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Confessions of a Bad “Player”

 

Some people simply know how to play better than other people.  My husband is one of them.  Tim’s middle name is “epic” fun.   He is energetic, spontaneous, and always up for an adventure on the fly.  He is also the kind of guy who get’s on his knees and plays blocks with the baby, dukes out Madden with our boy untill the wee hours of the morning and delights in Scrabble with our daughter.

I, on the other hand, was not blessed with the “gaming” gene.  I’ve got the bookworm gene, and the cuddling/nurturing/smart-ass gene…but games, not so much.

And while I am no expert in birth-order traits, I think “us” more structured “type A” personalities can blame growing up as an only child or as a much older first-born.  It’s hard to play games (other than Solitaire) when you are the only kid around.  (I guess my imaginary friends don’t count as companions either?)

Anyway, it was no skin off my teeth as a little kid, because I thought I was a grown-up.  By the age of four, I read the newspaper with my Lucky Charms and coffee, scavenged for antiques with my parents, and conversed with adults effortlessly.  Basically, I wasn’t ever a childlike kid, I was an adultified kid.

It’s not a bad trait –this grown-up kid mentality, but when it comes to child raising it makes a big difference in  attachment and children feeling connected and cared for by their parents(according to my Yoda-like counselor).

So, to sum up my counselor’s theory, my kids don’t really care how many books I complete this year, or about my husband’s heavy workload…they just want us to play blocks and chase and Barbie.  That’s so un-adultlike of them. 

My lackluster game skills have never really been an issue before now.  My oldest teen son is pretty mature (AKA another adultified child) and the baby has my husband to play with, but my middle girl child has become rather demanding.  And now it’s come to a crux, because it’s partly my fault. 

Apparently “play” is Faith’s love language and that’s just awesome, because I stink at it.  And, though I excel at sophisticated grown-up play –Vegas and cocktails, wit and politics, this kiddy frolic stuff sails right past me.

Vegas anyone?

So, I can continue to justify my lack of folly and claim my parents didn’t play little kid games all that much with me either (which is fine, I mean they had jobs to do and they did lots of cool stuff with me it’s just they weren’t five-year-old companions) or I can choose to own it and figure out how to be more silly in a childlike way. 

Ummmm….painful!  But do I really have a choice if I am to move towards my girl with love?

And so I am now entering a challenging season of being more intentional with my darling middle munchkins (and just for the heck of it, I’m throwing in some pre-school hijinks for the baby too). 

For the last few days, I have played Matchbox cars, painted ceramic magnets, used crayons, tried not to punch Mr. Potato Head after I put his arms back in for the forty-fourth time, cut-out paper icicles, decorated sugar cookies, and watched Mickey Mouse Clubhouse over and over and over.  I also played in the Jacuzzi with the baby, chased Faith and Kolby around a fountain until Kolby barfed (all over my shoes) and have read an endless stack of baby books.  I have listened to toddler music until my head hurts and made Barbie do the splits about a hundred times.

I wish I could say it was easy.  Sometimes I actually find myself hoping someone (anyone) will walk in and see me on the floor playing so I can get props and hear, “well now aren’t you the loving mama!”

And I’ll be so demure and bat my eyelashes…”You know, I am really into crafts and being an organic mother.  I even make my own baby food.”  I’ll say this as I pull my fourth baby out of his sling as I simultaneously play puzzles with my toddler and make macrame necklaces with my tween.

And then my nose will grow like Pinocchio because I am a big fat liar.

I envy the earth mothers.  It is so hard for me to just sit and play.  It’s like someone is taking away my efficient identity and things that need to get done are falling through the cracks.  We already have one playful person in the family -epic funmeister Tim, so somebody has to keep us track, right?

But I’m learning (very slowly and awkwardly) that being present with my children is not about checking tasks off a list –it’s about getting rid of the list.

Nothing enormous has happened since I began my big “PLAY” effort last week.  My daughters and my teen didn’t fall on their knees and thank me for my efforts.  But, what I have found is that I feel closer to my kids.  Faith smiles more.  Kolby loves having a new playmate and I feel better knowing that I am making an effort to engage my kids in a way that speaks to them and in a language they can discern.

And sometimes love means ripping out our selfishness and cutting it off at the knees…and somewhere in all this pruning, reconnecting with our lost inner child. 

