Today, I transformed the bedroom we share with our toddler back into the bedroom I share with my husband. The ultra-huge king+ size bed (a queen and a twin put together) that took up most of the room was reduced to just the queen bed. I returned furniture to the room. Put the lamps back. Hung things on the wall. Cleaned out the baby clutter. I’m taking back my space. I do this at the end of bed-sharing with my babies. And today I decided that it’s time to get that ball rolling. To get my boy to take the next developmental step. To sleep on his own, out of range of the comfort of his mother.

I’m ecstatic to think of sleeping for more than a few hours at a time. It’s been 2 years+ of having many of my executive functions .. not functioning because of lack of sleep. I wonder what it’s like to get sleep.

I know I’m a long way from the goal I’m beginning tonight — to have my toddler sleep through the night. Likely, it will be weeks or months until I can claim that success. But it’s beginning. It’s the first step.

Part of me is already mourning. I love sharing bed space with my kids. But that other part of me has a lot of pull. The part that is hope. Hope that I’ll get a little bit more of myself back. I’ve given a lot. I look forward to reclaiming some of that lost power and functionality.

Goodnight.

cultural pluralism. noun Sociology.
1. a condition in which minority groups participate fully in the dominant society, yet maintain their cultural differences.
2. a doctrine that a society benefits from such a condition.

I hope that young mother reads her Yahoo news this morning. My husband pointed me to this link, about a young child who was born with boy parts wanting to join the Girl Scouts in his hometown in Colorado.  At first, the local leader said “no” because of said boy parts. But up the chain of command, the Colorado leaders did a very amazing and forward-thinking thing: they invited him and his family to join. Because Girl Scouts is an inclusive organization.

I’m proud and awed that this organization that my girls are a part of, that was such a big part of my own childhood and young adulthood, is growing up and opening its doors to families of all types, and supporting the families of transgender children.

Girl Scouting isn’t all about cookies. Or about teaching young cisgendered girls how to become strong cisgendered women. It’s not about turning out cookie-cutter people into society with a boxed set of beliefs and a road-map toward finding a suitable life partner and career. It’s about teaching young people to have a voice, to take action, to make things happen. And to be a part of an experience wherein we not only respect cultural differences but celebrate them.

Hooray for Girl Scouts of Colorado for setting this very public precedent of supporting families with transgendered children.

I’ve got three great kids and a healthy, wonderful marriage. Loving relationships with amazing people. An extended family with whom I get along very well. I get to write and take photographs, hang out with cool people. Contribute. As a parent, I’m helping out in the classrooms for both of my school-aged kids. I’m taking evening classes to become a Girl Scout leader so I can be there for my girls in an organization that does awesome things. I’m scheduling a weekly playgroup so my toddler gets socialization and learns to not be a grabby monster. I’m starting to fulfill educational requirements to begin a whole new career when the time is right. And in between, I’m doing crafts, and calling my Mom, and flossing. I’m helping out a friend or two. I’m cleaning out the van and putting out the trash. Big, grown up stuff.

But then there is the price. For every mountain I conquer like an amazing conquering thing, there are times when I’m wallowing through the valleys, in a fog of under-performing. And I feel very much like I’m just… pretending to be a grown-up. Going through the motions. Because I can’t get AND KEEP those highs. The difference is dramatic between success and failure in my life, on a day-to-day basis.

Some cases in point: For the last few days, my kids have had few clean clothes to wear because I’m so busy that I can’t keep up with laundry. Last night, I was so busy preparing a good dinner for my family that I forgot all about my Girl Scout first aid training session and had to bolt out the door – to arrive 20 minutes late.  Yesterday, I dropped my girls off at the Boys and Girls Club for their weekly swim lesson, only to learn that the session had ended the previous week.

This is how a person with an attention disorder functions. I’ve long suspected that I am among the large percentage of adults who have some version of attention disorder.  It is estimated that up to 15 percent of the population world-wide suffers from some kind of attention disorder. Mine is one of hyper focus. Of not being able to moderate between extremes. I find it incredibly hard to discipline myself, to follow a routine. I go from one extreme to another. I’m either killing the plants with over-watering and love, or I’ve completely forgotten them until they are brown and stiff.

