Does this Make Any Sense?

There are some days when I am certain I am doing it all wrong. The damage has been done ... I have wrought irrecoverable harm upon my child through my poor parenting skills and lack of patience. A better Mom would know how to handle the continual back talk and sassy behavior. A better Mom would not get frustrated with her child when said child yelled at her for the thirtieth time during a twenty-four hour period. A better Mom would remind herself that the child is just three years old and that all children must go through such phases. Apparently I am not a better Mom. Today and over the last few days I feel like a terrible Mom.


This happens periodically, at least it does with me, and it follows a pattern, as I have at times in my life also felt like a terrible wife, daughter, sister, friend, and about any other role I have played at one time or another. I assume most people feel this way, but then again maybe they don't. Maybe it is just for chronic freaks like myself or people who feel the need to try and be perfect as if that is somehow attainable. The truth is none of it is about other people, really, and it is all about me and my own pathetic feeling of inadequacy and self-doubt. And I hate how that sounds even to myself. I need to stop whining. I need to "cowboy up." I need to "put on my big girl panties and deal with it," as they say.


Now is about the time when I go and apologize to my three year old for being so crabby, tell her that I have never done this Mommy gig before just like she has never done this kid thing before so we are entitled to a few (trillion) screw ups and we will just have to try harder to communicate. Now is the time when I remind myself that I am the grown up and she is the child and maybe I should act like it. Now is the time when I choose to stay "in the game" not just when she is cute and fun for Halloween, but when she is making me want to yank my hair out and run in the other direction. Now is the time when I remember how much I adore her. And that is never hard to do. The truth is I will probably always struggle with my own personal feelings of self-worth and self-doubt, and I will probably always worry about messing things up as a parent. But I will never doubt my love for her, and in the end perhaps that is all that truly matters.

Redistribution of Wealth

I am truly sick of all the election "hoopla" but I still believe the "old guys" know what they are talking about. (I suppose my conservative colors are showing.)

From Abraham Lincoln…
"Property is the fruit of labor...property is desirable... a positive good in the world. That some should be rich shows that others may become rich, and hence is just encouragement to industry and enterprise. Let not him who is houseless pull down the house of another; but let him labor diligently and build one for himself, thus by example assuring that his own shall be safe from violence when built."

From Thomas Jefferson…
"To take from one because it is thought that his own industry and that of his father's has acquired too much, in order to spare to others, who, or whose fathers have not exercised equal industry and skill, is to violate arbitrarily the first principle of association - the guarantee to every one of a free exercise of his industry and the fruits acquired by it."

Not Really Gone

I am rushing Isabelle out the door on a typical Monday morning trying to remember all of the things I want to do in the two hours while she is at preschool. I juggle my purse, car keys, the all important plastic bottle of diet Lipton raspberry white tea that I am currently addicted to, and Isabelle's back pack, while I help her get her other arm into her coat sleeve and lift her into the back seat of the Jeep. We go through this routine like a well-oiled machine, our bodies mindlessly performing the tasks we ask of them while all the while she and I keep up a running dialogue of what she might do in school today. I close her door, walk around to mine, get in, start the car, buckle up, back out of the garage, press the garage door button to close it, and quickly take a gloved hand to brush a stray curl out of my face and tuck it behind an ear...............

All at once I am slammed full force back into my grandmother's kitchen, feeling the heat coming off of her stove, radiating warm against my thigh as something bakes within. I am embraced by two arms, enveloping me like fragile butterfly wings, yet at the same time providing a tremendous sense of security and safety. I feel her baby soft cheek against mine as I stoop to hug her, her slightly scratchy grey hair tickling my nose, and deeply breathe in that smell, that grandma smell, something I cannot describe, but something intrinsically linked with her in my mind. And now here I am in October and she passed away in July and I am sobbing like a baby in my car because I am wearing a pair of her gloves for the first time and I just pushed a piece of hair out of my face and suddenly it was like she never died. Yes, I cried, but really it was such a gift to have such a vivid memory brought forth. God, the mind is powerful.

Part of me doesn't want to wear the gloves because the more I do the less they will bear her scent and the more they will gain mine. Of course, the other part of me does. The part of me that took them in the first place.... the part of me that thought it would be nice to put my hand inside something that once had her hand in it. As if in some way it could link us up once more and in a way we could still hold each other's hand. I know it is silly, but then again, perhaps not. Later that evening I told Clay about it when we went out for our after dinner walk with Isabelle. I told him it was like my grandmother was right here with me, and he stopped me and looked me right in the eye and said, "She is still with you."

I married a really smart man, but that is a blog for another day. (And we don't want him getting a big head).

My Not So Glamorous Life

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!"

(slight pause).

"Mommy, I'm AWAKE!!!"

(slight pause, with an audible "huff" attached to the end of it.)