Game on ♥

Do you have a hard time being present with your kids?  Do you know your kid’s love languages?  What can you do today to see the world from your children’s perspective?

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Patience-what parents have when there are witnesses

 

I think it was Bill Cosby who used to jest (in reference to his children) “I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it.” I never really connected with that statement, joking aside, until one of my own little angels turned into a teenager.

Because the truth is… Sometimes I want to throttle my kids or at least shake them really hard for the emotional trauma they put me through. Like on Tuesday for instance.

I got off work, drove a delightful 50 minute commute home, picked up the baby from daycare and pulled into my driveway. As I walked up to the front door, keys in hand, I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard piercing screams. It sounded like someone was killing my daughter.

Panicking, I put my key in the door and jiggled it, trying to unlock it as quickly as possible to rescue my darling girl. But my key is cranky and it sticks (and I gave the good one to the kids, because I’m a loving mom or possibly a lazy mom for not getting another one made). Of course now, in the most urgent and frightful of all moments the stupid key wouldn’t budge an inch.

The shrieks were growing in volume and the thumping of my heart reverberated in my ears. I started to pound on the door and yell at the top of my lungs for help. Tears were pouring down my face and the baby was bawling at my feet in fear. The thought flashed through my mind of someone violently attacking my baby girl.

Adrenaline was racing through my veins. I looked around and saw the front window as my only option. I furtively glanced around for something to smash the window with, when the door swung open in my face and there stood my ten-year old daughter, red-faced and laughing uproariously with her teenaged brother.

I collapsed on the front door stoop after yelling at my children at the top of my lungs “I thought you were dying. What the BAD WORD(1) were you doing?”

Their faces turned red in shame and they pointed to the playroom where the baby’s blocks were now strewn all over.  There were blocks in the bookcase, on top of pictures and blocks hanging off the potted plants. “We were having a block fight mom.”

I saw an ice bag on the floor. “What’s that for?” I choked out.

“Kyle threw a block at my face,” Faith whimpered.

I sat on the floor and wept and let my kids wallow in the guilt of tormenting their mom.

Then I really let loose. I cried tears of relief that my sweet Faith was alive, tears of frustration for their utter (and very normal) childishness and most of all, I cried big gulpy sobs because the truth is I am not there for them after school to protect them from imaginary intruders.

I am at work and it kills me.

And this burden on my mother’s heart feels like the weight of the world.

My husband walked in amidst the chaos and I finally started to chipper up and then ultimately laugh.

I guess it could have been worse. It could have been a dart fight.

[1] I actually said “hell” but you thought it was the “F word” didn’t you? I’m making real progress here people!

 

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Duck Hunting-Scrappy Sam

I just love Duck Chili mommy!

I’m a single mom this week to my three kiddos.  It’s been challenging to say the least. So far, we’ve only had one ‘girl” melt-down, one mommy melt-down (I was out of coffee-nuff said) and the boy and the baby have fared pretty well in the last thirty-six hours.

My husband Tim is out doing manly Wild at Heart shenanigans-namely shooting fowl in the wild of North Dakota. I can just picture him traipsing through the tick infested brush, spotting a flock of ducks, lifting his big rifle into the air and pulling the trigger on a poor defenseless duck. (Quack. Bang. Plop)

Sounds awesome!

And while he is out making sure I will have no room in my freezer for the foreseeable future, I am left to hold down the troops. (At least we get to eat whatever we want until he returns, because then it’s all downhill)

Kid-“What’s for dinner mom?” 

Me-“Duckloaf”

Kid-“Again?”

Me-“What’s wrong with duckloaf? You should be grateful we put food in your mouth and give you duck sandwiches to eat. There are a bazillion kids starving in the world”

Kid-“I wish I was one of them.”

Me-“Just wait until daddy goes venison hunting?”

Kid-“What’s a venison?”

Me-“I think it’s a type of big cat?”

Kid-“I love duckloaf!”

Me-“I thought so!”

Tomatoes are good in duckloaf, right mom?

So until Friday I will attempt to navigate pre-school drop-off (with a toy to share), middle school drama, and elementary school cliques. 

I will make sure all homework is done through subtle mind games and a few threats. I’ll change diapers, sing lullabies, and juggle football practice, cheerleading, high school open house, Willy Wonka rehearsals, and writing deadlines-all with a pained smile.

