Planes, Trains, and Automobiles

Two weeks ago, the three Little Badgers had a trip on a train. It was a real, honest-to-history steam locomotive. The kind of engine that stirs your blood and inspires generations of future engineers.  We had driven, with Grammy Badger, up to Amish country to ride the rails.

The trip was beautiful.  A warm, sunny day.  Good moods and healthy appetites.  The Badgers were so full of spirit and excitement that they engaged other children as impromptu playmates and seemed to appreciate every aspect of the experience.  They stared wide-eyed as the large, black engine pulled up and hitched on behind the cars.  They squealed gleefully as they heard a conductor call, "All Aboard!"  They even did their best to smile and sit still for pictures as our journey commenced.

We were on an adventure, to be sure.  Headed out to a neighboring town across several miles of stretching farmlands and countryside, and then back, half-way, where we would stop for a picnic lunch before catching the next train back to the station.  Grammy had packed a picnic lunch complete with table cloth and homemade chocolate chip cookies, and we enjoyed the picnic almost as much as the excitement of hearing the train whistle its way back to our stop, the huge pistons pumping, and steam bellowing high into the blue sky.

As we drove home, and I enjoyed another of Grammy's treats (a huge fountain soda), I thought a bit about the excitement of big engines, be they on planes, trains, or automobiles.  It's an excitement shared by almost (I imagine) all children.  I suppose, for a youngster, a train represents something powerful and amazing, with levers and switches, and almost magical abilities.  A plane, too, embodies a certain everyday magic.  Sure, a child can read about flying wizards and fire-breathing dragons in books, or see cartoons on television, but it is something to see a booming jet soaring overhead, or a locomotive bellowing steam roaring by in person.  Magic brought to life.

Of course, as children grow up, they learn the science behind the magic.  The curtain is lifted, and, for some, the fascination continues.  But, for others, the magic is lost permanently in the slog through security lines, the stress of a long commute, or the toils of daily life.  To draw from one of the Little Badgers' favorite movies, some can no longer hear the silver chime of the bells.  And it's a shame.  Childhood holds so many pure feelings, of hope, of wonder, of joy, unclouded by the weight of years, of little disappointments, small resentments, and large responsibilities.  To find something that brings back that sense of magic is to create a window back into the feelings of long ago, to a childhood perspective.

And I felt the magic that day, on the train.  It's a sense of personal history, remembering my own experience as a child.  It's a feeling of inherent wonder that I hope the Little Badgers never lose.  It's a sense of joy, in this connection that I now share with my children.  We, all together, stood in awe in front of that engine, smiles on our faces, and excitement in our hearts, youthful in spirit.

Beauty

Today, Baby Badger woke up from her nap crying and somewhat disoriented.  She asked for a bottle of milk, and I brought her downstairs, holding her on my lap.  She drank her milk and drowsed a bit before fully waking up and looking up at me with a smile.  I don't know what prompted it, but I held her close and we sang "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" together, and she clapped.

For me, as a young adult, to think about what was beautiful was to focus on the superficial.  Models, actresses selling make-up, any other woman who was admired for her hair or face or body.  Always subtle jealousy and feelings of inadequacy because to be considered beautiful was always a title bestowed by someone else.

I wandered into the Boy Badgers' room late tonight to turn off the fish tank light.  As I do every night, I adjusted their blankets and gave them kisses.  And as I do every night, I stare at their little faces.  My oldest was sleeping peacefully, looking, to me, exactly as he did as a baby.  And I had the thought that if I watched him sleep again, many years from now, I would see my baby still.

When I became a Mommy, I still had those self-deprecating thoughts of my own attractiveness, magnified by weight gain and exhaustion.  But I found myself reserving the word beautiful for my children.  Even for brand-new infants, crying with soiled diapers or a food-stained bib, I saw beauty, and I allowed myself to define it.  It was suddenly beyond face-value and it ran deeper, resonating with new emotions.

The Little Badgers and I visited my grandmother in her nursing home earlier this week.  She will be ninety-five in a couple months, and has difficulty hearing and seeing.  In fact, for most of our visit, she didn't seem to notice that we were there, and I'm still not sure she knew who we were.  But, at one point, she looked right at me with her blue eyes shining, and she smiled.

For me, to be a Mommy is to feel full.  To walk around most of the time with strong emotion somewhere close by.  To see beauty in things that, in others' eyes, may seem commonplace, or ordinary.  My child's chubby hand gripping a cup.  The brilliance of the sky over our home.  A moment spent talking with my sister.  Beauty, now, comes with gratitude, and acknowledgment.  My perception of beauty is no longer as a facade, but representative of a personal journey, informed by love, and defined by experience.

The Step-Back

As a parent, it can be said that when you are in, you're in.  Even when you're out (at dinner, say), you're still in.  Just maybe not as an immediate presence.  But how far do you step back as a parent, when someone else, especially someone who is capable, loving, and tested steps in?  When that person is a grandparent, things can get complicated.

Stepping back, as a parent, isn't just confined to date night or a play date; it can be more subtle and familiar.  For us in the Badger household, transfer of power occurs every weeknight, when, after dinner, Daddy River Badger steps up to give the Little Badgers baths while I clean the kitchen.  I can step back for a while, even fool around on my phone, appreciate the cool evening breeze, or give some attention to my pouting cat.  Inevitably, there will be a streaking Baby racing through the kitchen, or Little Brother hopefully asking that I help get him dressed, but DRB is pilot-in-command.  And the step-back usually works in everyone's favor.  Given that shift in responsibilities, my shoulders relax, my head stops pounding, and I am refreshed, ready and eager to be there for my children.  And for the Little Badgers, all the anxiety of having to eat vegetables and not wiggle in their chairs falls away and they delight in the undivided attention of their Daddy.

However, sometimes the step-back is not as obvious and immediately satisfying; especially where grandparents are concerned.  Often this step-back yields time for Mommy to have a beer and relax, or sleep in a little, or go to the gym.  The Little Badgers are never happier than being just a little spoiled by their grandmothers, but, I worry that I am taking advantage.  And here's another problem: my rules may not necessarily be their rules, and too often when Mommy swoops back in, there's some confusion.

Here's an example.  Grandma Badger's house has a very steep staircase.  Me, being the overprotective Mommy, told the Little Badgers that they absolutely had to go down the stairs on their bottoms, no questions asked.  Grandma, separately, and without knowledge of my "rule" said that they must go down on their bottoms until the mid-point of the stairs, where there was a railing.  Poor Little Brother Badger was caught by his ever-vigilant Mommy standing exactly at the midpoint in his sleep suit.  I yelled.  He started to cry.  When I realized that he was following Grandma's rule, I felt terrible.  I apologized, I held him.  I think I stepped back too far.

And then there are the examples of when I (or Daddy River Badger) didn't step back far enough.  At Grammy Badger's house, children are indulged, and, I believe, rightly so.  I adore the sheer Little Badger happiness that comes when Grammy presents waffles with watermelon and a little whipped cream for breakfast, or a popsicle for a snack.  But, every now and then, we, the parents, overstep.  We make superior-sounding comments about the amount of sugar in the yogurt, or the number of cookies at snack time, and we hurt feelings.

When I am in the company of my own parents, and my parents-in-law, I trust them, and their judgement.  I trust the care of my children to them, and that's all that needs to be said.  I think I just have to work on the transition; I'm in charge, but I'm in the background.  I want my children to enjoy their grandparents and to build their own independent relationships without Mommy constantly hovering.  I want to let the Little Badgers' grandparents know how blessed we feel to have them in our lives, and how important they are.  We believe in them, because they raised us, and because they share our deep love for our babies.

My stepping back is necessary, I believe, for my children to start to learn how to be independent, to relate to others on their own terms, and to have a break from their parents' idiosyncrasies.  But I also think it is also necessary for me; to see our parents in a new perspective, to build and enjoy love and trust and shared experiences.  Being a parent means that when you're in, you're in; in the fray, in the whirlwind.  Having that chance to take a breath and step back and watch, and appreciate, and treasure the moment, is a gift.

A Little Rain, A New Outlook

Every spring in the Mid-Atlantic involves a little rain.  But it's not the cold, dreary, gray rain of the winter.  It's the warm, gentle rain that brings all the shades of green into sharp forefront.  For me, as in my childhood, the spring rains feel inherently refreshing and invigorating.  They usher in flowers, and the nighttime sounds of summer.  They are relaxing.  Or, at least, they can be, given a screened window, a hot cup of tea, and a good book.

With small children, however, rain can mean being trapped indoors, left to my own lonely devices.  Play-dough, books and puzzles can altogether last a good hour, if I am lucky.  A good game of chase always lasts a while and burns some of that unquenchable kid energy, but boo-boos inevitably result.  Imaginary herds of dinosaurs will fight with prehistoric crocodiles and insects until a fleet of monster trucks roll onto the field.  Finally, I'll turn reluctantly to the television, where the dinosaurs are computer-generated.  And then we'll have lunch.

Time in the Little Badger universe seems to move in fits and spurts.  Some moments will feel as though I am moving in slow motion, changing a dirty diaper on a wiggly toddler while one Boy Badger yells about finishing his breakfast and the other refuses to put on his clothes.  And then other moments will pass in a heartbeat.  These are usually the quality time, where my heart is full and the children are happy.  On rainy days, especially, the slow motion seems to take over.  There is an underlying, nagging feeling that there is no escape.  On sunny days, we can always run outside.  On these, rainy, days, I must deal.  I must deflect the energy instead of engaging it.

