For the Love of Murphy!

When you bring your newborn home and lay him in the bassinet that once cradled your father, you know your nights of uninterrupted sleep are over.  What you don't know is that they are over forever. 

My children are 6 and 4, and they have been "sleeping through the night" for years.  Sort of.  Take last night for example. 

The Castrataro household is hosting a nameless virus that inspires unproductive coughing, fevers, and general grumpiness.  My children put themselves to bed at 6 pm last night out of sheer fatigue. 

At 8:30 pm, I gave up pretending to be awake, pulled my twin-sized Murphy bed down from the living room closet (another blog post altogether!), and crawled under my cozy afghans "to sleep, perchance to dream." 

(Insert fiendish laugh here.) 

At 9:30 pm my daughter had a coughing fit and came into the living room.  I got her some cough medicine.  It wasn't grape-flavored, however, so she spit it up in her hair and on the couch.  I admit to being annoyed.  I grabbed the Carbona 2-in-1, cleaned the couch, and put Chinchita to bed, knowing her hair would be stuck solid come daylight. 

I stirred the fire and went back to Murphy. 

At 10:30 pm, my son called out from his room.  He was having growing pains.  (These growing pains are really gruesome, by the way.  He has had them for years and the only solution is Motrin and time...and Mommy's bed.)  I gave him the Motrin.  He was in agony.  I asked if he wanted to sleep with Mommy.  But of course. 

So Ranita and I squeezed into the twin-sized Murphy bed.  My son tossed and turned and eventually slept.  By 1:30 am, I was ready to have my bed to myself again.  He agreed. 

I put my son back in his bed, stirred the fire again, and returned to Murphy. 

At 3:30 am, my daughter awoke to another coughing fit.  I got her some cough medicine (yes, the grape-flavored this time).  She was still coughing. 

I sighed.

Did she want to sleep with Mommy?  Naturally. 

So Chinchita and I squeezed into my twin-sized Murphy bed, with the addition of her pillow.  She periodically had a coughing spasm, I rubbed her back, and she went back to sleep. 

At 6 am my alarm went off, reminding me it was time to get up and spend time with God.  I asked Him for grace and went back to bed.  A half hour later, I awoke with a coughing fit, made a cup of coffee, and sat down with my Bible and my journal. 

I try to tell myself I will sleep when the kids are older, but I realize that is a fantasy.  In their teen years I will be kept awake by nightmares of drunken orgies and unsavory girl/boyfriends.  When they leave for college, I will stay up praying they are not running amok with their newfound independence.  Jobs, spouses, grandchildren . . . all the things I once worried about for myself I will then worry about for them. 

And I somehow suspect that once I have my Murphy bed all to myself again, I will miss the days when one--or both--of my little munchkins were curled up beside me, getting comfort from their mommy. 

What is so Holy about Fish?

One of the most marvelous--and most terrifying--moments in a mother's life is when your six-year-old suddenly calls you out as a hypocrite. 

Ranita did this to me last week (fortunately without using the word 'hypocrite'!).  The issue?  Taking the Lord's name in vain. 

Really.  Those who know me know that using 'God' or 'Jesus' as a curse is something I generally do not do.  I will admit to using a few four-letter gutter words in times of extreme stress, but even those are accompanied with shame and apologies all around. 

So when my son pointed his finger at me during breakfast and accused, "You took the Lord's name in vain!" I was honestly befuddled. 

I mentally reviewed the conversation.  Nope.  No use of the Lord's name at all.  What had I said? 

Holy mackerel!

This is a phrase I have been employing for nearly forty years to express everything from surprise to frustration to irritation to mild anger, confident that it was a, well, holy expression. 

As I began to explain the distinction between the NAME of the Lord and the term in question, I suddenly realized my son's wisdom and my error. 

I've read the Bible through more than a few times, and though I remember lots of fish stories--one swallowed Jonah, another spit up some money, a couple fed a crowd of 5000, and a whole boatload refused to be caught until the fisherman cast on the other side of their vessel--I can't recall any one of them ever being called holy. 

On the other hand: Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty. 

Ugh. 

So mid-sentence I stopped justifying myself and thanked my son for his correction.  I also told both him and Chinchita that mommy had a bad habit in this area and it would be hard for me to break and that I needed their help. 

They were more than willing.  It's not every day your mother gives you permission to correct her speech! 

They have been as good as their word, and slowly I am beginning to catch myself as the phrase comes to mind.  I fear it may take some time: it's hard to teach us old dogs new tricks! 

The up side is that I am more aware than ever of how truly unique God's holiness is, and how I should not minimize it in any way. 

