The Prince at 4

Dear Eamon,

When you were a little baby, we used to call you "The Prince."  This title was in reference not only to the way I treated you, but to the way you seemed to expect to be treated.  We would swaddle you up and place you in our bed, head on a pillow.  You would look so regal and relaxed.  You were just the apple of my eye.  There is absolutely no comparison, as far as  photos taken, between you and any of your siblings.  I took more pictures of you than I could ever find uses for and I loved taking each and every one.  From your huge green eyes and bald head to your curly locks at 18 months, I couldn't resist just one more shot of my  prince.  

It is true that I don't call you "The Prince" much anymore.  You have outgrown that title and are more  commonly referred to as "Junior" or "Son".  Sometimes you are "Honey" or "Sweetheart."  Mostly, you are just "Eam."  The past year or so has been a bit tough.   We were faced with myriad fits, tantrums, yelling, hitting, and even biting.  Your self control has not caught up with your body size and that has made for a rough time.  I try to remember that you are often tired or keyed up, being a boy or having growing pains.  I try to remember that the girls and Trumie get the spot light and that you are the true middle child in this family dynamic.  I try to remember that you are sensitive and that you love your Mama so much.  I try to remember to be understanding.  

Just yesterday, Madeline commented that you have changed so much since turning four.  The fact is, I think she's right.  I don't  know if it's the fact that you are in school more, getting more sleep, getting more attention, or just growing up that is causing such an improvement in your behavior.  Sometimes I think that you take being 4 seriously.  That you think that you should behave better.  I think you think that you are now a big boy.  

I do know however, that you are so cute and so sweet and so in love with me.  You continue to be the apple of my eye and I will continue to try and understand when your behavior is less than stellar.  Welcome to the big leagues, Mr. Four Year Old Boy.

Love,

Mama

Dear Sawyer

Dear Sawyer,

Happy Birthday!

I want to thank you for your awesome attempts at convincing me, the judge of our Apples to Apples game, to vote for your card last night.  Your powers of negotiation are in need of some work BUT, your skills at being cute are unmatched.  So I voted for you.  At 6, you are sweet, kind, smart, and fun.  You are friendly and girly and sparkly and you should probably have your own pony to hang glittery wreaths around while a rainbow shines overhead.  Yesterday, I bought you a bird whistle which is a little contraption that is shaped like a bird and holds water.  When you blow through it, it makes a sound similar to that of a bird call.  Upon arriving home with the whistle, you filled it with water and announced, "Mom, I'm going outside to talk to the birds."  You spent at least 15 minutes out there and were thrilled to announce that the birds were talking back to you.  You were further pleased that you  were able to translate the returning bird calls.  Dr. Doolittle has nothing on you.  Additionally, you claim to speak baby and are endlessly translating back and forth for  Truman and I.  Thank you for that, I'll take all the help I can get around here.  I am also impressed that you claim to speak Spanish and German.  It is no small feat for a 6-year-old WITHOUT bilingual parents to be such an accomplished master of languages.  I guess I don't really need to talk about how wonderful your imagination is  but,  I want to thank you for sharing it with Eamon.  As his most enjoyed playmate, he has learned a lot from you.  Imagination and languages are just 2 such treasures he has gleaned from his time with you.

Sawyer, you are the funny one, the cute one, and the one who can drive me absolutely crazy.  You don't give up on many of the campaigns you begin.  Especially if candy is involved in any way.  You make friends easier and more quickly than anyone else in this family.  Your birthday parties are out of control.  I love that you read, wear fake glasses, and make up stories.  I love that you are organized and put things away.  I love that you are mine.  I am proud as heck of ya and I wouldn't change you for anything.

I love you,
Mommy

A Mother's Legacy

I'm fairly certain that when my son reminisces about his childhood he will have fond memories. His life is enviable in various ways. He has his own room, enough Hotwheel cars to last a lifetime, and an endless stream of playmates at his disposal. He has a loving family, complete with two doting sisters and parents who are generally entertained by his every move. The one strange twist to these lovely memories will certainly be the fact that, when he imagines his mother's face, it will most certainly be with confusion. I can say with absolute certainty that Eamon will forever remember my face contorted into some look of disgust. I say this because I am constantly catching myself looking at him with a mixture of horror, awe, and disbelief.

Maybe it's because I had girls first. Maybe it's because I'm just a bad mom. Maybe it's because my son is a menace. I'm not quite sure. Maybe I should be more understanding when my son feels the need to finger paint with his barbecue sauce or use bar soap to write on the bathroom wall rather than wash his hands. Maybe I should be able to comprehend why my son believes that yogurt, pudding, and toothpaste are superior to shampoo. I guess I should be more reasonable about his need to throw EVERY item he comes into contact with, rather than setting it down nicely. Maybe I should reframe my ideas about little boys not being magnetic when it comes to dirt, grime, and sticky, unidentified substances. And, as far as reframing goes, maybe snot and old bits of toothpaste left behind on the sink are appropriate sources of nutrition. I guess I'm kind of a stickler when it comes to things like wearing seat belts, not driving a car when you're two years old, and leaving the house with clothes on. I suppose I should lighten up and just let my son play in my mini-van with my car keys for several hours of the day. Maybe he is old enough to walk out the front door by himself naked and dig in the dirt while talking about his penis to anyone who happens by.

Because of his constant need to touch, break, disobey, and be involved in any number of unacceptable situations, I am constantly thinking, "what a dummy" when I look at my son. I try my best to keep it to barely above a whisper but sometimes I say it out loud and although name-calling is not a condoned activity in the DeWitt household, I almost can't help it. I can't believe the things this kid gets into. It is truly comical. His sisters call him a "cotton-headed ninny muggins" and I can't argue with them. It is quite possible that Eamon's memories of his sisters faces will be similar to his experience of my own- a little bit of pride, a little bit of disgust, and a ton of love.

On Being Relatively Average

Today as I drove to drop Sawyer off at preschool, I was listening to NPR. Alice Walker was the guest on whatever talk show filled my ears for my 15 minute drive. She is, of course, the author of "The Color Purple" and various other inspiring novels on race and gender. Interestingly, she was not speaking of her novels but of her love of raising chickens. Yes, this accomplished Pulitzer Prize winning author was talking about her absolute love of chicken-raising. She eats and gathers their eggs. Many of you know that I have an obsession with healthy eating (and with junk food to balance things out) so I was interested in this discussion; dreaming of the day when I might raise my own chickens, should I have the space and time. During this discussion, fans were calling into the show to thank Alice for the inspiration she has provided to them throughout their lives. She had clearly touched these people in many ways and they were obviously familiar with more than just her one award-winning novel and the subsequent movie.