Of course, we can always plan an outing.  Trips to the local PetSmart, or Ikea, or to a relative's house.  These outings can relieve some of the tension, and also provide Mommy with a way to get her Diet Coke.  But, for all these activities, I still feel somewhat trapped, like my hand is being forced, expectations and assumptions dictating the day.

Ultimately, given a warm enough day and a gentle enough rain, we usually end up outside.  I'll put the Little Badgers in their rain gear, pull on their boots, and fling open the front door.  At first the children will be reluctant, but then they will notice a particularly attractive mud puddle, or a bug crawling bravely along a slippery leaf, and they will venture forth from the porch.  When the Little Badgers come back inside, they pull off their wet clothes and muddy boots and wash their filthy hands.  I feel a twinge of anxiety at the mess, but the little pink cheeks and healthy appetite for a snack (even fruit!) make me smile.  Honestly, I will have found myself smiling more than I had expected to, when I woke up to the sound of raindrops.  The games of chase, the dinosaurs, the books.  All are worthwhile, true, moments.

So, at the end of the day, when rain has changed up our usual plan and sent us scurrying for the indoors, I look back and realize that my feeling of entrapment was mostly self-generated, and perhaps not surprisingly, self-fulfilling.  A sense of new awakening is appropriate this time of year.  I think the next time it rains, I will trade entrapment for openness.  And let the day proceed, with no expectations.

She's Just Like Me

Everyone has seen the columns in magazines where celebrities are photographed picking up kids at school, or grocery shopping, or heading out to the gym.  "Just Like Us!", the headline proclaims.  Well, maybe, but I found myself thinking of those columns today.  My take on "Just Like Us" is that I'm not supposed to feel quite so inadequate with my frizzy hair, baggy jeans, or screaming kid, because it happens to the beautiful people, too.  But, celebrities aside, from an everyday perspective, I do take comfort in seeing even small similarities with other parents.  It's a warm feeling, a sigh of relief.  Especially as a stay-at-home parent, where I find myself very alone at times, the sense of empathy with other parents, manifested in similar choices, or patterns, reassures me.

Today, I took the Little Badgers to Ikea.  The boys signed in to play in the kids' area and ball pit, and Baby Badger came along with me to do some shopping.  We wandered up to the children's section and Baby gravitated towards a group of toddlers.  I joined the Mommies, attentive but standing back, letting the little ones play.  We called out instructions, kissed invisible boo-boos, smoothed hair, and adjusted clothes.  We made low-voiced comments to each other about how funny the kids were, and shared glances of understanding.  We smiled, and rolled our eyes, and gasped together.  As I stood there, appreciating the camaraderie, I noticed something interesting.  One Mommy was wearing jeans and running shoes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail; pretty much my doppelgänger.  Another was pushing a large stroller, her three small children buzzing around her; again, very familiar.  A third was chatting pleasantly with her mother while drinking a large fountain soda; hell-o!  No matter how different we looked, I saw a bit of myself in all of them.

Now, appearances are superficial, but the brief feeling of belonging was significant.  In becoming a parent, I've found myself empathizing more, reaching for common understanding, and searching for bonds in new places.  Perhaps it is the amazing new range of emotions that the Little Badgers have brought out in me, or the new depth of feeling that seems to run deeper every day.  Perhaps it is the new, sharp, realization of how vulnerable we all are, and family and friendships, too.

After all, as parents, we've all been through stuff.  Stuff that, in the moment, we think no one else could ever understand.  We're separated by generations, by geography, by a perception of a lack of common ground.  As a parent, there are opportunities to learn the depths of faith, fear, love, and strength.  It is comforting to know I'm not alone.

Distractions

This morning, three high-energy Little Badgers were racing around the house, amped from a good breakfast and energized by the bright sunshine streaming through the windows.  Little Brother asked me to help him with a dinosaur puzzle and we dove in, with Baby and Big Brother playing alongside.  A while later, I realized I was snapping at the kids.  There was an underlying irritation that was biting at the periphery of my contented Mommy-moment.  At first I was confused.  And then, Baby, climbing across my lap for the fifteenth time, really smacked my shin.  I had bruised it pretty badly the previous week, "climbing" out of the van, but, as any Good Mommy does, ignored it.  But, it was still there, distracting me from the Little Badgers' games.  And I got to thinking about distractions in general.  Most Mommies know the call of Facebook and the guilt that goes with it, but, Mommy Media aside, I wonder if I can truly blame myself for everything after all.

I find that some distractions are easy to ignore or push aside, guilt and a form of resentment naturally following.  These are usually physical: my stomach hurt, or I had a monster headache, or my shin hurt like a mo-fo, but the Little Badgers wanted to go outside for a walk, so I gamely went along.  See, only Bad Mommy puts herself before the kids.  I wonder if this is a form of indoctrination from my childbirth class.  Pushing through physical pain seen as evidence for my ability to put my kids first.  No pain, no gain.  Mommy is a bumper sticker.

Other distractions are harder to ignore.  These, of course, tend to be more "of the mind".  Worries about family or friends, worries about work or money, worries about being too fat, worries about whether or not I'm fantastic in bed, and, of course, worries about how badly I am messing up the Little Badgers.  These linger, overshadowing play time, lurking during dinner, creeping into story time.  These are almost impossible to truly push aside and they create their own form of pain that makes Mommy more of a mud puddle than a bumper sticker.

Some days I feel like my entire goal is to be "in the moment".  To enjoy every second and to soak up every Little Badger laugh, every silly joke, every push of the bicycle pedals, every sip of milk.  I had a startling moment when I was very pregnant with Big Brother Badger, that this was the closest I'd ever be to him.  From the moment of his birth, he would be growing away from me.  Mommies are told by sisters and mothers and friends to appreciate everything, that it will be gone before we know it.  And here I am, letting distractions sneak in and threaten those moments.  And here I am, blaming myself for the distractions in the first place.  My fault, my failure, my weakness.

But is it that simple?  Each of these distractions, both mental and physical, can be interpreted as some need of mine.  A need for some rest, or some ice, or some time to focus and relax, or a need for conversation with Daddy River Badger, or my dear sisters.  When Mommy takes care of herself, everyone ends up happier, but this seems to be a situation of dragging the horse to water, but finding the animal refusing to drink.  The jerk standing in the way is most often myself.  Daddy River Badger pleads with me to go out.  Go out with your sister!  Go see a movie!  Go out to the store and grab some chocolate!  My best response lately has been to go out to the gym and hurt myself some more.

I will dive back in tomorrow.  I know I will ignore my bruised shin.  I might ignore a headache.  I will spend my day shoving those mental distractions away with both hands, in futility.  I will throw myself into my job as Mommy, because I love it, and because it is everything I ever wanted to do.  I will appreciate those stolen moments where I forgot to be distracted by anything.  And then I'll work on making it over to Target to pick up that chocolate.

Great Expectations

Today it hit me that the Little Badgers don't mind the unknown.  For them, pretty much everything is unknown, or at least unfamiliar.  Meeting new people, going new places, experiencing new things, all in a day's work for them.  They may worry, or whine, but they go forward, boldly.  Me, not so much.  I  can, and do let worry and fear keep me from new experiences.  Not just obvious experiences like trying a new food, or meeting someone new, but more subtle things, like running as fast and as far as I can, or truly opening my heart to someone.

I wasn't always this way.  When I was seventeen, I performed an entire concerto with an orchestra in front of a full concert hall.  I threw myself into experiences, with joy and with abandon.  Most things that were new to me were also exciting to me.  A little bit of scary, but a lot of anticipation, and both feelings were all part of the fun.  New experiences were blank slates.  More recently, however, I found myself somehow thinking differently.  The scary got bigger and the the anticipation got smaller until the scary is almost all there is.  Perhaps being a parent does that to a person.  Being a parent forces me to consider all scenarios, to plan ahead, and to be aware of the dangers in everything.  Popcorn, strangers, a stray dog, riding in the car, all contain hazards that could, in a second, take away or injure my children, the most important part of my life.  I can no longer turn a blind eye, either with willful ignorance or with careless abandon, to anything, and I think it's rubbed off on my own, individual, self.

I thing I miss most is that truly blank slate.  The unknown.  Just rushing off and doing something on the spur of the moment, with no prior planning or excessive worry.  Now, when I face an unfamiliar situation, I inevitably do my research.  I'll Mapquest the location, Google the menu, worry myself into a frenzy, and, as a consequence, create wild expectations.  I'll expect amazingly good things, or amazingly bad things.  And, as it turns out, not so amazingly,  I'll pretty much always be wrong.  Most of the time, new things turn out just fine, and my obsessive treatment creates a tunnel vision whereby I find myself unable to fully appreciate the experience.

My children instinctively trust me.  They know that, no matter what situation they find themselves in, I will be there.  It may be unknown, or unfamiliar, but it will be fine.  I think I need to start trusting myself the way that my children trust me.  I need to get back to that place where I was not afraid to jump, or to run.  I need to step away from the grip of planning and worry, and fear, that I find myself in often as a parent.  After all, if there's anything I've learned from the Little Badgers, it's that the most intensely-planned-for situation rarely goes as scripted, and that joy can be found in the most unexpected places.  Places where we found ourselves by chance, going boldly into the unfamiliar.

Lost and Found

When I was little, I lost a ball.  I had left it outside, in the middle of a field, and had woken up the next morning to find it gone.  I searched everywhere, but that ball was never found.  A simple, rubber ball with a pink and orange design on it.  While I had it, it wasn't my favorite toy, but, in losing it, it gained a kind of special significance.  It was one of the first things that happened that my parents couldn't fix.