There is, at least, a hierarchy to my disorder. My kids don’t suffer as my plants do! I put my kids first on my list, so their emotional needs come first in my life. I mean this literally. They may have no clothes to wear, but I’m focusing very hard on parenting them with kindness and patience, paying special attention to ensuring that they are emotionally and intellectually prepared to face every day. For instance, this morning, my eldest spent 30 minutes NOT getting dressed. She lost computer time for a week, just because she refused to put on the [only clean pair of] jeans– the ones with sparkles on the pockets. And I was furious with her. Still, I parented well. She received a red mark on our chart. I kept my temper. I found an acceptable pair of pants and sent her out the door with a loving hug and a plan for changing how we choose clothes so that this doesn’t happen again. Because, you know, I’m a grown-up and can handle my own shit! But… my next step has to be to delegate this new change to the routine, or I will forget. And this will happen again, and I will remember and hate myself for not following through. So I now have to remember to send my husband an email so that he adds “choose clothes for the morning” to the bedtime routine with the girls. Or else it won’t get done. *sigh*

My children have reasonably good food to eat, activities planned, and I am available to them. I’m so available that my self-care suffers. My relationship with my long-suffering spouse suffers. My friends and loved ones know about this particular quirk, and for some reason they stick around. I sometimes wonder why.

I am undiagnosed, and I’m not even sure I would bother with getting a diagnosis and therapy. I know myself. I can’t read a book while parenting, for instance, because I can’t do both. I know that I have crazy focus.  So when I get distracted doing something new in my life, everything else suffers. I’m all or nothing.  If I begin a new exercise regimen, for instance, I can’t also keep groceries in the house and prepare meals on time because I’m doing exercise charts with my free time. Or researching a new online exercise-tracking program. Most times, I give up on the new thing so that I can maintain normalcy in areas that require my full attention.  Because I can’t seem to do a little of one thing, and a little of another.  I don’t seem to be programmed that way.

So, how do I function? In part, I chose a partner who complements me. We are a functional unit. It wasn’t a conscious decision to find a mate who would save my life and sanity. But it happened. He helps me moderate. I help him be spontaneous and unleashed. It works. Good thing, too, as he’s also my best friend. The only problem is that I expect too much from him. And I would like to work better solo, for my own self esteem.

So.What will happen now? Will I follow through with making changes? Will I attempt yet again to learn new skills to help me function better? And if I do so, will I keep it up? Or will I give up because it’s interfering with my kids’ lives or with the laundry? Do I add one more thing in my life to potentially fail at? Or will I just keep muddling through the valley of fog, feeling like a failure until I find the next mountain to conquer with my short-lived awesomeness?

I turn 42 in two months. Is it too late to learn some new tricks? Where do I go from here?

"I've got some advice for you! Pull my finger!"

So. You’ve been a parent for a day. For a week. For a month. For EVER it seems. I have no doubt that you’ve got some advice to share! So I’m asking you now to share your thoughts. What would be the ONE piece of advice you would like to pass on to new parents? Just choose one. You know, a post-partum piece of advice. Something beyond “Whatever you do, don’t look at the placenta!” Sure, the placenta is like a huge metaphor for parenthood. It comes out after the baby. It’s frightening as all hell, but it’s also miraculous and cool!

Ah. Placentas. So distracting! OK, back to the subject at hand. So, oh fabulous bastions of parental wisdom, what advice do you want to pass down to new generations of parents? One sentence. That’s your assignment.

Send it to me via email. Reply to my Facebook page. Phone me. Twitter it. Use that Google+ thing. Or reply in comments here. I really want to hear what you have to say. And, of course, I want to selflessly share it with the rest of the blogosphere! I’ll play too! Most likely I’ll write more than a sentence because HEY, IT’S MY IDEA!

Process those horrific nightmare moments you’ve worked so hard to forget, synthesizing the terror down to a sentence. Or that unbelievable moment of epiphany, when you just… totally got that thing. Then write it down. Refine it. Craft your sentence. And then send it to me. email: terry@mothermirth.com

Bring it on!

I try. Sincerely, I do. I have so much to say! But I’ve come to the conclusion that my son hates the Internet.

The usurper.

