tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81613025414702807502024-03-13T17:35:17.649-04:00Mama daysDaily trials of mama-ing here in the 21st century.Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.comBlogger377125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-86935917245618557602016-03-26T22:24:00.001-04:002016-03-27T20:46:32.767-04:00magic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My son (age 8) still believes. Believes in it all. Santa, the tooth fairy, the wood fairies that live in the "enchanted forest" behind our house (the ones that periodically leave a gift of a glass gem or gold bell), the Switch Witch who comes on Halloween and trades your candy for a toy. Once in a while he makes a grand announcement that he, in fact, does not believe, but then the Switch Witch fails to trade candy for toy on the first night because, even though she was at Target returning things two days before halloween, she forgot all about her duties and neglected to pick anything up. But my son's crushing disappointment leads me to conclude that his proclamations are just for show. He believes.<br />
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And tomorrow is Easter. Although I'm pretty sure that the Easter Bunny comes of her own accord and does her thing unbidden, my kids decided to hedge their bets and leave a note with requests. Clark's note says: "Instead of a stuffed animal, can you leave me a playmobil set?" Pretty sure that's not gonna happen. And there are carrots for goodwill or, perhaps, bribery.<br />
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For a while I worried that Frances, in particular, was getting too old for this belief. She will be 10 by next Christmas, and aren't we in dangerous territory if she is still hanging on? As a child I was unburdened of belief at age four, so I don't understand the value of continued belief, don't understand what good it does developmentally. But my most recent thought is that there is no harm. That, in fact, belief in this kind of magic is important, that it enables them to believe in unseen things later on: friendship, love, God, goodness.<br />
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In fact, isn't Santa really God embodied?? The one who sees us when we are sleeping, he knows when we're awake. He knows if you've been bad or good. He hands down judgements from on high: toys or coal, but who gets coal? A benevolent kind grandfatherly type, and he loves you so much you get to sit on his lap! The protestant ideal.<br />
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Plus, I've come to believe they will arrive at the Truth on their own.<br />
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So I've let go of the worry. I do not lie to them; when they ask directly (the boy has asked maybe twice in his life) if Santa or the Easter Bunny is real, I simply turn the questions around: "What do you think?" And he enters into a lengthy monologue about his thinking, demonstrating that he wasn't really interested in my answer after all-- he simply wanted an outlet for this thoughts.<br />
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Just before this past Christmas, two of his school friends kept telling him that Santa isn't real. He didn't know what to make of this. He brought it up to me several times, what these friends were saying, but interestingly during this time he never asked me directly. Finally he said that he had proven to one of them that Santa is indeed real: he said, "If Santa isn't real, when you write him a letter, where does it go?" His friend said, "Nevermind," and dropped the subject. <br />
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And Clark knew then that he had stumped him.<br />
Indeed.<br />
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He is the more mathematical and scientific minded of the two. She is the artistic one. Her belief is less wavering-- when he first announced that he thought it was perhaps parents and not Santa or the Easter Bunny that brought things, she said, "Maybe it's the fairies!"<br />
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Yet I see the questions behind her eyes. I hear her mind whir when she asks what's in the sealed box filled with Easter candy she happened upon. She chooses to accept my explanation, but she wonders. She suspects. She sneaks around and leaves presents for Clark from the "fairies" or "leprechauns" and shushes me not to tell him. She plays the game for him, the bringer of joy. She understands the function of the magic. She chooses to believe. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-85763533288850317352016-03-03T22:12:00.001-05:002016-03-03T22:12:27.075-05:00hello again.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Things are changing for me. I'm in a kind of personal transition, a remaking of myself, a shift of identity and approach. I feel it inside my bones, a basal sliding. And it's most evident right now in my parenting. I'm becoming a different parent.<br />
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I haven't written here in a long time. I haven't wanted to. I started the blog when my babies were tiny, to help me through the trials of having tiny babies, and two of them so close together. Around the time Clark turned five I realized I didn't need this blog anymore in the same way. I no longer had babies. My work was no longer the universal work of caring for these tiny people, but was now the complicated work of relationship. And I didn't want to write about that. It felt too personal.<br />
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But now... now I want to write again. Now I'm seeing them through new eyes. It's a change in me, the frame through which I look, and I need to process it again.<br />
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I thought about starting a new blog--that perhaps this one is finished, or that it is too awkward for me to come back here after so much time away; but here is where I write about these children, after all.<br />
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They are different now--they are full people for sure. Clark will be eight on Tuesday, four days from now. Today when I picked him up from school I told him to put on his hat and gloves because the dog and I had walked, and he said, "Awwww! I don't want to walk-- I'm tired." And then he happily hopped from snow pile to snow pile all the way home. The snow here has warmed and softened, and then frozen again, so is a kind of snow cement, the kind you can mostly walk on top of without breaking through, or can slide down the mountain side of the plow pile, a miniature glacier at the end of each driveway. Clark's trick was to slide down on his feet, to land right side up. At one point, watching his evident joy at simply being outside, I said, "It's too bad we walked. You're not having any fun." And he grinned at me.<br />
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I want to hug them more. I want to hear them talk. Before, I was emotionally exhausted, was overwhelmed, had trouble giving them my energy. Now I want to be with them. Tremors underfoot.<br />
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Frances is nine. She wants all the grown up things--the make up and the clothes and the music, and I've surprised myself that I haven't wanted to resist her more. I loved that little girl she was, but I'm fine with the change. She's not allowed to wear makeup out of the house, but she often wears it inside, and yesterday we went shopping for bras--well, bralettes, little thin sports bra type things with no padding--even though she is shaped the same as she was at five, just taller. She says they keep her warmer, here in the snow belt. Perhaps.<br />
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This age is better for me. I loved the little ones, but they pushed my every button, and without meaning to. Somehow the preschool age in particular triggered things in me--I think the tortured child inside me is probably that age. This age doesn't push my buttons the same way. Even the eye rolls, the defiance--I can handle that so much better. Maybe this is why I don't mind the make up and bras-- because the younger ages weren't easy for me to begin with. Maybe I'm eager to let it go.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-24383566175679837392015-02-26T10:21:00.002-05:002015-02-26T10:23:34.287-05:00anniversary<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Fifteen years ago today I woke up in my old life. I called my friend Jim to see if he was going swing dancing later that night but Jim wasn't home. Instead, his roommate Mitch answered the phone. (Ah, landlines) We chatted. We chatted some more. We talked about our recent failed romantic endeavors and who knows what else. Eventually Mitch invited himself to come with me to the coffee shop. We spent that whole day together-- played chess, ate lunch at First Carolina Deli, threw frisbee in the park-- and danced together that night. It was in the park on the cool grass and warm sunshine that I looked at Mitch and realized everything had changed. From that day on we were together. Five months later we moved to Idaho. Two years later we were married. Six years later we had our first baby. And this morning -- fifteen years later -- I was awakened in snowy upstate NY by a girl lying on top of me, the full long length of her, saying, "I love you, Mommy. Time to get up!"</div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-52004486375167805572015-02-26T09:34:00.001-05:002015-03-02T22:45:35.618-05:00resistance, disconnection, and Clarktime<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There was a time -- about a year, in fact -- when Clark's response to every single request, no matter how minor or innocuous, was NO. (He was not two when this happened, by the way. He was five.) "Clark, please buckle your seat belt," "Clark, please wash your hands for dinner, " "Clark, it's time to put on jammies," "Clark, can you please clean up your legos?" No. Nonononono. Sometimes a screaming <i style="font-weight: bold;">NO!!! </i><br />
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I thought I had broken him somehow.<br />
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And then one day he said something amazing. He said, "okay." It was shocking. He started saying it more and more. "Clark, please put on your shoes so we can go." "Okay, Mama." Every time he did it I was stunned briefly. I realized it had indeed been a stage. The No Stage. We had moved on! But, of late, at 6 1/2, he has slipped back in. I'm beginning to believe this is just his way, his <i>style</i>.<br />
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My latest response is to look at him calmly, pull out my phone, and say, "Just a moment. I'll be with you in a moment. I just need to make a note..." When he asks what I'm doing I explain, "Oh, just making a note of how you are unwilling to comply with this very simple and reasonable request, so that I'll remember when you next ask for me to help you with something." Last night his next request came -- I am not kidding -- within two minutes. It's a problem, frankly, that I do too much for him anyway. So when he, mere moments later, asked me to bring him the scissors, I said, "No, I don't feel like it." He smirked. I said it many more times in the next hour, as it turns out he asks for my help about every five minutes. Each time he smiled a little, a sort of understanding smirk. Maybe it will work. At least it may teach him the reciprocal nature of relationships, rather than my lording over him and forcing him to put the dang cereal box away. And yet, perhaps at 7 years old, he is still too young for this reciprocal concept of help to mean too much to him.<br />
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<a href="http://www.ahaparenting.com/">A-Ha Parenting</a> says that his unwillingness to be helpful and agreeable is about his disconnection with me, and that<a href="http://www.ahaparenting.com/parenting-tools/positive-discipline/use-positive-discipline"> if I can fix our connection,</a> his attitude will change. I will buy this. When he was little, probably around 1 and 2, I was so depressed and impatient, and I was not a stellar mom. He was a screamer then too, and sometimes when his screaming button was stuck on and my migraines were active and my patience was thin thin thin, I screamed back at him. Sometimes I was rough with him. Sometimes I put my hands on him. Sometimes I frightened him. Sometimes I hated myself. I feel certain that I taught him that I could not be trusted, that I was not entirely on his side. So, yes, the connection could use some fixing. (Or is this just the way of the world, his story and mine, and the damage done? Should we just go forward from here and hope for the best? I have no idea. No one has any idea how to do any of this, it seems to me. But I do take solace in Dr Laura Markham in that she says the connection can always be repaired, though it may take time and considerable energy. I choose to have hope.)<br />