As I listened to these callers, in all of their hero-worship, I started to think about my existence and the impact it will have. Certainly it is nothing like that of Alice Walker. I have no interest in fame. I will likely never have wide-spread impact on the world at large. Now, before you start assuming that I'm looking for some kind of validation that my existence is important, let me continue. I am a stay at home mom. When people ask me if I plan to return to work when my children are in school full-time, I'm never sure what to say. Frankly, I don't want to return to social work. I don't really feel that I have the power to change the world and my heart is not truly in the practice. Maybe I'm just lazy. I just don't have the kind of ambition necessary to really do something. That is not to say that I don't want to help this world become a better place or that I lack interest in activities in general. Quite the opposite is true. I like everything. I have just come to the realization that in general, my existence is relatively average. I have some guilt about this fact. I feel like I should be making money or changing lives or writing the great American novel. Instead, I try to read interesting books, volunteer when I can, and cook meals for my family. I would like to garden, quilt, and sew. These average acts are not going to gain any notoriety for me. So be it. Some might say I set the bar pretty low for myself. Ok.

Poor Truman 2.0

In my repeated attempts to bond with my 3-year-old son, I have tried various strategies.  Some include: reading together, cooking together, writing together, asking him 1000 questions that he has no interest in answering, taking him to eat ice cream, hugging, tickling, smiling, telling him how handsome he is, etc.  My attempts at bonding are not because we have a poor relationship.  These attempts are in hopes that an increased bond will serve to limit poor behavior.  It seems that Eamon is having some real difficulty behaving at home.  I know.  I know.  He has been replaced.  He is a sensitive Mama's boy who has to stand by and watch as I nurse, snuggle, and sing the praises of Trumie D.  I know.  That still does not excuse acting like a complete tyrant in my home.

My most recent idea was hatched in order to kill two birds with one stone: Prepare Eamon to be dropped off at school 5 afternoons per week AND enjoy an experience together.  So, why not stop at the flower shop, pick some gorgeous flowers for his new classroom, and chat lovingly about the beauty of flowers?  Perfect, right?  Nope.  Thus far, this post has been about my cherubic, but hateful 3-year-old.  Now, I will switch gears and give absolute proof that I should have had to get a license prior to bearing children.

As if being left in the car (hypoglycemia, remember?) wasn't bad enough, it turns out my inability to work the stroller/car seat combo has also placed poor Truman in danger.  So back to my story.  My cherubic, yet angry Eamon is yet again fussing  about having to get out of the backseat of my mini-van while I try to remove Truman's seat and click it into the matching stroller.  While trying to click the stroller,  I am coercing Eamon out of the back seat with promises of beautiful roses and sunflowers that would be a perfect addition to his new class, which was scheduled to begin the next day.  I confidently place the infant carrier into the stroller, take my older son by the hand and fight my way in the door, as I always do when pushing a stroller (that looks cool but ultimately sucks).  The first room you enter in this particular flower shop houses the check out area and very little else.  Customers must walk down a very short ramp (probably a former step) to get to an area filled with bucket after bucket of lovely, fresh flowers of all kinds.  As I head down this brief ramp with Eamon in tow, the infant seat detaches from my sucky stroller, does a 180 in the air and lands FACE DOWN with my 6-month-old suspended by his 5-point restraint.  My brain apparently needed a moment to catch up because it took me longer than it should have to realize what the hell had just happened. And to react.  After processing the gravity of the situation, I uttered, "OH MY GOD" and lunged to pick up my darling son who was quietly whimpering, his nap having come to an abrupt end.  I calmly MADE SURE to click him properly back into his stroller and placed my hand gently on his chest and belly, speaking to him softly.  I stayed calm.  Eamon gave the play by play, "Mommy made Trumie's seat flip over and then Trumie was on his face and then he cried and Mommy picked him up."  As if I wasn't aware of what an idiot I must look like, even Eamon was amazed that I could do something so horrible, endangering a defenseless baby.

I stayed calm.  I removed Truman from his carrier and held him tight, speaking ever so softly to him.  He stayed calm.  I looked at him and tried my best not to burst into guilty, scared, embarrassed, horrified tears.  I took deep breaths.  I tried not to look into the eyes of judgement all around me.  Finally, the store owner approached me to make sure that we were all ok.  It was all I could do to hold it together, but I did.  I did.  I assisted Eamon in picking out the perfect white carnations and pink-tipped roses to share with his class; we paid and were on our way.

That is until the owner insisted on getting the door for me and "walking me to the car."  She then proceeded to say, "I need to tell you something; you ARE a good mom, I can tell that you work hard.  YOU ARE a good mom."  Uh, ok.  My first thought was, "Do you honestly think I don't know that?"  My overt response was, "You're very sweet.  Thank you."  But she kept it up, "Just know that you are a good mom."  My second response, "Thanks, I have four children and they have all lived."  Ok, thanks for the patronizing comments, please leave me the hell alone.  I know that seems really rude of me to think that way.  I know she was trying to make me feel better.  I know she was trying to be nice.  I know that she felt badly because everyone else in the flower shop thought that I was a total moron. The fact is, I don't care what anyone in that store thought about me or my very obvious lapse in judgement.  I will not pretend that my life looks like it does on Instagram.  Sometimes things happen that I am embarrassed about.  Sometimes I make poor decisions.  I screw stuff up ALL THE TIME.  I just happen to always be doing it in front of people.  And I think it makes people feel better about themselves to know that they aren't the only ones who flounder.  At least, I hope it does.

As for Truman, he is no worse for wear and has no idea that he flipped around as though on a roller coaster and could have been seriously injured.  Eamon told everyone we saw about this incident for the rest of the day, and I cried on the phone to Jason about how I might really irreparably damage our son. And then I thought I might blame Britax for making a sucky stroller (but I didn't). And then I told the story 10 times and have been laughing my ass off, knowing that I really am trying my best to make all this work.  

Poor Truman

Truman has been such a delight to this family.  I think the kids were just old enough to appreciate him and not too old to find him a nuisance.  He hasn't caused much of a stir because he is just so darned relaxed all the time.  So relaxed in fact, that we can all go about our business and he will wait...quietly.

I know this sounds terrible, but if Truman makes it to his 1st birthday, it will be miraculous.  I will be completely honest about what has happened to Truman since he was born in February because I know that I will look back on all of this one day and laugh.  Right now, I'm a bit nervous that we might one day lose or hurt Truman in a way that is irreversible.  I'm not kidding.  You will believe me if you continue to read.

We all know of stories of parents who have let their children roll off the bed (yes, this happened to Sawyer), or children who have inadvertently fallen down the stairs (check), kids who fell off the couch (check), and many more horrific accidents that all end in a benign fashion.  We have been lucky so far.  All of our accidents have been placed in the category of "near misses" and we have never had to visit the emergency room for any type of injury.  I'm pretty sure our luck will soon run out.

