Carmen of Mom to the Screaming Masses recently posted some quotes. One of them in particular stood out for me.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.

Now, as an adult I have learned this lesson well and often. It doesn't always matter what lip service someone gives you. Whether or not they tell you that they admire you, respect you or want the best for you, do their actions show it? Because those particular words will probably fade from your memory. If they offered you something 'out of the goodness of their heart' but it later backfired, you may not remember the circumstances around the event in the same way later, but you will remember how someone made you feel. Good or bad.

No matter what is said or done for you, it is how someone makes you feel that will stay with you for a much longer time. Words and actions are important, but the way they make someone feel is an altogether different story, it has an impact that lasts a much longer time.

This is especially true for our children.

How do you make your children feel? Do you tell them that they are responsible and trust worthy yet not give them any responsibility around the house or not trust them in the most basic of ways? How do you think it will make them feel? Will the words matter or the feelings created be what shapes them.

Or on the flip side, when you child has done something praise worthy, do you remember to tell them how proud you are? When you catch them in some random act of kindness, do you remember to praise them for their actions? It isn't in the words. It isn't in the rewards. It is in the way your actions and words make your children feel.

As an adult I have learned how important it is to ensure your words and actions are not hollow.

As a parent I realized that it is not only important, but vital to your child's emotional and behavioral health.

I will admit there are days when my kids make me nuts. I can scream. I can rant. But when it moves to a level where I make them feel badly about themselves separate from an action, then I have some real work to do with them.

Our words. Our actions. They impact our children. How we make them feel about themselves is one of our top jobs as parents. So, next time that snarky comment or unwarranted insult is about to pop, stop and think. Even after an apology, how will they feel? If you are not okay with it, re-examine your communication.

Just this week I watched as my three children played nicely and respectfully together. I watched and smiled and then went back to what I was doing. I almost missed the chance to tell them how it warmed my heart to see it. So, I stopped, went back and let them know how special it was for me to watch them and that I was proud of them. Each one of them (even the teen) smiled. It made them feel good to know they were doing something positive together. Maybe the next time one of them wants to play with the other two, they will stop and remember how good it felt to get along and see Mom so proud.

Or not.

Ten minutes later they were fighting.

In any case, remember how powerful you are to your children. How they feel makes all the difference in who they are and who they become.

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | 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)

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)

I admit it. With all that has gone on in my life in the past 9 or so months, I have been less involved with my kids than I have been in the past. I am not as active in their schools, their hobbies and in general, their lives. Oh, sure, I ask how it is going. I check homework when they ask me to. I go to sporting events and cheer them on. But mentally, I have not been there in the ways they have been accustomed to prior to this school year. I suppose I have known that (how could I not), but I didn't see how much it was effecting them until recently.

We are entering the last few weeks of school and suddenly my oldest son's teachers are coming at me with "issues" that need to be addressed. What? Now? You come to me now? Where were you when you first noticed that my child was not meeting his full potential? Where were you when his work was not being turned in and you knew he was going to get Incompletes on his report card? Why are you waiting until there is so little time left? Of course, those are my initial questions. Then the deeper, harder questions arose that caused me to pummel myself.

How could I have not known that my son was struggling? Why have I not asked more questions about school and followed through? How could I not know that he has been struggling and not doing his work on time? Am I not talking to him enough? I boiled it all down to: I am failing my son.

On the other hand we have my younger son.

I have known he has been struggling this entire year. I have watched him and helplessly given what I can. But at times it is hard to pull from an empty well. I have been an empty well trying to fill everyone else up. But I thought it was just his emotions out of control. He fell behind in work. He missed school due to illness. He has been overly emotional. I chalked it up to "just who he is" and did not do much other than work with his teacher and watch all of us become more frustrated. Finally, at the suggestion of a friend who recognized the symptoms, agreed to get him tested for ADD/ADHD. After very intensive testing, the doctors agreed that he did indeed fall into the "Inattentive ADHD" category. We then went on to learn of all the things that I have seen as him not caring or areas where I felt he was dropping the ball were actually things he could not help.Things that were out of his control. Nevertheless, they were things that I have pushed him to do. Getting frustrated and telling him to FOCUS when he was focusing with all his power. Insisting that he could do things faster when in fact he could not. He has been struggling so much this year with emotional problems and now we find out that his brain is just wired differently. And with just a few weeks left, we just find out. I question myself again. I failed my son. Again.

