The Fair

Immediately following Sunday School, I took my two youngest children with me to The Fair. The shuttle bus ride was the highlight for my three-year old girl. My seven-year old begged to ride a few rides and I let him, despite my saying, “We are just going to see the animals. No rides.”

My daughter rode her first kid-sized roller coaster and she did not enjoy it. I cradled her as we whipped around and around, six times, I counted. Each time we passed the carnival worker, I’d beg silently, Please, please, stop this thing! Out loud, into my daughter’s ear, I’d say, “You’re doing great! We’re almost done!” She didn’t cry, but she wasn’t thrilled, either. I wasn’t thrilled to see the carnival worker pressing a flannel cloth to his nose. What sort of contagious disease did that guy have, anyway?

My son rode three or four rides and confessed afterward that he didn’t actually like “The Kamikaze,” a contraption that swings two boat-like cars back and forth and finally, completely around, upside down. He’s such a trooper–he rode the rides by himself because I couldn’t leave his sister.

But before the rides, we passed through the livestock barns. My three-year old hopped and clapped at the sight of one cow behind after another. She greeted the goats, sheep, turkeys, zebras, and horses with equal enthusiasm.

All told, we were at The Fair for two and a half hours.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon cleaning up my twin boys’ room. I took a Sharpie marker and labeled their dresser drawers so they can more easily find and put away their clothes. Both dressers were garage sale finds, so I wrote directly on the drawers. My daughter watched me do that and I just hope she doesn’t think my actions give her license to write on the furniture, too.

While I was cleaning the boys’ room, my kids were busy wreaking havoc in other rooms.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to the grocery store, which she completely adores. She picked out a small pumpkin to take home, a “sugar” pumpkin meant to be baked and used in cooking. She cradled that pumpkin all the way home and after a few blocks said, “I want some treats in my pumpkin.”

The child remembers last year’s trick-or-treating, apparently. I find it so strange that small children can remember things from the distant past. She still remembers the cat we had when she was a baby. It was a black cat named Shadow and he ran away (we figure) when she was about eighteen months old. One day, months later, we were walking on a bright sunny day and I said, “Look at your shadow!” She looked around and wanted to know where the cat was. It took me a few minutes to realize what she was talking about.

Away from Home–Alone

I spent a glorious seven hours away from my home–alone–frittering away time. I drove, I shopped, I ate, I saw a movie, I mentally scolded the parent who ushered her small child into a movie rated PG-13, then I shopped some more. I only brought home pants for my 7-year old and a pair of white canvas Bass sneakers for myself ($15 on sale from $49.99).

Now, I am procrastinating. I can choose from the following options:

1) Wash dishes in kitchen sink;
2) Straight up family room, including moving dishes to kitchen sink and straightening up couch cushions and putting markers away;
3) Prepare my preschool Sunday School lesson;
4) Check children’s progress in stack of student books perched precariously on my desk.

I don’t want to wash dishes. I am ignoring the family room. I really need to figure out some alternative plans for Sunday School because I loathe the curriculum I am forced to use (David C. Cook). (One activity reads: “Give each child a paper heart. Encourage the children to use the crayons and straws to make their family members on the hearts.” Huh? Straws?) The children’s school books can wait until tomorrow.

So, I thought I’d respond to a friend’s blog in which she ponders the reasons mothers choose to send their little ones to preschool. Or not.

She says this of her twin 3-year old boys: “They seem to be strong, outgoing, independent kids, all three of them. That has to be one of the things I am most proud of, that they are not and have never been, clingy children. So, I wonder still, do mothers who refuse to leave their kids with anyone else, ever, do so because they need to feel like they are the be-all, end-all for those kids? Are they so over-protective because it gives them a purpose in life? Or what? What’s the deal? Or perhaps I am just a reckless, irresponsible mother because I do not hover over the children and I do not dote on them constantly. Maybe that’s it?”

I have never sent any of my children to preschool. Why not? When my twins were three, I began a home daycare, so our days were structured like a preschool, including craft-time, snacks, playing outside, and other activities. Plus, I lived in an very rural area. I am not sure there were preschool programs available. But mostly, I couldn’t figure out a reason I’d want to send my kids to preschool. What would they get from preschool that they didn’t get from being home with me? They were already interacting with other children their age because of the daycare children in our home.

