware of those views and is very supportive. Honestly though, my husband doesn't even read Wannabe Hippie. I think he feels that it's an outlet I need and doesn't want to get in the way. My mom does reads and that has caused a little tension over the years. Mostly though, it's allowed us to have really important conversations and to forgive each other a lot of crap from my less than stunning teen years when I was evil. She has never once asked me to stop writing and for the most part is very proud of what I write there.

Mommybloggers: Talk to us about the name: Wannabe Hippie conjures up different impressions for different people. What does it mean to you?

Elaine: I'm one of the fortunate few reared by half hippies. My mom was into very natural choices in parenting but didn't do any of the irresponsible stuff usually associated with hippies. I take a lot of my cues in parenting from her, breastfeeding, cloth diapering, questioning doctors, creative expression, etc. But I'm a total geek at heart, loving the way technology intertwines with our lives and a little too fond of my TV. I'd love to be someone who gives up her modern vices and lives off the land, but it's so not gonna happen.

Mommybloggers: Creativity and good humor seems to be a central fixture in your home. How do you honor your own creativity?

Elaine: I get really cranky if I don't have some sort of creative outlet. Writing really mellows me out, as does photography. I'm learning to knit and occasionally paint something random. I'm also starting to get into the whole cooking thing, you know, now that I have all these hungry people hanging around my house for which I am somehow responsible. I love creating stuff with my toddler, even if it's just a pile of broken chips she declares is a house she built.

Mommybloggers: You're a founding member of the wonderful group blog Mama Says Om. Tell us how it came about.

Elaine: Krystyn and I were blabbering on about some random thing on the phone one day when we started talking about the idea of a collaborative blog. There was another mama who had brought up the idea to Krystyn and so when I mentioned it, we decided to make it happen. That other mama didn't ultimately chose to be part of Mama Says Om but we pulled in two amazing artists, Christina of My Topography and Kelly of Glimpse from a Bubble . We have a blast together and love looking at the different explorations of a common theme each week. Our contributors are so creative and expressive and share such beautiful and funny moments from their lives; I love going there every day to click through.

Mommybloggers: Your weekly explorations of themes are so inspirational for your readers…what's next for Mama Says Om?

Elaine: The site just went through a major overhaul courtesy of our very own web vixen, Krystyn. She's a stunning web artist and every time she messes with the site, does something that makes all of us go, "ooohhhh! Ahhhhh!" Seriously, she kicks ass. As far as content goes, we're loving the weekly themes and enjoy working on these assignments together. Every time we sit down (virtually) to come up with the next series of ideas, we really have a blast laying in the themes we're excited about and sometimes linking them up to the special events in our own lives. For instance, I'm looking forward to tackling "juicy" on my Anniversary! Overall, we're very much married to the concept of Mama Says Om as a collaborative site and will flow with whatever that means for it's future.

Mommybloggers: You ran an experimental theater group in Southern California before the girls were born. How has your experience with drama prepared you for motherhood? Any plans to return to the theater?

Elaine: I was the Managing Director for an established alternative theatre with a small budget and a huge reputation. When I came on board the Artistic Director had been running the whole show on her own for a while and was just so thankful to have anyone in the office with her! I learned so much from her and from the two years I spent there, I feel really lucky to have had the opportunity. Multitasking, creative money management, artistic exploration, the care and handling of very odd creatures, manipulating politicians… you name it, I learned how to do it. Now that I'm a mom, that think-on-your-feet, improvise-and-adapt mentality has saved my ass on more than one occasion. I'll always be involved in theatre on one level or another, but for now I'm loving the SAHM gig.

Mommybloggers: Your family is very active, and you enjoy traveling with your kids. Balancing the needs of toddlers, babies, dogs and parents is a challenge under the best of circumstances. What's your secret?

Elaine: I'm a Virgo, so I'm a planner. I arm myself with maps, distractions for the kids, lots of plastic bags, over pack a bit and then hope to hell the whole world can keep it together. We also only travel to places we know will be accepting and supportive of who we drag along. We have a book for traveling with your dog that details every hotel, park and restaurant in California known for their dog friendly ways. We stop a lot, plan driving around naps and just hope for the best. Despite the fact that I plan things out, we do like to build in wiggle room so we can let the conditions dictate our path. Seriously, it's an exercise in letting go!

Mommybloggers: We read that you are encouraging your playgroup to join you on family hikes. We love it! Have you got any words of wisdom for moms who are hesitant to take the kids on a trail?

Elaine: The trails we pick are pretty easy going. I usually strap the baby to me in a sling and then let my toddler pick the path. We think of hiking as an opportunity to learn and will stop and watch a caterpillar cross the road for ten minutes or see how rocks, when thrown in a stream, will create ripples. Always bring a snack for the end of the hike. Always.

Mommybloggers: We hope you'll give us a call when you're ready to launch the commune. We'll bring finger-foods and dip!

Elaine: Thanks for having me!

Mommybloggers: And here are the questions we subject all of our featured bloggers to (With apologies to Bernard Pivot and Inside the Actors Studio):

1. What is your favorite parent related word? HEY!

2. What is your least favorite parent related word? Poop

3. What is your favorite creative censored curse word used around children? Crap… although it's starting to catch on, so I'm going to have to loose it.

4. What is your favorite hiding place within your home when you need to get away from it all? The shower.

5. What hiding place have you been found in too often and can no longer use? Oh god, you mean that can happen? I'm locking the door to the bathroom from now on.

6. If Oprah exists, what would you like to hear her say when you arrive at the Oprah Winfrey show when she features the Mommybloggers? Don't worry honey, you didn't screw those kids up too badly.

Come visit us tomorrow as we feature a wonderful essay from Elaine of Wannabe Hippie.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 1:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

My seven-year-old squared off against my five year old. Their noses hovered inches from one another, shoulders hunched forward, teeth bared, lips quivering with fury.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Not!"

"Too!"

With eyes locked on each other, they both yelled "Mooooooom!"

Fearing that my arm would be bitten off, I debated whether I should hose them off with our extendable faucet, or perhaps I could distract them by throwing a favorite toy and encouraging one of them to fetch, while waving a second toy in front of the other sibling to keep their attention. In the end, I slipped a rubber spatula between the snapping beasts and gently applied pressure to first one, then the other's foreheads. It made them laugh, and the battle ended with yet another conversation about how life doesn't have to be one endless competition.

This parenting gig is hard sometimes.

Lately I've felt that my tools are inadequate. I've lost my edge and I'm not sure where or how, but I find myself reacting, instead of acting. The inmates are this close to running the asylum, and I'm resorting to chucking toys down the hall or clowning with a spatula to keep things from getting ugly. Maybe they are already running the joint, and I'm delusional. *Shudder*

We recently had a dog trainer in to work with our neurotic pooch. Apparently, my status as Alpha Dog in the family was all wishful thinking. "We do not sing 'no.' We speak firmly and do not repeat. Obedience is a must, or there is a swift consequence." So sayeth the dog trainer. Every behavior modification has an associated disciplinary action. Also, I am a pushover, and a world-class softy.

Chief among the new techniques is keeping a four-foot leash on the dog's collar all the time. She drags around the leash, so that she can be corrected if she jumps or something. And then there's the spray bottle for undesired barking. A week into it, and the dog is sullen, but behaving. Oh, the fantasy I have, of my children trailing leashes, and of barking "No!" and squirting them into submission. Would I trade my happy, wisecracking children for pouting, but obedient children? Is it too late to crate train them?

Ahem.

I plan on enrolling in some classes at our local positive-discipline oriented center, to add some new tools, and sharpen the ones I already have. I always assumed that once I cleared the toddler years, things would be looking up. I'd be able to reason with the kids. They would have an understanding of the way the world works, and would be willing to cooperate to make our little family the most harmonious, loving, team-playing, choral-singing family since the Von Trapps. Alas, there seems to be a hitch in my pipe-dreams. My pipe-dreams resemble pipe-bombs right now. Instead of voices raised in song, we have angry standoffs over the amount of cereal in a bowl. I'm frustrated with the discord. And I'm realizing that my status in the pack has slipped.

I'm glad for the availability of local classes. I've been pouring over the course descriptions, and it seems that there is hope for a softy like me. I suspect that becoming an Alpha Mom doesn't involve squirt bottles. Pity, really, because I'm already planning a holster.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

On Saturday, my oldest will turn seven. S to the E to the V-E-N.

Everybody throw your hands in the air and bounce with me!

When I was struggling through the terrible "threes" with this girl of mine, my friends with older children all shrugged and smiled. "Just wait until she turns six. Six is a thousand times worse than three. You'll see."

I shot these know-it-all, so-called friends looks that should have melted their faces off, had they not been battle- hardened by blasts of fury from their own years with a six-year-old. I mean, come on. What could be worse than a three-year-old, face down on the mall floor, shattering the light fixtures with her shrieks?

Someone once told me that every other year is a great one. Which means that the in-between years suck. The first year was tough. The second, not so bad. Three was a tantrum-fueled ride. At four we had a good year. When she turned five, it was still good. Great! We broke the pattern! Smooth sailing, people.

And then she turned six. Have mercy.

This last year has seen the rise of The Drama to new heights. I was misled by her apparent understanding of the basics for getting along in this world. She understood it, sure. And she hated it. Why must she be a commoner? Where is her staff? Why has her royal family abandoned her with these people who look like her, and yet do not accept her for who she is? Why? WHY?

As the school work picked up, and the group of friends she made in kindergarten were scattered into four different classrooms, she has struggled to find a happy balance. She has grown tremendously this year, socially, emotionally and physically, and every little gain was hard-won. This has been a painful year, judging from all the outbursts and tears.

She stood in front of me this morning, face beaming and flashed me seven long fingers, a physical trait passed on from her father, along with her perfect, cookie-ears and pointed chin. Her excitement is contagious. I shot my stubby fingers into the air, copying her stance. We stood there, hip jutted forward, shoulders back with giant grins and seven wiggling fingers.

It feels like spring has finally arrived, and my girl is blooming again. Maybe all that lucky seven nonsense isn't so ridiculous after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been functioning under a high level of exhaustion lately. It colors my world in unnatural hues. I react slowly, poorly, inappropriately. Impatience over childish quirks battles with amusement, and I'm torn between laughing and crying.

Seven years ago, I resembled nothing so much as Mr. Kool-aid. Chubby arms and legs poked out from my enormous belly, and I waddled about, sloshing, jovial, threatening to crash through walls. At night, I folded my stubby appendages around my massive girth, and promised myself that this physical discomfort was the hard part. Once the baby was born, I would be myself again.

I don't remember the first months of my daughter's life with any kind of clarity. Those newborn days were a giant blur. I have approximately nine thousand photos, showing my beaming face balanced on top of my daughter's wobbly head. I have isolated memories, moments that zinged themselves into my brain. But I definitely remember that my self became something unrecognizable, something not myself.

I loved the new Jenny. She was all maternal and fluffy, like a mother hen. I bustled about, shaking my tail feathers. With my infant in my sling, I quickly became accustomed to being complimented on my beautiful baby. I joked to girlfriends that I could wear a bag over my head, because no one saw me anymore. I was the transportation, and the food source. And I was great with that.

After years in unsatisfying jobs, I was thrilled to stay at home. I lost the weight I had gained during my pregnancy, but really, who cared about my appearance. The new Jenny didn't have time for vanity, not when there was homemade baby food to produce and Baby Signs to master! What I perceived as 'being a good mother' led me to neglect my own well-being in favor of reading another parenting manual.