Guilt.

Guilt.

Mommy Guilt.

I know that we all make mistakes. I know there is no such thing as a "perfect parent" and to try to become one is pointless. But, oh the guilt! I blame myself for not being there enough. Not listening enough. Not questioning enough. Just not being enough.

Television is big on advertising cures for everything from bad breath to heart disease. When will someone come up with a cure for Mommy Guilt?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 7:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | TrackBacks (0)

What clears out a swimming pool faster than screaming “SHARK!”? Anyone who has seen the movie “caddyshack” can tell you. A floating baby ruth clears out a pool in approximately a nanosecond. In fact, it doesn’t just clear out a pool. A baby ruth in the pool catalyzes a screaming, disgusted mass exodus.

On one hand, I can say that we have our daughter potty-trained at 18 months. Hooray! It’s a miracle! We have a genius on our hands. Clearly such an accomplishment means we are master parents. We are practically professionals. On the other hand, instead of going in a potty chair or “the big pot”, our daughter considers our bathtub to be her personal toilette. Like clockwork. Put the child in a warm tub for more than seven and a half minutes, and dollars to doughnuts, a floater will eventually gently bob to the surface. This is my cue to shout “all-done!”, grab her under the arms and unceremoniously heave her out of the funky water in short order.

I am not sure what it is about the warm water, but it works like a charm every time. Madge + warm water + seven and a half minutes = floating terdlets. Every single time.

This could be considered a good thing. I mean our failsafe recipe for poop is certainly a reliable homeopathic cure for constipation. Speaking from experience, it hurts to watch your child struggle in pain to evict their own feculence. As a caring parent I am more than willing to don rubber gloves, fish around for floating terdlets, and soak her tubby toys in Lysol, as long as the end result is a happy child with a lighter load.

In fact, if this warm water laxative phenomenon last into the teenage years, we can use it as an extra-credit exercise when she reads Dante’s Inferno. We can drop Barbie and Ken into Malebolge, the ditch of excrement, and watch them suffer for their sins of flattery. If she is a real academic go-getter, she can videotape and edit her own reenactment of the eighth circle of Hell. Perhaps we can hook up some kind of tubing so that offal spews forth from their mouths when they speak.

A pessimist might be saddened, disgusted and disappointed by their child’s penchant for pooping in the bathtub. Not me. I see it as an opportunity to show off some good parenting, a homeopathic cure for constipation, and a potential multi-media extra credit exercise to help her gain a fuller understanding of a timeless literary classic. Chalk one up for our family! Way to go Madge! Keep up the good work!

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | 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)

What is it about the time between Valentine's Day and the first day of spring that is just so terribly oppressive?

It's called cabin fever. It seems everyone we know is gritting their teeth and mustering up every ounce of strength just to keep their ever-loving head together. All one has to do is cruise a few of their favorite blogs to read about the battle many of us seem to be waging. The battle to keep from falling into the abyss of apathy, detachment and depression. The mind-numbing cold and gray, sans any distraction of a holiday makes a person want to crawl under the covers and stay there until the days are longer than they are short, and the weather is warmer than it is cold. This plan would be ideal if it were not for the small humans who rely on us for shelter, food, water, and responsive care giving. Those meddling kids are always tossing a wrench right through the window of the best laid plans, smashing it to pieces.

My mind seems to be fundamentally different in the winter months. It's slow. Lethargic. Small decisions are insurmountably difficult. I have thoughts in the winter that never occur to me in the summer. For example:

"Is it bad to let my 17 month old watch Sesame street three (okay, who am I kidding? Four) times in a day?"

"I love to cook, however that takes too much energy. That involves grocery shopping. And chopping. And then there is the cleaning. I want to lose a few pounds, but let's just order a pizza. Again."

"I knew that it was going to be unseasonably warm today, but it really didn't occur to me to actually go outside. I forgot all about outside. There is an untapped world beyond the oppressive walls of my rambler! Thank GOD I remembered!"

"I wonder if my friends remember what I look like. I wonder if they have forgotten my phone number. On purpose. Because I stopped answering my cell phone (okay who am I kidding? I never really answered my cell phone). I mean I stopped returning messages."

