How To Be

'Good mommies' read to their kids.  Daily.  At least that's what all the 'experts' will tell you.  In ways, I guess I used to be am one of these so-called 'experts'.  Teachers promote the school-home connection as one of the strongest ways to foster a solid educational foundation for children.  I should know.  It was a large portion of the soapbox on which I stood at every meet-the-teacher night, parent-teacher conference, and random phone call/email throughout the year to address a specific issue.

And yet, as a mom, do I follow my own teacher-y/soapbox-y advice?  Well, in ways, yes.  I do, to the fullest extent of what I envisioned the parents of my students doing--sitting down side-by-side at the 'homework table' to provide assistance through prompting (not telling) and questioning (not answering), finding creative ways to connect the skills being learned in school to 'real life' (measuring, counting money, functional writing activities, etc), and promoting manners and appropriate social behavior skills in hopes that they translate fully to the classroom setting and beyond (And from what we've heard thus far, this is one area where we have kicked some serious 'awesome parenting a**'.  Unlucky for us {and the school}, we've set the bar pretty high with Gavin...just.wait.until.Raegan.is.a.kindergartener. {eesh}).  Overall, I'd say we're doing a pretty okay-ish job, and in my world, that is worthy of two thumbs up.  An 'A' for effort.  

Oh, but then there's that whole 'reading' thing.  Sitting down with a book between us, sharing the gift of time and the journey of an adventure to a far-off land with Flat Stanley; or giggling at the intricate and tongue-twisting rhymes of the original wordsmith himself, Dr. Seuss.  This is the area in which I not only fall short, but many, many days (like almost all of them), I fall flat on my 'hopeful mom' face and land somewhere in the middle of the Sea of Guilt.  Without a life vest.  And a school of teachers {pun intended} circling me, taunting me with stacks of children's books and looks of disapproval.  Trust me, I know the teacher 'look', and it ain't pretty.

So today, glorious today, I decided that rather than just chill out among scornful stares of those who are 'experts', I would plop down on the couch between my ballerinas daughters, turn off the background music Top 40 {kid-friendly lyric-ed} music I play all day long, and turn on my best 'read aloud, teacher-y' voice to read a few books.  I reached into the Land's End tote, the one we use specifically as a 'library bag', the one that I had personalized with our last name in large lettering so as to broadcast to everyone who sees, "Hey, look everyone!  Our family is studious, well-read, library-going folk!".  What's that?  More DVD's than books?  There must be some mistake!  We do not plop our children in front of movies to gain a little *free time*, who would do such things!, and grabbed a few books.  {Ironic sidebar: my current FB status reads as follows: 'Beauty and the Beast are babysitting...so I'll use the *free* time to ignore my laundry and blog ;) '}

The first book I read was Brynn's choice: Fancy Nancy: Spelndiferous Christmas  If you're a follower of this blog, then most likely, you know Brynn and this makes complete sense.  Brynn's world is made of pink, glitter, feather boas, and fluffy wonderfulness.  Think: cotton candy machine crossed with a Be-Dazzler, set to the tune of bubble-gum pop music.  And the Christmas theme?  Well that's obvious as well.  Her birthday has passed for this calendar year, as has Raegan's and most recently, Gavin's.  The next obvious holiday {read: PRESENTS!} is Christmas.  It seemed like her only logical choice.

After learning some fancy words courtesy of the curly-haired extravaganza that is 'Nancy', Raegan chose the next book, Elmer's Christmas, to keep with the apparent holiday theme that had quickly developed as a result of Brynn's desire for gifts.  An easy choice by a tiny tot who idolizes her older counterpart and chooses everything based upon the direct approval {or disapproval} of Brynn.  The book also features giraffes, so that made it a double word score, {for those mommas--unlike myself, of course--who forego reading to their children daily in order to play more Words With Friends}.

After I had expelled my very best 'ho ho ho!' from my lungs and closed the cover, I decided we needed to close this little reading session with a story that wouldn't get their hopes up for Christmas {read: PRESENTS} arriving any time in the near future.  I chose a cute {read: short} book, How To Be by Lisa Brown.  I remember picking the book up randomly while waiting {impatiently} for the ominous *darling* sound of the cowbell, signalling the start of story hour.  I flipped quickly through the pages, which have an average of about 5 words per page {score!} and tossed it into our super-y special, hoity-toity 'library bag'.  