Out of the mouths of babes.

Having a Good Day

Do you ever wonder what, exactly, constitutes a "good day"? It came to mind yesterday when my son got off the bus, elated, saying it had been a great day . . . then went to the doctor and got a flu shot which turned it into an awful day . . . and then went to Stop & Shop which (shockingly!) turned it back to a good day. 

Well, I can unreservedly say I know what a good day looks like, because today most certainly was one.  A good day is when you:

• Get to mix business with pleasure by Skyping with your college roommate about a work project
• Acquire a new project doing work you love
• Single-handedly replace the rotor on your washing machine without swearing, springing a leak, or breaking anything 
• Update your CV and LinkedIn profile
• Read stories to your kids
• Help your son build a Lego train
• Give your kids cuddle time
• Stay in your Weight Watchers' points
• Post your first blog entry in longer than you care to think about

Yeah, it really has been a good day.  

What does your good day look like?

The Cheerful Giver

There are moments as a mom when I watch my children and am moved to tears by their spontaneous acts of mercy, sympathy, and love.  (There are others when I am moved to tears for much different reasons, but this post is not about those!)  Today I experienced such a moment with my son. 

The kids and I are fortunate enough to have a couple of Sunday School school teachers who help me out with childcare pretty frequently.  My kids love them.  As the husband said today, they have 40 years of kids toys in their house.  It is toy heaven! 

More frequently than I care to admit, one or more of the toys leave their sanctuary and take up residence in my home.  It always makes me uncomfortable when my kids get "treats" just for showing up somewhere.  My family of origin did gifts on Christmas and birthdays.  Weddings.  Baby showers.  Period.  Seeing my kids lavished with stuff stirs up visions of spoiled, ungrateful brats, something I am determined not to have living under my roof!

So today, when Ranita asked if we could "buy" a handmade, wooden triplane from his sitter, I cringed.  The cringe turned into a wince when the sitter informed me they were "getting rid of it," and Ranita was welcome to it. 

I was trying to be a gracious recipient while also trying to gauge where my son was falling on the Spoil-O-Meter when his little voice penetrated my thoughts. 

"Mommy, I want to give this to J for his birthday.  He loves planes a lot more than I do.  We can play with it when I go to his house."  J is his cousin.  J's birthday is a month away, the fact of which my son was completely unaware and about which he honestly couldn't have cared less. 

What he did care about was giving his cousin a present, a present that reflected an awareness of and concern for the interests of someone else. 

Spoil-O-Meter vanished with a poof! 

I would be less than honest if I did not admit that my son is currently playing with that triplane as if his life depended on it.  It has flown over the backyard and the front yard, carried a Little Person and an array of cargo, and I suspect is hiding under his covers in his bed at this moment. 

But I know my son.  When the time comes, it will again be his idea to give the plane away, and he will do so with great joy and satisfaction.  Chances are, he won't be able to wait for J's birthday, either! 

Lego Lessons

We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time.  I was smiling.  My son was not.  In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air. 

"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked. 

Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together!  It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back!  It'll never be the way it was before!"

At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears.  "It'll never be the way it was before."  Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced. 

This was not about Legos. 

I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs.  Just at the floor in anguish.  I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting.  I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it. 

As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way.  But you can come back and work at it later.  It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better." 

Deaf ears. 

After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late.  (Some things are more important than the clock.)  By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind.  There was, after all, lunch to get on the table. 

I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation. 

"Look, Mom!" he cried.  "It's even better than before!  And I made it with all the same pieces!" 

I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom.  My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root.  And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces. 

Our family is different now.  It will never be what it was before.  But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces. 

Bring on the Barbies

Do you remember what it was like to play like a preschooler?  Unless you have a couple (or more!) living in your house, chances are you have forgotten.  In fact, I fear one can forget even with little ones in the house. 

How is that possible? 

Parents have lots of "important" things to occupy their attention: bills, emails, jobs, legal gobbledy-gook, self-improvement, service in the church . . . name your poison.  Because of that, when those little voices switch into "pretend" gear, it's easy to tune them out and divert your energy to other things.  An experienced mom can subconsciously distinguish between play fighting and real wars, ignoring the former and interrupting the latter.  "Happy" requires no intervention. 

Another reason we can miss the actual play even when it swirls around us is that we perceive it as an interruption rather than the raison d'être.  Take this very moment, for instance.  

