One Month.

It's a month today since I became a mother of three. A mother of three. Just typing that makes my eyes well up. Can I chalk it up to hormones? Because, honestly, I don't know why I'm teary about it. Going from a mother of none to a mother of one was definitely special. Going from a mother of one to a mother of two seemed par for the course. But becoming a mother of three? I'm really in this now.
And I suppose I feel I've learned a thing or two about being someone's mother but how much could I have learned in five years when really, I'm learning more and more everyday. And not even about being a mother but about who I am.

Here's a recent revelation I had: I really suck at mediating disputes and coming up with getting-along ideas. It's not surprising, though, if you know me. I tend to shy away from confrontation and let other people deal with the mess. If it's a battle I feel is worth fighting, I'll make a weak attempt at engagement but otherwise, the drama is not for me. So, most of the time, I let the kids handle it. The rest of the time, I fumble around for a response that'll make every kid happy... which is mostly impossible, as we parents know.  That, or I let my sister Kate handle it. *ahem*

But I know there are other things that I'm good at, so I try not to dwell too much on my shortcomings. But if you ask me what I'm good at, I'll draw a blank. I mean, I must be doing something right because my children are generally delightful little people with good hearts, normal kid behavior nonwithstanding. I don't worry at all that I'm screwing this up, though I do wonder if I can do it better.

{I had to stop working on this to tend to various household chores and living creatures. During that time, I remembered one thing that I do well: answering my kids' "Why" questions, even if I sometimes have to pull the answer out of my ass.}

When I first became a mother, I really struggled with feeling wistful about my life pre-children, and pre-marriage, even. I always felt a mild urge to go back to work, even though I know myself well enough to know that I can't balance a career like teaching with the demands of motherhood. I mean, I could do it but everything would be done half-assed and I'd be a miserable person. That feeling has lessened somewhat since Stella's birth and now, with Micah, I have fully accepted that I won't be going back to work full-time until I'm nearly 40.  It feels like a long way off but I know better now how fast the time goes. Almost 5 years at home with Alice, and it has gone by so fast, in retrospect.

I've learned to be present. I'm not always good at it but I make an effort to try. The moments where I feel most frustrated and impatient are the moments where I think ahead too fast or expect too much of myself and the kids. Stay present. Stay present. It's really the key, I think, to being the mother of any number of kids without losing your sanity.

So, one month down. A lifetime of months to go. It'll be easy. It'll be hard. It'll be somewhere in between. I'm taking it day by day,  learning my lessons as I go.

Lately.

Alice worked on this flip for a long time, taking quite a few spills in the process. I love how proud she is when she finally sticks it! 

As soon as I saw these pencils, I knew I needed to have them. 

This baby is 3 now. In a big way. It's kind of kicking my tush at the moment but her spontaneous "I love yous" and kisses make up for it. 

My sister and I started a garden. So far, so good. Fingers crossed.

The Parent Trap

I hate it when my mom friends are hard on themselves for being human. I had an epiphany the other day, in a comment that I left on a friend's blog:

It’s hard sometimes to be the “parent you want to be,” because that doesn’t always jibe with who you really are, as a person. 