"MOOOOOMMY! I'M AAAAAAAAWAKE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And so my day began this morning, no alarm needed. Clay was out of town on business and Isabelle was obviously ready to get up. I was completely and utterly out of it, but somehow staggered across the hall and opened my daughter's bedroom door, mostly just to get her to (for the love of God) stop yelling because the assault on my ears was just too much when still attempting to gain full consciousness. Our morning routine upstairs got interrupted by the sounds of my fat cat, Nib puking up his breakfast downstairs, so I found myself scrubbing my grey carpet (Why do cats always vomit on the carpet and never on the tile? And who in the hell decided to put grey carpet in this damn house anyways? Curse the people we bought it from and their bad/impractical taste!) with Resolve yet again. When I put the Resolve back in the cupboard I figure I might as well clean up the litter boxes since I am already in the laundry room, and, after all, what is a little excrement after vomit?

I manage to get through my routine on the treadmill only having to stop twice to help my daughter in the bathroom as she has not yet mastered the fine art of "wiping her bum" adequately and I feel like my morning has been taken up with nothing except bodily excretions in various forms. Needless to say I skip breakfast and figure I might as well go with the theme. I scrub toilets. Joy. Isabelle plays and eats her breakfast while I clean both bathrooms, still in my sweaty workout clothes and now also sporting a pair of yellow rubber gloves, with my bed head, workout hair, knotted into a greasy blob on top of my skull.

About this time Fed Ex decides to ring the door bell and deliver a package. More joy. Looking like the number one reason why my husband would decide to have an affair with some hot office floozy, I answer the door and watch the Fed Ex guy do his best to smother his look of alarm as I sheepishly thank him and open the door just wide enough to nab the box and close it again, all the while with Isabelle jabbering away asking "Who is it, Mommy?"

I get through some more cleaning, manage to shower, where I nick myself twice while shaving, discover three zits popping out on my face despite the fact that I am now also getting wrinkles (Sigh) and collapse in a heap on the couch to discover it is now only lunch time. Ugh.

"I love you, Mommy."

"I love you too, baby."

"No, I wiwwy love you very much, Mommy."

As usual, my daughter can make my not so glamorous life seem pretty spectacular with just a few simple words. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat and blink the tears from my eyes.

"I really love you very much too, Isabelle."

We curl up and read some books together, and suddenly I remember why I decided to stay home with her in the first place. No, it isn't glamorous, but it is important. Even if on some days no one except Isabelle and the Fed Ex guy sees me. And I bet I wish he hadn't!

Another Hockey Season, Hallelujah!

The Red Wings officially started another hockey season last night and they did so with a loss. It is hardly surprising as it is hard to begin one season while still saying good-bye to the last. Looking shiny and bruise-free (with the exception of Lidstrom who is already sporting a broken nose and numerous stitches from an injury in the preseason) they watched yet another banner be hoisted into the rafters of the Joe, proclaiming them the Stanley Cup Champions. All of their numerous trophies were on display on the ice along with Lord Stanley for the audience to view. Meanwhile Toronto watched and coveted.

Then, of course, the ice was wiped clean, the puck was dropped, and the Wings are asked to do it all over again. And the so-called experts on television start right back up where they left off last year saying the Wings are too old, and it is impossible to repeat. And I watch the Leafs gun for them through this first game like rabid pit bulls scenting wounded prey, and I know teams will do this all season because they are the champions and this is hockey and, after all, this is how the game is played.

So, I will say this: Yeah, they were a little flat last night. Whoopee. Do you think that will effect a team with this kind of experience? So, you all still think they are old? Do you think they care at this point after proving you wrong repeatedly so many times? So, it is hard to repeat? Damn straight it is, but if any team in hockey can do it, I would put my money on this one..... it will all come down to injuries and, lets face it, the all important hockey gods. Bring on the doubters, bring on the Red Wing haters..... we have proven you wrong so many times before.... we do not mind doing it yet again. Oh, and thank you God for another hockey season! GO WINGS!

Compromising the Crown

The second the blood ballooned from my daughter's nose I realized we had a problem. She, of course, did not, which was a good thing. The adults in the room flew into activity, me cupping my hands around her nose, others running for Kleenex, paper towels, etc. to mop up the sudden flow. My brother's face, was guilt ridden, and I think he was mumbling something about "breaking his niece" but in moments the blood was stopped, and Isabelle was more mad at being forced to sit still than upset at any injury.

It was the kind of strange, odd and peculiar "thing" that is becoming rather characteristic of my family. We were just arrived at the cabin we rented for our yearly family weekend, and all the kids had their new fishing poles from Grandma in the living room and were practice casting with the rubber/plastic "fish" on the ends of their lines. (Well, except the girls' poles which had pink crowns instead of fish because they were princess fishing poles. Of course.) My brother was helping his daughter and lobbed a cast across the room and somehow managed to plunk it perfectly off the end of Isabelle's nose, and while it left no mark on the outside whatsoever it somehow hit perfectly and caused it to bleed. Strange! Shortly afterward, we realized the crown on Isabelle's line had cracked slightly, or as my brother, Kurt said, "the crown has been compromised." However, after tying the line a little differently she was back to casting with it in no time, and it worked just as well.