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So yesterday I also began something else new: Clark Time. It's <a href="http://www.ahaparenting.com/BlogRetrieve.aspx?PostID=209534&A=SearchResult&SearchID=8661136&ObjectID=209534&ObjectType=55">what A-Ha Parenting suggests</a> (they call it <a href="http://www.ahaparenting.com/BlogRetrieve.aspx?PostID=209534&A=SearchResult&SearchID=8661136&ObjectID=209534&ObjectType=55">Special Time</a>), setting aside time that belongs to the child only, 15 minutes where you do nothing but be with him, and play whatever he chooses (actually they say 10 but that seemed too short to me). No fixing dinner, checking your phone, helping another kid. His time alone. Frances had gone upstairs to practice her ukelele and he asked for me to help with something, so I thought it a good time to introduce. I told him about it, told him we could do whatever he wanted except screen time. I set the timer. He chose for me to help him cut out paper puppets from his Mo Willems Pigeon activity book, and then we colored together.<br />
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The 15 minutes went so quickly for me that I eased the timer back a bit when he wasn't looking. Funny thing -- I didn't want it to be over so soon! Today we organized his Pokemon cards, and again I didn't want it to end. I had a great time. It will be interesting to see if it changes his behavior on a larger scale. I have no idea...<br />
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I've also started -- just last night -- taking a parenting class about play therapy. I will be trying out some of their ideas with Clark too. Will keep you updated.<br />
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It stands to reason that we can indeed heal wounds, and that we can show people we have changed, that we can be trusted although we could not previously. It's a malleable world we live in.<br />
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I teach a writing class and the women in it are my mother's age. I love them oh so dearly, think of them as very wise and wonderful. Yesterday I was talking about this issue with Clark, and they all said, "Don't worry. The relationship will fix itself." At first I took solace, but then I realized they are of my mother's generation, the generation that parented me, and perhaps they were speaking out of that generation's perspective and limited wisdom. My generation is certainly trying to do things differently than have ever --really -- been done before. The world is different now, faster moving with more pressures and choices, and we have seen how our parents failed us, not simply as individuals, but as an entire generation. Our parents were not prepared to parent in this new changing disconnected world. They didn't have the tools. We are trying to acquire them now. Godspeed.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-28266832962757423602015-01-30T12:38:00.000-05:002015-01-30T12:38:57.807-05:00snowbelt winter, and my kids at 8 and almost 7<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I heard from two different folks that the sunrise this morning was spectacular, but I'm having trouble imagining that because it would require SUN and today is so completely soaked in gray that I feel it press up against me.<br />
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Yesterday there was sun. For the first time in a hundred years, a full sunny day, glistening on the snow, amazing, delicious. I walked the dog for a long time, even though the air was cold cold cold. I felt like I was drinking long pulls of cool water, the sun. That was yesterday. Today there is steel gray everything plus hail. </div>
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I definitely have the winter blues. Seasonal affective disorder. Cabin fever. Crazy person syndrome. The conviction that everything is heavy, everything is hard, everyone is tired, life is monotone and endless. Doesn't that sound great? </div>
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We live in the SnowBelt and this is an actual <i>Thing</i>-- four cities in a line, snug up against Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, all writhing under the power of Lake Effect. We get more snow than anyone else in the country (although whenever I see those statistics I never see Alaska listed. Do they just think of Alaska in another class? Are they only interested in continental US? And how on earth does anyone live in the Alaska winter anyway? I cannot imagine. Rather, I <i>can</i> imagine--SnowBelt cold and gray but with less light and more dreary dreariness. What I can't imagine is how people live and work there and come out sane on the other end). </div>
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It hasn't been snowing much this year. Winter is always gray and cold, but usually there is more snow, more of it blowing around in the air. I miss it. It's what makes all this tolerable. </div>
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Ok, I'm done with the weather.</div>
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Frances says she wants to grow up and marry a regular guy and he will win the lottery (why he instead of she?) and they will live in a mansion with a pool and go to Disney world and have three kids two boys and a girl. And for work she will be a bartender. </div>
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I said, "That's your plan? <i>That's</i> what you aspire to do with your life?" Wow. </div>
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Clark said he is going to grow up and not have kids although the getting married thing is unclear, and he will have a cabin in the woods and collect shotguns. He will also have a house in the country. And for work he will be an artist. </div>
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Who are these kids? And what on earth does Frances know about tending bar? For the record, they haven't been to Disney and no one in our family owns a gun, shotgun or otherwise. No idea. </div>
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Recently I had two far away friends ask me to post again on the blog, a way to keep up with me and with the kids. And recently two new friends asked to see the blog so I forwarded them a link. Whenever anyone asks to see the blog I take a look at it too, try to see what they will see, and then I get a bit sidetracked reading about my kids when they were littler. So much of it I don't remember, and I'm so glad I have it written down. <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2010/09/looking-for-suggestions.html">One of the posts I read</a> was about toddler Clark and how to keep him in his bed at night, and I asked for help and suggestions. <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2010/09/looking-for-suggestions.html?showComment=1284562922115#c6787672879566219272">One of the comments</a> (by anonymous) said: "<span style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">OMG. Makes me so glad for picking a sleeping philosophy and sticking with it. Parenting doesn't have to mean giving up your life, your boundaries, and routines.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">My suggestion? Toddler bed--not a fancy bribe, just a bed. In his room. (It's where one sleeps.) Put him back. And back. And back. And back. Period. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #202020; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18.200000762939453px;">I just don't see it as subjecting him to some awful powerlessness. Kids need to know that a trusted adult will make decisions, provide structure, be in control, and can be relied on to do just that."</span></div>
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Thing is, I wasn't always a trusted adult, I don't think. I wasn't always in control. Sometimes I pulled the van into the garage and sat in the driver's seat with my head on the steering wheel, sobbing. Sometimes when Clark wouldn't stay in his room, I would become every so slightly hysterical and scream a tiny bit and lose my cool. Sometimes the gray and the toddler hysteria and the schlepping of things and the lack of support and the complete tetheredness was simply too much for me and I would break. Just a little. I agree that kids need a trusted adult to help them cope with their big and confusing feelings, but sometimes a trusted adult simply isn't available. It's unfortunate. It's imperfect. It's the way it is. </div>
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But now--now that they are in first and second grades, now that Frances is 8 and Clark is almost 7, now that they can dress themselves and feed themselves and empty the dishwasher and vacuum the family room-- now I can be a trusted adult. Now I can stand solidly on the ground and provide a home base, a place to reground, to regroup, to check in to see if everything is normal, is ok. Now I think of myself as a good parent (thank all that is good and holy). My earlier struggle was the primary impetus for the blog in the first place. Which perhaps is why I slid away.</div>
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But since loved ones have requested, and since I'm still teaching the memoir class and wanting to do some writing too, I'm going to spend some time here. Hello again! If anyone is still out there, hello!!</div>
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-12809890651726342822014-11-12T19:44:00.000-05:002014-12-01T08:59:11.963-05:00Back on the horse, and Halloween Sleep<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A couple of weeks ago was halloween. Some of my friends think it's nuts, but we don't limit how much candy the kids eat on halloween; we feel they need to experience the glory of gorging now and then, and the sickness of what happens after. If they don't do it now they certainly will do it later, so why not be present for the fall out.<br />
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But that's just the set up for what I want to talk about. The gorging, of course, took place late in the evening, after much tearing around the neighborhood in a frantic trick or treat blitzkrieg, when they usually would be going to bed. They aren't used to very much sugar in their little bodies, and certainly not so much chocolate-bound caffeine, and I was certain they weren't going to sleep very well.<br />
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Do you know about the Switch Witch? She has a very strong sweet tooth, or is perhaps quite greedy--hard to say--but if you leave your candy out for her she will take it in exchange for a toy. She browsed the aisles of Target a couple of days ago and the comedy is not lost on me that she emerged with a small Ninjago Lego set for Clark and a Barbie with a blue stripe in her hair for Frances. (A couple of years ago, wedded to the Waldorf Way, I would not have seen this coming. Funny how you don't know what kind of parent you're going to be.)<br />
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Nonetheless, the Switch Witch arrived, claimed her candy and delivered her gifts not long after the kids were asleep. Mitch and I stayed up for a long while after that, and then at midnight as we lay in bed talking, Clark awoke to use the bathroom. Mitch and I got quiet and listened (whispering that someone needed to put on some <i>clothes</i>), then huddled under the covers as Clark entered our room, eyes bleary and hair a mess, his lego set clutched in his hand. He clearly thought it was morning, and when we explained and then convinced by showing him the clock, he climbed into our bed beside me, pulled the covers up around him, and fell asleep.<br />
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Mitch and I stayed where we were and whispered for a good while, somehow got on the subject of when the kids were babies and no one ever slept through the night. How long did that go on, I wondered, the not sleeping? Was I sleep deprived for years on end? And why is it that I don't remember clearly? Because I was so sleep deprived? Or because of the general amnesia that comes with being a mom?<br />
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I remember this: when they were still nursing but no longer newborns, they woke once a night to eat, and then when they weened (they both self weened: Frances at 6 months (no idea why on earth..) and Clark at a year) they still woke and had to be helped back to sleep. What did we do? Rock them? Hold them? Why can't I remember? After talking a while with Mitch I did remember the sound of the cry rising up, a complaint, a whine, nothing too urgent at first. And Mitch or I would nudge the other, say the kid's name, and the other would roll out of bed and stumble into the hallway before opening an eye.<br />
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We played musical beds-- everyone started in his own, but sometime in the night a kid would cry and one of us would go to him, and lie down in his bed, and fall asleep there. This is why they both have full beds rather than twin. Or a kid would come to our room and want in bed with us. We tried to mostly take her back to her room and lie there with her, but sometimes that was too much to accomplish, and the kid made her way under our own covers. Two hours later, when I realized I was sleeping not even a little with a writhing slumbering child up against me, I would remove myself from my bed and retreat to her now empty child's one. Many a morning I woke there alone, the sun gleaming through her pink curtains. It's all coming back to me now.<br />
