Just put that anywhere.

If a man's home is his castle, then this mom's home must be a moat. I'm not quite sure when we took the turn from home to livable storage unit, but, the transition was akin to waking from a long-term coma. Instead of flowers and loving family, I awoke to paint your own jewelry boxes, glitter pens and  wooden train tracks that lead to the next episode of Hoarders. Even without worldly possessions, we are a family of 6 living in a home built to house 4 comfortably. With our treasures, we are pressed into every corner like poisonous gas permeating every pore during a fumigation. Add the cautionary circus tent, crushed cereal bar underfoot, several remote control cars and an air of disaster annnnnnnd,VOILA! Welcome to our lovely home.

Although I am a notorious night-organizer and ninja-purger, every surface of our floor and every cabinet is brimming with Grade-A crap. A virtual wonderland of items that I painstakingly, like a struggling entry-level magician "make disappear". Later in my act, these items are somehow replaced by less useful and larger items. *Poof* Magic!

Upon returning from February break away from our own home; creating messes, chaos and littering things-n-stuff over the expanse of someone else's home, I returned to find a box full of plastic bats, nine plastic devil tails and a rubber hand sitting on my counter. Useful and necessary? Check and check.

This is the magic portal of time and space. Meaning precisely that, at no time, must any space be unfilled. *ghostly whisper* If you clear it, more crap will come.

Living this way has been a test of patience and physics as I scientifically prove that, indeed, you can cram 10 pounds of stuff into a 2 pound bag and then stuff that bag into a travel sized, reusable snack bag and then that into the middle console of my van.

In this sea of confusion where toys and functionality perish, I spend more time than I care to admit (all day) searching for the items amidst the toynado. I have become my own Momgyver, fashioning band-aids out of Barbie's sweatbands and searching for the lost mates to socks in the toddler's medical kit.

The broom handle has become every lost toy's personal Bat Signal. "Diego, the broom is on the way. Sit tight, little buddy. We'll find a way to get you out of there. Is there anyone we should call? Dora is already on her way with Boots and Map."

LIVING ROOM
RADIATOR VENT
BROOOOOM HANDLE!

SAY IT WITH ME!

LIVING ROOM
RADIATOR VENT
BROOOOOM HANDLE!

The children navigate the cluttered chaos of home like professionals. Finding bliss while surrounded by their things. Unaware of their need of a junkie's intervention. Like Gollum, eagle eyes on and arms encircling their precccccccciouus.

Meanwhile, I plot. Making mental notes, developing my hit-list and filling virtual give-away boxes in my mind. Closing my eyes; imagining clean, uncluttered space. Wishing for a black hole in the great galaxy of home; knowing full well that all black holes must lead somewhere and, judging by the looks of things, they all lead directly back to my property.

Check please!

Every time we venture out to render any of our local eateries functionally useless and terrified in our wake, I think, "That was so nice. Let's never do that again."

Yet, a month or two later, like a bad dream you can't quite recall, we try again and then, I remember so very clearly the horror. Oh right, in that last dream, no one made it out of the cruise ship alive.

No one makes it out of the cruise ship alive. Ever.

Why yes, I'd love a refill of Diet Coke. I'll just toss the empty cup to you over the throngs of children wearing macaroni tribal face art and eating straw wrappers. Yes, you can also bring the check. Yes, please add the customary 40% for not calling the authorities to have us physically removed. Yes, I would like the molten lava cake to go. I would also like to bring your bartender home for a few hours. I can't quite get the Dark and Stormy right.

Under the table it looks like a fight that no one won.

My face looks like a fight lost due to seven years of mothering Vikings.

My husband looks for the closest emergency exit.

Things are shouted. Terrible things. Things that have waitstaff playing a to-the-death game of rock, paper, scissors in the kitchen in an effort to avoid our table. Things like, "MOMMY, THIS IS SO FUNNY. I SAID COCKPORN INSTEAD OF POPCORN. COCKPORN! IS COCKPORN A WORD?"

Step right up and get your hot buttered cockporn. Oh yes, and the check. We'd love the check.

They always want to order their own food. My son orders his food loudly in the direction of anyone who will listen immediately upon entering any fine dining establishment that does not suddenly close for a suspiciously well-timed yet impromptu Department of Health inspection upon seeing our minivan enter the parking lot.

Often, I will look across the expanse of corn dogs and table to fashion my napkin into a white flag of defeat. Signaling with the glare of the rescue fire I've built under the table that it's time for my husband to start the van while I gather coats and whatever is left of my dignity.

Often, over the loud requests for an ice cream shaped like a walrus, I will see adults staring at our table. May I suggest an eatery that does not have an ice cream cone as a mascot? Oh ye adults without children, what are you doing here? Get thee to a steakery! Run. Don't turn back. Don't worry about us. We'll be ok here...as soon as we get the check. We'd love the check now.

On one hand, they must learn how to eat out in public. On the other hand, I keep getting banned from public places. On the other, other hand, can you PLEASE bring the check now?

Random Stranger: "Oh, your children were so lovely and well behaved."
Me *wipes mustard from eyebrow with stray floor fry*: "Why, thank you! We're working on it!"

