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Yesterday was our first snow of the year.
I had been longing for snow since last week. I usually don’t like snow because in these parts the whole city shuts down and goes a little nuts.
This year, however, I have been looking forward to the snow. For a lot of the reasons. And ALL of them selfsih. I have just been longing for a break from “real life” — a forced work haltage (is haltage a word??), hot chocolate, spiced wine, movie day, etc. I spent the weekend stocking the fridge just in case there was snow. I made a final trip to get Jade a winter coat and Lily snow boots. I have been ready for days for snow.
So when the flakes waited until 7:30am to start falling I have to admit I was a little disappointed — the snow was beautiful but it came to late to halt school and offer me the respite I so longed for, and so off the teens went all bundled up. I then spent the next part of the morning trying –unsuccessfully — to get Ty to wear snow boots to kindergarten. “But, Mommy, they feel weird!” That is because they are snow boots and you only wear them about 3 days each year. You will get used to them. No luck and on went the sneakers. The outside temperature read 26 degress and so I gritted my teeth as I walked out the door to take Lily and Ty to school (by the way, Lily did wear her snowboots…). The moment we walked outside I heard a GASP.
The gasp came from Emme. In all the bustle of the morning I had forgotten that this was her first snow ever. She stopped, looked up, smiled her big authentic, “I love life” smile, and pointed at all the flakes and rattled off her paragraph of gibberish that makes perfect sense only to her. But this time it was pretty clear what she was saying: Snow is awesome. Followed by: Why have you waited this long to show me this. Then: Isn’t life amazing, mom?
As the first flake got caught in her long lashes I thought about all that she has yet to discover. And how lucky we moms are to re-discover so much through the eyes of our children. We get to see so much for the first time all over again. Watch as our children’s eye light up at their first Halloween, or eat their first tast of ice cream, or pet their first puppy. Then we get to see them make their first goals in soccer, or play their first wobbly rendition of “Go Tell Aunt Rhodie” in elementary band. We get to see them have their first dates, fall in love, read Shakespeare.
And we get to sit in horror as they cry because their friends didn’t walk home with them. Or they didn’t make the goal. We watch as they come to terms with the fact that life isn’t fair. Or Just. And that many people don’t know the meaning of mercy or compassion. And I swear that if I could I would stand in the gap for all five of my kids and take all the crap for them. Just suck it in to my body and let it destroy me in order to spare them.
But I know that is not how it works. Even though I get to watch their journey, their road to discover is all their own.
So, TODAY I will decide instead to find the patience to let them struggle with the lumpy snowboots and to marvel at the snowflakes in their eyelashes as they discover the world for themselves — and for me, all over again.
Normally, I love the Pumpkin Patch. But this year the phrase “pumpkin patch” should have been accompanied by a warning sticker…or at least background music that went “dum dum dummmm!” In years past, our beloved trip to the patch was at this lovely little working farm. We were the only school there, there was a worm barrel, a few animals to look at, and small little pumpkins to pick. It was, well like I said above… lovely. So, when our beloved farm closed its door to school pumpkin patch visits, our school was forced switched to another venue. A venue known as THE FARM — que music… “dum dum dummmmm…”.
With my previous paradigm in place of the lovely local patch, I decided that taking Emme (age 19 months) on Ty’s kindergarten field trip to THE FARM… dum dum dummm… was going to be just fine. It became immediately apparent after our 30 minute drive on fog infested country roads that this was not a farm. This was an amusement park. Designed by Stephen King. Luring peace and pumpkin loving parents to their doom.
The rundown looks like this. First of all, we were there with about 20 other preschools and kindergartens — so about two billion children under the age of 5. Making it a chaotic melee of children moving from station to station on THE FARM…dum dum dumm… while being shouted at by the “farmers” to keep moving, folks. The hayride scared Emme. While all the kindergarten girls picked out cute little purse pumkins, Ty picked out what felt like the world’s largest pumpkin. So I had to enlist our neighbor to carry it because with 28 pound Emme on one hip, the 30+ pound pumpkin was too freakin heavy and it didn’t fit in the grocery bag the school provided. Some may say, why did you let Ty get such a big pumpkin. I DON’T KNOW is the answer. It make sense in the intial nano-second and then I was committed. The picture doesn’t do it justice.
After the hayride and pumpkin search, there was a hay maze which ended in a slide from the top of the barn. The attendant asked for two parents to “man the slide.” After the first kids went down the slide, it became obvious that “manning the slide” was code for “try not to let any kids kill themselves while shooting off the end of the world’s fastest slide into a pile of hay.” These kids were like wellie-clad bullets coming off that thing. Ty stood at the top of the slide for quite some time before risking his life to exit the hay maze.
I can now feel my sanity exiting THE FARM.. dum dum dummmm… along with my sense of humor and the spring in my step.
We then went to the animal area. Emme loved the giant pig. Ty loved to climb on the tractor –which resulted in a perilous fall where it appeared that he cracked his head on the cement. After barking clone-trooper-esque orders at our neighbor to GRAB EMME, I ran to Ty’s rescue — all the while going over the signs of concussions in my head and calculating how far we were from the nearest ER. As it turns out he miracously didn’t hit his head, only his elbow … and his bum. But his bum was okay, he said, because he was “wearing really tough pants.”
