The UnderToad

Spring Break is Officially Over

And not a moment too soon. Last week North Carolina was in the record lows for the end of March. It rained every single day except Tuesday, when the wind gusts made the sun shine at a maximum of 30 degrees. Today we are predicted to have a record high for the beginning of April. Of course.

Eliott was awake every day last week at 7am. At least her sister got the Spring Break memo and stayed in bed another hour. For this, Eliott was forced to entertain herself in her bedroom until “Carter wakes up.” I am happy things weren’t the other way around. So naturally, this morning, when I got out of the shower at 8:15, both of the girls were still sound asleep.

I was exactly halfway productive last week despite the fact that I was on full time mom duty for at least 10 hours a day. This means the house got vacuumed (but bathrooms remained dirty), laundry was washed and dried (but only half-way folded and definitely not put away), errands were run as needed, and well planned fully executed meals were cooked every night for dinner (but leftovers are sort of smattered throughout the fridge, unidentified). This is what I get when the only way to get my kids to stop yakking at me is to look busy with anything but the TV, a book, or the computer. Despite the fact that I’m about to hit my one year milestone in stay-at-home-mom-land, I admit I still have not created a weekly schedule for myself and my things to do. I keep thinking I will. Then I keep not doing it.

The truth is, I’m still stuck in the habit of getting all house chores done over the weekend. I like the way Saturday and Sunday frame a nice chunk of time and pose an impending time goal of “If you don’t get this done by Sunday it won’t get done until next weekend.” Usually that is enough to motivate me into full productivity. I like settling down in front of the TV on Sunday night knowing the house (and bathrooms) are clean, the grocery shopping is done, and clean clothes are put away. Somehow, I can embrace Monday when this is my weekend.

Unfortunately, my body now knows that my only responsibility for the rest of the week is making sure my children don’t die. I mean, there’s dropping them off and picking them up from school on time M-W-F, and nap-time every day around 1:30, but otherwise, my days are pretty wide open. It seems a little stupid and pretty lazy that anything I don’t finish on the weekend gets put off until the next weekend, but I’m not lying when I say that the clean laundry that has been laid neatly on the chair in my bedroom to prevent wrinkles will not be put away until next Saturday. The toilets will have to go another week, and maybe if I’m lucky, I can send my husband to the grocery store on his way home from work for bread, milk, and raisins.

When the weather warmed up on Saturday, we sort of went outside and then never really came back in. At 5:30 last night it dawned on me that we had nothing to eat for dinner. I sent John for grocery-store-deli fried chicken (my favorite) and beer, and proceeded not to re-stock any of the staples we clearly need.

This is why we’re having soup for dinner tonight, even though it is about 86 degrees outside. Because if there’s one thing I do well, it is a big mean pot of clean-out-the-fridge soup. Everything is in and it is on the stove, cooking itself, as we speak. This frees up my afternoon to sit on my porch with some sun tea (yes, I am that domestic) and watch my kids blow bubbles. Maybe I should finally pick up the book for April book club.

I’m too busy cherishing these moments that every one keeps telling me to cherish to do any chores today, or for the rest of the week, I suspect. And in the words of my brother, if my only real responsibility for the day is reading the book for book club, well, that’s a pretty damn good day.

Confessions

Imaginary Men

When I was a junior and an RA at Baylor one of the freshman in my dorm brought me a notepad with this on the cover:

She was one of those freshman (among thousands) who had become a bit obsessive about the need for a boyfriend. This was one conversation I was never good at, considering a). I’d never had a boyfriend and b). I didn’t particularly want one. It wasn’t that I was against the institution of exclusive dating. In fact, in the big scheme of things, it likely would have been an easier route than the one I ended up taking. It was just that what I wanted, what I believed I deserved, well, I hadn’t found him yet.

This little impromptu gift was the result of a conversation that had gone, to my memory, something like this: “Claire, you’re pretty and cool, and everyone likes you. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” My response: “I’m maybe not quite as cool as you think I am – but thanks – and uh, “the one” –for me– as far as I can tell, he doesn’t exist. Or if he does, he sure as hell doesn’t go to Baylor. Besides, it’s so much easier to keep the potentially good ones at a distance. They always end up disappointing me the minute I find out they aren’t what I’ve created them to be in my mind.” But what I wasn’t saying was, “Good question. I’ve been thinking and wondering the exact same thing.”

I used to joke that my only standards for a man were that he needed to be older and taller. Older wasn’t as difficult as taller, which effectively ruled out over half the underclassman at Baylor. (And Texas boasts of all things big. Hah.) The real truth was, while I was open to dating almost anyone, I wasn’t about to close that door called “There’s possibly something better than this,” on something that I knew just wasn’t It. In my early 20’s, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted, but I knew I had not found it yet. And this didn’t worry me. Marriage, as far as I was concerned, was a long way away.

So when this little notepad found its way into my hands that day, it not only became the title of my first book, but quickly became my new battle cry, buzz word, and point-of-reference for reasons things weren’t working out with one guy, or why I was not trying to get things going with another. “Oh yeah, well, he was just an imaginary man anyway,” or “Oh no, I’d never go out with him. He makes a much better imaginary man.” There were many boys at Baylor who I simply liked to covet from afar. These, I didn’t even want to meet. I knew if I ever actually met one of them I would only end up disappointed. It was far better to just keep their cute faces with their perfect personalities inside my head.

One imaginary man I can remember fairly clearly was the very first boy listed on my freshman “Crush List.” I called him Johnny Angel (for obvious reasons) and I’m fairly certain everyone who had ever spoken to me and also regularly ate a meal in the Penland Dining Hall knew who he was, my pet name for him, and the reasons behind my covetousness from afar. I must have talked about him pretty often because I had random “Johnny Angel” sightings reported to me on a semi-regular and somewhat disturbing basis. I laid eyes on Johnny Angel for the first time on the very first day I was on campus for Welcome Week. I maybe even talked to him (as he was one of the small group leaders assigned to teach freshman everything we needed to know about college life) but I’ve since blocked that conversation out. The two things I remember best about him were his immaculate complexion and hair. He was definitely taller than me. The jury’s still out on whether he actually outweighed me at that time.

Once Welcome Week was over and real life began, I continued to see him around campus (usually in the dining hall) a few days a week. I would often blush if we made eye contact (an epidemic from which I had previously never suffered in my life) and I’m pretty sure I dreamed about him from time to time. I could not actually tell you his name right now. Either I never knew it or I don’t remember it.