"I wonder if my friends will feel like re-sparking our friendship in the spring when I am feeling better. Here's to the hope that spring time weather is conducive to forgiveness and understanding."

Staring into space.

"I wonder if I could pay someone to take a shower and brush my teeth FOR me."

In the summertime, my internal dialogue is more like this:

"Hmmm. Who can I invite over for dinner tonight? I feel like grilling. Let's eat al fresco!"

"Should we go to the pool today? Or walk around Lake Harriet? I know! We'll do both! And then we can go for a bike ride after dinner! Who wants Ice cream?"

"Where did I put that corkscrew?"

"The HILLS ARE ALIVE! WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC!!!!! AAAAH-AH-AH---AHHHHH!"

Getting through the final stretch of winter ironically feels like slogging through a desert with no water, or running the last 6 miles of a marathon. A person loses their sense of time. A day seems to stretch out for a week. Exhaustion is amplified.

Any ideas for passing the time until it starts to fly again? Because it's not flying. Time is currently belly crawling through 2 feet of chilled molasses. I am taking suggestions.

Posted by mommybloggers at 6:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (14) | TrackBacks (0)

My daughter whines because I am a sucker. Plain and simple. She is bright, and I am not, and when she whines I give her what she wants. Because she is intelligent, she has learned that is whining a really neat and effective way to go from wanting something to getting something. And I have to say, it’s really working for her.

I give in, to stop the insufferable banshee wailing. I can’t help it. I can’t tolerate her lamentations. They turn my brain to liverwurst and whatever thought I had, at the particular moment in time when the whining starts, is killed dead in its tracks by the shrieking. The whine floats from her mouth into the air and then into my eardrums where it permeates my skull and stops my neurons from firing. It’s like “raid” for brain waves. It kills them dead.

The only problem solving I am then capable of during a whining episode is “What does child want? Does child want water? No. Does child want food? No. Does child want to be held? No. Does child want to look at the fish in the tank? No. Does Child want to look at the snow globe? No. Does child want to sit on a pile of shoes in the closet and stick her face in an Aveda candle and say “NAM!” over and over again? YES! YES! Hallelujah! I found what child the wants! I have stopped the whining! Now where was I... And I do hope that candle is non-toxic..."

I realize that I feed the beast by responding to the awful racket she makes. When she was a baby, I followed the rule “you can’t spoil them in the first year”. I did whatever I could to keep the baby happy. But now she is almost 17 months old, and I’m afraid I am creating a monster. I also realize that it’s possible that I harbor a little working mother’s guilt. That guilt may be perpetuating the problem. When I get home, I want to play. I want to have fun. I want to laugh and giggle and read stories. I don’t want to be a hard-ass. So I may be a little lax on the discipline some days. I admit it. I also understand that being a toddler can be very frustrating. She has desires but no means to express them beyond a few uttered syllables, some gestures, and a whole lot of screaming and foot stomping.

I have also noticed that she is getting good at the “show”. For example, the other day when I refused to let her watch Sesame Street for the third time in a day, she ran into the kitchen like a diminutive, frenzied, whirling dervish. Her fists were clenched, her feet stomped, and her face looked to be on the verge of exploding. She even did that thing with her down-turned mouth and her “signature look”: An accusing grimace of sheer and utter despair. It says "How could you?? How could you do this to me? My world is falling apart! And you STAND THERE and say no! To Sesame Street! My world has collapsed into a miserable pile of ashes! No Sesame Street? I am dying inside. I am in pain. How could you DO THIS???"

I started to panic. Then I paused. Instead of frantically seeking out some kind of kiddie contraband to hand over as salve for her injured soul, I just paused and looked at her. I called her bluff. She met my gaze for a moment, and her expression gradually transformed from righteous indignation to resignation. She can’t talk yet, but her body language said “Eh. I had to at least give it a shot. I guess you can’t win them all” and she turned on her heel and trotted into her room to play with books. CONTENTEDLY.

Sticking to my guns is challenging. Especially when I only get to spend about two and a half hours with her each night before she goes to bed. When I try to cook dinner and she gets between me and the stove and pushes me back from it because she wants me to pick her up, it is hard to say no and make her wait until I am done. Her desperation for my attention breaks my heart a little, frankly. My immediate instinct is to get down to her level and pick her up in my arms. I hate to make her wait until I'm done.