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For years I didn't sleep a full night. Years. It wasn't bad--it wasn't 4 times a night like some moms complain. I didn't think too much of it. There was a point with Clark where I did get desperate enough to ask advice on facebook about how to keep him in his bed, asleep, but for the most part I just took it as the texture of this chapter of our lives.<br />
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And now! Now everyone sleeps in his own bed. For the whole night. Every night. Every night except Halloween when some people wake to pee at midnight and think it's 7 am. Now everyone sleeps in his own bed every night and wakes in the morning and goes downstairs and pours his own cereal into bowls he himself has fetched from the cabinet. And I sleep on.<br />
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I wonder how much of my current parenting sanity has to do with sleep alone. It's impossible to say, but I wonder anyway.<br />
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There was a woman in Target day before yesterday with 2 babies in a stroller. I asked her how close in age they were, and she said 364 days. She was smiling, pleasant, didn't look strung out or unbathed or filled with rage. "How is it? Is it hard?" I asked. She shrugged. Shrugged! "It's great!" she said. "Well, they both sleep through the night, so that helps." "You must have lots of family to help," I said. "I do."<br />
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I've been teaching a writing class for over a year now, reading their stories and commenting, digesting and suggesting, and it's been making me want to write. I keep wanting to write, but I keep not writing. But here I am! Look at this! My blog--at least it's a start. Maybe it will be something larger next. It's like doing cartwheels after so long. A little dizzying, but the legs are straight I'm pretty sure. Cartwheels down the driveway and after a bit they curve and you lose control, there's only so many you can do in a row. But here I am. Showing up. Excellent.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-63165390101792897562013-11-17T21:02:00.000-05:002013-11-17T21:02:53.244-05:00keep this moment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Wegmans on a Sunday, midday, is a crazy place. Craaazy. I didn't know so many people even <i>lived</i> here, much less shopped all at once. I tell you this this because the kids and I found ourselves there last Sunday at 2pm. Although both kids wanted to hang off the sides of the cart like trash men, I said someone had to ride <i>in</i> the cart because the store was just too damn crowded. They decided they both wanted to, one sitting between the other's legs, stacked back to front like a train. I pointed out that if they were both in the cart the food wasn't going to fit. "Sure it will," said Clark. "We can sit on it."<br />
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They had a blast. Seeing as my cart was 95lbs heaver than it should be, I focused on not plowing over people's ankles, so I wasn't paying much attention to the letter of their play, but jeez they were having some fun. Laughing and laughing and rocking the cart, funny faces and funny scenarios and funny rhymes. Everyones' heads turned when we passed. In every aisle. Frances happens to have the best laugh on the planet, magic chimes in her belly (seriously - someone needs to record it for advertisements) and they drew mega attention.<br />
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One woman covered her mouth to try to keep from laughing at them. As we squeezed between her and the coffee grinder she said, "I'm sorry. It's probably not helpful. I can't help it." Another person asked, "are they always this happy?" "<i>Absolutely</i>," I said.<br />
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At home afterwards, I marveled at how pleasant it all was. Me, two kids, Wegmans midday on a Sunday. How did we get here? It feels like a room we accidentally wandered into.<br />
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The next day my friend Emily came over with her two kids. Apparently she had spent some time wandering the extremely crowded aisles of Wegmans herself, and she described her experience in colorful detail. She did not have the miraculous and unanticipated success that I had (no one even hassled me for the free cookie! They were having too much fun to even remember!!).<br />
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Emily's description of her 23-month-old's flinging himself to the floor in the checkout line and taking the two bottom rows of candy bars with him was hilarious, and it also made me <i>realize something:</i> I don't remember! I don't remember. I don't remember exactly how trying it is to grocery shop with a toddler. I remember the comedy, and the anxiety about what was to come as I pulled into the parking lot, but not the dark desperation, the embarrassment, the feeling of failure.<br />
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Clark is only five and a half. I know moms forget, that somehow the human brain filters out the horrific numbing exhaustion and defeat (and the labor contractions), and keeps safe the memory of pure love and adorableness. But that quickly? It was only 3 years ago that I wrote <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2010/11/i-have-no-dishwasher-and-no-camera.html">this blog post</a>. It hasn't been long. Although he's bigger, he still has to watch counter corners for fear of whacking his head. He's <i>little</i>. He still wants to be carried and sleeps with his blankie and cries if the legos won't snap together easily.<br />
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It's bizarre that our mama minds do that with so much sweep and reach. This ability is, of course, what keeps the human race from becoming extinct, but it is also why women put such pressure on each other inadvertently: they only remember the joy joy joy and can only assume you are feeling it too. Which you are. Just not at this moment in the check out line <i>yes they are adorable thank you for saying so i'm trying to enjoy every minute yes I know it goes by so quickly no pressure there. </i>Which makes you feel like you must be doing it all wrong for it to be so painful that you want to burst into hot tears this minute.<br />
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But you're not. Doing it wrong. And I'm not either, cuz hey look at the cool battery robots we made yesterday with a box of batteries and a glue gun! Plus, yay us we made it through Wegmans without anybody shouting or crying or even whining! I think I'll pat myself on the back for that. Pat pat.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-29887672483368400602013-11-17T20:39:00.000-05:002013-11-17T20:39:08.023-05:00clutter makes me craaaazzzzyyy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I wrote this post last month and I don't know what happened or why it wasn't posted, but here it is. It's mostly one long gripe, and if you're not up for that at the moment I suggest you skip it. But since my mom prints these blog posts and I collect them in a giant binder as a sort of record of the childhood of my children, I'm going to post it. Cheers!<br />
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Last month, the night before Frances's 7th birthday, I sat down on the family room floor at 11pm with wrapping paper and the biggest stack of gifts I've seen since last christmas. Seriously - it looked like christmas. Gifts from us, from my dad, from Mitch's parents. Multiple from each. I had a moment of pure panic that the affluence in which we are raising our children, are raising this entire generation, is going to have dire consequences down the road. I think I have this same panic every birthday and christmas as I arm myself with scissors and tape and colorful paper. It makes me want to 1) give the kid only half of what I have in front of me, saving the other half for the next holiday, and 2) throw out or goodwill or recycle 80% of the toys we already own. I seriously need some new storage options.<br />
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Let me tell you: it was a bumpy start to the school year. Everyone came down with a hideous flu about 10 minutes after school started (here I am complaining though I promised I wouldn't in a <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2013/09/new-world-big-kids.html">previous post</a>. So sorry.), and Frances missed 5 of the first 8 days of school. For me, of course, the flu hung on and hung on way past when the kids were well and doing laps around the first floor, and since all I could muster was the minimal in the way of meals and not much else but lying on the couch, my house went to shit. Major clutter like a tide rising that I can't dam. It just builds and builds, piles of paper creeping creeping growing across counters, heaps of used but still clean sweatshirts and fleeces and blankets and I don't know what all on chairs and sofas, baskets of clean laundry to fold, toys toys toys.<br />
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Clutter makes me anxious.<br />
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I used to have this magical and inexplicable relationship with a sitter wherein she whisked the kids away one afternoon a week, fed them dinner elsewhere, bathed them and put them in jammies, then texted me to tell me she was on her way so I could vacate the premises for their arrival. While they were gone I straightened the house. All of it. Then I breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I received her text, walked the dog, and didn't have to participate in bedtime. After she and the kids were upstairs and in bed I would sneak back in the house and down into the basement where I would finish the laundry. It was heaven.<br />
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But she went and got engaged, and now is busy planning a wedding (in which my kids are the flower girl and ring master, as Clark likes to call it). She doesn't have time for a sandwich much less kid occupying. And I don't have the quiet of an empty house to straighten. Turns out a solid straighten every 7 days is really what it takes to keep us from sinking under papers, random plastic things, loose change. I gotta figure something out. I apparently can't get the house organized when the kids are here, leaving debris behind them like a cyclone.<br />
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A couple of years ago someone handed me a book called The Highly Sensitive Person. It's a bad name for what the author is trying to get across, which is not emotional sensitivity (getting feelings easily hurt) but sensory sensitivity - to noise, crowds, commotion, chaos. I'd never before thought of myself as a sensitive person in this way, but turns out I am. It helped me to see myself differently and to respect my limitations a bit more.<br />
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All of this is to say that the clutter in my house is making me NUTSO. (This post is really just one big whine) I have got to get a handle on it. Next year the kids will both be in school full day and then I will have no excuses. I can't wait.</div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-45832518681836351852013-10-04T16:33:00.000-04:002013-11-17T20:33:22.309-05:00supermom yearning is the pits<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm exhausted. All from stressing myself out.<br />
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Today is Frances's 7th birthday, and I didn't start seriously planning her party or considering gifts until about 4 days ago. Thank you thank you Amazon Prime and your 2 day shipping, else I would be seriously up a creek.<br />
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Plus, pinterest. I opened my pinterest app yesterday, knowing full well the danger and believing I could guard against the pressure to be<i> </i>Lunatic Perfect Mama<i>,</i> but still wanting - needing - to get some help and ideas for the party that is going to take place mere days from now. Which I got: thank you beaded fairy bubble wands and mushrooms made from apple slices and marshmallows. But I also - of course - got the other too. The pressure to make a cake like <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/236720524136564980/">this one</a>, to set up a party that looks like <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/188869778092344490/">this one</a> (or <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/116952921542980198/">this one</a>, or <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/218987600600725766/">this one</a>), to go above and way beyond and create something <i>magical</i> that my child will remember <i>forever</i>. Which of course she won't. Which is why I am having a Perfectly Acceptable party that includes popcorn and grapes for snack, sidewalk chalk on the driveway, and decorate your own cupcakes rather than <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/102175485267015406/">the masterpiece I usually attempt</a>.<br />
