Carpet Bag

You know that mom with the matching purse and diaper bag?

The special matching diaper pad and color coded deodorizer pellet that ensures her days are beautifully organized and lavender scented. No smelly days for this one. You know her, or at least you've seen her.  She’s got a perfectly proportioned organic snack in her BPA  free container and she’d love to tell you all about how she is simultaneously saving the earth and commanding respect from her young brood.  I know this lady, and as much as I’d like to say she is as deep as a pudding cup (jealously has so many shades of ugly)….she is usually quite lovely.

She might even be crafty….which makes it even harder to be her friend. She actually does have her shit together- or so she projects.

This is not me.

I used to want to be this mama, or this image I should say. Make it look easy. The “Not only can I do it all, but it is so easy for me.  I can show the world how natural it is to mother, how beautiful it is to mother”.   I thought that if I could “master” it, I would be giving the role its due.

My version (and I do believe there are many successful versions of parenting) does not fall within the Vera Bradley handbag system metaphor.

Mine is beautifully, sometimes disastrously, messy.

Think Mary Poppins’ disheveled sister. 

There are times when I’m quite certain I may be able to reach into my carpet bag and pull out a miracle…maybe even a lamp shade or two.  Certainly, three of the food groups are at my disposal at any given time. A macaroni necklace. An overdue book notice. A flyer on karate classes, a sketchy looking “unused” diaper…..and if I’m lucky, a tube of lipstick with the tip gnawed off. Never cash.  Never that helpful quarter that could aid in a vending machine distraction as I try to pay the cashier with my insurance card.

Somewhere around baby #4, I had to rethink my criteria for “successful” parenting.

For us, successful isn’t always pretty. Ok, rarely.  Ask any cashier at Target.  I have actually sat down in the middle of the checkout lane with a kid on my lap and “waited” for the needed calm before moving towards the door.  I have dodged, yes dodged, boxes of tampons being chucked in my direction from a disgruntled  6 year old.  Had serious thoughts about running him over with my cart (when he threw down, tummy first, in front of the wheels) but then assured the concerned Target employee that I was, in fact, OK and didn’t need assistance to my van.  Subtle hint for me?

Successful doesn’t match.  There are some serious problems with “social justice” in our house.  We have a listener who needs 1 warning to comply with pretty much any request (God bless him) and then we have the stubborn-as-a-mule  darling who waits for the color blue to appear in my forehead.

Time outs range between comedy and horror….as he (see previous paragraph) is not afraid to launch the nearest vase, stroller, garbage pail or dinner plate for a request of attention.  Remove distractions/weaponry? Perhaps a Laundry Room? Welcome to an entire jug of Tide emptied on the floor.  Big personality, requiring BIG PATIENCE.

Frankly, there are some days I just pray to avoid an Emergency Room visit and days I swear out open windows while on route to that exact location.

It’s not always fair…..oh yeah, for them too. 

After what seems like a lifetime of beating my head against a wall of bricks, I have come to a new definition.  Success comes in the form of being present. 

“Mommy, listen to me with your face”, my four year old says.

And sometimes it means dropping the basket of never-ending laundry, by-passing the “soaking” sink, stepping over the uncapped markers that litter the mud room, and just being present for them.  Acknowledging the frustrations, joys, accomplishments and wonder that come with being fresh to this world. 

Hence the dirty purse.

I remember the first time I looked in the rear view mirror of my mini-van and saw it was FULL.  Of my own.  4 Kids: literally an army of chubby limbs and dirty faces.  Not a single one alike.  An overwhelming amount of responsibility.  Don’t even get me started on the expenses. 

And I felt so blessed. Deliriously tired, and unshaven…. but blessed.

Nope. No matching coin purses here.  But, in a way, a sticky reflection of my current role.

I try to have what we need, not necessarily everything we want.  I try to keep a little “magic” waiting to be discovered (who cares if the wrapper is “intact”) and the hell with that damn quarter……….