The other day, I took the Little Badgers to Ikea for breakfast.  We were planning on meeting some friends and were running a little late.  While I was pulling the stroller out of the back of the van I felt something bump my leg.  But, of course, I ignored it in favor of calling out instructions about exiting the vehicle and moving to the sidewalk safely.  Turns out, that bump was Big Brother Badger's favorite Lightning McQueen ball.  Oblivious,  I guided the Little Badgers into the store while the ball rolled its lonely way in, I presume, the opposite direction.

I was standing in line with my three little ones when a lady tapped my shoulder.  She had two children of her own and had parked very close to me right about the same time I had been pulling Badgers out of the car.  She told me that she had seen the ball fall out, had retrieved it, and put it safely on a bench in front of my van.  I thanked her profusely, and, indeed, we found our ball right where she had said.  Big Brother Badger was a bit confused to find his ball outside of the car, but took it in stride.  Later that day, I was hit my memories of my lost ball, long ago.  That was something lost, and resulted in a significant childhood memory, even tears.  Big Brother Badger would have been heartbroken if his ball had gone missing.  Did we, with the help of a stranger, dodge a similarly significant moment in Big Brother's childhood?  

A rubber ball is nothing, really.  But the feeling of having something that was mine, as a child, disappear without explanation left a strong impression on me.  It left me with a feeling and a memory that's carried through decades.  One little incident that my parents really could do nothing about.  I worry constantly about screwing up as a parent, but I've always focused on the big things.  The memory of my lost ball in the context of the one lately found brought it home that might be the small, unpredictable things that really stick.  The things that I can't do anything about.  

Funny Sentimentality

I was digging around in my jewelry box this morning when I found a little plastic tag.  Anyone else would have seen it as trash and dismissed it, but I knew what it was right away.  It was the end of the plastic bracelet I wore when in the hospital delivering Baby Badger almost two years ago.  The rest of the bracelet is in her baby book, so why keep the tiny snippet?  Well, I have a sense of funny sentimentality.  The smallest things catch me unawares sometimes, and I find myself unable to let them go.  More subtle than photo albums (although I have plenty of those as well), more personal and secretive than a journal, some items trigger memories for me alone.  No one else would understand.

I had a box of baking soda in my cupboard that I bought right before Little Brother Badger was born.  I didn't really use it for anything, but I remember that I had just left for my maternity leave and was feeling very domestic.  I bought the box to help freshen our refrigerator and I guess I never opened it.  But, it reminds me of that exciting, scary time before my second child arrived.  I remember feeling so happy, and yet so worried about getting through childbirth.  And then the questions that seem silly now, as a Mommy of three: Could I possibly love my new baby as much as my precious boy?  How am I going to handle two children?  What if my boy doesn't like his new brother?

My sister got me a little stuffed cat that sits in my car, and has for 12 years.  She got it for me when I had just bought my first car, and was about to make the drive out to California to start grad school.  That drive was noteworthy for many reasons.  It was the first time I was out on my own, away from my parents and the East Coast.  It was my first great adventure.  And I made the trip with my relatively new boyfriend, who eventually became my husband.  That car was my first big purchase, my freedom, and my pride.  I ended up keeping it for ten years, letting it go only when it became clear that three kids were never going to fit into a two-door vehicle.  And that stuffed cat sat there the entire way.  It now sits in the van.  Not quite as prominently, as Baby would commandeer it immediately if seen, but there nonetheless.

My sister-in-law had a wedding shower and one of the favors was a pretty pen with a fabric flower wired onto it.  I still have it, and she just had her first baby.  I'm not sure if it still writes, but it reminds me of the happiness I feel in having the family I do.  I feel like my sisters-in-law are, indeed, my sisters, full-stop.  The transition from "child in a family" to "adult in a family" to joining another family and finally being part of that exalted pantheon of Aunts and Uncles seems like it happened in a heartbeat.  Such a small party favor, and yet, to me, such meaning.

Some items I will keep forever, like that snippet of hospital bracelet.  Some, I've had to let go, like that box of baking soda.  I imagine that somewhere down the road my children or grandchildren will shake their heads at how many small things of mine have persisted through the years.  They will throw away threadbare stuffed animals.  They may smile briefly, perhaps remembering how I refused to let something insignificant just get thrown away, or wonder why I still kept an unsharpened pencil from long ago, one with my name on it and decorated with tiger stripes.  My sense of sentimentality is somehow a little selfish, kind of an inside joke for me, myself, and I.  Lucky for me, my sentimentality can mostly fit in small spaces.

Improv!

Back when I was in the seventh grade, we had an improv assignment in our acting class.  Father John asked each of us awkward twelve-year-olds to go up to the front of the room and, using a prop, give a spontaneous comedy routine.  Most students dutifully went up and attempted a joke, or just shrugged and rolled their eyes.  When it was my turn, and I was up there, in front of all my peers, I felt fear, panic, and, then, inspiration.  I wouldn't say I channeled Kathy Griffin up there, but I got a few laughs.  I remember it as a success; the first time I had pulled something funny, or surprising, out of nowhere, for an audience.  I still use the hidden talent I discovered that day, many years ago.  On the Little Badgers.

Baby Badger has reached a stage where she hates having her diaper changed.  Hates it.  I tried explaining to her that all she needs to do is start sitting on the potty, but she is having none of it.  She kicks, and yells, and refuses, and I improvise some funny.  I'll grab a toy, a rock, an attractive piece of paper, or the cat.  You should see the show.  I usually get a 15-20 second window to clean and change, and then, release!

Or we'll be in the grocery store, and the cookie aisle looms in front of the Little Badgers.  Time for some improvisational distraction.  I'll make a big fuss over how cool the milk jug looks, or whether my shoe is untied, or if anyone wants to try a turn carrying Mommy's purse.  Find a prop and add some desperation, and I've got a shot at making it to the cash register.

Big Brother Badger adores his nature shows.  Dinosaurs, prehistoric mammals, giant insects from the Carboniferous, anything that crawls or climbs or bites.  But, try to get him to leave the television after his show is over?  Now I have to improvise in a different way.  Present a successful alternative, and be convincing.

While a sense of humor is always important to bring to the table in parenting, the thing I've noticed is that improvisational talent is not restricted to just being silly.  Those same initial feelings of fear and panic can show up anywhere.  The mall, on a walk, at breakfast, at Grandma's.  You see a situation coming, and it's like an instant of tunnel vision.  What to do?  A diaper blowout is cake compared with the short fuse of an overtired child, or a scared child, or an angry, frustrated child, one who would love nothing more than to communicate exactly why she feels uncomfortable, but cannot.  Improvising can coax a smile from behind the tears, or a needed distraction, a shift of focus.  It is as true and honest as something spontaneous and unrehearsed can be. It tells of the desire to calm, to soothe, to bring humor and love to a complicated situation.

I used to think that being prepared will always get me through, making me feel as though I'm ready for anything.  My Dad has a saying that I heard all through childhood: "Prior Planning Precludes Piss-Poor Performance".  Indeed.  But being able to improvise can actually lend its own sense of security.  Even if the plan fails, I can still pull something out of nowhere.  And spinning in a circle, singing, "Itsy, Bitsy, Spider" while holding Baby's "oink" (her piggy bank) is totally worth it to avoid another nasty diaper rash.

Growing Up is Hard...On Mommy

The Little Badgers are growing up.  Big Brother Badger opened a bag of cereal all by himself this morning.  Sometimes I can't do that without ripping the bag.  Baby Badger is starting to really talk, and she can climb into her car seat without any help.  And Little Brother Badger went on his first sleepover last weekend.  Of course, since he is three, it was a sleepover at his cousin's house, and Mommy came along to spend some quality time with Auntie.  But, still, a legitimate, all-night-long sleepover.

After some careful packing (he can't sleep without his turtle blanket, pillow pet, stuffed snake, stuffed Thomas, toy border collie, and Thomas pillowcase), I drove him up on a crisp Saturday afternoon.  The drive was about 25 minutes, and he was chattering the whole way.  What would his cousin want to play?  Will there be a toy fire truck?  Will we get to watch "Thomas"?  Can I have my milk in a sippy cup?  By the time we pulled in, and his cousin ran to greet him, I was worried that all the excitement would result in a quick burnout and tears.  Much to my relief, there was nothing but joy for both little boys.

They played outside in the sand box, discovering a mutual love for construction equipment.  They traded stories about how soon each of them would reach the exalted age of five.  They shared a train push-toy as best as I could have hoped for.  At dinner, they both dug in to big bowls of mac n'cheese, and encouraged each other to eat their broccoli.  Cookies and milk followed, with thanks to Auntie for finding a suitable sippy cup in her cupboards.  Little Brother Badger expressed amazement that his cousin had different toys, but the same big potty.  TV and inside toys, and then a reaaaaaallllly long bath, and then bedtime.  The boys planned the layout of the stuffed animals, snuggled through a story, and giggled together as Auntie and I left the room.

It took a while for them to go to sleep.  We had to go up a couple times, and reassure Little Brother about spiders and strange shadows.  We had to fortify the nightlight situation.  But, eventually, we crept downstairs and just listened.  Auntie was very clever and had set up a baby monitor so we could stay downstairs and not worry.  Of course, worry we did anyway, and we listened to the children's endearing, heart-squeezing, tear-inducing conversation on the monitor.  The little boys talked about missing their Daddies (one being at home, the other out with friends) and other things, their small voices growing softer and more tired.  Eventually, we moved away from the monitor to share some wine and our own conversation.  Every now and then we heard laughing, and then, finally, it seemed like both boys had fallen asleep.