I will go to work, commute an hour each way, sing hymns, and somehow hopefully find the time to shower (probably not going to happen), buy more coffee or maybe steal pods from the office? (Just kidding) and write about the church bathing suit (an article I am dying to tackle).

I’m sure I’ll also fit in a quiet time and some scripture memorization. (Yeah right)

I’m pretty sure Jesus is in the trenches of motherhood. (This just has to be a spiritual test, right?)

And I will dream of my duck man and the day we are reunited (so that he can deal with all this kid nonsense for at least thirty minutes and I can take a very long bath).

How do you survive motherhood?

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Blessed

I’m in a wistful mood. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

I lost a loved one today. It makes me want to hold onto my babies a little tighter, linger over beauty a bit longer, and enjoy the blessings I have been entrusted with.

A lovely tableau

Like antiqueing with my husband in Carlsbad on a surprise getaway.

Or snapping this shot of my friend Keri in her Halloween costume. (Seriously, she got this at Target and I am in awe.  She looks like a regal princess)

Like finding just the right pumpkin.

Kyle's blowing out his birthday candles

And celebrating the best thirteen years of my life with my cherished boy.

Like stopping on the side of a busy road to smell the flowers and look at a bug.

Or watching a beautiful bride float down the aisle toward her beloved.

And then taking a picture with her so I can remember how much it moved me.

Like my first-baby girl turning into a young-woman, despite me wanting to keep her locked in a castle far away from all the ogres, and dragons and eager suitors.

And I’m not even ready to acknowledge how fast the baby is growing up. (Amazing block skills for a 1 yr old, right?)

And then there is romance. 

Like my husband who still courts me, despite the busyness of life.

And my Father in heaven who pursues me with His relentless love.

Today I am wistful. Nostalgic. Teary. Reflective.

And most of all Blessed.

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The Halloween Bootique

“Can we pleeeeeaaaaassssse go to the Halloween store?”

My sweet little Faith pleaded, cajoled and whined long enough to drive me batty and so I caved (which you knew I would) and off we traipsed to the dreaded Halloween store to pick out a costume.  But this time, just to spice it up, we took along a posse of little ladies consisting of three ten year-olds and a toddler.

On the way to the store, the girls turned up the radio and belted out Taylor Swift songs with all the gusto they could muster, wailing on and on about some nasty girl who stole Taylor’s man and getting revenge and so forth. (That Taylor is a wee bit snarky and I think I like her)

We pulled up at the Halloween Bootique at the Kaleidoscope in Mission Viejo and I must confess I was blown away (in a pleasant red balloon flying away in the sky kind of way) at how upscale and charming the store was. It was far more Harry Potter than Nightmare on Elm Street and nothing like the mega-suck Halloween stores I am used to.  

In fact the second I walked in I did a double take and giggled in delight.  I danced around and whipped out my camera.  The owner Ryan Privratsky, a young hip guy, stared at me, bewildered by my bizarre behavior, but then recovered quickly and asked if he could help us.

He took us to a beautiful children’s section and then helped us to a fitting area where a very patient lady (because the girls tried on about a bazillion costumes) meticulously and with great pains took apart each costume, assembled it, and then lovingly placed it back in the bag like it was a couture outfit.

I’m not kidding; it was the Nordstrom’s of Halloween retail.  This Bootique had stellar customer service and darling displays. There were also roped off areas, where I assume the more mature costumes were concealed, not that I ventured into the X-rated section with my babies, but I was tremendously relieved none the less that it wasn’t in my face; though I did take one sweet pic just to tempt my hubby for a private costume party.

The girls grabbed dozens of costumes and the show began.

One of the girls pulled out quite a few costumes that her mama nixed via text message.  I thought it was hysterical because if I hadn’t been there in person, Faith would have been looking behind the ropes and eyeballing the grown-up section.

“Mom, what about the gothic vampire?

Me-“No”

“Genie with bare belly?”

Me-“No.”

“This one?”

Me-“No, no, no!!!”

Finally we found the “Ahhhhhhhhh” costumes for all the girls, where everyone in the store smiled and the birds chirped and mama was happy that no tummy, booty or gaping expanse of chest were showing.