I realize that in the long run, it's best to start implementing some kind of anti-whining plan. And it could be painful in the begninning. I hate making her wait for my attention, and it seems cruel to flat out IGNORE her. But like I said, I am afraid I am creating a monster. I have a sneaking suspicion that discipline only gets more challenging as these resourceful, intelligent little people grow older.

When I start feeling inscure about my own child's behavior, I like to watch "supernanny". Then I can smugly say to my husband "WHOAH. Those kids are God-awful! Their parents have no clue!" Because the kids on that show are usually a hundred times worse than any child I know of. I think that is the key to the sucess of the show. Allowing parents to see that someone else's children are children WAY worse that theirs, and their parents tremendously more inept. Justifying mediocre parenting everywhere! Hooray! At least we're not THAT bad! And if there comes a day when I see my own child in the behavior of the small delinquents on the television, I can always pick up the phone and call Jo, aka the supernanny, and beg her to get me in line on national television. Sanity is more important than pride after all. At least that is what I like to tell myself. I'll jot down the number and keep in handy, just in case.

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 6:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | 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)

There was a time I believed that parents had pet names for their children as a sign of affection. A term of endearment. I thought it was sweet and strengthened that parental bond. I have since learned that is not always the case.

It is because parents cannot actually remember their child’s name. Now don’t look at me like I am horrible. I happen to know for a fact that I am not the only mom to do this. My own parents were guilty of it. They still are! I grew up known as Michelle-Chris-Jennifer or some variation of that. I would answer to all three names or any combination of them, usually offering a correction as to my real identity if I was so inclined. Unless of course there was trouble. Then I kept silent and let the wrong name sink into my parents’ subconscious hoping that it would give my brother or sister a karmic demerit somehow and earn me a free ticket when I most needed it. The truth is, it all evened out in the end.

Even today, I am occasionally referred to by my sister’s name. As a defense mechanism, my sister and I have added 5 grandchildren to the list of names my parent’s can choose from when talking to us. I am quite confident that within a few years I will just been known as The Youngest Daughter with the Most Kids. (I plan to sign things simply: Younger. It is kind of catchy.)

Now that I have three children of my own, I find myself getting their names mixed up. (Though I swore I would never do that. Just like I swore I would never hide the good cookies while giving the kids the multi-pack of the cheap brand. And like I swore I would never tell my children that when I was their age, I would never have [fill in the blank].) I, too, have resorted to giving my children cute pet names. Out of affection? Sure. But mainly because I just really can’t remember their names at the drop of a hat. I tried to come up with nicknames that might trigger my brain into remembering who they are before anyone catches on that their real names have escaped me. When I look at them, I can see their nickname. Let me just tell you, it has saved me more than once when I draw a blank. In a fit of frustration or when put on the spot, I cannot be expected to know their names. It just isn’t possible when I have things floating around up there like ATM pins, phone numbers to the quickest pizza delivery place and way too many urls to count. I can say, however, that I have become more efficient than my parents were. My kids at least get partial names—BranZarGab-- when I become stuck rather than the full treatment. That should count for something.

I was ahead. I should have known better than to add to the mix. I should have known that I was maxed out on information, but I got cocky.

The other day my oldest son was acting, well, like a tween acts. I had enough. In a fit of frustration I blurt out, “Harley! Knock! It! Off!!”

I was immediately aware of the silence.

“Harley?” my son asked in astonishment. "Harley?! Mom, for crying out loud, you just called me by our dog’s name!”

“Yeah, well...” I stammered. “Stop acting like an animal then. And just to be safe, no talking back, kiddo, or when your dad, Mr. Man, gets home, you are in big trouble.”

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 10:08 AM | Permalink | Comments (16) | TrackBacks (1)

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)

Growing in motherhood I have noticed there appears to be a tremendous amount of pressure to keep a good front around other mothers, regardless of what happens to be going on in your life or your heart. The “I’m Fine Syndrome.” You say it over and over. You laugh when you’re expected to laugh. You cry when it is appropriate. You carry on as if nothing is wrong because that is what is expected from a “Good Mom”. The problem with that? We’re not made to pretend everything is okay.