It is nap time in the Castrataro residence.  We have had a delightfully laid-back day with a minimum of squabbling and an overwhelming sense of peace and tranquility.  Truly a golden day.  After reading two Curious George stories to the little ones, I tuck them in for the obligatory rest.  I have a plan to toss a load of laundry in the washer and write an article. 

Enter the voices. 

Through my monitor, I hear a narrator and about six characters enacting some kind of drama.  The yammering is such that an article will not be easy to write.  Task-oriented Mom would put the kibosh to the folderol in the interest of generating an income.  Today's Mom sits and listens (and exchanges an article for a blog . . . plenty of time to work tonight!).  

I hear them discussing various characters and their backstories.  I am transported.  I see my sister and my brother and me sitting on a floor with two Ken dolls, eight Barbies (one of whom had a chewed foot and another with an after-factory crew cut), ten plastic horses, and a village built out of Lincoln Logs.  We staged Westerns with kidnappings and daring rescues.  We enacted romances that would put Harlequin to shame.  We created domestic dramas modeled after our daily lives.  

I can't begin to fathom how many hours we spent like that, creating our own worlds and loving every minute of it.  

I do remember that I played with my Barbies and horses long after most of my peers had abandoned them.  Was it because I had a younger sister?  Was it because we moved my freshman year of high school and somehow the role playing brought me comfort?  Was it my indefatigable love of "story"?  I can't say.  

I can say that I take great joy in the role playing of my little ones.  I love hearing them create new stories from the ones they've read in books, seen in movies, or lived themselves.  The latter can be a little hard when I hear things like "Mommy and Daddy," but there is also a sense of gratitude that they are able to process their joys and disappointments in their own way and in their own time.  

In their play they are growing.  They are learning.  They are healing. 

Perhaps we could all use a few hours with Barbie and her friends. 

Carving Memories

Monday I took my kids to my parents' farm for "fall fun."  We took a wagon ride driven by Grandpa J.  We ran around in the corn maze (where we found 2 of the 4 "stations").  We picked pumpkins out of the pumpkin patch.  (We would have picked apples but for the April freeze that decimated most of the New England tree fruit crops this year.) 

For her pumpkin my daughter chose a little green one, not quite soft but a little "flexible."  My son chose a large, perfectly orange, endearingly crooked one.  They wanted to carve them.  I was strongly encouraging painting. 

This afternoon I yielded, and we carved Ranita's pumpkin.  (Chinchita was angy; I promised we could do hers tomorrow!) 

As I made the first incision around the stem, I was suddenly flooded with memories of one October two decades ago at Wheaton College in Illinois.  It was my sophomore year of college, and some friends invited me to their dorm to carve pumpkins.  I'd never carved pumpkins before, but we made this an adventure!

The others made very cool Jack-o'-lanterns.  Mine was different: a nose, an eye, a mouth all on different sides.  (I knew I wasn't an artist; at least I could be unique!)  We dried the seeds and then ran around in the dark throwing pumpkin innards at each other.  (Could that have been my idea?  We used to throw rotten tomatoes at each other at the end of tomato season on the farm . . . very well could have been!) 

How we laughed! 

We divvied up the seeds in plastic bags.  When we went to snack on them the next day, they were not crisp.  They were soggy.  We called each other to figure out what to do.  Over to my room they came, and my hairdryer went into action.  Very effective!

The pumpkin, however, did not last long.  It created a bit of a spiritual dilemma for one of my roommates, so in solidarity we tossed it.  (Really, can you blame her?  A nose, a mouth, and an eye . . . not even in appropriate places?!  Even I found it a bit weird!) 

That was the first, and last, time I carved a pumpkin.  Until today.  My son helped separate out the pumpkin seeds (which I dried to perfection) from the guts.  We had planned on our own pumpkin fight, but the cold was prohibitive. 

When it came time for designing, I was relieved to hand the marker to him and let him draw to his heart's content.  Then I carved.  It is perfect!  I told him about my last foray and assured him that he was a much better designer than his mother, though he insisted I was "the best pumpkin carver in the world, Mom!"  Gotta love my babies! 

Then, because I fell victim to the moment, I found a small candle and lit it inside.  A few moments later, my daughter reached for the open mouth of the pumpkin.  I knew she couldn't reach the flame, but I yelled, "Stop!" all the same.  And then another memory. 

My mother has a picture of my brother, my sister, and me when I was about my son's age.  I am sitting on the floor with my sister on my lap, half-suffocated by my embrace.  My brother is sticking a finger into a lit Jack-o'-lantern.  By the expression on my face, it is clear that I am yelling "Stop!" 