And in response to this blissful experience I forked over way too much cash for Faith’s costume.  But for the first time in this whole drama of costume buying business, I felt like I got my money’s worth because I had a lovely experience with the girls and I didn’t have that awful feeling of being violated by bad taste and gruesome ickiness.

I guess some things are worth a little extra cash.

The girls want to have another Girl’s day out next month, where we can assume I will spend too much money, shopping will be involved, and Taylor in all her teen angst will be sung. 

Oh Boy…I can’t wait!

 

Boo!

 Check out the Bootique on Facebook!

Also, I found this article on Ryan in the OC Register.

And oh by the way, this is not a sponsored post. I just really wanted to help out and promote a cool young man who is working his butt off and making this mom’s life a little easier. Well done Ryan!

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The Dreaded Halloween Costume

As the leaves turn golden and the first chill in the morning gives way to scorching Southern California afternoons, it seems we have slipped into the fall season, which I mostly like, except for one particular event that makes me cringe-the dreaded Halloween costume shopping.

Now, I take great delight in picking out baby’s costume (this year she is a puppy), but the big kids are another story all-together.  First they beg and plead for me to drive them to the mega-land Halloween store which I’m pretty sure is the main clothing resource for serial killers and prostitutes.  I seriously despise these places.

Generally, I make the kids stay one aisle behind me as I scope out the next, that way I can deter them from a particularly raunchy or gruesome stretch.  People look at me like I’m nuts; “Kids, abort, abort…don’t go down this aisle. It’s The Girls Next Door meets The House Bunny.”

I know my son get’s an eyeful every time we go to these places, despite my stalking around like an over-protective mama bear.  Can someone please tell me why Halloween has become a socially acceptable day to dress like a slut or better yet Freddy Krueger? ( And yes, I do remember dressing up as a sexy Red Riding Hood one year in college.  I know the pot’s calling the kettle black here, but I’ve matured people!)

Faith is at the awkward age between little girl costumes and the dubious Jr’s section.  Anything in Jr’s has big gaping pockets for the tween’s chest, and since most ten-year olds are still growing, I can only assume the boob pockets are to hold candy?

Two years ago she was little Bo Peep, which means mommy had to do some altering of the sexy sheep girl’s ensemble.  First we bought big, so the skirt covered her bum, then we laced her up tight and made her wear a shirt underneath.  We also had to do some creative pleating along the top and add some big bows to cover the gaps.  She looked adorable once we were done, but the effort was hardly worth the fifty dollars they charge for this riff-raff.

Last year she dressed as an eighties girl and I breathed a sigh of relief. She looked like a cross between Cindy Lauper and Madonna, with a hot pink tutu and green streaked hair, but who was I to complain? At least she was modest.

Kyle on the hand dressed as a priest with black sunglasses.  Was it irreverent? Possibly.  This year he’s going to be a Mexican Bull Fighter. I know, right? It just gets better and better.

At least I get to dress up the baby in whatever I want. Next year I’m rolling out the princess gowns. Whoopee!!!!

 

 

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Signs along the Road

So I’m driving to work, shooting up some popcorn prayers to the big guy, when I turn my head and see these cool signs. I roll down the window, grab my iPhone and snap a shot.

I’m transfixed. There’s a sign that says ONE WAY with an arrow that got a wee bit cut-off in the picture and another sign proclaiming WRONG WAY.

It’s like God is whispering to me (maybe because he knows I’m attracted to danger).

Sam-You can go down the wrong way, the long way and the hurts like hell way to find me or you can jump straight into my arms baby girl.

I sat at that sign until the cars honked behind me.

Each day I get to choose between life and death, beauty or destruction, love or selfishness…

Choices, decisions, judgements…

I can choose to make the extra effort and snuggle into to my husband’s arms tonight or pretend to be asleep. (Yes…I’m referring to sex for all of you scratching your head about what snuggling means)

I can bite back my critical comments when I come home to a ginormous mess after a long day at the office and instead simply say, “Hi there kiddos, I missed you.” (Breathe in peace, exhale bitchy mommy)

I can make the effort to call my friends when I’m sad or I can park my butt in front of a basket of chips, salsa, and a skinny margarita nursing my emotional boo-boos all alone at Casa Ranchera (Not that I would…just saying I might).

