To My Sweet Sam on his Fifth

Dear Sam,

Happy very late 5th birthday, buddy (11/23/14)! In case it helps, I also have neglected to take you to get your well-child check up, and here we are 34 days post-birthday.  The latter is more understandable than this late birthday letter, I'll admit: Your ear tubes have come out and thus you have not been well enough to get vaccinations, and because we've been to the pediatrician three times since your birthday, I already know officially how much you weigh -- 40 pounds.  Moreover, I don't need anyone to tell me that you're tall.  I can see that for myself though I do love a good percentile now and then to confirm my notions.  I also know that you are big enough for 10 ml of amoxicillin or 7 ml of Augmentin twice a day for 10 days, discard the rest.  Bubble gum flavor.  And while we're talking numbers, don't worry about all those milliliters of fake bubble gum because hopefully we'll have your third set of ear tubes put in before you turn six!  Yay! 

As I lay in your bed tonight rubbing your back and trying to figure out what smelled like barf, it occurred to me to consider the length of the arc of my adjustment to motherhood.  I figure I'm not anywhere near the apex, but I've been hanging on long enough to be about a quarter of the way up perhaps -- which means I'm decently discerning about things that matter, I guess.  One of which is that the ER is a very unnecessary place as long as everybody's bones are intact, there is no unstoppable bleeding, and all are capable of breathing on their own.  Another important aspect of ascending the arc is gaining the ability not to worry about the faint smell of vomit unless there is a reason more important than olfactory unpleasantness.  Especially not at 8:30 p.m. when everything is otherwise quiet and you're not sure if the extra sheets are clean.  But perhaps one of the most important aspects of traversing the arc is learning not to cling to comfort.  Motherhood is a lot of things, but it is most certainly not always comfortable -- physically, mentally, or emotionally. 

You see, Sam, after John was born, I said for years that I couldn't handle anymore children ... didn't want more babies hanging on my hip.  And then one day I imagined a bald little Thanksgiving baby, and 41 weeks later, there was you.  Moreover, if I thought that I was overwhelmed with one child, two has just about done me in is only slightly more of a work of love.  You ask me all the time if we're going to have another baby, and I cheerfully explain that that is impossible for our family because we have just enough kiddos in our house!  The truth is that it is both in spite of and because of the fact that motherhood consistently and constantly pushes me out of my comfort zone that it is the greatest work of my life.

Over this last year, Sam, I have struggled to maintain even the slightest glimpse of balancing motherhood with the other parts of my life.  I fear that it has many times been to your detriment.  But I promise you that I will always keep trying to do better at being more present with you, listening to you, and seeing you in all your Sammishness. 

Tonight, for example, while I was fiendishly sniffing for the barf-smell source, you were showing off your new addition skills -- holding up fingers and modeling your abilities, then asking me to do much more difficult mathematical equations such as [insert your incredulous giggle here]: twenty plus twenty!  Followed by ceaseless iterations of "Do you know what it is, Mom?  What is it?  20+20!  Oh my gosh!  Mom!  What is it?!?!?"  I waited just to see if you might be able to get it, but, exhausted with impatience, you finally said, "Well?"

I answered, "It's forty!  Can you believe it?!?"  To which you replied, "Wow! I really didn't know!  That's awesome if you're telling the truth, young lady." 

It really is 40, love.  I've been studying for the GRE, so I'm relative sure.

Despite my lack of work-life balance, this year has been a good one for you as a student Sam.  You switched schools and are at a much more progressive preschool where they espouse child-led learning (emergent is the keyword if anyone wants to google it).  Your teachers let you choose what you'd like to learn and then guide you in a direction that helps you develop that particular skill through play.  They also make you taste everything at lunch (which is prepared at the center) before you can have more bread or crackers, your staples.  You have told me more than once that the school is fine other than the tasting.  Once you told me that you tried chicken -- "real chicken!"  But that you "definitely didn't eat the bones."  Sam, I relish that little detail of your random October day even now -- your pride, bravado, and storytelling skills all capture me. 

As a brother, you are still learning that you are the little one.  This means that for the time being, John will be able to beat you at pretty much anything you try.  This also means that the arc of my adjustment to motherhood must bend quite uncomfortably in the direction of patience because the two of you are pretty relentless in all aspects of your interactions.  One thing that I love about you, Sam, is that you never give up the idea that you can beat John in cards or football, spaghetti eating or chicken chasing.  You hold out an endless hope of one day succeeding.  This everlasting optimism is part of why we love you so much, and part of what makes us worry constantly that you'll crack your head open.