I know that I cannot be the only woman who has these moments when they just want to reach out to another woman—especially other moms-- and say, “Is it sometimes this hard for you too? Do you sometimes want to just cry and not know why? Will you just sit with me and talk openly about real issues? Just this once can we be real with each other?” But, in the real world, very few of us actually do that. We wear the mask that says to the world that things are better than they are. Times come upon us when we need to reach out, but don’t know how anymore because we are so used to saying that everything is fine when it really isn’t fine at all. It is the how we have been trained to respond to each other.

Do you want to know a secret? I am not that way. I am not a Super Mom.

Sometimes I feel like someone is going to catch on to my scam. They are going to expose me for the fraud I am. Someday, someone is going to figure out that I really don't know what I am doing when it comes to being a “Good Mom.” When it is discovered that my motto on childrearing is "Do the best you can with the kids you have and try not to screw them up too much", I am sure I won’t be asked to teach any parenting seminars or write any ground breaking articles on motherhood.

I see other women at soccer games, in PTA, volunteering in the schools and I wonder "Where did they learn how to do this?" Who teaches these women how to be the Super Moms that they are? Do they come from a long line of June Cleaver women who were born wearing pearls, an apron and high heels?

It makes me wonder if I am missing a certain mommy gene that other moms have.

For school parties, I am the mom who volunteers to bring juice rather than come up with some uber-cool craft that will awe and amaze both children and parents alike. Rather than meet over lattes to discuss PTA policy, I would rather meet over cocktails to talk about the latest celebrity gossip and dish about our own lives. If you call me and ask me if I could host a meeting after school for a few moms, rather than be overjoyed that my House Beautiful home will be warm and welcoming, I will panic and hope that no one sprains an ankle on the many Barbies, Hot Wheels and Legos scattered around.

Confession time: I am a fraud. I don't have it all together. Most of my mothering comes from the great philosophy of "faking it". I just want to know something: You moms who appear so together, so June Cleaver-ish, so very PTA and Junior League....where did you learn how to be so motherly....

....or are you just faking it too?

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 9:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (10) | 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)

I left for the infamous Blogher conference on a Friday. Jim was out of town and getting ready to leave for my trip whilst chasing Madge around proved to be a taxing endeavor indeed. I got her ready for her weekend of adoration, first by one grandmother and then the other. At the airport, I said goodbye to my daughter in her car seat. She was wiggling and whining and looked at me like she didn’t know me from the mailman. She was cranky. I got no love at all. Walking through the double automatic doors towards my flight check in and 3 days of freedom, I was surprised by the unexpected pang in my heart.

I had anticipated a gleeful rush of “Halle-freaking-lujah! I’m Free!!!! No diaper bag to lug! No atomic poopy butts to wipe! Woohoo! ”

Instead, I found it hard to breathe and my eyes stung with tears.

What if she was confused by her new surroundings? What if the teeth she was cutting bothered her? What if her runny nose turned into a full fledged cold? What if she cried and cried and I wasn’t there to calm her down?

I was one of those people that just didn’t quite take to motherhood right out of the gates. I was awkward and I felt not-right and off balance. I didn’t know this baby girl at all, and every time I went to retrieve her from her bassinette, and found her trying to nurse the side of it I felt nauseated. What did she want from me? What did she need from me? I was ashamed that I didn’t have a white-light experience the moment I became a mother. I didn’t hear a choir singing the hallelujah chorus the moment I first laid eyes on her. Frankly, I felt panicky and anxious. I didn’t know what to do.

I remember a morning about a week after Maggie was born. She was not able to latch on to breastfeed, and I was trying to pump milk for her. I was living in a stranger's body. I was attached to this milking machine and it felt more foreign and awkward than anything I have expereinced. I sat, pumping and stared wistfully out the window at my neighbors. I watched them doing normal things like mowing the lawn and bringing groceries in. I thought to myself “How nice for them, doing normal things like normal people.” I wasn’t sure what I was feeling but I was certain it was not normal. I had a machine attached to my boobs and Maggie laid, tiny in her crib like some Romanian orphan. It felt like my life was over.

I tried in earnest to see to all of my motherly duties with care and thoroughness. I made sure I did everything I was supposed to. In the back of my mind though, I was terrified. I was scared out of my everloving mind that things would never feel right. I was afraid I would forever be some crazy, detached mom who was always forced and awkward with Maggie. What if I could never distinguish a hungry cry from a cranky cry? What if my inability to feel in sync with her scarred for life? Would her relationship with her father be enough? I felt like everyone could tell I was struggling. I felt like a fraud. I felt like a horrible mother.