We're working on it.

Mother-farkin' CHECK. PLEASE.

The perfect storm.

Schools are cancelled. Children are home. Wine bottles are on display in my kitchen, giving it an air of classy disaster.

I am watching children remove snacks and mixing bowls from cabinets. Hair unbrushed, sliding in pajamaed feet from kitchen to living room to playroom. On the world's most redundant loop of action since the film Speed.

Diaries have already been fought over and a slinky lay forgotten directly in the middle of the sixth stair; abandoned by the children upon its failure to make it, "all the way!".

A tent and tunnel have been set up leaving parental oversight virtually impossible. My view of the chaos restricted by blinding neon blue and yellow polyester. Chocolate pudding sits on the baby's pajamas and face. Abandoned there as a reminder of my failure to successfully hide and administer her morning dose of antibiotics.

I may or may not have washed my hair yesterday. From where is sits today, on top of my head, disheveled and in the hot pink rubber band I found under the bathroom sink in the box of super-plus tampons, it's impossible to tell.

This is what Motherhood looks like at my house on snow days. This is what Motherhood looks like at my house on most days.

And, that's ok with me.

The snow is falling; softly then wildly. At times, a tornado of flakes beats against the windows making its presence known. It has nothing on the storm inside these walls. Surrender. My littlest snowflakes are the only real major force of nature to be reckoned with today.

I have no interest in crafting, baking or Donna Reedifying my day of diminished urgency away. There is no need to load children into a car for school pick-up. No need to shower and put on clothes or go through the pained process of putting on the make-up I seem to use with less frequency when attempting to bamboozle the public into believing I care enough to put on makeup.

I will do nothing. I will sit with my coffee, in the middle of this kitchen cocktail of scrambled eggs and crushed cheerios and let the chaos swirl around me. The perfect storm.

Cabin Fever, A New England Transplant's Winter Manifesto

Four score and 20 days ago, I went outside.

By New England standards, this has been a fairly mild winter. However, I am still growing winter legs from the amphibious like stumps that were buried under my west coast DNA. Well into our fourth winter in Vermont and my favorite part of the season is its late-March or early-April death.

The children are a split. Two born in Los Angeles; two born in Vermont. Two who constantly ask when we are returning to Universal Studios; two who eat blocks of cheddar cheese and beat our fence with homemade clubs fashioned out of the branches of fallen tree limbs.

The closest to winter I ever experienced as a child was while briefly living in Virginia. I remember thinking that the best part of the season was that the stash of chocolate I hid in my coat never melted. As far as I can tell, this may still be the best part of this season. Cold chocolate and laundry that can sit and sit and sit in washing machines without mildewing. Winter "magic".

I'd like to say that moving to a state that wears winter like a bear wears its full coat in...well, winter would be just the toss into the deep end of the pool this seasonally challenged mother needed. Unfortunately, I'm stubborn when it comes to frostbite and buying a $22 pair of socks. Also, I am too short to pull off the snow bunny look. Snow Oompa Loompa? ON IT.

We have lived here since the eldest was 2. She is currently bounding toward 7, and despite my winter troll-like tendencies, has started to develop an appreciation for winter. She no longer cries when placed in the snow. Every snowman, woman and child on our property was made by her as I watched from the window with my coffee, occasionally tossing carrots, hats, gloves, scarves and thumbs up of praise out of the back door. She is ice skating, cross country skiing and participating in a Winter Survival course through our local Recreation and Parks Department. Through her, I've learned that, apparently, winter survival is not sitting at a ski lodge drinking hot toddies while watching snow people throw themselves down hills on metal shoe boats. Who knew?

She wears each new bump, lump and bruise as a badge of winter awesome and her rosy cheeks shine like a beacon of hope making me think that maybe this winter thing isn't so bad. Maybe, just maybe, I can learn to love this season. Then, I step outside to draw a deep breath of fresh air and my lungs crystallize and the eyelashes that I bothered putting mascara on, crack and break into a million pieces; falling like black snow toward my already frozen in place feet.

My snow boots say Joan of Arc, but, my heart says pink, lawn flamingos. In between my boots and heart, I have several, small people hanging from my limbs asking why I keep looking online at the condo market in Palm Springs.

One child's love of winter developing. 3 more to go. This may be more painful than potty training, but, with luck and lots of practice, the snow people I one day watch from the roar of the lodge lounge fire, throwing themselves down the mountain, just may be my own.

My yard. My Flamingos. Everyone's reminder that I'm classy and, "not from 'round these parts."

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.

Wine-Not?

It is a well known and documented fact that I love my wine. It is also a well known fact that I am crazy. Sometimes, those two facts blend together and a brain baby is born. A beautiful, bouncy nugget of wine splashed insanity that I show off at dinner parties and during my visits to the therapist. Just kidding, I can't afford a therapist.

Generally, my crazy is well contained in my home. A gift I give to my family over and over and over and over. And over again. To know me is to love me, some say. When they say that, however, they are talking about someone else.