I find it funny that a woman who has a total of 3 Jack-o'-lantern memories suddenly saw her entire life summed up by a pumpkin, some seeds, and a small flame. 

And she found it to be very good. 

Blogging with Ranita

I was working on an article today when my son got up from his "nap" and came over to take a look.  With his arm snuggled around mine, he put his head on my shoulder and began to "read" what I had written.  It went something like this:

"I really like writing about farms.  And I really like articles.  But I don't like when they smell like manure.  My mother likes to look at farms because they look so pretty.  And she likes doing articles on the farms."

While it was not exactly what I had written, much of it had the ring of truth to it!  He wanted to help me write my article.  I didn't think that was the best idea.  So instead I asked him if he wanted to help me write my blog.

Of course, he said yes!

So what follows is a blog straight from the lips of my four-year-old, Ranita:

"I had some fun with my Sunday School teacher.  I went fishing.  I did some crafts.  I learned about Jonah.  And I love going to Sunday School. 

I forgot my Sharptooth stories that are pretend.  Chopper was going too fast and somebody grabbed the swing backward and it pushed him forwards and he shot into the air.  He fell onto a rocket, and the rocket blew up the garage.  And I have ten more Chopper Stories.  

Chopper was a smart little dinosaur.  He always liked playing with his friends Littlefoot, Cera, Ducky, and Petrie.  Well, Cera is a three-horn and she likes banging into hard things.  Littlefoot is a longneck and likes whacking things with his tail.  And Petrie likes to fly around, throw little things at big rocks, and explode them.  Ducky likes to swim really fast.  Ducky is a Parasaurolophus, and she likes swimming very fast.  That's it.  The End."

For those of you who do not live with us, I think a few explanations are in order!  His Sunday School teacher had them "fishing" while learning about Jonah today.  (Although he has gone fishing before . . . and is very good, I might add!)

His Sharptooth stories are taken from the movie The Land Before Time and its sequels.  The rocket blowing up the garage probably comes from watching Hatari! and Toy Story.  (He says, "I really get a kick out of Hatari!") 

Ranita's assumption that Ducky in The Land Before Time is a Parasaurolophus fits with the company's advertising materials, but the drawing more closely resembles a Saurolophus.  There's actually a debate about it, if you can believe such a thing! (http://landbeforetime.wikia.com/wiki/Dispute_over_Ducky%27s_species)

Also, my son typed "The End" himself.  I just assisted with the shift key.  He was very proud of that!

I won't have him guest-blogging often, but I thought supporting his burgeoning interest in writing was a good thing.  Hope you enjoyed! 

The Party That Wasn't

Last night we had Chinchita's third birthday party at our home.  Or, to be more accurate, we tried to have her birthday party.  We had all the things you should have: a homemade princess cake, a homemade princess piñata, princess paper goods, and 28 friends and family (11 of whom were under the age of 13). 

October birthdays are a bit unfortunate in my family to begin with.  My parents, aunt and uncle, and sister all work in plant-related industries that generate a great deal of the year's income in the fall.  Most notably Columbus Day weekend, where Chinchita's birthday falls. 

To accommodate family as much as possible, we pushed the party back a week.  And made it on a Friday night.  Not perfect, but the best we could arrange.  Starting a party at 6pm for a girl who goes to bed at 7pm is a bit sketchy to start, but I figured my girl could handle it. 

Yesterday also happened to be her three-year exam . . . complete with flu shot.  No problem!  We did the doctor thing in the morning, both kids were wiped out and took long naps while I decorated the cake, and I let them watch Hatari! while I finished cleaning the house.  (The movie is almost as long as my cleaning endeavors, so it was a good choice!  It's also one of my all-time favorites!)

I was just finishing up washing floors when my ex's parents arrived.  Chinchita, excited to show off her princess paper goods, slipped on the wet floor and fell on her back.  A little crying, and she was off to explore the bike that came in with Grammy and Pop.  I put the dogs in my bedroom--my sister-in-law and niece are highly allergic--and the barking commenced. 

By the time my neighbors arrived, the dogs were getting on my nerves with their incessant barking, so I banished them to the barn.  It was well past start-the-party time and over half the guests were missing, mostly due to an expected freeze that necessitated extra covering of plants and produce at the farm.  We corralled the four kids who were present for supper--sort of--and then set them loose again. 

The house quickly turned into mayhem.  I pulled out Twister.  (Have you ever played Twister with four kids under the age of five?!  Pretty funny . . . especially since they are not physically large enough to simultaneously manage "right hand: red; left foot green."  They were quiet while trying, though!) 