Truman has never been handled with kid gloves.  He has been handled by children of all ages since   his birth.  He has flopped around like a fish in the hands of his 5-year-old sister.  He has been man-handled and wrestled with-Eamon style.  Madeline has carried him up and down the stairs with one arm.  He has been placed in laundry baskets and suitcases, obviously for safe keeping.  I have left him to play on the floor and honestly forgotten about him while I cooked, later finding him sucking on the leg of a living room chair.  He is so quiet.  However, this is nothing in comparison to the major incident I will now share.

I am not kidding when I tell you that while on a driving vacation this summer, Jason would ask me if Truman was in the backseat; often after an hour from our previous stop.  He is that quiet.  It happened every day of the vacation, sometimes numerous times. He was always in the back seat.   And then it happened.  Several days after our vacation had ended, I took Madeline and Truman to Madeline's orthodontist appointment.  Madda had her braces taken off that day.  Sawyer and Eamon stayed with a sitter so that we would not create complete mayhem in Dr. Burns' office, therefore Madeline and I had time to chat in the car, after her appointment.  She was excited and chatty about her brace-free teeth, her neighborhood book club, and going to show her Daddy her new smile.  We pulled into his office parking lot and continued our chat about books and taking care of her teeth properly.  We continued our happy talk as we walked into and down the hall of Jason's office.  It was about one minute (and the greeting of almost every employee in Jason's office) until I realized that I had left my sleeping baby in the car.  So, just as a new employee approached me to ask if I needed any help (he had no idea who I was), I uttered, "OH MY GOD!" and ran back out the door, to the parking lot.  I grabbed my baby (still asleep) and sheepishly returned to my husband's office; through another door that would avoid contact with any employee.  I had left my baby in the car.  How could I forget my baby?  He is my dearest darling.  He is my baby boy.  Oh my goodness.  I was horrified.  And in front of people.  In front of Jason's employees who now think I'm an idiot.  OH MY GOD.

I sat down in Jason's office; Madeline near me.  I said to her, "Madda, what do you think about your Mama leaving our baby in the car?"  Her response?  "Mom, it's not like he knows."  She. Is. Awesome.  We both started laughing and I forgave myself.  Because I have to.  I just have to.  I have to chalk it up to a moment of weakness or  hypoglycemia or exhaustion or just plain stupidity.  But, I know it won't happen again and maybe I have avoided some other more disastrous outcome by learning my lesson.  As parents, we have to forgive ourselves.  We try our best.  We are imperfect.  We forget our babies sometimes.  And it's ok.  If it's only for a minute.

9

Dear Madeline,

Yesterday, you made me the proud parent of a 9-year-old.  It is hard to believe that your Daddy and I have been at the parenting game for that many years.  You were a wonderful surprise who has turned into a wonderful little person.

I am proud of you for so many reasons.  I believe you to be kind, smart, thoughtful, responsible, and beautiful...in no particular order.  No one of these adjectives defines you,  you are so many things to me and to others.  As I said, you are now a little person.  You are not just my baby; you are also a friend, a student, a team member, a piano player, a singer, a sister (x3), and a leader.  However, you were mine first.  You were my daughter first.

We do not always agree.  We are not "just alike."  We see things differently and have different interests.    I am not always thrilled by your clothing choices or hairstyles.  I see you trying out your pre-teen chops.  I know that you are not perfect; that you probably are not quite as model a citizen as you tend to be in your home.  I know that the day is coming where you will think (even more than you do now) that I have no sense and that I am unreasonable.  I know that we will clash.

I will still love you.  I will still be proud of you.  I will still look at you, in wonder of your beauty and elegance.  Amazed that you are so intelligent.  I will be beaming with pride, knowing that your beauty means nothing to you in comparison to your book collection.  I will love you when you hate me.  I will be proud of you when you do not meet my expectations.  I will always be here for you because you were my daughter first.  I waver in my thinking, wondering if I am too hard on you.  I wonder if we expect too much.  You just keep delivering more on every front.  You have made my life easier, filled it with joy, introduced me to a sense of pride I had never encountered.  You are brave and confident when I am worried and conflicted.  You skin is thicker than mine.

I am so thankful for the surprise that is you.  What a treat.

I Love You,
Mama

Sense of Humor 2.0

Since Truman was born, we haven't done much eating out.  Simply stated, staying home is easier than going out.  However, it was Jason's 37th birthday and we decided to head out to a "fancy by Lafayette standards" restaurant with our entourage.  I wore make up and WHITE pants.  The girls wore dresses, Eamon a collar.  This was us really stepping out on the town.  

Our Trumie D is a very easy going baby.  He is without question, the easiest of all of our children.  He does not expect a whole lot of attention.  He has a very even temperament.  I'm pretty surprised about his easy going demeanor.  I didn't really think a Chihuahua (me) and a Jack Russell (Jason) could create a laid back person but hence, it has happened.  Except on the day when we chose to go out to eat at a "fancy" restaurant.  All day, he had been a bit cranky and I'm sure it had something to do with the fact that the kid is dragged from one end of town to the other, so that I can drop off and pick up his siblings at every camp and activity under the sun.  

Regardless, we went.  And we went early.  At 5:30, you generally only see senior citizens at restaurants around here.  This time it was The DeWitts and the white hairs.  We were taken to our table following a mandatory bathroom break for all potty trained children, and everyone was looking in tip top form.  The kids proceeded to color their children's menus and talk about their cuisine choices.  Jason and I perused the adult menu for appropriate choices and ordered drinks for the family.  Trumie was a bit crabby but nothing that a baby toy and a pacifier in his car seat couldn't take care of.  Until he really started crying. The disapproving stares of the seniors increased.  I remained calm and tried to access my sense of humor.  Truman's daddy unbelted him from the 5 point restraint and took him into his arms cradle style, in an attempt to comfort him.  And then I saw the reason that he was crying.  

Because I refuse to do any more work than absolutely necessary, my darling infant son does not wear anything except a onesie and a diaper to leave the house.  Even when we're being fancy.  Well, the 4 days of not pooping had come to an end.  Furiously.  Truman had bright gold baby poop oozing from his diaper, onto his onesie and subsequently onto Jason's finely pressed work shirt.  My look of horror prompted Jason to pull Trumie away from his body and look down.  The looks of disapproval from all of the perfect parents around me hit an all time high as I grabbed by son, gave my husband some baby wipes and rushed to the bathroom.  Truman had had a total assplosion.  Poop up the front and back and out the sides.  As he received a sponge bath in the dark fancy bathroom, I could hear footsteps quickly approaching.  The girls, because they are "helpful" had left their poop covered Daddy and were now standing in the restroom, watching the spectacle.  I cleaned the boy up and all 4 of us headed back to our table.  The older couple to our right had clearly never had any parenting mishaps and were therefore compelled to stare at us.  To which I responded, "At least you get dinner AND a show!"  At that point, they must have remembered some tiny mistake that they had made as parents and suddenly became more understanding by saying, "Oh, we had kids, too!"  I couldn't see Eamon's face at this point because he was laying in his chair with his feet in the air while Jason continued to wipe his shirt AND pants which were both apparently mired in shit.  The happy ending is that Jason looked at me and began to laugh.  Sense of humor?  Check.  