As Brynn 'helped' me read, the girls and I learned, in limited description, 'how to be' various animals.  Carefully selected verbs and adjectives provide readers with an idea of what characteristics are necessary to fit into the mold of a specific creature.  For example, in order 'to be' a bear, one must growl.  Well, if that's the case, call me Yogi because I've been known to do so on occasion {especially after hearing the words, "Momma, pee...." coming from a child who is no where near a potty}.  I must be exceptionally talented, because I learned that I also am part turtle.  According to the book, 'to be' a turtle, one must hide.  That takes me back to just last night, when I returned home from the PTO meeting with a half-eaten bag of Sour Cream & Cheddar Ruffles.  I hid them on the counter behind my purse, but toddler eyes spotted them, so I snatched them and dashed into my bathroom where I promptly locked the door, sat down on the floor, and ate the rest of the bag while checking Facebook.  {It's worth mentioning that I've also enjoyed the occasional candy bar, cookie, and ice cream sandwich in this exact fashion.}  

I also learned that my all children are pretty talented when it comes to representing various members of the animal kingdom.  For instance, a characteristic of a monkey is to copy someone.  Well, Raegan sure as sh*t knows how to copy all the words she's not supposed to say {or hear}!  And spiders, well spiders are known to wait for a meal to come to you.  Aha!!!  I knew their helplessness is not learned, but rather innate.  Well played, Mother Nature, well played.  

The last section of the story turns the tables a bit, as it teaches readers 'how to be' a person.  Throughout the whole story, each animal has not only a list of cute characteristics that are easily stereotyped by its function in the world, but also mentions a slightly broader adjective that serves as an umbrella under which many animals {and people} may should fall.  The last section of the book simply revisits each of these adjectives to weave together a sketch of some of the key qualities a 'person' must should possess.  

{It appears that I've given away practically the whole story, and for those of you who relish in the surprise hidden behind the next page, I apologize.  I did, however, leave out enough of the words that I still think you'd find it to be a darling addition to your bookshelves--to be read, not just ignored for things such as Words With Friends or The Voice.}  And just to be polite to those who hate people like me who are giving away the ending, I'll say "spoiler alert", because I'm about to tell you the last line of the story.  Ready?

Don't say I didn't warn ya!

Be Yourself.  

That's it.  Simple, direct, obvious.  

Easy to do?  Eh...that's where I find the ironic struggle.  Here I spent the entire first part of my post outlining the innate fear I have of being judged for something as silly as not reading to/with my kids each day.  The first words of my post were 'good mommies'.  One of those subjective terms that I've been battling internally.  Who are these people who decide what 'good' means, anyway?  Is there a stately conference room somewhere in the middle of Minnesota {because, why not? let's fall onto the stereotyping bandwagon and note that people in the Midwest are generally known for being friendly, down-to-earth, and in general 'nice'--whatever that's supposed to mean!} where 'experts' congregate to discuss and craft this concept of 'good' to which we {society} upholds moms to?  Sadly, mommas, I think we've done this to ourselves.  

I have recently had deep discussions with fellow mommas, read blog posts and book passages that have struck a familiar chord, and been personally trying to wrap my brain around the source of the natural order of 'competitiveness' that can derive from a group of mommies left to their own devices.  Just today {today!}, I read an article about wealthy mommies from Manhattan who are hiring disabled people to pose as family members in order to jump the long lines.  Really?  The *need* to be 'first' and 'best' and 'most' has become so great that it has come to something as demeaning as this?  What ever happened to the old proverb "good things come to those who wait"?  Personally, I can't really find the 'good' that comes from hiring people to pose as family specifically for the personal gain of being 'first', or doing 'more'.  I think this teaches children that patience is not a virtue, but in fact something that is unnecessary.  Waiting can be avoided, if you have enough money.  I also think it's sad to know there are disabled people who are willing to devalue themselves in such a way.  True, they are turning their 'disability' into an 'ability', but at what cost?  Yes, they are reaping the financial gain, but at the cost of self-worth?  Exploiting their disability not to 'do good' {unless, of course, you're the rich kids who don't have to wait for Space Mountain}, but to answer to the almighty dollar.  *sigh*.  

It's a scary world out there to be raising kids in nowadays.  While I wholeheartedly believe that a strong educational background is essential for all children, I honestly think that teaching children 'how to be a person' is the fundamental puzzle piece that should be the core of what 'experts' focus their 'advice' on {for those moms who rely on books to figure out this whole 'parenting' thing}.  