How else can you explain the behavior I face every day: I sneak away when he is occupied or napping to write or surf the Internets, and he comes running into the office, bellowing his disapproval. He swivels my legs around so that I am NOT facing the computer and then attacks me, smacking his head like the battering ram at the gates of Troy. “No no no no no no!!” *horrific crying noises, with tears and drama*

I’ve put a basket of toys beside me. I’ve tried writing in the same room as he is playing, sneaking my laptop in so that I’m right there for him. This does not appease him.

A friend suggested that I should try to write more after he is asleep for the night. But 95% of evenings, as I’m nursing him to sleep, I also pass out. Every night, Allen says his goodnights to his son, and he says goodnight to me. And every night I say, “Oh, I’ll get up after Andrew gets to sleep!” And my husband looks at me with doubt. Because it’s rare that I can stay awake long enough after Andrew passes out to sneak away.

I know you miss me. Don’t take it out on Andrew. Look at that face! Did you melt? Or is that just me and all my mommy hormones? *melts*

So, a ridiculously quick update: what’s going on in my world? In a few words, I’m doing GREAT! I’m busy. Riding my bike. Buying crickets at the pet store for Kelsey’s new bearded dragon. Doing errands with the world’s most adorable boy riding in the sling. Nursing at the playground. Speed reading through the A Song of Ice and Fire books. Checking Facebook from my phone, but not facilitating my baby’s demise in any way at the same time. Going on hikes in beautiful places when I can slip away on the weekend. Trying to spend time with the important people in my life. Taking photos. You know. Living in the moment.

Just… not on the Internet!

"Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. Until he made me take the MCAS."

Yesterday, my 9-year-old took the math portion of the MCAS test. We are supposed to help her prepare for this test. And I know I should be more of a proponent of this standardized testing system. But I’m not (and this page best summarizes why).

I know the rubric that dictates how schools receive their funding. I know how important it is to keep our scores high, to keep our good teachers, to justify our expenses by showing THE DATA — that our kids are acquiring knowledge and education in this public school system. And because we live in a state and a town where the schools are good and highly rated (because, in part, of those high MCAS scores), our neighborhoods are desirable, our home values are high, and our tax revenue goes toward maintaining and improving those schools and all those good things that keep our neighborhoods safe and tidy and such.

*sigh* I know all this. I’m trying to be supportive. Really. But I fucking hate your tests.

I hate that my kid comes home feeling disappointed because she doesn’t have the math facts drilled into her head enough to enjoy total perfect recall of every damn math fact.

I hate that she is filling in those stupid fucking ovals with her #2 pencil already. And that her teacher has to spend class time toward teaching for the test.  I wish the MCAS would die a very painful death. A Ticonderoga stab to the gut.

There is already so much to dislike about the way public schools are run. I know it’s for the good of the majority. And I know I’m a crazy hippie, but I want my child to be playing on the playground for longer periods of time. I want her to have an entire hour–not the 15 minutes she is given–to eat lunch with her peers, so that she can make friends. I wish there were more music and art, more time for child-led reading, free time to explore or invent as her creative brain demands. I could go on.

I support public schooling in many ways, but mostly because it’s economically the best choice for our family. I know that if I had a spare $40k or so I could spend per year on education, I would be sending my kids to Friends School in Cambridge. Or, for about half that, I would send my kids to Sudbury Valley for un-schooling. In a heartbeat. I talk a big game about supporting public education in the US. But I’m secretly wanting better for my own kids.

So, here I am, feeling like such a hypocrite with my shiny smile and cheery “I hope you do GREAT on your MCAS today, sweetie” chant. Rah rah rah. When I don’t care for the way we run this imperfect system of accountability and academic success measurement.

And this isn’t intended to imply that her teachers aren’t completely awesome. They are. I just wish they had the reins. You know. To do their job and teach what is interesting and fascinating, to their hearts’ content. I don’t care for the system. But I love the school. And I respect and admire the teachers.

Kelsey comes away from school lately as if a swarm of zombies were chasing her out the door, gnawing on her sun-starved limbs. She runs out the door, a frowning thing, into my arms. Wanting to go home. Or to play. To do anything that is NOT school. School shouldn’t be a bad word. Lately, it is an expletive. Fucking MCAS.

This post is dedicated, in part, to Helen. Who agrees that MCAS suck. And who uses her expletives appropriately.

This is the most recent somewhat flattering photo of me with the kids, taken last October. Because *I* am the photographer in our family.

