Fish food for thought

For a family of River Badgers, fish usually means food.  But, perhaps unfortunately, our clan is less vicious than most, and we recently added two goldfish as pets.  Their original names were "Alex" and "Alex", but then one became "Cow".  I think this is because of its colorful, calico scales.  These fish represent the Boy Badgers' first experience with being responsible for a pet.  We have a cat, but she's mostly mine, as I've had her for over thirteen years.  With these new pets, the Boy Badgers would have to take the lead with regard to feedings and tank cleanings, and being watchful for signs of trouble.  Or, at least that's what we told them.  So far, as we pretty much expected, it's I and Daddy River Badger who remind the boys about feeding the fish, and I'm almost certain we will eventually have to point out that the tank needs cleaning.

Besides the lack of enthusiasm for the more tedious aspects of pet ownership, the boys have been very excited about the fish actually being there, in the tank, on their dresser, in their room.  The fish are watched all through the day, with boys running up and down the hall to tell me that "Cow is being lazy!" and "Alex ate poop!"  The tank light is left on at night as the boys fall asleep, and our usual Boy Badger bedtime story has been temporarily replaced by a fish-related question and answer session.

The fish are inspiring to the Little Badgers.  The other day, I found Big Brother Badger flipping through an encyclopedia of fish.  I've heard Little Brother Badger pulling the step-stool through the house early in the morning to be the first one to peer into the tank.  Even Baby Badger has gotten into the fun, trying to say "fish", and pointing when they swim by.  So, I have to admit that, even if I'm the one who's going to be cleaning the tank, getting a couple fish seems to be going over pretty well.

But here's where my glowing, selfless, mother-of-the-year expression wears off.  Here are two more scaly responsibilities.  I don't take this lightly, you see.  I've already had nightmares about the poor fish struggling to breathe in a filthy tank that I have forgotten to clean!  Yes, my dreams do tend to be slight exaggerations.  Ahem.

I know families that have kids and pets and houses and manage to survive.  My own Mom took in animal after animal while I was growing up.  We had dogs and cats, horses and birds.  Mom cared for rescued blue jays, braved traffic for turtles crossing the road (even snapping turtles!), and saved hopeless case after hopeless case.  My Dad laughs about this (now), with a sing-song, "Where can a turtle/dog/cat/miniature horse/emu find a home?  Under a rock? Under a stone?  Why, at our house, of course!"  I think the only animals not welcome at my parents' house were ticks.

But, when DRB and I had kids, and then bought a house, I started to face the situation for myself.  Cat hair and cat boxes on top of kid messes and normal wear-and-tear on the house started to drive me a bit nuts.  I appreciate the love and companionship that pets can bring to the house, and the wonderful influence they can have on children, but after three kids in almost that many years, I worried that anything extra will disturb the fragile equilibrium we have tentatively established.

And that is the crux of it, I think.  With children, the unknown, the what if, is always somewhat scary.  I find comfort in creating and sticking to a schedule, to minimize the number of unknowns.  I want to manage risks as well as I can, and even though I know that crises are inevitable, I want to keep my equation with a manageable set of variables.  I don't want to feel out of control each night before I go to bed.  I don't want to feel out of control.

So, here we are, with two fish.  They are, at present, very obliging pets.  They eat, they swim, and they seem to get along.  The tank will need to be cleaned, but I have enough of a heads-up to work it into the schedule.  I've figured out that the fish are not the problem.  I think I need to re-evaluate my expectations for "control" over the house.  One of the things that I loved about growing up in my parents' house was the fun and spontaneity brought by having an assortment of creatures roaming the halls and romping in the yard.  I know it's not realistic for our family now to do that, but perhaps I can work on my own spontaneous nature.  Relinquishing control is a different thing than losing it, and may, in the end, be the responsible parenting thing to do.

SAHM...Go!

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a truck driver.  I acted out my dream job on my bicycle, riding up and down my parents' driveway, pretending that I was driving a fantastic silver big rig across the country.  As I got older, I wanted to be a concert harpist, and then, after taking a geology class in college, decided to study rocks for a living.  Geology took me through college and graduate school, and on into an academic job.  But, as before in my life, my ambitions changed as my experience expanded.  In this case, the particular catalyst was motherhood.  My head and my heart dictated this career change.