We had an early wake-up the next morning, but things went so well overall.  It wasn't until I was driving Little Brother back home that I started to think about what this meant for him.  He had politely refused to let me hold him while at his cousin's house, saying, "You can hold me when we get home, Mommy".  I think he was trying to be a big guy, but his poor Momma is not quite ready to let him grow up so fast.  There was so much happiness in my boy as he raced around in his pajamas and Lightning McQueen slippers with his cousin, up and down the stairs.  But his pajamas were just a bit too big, and his hair was just a bit too long, making him look so little.  He's had the same sweet smile since he was a tiny baby, and I'm sure he'll wear that particular smile on through adulthood and it will make me cry on his wedding day.

I observed to Daddy River Badger the other day that even though each new stage brings sadness that the Little Badgers are growing up, it brings joy, too.  Big Brother Badger just turned five, and I can't wait to watch him shine every day, reveling in his imagination, his delight at being a big kid, his discoveries.  I miss my shy baby, but I burst with pride at my new little man.  As the Semisonic song goes, every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.  I always wondered why I cry so much as a Mommy.  I think I know now it's from the gaining and losing, the bright joy and subtle sadness, the lost and found, and all in a day's work.  And over it all the desperate hope that I won't forget a moment and the painful realization that I probably will.  See you tomorrow, folks.

Brains, Heart, Courage, and Respectful Children

Growing up, I remember watching "The Wizard of Oz" on network television once a year.  My sister and I would be allowed to stay up late, and we would fall in love all over again with Dorothy and her ruby slippers.  I also remember reading the book; the shoes were a little different, but the love was still there.  Something about the characters and the simplicity of the tale fascinated me, even as a child.  Growing up, it seemed like the story was everywhere.  Cultural references, school plays, my excitement to buy my niece a pair of sequined "ruby slippers" for her birthday.

I've now been reading the book to the Boy Badgers, a bit every night.  They are entranced as well, but as opposed to being obsessed with the fancy shoes, like I was, they are more interested in squishing witches with houses and huge friendly lions who can talk.  But, the best part of reading the story once more is that I have the opportunity to really think about the characters and the story.  As an adult, with a bit more life experience behind me, I find I still have the love, and now, somewhat more perspective.

The characters are simple, each representing something yearned for by any one of us.  Self-confidence, smarts, the capacity for love, loyalty to and nostalgia for home and family.  The characters experience the transition from naiveté to the realization that some things in life take more than just the asking, even if one already has the tools in one's grasp.  Each of the main characters effectively possessed their heart's desire, but did not have the ability to recognize it in themselves.

As a parent, I find I look often to others for advice, or for potential answers, or just for camaraderie.  There is something about the importance of raising a child that makes me anxious for "certainty".  I want to be certain that I am doing the right thing.  I want to be certain that I am not missing anything important.  Perhaps this classic story has more applicability in my life now than ever before.  Each of the main characters knew what they wanted most and they knew why they wanted it.  They just needed a little help in getting where they needed to be.

Becoming a parent feels like an initiation, and being a parent can sometimes feel like a trial.  In the daily commotion, it is sometimes hard to find your way or recognize your own abilities.  For myself, my heart's desire is to be a good parent.  I want to raise strong, responsible, respectful children who help make the world a better place.  There are days when I feel like I am lacking, faltering, when it seems like my desire is thwarted by easy fixes that fall short.  Perhaps not surprisingly, it is usually the observation of an outsider that helps me realize that I'm not doing such a bad job after all.  Someone else, a friend, a sister, another parent, a kind lady at the mall, helps me recognize the tools that I already have, and helps me find the confidence to use them.

Going it alone as a parent, even as a pair of parents, can lead to tunnel vision, to a lack of perspective, to an inner monologue that constantly lists faults and mistakes and ignores successes and good calls.  Having someone tell you that you are doing something well is sometimes the only way the "wins" will sink in.  Whatever we are trying for, be it brains and courage, or a way to get through to a stubborn toddler, more likely than not we already have what we need, and here's to the people who help us recognize it.

 
 

Spring has sprung...and we're tired!

Moving the clocks forward in those delicate days as Spring approaches is like an opening salvo in the face of desperately clinging Winter.  It is invigorating to have the extra sunlight in the evening, and even more delightful when those first days are warm and bright.  Buds on the trees, bulbs peeking from the ground, the absence of a chill in the air.  I love the amazing energy and feeling of newness.  Even more so than the first day of the year, when winter is its deepest and the revelry of the holidays is waning in the face of diets and deprivation, these first days of Spring hold promise and sunshine.  It's hard not to be joyful as the laughter of children mingles with the bright songs of robins.

For us, adjusting the clocks is like exhaling after holding your breath all winter.  It's a first step towards the glory days of summer, where after-dinner family walks, baseball games, swimming pools, sprinklers, and barbecues reign.  The part the Little Badgers notice most of all is that it is still light out when Daddy gets home.  There's more time for playing.  Period.  Everything else is gravy.

The only problem with Springing Forward! is that when the mind leaps, the body is sometimes slower to follow.  We leap, we jump, we play, and at the end of the day, we're tired.  One day we're closing out with dinner, and the next day the warmth has encouraged us to indulge the daylight to the fullest.  Daddy River Badger and I have both been heading dutifully to the gym for the past two-and-a-half months trying to get in shape, and even with that, we're both drooling on our pillows in the morning, too exhausted to get up.

I love this time of year, as much for the sense of anticipation as for the change of season.  I look forward to running outside, to drinking beer on the deck, to long walks down to the lake with the Little Badgers, and to running out the door without struggling into coats, hats, and gloves.  I'm excited to start my garden, to dress Baby in her summer dresses, to help the Boy Badgers master riding their bikes, and to wear bright colors.  I've been anticipating hearing the bugs "singing" at night since last fall, when the cold won out.

We throw ourselves into Spring full-throttle, eager to play, eager to dream, and eager to burst on through into summer.  So, it's natural we're a little tired.  Especially early in the morning, when it used to be even earlier just a couple days ago.

The Highs, The Lows, and The In-Betweens

Yesterday, everything clicked after dinner.  The Little Badgers were in amazing moods, we found spectacular "dance party" music on the radio, and everyone had lots of fun playing football with Daddy and pretending to be mascots.  I was flying high, so happy to be a parent, and filled with pride at how joyful the Little Badgers were.  The feeling was so profound that I paid closer attention to the ups and downs of today.  On reflection, it actually felt strangely like a high school dance.  First I was popular, then I wasn't.  I successfully spiked the punch and was a hero, and then suddenly I was Carrie, covered with guts and humiliated in front of the whole school.  Once I started thinking about it, I was struck by how wild the swings can be in a day with children, and how quickly one can forget the bad stuff in the face of the happy moments.

The day started off with a high: the Little Badgers were so happy in the morning, eating their cereal, reading to each other, playing with their stuffed animals.  They couldn't wait to get outside, and we all had fun waving at the cool guys on the trash truck.  Then, Little Brother and Baby asked to go for a walk, and there started the wild swing towards a low.  Big Brother did not want to go for a walk; he wanted to keep playing with his plastic bugs in the bushes next to the house.  To make a long story short, the first twenty minutes were filled with screaming and yelling and dawdling, to the point where one of my neighbors came running out of her house to see if she could help the child in apparent distress.  Yeah, super embarrassing, that.  We finished our walk (Big Brother decided he was having fun after a while) and headed home.  Here's an "in-between".  The rest of our walk was pretty uneventful.  When we got home, we ate an early lunch and everyone finished their food.  In-between.

Swinging back to low: driving to the library after lunch only to find that it didn't open for another hour.  Poor Little Brother Badger, his heart having been set on looking for a book on fish, lost it on the sidewalk outside, and Bad Mommy had to carry him back to the van in front of the entire nursery school class playing outside next door.  But, then, before I could get too worked up, another in-between: kids enjoying a quick episode of "Dinosaur Train" and then heading for naps without too much drama.  And then, out of nowhere, a quiet high: Little Brother falling asleep playing with my hair, his long lashes brushing his rosy cheeks, and his toy penguin under his arm.

More highs followed, today:  Big Brother gently holding his sister's hand and giving her hugs and kisses when she woke up from her nap crying; Daddy River Badger bringing Baby, fresh from her bath and wrapped in a towel, into the kitchen to give me a kiss; The Boy Badgers sitting together in bed reading a book, giggling and talking excitedly.

In fact, as I look back over today, I mostly remember the highs.  I discussed the lows, strategizing with Daddy in a quick jam session before dinner, but they served as lessons learned, guideposts for tomorrow.  Most of the in-between moments strangely turned into highs as I contemplated them, as I discovered all the little hidden details.  Details like Baby's success at eating yogurt without ruining her shirt, Big Brother's generous sharing of his favorite toy with his brother, and three Little Badgers singing along to a TV show, happy and smiling, all three next to each other on the couch.

Even though the high of last night got me paying attention, the ups and downs of today had me hooked.  Happiness, pride, anger, frustration, fear, joy, all buffeted and driven by love.  Like the Navy says, it's not a job, it's an adventure.  Like my Mom says, welcome to parenting.

It's really nice to have a village sometimes

What does community mean for raising young children?  Does it mean proximity to family and friends?  A supportive church?  Good schools?  These things, while important, leave out a crucial, and quite simple, element-people themselves.  As a parent, I'm ashamed to say that people at large tend to fade into a background of potential dangers.  I hold tightly to the Little Badgers, eyeballing them leaving the house, barking orders at them walking down the sidewalk, keeping them in line in stores.  I tell myself that all this is putting their safety and protection first.  If I relax, they could get hit by a car, or grabbed by a stranger.  If I let my guard down, they could be the subject of angry glares by other customers, or sharp comments about their behavior.  Essentially, there's a whole lot of negativity about what might happen.  What seems the best thing, in the moment, may not be the better way, overall.  This was brought home recently by a positive encounter that I couldn't have predicted.