When my next son was two, I began to fantasize about sending him to preschool. Mostly, these dreams were born out of my frustration. He was an active boy who quit napping early. He’d throw the most amazing tantrums in his overtired state. Yet, when he turned three and was eligible for preschool, I couldn’t imagine sending him away. He was great company, a cheerful, extroverted, smart little kid. We spent our days going to the YMCA, running errands, picking up his brothers from school and playing. I started a little playgroup and a group of moms came over every other week to visit us.

I couldn’t imagine any reason to send him to preschool. He’s now in second grade and consistently earns high grades and praise from his teachers for his cooperative, cheerful attitude.

My daughter is a clingy child, the opposite of Smoov’s “strong, outgoing, independent” kids. When my little girl was only three months old, she began to display her personality. I took her to my mother’s house for Thanksgiving dinner and soon after we arrived, my baby started to scream. She cried hysterically and I was unable to calm her down. Finally, I excused myself and brought her home, where she immediately quieted and went to sleep.

She’s a child who is slow to warm up to new situations. She’s shy. When she was a baby in my arms at church, people would always crowd us, eager to say hello to her. Without fail, she’d cry at the approach of people. I never was able to pass her to anyone else as I had done with my boys. My 7-year old was so friendly as a baby that once I handed him over to an admiring stranger in Walgreens. Once, when he was about two, he insisted on sitting with a young couple we didn’t know at Burger King. He has always been the kind of confident, strong, independent kid Smoov admires.

But that’s not because of preschool.

And my daughter is not clingy and shy because of a lack of preschool. She was simply born with this personality and my response to her is not overprotectiveness, though I suppose it might appear that way to Smoov. I attempt to ensure that she feels safe and secure in her home. Gradually, she’s become less worried about people approaching her. She talks to people at church sometimes. She chats quite a bit with adults she knows, like the mom of the baby was watch every day. She adores babies and displays an instinct for nurturing them. But she is a quiet, anxious soul.

But she is good with scissors and recites the alphabet. She dances and sings along with her CDs and cassettes. She recognizes about half of her ABCs and can tell me what they say. She talks, talks, talks all day long in the safety of our home. She has a sharp memory and shows a great deal of empathy towards other people and their emotions. She loves to help me do chores.

I can’t figure out why I would want to send her to preschool. What would she get at preschool that she is not getting at home?

Smoov wonders about mothers like me. “So, I wonder still, do mothers who refuse to leave their kids with anyone else, ever, do so because they need to feel like they are the be-all, end-all for those kids?”

I don’t leave my daughter with anyone else (other than my husband and occasionally, my mother) because of my daughter’s personality. It really has nothing at all to do with my needs or wants. Sure, I’d adore twelve hours a week without children (mine and everyone else’s!). But sending my girl to preschool so that I can be alone would be terribly difficult for her. Sure, if she had to go, she’d adjust eventually. But I can’t imagine that she’d gain anything at all by going to preschool.

I don’t think preschool is a bad thing. I think of it as a fun place, a safe haven for children, sometimes a safer haven for children than their own homes. Kids learn to play with other children, have opportunities to create and explore, experience the structure of a routine and all that good stuff. It’s a great break for mothers, too, and really, who are we kidding? That’s why most kids go to preschool.

And that’s not a bad thing, either.

But lack of preschool does not necessarily make a kid clingy.

Preschool is not the only path to strong, independent, outgoing kids.

Mothers (like me) who do not send their kids away to preschool don’t do so for one particular reason. Each of my kids has missed out on preschool for different reasons. Each of them have different personalities, which were not caused or formed by preschool or the lack thereof.

Most children go to preschool these days for various reasons. Some moms seem desperate to ensure that their children will not lag behind other children. Some moms are eager to reclaim a portion of their day for themselves. Working moms graduate their little ones from plain old daycare to preschool. I have no quibble with any of those reasons.

But I would rather keep my kids close to home during the short years before kindergarten. I see no compelling reason to send my kids to preschool.