I found myself pregnant twice more over the next few years, and I found myself disrespecting my 'self' even more. Now, three years after the birth of my youngest, I am a mere ten pounds from my heaviest full-term pregnancy weight. Once again, I feel like Mr. Kool-aid, and this time, I no longer have a baby in the sling, or a stroller to push in front of me as I bustle along.

From my oldest's first day of kindergarten, my opinion of myself began to slip. Now, with two kids in school, and one who must walk free or she will make eardrums bleed, it feels as though someone flipped a switch in my life. I can no longer push the kids in front of myself and expect to slip by unnoticed. I'm myself again, but my self is in disrepair. I remember what it feels like to be proud of my appearance, but it has been a long time since my body has cooperated.

There is no reverse. It seems the old grey mare only goes forward. It is time to reinvent Jenny again. I'm thinking maybe I'll discover some undiscovered super power in the back of my closet, waiting to be set free. Maybe I can leap buildings! Maybe I can have an uninterrupted yoga session! Maybe, just maybe, I can finish my novel...

Tomorrow is the day I begin to reclaim my self from myself. What does one wear when staging a rebellion? A beret? Yes?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 3:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (18) | TrackBacks (0)

I've made several trips out of the house alone in the last few weeks. These days, even five minutes alone in the car is cause for wild celebration. Granted, I usually find myself singing along with some kids CD and calculating where the restroom is at the next stop, but once I get past that, I get a little thrill from the prospect of it all.

Typing that makes me sound rather pathetic, doesn't it? But look, for a stay-at-home-mom with at least one child present at all times, the opportunity to be alone with my thoughts is nirvana. Most of the time, being in my brain is akin to driving over speedbumps. I'm having linear thoughts, doo-dee-doo-dee-doo, and then I have to downshift and bounce my way over something completely non-related before I can return to what I was thinking before. Not your ordinary tangents, either. I am thinking about what groceries I need, and then I'm talking about the late Jurassic period, and then I'm slicing an apple, and then I switch the laundry. I find the pink socks, and break up a fight over plastic farm animals. And then it's back to groceries, except I don't remember why we need to go today, only that I'm going to have to take all three kids with me, and that we're out of something important.

Perhaps my sanity.

Multi-tasking has never been a strong suit of mine. I am too easily distracted. In the course of trying to write this entry, I've made toast, another cup of coffee to replace the one that went cold when I abandoned it in the bathroom, pulled out playdough, made more toast, turned on two different shows on TiVo and answered three phone calls. It's like trying to tap dance while being pelted with tomatoes. I'm dancing, but it ain't pretty.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Being alone. Nirvana. Riiiiiight.

I've had the luxury of attending several different doctor's appointments with no children. I am the weary veteran of countless prenatal and child health-related visits with one or more children in the stroller, sitting on my hip, or otherwise present and making their presence known. To the entire building. You know you've earned your mothering stripes when you've kept two toddlers amused while getting a pelvic exam.

I found myself sitting in the waiting room jittering, because I'm so accustomed to running around trying to keep the kids happy that I didn't know what to do with myself. I tried to read a magazine. In the end, I just held the magazine as cover while I checked out the other people in the room. Everyone was grumpy, because the doctors were running late. Not me. I was amusing myself making up stories about everyone. I passed an enjoyable hour in the company of people who didn't need a thing from me. By the end of my appointment, I was relaxed and at peace. I felt like 'me' again.

After my appointment, I had to rush home to my kids. The wall of sound hit me as I crossed the threshold, shattering my serenity into a million pieces. I gathered my wits and pulled my three monsters onto the couch. We snuggled and read some books together. At first, there was dissention in the ranks. They jockied for position, lobbied for 'their' book to be first.

Oh, but then. All the chaos quieted down. The stress evaporated. The soft weight of my son's cheek on my arm, the sound of my youngest sucking her thumb absent-mindedly, the halting voice of my oldest, reading an unfamiliar word...instead of ricocheting around the house, meeting their needs, I pulled them closer. A gentleness settled over us. They gave me little kisses and were reluctant to leave my side.

I know that there will be silence in my future. I know that the years ahead will bring solitary times. But reaching a moment of quiet harmony with my children is the peace that truly warms my soul, and allows my hopes to take wing.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

Mommybloggers: Thank you for taking the time out of your busy schedule to chat with us! Your blog is called "Mom to the Screaming Masses" - for the benefit of our readers, exactly how many kids are we talking about here? Is it really the "masses" doing the screaming?

Carmen: HA! It depends on the time of day and how much sleep I've had. Mostly, I named the blog for my kids - 6 kids who canNOT ever seem to be quiet. I really don't notice it much, but lots of people tell me that my house is pretty loud. It's the music of our lives, as my oldest says. Now, I just notice when it's quiet. Too much quiet is a very, very bad thing.

I've got six kids of my very own (ages 13.5, 11, 8.5,6,3.5 and 2) and I also have three step kids. I do afternoon day care for two other kids as well, so they've been mentioned a time or two lately.

Mommybloggers: You've been blogging for several years now. How did you get started? Have you always been a writer?

Carmen: I was an active member on an attachment parenting website, and one of the other women started a blog. I read hers for a week or two, all the while thinking "I can do THAT!". I went to the Blogger website, read the fine print, and boom! I was up and typing. I haven't always been a writer - the vast majority of the writing that I had done before my blog was complaint letters. I can write an EFFECTIVE complaint letter. I've been really amazed, though, by how much I've come to love writing. It's become a big part of who I am and how I want to progress in my life.

Mommybloggers: How has blogging changed your social life?

Carmen: Social life?? I'm supposed to have one of my own, and not just live through my kids? Well, I haven't met many bloggers in real life - at least not those who I knew after I started my blog, those who read me or whose work I read. (I have met a few, though, and those people are still talking to me, so I must have not looked too weird.) I hope to change that this summer when I attend BlogHer - I think I'd wet my pants if someone looked at my name tag and could say with a straight face, "Hey, I've read your stuff!" and they weren't someone that I owed money to.

Mommybloggers: We've been enjoying your joint project with Chris of The Big Yellow House - tell us about what you are doing, and why:

Carmen: Both being mothers of a larger than typical size family, we hear the comments over and over and over. The most common question we are asked, though, is "HOW on earth do you do it?" We decided that it would be fun, not to mention give us each something to write about, if we picked a topic each week and explored it. That way, readers could hear two different spins on the same subject - my boring one, and Chris' incredibly gifted version. So far, we've done organization - in which it was determined that my upcoming tattoo should be the word "rubbermaid", sleep, chores, morning schedules, and a pictoral view of big family stuff. Other bloggers have joined us on those days, with those topics. It's really been a fun thing to do, and I hope it's been interesting for others as well.

Mommybloggers: As the mother of a large family, what are you sick to death of explaining to people with smaller families?

Carmen: How my family is no different from theirs, how I DON'T always have it together, and I don't have any more patience with my kids than they do. I'm not a saint, and by the same token my kids shouldn't be referred to as "those poor kids, with so many siblings". Oh, and the fact that, yes, we do know how all those kids got here.

Whew. Maybe I've got a chip on my shoulder, eh?

Mommybloggers: Dealing with preteens is a tough subject. You seem to balance the demands of parenting so well! Do your older children read your blog? What do they think about your writing? Have they ever forbidden you from writing about a subject?

Carmen: Yeah, my oldest reads my blog almost daily. It annoys the snot out of me, but I can't seem to get him to stop. My kids all know that I blog, but they seem to be pretty cool with it. I don't think they've ever told me not to blog something, but there are, of course, some things that I just don't discuss.

Mommybloggers: Do you consider yourself to be a Mommyblogger? Where do you think this whole Mommyblogging phenomenon is going?

Carmen: Well, I'm a mommy, and I blog. You know, the whole MommyBlogger phenomenon really cracks me up. Women have power, women are a strong presence in so many ways. All of a sudden, we are using our blogs to shape the way things are happening, and it's waking the world up. Scaring some people, too. I don't think Mommyblogging is going to go away - in fact, I think it will really take off in the next few years.

Mommybloggers: You've taken on insurance companies, the nuns at your children's school, and taken over the soccer team. What's next?

Carmen: I'd LOVE to just have some time off, and not have to worry about any troubles right now. I think that's wishful thinking, though! Seriously? I'd love to lose 20 more pounds - I'm really working hard on that right now and have ten gone. I'm up to walking about 3 miles a day, 5 days a week. And hating every minute of it.

Mommybloggers: Let's talk about books - we know you are a voracious reader. What are you reading now? We also hear you have a novel in the works - wanna tell us about it?

Carmen: I just finished the Agnes Browne trilogy, sent to me by the bestest friend evah. I think it's about time for an Outlander re-read, and I've usually got a few other books going on at once. You know, one for the van, one for the bedroom, one for the kitchen - and then of course, there are the magazines..... I love to read. I could cheerfully do it all day long. To the detriment of my house, my kids, and my laundry.

Mommybloggers:We also hear you have a novel in the works - wanna tell us about it?

Carmen: I'm about 25,000 words into my book, and I've hit a bit of a stumbling block. I love what I've done though, and will NOT give it up. I can't wait to see where it goes, and then the pressure will be ON to try to do something with it.

Mommybloggers: Tell us something that most people would be surprised to learn about you.

Carmen: Hmm, the revelation that I want to get a tattoo took a TON of people by storm. I was really shocked by that! Maybe the fact that I can't decide what I want to be when I grow up?

Mommybloggers: And here are the questions we subject all of our featured bloggers to (With apologies to Bernard Pivot and Inside the Actors Studio):

1. What is your favorite parent related word? School

2. What is your least favorite parent related word? Tummyache - it can mean so many things. All of which are yucky things and keep people home from school. Hmmm, maybe I should change it to STREP though - we've had it FOUR times here since November.

3. What is your favorite creative censored curse word used around children? Um, I have a potty mouth. When my oldest was my only, I was very creative and used words like "sugar" and "fudge", as well as the eternally popular "fiddlesticks". But, um, I have long since lost my creativity and just let it fly. It's a bad, bad habit I have, and one that I can't seem to stop.

4. What is your favorite hiding place within your home when you need to get away from it all? I don't have a hiding place - they follow me everywhere. I can't go to the bathroom without little fingers under the door, a few sets of eyes watching me from the tub, and bloodcurdling screams leaking through the walls. I have been known, though, to go sit in my van to make a c
all on my cell phone, just so I can hear.

5. What hiding place have you been found in too often and can no longer use? The laundry room. Of course, I'm always there, so maybe it's not such a good place to hide.

6. If Oprah exists, what would you like to hear her say when you arrive at the Oprah Winfrey show when she features the Mommybloggers? And, here is the author of the newest New York Times Bestseller, the book that's spent a record breaking length of time in the number one spot...........

Be sure to check back tomorrow to see what Carmen has to share in her guest essay! We know you'll love it!

Posted by mommybloggers at 1:55 PM | Permalink | TrackBacks (0)

My son is a force of nature. At the tender age of five, he is still firmly in the grasp of his emotions, and floats between sheer joy and earth-shaking frustration like a leaf tossed in a breeze. He gallops. He sings. He dances. He giggles. He also pouts, cries, screams and stomps. His feelings are easily hurt, and his reaction is invariably a world-class, sulking tantrum.

