Sanactuary

Some evenings, I’ll throw Steve a peace sign then bail to the bathtub immediately after dinner, holing myself away in the quietest room of our house, and barring entry to anyone with a penis.  

I wish it was a calm and graceful exit, but really I bolt with the urgency I imagine Quasimodo limped toward the gates of Notre Dame.  Frantically locking the door, making sure I’m alone, then screaming “SANCTUARY!!!” as I melt into an hour of blessed solitude.  

Because the deeper I wade into these motherhood waters, the more I find out what buoys or drowns me.  Like when i have been danced on, sneezed on, pulled, cried, and climbed on all day…

I. Need. Alone.

No one touching me.

No one kissing me.  

No one lining my flip-flops with dog poop and Legos.

No one affectionately forcing a half-eaten grape down my trachea.

As the only lady in a house full of males...I’m highly valued but gravely outnumbered.  

As a morning person...the peak of my energy bell curve hits around 11 a.m., and then it’s just a slow, (sometimes burning) descent from there.  

As an introvert...my boys’ constant bear hugs, high-pitched sound effects, and insatiable need for constant-yet-pointless conversation drain me dry by afternoon.

Bone dry.  

I’ve handled this scratching-the-bottom in a number of diverse ways:

• Yelling
• Ignoring
• Fleeing
• Outsourcing
• More yelling
• Bribes
• Screens
• Tears
• Tub
• Standing in front of the garage door then bolting, braless and barefoot, the moment my husband’s car turns the corner.

*cough*

I don't recommend that last one.

Only a few of those have proven successful so, I’m trying what’s actually helped me tread water long enough to catch my breath:

Quiet time.  A mandatory two hours after lunch and before school-pick-up-line-purgatory.  I’m not productive in this time.  I ask, “what can I not do when the boys are up?”  Read, write, nap, TV, eat Rolos in the open.  

Meal Planning. Since by dinner time, my skin already feels coated with their noise, it helps not to add bacon grease or marinara to the mix.  There’s a peace that settles over my soul when food is simmering in the crock pot and all I’m responsible for in the mass chaos of meal time is boiling noodles or unthawing peas.  

Getting away.  When our out of town family and friends visit, I head for the hills.  On particularly tough days, Steve shoulders bath time and bed while I roam the aisles of Target. I pay a babysitter every Friday so I can get a haircut, meet an article deadline, go shopping, or exercise.  And I flee to the bathtub after dinner.  

Stop feeling guilty.  Being an introvert-mom is hard.  I like my boys and enjoy spending time with them...but in small, spaced out increments.   My internal batteries drain by interacting with people and get recharged by even 15 minutes alone.  I can often be found laying flat on my closet floor in the morning, taking a few sanity minutes before the games begin.  Especially before a play date, doctor appointment, or school meeting. After lots of practice in just accepting my personality, I can now meet the big blue, pleading eyes of my sons for “more fun, Mom!” after my max 28 minutes has hit, and gently say:

“Absolutely not.  Mom needs to be away from all of you for two whole Daniel Tigers.  The Netflix, not PBS version.”

You can do this, too.  

You should do this, too.  

Figure it out for you, because the trickle down from having some margin and reserve in your body and mind is boggling.  Everyone’s happier, fuses are longer, sleep is easier, mom-guilt is less.  

But, do it more than for the trickle down.  Do it also because you are allowed to simply enjoy happiness as well.  Just for you.  Even if it’s just a latte in a quiet car, a long phone call with a good friend, or a double-bolted sanctuary in the tub.  

Eight Hour Screen Time: why I'm choosing not to feel guilty

My boys, six and three, spent a collective seven hours on hand held screens yesterday.

Geez, if I'm admitting that, I may as well admit the whole truth.

Eight.  Eight (cringe) hours of iPad time.

I have been struggling with this technologic increase as the early sunny momentum of park stops, board games, and picture books slowed to a mere crawl of daily summer survival.

I see their little jaws slack, eyes glaze, and backs hunch as they Minecraft and Blues Clues their way through one warm morning that bleeds into another melting Texas afternoon.