Even though I would like to be home alone sometimes. I admit that.

(By the way, I think Smoov is one of the most amazing mothers I’ve ever known. She’s energetic, involved, passionate, patient, creative and brilliant. If you aren’t regularly reading her blog, you might want to ask yourself “why?”)

A Recitation of My Day in Increments of Time

6:10 a.m.: Roll over and realize husband is in the shower. But alarm did not ring. Realize through groggy haze that I set alarm for 5:45 p.m. rather than a.m.

7:10 a.m.: Wake to the sound of daughter repeatedly yelling “Mommy!”

7:13 a.m.: Crawl back under covers for “ten more minutes.”

7:47 a.m.: Shower.

8:15 a.m.: Insist that 7-year old quit playing Nintendo and get dressed.

8:30 a.m.: Feed 7-year old.

8:35 a.m.: Ten-month old baby arrives, sleeping. Put him upstairs for nap.

8:45 a.m.: Son leaves for school.

9:00 a.m.: Begin cleaning kitchen. Urge boys to begin school work. Put laundry from washer to dryer and from dryer to basket. Clean litter box, feed cats.

10:00 a.m.: Finish cleaning kitchen. Three-year old boy arrives. Put potatoes and steak into crockpot and call it “stew.”

10:03 a.m.: Fake telephone call to school district office to inquire about enrolling extremely reluctant student in middle school.

10:15 a.m.: Firmly direct extremely reluctant student in method of following directions in writing memoir.

10:20 a.m.: Listen to extremely reluctant student shout, stomp and break pencil. Ignore unwanted behavior.

10:30 a.m.: Baby awakes. Tend to his needs.

10:35 a.m.: Continue to monitor progress of extremely reluctant student. Realize the validity of the viewpoint of those who believe “nature” takes precedence over “nurture.”

11:45 a.m.: Mom of 10-month old arrives to spend lunch break with baby. Boys make their own lunch. Prepare lunch for 3-year olds.

Noon: Extra kids arrive for the day. Sisters, age 3 and 1.

12:30 p.m.: Four-month old arrives with stuffy nose. Warm bottle and feed her. Son returns from half-day at school.

12:45 p.m.: Ten-month old returns. Mom points out that he apparently has a cold, which explains his lack of napping. Put one-year old down for nap in playpen. She cries.

1:00 p.m.: Put 3-year old boy to nap on the couch. Put 3-year old girls upstairs to watch PBS before naptime. Put 4-month old down for nap. Rock 10-month old until asleep. Lay him down, pretend he actually continues to sleep. Neighbor boys knock at door. Refuse to let them enter.

1:30 p.m.: Escort 3-year olds to potty. Lay down for naptime. Sternly warn visiting 3-year old that it’s naptime. Refuse her demands of “mommydaddy!” “Drink!” “Door open!” “Watch t.v.!”

2:00 p.m.: Wake from light sleep and realize 3-year olds are asleep. Hear baby.

2:01 p.m.: Rock 10-month old and wipe his runny nose.

2:20 p.m.: Hear screaming. Return dozing 10-month old to crib. Rush screaming 3-year old from room to prevent her from waking up others. Leave her downstairs with toys.

2:21 p.m.: Rock 10-month old again. Hear crying. Realize no one intends to sleep. Pick up 1-year old and take both babies downstairs. Warm bottle. Feed 1-year old. Eat entire stack of Ritz crackers and tall glass of Diet Vanilla Pepsi for lunch. Notice crockpot is not even warm. Jiggle plug.

3:00 p.m.: Daughter wakes up. Is crabby. Wants to be held. Neighbor boys return.

3:30 p.m.: Three-year old boy’s mom arrives. Ten-month old baby’s mom arrives. Wave bye-bye!

4:15 p.m.: Four-month old baby wakes. Feed her bottle. Watch her spit up on jeans. And shirt. And hand. And arm. And chair. And herself.

5:15 p.m.: Mom of extra 1-year old and 3-year old arrives. Visit for ten minutes.

5:35 p.m.: Babysitter of 4-month old picks her up. Due to crockpot malfunction, take kids to McDonald’s for dinner.