The other day I took the Little Badgers to the grocery store.  They were very good in the store, helping to carry the basket and putting the candy back when I asked.  However, on the way back, it was like they, actually Big Brother Badger in particular, needed to make up for it.  He refused to listen when I asked him to walk near me on the sidewalk, and he threatened to bolt across crosswalks before I could get there.  Finally, he broke and ran across the street.  I yelled at him to get back to me, and after initially hesitating, he reluctantly returned.  I grabbed the front of his jacket and gave him a stern talking-to.  He was being smart, and smirked at me the whole time.  Not good.  As I stood up, though, I heard a man say, "Excuse me!"  My first thought was that the stranger was going to say something negative to me about my handling of the situation, but, instead, he came over and addressed Big Brother Badger.

"You like to run, don't you?" he asked.  I noticed that the man was wearing a jacket with a track club logo on it.  Maybe a coach?  Our Boy Badger was, at this point, shuffling his feet and looking (finally!) sheepish.  The man introduced himself and asked Big Brother his name.  I prompted him, and he did it. Mr. H told him that it wasn't a good idea to run across streets and disobey his mother.  Big Brother gave a very quiet, "Yes, sir."  Mr. H reminded him to listen, and to be a good example for his younger brother and sister.  Then he smiled at me and said, "Good-bye, now, nice to meet you."  Big Brother mumbled a reply, and shook hands.  I said "Thank you", and we continued on.  My energetic Badger made sure to hold my hand when we crossed the street from that point forward.

This one encounter with a total stranger helped on a several counts.  Big Brother realized that his disobedience was considered wrong by others, not just Silly Mommy.  He was encouraged to be polite, and to address someone with respect, shaking hands, making eye contact, saying his name.  But, perhaps more powerful, was the dawning feeling I had, that a community made up mostly of strangers, might share a common goal to help raise up children right.  I suppose I could have been annoyed, having a stranger come up and talk to my son.  Instead, I felt grateful.  There were others who cared about a small child doing dangerous things.  It made me proud of my community.

I don't think I'm going to stop watching the Little Badgers like a hawk when they walk next to a busy road, or hold their hands when we're in parking lots.  I don't think I'm going to stop sternly insisting they behave correctly in the store, or to be respectful.  But, I do think I'm going to see people in our community differently.  Being a parent might feel isolating at times, but I'm happy to discover support in unlikely places.

Utopia

Last night my Mom watched a PBS documentary about the feminist movement.  The Boy Badgers were still up, so they were playing and reading books while the TV was on in the background.  I hate to admit this, but I was a little wary of them being exposed to this documentary.  Not for the reasons you might think, however.  Discussions of abortion, sexual expression, or domestic violence would be difficult to explain, but I found myself worried about something more fundamental and, maybe, more selfish.

I like to think that the Little Badgers are still young enough not to understand discrimination, bigotry, or sexism.  They, of course, observe how people are different, in skin color, accent, age, or just being a boy or a girl.  They see that some of their friends have two Mommies, or a Mommy and a Daddy, or just a Daddy.  They see that some families celebrate Christmas and some don't.  They see differences, but not superiority or inferiority.  I secretly enjoy the little utopia that I imagine exists in the Little Badger minds-differences acknowledged, but not prejudiced.  

So how do I explain racism, or sexism to them?  I know that it is important for them to understand where society has been and how hard the fight has been to get to where we are in this country.  But, what is the starting point for that discussion?  It's almost easier to explain reproduction to them.  I've easily handled questions about how babies come out of Mommy's belly, or why their sister doesn't have a penis.  That's biology, not sociology.

I would love to never expose the Little Badgers to the bad stuff.  On some crappy news days, I have a fantasy of just living in a bunker for a while.  While watching that documentary yesterday, I didn't want to have to answer why some people thought (or think) women are inferior to men.  I just didn't want to go there yet.  I wanted to keep the Little Badgers in that utopia, where women are simply doctors, or mothers, or teachers, or chefs, or what-have-you.  Writing this now, I understand that this may be somewhat acceptable now, due to their tender ages, but in the near future is simply denying reality and leaving them unprepared.  It's unfair to leave them without an appreciation for the hard work and sacrifices it took to get here by generations gone before, and still today.  People fighting for religious freedoms, marriage equality, fighting age discrimination, fighting for civil rights.  Things aren't just handed out for free, and I know that's one of the basic lessons of life, kid or adult.

It turned out not to matter, yesterday.  The Boy Badgers pretty much ignored the TV, and instead focused on books and a snack before heading up to bed.  I ended up feeling discontented about my initial reaction.  As I thought about it more, I realized that it was good that this came up now.  I'm going to do some homework.  I'm going to think very hard about how to talk to the Little Badgers when these topics do arise.  I hope I can answer them honestly, if not fully, depending on their ages.  Utopia is a wonderful thing, especially for a child, in his or her mother's eyes, but was never meant to last too long, unfortunately.

What's your power?

The Boy Badgers are into superheroes, like Batman, Superman and Spiderman.  I'm not sure how much of the backstories they understand, but they like the cool capes, car, and webs, and they like the idea of the good guys coming out on top.  However, any superpowers that these guys have are equivalent in Badger eyes to a cheetah's speed, or a blue whale's size, or a lizard's ability to camouflage itself.  Which got me thinking, what "powers" do any of us regular folks have?  Powers that we ourselves perceive to be just business as usual, but to someone else would be mind-boggling.

For example, one of my weaknesses is to stuff my face at dinnertime.  That's when the munchies hit for me, and they hit with a vengeance.  Daddy River Badger has an amazing superpower (see, it's all relative!) to eat with moderation, no matter how hungry or stressed he is.  Another example has to do with kindness.  I struggle with being overly critical.  My sister-in-law is amazingly kind.  She has never said a bad word about anyone, and I consider that a superpower, for sure.  My Mom has a superpower of empathy towards animals.  Animals gravitate to her, and she cares for them as kindred spirits.  I worry about my tendency towards selfishness.  My mother-in-law has the superpower of generosity.  She is generous with her time and her love, no matter how tired she is, or where a person comes from.  Once you enter her house, you are treated as family. 

Each of these powers may not seem as jaw-dropping as shooting webs and swinging from high buildings, or as awe-inspiring as the the wingspan of a pteranodon.  They are also probably not anything special to the people who possess them, but to someone else they are amazing.

So, look in the mirror tonight and think about what your powers are.  Each of us has something to offer.  Kindness, generosity, self-discipline, physical ability, empathy, a talent for words or art, unconditional love.  I think my superpower lies somewhere in how much I love my kids.  What's yours?

Nightmare of a Nightmare

Last night was a doozy.  I had a hard time falling asleep and an even worse time staying asleep.  The worst part of all was a terrible nightmare that woke me up close to 4:30 in the morning, shaking and shaken.  The nightmare itself was pretty standard.  As far as I can tell, anyone who went to school has that dream where you've forgotten about an assignment or test.  The one I usually have is that I've forgotten to drop a class, and don't realize it until the final exam; but last night was a bit different.  It's been almost five years exactly since I defended my graduate thesis, and in my dream, it was the day of my defense, but I had forgotten to go.  I couldn't send an email and somehow my phone had disappeared.  The feeling of utter panic was profound, and it persisted when I woke up.

The night itself was bad enough, but then we had a wake-up call at five when Little Brother Badger started throwing up.  After all the cleaning and re-arranging, I ended up back in bed with LBB sleeping next to me (and a bucket).  Not being able to fall back asleep, I started thinking back to that dream, and why it was so affecting.  The dream scenario itself wasn't the thing that stood out, upon further reflection.  As a Mommy, there are many, many things that totally trump a missed thesis defense for scariness.  I guess I should thank my brain that this dream had nothing to do with the Little Badgers, but what a terrifying feeling of helpless panic.

Now, I can speculate as to why that panic is there, held somewhere deep inside.  I've recently left my job to be a Mommy full-time.  I'm worried about who I am, what I'm doing, where I'm going, and how much money it's going to cost (waste?) to get there.  I'm worried about my confidence, and my sense of self-worth.  I'm worried about how big my butt is and if I'll ever have the perseverance to make it back in shape.  Yeah, I guess you could say I'm all-around worried.  For the first time in my life I do not have an iron-clad direction.  Everyone around me is supportive, but I still have to sort things out in my own head to make it count.

Valentine's Day, with Bill Murray

As far as I can tell there are two types of people when it comes to the subject of Valentine's Day.  There are the people who care too much, and the people who don't care enough.  This year, I'm afraid that I fall into the latter category.  Daddy River Badger and I aren't really planning anything, and we're missing that necessary sense of "oh sh*t!" that would force us into something at the last minute.  We've got plenty of excuses: it's too expensive, it's too cliched, we don't like crowds, blah, blah.  Personally, I'm kind of enjoying wallowing in the minor feeling of annoyance whenever a Kay Jewelers ad comes on.  So what's with us this year?  I guess I'm just not into a big production.  I'm looking forward to the morning, when the kids can open their valentines from their grandparents and present theirs to their Daddy.  And for the evening, after they go to bed, for just Daddy River Badger and myself.  A funny movie on cable, maybe sharing a box of cheap chocolate, a nice alcoholic beverage (or three), and a little sexy time.  Bam!