So, here I am, a new SAHM (stay-at-home-Mom).  I'm not completely green; I had the privilege of taking a few months off with the birth of each of the Little Badgers.  But this time, I do not have an "outside-the-home" job to go back to.  I've taken a leap of hope.

I hope that I'm making the right decision for my family.  I hope that I'll do a good job.  I hope that I'll be able to appreciate this experience for the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity it is.  Daddy River Badger is on board, but is, for the moment, staying close to the lifeboats.  It is hard to go from a two-income arrangement to being a sole breadwinner family.  There are changing responsibilities, and adjustments to be made in all aspects of life.

Before last week, DRB and I had very equivalent positions in the family.  We each had a job outside the home, we each took parenting very seriously, and we each contributed to the day-to-day: cleaning, cooking, budgeting, diapering, and putting gas in the car.  Instead of the more traditional spheres of tending the home or earning the money, we essentially did both, together.  Now, we have to navigate a new path.  Do we steer towards tradition, towards the security of knowing that each of us have our own domain?  This might be seen by some as being a step backwards for me, a defeat of sorts.  But, I see it having a very significant positive facet.  Part of the problem of being "equivalent" in every way is that each person is equally empowered to express criticism of the other.  No area is safe.  Cooking dinner, discussing a work project, picking out a snack for the kids; I felt equally able to inform DRB that he was screwing up, and vice versa.  Perhaps a step towards tradition will yield enough separation that we will each be considered an authority figure for the other, and the constant threat of spousal criticism and the frustrating search for approval will end.

And I am enough of a traditionalist to appreciate the warmth and lure of planning and cooking dinners for my family, of being a consistent presence in my children's day, of treating my husband like a conquering hero when he comes home at night, of the comfort of keeping an organized house, and the security of having firm control of my realm.  I hope that I've earned the street cred to be able to say that openly, and without fear of judgment.

So, I am going forward into this new phase of my life.  I will be a mother and wife, and a damn good one.  I will make this count.

Wish I May, Wish I Might...

Christmastime has always been, for me, a season of wishes.  Wishes to be made, wishes to be realized.  When I was a little child, still believing in Santa Claus, I would wish for presents and for snow.  As I got older, I wished for different things: health and happiness for my family, to be together with our relatives, to see my children smile as they open their presents.

Here are some wishes, large and small, from the past few days:

I wish for perspective.

We traveled a little early this year so that we could visit with my grandmother, who is in a nursing home, and is ailing.  She cannot really see or hear anymore, but I wanted my children to visit her, their great-grandmother.  When we walked in, Nana was lying in bed, awake, but non-responsive.  My mother talked quietly to her and stroked her hair.  The Little Badgers helped me open Nana's presents and we sang Christmas carols to her.  Little Brother Badger did not hesitate to give her a kiss, and Baby patted her hand.  As we drove home, Big Brother Badger asked his grandmother about Nana.  Why was she sick?  Why didn't she smile?  We tried to answer his questions honestly, and my Mom told stories about when her mother was young.  Time takes on a new meaning when four generations are in the same room.

I wish for tradition.

Traditions can be new, such as gathering the family to watch "A Christmas Story", or many years in the making, such as my sister and I putting the angel on the tree.  One tradition that we've followed since I was a child is pizza on Christmas Eve.  This year, a soft snow fell as the evening approached.  The Boy Badgers and their Daddy came in for dinner from playing in the snow, their eyes bright and their cheeks flushed.  We had music on the radio, a bottle of wine, and pizza and subs for dinner.  Bliss!

I wish for memories.

Three years ago on Christmas Day, my husband and I welcomed Little Brother Badger into our lives.  He is the gentle soul of our family, and we love him so, the best Christmas present we've ever gotten.  I took a moment to remember laboring with him, and when he appeared, happily observing, "You have beautiful brown eyes!"

I wish to let this all sink in.

After opening presents at my parents' house, we drove to Daddy River Badger's parents' house.  There, the Little Badgers got to see their other grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  We got to open more presents, and to eat and eat and eat.  I remember standing in the driveway looking up at my in-laws' home thinking that I needed to pause, and appreciate this morning, as it will go so fast.  And it did.  Fast as a wink.

I wish for joy.

