It Ain't Over Till the Fat Lady Sings

I recently joked about my daughter laying claim to my heels when I'm dead. Little does she know that by then my shoes will be terribly out of style. That's not funny, some may say. That's right, it's not funny. It's hysterical.

Lately, all of the children have been fascinated with my inevitable demise. Sneaking hard questions in between the incoherent ramblings and utterances of child-like innocence.

"Can we have a snack? Do you think Fiona is going to stay an Ogre forever? Do you wash your hair EVERY day? Are you going to die?"

*Insert audible throat kerfuffle*

I explain that death is just another part of being alive. That, everything that lives and breathes must also die and rest. After the one-thousandth questioning, I threw in that death was a mystery.

"What's a mystery?"

"Well, it's something you can't explain. It's like how the inside of a Hot Pocket can only be ice cold or surface of the sun hot. There is no explanation. There are only more questions."

The Hot Pocket analogy seemed to tide them over until the next day.

My son, in particular, has been enthralled with the idea of death. Head cocked, I see the wheels turning in his brain, picking apart the anatomy of death like a crow on prey. Leaving nothing but the bones after a swirl of questions that leaves him satiated and me, searching for wine.

"Mama, will you be VERY old when you die?"

"I hope so."

"Will I be very old?"

"I want nothing more than that."

"Will you die before me?"

"I hope so."

"I will miss you."

"I will miss you too."

"What's for dinner?"

And, like that, life returns and pizza must be made. Ok, pizza must be ordered and, the constant reminder that life moves swiftly and the living must eat hangs from my legs, swings from my arms and chews on my shoulder. Death may always be at our heels, but, at least I will still be wearing mine tomorrow with care not to scuff the toes so eldest has something snazzy, yet appropriate, to wear to my funeral.

Embracing my mortality one soft spoken question at a time. Hoping I'm helping them embrace it as well so that when it's time for me to jump off the carousel, they gleefully stay put on their ponies for several thousand more turns.

Round and round we go. Where we stop, nobody knows.

Find A Penny, Pick It Up, All Day Long, A Baby Will Try to Choke on It.

As we oh so graciously navigate the wobbly legs of toddlerhood the baby is trying on for size, the post traumatic stress disorder memories of toddlers who have come before are now flooding my brain. Jarring me awake at night and creating mild anxiety panic attacks in the grocery store aisles, salad dressing in one hand and penny I just found in her mouth in the other.

I am an old pro at failure so I seize each new opportunity to learn nothing from past mistakes.  After the second child was found chewing on doll stilettos, we initiated the "chokeable bucket". It is simply a vase where any and all items are thrown when stepped on, removed from a child's mouth or removed from the death grip of an almost three-year-old who knows that whatever precious object travels to the chokeable bucket is never. heard. from. again. This kind of trauma is the kind that shows up, unannounced, on you doorstep like a mother-in-law or that foundation you donated to that one time in college. Out of nowhere, like a 'Nam flashback, we will hear: "HEY, what happened to the Diver's scuba tank, world's smallest tea cup or that Lego you found in so-and-so's diaper?"

It's all fun and games until you find a Lego wheel in someone's diaper.

Aside from the crazed attention to detail you must have in order to safely defeat the perpetual Baby-To-Toddler-Hand-To-Mouth-Disease, you must also begin taking an active role in sweeping and vacuuming daily. Daily. If your house is anything like mine, the vacuum also doubles as a spaceship or track horse. Our horse, Death By Playmobil, is moving one step closer to the glue factory in the sky with every sweep over the house. A veritable toy graveyard lives inside its belly. "Sorry, Pa. She had a case of the belly-busters real bad. Me and Timmy had no choice but to end her sufferin' down by the waterin'-hole."

Just like participating in a conga line is not really dancing, the vacuum is no real substitute for getting on your hands and knees while canvassing the ground and under furniture like a blind wildcat waiting for another smaller, blind animal to kill.

But, like I said, it's all fun and games until you find a Lego wheel in someone's diaper.