Love is so much more than just a single holiday, but it's nice to have a holiday that's meant to celebrate it, even in a commercialized, annoying way.  It's probably especially important for DRB and I, being as smirkingly complacent as we are with our relationship.  Now, when we've been together for twelve years, married for almost six, when we have three kids and a mortgage.  Now, when we know everything about each other (even the thing that happened that time in that place), and we know that most surprises these days lead to arguments about money.  So, are we doing it wrong, playing down the holiday this year?  Or are we making it particularly special-appropriate for us, at this time of our lives.

We love each other.  We fight a lot, but we've got the love part down.  We fit, maybe too closely sometimes.  We're a little too sarcastic, and a little too cynical, but we appreciate the small things.  Watching a Bill Murray movie, sharing a pile of chocolate, fooling around a little.  I guess that, in the end, the point is to acknowledge the holiday, but not to force it.  For me, taking a step back and enjoying each other, sharing companionship and laughter and well-worn jokes, seems like the most romantic thing we could do.  And the dress code is perfect, too.

An Old Box

A couple of weeks ago I helped my Mom go through a box of old family photos.  These included photographs that dated from the 1900s, all the way back to my great-great grandmother on my Mom's side.  There were some photos that I had seen before, but most I was seeing for the first time.  How striking it was to see youthful images of people I had only known as elderly, if at all.  And how limited the images were.  These photos offered only glimpses into the lives of my relatives.  A moment at the beach, a picture of a girl holding a cat, a family Christmas long ago.  After looking through these photos, I found I was left with more questions than I started off with.

These photographs left so much out.  They offered simple familial associations, and geographical context, but no real insight into the lives of the people in them.  Especially in the oldest photos, expression was limited.  Smiles were rare, even on children.  Women looked older than they really were.  The stories appeared to be not what I saw in the pictures, but what I didn't see.  This led me to thinking about the history of a family.  How much lives on?  How much more is forgotten?  Are we doing any better now, with our thousands of prints and many photo books?  Or, in the end, are we left still to interpret an expression long past, a scene long gone.  History is interpreted through the lens of the present, and especially, it seems, with family photos.  I looked for similarities to myself; the shape of my nose, the texture of my hair, the curve of my mouth.  I wonder if I assigned similarities where none existed, or missed other nuances due to prejudice, or oversight.

When I look at my life today, it is framed by my children.  Their moments are my moments.  Some moments I can capture on camera, but most are simply lived.  The other day, my Baby was twirling like a ballerina in the middle of the living room.  She had started her dance quite spontaneously, and was whirling happily, arms over her head, her face beaming with delight.  I didn't run for the camera, but just watched her.  She stopped dancing as quickly as she began, and the moment was over.  This was a moment that could not be repeated, or even now captured.  It existed for her, and was remembered by me.  It defines who she is, as a child, better than any picture could.  It would be lost to anyone looking back through our family photos, trying to understand their distant relations.

I wonder how much of who we are is passed on through temperament, or mental fortitude, or capacity for happiness, parent to child.  Is it in the same proportions as physical similarities, or does it run deeper?  Because, even though the joy and context of the moment was fleeting, perhaps that dance echoed dances from long ago, dances that were not captured on film, but that existed and were as real and defining as my daughter's pirouettes.

Jekyll and Hyde Come to Dinner

One child, sweet little boy
Charming, polite, darling joy

One child, bold and crass
angry, passionate, broken glass

Both children, loved and held
Comforted, the world is theirs

Can I reconcile striking feelings
Found in pairs?

Because these children share a name
A face, a smile, they are the same.

My oldest child sometimes seems like two sides of the same coin.  He is just this side of five, sensitive and kind, thoughtful and gentle.  He will care lovingly for his little sister, tell me that I am the best Mommy in the world, and hold his little brother's hand unfailingly in a parking lot.  But, it seems that the price of this wonderful behavior comes in dramatic moments of anger and frustration.  Most of these moments occur, understandingly, at the end of a long day, or when he is hungry, or tired.  Most of these moments therefore occur at mealtimes.

I'm not sure exactly how it happens that my calm little dreamer becomes an inconsolable tyrant.  All I know is that, lately, sitting down for a family meal has been a battleground.  Over and over, I will cook, and he will refuse to eat.  Threats, bribes, feigned or real anger and disappointment; nothing seems to work.  Most of time he's sent to his room to sit by himself.  Sometimes he will go quietly, but there usually will be a screaming, crying scene.  In the end, his stubbornness clashes with our resolve to be "good" parents and the result is a huge sense of defeat.

It's not the food.  He'll break down over fish sticks, fries, and applesauce.  It happens whether he takes his nap or not, or if he's had his snack or not.  Perhaps, with dinner, there's something about the timing.  Daddy comes home and the energy of the house changes.  Mommy is probably a little stressed.  There is a whirlwind of setting the table, wrestling Baby into her high chair, arguing over milk or water, and calling the Boy Badgers reluctantly in from toys or books.

Maybe it's just a perfect storm within himself.  Perhaps he's been watching TV and gotten too engrossed.  Perhaps he's thirsty.  Maybe he's holding onto frustration from earlier when his younger siblings were knocking over his carefully-crafted dinosaur toyscape.  He creates his own intensity, and holds a lot of his emotion inside.  Today, an outburst happened at lunch.  He broke down as soon as he saw his plate.  I put him in time-out, then in his room, as we've done before.  But, unlike dinnertime, when Daddy River Badger is there to help supervise the younger kids, I was on my own.  I had to let him cry it out while I helped the Littlest Badgers with their food.  As lunch wrapped up, I heard the crying soften, and gradually stop.  Little Brother had done an especially good job eating all his food and I offered him some pudding.  I heard the bedroom door open, and soft footsteps in the hall.  Big Brother peeked into the kitchen, his eyes swollen, but an apologetic look on his face.  I held back my initial impulse to send him back to his room, and offered him his food.  He sat down and ate.  I gave him some pudding.  He told me he was sorry for earlier.  As the two younger children played in the next room, I washed the dishes and asked him why he behaved that way.  He told me that he didn't know.

But, I think I might.  When I was little, I remember trying to be very good.  I wanted to be an obedient child, and to make my parents happy.  I also had a strong imagination, and held a lot of emotion inside.  It would build up and build up, and when something would set me off, I would lose control.  I would cry, and cry, and then, after letting it all out, I would feel better.  I don't know why he's feeling this way, but maybe this common ground is a place to start.

Big Brother Badger is naturally quiet and likes to play on his own.  Perhaps I've been relying too much on his independence and maturity.  Maybe I need to be on a closer lookout for the younger kids taking advantage of his gentle nature.  Perhaps I need to watch for frustrations beginning to build.  I think Mommy needs to step up and do more than cook.

Please check out my guest blog post!

Hi everyone!  Kathy at kissing the frog has kindly invited me to write a guest post for her blog, which you can read here!  I was so excited to write about my wonderful Mom, and how she and I can try to relate to each other, despite our disagreements over the TV!

Our Walk to Remember

Big Brother Badger is a dreamer.  Starting from just an idea or a toy, he will create an entire story and become completely engrossed, intense, an entire world at his feet.  Growing up, I was like that, too.  Where I grew up was perfect-fifteen acres of woods and fields allowed for unlimited potential for imagination.  One day I would be pretending fairies lived amongst the moss and roots around an old tree, the next day I would be telling stories of sea creatures in a creek bed.  I would sit for hours on the gravel driveway, picking out rocks for a collection, or ride my bike in circles thinking up tall tales set in outer space.

The Little Badgers and I visited my parents recently, and the trees are still there.  The creek, the moss, the gravel driveway.  This place is so different from our own house.  The Badger clan lives closer to the hustle and bustle of a big city, where sidewalks and parks replace more secluded places.  When I take the children for walks near our house, I have to be on constant alert to keep them from straying into the path of a car, or near a strange dog, or too far from my side.  On this visit, on our walks, I could let them be free.  Free to play, to run, to disappear for a little while into the woods or behind a tree.  Free to be as I remember feeling as a child.  Free to explore and dream.

Watching the Little Badgers on our walks with Grandma, I saw each child play as if it were part of my own memories: Big Brother running as fast as the wind, arms outstretched and face alight, Little Brother methodically picking just the right stone from the driveway, Baby toddling down the road after the dog.

I find I now look at the woods and fields around my parents' house as if my years of adulthood had not happened.  As if I were a child again, seeing things as my children do.  All the places that beckon to be explored, the stories waiting to be told, the dreams just around the corner.  Familiar and exciting at the same time.  The sounds are the chatter of birds and the crunch of gravel beneath our feet, the brush of tall grass and the swish of dry leaves.  When we step outside on these walks, the air feels uplifting and fresh, almost asking us to look up to the sky instead of down at pavement.

Memory is a funny thing.  I don't know if the Little Badgers will remember everything they saw on these walks.  I don't know if they'll remember looking for deer, or watching for hawks, or jumping in each mud puddle as if it was the first one they had ever seen.  I don't know if they'll remember the smells of the leaves, or walking on a fallen tree, or watching their Mommy laugh with her own mother like best friends.  But I'll remember Big Brother telling me how much he loved being there, of Little Brother asking to carry rocks home as keepsakes, of Baby pointing and clapping at the dog's silly antics.  I'll remember, and be thankful for it.

My orders are to bring milk. In a sippy cup.

I know it.  Daddy River Badger knows it.  The Little Badgers especially know it.  Mommy is a sucker. Want an extra cup of milk?  Ask Mommy.  Too tired to pick up your sock from directly under your chair?  Complain to Mommy.  Got a craving for an animal cracker 15 minutes before dinner?  Mommy's the go-to.  I have to say I didn't come to this after any prior planning on my part; I never set out to be the push-over parent.  All I know is that when those little arms reach up for me, big eyes wide open and wet with tears, little empty tummy growling, I kinda lose my resolve and give in.