Daddy River Badger's brother gives the best kid gifts in the history of the world.  This year, he did not disappoint.  Big Brother Badger opened his present from Uncle and the expression on his face radiated pure joy!  What was it that could make a 4-year-old jump up and down, screaming with happiness?  A six-foot-long stuffed crocodile, of course!

I wish for family.

I feel so lucky that I got to have a real conversation with every member of my family, on both sides.  I got to laugh with my sisters, talk with Dad #1 and Dad #2, cry with DRB's Mom, and reminisce with my own.  I got to rain hugs and kisses on my nieces and nephew, and chat with my brothers-in-law.  Where else can one enjoy chocolate milk at breakfast, unlimited homemade cookies, and a hot turkey sandwich before bed?  Big Brother Badger proclaimed, "I am being spoiled, but it's okay!"

I wish for us.

We drove back today, the traffic difficult, and the weather nasty.  We arrived home, though, to a Christmas just our own, the River Badger family, all five of us.  We got to revel in our own company, our own stories, our own particular brand of humor and tradition.

I wished for a memorable, wonderful holiday, and was so lucky to enjoy it with the ones I love.  Happy holidays from the River Badgers!

I totally forgot to ___________ !

Back in the day, I prided myself on never needing to write stuff down.  Even in college, I could generally remember what my assignments were and when they were due.  Basically, this was my talent, as opposed to karaoke.  Well, something happened between then and now.  Now, I need to write everything down, and usually in at least two places.  Why two places, you ask?  Well, I'll forget where I wrote down the thing the first time.

This struck me the other night.  The whole River Badger family was downstairs playing and watching TV between baths and bedtime, and I was chatting to my Mom about something or other.  She mentioned coming down to visit on Friday just as Baby Badger suddenly fell off the sofa chasing her brothers.  I caught Baby, and literally, for about 5 seconds, could hear the brain gears chunking away before returning to my conversation.  I felt more than a little awkward; I should be able to multi-task, even mentally, as a Mommy.  You know, catch baby, access mental calendar, engage!

Then I realized what actually happened inside my head was more like, catch baby, when is Friday?, what else is going on Friday?, when is the washing machine repairman supposed to come again?, oh, crap, I forgot to get a present for my sister's fiancé, what day do the secret Santa gifts have to show up at school?, have to buy wrapping paper, oh, right, school play, what is traffic like that morning?, what time should I ask my Mom to leave her house to avoid traffic so I'm not pacing around worried that she's been in an accident because she might not have her phone...Whew!  If that's not mental multi-tasking, I don't know what is!

So, I think I may have identified the problem.  It's not just items on a calendar anymore.  For a parent, it's more like cloud computing.

We, as parents, wake up, and, not only have all of tasks of the day to contend with, we also have logistics, and preparation for the next day's events, and last-minute changes to the schedule.  We have to remember antibiotics, and to bring in diapers for daycare, and to make sure to give the Christmas tree water.  We need to remember e-mails, phone calls, stuff for church, work, school, and going to Grammy's house.  We have to remember to shower, get groceries, clean the cat box, and make sure the trash cans get put out on the right day.  And then there's the worry.  We worry about our mother's tone of voice during her last call, we worry about our kids being bullied (or worse), and that they will actually wear their hats today because it's cold.  We worry about the nail-looking thing that we just drove over because a flat tire will really f**k our day up.

And then, by the time the day is almost over, and the kids are in bed, and the TV is on, we have to remember to actually pay attention to our significant other.  Nothing says sexy time like a pile of laundry and two exhausted parents.

But, for me, perhaps my biggest problem is myself.  I don't cut myself a break because I see engaged parents all around me doing the exact same thing, maybe even more, and maybe even better.  If I feel tired and overwhelmed, and my mind skips a trick, I blame myself for not working hard enough to be more efficient and organized.  For parents, I think crazy becomes a new normal.

So, what's the answer?  Letting go?  Simplify, simplify?  Maybe it's as easy as acknowledging the day-to-day challenges as being significant, and difficult, and exhausting.  The challenges may be the new normal, but they are not the new easy.

Armageddon or reflection?

