All Exhaustion Is Not Equal

Yesterday was a rough go.  So many things went wrong.  And by wrong, I mean they changed unexpectedly.  I can vary from a plan, but I like a little notice.

For starters, Tyler didn't have school.  I thought he did.  This was nearly catastrophic for me, on the emotional realm.  All you show-offs who read every bit of paperwork that comes home?  This is your moment to shine.  I will hide in your shadow. 

So, I took them out for coffee.  Or, in their case, juice smoothies.  I really thought I was going to get some work done, except I forfeited my laptop so they could stream Netflix and I could have a few minutes of silence.

Then I thought we would give Monkey Bizness a try.  The one for big kids, the one my boys have been asking for with deep longing.  Except we got there and they herded us into this waiting room and put us on their wait list, since the play area was full.  I get this, if there is indeed an end to the wait.  Forty minutes later, we were still waiting with no movement on said list, I was out of snacks, and we had watched nearly all of The Happy Elf, streamed through Netflix on my phone.

(My Netflix subscription is nearly worth the same to me as my anti-anxiety prescription.  They serve different purposes, and yet much the same.  Hooray for mobilized technology.)

We went to the mall for lunch.  We went to the Lego store for ideas.  We went to Apple for the kid Macs.  We went to Barnes and Noble for the Lego and train table.  Enter stores with kid displays for my children to explore and enjoy endlessly?  Guilty as charged.

By the end of the afternoon, I begged my mom to take them to her house for dinner.  Please.  I'll provide the food, beverages and children, if I can just have a bit of time today.  A bit of time to catch my breath.

She said yes.  Hours later, she brought them back, fed and in their jammies.   'Cause she's so cool like that.  If I am ever a grandmother, I will do many things as she does them.

(While they were gone, I fixed my double chocolate cherry cookies (and by fixed, I mean repaired), I made grilled asparagus for a party of one, and I mapped out my post-graduate course plan.  Path for the next three years: Check. 

It wasn't exactly wasted time.

There's a reason why I write about all this: to describe the kind of exhaustion.

It was single mom exhaustion.  It wasn't widow exhaustion.  And there is a difference.

I felt the kind of tired I would have felt if Robb were in the middle of a long business trip and I were on my own for a long, harried day.  The kind of tired that would have prompted me to send him some snide text about how great his traveling business life must be, and please bring me something great for managing the homefront in your absence.

But I did not feel the kind of heart weariness that comes from thinking through fog, from wearing the wet blanket of depression, from crying without explanation, from tying a scarf around me just to hold myself together.  It wasn't that kind.

I am thankful others can see this difference and speak it into my life. 
I am thankful they see victory, when all I can see is tired.

There's a difference.  I can feel it.

Dreamy or Dazed or Simply Absent

"Mommy, remember when you let us sleep with you sometimes when it's morning and you're not up yet?" asks the little voice standing beside my bed.

I answer without opening my eyes.  "Yes.  But it's too early, buddy.  I need my bed."

"But you let Daddy sleep with you."

"That was... different."

"Please, Mommy?  It's scary in there."

I hesitate, gauging my strength to fight this back-to-bed battle.

"Please, Mommy?  It's 7-2-1."  He reads the digital clock.  He knows if that first number isn't 7 or higher, he doesn't stand a chance.

"Okay.  You can."

"Yes?  Did you say yes?  You said yes?"

"I said yes."  And this inconsistency is no doubt why we continue to have this battle at all.

He climbs in.  His brother follows shortly behind.  I am sandwiched between a dozen knees and elbows.  There's really nothing settling about this way to start the day.  It's just so abrupt.

Tucker peels open my eyelid.  "Mommy, are you dead?"

"No, I'm not dead."

"Oh.  Because you looked like you were dead."

"I'm not."

They are leaning across me, arguing over something insanely important to them.

"Let's get up.  I'm making muffins."  I decide.

"But I don't like muffins."

"Then you can have a PopTart."

"I want two PopTarts."

"You never finish two.  You may have one."

They pause at the top of the stairs to question if the alarm is on.  They are like Pavlov's dogs: they know this trigger, and they are not about to step into the range of the motion sensor unless I can guarantee a controlled environment.

We make the muffins.  Half blueberry, half chocolate chip.  They help, which really means twice the prep time and twice the dishes.  But in the end, the offender decides he'll eat some after all.  But only the chocolate chips ones.

They play MarioKart while I pay a stack of bills.  I'm tired of receiving anything - anything - in Robb's name.  Extra points to anyone who has taken his name off our record in their system.

After much grumbling and complaining, losses and findings of mittens and gloves, we embark on the day.  First stop: the bank.  I need to get a page notarized, one more detail that involves a death certificate.

The woman behind the counter mistakes it for a marriage certificate.  Her eyes light up and she nearly congratulates me.  No.  It's not that.  It's the end.

She had almost been cordial, but now she's afraid to misstep.  So instead she becomes entirely procedural.  I want to scream inside the bank, stomp my feet and shout like a toddler wanting a lollipop. I want everyone to look and notice. I want to say, "Do you know that he mattered to me?  Do you know that he was more than a stack of paperwork and signatures?"

I cry in the car.  I do this a lot.

We have packed up their motor scooters, the Christmas gifts from their Chicago grandparents, Robb's mom and dad.  We find an empty parking lot, and they do their do.  Tucker with amazing balance and tricks, Tyler with careful and slow steadiness.

I take videos and I nickname them Speed Rocket and Blazing Flame.  They pretend they are in the circus, a team of daredevils.  I teach them how to ride with one leg elegantly extended behind, like a ballerina on wheels.  Only I don't use that analogy.