So, here I am, canvassing the floors. Crawling along, stealth like, like that Victoria's Secret model who rolled her ankle on the runway and then lay trapped under the pressure of her gigantic angel wings. Think of me fondly as I turn a back brace into a saddle and burn Barbie's stripper shoes under the light of the full moon.

Until then, may your children's diapers be Lego free and may my next vacuum come with a lifetime membership to the Wine of the Month Club.

Dearest Friends, you are gone, but, never forgotten. Rest in pieces.

Old Timey Parenting in a New Age World.

I have a lovely neighbor who raised her four children in a home with a similar footprint to mine. I often think of her while in the throes of our day. I like to imagine her carrying children and laundry up and down her similar staircase. I wonder what stories the walls and floorboards hold. I'd like to run my hands over the nicks in the doorways and scratches on the floor. Touch the physical memories of raising a brood long gone. I wonder if she yelled as much as I do, if she was a more patient mother; a better mother.

Before I told anyone I was pregnant with our last child, she had the neighborhood convinced that I was. "I could just tell. I remember that look. Having three, tiny children and another on the way. You looked...well, you looked so tired." I could not argue. I was tired. Save Our Ship tired. Jack hanging off the edge of the raft watching The Titanic sink tired. I put snacks at toddler height level so you could feed yourself while I vomit into the 5 gallon bucket next to the couch tired.

I value her perspective. I value her stories. I value the ease, grace and sureness of her words. Plainly put, I'm in love with an era of parenting long gone.

She never fenced her yard. They didn't see the point. There was a giant field and children ran in it. Until, that is, the day she discovered she didn't just have a runner. She had a runner away-er. A son who would, once her back was turned, head for the hills. She did what any concerned parent would do. She found a solution. She took a belt and made a zip line on her laundry line. And, that was ok. In fact, it was genius. He was safe. She could fold laundry. They were both outside, sun on their faces. Done and done.

I can only imagine the shock and horror if this were done today. It would be a simple as her taking a photo of her smiling child happily attached to the makeshift line. She would place it on a Pinterest board under, say, "Creative solutions for runaways!" and a society of parents who believe it is their job to not only raise their own children, but, also critique how you are raising yours would be hot to point out the possible emotional damage her "fence" could inflict. I would be quick to jump to her defense, noting that it is far more damaging to be hit by a car or eaten by hill animals.

Old Timey parenting is what I want. An authentic village instead of an implied one. Confidence in your ability to make real world decisions that benefit your family without considering the righteous indignation of others. Finding creative solutions that work without the constant, dull roar of the parenting masses. Showing up with a pitcher of martinis instead of a pitchfork, while dirty faced, barefoot children run wild and mildly to barely supervised in yards. And, this was ok.

When being a kid wasn't your only job around the house. And, this was ok. When people weren't quick on the draw, spouting tales of ruination and claiming that you're spoiling their childhood by having expectations that your children make contributions to their home and family.

Maybe there has always been an element of parenting while peering over our shoulders. Maybe, but, was it ever so pronounced? Because of our new age world of community boards, Facebook, Pinterest,  Twitter, new genres of parenting with labels splitting us into smaller and even still smaller segregated groups, we have begun wiping our feet on the doormats of our virtual parenting worlds, entering each others' living rooms, and, with little thought, pointing out the choices and parenting decision we don't care for. Perhaps we should take a cue from the days of Old Timey Parenting. The days when you would walk out on your back porch, see the children barefoot and muddy, wave to the mother next to the clothesline and just meander back inside to your own world of individualized chaos. Showing support through friendly gestures and by keeping our opinions to ourselves. And, that was ok.

One day, in this very home, I hope another young mother runs her hands over the cracks in our floor, the divots in our walls and thinks, a mother like me was here raising her brood. Failing, succeeding and all the grey in between. I hope she finds the sureness of her own voice. Like my neighbor has found. Like I hope to one day find. That, as sisters, we can all leave an imprint on surfaces explored by mothers yet to come.

Parenting is No Joke!