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I have to keep reminding myself: Good Enough Mama is actually healthier for the kids, sanely deciding to forego the cake in favor of less stress, being able to enjoy books on the couch instead of rushing stressing short tempered all to win the non-existant pinterest award. Still, I <i>cannot </i>get the voice out of my head that says I'm a bad mama if I can't do <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/102175485267015406/">this</a> again (the link is <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/102175485267015406/">the cake I made for her 5th birthday fairy party</a>), when in fact all the kids want to do is play together. That cake does not make me a good mama, although it was fun and I'm very proud of it.<br />
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I was going to do away with a cake not only for the party, but even for tonight, the actual birthday night, and was going to take the kids to Wegmans to pick out the these super fancy cupcakes they always beg for. (You gotta see these things. Seriously gross major white flour white sugar all sugar rush and crash. If I ate one of those things I might die. But also amazing for a grocery store. That place may be the #1 reason to live in Rochester. Not kidding.)<br />
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Then after school Frances mentioned her cake for tonight, and there I was, 4 pm, turning on the oven and tying my apron. I opened a 1945 Better Homes and Gardens and made a chocolate fudge cake recipe I've never tried before. I used 1/2 whole wheat flour and 1/2 Bob's Red Mill gluten free mix. As we sat down to dinner (take out chinese, at Frances's request) I put the two layers in the fridge to cool enough to frost, which I did with plain whipping cream because I didn't have time to make actual frosting. It was delicious.<br />
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And because of the cake, because I was able to whip it up at the last minute, from scratch, a double layer frosted in pale yellow with pink sprinkles, for that evening I felt like Supermom. I keep thinking about <a href="http://www.sowonderfulsomarvelous.com/2013/06/moms-when-are-you-going-to-learn.html">a post on another mom blog</a> that admits her strengths (pintrest worthy parties in fact) and acknowledges the things she doesn't do so well, not in a self-depreciating way, but in a <i>so what</i> way. (this is an excellent post, btw. Read it.) Cuz we all excel at something, we are all succeeding somewhere in our parenting. And none of us are doing it all. This is the trap pinterest brings us: the illusion that moms should be doing it all, and doing it with perfectly organized houses and great outfits. It's not true.<br />
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But it is true that we all do something beautifully, whether because we prioritize or because we're born with it, or because we outsource. (I make cakes!)<br />
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Even with that major cake success, the anxiety about the party 3 days from now has decended. I don't have time for perfect party planning.<i> </i>I don't have time. Last year I when I thought of <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2012/09/birthday-drama.html">decorate your own cupcakes</a> (her birthday falls in a really inconvenient time for party planning it turns out) I thought of myself as brillant. This year I just feel like a slacker. Which I'm not - I just seriously don't have time, it is clear I don't have time, <i>just acknowledge your limitations forcryingthefuckoutloud</i>.<br />
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Sheesh. I've gotta give myself a break. Sometimes the guilty parenting voices are so <i>loud</i>. And not only do they lie to you and take up space in your brain, but they suck your energy and keep you from being the best mom you can be. The good enough mom. That one.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-51611802124019301622013-09-29T19:45:00.001-04:002013-09-29T19:45:26.631-04:00new world, big kids<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I guess I need to address the very obvious fact that I've been away awhile. Looked like I jumped ship, didn't it? Not entirely true, because I've been writing half posts and never completing them, thinking about writing posts that I don't even begin. And then there's that other blog still percolating. I'm inclined to believe that intention should count for something, somewhere.<br />
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And then in that last post I didn't even acknowledge the oh-so-long break in posts. That's because I got moving with the writing and didn't want to stop for explanations.<br />
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Let's just pretend that you're already caught up, shall we? I hate coming back after a break because I feel I have to address the absence in a post that isn't really a post but some space filler of explanation that essentially always means the same thing: blah blah blah. Life takes a winding course and except for tragedy it's all mostly the same. I'll let you know if there are any tragedies.<br />
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I've moved into a new parenting time slot, did you know? Since I last hung out with you there have been major developmental changes. I heard this truth most loudly at an event for folks with babies and very young children recently. I happened to be there without kids so my attention was not diverted by my perpetual role as referee (oh the bickering drives me craaaazzzyyy). I looked around at the strollers and diaper bags and parents chasing escapee toddlers, and I thought "I don't live in this world anymore." It was a funny realization, especially since it should have been obvious. Those days were so tiring, a hundred hours each, and ran on one after the other without pause. Although intellectually I knew it wouldn't last forever, I never believed it. Suddenly I felt naked without my stroller: a kind of shield, a buttress, and let's face it - so helpful with the schlepping of stuff.<br />
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Things changed and I didn't even notice when it happened. I've moved from babiesandpreschoolers to schoolagedkids. The most obvious illustration of this new world is <i>school</i>, but the most important difference is developmental. It has to do with a mental progression, an ability to understand explanations, to not completely lose one's shit when asked to clean up the legos, to control reactions when frustrated hungry tired overwrought. Mostly.<br />
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The immediate down side is that the first of school also (evidently) means a soup of germs, which felled us straight away. Looking back on this blog, I want to acknowledge that I have spent a good amount of time enumerating our illnesses, which are many. I've spent a lot of time complaining about being ill, about fevers and stomach flus and many tv filled sick days in preschool. More weight in illness than a blog should carry. So none of that now except to say that because I've done nothing but lie on the couch or take care of sick kids for over 2 weeks now, my house is a DISASTER. Which makes me Crazy Lady. Just so you know the temperature of our spaceship.<br />
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So. Kindergarten and First Grade. A brave new world. I no longer have a child in the Waldorf school, which is sad, but it's also kind of exciting for the next thing, for us to be <i>here</i>.<br />
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And where is here? It is with a girl turning seven this minute, a girl who is sometimes overcome with so much love that she just has to <i>say</i> it, "I love you <i>so much</i>, Mama."It is here with a boy who is right on the very tip edge of losing the last of his babyness, and he's scared to see it go, scared not to be a baby and feel coddled, scared to have to <i>learn </i>and<i> accomplish</i> things.<br />
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It is here. Here where we all put on our shoes and our jackets at 8 am, leash the dog and trek to school 3 blocks away, watching for the trolls under the bridge. Here where Clark often pulls away from my kisses, where Frances is apart from me all day in a climate I know very very little about. It's odd to have her gone away from me so much, to feel so out of touch with her social life. I have to just trust that she will make good decisions, that she will choose the way that is warmed by the light. I know that often when I ask about their days they will not tell me, and I have to be open and present, so that when they do want to talk I am listening. I don't want to miss it.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-42379785727651263312013-09-05T22:32:00.000-04:002013-09-29T19:40:37.773-04:00the whale bus<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I put both my kids on buses today. Separate buses, though they are going to the same school, because one kid is full day (her first full day experience!) and leaves at 8 am (FIRST GRADE!!) and the other has half day kindergarten (KINDERGARTEN!) in the afternoon so doesn't get on the bus til lunch.<br />
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While Clark and I waited in the front yard for his kindergarten bus, I took a good look at him. Sometimes when the light is right I can see the toddler I hold in my mind, the toddler that was him before he <i>became</i>. Sometimes, like today, I then look even harder and try to see the man he will become, or even the adolescent, but I can't, because that person doesn't exist yet. When I see pictures of his dimpled toddler self, I recognize the person he is now in that seed, but it's impossible to see it going forward. Right now he is only five. He is <i>Potential</i> for a full sized human, but he is not <i>Blueprint</i>. His five year old self does not guarantee any kind of future. Anything can happen between now and then that will shape who he will become, things that I do and decisions that I make as a parent, and things wholly out of my control, curves the world will throw at him that none of us will see coming.<br />
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Parenting, it often seems to me, is a large portion <i>helping</i> and <i>carrying</i> and <i>cooking</i> and <i>arguing</i> and <i>explaining </i>and <i>cajoling</i> (which is different from what it used to be, which was more physical labor - holding, carrying, lifting, rocking, wiping, schlepping.), but the most important part is the <i>releasing</i>. Which is what I watched myself do today. As they each climbed those huge steps onto the bus, one at 8am and the other at noon, I felt they were being swallowed by a whale who was then going to turn in the water and swim away. Right? That's pretty much it. I had to just stand and watch, wave goodbye.<br />
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My husband asked me recently what I do when I get in really cold water. You can seize up, clinch your fists, tense all your muscles to try to block the cold from getting into the deeper parts, or you can relax into it. Force your muscles to go soft, your breath to release. It's not <i>hard</i> to do - the releasing - but it's hard to <i>want</i> to do.<br />
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I told Clark this morning that it was amazing that this big boy in front of me (KINDERGARTEN!!) is the same little tiny baby I held 5 years ago. I told him that five years doesn't seem like a long time to grown ups although it seems like forever to him. (for good reason: it <i>is</i> forever to him. It's all he's experienced of <i>ever</i>.) The only constant is change, right?<br />
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And now I get to leave this blog post to walk to pick them up. We are fortunate to live in the same neighborhood as the elementary school, and I love walking to get them in the afternoon. Last year Clark walked with me to pick up Frances, and now I am going to get them both. I'm excited for them to start this new adventure, to hear how the world comes to them, what they've learned about life since being carried away from me this morning. It's a big ocean. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-42988713715399168582013-03-26T12:19:00.000-04:002013-03-26T12:21:55.089-04:00adjustment is hard<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It is an understatement to say I have a hard time with change. Adjustment to just about anything is slow and painful. (Well, not <i>anything</i>. I do love to move the furniture around.) Especially when the changes come in multiples - not good.<br />
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This past weekend the new Swiss student arrived. Roxane is her name and she is very nice and pleasant to be around. This arrangement is ostensibly to lighten my load and provide me with company, but it is also <i>change</i> <i>adjustment someone new in my house and in my family</i>. AND the <i>very same day</i> she arrived... the snow melted. All at once. All of it.<br />