While Jason headed to the restroom to finish cleaning the poop off his body, I informed the waiter that is was his birthday. I then added that I never would have brought 4 children to his restaurant unless it were a special occasion.  He rewarded our antics with  free dessert (delicious) for all.  All in all, it was not a horrible outing.  The fact is, if we never take our children anywhere, they will never learn proper behavior for various situations.  The pain and work of it all is worth the effort.  Hopefully, they will be confident when ordering for themselves and will be using the correct silverware when I am not there to guide them.  And hopefully they will see the humor in difficult situations as well.  

Stuff I Know To Be True

There are a few things that I have picked up over my 37 years.  None are earth-shattering or will change your life immediately.  They are simply truisms that people have said to me over the years.  Some of the comments came in the form of unsolicited advice, some in the form of a narrative from the speaker, some from books.  Here are some things I know to be true...at least for my life:

1.  Do not make predictions about the future of anything.  Life shuffles the cards on you constantly and you never know the next hand you will be dealt.
2.  A friend once told me that her mom was a good mom because, "she made being a kid fun."  I want my kids to say that about me.  Not that I was their friend, but that being a kid was fun.  It really is the only chance we get to have good, unadulterated (ha!) fun.
3.  Marrying the right person makes all the difference.
4.  There is no book or expert who knows better than you how to raise your children.  Do what is right for your family.  The author of that book does not know your kids.
5.  Teaching a child to be a good sleeper is the gift that keeps on giving.
6.  Listen.  What people really need is a good listening to.
7.  Be Here Now.
8.  A good babysitter is a gift you give yourself.  Use that birthday money to pay the babysitter so that you can leave the house.
9.  Your kids are listening.  Especially when you're on the phone.
10.  Comparing yourself to others is a waste of time.
11.  Anger is a wasted emotion.
12.  Exercise is essential.  Our bodies MUST move.
13.  Eat healthy food and you will feel better.  I promise.
14.  Don't talk negatively about others.  It is a waste of your time.
15.  The days are long, but the years are short.
16.  The older I get, the better I feel.
17.  Staying home is easier than going anywhere when you have 4 kids.
18.  Whether your kids are making a million dollars or their bed, let them know that you are proud of them.  That is your job.  Your are their most important person.
19.  Don't take yourself too seriously.
20.  Even if you stray a bit, you will come back to what you know.  What you know just makes more sense.

That is what I know.  Tell me your  principles to live by.  I need all the help I can get.

Sense Of Humor Mandatory

Almost five months into our lives as parents of four, we have been asked innumerable times, "So, how is it having four?"  My response?  "It's great, really fun."  On the inside, I''m thinking, "It's a ton of work and I'm exhausted but this is what I wanted."  Honestly though, it is fun.  And a challenge.  And exhausting.  And rewarding.  And hilarious.

Jason and I have figured out that in order to get through the chaos, a sense of humor is absolutely necessary.  Having said that, Jason isn't the member of our team who is in charge of planning for the immediate or near future.  This can lead to some moments where I would like to yell at him and act like an arrogant ass however, I know that his heart is ALWAYS in the right place and that he would never mean to screw up my delicate balance with his free-spirited ways.  Nonetheless, he does.  Because he's Jason.  And he lacks the ability to plan ahead.  That is where I come in.

I planned an orthodontic appointment for Madeline very early in the morning this past Tuesday because she is attending day camp that begins at 9:30 and is located 40 minutes from our home.  I asked Jason to take her to the appointment because he is a dentist AND because dragging four children to the orthodontist's office at 7:30 a.m. sounds like a nightmare.  The appointment was to take 45 minutes per the doctor.  Now, as a regular visitor to their office, I have learned that they are ALWAYS on time (shocking, I know) and that their appointments ALWAYS wrap up before the amount of time allotted.  For those reasons, 7:30 was perfect timing for us to make it to camp.  We would need to leave the house at 8:50 and would make it in plenty of time.  I know this because I am a planner.  Our lives are planned to the minute on most days.  Any errors in judgement are critical and can send our delicate balance off kilter.  That's where Jason comes in.

Of course, this appointment was taking longer that any appointment at this orthodontist, EVER.  So, I called Jason and let him know that I would put the other 3 children in our mini-van and meet him at the half way point in order to save time and get everyone where they needed to be.  This was an intervention that I had already constructed in case of emergency, and I was ready to head to the garage when my husband (sweet natured, not a planner) lets me know that he has taken our van.  And why not?  He had the only child in our family who is not required by law to be in a car seat.  And all the car seats were in the car he had taken.  The car that I always drive.  The car he never drives.  Because he has his own car with no car seats.  Perfect for transporting he and his nine-year-old.  So what did I do?  I did what any mother of four with a deadline would.  I successfully strapped 3 children into my husband's car illegally and left the house.  Sawyer did not use a car seat.  Eamon sat in one that was clearly meant for someone 2 years his junior.  Truman's infant carrier had some inadequate slots that were perhaps meant for a seat belt, covered up by the fabric of the carrier itself.  So, I went ahead and moved the fabric out of the way and fed a seatbelt through the slots.  And off I went.  For a 3 mile drive to meet my husband who was now speeding to meet me at the half way point.  We both pulled into the parking lot of the seedy Citgo on Purdue's campus and began transferring bags, towels, lunches and people from one car to the other.  Of course, there was no need to transfer the car seats.  Those were already in my van. Jason apologized, I let him off the hook with a promise that he would always be reminded what a saint I am, and I hopped into the car, grateful for the stress of having four awesome kids.  And a husband who does not plan ahead.

As I got ready to pull away and head to drop the girls off at day camp, I looked to my right and noticed two construction workers leaning over a barrier between the seedy Citgo and the enormous apartment construction site next door.  Both were dressed in yellow hard hats, jeans, and t-shirts, however one of them had added a bit of flare  to his outfit.  Flare in the form of 8 inches of well-tanned plumber crack.  Certainly more crack was visible than covered and I began to laugh hysterically from the humor of it all.  The stress, the kids fighting, the transfer of 1000 items for one day of DeWitt-hood, but most of all the plumber crack staring me in the face.  Jason looked over at me from his car and I silently gestured to the mother-of-all-plumber-cracks.  He bursted with laughter, and again I felt the simpatico that we have shared from the moment we met.  We both drove away and were quickly stopped at the first light out of the seedy Citgo.  I looked over to see my husband still laughing. Tears from laughter were rolling down my face and the stress was gone.  As I said, a sense of humor is mandatory when you have children.....or a husband.