We finally get to the picnic area where Ty is enjoying a POPSICLE of all things. I din’t even care that now we were injecting the kids with sugar, I was just relieved we had made it to a chair. It is at this point that my friend Kristi considers texting our friend Kim (who will be attending the afternoon session at THE FARM..dum dum dummm…) that THE FARM is almost as bad as Chuck E. Cheese. Now, I have a deal with my husband about Chuck E. Cheese. I will carry the children in my uterus for 9 months, undergo surgery to bring them into the world, and then nourish them off of my breast. But HE HAS TO GO TO CHUCK E CHEESE. And from now on he is on THE FARM.. dum dum dummm.. duty as well.
It is at this moment that some yells, “Hey come watch the PIG SHOW!”
Enough said.
I am the mother of pirate.
That same pirate is also a jedi, a superhero, a secret agent, and a paleontologist.
Before Ty was born I knew that becoming a mom would be transformative. I knew that in my head but I didn’t know it in my heart until I had this little baby in my arms and I knew… knew… I would never be the same.
My mom describes motherhood like this. When your child is born there is a rope (I am speaking metaphorically here… I would never advocate giving a rope to a newborn.) The mommy holds most of the rope and the baby has a grip on just the fray at the end. Slowly, slowly we start to hand over more of the rope to our kids — giving them more control, more say, more of themselves. And, in turn, we get less control, less say, and less of them. Until one day we see that they have the whole rope and we are gripping the fray at the end.
The first time this was put to the test was when Ty was about 18 months old. The older girls had been living with us for a few months and Ty chose Jade INSTEAD OF ME to read him his afternoon book. My first thought was to recoil and start reeling in that rope… but luckily I got ahold of myself. There have also been times when Ty has tried to grab so much, no, TOO much of the rope for him to handle. Like the time he was 2 years old and used a variety of household items — fire poker, stool, hanger — to try and break into Grandma’s car.
Last week Ty turned five. Before his birthday I thought I would be terribly depressed and blue at the thought of his turning five. I thought I would have “rope burns” as a bit more of the rope was yanked through my hands. Instead, I found myself willing handing it over with a quiet peace of mind that although my boy was growing up, that he was exactly where he was supposed to be and so was I.
I teased him by saying, “When you turn five, will you still hug me?” “Yes!” he said. “Will you still wanna cuddle?” “Yes!” he yelled. “Will you still climb into bed with me when you have a bad dream?” “Yes, MOMMY,” he said, “I will always hug you and kiss you and wanna sleep with you and cuddle you and love you and give you MARATHON kisses!” And, I know that all of this is not exactly the truth. He will, afterall, go on to love other people — his wife, his kids, his grandkids. And I will almost for sure be the overbearing mother in law that makes everyone’s eyes roll. Showing up with my color coded calendar of activities and still licking my finger to wipe a smudge off of his cheek. But, I do know that my love for him is a gift. That NO ONE will ever love HIM like I do. No one. Because no one loves you like your mom. And, I get to be “mom.” And that is a good thing.
So, avast the sails, me hearties. May the force be with you. Up, up and away. Get out your decorder ring. Dig up some T-rex bones. And have a very Happy Mother’s Day!
I love being a mom. Even when I am cringing at the sounds of my son’s voice, or exhausted by how buying the “right” coat for an 8th grade girl can feel like Middle East peace negotiations, I am glad that I am a mom. But, being a mom has made me needy. Very needy. Almost to the point where I wonder if there is some 12-step program for moms (if there isn’t, maybe there should be).
Mostly I need sleep. And I need adult food – like steak or red curry or expensive hamburgers. I also often need new clothes – ones that are not covered with someone else’s food or don’t embarrass my older girls at their complete lack of coolness. I probably need some new vernacular, too. Words like “cool” or “awesome” are so “ghetto” and not “tight”at all (how am I doing?).
I also need a lot of Grace. And I do mean Grace with the big “G”. Every single day I make mistakes that I can only pray do not send my kids to years and years of therapy someday. Like the time I was so frustrated with Ty’s behavior I threatened to take away his birthday or when I insisted that Izzy take off the “ugly” head band for her school pictures or just how every year going to get the Christmas tree results in some form of tension between Dave and me, but I still insist on loading all 7 of us up in the mini-van the Saturday after Thanksgiving to go get a damn tree and begin Christmas!
Ugh.
I also need my kids to hug me, and kiss me. Probably more than they need me to kiss and hug them. I need to take their pictures in such a way that they will see what I saw at each stage. I need to fill their babybooks with snippets that will help me remember everything. I need to be treated tenderly because my heart now lives on the outside and walks and talks and eats and poops. I need to pray and pray and pray that all 5 will be safe and healthy and that their teachers will love them and that their friends will be kind to them and that someday they will find someone to love them and that, hence, I will get grandkids that hopefully will sleep through the night and eat all their veggies and never scrape their knees.
I could go on and on. Like I said, I am very needy. And I love being a mom.
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