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For just about everyone I know here in Western NY, snowmelt is to be celebrated. It means spring is (sometime in the future, after we muck through the season of <i>mud</i>) on its way. We didn't have a ton of snow this year, and much more cold rain than I would have liked, but the snow was enough that the rain didn't wash it away; it just packed it down and turned it into a kind of snow cement, a white covering over all the ground.<br />
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Snow literally changes the structure of our yard. There are shoveled paths where there use to be open space. Garden beds are covered over and cease to exist. Small mountains spring up on either side of the bottom of the driveway, mountains that are good for sledding down and hiding behind and bouldering over. Snow forts and snow walls are built, then shrink and shift and are rebuilt.<br />
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Then the snow melts.<br />
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The snow melts and the old yard is revealed. Hello garden. Hello dog poop. (seriously a lot of dog poop hidden under the snow.)<br />
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There's not really a way for it to happen gradually. One day the snow is there, and the next it is gone. The piles at the end of the driveways stay for an extra day or two (and the gigantic mountains in the backs of the parking lots could possibly stay til July), but all the expanse of white, the crunch and spread of it, all that has been visually stable for the past several months - it all just vanishes.<br />
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It's too jarring for me. I was not ready to be done with the snow. I am never ready, turns out. Nonetheless, the snow is gone, and a new person is here, and adjustment is hard. I spent the last few days in a dramatic kind of space, weeping and lamenting the change, though I have faith it will be great for everyone eventually. It will come, the settling. And then you know what will happen?? She will leave, and it will be <i>change adjustment someone gone from my house and family</i>, and I will fall apart for a spell. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-1935611602985500882013-03-11T16:56:00.001-04:002013-03-11T16:57:29.958-04:00conflict headaches harmony<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've been having near constant headaches for the past month (reason #1 for no recent blog posts) but they have let up a bit the last few days. Finally. Also, in the last few days my sanity has been less scarce. Interesting. Of course, it's much easier to be a sane parent when not in pain. No question there. But it seems to be more than just that.</div>
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I think it's the fighting. </div>
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The kids, of late, have been fighting. A lot. Mostly, Frances wants desperately to love Clark, wants to kiss him and hug him and help him, and when she does any of these things he grumps and physically pushes her away. She gets mad and calls him a name, and he hits her. It goes on like this over and over, and whatever we do just doesn't seem to work. I've dived back into my shelf of child rearing books for some help, and Mitch and I have been talking about different strategies. Interestingly, the thing that (momentarily) turned things around was random. </div>
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Frances fell down the stairs last week. Somersault kind of falling from the top, wooden stairs, terrible wails. She believed her leg was broken (which it isn't), and I'm sure it was terribly painful. The next day she had whiplash. I was in the garage getting something out of the car when it happened so I didn't hear the horrible sound of a body bumping down the stairs, but I could hear the wailing even before I got fully back inside. Clark was at the door with big eyes and said, "Mommy, Frances broke her leg!"</div>
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While Frances sat on my lap, then her dad's lap, then mine again (sometimes it would be best if a person could sit on two laps at once, that much comfort is needed), Clark stood around looking singularly uncomfortable. I asked him if he could bring a tissue for the tears and he quickly complied. He doesn't usually comply. In fact, he's incredibly difficult when asked to do just about anything. I'm hoping it's just a stage. </div>
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The next day, when he was still being kind and helpful to her, it occurred to me that this may be the first time in the last, oh, two years or so, that he's seen Frances distraught when he was not the cause. He's always the cause.</div>
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A couple of days after the fall I mentioned to Frances how well they'd been getting along and I asked her what seemed different to her, why she thought it was. She said it was because when Clark says, "No I don't want to play that," she is no longer saying, "Fine. Then I won't play with you."</div>
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"What do you say instead?" I asked.</div>
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"I ask him: what else do you want to play?" she said.</div>
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<i>Well</i>. That would make a difference.</div>
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"Why did you decide to stop responding that you won't play with him?" I asked.</div>
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"Because it's more fun to play with him than alone," she said.</div>
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She is six and is amazing to me. I didn't teach her that. I think I was an adult before I learned it was more fun when I didn't hang onto much of my irritation. Some people never learn it.</div>
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In any case, in the past 5 or 6 days we have gone WHOLE DAYS with no bickering. Really. I mean, <i>Holy Moly</i>. It's like living in a different country. Oh that I knew which path we took to get here, and that we could find it again in the future! Because I know well this too will not last.</div>
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Change is the only constant, change is the only constant. I repeat it like a mantra. </div>
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-28305904757290290502013-02-26T15:52:00.000-05:002013-02-27T20:08:24.999-05:00here is apple klepto<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Frances came home from school one day last week and went directly to her crafts table where she immediately put together a book. </div>
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<i>Here is Apple happy</i></div>
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<i>Here is Apple sad</i></div>
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<i>Here is Apple sleepy</i></div>
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<i>Here is Apple mad</i></div>
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<i>Here is Apple cut in pieces small </i></div>
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<i>But baked in a pie is best of all. </i></div>
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It was a book they'd used at school and she'd memorized it, come home and put it together with her own drawings. (Apple mad's face was particularly charming.) It wasn't until the next day when she read it to me again that I noticed the apples themselves; rather than draw them she had taped on apples cut from construction paper. And as I looked at it I realized they were die cut, that <i>she</i> did not cut them, and I wondered where she might have gotten them. </div>
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When I asked, she sucked in her breath and ducked her head into my side.<br />
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I asked again.<br />
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"What will you DO to me?" she whined.<br />
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I promised her I would not be mad.<br />
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Turns out she took them from her kindergarten room, had snuck them in her <i>underwear</i> so no one would see. Ha!<br />
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"There were<i> so many </i>of them," she said. </div>
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These are the kinds of parenting issues that make folks say it's harder as they get older, not easier. It's all in how you look at it, really. For sure it's not as exhausting now. For instance, I actually sleep. Plus I walk around with two free hands that I can use for things like dishes, or ordering shoes online, or taking a freaking shower rather than carrying babies. But these new issues <i>matter</i>, and that's what makes them so hard. Because the way we deal with them, or don't deal with them, matters. They determine who our kids will become, and how we see ourselves as parents.<br />
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I thought of letting it slide. I mean, it was <i>five measly construction paper apples</i>. BUT! It's the principal of the thing, right? So I called my aunt, who has been teaching kindergarten for 35 years, and asked her what to do. In the end I emailed Frances' teacher and asked if we could meet sometime soon. I told her Frances took something from the classroom. Her email in response said, "You can tell her that I am so glad she is going to talk to me about it, and I will not be mad at her." How great is she? </div>
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-1418380286434611442013-02-21T21:18:00.001-05:002013-02-21T21:18:13.982-05:00treading, and fighting siblings<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hallooooo! Been a while since I've been here. I've missed you! Missed being here. Much afloat and little time to process in writing. Plus, I've been thinking I will switch over to the new blog about which I keep talking. It will come, it will come. For now we are here. Together.<br />
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I am so far behind with - um - everything. Emails I meant to answer ages ago, christmas decorations still to pack away, laundry that has filled up the shute literally from the basement past first floor so we have to go to the second floor to put anything into it. The rental office of the beach house we're renting this summer called about the money I hadn't sent. "We sent you a contract," they said. "It's probably here in this stack of mail I haven't opened," I said. "But we sent it in December...!" they said. "Yes, probably here in this stack," I repeated. They sounded incredulous. I have this tape running through my head, a kind of ticker tape with all the <i>things</i> I need to do. It's very annoying. Things have been a little nutty and I can't seem to get from in front of the plow and back around behind it where I can steer. I'm just moving moving, as fast a clip as I can manage.<br />
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This is what parenting is for many people, isn't it? <br />
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I'm trying not to think about how behind I am. I'm choosing to look at it as the stuff of the sitcom and just keep rolling.<br />
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Today Clark made it clear to me that he needed some normal time at home. What I badly needed was 40 minutes on a treadmill at the gym but I decided to forgo that so Clark could have some time to settle. I thought about the fact that the gym is one of the things I do for me, and that I was giving up something good for me in exchange for something good for him. But this is my job. Not the giving things up, but making sure that he is settled in himself, teaching him how to do it and giving him as much practice as possible so he knows the feeling he's trying to create. Sometimes my job does indeed mean I need to sacrifice things. The trick is finding the balance. As moms we're only doing our kids a disservice if we give it all up. And figuring out when one should hold fast to filling our own needs is a complex art.<br />
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I keep singing Bob Dylan's Buckets of Rain: "Life is sad, life is a bust. All you can do is do what you must. Do what you must do, and you do it well."<br />
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Frances needs a lot of physical affection. She gets it from us, of course, but she also wants it from her friends, and most importantly from her brother. She loves her brother. Loves him. Thinks he's charming and funny and fun to be around. He loves her too, but she has this habit of pulling the superiority card, to trying to <i><b>help</b></i> him with things he cannot yet do by himself. And this drives him <i><b>crazy</b>.</i> Their 17 months of age difference is so little that often they are on par with each other, more or less. They started activities like karate and swimming at the same time and so are equally experienced. Frances doesn't mean to put him down when she does it, she just so desperately wants to be helpful (and perhaps a bit in control...), wants to show her love this way. And wants for him to be grateful. He's not. He's resentful.<br />