Dear Time

Dear Time,

I had a baby 3 months ago.  He was a good size baby.  For a DeWitt.  Weighing in at 7 pounds, 5 ounces and 19 3/4 inches in length, he was the heavy weight of the DeWitt children.  He is now around 15 pounds (best guess).  He's huge.  And he is no longer a newborn.  Some twisted part of me wants to reverse time and put him back inside so that I can enjoy pregnancy and his being new again.  I want him to stop growing.  Time, I want you to stop.  You are moving so quickly.

Not only are you making a real baby out of Truman, you are making big kids of Madeline, Sawyer, and Eamon.  I look at my children and derive pure joy from their existence....most of the time.  Like 95% of the time.  A new record for me.  Apparently 4 children was the magic number for me.  My joy just keeps multiplying.  I want you to slow down so that I can absorb and enjoy each moment.  Every moment seems to be filled with wonder and magic.  I am truly lucky.  An older woman friend with adult daughters once said to me, "I would give everything I have just to spend one more day with my girls as 5 and 6 year olds; just to hear them ask me a million questions and listen to them argue with each other.  I would just love to hear their laughter in the backseat one more time."  This admission from her brings tears to my eyes and makes me regret every single solitary moment that I have found my children to be annoying or a chore.  They are a gift, I'm not sure where from, and deserve my respect and attention.  Please slow down, Time.  Please let me have the gift of soaking up every moment of Truman's babyhood.  Please let me revel in every moment of Madeline being an incredibly caring and responsible 8 year old.  Give me a few extra minutes to watch Sawyer dance, sing, pretend, and imagine pink sparkles and rainbows hanging around the neck of the purple pony in her dreams.  Let me have an extra hour to cook dinner and watch Eamon work meticulously at writing letters while he engages in his personal narrative, out loud for me to hear.  Time, please slow down.  There is no substitute for youth.  There is no substitute for this magical time.  Please slow down.  I promise to sleep EVEN LESS than I do.  I promise to not yell or get frustrated.  I promise to consider each day a gift that can be taken away at any moment.  Please just stretch the years out a little.  As we all see when we look back; the days are long but the years are so very short.

My Cup Runneth Over,
Katie

Braces, Birth, and Kindergarten

In the course of one week, we had braces put on one child, I gave birth to another, and registered a third for Kindergarten. Yes, Madeline now wears braces, has short hair, and looks like a little lady. Sawyer is headed to full-day Kindergarten and Truman DeWitt was born.

After 9 months of guessing, it turns out that my hunch was wrong and another baby boy was born. He is nothing short of a little doll. He does nothing but sleep, eat, and poop. I feel like he should be doing something else however, I'm grateful for the reprieve and built-in time for recovery from c-section #4.

So, I now have what I had always hoped for. 4 kids. I feel great and the kids seem to be adjusting very well to the new dynamics of our household. Jason is enamored with baby Truman and has repeatedly stated that he is thrilled by the birth of our second son. As many know, he was not the leader (or follower) of the campaign for child #4. He is now the president of the Truman fan club. I wonder if he is finally in a place where he can truly enjoy the wonders of a newborn baby. Each previous birth was somehow punctuated by a stressful event and I am so happy that Jason is seeing the pure joy of new life. I was able to truly enjoy when Eamon was born and I can only echo Jason's words upon the birth of Truman, "It was magical." At nearly 37, I can't believe how relaxed we both feel having this baby in our house. I was nearly in tears for the last week of this pregnancy, fearful that I had upset the delicate balance that we had finally struck with the 3 children we already had. I was concerned that our marriage would suffer, that our kids would be a mess, and that I would simply not be up to the challenge. In an interesting unfolding of events, Jason has risen to the occasion in a way that was beyond any expectation that I could have had, the kids LOVE Truman, and I feel very Zen about the whole thing.

Truman is now 12 days old and I know that we will never have another baby. I am too old and I would not do that to my body ever again. Closing the chapter on this part of my life will be a challenge. However, knowing that our family is complete will help me finalize that phase. It is no longer time to reproduce. It is time to grow.

3 weeks, 3 days...And Counting

The days since we found out about this somewhat unexpected fourth pregnancy have ticked away rather quickly. In the beginning, there was a feeling of complete and utter disbelief; coupled with a feeling (total honesty here) that if said pregnancy did not come to fruition, that would be ok. Today there is a feeling of utter disbelief that I will be holding my son or daughter in less than a month. The baby will be born on President's day by c-section. Ironically, this child, if a boy will have a presidential name. The name was chosen long before the date of removal. The timing just turned out to be kind of fun. If a girl, it is likely that the little darling will go by the name of Jane Doe. As of today, there is no agreed upon name for a little girl. We shall see.

We have worked hard to prepare our family for this new addition. We started the internal family renovations the week we found out about our new DeWitty and have found, in the last couple of weeks, that some of our efforts have been successful. Maybe the kids have grown up. Maybe they were ready to be more responsible. Maybe we realized that things could be much more organized, streamlined, and efficient. Maybe all of the above. I think one of the misguided notions that I had about being a stay-at-home-mom is that I am to be and do all things to and for my children. FALSE. I think I stifled them slightly by taking the easy way out when allowing them to allow me to do everything for them. It struck me, in the process of internal family renovation that they were essentially useless around the house. My fault. I simply found it easier to do everything for them and then play the martyr. In doing so, I created 3 dependent monsters. It hit me hard one morning in this process when my 8-year old came downstairs in the morning (after dressing herself in the clothes I had set out for her) and sat down at the dining table, waiting for her breakfast to be served to her (on the hypothetical silver platter, with the silver spoon). I looked at her and got a little testy, "What are you waiting for, princess?" "Breakfast" she replied. Really? I try not to brag about my daughter so forgive me for saying that she is really bright. This is no joke. She is in a high ability classroom and has mastered the work. Her powers of logic and deduction are fantastic. Her memory is impeccable. She reads at nearly an 8th grade level. She can get her own damn cereal. And I told her so. And she did. Now we are working on lunch (toasting a bagel is not that complex). I realize that there is a nurturing aspect to preparing food for your child. I'll nurture her at dinner. After she sets the table.

Another sad situation that I am embarrassed to admit, is the little fact that I have been dressing my 5-year-old to save time in the morning. Mommy fail. Girlfriend can dress her damn self. I just want her to hurry up. And she wants to be 2. So she lets me do all the work. And I let her let me. Seriously? That jig is up. It's not like she hasn't been playing dress up and dressing herself in princess attire since before she turned 2. Sadly enough, I was also dressing my 3-year-old.....and picking all of their clothes. No more. They pick their own clothes and put them on their own bodies. Just like nature intended. Additionally, they pick up their own clothes and take them to the laundry room and sort them. They vacuum. They clear the dinner table. They clean their room (all 3 sleep in one room, therefore confining the mess to a small area). They can and do shower by themselves. They put their dishes in the dishwasher. They get their own snacks and drinks. The buckle their own seat belts. They carry their belongings into and out of school. They do a lot of things that I felt guilty for expecting them to do 7 months ago. My guilt was allowing them to avoid being responsible for themselves. Sad.