It didn’t change in a day. It actually took a few months to feel connected to my daughter. To fall in love with her. I don’t know if that’s bad, or if it comes as a shock to anyone, but it is the truth.

So, Friday morning I sat on the plane and cried real, surprising tears because I missed my daughter. I missed her so much it hurt. I was taken aback by the open floodgate of my own sadness, and by the overwhelming anxiety I had leaving her. It was oddly very reassuring. I am normal! Perhaps overly attached! Hooray! I am miserable!

Late afternoon at the Blogher conference I saw a man holding a baby girl. I blinked and shook my head. It looked like my daughter. I STARED. I wanted to run across the room and get a closer look. No… It couldn’t possibly be….. It was the spitting image of Maggie. Hair, eyes, everything. It was surreal. I was afraid the man holding her would notice I was gaping and think I was some kind of mommystalker. I had to go over and see her close up after the final comments at the Blogher wrap up. No, it was not my daughter, but she DID look a lot like Maggie.

I got home Sunday night and crept into Maggie’s room to look at her as she slept. I stopped breathing for a moment and my stomach jumped. OH MY GOD WHO REPLACED MY LITTLE BABY WITH A 27 POUND ELEVEN MONTH OLD Who WALKS?? She looked HUGE. She was lying on her back with her arms sprawled out. She filled up half the crib. It was alarming how big she looked to me. I accidentally-on-purpose woke her up so I could hold her and rock her. My little amazon baby. I can’t remember anything ever feeling so good. Or right. Or perfect. EVER.

Originally posted on I'm Ablogging on August 2, 2005

Posted by Meghan Townsend at 11:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | 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)

Sometimes in a family of 5, you need to sit the kids down and have a Very Serious Talk about attitude. (This week on a very special episode of Family of Five, the family pulls together for a Very Serious Talk about attitude. A must see episode for the entire family.) Of course for the children it is best if you can do this as a group. You are more likely to not be the only one taking the heat. We as parents know this. Which is why we did it one on one. Or rather two against one. (Seriously, did my parents derive this much giddiness from watching The Squirm that the kid on the hot seat does? Sick bastards we are!)

So we call in the oldest and start talking. We have this rule when we have these talks. You can say anything. As long as you are being constructive and not just trying to get some digs in and being ugly. If you are mad, let us know. If you feel like it is unfair, let us know. Say Anything.

Well, it can get tense when you have these talks. Especially when you are feeling like you are on the hot seat and getting the lecture. I am not one to do well with super tense scenes. My sarcasm and dry wit tend to overcome me before I am even aware of it happening. So I look at my son and say with a perfectly straight face, "So, would you like to talk about sex now? I know the word penis and I'm not afraid to use it."

*Cue shocked and appalled look from my son. He replies to me in a very preteen, angsty way, "Mooommmmmm!"

Seeing that I have pushed a button, demon mom kicks in.

"Seriously. Shall we talk scrotum? Which, by the way, is the plural of scrotum scrotums? Scrotumeses? Scroti?....."

*Shocked look from my son who is actually looking for something sharp to jam into his eardrums, but realizes he is stuck with nothing but his own fingernails that were trimmed that morning and would never work.*

"...I am sure it is probably scrotums. But don't you think that scroti sounds more scientific? For example, 'In our family we have a ratio or 3 boys to 2 girls. Therefore, we have a plethora of scroti in our home.' See? It just sounds more official and scientific."

At this point my son is writhing in agony on the couch praying for death or a psychologically freaked out induced coma to get out of this situation and never have to hear his mother say the word scrotum again.

Then I get The Stare. A glazed over look was behind The Stare. But nevertheless I know that the stares means, "Mom. You've gone too far. You can no longer shock me. Give it your best shot."

If you know me, you know that I just do not have the ability to walk away from such a challenge. Especially from one of my children. I stared back. Then, in my most perplexed and inquisitive manner, I looked at my son and asked, in all seriousness, "Speaking of this, I was wondering, since you are Mr Science, do flies have scrotum? I mean seriously. I guess that depends on whether they have a penis or not. Do you know?"

At that my son gets up, rolls his eyes and says, "I think this talk is over now, Mom. I mean really!" He walks out of the room. Only to hear his father scream from the living room, "Son, are you looking it up. Fly. Scrotum. Google it."