We have lunch.  They disobey.  They want root beer.  I give them apple juice.  There is kicking and bickering.

This day is going so slowly.

It is 12:10.  Arthur's Christmas begins at 12:20.  If we hurry, we can make it.  We hurry.  We make it.

(Assigned seating is stupid in a movie theater.  There's no reason for it, I say.  Especially when we have narrowly arrived before the movie starts, the lights are dimmed, the previews are rolling, my children are distracted by the silver screen, and I must diligently look for Row H, seats 3, 4, and 5.)

I bank on the hope that nobody else will arrive later than we do, and I claim three seats in the back row, tippy top.  (Hidden motive: if the movie gets too, you know, underwhelming, I can discreetly read the book in my bag.)  The boys and I settle in.

By the way, they have spent this day in costume: Spiderman and Optimus Prime.  One has a cape, the other has a mask.

The movie ends.  It's only 2:00.  For real?  This is the longest day in the history of mankind.  I'm sure of it.  Some kind of solstice must be on this day.

I tell them we are going home, I need to rest for a bit, and these are their options while I am sleeping.  Tucker whispers, "Yes!  We can do whatever we want!"  And so I list the options again.

I wait until everyone is captivated by their favorite something, and I fall into bed.  I am uncomfortable falling asleep while they are awake, but I simply cannot finish this day without a break.  I pray for their safety, and I wonder if I reminded them that they absolutely must stay in the house... but I don't worry too long.  Because I am too sleepy.

"Mommy, can I have a popsicle?"

"Yes."

"Mommy, can my brother have a popsicle?"

"Yes."

My phone alarms.  My hour is up.  Just ten more minutes?  Can't I have ten more minutes...

In I-don't-know-how-many minutes, an iPod is blasting on my bedside table.  Tyler has awakened me to music.  And also, he is standing on my hair.

I don't want to be angry.  I wanted to sleep so I could be more patient.

I come downstairs.  Spiderman is throwing snowballs into the kitchen, through the open sliding door.  There are swimming pool toys all over the living room floor.  (Pool toys?)  I find a purple popsicle laying (melting) on my coffee table.

I sit at the dining table while they play with bungee cords.  I know not where they found them.  But they are giggling at their masterful creativity with them, pretending they are go-go-gadget arms.

My parents swoop in and save the day, my children, and me from each other.  Tyler and I are scheduled for a date tonight.  He opts out.  He would rather be with Grandma and Poppa.  He makes a reference to me being Miss Hannigan.

That's fine.  I don't have much 'date' in me tonight.  We'll reschedule for a time when we like each other.

My parents leave with the boys. I leave with no intentions.  I drive, drive, drive.  I am nearly to the mall before I realize I don't want anything to do with the mall.  I drive, drive, drive back from whence I came.

I settle in at Niccolo's, the pizza shop around the corner.  (Maybe in another life stage I'll eat things other than pizza.)  I sit alone.  I wonder if I look dreamy or dazed, or simply absent.  I don't really care.

I bring a book with me; Elizabeth Berg makes me want to write.  Her storytelling makes for excellent conversation with myself.  Just my pace.

I order the alfredo pizza with mushrooms and onions.  Robb and I had an honest-to-goodness fight over this pizza when I was pregnant.  He hates mushrooms and onions, and I was craving them both.  I felt entitled and thereby became irrational.  I truly did.

Tonight, I eat it alone.

He Throwed Up

Tuck woke me up around 3:30 AM.

"Mommy, I think I'm going to throw up.  Will you watch me?"

Watch isn't the verb I would have chosen. Help?  Yes.  Pray for?  Certainly.  Encourage?  You betcha.  Hug?  Repeatedly. 

But watch?  Especially if you merely suspect it's coming, and we need to wait for the premiere?  And it's the middle of the night?

A better mother might have sat beside him and stroked his brow until the sun came up.  This mom hooked him up with a glass of water and a bowl to catch his contents, gave him a strong dose of sympathy, and asked him to keep me posted.

An hour later, he came to my bedside with the bowl in his hands.  Now filled.  (I need not go into further detail.)

He said, "Mommy, look what I have.  I throwed up."

I sat up groggily and quickly took the bowl he thrust my way.

"I'm sorry I couldn't wait for you, Mommy.  I just really had to throw up, and I thought, 'Mommy will be so happy if I throw up in the bowl.'  And so aren't you so happy?"

Yes, sweet boy.  In a very odd, maternal way, I am so very happy you captured this mess in one self-contained place. If vomit must come our way, you handled it well.  Way to be thoughtful, Mr. Top Bunk.

I also told him, since he is now six, that he need not wait for me if he feels like he needs to throw up.  He can handle it on his own, especially if he has clues before it happens. 

It's a big boy thing, kiddo.

We Bring the Party.

I planned an adventure day for my fall breakers, since I firmly believe that a vacation from school should include some intentional fun (even if the mom has to be far more intentional than she once was).

It was mostly a smashing success, except for the one or two hiccups that accompanied every single thing I planned.

We started with Starbucks in the morning.  Because who can't go for Starbucks in the morning?  Well, clearly not me.  And I'm raising a couple of baristas.  I'm sure of it.  A collection of iPhone games for one boy, a barrage of educational websites on my laptop for the other, and I have found myself a bit of time to be quiet and read on my own.  It's like a traveling DVD player in the car.  Three cheers for parenting with technology.  Hip-hip.