Anyway, sometime during my junior year I started meeting my friend Clinton Pickens every Tuesday and Thursday for lunch in the upper classman dorm across campus (mind you, at this point I’m an RA in the same freshman dorm I always lived in). It was very difficult for me to eat lunch in this mostly “Greek” dining hall, I might add. I was definitely out of my comfort zone. Somehow, Clinton Pickens and our Tuesday/Thursday ritual of leaving lunch to spend the rest of the afternoon playing video games on the futon in his apartment, gave me just the courage I needed to get through the somewhat political social scene and certainly more than my fair share of really annoying beautiful-people-flirtation observances.

We pretty much always sat at the same table and the routine went something like this: come in and drop off book bags. Head into the food area, separate, fill up tray with food. Drop food off at table to navigate drinks with empty hands. Re-muster at table, see what food he had that looked better than mine, trade a few bites or steal a whole plate, eat, get dessert, and walk to his place. So one day, after getting my food but before getting my drinks, I happen to notice Johnny Angel has planted himself at my table. I’m freaking out. I’m immediately second guessing my decision on the BBQ chicken and wishing I hadn’t had some teaching practicum earlier that morning forcing me to dress like an elementary school teacher (or an off duty nun). I’m probably wishing I even owned a single pair of tight pants. So as I’m hyperventilating near the milk machine, planning what in the world I’m going to do and say (and to be sure, waiting until Clinton Pickens sits down so I’m not left alone with Johnny Angel) I’m actually thinking, “This is a dream come true! How in the world did he get him to sit with us?!”

I finally go back to the table. Johnny Angel and Clinton are talking like old friends. He looks up, once and very briefly, when Clinton suddenly remembers, “Oh yeah, hey, you know Claire Paulus don’t you?” To this, Johnny Angel mumbles, “Uh yeah, Welcome Week…” and then proceeds to completely ignore me for the rest of lunch. I’m not thinking, “Welcome Week 3 years ago, buddy. I’m not still a freshman here. And I may not be in a sorority, but I’m more than a little bit cooler and probably quite a profound amount hotter than my once freshman self. You don’t know what you’re missing.” I do remember thinking however, “Your skin is not quite as flawless as it looks with all the clouds and heavenly light beaming on you from a distance…and your voice seems a little higher than it sounds in my dreams…and, God…I think you actually might be skinnier than me.” I hope I resisted the urge to actually touch him, but at this point, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was over. Johnny Angel was suddenly just another ordinary college BOY, who had little more to offer than the rest of the disappointments I’d already experienced.

I cannot be certain, but the conversation must have come up between Clinton and me later that day and this might have been exclaimed within: “Oh my gosh. THAT was Johnny Angel?! I totally forgot. Oh that’s funny. You’ve been peeing your pants for like the last 2 hours haven’t you? I wish I had realized it earlier. That might have been more fun.” Thanks Clinton. I should mention here that Clinton Pickens is not an imaginary man. He was and still is exactly what I always wanted him to be, which is red-headed, funny, and mostly awesome in every way. Ask him why we never dated. (My answer is that he never asked.) But I tend to suspect that we both knew it would be far too much humor/obnoxiousness for anyone to handle. It may have resulted in everyone hating both of us, and in turn, us hating each other. Or, perhaps I was for him what most guys were for me. Both of us, in short, were probably keeping our options open.

It turns out, when I searched for this very Anne Taintor picture, there are many women blogging under this title (so much for originality). Apparently I was not the only one in the world afflicted by the disease. Too bad none of them went to Baylor. I could have created a club for us. As it is, maybe they’ll all buy the book.

Confessions

April Fool’s Day Confession

It is April Fool’s Day and I have a confession to make. I’m more than a little ashamed to admit most of what revolves around this story, so it seems only fitting that I tell it in its entirety. It is also, most fitting, that the recipient of this confession is one of my 7 subscribers. *Deep breath.

Nineteen years ago today, I told a lie.

Skip the mental math and take a journey with me back to 5th grade. My teacher, Miss G, still in my top 3 list of all time favorites, suffers from a degenerative muscular disease known as muscular dystrophy. At the time, she required the use of a cane and a willing student’s neck to get down the hallway. She did all of her teaching from a stool behind a large podium, which to this day is still how I see her in my mind’s eye. (I remember the way she had to use both hands to lift under her knees, one at a time, in order to prop her feet on the shelf of that podium. A year later I was in the Area/District Spelling Bee and got out in the very first round on the word “podium.” All I could think about was how bad I’d wished the Peanuts cartoon sticker on the front had instead been anything labeling the p-o-d-I-u-m, Kindergarten style. But I digress.)

In order to truly appreciate this story (and this woman), you have to be able to hear her as well as see her. She is loud. Her voice is loud, her laugh is loud, her personality is loud. Because of her, I later wrote off any lesson in my college education classes that in any way mentioned yelling and/or sarcasm to be detrimental to the classroom climate. She used both. Brilliantly, I might add. Because she could and she had to. She wasn’t going to silently but purposefully move toward the talking student’s desk (mine) and use what I later learned was called proximity control. And I can say for certain, as the recipient of much of that voice backed by scathing sarcasm, I am all the better for it. All of us were. She laughed at herself as often as she laughed at most of us, so when she yelled, or made fun of someone, it was a beating of love.

If the woman needed a cane and a kid to get down the hallway you better believe she wasn’t standing on desks hanging our artwork from the ceiling (even at 5 o’clock) or rearranging the room with regularity. But don’t get me wrong. My 5th grade classroom was just as vibrant (and I dare say more organized) as any other room in the school. This is because she used her students to do everything. Another point of her brilliance was her appointment of classroom jobs. These were not the traditional elementary school jobs like door-holder, line-leader, or turn-off-the-lights-and-shut-the-door-during-fire-drills-boy. A particularly detail-oriented and skilled scissor user got the job of cutting out the letters and actually creating bulletin boards every quarter or so. The girls with the best handwriting in the class wrote everyone’s names on the laminated “assignments checklist” and were allowed to keep up with who turned in what, and then go browbeat the kids who were falling behind. Other jobs included writing the daily assignments on the chalkboard at the end of the day, plugging and unplugging the potpourri pot at the back of the room, pulling down and raising the screen for the overhead, same for the blinds, and running messages back and forth to the office. Looking back I realize the genius in all of this. In fact, when I was pregnant I realized how I too could get away with pretty much ordering students to do pretty much anything (including fetching food and most of the time paying for it) in the name of… whatever… and they’d do it. I realized the year after pregnancy, most would still do it even though I could just as easily do it myself. This was the case in my fifth grade class. She did need us. But even if she hadn’t, we were her minions, and we worshiped her.