Mommas.  Stop.competing.  Stop.'one-upping'.  Stop.comparing.  Just stop.  Look inside your heart, trust your instincts {and if you don't...find a trustworthy friend, not the advice of 'experts', who, by the way, conflict with each other on practically every parenting issue known to [wo]man}, and above all, BE YOURSELF.

shine bright, lone light...

xoxo

posted on my Facebook last night...such a good {and simple} reminder.

Transitioning to the comfy jeans

This week Gavin brought his spelling list home, on which he's learning the -tch pattern.  Words like hatch, batch, patch, ditch, and stitch were printed perfectly using a perforated-line font, beckoning a pencil to connect the dashes and make the letters complete.  Pause for a bit of back story: each week, Gavin hastily traces all the letters, checks off the five words he wants to use first in his sentences, and leaves the remaining five for the next night.  Usually, the first night of spelling sentences is smooth sailing, because he's carefully selected the words for which he can independently and effectively craft a sentence.  It's in the second night that we face frustration.  Tears.  Annoyance. {when I give a few example sentences/scenarios and ask him to tell me what he thinks the word means based on that.  why will I not simply tell him the meaning?  why would I ever give him the chance to actually apply the strategies he's learning in school?  obviously, I don't know anything about kids and learning.  silly mommy.}

So, this week pretty much fell into tune with their previous counterparts; rapid tracing of letters, easy words used in day one sentences, frustration at mommy making him go back to capitalize and punctuate said sentences, and further frustration when he doesn't know how to verbalize what the day two words mean based on mom-given examples.  However, with it being the first week of May, I'm familiar with the routine and had armed myself heavily with an extra tall iced hazelnut latte.  The first four words of spelling sentence torture writing day 2 went relatively smoothly, so I {stupidly} relaxed a little and figured we'd sail through that final word.  Then, he read it {slowly sounding it out...but reading it all the same}

clutch.

{Press 'play' for the repetitive conversation that ensues at the evil abyss of every unknown word:}
M: Gav, have you heard that word before?
G: Well Mrs. {awesome teacher} said it a few times yesterday and today.
M: Can you think of anywhere else you might have heard it?
G: Um....{dramatic pause to give the effect that he's actually thinking rather than seeing if I'll cave and define the word}...no.  I've never heard it.
M: Okay then...listen to these three things, and see if you can figure out what the word means. {insert off-the-cuff-yet-craftily-created sentences/examples that allow him to utilize context clues}
G: Um...{'thinking' pause}...I don't know.  Just tell me.
M: If I 'just tell you', do you learn?
G: *SIGH*, face palm and/or head-meet-table.
M: I'll be ready to help you when you're finished with this *awesome* display of maturity.

Fast forward {not really, since you had to read that} to the final word.  Clutch.  This time, however, one of my off-the-cuff examples actually freaking worked, and Gavin replied with, "oh, so clutch means you hold on to something you really want".  Angelic voices resounded through the house as I polished off the last of my latte.  "So like, you hate being old, and you really want to be younger, so you clutch it".  {I know, right?  If it weren't for that whole 'parental responsibility' thing, and my deep-seeded love for the little smart a**, I'd have given him another -tch for his spelling list.}

After I spewed the last bit of coffee across the table, I raised a curious-yet-slightly-annoyed eyebrow {whilst deepening those 'worry lines'.  Damn the worry lines.}.

Innocent and ignorant laughter at mommy's apparent coffee faux pas broke the tension that was making my eye do this funny twitch thing when I'm seriously not pleased.  I stopped seeing those little squiggling lines in the background of my vision, and managed to respond with, "well, yes, Gavin.  I guess some people clutch to their youth.  Even your mother."

"Oh, okay.  Well, now I remember Mrs. {awesome teacher who is unaware the repercussions of this simple homework task} said that a 'clutch' can be like a purse without a strap.  And I raised my hand and said that my mommy has some of those and used it when she was in my uncle's wedding to carry her lip gloss and phone and tissues because she cried, but that's okay they were happy tears.  I'm going to write 'My mom has a black clutch with a flower'."

I sat in annoyed silence, empty latte cup in front of me, brow furrowed deeply {screw the worry lines, I'll buy some sort of cream} while my *darling* son wrote his stupid cute little sentence about a flowery purse.

So...apparently my almost-7-year-old is 'on to me' as I make valiant attempts to 'clutch my youth'.  I thought about this today while I was slathering on the SPF 70 to any exposed skin possible after I got dressed, while I was applying concealer to address the dark circles that skirt my under eyes, and while I made a notation on a sticky note in my planner to pick up some more hair color the next time I'm at Mecca Target because those few pesky color-that-shall-not-be-named appear to be peeking through.