We had lunch at a pizzeria.  An order of breadsticks, a slice of pizza for each, a root beer for the tall boy, and an orange juice for the short one.  (Who doesn't love pizza and orange juice?  A creative combination, undoubtedly.  Extra points for acidic content.)

Having lunch alone with two small boys is really a romanticized idea that doesn't quite pan out like I ever think it will.  I always picture conversation and memories.  What I get instead is kicking and spills and jumping in the booth and peeking over the side and one boy finding gum under the table and the other boy putting it on his nose. 

We did some wishful shopping at the toy store - the child's equivalent of my visiting a dressing room to try on a coveted item that I know I'm not going to buy.  Sometimes it's just good to tangibly enjoy the display.

Somebody was so busy at the train table that he delayed his bathroom signals, and suddenly there was a big mess on the floor.  The store clerk looked at me with wide eyes and a furrowed brow, but I assured him I would clean it up.  I spared him the trauma, since I'm sincerely accustomed to it.  He offered me rubber gloves, disinfectant spray, and a meek thank you.

This same somebody now had soaked clothes.  Off we went to a nearby clothing store to give him a complete overhaul to make it through the afternoon.  His brother got a new t-shirt out of the deal, and everybody got new underwear.  Score.

The restroom was 400 yards away, so I huddled them in the corner for the wardrobe change into dry clothes.  Yes, I am that mom who encourages subtle disrobing and promises nobody will look.

We strolled to the movie theater to see what was playing that might get six thumbs up from our trio of reviewers.  DolphinTale won out.  "Three tickets for the 3:05, please.  And it would be great if you could seat us near people who don't mind the four-year-old's color commentary throughout.  He likes to verbally replay everything that just happened and then ask a dozen questions about what he missed during his own instant replay.  We're working on that."

The day turned out almost like I planned.  We bring the party with us, my friends.  Or, perhaps they do.  And I tag along for the adventure.

The New Rule for Rudeness

I am coming to terms with the lost cause that is the complete eradication of rude words in our home. 

(They're not totally inappropriate, just gross and annoying and meaningless.  You know the type: poop, peepee, butt, butthead, etc.  They roll off the tongue a little too easily.)

I'm making myself crazy with the constant badgering to eliminate vocabulary, and it really is fruitless.  I have two boys.  They have an innate love for these words, for what will later be called 'locker room humor.'  I am sorely outnumbered.

So, here's the new rule: be respectful to ladies.  There is primarily one girl in your life.  She doesn't want to hear those words.  If you must say them, then go outside or downstairs or in the bathroom or to the garage.  But do not say them in the car, in my proximity, and most certainly not at my dinner table.

You are going to be gentlemen of respect, and I think we can start with this small request: don't make me listen to your garbage words.  Save it for the locker room.

The policy is effective immediately and retroactive.  I will not change my mind. 

Take heed, young lads.

I Almost Said It.

I met Braxton last night, a long-awaited newborn who is 15 days old.  He was wide awake and snuggly.  I pulled out all my best newborn tricks when he started to cry, and I assured his mom that as long as she felt comfortable, I wasn't really at all afraid of fussing baby boys.  I'm highly familiar.

And then I remembered that sometimes the only thing the baby boy wants is his momma, not any fancy tricks from some lady who thinks she knows the drill.  I waved the white flag, handed all ten pounds of him back to his mom, and he quieted as soon as he heard the voice he had been listening to for nine months.

I remembered those earliest of days when Robb and I were new parents, when we felt like we were staying up all night at the best slumber party ever.  I listened to Braxton's parents talk about his midnight routines, about tears pouring down her face from utter exhaustion at 2 AM. 

And I almost said, "Enjoy it.  Enjoy this sacred season.  Enjoy every minute."

But then I remembered the truth: the season is sacred and fleeting, but it's not every-moment-enjoyable. 

Sometimes she'll be just so utterly exhausted that she can't see straight or think clearly. 
She'll have spit-up spots on her shirts for the next eight months. 
She's going to get peed on and pooped on. 
She'll add 'go to the bathroom' to her list of things to do today, just so she can feel a measure of productivity.
She'll cry a lot, she won't know why, and Braxton's dad will have to learn to take the unspoken cues from a walking rollercoaster of hormones.

She will wear her heart outside her body, from this day forward. 
She will learn the difference between his hungry cry, his angry cry, and his scared cry. 
She will hear him learn his voice and her name. 
She will have some really great moments.

But they might be scattered between some long stretches of really, really hard.

So I didn't say it.  I didn't say, "Enjoy every minute,"  because I only felt maternal guilt when people told me to enjoy a minute that I was wishing to skip past.

I said, "I bet you're so tired.  You'll find your stride.  But it's going to be great.  And you'll get some sleep again someday. It's okay if you don't love being awake at 2 AM.  It doesn't mean you don't love him.  And congratulations, new mom.  You look like a total pro."

Over the Handlebars

He flipped over the handles of his scooter, head over heels. 

(Not my son.  This time it  was someone else's little boy.)

He was zooming along the sidewalk at the park, hit a crack or a twig or a toy or anything else, and he did an aerial flip.

There was an audible gasp among the collective parents.  Several came running, helping him to his feet, giving him the once over.  I scrambled in my bag.  "Band-aids.  I have Band-Aids."  It was a community effort.

Screaming, screaming, he took one look at all of us, and he tried to part the waters to find his mom. 

"Mom!  Mom!  I need my mom!"  We made eye contact with each other, the silent question, is it you?  Are you the mom? 

She appeared then, and he breathed easier once he saw her; at that age, breathing easier means crying more freely.  He cried and cried.

