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. 

]

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...

Screen Saver Parenting

They say you rot the brain

And melt their social skills

Stunt their tiny motor growth 

And bring on ADD pills

They say you've ruined culture 

And hunched our babies' backs

As they twiddle with their widdle thumbs

On Elmo's latest app

Their jaws go slack and loosen

Eye contact down the drain

Pupils fix and dilate

On Thomas and his train

In light of loads of evidence

Still all I have to say...

Is "Hallelujah, Apple Inc.! 

You've saved this mama's DAY."

When sleep is slim or lacking

I reach with clumsy hands

To unplug a charging lifeline

Buying one more twilight nap

A calm and quiet car ride?

What a priceless, treasured boon!

I buy it with the currency

Of iTunes' "Goodnight Moon"

When deep in line at Target

And they melt in screaming crisis

I retrieve from deep inside my purse

Twelve iOS devices

Sure we run and play and draw

And swing at Central Park

But often all their energy

Palpates my tired heart

So iPad,  I deeply thank you

You've banished lots of strife

With Nexflix, iBooks, PBS...

We have a better life

You may be be rotting gray matter 

And numbing their IQs

But, oh dear friend, it's worth the trade

Love, Steve and Cass and Crew

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Cake

Because sometimes, it's okay to take a break from all the busyness, obligations, cold dinners, writing deadlines, phone dates, vet bills, and insurance headaches….

to bake a fun cake….

and not let any little boys "help"…

and read the book to yourself when they're down for their naps…

and realize these little joys are hugely important to savor.  

#3

I just sat there, under the buzzing florescent lights, staring at a picture of a girl in the rain instead of meeting the pity in my doctor’s eyes...reality was coming into focus: what we thought would become our third child, was becoming our third miscarriage.  The last light of hope had been snuffed out as a forth sonogram revealed an empty womb and a bump on my left ovary.  Lab results said the baby was already on it’s way out or fused somewhere it would never survive.  More blood work should help determine what direction we were headed, but I was told Methotrexate would need to be administered as soon as possible if the dr. did not like the morning results. 

I went home that night and told my husband I may have to take a chemo drug to kill the baby that may or may not be lodged in my ovary.  When looking at it logically, there was no other choice.  If I did nothing about it, my ovary would eventually burst and I would internally bleed out.  I would die.  Either way, the baby was gone.  But for a night I had to wrestle with myself, the emotions, the loss...present or impending, the utter alone-ness, my two oblivious and living children who still needed their mama...palpable yet nameless guilt...an unexplainable sadness in my soul...fighting the tendrils of depression that sprouted from the fertile soil of that sadness...fearing the stabbing pain I felt in my pelvis would rupture and finish me off in my sleep.  

I dozed for a few hours in the early morning then dressed and drove to hear the verdict.  No, the baby was not in the ovary.  The pain and bump were from a burst and benign cyst with really bad timing.  Yes, you are miscarrying and the baby will be passing soon.  There was relief that I did not have to make a decision, take a drug, end a life.  Slight buoyancy that I was out of the woods and ok.  But all at once those same buzzing lights, pitying eyes, faint thai smell from the nurses lounge threatened to undo me as I rudely bolted to the door and out of that place.  

But as I wept in the car, feeling silly on a level for mourning so deeply for something so small...I realized something...I was not alone.  I had three texts waiting for me.  A voicemail. I glanced at the card on the passenger’s seat. 

My first two miscarriages were largely hushed and quiet, the fallout was less but the feelings of internal loneliness and ache were crushing.  This time I had chosen to take my own advice and pushed against every prideful, private, angry tendency and told some dear people in my life when things started looking doubtful weeks prior, asked for their prayers, for their support. And they gave me more than I could have imagined.  They made all the difference in the world.