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Which means he does not want her to hug him. And since he's 4, he's still unable to clearly <i style="font-weight: bold;">say</i> what it is he indeed wants. Instead he pushes or grumps or hollers at her. And these actions, believe it or not, tend to destroy her feelings of affection and good will, at least for the moment.<br />
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I don't have any brothers or sisters. I didn't learn how to fight with someone I'm close to. (In fact, this is a skill I've found it necessary to learn as an adult, what with the marriage and all.) So I don't know what healthy conflict looks like between a 6 year old and an almost 5 year old. Do I ignore it? Redirect? Talk to them? Explain? Separate? Drink heavily? Tell them stories about little fox siblings who have a hard time getting along? Waldorf believes this last one is the way to go, but I have to say, it's really hard for me to get up the inner energy for story creation. Maybe I'll work on that. In the meantime, I keep tissues in my ears and hope for the best. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-47403263031855607472012-12-23T21:42:00.002-05:002013-02-28T20:51:23.850-05:00sleepless complaining about gravy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's 6:30 am and I've had two hours of sleep: 1:30-3:30. I'm too anxious about what I have left to do for christmas preparations/gifts/laundry/holiday-video/packing-for-the-trip so I'm up doing laundry and working on the video. It seemed more productive than just lying in the bed with my eyes open. Though the argument could be made that sleepless rest would be better than laundry for warding off the crippling disease the kids have contracted and I'm desperately trying to avoid. I can't avoid it; who am I kidding? I'm fairly resigned to the idea that I will be in the throws of a 103* fever on the flight down to North Carolina christmas eve. Yeah baby.<br />
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Last December I had all sorts of plans for activities to do with the kids and I ended up with both bronchitis and pneumonia at the same damn time and nothing at all happened except I lay on the couch, operated the remote, and periodically crawled to the kitchen to put pretzels into bowls for the kids. I had to simply give up my ideas of crafts and baking and holiday fun.<br />
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This year it's the kids who have gotten sick. First the stomach flu, followed 10 minutes later by what is apparently <i>The Flu</i> - super high fever for now 7 days running. Frances's fever has dropped to 100 and she says she feels great, thinks she is well. Her yardstick is temporarily broken. Which is as much of a pain in the ass as 103 frankly, because she's up hopping around and wrestling and is also more quick to be defiant and get offended and scream in her brother's face. And she's MUCH more sensitive to physical pain. Having her (very very long) hair accidentally pulled causes tremendous trauma and wailing. I had to remind myself today that this is not the child I usually live with. Thank the lawd.<br />
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So, again, not many activities done. We were moving right along with salt dough ornaments and had gone so far as to even make salt dough figures for a nativity scene (very comical and more on that later if you're lucky), but now many are languishing without paint or modge podge or glitter. Some are half done, some just need ribbon for hanging (the ornaments that is). We never got to the gingerbread houses at all (oh I really wanted to do those!). I have one more day before we leave for NC and still need to get presents plus pack: myself, the kids, presents for family members and from Santa too. Dear god I hate christmas.<br />
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I've got to get my brain around the idea that none of this is really truly important. Death is important; love; kindness. Having gifts ready is just gravy. Nothing to stress about. Okay, so I know that with my rational brain. Somebody needs to tell my limbic system so I can get some sleep.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-23121354301427548252012-12-14T22:15:00.002-05:002012-12-14T22:15:35.794-05:00grieving<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Our cat died. He was the family cat, but really he was my baby; mine. I got him from a FreeKitten box in the Boise farmers market on my 30th birthday, brought him home to Mitch, to whom I was engaged, and Mitch frowned at me and shook his head. But Mitch came to love that baby, who wouldn't? even though he swore he was not a cat person. Bosley was his name, perhaps the most personable cat I've ever met.<br />
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He'd been perfectly normal that morning. He ate his breakfast and meowed at the door to go out, then later he sat on his scratch pad while I gave him some catnip. He wasn't sick; he was just fine.<br />
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It was after school, and the kids and I were sitting down with a new stack of library books. We had just opened the first one when we heard a strange sound. At first I didn't know even where it was coming from, but it was the dining room, Bosley lying in his regular spot on the heater. When we got to him I was so confused. Why wasn't he getting up? Why was he yowling? I thought maybe his collar was caught and he needed help. I picked him up and he was limp in my arms, paralyzed. But he stopped crying while I held him, seemed to calm down a bit. His breathing was odd and raspy and I held him close. Then I realized things were bad, really bad, and I panicked, said out loud, "I don't know what to do!"In a moment I was able to collect myself enough to quietly soothingly shush him. Then he just died. Just like that. The whole thing was probably less than one minute.<br />
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There was one odd thing at the end - after he went still I exclaimed, with more than a little shock, "Oh my god. He died," and I looked up at the children's blank wondering faces. The kids began to creep forward, and then Bosley took one loud final in breath that startled all of us. The kids actually screamed and leaped away. I paused to watch and see if he really was dead, then I bowed my head and began to sob, and Clark across the room began to wail too. Frances was just perplexed, and later she asked Clark, "why did you cry?" I knew why he had cried. It was all very odd and confusing and sudden. I don't think it was because he loved the cat, but because he had no freaking idea what was going on.<br />
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I've been grieving and grieving. I loved that cat so very very much. Frances is worried about my grieving, keeps giving me hugs and kisses and wanting me to be ok. I keep telling her I will be, that it's all right for me to be emotional about it. On one hand I wish I could hold off my most intense grieving until she is not around, and on the other I see nothing at all wrong with her witnessing it, that maybe it's even good for children to see. See the grieving and then see that we are all right afterward. Frances asked me, "Mommy, would you be more sad if Bosley died or if I died?" See? It provides opportunity for these kinds of questions.<br />
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Frances always wanted to carry Bosley around, all 18+ pounds of him, which was a feat. I taught her how to hold him on her shoulder and support him under the rump, and she had learned how to carry him like a baby without his being too upset. Almost every night she carried him from his spot on the couch up to her bed where he snuggled up next to her. That day he died, around bedtime, she got sad. She said, "Mommy, my eyes are watering but I'm not crying." Little tears were running down her cheeks. I wonder if it was the first time she had cried without sobbing or wailing, as children do. She drew a picture of him and put it on her bed where he used to sleep.<br />
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Earlier she had written a goodbye note to him to put in the box with his body, as well as a picture she drew. On everything she wrote or drew she added the date. So interesting - I don't know that she saw that somewhere - I think it was just her instinct to memorialize it.<br />
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We had a funeral the next day, complete with bell ringing and a candle and prayers and a goodbye note Frances wrote to Bosley. He was in a box, and the kids had put his toys in with him, and some string because he loved to chase string, and notes. I asked Clark this morning if he thinks about Bosley at all, and he said "all the time," which surprised me though I don't know why. He's much more internal than Frances, I'm coming to realize. I asked him what he thinks about when he thinks about him and he said the funeral. He said he doesn't think about when he died, but about putting the box in the ground. It <i>is</i> a strange thing - to lower someone into the earth. He said he feels sad. "I really liked Bosley. Sometimes I see the speaker under the coffee table (one of Bosley's sleeping spots) and think it's him."<br />
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I'm glad this is their first real experience with death, and that it's an animal and not a person. I'm glad that they actually witnessed it rather than our finding him dead. Death: it's just a <i>thing</i>, just like other things in our strange beautiful confusing brutal world. It's an intense thing, and it was particularly traumatic for me not only because I loved him so very much, but because I was holding him when he died. I'm glad that I was, grateful that we were home so that I could hold him and provide him comfort. Still, a lot for me to carry in my heart.</div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-30022181592741094922012-12-10T23:56:00.000-05:002012-12-11T00:05:26.907-05:00this crazy year<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Here I am <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2011/10/in-garage.html">again, in the garage</a> while the ever faithful sitter Liz bathes the kids and puts them to bed. It's cozy in here - I have my water and my phone and therefore music, and it's not too cold to type. (We're about done with garage-blogging weather up here in the snow belt, however. Where will I hide then? The basement? I wonder if I have any gloves I can type in? Hm....) The downside is that both lights bulbs have burned out so I can't see a thing except this glowing screen. But I did bring a flashlight! Any event is more enjoyable if you attend to the details.<br />
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So. I haven't been here on the blog in a while. I've been trying to get here, longing to come visit this page, but life is, you know, doing that thing it does. I mentioned before that I have one kid in school in the morning, the other in the afternoon. I have about 25 minutes from the time Frances gets on the bus until I leave to pick up Clark. Someone is with me always. In some ways it reminds me of when they were so little. Someone who always needs my attention, never being able to finish a task (laundry, dishes) to completion, these ideas of fun projects (gingerbread houses, paper snowflakes on bunting) swimming around my head and never any time to fit them in, though it's unclear to me where the time actually goes. The biggest difference, besides the amount of contact I have with fecal matter, is that I no longer schlep things. As we were all leaving the house the other evening for Irish Dance I was acutely aware of my lack of preparedness with snacks and drinks. Then I remembered the diapers and wipes and burp cloths and changes of clothes of yore. My body does feel much lighter than in those days.<br />
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(This is actually a big point. I think when I was physically more involved in parenting - holding, carrying, lifting, rocking, wiping, schlepping - I was desensitized to the contact. It's these days that I get touched out, when I feel the need for physical space. Interesting.)<br />
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(By the way, this blog was created out of <i>that</i> experience - diapers and wipes and burp cloths and changes of clothes. And I've finally realized it really is time to be done with this blog. That doesn't mean I will quit writing. It's time to move on, another blog awaits. It's brewing. It's not ready yet. But just to keep you updated about that issue...)<br />
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By the time the kids are (finally) in bed I just don't have the energy for creation (meaning: blogging, or sewing, or painting, or often even email). Or for returning things to the mall. I could this minute go to home depot for lightbulbs and a new toilet seat for instance, but I just don't want to. So I'm here with you instead. A place I'd much rather be.<br />
