Tradition

Here is a snap of our annual tradition-- the only time I dress my boys alike.
Our Waiting For Santa PJs 2008:


Merry! Merry one and all!

Snapshots from the week

I drive down the street, frantically looking for an open space. I flip the minivan around and pull up to the curb on the side where I cannot stay, thanks to street cleaning and vigilant tow trucks. I get out, slide open the doors, deftly unstrap the car seats and free the boys. As other families scramble to the front door of the school down the block, I make the choice: I will send the boys off to the door by themselves-- for the first time all school year, while I wait for a legal parking space to open from a departing family. C and S happily scurry off as I climb back into the running car, blinker thrown already. About to make a sharp left, I glance up to the corner, just in time to see a flash of olive green tumble. I see feet flip up in the air and I hear the high pitch wail of my son as outstreached hands scrape the concrete.

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"Mom!" , "Mama, Mama!" The shouts envelope me as I step through my front door after an evening faculty meeting. Clad in fleece pajamas, feet toasty in fuzzy slippers, my sons jump from their positions on the couch to greet me. Their wet hair is neatly slicked to the side, reminiscent of boys in 1950s photographs, but rarely like their hair in daily life. They lead me to the couch where they retake their places, renegotiating blanket wrapping, making room for one more-- me. I am in time to hear the Christmas story, a part of our December countdown. Twenty four books were wrapped and stacked in a basket, sitting underneath a handwritten calendar marked with the boys' names. Each day the 'assigned' fellow picks one book and the five of us huddle in to read it together. I rest my head against the leather couch, happy that P is reading tonight. F upsets the blanket to climb into my lap. We wrap up again, one boy on me, the two others leaning into me on my left and right. I pick up my head to nuzzle my nose into my youngest's ginger-colored hair, sniffing the surprisingly spicy scent of the boys' new shampoo, and just breathe.

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Twenty minutes into the service, the pew is strewn with crayons and books. I shift, finally trying to settle in, quiet myself a bit after the morning race to get the three boys fed and wiped and dressed and bundled and strapped into car seats and through the tall church doors-- all by myself as their dad is off serving at another church. After a year of enjoying the playroom downstairs, F has decided that he has had enough of being separated from his brothers now that he unhappily is forced to on school days. The older two can negotiate the service: they know when they must attend to what is happening and when it is OK to turn to their books and drawings, when to stand and sing, and when to turn to their neighbors and shake hands enthusiastically, offering 'peace.' The three-year-old fidgets. He grabs at his brother's book. He sits on the ground, splays his legs, and promptly bangs his head against the wooden pew in front. I lean over and grab him under his arms, hefting him up, as I simultaneously try to shush him and comfort him. He leans against my chest and I lay my cheek against his head, turning my head to do so and notice the seams on my sweater-- the one I obviously have been wearing inside out all morning.

To Hover or Not to Hover

that is the question. I am not talking about every moment of the day, helicopter parenting. I am simply wondering about my role and responsibility at birthday parties.

Driving home from the birthday party of a good friend of S & C's (I am good friends with his mom, too), I realized that I spent much of the festivities hovering around my guys, trying to head off any potential crying fits, meltdowns, screaming, and the ilk. I actually didn't hover the entire time. When the science lady was doing her fun schtick, playing with dry ice, making alien goop, etc., I huddled tables away from the kids, chatting with another mama. I suspected that the fellows would be excited by her program and would pay attention-- so much so that I did remind them to be good listeners when they first sat down. Is that too much? I know as audience members they often like to ask lots of questions, comment frequently, and generally narrate what is going on as they did with yesterday's magic show. I didn't want to stifle their engagement in the science show or dissuade them from asking questions, I just wanted them to make sure they didn't dominate the scene and let the lady do her gig. Too controlling?

It was during the physical part of the party that I stepped up my surveillance on the boys. At first, jumping in the two large bouncy houses was exhilarating and kicking around the numerous balloons strewn around the floor exciting, but at some point, the kids turned this combination into a competition-- collecting balloons to capture in 'their' bouncy houses, striving for a larger number than the other bouncy house crew's. Suddenly, pushing, clawing, and blocking got thrown in the mix, and I stepped up and stood behind one of the bouncy structures, peering through the black mesh, and prompting my sons to remain in control.

There had already been a few tears shed by S at the start of the jumping, accusations of elbows thrown, an ankle stepped on. I started to have flashbacks of two past birthday parties: one at a kids' gym where C fell apart so completely that I became so out-of-sorts, completely unsure how to parent in the moment (still so traumatizing--for me-- that I have yet to write about it) and the second in a karate place, where some of the party goers became so frenzied by the action, the instructor lost all control of the scene and two boys ended up in fisticuffs--so much for karate teaching discipline.

C and S behaved mostly well at today's event, but as some of the action ramped up, I began imagining the past party scenarios. I asked them to leave the bouncy house, sit for a bit to the side, and got them juice. They didn't protest, happy--I think-- for a drink and a rest. When one of their friends came over and asked if they were allowed to play more, I nodded my consent and off they went, back into the fray. I again positioned myself on the periphery of their chosen bouncy house, suddenly aware that most of the parents were hanging out at the tables. I was one of the few standing, totally following the action at close range.