It was a group of about six strong women I’ve come to know and love and trust, near and far.  And they got me through this.  I was floored to experience such a demonstration of love and care and support and practical help from these incredible friends.  Texts, calls, books, mail, prayers, words, babysitting, embraces.  Most of these women had not experienced a miscarriage, but that did not inhibit them from being there for me during mine.  Extending of themselves.  Shifting their schedules to watch our boys.  Praying for me.  Encouraging me.  Telling me they had no idea what to do or say, but they would be right by my side through it all.  

Today is October 15th:  Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  Today is to remember the little lives we’ve lost.  And today is also about awareness.  Awareness doesn’t happen unless we open up and let others in.  And letting others see and taste and experience our pain is hard.  It’s vulnerable. It’s choosing not to press the hurt into a bolus of anger and resentment and swallow it whole and alone.  It’s taking that uncomfortable step and telling others and allowing them to help bear the pain.  It’s also letting women aching in their own silent hells, know that they are not alone, either.  

The hurt is still raw for me, just barely a week old, and most of me doesn't want to write this.  It's not eloquent, it's pocked with errors I don't have the energy to correct, it's more raw than I'm comfortable sharing.  But if I wait until I'm healthy and happy and well, it will never get written.  

So today, I'm writing this for you out there who think you're alone….you're not.  Tell a select few friends, see a counselor, share your pain.   It will help greatly.  It will begin the healing. And today, I'm also writing to those in my life, neighborhood, timezone, and beyond who were there for me and continue to be.  

My Furry Babes: Introduction to Drool City

by: Christen Vermeulen

Confession: I love my dog more than most people.  

It’s true.

Dogs, in general, I prefer over human beings. Yes, I am one of those crazy people who, in another life, should have been a California hippie, strictly vegan, protesting against animal cruelty, and working as a veterinarian fostering dogs until a good home was found for them. 

But in reality, I grew up on a farm surrounded by corn fields with a love of grass-fed, free range beef. I also chose nursing as a profession that puts me in direct contact with some of the worst humans I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing. However, in my former life and my present one, my love for the canines has not waned in the slightest.

Every family pet I’ve had was not just an animal, they were escalated to a member of the family. I could easily write a book about each of our family pets; they have existed since my earliest memory and saturated my lifestyle as one never being without a dog.

My current dog, Jasmine, just turned five years old.

She is a female Newfoundland coming in at 115 pounds, and considered “small” for a Newfie. Jasmine and I are buddies and she makes me a better person.  

Why?

I can’t be lazy when I’m around her, I get outside, she teaches me patience, and unconditional love. She follows me around quietly with what I call “hopeful eyes,” heaving heavy sighs, and laying her huge, fat head on my lap until I take her on a walk, swimming, or fetch. Over the years, she has also taught me to not be so attached to material things.

Newfoundlands are huge, hairy, slobbery, uncoordinated beasts without exception. My husband and I have had to rearrange our furniture, vehicles, travel plans, and living arrangements around our dog. And then not care about the prestine condition of any of them too much. 

I daily vacuum her bales of fur in every crevice of our home, scrub off the dried slobber that has formed a thin layer on our most expensive things, and have come to terms that my car scent will always be “wet dog”.

But when I look into her sweet brown eyes, I know she doesn’t recognize anything other than what I ask of her, she loves being around me in any capacity, and only cares about quality time spent with those she loves while doing the fun doggy things she was born to do. 

Who wouldn’t be a better person hanging around that for five plus years?

So, be forewarned, my love for dogs does not stop with just my own pet...it expands to pretty much all canines. And you’ll be hearing a lot more about dogs from me. 

So if you don’t like heartwarming stories about unconditional love, silent support in hard times, tales of destruction about tails of destruction, and random facts about my furry babes, well, I’m not saying we couldn’t be friends...

....but I definitely wouldn’t trust you.

The Bum Encounter

One morning I was in the kitchen washing dishes while my 14 month old son was scribbling with Crayolas on the dining room floor.  All was pretty peaceful and I breathed out a contented sigh.  But that quickly changed when minutes later Jake plodded toward the table and the following scene played out in horrific slow motion:

Lucy is minding her own business eating breakfast remnants off the floor and cannot see Jake tottering up behind her. I think he’s going for her tail but veers south at the last second and…yes, to my absolute horror…

index finger inserts in dog anus.