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Anyway, busy schedule. Plus kids in Karate 2x a week and all that. So it's hard for me to get to the page. It's hard for me to catch my breath. I'm trying to figure out ways to make it work, to get the support I need so I can fully enjoy what there is to enjoy about this nutty schedule. I have another au pair situation with a college girl I adore but it's only a month while she's off for break. (but she gets here this Friday yayayayayyaay!) During that month I intend to find something more long term. (Please contact me if you have any leads.)<br />
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Even amid all that is frantic, I am also very present and aware it's only one year. It's a unique year, different from all the rest to come. It's hard for me, this year. I'm trying to let go of the dishes and of dinner (thank goodness for the new Trader Joes), and instead do puzzles and play Uno and make Magi out of salt dough as I did today. Next year Frances will be in school full day but Clark will still be home half day. The year after that they will both be gone full day. Oh my.<br />
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But I also love these days. I love having time alone with each child. I love running errands with them, letting them color or play around me while I cook dinner (at 10am because when else is that going to happen?), I love waiting for the bus with Frances and the ritual the bus adds to our lives. I love packing her snack in her backpack, love the way when she gets home she bounds off the bus with a smile, turns and waves, then runs to me. I love hearing about her day that is so foreign and completely separate from me. On days when Mitch takes Clark to school, I love that Frances and I walk the dog. We have a route of our own that involves a high wooden swing, and then we come home for hot chocolate without marshmallows because it is 9 am after all.<br />
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I love it. I love that Clark is learning to play by himself, entertained with his own sound effects, a lot of swooshing and blasting and kabooming as he zooms various cars or figures through the air. I love going to the library more often because I go with them one at a time rather than together. I am acutely aware that these days are but a moment in time, this year something that I will look back on.<br />
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Which is why I need support. Because I don't want this year to go by in a blur of dishes and laundry and rides to karate. I want to have enjoyed it, and to have paused and <i>seen it.</i> I want to feel it fully, and I want to be a good mom. In order to do that, given the set up, I need help help help. It's good to know what you need.<br />
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-32379157817882431062012-11-27T07:33:00.003-05:002012-11-27T07:34:34.195-05:00household help!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So. Ahem. Let's chat about headaches, shall we?<br />
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Frances had one a few months ago, did I tell you that? It was at bedtime. She said her forehead hurt, then she writhed on her bed for some time, and she sometimes liked the cold cloths I put on her head and sometimes pushed them away in pain and frustration. Suddenly she said, "I've gotta throw up" and we made it to the bathroom just in time. A full heaving episode, all her pasta dinner in case you wanted details, and then she felt much better, just exhausted, and fell into her bed and immediately passed out. She was fine in the morning.<br />
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But actually, since I go in for the navel gazing full on, I wanted to talk about <i>my</i> headaches.<br />
<br />
If you're recently joining us, I have a chronic migraine disorder and have pretty much all my life. I was SO hoping my kids wouldn't get it, but it does run in families - my dad has it too, and my grandmother - but Frances's recent brush with the fabulousness that is migraine is seriously dampening my hope. When untreated I can have 3-4 massive migraines a week, but in the last few years by seriously limiting my diet, taking daily preventative, exercising like a crazy person, and (now!) having botox injections every 3 months, I average one every couple of weeks, and still have low grade headaches pretty frequently. The botox (for those of you who previously overlooked <a href="http://mama-days.blogspot.com/2011/05/crossroads-turn.html">my sincere endorsement</a>) is the only thing I've gotten real relief from but the effect wears off over time. The last few weeks of my treatment cycle the frequency is back up, sometimes daily low grade ones.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, Karen the au pair arrived here 4 weeks after the last round of injections. She was here 2 months, the last of which I should have been having full on headaches since my next treatment was on the very day she left. But in that 2 months she was here -<i> are you ready??</i> - I only had three (<b>3) </b>headaches. In two months. It's unheard of.<br />
<br />
When I told my neurologist, just as she was getting ready to stick my forehead with a needle, she said, "when does the next au pair come?" I told her it was just me again, just me. She paused, looked at me blankly, and she said, "It seems to me that if there's there's a problem that can be solved by throwing money at it, and you have the means, you should throw money at it." Hm.<br />
<br />
I don't think it was <i>just</i> the extra pair of hands, though I'm not sure that help can be calculated. I think it was also the adult interaction, the waning of that lonesome feeling.<br />
<br />
But now the headaches are back. Hello old companions.<br />
<br />
Then! In my brainstorming about a solution to stay-at-home-mom fatigue, I decided what I needed was help with the <i>house</i> rather than the <i>kids. </i>So I gave up one sitter night and instead asked a sitter if she would be interested in coming two or three evenings for just an hour, and for household help rather than kid entertainment. (When the kids were babies and I so needed a break, I wanted to sitters to entertain them so I could be <i>not be touched</i> for longer than 60 seconds. With Karen here I realized having house help freed me to roll on the floor with the kids or do puzzles or participate in tea parties without stressing that I should be emptying the dishwasher. It made me a <i>better parent.</i>)<br />
<br />
Let me tell you, this solution is genius. I am SO pleased with myself for making this happen. Two extra hands for an hour seem like way more than two extra hands. She does the dishes, folds and puts away the laundry, drags the cooler or cat litter (or whatever) down to the basement, generally straightens, and - my favorite - turns down the beds. (hotel turn down service is one of my favorite things <i>ever. </i>It gives me large amounts of pleasure to walk into a room already appropriately lit and ready.)<br />
<br />
WE NEED MORE SUPPORT AS PARENTS THAN WE GENERALLY GET!! There it is again, my refrain. Did you know in Europe nurses come visit the home several times after a baby is born, to see how the mom is doing, to check on the baby, to offer any advice or know-how or general encouragement? Here in America, once you leave the hospital, you are <i>on your own.</i> (I'm not going to be on my soap box long here...) The result of this for the US is a much higher maternal mortality rate, did you know?? Not to mention the ridiculous 6 weeks a mom gets for maternity leave here, compared with 12 months there. Really.<br />
<br />
Okay, I'm done.<br />
<br />
Will see how the household help (plus adult company!) affects the headaches. Right now I'm not seeing magical improvement, but we've just begun.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-18003439414321471872012-11-16T22:17:00.002-05:002012-11-16T22:17:50.350-05:00return of the nap<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Clark's decided to take up napping again. I don't really know what's going on. It's not a growth spurt because he's not particularly hungry. It feels more like emotional tiredness and I know all about that. Maybe he's still adjusting to his new school - that's a real possibility.<br />
<br />
He'd been talking about his old school since school began, and last week I told him we could go visit. I hoped hoped hoped it was not a mistake. When we pulled into the parking lot Clark said, "This place is familiar. I know this place." <i>Well, yeah</i>. I was so surprised that he didn't remember it more specifically; thought his memory was more long term than I guess it is. He <i>is</i> only four and a half. Four months to him is a lifetime, I suppose.<br />
<br />
We got there during Lunch Bunch and he was shy in the hallway, not wanting to go into the classroom. He warmed up as all the teachers and director came out one by one to hug him. Eventually he came into the room, and he played and had a grand time. It was interesting - he played for a short while with two of his old friends, then he sort of went off and played with the toys by himself. He seemed enamored of the toys themselves, like being in the bedroom of a rich kid.<br />
<br />
After lunch they have enrichment activities for which you can sign up your kid - cooking or yoga or hebrew or dance - and the day we were there it was the alphabet. He wanted to stay for that and I let him for the first half. When we left he was mad at me and kept telling me he wanted to stay longer.<br />
<br />
But since those few moments just after we left, he hasn't brought up the school at all. In fact, later on that evening he told me things about his current school, just little tidbits of his day, more than he usually says.<br />
<br />
Still, this past week he hasn't wanted to go to school. He hasn't said he wants his old school instead, as he was doing before; he's just wanted to stay with me, or have me stay with him at school. He's been pretty attached to me overall, in fact.<br />
<br />
So - maybe all the activities I have them enrolled in? Maybe.<br />
<br />
The verge of a developmental leap? Quite possibly. In the last 3 months or so I've noticed a big shift in his ability to understand things. He's not a baby like he was before, and he's able to understand more and more nuances. Kids are rather amazing creatures.<br />
<br />
The attempt to figure out the cause is an attempt to know how to help him, but since I can't figure it out, I think my best approach is to honor it. I've decided to let him sleep during the day as long as he wants rather than wake him in the fear of his sleeping too long and then not going to bed at night.<br />
<br />
Today was the first day I let the nap go on forever. And now it's 10pm and I just paused in this blog post to return him to his bed for the 3rd time. Sigh.<br />
<br />
As a mom, you really really can't win. That's what makes being a parent such a comical endeavor. We never have a clue what's actually going on, and in trying to respond to something we can't comprehend, we just talk into the wind. Blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
Blah blah. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-48887443589127365472012-11-14T12:50:00.000-05:002012-11-14T14:36:38.214-05:00extracurricular overload<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
We are enrolled in too many activities.<br />
<br />
Aren't we?<br />
<br />
I've always erred on the side of too few, have in fact sworn not to have more than one per kid at any given time. I've wondered at friends who are activity-full.<i> So - how did we get here</i>? It's uncertain, and they each are good ideas individually. Thing is, now I don't know how to undo it, or - interestingly - if I even want to.<br />
<br />
On one hand, it keeps my house straighter. This is actually a huge plus for me, not just a nice side effect. When the kids aren't here to dump entire bins of superheros on the familyroom floor, we come home in the evening to clutter free-ish, which makes for a much calmer mom. Clutter makes me seriously anxious. There have been times when I've felt anxious and have wondered what in the world I'm anxious about - there was nothing obvious. Then I just straightened the house and the anxiety went away.<br />
<br />
My husband doesn't see the clutter. He's not a hoarder or anything, he just isn't bothered by random clothing items heaped on the recliner. Once the piles grow to a certain size he would clean up I'm sure. But even the small ones make me nuts. I don't have many knick knacks, don't collect things, pass on books when I'm done with them unless they are signed or inscribed or something, but there's this pile of papers on one counter that grows like a mold. When the au pair was here she kept the dishes and obvious things clean, so I was free to deal with this asinine pile on the counter and others like it. One of my theories about my crazy happiness when she was here has to do with the decrease in clutter alone.<br />
<br />
My newest idea is to drop one of my evening sitters and turn that money into one person who comes for maybe an hour 3 days a week.<br />
<br />
But that's a different subject.<br />
<br />