Well, folks, December 21, 2012 is almost upon us.  Some have interpreted the ancient Mayan calendar as indicating that this day would signal the end of the world, where fire would rain from the skies, floods would swallow the earth, and humanity would vanish.  Others shake their heads and continue with their holiday shopping.  A few more put forward a different take.  Joshua Berman at Huffington Post presents a quote from Dr. Jaime Awe, the director of the Institute of Archaeology in Belize, that this date "represents the ending of one cosmological cycle, and the beginning of another. It's very much the way most people would look at the end of one year and the beginning of another, but over a very, very long period of time. It is a time for reflection, and for considering future direction."

After the events of the past few weeks, when floods did swallow people's worlds, and fire did rain, tragically, on others, even skeptics might give a slight bit of credence to the notion of end times.  It feels like something is out of control and unexplainable.  It feels like we might turn to a higher power as a cause, or to define a consequence.  But, the end of days?  I don't think we're going to get out that easy.
  
Considering the end of this week as a cosmic "new year" sounds like a good idea to me.  For our country, teetering on the brink of a "fiscal cliff", where the hurt and suffering of our neighbors strained by the bad economy echoes on front pages daily, where we are still fighting wars overseas, and where I was forced to try to explain to my four-year-old why someone would want to kill little children just like him, perhaps a time of "reflection and...considering future direction" is appropriate.  We've got to fix this.

The new year, for many in this country, brings a sense of getting to start over, for resolutions to live a better life and to make better choices.  But, we can never really start over completely.  The place where we start from is always defined by the choices and circumstances of the past.  We resolve to lose weight, as we stand up from our unhealthy position on the couch.  We resolve to get along with our families better, as we rise from the usual holiday conflicts.  We resolve to be better parents, as we contemplate our past inadequacies.  Our starting place may be one of hurt, anger, sloth, pride, or jealousy, but we will do better.  Our past failures provide the context for renewal, and also the motivation.

So, instead of the world ending by extra-terrestrials, comets, or giant solar flares, let's consider the possibility that the turn of an ancient calendar might mean just another chance for change.  A new mindset, an improved vision of the future.  Despite the darkness of recent events, people all around us have taken up the call to do random acts of kindness, to advocate for changes in the country, to help heal someone else's pain.  Each of us fighting a daily battle for good, so that we may all add up to a better and brighter tomorrow.  I find that comforting.  Let's turn the tide.  

Fear and Hope

The events three days ago in Newtown, Connecticut were shocking, horrifying, terrible.  When I heard, I felt like I had been punched in the stomach, with no air to breathe.  As a parent, I watch and read the news and see things that I would not wish on a worst enemy.  Things that could happen to my children.  I have to acknowledge that along with the joy, wonder, and amazement that comes with having babies, there is fear, too.  Fear crept into my life the moment I held my oldest, the moment I realized how much I had to lose, and has made a nice little nest for itself.  I would not say that my life is defined by fear, but it is there nonetheless.  It hovers in the background as I watch my babies sleep, as I sharply eye them as they eat, as I hold their hands walking into school.  Being a parent involves fear.

I cannot banish fear completely, and I do not think I would want to.  It makes me take every reasonable safety precaution and prompts me to ask myself "What if...?" so that I can feel more prepared.  It encourages me to appreciate every second I enjoy with my children, and to tell them how much I love them every day.  However, even if I try to assign fear to this helpful, rational context, it will not limit itself to those terms.  Events like last Friday, events that are completely unpredictable and, as yet, unexplained, do occur.  And that's where hope comes in.  We, as parents, helped our children onto the bus today, or into class, because of hope.  We are hopeful that something might come out of this tragedy that will save lives in the future.  We are hopeful that our children will be okay, today.  We are hopeful that, while we feel fear, and acknowledge its presence in our lives, we will not let it have the upper hand.

My oldest son (he is four) heard an announcer talking about guns on the radio this morning, and asked me why.  I told him that a bad person had used a gun to hurt some people last week.  He did not say anything else about it, but I am hopeful that I will be able to tell him the right things when he does ask again.  I am hopeful that I will be able to reassure him, and make him feel safe.  I am hopeful that I will be able to keep fear in its place.    

You've got homework. Again.