The spectating parents gave her the details.

"He was going so fast..."

"He was really scootin' along!"

"He ran over something, and he just flew right over the handlebars..."

"Good thing for that helmet, eh?"

She looked sheepishly at the team of reporters, her eyes offering a silent explanation: I'm not a bad mom.  I just didn't see it happen. I just didn't see it.

Oh, I get that.  Fear not, nameless friend.  It could have just as easily been my child, my easy distraction, my sense of guilt for not catching or at least watching his fall.

In fact, last week, it was my child.  I gave myself extra points on the tally for Mom of the Year when a stranger at the pool had to tell me my son was standing by the ladder crying, after he hit his head coming down the slide. 

Nothing feels quite better than when somebody else nurtures your child because you simply weren't paying attention.  That's awesome.

It's a full time job.  And even if you never take your eyes off them, they're still going to fall. 

It's what you do next that matters.

Together in our Separate Spaces

We were in the car together for a really long time. Snuggled up in the backseat, me in between their two carseats as I balanced the DVD player on my knees.

(But I certainly didn't give it enough space to push my book out of the way.)

Their hands clamored on me.

That's nice for a while. The interlocked fingers, their counting my freckles and veins, tracing my fingernails as they've done since they were infants. I study them when they sleep; they study me when I sit still beside them. We know each others' details.

But then there's also the pushing and shoving and spacelessness that comes with sitting in between two little boys for hours on end.

I finally and suddenly reached my limit, wanting to spread out in a space all my own.

I muttered to myself, "Oh, my word. Someone has been touching me all day long today."

Tyler gasped. "Oh my goodness, Mommy! Who on earth has been touching you so much?"

Well, sweet boy, for starters: you.

He realized neither that it was him nor that I could perhaps reach my capacity.

"Um, hey, God?"

"Dear God, Thank you for this food, and please help mommy not to get angry and shout at us. Amen."

Bowed heads then raised and hands reached to begin the meal.

"Hey, Tuck, do you know why mommy gets angry sometimes?"

"No," he said, serving himself a sizable portion of grapes - only the purple ones, setting the green ones aside.

"I don't just get mad for no reason. I get angry when I have to say the same things over and over again because my children don't listen to me."

"Oh. I see."

"So maybe you could pray instead that God will help you to obey so Mommy won't have to say the same thing a million times and then lose her patience?"

"Okay. Everybody close your eyes."

All around the table, we closed our eyes. Take two.

"Um, hey, God? Could you... could you help all of us... the kids, Mommy's kids... to be happy? Amen."

I nudge his elbow and whisper to him, "And to obey."

"Oh, yeah. And to obey. Thanks, God."

If we're going to preach in the prayer, let's make sure we cover the facts of the situation. Include everyone at the table who needs prayer, please.

Just Different

It's not easier, it's just different.

"But I don't want a banana. And I like Captain America fruit snacks better than Alvin and the Chipmunks. Mommy, there's a folder in my backpack for you."

"I know, buddy. I looked at it last night."

"But it's in my backpack again."

"That's because your teachers asked us to send it back on Friday."

"But there's a note in it."

"Right. It's for your teacher."

He left the folder on the counter. He left the banana on the table. He exchanged his fruit snacks for the preferred.

And he left remnants of all his undoings.

Three minutes before we were to leave the house.

I packed that lunchbox for him, for heaven's sake. And I sorted through the folder and the notes and papers therein.

And he undid it all.

New rule: Once your backpack is zipped, no unzipping until you get to school. Unless you are prepared to take responsibility for all that is within and without.

And I don't think you are.

On the upside, I didn't change any diapers this morning, and I didn't have a child climbing in and out of the dishwasher as I filled it after breakfast.

I understand what the parents of school age children have meant all this time:

It doesn't get easier; it's just different.

This Morning

"Mommy, I need more blanket."

I didn't even know he was sleeping next to me,
the dandelion boy.
He came some time during the night.
He earned a Captain America for five consecutive nights in his own bed,
but he tells me that what scares him most are the crabs and spiders that climb out of his dreams.
Such is the grief process of a four-year-old artist. Creatures meet him in his sleep.
Sure, buddy. Mommy's here.
And I don't let spiders into my bed.
You're safe here.

I woke up before both of them today.
That's always a great way to start the day.
I stand in the warm shower,
enjoying silence and breathing truth.

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love,
for I have put my hope in you.
Show me the way that I should go,
for to you I lift up my soul.
Establish the work of my hands, O Lord.
Not to us, but to Your Name be the glory.

"Stop kicking me!"
"I need more blanket!"
"I don't like your breath!"
"My breath isn't anywhere near you!"
"Move over!"
"YOU move over!"

So, looks like they're awake then.

I call to them, "That blanket was big enough to cover Daddy and me. It's big enough to cover the two of you. Find a way to fit if you're going to lay there."

I am nearly ready before I step into their morning dance. It's hard when they start the day fighting; it's like waking up to a loud, buzzing alarm. It makes me a little grumpy.

"Good morning, guys. Let's get you dressed."

"I don't want to get dressed. Ever. Zero dressed."

"Tyler, you need to. It's what people do. Tucker, it's silly day at PreK today. Let's pick out some silliness for you to wear."

It's truly unfortunate that it's not silly day in Tyler's class.

Tucker finds a Hawaiian lei, a Lightning McQueen hat, and fuzzy slipper socks of green and blue stripes. Silly: Check.

Tyler has taken a framed picture of Robb from the credenza in my office. It's 17-year-old Robb, a picture from his senior year in high school.