Right now, Sam, your brother is all the directions you want to go in.  You often seem lost when he's not in the house.  You also like your individual time with me and your dad, but I don't think there's any other playmate you prefer more than your brother, even if he's holding your head under the pool of water that forms at the end of the slip-n-slide.

So, Sam, since this is closer to Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday than to your own, I think I will end by taking the liberty to examine one of his most famous sayings.  I love this quote because it inspires us to think about the bigger picture rather than focusing on all the small details which may or may not be pleasant to consider.  It asks us to ponder not what tiny battles we have won or lost, but to envision the greater cause.  He said, "The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."  I think of this often when I'm getting mired down in the everyday conundrums of how to be a good mom.  I tell myself that the moments may seem long (especially the ones involving sibling rivalry and/or unidentifiable barf smells), but the years seem short. 

One of your own more morbid yet sweet aphorisms is that you'll always love me, and I'll always be your mom, even when we're all dead.  This is very true, sweet.  It doesn't matter what happens in any moment -- for better or worse -- in the long run all that matters is that I'm your mom.  My sweet Sam, it is my fervent prayer that the arc of my motherhood will not get bent out of shape by impatience, selfishness, or misguided values.  Rather, I'll do my best to keep my arc bending in the direction of you, sweet, which is most certainly toward love.

With my biggest ever hug,
Mom

Where Did These Athletes Come From?

It must be my mad cheerleading skills that contributed to the creation of these little athletes.  I watch them with sheer joy, amazement, and jealousy.  How I wish I could rock that footwork.  How I longed to enjoy something and be so good at it that I would run until sweat beads formed on my upper lip.  I seriously wanted some sweat beads in elementary school.  I coveted Erin Craven's sweat beads.  But anyway, God (and Brian, I guess) gave me these two little soccer gems so that I might live vicariously through them.  And for that, I am grateful.

To My 1st on (actually one day after) Your 10th

Dear John,

Yesterday you crossed over into double digits.  I'm still 28 of course, but somehow you are ten.  Never again after this year can you count your age on your hands.  Toes will need to be involved, and I have seen your toes, and this is not a good thing.

This is my 10th letter to you.  The first one included a minute count of how long I had known you (525,600 minutes) and a Broadway tune.  I fear this one may not hold a candle.

We have been celebrating your birthday over the last two weekends -- one fun day with friends at Nashville Shores and another weekend with The Paternals, one of whom made an apple pie (your request), which you scarfed almost singlehandedly in a matter of two days.

I really don't have a plan for this letter.  I want to write down some things that you're doing these days and might let that be my overarching theme, lame as it is.  You love that word lame, by the way.

Right now you are obsessed with Legos, soccer, and your "Clan" that lives in my phone.  I get automatic messages all day to update how your clan is doing while you're away.  "Xiangyong1988 has just raided your village!"  or "The troops are ready to attack!" or "Our arsenal of supplies is almost empty, chief, WHERE ARE YOU?"  I'm quite sure this sucks my battery down, but I can't bring myself to delete the app because you enjoy it so much.  (And also, I can get you to do basically anything if I threaten to delete it.)

You waxed political yesterday, comparing America's wars in other countries to youth travel sports teams -- they never fight it out on their home turf.  I thought that was pretty brilliant, but on the other hand you've been bringing home Ds and Fs in social studies, so who knows?  (Side note:  I secretly like that you're getting bad grades because it forces me to practice Spanish in order to help you get better.  I am so proud of my new knowledge of 4th grade geological terms en Espanol -- suela, meteorizacion, formas de rocas, etc.).  I will enjoy it much less when the homework is in English, so please do try to improve and/or consistently attend a Spanish immersion school.

You're still taking piano lessons although this will probably be the last year.  I told you last year that you could quit when you get to middle school because you would be playing a band instrument at that time.  You have your heart set on the saxophone.  I guess I have to be OK with that.  It's just that you're good, JB.  You have an ear for it.  I think your foot for soccer and arm for baseball are great too, but those have nothing to do with me, and son, here's the deal: Soon you will learn that it all has to do with me, unfortunately.  I want to see you shine BOTH in activities that I pursued AND in things that I could never fathom.  I want to live vicariously through you.  I want you to do all of the things I did, and out-perform me.  It's not even a lot to ask, love.  It's just you at your best.

Too bad there's that whole HOMEWORK thing.  It is really holding us you back.