There is a boy in his kindergarten class who always seems to get his goat. My son has yet to learn how to shrug off teasing, and this kid has clearly got his number. We've tried to speak to both kids, to no avail. My son continued to dissolve into tears, and would run away to a corner of the play-yard, unwilling to respond to anyone. He does this at home, too. Any discipline results in self-censorship, where he announces that "we should just fire him."

Yesterday, he came bouncing out of class with an ear-to-ear grin. I grabbed him up and kissed his cheek and asked about his day.

"[The kid who bothers him] was teasing me today, and I just walked away. I'm not a sissy-baby who has to cry about it. I just sucked it up!"

I about swallowed my tongue trying not to laugh. I'm not raisin' no sissy-baby! My kid is learning to suck it up! Go me!

I pulled myself together and congratulated him on handling the situation like a big boy. Then I gave him another hug. He was so proud of himself. It warmed my heart to see him revel in a successful dealing with a difficult, emotionally charged situation.

The lingo was curious, though. Never in my life have I referred to my son as a "sissy-baby." I was baffled by that. I may have told him to suck it up, though. That sounds like something I would blurt out when exasperated.

In any case, I asked him to tell my husband about his slaying of the dragon at dinner, and my son puffed out his chest and said, "I didn't cry when he teased me because I'm a big boy, and big boys don't throw tantrums when they get their feelings hurt." I was a little sad that he didn't include the whole "sucking it up" part.

Sitting there, watching him chatter away, face glowing, I felt a lump in my throat and a sting in my eyes. Big boys don't cry over hurt feelings, but I guess mamas are still allowed to get weepy when their little guys take a step in the right direction.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 7:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

I'm approaching the 7th anniversary of my oldest daughter's birth, which means that I have been parenting for almost 50 dog years. Arf, arf.

So. In these 50 dog years, you would think that I have mastered some of the fundamentals. In fact, given that all three of my children display a remarkable lack of restraint, you would think that I would be a pro at safeguarding things. And I am. Medicines are locked up. Cleaners are kept well out of reach. This could explain why cleaning is such a pain in the butt for me. Okay, that's the fault of My Lazy, but I do love to make excuses.

No, the problem around here is food. My kids love to play with food.

Now, we're not talking little happy splashing at the dinner table. We're not talking about rearranging the contents of their plate to make it appear as though they have taken a bite of vegetables. Actually, dinner seems to be more of a spiritual pursuit for my kids. They stare at their plates, willing the food to spontaneously disappear. For all I can tell, they've eaten about three bites between them in about a month. Perhaps merely resting their eyes on the food is all it takes for them to fuel up. That is a rant for another day.

Since my three-year-old has mastered opening the fridge and pantry, there is no peace. Like my older two, she is compelled to explore everything in a tactile way. Why, just this week I left her in the kitchen (my first mistake) with a stick of butter on the counter from the toast we made at breakfast (my second mistake) to switch the laundry. When I returned, she was in the living room, peacefully watching television. Or so I thought...

"Whee! Whoopie! Wheeeee!" shouted my daughter.

I rounded the corner to find my kid, buck nekkid, skidding around on the pergo on her greased belly. She had butter in her ears. Butter in her hair. Butter, butter everywhere.

I slipped and slid my way over to her and tried to pick her up to throw her in the bath. I was unable to keep my traction, and ended up half growling, half giggling as I tried to get a grip. She began to squirm away from me as fast as she could, and I lurched after her on the slick floor. It was like a greased pig contest. And I was losing.

Finally, I grabbed a towel and wrapped the Junior Dairy Queen up, got to the shower and we both jumped in. We used the entire tank of hot water trying to get all the oil off. Immediately after the shower, she fell asleep, leaving me with the challenge of getting the butter slick off my living room floor.

Sadly, all three of my children loved to get into the pantry and make merry. I'm beginning to think I should either stop shopping for food entirely, or perhaps I should just open all bags and boxes and dump them on the floor while shouting "Whee! Whee!"

Aside from installing a deadbolt on the pantry, all attempts to childproof it have been a joke. All scolding, punishing, deranged ranting - no effect. The fridge, too. I've soaked up gallons of milk. Cleaned up 10 pounds of flour that have been pulled off a high shelf, landed on the head of the pantry raider and burst open. Yeah. My kitchen was all breaded and ready for the fryer that day.

The older two did grow out of it, but my youngest is entralled by the idea of riverdancing in a cloud of powdered sugar. I'm aware that the answer here is to never let her out of my sight. I guess that's do-able. But The Lazy thinks we should install some sort of electrical shock system on the fridge and pantry.

Hey! That might be good for my weight loss quest as well.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

My oldest daughter was already in a foul mood when I picked her up at her first grade classroom. By the time we reached the border between the school yard and the neighboring park, she was kicking rocks and yelling at her brother to stop looking at her, stop walking near her, and stop being related to her. I requested that she speak nicely over my shoulder. Other parents walked calmly with their arms around their children. I was walking faster and faster, shoving the stroller ahead of me, trying to avert a full-blown revolt. My son dragged his feet, and investigated the clouds. The toddler in the stroller yelled "Wheeeeeee!" and I broke into a trot, hoping to encourage the kids to pick up the pace.

I made it through the park, and turned around to see my son standing about 50 feet away, up to his ankles in a puddle. My oldest was on top of the monkey bars, chatting with friends below. I opened the van, loaded up my youngest in her car seat, and then stood with my hands on my hips and sucked in a lungful of air.

"Heeeeeeeey! Come oooooooooooooooon! Time to GOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

My son sloshed to the car, leaving his shoes midway between the puddle and the van. My oldest turned a deaf ear.

"Get over here right now, young lady!" I bellowed across the park. Random children startled, and began to head my way. "No! Not you kids!" I made shooing motions with my hands. Sheesh.

My daughter shinnied down the pole and came sauntering over, fists on her hips. My son had buckled himself into the middle row of the van, leaving my daughter with a choice of the backseat or the backseat.

"Get out of my seat!" She made the same shooing motions I had moments earlier. Heh. She drove home her point with a ferocious scowl.

"No, he's sitting there." I interjected. "Why don't you just climb into the back and get buckled so we can go home."

She turned the scowl on me and said in a piqued tone: "What am I? Black?"

*needle scratching across vinyl*

"What? What did you just say?" I was equally outraged and baffled.

"I'm not black. Why should I have to sit in the back?" She explained, still in a sassy tone.

"What are you talking about?" I was getting really upset. "Where did you hear that? Who said that to you?"

"My teacher read us a book about it on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. That lady Rosa was really brave." She was puzzled at my agitation.

I took a big breath. "I never want to hear you say that again. That is a racist remark. Do you know what that means?"

For the next half-hour, I lectured ferverently on the importance of treating everyone as equals. The thing is, I know that they do. There is no basis for racist anything in our family. We have taught them from birth to respect and celebrate diversity. I found it astounding that my daughter could take a concept from a children's book and twist it into a hateful phrase. My daughter, who corrects me when I use the word "indian" - "Moooooom. They are Native Americans!" How easy it was for her to misunderstand, and to simply accept the idea that blacks ride in the back. I'm still uneasy about it.

I'm going to mention it to her teacher when the kids go back to school on Tuesday. And I'm going to keep the dialog going. This is another of those pages in the parenting manual that someone must have ripped out or colored over. Anyone have any suggestions?

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 3:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

In the weak sunlight this afternoon, I wrapped my coat around me and watched as my children played with their friends at the park. I stood chatting with an old friend, while our children scampered up and down play equipment, explored the grass and sand and became increasingly filthy. My eyes roamed lazily over the scene, taking casual note of the whereabouts of not only my children, but my friends. I turned my face skyward, enjoying the feel of sun, even as the wind carried a sharp, cold note.

"Hey, Mommy! Look at me!" I scanned the area, and discovered my three-year-old daughter and my friend's two-year-old son were jumping on top of a picnic table, dancing with abandon.

"Be careful!" I offered, making no move to reign them in. My friend looked at me sideways, and then settled back down. "No jumping!" she shouted. We watched as the two of them scampered off the table and back to the sand. In that moment, I felt a subtle shift in the universe.

My oldest daughter was never more than a swift step away from me. She played, I hovered. She toddled, I matched my steps to hers, hands at the ready, in case she stumbled. I could have saved myself a huge backache, because she rarely stumbled. When she did, it was with the grace and good humor of a circus clown. I was so proud, yet certain that if I let her explore outside my own comfort radius, unspecified Bad Things were sure to befall her.

With the birth of my son, I still maintained an iron perimeter. I carried my son constantly in his sling as I chased after my 17-month-old firstborn. I was baffled by parents that 'knew' that their children would never run into the street, would never decide to leap off a 6-foot play structure, who understood that they could speak a word of caution, and it would be heeded by their tiny charge. They, in turn, were baffled by my inablility to get my children under control.

I couldn't trust. I didn't believe. I saw the magpie in my daughter - a promising flash, a glimpse of sparkle, and she would throw herself headlong into traffic, hands grasping for a metallic gum wrapper or bottle cap. She had no fear, and trusted her body to deliver the goods. I, on the other hand, felt like I was on constant death watch. My solution was to keep her as close to me as possible, at all times.

My son also displayed a lack of judgement, and a decided bent towards mischief from the moment he began to crawl. Hiding is his specialty, along with selective listening. I've had a few heart-stopping moments with this boy of mine, disappearing in plain sight, refusing to respond as I grow increasingly hysterical.

I was rearranging my closet today, and stumbled upon the box of keepsakes I have for each child. Tiny outfits, special blankets, shoes whose soles never supported weight. The album from my oldest's first birthday was in the box, and I flipped through the pages. I was so young. So young. And so right in her face. Every picture, I'm hovering. It took my breath away, seeing how earnest I was, how hard I was trying.

For years, i've been the mother at the park who never sat down. I've been the mother hovering over a toddler, chasing a preschooler, insisting that's high enough young lady get down right now before you break your neck. For years, I've waved mutely at the other mothers, while I stood ankle-deep in sand and tried to maintain the death watch on three separate children.

Today, I watched as my children played with ease and skill. I watched as they leaped into the sand, and danced on tables, my hands relaxed in my lap. Like the tiny outfits packed away in boxes, some of my fear was put away today.

It feels...weird.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (11) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night, my husband returned from a week-long business trip to Los Angeles. He travels much less than he used to. I secretly like the occasional trip, and in years past, I would take advantage of the change in routine to stay up to all hours, doing projects that I had been neglecting. Still, after a few days, I'm bored with the novelty of sleeping alone and keeping odd hours has lost its thrill, and I begin to watch the clock for his arrival.

As his return approached, I caught a good look at myself in the mirror. I was overdue for a 'night of beauty.' I checked the schedule. His flight wouldn't land until 9 pm - I figured I'd pretty myself all up after I got the kids to bed, and then lounge casually but seductively on the bed when I heard his car pull in. Heeeelloooooo, husband.

When eight o'clock rolled around, the kids were still not tired. At all. No. They were not. I decided that perhaps some vigorous exercise was called for, and turned on some dancing tunes. After five rockin' songs, they were still going strong. I, on the other hand, was laying on the couch, fanning myself and panting. Exercise gives some people a fine, rosy complexion. After approximately 30 seconds of aerobic exercise, I turn mottled red like Alien Nation and pass right through the dewy stage to sweat-circles.