I like to believe that Miss G had a knack for assigning jobs that were indicative of a personality trait of each student. I actually had two jobs. One was refilling her “H2O To Go” cup whenever it ran dry. (I see a need and I fill it, pretty straight forward.) My primary job, however, I suspected was among the most important. *This suspicion was later confirmed when I became a teacher, a coffee drinker, and someone who generally believes that societal boundaries do not apply to them. My job was to go to the teacher’s lounge first thing every morning and get Miss G’s coffee. This was a big deal. Obviously, students aren’t generally allowed in Teacher’s Lounges. Also, Miss G didn’t take her coffee black. She took it with a bit of milk. Sometimes this one 8th grader would drink a milk first thing in the morning and save a little for Miss G’s coffee. If that was the case, either the milk was poured directly into her cup and left next to the coffee pot or the carton was left in the fridge. Other times, I had to go to the milk bin (right in front of the office windows) and take a milk. I was smiled and waved at by the office staff as they knew it was “for Miss G’s coffee.” I was four and a half feet of nothing but importance.

This brings me to April Fool’s Day of 1992. Kids had come in to school that day with a general attitude of April Fool’s Day excitement. (I recognize it now, from a teacher’s perspective that we were probably all acting like little assholes for no reason.) I’m ashamed to admit that I was peer pressured into an act of April Foolery but I’m more ashamed to admit by whom. You know how in elementary school there are the popular kids, the not-so popular kids who are just dumb enough to believe there’s a chance at acceptance into the popular group, and then the kids who are so painfully dorky or annoying or fat (or normal) that they don’t even pretend to believe they could possibly be popular? Well, at the time, I actually thought I was in the second group. Which is why I’m ashamed to admit that the peer pressure came from a member of the third, rather than the first. (It only took me two and a half more years to resign myself to the third group. Luckily, that group, in every school, gets a magical revelation sometime around sophomore year that it was probably the best place to be all along, and then we embraced it.)

So when I duck out before the morning announcements to go fetch Miss G’s coffee and the president of Group #3 approaches me at the door to say, “Claire, you should totally do something to her coffee,” my immediate thought was, naturally, “Of course I should! Because that would make me awesome today.” Nevermind that no one would even know what I had done but Miss G. Nevermind the conversation I’m missing while scampering off to be be a naughty little elf, in the name of caffeine and popularity. What I was missing was a very serious come-to-Jesus about how much Miss G hates April Fool’s Day and what it stands for. She is also delivering this speech with a passion that may or may not have brought her and others to tears.

Meanwhile, I’m in the teacher’s lounge, giggling, as I put garlic salt in her coffee (because every teacher’s lounge is just stocked full of the stuff). I re-enter the somber classroom to find my entire class apologizing for ideas they’d had, woefully sharing their own victim of April Fool’s stories, and agreeing with Miss G (some in prayer, I’m sure) as to why they also hate April Fool’s Day. I told you this woman had power. As I slowly pick up on what I had missed, mind you, I’m desperately trying not to wet my pants and praying to the Patron Saint of Spices that two tablespoons of garlic salt won’t be noticed.

The morning continues and I start to believe I might be okay. Until recess. As everyone files out the door, she calls me back in. Standing next to her behind the podium, I’m suddenly feeling nothing but shame. Little did I know at the time that I’d probably ruined the single best part of her morning. She asks me, in an unusually calm and somewhat soft voice, “Did you put salt in my coffee?” So here comes the moment that I’ve regretted for the last 19 years of my life. Here comes the moment that I’ve replayed in my head every time one of those get-to-know-you-games asks, “What is the biggest lie you ever told?” or “What is your biggest regret?” Why didn’t I own up to my mistake? Why didn’t I break down into the tears that would so easily have flowed and just got it over with? Why? Because I was four and a half feet of importance in this woman’s eyes and I didn’t want to lose that. I worshiped her.

So without even blinking (as I remember) I say, “No, Miss G.” She then says, “Okay. I needed to know. Because I need to know if it was just my cup or if the entire pot was messed with this morning.” I’m ten years old, and I have the audacity to then tack on, “Actually, the milk was already in your cup so I just filled it up.” (Of course I’m hoping this will lead her to believe the 8th grader was the culprit. What I’m not imagining is that he’s not only going to deny it, truthfully, but because he’s in 8th grade and he’s her favorite student of all time, she’s going to believe him.) But that was the end. Nothing more came of this for 19 years.

Certainly, what I did to the coffee was not the worst thing I ever did in life. But somehow, lying to Miss G really was. I have since reconnected with her in my adult life. I spent an afternoon with her just before graduating from college. She sent me a wedding present and I wrote her a long thank you note. She insists that I now call her by her first name (I can’t) and has shown me how she memorialized her trip to Australia. Even so, I have not been able to bring myself to confess what she likely knew all along, or certainly would have laughed about all these years later. I mean, if I could change places with her, certainly I’d be able to look into my adult face and disassociate it from my 10 year old face. But as myself, I cannot help but instantly be 10 years old again every time I think about that day, and I still blush, stutter, and feel ashamed in the memory.

I talk about Miss G all the time. I have probably told every single one of my high school classes this very story. I have certainly talked about it with my husband and he’s agreed with me about how irrational and silly I’m being. So I guess it is a bit of a cop out, but somehow fitting, that my apology has to come from over 2,000 miles away and is being simultaneously shared with the public over the world wide Interweb.

Yes, Miss G. I put salt in your coffee. Christina Rubio said it would be funny if I did something, so I did. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you the first time. And… I really hate April Fool’s Day too.

UPDATE: In Memory of Jill Gotzian, March 1, 2012

Eliott

Mood Music

As an education major at Baylor, I cannot even remember how many times I was required to write my “Philosophy of Education.” I frequently wish there had been a better system of data storage at that time (floppy discs?) because I’d absolutely love to read the educational philosophy of my 20 year old self. As I recall, it was normally about a page in length, and usually contained some sort of big picture idea translated to the little picture idea of a classroom I had as yet never truly experienced. I’m sure I had some lofty goals about changing the world, inspiring greatness (hah), and turning every child into an avid reader.

My current philosophy of education does not even come close to taking up an entire page and actually, has very little to do with actual education. In the same way I have swung from one extreme to the other in the “Nature vs. Nurture” debate, my new philosophy is that humans are born with a personality that is at least 90% genetic, and even the best discipline policy is not going to change someone’s natural inclination to be an asshole. However, every human also possesses the ability to make choices, and as long as the consequences of an action are clear and carried out with consistency, kids are capable of making the choice that ultimately suits their best interests in the end. This means that even the worst behaved kids in the world will choose to act in whatever manner best benefits them. As a counselor and then a classroom teacher, this simply meant making their lives more miserable than they made mine if they misbehaved, and catering to their wishes (within reason) when they didn’t. It took a lot of creativity at first (because you aren’t actually allowed to physically harm them in public school), but once I figured it out, my hourly existence wasn’t so bad. In fact, I think I probably ended up with more avid readers than I started with every year, I probably inspired a little greatness, and perhaps the world is a slightly better place as a result of Chief Claire and Mrs. Wait.