First both kids were in tennis because it was convenient. Then Frances added Irish Dance and that seemed reasonable. Then Clark wanted Karate and that also seemed fairly reasonable except that it's twice a week, but he's so absolutely <b>nuts</b> about it that I thought we would squeeze it in somehow. Then Frances wanted (at my suggestion) to try out Karate too, and she of course loves it because who wouldn't. And since Frances tried <i>his</i> class Clark thought he would try <i>hers</i> and now they're both in Irish Dance - both in all four activities each week. And one night a week they go with their sitter to her parents house, where they are regular members of that family.<br />
<br />
All this leaves little time for the kids to argue (which makes me an insane person), or to wrestle until someone whacks their head on the floor (which makes me an insane person). It channels energy. This is good.<br />
<br />
Plus I get to sit and read my book, as well as observe my children from afar, both of which are things I enjoy. And which help keep me sane.<br />
<br />
But I'm aware that avoiding their conflicts is just convenience on my part, a sort of laziness. It's admittedly easier to keep them busy than to deal with the hollering and crying - the conflict that helps them learn how to deal with conflict. The only way to the other side is through, right? Is this why so many parents load up on the activities? Because - what it really comes down to - it's easier? It's like never taking them with you to the grocery. I have a friend with four boys and she takes <i>all four</i> of them with her on grocery trips. On purpose. She believes it's important for them to learn how to deal with boring everyday details like groceries, and that they need to learn how to behave in public, and it's okay for them to not always be entertained. The reward she receives for persevering with all four boys in tow is children who are pleasant to be around, and less work teaching them to behave later on.<br />
<br />
At the same time, a sane mommy is a good thing.<br />
<br />
It seems to me - logically - that it's really a toss up. That this decision for this minute of their lives really doesn't matter. But it sure feels like it does. Maybe that's just the obsessive mind talking.<br />
<br />
Will see what happens. </div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-54077565438499585382012-10-29T22:45:00.000-04:002012-10-30T15:06:49.068-04:00yay storm day!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">We're having a hurricane! Hoping for the best of course, and we are many miles inland so everything should have settled down by the time it gets here, including hopefully the hysteria I witnessed yesterday in Pittsford Wegmans where people were knocking each other over to get to the three cases of bottled water left in the shelf. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">We didn't have to buy water at Wegmans but did have to put up with the insane crowd. We, in fact, already have water stored, cuz that's the way we roll. We also have flashlights and candles ready, as well as a lengthy (written) plan for no-school-storm-day today (the official name is Yay Storm Day) that includes - among many other things - a game time, dance time, a puppet play, and hot cocoa. Unless we have no power, and then there'll be cool cocoa. But the chances of that look slim since it's not even raining right now. Good thing they called off school. (Mitch says, after closely observing the weather channel on his Ipad, that this is the calm before the storm. Will see.)</span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">Let me, in fact, detail the schedule for today. It is ordered numerically thus: </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">1. Breakfast (which we just finished and which was yummy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">gluten free chocolate chip pancakes)</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">2. Free play time</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">3. Take dog for walk and look at the storm. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">4. Hot cocoa. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">5. Game time. Princess Yatzee, UNO, Candy Land, whatever they choose. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">6. Story time</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">7. Baking time (of course dependant on the power situation. They're really talking a lot of big talk about folks losing power.)</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">8. Lunch while zucchini banana bread bakes. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">9. Song and instrument playing time. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;">10. Tea party with our warm baked goods and hot tea. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">11. Dance time. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">12. Take photos of the storm</span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">13. Craft time: either collages or draw-the-storm. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica;">We will see where that gets us. I assume it will be dinner time by then. A very packed schedule. Do you think we can stick to it? Frances is pretty excited about checking things off, the organizer she is. Here we goooooo!</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
</div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-68227551531545004762012-10-17T12:23:00.001-04:002012-10-17T12:23:29.765-04:00Clark for President<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Yesterday Clark had a nap. He was falling apart completely over - actually, I can't remember: something minor like the inability of his spiderman figure to bend at the waist, and he wanted his blankie, which was momentarily missing. I went to find the blankie and when I came back he was in his bed under the covers. "I'm just resting, Mama," he said.<br />
<br />
The nap was lovely. I slept with him, a warm and cozy afternoon rest, and in the background through the cloud of sleep I heard Frances from her room singing Coming Round the Mountain, Itsy Bitsy Spider, and Simon and Garfunkel. She apparently was performing; the crowd cheered after every song.<br />
<br />
Because of the nap, Clark was not at all tired at bedtime. So very not at all tired that after the presidential debate was fully under way, around 9:30, he appeared in our family room. Mitch and I were too engrossed in the debate to take him back upstairs, so we let him sit with us while we watched. Among other things, Clark decided he's going to be a president for Halloween. He wants a suit and shirt and tie, and a little american flag pin on the lapel.<br />
<br />
The rule in our house is that after 8pm is grown up time, which means if you happen to still be up, it's not playtime. You have to sit on your bottom rather than fling yourself over the back of the couch, and no toys. Clark was left with studying Obama and Romney, which he found pretty interesting. Here's some of his running commentary:<br />
<br />
<i>Does everyone get to be president when they grow up? I want to be a president.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm already a kind of president because I almost know everything. Do presidents know everything?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I might not do what they're doing. Because they're fighting. </i><br />
<i>I might want it to stay the same president. Til I die.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Mommy? I might be on Barak Obama's side. </i></div>
Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-63402198915044345272012-10-11T21:56:00.002-04:002012-10-11T21:56:42.131-04:00drama trauma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I'm having a nervous breakdown over here. Sudden sobbing, unexpected hollering, weeping in the cereal aisle at the grocery, general disinterest in showering or dessert. And dessert is important.</div>
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Karen's leaving has been pretty traumatic for me. She was so lovely and easy to be around, an actual adult in the house for company, and she became a real part of our family. But also, I don't think I can overestimate the help she was to me as a parent. WE ARE NOT MEANT TO PARENT IN A VACUUM, THE WAY WE DO. I think it's as simple as having support - when she was here I had regular daily support in parenting, and that's gone. Gone gone gone.</div>
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Still, I was doing pretty well, enjoying having the kids one on one and getting into our rhythm. Then. This:</div>
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Frances and I are leaving at 6 am tomorrow for a funeral in Tennessee. My great uncle just died - fungal meningitis, can you believe? He had a steroid injection in Tennessee, clearly from the contaminated batch of steroids; have you been listening to this mess in the news? He was perfectly well 2 weeks ago. Even though I hadn't seen him in years, the sorrow I feel is tremendous. It all seems so pointless, so useless - to die from medicine you take to help, medicine that is supposed to be relatively innocuous, medicine that is contaminated by some stupid fucking error. I can't stand it.</div>
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It's all just so stupid and unnecessary and tragic.</div>
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He was the youngest brother of my granddaddy, and my grandaddy was the oldest of ten kids, which is to say my uncle was about 20 years younger and not too much older than my mother. (following?) His kids are my age and they were the cousins I played with when I visited my Grandparents in the summer. His dying is the end of a generation, and that makes me profoundly sad. So Frances and I are leaving on a flight so early tomorrow tomorrow that it might kill me. That's all the bereavement fare would offer. Leaving before dawn, coming back at 11pm Sunday night.</div>
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I hope tomorrow morning I'm not so off balance. I kept having to apologize to the kids today for my hysteria and ensure them that it was okay, it was okay for me to be crying like this, I was okay. What will it do to them to see me like this, so completely out of control? Don't anybody answer this.</div>
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Interestingly, the thing that pushed me over the very tippy edge was the arrival of new furniture. I bought a dining room table! And 6 chairs although I probably eventually want 8! And a bed frame for the master bedroom! It looks like adults live here now. And somehow this was just too much for me. Plus of course the guys were supposed to be here between 9 and noon and didn't actually arrive until 12:20 when I was supposed to pick up Clark at 12:30.</div>
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All right. I have to go to sleep. I'm setting my alarm for 4 tomorrow. Ugh. I hope the weather in Tennessee is lovely.</div>
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Blessings to you all. Kiss your loved ones.</div>
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8161302541470280750.post-27394905204719084472012-10-04T10:04:00.000-04:002012-11-27T07:45:08.204-05:00material joy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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For Frances's 6th birthday I fear we climbed a pennicle that will never again be crested. All other birthdays may pale forever in comparison.<br />
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The biggest thing, though, was the American Girl doll. It goes against<i> so much</i> that I believe in - predatory marketing, consumerism as status symbols, questionable manufacturing practices. Yet yet yet. Yet practically the only thing she has talked about daily since her last birthday is an American Girl doll. Maybe literally. </div>
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I made her a lovely and sentimentally valuable Waldorf doll who wears the same size dresses as the AG doll. Over the past year we talked about the RIDICULOUS price of the commercial one, and then compared that price to all sorts of other things that same money could buy. It was a good math exercise. Did we learn anything from it? I have no idea. </div>
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But oh the joy when she opened the package. Many parents need it like a fix. They go to crazy lengths christmas after birthday after christmas to see that response on their child's face. It captures something we've mostly lost as adults, some kind of faith that we can be fixed, that joy is pure, that our wishes can indeed be filled, that we can - in the end - be happy. </div>
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And since, of course, the doll was all she wanted, everyone else got clothes and accessories to go with it. We filled her every single wish, mostly because her wishes were so few. And because I am a sucker. </div>
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It sure was fun. </div>
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Cali Lovetthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10959377832026957593noreply@blogger.com0