This is not the 'pretty' I had in mind. Clapping my hands together, I turned off the tunes and marched the kids to the bath. I poured in a generous dollop of relaxing lavender bubble bath, and piled all three nuditos into the tub. They began cavorting and sloshing suds onto the floor from the moment the hit the water. Sigh. The floor needed a good mopping anyway. I threw a towel on the puddle, and turned my attention to my eyebrows.

The kids used soap bubble covered hands to reinact several scenes from the Spongebob Movie, ("Are you a goofy goober, yeah? I'm a goofy goober yeah!" followed shortly by chants of "I'm ready! Promotion! I'm ready! Promotion!) while I trotted to the other bathroom to fetch my tweezers.

I spotted the box of hair color on the counter as I grabbed the tweezers - I've been having my hair done by my stylist, but in an effort to quell our family spending, I'm going to color it myself until summer. I grabbed the box of color as well. Why not? I can get my head slathered while the kids are in the tub, and by the time I have them out and into pajamas, I can leap into the shower and rinse it off. See how smart I am?

I checked on my little porpoises in the next room, and then returned to bathroom #2 to do the stinky assult on my head. I snapped on the gloves, mixed up the stuff, and squirted and massaged and squirted and massaged and tried not to breathe or pass out. Ah yes. This is why paying someone else to color my hair was SO WORTH IT. I was excited about budgeting, forgetting the stink that is hair dye. Whew!

Unable to secure my coated hair in a neat french twist like the gal on the box, I sort of wadded my hair into a ball and wrapped a hair elastic around it. Stray strands whipped me in the face, leaving purplish, gooey stripes on my cheeks. I added a few barrettes to my 'do, and marched to the other bathroom to assess the damage wrought my the three amigos.

The smell of lavender did not seem to be having the desired effect. There were puddles everywhere, and the kids were busy slathering on full beards of suds and laughing. With tweezers in hand, I decided to go ahead and pluck stray brow hairs where I could supervise the kids.

I leaned forward on the vanity, standing on tiptoes, and placed my elbows on the countertop, nose a millimeter from the mirror in my short woman standing brow plucking stance. I made up cusswords, hissing under my breath as I yanked one, two, three hairs in quick succession. The fumes from my head mixed with the scent of the lavender were overwhelming, and I felt ill.

"Hey! Stop splashing!"

"Sorry, Mooooom." Slosh, splash.

Sigh.

I returned my eyes to the mirror. Grabbing a burly hair near the bridge of my nose, I yanked. It snapped in half. I regripped near the root and yanked again. Holy crap. It's a bleeder!

I made a grab for a tissue, and pressed it to my forehead, cringing as a rivulet of blood snaked down my nose. "Huzzuh muzza bumble shigga" I muttered. A glance at the clock showed that I had five minutes before the hair color could be washed out. I got a fresh tissue and left it pressed in place, a curtain of white dangling from my forehead as I gathered towels for the kids.

No one wanted to come out. There was a mighty protest, and as I struggled to pull the beasties upright to rinse them free of bubbles, my head was splashed. The tissue fell in the bath, I felt hair dye running toward my eye, and I had both hands engaged in my toddler's armpits.

I dropped her back into the bubbles and lunged towards the towel rack, blotting my face and leaving a nice smear of purple goo and blood on the white towel. I moved into hyperdrive, and managed to get all three kids rinsed and into towels and herded towards the living room for a show while I wondered what horrific damage I was inflicting on my scalp as the 30 minute mark passed by.

I threw pajamas at the kids and ran to the shower. Rinsing the color out in record time, I leaped from the shower to find my kids, completely nekkid except for their towels, sound asleep on the couch. I struggled them into pajamas, and carried them to bed.

Then I poured a big glass of wine.

I had about 30 minutes before my husband would be home. I gave up on the eyebrows, and mopped up the soap suds in the bathroom. I started a load of laundry, and pulled on my funny striped long-johns. After drying my hair, I crawled into bed and figured I could still try to be seductive, but the 'beauty' just wasn't going on. I was snoring, loudly, when my husband got home.

Ah yes. Cleopatra can just move the heck over. Jenny Lauck is in the house.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

"We believe you're the best parent for your child."

When I first read those words, I blinked hard, and read them again. My six-week old daughter lay in my arms, and I remember sitting up straight, and taking my hand off the mouse. I touched my little girl's nose, and smiled.

My eyes returned to the monitor. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."

"Huh," I thought. "Am I?"

The first few weeks at home with my newborn daughter were a blow to my ego. I had read all the books and magazines. I took the classes offered by my hospital, and I had a nursery full of baby clothes and educational toys. It was pretty clear to me that I was going to be the best mother ever. EVER.

Then I brought my baby home.

I put on a brave face through sleep deprivation, through breastfeeding struggles, through well-meant advice offered by well-meaning loved ones that contradicted my idealized parenting experience. As I struggled through a horrible thrush infection, I kept my upper lip stiff. I was prepared to nurse my baby until she was a year, and if I was in horrific pain the entire year, it wouldn't matter, because it was the plan. My plan. The plan made by the best mother ever.

A moment came where I stood next to my infant daughter's crib, sobbing with my head on the side of her crib rather than picking her up. My breasts were so sore that I had to carefully lift her and center her between my breasts to carry her. Any movement was excruciating, yet I insisted that it would be fine. I was fine. FINE. That day, sobbing along with my baby, I knew I needed to let go of my idealistic visions and start learning to mother in the real world.

I called the lactation consultant at the hospital, and after my appointment, I came home with orders to pump for a week to allow my infection to heal, and then breastfeeding should be fine. I did, and it was, but for a week, I surfed the internet, and pumped. And pumped, and surfed the internet. I stumbled across a little site, just launched. From their front page, the words jumped out at me. "We believe you're the best parent for your child."

Amazing how an anonymous vote of confidence on the internet could mean so much to my fragile ego. I took a shuddering breath and let the bravado go. I was in pain, exhausted, slightly hysterical and completely irrational. But these people obviously thought I was capable of parenting my own child, in the best way FOR MY CHILD. Never mind the fact that everyone in my life had been telling me the same thing for weeks. What did they know? They had never set out to be the best mother ever. They had lower standards, which could not be applied to the likes of me. Reading this simple sentiment on the homepage of One Hot Mama was what Oprah calls "a lightbulb moment."

I sat there with my mouth moving, reading over and over. (I was sleep deprived, cut me some slack. Heh.)

" I, Jenny, am already, I already am the BEST parent for my own child. This child right here. My own child, which I am struggling to parent, but still, I know her better than anyone, so I guess I am the best at reading her and knowing what she needs...the best. I'm the best mother! For this here child! Maybe not the best ever, but in her ever, I'm the best. Woo hoo!"

I told my sleeping daughter, "Hey! I'm your best mama." She farted and sighed in her sleep. I stage-whispered to my husband, "Hey! I'm the best mama for our baby!" He rolled his eyes. "We're attachment parents!" I stage-whispered to no one in particular. "Woo hoo!"

I clicked over into the discussion boards, and met a circle of friends that is with me still, seven years later. I've had the privilege of watching my fellow mothers grow in confidence as our families grow in size. The original babies from seven years ago have been joined by many siblings. I wonder if parents that are attracted to attachment parenting practices tend to be larger than average? I was recently asked if I had always planned on having such a large family. "Is three kids large?" I asked.

Looking around at my local friends, my family with three children is a rarity. Two children is most common, with single children only slightly less so. In fact, watching me wrangle my three houligans in public parks and malls is probably keeping many local families from adding a third to the equation. That being said, I am friends with many mothers with families larger than mine. My questioner was surprised that I could name more than two or three families with five or more children. "The internet," I explained. "We don't all live in the same town."

While the years spent posting on discussion boards were truly wonderful, the community remained constant. The general philosophy of parenting was similar. Now that my youngest is three, I find I have less interest in whether I am "AP" or not. I've developed my own parenting style, for better or worse. My style is very much a product of my own temperment, my children's personalities, and the wisdom from my wonderful online friends. From that first visit, these women were my ace up my sleeve. I could always count on the Hot Mamas for a teething remedy, to know what to do when my toddler refused to eat, to encourage me as I approached my due date, to provide a laugh after a rough day. This shared wisdom, sometimes advice, sometimes an anecdote, provided a sense of security, an archive of information from in-the-trenches mothers who had been there and done that.

Mommyblogging expands on this sense of community. Far from a homogenous group of mothers, the bloggers documenting motherhood online are changing the way I see myself. I feel the disappointment of watching a pre-teen lose a school election. I see myself in a new mother's chatty posts about her new baby. I hear the echos of my own voice in the weary posts of an overdue pregnant woman. I catch glimpses of my future as I read the poignant words of mothers watching their grown children soar outside their nest.

Beyond the mechanics of raising a family, in blogging about her family, the woman is revealed. Sometimes I see myself. More often, I see a stranger. Our experiences as women inform our parenting. We want to raise our children differently than our parents did. We want to do it the same. We want to do it better. Pride, fear, longing and joy bubble up from these blogs. I devour all these experiences, and add them to my archives of been-there, done-that parenting knowledge.

It may not make me a better parent, but it comforts me to know that other mothers struggle. Other mothers laugh and cry at the wrong times. Other mothers parent differently, and they are the best mothers for their own children. Rather than judging, I always seem to find something useful and beautiful to take away from these little snapshots of other's lives.

The good, the bad, the ugly and the amazingly beautiful...all of it just a click away.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

The alarm clock sprang to life at 6:15 this morning, heralding the return of our regular schedule. I burrowed under the covers, only emerging after the fourth slap of the snooze bar. The rest of my family was already up, eating breakfast and watching television. It was a very educational program, nothing like Spongebob. I've held true to my pre-child ideals of no commercial influences. Yes, my children are low-brow comedy prodigies, discovering wedgies and slapstick violence through my readings of Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, as well as The Little Princess and other classics for children that contain the word "little" in the title.

Coffee in hand, I scrubbed my fingers through my hair and frowned at the calendar. January 2nd. On the date, I had carefully applied a "back to school!" sticker at the beginning of the school year. I checked the handout from the school. Winter Break ends on December 31st. Barely surpressing an upwelling of glee, I marched to the closet and started selecting outfits for my little monsters, who, by this point, were doing some sort of chicken dance alternating with patting their butts and screeching while karate chopping the couch. That Laura Ingalls Wilder. She was a wild'un.

As I pulled socks from the drawer, I got a little carried away.

"You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! You guys are going to schoo-ool! Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah!"

They got into their outfits. I packed lunches, and after grooming them until they sparkled, I kissed them both and shoved them out the door after my husband. They skulked down the walk, and I stood in the door, waving and blowing kisses and offering up little nuggets of love. "Bye-bye! Love you! Have a great day! Cover your cough!"

Can't you see the bluebirds circling my head, and my freshly starched apron, pearls shining around my neck?

Actually, I cracked my knuckles and plopped down in front of the computer, coffee cooling in my favorite mug. My three year old was curled up on the couch with her abacus and other educational toys, totally not watching Dora the Explorer. I contemplated the screen for a moment, and typed a few sentences. Then I erased them. And then I retyped them. Yes! I was on a roll!

With a bang, the front door swung open, sending a cold gust of air rushing through the kitchen. With excited voices, my children announced that I was mistaken. Oh-ho! Today was a school holiday! The husband, also off from work! Things? Totally not back to normal!