I can choose to take baby Kolby to the park, rub Faith’s back, or listen to my son Kyle go on and on about expensive blue Nike’s  until my head spins or I can check my Email and be distant mommy.

I can choose to not launch back verbal abuse to my co-worker after he has just asked me to cut up his steak for him at an office luncheon. (Ok, maybe that’s too much to ask of anybody?) 

I turned my car towards the ONE WAY sign.  At least for today, I’m heading in the right direction.

 Oh Jesus–I need HELP!

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Baby Kolby and the Bad Word

In our home, we have two distinctions for withholding the truth.  One version is called a secret (or a lie). Secrets are bad and we heavily discourage this type of sneakiness (except for mommy’s little beauty secrets, and those are between her and God).  We have serious consequences in our family for telling lies of any kind.

The other type of truth withholding is a surprise.  Surprises are good. In this case, the intention of the truth withholder is to simply bless the recipient, with zero malice on the agenda.

Now our daddy is the king of surprises. Tim loves to play tricks and create outlandish diversions to illicit a joyful response.  But, sometimes he takes it a little too far (though he usually has the best of intentions) and by the time we are actually surprised, we might also be slightly pissed off.

Labor Day was a day for surprises.  Both Tim and I wanted to create a memorable family day with the kids to celebrate the end of summer, thus the element of surprise was essential. We lounged around the house in the morning and finally got the whole family ready and into the Expedition by 10:00am. The kids knew food was on the agenda because we didn’t feed them breakfast, but this was the extent of their knowledge regarding the day.

About twenty minutes into the drive, I realized my husband was not taking the freeway to our Newport Beach destination, but was instead taking the scenic route along Pacific Coast Highway, a gorgeous drive, but double the amount of travel. I looked in the backseat and the kids seemed happy (for now) but I wasn’t too sure what would happen over the next hour without food.

Kyle started in on the complaining first. “Where are we going? How long is it going to take?  I’m starving!” he whined.

Then Faith joined in, “My tummy hurts! How much longer?” she asked.

Tim just kept on driving and driving and ignored their comments.  An hour and twenty minutes in to the drive and my own tummy was growling, but I knew we were close to the ferry and our destination on the Balboa Peninsula.

But Kyle was getting frustrated.  “Where are we going?” he demanded frostily, devoid of any fun or frolic in his voice.

Tim (now cranky himself) shot back, “We are going to Long Beach and it will be another hour! Just stop your whining or I can let you out and you can walk from here.”

Both Kyle and Faith went quiet, but our sweet little baby Kolby piped in from the backseat, “F… You!”

Tim and I looked at each other in amazement. Then again we heard her little voice ring out even louder.

“F… You!”

At first we weren’t sure if we were hearing her correctly, but she continued her diatribe louder and with more intensity.

Tim and I, than Faith and Kyle burst into laughter. We laughed until our insides hurt and then we laughed some more.

Now generally we discourage foul language in our home.  In fact, I’ve only heard my husband swear once or twice in our whole marriage.  If a bad word flies out, it’s probably mommy that let it slip, but the F word isn’t really one I use. (If the baby had said the S word, everyone in the car would have called me out)

We think she might have been trying to say “off shoe” but we aren’t really sure.

Maybe baby Kolby simply had enough of daddy’s tricks and wanted to eat brunch?  Either way, the truth is, she articulated what we were all thinking, maybe not in that vulgar of terms, but we were all pretty much done with daddy’s surprise of the day.  We just wanted to eat.

So maybe surprises can go a little too far sometimes. And maybe we should keep an eye on our verbal (i.e. sailor mouthed) baby.  She seems to be taking after her mother.

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The Text Monster

 

Text Log of My Kid at 11:00 a.m.

Nate-“Want to come over ?”

Kyle-“Sorry dude! I can’t come over until I finish the laundry.”

Nate-“Just put some music on and bust it out!”

Kyle- “I can’t. My mom won’t let me listen to music.”

Nate- “Wow! Really?”

Kyle- “Yeah, and she said I have to stay here until 3:00p.m.”

Nate-“Bummer”

Kyle’s mom sounds like a real B…. (Oh wait, that’s me!)  To my almost thirteen-year-old there’s nothing more embarrassing than a parent, even when the parent is ridiculously cool like me. (ok, maybe not so much)

I know my son adores me, but in his defense, I’m also the biggest obstacle in his pursuit for independence. One day he needs me (usually for food or money) and the next day he pushes me away. Bagging on his mom in a text is a great example.