So, what happens when I birth my brain babies? Well, I find it's crucial to surround myself with a tribe of hilarious doulas to make the birthing experience a joyous one. It's helpful to have support because, as with any birthing process, there is very little sleep and plenty of second guessing your ability to actually deliver. After the birth, there is ample joy and celebratory drinking as we embrace the miracle of creating life. Even if, in this case, it was a birth that more closely resembles the rise of Frankenstein. That's Doctor Frankenstein to you.

So, please grab your beverage of choice and enjoy this first brain baby of 2013; an advertisement for the newest and most sensational parenting product to EVER hit the marketplace.

Feeling overtired? Underappreciated? Overworked? Don't fret. Help is on the way!

Wine-Not? GUARANTEED to ease your troubles.

Love and thanks to my fantastic doulas who helped bring Wine-Not? to life. With friends like this, it's best to invest in Poise Pads. (in order of appearance)

Ninja Mom
Suburban Snapshots
Hollow Tree Ventures
Toulouse and Tonic
Motherhood, WTF
HouseTalkN
Let Me Start By Saying

And, a huge thank you to my husband, "Mr. BPM". When I told him it was my dream to create a fake infomercial (an infauxmercial, if you will), he not only wielded the camera, piano, and co-edited, but, also agreed to remain married to me. 

And We Shall Call Her Scarlett

Today is my youngest daughter's first birthday. I am not a romantic. I am not overly sentimental. I have carefully sharpened, life-long thorns that often get in the way of weepy, mothering moments. At summer's end, I crack champagne. However, just under the skin of my brassiness, I am soft and worn. Always over thinking. Overabundantly overzealous with overtures of overwhelming emotion. Over and out.

Even while pregnant with baby number four, the signs of completion were evident. My body was not tolerating the pain as well as the former pregnancies. I was tired. I had several back issues that would, sporadically, leave me functionally useless while the three younger children escaped into a world of unending television and couch jumping with a side of fruit snack induced coma.

It wasn't just physical doneness, although my body made its distress known. I knew I was emotionally on the edge of a reservoir of patience, ability and strength. Bless the mothers who can successfully tackle anything, but, I knew I had reached my limit. Being aware of this cliff of consciousness made every "first" the inevitable "last".

I went into labor on the evening of January 2nd while immersed in True Grit. There is the pivotal scene in which our heroine is being carried by horse and then human to receive care for a snake bite. If she does not receive medical attention, she will die. The horse has already died. Every other character had died. She, herself, is on the edge of death. Appropriate dramatic theme for any labor. In the delivery room, death seems near to you, any medical professional who touches you and nearer even still to your partner.

We arrived at the hospital. It was a beautiful, clear night.

The labor was long and intense due to her persistent posterior position. I lay in the hospital bed wearing only a bra and remnants of 2 day old mascara, feeling paralyzed by her position on my spine. With each contraction, I would silently chant off-the-cuff, pain induced mantras of power and strength that I can not remember. I do remember thinking that I had lost my mind. During transition, I looked over to find my husband asleep in a chair. He's still alive to confirm this.

After 14 hours of drug-free labor, our beautiful girl was born. 8 1/2 pounds of pure, healthy wonder. As soon as they placed her in my arms, drunk on gratitude, my next thought was:

This is the last time I will ever hold one of my children for the first time.

From that moment on, we have continued our beautifully pained series of last firsts.

The beauty is in the details. Small moments that I struggle to remember. The smell of her newborn head. The recovery from birth. The tragic and magical sleep deprivation. The push-pull of embracing the new, family dynamic. The guilt of the further divide of your time and attention. The joy of a newborn sleeping on your chest. The sweet and sour.

This morning, I woke up to her sweet, smiling face; round and defined. Six teeth poking out through her crooked smile. Lighter hair and eyes than her parents, but, features so familiar. Our last first birthday.

January 3, 2012

"Old" baby meets "NEW" baby for the first time. Tissues, please.

Happy Birthday, Scarlett Lee.

A Very Merry BPM Christmas!

In spite of the children's attempts to corner the coal market, Santa arrived this year with gifts. A bounty of well-thought out, wrapped delights that said, "I know you. I love you. You annoyed the shit out of your parents this year. Miraculously, you still made the nice list. You're welcome, Santa". This year, my husband organized a brass quartet and sold their services for Jesus. He and three other horn players got the "gig" - playing 5 masses at the local, Catholic Church. When he initially booked the masses, I was relieved. It would help supplement the Christmas the red-suited, fat man was getting all the credit for. Well played, fat man. Well played. Sure, he would be gone the majority of Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, but, how bad could it be? Famous last words.

For those of you new to the blog, we have four, small children ranging in age from 6 to just shy of 1 year. I like to consider myself an experienced parent - NEVER an expert. I'm an expert at drinking wine and cold coffee, but, I will never be an expert at parenting. Ever. Never.

In what can only be temporary Christmas blindness brought on by cheesecake diabetes or the copious amounts of wine I'd consumed to make it through the holiday season, I'd failed to think this through to any semblance of a logical conclusion. The extra money sounded like a great idea. The children would, no doubt, be patient on Christmas morning. How hard could it be to sit though hour upon hour of staring at presents? Surely they were old enough to handle several more tortured hours of waiting for something they'd already been waiting an entire year for.