Let's discuss our time in the car, JB.  What is this calling cars thing?  You and your brother do it both individually and collectively while I drive you all to various extracurriculars.  "Oooooh!  Call that mustang!"  or "Oh yeah, call that monster truck."  or "OOoh yeah baby -- that motorcycle is mine." (An important unnoticed fact here is that we live in a city where we see sports cars, motorcycles, and monster trucks driving around daily -- how many other cities can brag about that?)  My most important question is this: Why is it important to call cars/trucks when you're the only one who sees/wants them (e.g., when it's just me and you in the car and Sam is with your dad? --  I drive and wonder about these things.)

John-John -- you know that we love you by now.  But do you also know that we like you most of the time too?  You have matured into a lovable, hard-working, funny kiddo about whom we are more than proud.

I am especially interested in your athletic talents (but would also love it if you tried, say, theater or ballet), but all of you is pretty cool at this point, JB. You seem to be learning yourself and applying that knowledge to good decision making about the choices that you/we make.  I feel proud to be part of Team John, and I can't wait to see what the future holds for you.

You are loved, liked, respected, (catered to, not that it matters), and honored ...

With all my hugs and love,
Mom

Thursday Night Special

I used to always blog on Thursday nights.  Because I only had one kiddo. Because I wasn't working full time.  Because Brian was always at work until late.  Because I had finished mopping for the, um, week.

Now I have two kiddos, am working full time, have a husband who no longer works late, and a cleaning service that mops, um -- don't judge -- once a month.  (We have a small house.)

Tonight I worked until 8 p.m., had dinner with a colleague until 9ish, and got home at 9:30 p.m. after a long day of dealing with what I like to refer to as triple I's: Important Immigrant Irritations.  Who amongst us doesn't love alliteration?  Let him cast the first stone.  (Short aside:  I once joined a book club that was just forming.  We were all having a discussion about when we should meet, and "First Fridays" was my suggestion.  However, some important member was always busy on that day, so I came up with the following to satiate my alliterative drive:  Book Club will meet the Friday Following the First Friday of each month (FFFF).)  

And when I got home at 9:30 p.m., all the house was quiet and completely dark.  I chose not to take this personally, and felt Thursday calling.  So, here I am.

The following is on my mind ...

• It's not possible, but still, I will soon have a child whose age is in double digits.
• I don't record enough of the hilarity of the everyday, which I used to do ad nauseum.
• I can't possibly be taking enough photos of poor, sweet Sam.

Note that they're all negative.  I noted that, and my well-trained, self-aware mind said, "Write 3 positives to counteract negative thinking."  So, here:

• I feel that I make a consistent & concerted effort to be a better parent mostly daily.
• I go to bed earlier on average these days than in the last few years.
• I try to live a balanced life that is focused on neither me nor my family, but us as a whole.

And now for the love of all that is good in the world ... on to just some photos... no more psychobabble.

It is soccer season, and I'm reminiscing about John-John's first year on a team.  He was three and serious, but as fate would have it, he got on the pink team.  It was appropriately named the Pink Panthers, and not to worry because John -- as fate would have it -- was in a pink phase.  

Not such a pink phase that he didn't insist upon orange socks. 

 Then there came the in-between year where one was playing and one was watching.  There were moments like this, which are simply magnanimous mama music (MMM), as far as I'm concerned.

John scored a goal.

John's team won the game.

And then came Sam's first year, which was marked with utter adherence to the rules.  NOT.  I once ran into a college friend at the fields (his kid was playing on an opposing team) and during our catch-up-on-the-last-almost-20-years conversation, Sam pulled down his pants and mooned the referees. TRUE STORY.

Obviously, we don't have a pic of him engaged in the act of mooning, but we do have proof that he played soccer for the Black Bears because of black uniform top, of course.

And those are all the pictures I have.  Hopefully I can do better this year in terms of sports memories.  

But until then..

OUS..

k

The Relative Permanence of Mohawks

Sam had been begging for a mohawk for months (years?) when Brian finally gave in.  Normally I would have stepped in and ended this dream for him, but I was heavily involved in a grading frenzy of essays with titles such as, "My All in Love with Mathematics" and "My Testes Anxiety" (yes, really -- the plural of the word "test" proves to be quite difficult for non-native speakers, as it turns out).  So, I was a bit distracted when the shaver came out.

At first, it was a mohawk version that went all the way to the nape of his neck.  Now y'all.  I am from Mississippi, but I'm sorry, I couldn't do it.  It was just too much.  I encouraged them to edit it a bit ... suggesting that perhaps a more "army-guy flat-top approach" might be better.  They bought it.  So, this is what we ended up with:

If only you could see the difference where his beach-brown skin meets his hairline.