 This is not something I take lightly.  I know that it causes tension in my marriage, and can set up for some serious parent-kid confrontations down the road.  I don't want to raise selfish children.  And from DRB's point-of-view, it's no fun being the "bad guy" every time.  Daddy won't allow a sippy cup anymore.  Daddy says just one book.  Daddy will only give out apples for snacks.  Daddy wants his bed back after eight months of co-sleeping.

I think some of that latent frustration came out this morning.  I had gone out to a doctor's visit that was supposed to take all of 45 minutes, and ended up being gone for two-and-a-half hours (waiting, waiting, waiting).  DRB was left in charge of the Little Badgers.  When I walked in the door, I could tell that something was different.  DRB greeted me with the pronouncement that Little Brother Badger had been denied his treasured sippy cup in favor of the big boy variety and Baby had not had her customary bottle of milk.  This seemed to be a slightly passive aggressive way of letting me know that I had been relenting a little too much; these were both steps that we had discussed.  We both know that a three-year-old should be using a regular cup.  Our growing toddler should not be relying on a bottle.  But these things are for comfort, which tugs at my Mommy-heart-strings a bit.

It must be noted that I am not a complete softie.  I inevitably send kids to the "naughty chair" several times a day, I place a high value on respectful behavior, and I have been known to startle my niece and nephew with my "authority" voice (Auntie is more graceful).  But, I see the value in small, childish things.  Baby treasures her bottle as she falls asleep, and when she awakens.  It comforts her.  Little Brother Badger will hold his sippy cup in one hand and twirl his hair in the other.  It comforts him.  I rely on these calming things to get the children through stressful situations like running late during errands, a long car ride, or if they're scared by something.  And, from experience, I know that babyhood habits run their course almost naturally.  Situations change, rituals change, and suddenly things are different.  A sippy cup gives way to a big boy cup as a child emulates his big brother.  A bottle becomes unnecessary as a baby becomes a little girl.  Why rush?

As well-meaning as Daddy River Badger is, I could see that the transition this morning was a little too fast for the Littlest Badgers.  Or maybe I could feel it.  I think that with discipline, and structure, there needs to be a little gentleness too.  Or maybe I'm just a sucker.

Bargaining Positions

There's a familiar dance that happens between myself and Daddy River Badger, especially on weekends, when it comes time for running errands, cleaning, doing yard work, or anything around the house that might benefit from avoiding little "helpers".  The dance begins with a brief survey of the situation, proceeds with a bit of groveling, and then finishes with a flourish of desperate negotiation.  "Would you mind if I...." becomes the start of, at the least, a stressful silence, and at the worst, an argument.

We don't even hold out for the good stuff.  Some time to fool around on Facebook?  A short trip to Starbucks? A really long shower?  Nope.  We get into it for stuff like cleaning the back room.  Fixing the toilet.  Grocery shopping.  Making dinner.  And for all of those things, somehow one person gets "stuck" with the kids and the other person does the chores, and both are angry and frustrated.  Essentially, we would bargain, and no one would win.

But why the desperation in the first place?  Weekends represent a break from the daily grind of the week, for sure, and perhaps the hope of some progress in the chores department.  But why the exclusiveness?  I thought about this the other day while I was looking at my "to-do" list and the three Little Badgers played in the next room.  Truly, attempting to clean something while the children are present can be more of a comedic effort than an actual task, but what made me most guilty was that we assumed that there was no way we could possibly do insert chore here with the kids in tow.  We had given up before really trying.

The past few weeks of being a SAHM have been revelatory in many ways, but the most amazing experiences have involved working with the children, instead of in spite of them.  I actually can, with full Little Badger participation, cook dinner, take down the Christmas decorations, rake leaves, clean the fish tank, do laundry, even take the cat to the vet.  And it's fun!

Yesterday, Baby Badger wanted me to hold her when I was making dinner.  My first impulse was to try to distract her to the other room with a toy, but I threw caution to the winds and set up a little area for her, right next to me, where she could see what I was doing and play with a few measuring cups herself.  We had so much fun together, and the only skin off my back was being extra careful not to let her reach over to the hot stove.  Doing the laundry has always been something that I "had to do when the kids are in bed".  Then, I tried to involve them.  Little Brother Badger and Baby helped put clothes in the washer and press the buttons.  Big Brother helped me fold.  Sure, a few clothes got dropped on the floor, and Baby knocked over the cat water, but it was not nearly the exercise in futility I had been expecting.  Why had I been so eager to keep them out of these activities?  Was the extra work here and there, for me, really that bad?

So, I think we, DRB and I, couldn't see the forest for the trees, so bent on getting things done our way, and as efficiently as possible, we were missing out on opportunities to work together as a family.  It's almost like we were settling for frustration, for an argument, for control of something, instead of reaching for the possibility of inclusiveness, of learning.  I like to think that I'm a good Mom, but I also know I appreciate the on-the-job training.  And I can say I really learned something important here.

The Mom-Voice

Today, I was changing in the locker room after swimming when a Mom walked in with her 5-year-old daughter.  They were hurrying to swim class and were a little late.  The girl knew her right from her left.  She was also a vegetarian, and was wearing a new pair of goggles that they had bought on sale.  How did I know all this, having never met them before or even directly interacted with them?  The lady was using her Mom-Voice.

The Mom-Voice is a very clear, slightly too-loud, authoritative tone used while shepherding young children in public.  I know that I use it practically every day.  It's used to ward off bad behavior by projecting authority to the youngsters.  It's used to indirectly convey to strangers that I am a Good Mommy.  It's used to project to others that I am aware of my children being too loud, or rude, or throwing food and that I am dealing with it.  It can be, depending on the circumstances, slightly abashed, or overly boastful, or breathlessly apologetic.

"Honey, here, put your right foot through your pants...no, your right, your RIGHT.  Heh heh, of course you know your right from your left."
Translation: My child is smart.  (S)he knows right from left, and the alphabet, and numbers.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Sweetheart, no, we cannot get the chocolate cookies.  We always have something healthy for a snack.  LIKE CARROTS."
Translation: My child is healthy.  I don't feed my kids crap.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Darling, please say excuse me.  Be respectful.  IT IS IMPORTANT TO BE RESPECTFUL."
Translation: I am sorry.  I am raising a respectful child.  I am doing my job, dammit.

"Baby, I know you are tired, you are doing very well considering it is almost NAP TIME".
Translation: Please don't give me that look.  I had to run this errand.  My child is usually so well-behaved.  I am doing my job, dammit.

When I am using my Mom-Voice, I am usually mostly unaware of it.  I think in the subtext, the hidden meanings, the explanations, meant for strangers.  While I am talking to the Little Badgers, looking at them, I am saying things not for their benefit alone.  The kids already know the score.  They know I'm full of it when I claim to only feed them carrots for a snack; they're holding out for a cracker in the car on the way home.  They know their right from their left; they just are too busy fooling around to help me get their pants on.  The impact of the Mom-Voice really hit home this morning, when I was one of the strangers.  I sensed the subtle plea for approval, the seeking of common understanding.  Maybe I should say I recognized it.

In the world outside of raising children, there are tangible ways to demonstrate one's measure.  Articles published, a nice suit, a diploma, a fancy office, awards, a promotion.  Raising children can really only be measured in the ultimate outcome: the child.  And, of course, children are children.  They have good days, and hours, and bad ones.  They can be taught perfectly, fed perfectly, and still pick their nose.  I, as a parent, know that.  I know I'm doing a good job parenting, why should I care about the expectations or impressions of total strangers?  And yet, still, I enjoy the approval of strangers and fret over looks of disappointment.  I suppose the Mom-Voice is an advertisement, a commercial of sorts, getting the word out that I am trying, that I do the legwork, that I am on top of things, perhaps despite appearances.  It is like a play, for the benefit of an audience.  In the immortal words of the Bard: "the play's the thing, wherein we'll catch the conscience of the king".  Perhaps we're relying on our reading of the lines to convince others of our parenting ability.

As the other Mom left the locker room this morning with her daughter in tow, I smiled at her.  I don't know if it helped, or if she even really noticed, but I wanted to let her know that I understood how hard she works, and the effort she puts it to raise her little girl.  Truly, we shouldn't need the Mom-Voice to judge good from indifference.  Just observing the way the little girl looked up at her Momma, the way she held her hand, should tell us enough.

Rituals

The rituals of parenting can be as simple as reading a story before bedtime, or as complex as the desperate dance of a rush-hour morning.  These rituals can begin in bleary-eyed confusion, in the darkness of deepest night, or in the rush of absolute necessity.  They sneak up on us as essential elements of our day, turning tears into smiles and frenetic activity into smooth efficiency.  They remain in our hearts as something close to tradition, noticed most poignantly when they change into something new.

There are a few rituals in the River Badger household that define our days, that I know will be gone as the Little Badgers grow and our schedules adjust.  These rituals begin as soon as we get up, and serve as signposts through the day.  Breakfast, playtime, getting ready for naps, dinner, bath, bedtime.

Some parts of the rituals have held through all three children.  When Big Brother Badger was a baby, I or Daddy River Badger would finish his bath by wrapping him up in a soft towel and bringing him, his little face and tiny feet peeking out, out to see the other parent.  We would kiss him and admire him and he would light up.  We continued this tradition with Little Brother, who, as he got older, would squeal "show me to Daddy!" after his bath.  Even now, tonight, as I finished up the dishes from dinner, DRB brought Baby in to see me, wrapped in a towel, her little face beaming up at me.  I kissed her little nose, still wet from her bath.  This is something that I treasure, and look forward to every night.