Parenting, I have decided, is not much different. Granted, my children are not juvenile delinquents. They are also not high schoolers. And I know that the grandparents (all four of them) think that John and I are like the strictest parents on the face of the planet, but what they have forgotten, all four of them, is that we learned from experience. And look at us. We’re normal, for the most part, and we don’t hate our parents.

I do sort of hate that I am raising my kids in a generation of non-spankers. This is a very quick point of disagreement and often one of contention among my peers with children, and I find myself announcing (before someone even knows my last name, sometimes) that, “We spank. Sorry. We’re spankers, so if that’s weird, well, we are.” And honestly, I can say that for us, it works, when we use it appropriately. But it certainly isn’t the only thing that works, and sometimes it doesn’t work. So we also use time-out. When I was the neighborhood babysitter, I knew the difference between the kids who were spanked and the kids who simply received “time-out.” At 14, I vowed that I would never use time-out as punishment. It seemed so lame and ineffective. I’ve since learned that when used appropriately it is not entirely ineffective. And, as Eliott is four going on fourteen, I’ve learned that sometimes the most effective mode of behavior modification is the taking away of a privilege. Today it is pop-beads. Tomorrow it will be the car. C’est la vie. That said, it is always particularly frustrating to me when my children reach new behavioral milestones and absolutely no prior method of enforcing boundaries, organization, planning, goal-setting, rewards, or discipline seems to work.

Eliott giving up her nap was one of the most recent and certainly prolonged of such battles. I admit that I have been somewhat of a Nazi about sleep in this house. I was a bit spoiled to have both my children sleep through the night before two months, but I tell you what, the first time they went one 8 hour stretch and I realized they weren’t dead, I stopped getting up. Naps have been the same way. Our entire day’s schedule revolves around nap time. There have been days that this is more of an annoyance than anything, but in the end, my personal sanity always wins out. I must have me-time. Every day. For more than half an hour. Sometimes 90 minutes isn’t even enough. And napping in the car does not count. That is why, when Eliott was pushing 3 and trying to give up the nap, I almost slit my wrists.

I started by wooing her to sleep, with rocking. When rocking-to-sleep was lasting upwards of 30 minutes, I needed a new tactic. So I started threatening spankings. At this point we still lived in the condo and the girls shared a room. This meant Eliott was sleeping in my room while Carter slept in the crib. Carter’s nap was as much dependent on Eliott’s silence as my sanity was. I’d put Eliott in my bed and tell her, “I’m coming back to check on you. If you are playing, you get a spanking.” If I came back to check on her and she was pretending to sleep, I didn’t care. I left it alone. But as often as not, she was jumping on the bed, getting into my stuff, or building forts out of pillows and end tables. We would often go 3 or 4 rounds of spankings before she finally passed out. Asleep. Passed out asleep. Don’t think I was knocking my child out cold (though the thought has probably crossed my mind, I admit it). Eventually, we progressed to “spankings with the spoon,” the fear of which bought me a few more weeks of pretend napping. The entire nap-time fight dragged out for at least 6 months. This is how long I refused to give it up. When the spoon ceased to scare her, I knew it was finally time.

I say as a point of celebration that it has worked very nicely since moving into a house (with enough bedrooms) for Eliott to have “Quiet Time” while Carter naps. This means she is in her room playing with the toys that her sister isn’t allowed to play with, and mommy is all alone, somewhere, not being bothered by anyone. I probably shouldn’t admit that my 4 year old is content to entertain herself every afternoon for at least two hours (I sense from my other mom-friends that this is highly unusual and I hate to karmically mess with it), but perhaps I am so blessed by my own genetics. I sincerely believe she needs me-time as much as I do.

This brings me to today. The pop-beads are at the top of my closet (the result of a pick-up-your-toys-battle that Eliott ultimately lost). This means her quiet time entertainment selection has been reduced, which punishes me as much as it does her. A faux pas I willingly acknowledge. My solution (a raw moment of personal genius) was to introduce her to a little toy called the discman. It so happens that my illegal copy of The Postal Service is burned on a purple CD, Eliott’s favorite color. Naturally, this was her first choice, and not a bad one, I might add. I went up to check on her about an hour ago to find the little cherub literally passed out asleep, on top of her covers, iPod ear buds dangling around her neck.

Had I only known. All those months threatening beatings, executing beatings, regretting beatings, tears (both of us), and angry tired frustration. All the girl needed was some double A batteries and a little mood music.

Once again, my Mother of the Year award comes 6 months late. But I’d like to take this moment to thank all of the little people who made it possible.

Confessions, Eliott

The Under Toad

So my four year old daughter has this irrational fear of being left behind. She’s had it for a while (years, in fact) and in an effort to assuage it, I have taken to full verbal and emotional preparation for any sudden shifts in room movement. Let’s take for example, getting dressed in the morning. It happens before eating breakfast (which is, in itself a reason for meltdown) and Eliott must take off PJ’s, put on pants, a shirt, socks, and shoes in the same amount of time it takes me to do all of the same for her sister, and also change a diaper. It is probably unnecessary to add that Eliott is not a morning person. So as I’m getting Carter’s shoes on, noticing Eliott is only as far as getting her pajama bottoms off (she’s now on her back with her legs in the air, whining, “But Mommy, I just want to eat breakfast and then get dressed,”) I have to start calmly preparing her for the fact that I’ll be going downstairs to make breakfast and she can join us when her clothes and shoes are on. I warn her a few times, usually, before heading for the kitchen. Mind you, this has been our routine for almost 3 months. Nevertheless, before the water for oatmeal is even on the stove, Eliott is screaming/crying/snotting/blubbering from the top of the stairs, “Mommy! You can’t leave me!!”