Well, great.

After showing my disbelieving husband that the school handout DID NOT mention the holiday status of today, he insisted that I should have jumped onto the district's website to find out from the primary source. He sat down in front of google and typed in the name of the district. And then he tried the name of the school. And then he tried a few other combinations. Ten minutes of trying, he finally finds the calendar, which indicates that yes, today is a holiday.

Just, nuh-uh. I am not going to verify all school handouts to the district's website.

I was rousted from my warm bed, filled with hope of a little peace, a little accomplishment. Instead, I get another day of 'vacation' with my children and husband. Perhaps we will fill the day with educational worksheets and a knitting lesson. Perhaps we'll read more about Half-Pint and the gang.

Or maybe, I'll let them watch Spongebob and rot their little brains. It is vacation, after all.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

Two days before Christmas, I stood in the kitchen, coffee cup clutched in one hand, lightly bouncing my six-year-old daughter's front tooth on my other palm. She stood in front of me, empty socket stuffed with a wad of tissue as she poked at the tooth.

"It's not very big," she said.
"No, it's not," I agreed.

I remember when that sucker pushed through her gums the first time. A mere two weeks before, her first two teeth, the bottom front teeth had strained upwards through her gums. The tiny white ridges were sharp against my breast as she latched, but I was grateful that they were out. "That was the hurting part, kiddo." I told her as her cheeks bunched and dimpled. She was a noisy, sweaty nurseling, full of grunts and gulps and exaggerated sighs. Thank goodness her verbal outbursts while eating have tapered off to a socially acceptable level.

Her pathetic screams, swollen gums and incessant drooling sent me running to the internet message board of mothers that I had come to rely on for advice. In my freaked out, my baby is broken and I don't want to do anything to damage her further state, I didn't want to hear my mother's advice. I was convinced that if it worked in 1973, it was irrelevant to my style of parenting. I was hesitant to try any teething medicine, and afraid that using ice to numb her gums would somehow destroy our hard-won nursing relationship. My online friends were able to convince me to try homeopathic teething tablets, and frozen washcloths, and recommended alcohol. For me. Heh.

Those first two teeth seemed like they took forever to appear. We had a week of peace and then the top two started to push through. There was screaming and gnashing and wailing and drooling. The baby was pretty upset, too. After a sleepless week, I finally felt a little sharp ridge along her swollen gums, followed the next day by its twin. We both slept like the dead for a few days after those top teeth erupted.

The bottom two teeth fell out exactly six years after they appeared. I know this because I actually recorded the dates in my oldest's baby book. I occasionally throw a photo or memento in my youngest's book, but there is no careful recording of anything. Sigh. I made a huge stink out of having a specific baby book for my children. Now the firsts and lasts are recorded in my blog, if at all.

These top teeth have taken a little longer, but the first is gone, and the second is very loose. Already I can see the 'adult' teeth pushing through, making their way down to create that snaggletoothed effect that six-and seven-year-olds sport until their jaw grows enough to accomodate those giant choppers. We're at the start of the funny-looking years. I can only hope they manage them with more grace than I did.

Standing in front of me, my girl pulled out the wad of bloody tissue and grimaced at me with her jack-o-lantern smile. She wiggled the tooth next to the hole, and announced that she wanted spaghetti for dinner so she can suck the noodles through the gap. Ah, the time-honored celebration of a missing front tooth. It must be done.

As she drifted off to sleep with her tooth-fairy pillow swinging gently from her bed frame, I frantically searched for my stash of Sacagawea dollars. Coming up empty, I found a Susan B. Anthony, and decided that silver is an appropriate color for a missing fifth tooth. I slipped into her room, and made the exchange with as much stealth as I could manage. As I rounded the wall and headed for the door, I heard her voice call me back.

"Mommy?"

My heart was in my throat. Was I caught? Two days before Christmas, was I busted, and going to have a lot of creative explaining to do?

"Will you snuggle me?"

Whew. I laid down next to her, and closing my hand tightly over her purloined tooth, I wrapped my arms around her. Within minutes she was snoring, her mouth thrown open, hair slightly damp as she radiated heat. She's always been a hot sleeper. I sat at the edge of her bed, watching her sleep. She's so big now.

I made my way into my room, where I put her tooth in my jewelry box alongside my other keepsakes. It seems sort of gross to keep it, but I just have to. It's not very big, but it is a treasure to me. I find it hilarious to think that I may end up with a jewelry box full of baby teeth, given the three children and the years of tooth-losing ahead. What did the Victorians do with teeth? I know they made all sorts of macabre objects out of hair - surely they had a use for baby teeth.

The next morning, she was delighted with her silver dollar. She accepted my explanation of silver for the fifth tooth without question. I also got to launch into my patented "In my day, we only got a nickel" speech, which amused me greatly. She didn't get such a big kick out of it, and that's when it dawned on me that I've completely lost any cool I might have possessed. What's next? Fictional accounts of walking to school uphill for ten miles in the snow?

I thought I'd at least make it to fifty before launching into harrowing, if completely false tales of my childhood on the prairies, missing shoes and chopping wood and nickels from the tooth-fairy and all. Judging from the stoic reaction of my six-year-old, the only one who will react to these tales of youthful woe will be my mother, who will call me on my baloney, and add her own tales of youthful woe to trump my (false) stories.

So that's it. I've completely lost it. I'm looking at a future spinning wild yarns about a false childhood, and a jewelry box full of baby teeth.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 8:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (0)

When I picked up the gingerbread house kit at the grocery store, it seemed like an innocent, family-friendly activity. The package included "Everything you need! Premade Icing! Lots of Candy! No Baking!" It was idiot-proof. I just had to buy it.

When I brought it home, I ceremoniously showed the package to the kids, promising that when we had some quiet time (and my three year old was napping) we would assemble and decorate this charming little spiced cookie cottage. Oh, the fun! Oh, the memories! Everything we needed was right there under the plastic dome.

I shoved the box on top of the fridge for a week. I had a birthday to celebrate, pancake breakfasts to attend and school parties to throw. Add to the general bustle of the week a family with major colds, and you've got a recipe for oh no we are NOT making that gingerbread house today. It sat on the top of the fridge for another two days, mocking us with its promise of everything we needed right inside the box.

Finally, after spending the last two days in bed, it dawned on me that the odds of me having a clean bill of health and a sleeping toddler at the same time were nil. As the three year old snored in my husband's arms, I yanked that box off the fridge and slapped it on the table.

"Gather 'round, children. We are going to make merry and stuff." I unboxed the contents with a flourish.

My five year old unleashed an epic cough right onto the tray where the house was to be assembled. Nice.

I marched everyone over to the sink for a thorough handwashing (again) and returned them to the table while I got bowls for the candies. After a couple of covered sneezes and round of nose blowings, I made them sit way back from the table while I squirted "queen icing" onto the house walls. My oldest has it in her head that royal icing is really queen icing, and who am I to argue the fine points?

I got the structure of the house up pretty quickly, and then set the timer for fifteen minutes to let the icing set. I dumped the candies into their bowls and decided no way was I eating any part of this house. The kids were dripping, drooling, oozing little germ-carriers. Granted, I'm sick as well, with a nose as red as Rudolph's, but I wasn't sneaking licks of my fingers and then picking up candy.

They "decorated" the extra pieces by liberally coated them with icing, jimmies, and germs. The little snowman became a 'fashionable woman,' and the gingerbread boy became a monster, and the little tree became somebody's snack, but I can't get anyone to own up to eating it.

After the timer went off, I attacked the flat surfaces with the now clumpy icing, trying to duplicate the picture on the box. Hah! Hahahahaha! Between the icing's consistancy, my own inept attempts to smooth it, or get it to adhere, or do something other than lay there like day-old toothpaste in the sink, I was getting pretty hysterical.

The kit apparently didn't come with patience. A major oversight for family baking projects, in my opinion.

So there I stood, smashing icing onto the roof while the kids licked their fingers between each candy placement and coughed grandly on the sidelines.

After a whilrlwind decorating spree, the house stood jaunty and pert, coated with candy and shiny white icing. It looked pretty good, considering it's potential for germ warfare disbursement.

I checked the clock. We'd managed to kill a whopping 30 minutes, including the 15 minute wait. A speedy family memory making event, to be sure. I lifted the house up to the top of the fridge to set, and shooed the kids away.

As I write, one side of the roof has slid halfway off, and the chimney has collapsed under the weight of ninety-thousand jimmies. The "Fashionable Woman" is face down in her icing, and the "monster" has collapsed against the side of the house.

Our cottage looks like we are slum-lords. We made a gingerbread flop house, complete with "fashionable lady" passed out on the lawn.

I still consider this little project a raging success. I'll tell you why: every single time I attempt to do any baking with my kids, I insist that they do it my way. I micromanage cookie cutters and candy placement. I stress everyone out, in an attempt to make a beautiful finished project. The kids end up frustrated and disappointed that I have to have everything 'just so.' Seeing the pride on their faces as they look at our out-of-the-box masterpiece is better than straight walls and perfectly aligned gumdrops any day.

You cannot pay me to eat it, however.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 5:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

Every Tuesday, I help out in my son's kindergarten class during 'centers.' The kids are broken into groups of five, and we work on activities that would be too difficult to manage with the entire class. I generally don't work with my son. He's a little disappointed, but it's nice for me to observe him across the room, to see how he interacts with the teacher and the other children.

I arrived a few minutes before 'centers' time this week and walked into a quiet classroom. The kids were away at the computer lab with their big buddies. The school pairs kindergarteners with sixth graders twice a month - they do activities together, and the kids love it. They were emailing Santa, and as the kids trickled back into the class and said goodbye to their big buddies, I caught the teacher and her long-time aide giggling.

When the teacher saw my raised eyebrows, she pulled me closer and whispered "See that girl right there?" She gestured to a tall, pretty sixth grader who was hugging one of the kids goodbye. "When she was in my kindergarten class six years ago, we couldn't keep her shoes on her feet. As soon as she'd hit the door, her shoes and socks would go flying off, and we'd spend all day trying to get her to keep them on. One would be in the play yard. One would be under a table. She'd leave one in the toy basket, and one outside the classroom door."

I smiled and chuckled. "Sounds like fun."

"Yeah, well. Look at her now." The teacher and the aide both turned their gazes to the smiling girl as she waved bye and skipped out the door. They both sighed and smiled. "She was with us for two years, and we thought she'd never keep her shoes on. They really do grow out of that kind of thing." She turned her face towards my son, who was laller laller lallering in a circle around his big buddy, who was trying to capture him as he orbited. Both boys were giggling like mad. "And then again, sometimes..."

My son's big buddy is a personable, chatty kid who, like the shoeless wonder, had my son's teacher six years ago. When the list of kids came in to be paired up, the teacher instinctively knew that my son and his buddy would be a perfect match. The two of them talk simultaneously, jabbering about different subjects and happy as clams talking over the top of one another as they work on their projects.

Standing next to my son's teacher, watching her eyes, I knew that she had a room full of memories of children past and present, spanning years. Someday, she'll be matching my daughters and son with little buddies of their own, and she'll remember the two year old asleep with splayed legs and elephantine snores in the stroller as I picked up her older siblings. She'll remember the little boy who loved dinosaurs and couldn't stop talking. She'll remember the five year old girl who galloped like a horse everywhere she went. She really knows these kids, and she follows them as they grow.