Big Brother Badger is four.  Okay, if you were to ask him, he would say four-and-a-half.  He attends a preschool program at his daycare.  Now, I reckon back in my day (shakes old lady fist), preschool was called nursery school and it mostly consisted of playing, eating a snack, taking a nap, and more playing.  We had a Christmas show, but we were the angels (cherubs?) and just had to kind of stand there.  Back in my day kids apparently were tremendous slackers.

Today, Big Brother Badger learns his numbers, his colors, his letters.  He learns to spell.  He learns math.  His Christmas show involves memorizing several songs, complete with dance moves.  He brings home elaborate art projects that involve glitter and glue and those plastic rolly eyes.  He also brings home work.  Now, I've taught college undergraduates.  If I were to assign the amount of work that BBB brings home, the kvetching would be endless.  Each day he brings home a worksheet where he practices his writing or math skills.  He has a spelling test each month and practice tests in between.

My response to this is two-fold.  First, because laziness runs strong in Bad Mommy, I get annoyed.  With three Little Badgers running around, it is difficult to make time to get the worksheets finished, plus BBB is usually not in the mood anyway after an already full day.  He gets tired and cranky and has trouble concentrating.  Yes, I do realize that this response is short-sighted and reflects badly on my parenting ability.  Secondly, I am proud.  I am proud of his teachers, for putting in the effort, and of him, for trying so hard.  I know that this response is more in-line with being a Good Mommy.

But, he is four!  What to expect when he is five and officially in kindergarten?  I imagine future worksheets detailing the periodic table and the electromagnetic spectrum.  Which is great (squeaks Good Mommy frantically)!  But, really (yawns Bad Mommy)?  I remember kindergarten being a little more stringent than nursery school.  We had our own little desks.  We had rulers and pencils and a very structured day.  But I don't remember this much homework.  I can see that with our hyper-competitive society, any advantage might be desirable.  An extra hour every day, from preschool, might mean the difference for getting into Harvard.  Or, that extra hour spent after preschool could be utilized engaging with family and imaginative play.  In my humble experience, academic achievement is linked to desire, and enjoyment.  If you really enjoy your subject, or you really desire that degree, you will do better than if not.  Burning out your preschooler is probably not a good idea in the long-term.  And I do worry about burnout in him.  I see a slight fear of going to school, a casual mention of worrying about all the rules, an intense focus on an activity that will devolve into tears of frustration if he doesn't succeed.

So, I am left to be confused.  Confused between my childhood experience, viewed through the foggy rose-colored lens of time, and the present experience of my oldest child, viewed through the sharper, but subjective lens of Mommy.  Confused between my initial response (Bad Mommy) and the "correct" response (Good Mommy).  I have a kid who is bright, curious, and enjoys his imagination.  I don't want to screw that up.  So, I compromise.  Good Mommy tries really hard to motivate her son, coaching him when he's confused, and praising him when he does his best.  But, if he's simply had enough, and he would rather chase a butterfly or play with an ankylosaurus, Bad Mommy steps in surely and swiftly, and makes sure that old-school learning is still not out of style.

How do I explain childhood?

How do I explain unexplainable things?  One morning on the way to school, Big Brother Badger could not stop talking about growing up.  He wanted to be big.  He was tired of school and definitely did not want to have naps anymore; he did not like being told what to do.  I told him, "Baby, appreciate being a child.  Childhood is such a wonderful time!"  Those words went in one ear and out the other.  I understand that there is the problem of context for a youngster.  There are some concepts, like gratitude, like the passage of time, like depth of love, like the freedom of being a child, that are realized through life experience and, perhaps, some hardship.  But I also feel as though I needed to attempt an explanation, even if he doesn't realize what I mean until much later.

My Mom has a saying, "Don't wish your life away."  She says it whenever I'm waiting excitedly for a holiday or party, and also whenever I'm trying to get past a difficult experience.  Don't wish time to move any faster.  Don't take any second for granted, even if it's hard.  She would say this, and I would roll my eyes, but, as I got older, I know what she meant.  The understanding came after the words had sunk in.
 
How do I explain childhood?  At least, the relatively easy childhood of the Little Badgers?  How do I tell them how wonderful it is to be able to have a nap in the middle of the day, to have snacks and toys, to have a loving family, and the freedom to play and imagine, to not have burdensome responsibilities and expectations?  Now that I write this, I worry that I am projecting my subtle jealousy; my awareness of some of the limitations of being an adult, and how good I had it as a child.  I recognize that to truly understand concepts such as gratitude, and love, you must also understand the opposite sides of the coin: ungratefulness, willful dispassion, anger, fear, feeling alone, feeling trapped.