No wonder I’m exhausted. I had nine–no, eleven children–here today. I dream of solitude. And tomorrow, I get it! I’m leaving at about 1:00 p.m. and don’t have to return until 8:00 p.m.

* * *

My son’s school is having a coin drive for Katrina hurricane victims. He gave his seventy-five cents of popcorn money to the cause today. I think I might be doing something right!

My husband helped some friends move today. A young stud was also helping move boxes. My husband tells me that he could hardly contain his mirth when the young man picked up a box marked, “China,” and said to the homeowner, “When did you guys go to China?”

My daughter and her friend sing the “Hokey-Pokey” song, but they have alternative lyrics. One sings, “Oh, do the okey-dokey!” and the other sings, “Oh, do the huppy-puppy!” I can’t stop singing that song . . . much like when I wake in the nighttime and find the Elmo’s World theme song running through my head like an uninvited guest.

“You Just Don’t Fit In”

Almost all my husband’s family lives in the path of Hurricane Rita. Most of them are staying put, which my husband (aka Mr. Safety) finds incredulous. If he were in the path of a hurricane, he would leave a good week prior to landfall. Mr. Safety prefers to opt on the side of caution, always. Mr. Safety would always rather be safe than sorry. Always.

Rather than worry, we are distracting ourselves with reality television. Last night, we watched the Martha Stewart version of “The Apprentice.” I have always liked Martha Stewart and what she stands for: Absolute Perfection. Perfect paint colors, perfect lilac bushes, perfect creme brulee’. And now that she has this little blemish–being a convicted felon and all–I like her even more. And I like to watch people fray at the edges and sometimes implode or explode, so I like “The Apprentice,” too. The melding of Martha and “The Apprentice” is a dream come true for me.

And when the scene came where she had to release one apprentice and she said, “You just don’t fit in. Good-bye,” my husband and I repeated the phrase over and over with glee. I would rather be fired than be told I just don’t fit in, but then again, perhaps I’m still a junior-high student at heart, desperate for the cool girls to take notice of me.

Naptime’s over. Time to get back to work.

Last Day of Summer

I was halfway through the day when I realized that today is the sixteenth anniversary of my dad’s untimely death. He was forty-seven. He died on the last day of summer.

I remember odd things. The neighbors across the street brought over a homemade version of Dairy Queen’s Peanut Buster Parfait. I can still taste the rich chocolate. I have the recipe, but I’ve never made it myself.

My sister (the one who doesn’t speak to my anymore) arrived at the house too late. My dad had already died. I’ve never heard a human being wail as she did when she heard the news.

I wore a black wool sweater dress to the funeral, which I planned myself. My uncle conducted the service. Dad died on Thursday and the funeral was on Saturday morning. I was completely composed and dry-eyed until the moment when I realized I would be escorted down the center aisle of the church to sit in the front rows reserved for family. I wept as I walked up the aisle because my mind flashed back to my dad walking me up the aisle in my wedding dress only two years earlier.

I could not stop crying.

When the funeral ended and the church emptied out, I turned and saw a vaguely familiar face. Near the back of the church, a man sat alone. That man was my uncle, the brother from Wisconsin my dad hadn’t spoken to in years and years. They were estranged. Days later, I found a typed copy of the letter my dad had sent to his brother years earlier–that letter said, “We never liked each other anyway. Just tell your children you used to have a brother and now he’s dead.” It was a long letter, full of hurt and anger.

I ripped up that letter, determined to end that feud forever. Now, I kind of wish I’d kept it.

So it was bittersweet seeing my uncle at my dad’s funeral.

My brother wasn’t there at all. He’d been estranged from my dad, too, and didn’t reach news of my father’s illness until after his death.

After the funeral, I changed into a cotton dress with kelly green stripes. The weather had warmed up and I just couldn’t stand the wool anymore. So, all the post-funeral, quasi-famiy reunion pictures show everyone in solemn clothing and me in a very 1980s cotton green striped frock. I regret that.

My dad hated his last job. He worked for a newspaper as a technician. He despised the union he was required to join. That union sent a gorgeous plant to the house when my dad died. That beautiful plant dropped its leaves, one by one, died little by little. I watered more. I watered less. I fussed and coddled that plant. And then I saw it had bugs. And then it died.