It's not a novel idea, or even a new one but it's easy to lose sight of this reality of parenting, when you're in the thick of it. Who I am, as a person, does not always neatly dovetail who I'd like to be as a parent. There is plenty of overlap, of course. I am, by nature, a kind and generous person and that does carry over into my parenting (I hope so, anyway). The problem lies in the ideal that I'm just not motivated to live up to, quite frankly. Nonetheless, I like to make myself feel bad about it, despite my admitted hatred for the same behavior in other moms.  That's the rub in ideals. They inspire clinginess, no matter how quixotic or Pollyanna the criteria are. It's easy to blame idealistic parenting on shiny, happy mommyblogs and other kid-centric media but I think even without them, we have much higher expectations of ourselves as parents than we do of ourselves as just people.
I long ago accepted and forgave myself for not being the person that I wished I was but that hasn't happened in my parenting persona. Why? I guess because the stakes are higher, aren't they, when it comes to our children? I would love to be the person that reads a book in bed, in lieu of turning on the TV. But so what if I'm not that person. I don't beat myself up over it. On the other hand, if I turn on the TV for my kids to keep them occupied for 15 minutes, instead of finding some creative activity for them to do--holy hell, the guilt.
There's another problem here, I've realized. Why do I separate myself into two parts-- the person part and the parenting part? Shouldn't they be one and the same? Not always. As a parent, I try to model good behavior, healthy habits and so on. The parent in me would never smoke a cigarette in front of my children, but when I spent a week in Europe with friends last Fall, I chain-smoked the entire trip. That's who I was before I became pregnant and that is the person I still am, but as a responsible parent concerned not only about setting an example but about my children's health, I pretend I'm a non-smoker. I mean, that's kind of a common example, I think but it's the most visual one I can come up with.
At my core, who I am as a person is the same as who I am as a parent-- loving, kind, generous, thoughtful but also impatient, easily bored, and unmotivated. I wish I could eliminate those last three traits and add a whole bunch more positive ones. Don't get me wrong. I don't think I'm a bad parent but a lot of times I think I could be a better one. It would be nice to be a perfect one! I'm the first person to tell you that it takes a lot to screw up your kid. I think all of us with imperfect childhoods and imperfect parents can attest to that. Otherwise, all of society would be going to hell in a handbasket, instead of just those unlucky ones who didn't escape the odds.
My goal, though, is to do more than just not screw up my kids. That's kind of a low bar, isn't it?-- "don't screw up your kids." All the time, I think about something my dad says often-- that we are not raising children but future adults. And if I want my children to productive, happy adults, I need to lead by example. That's not to say that I hide everything negative-- I think it's healthy for children to see adults get frustrated, and it's even more healthy for them to see how people handle frustration.  I mean, I get frustrated pretty often, and don't always handle it in the most graceful manner. Sometimes, in watching my children deal with their own frustration, I realize that I need to be better at modeling constructive ways of dealing with emotions like frustration. I suppose that is what I  really mean when I say that I wish I were a better parent, or that there is a difference between who I am as a person, and who I am as a parent. Being a better parent inevitably makes me a better person. Without my kids, I wouldn't have a sounding board that gives me feedback on the effectiveness of my behavior.
My friend Heather told me a sweet story about her son, who is about to turn 5. She tells him all the time, "I love you even when you're being cranky (or naughty or whatever)." The other night, as she put him to bed, he said to her, "I love you even when you're being cranky and mad." I'm paraphrasing here, but you get the idea. I like this story because it just goes to show that kids recognize and accept our faults and love us anyway, so shouldn't we also love ourselves as parents anyway, instead of flogging ourselves for not doing it the way we think it ought to be done?

We Didn't Get Any Snow.

A friend shared this great idea on Facebook: dropping colored vinegar into baking soda. Little mini volcanoes! 

We woke up in the morning to 16 inches. 

Camping out in front of the fireplace and wishing for the real thing. 

I put Alice to work sorting coins for rolling. 

Our cat took a step, and would've ventured past the threshold if I'd let him.

And there's another storm predicted for Wednesday into Thursday. I'll be more prepared this time around, food-wise. The past two days have been an exercise in pantry shopping... but it's been nice having Henry home. I got some reading done (I'm currently reading The People of the Book, by Geraldine Brooks.) I should've gotten some sewing done, as I have crayon rolls on order for Wake Robin, reopening in Croton in March (yay!), and some writing done, as I'm behind on my assignments for The Power of Writing but two kids with cabin fever are no match for two adults. And now one of those kids has a fever. Looks like we'll be homebound a little while longer. 

A Finisher.