I see my newsfeed littered with other moms creating sensory projects, museum trips, and magical pillow forts while they all happily munch kale and sip organic pear nectar hand wrung by rainforest fairies and bottled by baby unicorns.

And I've felt like total garbage.  A waste of motherhood.  Too exhausted and spent to be able to muster up anything more than crippling guilt and a popsicle.

A wave of that hit this morning as I was chipping my way out of the cake-baking aftermath.  Andy was watching Chuggington, index finger knuckle deep in a nostril.  Jake was feverishly running from Creepers swinging a diamond axe in survival mode.  Cody was gnawing on an old piece of toast he found at the bottom of his high chair.

I panicked for a second.

They're brains are turning to mush before my eyes.  They'll forget all their letters and manners and resort to a vocabulary of grunts and a diet of boogers.  And OMG…the baby is chewing on white bread.

But then I mentally smacked myself as my friend Heather's words came back to me in that moment:

"We aren't parenting in the days of our moms.  Our kids are ALWAYS WITH US.   We hopped on bikes, rode around all day, played with friends, came home for meals.  Our moms had lots of time without us.  We don't live in that parenting anymore.  No wonder we feel so suffocated."

It's true.

In this age of instant awareness of the world's ills and evils, pressures and Pinterest we've turned our cul du sacs into bunkers. We've locked up the bikes, quit gluten, and interact only in vetted, plastic play dates; smiling brightly, playing sweetly, dying to truly connect or leave. Our kids have ceased to be members of the family and have instead mutated into entitled little epicenters of our lives and worth.

Our calling cards.

Our measures of success.

Our miniature reflections.

No wonder we're cracking under the pressure.  We're putting all our eggs in a basket held by the grubby, sticky fingers of adorable little a-holes and expecting them not to toss them at the first car or kitty they see.

So, let's stop putting that pressure on both them and us.

Let's try and incorporate self-care along with kid-care.

Let's force them outside to figure out how to play on their own while we read a non-picture book.

And when an eight hour iPad day creeps in, let's refuse to wallow in guilt and failure and belief that "the other moms are nailing it."  Because no one can really harness rainforest fairies or baby unicorns.  They're beautiful, mythical creatures never found in nature.  Just like the "perfect mom."

Take a breath.

Take a break.

Toss them a popsicle.

Hand them a screen.

You're a fantastic mom and all the red dye #40 and Thomas the Train doesn't change that.

Not Your Childhood Swim Lessons

“No running!” a lifeguard screeched as she blew her whistle, the shrill noise bouncing off the walls of United Township High School’s indoor pool.  I anxiously stood at the edge of the water in my cat-poop-yellow one piece as a frantic graying woman tried to corral eleven second graders bent on making their own personal tsunamis.  

“Grab your board, hunny, and get in the pool,” she shouted to me distractedly.  I picked up one of the dented foam pads and slipped my toes cautiously into water that smelled strongly of chaos and urine. 

Four weeks every summer.  And I still couldn’t swim.  I only caught on when my dad threw me into the lake and some frantic dog-paddle emerged and got me to the shore.  

So when a good friend recommended Emler Swim School last year, I scoffed and immediately dismissed the suggestion, as visions of my past experiences swam to mind.

I have three boys and they are giant.  I’m uncertain how this happened as my husband and I are normal-heighted-folk.  But our four year old son, Jake, began to just sink and panic when we’d head to public pools in the summer and it seemed something needed to be done to teach his lanky limbs how to work in the water before he developed a real fear.  

So we enrolled. And I was super skeptical.  

Until I walked in the door.  

We first saw a clean and open room with a wall of windows separating rows of parent seats from the pool.  Smiling faces greeted us from the reception desk.

Changing rooms lined the periphery of the space while a bright face waved a laminated sign from the pool, signaling it was Jake’s turn.  

“Hey Jake!” Karen beamed brightly (but not too brightly), “I’ll be helping you learn how to swim.”  She strapped him with a pair of turquoise goggles and gently helped him into the pool.  I noticed there were only two other kids in his class.  