I have a fresh appreciation for these teachers who spend their days with our children. It's not just a job for my son's teacher - she loves these kids, even the ones who can't keep their shoes on, or who cry when you tell them to sit on a dot. She sees them grow up, and move on, and she is rooting for them, no matter where they go after leaving her care.

My daughter's first grade teacher is tough. We struggled to adapt to her classroom structure, but I've also gained an understanding, and a respect for the way she runs her class. The kids are thriving, and they are all learning at a tremendous pace. I have no doubt that her teacher is proud of 'her' kids, too.

I sobbed my way home when my oldest started kindergarten. I mourned the loss of being the major influence in my child's day. I didn't want some random teacher being the superstar in my kid's life. I've come to realize that I'm still a major influence, and yet her teachers are expanding her horizons, and adding wonderful new dimensions to her world in a way that I haven't been able to. They've helped her love learning. And they have truly gotten to know my kids. They are creating memories of my children.

My son's teacher smiled softly at the antics of her former students and her current students. I stood there with a bittersweet tang in my heart. It felt like I could see into my future, watching my son playing with a larger version of himself. Sometimes they grow out of their quirks, leaving only a memory of scattered shoes. Sometimes the quirks linger, and you can see the younger child clearly as the words tumble in a torrent from their grinning lips. As parents, we get glimpses of our babies as our kids grow. Teachers get to see a fresh class of little imps, all with quirks that recall another child from a previous class. They see it all, and they remember it.

Remarkable.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBacks (0)

Last night, I wrangled my six-year-old daughter and five-year-old son into their beds and headed for the living room, with my three-year-old trailing behind me, brandishing her tattered copy of Goodnight Moon.

Sinking into the couch, I made my opening move. I sat her next to me and opened the cover of the book. She countered by kicking the book closed with her footie pajama clad foot. Aha!

Game on.

I trapped her flailing leg under my thigh, and flapped open the cover. She heaved her entire torso in my direction, freeing her leg and bellyflopping onto the book. She grunted with glee as I seized her around the middle and lifted her pinwheeling limbs high over head. "No, Mama! No, Mama! Nooooooo."

I took a heel to my forehead, and decided to get down to business. I settled her on my lap, her unruly hair tickling my chin as I trapped both her ankles between my thighs. With a quick whisper of "get your ear!" both her hands were instantly occupied, one thumb in her mouth, the other hand busily folding her ear into little packages. I opened the book and began.

"In the great green room..."

With a sucking noise, she yanked her thumb out of her mouth and yelled "dare were kittens!"

"Uh, yes. In the great green room, there was a telephone..."

"Kit. Tuns."

"Right. Kittens, too. In the great..."

"Meow." She began the pretend to smooth her whiskers.

"Do you want me to read Goodnight Moon tonight?"

"I kitten. Meow."

I closed the book and sighed. "Goodnight moon."

She sighed too, and patted the book cover. "Goodnight, kittens," she said, speaking around her thumb.

Then she pushed off my lap and jumped for half an hour on our mini-trampoline. Only then did she allow me to escort her back to her bed and tuck her in. When I turned off her light and said "Goodnight, kitty," she giggled and said "I not a kitty. I a telephone. Ring, ring."

That was a fairly typical exchange with any of my kids. We chose nice names for them, but I'm starting to think we could have named them by their attributes:

Headstrong, Gung-ho, and their little sister, Contrary.

Lately, life is like a choose-your-own-adventure story for these kids. Every option must be explored verbally and if possible, physically, before a path is selected. They have ideas, you see. About everything. And these ideas must be shared.

You can't just read a book. It must be acted out, and the plot altered to fit the whims of Headstrong, Gung-ho and Contrary. This spills over into their imaginative play, too. All three kids are 'set' players. They like the whole family together. But the roles of the individuals are constantly shifting as the game progresses. And in a particularly strange twist, they always add in narrative voice-overs.

Scene: 500 plastic dinosaurs are scattered across the furniture. The children are on their knees, moving the dinosaurs in jumpy motions across the room.

"Aaaaah! Sharp-tooth!"
"Quick! Run!"
"Oh no!"
"I don't want to get eaten!"
"Suddenly, the sky got dark, and the dinosaurs looked up at the sky." (said in a deep, narrator voice)
"I'm not going over there!'
"Let's get out of here!"
"As the dinosaurs came over the hill, they saw the safety of their valley, and they were happy." (narrator again)
"Yay! I'm so happy!'
"Me, too!"
"Me, three!"
"Yay!"

Do other kids play like this? I find it really bizarre that they have to set the scene and talk about the emotions and the weather as they play. They must have absorbed the flow of the stories we read and the television shows we watch, when they actually listened to them.

It can be frustrating, this constant redefining. I find myself getting impatient with the kids, demanding that they just "be normal" and "act normal" and "talk normal" and yet, the whole "normal" thing is something I can't define. I've been a weirdo my whole life. Why would my children even know what "normal" entails?

Listening to my parents talking about my own childhood, the stories and memories they share almost always focus on the silly or "abnormal" stuff that went on. I don't remember them saying "wow, you kids really were superstars at being polite at the dinner table!" No, I remember them saying "remember that time we had the blueberry pancake fight?"

I don't really want to squash the weirdness out of them, anyway. It is part of what defines them, and endears them to me in a way that "normal" behavior doesn't.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 12:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (35) | TrackBacks (0)

I read a story recently in our local newspaper about a girl who is pursuing a career in the circus arts. At thirteen, she is training hours a day, bending her body as far as her will and ligaments will allow. Her family has moved from the rural county where we live into the heart of San Francisco, a short bus ride from the circus school where their daughter works to master the skills needed to become an arial contortionist.

When I first read the article, I was perplexed. Why would a family uproot themselves to allow a child to pursue such an odd activity? This quote, though, from the girl's mother, struck me in the heart:

"I wonder, what would happen to a child who was passionate and you didn't support it? What kind of adult would that child become?"

From my earliest memories, my ambitions have been of the ordinary variety. I wanted to be a baker. I wanted to be a mother. I wanted to have an average house with a big candy dish on the coffee table. I wanted to grow up and have a couple of kids and bake some cakes and eat cellophane-wrapped butterscotch discs out of the fancy dish on my coffee table.

Oh, how I shot for the moon!

My sister always aimed a little higher. She wanted to be the tooth fairy. She wanted to be a ballerina. She wanted to be the lead in the school play. She wanted to be a famous author, and an actress, and a revered pianist... she's currently in Europe, pursuing her dream of being an opera singer. And I'm happy for her. I really, truly am. But I wouldn't chase that dream if I was offered the chance. I have all the cake and butterscotch and kids I ever wanted.

We did have one strange compulsion in common. We always ran for student body office, every year. And always for the Presidency. Every. Year. From probably fourth grade on.

The first year, it was just my sister. She ran, and won, I think. I know she won a few times, back before it became a popularity contest in middle school. She practiced a clever speech and made clever posters and won the election. Buoyed by this beginners' luck, she ran again and again. And inspired by her example, or perhaps out of my innate belief that I could do anything she could do, better, provided I actually applied myself, I began to run for office myself.

I remember wearing my baby blue corduroy jeans and a cream sweater to give my speech in 6th grade. The index cards with my notes were crushed in my hand as I delivered a flawless speech. I remember the feel of the creaky risers under my feet, and the metallic tang of the microphone, inches from my nose. I got the laughs. I connected with my classmates. I lost in a landslide.

So in 7th grade, I tried again. Lost. Eighth grade, new school. Ran the week after my first appearence on campus. Lost. My sister, at high school, was making her own run and losing.

I would like to look back and say that I was running as a joke, or because I felt pressured or obligated to. That's not the case, though. I ran, and my sister ran, because we honestly thought that we'd win. Every time. I don't know what we thought winning would bring to us, besides a title for our college applications. I personally wasn't all that motivated to make things better for my class, nor did I have any desire to rise in social standing. Truth be told, there was no prestige in being a class officer, no glamour to being a cheerleader. My senior class lost spirit week to the freshmen. Apathy reigned, and yet I stood again and again at the podium, campaigning.

Thinking back on all the campaigns, the practiced speeches, the outfits carefully selected and the posters hung, I wonder how my parents kept a straight face. How did they cheer for us again and again, when it was obvious to everyone else that we had a snowball's chance in hell of winning? I love them for their unflagging support of our curious passion for election season.

One of my campaigns featured the slogan "Everyone's Bigger, But No One's Better." Haaaa! My posters kept disappearing, and I secretly thought it was because people thought they were so clever. One of my running mates mumbled through his speech and won by a huge margin. I told jokes! I made really awesome campaign promises! And I lost. And I ran again the next year anyway. And I believed that I would have a real shot at it.

Perhaps this is why I'm such a good sport today. Or perhaps this merely illustrates the pigheadedness I possess.

After graduation, I gave up on running for office. My younger brother never entered an election until his senior year, when he leaped onto the stage and performed a spontaneous break-dance routine at the convention. He danced away as the first (and probably only) write-in, C-average student body president. That's about when I lost my faith in the electoral process, and when I started secretly wanting to learn to pop and lock.

When my children were all small babies, I stared into their faces and wished that they would have ordinary, achievable dreams. I wanted them to want small, just like me. I mean, I fully plan to sign them up for break dancing lessons as a contingency plan, but I thought it would be great if they wanted to be a little dreamer, just like me. I never hoped to raise an olympian, or a concert pianist, or a movie star.

As they grow, though, I see their dreams oozing out of their skin. Whose dreams are these? I don't want to be a rancher, or a paleontologist/construction person. I don't want to be "Mommy Soccer Monster" and eat cars. At this age, I'm directly involved in all the dreams. I have to buy the ranch. I have to drive my son to the dig. I have to eat the cars and growl like a 'soccer monster.' (Seriously, what the heck is up with that?) A few years from now, I realize that I will likely be the parent coloring yet another poster for another doomed election, laughing at the rehearsed jokes a hundred times, and standing at the back of the auditorium, eyes and video camera trained on my kid as they deliver another speech.

I've discovered a new little dream for myself. I want to be the mother that sees a passionate spark and helps nurture it along. I'll be able to put aside my own candy dish dreams and celebrate my children's fire and drive. Maybe they will end up leading perfectly ordinary lives. But on the off-chance that they want to pursue something more ambitious, I want to be supportive. Just as I can look into their faces and see the tiny infants, I can also squint into the future, and see the adults they may become.

Now, if we can just survive the 'election' years.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 7:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

"Show me what's in your hands, missy." My three-year-old was standing in front of me, belly pooched out as she hid the contraband behind her back.

"What? Silly Mommy!" A nice try, but I am on to her.

"What is that behind your back?"

"I'm just patting my butt."

Uh huh. "Can you spin in a circle?" I'm going to outsmart this kid of mine.

"Well..." Her eyes are twinkling and she pirouettes for me, showing off the two magic markers she has shoved down the back of her diaper.

I sweep her up in to my arms, and remove the pens.

"My tail! My tail!" She goes limp, wailing over her lost treasure, while I silently congratulate myself on averting a Mr. Clean Eraser moment.

I'm typing this entry with my arms wrapped around my youngest's torso. She's leaning on my chest, her nose nuzzled under my chin. I could just put her down, I suppose. Oh, wait.

No. I can't.

