Mother's Day

Mother's Day this year was absolutely blissful. It started on Saturday when Luke took the girls out for the whole day and gave me the gift of some time to myself. That evening he took me to a nice dinner, and topped it off by buying me a new dress. I teased him that I was going to sleep until 11 the next day, but I was genuinely surprised when I woke up to see the clock read 10:30! He had been keeping the girls at bay the whole morning while they were chomping on the bit to give me my presents. Madeleine set up camp outside my bedroom door and waited so she could sound the alert when I woke up. I have no idea how long she was sitting out there! When I came down they presented me with handmade gifts from school, homemade cards, a new table cloth, a new spice rack, a salad spinner, a new salad bowl with matching tongs, and new pot holders. I loved it! Luke took them to Bed, Bath, and Beyond and asked them all to find things that they thought I needed, and they were exactly right.

I gave my mom a call before church, and after church we went to Liz's house, where the dads put on a dinner for all the moms. I had a bonus gift this year of having Ellie stay with us while her mom and dad were out of town. Having 4 children at the dinner table was just the right balance in my mind, and she and Mary were peas in a pod all weekend.

Motherhood is hard. It tries the patience, stretches the soul, pangs the heart, and expands the mind of each woman who embarks on the journey of raising children. But there is nothing I would trade for it and today was a perfect day to soak in the happiness that comes from little hands, shining eyes, and lots of kisses. What a blessing, what a joy, what an experience it is to be a Mother.

Madeleine's Birthday

 

What better Mother's Day gift can a mother have than to bring her newborn baby home on Mother's Day? Nine years ago this month we brought our little Madeleine home. I felt such joy the day I became her mother. It has been a joy every day since to see who she is becoming.  She is my little friend, my big helper, my darling girl. I love you Madeleine!

Why I Wouldn't Buy New Furniture

A few months ago I went out on a limb had my carpets cleaned. Upon completion the carpet cleaning professional (or to be politically incorrect, the Rug Guy) lead me on a guided tour of the various extractions he had performed. It went something like this: "I got out the lotion, the sunblock, the lip gloss, the melted crayon, the marker, the silly putty, the gum,  the grape-flavored cough syrup, and most of the baby powder, but the candy stains in the corner behind the arm chair and whatever that big red splatter is in the dining room we just couldn't get out. Do you know what that red stuff it is? Is it blood or something?" "No," I sighed, "No one has been bleeding profusely in my dining room to my knowledge so I don't think it's blood, but I don't know what it is." Then I added, "It's hard to believe that with 5 people living here, nearly all of the damage was incurred by only one person - the smallest one." He looked at me quizzically and declined to comment. 

You may gasp in disbelief and disapproval at my seemingly apathetic response to carpet care but I do now and always will plead "not guilty."  In my defense, I've invested in not one, but two carpet steamers and a vast collection of spot removing, stain lifting, allergen reducing sprays and foams in an effort to maintain pristine plushness underfoot.  However, after the many carpet infractions and misdemeanors committed by multiple young children and in particular, one toddler especially prone to, shall we say, "tactile exploration," I simply threw in the towel. One can spend only so many hours a day sucking various substances out of the carpet, not to mention furniture, clothing, and the person responsible for the catastrophe. No, when it comes to our carpet I no longer have any qualms about closing the door, walking away, and eventually calling in the professionals.  Let them deal with this:

Not only our carpet but our decor scheme in general readily advertises that very busy children live here. For the past 6 years our family room boasted a rather eclectic furniture collection comprised of family hand-me-downs older than my husband, cheap green leather we bought from what we're pretty sure was a mob ring in a back alley in Philadelphia, and an entertainment center that was tragically splintered and maimed in a mishap involving a Comcast serviceman and a very heavy TV. Hardly a layout for Better Homes and Gardens but it was comfortable and functional and virtually indestructible.  Despite those advantages, I frequently felt inclined to consider overhauling the whole room and upgrading from our Get-Your-Garage-Sale-Item-Here look to an It's-Not-Fancy-But-At-Least-It-Matches kind of style. After discussing, budgeting, and debating I would consider my surroundings and find:

Crumbs on the couch left by an unidentified perpetrator of the "No Food In The Family Room" rule;

Pock mock scars left on an end table victimized by multiple stabbings with a fork;

The arm of a leather recliner converted to a pencil holder;

 
 
 
 

The back of said recliner impaled with safety pins securing blankets arranged to form a "hurricane shelter"

And invariably I would conclude that our family was simply not ready to appreciate and enjoy new family room furniture. To purchase such would be to expose it undeserved abuse and  accelerated depreciation. So with resignation I would resolutely decline the opportunity to redecorate    . . .until this winter. 