It hit me at midnight - the clock struck Christmas and a big pail of "Oh Shit!" hit me square in the face. I was blind, but, now I see. Dear baby Jesus in the manager, HELP.

Horn playing husband left our warm bed shortly after 6:00 a.m. to head out to play for and in the huddled masses. I heard the rustling of small feet. I heard the tears of the 2 year old screaming, "SANTA DIDN'T COME! HE DIDN'T BRING ME PRESENTS!" Still new to this whole Santa business, she'd assumed she would wake up in a bed made entirely of gifts, dressed as a princess, holding a candy cane wand. 

They bounded downstairs. I followed sheepishly behind with every step, "Oh crap. oh crap. oh crap. oh crap."

They were in Santa bliss. Foaming at the mouth. Like wild, Christmas attack dogs ready for the kill.

Then I said it, "Kids, we're going to wait until Daddy gets home to open presents! Won't that be fun?" 

Record scratching. Turd in punchbowl. Nagasaki.

In unison: "When does Daddy get home?"

*Face melting, slurring words, slow motion - battery dying in toy voice* "Four hours."

I'm not sure what happened next, but, we all mostly made it through unscathed and I've found a new friend in breakfast cocktails. To the first person who poured Kahlua into your coffee, you are a friend, genius and trailblazer. Marry me.

I have made peace with my epic, Christmas morning fail because as everyone knows, I don't do perfect. True to form, what is a Christmas at my house without the ultimate Bad Parenting Moment. I'm a gal who loves consistency and Kahlua. 

Mmmmmmmm, Kahlua.

"PRESENTS? WE DON'T NEED NO STINKIN' PRESENTS!"

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!"

Every Party Has a Pooper!

We rarely get invited to parties outside of family functions. Let me rephrase. We rarely get invited back to parties or functions. For years I've assumed that our invites have been lost in the mail. A bucket full of beautiful invites to amazing parties sitting in the post office as a uniformed postal worker throws in yet another envelope while thinking, "These people must be fabulous. If only the address had been legible!"

Truth be told, we are fabulous. We are also loud and, even when on our best behavior, there is a swirling air of disaster and dirt following us as we move, tornado like, through your freshly vacuumed, party-ready home.

The children give it their best shot, but, they will likely destroy your festivus while I hover romantically near the French Onion dip.  I don't get out much and I came wearing maternity pants.  If you need me, I'll be sitting next to your food table in the folding beach chair I brought from home. Why yes, that is a cup holder. How kind of you to notice; I'd love a drink.

The nature of the event does not matter, nor do our unanswered pleas for their best behavior. How can I put this delicately? Shit is going to go south. Quickly. Would we love to see you perform with your choir? Yes, we would love to. Would you love to have your choir's performance interrupted by some, surprisingly well placed, organ pedal pressing by our two year old? Hello?

Hello?

Have I walked out of a party with only 3 of my children? Possibly, but, it was the eldest so I'm sure, with a stool, she could have foraged for snacks and eventually found a phone. The look on my face said, "I forgot one of my children again!" and the look on the host's face said, "Lose my number."

Have we left another party without our 2 year old? Maybe, but, it was dark and confusing and she was singing back-up karaoke. If we had disturbed her performance, that would have been worse. An artist should never be pulled away from her work. Besides, we were only halfway down the street so, this is a party foul that I avoid on a technicality.

Admittedly, we are a formidable crew of unrelenting noise, tears, squeals of delight and, we can clear a well stocked kitchen faster than a team of locusts. Still, we are a package deal; like Vikings or a gang fueled prison riot, it's all of us or nothing.

So, be prepared, we are the Field of Dreams family. If you invite us, we will come, but, may I suggest hiding the port cheese ball and the expensive liquor. At the very least, closet the breakables. If you promise to ignore my nervous, awkward conversation and the inevitable lipstick on my teeth, I can almost certainly possibly promise not to leave one of my children as collateral for our invitation to your next soiree.

"Dearest, did you hide my fishing hooks, polo gear and the china?"

Once Upon A Time...

My husband and I have a pretty good deal. I can write whatever I want about anything I want as long as I extend him some vague, undetermined amount of privacy. I think that's fair, in theory. I'm sure no one dreams of becoming blog fodder or, in this case, blog father. I've kept this unspoken agreement that could never be held up in a court of law, until now. Honey, I love you. There's a box of your favorite cake mix in the pantry.

When I met my husband, I was on the heels of the bitter, ugly end of a long term relationship. He was a college student living in his twin sister's spare bedroom, sleeping inside a sleeping bag on a futon. On our second date, he said, "I'm going to buy you dinner. This may be the only time this happens. I just got my financial aid check." and I thought, "Wow, this is the man of my dreams."

His car was a devastatingly old Saab that required equal amounts of pressure on the gas pedal and brake in order not to stall at a stop light. I was impressed with the dexterity it took to make that happen. One foot pressing in the clutch. One foot hovering beautifully on brake and gas pedal. Hey, miracle man, wanna make some babies?