Handsome Robb. Tucker looks so much like him.

Tyler is carrying it around, hoarding and teasing.

"But I want to see the picture too!" The older brother whines.

The little brother is in the corner of the bedroom, between the bed and the wall, his eyebrows furrowed in knots. "No. I'm holding Daddy."

I am torn; is his heart wrapped around a picture of Robb, or is the greater joy in having something he doesn't want to share?

"Tyler, please share it with Tucker. That's his daddy too."

"I don't want him to touch it."

"He won't touch it. Just show him."

"I'll touch it," Tucker says defiantly.

"Give me the picture, Tyler." I strike a happy medium, holding the picture Tyler doesn't want Tucker to hold, and letting Tucker study the red hair and sturdy jaw line of his dad.

The room is silent, for just a few seconds.

"My daddy," Tuck whispers.

"My picture!" Tyler stomps.

Mommy's picture, really. It's a good thing I like you both.

I divide and conquer, sending them to get dressed at opposite ends of the upstairs.

I go downstairs to let Winston out, only to find a flood of yellow in the powder room that is his.

Well, shoot. I didn't make it down fast enough to let him outside before the urge hit. That was one full bladder for such a small dog. Bummer.

I gather paper towels, Resolve for Pet Stains, Lysol, and Clorox wipes. Wishing now I had remembered to get more Swiffer Wet Jet solution yesterday at WalMart. Ah, make do, Tricia. Just clean and sterilize. The boys need breakfast.

I kneel, a silver sunflower dancing on my beaded pearl necklace, my white sundress brushing against the wood floor. I try not to get it wet in this mess of yuck.

"Mommy, I don't like these."

"You don't like what?"

"These."

"I can't see you. I can't see what you don't like."

"Then come upstairs."

"Tuck, Winston made a big mess on the floor. I'm cleaning it up. Please come here and show me what you're talking about."

He appears behind me. "Hi, buddy. What do you not like?"

"Um, I don't remember."

"It sounded like Crocs?"

"Oh. These socks. I don't like these. They make me trip."

"Okay. You don't have to wear them."

"I don't want to wear the flowers on my neck either."

"What about the Lightning McQueen hat?"

"No, I don't want to."

"But it's silly day."

"But I don't want to."

I understand this dichotomy. I remember it well. I suspect an idea was born in his head, but now he's not sure if his classmates' silly ideas will match his courage. Better to lay low than to stand out when confidence wanes. I respect that, kiddo.

"That's up to you, Tuck. You don't have to. Can you help me with breakfast?"

"Yes. Let's do PopTarts."

He roots through the pantry while I throw away the mess of paper towels. He pulls a stool over to the toaster while I wash my hands, again.

The toaster is jammed with broken PopTarts gone awry from other mornings. I begin exploratory surgery. I retrieve two of them, but one is smashed into the bottom of the toaster - pulling out the tray underneath only scatters crumbs everywhere across my counter. No dice on retrieving the PopTart. Unsuccessful surgery.

"Tuck, let's put the PopTarts in the microwave."

"But I need scissors to open them."

"Just give them here. I'll open them." I insist on opening them myself, plating them myself, putting them in the microwave - myself. I am all about empowering, but honestly, sometimes I just need to get the task done. (Sometimes independence is a top commodity in our house; it's hard to know who wants it more.)

"Tyler, can you come downstairs, please?"

No word from Tyler.

It crosses my mind that some silent tragedy has perhaps happened upstairs, since that has happened in our home and my mind no longer naturally claims optimism or even reality. I decide to give him one minute to come downstairs before I race upstairs, prepared to call 9-1-1.

(Maternal instincts are not always reasonable, but neither is Post Traumatic Stress.)

I hear him coughing as he comes down the stairs. Ah, there we go. Coughing means breathing.

"Ready for breakfast, Tyler?"

"I need markers."

"We're not doing markers. Do you want a NutriGrain bar or a PopTart?"

"Can I have gum?"

"No."

"But I found this piece upstairs. I want it."

It's Robb's gum. One piece left in my office drawer.

"We're having breakfast, Tyler. It's not time for gum." I choose not to be sentimental about the Spearmint Extra. I simply choose to tell Tyler no, not now. He is angry that he cannot have gum, then angry that I offered cherry NutriGrain instead of raspberry, when he knows he chose raspberry at Walmart yesterdfay, and I realize I said the wrong thing. I meant raspberry. He chooses a PopTart.

"Mommy," Tucker calls, "My foot is bleeding."

He holds his foot in his hand, twisting his ankle sideways so I can see between his toes on the underside of his foot. A blister is heeling, after he hiked in flip flops because I forgot to pack tennis shoes.

"It looks like it's getting better, Tuck."

"But it's bleeding. Why would God send blood? Why would God do that to me?"

We are dangerously close to a dialogue about the sovereignty of God in relation to a blister between his toes, and this is a topic I feel particularly uneasy about these days.

"Tuck, God doesn't do things to hurt us. If it's bleeding, it might be just because it's bleeding."

"Or it could be because I picked at it."

"Yes. Yes, it could be because you picked at it. Does anyone want blueberries?"

They are perched on their tall chairs at the table. They cheer for blueberries.

I carry the Tupperware bowl to the table, take off the seal, and offer them each a handful of blue to set alongside their brown sugar cinnamon, no longer fresh from the microwave.

Tyler takes the Tupperware seal for his plate. "Tyler, I need that to keep the blueberries fresh."

"Well, I need it to keep my blueberries off the table."

"That's what your plate is for."