I think that the answer is simply, I can't explain childhood.  Even if I were a gifted orator, or a clever teacher and could use words as a paintbrush, there are some things that simply cannot be understood if the context is lacking.  Nevertheless, I think I'll keep repeating, "Appreciate being a child", "Don't wish your life away", "I love you as much as a mommy can love", so that the words are there for him when he can understand.  And he'll know that I understand, too.



Note: "I love you as much as a mommy can love" is from "I Love You As Much..." by Laura Krauss Melmed, a beautiful book that is one of my favorites to read to my children, but makes me cry every time.

Mommy learned everything from watching TV

Last night I had a difficult time with Big Brother Badger.  Under-statement.  He woke up from his nap still tired and cranky, and refused to eat anything.  Low blood sugar added fuel to the fire, and by bath time, he was in full-fledged tantrum mode.  Disrespectful, yelling, running around, refusing to get undressed, the works.  Daddy River Badger was busy with the two youngest, and I was attempting to administer a well-deserved time-out.

Have you ever watched Jo, the British Super-nanny on TV?  We see stories of parents pushed to the brink, all fifteen children running around like they're possessed, food on the walls, toys in the sink, pushing and biting and kicking.  The parents throw their hands up and finally sink to the floor in a stupor of helplessness as chaos reigns around them.  Then Jo shows up and demands respect and obedience, throws a few solid time-outs around, and trains the parents up until order is returned to the home and everyone cries from happiness.  The staple of her arsenal is the time-out.  Not just a "go sit over there for a couple minutes" time-out, but a clearly defined system.  A set place, a set time, giving the child advance notice of what offenses necessitate a time-out, explaining to the child why what they did was wrong and requiring an apology.  The children usually start off thinking they can railroad their shell-shocked parents by scampering away after the time-out begins, but Jo stays right with the parent while he or she, time and time again, brings the child back to the naughty chair.  Sometimes this goes on for an hour or more.  The bottom line is that the parent must, and does, outlast the child.

Anyway, I rarely watch Super-nanny alone.  Usually Daddy River Badger is there, and more often than not, the Little Badgers are there, too.  They'll be playing at the other end of the room, but sometimes will wander over and ask about the "kids being bad" on TV.  My first thought is that watching children behaving badly will give them a sense of perspective.  They would see the disrespect and immaturity, and realize why Mommy and Daddy don't want that kind of behavior in the house.  My second thought is, of course, "Oh no!  They have access to state secrets!"  They've seen that Mommy and Daddy aren't naturally genius parents, that we haven't invented the time-out.  Maybe we're not the top of the family food chain anymore.  They do love shark documentaries.

In any case, time-outs in our home generally follow the Super-nanny process, and 98% of the time, seem to work.  Even Baby will sit quietly in her one minute time-out, and say "Sorry, Mama!" when she's done.  Then there are the times like last night, when I am having to drag the misbehaving child back into time-out again and again and again.  And I think back to when Big Brother Badger has watched the show with me and observed the on-screen parents doing this process, over and over.  Does he remember the parents' frustration and exhaustion?  Does he have the feeling he can wait me out, and that I will give up eventually?  Does he know that this particular parenting method came from someone else, making me somehow less effective?  I take a chance and hiss, "I can keep this up longer than you can.  You've watched Super-nanny."  I won't say it sunk it immediately, but very shortly thereafter he calmed down enough to stay seated criss-cross applesauce, facing the wall.  He did his time-out.  Hooray for me, right?  Well, I got this Mommy-win from a TV show.

My Girl

I was pretty much in a Pampers commercial this morning.  The Boy Badgers were with Daddy on their way to a karate lesson and the store, and Baby Badger and I needed to get dressed and look beautiful for our day.  I should mention that Baby looked beautiful anyway.  Even with oatmeal in her hair, and some snot in her nose; even with a fading bite bruise on her cheek, and a full diaper, she looked luminous.  I knew this, of course, being completely objective, but was so struck by it as we looked at each other in the mirror as I was brushing her teeth.  She made me feel so humble to be holding her.