Heather and I, post-race and pre-pancakes

Saturday night, before the Danskin Triathlon out in Sandy Hook, was a veritable carb-fest at my friend Heather's house. I shoved penne down, in between bites of chicken francaise. All week, I'd been scheming ways to avoid this tri while saving face. I was tired and not feeling it, plus I wasn't training as hard as I could. I thought I'd "accidentally" leave my tri suit behind or some other important item for the race. Or maybe it would get rained out. Maybe I'd get sick! Maybe Heather would get sick! Still, I remembered to pack everything I needed. I took the train down to Yonkers, with the bike. Heather picked me up. We settled in for a rainy evening at her house.
After dinner, we both headed up to bed. I tried to watch TV. I couldn't get sleepy. Finally, I took a book out. That would do the trick. I finally got drowsy enough to turn out the light and close my eyes, super conscious of the fact that Heather promised me to wake me up at 4:30 in the morning.
At 3am, I woke up, unbearably hot. I turned the fan and unable to fall back asleep, I made the mistake of looking at my phone. I did my usual check-up of the social networks, predictably dead at that hour. I finally put my phone down and dozed back to sleep. I found myself in a very vivid dream in which Heather came to wake me up, so I got up and attempted to make the bed, only to fall back asleep. I awoke with a start, realizing that it might not have been a dream! I looked at my phone and saw that it was 4:30. I wondered if Heather really had woken me or not. I stumbled around, getting my tri suit ready, brushing my teeth, getting dressed. I put my sneakers on the floor, willing myself to leave them behind. I even shoved them up under the bed, out of sight but unfortunately, not out of mind.
I made the bed, packed my bag and with a sigh, reached under the bed to pull out my sneakers. How lame would it be to tell people that I didn't do the tri because I forgot my sneakers? Very lame.
I met Heather in the kitchen, where we ate a light snack, filled our water bottles and headed out into the chilly pre-dawn to load our bikes onto the car. I had some choice words, regarding the early hour as we got into the car but I won't repeat them here (thought my Facebook friends know just what I said!).
The closer we got to Sandy Hook, the more glad I was that I didn't bail, on the tri or on Heather. I'm not the fastest at anything but I'm a dogged finisher. (Just ask my dad...) It was a beautiful almost-Fall day. The water was perfect, temperature-wise but a little rough. Those waves helped propel me along, though! The bike course follows the shoreline, a great view while zipping along the course. I challenged myself to pick up speed and pass a few people, to my (inner) satisfaction. Getting off the bike, my strategy for the run was to go for a negative split--run the first part of the course at a slow, easy pace, saving my energy for a faster pace during the last part of the 5K. I picked up speed as I approached the finish, sprinting the last few yards and high-fiving the peppy clown that awaited me across the line, where Heather, having finished earlier,  greeted me with a hug.
It was a great race, I was happy that I followed through and noticed that while I didn't necessarily feel faster, I did feel like it took less effort. It turns out that I did do much better than last year! As usual, my main goal was to not come in last. I like to set the bar appropriately, you know. Not too high, not too low.

Impeded

I lay awake in bed this morning, woken up by a toddler with a very wet diaper. I clean her up and she climbs into bed with us, next to her father and sister. She finds a comfortable position and goes back to sleep. I, on the other hand, am not so lucky. It is 5:20 am. The night before, I said to my husband, "I'm going to try to swim in the morning." In the dark room this morning, with very little light encroaching, I say to myself, "Why don't you get up and go swimming?" I ignore the voice and feel vindicated a short while later, when my husband reports that it is pouring rain outside, which I didn't know. But soon enough, a bolt of lightning illuminates the room briefly. Decision made, I still can't go back to sleep. I hold my phone, playing Draw Something instead,  obsessively shuttling back and forth between email and Facebook. At that early hour, action is slow. I ask myself another question: "Why don't you get up and write something?" Mmh... that is not a bad idea. I slither out of bed, hoping to let sleeping children lay. I close the door softly behind me and tip-toe to the kitchen to start the kettle. As I turn around to go to the bathroom, I am met with arms stretched upward and a toddler mewling, "uppie, mommy." I pat her head and take her by the hand. A two year old knows no boundaries and will rest her sleepy head upon your lap even as you sit on the toilet to pee. I gently nudge her away and carry her out of the bathroom. "I'm hungry, mommy." "You want yogurt?" "Yogurt! I want yogurt!" I set her up at the table with her yogurt and a spoon, heading back to the kitchen to tend to that kettle. Following right behind is a pre-schooler demanding "uppie mommy." I pick her up and give her a big morning hug before suggesting yogurt. She obliges and slithers out of my arms to fetch her yogurt. She joins her sister at the table, who is now asking for a peanut butter sandwich, yogurt barely touched. I'm determined not to give up on the kettle, now no longer hot. I turn it on again and begin making the sandwich. I'm interrupted by the sandwich-requester who has decided she wants american cheese. She opens the fridge and yanks the cheese drawer off its track in her zealous quest. I set the cheese drawer back on track, and turn around to see her furiously ripping open the cheese. She takes one slice and lets the rest fall on the kitchen floor. I pick up the cheese, and decide, upon inspection, that it must be thrown out. As I close the garbage, my husband ambles into the kitchen, commandeering the kettle for his coffee.

Moral of the story: Sit down and write before turning on the kettle and peeing.