He was really hesitant, but Karen noticed that immediately and simply acclimated him to the water.  They laughed and splashed and by the end of the half our, he was sold.  By week six he could swim ten feet.  By the end of the 19 week class, he could swim nearly the length of the pool independently, taking breaths as he went.  They teach boat safety, grabbing an adult to help a struggling swimmer, immediately turning to grab a wall when you fall in, and cap each class off with a plunge down this awesome yellow slide.  

Jake took to it instantly and it was the highlight of his week.  I loved going to watch him and was most pleased that there was narry a scent of urine to be found (they double diaper the babies and have a UV filter that kills “pee germs” on contact). 

These were not my childhood swim lessons and for that I was so grateful.  This was a school that taught safety then technique and had incredible teachers and staff with small classes and great facilities to get the best results possible while having a whole lotta fun.  

As the school year winds down and summer quickly approaches, it’s great to consider swim lessons and I’d strongly recommend Emler.  

But what do you do when your kid doesn't warm up to the water right away?  Next time, I'll talk about how we got our second son from screaming every lesson to celebrating his first tear-free session last week.  And let me tell you, it took a village...a village who cares about your kiddos.

Wacky Wednesday…Now You "Nose"

Last summer, my good friend Adrina started this really cool Wacky Wednesday idea: eating dessert before dinner.

 I loved that.

Mostly because I secretly wish every meal could begin with dessert.

So, I took a respectable family tradition and turned it into something completely ridiculous.  Part of the reason why is we believe

 "a fun home is a home a kid will return to when they're grown." 

We want to have great and healthy relationships with our adult children...and I also want to create gross, strange, and artistic food.

Wacky Wednesday turned out to be a perfect opportunity for both.  And it's been a huge hit.

It started out just being our family and executing ideas I'd brainstorm with my 5 y.o. son, Jake.  When a few people started asking if they could come over and join us in the craziness, I we decided a once-a-month gig was more fun if we opened our table to friends.  I'm starting with the first one of that kind.

So, when thinking of possible themes for January, a big event rose to mind and clinched the deal.

My one year anniversary of my nose ring.

It was a big deal.  Something I'd wanted for over a decade.  So when my sisters converged on DFW for a long overdue reunion, it finally happened...and it was glorious. 

So to commemorate my latent rebellion, and celebrate noses everywhere (as well as their accompanying ailments), we started with the guest list.  I opened it up via social media to the first four people who messaged or posted an RSVP.  Ten minutes later, I had a full table...for this dinner plus the next two…and promptly wondered what I'd gotten myself into.

The name tags were made.

Sinusitis Cheesesteaks assembled.

Beverages mixed.  Mucus-ade: viral and bacterial options.  

Nosebleed salad was a no-brainer.  Was just bummed I forgot the wadded up kleenex garnish. 

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Booger Balls and Nose Pickers served as gooey appetizers.

And no nose theme is complete without a plate of Gesundheit Gherkins and Blackheads.

Snot Shots were set out for the contest.  Whoever scarfed down their's first...with fingers only...got the first slice of dessert.  

The boys pumping themselves up.  

Andy getting his game face on.  

On your marks...get set…Blow!

Andy started out strong, even contributed his own snot to the event. 

Jake took a more aggressive approach.

Elizabeth chose the "unhinge your jaw" maneuver.  

And Steve...used a fork.

And the winner, who only gagged twice in the process of burying the elementary competition?  Elizabeth!  Or, "Ewisibif" as Andy affectionately calls her (and now the rest of our family).

*Note: Lesley on her phone.  She's not welcome back.*

The prize?  First slice of this massive schnoz.  

A great group of friends.

Who got sent home with three Rice Krispie boogers and their own pack-o-kleenexes.  

Stay tuned next week when I write up yesterday's experience of an "Anatomically Correct Valentine's: G-rated Edition," with a sneak peak at "Magical Mythical March" and a glimpse of the main courses: Fairy Fritters and Leprechaun Legs.  Magically delicious...