It gives me such an indescribable thrill when my son rips on me with the same phone I pay for every month. This would be on his new latest and greatest phone he was so excited about last month when we bought it for him. Oh wait, I remember, that’s the day when he said I was the best mom ever. 

Sometimes it feels like my kid is one of those passive aggressive dogs that licks you in the face and simultaneously pee on your foot.

So how come Kyle conveniently forgot to mention the details in his text dialogue?  Like the reason he’s doing laundry is because he acted like a jackwaggon on the last day of school.

Kyle came down to breakfast with his pants sagging halfway down his posterior and his yellow boxer shorts predominately displayed. My husband Tim caught a glimpse and sent him back upstairs to change.

When Kyle came back downstairs, Tim asked him, “Did you change?”

Kyl e replied, “Yep!”

In the car on the way to school, Kyle started wiggling and squirming in his seat.  I asked him what was wrong.

Kyle gave me a defiant look, “Mom, why does it matter what I wear? Now, I’m totally uncomfortable.”

“Why are you uncomfortable?” I asked.

Kyle lifted his shirt to reveal his boxer shorts still on, with the addition of a pair of boxer briefs over the top. Of course it was uncomfortable!  It looked like he was wearing a leotard over his shorts and underneath his jeans.

I shook my head in disbelief. Really? It must be mentally draining to come up with moves this smooth.

Dishonesty, in our house means extra chores-thus Kyle got to do the laundry. I guess he forgot to tell his buddy that part.

Then there’s the music reference.  Yes…we do allow our kid to listen to music, even good music.  But we don’t allow him to blow out the speakers on booty smacking, boots with fur, getting slizzard like a G6 gangsta rap.

When I read Kyle’s text message log back to him he chuckled and admitted he had indeed been rather harsh with his mom. Honestly, I don’t even think he realized his disrespect until I pointed it out.

I’m convinced puberty causes brain damage and the only cure is growing up, moving out, and paying for your own stinking phone.

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Grounded

Why do we say our teens are grounded?  Who came up with this expressive idiom? The true definition has little to do with how American parents apply the word. 

Was it a sixties hipster who got mad at his kids and used some sort of druggie lingo? “Dude, don’t get high like me. You need to be near the ground.” Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

Or maybe it was even earlier, way back when planes first took to the sky and mischievous pilots like Maverick and Goose from Top Gun were grounded from adventure?

Since, I’m pontificating here and have done zero research, besides Googling the word, I think this makes the most sense. 

My little Maverick (Kyle) and his pal, we’ll call him Goose, are the cutest teens on the block, but every now and then, they too need a reality check. 

Now Kyle, if you recall, was restricted from attending the teen dances he deeply treasures (which I’m guessing some hot girls attend) until his Social Studies and Global grades perked back into the A range.

On Friday, he came home and declared, “I aced my finals and I want to go to the dance tonight.”

I looked at him in surprise. “Slow down there tiger. Final grades don’t come out until next week.”

“Mom, it’s in the bag. I’m going to the dance.”

“We’ll see what dad says,” I responded.

Well, dad said “no” to the request and Kyle fell into a melancholy gloom. His usual smile disappeared and for a full twenty-four hours he looked on the verge of tears. 

He claimed we were the strictest and meanest of parents.  In fact, all his friends think we are the worst and no one wants to come over because we don’t have Call of Duty in our home, which is a fate worse than death to a Jr. High Boy.

My parental self-esteem was plummeting, that is, until Monday night when we drove his buddy home and his mom came out of the house with guns blazing. Apparently, Goose had a little explaining to do as well, regarding a certain grade issue. Mmmhhh! 

Maybe, I’m not the meanest and strictest parent alive? Maybe other parents ground their kids too? Gasp! Shock! Horror!

Kyle sat in the car and somberly watched his buddy get zinged while a big smile crossed my husband’s face.  He drove off and heard his friend’s mom say, “You’re grounded,” as he pulled the car out.

I love it when this stuff happens! And, I really loved Kyle’s sincere apology.  So at least for today, I’m not the worst mom ever, now his friend’s mom is!

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