Bogged down with winter blahs and feeling compelled to add variety to the chilled, gray landscape of daily life, the impulse to refurnish overcame me once again. It didn't help that a repairman glanced in our family room and asked, "Oh, do you run a daycare in here?" This time when I initiated my patented furniture conversation Luke was ready for it.  I think he may have grown weary of the repetitious cycle of me asking for new furniture, him conceding, and then me saying I didn't want it after all. Or maybe it was simply the fact that with potty training and the bulk of toddler instigated chemical warfare behind us, it was time for our furniture to make a more grown-up fashion statement. At any rate, when I brought it up again he was prepared to take action. He had a day off so we seized the opportunity with swift momentum and embarked on a one day marathon of conferring, considering, and comparing.  A myriad of fabric textures, wood stains, dimensions, configurations, and digital accesories swirled before our eyes until finally,  8 hours, 5 stores, 2 aching feet, and many dollars later we had surmounted the task of re-outfitting the family room.

 Our couches are still leather but they were purchased from a reputable dealer with upstanding family values. The entertainment center has ample storage space and all of it's doors are in tact. Two of the chairs are still hand-me-downs but neither of them are older than either of us. An area rug dutifully attempts to salvage the majority of the carpet, and though drapes have yet to be ordered the room has really come together. Yes, the family room has proudly graduated from daycare/landfill status to a classic, comfortable room we can enjoy together. Everything is coordinated, everything is new, everything is unscathed. For now. 

 

Did You Know?

Did you know that if you take a child under the age of 5 swimming at a county rec center indoor pool an adult is required to be in the water with them at all times? I didn't . . . but I do now.  Next time I'll bring my suit. 

What would it take?

Downstairs in our basement is a room. Not very large, not very fancy, but yet a very particular room. This room was much longed for, long sought after, carefully planned, and meticulously organized. Something of a dream that gradually became realized, the room I speak of is my office. Destined to be a haven of quiet reprieve, it is well stocked with supplies and materials of every type to inspire creativity and promote personal development. It is MY space, MY stuff, to be used in MY alone-time. So why are my children always in it?

There sits the beautiful sewing machine, a pinnacle of machinery in a the seam-stressing world, so I'm told. I don't actually know how to use it and my intentions to learn continue to hover faintly in the distance like a mirage in the desert. And there stands the large screen monitor, perfect for designing photo pages and laying out albums, yet there is no designing being done, no albums to speak of. The screen sits blank, empty and wistful under a fine layer of dust. The carefully stacked shelves of paper organized by color are in a jumble. The drawers once filled with scissors, stencils, and crafting tools sit empty while the floor plays host to their former contents. My cloud-borne castle of creativity has been reduced to a shanty of disarray. What would it take to rebuild it? Time, energy, diligence . . .

I do attempt on occasion to sequester myself in that room. Quietly tiptoeing down the stairs, quickly darting in, softly latching the door, I ignore the calls of "MOM??" drifting down the hallway and busy myself in some pursuit, knowing my efforts will be halted before I complete my objective but stubbornly I persist. Inevitably they find me and suddenly my space is no longer a secluded hideaway of introspection but an open forum for little fingers to ravage like a swarm of ants on a picnic lunch. The paper comes off the shelves and is meticulously shredded with a paper cutter. The buttons and beads are spilled so they can be "counted" and strung. Skeins of yarn are unwound to construct "spider webs." Yards of fabric are unfolded and draped to mimic couture gowns. Stickers are stuck on everything and always, ALWAYS, someone (who shall remain nameless but has short, curly blonde hair and is under three feet tall), insists on sitting in my lap thereby blocking the keyboard and inhibiting my efficacy with the mouse. Then she repeatedly asks,"Can I watch a movie of me on your computer mom?" until I am so undeniably distracted that I consent with resignation. "Cottages" are constructed beneath the worktables and "animal hospitals" occupy the corners. I once found a stuffed rabbit wearing a baby sweater and a nearly empty bag of marshmallows in the closet. Perhaps my realized dream of a room of my own was in reality, too good to be true. For my children it has evolved into a type of playground while for me it has descended to a storage room. What would it take to reclaim this space? A baby-sitter for an indefinite amount of time, an extra dose of over-the-counter energy boosting painkillers, an unpredictable alignment of the universe . . .

When it comes to my so-called office, I don't know how to establish an inviolable sense of forbidden territory in my children. There is no deep and abiding respect for boundaries or recognition of ownership. What would it take to teach them to stay out, leave things alone, don't touch, and don't interrupt? Threats, bribes, gruff reproach . . .

With summer fast approaching I'm considering an attempt at a more open mind and less closed doors, a space with figuratively softer edges and rounded corners. Maybe I should demolish my concept of a den of isolation and reconstruct a more harmonious center of productivity. While I am absolutely a proponent of personal space and privacy I cannot deny that my previous failure at achieving any has lead me to suppose that devising a treaty rather than issuing a decree may actually serve me better, both in my pursuit of personal development and in my relationship with my children. What would it take to create a shared space where they are welcomed in and invited to participate within the bounds of certain limitations? Patience, compromise, a soft answer, more patience . . .

It is MY space. It is MY stuff. But they are MY children, and they are only little for a little while. During that while my office will just have to be an area of give and take.