It seems that we have reached a new 'thing' - me and this three-year-old monkey girl of mine. When I sent her sister and brother off to school in August, I figured that she might be a little bored without her siblings. Actually, she seems delighted that she has all the toys and space to herself. And me. She has me, too.

I'll admit, half of me is thrilled to death that she is so devoted, so possessive of me. The other half is a little bummed. I mean, she's all but given up naps, spoiling any 'free' time I might steal during the day. She trots around at my heels, observing every step of my day. She is eager to participate, and barring that, delighted to interrupt any workflow that may be happening. She will not peacefully pass the hours until her siblings return. No, she must express herself. Her will must be done, and I am the chosen handmaiden.

We do have hours where she is content to play quietly. I am eternally grateful for those hours. LIke the day she camped out on a stack of lawn chairs with a pair of binoculars for hours, playing lifeguard. That was a great time for both of us. Or the time she hid beside my bed all morning, being a bear in a cave. I gave that game a 10.

I am torn, because I feel like a bad mother of one toddler. I've always had a herd of them around, willing and able to amuse each other. Now, I find myself in the glare of a three-year-old's high beams, and I've done all the same dances over and over. She's sitting there, hands on her hips, waiting for the next song to start, and I'm thinking that aside from shoving sparklers into my bra and doing a one armed handstand, I've pretty much done the whole routine.

I know I could think about preschool - a couple hours, a couple days a week would be great for her, I suppose. It feels like defeat to me to admit that maybe I'm not one hundred percent loving spending time alone with my youngest, my last baby, my toddler who is growing like a weed and rapidly leaving the baby years behind. I feel like I should be drinking it all in, memorizing every scrap of who she is now.

I feel guilty for wanting me time. I want to give my children my undivided attention when they speak. I just wish they would take a breath every now and then. I want to learn who they are. And I want to show them who I am. Now, if I could just figure that part out.

For now, I'm just typing around the soft form of my daughter, who likes to pull my ear, and rest her cheek on my cheek while she's sucking her thumb. She smells like lemons tonight, a result of a late afternoon lemon-tree raid in the backyard. I have a sand pail full of half-ripened lemons at my feet, and a demand for lemonade to fulfill. Cliches come to life around here. I'm literally making lemonade from greenish lemons, yanked prematurely from their stems by my wild-haired toddler.

There's a poem in there somewhere.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 8:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

Six months ago, while cuddled up on the couch watching Animal Planet, I was put on the hot seat after we caught a teaser promo for a special program on Pompeii. My oldest had crossed that threshold where she became aware of Bad Things That Sometimes Happen. Naturally, seeing cities buried in a cataclysmic cloud of fiery volcanic ash raised some questions for this girl of mine.

"Could it happen here? Did the people get away? When the people found the city under the ash, did they save everybody?"

Despite my best attempts to downplay the whole volcano thing, she still sat next to me with her brows furrowed and her arms crossed on her chest, wanting a better answer. By better, I mean she wanted a happy ending.

As the show started up again, they were doing something about leopards, and had a nice little segment on Aztec warriors feeding the hearts of human sacrifices to leopards. Six o'clock in the evening, and I had so much explaining to do.

I knew this was coming, and I've guarded against it as best as I could. We hadn't discussed the war in Iraq with our children, yet when my five year old daughter came home from school asking for toilet paper to send to soldiers, wondering what will happen if we lose the war, I wanted to make her watch "Teletubbies" until she forgot all about it. More than that, I wanted to have the wisdom to explain it to her. I didn't even know how to start.

While other children live with the absence of a relative who is serving in the military, and the constant fear that their loved one may not return, my children didn't even know that there was a war going on.

Hurricane Katrina roared into the Gulf Coast as I sat on a sun-warmed bench, watching my children play at the local park. We strolled home together, enjoying the beautiful weather as thousand of people fled their homes, desperate for shelter.

As the news reported levy breaks and widespread flooding, I followed the situation behind my closed bedroom door, horrified at the growing scenes of agony and heartache pouring out of the region. I made dinner with tears in my eyes, and scoured the Internet for news after the kids had gone to bed. I donated to the Red Cross, but still I kept mum to my children.

I didn't want to discuss the hurricane devastation with my children. I wasn't sure that I could share it in a way that would convey the seriousness of the situation without giving them nightmares. More than that, I didn't want to see fear and worry cloud their innocent faces.

How spoiled I am that I can choose ignorance for my children. How naïve I have been, thinking that I could protect them from the terrible knowledge that bad things happen to good people. Finally, I told my first-grader and kindergartener that there had been a "big storm" that had destroyed many homes and that there were many people who had lost everything.

Immediately, my children wanted to know how we could help. I explained that we had sent money to help, but they weren't satisfied. They offered to share their rooms, their toys and clothes. They wanted to act, to do something. Seeing the concern in their eyes, I realized that they might not understand, any more than I can grasp the magnitude of the disaster wrought by Katrina, but they can empathize. They struggled to find a magic answer that would put things right.

Bedtime brought the opportunity for me to debunk the rumor that zombies are in the neighborhood. I encouraged my daughter to surround her bed with an army of My Little Ponies to serve as bodyguards. My Little Ponies can blind zombies with their rainbow brightness, did you know?

It is difficult to know what information to share with my children. How much can they understand? Is the urge to keep them unaware socially irresponsible? My little girl believes that toy ponies can protect her from zombies, and that a kiss from mom makes a hurt elbow all better. When she offered her bedroom to a child who lost their home, it made me choke up. If only there was a quick solution, a mother's kiss, that could fix this.

For me, there is an overarching sense of guilt. The aftermath of Katrina has opened my eyes to the ramifications of catastrophic loss. I sit in my comfortable home, surrounded by the people I love, while across the country, people are waiting to hear what has become of their families, their homes. I feel ashamed as I prepare to host my daughter's birthday party – how can we make merry while there is so much hurt in the world?

I guess we make it up as we go along. We reassure our children that while bad things happen, it is rare, and promise that we will protect them. We help with relief efforts; we stock up on supplies, and go over our own emergency preparedness plans. Then we cross our fingers, buckle our seatbelts and hold on tight, since we are determined to enjoy the ride.

*A huge thank you to all our members of the armed services, and your brave families - you have our thanks, and you are in our thoughts.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 8:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (23) | TrackBacks (0)

Ah, Saturday. Truly, the one day of the week where I can stay snuggled into bed until I drift awake, rested and at peace.

*screeeeeeeeech*

When my first kid popped awake at 5:15 am, I pulled her into my bed, hoping to snuggle her into submission. Her happy cries of "Up! Mama! Get up get up get up!" woke the other two, and by 5:20 am, I had all three kids jockeying for position in my bed.

My husband did the sensible thing, and got up to make coffee. I stayed in bed, dodging the knees and elbows of three gangly kids, wishing for a magic cloud of sleeping dust to appear overhead. After feigning sleep for another few minutes, I tried shooing the kids out of my room.

"Hey! Everybody out! Go on now! This is a sleeping place!"

No dice. My son gave me a baleful glance and said "Wah wah wah I can't hee-uh you." Elmer Fudd the smart-aleck. The kids wrestled like puppies, giggling and occasionally yelping.

If I couldn't get them to stop, I figured I'd leave them to it. I slipped out from under the warmth of my blankets and shuffled out to the kitchen for my own cup of coffee. The kids trailed behind, peppering my back with a hail of questions. We made quite a ragtag parade, me in my shlumpy sweats, my oldest already bedecked in extra scarves and jewelry over her pajamas, my son muttering random dinosaur facts, clad in only his pajama top and a pair of underpants, and my youngest, hair like a lion's mane, chirping "Yay! Mommy! Yay! You got up!"

Yay. Yay, indeed.

While the kids twittered around the house, tra la la la la-ing about the joy of being awake early on a Saturday morning, I sat glaring into my mug, longing for a few more hours of sleep. I slapped my cup down on the counter and stalked back to my bed. I threw my body back down, pulled the covers up to my chin, and laid very still, eyes squinted shut. Hah! I was a parody of my children at bedtime.

Opening one eye, I looked over at the clock. 5:35 am. Oy. I snapped my eyelid closed, and willed my brain to relax. Muffled outside my bedroom, I could hear the kids engaged in some sort of drama. Unable to relax, I stood back up, marched back to the kitchen in a major snit. I grabbed at my coffee cup and sloshed the lukewarm brew down the front of my sweatshirt.

Tears sprang to my eyes. I stomped across the kitchen to let the dog out. As the door slid open, the cold morning air slapped me in the face, causing me to inhale sharply. My lungs burned from the temperature difference, but my brain cleared. My foul mood evaporated as I noticed the first light creeping over my back fence, turning the dew on my deck to a silvery sheen. The dog slipped past my legs into the warmth of the kitchen, but I stood there, dragon-breath billowing into the still-dark yard.

In the next room, I could hear my children. Their voices fell to stage whispers, and rose to shouts as they acted out a story about a Queen, an Animal Researcher and a Baby Jaguar. I continued to gulp lungfuls of bracing air, feeling the tension leaving my body. I slid the door closed, and felt a small hand on my back.

"Mommy? Whatcha doing?" My three year old beamed up at me from behind her unruly hair.

"I'm breathing, baby." She thrust her arms up at me, and I settled her on my hip. We stood together, our foreheads resting on the cool glass of the sliding door.

"Mommy?" She whispered near my cheek. "I breathing, too."

"Do you see that the sun is almost awake?" I turned my body so that her chubby face pointed in the direction of the sunrise.

"Up came the sun and dried up all the rain..." she sang to me.

She read my mind.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 9:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (40) | TrackBacks (0)

Around a quarter to five yesterday afternoon, all three of my children were caterwauling at my heels, yanking on my shirt, and pointing vigorously at one another. Someone had been wronged. The noise swirled around me, creating a tornado of sound. My children's voices are all so similar that it was impossible to distinguish which child had what complaint. I stood in front of my open freezer door, icy air streaming around me, bag of frozen corn forgotten in my hand. I felt my jaw tighten and closed my eyes, inhaling deeply through my nose.

Have you ever seen that movie, the one where Kevin Costner pitches the perfect game? As he prepares to throw his first pitch, he says his mantra, something like "clear the mechanism" and the world around him goes silent. He can't hear the screams and jeers of the crowd. He doesn't hear the chatter of the players around him. He sees only the catcher's mitt behind home plate. I don't remember much else about that movie, but that whole intense focus on the task at hand was impressive.

I'll admit, the first 'mantra' that came to mind when faced with three tattling kids and a dinner to make was along the lines of "be quiet and go to your rooms!" In a perfect world, I could utter that, and my children would disburse and go about their business. Okay, in a perfect world, there would be no need to say anything, because there would be no whining. I'd also have a personal chef.

Ahem.

The hairs on the nape of my neck were coated in frost as I let the chilled air escape into the kitchen. I could see the kids jockeying for position, mouths flapping and arms flailing. In slow motion, I put the bag of corn on the counter, and said, to no one in particular, "clear the mechanism!"

All three kids stood silent, jaws agape. My son looked askance at me, and when I tilted my chin at him, indicating that he might speak, he blurted "Mommy? Did you just say 'Clean the monkey?'" The other two nodded, looking fearful.

"Yes!" I boomed. "Clean. The. Monkey."