Parenting is no laughing matter. It is such serious work that you can not turn a corner without wondering if your child preferred to walk straight. The tight grip of responsibility always dangling from your neck, legs or sitting on your feet while you use the bathroom. The ever present knowledge that you could mess it all up, and the reminders from everyone that you probably already have. Parenting is sober work, although, I prefer to parent with a sidecar of champagne. It comes with immense pressure and no manuals. If you seek out a manual, you will be bombarded with the words of physicians, psychologists and know-it-alls. Avert your eyes from the internet, if you can. Advice is more muddied, muddled and fractured there.

Parenting for Dummies - Chapter 1, page 1, sentence 1, word 1:

Laugh.

Parenting is nothing if not humorous. It is absurd. It is ludicrous. It is an endless loop of trials, fails and successes wrapped in the scent of honesty from the week old diaper you just discovered trapped between the crib and wall. It begs that you search for reason where no reason can be found. People mock and spit from the sidelines as you try, desperately, to grab the bull by its horns or feed it a sandwich with crusts still attached.

You are either too soft or too strict. You are too involved or too lackadaisical. You are too this or too that. Malarkey.

Laugh.

When riding a mechanical bull, it's best to have had a few drinks with friends for courage and longevity. You hold on for dear life, laugh, throw your head back and enjoy the ride. You will fall. You will fail to tame the wild beast, but, you will get back on and continue until your long, and sometimes torturous, ride is over. Then, do you know what you do? You cheer on the next rider from the sidelines. You hoot, holler and clap. You reach a hand out to help a fallen comrade. You literally or figuratively smack their rear with outstretched hands or words of support. You clap wildly as they jump back on the bull. That's the best we can offer each other. We're all doing what we can with what we have to tame our bulls.

Laugh.

In my home, laughter is the only medicine for a lifetime supply of wondering just how incorrectly I'm proceeding in this very earnest age of parenting.  In this business, it's best to mind your own and enjoy a hefty glass of humorous perspective each day. I prescribe it to myself in spite of calls from the professionals that I give my work more weight alongside gentle reminders that parenting is no laughing matter. I disagree.

Laugh. Often. Loudly. Laugh

"I said NO CRUSTS!"

The Three-Way

Parents are always in a three-way.  What I did. What I should have done. What I will do next time. It's the trickiest game of seduction. Imagine walking up to yourself at a bar. "Hey, hot stuff. Do you like kids?"

In every moment, with every decision, there are the three versions of myself I'm trying to please, appease or ignore. The perfectionist, the nihilist and the wine swilling, Spanx wearing woman wondering if she can make her grandfather's sweater vest relevant by belting it.

Lucky for me, I'm lazy and refuse to harp too much on pleasing all three of myself.  I have enough trouble unhooking my own bra, thankyouverymuch. I guess I'm just old-fashioned. Sorry ladies of me, two of you are just going to have to wait your turn.

The Perfectionist:  One word? Annoying. Always signing up for school committees and buying themed cupcake wrappers. Who ARE you? As we inch ever closer to holiday-palooza, she likes to pretend she's in charge. She starts looking at Pinterest with actual intent instead of malice. She thinks about monogramming stockings and buying pants that fit. She tries to find local gardening courses in preparation for Spring. She buys yards of fabric to make Muumuus for my inevitable life flight rescue out of our partially removed roof after having eaten my way through every holiday shape of peanut butter cup. I love her. I hate her. I want her to knock me into a coma until she's ready to relinquish the reins in mid-January. I do dig her love of jet black liquid eyeliner. I hear that look is timeless.

The Nihilist: Always ready for everything to go to hell in a hand basket. This chick has issues. I don't pretend to understand her schedule and I never know when to expect her. I'd make cookies to ease her transition, but, I already ate all of them and she doesn't give a shit about cookies, or bathing regularly or Tyrannosaurus expired RX under the bathroom sink. She's not lazy; she just assumes she's going to mess it up, so, why do it at all. Certain failure is her game and she's constantly in check-mate. The kids dig her because it means lots of chicken nuggets, chaos, television and white flag waving when the family-size box of fruit snacks come out because, 1) There IS carrot juice in them and 2) She's busy wondering just how much therapy the children are going to require. The upside is that she's kind of arty, writes poetry and reminds me that failure isn't as chronic as how often I seem to run out of wine.