We officially set a date to be married before he officially proposed. I may have also been pregnant with our first. Details. In true good guy fashion, he hounded my dad for a private meeting. My father, always a wise man, tried to blow him off, but, my husband was persistent. At their sit-down, he asked for my hand in marriage. My father said, "May I suggest a long engagement?" to which my husband replied, "We've already set the date." This is the stuff Hallmark movies are made of.

We were married in a small ceremony in a quaint little Chapel. In Las Vegas. In the middle of July with a temperature in the triple digits. I have fond memories of holding my $99 eBay gown over my head while hovering my pregnant rump over the wall unit AC in the "bridal dressing room" -  an ancient, mildewy on-site motel room 100 feet from the entrance to the chapel. In the throes of awful morning sickness, my main concern was if I would vomit directly into my husband's mouth during our first kiss as man and wife.

We did not have a honeymoon. We instead decided to have several children in quick succession. Anyone will tell you that this is a fool-proof plan.

We went on our first date 8 years ago. We were married 7 months after our first date. Our first daughter was born 7 months after our wedding. Our son was born two years later. Our second daughter, 2 years after that, our 3rd daughter, 21 months after that.

When I look at the details that make up our story, it is not the traditional fairy tale romance. It is awkward, untimely and ridiculous. It is more often unplanned than carefully constructed. It is silly and full of shenanigans. Some did not take us seriously. Some probably still do not. However, on our third date, I knew. I knew that he and this ridiculous, hilarious, silly life were supposed to be mine. So, back off ladies, he's taken. You don't really want to take me on as a crazy ex. I mean, can you imagine?  It wouldn't work out anyway; this is a well-loved and regular conversation in our home.

Husband: "You know that I will never give you a divorce, right?"
Me: *sigh* "Yes, I know."
Husband: "Even if you move out, I will NEVER sign the papers."
Me: "What if I get a restraining order?"
Husband: "You'll have to let me see the kids. When I drop them off after our visits, I'll say, Kids, tell Mommy that I love her SO much. Ask her when I can come home. Tell Mommy I know she doesn't love me, but, I love her."
Me: *Through snorting laughter* "That is terrible."
Husband: "Well, I guess we have to stay married then."
Me: "I guess so."
Husband: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too."

And they lived happily ever after.



Never gonna give, never gonna give...GIVE YOU UP!

No One Talks About My Thirst.

These days,  you can't seem to throw an extra comma into a sentence without hitting the well meaning advice of others. For example, I personally like to serve my children dinner while twirling a baton, but, I bet there are some anti-baton twirling parents out there just waiting, in my bushes, or in the pile of dried wipes and coffee cups on the floor of my van, to jump up and tell me that batons have been known to cause concussions. Well sure, but, if you haven't caused a concussion, clearly you didn't throw the baton high enough. Attempting a grilled cheese plating and quadruple spin is tricky even with acoustic ceilings. If you miss the catch and no concussion occurs, you have some work to do on your power throws. Rookies.

My current favorite thing to do to invite scorn and disgruntled, angry eyes is to emphatically state how much I enjoy my evening glass of wine or cocktail. This bunches an amazing amount of freshly pressed pantaloons. In between sips of my delightful wine, I adjust my glasses and take special note to not listen to any of the impassioned cries urging me to enjoy my children uninhibited by numbing agents. In response to these pleas I say, do you even have children or have you just seen them in passing? I also say, I've gotten quite comfortable in this spot on the couch, do you mind refilling my glass?

In my time as the accused, I can honestly say, it's always best to let someone know how sorry you feel for them as they enjoy a delicious cocktail. "Do you KNOW what you're missing in your state of wine daze?", they cry. Unless your answer is, the slightest edge off of the shrill death cry of freedom, then no, I don't. I also don't know where I put my glass. Have you seen it?

If you're going to insult the very simple pleasures of others, here's a bit of advice, it's always best to do so with absurd and over the top statistics. Why no, I was not aware that 2 glasses of wine a day made someone who clearly has it all figured out seem like an overbearing, statistic maker-upper. Oh wine, you have clouded my judgment yet again.

In the eyes of the tsk-tskers, I am the Miss Hannigan to their Donna Reed. I hate to burst anyone's bubble, but, even donning my best Miss Hannigan boa and compression knee highs, I can't pull off the bathtub gin. I don't have a bathtub. It makes my accurate depiction nearly impossible. I'm doing the best I can. Those are big shoes to fill.

I imagine that even if I opted to find another outlet that provided release and relaxation, there would be no way to please everyone. And, if you can not please everyone, you should strive to make several people unimaginably and unreasonably offended for no valid reason. In this way, I am a huge success. Mission accomplished.

Cheers.

Much Ado About Nothing

I am the most boring person alive.