The car in the garage is another point of this irrational fear. Whether getting in or out, if the entire family isn’t moving at Eliott’s pace, Eliott is having a meltdown. Many mornings, I grab Carter’s school bag on the way out and notice there’s no diaper in it. I always say, “Eliott, will you run upstairs and grab a diaper while I put Carter in the car?” This is immediately followed by, “I. Am. Not. Going to leave you. Look, I don’t even have my coffee yet. I’m just going to put Carter in the car and come back for my coffee and purse and then you’ll be ready to come with me.” Yet, the minute I’m clicking Carter into the carseat, with the garage door wide open, I can hear Eliott all the way upstairs, in the exact same panicked tone, “Mommy! Don’t leave me!!” Try to hear where she goes up at least a decibel and a full octave on “leave.” Repeat scenario if I have more than one bag of groceries to get out of the trunk and am moving quickly to unload the car in the same time it takes my 4 year old to get out.

I have been wracking my brain for several months now as to where this irrational fear comes from. Again, the girl has never been forgotten or even lost anywhere. I admit, there were a few times both last summer and the summer before that I started walking toward the door in order to get her to speed up the Velcro-ing of her shoes. In hindsight, if this is in fact the root cause, I’d go back and undo those moments. I even have her repeat back to me, every time this happens, “Mommy will never leave you. Ever. Anywhere. No matter what.” She often tacks on, “Even if I’m too slow,” and I say, “Even if you’re too slow.”

As I pondered the irrational fear in my daughter this morning in the car, it dawned on me that it is likely either a genetic or hormonal problem. Because I too, suffer from irrational fear. Most of the time it isn’t even as definable as Eliott’s fear of being left behind. I usually don’t even realize its presence until I have a morning like this morning. Here’s an embarrassing glimpse into my 8:22am phone call to John:

“Are you the one who’s been untying the chord on Eliott’s curtains every night?

“Uhm. Yes.”

“Why do you do that?! Haven’t you noticed that it is tied in a decorative knot? As in, it is supposed to stay that way? What is the matter with you? I’ve been yelling at Eliott every morning about not touching her curtains. And every morning she just says, “Yes Mommy,” even though, clearly, she can’t even reach the knot! Because it has been you! All ALONG! And — will you also stop closing all the curtains downstairs every night?!”

“Uh…I just like closing the curtains at night so no one can see in…sorry honey I didn’t know you didn’t…uh–”

“John! We have blinds. When you close the blinds no one can see in. What is the matter with you? (I think I asked this question a few more times.) Where are you from? Who goes around undoing curtains every single night? These are window treatments, not privacy tools! Leave them ALONE. Just do the damn blinds!”

“Okay honey. I won’t do it again. What else do you want me to say?”

(At this point, my voice sounds almost identical to Eliott’s from the top of the stairs) “SAY YOU’RE SORRY! AND NEVER DO IT AGAIN!“

What you are not hearing is the earnest truth in my voice throughout this phone call, of genuine pissed-off-hatred oozing through my veins. I have no idea where it comes from. And the sad part of this story is this phone call has happened in our marriage with even more shameful regularity than I’d like to admit. Granted, blinds/curtains, dishwasher/sink, something in the bathroom. It doesn’t matter. The subject is always the same. Irrational anger about something small, stemming from an irrational fear of something I cannot name. When John was carpooling to work in Raleigh every morning I can only imagine his face as he responded (in between my gasping breaths) in a chipper, “Sure thing honey! Okay!” There was one point where we made a deal that I’d stop calling and leave him my verbal rant on his g-chat, to be read as soon as he sat down at his desk. Somehow, this morning I knew that even caps lock just wasn’t going to be as satisfying.

Apparently, I’m currently suffering from a yet undefined irrational fear. The Under Toad, if you will. If I could define it, perhaps the curtains wouldn’t have set me off this morning. I know I owe John an apology. He’s very good at separating his work-self from his family-self, so though I’m quite sure he arrived to the office angry at me (and thinking, “The entire kitchen was clean this morning and she’s mad that I closed the curtains?!”) he likely is pushing it aside to get work done today. He’ll remember before he walks in the door at 5:35 however. And the fact of the matter is, before we even have a chance to debrief this little episode there will be a moment where I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen, holding a spatula, crying. And at that moment, something will go off in his head (like Pavlov’s bell) and he’ll realize that this isn’t actually about him. Again. Because it never is. And then we’ll hug and I’ll apologize and maybe The Under Toad will be kept at bay for a little while. Or maybe not, which means look forward to Part 2 tomorrow.

Confessions, Eliott

Lucky Leprechauns

St. Patrick’s Day was last week which means that green is the color of the month at Pre-School and most lessons have revolved around this holiday. This has all been a little confusing for Eliott, who continues to remind me that when they put blue ice cubes and yellow ice cubes in the water “it turned green, but it still tasted like water.” Nevermind the fact that when it comes to clothes, this house swims in a sea of pink and purple. Imagine me trying to convince my child that if she didn’t wear any green she would get pinched. (We compromised on a green hair clip.) Nevermind that Eliott says “punched” when she means “pinched” and refuses to accept the fact that they are different:

“So-and-so punched me today at school, Mommy. She had to move her owl from green to yellow.”

“She punched you? Why?!”

“Because I wanted the purple scooter. So she came up and just punched my arm, like this.” (Demonstrates a pinch on arm.)

“Oh. Eliott, that’s called a pinch, not a punch. So-and-so pinched you.”

“Well, I call it punched. Don’t worry about it.”

…

She keeps asking for “that ABC cereal with the marshmallows, but you eat it with no milk.” (Should I be concerned that my 4-year-old is ignorant about Lucky Charms?) She has also announced at least once a day that she’s going out in the backyard to pick leprechauns, to which I now reply, “If you find one with four leaves, keep it, that’s lucky.”

So here’s the part where I segue into a story all about me and not my daughter. It goes a little something like this. I am lucky. I am not one of those people who says, “I never win anything.” Because I do win things. With some regularity, actually.

I frequently reach underneath my chair at retreats and conferences to find that smiley face sticker denoting I get to take home one of the table decorations. The one and only time I bought a lottery ticket I happened to find a dollar in the gas station parking lot on my way in the door. I bought one ticket and walked out with $5. (I figured I should quit while I’m ahead.) In junior high and high school I had my radio permanently tuned in to the Christian radio station and I was probably one of about two-hundred listeners. Anytime there was a call-in-and-win (I had the downstairs phone speed dial programmed) I called. And I frequently won. I mostly won random cassette tapes (Michael W. Smith and Petra both come to mind), a few CD’s (before we even owned a CD player, so I’m sure many of these remain unopened in some box marked “Claire’s Stuff” in my parent’s basement), books, and the occasional pair of concert tickets. I know that at at least two of these small concerts, my name was drawn out of a fishbowl for tickets to another, bigger concert, one at the Colosseum, one at the Opera House. And I’ve been given free band t-shirts at more shows than I can count (just for asking, usually).