People often ask me “Terry, what do you DO as a stay-at-home mom?” And I struggle to answer, because every single day is different and has its challenges and triumphs and disappointments. Every day has its beautiful moments that fill my heart with joy. And moments that make me feel like going through the want ads for a high paying job and a childcare provider! So I thought I’d give my readers a little slice of life, on an ordinary day in May.

As I sit here, eating leftover ice cream while my son circles my chair in the stinkiest diaper ever, I think about today and the high hopes I had for it.

At least I changed out of the work out clothes I had put on this morning. It would have been ridiculously hypocritical of me to nom on the frozen dairy treat while wearing my spandex and ambitious work out bra.

The plan was to go to the Y, then run by the store for milk and toilet paper. But I needed to get Andrew’s hair trimmed in there somewhere. So I waited for the baby to wake up this morning after getting the girls off to school. I did some writing and checked my email. I switched around the laundry. I did some dishes. Finally, he woke up at 9:30, so I put on the black spandex pants and the hot pink sleeveless tank, and I pulled on my sneakers. But Andrew wanted a long, leisurely bout of nursing. Both sides. So, 30 minutes later, I’m getting him dressed, his shoes on, his sweater buttoned. And I realize I am STARVING. I cannot work out if my stomach is aching. I put some Fage into a bowl and drizzle some maple syrup over it. I take my one-a-day vitamin. I hand Andrew some cantaloupe to play with. Finally, at 10:30, I am out the door, hand in hand with the 19 month old. I decide to get the boy’s haircut done first, so I can concentrate on my workout. So I head to Snip-Its, where I’m told there is a 30 minute wait. Grrr. I wait. The boy’s haircut takes about a half hour. A long shag, with short bangs that hit his eyebrows. My boy can see! He looks like an 80s pop star. I think Rick Springfield is looking for his hair style!

Haircut!

It’s now 11:45. I head to the YMCA. I figure I’ve got an hour to do the full circuit on the weights and maybe a little time on the elliptical, and then I can run by Trader Joe’s to get milk and toilet paper, and then head home to get the girls from school. This can work!

As I’m turning into the driveway of the Woburn YMCA, I check my rear view to see what the little guy is doing. And he is asleep. Passed out. I turn around. There is no leaving a cranky, tired baby in the child watch area while I get in a workout. No way I can go by the store.

I drive to my house and park in my garage. I turn off the car and check my email on my phone while the baby snoozes. I play Solitaire on my phone, snickering at the irony. I let him sleep for 45 minutes. It’s now after 1, and I am still in my spandex. I carry the toddler inside, try to ease his sleepy little body onto the bed to snooze a little longer so I can have a few minutes to feed myself and maybe do some stretching. But he wakes up completely and wants my undivided attention. I nurse him and hold him for about a half an hour, and then I change out of my spandex and into some jeans. Then I find a few minutes when he is distracted with destroying the kitchen, and I stuff food into my face. Leftover yummy chicken from last night’s dinner. Check. Some delicious bread with the healthy spread. Check. Fresh fruit. Check. Oh, look at that! Some grape-flavored ice cream cake with chocolate fudge layers, leftover from Jess’s birthday party? Huh. That’s taking up needed space in the freezer….Check.

And now it’s time to get the girls from school and afterwards to host a baby playdate; and then it’s reading and homework time, followed by dinner prep, feeding kids, and kid bedtime routine. With a baby nap to fit in there, and nursing/changing him, and more laundry to fold and dishes to wash, and cleaning the dining and living rooms, and school forms to look over for tomorrow, and a glance at email and my calendar for tomorrow’s activities.

And I end the day exhausted, having had no time to exercise, still wearing my jeans and a  shirt smudged with chocolate and the dinner that didn’t make it into Andrew’s mouth, with no milk for my morning coffee. And nothing with which to wipe.

My clone, overlooking Marblehead harbor

Dear Kelsey

You turned 9 just the other day, and I have to admit that the baffling confluence of conflicting energies that comprise your essence sometimes leaves me wanting to hide in the linen closet with a bottle of vodka.

But I don’t have a walk-in linen closet.