I tilt the seal and let the blueberries spill onto his plate, rolling around the perimeter of the PopTart. I close up the Tupperware bowl, pressing firmly in the center of the seal, just like my Tupperware mom taught me when I was Tucker's age.

It breaks in my hand. Damn. My mind races through the knowledge I have about Tupperware replacements, the pieces Robb had set aside to be replaced, where did he put them, who was the sales consultant he worked with... oh, for crying out loud.

I get another seal from the cupboard.

"Mommy, I sat on a blueberry."

"Clean it up, please."

"You clean it up."

"I will not. The napkins are over there. Please clean it up."

"It's okay. I'm full anyway," he says, pointing to the two bites missing. "My preschool teacher says I only have to eat a little."

"True. But I think your tummy is probably still hungry. Plus, you asked for blueberries. I need you to eat them if you ask for them."

I join the boys at the table with my bowl of Raisin Bran Crunch, just in time to see Tyler toss a blueberry squarely into Tucker's glass of milk.

Two points.

"Tyler, go sit on the rug by the door. We don't throw food."

I'm wishing I had finished my makeup and hair before I had stepped onto this Mommy Dance Floor this morning. Time is running out.

Tucker cleans up the splashes of milk from the blueberry score, Tyler whines on the rug, and I eat a few bites of fiber with raisins.

It's after 8:00. I've taught the boys that we leave when the short hand is on the eight, and the big hand is pointing tall to the twelve.

I'm running late.

I dismiss Tyler from the rug. I dismiss Tucker from the table. I turn on NickJr. My fellow parent for the next ten minutes.

I rush upstairs, diffuse the curly mop, brush on some mascara and eyeliner, and slide my feet into flip flops. I grab the gray 'classic piece' cardigan, since Starbucks is cold. So is iced soy chai.

I come down the stairs to find Tyler spraying Lysol across the wood floor.

"I'm spraying for ants," he tells me.

Way to go, SuperMom. Leave the toxic stuff on the floor. Let him go crazy with it.

"Tyler, stop. Go wash your hands. Tucker, shoes."

Tucker is standing on his tiptoes on top of a stool, reaching above the refrigerator to retrieve Spiderman from the basket that is called Toy Jail.

I'm about finished with this morning. I really, really am.

"Tucker, get down. Put on shoes. And put the stool away."

"But I..."

"Please, just do it."

Tyler says, "I think we should call it a Stool-Aid. That rhymes with KoolAid."

"I think you should put on your shoes, Tyler. Tuck, shoes and stool."

"She meant shoes and Stool-Aid, Tuck. That's what we're calling it now."

Oh, my word. I'm living this.

Somehow we make it into the car. I'm not really sure how that happened; the details are a blur.

The boys argue over who gets first music choice. Then they argue over if VeggieTales are real since Pandas are.

Then Tucker realizes we are on our way to school and he isn't wearing a single silly thing for silly day.

And at some point, I realize that I have kept up with them this morning.

And that's a really, really big deal.

A Routine Procedure

A 'routine procedure' is not routine when the patient is in my family. When the patient is my son. When I must hand him to the surgeon without my husband to wait with me and pretend not to worry in the waiting room.

There's very little that's routine about general anesthesia, when it's my son who will be unconscious.

This is the dialogue happening inside my mind.

Instead, you might hear me say, "So, hi there. Tuck had his adenoids removed on Tuesday morning. He's recovering well, thank you. It's a routine procedure. He's doing great."

All true. But it's still not routine. Not for me.

My understanding of adenoids: draw an imaginary line straight back from the nose. Draw an imaginary line between the ears. Where the lines intersect: Hello, Adenoids.

Tucker's were huge. 19 mm. I'm not a specialist, but that's a sizeable portion of the inside of his five-year-old noggin'.

Their absence should help with his nasal passages, speech needs, hearing, snoring, chewing with his mouth closed, and perpetual runny nose. Makes sense, really: remove those golf balls, and there's gotta be some room for productivity as a result.

The surgery was painless, the recovery has been smooth, and the doctor said it all went just as he had hoped. The beauty of adenoids is that there are no dietary restrictions and little pain in the aftermath. (Thank you, Lord, for blessings great and small.)

But the worst part of the whole thing was the anesthesia process. I hadn't planned to go back to the OR with him, because I've done that before and I don't love it. Tuck has had surgery once before when he was 13 months old, and that doctor presented the plan as a smooth transition: I would carry my sweet baby back to the operating room, hold him while he slipped off to sleep, and the whole process would be peaceful and gentle, mostly for Tuck since his mommy would be right there until he arrived in the land of dreams.

It really wasn't like that. There was wiggling and crying and restraining and masks involved, and suddenly my baby boy went limp in someone else's arms, and I was escorted to the waiting room to sit until further notice.

So, I didn't really want to sign up for that again. My mind is a little bit overloaded with mental images involving people I love, and I had decided I would let the doctors and specialists handle this 'routine'.

Except then they asked me if I planned to go into the OR as he fell asleep.

And it suddenly occurred to me: if I don't go, he'll be by himself. It can't ever be said of me that I chose the easier path, which thereby forced my son to take the harder one.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll stay with him until he's asleep."

Tuck was absolutely brave and resolute. And the medical staff were the most impressive professionals I could have hoped for. They wheeled him into the operating room, transferred him from the gurney to the operating table, laid him back, and talked to him about the mask he got to wear and the pretend trip he would take to outer space.

In my scrubs and mask, I held his hand as he listened to the anesthesiologist send him into orbit.