And I can't help but wonder-- Am I too controlling? Do I not let my guys cut loose and just have fun? I know that I have stricter standards of behavior that I expect from the boys than it seems that some others do, but this doesn't bother me. My folks were stricter than many other parents and I think my siblings and I all turned out well. So while I don't want to spoil my sons' fun, I do want them to be polite, well behaved, and considerate of others. I am just not sure of the line of appropriately vigilant and over-the-top, crazily involved and controlling....

Way Better Than Jewelry

I am not a big jewelry girl. I tend to like chunky silver stuff, some cool wrist cuffs (never worn together), and my necklace with thin tags stamped with my sons' names. Long before I ever watched Blood Diamond and was horrified by the diamond trade depicted in that film, I just never really 'got' diamonds. I don't go around sneering at other people's jewelry choices like I may about their parenting choices (hee-hee). OK, I only may sneer on occasion if the piece is so ostentatious it's meant to be noticed by others, even while sitting on the other side of say, a baseball stadium from said finger wearing said ring. And truthfully, I'm just not around folks with that kind of taste... or money.

I've heard these stories about women who just wouldn't even consider marrying a guy if he didn't get her the 'right kind' of rock or even these so-called "push presents," some strange custom of giving a new mom expensive baubles for, uh, how to explain. OK, here's a quote from the New York Times: “'It’s more and more an expectation of moms these days that they deserve something for bearing the burden for nine months, getting sick, ruining their body,' said Linda Murray, executive editor of BabyCenter.com. “The guilt really gets piled on.'" I just don't relate. I wear a plain white gold wedding band that first belonged to my husband's grandma, and I certainly didn't expect anything material-wise for having carried our children. What I did expect was a full partner in the parenting department: someone willing to take on as much of the care of the babies that I did, not championing the 'aren't I such a great dad for changing one diaper.' And this partner I got fully in P. Here's a guy who gave up a great career in NYC, running an amazing organization with numbers of staff people working for him, to take on a job in rural Maine with no prestige and no retirement account, where he answered fully to two cranky and demanding bosses, a.k.a. one-year-old twins.

So I don't want nor do I get jewelry from my husband. But let me illustrate what I do get. Tonight at 10:45PM, P announced he was exhausted and going to bed. I just got home at 9:45PM from a meeting and was still looking for some down time before sleep. He went into our room, slipped into bed on my side, and will sleep there until I'm ready to climb into bed. I'll nudge him a bit and he'll roll to the right, his designated territory. He does this, starting out on my side, totally unprompted, because he knows how much I hate climbing into a cold bed. And that act, my friends, is so much more precious to me than any gem-studded piece of metal.

Three is a Uh.. Magic Number?

I have an incredible fondness for Schoolhouse Rocks. I find these clever educational cartoons from the 1970's focusing on grammar, multiplication, the electoral college, energy etc. to have withstood the test of time-- I loved them as a kid and I love them now. When teaching middle school language arts, I would cue up the specific part of speech we were studying and even my too-cool-for-school students would get excited, singing, "Verb:That's what's happening!" and "Interjections show excitement or emotion..." Just over a year ago, my three sons discovered our 30th Anniversary DVD of these favored Saturday morning jingles and soon became addicted. They particularly like "Interplanet Janet," "Electricity," and "Naughty Number Nine."

While I've collected no hard data to support this assertion, "Three is a Magic Number" is among many from my generation's most remembered and favored from this collection. Blind Melon covered it in the mid-90's and more recently Jack Johnson put his own spin on the song with updated lyrics about reducing, reusing, and recycling, gathering a whole new fan base for the tune. I like the song a lot, but lately I've been thinking of it in less fond terms. OK, I get the stuff about tripods, tricycles, triangles and even faith, hope and charity. However, as a person who had twins her first go-around, I never could quite relate to the verse "A man and a woman had a little baby. Yes, they did. They had three in the family. That's a magic number" since P and I immediately jumped from two to four in our family. And truthfully, that's not the part that's been bugging me these days.

I have two complaints with this three-as-magic idea lately: 1). I have a three-year-old 2). The dynamic of three boys is anything but magic in our home right now. Now, I'll be the first to celebrate the fact that F's threeness has led to the albatross of diapers being lifted thanks to his recent potty training success. Yet I am finding the other aspects of three-year-old behavior to be less celebratory: the screeching, the insistence on doing everything by himself, the general crabbiness, and grand drama when his parents say no. All of my friends who are parents agree-- it's really not the terrible twos; it's the threes that get you. I had to laugh when I saw the book title for this age range in the book series by Louise Bates Ames about children's developmental stages: Your Three-Year-Old: Friend or Enemy.

When we learned I was pregnant with F and he was a boy, we were thrilled. Even though I grew up with five sisters, I never felt the burning desire to raise a girl. Of course, we would have been perfectly content with daughters, but we got three boys--so right on. We were in the boy mode. And adding a third child to the mix in general didn't seem overwhelmingly daunting. Yes, we had to reconsider our car size to accommodate three carseats, but other than that, we felt totally outnumbered with the twins so didn't see much of a difference being literally outnumbered.