Apparently, the sound of my voice is so unappealing, uninteresting and unremarkable that it can disappear into thin air. I am the David Blaine of speech. There was a full movie made about the trials and tribulations of King George VI. A full, 118 minute film centered around his and a speech therapist's struggle to make an unsure monarch worthy of his title through bold speech. I have my own movie, that takes place daily, where a woman in sweat pants and slippers from a company titled "My Friend" beats a dead horse with words that can only be heard if you are over 4 foot 8 inches tall. The matinee offers the most bang for your buck as all four children are home. You can see slow motion running and several mouthed, "I thought I told you not to..." as another child runs to me holding a first-aid kit and a mid-size to large-ish clump of their own or a sibling's hair. It's not all glamour and glitter, though. Even if I'm wearing a real bra and regular pants, my words are still magically as light and soft weighted as a single feather in flight. As useless as a Snuggie. As unreasonable as attempting to put on Spanx fresh out of the shower. As hopeless as my deep desire that Footloose be remade with the original cast. Kevin Bacon would reprise his role and be the town's aging and heartwarming shoe salesman; happily selling Capezio dance shoes to all the children he's freed to dance out loud. The kicker is, they wouldn't even KNOW that he is the hero and wouldn't be able to appreciate that they are buying jazz shoes from a legend. It has so much potential. Call me, Fox Searchlight.

I digress. I spend all day speaking and saying nothing. Because, if you aren't heard, does a bear still shit in the woods? Exactly.

But, to wax philosophical, am I really saying anything worth listening to? In between the "gentle reminders" to get up, eat breakfast, get dressed, brush teeth, go to school, get in the car, stop eating glue, no you can not have another snack, clean up, stop riding the baby, if you were hungry you'd eat an apple, no more t.v., did you finish your homework? and, time for pajamas!; Did I say anything fascinating?

On the other hand, IF YOU WOULD JUST LISTEN TO THE WORDS COMING OUT OF MY MOUTH, WE COULD START DISCUSSING COOLER SHIT LIKE LED ZEPPELIN AND WHY PRINCESS MOMBIE HAD SO MANY HEADS TO WEAR IN RETURN TO OZ. Ahem, does anyone have a paper sack handy for mild hyperventilation. Please and thank you.

Really, it's not that I don't have anything to offer, it's that the children and I are in the prime of our parallel living. They are trying to test boundaries. I am trying to set them. They are trying to break barriers. I am trying to duct tape a five-point car seat harness. They are trying to LIVE. I am trying to keep them alive. They are trying to break the barrel lock to the basement door and eat the candy I've hidden there. So am I.

When our parallel travel becomes a four-way stop, I wish on stars, full moons, sleeping bedheads and all of the words whispered and left unsaid, that we've made moments of and spoken of substance; that more often than not, our words were worthwhile and important. I pray that our future conversations, be they mundane or magical, all fall on listening ears.

Unidentified Flying Childhood

On the way home, I caught sight of a falling item through the bare branches lining the highway. It appeared to be hurtling through the sky. Ready to crash land at any moment. I continued to drive.  The item continued to fall with the same speed and ferocity while never reaching a target. I was mesmerized. I drove. It fell. I watched. It fell. The smoke trailing behind the object serving as the only indication of motion. A picture of perpetual movement with no visible progress. I know that feeling.

I am not the kind of mother who spends all day quietly crafting in the evergreen scented warmth of my kitchen, oven slightly ajar to release heat and the smells of baking. I do not cry when my children leave to begin a new school year or lose a tooth. I am a believer in progress. I am thankful for each new phase. Stepping stones signaling passage from dependence to independence. I celebrate forward motion as I watch them create a life, separate from me and my expectations of who they are. I watch their light bulb moments with curiosity and eagerness. Some days, it seems as if it is moving so quickly. Some days, perpetual movement with no visible progress. We become stuck in the day to day minutia.

I have been in varying stages of parenting young children since I first stepped into the role in 2006. Every two years, another infant. Every two years, a rearranging of the family structure. A re-learning of infancy. A re-tooling of our resources, abilities and boundaries with ourselves and each other. Every two years, my well defined parenting taste buds mature and I must further develop my palate.

When pregnant with our last, I knew we were pushing the reaches of our abilities and resources. I knew we were done.  Thus began a new vision of parenting. A model where another baby would not come home in a striped hat of pink and blue. Things are changing. The baby on my chest is the last. The chalk throwing 2 year old looks older. The 4 year old seems tall, lanky with no sign of his baby cheeks. The 6 year old, a shorter and wittier version of young adult me. Time has finally started moving. Swiftly.

I used to feel unable to say that the fully dependent times are trying. It is difficult to admit that, on some days, you feel like you are hurtling through space, in a dark void filled with only screams, dirty diapers and the incessant need of you.

We are a society that is so focused on the past and future that we neglect our present. In either judgmental hindsight or thoughtful foreshadowing, we ignore the now in its hideous imperfection. The hindsighters who watch you navigate moments of DEFCON 1 parenting and, with lustful implication, say, "Oh enjoy it, it goes by so fast." In hindsight, do we all view childhood as a shooting star? Beautiful, rare and blindingly brief.

Perhaps, in some ways, this is true. We pine for what is gone. We long for what is just outside our future reach. In the present though, we are frozen in lack of noticeable progress. We look forward to the abilities, competencies and skills they have yet to grow into. We pine for full cheeks, soft bellies and toothless grins.