But my luck doesn’t end with free contemporary Christian paraphernalia. At my father’s suggestion, I opened my Roth-IRA the day I turned 20. As a point of reminder and nothing more, I contribute every year on my birthday. Not that it matters to me for this long-term investment (I consider this a savings account that I throw money into and forget about much like my babysitting money), but it turns out that the lowest point on the market every year has been sometime between August and September. My birthday is August 15th. Finally, as a matter of habit only, and by no more prompting at the time I began it than the fact that it was something I recognized and knew I liked, I have been investing exactly half of my yearly contributions directly into gold. Lucky lucky Leprechauns of war, democracy, and the demise of the greenback dollar.

So anyway, about a month ago I couldn’t find the spare set of keys to my car. This didn’t seem like a big deal because we had just moved, things were generally disorganized, and when John drives my car I’m usually in the passenger seat. Nevertheless, he was annoyed. I had checked every single purse, pocket, and diaper bag for a week. Nothing. Then one morning I was running errands with the girls. It was rainy, I recall. A big black lady in a big black SUV was behind me, flashing her lights at me for a couple blocks. Of course I’m thinking, “My lights are ON you crazy…” We came to a red-light and she’s beeping her horn and waving her hands around her face like I left my baby in the car-seat on the roof. So I quickly scan the car trying to figure out exactly what was left on the roof. Coffee mug, nope. Sunglasses, no. Children, no. Was my gas cap open? Was my trunk open? No and no. Finally, she’s motioning me to roll down my window. I do. I very awkwardly crane my head out. She yells (which echos off nearby businesses): “There’s a KEY. IN. Your. TRUNK!”

YES! (Double fist-pumps to the sky.) The missing keys!!

Who knows how long I had been tooling around town with a direct means of car theft readily available to anyone who should so notice it. I mean, don’t just break in and take my GPS. Here. Take my CAR. When I told him, John wasn’t even angry. His response: “That figures. Chalk it up to another one of your lucky life things. Is there any way you can channel this luck into something more productive?”

Confessions

Shape Magazine and the Secret to Skinny

After three years in the dorms, and one and a half years of almost-worse-than-the-dorms-apartment-dwelling, at graduation I had finally earned my best living situation of my life to that point. *Well, aside from my parents’ house, which was awesome, except that my mom had a 1am curfew “house courtesy” and they lived at least 35 minutes away from the nearest semblance of civilization.* At one time, five girls had been living in this fabulous two-story, four-bedroom, three-bathroom town-home and all but one moved out just before I moved in. The place not only remained fully furnished for my ridiculously low sub-letter’s rent, but the fridge, pantry, and laundry room were left fully stocked. Whatever clothes, shoes, books, or anything else you can imagine needing in college that didn’t fit into one of their four-door cars the night they left town, also remained at my disposal. At least two of these girls were my exact same size and shoe size. Bonus. And, three of them had worked for Starbucks in Waco which meant the freezer held a Spring’s supply of free coffee and the kitchen, a plethora of to-go mugs to choose from. Bonus. And because every girl in the entire house had been in the same sorority (as each other, not me, I wasn’t in a sorority) there were several dozen Greek-lettered t-shirts left in every closet. I put one on without thinking one afternoon to go work out on campus. I couldn’t figure out why so many young undergraduate boys were checking me out and so many little undergraduate girls smiling at me timidly. At some point, when someone who actually knew me approached to comment that I was committing heresy, I realized, a little late, that all the rumors were true: being in a sorority does make a girl pretty. And popular. (NOTE: I never worked out on campus again without wearing one of those magic t-shirts.)

In addition to the free food, coffee, vitamins, and popularity living in this place was affording me (the best 4 months of my life, by the way) these girls also left behind two magazine subscriptions. One was to Shape, the other to Fitness. I learned within 3 issues that it probably isn’t healthy to actually subscribe to one of these magazines (and its advice) as a method of actually maintaining one’s shape and fitness. Here’s the thing. First, both of these magazines might as well be the SAME magazine. Second, every single issue of one of these magazines might as well be the same issue. Every successive cover boasts that the secret to a tiny tummy, thin thighs, flat abs, running a 5K, attaining a rock hard stomach, losing that last 5lbs, losing the muffin top, etc. lies within. What actually lies within is the exact same article: here’s a quick routine to do within the comfort of your own home (substitute random heavy household objects for whatever gym paraphernalia you cannot afford) about 5 days a week. Combine this with a healthy diet and consistency and all your dreams come true. But how in the world do they expect anyone to be consistent when next month will introduce a completely new routine?

Anyway, I was waiting in line at the grocery store yesterday (a new checker’s line and a lady with about 5,000 coupons at 5pm) when I noticed that Shape magazine has not changed in the last 7 years. I imagine they are just recirculating the same 36 issues and hoping their readers have forgotten what they read 3 years ago (and are still struggling with maintaining fitness due to the monthly changes in routine). But I noticed something else as well. I am positively baffled by the fact that there are women in the world who are still asking, “How do I lose weight?” (And writing in to magazines…AND the magazines are publishing it…) As if that question hasn’t been answered five-hundred million times (a hundred million by Oprah alone) and as if the answer has suddenly changed.

I read the answers and I think, “Maybe that would work. But probably not. Tune in next month to see if you get an answer that better suits you.” Mind you, no one is asking ME how to lose weight. This is one thing I am not complaining about because it is secretly a conversation I fear, even among friends. (When it does come up in conversation, I always quickly mumble something about lucky genetics and an abundance of fiber in my diet.) If Shape or Fitness would hire me to be the correspondence expert I’d answer every weight-loss strategy question with this: first, make about three major life changes all at the same time. Then, start packing your breakfast and lunch in a paper sack and carry it with you every day into the Amazon (or another environment with similar weather patterns). Only drive your car two days a week, if you can help it. Do not step inside a clothing store or on a scale for at least three months, shower in the dark, and get one of those belts that has a cinch chord instead of the holes. When the headaches begin, ignore them, or blame them on your stress. When your joints start to ache, complain about lack of sleep and increase your hydration.

But truthfully, about 3 months before John and I got married (and mind you, this is still 2 months before we were engaged) I was moved from my high functioning group at the wilderness camp – the group I had created – to the worst group on property. I don’t remember a lot of details about that summer except that it was ridiculously hot and humid (and I lived outside), my group was so bad we rarely made it inside to eat our meals, and I walked around all day in what I thought was a lack-of-sleep induced migraine and overall lethargy. It wasn’t until I went shopping for my wedding dress that I realized I had lost 20% of my body weight and dropped 4 sizes. And I haven’t gained the weight back since. Not even at the peak of my pregnancies.