I thought about all of the other things I do to 'clutch' at my youth.  There are a lot.  An uncomfortable amount even.  Most of which involve some crazy beauty ritual, a clothing style I might be on the verge of no longer being able to 'pull off', or music that I'm clutching to because it makes me remember 'the time when...'.

That last thing--about the music--spawned an impromptu walk down a piece of memory lane with two of my sweet friends from Penn State.  While painting a hallway today, I was listening to a playlist entitled "00's #1 Hits"{I didn't name it}.  As the songs filled my head, I was mentally transported to the dance floors of the favorite bars and clubs my friends and I frequented in State College.  Not wanting 'my girls' to feel left out, I tagged them in a post referring to this playlist on my Facebook.  Soon after, a stream of random conversation spawned from our sporadic, well-loved memories from a time in our lives when referring to 'my girls' actually meant my friends, not my daughters.

How and when did the paradigm shift, leaving me feeling like the pair of jeans you wear only if your favorite, cute ones happen to be in the wash?

I suppose the redeeming factor in this metaphor is of course that while those jeans aren't as new and 'hip' {wow.  yeah, I just said 'hip'.  honestly, I'm turning in my cool card right now}, they're pretty awesome because they're the ones you rely on when you need comfort, nostalgia, and maybe a little extra space in the waist.  They're the jeans that remind you of 'that time when...', and most likely have pretty good memories attached to them, because it isn't wise to hold on to things associated with unpleasantness.   Maybe they don't get to get 'out' as much as they used to.  That's okay.  Their primary purpose is to run errands, not to have a casual dinner and drinks with friends or be paired with trendy heels for a night of dancing and bar-hopping.  Sure, they might be a bit faded and worn, but that shows the marks of experience and lessons learned while wearing them.  Their little frays and tears are the jean's own way of showing 'worry lines', but instead of masking them with some sort of 'quasi-magic-and-only-temporary' fix, these flaws enhance their character and can become an opportunity to begin a conversation that could lead to great things.  {Tell me I'm not the only one who takes note of wonderfully, beautifully loved jeans.  Of course the Gemini in me doesn't just take note, I head into my loquacious side and use the butter-soft vintage-ness as a conversation starter.  It's okay if you're thinking that's strange right now.  When I wrote my truth the other day, I noted in number 12 that I have a horrible time receiving compliments, which essentially means the reverse is true, and I am pretty familiar with taking on a bit of taunting and mockery about my little quirks.}

*ANYWAY*...

As I was reading over Gavin's homework this afternoon so he can turn it in tomorrow, I glazed over the sentences and paused briefly at the clutch sentence to re-hash the crazy, meandering path my mind took upon hearing my son's {innocent} accusation of me trying like hell hard to hold on to my youth.  True, I'm just about a month away from yet another birthday; growing yet another year closer to the number that I'm sure will cause me to go into anaphylactic shock when it does in fact happen.

I am slowly recognizing myself as those comfortable jeans.  They may be full of holes, and 'broken', but who says 'broken' isn't ok?  Every one has flaws, fades, frays and stories to tell.

'The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places'.

Ernest Hemmingway

shine bright, lone light
xo

Dear hubby who travels too much...

Dear {darling} traveling husband,

We've entered the home stretch of a two-week stint where you've been home for a total of 26.7 hours.  Just enough time for me to launder, dry, and return your garments to you, so they can be tidily packed into your too-commonly-used carry on suitcase.  California last week {boo freakin hoo}, and this week {snarky tone drumroll please}...England.  Are.you.freaking.serious.  Not only have I had span of time where I had a ridiculous, on-the-verge-of-mildly-crazy obsession with having children that speak with a British accent, but I have I spent countless hours reading up on the life and times of the royals.  {Yes.  Tabloids still count as reading!}  And, perhaps the strongest argument I have in my corner: my {inner, completely sane, non-stalkerish} connection with the Beckhams is such that I feel Victoria and David were in London this week {thanks to my 'reading', I know this to be fact} specifically because they might cross paths with me.

But am I there?  Um. No.  I am not.

Instead, I sit here on our couch, being heel-kicked by an overly tired toddler who is showing absolutely NO signs of being ready for bed.  Earlier today, I had the joyous experience of cleaning up her piddle on the carpet for what happened to be only about the 35th time in the past two weeks.  I've reached the point where I'm debating just how traumatizing a visit from CPS would be on the kids when they discover that I am literally duct-taping her diaper to her body.  How, you ask, would they discover this?  Well when said toddler decides to 'help' me answer the door wearing nothing but her cowgirl boots, it would only be a matter of time before word gets out from the poor, unsuspecting deliverymen that agents would be knocking on our door to discover that her Elmo emblazoned Pampers are being held on supersecurely by the gloriousness that is duct tape.