I don't like to drink from the, "This is as good as it gets." fountain. I cherish the soft days of baby. I laugh through the wild rumpus of toddlerhood, I marvel at the knowledge of my newly school aged children's vivid understanding of the complicated world around them. I watch as they embrace every moment as it is happening; maybe children are the only ones who are truly able to.

Peter Pan never wanted to grow up. Wendy, Michael and John, even after the adventure of Neverland, wanted to go home to their mother. I think we all carry a bit of this as we fly through life. Half child/Half grown-up emotion hoping our children slow down, believe in fairies and, no matter where they are in the adventure, always fly home.

Life is happening while we court the great reckoning of longing versus progress. And, while we're here in this daily fall of non-visible momentum, the smoke is signaling that we're traveling. Swiftly.

         

The H Word.

I hate the term housewife. This is generally said as I lift a roast out of the oven. I did not marry my house. It's too old, it makes embarrassing noises and, frankly, it's a bit small, if you know what I mean. When I hear, "housewife", I channel Betty Draper. Not in the, my hair and makeup are perfect way, but in the, I hate everything and everyone around me way. Technically, I work from home; however, my house and I are not in a relationship. It is merely the storage unit overflowing with the products of the life we've created.

In the 50s, the role of the matriarch was to keep a clean and presentable appearance and home. To dress children well and ensure they were fed, polite and delivered to and from school. The picture of the well dressed mother, peering out the window to ensure supper was on the table before the wheels of the Thunderbird turned the corner and shifted from drive to park. 

Then, we changed. We grew and brave women started the hard work that continues today. We were freed from the prison of the 50s housewife stereotype. Except, we weren't.

Women are CEOs, politicians and soldiers. We have made great strides in the workforce. We still struggle to receive equal pay for equal work, but, there is no denying our progress.

However, inside the walls of home, the role of the stay-at-home care provider still struggles to find its new normal. This role has shifted. It is more hands-on. It is more engaged. The expectations of a full-time caregiver are robust. 100% tuned in to not only the physical requirements of the job; food in bellies, clothes on back, but also immersed in social and emotional development. And, you must not only be switched on to library outings and play groups, play dates and socially enriching opportunities, but, in the midst of this, you must be engaged. Present. Not just inside the home, but, in the real and imagined world of the child. At classes, at school, at sports events and recitals and classroom parties. Constantly. This hands-on/deep end of the parenting pool is newer; stemming from the emotional and natural parenting boom of the 70s. The rollover era of peace and love moving child rearing in a new direction. This move was and continues to be great, except for the quiet expectation that tagged along...the monkey on the back of progress. Yes, the 50s era housewife.

Ham! Mother fuckin' HAM!

In this brave new world of ultra-connected parenting, there is still the covert expectation that you go steady with your home. To promise to clean, organize, decorate, cook (equal parts delicious and nutritious) meals and make hospital corners until death do you part.  And, there is a ticking clock.  Attempts should be made to do it all before the doorknob twists. signaling not the end of the parenting work-day...because that never ends, but the traditional work day of someone else.

Few are brave enough to come right out and state this is the expectation, but, the nagging feeling of impeded progress is there. Sadly, we have not helped ourselves as we continue to feel the pressure internally to do more and more and then, even more with the same number of hours in the day. The expectation of perfection and the seamless oneness of our multiple functions. Measuring our proficiency of every part of our enormous role to determine a day's success. We could blame society, but, we continue to place this expectation on ourselves. Instead of separating our parenting from "housewifery", we combine them into one role. One overarching rainbow from child birth to clean toilets. On most days, I fail my home. I do not dust, clean blinds or mop. I do not scour floors or counters, but, I am an overextended and present parent. On the days when I put on my date-night pants and do my laundry, organize the roaming piles of paper and items needing attention, clean and plan elaborate meals, I am not as present for my children.

"We can have it all!" Well, we can. We do, but, only when we measure our success by the happiness of our children and stop measuring success by how many items are left on the to-do list.

I am an imperfect, stay-at-home parent. If you call me a housewife, I will hit you in the face with my Frittata pan.


 

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.

Long Live the Terrible Twos

If you ask a toddler who they are, they will say, "I am ME!" Simple and true. There can only be one you and, never are we more aware of this than during the big, self-pimptastic-realization of age 2. When the world is your oyster and that bitch better produce a pearl. This is the prime of our take. When you are 2, there is very little control over your world. You control only your reaction to the decisions being made for you and around you. In order to swallow that pill, you become one.

If you ask an adult who they are, they wax philosophical. Answering with who they want to be more often than who they currently are. At times, we may not even know. We project our desires with less toddler-like stomping and biting, but, with only a quarter of the badass that toddlerhood organically, and abundantly, produces.

There are times I desire that toddler, Foghorn Leghorn puffed chest pride. Every time I see my daughter strut around new terrain, secure in her right to be there, claiming the space as her own, I am awe-struck. So much sense of self trapped in one, tiny body. I imagine that the internal soundtrack in her head is Danger Zone. 24/7 Danger Zone and so much fantastic, she doesn't need Goose to co-pilot.