When I had a garage sale after my dad died, someone stole his pool cue right out of my driveway. I’m still bitter about that, even though it only cost about $125.00. Who steals a dead man’s pool cue from a garage sale? I hope that person was impaled on that pool cue. (Okay. Not really.)

My dad was a ham radio operator, a computer geek before there were computer geeks, a fan of Paul Harvey and Johnny Carson. He dabbled in photography, community theater and painting. He rode a motorcycle across the country. He drove a compact car back and forth to Ohio to visit his father, sometimes in the snowy winter. He stood in his bare feet in the snow at Mount Rainier just for the sake of a funny photograph. I always laughed at him prancing through the house singing, “I feel pretty! Oh so pretty!” and “Tip-toe through the tulips . . .!”

He hardly ever cooked, but when he did it usually involved buying a complete set of aluminum mixing bowls or a new set of knives. He loved kitchen gadgets. The only thing I recall him cooking, though, involved warm cantaloupe, which turned my stomach. He loved chocolate chip cookies and warm pudding with a splash of milk. He was the strong, silent type, a crusty guy who hid his gooey soft heart with a gruff exterior.

And the seasons continue to change, dragging us along by the hand, even as we look backwards for one last glimpse.

Swimming With the Current

Some days, I feel adrift. I bob along, tread water, scan the horizon for a boat to rescue me. I don’t feel like picking up, cleaning, interacting, washing, drying, folding and putting away. The thought of producing yet another dinner crashes over my head like a rogue wave.

I don’t sleep enough. I’m bleary in the mornings, yet night arrives and I’m bright-eyed with all the gears in my brain whirring at full speed. Before I know it, midnight arrives and I pull the covers up and calculate how little sleep I’ll get. The weariness drags me under.

My house is full of children every day. My 7-year old invited two friends over to play today, and just when those children went home (at 6:00 p.m.), the two neighbor boys arrived. Ten children were in my house at various times today. Granted, that’s fewer than Barbara parents (she has twelve children), but still. Some days these children are like an anchor–and I mean that in a good way and a bad way. I dream of freedom, of grabbing my car keys and driving somewhere. Alone.

The experts say you should remain calm. Don’t fight a current. And so, today, when I felt myself being dragged away from shore, I did what any reasonable housewife would do. I swam with the current, just paddled along, kept moving.

I tidied up the living room so at least one room looked presentable. Then, I made a pot-pie from scratch, including pie crust. My 3-year old daughter “helped” me make the crust–she dumped in the flour, mixed it a little with the pastry blender, used the rolling pin and then generously sprinkled the extra pie crust with cinnamon sugar. She grinned at me each time I showed her how to help. She gleefully proclaimed, “I am a good girl!”

And I’m kept afloat by the power of her crooked smile.

The Pastor’s Day Off

A particular church woman only calls our house with very bad news. She called tonight at 8:54 p.m., but my husband was still at a meeting. He’s on a board for an organization that provides housing and treatment for homeless people and once a month, they have long meetings.

When he returned home a bit later, I met him at the door with the news that a man from our church died tonight. He immediately headed back out to assist the new widow. In the past year, this particular woman’s adult daughter died unexpectedly, too, so she’s had a rough year.

My husband returned home at about 10:00 p.m. He said the funeral will be Saturday and, “Don’t make any plans,” and I said (please slap me), “Well, that’s the story of my life.” And it is, but I don’t mind.

Truly, I do take these things in stride. I am concerned for the woman who lost her husband tonight. I understand that her loss trumps my weekend plans. Perhaps if my dad hadn’t died almost exactly 16 years ago, I’d resent my husband’s job constantly intruding on our lives.

But when my dad died, the pastor I called said, “Well, I’m not sure we can get the church set up for a funeral. The janitor’s been out of town.” He didn’t come over to sit with us. He didn’t offer condolences. His cold-heartedness still stuns me.

So even though I am so far behind the scenes, I am almost invisible, I support my husband as he heads out into the night to sit with someone in their loss and grief. It’s what I do and it helps him do what he needs to do.