The fact is, impending fourth time mommy hood has allowed me to do some soul-searching that was much needed. I used to be pretty angry at the members of my family for expecting me to do everything for them. I now realize that they were simply following my lead. I am so much less stressed now. I am also proud of them when they take initiative and complete a task without being asked. I recently read an article about instilling personal responsibility in children. The author was clear in stating that not allowing kids to learn to take responsibility for themselves at home is just as bad as not letting them learn at school. Although a bit dramatic, there is some truth to this comparison. It's pretty unfair to avoid teaching children how to take care of themselves and then turning them loose into society. How would they function? What kind of annoying burden would they pose to their future partner? Who would they latch onto because they were unable to figure out how to navigate their daily needs? Scary stuff, if you ask me.

Well, our period of extreme internal renovation is coming to end, as dictated by the upcoming birth of DeWitty #6. However, I have learned some important lessons and the kids are much more prepared to be without Mommy's help. I won't be much use to them anyway when I haven't slept through the night forever and have infant strapped to my bosom. I'll keep you updated on how they fare.

We're Going To Need a New Blog Name

As most know, I am soon going to be in the market for a new blog name. Somehow, The DeWitt Five doesn't seem quite fair to the unnamed person in my belly. Speaking of that unnamed person, we are getting close to meeting him or her and we are finally starting to show signs of genuine excitement.

Let me get this straight. I am not an ingrate. I realize how fortunate I am to have such ease with fertility, to have the resources to maintain a household of 6 and to be able to stay home with my children. I am grateful on a daily basis. I have focused on the good in all of this. The fact is, the idea of being responsible for the well-being of 4 other human lives is daunting. This is not a joke. There is no dress rehearsal. I have to pull the resources and knowledge necessary to being a good mom out of a hat. I have had no training. Often, parenting books do not seem to apply to my reality, and my entire biological family lives in another state. My husband's family does not live in our town. We are figuring this out as we go along. I am just scared that I will mess up these precious human lives and see my children in therapy because of my mistakes. I know that I lack some of the emotionality and tenderness necessary to motherhood. I know that there are certain things my upbringing did not provide that would have been beneficial. I know that we all come to the parenting table with our fair share of downfalls. I just keep telling myself that there is no perfect parent. Not even the ones that I envy because of their patience and what seems to be a natural affinity for parenting.

With some of my concerns voiced, I can also say that the level of excitement surrounding this kicking, dancing person in my uterus is at an all-time high. We did not find out the sex of this baby and are keeping his or her name a secret. Not that we have a girl's name. Jason's suggestion that we name the baby Campbell if it is a girl arose from the circumstance of my sitting across the table from him in a restaurant, with my back facing a Campbell's soup ad. Not exactly the story I want to tell my poor daughter about the process of creating a special, unique name for her to carry through life. If it is a boy, I think we've got a winner.

The good news is that this pregnancy has been a breeze and according to my first trimester testing, I have the eggs of a 20-year old. Plenty of time to have more children. Just kidding. I think we can do this. Undoubtedly, there will be some tears of joy and pain. Without question, my children will feel the burden of being a part of a large family. They will not be getting expensive gifts at Christmas or for their birthdays. They will wear hand-me-downs (that were probably purchased at the second hand store). They will have to compete for attention. They many not have the opportunity to participate in every activity they desire. They will feel jealousy and contempt for one another. I know all this and yet I still believe there is a privilege to being in a large family. You always have a playmate. It is always a sleepover. You have someone to watch make mistakes, therefore avoiding all kinds of pitfalls. You learn the latest trends earlier. You can steal cool clothes and music from older siblings. Your parents can't pay quite as much attention......

I'll let you know how the transition goes. Surely it will not be easy however, I think it will be possible.

Oh, That's What This Is Called

I like to think that my 8-year old is a great kid. I won't go into all of the wonderful things I think she is capable of. I am also aware that she is not perfect. I am not a clueless parent. However, generally speaking, she has been in the business of making my life easier, not more difficult; and for that I thank her.

Unfortunately for Madeline, she has been dealing with some difficult social situations for the past couple of years. I know there is a strong push at this point in history to identify bullies and victims. I am starting to disagree somewhat with this labeling process. For my child, she has adopted the role of victim, because that is what they taught her in bully awareness training. Unfortunately, she has been playing this role quite well. Of course, when other children (family members included) are unkind, it is easy to start feeling sorry for one's self. It is easy to feel like the victim. Now, the fact is that Madeline is kind of a victim of bullying. She has been repeatedly spoken to unkindly. She has even bore the brunt of a bit of unprovoked shoving and pushing. Because she is a relatively confident girl, she stands up for herself. Because she is not the most sensitive kid around, she can brush some of this off. Furthermore, I don't expect her teachers to be able to police every social interaction and make sure Madeline is safe and sound at all times. However, a kid can only take so much before she needs a break. I wish that parents of bullies knew about and dealt with their children's behavior. Unfortunately, this is not always going to be the case. I am most certainly not going to call any other kid's parents and inform them that their child is inflicting pain on my child. This is not my place. I honestly don't care how others choose to parent their kids. I care only to help my child cope with the cards she has been dealt. As I tell my daughter, we can't change others, we can only adjust ourselves.

I am beginning to understand that "relational aggression" (yep, that's what this type of bullying is called) happens really, really early for girls. It can start as early as first grade. This is a sad prospect when you think that school is a long road and will be full of these types of situations. Again, letting Madeline play the role of victim is simply not an option. Playing the victim will never get her anywhere...unless she wants to use the role to some manipulative advantage. And to that I say, "Not in my house, kid." And so I reprise the role of therapist as I help my own daughter develop strategies to improve her social interactions. Re-assuming this role for the benefit of my child has been more than heartbreaking. Trying to coach her on how to navigate the waters of her early friendships has been heart-wrenching. Listening to her cry and admit her anxiety about going to school is simply awful. I admit that I have broken into tears during our lengthy discussions more than once. A total failure on my part. However, I am pregnant and I can hardly stand to watch Madeline experience this kind of pain at age 8. It is simply not fair.

Having said that, Madeline needs to suck it up. I have taken the approach of therapist and mother, telling her that she needs to find new friends, stop feeling sorry for herself, and make lemonade from the lemons she has been given. Her response to my coaching? "I don't really want to watch my lemons rot, Mom." That's my girl. Last night, we discussed that driving down "Vicky Victim Road" is not going to lead her anywhere but to a dead end. She promised to take a right onto "Proactive Pam Drive", a road that could only lead to puppies, unicorns, and rainbows. I have now vowed not to mention the names of the people who Madeline has had difficult with. We have agreed that they are not worth our time. We have promised to focus on solutions, not on problems.