It turns out that anxiety causes me to lose weight (well, that combined with the general lack of appetite produced by eating spaghetti and garlic bread in 100 degree weather). And not working out (even a little bit) allows me to maintain that weight. Because for me, no working out = no muscles, which = no weight gain, which = all of my damn Express jeans are sagging in the butt within four months of purchase, which = I look like I have the body of a tall 12 year old boy.

Don’t hate me. I’m not complaining. But I am saying this. Insecurity is insecurity, whether a woman feels too fat or too skinny. I think Elizabeth Taylor gets the credit for saying that the secret to looking beautiful at any age is “wearing clothes that fit.” It is true. Another secret is this: getting over it. (John informs me that self-loathing is actually unattractive.) So I’m getting over it. Thank you Mom, for the new pants. But, uh, when I’m completely done having babies, can I get some new boobs?

Confessions, Eliott

Life With Eliott

Dear Eliott: this is a collection of my Facebook status updates from the past year or so. All were recorded on or near the actual date you said them. I did not change anything. By the time you are old enough to read this, Facebook will (hopefully) be a thing of the past. These gems, on the other hand, well, I never want to forget them. ♥ Mom.

Mom pops Eliott’s first pimple. Eliott’s response: “No mom! Don’t squash my cheeks. It’s burning!”
October 26, 2009

Eliott is in the bathtub saying the Pledge of Allegiance over and over, then congratulating herself with, “Good job, Eliott! Okay, it’s your turn…”
November 10, 2009

I’m pretty sure I just successfully potty trained my child in three days. Perhaps peeing on the floor at Barnes and Noble finally sealed the deal. Anyway, no more diapers for us.
November 23, 2009

“Leave me alone!” she screamed from behind the bathroom door. “You go home and leave me here!” Apparently my two year old turned thirteen last night.
December 10, 2009

Flash Dance Flashback: Eliott is rocking out in a hot pink headband (the stretchy circular kind) with her zippered jacket, sleeves pushed up, and shiny yellow pajama pants.
January 24, 2010

Eliott (talking to Grandma Wait on the phone): “Hey Grandma, you want to come to my house? For the birthday party? God’s coming. You can come too.”
January 31, 2010

Woke up to Eliott singing Alphalfa’s version of “You are so beaut-ee-ful,” from the toilet. I no longer ask, “Where does she learn this stuff?” I don’t even care any more.
February 14, 2010

Eliott (getting out of the tub): You pick up the toys, I’ll go potty.
Mom: Me pick up the toys?! BWWhat!? What do I look like?
Eliott: A rabbit.
February 25, 2010

Looking up at the sky, far away airplane making a smoke/cloud trail:
E: Hey Mommy, what’s that?
M: That’s an airplane, Eliott.
E: No, that’s not an airplane…look what it’s doing…
M: OK it’s a rocket.
E: Yeah. That’s a rocket. That’s the baby rocket and that one’s the daddy rocket.
Not Mommy rocket. Cool.
March 9, 2010

In response to the sound of a train whistle in the distance Eliott asks, “What’s that noise Mommy?” I respond, “I think you know what that noise is. What is it?” “Um, I think it’s either a turtle or a donut.”
Yes Eliott. That is the sound of a donut.
May 13, 2010

Eliott: “I wanna be big like Daddy.”
Mom:”Oh really? What will you do when you are big like daddy?”
Eliott: “Um, drive your car. And you can ride in Eliott’s seat.”
May 22, 2010

Examples of Eliott’s difficulty in learning prepositions: “Look Mama, I share the blocks to Carter.” | “Carter wants to get a kiss for me.” | And whenever I play-fight with John, Eliott says in her best mom-voice, “Knock it down, guys.”
June 6, 2010

Tonight at dinner, Eliott puts her head on my arm and exclaims (out of nowhere), “I love you very much!” … Followed by, “You are a good dog! The end.”
June 8, 2010

Eliott, please teach your sister how to sleep in until 8:00 like you do.
June 12, 2010

Eliott’s version of “London Bridge” definitely changes the word “lock” to “knock” in the line, “Take the key and lock her up.”
June 12, 2010

Mom quote of the day: “Find your underwear so we can make breakfast for Daddy.”
June 20, 2010

“Eliott, who is Daddy’s wife?” “Mommy.” “That’s right. And who is Mommy’s husband?” “Um… Neal!”
Need to work on that one.
June 24, 2010

Eliott just declared her baby’s name is “Fussypoopy.” I’d say that sounds about right.
June 28, 2010

Mom: Oh – you are right. I was wrong. Can Mommy be wrong?
Eliott: No. You can’t be wrong. Only Eliott can be wrong. Okay?
June 29, 2010

Mom: If you break Carter’s crib, where is she going to sleep?
Eliott (eyes downcast): In my bed. (A completely unprompted response, I swear.)
M: That’s right. And if she’s in your bed, where are you going to sleep?
E: …
M: On the floor.
E (with wide eyes): I don’t want to be scared! Can I sleep on the changing table?
July 6, 2010

“Daddy, you’re going to play the soccer? That means, every time you run, you fall down. Yeah. That’s just like Eliott.”
July 11, 2010

Eliott’s things to do list:
1. See the kids at the gym.
2. Turn the BVD in to Blockmustard.
3. Get a cookie at the Harris Teeter.
4. If I’m really good, maybe we go to Chick-a-lay.
July 20, 2010

E: What’s that smell, Mommy?
M: I don’t know Eliott.
E: It smells like stop signs. Doesn’t it smell like stop signs out here?
*Ah yes. Remind me never to bring one home.
August 3, 2010

Q: “Eliott, why did you take Ethan’s toy?”
A: “Because I’m American.”
August 22, 2010

The more I read to her, the more she reads to herself. What a fabulous discovery.
August 25, 2010

I think I ask God for “A good nap today,” more often than I asked for boobs as a 13 year old.
August 28, 2010

Shopping for houses on Saturday Eliott says to the realtor: “Yeah, we need a new house cause the Big Bad Wolf is coming to blow our house down.”
September 7, 2010

My child is pulling the base of our blender around the house by its chord saying things like, “Come on, Pinky,” “Sit still,” and finally, “Don’t be a freak.”
September 10, 2010

All three of the girls took naps until 5 o’clock today. Who snuck into my house and drugged us? I’d like to thank him personally.
September 21, 2010

Eliott just chose Bob Ross over Barney. There’s hope.
September 25, 2010

This morning at breakfast: “If I don’t eat this banana, are you going to kick me in the nuts?” (I’d like to thank my 3 year old, for bringing to my attention, yet another phrase I need to stop using on John.)
October 1, 2010