They collapsed into a giggling heap, while I maintained my cool, collected demeanor. My son patted the floor in between guffaws, his five year old laugh squeaky like new tennis shoes on a wooden floor. My oldest repeated "monkey cleaning is so funny!" The baby made monkey noises, and nodded her head emphatically, agreeing with her siblings that I had just said something completely ridiculous.

I leaned back against the counter, and felt my heart melt by the rise and fall of their voices. Total control and focus isn't really my thing anyway. My kids are more impressed by my wild pitches than my perfect strikes. Besides, I'm a sucker for the roar of the crowd.

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | TrackBacks (0)

Blame it on the wine. Or on the strawberries and whipped cream. The husband and I were feeling a little amorous last night. We snuggled while we sipped our wine. We played footsie and I got my backrub. Things were looking, uh, up. Canoodling was on the agenda.

"Mama!" called my oldest. "Sssh! Maybe she'll go back to sleep," said my husband, sotto voce. "MY PANTS ARE WET! WAAAAAH!" came the cry from behind our locked door. "Hold that thought," I said with a sultry glance over my shoulder. I grabbed a beach towel and a clean pair of pajamas, and got my daughter calmed down, dry and back in bed.

Whew! As I turned the lock on our bedroom door, I heard a plaintive wail building from the baby's room. Oh, no.

Oh, yes.

"Sssh! Maybe SHE'LL go back to sleep," said my husband. Hope springs eternal in Husbandland.

"You're so good at getting her to settle, babe. You try," I whispered. He stood up and moments later reappeared with my howling
youngest, who had bubbling green snot and a full diaper. A new diaper, new pajamas, a face washing and a dose of decongestant later, she passed out on my husband's shoulder. He quickly returned her to the crib and jogged back to our room.

"So, where were we?" he winked. At this point, I had passed over the good wine buzz, and was feeling deflated. As my husband reached to foot of the bed, we heard the dog scratching on our bedroom door. "Go away, Donna!" we both ordered in a stage whisper. We sat side by side on the end of the mattress, straining our ears into the quiet of our house.

After a tense minute, my husband turned to give me a kiss. With our lips mere millimeters apart, we started to laugh. And we kept laughing, through my son's midnight quest for water, and my baby's second and third waking of the night.

I guess this is what they call Natural Family Planning.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on August 20, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (0)

I forgot to wear my sash and tiara, but believe me when I say that I went forth and represented Mothers Everywhere like a true ambassador.

First, I picked up my oldest at kindergarten. I had showered and primped to moderate cuteness. Both the little'uns are sick, but I dressed them in *gasp* coordinated outfits and made sure they were shiny, adorable Representative Children of An Exceptional Mother. Like, they even had shoes on for a change.

The occasion? We were heading to Target. Wahoo! I had to buy some plastic containers so I could pack away more of the toys in the garage.

You know, I used to read about the Puritans, and felt so, so sad for those children. It used to rend my heart to hear about how they passed their entire childhoods with a single doll, or a toy carved from a solid block of wood by a skilled relative. How unstimulating. How tragic. How...wait a minute! How brilliant! How happy I would be to never pick up another Lego disaster area! I can keep these kids busy embroidering and making candles. Yes! Take THAT, Leapfrog. Oh, wait. I don't know how to do either of those things. Hmm. Arming my children with sharp instruments and hot wax sounds like a mutiny waiting to happen. Forget I even mentioned this.

Back to the Target trip. So, we pick up the big girl, and off we go! Kids are fed and rested. I'm looking cute. We arrive, and disembark from the van with delighted exclamations. Whee! Target! I fetch a cart, and all three children clamber aboard. The baby in the front seat, the two big kids in the basket. And we're off!

As I lean down to stow my purse on the bottom, I notice I have two long, green trails of snot down one pants leg. A baby wipe is furiously applied, and now I have a giant wet spot and white lint balls, but no snot. I adjust my head to a regal tilt, and march through the double doors towards Rubbermaid Mecca.

"Mommy, can I get a Pretty Pony?"

"No, we're not here for toys, honey. La la la!"

"Mommy, can I get..."

"No toys, sweetiepie. La la la."

"Mooooom! I want..."

"Nope nope nope. La-di-la-di-laaaaaa!"

I was kind of like Dr. Evil meets Snow White. I was creeping myself out. "Zip it! Tralalalalala!"

I need some serious containers. Although I flirted with the idea of putting both big kids out of the cart, they were both "so tiiiii-yerd" that I had to get creative. Why my creativity didn't extend to fetching one of the multi-child carts of ginormous proportions I do not remember.

Four nested containers would fit on the bottom of the cart. I needed four more. I made both big kids stand in the cart, stood four nested containers on their end and wedged them into the narrow side of the basket. Both my cracker-assed kids could wedge into the container, with their feet extended out under the baby's seat in the front. It was like a canopy. They were well pleased. A stack of lids was wedged upright behind the baby's seat, and we headed for the register.

There was much giggling and wiggling. The youngest took it upon herself to greet each and every person we passed. "Hey-yo! Hey-yo!" She had already ripped her ponytail elastic out, leaving her hair standing out in wild waves like a lion's main. A green snot bubble was expelled and noticed after it had begun to be wiped on a pudgy arm. The two in the basket were saying "Mommy, if we're bad, do we have to stay in this box?" and "Mommy, why are you going to take away all our toys?"

In the aisle next to us stood a darling pregnant woman and her obviously delighted husband. They cooed to her belly, and had a cart full of baby goodies. As we passed out of the aisle on our way out of the store, our carts were neck and neck. My children were making fart noises on the side of the plastic containers. Their faces went from content to alarm in a hilarious few seconds that I wish I had a camera to capture.

As we reached our respective vehicles, I said, "Congratulations!" and the Mom gave me a smile and wave, and then hurried into her car.

She'll remember me in a few years, and laugh.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on October 13, 2004

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (0)

I've been manic the last couple of days - and my kids are starting to lose patience with my sorry self. I've told them "No. Not now. Mommy's busy. I can't. I don't. Later. Wait."

I know I've been expecting a lot, and giving the bare minimum. I have a lot of catch up work to do, and while I sit in front of the computer trying to deliver some of the work I've promised to other people, my children have been repeatedly pushed away. Chubby hands reach for the mouse in frustration, and I have found myself snarling at the owner of those delicious dimples "don't touch."

My youngest is going through a big indentifying phase. Everything gets a label, and she usually prefaces the label with "My." My shoes. My toy. My house.

She managed to clamber up into my lap while I tried in vain to continue typing. She sucked her thumb and rested her cheek against my chest as I tried to work around her. After a minute or two of that, I began to gather her up into my arms so that I could once again find another place to put her, away from my working zone.

She grabbed both my ears in her tiny talons and put her nose to my nose and said "My. Mommy." I couldn't help it. I just started to cry. I don't know how work (on jobs other than parenting and housekeeping) at home parents do it. I settled myself on the couch with my baby clinging to me, with a ferociousness that let me know I've put her down and walked away one too many times in the last couple of days.

We sat there, just leaning on each other, breathing in tandem. My son approached, and quietly sat next to me and pulled my arm around his shoulders. He melted into my side and we just sat quietly together. Both kids gave me gentle, almost subconcious kisses on my arms, my shoulders, whatever they could reach. It was a benediction, full of the promise of forgiveness for the lack of care I sometimes take with the precious gifts I have been given.

Originally posted on Three Kid Circus on January 11, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)

My darling girl,

Tomorrow is your sixth birthday, as you are well aware. You have been counting down the days for a year, imagining the New and Wonderful Things that your sixth year will bring.

As for me, I can't say I'm as thrilled. I mean, I am excited, but wistful in a way that is all too familiar over these last few years.

From the moment I knew you were on your way into this world, I was consumed with that precious knowledge. I held my banner high, letting the world know that I was ready to be a mother. I spent impatient months waiting to 'show' - jealous of other moms-to-be whose glorious round bellies collided with displays of baby paraphenalia at Target.

With my characteristic bravado, I assumed that I already had all the tools and faculties to birth and raise a child. I read a few books, took a birth class (which was more for the hubs, frankly) but overall, I was brimming with confidence. Instead of pouring over books on babies, I spent my time shopping for baby gear.

Oh yes. The SHOPPING. We had every gadget and bauble that I could lay hands on. My husband shook his head as every corner of our apartment took on the appearance of a display aisle at Babies R Us. Months before your birth, we had enough clothes stockpiled to dress you in a different outfit every day of your first three years.

At my 40 week checkup, the day before your due date, I bent to tie my shoes after the doctor left the exam room and felt my membranes rupture. I decided not to tell Daddy just yet, and we returned home. Within an hour, I was contracting away, and several hours later, we headed to the hospital.

When you were born in the wee hours of the next morning, it was a magical moment in time. As the exhaustion gave way to elation, I was confident and proud. In other words, I was a delusional rookie.

You received the dubious benefit of my overzealous parenting. Before your brother and sister came along, I turned my mother high-beams on you, and documented every wiggle, every sigh. It was very important to me that I have a ready, understandable reason for everything that happened. If you cried, I wanted an explanation, and I wanted to share it with the world, to prove that I had mothering chops.

Along the way, you taught me that although we may be housemates, we were destined to butt heads. You are adventurous, creative, determined and sensitive. Your laugh never fails to make my toes curl, and your 'angry' face is the best I've ever seen. When you cry those giant crocodile tears and I can hear the hurt radiating from your very core, I open my arms and you crawl up into my lap and rest your firm, wet cheek against mine. Somehow, that makes it better, and honestly, it's as close to holy as I can imagine, feeling the energy change as your tears dry and your breathing slows. I'm not worthy of the power you give me.

Your face is more familiar than my own. You are my own flesh and blood, and yet you are surprising and wonderous. When you sleep with your butt in the air, knees curled underneath your body and arms thrown overhead in an exaggerated Child's Pose, I can glimpse the tiny baby I brought home six years ago. When you give me that look, the one that so often is accompanied by "Mo-om!" I can see the baby on the changing table who was so sure that all the other babies got the smart parents, and she alone was sent home with the half-wits.

You, more than anything else, have made me, well, ME. I used to credit my strengths and blame my weaknesses on my years as a stubborn child, my experiences as a young woman, my travels, my loving and traumatic relationships. Being your mother has brought me to my knees in thanks and in shame. I have been humbled like never before and have been filled with an exhiliration so great I wanted to shout my joy in giant swooping phrases, maybe while twirling a baton. Ooh! Or one of those rhythmic gymnastic ribbons. Yes, tumbling about shouting with one in each hand.

Over these six years, I discovered a raw heart beating inside my armadillo-like exterior. Mothering makes me FEEL in a very physical way. I used to pride myself on being able to detach emotionally, on letting the little indignities roll off my back. Now I well up and spill over at parades. And fireworks. And while talking about you. I'm so very proud of you.

I will always hold the baby-you close to my heart. My eyes seek her out, finding her at unexpected times as you continue to amaze me with all the growing and learning and challenging and adventuring you do. You've got a zest for life, a spring in your step and a song in your heart. You have always had it, and I feel charged to protect and nurture that spark. Except at certain times, like waiting in line and at formal dinners. Then you can tone it down a bit.

With every passing year, I find myself saying "This is my favorite age!" and it's true. I just keep loving you more. Happiness and health to you, my darling girl. All my love.

originally published on Three Kid Circus March 24, 2005

Posted by Jenny Lauck at 11:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBacks (0)