Fairy Expectations 

There are some days where, who knows for what reason, I wake up with a little extra bounce in my step.  Ironically; rainy days.  Stormy days.  Dark skies that mask the actual time of day all day long.  Pounding rain, warning you to stay inside, or else you are destined to look like your newly blooming hydrangea. The threatening weather just makes the little glories of “home” seem more obvious, and with a grateful heart, I curl up in an old quilt……and plan.

It’s disgusting how much enjoyment I get from planning.

Lists.  Check marks and a good felt-tip pen.  The little rush I get from COMPLETING A TASK on time. As a stay at home mom of four, this simple event is a luxury I relish.

The kids seem to feel a rainy day contentment too.  They have been self-entertained with fairy wings and a mini-picnic basket for 45 minutes.  Its amazing how a good thunderstorm spurs new interest in old toys.  And with an entire post-it note of checked off boxes, I am ready to put down the anti-bacterial spray and pick-up the jester hat.

There are some staples of a rainy day.  Forts. Movies (I don’t even feel guilty about). Home-made cookies. This is all done by 10:00 flat.

We need a bigger plan.

It’s the compilation of all things wonderfully “cozy”…..we will host an impromptu fairy party in our playhouse with our neighborhood kiddos.  Somebody has to eat all these stinkin’ cookies.

I tell my two waiting fairies to stay on our porch while I run the computer and blankets out to the playhouse. Then together we make the wet dash to the playhouse. Its raining so hard, I actually consider the possiblity of finding ruby slippers sticking out from the foundation. 

Dripping fairy gowns. Muddy feet.  Twinkle lights. Giant smiles.

Door handle on floor…..what?

With great effort to keep the rain out, my four year old has slammed the door so hard, the handle comes off and we are locked inside. 

I can actually hear the world laughing at me.

This moment, like so many lately, reminds me I am not in charge.  Ever.

Fairy hysteria hits and God save me…is there really anything worse?  My young Liza Minnelli screams, “We are going to die!!!” while literally running and throwing her bird body at the door to get out.  There is goldfish rationing. Safety rules are reitterated. The littlest fairy is in the corner shaking because a giant clap of thunder has just made the windows rattle and I’m sure she thinks these are her last moments. I wish I could reassure her. Older sister is not an easy melt-down to witness. 

I’m no MacGyver. There are no bobby pins and extra wire.  There are stuffed animals staring blankly at me from their designated playhouse chairs which just seem to add to the audience of failure. I’m cursing my Boy Scout husband for building a freakin’ bomb-sturdy shelter.  The fairies are now smearing their glitter cheeks against the windows, scratching to get out. Its beginning to look like a hot pink helter skelter in here.

Just as I’m about to pull an Alice in Wonderland, and literally throw my giant size mom body through the mini-playhouse windows…I rattle the screen free.  Screams of joy.  Puddles of pee. Little fairy is so relieved she lets is all go on the floor.  Hey, we all celebrate in our own way.  I shove my four year old out the mini-window in the middle of the hurricane and she obediently opens the door and sets us free.

So much for “Mommy-makes-rainy-days-special”.  We narrowly escaped and entire afternoon of angry Tink going ballistic in unsanitary conditions. We retreat to normality.

Normal clothes.

Normal couch.

Normal movie.

And all is fine.  Actually, all is grand.

Sometimes I make it more work than it needs to be.  A lot of the time.  Maybe it’s the need to create and accomplish something separate from the normal routine. Not just laundry and dishwashers and seatbelts. Maybe it’s my own wish fulfillment, both as a child and a mother.

I would have loved a 2 story playhouse with twinkling lights and my own front porch.  I would have relished in a rainy day getaway.  And, I would love them to remember me as a mom that put down the Everyday once in a while to make room, messy as it may be, to experience the Exceptional day. Mom’s lipstick. Lunch on a kabob. Butterfly streamers.   Cookie stands. But, this is about me, and the world so gently reminds me of this fact.

They are happy with the smallest of luxuries….PB&J and popcorn for lunch.  It doesn’t even need butter.

Camp Counselor

Remember the first overnight camp? The b-line for the top bunk. The craft room overflowing with godseye yarn and friendship bracelets?  The handsome, guitar playing counselor that was the perfect shade of tan? The 3:00 grape kool-aid and Ritz cracker sandwiches? The campfires at the end of a day so packed full of fun that your eyes struggled to stay open. Maybe even a first kiss? The ravine offered up some serious privacy for the first time. The girl that took just a little too long in the public shower? The intangible smell of rotting feet by the end of the week?