As I said, having to deal with this relational aggression at age 8 is unfair. It would be nice if elementary school were a nice, safe place where everyone could be friends. However, this is not the case. Children of all ages converge on schools every day, bringing with them myriad emotional, psychological, and social issues. It's kind of like the rest of the world; full of people who are sad, confused, hungry, tired, happy, excited, spoiled, needy, and more. Believing that elementary school, or anywhere else for that matter could be a place free of difficult social interactions is completely absurd. My hope is that learning various strategies at such a young age, Madeline will be better prepared to deal with the endless number of difficult social interactions that are to come. If history is any indicator, Madeline will fare quite well. She is, of course in the business of making life easy and livable. Many times for others, but also for herself.

Fire

I believe two "A" math tests in a row is what earned my 7-year old the right to become a pet owner. Upon her victory on the second "A", Madda's Daddy took her to Wal-Mart to pick out what would become the very first pet of the DeWitt house. No, they do not sell puppies and kitties at our Wal-Mart. But they do sell Betta fish, and we became the owner of one red fish. "Fire", as this fish has been dubbed, has turned out to be the most boring fish on the face of the planet. It literally does NOTHING. Regardless, we have ascribed a personality to Fire, imagining that he is very disgruntled and generally dissatisfied with his surroundings. We assume that this fish is in its tiny tank, day dreaming of a life better than the one provided by The DeWitt Five.

Madeline probably took care of this fish for approximately two days before I was left in charge of the angry little thing. Therefore since October, when the fish became a member of the family, I have been feeding it and changing its water. Our children care so little about this fish that I once suggested that we might get a more interesting pet like a dog or a cat, and Madeline was on board with flushing it down the toilet....while still alive. Since I'm fairly certain that flushing a live fish down the toilet does not send the right message to my kids, we (I) continue to maintain this silly fish.

This past Saturday, Fire was again in need of a change of water and its true owner (Madeline) volunteered to help with the task. Therefore, I grabbed the net and the fresh water and enlisted the help of my daughter in taking care of her fish. I assisted Madda in holding the net as I poured the contents of Fire's little tank through the green grid of fabric inside. As she held the net over the sink, I quickly washed and refilled Fire's castle with fresh, clean water. I instructed Madeline to let me assist her in placing Fire back into his tank, as the opening for the fish bowl is comparable to the opening in the net, making for a precarious situation when trying to dump the damn fish back into its home. Unfortunately, as we stood over the sink, she shook the net one way and I shook it another. Fire's flopping body lunged from the net and landed squarely in the middle of the drain. Yes, the one which houses the garbage disposal below. I immediately starting screaming, "It's in the drain, it's in the drain!" Jason looks up from his task of nailing a picture hanger into the back of the picture, not far from where we stood and rushes to our rescue. He is exclaiming, "Grab a glove! Grab a flashlight!" All the while, Madeline is screaming and crying and carrying on. Although I was not surprised by her reaction, I guess I might have expected less in the way of hysterics from someone who was willing to euthanize her fish just weeks before.

As the hysterics continue, Jason heads to the sink with a flashlight in one of his gloved hands and digs through the soggy bread, apple cores, and leftover bits of cereal to retrieve the fish who nobody cares about. In the midst of this madness, I encourage the kids to come with me to check the mail...and they do, proving that they care more about what bills and credit card applications have been delivered than the life of their family pet. After I distract the kids for several minutes, we head back in the front door. When he hears the door open, Jason calls out that he has saved Fire and that he is back in his tank, safe and sound. Sighs of relief are breathed, cheers ring out. I breathed a sigh of relief mostly because I didn't wan to have to deal with the aftermath of the death of our fish and its impact on our children. Additionally, I didn't want to deal with turning on the disposal in a post-Fire world. I just know that I would have imagined his red body being mangled along with the remains of cut-up strawberries and orange peels. I'm a very visual person.

After the ordeal was settled, Madeline wondered aloud if Fire would now be happy, having narrowly escaped death. I commented that often when people cheat death, that they will find a new lease on life. Madeline then said that it was possible that Fire might be even more angry after his brush with the afterlife. I let her know that some people do indeed become even more self-destructive after a traumatic event.

This is all interesting to me because we have so personified this fish. Because Fire is truly the most boring pet in the world, our family seeks to create human-like emotions and personality to make up for it. In all likelihood, Fire will remain exactly as he was before his near-tragic accident. I'm sure however, that because we want to continue the story of our fish, that we will surely see a change in Fire. I'll let you know how it all turns out.

A Higher Calling?

I have revealed that I am not a religious person. This is not a secret, by any means. I was raised by a non-practicing Methodist mother and a father who was a Zen Buddhist. (Of course, he is now a Non-Dual Vedanta-ist, but that is for another time.) I have never been involved in any kind of organized religious practice, and I don't think that such practices are in the cards for me. Ever. Additionally, I do not fall under the category of people who find themselves "spiritual" rather than "religious." Perhaps I should have lived in The Netherlands where the churches are empty and the parks are full. That is much more my style.

However, this post is not about my religious views. I am not here to debate the various aspects of religion. To me, it is simply not part of my life and we can still be friends (good friends, even) if it is part of yours. My post today is to talk about a strange and repeated occurrence that may or may not be some kind of divine intervention. And, it has to do with Journey. Yes the 80's band, not the spiritual walk. For the past several years, I have been unable to escape the song "Don't Stop Believin." It haunts me. It plays each and every time I use the shuffle feature on my Ipod and I hear it in the car constantly. I hear it blaring from other cars. I once saw a bumper sticker with that phrase on the car in front of me- while listening to the song in my car (on the radio, not the cd). Last weekend, I heard it at a wedding and someone recently mentioned it in their FB post. It is truly bizarre. Today, when I took two of my children to a library we never go to, there was a teenager with a "Don't Stop Believin" t-shirt in the juvenile fiction area. Is this divine intervention? And, why is Journey involved? Is Steve Perry in on this? Or is that Asian guy who replaced Steve Perry with his silky voice to blame? Is this just a function of living in Indiana? Am I being punk'd? Honestly, one can only ignore the coincidences in one's life so long. Any possible explanations for this dilemma are welcomed.

On Marriage

I have had the pleasure of attending several weddings in the past 7 or so months. The fact is, I was not invited to any of them. I was in attendance as a photographer's assistant. Therefore I was able to sit in back (because I'm the assistant and the real photographer goes in front) and listen objectively. I did not know any of the brides or grooms, and therefore I was as objective as I have ever been at a wedding.

Of course, I am female (and there to take pics) and therefore, I am unable to attend a wedding without paying some attention to the aesthetic details of the whole business. The weddings have all been quite lovely; each dress more beautiful than the next, each bride flawless and glowing, each groom a true gentleman. I have yet to meet a "bridezilla" or a groom that creeped me out. However, as a non-religious (agnostic) person, the interesting thing to me about all of these weddings has been the ceremony. I am somewhat removed from the wedding scene. At 25 or so, you tend to be a guest at ceremony after ceremony. They all sort of gel together into a nameless, faceless ceremony followed by a party with a bunch of old college friends. As a 36-year old, I pay attention to the words of the officiant (minister, preacher, pastor, celebrant, whatever) and I am somewhat fascinated by the words and traditions. I too was married by a man of God. I'm fairly certain we just went with society's traditions on that one. Not to mention I was too busy vomiting to even care one way or the other about the details of my wedding.