They actually eat all the time and haven't been in a concentration camp, but the main point of this is the distinct hair qualities.

So, the day after the mohawk was complete, we decided to go to Radnor.  The boys were going to scooter and I was going to exercise by keeping up with them.  Sam wakes up that morning and runs into the kitchen, looks at me seriously, and says, "Do I still have my mohawk?"

"Yes," I say, surprised that he thought it might go away in the night.  "It's a haircut, so it's not going to go away."

With much conviction, he snaps at me, "It's not a HAIRCUT!  It's a MOHAWK!"

Right.

So, we're getting ready to go to Radnor, and Sam comes up to me and whispers, "Can I take my mohawk to Radnor?"

"Um..... of course!" I reply, thinking that something is really wrong with his understanding of object permanence.

"YESSSSSSsssssssss!" he says, and runs out of the room to tell John the exciting news.

Now when we go somewhere and people admire his "haircut," they are met with a very curt response:

IT IS NOT A HAIRCUT.  IT'S A MOHAWK.

Indeed.  And, for now, it's still there.

ous,
k

He has always had good hair.

In the Battle Between Napkins and Squirrels ...

First of all, congrats to our boys, both of whose teams were runner ups in their leagues' silver division championship games!  Here they both are receiving their trophies:

And after all that was said and done, I finally made time to take my car in to get an oil change.  What is it about taking your car in for any one little thing?  It's like they can't wait to take the whole thing apart looking for other problems that you might not know about.  This doesn't happen when I go to the doctor or when my students submit papers.  I just get checked out for whatever I came in for, and my students get feedback from me that reflects the objectives of the lesson from which the submission came.  And yet mechanics ... those conniving know-it-alls.  (Gracie, if you're reading this, I'm sure Chris is not like this at all, and would actually like to meet him -- would he consider becoming my PCM (primary care mechanic?)

See, back in 2010 I went in for normal maintenance and discovered that Chick-fil-A napkins had gotten lodged in the "blower door" (a lovely name that one cannot forget once discovering), and because of this, the AC, when on "recirculated air" made an incessant clicking sound that would've cost a grandish to fix.  That prompted this blog post.

And then this week I went in for an oil change, and 30 minutes later, a young man came out with what looked like a filthy old, dust-covered wash board with rodent droppings and acorn shells lodged in it.  It was my AC's filter.  A squirrel had apparently used it to make a lovely home for him/herself.  I had wondered why there were acorns in the vents and on the floorboard, but of course with boys, one never bothers to ask questions about things such as this.  This mechanic encouraged me to take a picture, "so that your husband will believe you," and so I did:

You can see acorn halves, poop, an eaten-out part, etc.  Good stuff, y'all, Crazy, exciting stuff that just doesn't happen to you in your 20s.

So, in other news, Brian and I went to Arizona for our 13th anniversary.  And below are some of my favorite shots from our trip:

We flew Southwest and got "C" boarding passes, which basically meant that I was out on the wing and Brian was co-pilot.  So, he told them it was our 13th anniversary and VOILA, we got to sit together.  At the end of the flight, they announced our anniversary and gave us a bottle (yes, bottle) of champagne, which we left in the hotel as a gratuity for the the housekeeper.  During the time they were announcing us, people were exiting the airplane.  We could not exit because my original seat (where my luggage was located) was behind us.  So Brian weaved his way back there amongst the passengers, and I meanwhile took up with a child who was flying unaccompanied.  He had heard the announcement, and asked me if I was proud of my 13th husband.  So, I explained to him the differences between marriages and anniversaries.  He then started singing a song featuring the books of the Bible (which I knew), so I joined in.  When I got to Ecclesiastes, he stopped me an dsaid, "Jehovah's witness?" I replied that no, indeed, I had grown up Baptist, at which point he informed me that the Bible said I was a JW.  Kids these days.

Driving north from Phoenix, this was our view of the desert.

Ah, Flagstaff in June.  It's always 70 or below and breezy.

We went to our favorite hiking spot and did a morning hike overlooking Mt. Humphreys.

Brian's breakfast.

Mine.

On the way back to Phoenix, we stopped in Sedona for a hike.  The scenery wasn't bad.

Oh Phoenix.  You hot mess.

There is much more to say about June, but unfortunately I am writing this in July.  I'm trying to keep a once per month posting schedule, but working 3 days/week is proving to be too much of a burden.

Perhaps in the fall I can do better ...

ous,
k