There are times when the brazenness of her age embarrasses me. Everything is theirs. That wallet in your hand? THEIRS. The grapes in the produce section. THEIRS. The chalk in your toddler's hands? Sorry, THEIRS. The cat's flea collar, your bowl of cereal, the sack of plastic bags in the basement. Right. THEIRS.

Alternatively, in all the well documented take of the toddler age, I see saintly giving. The affection they give to everyone they meet. The trust they extend and their unlimited well of forgiveness. I see those traits more acutely developed in these pint-sized Mother Theresas than in the majority of adult society. So much love to give and everyone is deserving. You only need be in their extended orbit to be a recipient of their time, words, love and attention.

Sure, they could use some polish. The crapping directly in their pants and failure to understand how to use a tissue require finesse, but, when it comes to give and take, good and bad, the light and dark, I have to say, toddlers may have us beat.

Toddler 101: Enter a room and be brazenly YOU.  Make friends with everyone. If anyone steps on your toes, tell them and then, hug it out. Friends may not always agree, but, if we have Goldfish and a few minutes, we'll remember that having relationships is far better than being right and, we'll move on. Everyone can play and if we all pool our snacks, there is plenty to go around. If I get hurt, it's alright to cry. If I need love, I'll ask for a hug. The world is great. People are kind. If you love the music, dance...no matter where you are. If you hurt someone, say sorry. Share.

Long live the Terrible Twos.

Seven Minutes in Heaven

Some people want a larger home. Some, a new job. Some dream of lavish vacations. Me? I want seven minutes of silence. Pure, triple X, golden silence. I would take it in a car. I would take it at a bar. I would take it here or there, I would take it ANYwhere.

As I sit here typing, I have two children in time-out, one rolling a plastic bus over her own face and one clinging to my knee as if it were made entirely of Oreos.

As I sit here typing, the world is whizzing by my window. People alone in their vehicles. Alone. In their aloneness with alone thoughts of being quietly alone. I imagine they are looking in my window and thinking, "Look at that lively home with all of those bustling sounds!" and to those people I say, be thankful my house is not "drive-by and sniff" or you would be horrified when you awoke from your smell induced coma.

As I sit here typing, I try to imagine the sound of nothing. But, even in near quiet, a toddler will sit down next to me, put their mouth next to my ear and chew a Triscuit. When I flinch and run to the bathroom, someone will stick their face in the gap between the door and the floor and will speak in run-on sentences until I emerge. It's not that I don't love sound, it's that I don't enjoy the feeling of one thousand ladybugs playing hopscotch on my brain.

The baby is adorable in her endless noise. Even when she's sleeping, she will put her face directly in mine and breathe loudly. Creepy, heavy, on the other end of the line breathing. Restraining order breathing. HEHHHHH HEHHHHHHHH HEHHHHHHHHHHHH HEHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It's not that I don't appreciate the sheer strength of will it must take to create noise every living second. It must be exhausting, however, making the noise has little to no effect on the noise maker. It doesn't appear to be exhausting. Therein lies the magic. I am exhausted. Exhaustion by proxy? Brilliant.

On some evenings, 2 glasses of wine in, I marvel at the talent of my copper pot band. Every delighted shriek that does not end with, "BLOOD!" fills my heart with joy and then fear and then joy again before the fear of recognition creeps back in that screaming is their language and I am the tourist that simply points at things with angry eyebrows. My jumbled sounds say, "Hay goes in a haystack and it's ice cream for dinner!" when I'm saying, "I can't hear anything! Can you hear the words coming out of my mouth? HELLO?"

It's not that they are not listening, it's that they are speaking Kid and I am speaking fluent Grown Up In Charlie Brown.

My husband plays several instruments. Currently, we have four trombones, the loudest instrument in the orchestra. I often wonder if he is trying to slowly drive me insane. Well played, sir.

"WAH WAHHH WAH WAHHHHH."

I think about how often we try to reconnect by going out into different noise. The noise of our life becomes routine and we crave the noise of others. Dinner conversation at the next booth. The bar patron three stools down. Active listening on social media drowning out the sacred and constantly constant noise of home. Losing ourselves in the noise of others. Losing ourselves in the noise of the world.

I don't need a day. I just need 7 minutes. One to let my mind slow. One to clear the anxious jumble of words, One to breathe. One minute to bask in the glory of nothingness. One to reconnect with the latent peace of my soul - my separate being. One to give thanks for the healthy children making the noise and one for making peace while beginning to miss the noise.

It seems so simple, yet, silence is the most elusive part of my day. I crave it while fearing a life without it. The push-pull of the sounds of home.

One day my knee won't be as delightful as a sleeve of Oreos. One day, I'll have all the quiet and less to write about.

One day, I'll crave seven minutes of constant, chaotic oblivion. One to adjust. One to enjoy, One to embrace. One to remember. One to immerse. One to engage and one to wish for seven more minutes in Heaven.

Until then, we are living life constantly out loud.