After brushing her teeth and cleaning her face, hair, and nose, I took care of her diaper and dressed her in pink overalls with a white long-sleeved onesie.  This, after liberally applying baby lotion.  I left her little feet bare, as she's been wearing shoes and socks everyday and I love baby feet more than pretty much anything.  She's dressed and ready, and now it's my turn.  Getting dressed while a solo 15-month-old is loose in the house can be problematic.  When her brothers are here, I can get up to three minutes by myself to throw some water on my face and put some clothes on as they distract each other.  But by herself, she's in acquisition-mode.  Acquire and destroy.  So, I didn't have much hope as I walked into my bedroom, ready to throw on the first pair of jeans I saw and to try, try to do a pass over my face with a baby wipe.  But, to my astonishment, she followed me happily, gazing up at me and smiling.

I washed my face.  I brushed my teeth.  She watched and smiled, and even pretended to spit when I did.  She did not try to dive into the toilet, or pull all the trash out of the wastebasket, or apply my makeup to the toilet brush.  I was surprised, but pleasantly so.  She stood and looked up at me as I put my lotion on my face, so I put some on her rosy cheeks.  She giggled when I put on some cologne, so I rubbed the tiniest bit on her little wrist.  She pursed her lips when I put on my lip gloss, so I added just a touch on her lower lip.  It was the fun, tasty kind, so she, of course, licked it right off.  She pointed at my earrings as I put them on, and, unless I imagined it, nodded her approval of my outfit.  She grinned at me and me at her.

If we were in a Lifetime movie or a Pampers commercial, you would be crying your eyes out as soft music played in the background.  My little daughter and I had our first, kinda grown-up, mommy-girl moment.  After my shoes were on, the spell was broken.  She ran into the living room and chased the cat with a Christmas bell.  She demanded milk, and then her nap.  And I, still in the daze of being a big ol' softie Mommy, had to run right downstairs and write about it.  About my precious little girl, and how significant 15 minutes on a Saturday morning can be.

I Can't Sing

I can't sing.  No, really, I can't.  I have a terrible sense of pitch, and absolutely no confidence.  Recently, I was told by a well-meaning lady that I was being silly; that everyone can sing if they try hard enough.  "Happy Feet" popped immediately into my head.  You know, where the baby penguin in the land of musical theater opens his mouth during a lesson and a rough screech comes out.  The baby penguin was alright in the end, though, as he found another talent that served him well.  The interesting thing is that I know that I can't sing.  I recognize it, so I'll never find myself berated on American Idol.  You may be shaking your head right now and thinking it can't be that bad.  Well, it is.  I used to play the harp, and during the audition process for a conservatory, I had to sing "Happy Birthday" to test my sense of pitch.  The bored grad student giving me the test laughed at me.  That didn't matter too much for my audition, because, as it turned out, harpists are notoriously bad at "hearing" proper pitches.  Something about having to individually tune each of the 47 strings, which results in the harp always being just slightly out of tune.  But, even my own mother looks shocked sometimes at what comes out of my mouth.  The other day I was singing "Five Little Skunks" to Big Brother Badger.  I looked over, and Grandma looked horrified.  She's a huge fan of musicals, and I think my voice had just pummeled both the Jets AND the Sharks.  Snap.

In everyday life, I usually don't think about this too much.  I'll sort of hum along to the radio, I'll fake my way through "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" and "You are my Sunshine" for Baby River Badger, and I'll put so much enthusiasm into a round of "Happy Birthday" that no one will fault me for it.  However, this time of year, at the holidays, my lack of singing talent stings me a little.

The holidays are a time for singing.  Christmas tunes on the radio, family carols around the tree.  Even the Little River Badgers will participate in a school concert.  My favorite Christmas song is "O Holy Night".  This is not a song for a poor singer; it is a powerhouse ballad that can showcase a fabulous voice.  But it is so beautiful, I almost can't help myself.  I'll turn it up really loudly on the radio to hide my following along.  In high school, I had several harp gigs where I would accompany a talented soprano singing this song.  I threw my heart into playing, because I sure as heck wasn't ever going to be able to sing it.  And it hurt a little, each time.