Eliott’s made up song in the grocery store today (compose your own tune, it will sound about the same): “I don’t love quiche…I don’t love quiche…Quiche is like egg pie and I don’t love quiche.”
October 2, 2010

“Noah is Jesus’ daddy. Yeah, and Egypt is his mom.” – Brookwood, what are you teaching my child?
October 3, 2010

“Mommy, sometimes being a big girl is just too hard.”
October 5, 2010

Amazed how many times a day I find myself saying, “PUT YOUR UNDERWEAR ON.”
October 6, 2010

Tonight at dinner Eliott said, “Good grief, Mom, you blockhead.” Can you tell what we’ve been watching every day of October??
October 18, 2010

“Mommy, there’s music in my head right now.”
“Oh yeah? What song is it?”
“You know! You can hear it!”
She was right.
October 21, 2010

As I witnessed my children engineer a system by which the 3-year-old removes the 1-year-old from the crib – I suddenly rethought my recent ‘Aleve: Easy Open Arthritis Cap’ purchase.
November 1, 2010

My husband is The Grinch. Today, in the middle of my rampage against his hatred of Christmas lights (who hates Christmas lights?!) Eliott interrupts with: “Hey Mommy, just a minute.” She then turns to John and says, “Can you please say, ‘Yes Mommy’?”
November 25, 2010

“Do you want to dip your steak in ketchup?”
“Um, no. Chocolate. Can I have chocolate with my steak?”
December 2, 2010

Breakfast with Santa this morning. “No Daddy, you can’t sit on his lap. You’re too big. If you get on his knees, they might break. Maybe you can just sit in a chair to talk to him.
December 4, 2010

E: Mommy, I need you to listen. Not like Tristan. He doesn’t obey.
M: Um, okay. Who’s Tristan?
E: Not Tristan, TrUSTan. From Eliott’s song. Trustan. Obey.
December 7, 2010

Eliott told me she hears the song “Do Your Ears Hang Low” when she’s brushing her teeth. I only understand this because So. Do. I.
December 17, 2010

Confessions

How to Make Friends, Part 2

Happily married mother of two seeks semi-intelligent, literate, female friend, for the occasional daytime cup of coffee, conversation, and listening ear. Must not be offended by Jesus, alcohol, nor cursing. Participation in one or more of the above preferred but not required. Someone who cannot remember what life was like before children need not apply.

In the same way that singles have an ever increasingly difficult job of meeting other singles as they push their 30’s, moms have an ever increasingly difficult job of meeting friends period. We’re working with far too many external factors for the job to be simple. Put aside basic scheduling issues; misaligned schedules cancel out at least 75% of the potential candidates anyway.

For those whose lives synchronize with mine both geographically and hourly, I conduct a potential friendship preliminary assessment.

Round one begins with a simple check-list which goes a little something like this:

Does she seem normal?
Are her kids brats?
Is her husband moderately cool?

Anyone who passes the first two questions makes it on to round two, which is attempt to become mom-friends. This means we schedule kid-friendly activities between the hours of 9am and 12pm and look forward to an hour or two of adult conversation a couple days a week. If this seems to be working out for a few weeks, the possibility of becoming “couple friends” (round 3) naturally arises. At this point, a family dinner is scheduled at one or the other’s house, and fingers are crossed that the husbands hit it off well enough to put up with each other a couple times a month. While it seems fairly straightforward, such a scenario in reality is a rarity. You would be amazed by the number of women who do not even make it past question number one.

Before anyone makes it the three rounds of the friendship assessment however, the opportunity for actually interacting with another mom in the first place must exist. Luckily, very similar to eHarmony or Match Dot Com, the Internet now contains entire networks dedicated to the bringing together of said lonely mothers. These are websites with mommy advice columns, personal pages for friendship connection, games, and discussion forums. Some bring together local women and require address checks to be members. Others are national or international and connect moms across the globe at all sorts of ungodly hours.

Who joins these websites, you ask? Well, I imagine it is the same kind of people who join any discussion forum type of website. It starts with time, boredom, a sincere question about a parenting related topic, or general curiosity.

Most of the moms are of the stay-at-home variety, though I am certain it does not matter what kind of mother a woman is, she can find a group of people on the Internet who share her interests and beliefs. She increases her odds greatly in the mommy networks, however, if she is pro- breastfeeding and baby-wearing, anti- vaccinating and crying it out, and really excited by poop discussions, why-my-child-is-the-greatest-in-the-world-bragging, and the occasional husband bashing.

I first joined a couple of these networks when I was still a “working mother” as a means of getting some advice about daycare, but was hooked by the vast amount of deal sharing and hand-me-down furniture giveaways. It became clear fairly quickly, however, that both my grammar skills and lack of attention to parenting detail would forever keep me slightly on the outskirts of most discussion topics, and eventually I found myself logging on once a day to beat my high score in Mahjong and nothing more.

In addition to Internet-driven mom networks, I’ve put myself out there at the many community offered programs, for moms with kids too young for school: story time at the library, story time at Barnes and Noble, various women’s church groups, cookies and balloons at the grocery store, parks, indoor playgrounds at McDonald’s and Chick-fil-A, and pre-school. At one time in my life, I was even a member of a gym. You would think that by the sheer number of outlets at my disposal I would have tons of mom friends. You would be wrong.

Moving around so much in the past 5 years certainly hasn’t made things easier, and I am fully aware of the fact that friendships take time. Need I remind you of the 9am-12pm window? If I could just hand select about 6 women from my life who have ended up scattered across four US time-zones and replant them all in Winston-Salem, NC, I would. At least these women would understand the identity crisis brought about by my decision not to go back to work this year, which I imagine feels about the same as a mid-life crisis. I often believe what the 80’s did for women’s liberation was ultimately counterproductive to my social peace of mind. I wonder if all the coolest women in the world have been sucked in to the corporate life, and are all successfully balancing working, wife-ing, and mothering. I don’t wonder, actually. I know. I did it once. And I liked it.

On the other hand, I cannot deny that a very powerful something inside me had been compelling me during those years to embrace staying home with my children if it ever became financially feasible. When John and I realized that my teacher salary would be just enough to pay daycare for two children, we decided it wasn’t worth the free health care in the end. (I’m not denying that rethinking this has come up, several times, recently.)

I love my children. And I do not completely hate stay-at-home-mom land. But only because I’m willing to do what is necessary for everyone’s sanity, and this, only because I believe I’m doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing right now. And if what is necessary is heavy drinking the minute John walks in the door every night, well, that’s okay. I’ve earned it. This is me: embracing.