Now, there are lots of ways I could have reacted:

But much to my surprise and against my natural bent, I didn’t do any of these things.   The belly laugh rocking my child like internal seismic waves in the wake of my fleeing dog prevented me from all those acceptable above reactions.  Instead, I started to giggle…and before I knew it Jake and I were both in a pile of explosive, hiccuping, tearful laughter.

Eventually we righted ourselves, took some deep breaths, washed our hands, and had a serious conversation about how little fingers must always stay out of certain places…and orifices. Then we sought out Lucy to make things right.

Parenting is serious business.  It’s taking the little lives God has entrusted to us and shaping them as best we can. And many days, it feels like bone-crushing work weighed down by:

• the huge responsibility of the task
• cycles of frustration and defiance
• days that seem they will never…EVER... end
• long depleted patiences reserves 
• nights sputtering to a stop on the fumes of mutual exasperation.

But parenting can also be full of laughter, if we consistently choose to veer away from our natural reaction and enjoy the hilarity of a moment.

The “Bum Encounter”  was actually a situation that helped me learn to approach motherhood with more laughter instead of frustration (and shock…and disgust) and has benefited us all years later.  It even helped Lucy become more wizened and wary to the ploys of a curious little boy and avoid other unpleasant situations (…like repeated toddler-conducted proctology exams…) and they are great friends today.

Laughter is a healing, day-changing, prescription for my soul.  Though I’m pretty certain this will never be something my dog looks back and chuckles about, I’m thankful for her help in creating a laughable moment that helped introduce many more…and thankfully not at her expense.

How have laughable moments caught you off guard and changed the atmosphere in your home?

Baby Bath Time Blues

by: Andy Doolittle

I'm all alone this night with she

As her head is propped upon her knee

And a ducky’s shoved up in my face

...As she stares up in to outer space

....And drool drips down her tired face

.....As she tries to find her happy place 

And I splash her real hard just in case...

She slips into a restful nap 

Upon the turquoise bathroom mat,

And forgets about my bubbly needs

...And how the washcloth makes me sneeze

....And lonesomeness that makes me wheeze 

.....And tepid waters cause me freeze

I hear Jake’s joyful laughs with dad

That make me mournfully so sad 

Enough of this! I'm done! I'm through!

Grunting hard I drop a poo 

Then toss it over, "bombs away!"

(Yikes, had lots of corn today)

It lands with force upon her thigh

Her stupor clears.  Her screams so high!

Andy Stop!  Oh my WORD!

Chill out mom, it’s just a terd...

As she squeamishly flicks off the pieces

Of my nicely, well aimed feces,  

I grab my Tigger bath time pails

Filling each up to their tails,

Then dump them over on the floor 

She skids!   She slides...into the door!

Tires to dodge the poo but can’t 

And shouts a loud profane-filled rant

Then pirouettes, attempts to stand

Flailing, reaches with her hand...

The countertop, but grabs instead

The towel rack and smacks her head

She sinks down on the floor to rest

But lands upon the tube of Crest

A speeding light green minty arc

Sails up straight and hits its mark:

Her unwashed, curly mass of hair

She slumps and sighs out all her air.  

Now’s my chance to join my brother!

Just must get passed the injured mother....

I slide with grace onto the floor

Hopscotch by poo near the door

Twirl passed bobbing toothpaste bits

Then give her one well-planted kiss.

You’re real sweet, Mom, but for your sake

I never bathe without The Jake.   

Andy is 15 months old and the youngest of two brothers.  He enjoys the intricate passed times of shredding paper into indiscernible bits, particularly tax returns and warranties, and using the living room walls as a self-expressive mural.  He enjoys the freedom of the naked-state and has expressed interest in founding the first infant nudist colony.  One day, he hopes to swing on the ceiling fan in a brother-built sling and ride his dog like a pony.  His life motto would be, "If you can grab it, you can throw it."