Lately though, having three boys has become more complicated. The energy, both positive and negative, can reach overwhelming levels quite quickly in our two bedroom apartment. Yet more than that, F has reached the age where he is acutely aware that his brothers are doing things that he is not, and he wants to be included--all the time. He must be included or he will shriek, and throw himself on the ground, and fuss, and make anyone in his general vicinity wish he came with a mute button. And while I can empathize with being the younger sibling wanting to do what one's older siblings can, I can't help but wonder if the twins plus a singleton complicate this dynamic even more. While S and C are certainly not always a united duo, they do tend to do much together and F clearly feels like a third wheel, left out, left behind, and boy, he'll let us know how this displeases him. We've made some adjustments to our routines to have him feel more included. For instance, even though the boys attend different schools and need to be there at different times-- technically, the twins need to arrive earlier than F-- we all now leave the house together, bringing F to school first in order to avoid an ugly morning scene (on top of the chaos of just getting out in the morning, dressed with lunchboxes in hand). Of course, there are plenty of situations where all three cannot be doing the same thing. We try and treat S and C like individuals so they don't always get the same thing. F, his own person, doesn't, can't, and frankly, shouldn't always get what his brothers do.

Our latest dilemma: C and S were asked to participate in P's divinity school's Lessons and Carols which is a big deal because they will surely be the youngest participants. They will read one of the lessons, and we were careful to split the reading right down the middle so the two have equal parts. However, as we've begun to practice for Wednesday night, F has made a louder and louder stink about his part or lack thereof. And while the older boys practice reading aloud, standing behind a makeshift podium created from two stacked ottomans, I can just picture the scene in the chapel when they get up to read and F gets left behind in the pew. Or if we just let F stand with the two of them at the lectern that evening, with all his three wiggliness-- surely the lesson would not get heard. Tonight's new idea: teach F the line, "Thus ends the lesson" so after his brothers finish their reading, he can chime in. Three's just not feeling so magical.

Black Friday, Indeed

I read this headline and opening line of an article just reported and shuddered for many a reason:

Wal-Mart worker dies after shoppers knock him down

A worker died after being trampled by a throng of unruly shoppers when a suburban Wal-Mart opened for the holiday sales rush Friday, authorities said.


I swear my next post won't be so dark....

Not Ready for That Exit

After we crawled three miles in 40 minutes to get on to the Tappan Zee Bridge, I was thrilled when the traffic opened up and our Sienna zipped down the highway, passing the Welcome to New Jersey sign. We had about eight miles left in our Thanksgiving trek, and while it wasn't quite the 'over the river and through the woods' journey I've had in other years (note to self: must write the first-Thanksgiving-in-the-Peace-Corps tale at some point) to get to celebrate the holiday with family, buying all the food supplies and packing up the three boys still tuckered us out enough to make us quite anxious to reach my sister's home. Add to the mix one three-year-old fellow who has been wearing underwear for just nine days, and you can just hear my sigh of relief as P exited the highway.

Except not this exit. With growing awareness as he made the first left and then the right, I sucked in air sharply as I realized the route we were heading to K's. "Why are you going this way?" I suddenly barked. There are exits just a few miles down the highway we could have taken, but somehow the evil navigation system led us to this one. It took a moment for P to register just why my voice suddenly became loud and tense, and he reached over and grabbed my knee. I sank down into my seat and froze. Unaware of their mom's growing panic, the boys happily sang along to the CD, "The shot heard round the world was the start of the Revolution," a flashback of the Saturday mornings of childhood spent watching SchoolHouse Rocks.

As our van reached the light to make the next left, I flipped my hood up over my head and dropped my gaze, staring at the silver sewn letters of my hoodie, the zipper half zipped, my sons' names engraved on the thin tags I wear around my neck-- anything to avoid seeing the street we were now traveling on. My stomach gurgled and I suddenly felt nausea rising up to my throat.

341 days ago, my dad was killed on this street. I have not been near it since I last visited him, just ten days before he died. I sort of vowed that I would never drive on it again. Some folks need to revisit the place of their loved-one's death, mark the scene with a wreath of flowers, a plush toy or a handmade wooden cross perhaps. I have never felt such a need. I have concentrated on scenes in my head, remembering times that he was alive and vibrant--- blowing zerberts on my sons' pale bellies, shouting too loud at my nephew's football games, hammering the bottom of a bottle of ketchup to drench his food with his most-beloved condiment. I don't let my mind go to the place where I might imagine his last moments, the impact of the car, the wet pavement of that dusky December evening.

And tomorrow, I will celebrate Thanksgiving with four of my siblings. It will be our first Thanksgiving since we became orphans. We'll make my mother's stuffing because no matter how fancy that smoked oyster or andouille sausage dressing recipes you have-- white bread, lots of butter, onions, and a generous amount of Bell's Poultry Seasoning tastes like home to us. And when we sit at the table, I'll be sure to look for the pale green glass dish full of Gherkins pickles because for my dad, the Thanksgiving meal was just not complete without those sweet pickles served in his own mother's special pickle dish.