Yeah, I am pretty sure we are going to parental hell for this one. But damn it was funny!

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on November 15, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 6:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (0)

There is an aspect to this motherhood thing that few people are willing to talk about. Sure, if I say it outloud many of you will probably nod your head in the solitude of your own home and agree. Some of you may even shout out an "Amen sistah!" And yet, a few out there may look at their computer in total confusion. (Those of you who do that, you may just want to go read a warm fuzzy parenting story. This isn't for you.)

Some days, I just don't like the job. I look around and wonder what the hell I was thinking when I thought that being a mom would be the greatest and easiest job in the world. For the most part, it is the greatest job in the world. (We won't even go into how naive I was to think any part of it would be easy. That is just sad!) But there are days this job just sucks.

There. I said it.

I have been in that place the last few days. For example, this morning, when I heard Little Diva waking up and calling for me, well, let's just say I didn't get a warm fuzzy feeling. In fact, I wanted to smash the monitor and go back to sleep.

Don't get me wrong. It isn't the children that I am disenchanted with right now. It is the job. The work. The nonstop being on duty. The neverending demands on my time, my energy, my funds and my sanity, not to mention my sleep. (We'll get to that one.) By the time the day is nearing an end and it is time to put the kids to bed for the night, there is very little desire for one on one time. The only person I want to be alone with after 16 hours on the job is myself. I am ashamed to admit it, but I have even yelled in the general direction of their bedrooms (more than once) that they "better not get up unless there is blood, vomit or fire".

But, the catch is, you can't just look at these little people and say, "Nope. I am not on duty right now. My shift ended 15 minutes ago. You're on your own, bud. If you don't like it, call the union." (Sure, the occassional, "Go ask your Dad" will escape my mouth, but that usually ends up with him asking me whatever it was that they were going to ask me in the first place.)

Some days, I just don't want to play Barbies.
Some days I don't want to put together the same puzzle 75 times.
Some days I don't want to help do the homework that I already had to do 20+ years ago.

I don't think it is fun to change a dirty diaper.
I don't find my zen in washing load after load of stinky boy-clothes.
I really could care less who Yugi is and why he is so Oh!
And since I am being so honest, I really don't get that excited about someone using the potty. I have been doing it for years and the excitement of it has pretty much worn off.

So, let's talk sleep. At least, I will try to talk about it. I vaguely remember how wonderful it was to sleep. We're talking about sleeping when you are tired. Sleeping all night long without anyone waking you up. Because trust me, when one of these little people wakes you up in the middle of the night, it is never for an enjoyable reason. I have yet to be awakened to hear, "Mom! Mom! We won the lottery!" or "Mom! Mom! You're going to be late for your all expenses paid, all- nclusive, trip to the spa...alone." No. It is usually "Mom! I threw up." Or "Mom! I had a bad dream and need you to get up right this minute Be sure to wake up fully so that you can take me to my room where I will immediately fall asleep. You, however, have adrenaline rushing through your system and will be wide awake for at least an hour." (Okay, so maybe those exact words were not used. But they were implied!)

The point? I am sure there was a point here somewhere. (Yeah, yeah, besides that somedays I just don't like my job.) I guess part of the point is that it really is okay to admit that.

It is okay to admit that.

Why can't we talk about it? Does it make us bad moms? No. Does it mean we love our children any less because we really want to sleep and be alone every now and then? Not at all. Does it mean we won't win "Mom of the Year"? Well, it probably does mean that, but so what? Do you really want it if it means you have to be fake about who you are and what you feel? I don't.

So, listen up, sisters. It is okay to not like this job everyday. It is okay to get frustrated and cry about it. It is okay to look at another Mom and say, "This sure can suck and the pay leaves a lot to be desired."

It is not okay to keep it all inside if you feel this.

Trust me, I stake everything I have on this one fact: You are not alone in thinking this way every now and then. I know that at least one other mom out there related to this. If one did and admits it, more did. That's all I'm saying.

Tomorrow, I hope to say, Hey, this is the greatest and easiest job ever. (Okay, I at least want to not say, "This sucks. When do I get off duty?")

Based on past experiences, I will. I hope you do, too.

Originally posted on Mommy Needs Coffee on May 04, 2004

Posted by Jenn Satterwhite at 5:23 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (0)