The Wine Swilling Spanxonista: If you dug Mary Poppins' measuring tape out of her bag to see how this version of me measures up, it would say: Practically Mediocre in EVERY Way! She makes rarely to nearly palatable food, seldomish forgets an appointment and makes every effort to not drink before 5:00 p.m. She showers, semi-frequently, and will throw on mascara in order to stop the screaming of toddlers and the tears of childless 20-somethings upon seeing her face. She cares about looking presentable, but, in an approachable, "I'll wear a knee length, maternity tank to elongate my non-existent post-partum waistline!", and not in the, "I wear yoga pants because I actually do yoga." way.  She flirts with her husband and then pisses him off by falling asleep mid-sentence every night. She's a real piece of work in the entirely unemployable way. Thankfully, she doesn't take herself too seriously because that would be a waste of time...and seriousness.  At the end of the day, she's perfectly comfortable in the flannel pants she possibly or certainly wore all day, but, she owns it just like she owns every Disney movie ever made on VHS because, "Tape is a lost art!". Listen, she's a little weird, but, it's not contagious although there has been voiced concern about exactly how much 50% of DNA contributes to offspring personality.

It's exciting to see who is going to show up for which life-changing and highly important event in my children's lives. These saucy three-way Madames don't seem to play by any rules, but, that's alright because rules are meant to be broken, or avoided, or not even bothered with at all. And, hey, therapy is expensive so why not just dig your heels in the crazy and see which cliff it drops you off of . I think that is a direct Dr. Phil quote (No, it's not.).

Perfectionist: "If you'll excuse me, I have a mini-brownies with strawberry Santa hats recipe that requires pasting into my Holidays Forever book!"

Nihilist: "Are you fucking kidding me?" *Rolls eyes*

Spanxonista: "Did somebody say brownies?"

The Greatest Show On Earth

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to The Greatest Show on Earth. Dancing bears, jugglers, clowns, rings of fire, flying trapeze and lion taming;  all suspended over a sea of wine! But, enough about me...

Parenting is a circus. A big, loud circus. Popcorn everywhere and the Bearded Lady is you. Juggling bowling pins on fire, cramming small people in cars as quickly as possible, incessant  roaring, money flying out of your pants, parade routes of wild animals and a lifetime supply of spandex.

"What about the Ferris Wheel?", you say. Sorry, that's the Carnival. I see where you're coming from, but, entirely different. The carnival is all about rides and developing diabetes in one day. The circus is about death-defying feats, bravery and general stupidity in the face of certain death. Circus. Death. Mayhem. Hi-jinx. Soaring through the air hoping your partner catches the shit filled diaper you flung across the room.

People are more than happy to buy a ticket. Take every extreme parenting show on television. We crave to see parenting in all of its ludicrous excess. It's entertaining, dangerous and laughable and, because watching someone else's shit-show makes Mom riding around the block on the tiny tricycle appear more normal. We all want to believe in normalcy, but, parenting is the tin foil hat proudly propped on the forehead of life.

I am always working to embrace the pie in the face, bear in a tutu, unicycle riding through the fiery, cardboard high-rise facade of normal. Nothing about parenting is normal. A lifetime of equal parts love and fear and the ever rotating carousel of power - constantly taking turns with our small people on the ringleader platform.

It's not easy. Sometimes, it's not fun. Most of the time, your heart is pounding in your chest as you soar above reality, cringing at the mistakes you've made. With every day of practice, hoping that when the time comes to finally let go, you're able to release your white-knuckled grip with minimal fear. Praying the safety net you've created is strong enough to catch all of you in the event of a fall. Hoping the kegels you've done for 18 years have finally paid off and that your socks are still dry.

After all is said and done and, when the tent starts to comes down, we all leave the circus dazed, confused, mesmerized, changed and awed. Drunk on the magic of people who survived another day of reckless, brave, selfless and entirely abnormal feats.

Parenting. Welcome to the Greatest Show on Earth.

Learning to let go.