Some days, you are a a wisp of a pre-teen, thinking of boys, worrying about your interaction with peers. Other days, you are a tomboy, in your ripped jeans and soccer shirts, your hair untameable, your smile hiding behind a stoic facade of stubbornness. You are a ray of sunshine some days, when all the pieces of your life fall into place as they should. And on those other days, when the homework is unrelenting, the household responsibilities too heavy to bear, the clouds hide most of your brilliance.

In a word, you are inconsistent. Even your teachers agree that they never know which Kelsey will be attending school. The exuberant helpful Kelsey who does her work and is eager to help, or the cloudy grumpy Kelsey, the one who loses her class work and tries to hide during class participation.

Looking for periwinkles

I think that you’re taking the time to figure things out. Third grade seems a little cruel, somehow. It’s the first time I’ve noticed that your peers are segregating themselves by gender. I’ve watched the playground dynamic, and I know how you yearn to jump into that game of tag with the boys. Or be asked to play soccer. But there you are, on the swing, a solitary long-legged pensive thing, your hair flying, your shoelaces always untied. You aren’t a solitary soul. I know this. And I also know that you are still adjusting to the new school. The other kids don’t get you yet. They don’t understand the prize hiding under your shy smile. They can’t feel the warmth of your beautiful soul yet. But you’re also not allowing them to.

If I could give you one thing, it would be the wisdom to know that you won’t always fit in, and that it’s OK. That you and your peers and friends are like fantastic clocks. Your pendulum is swinging in a different rhythm as many of them. Sometimes, you will find yourself swinging in synch with one or two others, and you will feel it in your heart. A rightness. But every one of you is changing and moving at different paces. And when those rhythms are off, you will feel that discord. But it is so fleeting. I advised you bring a book to school, for those times when you are feeling like no one wants to play with you. You always have the imaginative worlds of books to wander, the halls of Hogwarts, the fecund forests of Narnia, the dragon’s lair–universes so colorful and wondrous that you won’t feel so alone. I found this a comfort when I was the new girl, when I left the Coffin Elementary School in Marblehead, Massachusetts for the humid, strange playgrounds of Warrington Elementary School in Pensacola, Florida when I was 10. I always had books, even when I had no friends.

I know you are struggling to figure out who you are. You are pushing boundaries. You are pushing me away. You are seeing how much you can get away with. I am an impatient person, and I will try harder to give you space. It’s hard, though. I want to smooth your crazy hair, infuse you with positive energy to take away all that’s troubling you.

Today, you were the delay fish. You know. One of those fish that causes delays. Five minutes before you’re supposed to be at school, you are shirtless and shoeless, listening to music on your mp3 player in your bed. Your hair isn’t brushed. Your backpack is unpacked. You can’t find THE shirt that defines you this day. You are like this sometimes at age 9. Not quite put together. Not invested. You still got to school, and there were smiles for me when you got out of school. When you saw me, and you made a bee-line to me. And you hugged me. If you knew how delighted I was that you still hug me, still want to be affectionate with me, you would probably hug me less often! Because you seem to like being contrary girl lately. So I’ll keep hiding my delight. But I’m secretly melting.

The kid with the dark soul

Because no matter how hard it is to get you to eat anything that is not made of cheese or yogurt or Cliff Bars. No matter how much attitude you give me, I still adore every fiber of your being. You like to say that you have a dark soul, and it’s a running joke that I say “No you don’t. You are fluffy bunnies.” And then you smirk and give me the evil eye. But you really do have a soul that smells like spring flowers. You are fluffy bunnies and unicorns, and sunny days with birds chirping.

I know we have a lot of years ahead of us where we’re going to have trouble getting along. I’m not looking forward to those years, but I know they’re coming, and that there will inevitably be some disconnect in our relationship. Every day is a gradual pulling away, every hour a small step toward being your own person. You are 9, going on 13. I hope you will slow down and enjoy the flowers with me for just a little longer.

Tub full o' kids

Today is the day we, as parents, have committed to sharing sleep with our youngest child for an indefinite amount of time going forward. We’ve co-slept with all three of our babies, so it’s not like we’re doing anything new. Our usual modus operandi is to co-sleep for the first year of baby’s life, and then to gently sleep train baby to sleep apart in another room. My third child is now 18 months old, and he and I co-sleep in his room because he is too big to fit in our bed. My poor, lonely husband gets to sleep all alone in our bedroom down the hall. But everything changes now. Today, I moved a twin bed into our bedroom and squished it beside our queen-sized bed to make one ginormous bed. We are now committed. No going back. It is done.