"Here you go, Tucker: prepare for lift off. Okay, you're up in the sky, passing all the airplanes. Going through the clouds. We're getting into outer space now, passing the international space station. You're going higher and higher and higher and higher... and you're almost to the moon..."

I waited for him to drift off to sleep, peacefully.

Instead, in a sudden jolt, his arms flew straight up in the air, and his eyes bolted wide, and he said, "Wait! I have to tell you something!"

"What do you need to say, buddy? I'm right here. Tell Mommy."

His eyes rolled back, his head relaxed, his jaw fell open. And his arms stayed extended straight into the air.

And the nurse said, "Mom, this is totally normal. Absolutely normal."

Are you freaking kidding me?!? This is how it goes? The shouting, eyes bulging, the flying, wiggling arms - these are all normal?

"Totally normal. His brain has just checked out, and you have a sleeping boy. Give him a kiss, momma. And we'll see you in an hour."

Oh. My. Word.

I did as I was told, and they walked me to the waiting room, where I sat with my mom and a friend of ours.

And I relied on the 3x5 cards in my purse to refresh my mind with words that are true when few other things promise to be.

I am the Lord your God who takes hold of your right hand, and says to you, "Do not fear; I will help you."

When I am afraid I will trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I will not be afraid.

I have set the Lord always before me.
Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

"Tucker's Mom?"

"Yes? That's me..."

"He's doing very well, ma'am. The procedure is finished, he is starting to wake up, and we would like for your face to be the first one he sees."

"You're finished? It's done?"

"All done. He did great."

He did great. We did great.