I think at age ten, I was pretty sure I was going to grow up and run a camp.  Or at least be one of the sassy counselors that sang clear and strong while my bleached out ponytail blew in the wind at the campfire.

Such a damn romantic. Always.  And I’ll be damned if that’s not exactly what happened. 
There are no creaky cabins.  No mysterious ghost stories. I don’t play the guitar and there certainly is no KP duty. But, I might as well be wearing a matching t-shirt and rolled up cut-offs, because I am the camp counselor.

Camp starts when the sun rises and the pitter patter of feet fall out of bunks and stumble to the kitchen.  And I’m on. 

Today’s Itinerary:

MAKE IT THROUGH THE DAY WITHOUT A VISIT TO THE ER OR THE PEDIATRIC DENTIST. 

They campers are happily unaware of this mantra, but it is always present in my mind, and thus there is less creative space available.

Yes, there will be pine cone bird feeders and homemade fairy houses.  There will be nature hikes and bike rides to ice cream parlors. There will be environmentally dangerous amount of sprinklers and pool time. There will be a freezer with a never-ending supply of ices.

And Thank God. I hope this is what they remember, because I’m pretty sure I have become the chubby, bossy, frizzy-haired counselor that you prayed would never call your name on cabin assignment am.  You know the one.  There is Barbie-esque counselor Aimie  that will share her lip stick collection with you after light-out, and then there is “Barb” the-chip-on-my-shoulder-I-earned-every-damn-girl-scout-badge-get-your-skunky-butt-in-your-bunk-you-lazy-kid, camp facilitator.  You don’t walk to close to Barb (and not just because her arm flab is scary on the hike down to the lake).

Barb sucks the magic out of the air, and you just want to hold on the possibility of new adventure.

I want to be Aimie.  I want to be the counselor that sneaks pixie sticks under your pillow after dark and shares a sly wink when you “accidently” end up seated next to your first crush at campfire time. I want my kids to come to me with awe in their faces, with questions from their heart.  God help me, I want that damn golden ponytail.

And yet, flabby arms and all, I find myself “Barb” hiking down to the lake. Or shoving butts into car seats.  Slapping sunscreen on pudgy cheeks and poorly shaven legs. Nagging about table manners. Yanking kiddos out of pools if they don’t follow proper pool etiquette.  Counting marshmallows.

Oh, Barb, you are missing the whole point.

And yet, I wonder if Aimee knew CPR. I’m pretty sure she never made a frantic run to the ER with a two year old’s eye bleeding down her face.  I think she was typically slathered in baby oil instead of SPF 50.

Motherhood requires a new name.  There must be room for both needs, because I do not want to sacrifice all the magic in the name of safety.  I will encourage mud pies, nerf wars, princess forts, backward dives.  Body paint.  I will make sure they stay up so late they fall asleep in their hoodies at a campfire.  I will hand out sparklers and stock my closet with glow sticks.  We will catch fireflies.

But I’m pretty sure Barb will always be watching too.  I’m not too proud to jump in a pool fully clothed to man-handle a nine year old to a timeout on the deck. I’m an utter nag about sunhats and shoes in public restrooms.  I will not to feed them hotdogs more than three times a week.  I will work on those shmuckin’ triceps……

I’m going to try to remember that despite the long hours of mud-smeared, constant snack producing, face sweating, endless cleaning, safety nagging work of being a mom counselor, I also get to witness the intangible joy of a free summer.

I have the luxury of watching their little shoulders tan and cheering for the bellyflops. Strawberry picking and growing a neglected garden. 

The ten year old never envisioned the counselor I have become.  But I will put on my lifeguard whistle, cook’s hat, arts and crafts director badge, reading coach glasses, grounds keeper visor, maid apron and nurses gloves to make this one work as best I can.

But, I can’t promise I won’t sit outside with a brandy slush when the day is over.  You can't tell me Barb or Aimie wouldn't didn't want to do the same thing.