And while we're on the topic of duct tape, would it be considered a faux pas if I happened to used it to secure our bathroom doors {that oddly lack a locking mechanism} shut so that I could snag even 17 minutes to shower {without an audience}, put on makeup {without tiny hands literally destroying everything in my makeup bag}, and maybe...just maybe go to the bathroom without Raegan deciding how much toilet paper I should use {read half the friggin roll}?

You see, it's not that I resent you for travelling for work; nor do I envy you having to stay in a hotel room alone, eating yummy food that you didn't have to prepare {not that you're Mr. Chef here at home.  Shit, you're not even Chef Boyardee.  You could possibly pass as a bus boy}.  No, no...I don't wish that I spent time flying solo, driving a fun little rental car, and not having to care for anyone but yourself.  I'm not saying I would trade places with you.

I'm saying I'd give my right arm for it.  And possibly my left.

And yet you have the audacity to tell me that you hate travelling.

You know I love you.  You know I'm so grateful for your hard work and all you do for us.  But really.  I want to scream laugh in your face.

You can't tell me there isn't a teeny, tiny part of you that is enjoying these little 'breaks from hell reality'.  Sure, I don't know what it's like to travel for work beyond the freakinghourandfifteenminutes {each.damn.way.} that I used to spend transporting our gaggle of geese to their respective care givers before mad-dashing down the hallway to my classroom in hopes that I'd get in before the kids so I could scribble the date and objectives up on the board, along with the independent morning work that I so blissfully relied on each day for the first 15 minutes so that I could a.) catch my breath, b.) snarf down whatever the hell it was that I scrounged up in the depths of my overstuffed yet under-utilized teacher bag, and c.) make sure I had a freaking concept of what I was teaching that day because while I had every blessed intention of looking over the material the night before, you can guarantee one, two, or all three of our *darlings* provided me with at least one, {or a dozen} reasons why I had to yet again leave my work sitting pathetically alone on the stool where it fell off my shoulder earlier this evening as I rushed through the door to begin preparing dinner so they would stop whining that they were hungry {breathe}.

Yes, I don't know the stresses and annoyances of travelling as often as you have to, I don't know what it's like to be away from your {amazing, fantastic, always well-put-together-never-without-makeup} wife and {wonderfully behaved, ever obedient} children for as often as you are.  And, if the roles were reversed, travel would eventually take its toll on me, wear me down, and make me dread the long, annoying process of getting from point A to point B.

But...if the roles were reversed, would you not be ever-so-slightly jealous of the opportunity to have a break, an escape, a few days to change things up a little and put a tweak in your routine {or, rather, non-existent-except-for-in-the-magical-land-of-make-believe routine}? There are only so many days I can legally wear these {mildly} threadbare yoga pants, hole-laden tee shirt, and haphazard, messy updo with two of my three kids still wiping the sleep out of their eyes while donning mismatched {and probably pee-covered} pajamas in the drop-off line for school before CPS pays me a visit for reasons besides a naked toddler with a duct-tape diaper.  Only so many times I can spend days on end relying on hastily prepared meals that taste mildly like cardboard so that I can split my time between playing with quasi-supervising {while simulatenously responding to emails} outside and running back inside to add the powdered cheese and 1/4 cup of milk to the 'meal' I jokingly think meets some crazy nutritional standard because the box says 'cheese'.  Only so many nights I can handle lonely, sleepless nights with the television light speckling whatever rest I do get {because I need the background noise when you're not home}.

I *love* being a mom, and a recently crowned stay-at-home one at that...but that doesn't mean that every now and then {at least 3 times a day}, I envision an opportunity to swap places with you, if even just for a day or two.  Actually, 4.  4 days of glorious, blissful time where I can yearn for you and the kids from the comforts of my own hotel room.  Where I can read, sleep, write, check out the local hot spots, and enjoy a snippet of time when I can quiet the madness and drink in the wine peace.  4 days when I can see just how hard it is to be away from our home, our kids, our reality.  And love you even more for the sacrifices you make to give us the life that we have.  And, lastly, 4 days where you can see just how much having your spouse out of town while still maintaining business as usual at home can wear.you.down.  {I wonder what the male equivalent of yoga pants might be?}

Smooches {from afar, because I sure as shit didn't get a chance to shower today},

Wifey