"Yes, please. Take me to my son."

~~~

"So, hi there. Tuck had his adenoids removed on Tuesday morning. He's recovering well, thank you. It's a routine procedure. He's doing great."

Language of Moms

Young moms of our generation have a language all their own.

My brother pointed this out as we strolled through Disney World: a child dropped a sippy cup out of his stroller.

Four moms in the surrounding area spotted it and said, "Uh oh!"

(I was one of them.)

Rob said, "All the moms say Uh Oh. All of them."

It seems we also say:

"That is not okay."

• As in, "Do not hit your sister. That is not okay." "Do not eat that jolly rancher off the floor. That is not okay." "What did I tell you? That is not okay."

"Do you need a time out?"

• We offer this question as if it's rhetorical. As if this is a democracy. And in some parenting books, I suppose all of this is one big democratic convention of toddlers. We offer this as an option, as if someday one of ours will say, "Yes, yes, I believe I do. I'm a little irrational and whiny."
  

In general, the phrase "right now." We tack it on to the end of many declarative statements.

• "I need you to listen right now." "Here's what I'm thinking right now." In-the-moment declarations? A big deal to us, so it seems.
  

"Make a good choice."

• The ever empowering choice between two options. "Do you want to wear the red shirt of the blue shirt?" "Do you want to whisper or talk quietly?" "Do you want to hand me that expensive item or get a spanking?" Always choices; I place before you two. Be wise, young mosquito.
  

We seem to be a generation of momma birds who value clarity, repetition, independence, decision making, and above all else, punctuality.

"Uh Oh, that is not a good choice. Do you need a time out right now?"

I say this roughly 87 times a day.

It leaves me wondering what my children hear most, if they're really, truly listening.

Lego Vocabulary

We were building a city bus. This was the goal. A 45-step process. We did 44 of the steps. We realized too late tonight (post bedtime) that we forgot the driver. And the passenger. Make that 43 steps.

Screw the driver and passenger. We're not telling anybody.

This Lego City was Tyler's birthday present, but he can't do it on his own yet. Tucker and I put together the skateboard/bicycle shop, and Mom and Tyler began the city bus. But Tyler became more interested in attaching heads to bodies and buying a skateboard from the new shop owner.

So I moved over to help Mom at the bus factory.

Jobs were assigned: Directions Coordinators, Parts Distributors, and Chief Bus Builder. (Me, naturally.)

Tucker got carried away blowing headlights across the table. Tyler came in and out of the scene, depending on his interest and where we were in the process. His very favorite part is putting on wheels.

This was step 42. So, he lingered.

As Chief Builder, I soon developed a vocabulary to shout across the table to the Parts Distributor.

"I need three black flatties."

"Black flatties?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Wait. More than three. Six."

"I only have five."

"Tuck, do you have a black flatty?"

"A black flatty? Or a black fatty?"

"A black flatty. Oh, wait - yes. AND a black fatty."

"I need a rectangle triangle piece."

"Tricia, rectangle or triangle?"

"A rectangle triangle."

"Oh, you mean a sliding board." (Turns out, she too has a vocabulary of her own.)

"Tuck, be careful with those headlights. We'll need them soon."

"Head lice? Who needs head lice?" pipes in my dad.

"Headlights, Dad. Headlights. And two yellow longies, and a blue fatty."

"I have a blue skinny pants... need that?"

Then I put two yellow flatties on top of two black flatties, only to realize they didn't match the directions. Oopsie daisy.

Mom has never been known for the strength of her fingernails, and I have never been known to use mine as pliers. So I handed them to Dad. 'Cause who has better fingernails than Dad?

He was at least willing. The first time.

He separated and returned. I put them back together, thinking I had been right all along, only to realize I was wrong about being right. "Hey, Dad? Can you take apart these long flatties?"

"Seriously?"

"Um, yes."

"If I do, would you not put them together again?"

"Sure." Except I did. Three more times. (Always sure I was right.)

"Tucker, the headlights. Please. Keep them close. This is no time to blow them off the table. We'll need them."

"Where's the blue longie? I need a blue longie. Blue longie. Blue longie. Anyone?"

Looking. Looking.

Tyler has it in his hot little hand. "I was saving it." Right. Well, now's the moment for the big unveiling. Hand over the blue longie and nobody gets hurt.

"Tuck, headlights, please."

"I only have one now, Mommy."

Right. Of course. They've been blown off the table.

Turns out, golden headlights match wood floors quite seamlessly.

Boys were under my elbow, dancing on chairs, blowing out headlights, and saving important pieces for future projects, yet undesigned. I may or may not have been heard to say, "What the H-E?!?" (My personal abbreviation in the presence of little parrots.)

It was quite the project.

The next picture makes me laugh so much.

Don't we look like we're having the best time of our lives?

Like we are absolutely experts in the field?

In the end, we had a city bus. Complete with windows, swinging doors (half with handles, half without, no idea where the other handles are), headlights, and five red seats. (No driver or passenger. See above.)

I handed it to Tyler, and he looked it over for quality control. "Hey, Mommy? This looks a little bit like a bus."

A little bit. Thank you, son.

(Is it bedtime yet?)

***

Have you seen the movie Ghost? Patric Swayze? Whoopi Goldburg? Demi Moore?

I thought of it many times. In the movie, Sam sits near Molly in her daily life, watching her closely, even coaching from his invisible standpoint.

Now, I know Robb is in heaven; he's not the Patrick Swayze ghost in my life. Still, it was easy to imagine him in the empty chair across the table. I imagined him shaking his head, rolling his eyes at my Lego vocabulary, catching flying headlights, and saying, "Don't ask me to take 'em apart. I'm the one with fat fingers."

Just as Sam lifts the penny into the air to show Molly that he's there, I pictured Robb nudging the six-dotted red fatty across the table at just the right moment.

I'm bummed he missed the Lego scene.

It's pretty great.

***

p. s. I realized, putting away the parts and directions that remain for the rest of the Lego City, that I hadn't put on the stickers to depict the ads on the side of the bus. Make that 41 steps. (That's our secret.)

Highlights from the Sidelines

Tyler dotted his forehead with sideline chalk. His own version of Ash Wednesday.

He army crawled across the field - a sneak attack, if you will.

He lifted his shirt to show off the remains of the monster truck tattoo on his tummy.

He stood on the other side of the goal, poking his face through the net and roaring at the other team. That's one approach to defense.

He found a treasure on the ground: a plastic, pink ring. Oh, the things one can find as he army crawls during a soccer game.

He told Coach Sarah, "I'll run if you will." Except she's the coach. It's not her job to run.

He told her she was being a bully. She said, graciously, "Yes, I am. Now come over here and get in the game."

Girl after my own heart.

Meanwhile, Tuck was doing this wide-girth thing with the soccer ball, running around the perimeter of the clump of children chasing it. He had his eye on the ball and his head in the game, but he was doing this weird passive thing he's never done before. He seemed to be anticipating the trajectory of the ball, waiting for it to come to him when somebody gave it a good kick.

It's actually a fairly reasonable defensive approach, except that on the preschool team, they don't play with goal keepers or blocking. So he really got no points for this approach; and his team scored no points at all.

And suddenly, I found myself saying, from the sidelines, "Tuck! Get in there, buddy! Get in the game! Go! Why are you way out there?! What is this strategy?? What are you doing?!"

And suddenly I became that mom. The competitive one on the sidelines. I had no inention of becoming this person. I barely recognized myself.

At the end of the game, Tyler received the sticker for best sportsmanship, because he's better at cheering than playing.

Last week, he received the sticker for best defense, since he knew what it meant. (That's what we've come to: Can anyone verbally define the term? Aha! Sticker for you! We'll work on application another time...)

Tucker won the sticker for best offense. Because he got close a couple of times. And that counts for something. It counts for a sticker.

I am encouraging Coach Sarah to start a blog entitled, "I Coach Preschool Soccer." She'd have no shortage of amusing content.

We'll do some off-the-field reminders this week.

"Hey, Tuck? It's not selfish or rude to get in there and get the ball. I realize it's counterintuitive to the things we do at home. But kiddo, go after that ball."

"Hey, Tyler? Engage, kiddo. Just engage."

Three Variations on a Soccer Game

First, there is Tyler's perspective. A strong kick to start the game.

And then he sulked onto the field, annoyed that anyone had asked him to participate. No thanks.

"Tyler, Coach Sarah needs you to play. You have two choices: do you want to play with your team, or do you want to cheer for them from the bench?"

"I'll cheer from the bench."

Well, okay. Love and Logic at its finest. Your choice, kiddo.

Don't feel sorry for this little soccer player.

He truly was happiest when nobody asked him to run.

My personal favorite of his finest moments...

Ever the artist, my boy.

And then there was Tucker's take on the game: Here. To. Win.

This athlete scored Three Goals for the Leopards, and he even did a little jig as he danced away from the goal. (This excessive celebrating could earn him a yellow card later in his soccer career, but for now, live it up, kiddo.)

He rocked it. Totally.

And then there's my perspective on this Saturday morning soccer game.

My cheering got a little out of control.

So much so that Tucker came running to the sideline,

grabbed my shoulders,

and said,

"Hey, Mommy? Shh."

Oh. Sorry about that, kiddo. I got a little carried away.

Soccer moms gotta keep their cool, I'm learning.

And we also shouldn't way words like 'charming uniforms' and 'oopsie daisy.'

I'm learning my role.

It was one great morning.

My little soccer players.

I don't know how it all works, but I really hope Robb got to watch.