Oh gods. I must be insane.

*Takes a deep breath*

I see that quizzical look. I hear your cynical sigh. I know it’s nuts. But let me ‘splain. We have these older girls, one of whom is OHMYFREAKINGOD 9 years old. And this 9-year-old has been sharing a room with her 7-year-old sister forEVER. No, really. Since Laurel was 1 and Kelsey was 3, they have shared a room. So, yeah, forever. A few months back, this older child posited the question: “Why does the baby get his own room, and Laurel and I have to share one?” To which I answered, “Ummm, well… because… Oh, look, something shiny! Want some cookies?”

These people take up space!

It didn’t work for long. I did get a few months, though. But I’m out of cookies and shiny things.

Despite my best efforts to be fair, it turns out that I’m that unfair mother who puts the BOY child into his own cute little room. While the girls are jammed into the adjoining room, their shelves overflowing. Their moods conflicting. Their desire for “personal time” making it nigh impossible to share space without the use of a stopwatch, a calendar, and a lot of grumpiness.

So the husband and I talked. And we’ve decided that we either do this insane thing, or move to a bigger apartment. And we are NOT moving. I’m not ready to move and give up this f-ing amazing location across the street from my kids’ school. Really, we have the perfect apartment. And did I mention I’m not moving?

And so today I put my statue of Treebeard up high. I hid my shell collection. I moved Andrew’s things into our room, and I know that he will be very happy sharing sleep and space with his parents. I’m excited that our girls want to and will be able to, for the first time, make their space their own. And I hope this move will help them maintain what is right now a really sound and healthy sibling relationship.

I worry about finding time and space for the easy intimacy I share with Allen. But I know we’ll figure it out. I know that there is cuddling on the couch with books and good movies and ice cream. There is our shared office, where we hang out sociably every evening. There are the shared showers and those wonderful Saturday mornings when all the kids are playing nicely in the other parts of the house. I know we’ll be OK. And it’s not forever. Babies don’t stay babies for long. This apartment won’t be the last place we parent three children. It will be the last 3 bedroom we’ll be renting. Our next home will have to have 4 bedrooms and please, oh please, more than 1 bathroom. For now, we’ll make it work here.

We’ll be OK, Allen and I. Besides, there is that secret room in the basement….

BEFORE

We were ridiculously goal-oriented and managed to dodge the sexy “OMGZ, lookit all the cheap STUFF” pretty well, although the children’s cutlery tried its very best to romance us a bit ($1.99 for 4-servings’ worth of dishes? Let’s buy 100 bucks worth and never do dishes again!). We bee-lined it to the office section and picked out matching desks, because we are uncool like that and have ridiculously similar tastes in office furniture. Two $4 desk-top lamps, two new $25 book cases, and a comfy office chair for me. We also picked up a desk top to make a space for the kids’ computer. Altogether, we spent less than $400 to bring some much-needed organization to our chaos.

AFTER

So I’m typing this from the New Stylin’ Desk of Much Awesomeness. I totally gain agility and intelligence points! My back even has lumbar support now. No more kitchen chairs for me. No more foldable plastic-top card table that also functions as our monthly gaming table. My new desk is made of a wood-like substance, and it has a drawer for squirreling away random stuff. And the bookcases behind me now house much of the crap that was piled on my desk just yesterday. Oh yesterday, you silly, silly cluttered unfashionable thing. Today is sleek and important, as I type away on my laptop, a cup of coffee beside me, a cute lamp illuminating my keyboard. The mess all organized or hidden away like yesterday’s dirty dishes.

My "desk space" before

Ohh la la! My new space!

In fact, my office is now so awesome that I have no idea where my kids are. All I know is that they are not here, and I am blissfully ignorant of their whereabouts. Oh, I will pay for this. Any second Andrew will walk into the office brandishing the toilet brush, licking his lips in that terrifying way he has.

But for now, I am a professional writer, doing what I do in the in-between spare moments when parenting isn’t eating my brain: sitting at my beautiful desk, overly caffeinated and under-appreciated, rolling words together and flinging them off into the universe.