If you were to put me on the spot and ask me what I'm jealous of, I would say my little sister's hair and the fact that I can't sing.  I can't put a name on the last one because it feels like everyone else can at least carry a tune.  I worry about what this means for the Little Badgers.  Even if they have some singing talent, am I ruining their nascent pitch with my bad voice?  Will they avoid singing because they perceive my lack of comfort with it?

So far, they seem to be happy to sing.  I'll hear the Boy Badgers singing together at bedtime, while watching Thomas, and in the bath.  My Baby smiles and signs along when she hears her favorite tune, "Itsy Bitsy Spider".  Big Brother Badger can do a fair interpretation of Alicia Keys' "Girl on Fire" (except he says "Boy").  Maybe my lack of ability has prevented any overt pressure on them to have talent at singing, so they just associate it with fun.  And my own struggle with singing may end up providing a teachable moment for them later on.  In eighth grade, it was my dream to play Dorothy in our middle school's production of 'The Wizard of Oz".  I lost the part because, as Sister John Marie put it, "Dear, you can't sing.".  So I channeled my energies in a different direction and played the best darn Wicked Witch ever seen.  I got a standing ovation.  "Happy Feet", indeed.

Our Christmas Tree

I grew up on a Christmas tree farm.  My Dad planted baby trees on an acre of land and built a successful business, bringing evergreen happiness into the front rooms of our neighbors and friends.  Pictures from my early childhood showed my sister and I growing year by year, with the trees alongside for comparison.  Little, then tall, then towering over us.  I spent hours amongst the green branches, hiding, playing, and even working.  One of my first jobs was to help my Dad as he hand-trimmed each tree; I would walk behind him and pick up the trimmings.  I learned the value of hard work and dedication from watching my father work throughout the year, and on cold weekend mornings, painstakingly tending, and then proudly selling his trees.  I saw him happily help people late on Christmas Eve, frantically looking for a tree for their family.  I took note when my parents brought in a tree that had been sold, and then returned because a lady had seen a bug in its branches, for our own tree that year.  The trees were a source of family pride, of tradition, of symbolism, and of precious simplicity.

Christmas represents a time for faith, family, and fun.  And as I got older, I became aware of the passage of years more acutely through the lens of Christmas.  A child waiting for Santa, a teenager reluctantly singing carols with the family, an adult enjoying a glass of wine while decorating the tree, a Mommy, seeing the bright lights of the tree reflected in the wide eyes of her baby.  The tree is ever-present during the holiday memories of our home.  As a child, I remember decorating the tree with ornaments and lights taken year after year from familiar boxes .  I remember hearing the story of my Baby's First Christmas ornament over and over, and the feeling of pride as I placed it on the tree.  Traditions arose naturally, such as who (my sister or I) got to run to tell Mom that Dad had said some bad words while putting on the lights and who (again, my sister or I) got to put the angel at the top of the tree that year.  Our tree always had multi-colored lights, and those lights were one of my fondest Christmas memories.  I would (and still do) stand in the darkened room, with the lights glowing and reflecting off the ornaments, looking, and willing the image to stay in my memory.  I always feel the urge to cry in cold, early January, when the tree is taken down.

Now, with a family of my own, I still decorate our tree with multi-colored lights.  The importance of our three Baby's First Christmas ornaments is such that I spent many hours searching for just the right one for each child.  I have ornaments from my childhood on our present tree, as well as some purchased during grad school when I was on my own, and from (the one) Christmas spent with just my husband before our oldest was born.  And then I have all the children's ornaments.  Maybe because of the feelings of significance held in my earliest memories of Christmas trees, I've always been fiercely loyal to each tree selected each year.  No matter its flaws, no matter how many brown needles, or bugs, or twists in its trunk, once the tree is ours, I will call it beautiful.  It is an important part of our tradition, and has a revered place in our family story.  It is the centerpiece of our holiday decorations, a source of wonderment and excitement for my children, a place of calm where our family can gather, and a piece of the great outdoors for our cat.

So, this year, I will stand again in the darkened room, with the lights of the tree softly illuminating shiny ornaments and glittery tinsel.  I will try to capture this tree in my memory.  I will look at each ornament and remember its significance in my family's journey.  I will smell the soft comforting evergreen scent.  I will enjoy this symbol of the season, the symbol of hope and renewal, and how much it has meant for my family through the years.