The weekend followed with a continuation of a sort of comedy of errors including my sister-in- law, Chrissy, somehow locking herself in our bedroom (Let me be clear. No one else was in it at the time.), which quickly dissolved into three kids repeatedly calling through the door to her asking her if she was alright while my father and brother tried various implements on the lock to free her. Ultimately my brother went around and crawled through the window (Tiny window, tall man ... should have gotten a picture) and they started taking hinges off the door, but I believe it was my father with the butter knife that saved the day. (That sentence sounded like the game "Clue." It was Professor Plum with the candlestick. Sorry. I digress.) Then there was the incident later in the day when Clay and my brother went fishing out in the boat, and we all went off to the craft show in town only to get a phone call informing us that the pontoon boat had died and they were stuck at the opposite end of one very large lake and could we come back and rescue them? Some good Samaritans in a neighboring boat ended up towing them back to the cabin where it was later determined a bad battery was the culprit. Finally, there was the mystery of the oven which seemed to bake the ham rather quickly the first evening we arrived, but failed to roast the potatoes, or bake the squash after more than ample time had passed for Sunday evening's meal. And yes, some of us were a little sick and yes, the kids all had their moments when they whined or cried or fussed.

Yes, the weekend was not perfect, but then again I think it was. I have all these little snapshots of memories stored away already...... Isabelle and Anya huddled on a chair together with their princess fishing poles, Kurt standing on the end of the dock, fishing pole in hand (which, by the way, is the most natural pose in the world for him), Mom and Dad paddling the canoe together, Clay walking to his bow target with Isabelle and Anya dancing ahead of him, Mom getting tipsy off Clay's Bocce iced teas, Chrissy and Gideon exchanging kisses on the pontoon boat, sitting around the campfire, laughing hysterically over the game "Apples to Apples" (which you have never played until you have played with my family, TRUST me), Chrissy and I putting our children to bed at night in the cabin, all of the kids pretending to be pirates around the dinner table, Papa making a huge fort out of the kitchen table for them, the girls pushing their baby dolls in the swing, Isabelle looking at her cousin and saying "I wuv you, Anya," and Anya, replying, "I love you Isabelle." and me thinking I could die right then and be happy, watching Gideon eat four pancakes and two sausages and three hours later a full lunch, reading books to all three kids for bedtime, and just the luxury of having all of us sit around a table together which only happens maybe once or twice a year if we are lucky.

Anyways, I guess my point is the weekend wasn't perfect, but neither is my family and wouldn't that be so damn boring if we were? Give me the compromised crown any day! It is all the quirks and eccentricities and yes, even flaws that we all have that makes us who we are and guess what? Our families love us anyway. At least mine does, and I always walk away from our weekends feeling like I am really blessed. We are a crazy, kind of weird crew, but it is one I am proud to call my own.

Run Away, Run Away!

It is evenings like this when I would just about kill for a book, any book. The television is driving me insane with its endless coverage of hurricane Gustaf, which while I have been interested in keeping apprised of, I do not feel the need to be continually inundated with non-stop information over and over and over. Information, which I might add is the same information just being repeated. The weather is only interrupted with the liberal media going practically orgasmic over the fact that Republican vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin's 17 year old daughter is pregnant while at the same time repeatedly saying it should not be something that is brought into the political debate (yet simultaneously interjecting comments about Palin's leanings toward an abstinence-only policy in schools...... but lets not bring candidates' children into the political arenas.) One Far left blog was even trying to pass off the idea today that Palin's youngest son, born just six months ago with Downs Syndrome, is actually her 17 year old's as well! Does it never end!?! Essentially it is enough to make me want to blow up the television, and the thought that potentially more hurricanes are on the way and I have months more of political shenanigans to watch is depressing to say the least. I have already completed my crossword, doodled and doodled and doodled, downed an entire bowl of popcorn (sigh, guilt, more bad body image issues, gulp), read an article on-line from one so-called expert about how he thinks Farve will really do as a Jet (and do not even get me going on that subject, that could be a blog by itself!), and all I want is a book!

Combine that with Clay's less than stellar mood today, and I am contemplating running away and joining a convent or something. I want a quiet place in the north woods obviously with many, many books (preferably a place where amazon can still deliver, although quicker delivery would be nice since I am currently waiting for three different books hence my lack of reading material tonight) perhaps a cozy fireplace, some throw blankets, a hefty supply of hot cocoa and my cats, of course, to occupy my lap. Okay, maybe I would need a computer or some paper and pencil so I could write too. Alas, it appears running away is not a true option so I will sign off for tonight and go to sleep instead, hoping my books will come in the mail tomorrow and that the media might get a clue. At least the books might come.