Other little rituals are more recently established.  Nap-time for the Little Badgers since I've been home full-time has become our newest ritual.  Baby goes up first.  I warm a bottle, and carry her into her room, where we sit on a comfy chair and I rock her.  She holds her bottle in one hand and gently pulls at my hair with the other until she's drowsy and her bottle is empty.  I put her in her crib, give her "Baa" (a stuffed sheep), and cover her with her blanket.  She says a soft "Bye-bye", and falls asleep.  Little Brother comes up next; he sleeps in my bed, since he and Big Brother talk too much when they are in the same room for naps.  I give him his milk (in a sippy cup!), and tuck him in with his stuffed Thomas the Train.  BBB holds out for "quiet time".  He's decided that he's too old for naps, but he's always tired if he doesn't lie down.  I set him up in his room with some toys and books and leave him to it.  As I walk down the hall, I'll hear him begin a story, his little voice very serious as he discusses the fate of his bugs, or dinosaurs, or trucks.

The rituals of parenting are so inherent to the family, so personal and yet so mundane to an outsider.  They are precious, and can mark the evolution of children from tiny infants to precocious toddlers to independent youngsters.  They can be quickly forgotten, or held onto forever.  They make me look at my day differently; instead of day-to-day tedium, I see a template for memories.

We stick together.

"I never saw a wild thing
sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself." ~D.H. Lawrence

Today I saw a group of squirrels flying from branch to branch, effortless and free.  They weren't scared, or worried, or held back by questions of "what if?".  They did not fear the unknown, or perhaps, they are simply unaware of it.  Either way, their acrobatics left me thinking about anticipation and worry, and how those emotions can both prepare us and defeat us.

I worry all the time, about schedules, events, parties, and presentations.  As soon as something pops onto my calendar, I begin to worry about it.  What do I need to do to be ready?  What if something goes wrong?  Sometimes, it's just a small twinge in the pit of my stomach.  Other times, it's more like a freight train, and I feel like I'm unable to get out of the way.  I like to keep my options open.  I'll scope out the lecture hall ahead of time or I'll create an excuse to have ready in case I feel I need to sneak out early.  My worries can both help and hinder.  They help me prepare, to anticipate possible questions and problems.  But, they prevent a lot of natural enjoyment.  In most cases, once I've gotten someplace and settled in, I'll usually relax enough to have some fun, but I know I practically ruin it for myself every time.

I'd resigned myself to this some time ago.  But recently, I've been seeing some of myself in my son.  Big Brother Badger worries about seeing a new doctor, about school plays, about first classes, about meeting new people.  Essentially, he worries about unknown situations.  Like me, he only feels comfortable once he's gauged the situation and understands not only his role in it, but how it appears.  Once the first class is over, or the first act has finished, he has seen the location and the people there.  He can picture it in his mind, and a lot of fears subside.  I understand this only too well.  The unknown becomes known, or at least somewhat predictable.

So here we are, two worriers.  I can't even blame Daddy River Badger.  In the back of my head, I truly wish BBB didn't share this particular trait of mine.  But, since he does, I can be thankful that he has a kindred spirit to hold his hand and to understand where he's coming from.  Those squirrels may not have to worry about self-esteem, or failing, being wild things.  Or maybe they were just finding strength in being with their own kind.  Me and my boy, we stick together.

Splash!

There are some activities that strongly defined portions of my childhood.  One of these was being on the swim team.  I started at the local YMCA and was so excited to be jumping in the water and trying my first team sport.  I loved the pretty ribbons won at meets, the new friends, the feeling of excitement before a race.  I look back on the memories and smile.  I remember the hot dogs and sodas after meets, my parents' shock at the almost-immodest racing suits, how I got so angry at my third grade teacher for confiscating one of my swimming magazines in class, how I thought Janet Evans was the coolest girl in the world.  I would say I was a slightly above average swimmer.  A coach at a summer swim clinic said that I could probably be a decent college athlete, if I gave it my all.  But, over time, I started to lose interest.  I was not inspired by the two-a-day practices, my middle-of-the-road performances, or the time away from other activities, such as practicing my harp.  I quit before high school.

I swam off and on for fitness through college and grad school.  I always liked the power of stroking through the water, and the feeling of utter exhaustion after a good workout.  But, as always, life seemed to pop back in and I would fade back out of the pool.  Then, it was baby, baby, baby.  I never swam while pregnant; I guess I never wanted to spend the money on a maternity suit.  I flirted with the idea of training for a triathlon while participating in Team in Training, but settled on a marathon program because I didn't have a bike.  But, as fulfilling and sweat-inducing as running is, it always felt forced for me.  I definitely didn't feel good at it.

This morning I ventured to the local rec center for a training session in the pool.  This was a real training session with a coach and everything.  I hadn't had a coach since my old swim team days, and was curious as to what I could learn, and if the old motivation and love was anywhere to be found.

I walked out onto the pool deck with some trepidation, my familiar demon of insecurity back on my shoulder.  I was nervous, and a little intimidated.  I hadn't worked with a clock, or in sets, or really with other swimmers since I was a child.  My whole self, both mentally and physically, had changed.  I breathed a sigh of relief when the other swimmers were women just like myself, thirty-something, not in perfect shape, friendly.  I relaxed even more when I met the coach, an approachable lady who was excited to work with us.  For some reason, I had been picturing a cadre of svelte, snobby men in Speedos.

We jumped in (actually, a couple women dove in) and started our warm-up.  Eight laps, freestyle.  I felt more at home in the water than on an exercise bike or on the treadmill.  I felt smooth.  I passed the other swimmers easily, and when I finished well ahead of everyone, the coach looked surprised.  She gave me an extra set.  I felt strong.  As the practice continued, the old competitive spirit welled up, and I was happy to throw myself into the workout.  I kicked until my legs burned, my strokes long, and my pace consistent.  I challenged myself, and was happy to see the approval and encouragement of the coach.  I did not hold myself back to fit in, I did not worry about messing up, I did not spend the whole time sucking in my stomach and crossing my arms in front of my chest.

I know that this was just a training session, but it meant more than that to me.  It was hopefully a kick-start back into confidence in exercise.  It held just enough nostalgia and old feelings to seem attractively familiar.  It was fun again, and I felt like I was good.  I can't wait to get back in the pool next week.  I can't wait to see where this goes.  I wrote a speech for a competition back in middle school about swimming.  At the time, I was in love with swimming, and gave a passionate presentation.  One of the lines was something like, "No matter how old you are, from 5 to 105, swimming is a great way to have fun, and stay fit."  Well, I think I'll take that advice.  I'm sure Janet Evans would approve.

So what if I put bacon in the pot roast?

I've got a great husband.  Daddy River Badger is all sorts of wonderful.  But, as any married couple can attest, there are, ahem, points of contention.  I think that the more you love someone, the angrier they can make you.  They know exactly which buttons to push, and all the arguments are made with the finesse of true professionals.  The good thing is that the love will always pull you back, and usually quickly.  Pheromones help, too.  Well, I've written about the changes that have happened in our household recently, including my journey to being a SAHM.  One point of contention that has recently reared its head is DRB flying his "control freak" flag, and me sticking it to him with my "don't tell me what to do" attitude.  What, you ask, might cause such an ugly display?  Cooking.

We're a closeted foodie family.  We love to watch the Food Network, and "Top Chef".  DRB and I threaten the Little Badgers with episodes of "Chopped" instead of their cartoons if they misbehave.  Big Brother Badger likes to play-act cooking competitions with his toy food and dishes.  The other day, he made me a delectable plate of carrots, porcupine, and chocolate.  I declined, saying I wanted pizza "with no stuff on it".  He swooned dramatically to the floor, sighing, "I guess I've been 'Chopped'!"  Having three kids, though, means that we can't go out to eat as much as we would like.  So, our relationship with food is pretty much defined by our home life.

DRB relaxes by cooking.  His ideal world would be a quick trip to Trader Joe's after work each day to pick up fresh ingredients and a bottle of wine before heading home to leisurely prepare a delicious, yet economical dinner.  We actually lived that dream for a bit in South Pasadena, CA before moving back East.  My ideal world is a little more structured.  I would prefer a single grocery trip for the week, picking up ingredients for a series of fun meals picked from the pages of cooking magazines and books.  I don't so much relax by cooking, but I enjoy putting things together and trying things out.  I don't like to be meddled with.  He doesn't like to be boxed in.  I don't like advice or criticism when I cook, as it's usually, and proudly, trial and error.  He doesn't like wasting good food through stubbornness.

Then we added three Little Badgers, and mostly played things by ear.  We would shop somewhere between 2-3 times per week, and usually cooked whatever was around when one of us got home.  Total improvisation and near-total chaos.  I recently left my job, though, and a situation that I thought would be simplified has instead evolved into a constant tug-of-war.  I feel like I am in a position to bring order to our food-lives.  I want to plan my own meals, and try out recipes from magazines.  He wants to keep the expenditures under control, and does not trust any magazine recipe to be cheap or economical.  I want the kids to try new things.  He just wants them to eat, and therefore wants the food to be straightforward.  I want him to get the hell out of my kitchen.  He loves to cook, and really can't help himself from trying to help, give advice, or just watch over my shoulder.  I feel he doesn't trust me.  He feels I don't give his likes and dislikes due consideration.

So, I'm playing the traditional Mom-card without much experience, and he's hanging on to how we did things before, without giving me any leeway.  We're at odds.  I really want to make him happy, and I hope he feels the same way.  We're oil and water in the kitchen, though, and I'm not sure where to go from here.  Probably to the liquor cabinet.  At least we can agree on a good cocktail!