February 28, 2006

how are you celebrating Shrove Tuesday?

I grew up Catholic, which meant that the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday was the day when my friends and I all had to decide what we were going to Give Up For Lent. In elementary school, we always gave up stupid things, like gum! and candy! which none of us really ever had anyway (and we certainly never had gum at school). But honestly, it’s hard when you are eight or nine or ten to really give up anything of significance. My father suggested, one year, that instead of giving up something that we wouldn’t be missing we try to do something instead, like pick up our rooms or make our beds before my mother had to ask us for the 200th time. I remember liking this idea, although I don’t remember if I actually followed through.

Despite the fact that I’m not a churchgoing person as an adult, I still like the notion of Lent as a time of mindfulness. After struggling with my dissertation for three years, I tried ‘giving’ it up for Lent; my insomnia went away and I was able to focus on reading and writing and teaching in ways I hadn’t been able to when I was ‘working’ on the dissertation. In the past few years, I have tried to see Lent as a time to focus on the details of my life and my day–to play more with my children, to call or e-mail friends I have lost touch with, to take time to meditate or just breathe.

This year, for the next 40 days, I want to consciously seek the peaceful moments in my day, the times when I am not feeling rushed or pulled in a hundred directions, the times when I am still and calm. I want to focus more on each moment instead of worrying about the future. I want to feel like my days are a series of connected occurrences rather than a blur of errands and tantrums and dishes. I can do that for forty days, I think.

I also have a writing project that I want to finish, which will require starting, as it is all still in my head. And no, I’m not telling what it is; you will have to wait and see, although I will say that it is something that started here. I will also say that you should read this (and if you really have some time to kill, you can read the comments too–all 1,000 plus of them) because any more, for me, writing is about the conversation not the isolated words on the paper.

Today, though, as it is supposed to be 80 degrees here, I am going to take the boys to the zoo, and then we are going out for donuts (although they will be Krispy Kreme, not proper beignets) to celebrate the start of forty peaceful days at our house.

February 23, 2006

when I die, I want to be burried with my iBook

Last night was a tough one at Casa Playdate. Various children who shall go unnamed were STILL awake and wandering the house crying and asking for water and lights and a snuggle at NINE PM. Which is WAAAAYYY later than anyone who started life in my uterus is permitted to be awake. After the four millionth time someone said, ‘MOMMY! Come snuggle with me!’ I snapped.

‘I can’t take it anymore!’ I told Wade. ‘I’m with those kids ALL DAY LONG! I have played with Charlie since 7:00 this morning! I’ve read Marsupial Sue fifteen times! I spent half an hour this afternoon trying to get Henry to do ANYTHING with us! And then when I tucked him in, he had the gall to ask if we could get on the computer and READ! After rufusing to do it every time I mentioned it today! I CAN’T TAKE IT!’

Poor Wade. He waited patiently until I stopped ranting and then, very logically, tried to help me think of solutions to the eternal question of what the hell do I do with these kids all day long? And he was, quite honestly, both sympathetic and helpful. Go figure.

I spend a lot of time during the day trying to find things that BOTH boys want to do (besides play Knock Me Down, which is just a trip to the ER waiting to happen). I am combatting both the difference in their ages and the difference in their brain structures. Charlie plays typical three-year-old games: he likes to pretend various things (kitchen, doctor, pirate) or build things with blocks, or do art projects. And he will bring me books throughout the day and ask to read.

Henry, on the other hand, lives in his head a lot–a LOT–of the time. He is particularly prone to this after a long day at school, where he is compelled to follow the rules and do his work and participate. By the time he gets home, his meds are wearing off and he is pretty much a constant fountain of chatter for the rest of the afternoon. Some days he just wants to play by himself, but on other days he will string together some elaborate pretend for he and Charlie to do together. But it’s never as simple as ‘let’s serve plastic food to Mommy and the stuffed friends,’ it’s more like ‘let’s walk in circles around the house hunting for a Heffalump and talking non-stop.’ And when Charlie gets tired of walking in circles or being told what to do, they start fighting. And I start looking into listing them on eBay.

So Wade gave me a much-needed pep talk (which included a reminder that it’s okay to let Henry go off and be alone after a long day of school, and it is also okay to ask him to do one thing–like read a small story–in order to earn the priviledge of doing something else–like hunting Heffalumps). I love that man.

But! Today! I was the best mommy in the world! For an hour, at least.

Henry has decided that he’s all about Egypt. Just today! Just this afternoon, in fact. We stopped at the bookstore on our way to get Charlie, and he picked up this book. When Charlie got in the car, Henry said, ‘Charlie, when we get home, we’re going to play Ancient Egypt. You can wear sandals or be baretoes. What do you want to do?’ And I though, oh god, my head is going to fall off.

And then I had a Miracle Mommy Moment: we would make mummies! And a tomb! It would fill the time until Daddy came home, or at least until Clifford came on.

The boys each mummified a stuffed toy–Charlie chose Hedwig the Owl, and Henry picked SuperBear, his U. S. Open commemorative beanie bear. We wrapped them in toilet paper and made death masks for them and decorated them with stickers.

We put the tent up in Charlie’s room and I asked the boys what they thought Hedwig and SuperBear might need in the Next Life. ‘BOOKS!’ Charlie yelled, gathering up a pile. ‘Flashlights,’ Henry said, ‘in case it’s dark.’ They piled in plastic food and the pillows and blankets from Charlie’s bed, and their superheros, ‘to guard the tomb.’ And Charlie threw the LeapPad in, saying solemnly, ‘They might want their laptop.’ Smart boy, that one.

When we interred the mummies, Charlie pretty much just plunked Hedwig down on the floor, but Henry made a little bed for SuperBear and tucked him in with Charlie’s fleece binkit, ’so he doesn’t get cold.’ And for one shining moment, I was the World’s Best Mommy.

Then we sat down for our snack and Henry put his foot up on the table and I said, ‘No feet on the table, please,’ and then Charlie put HIS foot on the table and I said, ‘NO FEET ON THE TABLE, PLEASE‘ and the moment was over. Sigh.

All in all, though, I would call today a success.

February 22, 2006

Wade: What are you eating? Me: Asiago cheese brea…

Wade: What are you eating?

Me: Asiago cheese bread with pesto.

Wade: A hot dog with cheese and pesto?

Me: Yes. Do you want one?

Wade: Uh, no. What are you really eating?

Me: You don’t think I would eat a hotdog with cheese and pesto? That sounds kind of good.

Wade: No.

Me: Yeah, you’re right.