But, back to the point. All of the ceremonies very traditionally spelled out the guidelines for man and wife. All of these ceremonies have been Christian. All of them have very similar tenets, ie.."Do you promise to honor, obey, be faithful, etc." As I sit in the back of the church, I find myself wondering if the happy couple standing before me have any idea what they are getting themselves into. I wonder if, through their counseling with their "officiant" they have reviewed the expectations of a "wife" or a "husband" and if they took any of the discussions to heart. Or are they like me? Did they just want to marry their significant other because they were overwhelmed with feeling and love and passion and excitement (and pregnancy)? Do they really feel like their marriage is between themselves and God and the whole church community? Or are they just excited to spend their lives with that one special person? Or are they just getting married because it is the next logical step in a long-term monogamous relationship?

After all this wondering, it comes down to the following questions. Was I at all prepared for marriage? Was I unprepared for marriage because of the lack of religious affiliation throughout my life? Was I unprepared because my parents were divorced and I lacked having that relationship modeled for me? Was I unprepared because I was 51 weeks into a relationship with my would-be husband and 16 weeks pregnant? Was I unprepared because our lives were unstable and marked by the unknown in every way?

Or are we all unprepared for this thing called marriage? Do any of us really know what we are getting into? Are we all just wearing rose-colored glasses and hoping for the best? Do we think it will be easy....or get easier? Did anyone mention to you that marriage is much, much more complicated than it looks and that the dress, ring and reception mean absolutely nothing when you get down to it?

Now, before you start thinking that I am writing this because I am on the verge of divorce, let me correct you. I am very happily married. I really did marry the right person. I did it with zero counseling from a religious figure, and I did it quickly because I was knocked up. We had a shotgun wedding with 12 people at the ceremony and 50 at the reception. By no means was it the wedding of a little girl's dreams. Regardless, it served it's purpose and is completely legal and binding. We have had to make up our own rules as we progress together.

I am writing this because marriage is a fascinating relationship and because I am going to be a real guest at 2 weddings in the month of June. As I sit in my seat (or pew) I will again wonder about my ability to make marriage work and what ingredients are necessary. Or which ingredients should be left out entirely. This is not to say that I couldn't benefit from some good old fashioned heathen reading on the subject...that is if any of you know of such a text.

Wherein I Stray from the Original Topic

I remember being a child, and the Cleveland summers spent at the pool, having lemonade stands, and playing in my neighborhood. When we were quite young, we had a babysitter. After a couple summers of supervision, my brother and I were on our own and we faired pretty well. I do not remember having my summer structured to the point that down time was a luxury. Structure was something reserved for the school year. I remember days being long and bright and full of self-entertainment. Now is the point in this post when I start to question (complain) the pressure I feel to have my children involved in so many activities that our summer schedule starts to resemble our school schedule, except for the fact that it costs more. I ask all my mommy buddies about what their children will do this summer. We share information about various camps- drama camp, Wolf Park Camp, swimming lessons, Girls Scout Camp, tennis lessons, YMCA camp, pottery camp, basketball camp. The possibilities are endless. So are the costs. It occurred to me that my parents barely had me in any structured activities in the summer aside from swimming lessons. Interestingly, I'm fairly certain that they had me in swimming so that they could drop me off at the pool or beach and be confident that I would not drown. No babysitter included. I entertained myself. My children are young, yes. They require supervision. The fact is, I am concerned that this need to constantly structure my children's time is resulting in them expecting me to entertain them...indoors and out. They need a darn instructor/teacher to give them details on the next event in their lives.

I wonder if I chose to opt out of structured activities for the summer (and the school year, for that matter), if my children would find a sense of freedom and joy in their daily activities that they are so far, unfamiliar with. I wonder if they would find long days full of sunshine where friends and trees and bugs are enough. Where they do not need a coach or a camp counselor or a teacher or even a hovering parent. Where their imagination does all the work. I wonder if I could find it within myself to not feel as though I am cheating my child by not involving them in every opportunity that comes their way. I wonder if I could swallow the guilt I inevitably feel when I learn that Little Johnny and Sallie Sue are taking such and such a lesson and thriving because of them, while my children are hanging in the backyard and playing freeze tag. I wonder if I can accept that I cannot give my children everything.

I fully realize that this pressure is in my head. Clearly, I have control of what my children are involved in. Regardless, "mommy guilt" creeps up on me and I have to weigh all of my options. When the weighing is over and I come to brass tacks on this particular brand of guilt, I have to opt in. At least in moderation. If I kept them in the house with me and left them to their own devices for the two and a half-month duration of summer, I would surely lose my mind. And that folks, is why there are so many option for children in the summer.

Mother's Day- The Unorthodox Edition

Mother's day 2011 has come and gone, and the memories are pure joy and splendor. Before you start thinking that I'm going to recount moments of pleasure in seeing my children's handmade cards, or the excitement of opening my new Kate Spade purse, let me be clear on how I spent mother's day this year: I was able to complete a project, from beginning to end without interruptions of any kind. Yes folks, I mulched my front and side yards. They look awesome. Additionally, I spent time with my husband. The reason I was able to complete such tasks? My kids were not home. Nope. I didn't see them from 2pm Saturday until 6pm Sunday. And that was fine with me. A mother's day well spent.

I know some more traditional moms may be gasping in horror at my total lack of interest in spending mother's day with those who gave me the title to begin with. I don't care. Let's be honest- every day is mother's day at my house. I spend A LOT of time with my kids. I do not work outside the home. I feel their love every day. I can only hope that they feel mine. Dressing up and heading to the country club (or Cracker Barrel or Red Lobster) for Mother's Day brunch does not do it for me. I'll take some time to accomplish necessary tasks and talk to my husband. It is due to him that I have these wonderful offspring. Why not enjoy some time of reflection with him? (And mulch the yard, of course.)

And reflect we did. On a real date on Saturday night. In Indianapolis. With sushi. And wine. And immature behavior at Starbucks while eating dessert (aka coffee so that we wouldn't fall asleep on the drive home). We held hands. We texted while sitting at the same table, about the people around us. On Sunday, we ran a loop around Purdue together, followed by eating bagels in silence; all the while drinking coffee and reading USA Today at Einstein's. And later, what a pleasure it was to look at my freshly mulched yard from across the street, as I stood next to my husband and talked about future projects to spruce up the homestead. Of course, we'll have to see if the in-laws will watch the kids over Father's Day weekend if we really want to accomplish any of those plans.