Finally the rest of the kids arrived, and we pulled out the piñata.  I had located one of the kids' plastic baseball bats, which is perfect for piñata-pummelling.  Unfortunately, between the time my ex's parents arrived and the kids arrived, I had lost it.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  That's okay.  I found a stick Ranita had left on the patio, and we used that. 

Kids had a blast. 

It was getting late, so I decided to move things along.  I called, "Where's Chinchita?  Let's do presents." 

Just then I saw her standing next to the couch wearing a distressed expression.  I dropped on my knees and asked, "Honey, are you okay?  What's the matter?"

She put a hand on her stomach, and in the smallest possible voice said, "My stomach hurts."  Then she explosively vomited all over me.  I am so not exaggerating!  From my shoulder to my feet: covered in grossness. 

Naturally, I swept her into my arms and brought her into the bathroom.  I set her in the tub and started stripping her for a shower, as she also was rather gross.  She says, "I so sorry, Mommy, for throwing up on you!" 

What a sweetie!  I assured her that it was okay . . . you can't really call yourself a Mom until you've been puked on by your kids.  After cleaning her, my sister whisked her out so I could clean myself.  I stood in the shower yelling, "Sis, can you grab me some clothes from my room?" 

I forgot until getting into bed later that night just what a tall order that was.  In addition to my bedroom set, my little bedroom was also housing a box of "I Support RI Agriculture" license plate covers, our punching bag, a basket of clean laundry, and my Dyson.  And no light switch . . . just two lamps you must first navigate said mine field to utilize.  And she still got me clothes that fit.  What a gal!

By the time I emerged clean and nice-smelling, my mom and my neighbor had cleaned up the vomit, the kids were outside playing with adult supervision, and my daughter looked ready to puke again.  I called the doctor and took my little one to her bedroom.  While I lay comforting her, somebody played hostess and distributed cake.  (No one was in the mood to handle ice cream, so I have LOTS of ice cream in my freezer!) 

My daughter fell asleep in time for me to crawl out of her bunk and wave good-bye to my guests.  Except my parents, who stayed to help clean up a little longer.  The doctor finally got back to me and confirmed it sounded like a reaction to the flu shot.  At least we weren't headed to the ER for CT scans! 

As my brother-in-law was leaving, I gave him a hug and said, "Well, at least you can say a Castrataro party is never forgettable!" 

He replied, "Oh yeah.  I sure won't be forgetting this one!"

Yeah.  Me neither!

The Pink Princess Piñata

I am big on "tradition."  At Christmas we string popcorn and cranberries just like my mom taught us when we were little.  We eat lamb at Easter.  Thanksgiving is all about turkey, root vegetables, and pies, pies, pies. 

While I love my old traditions, I am also making some new ones with my family.  As Chinchita's third birthday quickly approaches, we are in the midst of one of my "new" traditions: the birthday piñata. 

The Castrataro piñatas started as a whim.  I was looking for something fun and kid-centered to make our family birthday parties extra-special for the little ones.  Who doesn't love a piñata?  I found some easy directions at WikiHow and thought, "I'll bet I can do this."  (Remember: this is the girl who found art class more threatening than a term paper!) 

My first attempt was a year ago, for Chinchita's second birthday.  I asked her what she wanted for her piñata: a butterfly.  No problem!  With a great deal of trepidation, the butterfly took wing. 

I was feeling pretty good about my piñata skills until a few months later when Ranita announced that he wanted a T-Rex for his piñata.  WHAT?!?  How in the world was I going to pull that off?  After scrounging around in the basement burn box, I found a couple fiber berry boxes and thought, "Hey, that would make a great head!"  So the T-Rex was born.

Note that the kids help with design decisions such as COLOR!  I was thinking green . . . my son thought that was boring.  Since I already had all the crepe paper from Sister's butterfly, I wasn't complaining too much! 

The problem with having early successes at such projects is that people (read: kids!) expect you to keep surpassing yourself.  My daughter is no exception.  This year she requested, of all things, a PRINCESS piñata.  Really.  In pink, of course. 

I received advice to make just the head of a princess, but I personally felt that was cheating.  At this moment, I have a stuffed (over-stuffed, I think!) pink princess drying on my (unlit) wood stove.  I am including a picture here, but don't judge her yet.  She has yet to have her flowing dress, pink hair (I mentioned the kids help with the color scheme, right?!), and gold crown.  She's going to be stunning.  I hope. 

At least I have a PLAN for her.  As for the princess birthday cake . . . that is actually haunting my dreams.  (No kidding . . . I have literally dreamed about it for the past 3 nights!)  Good luck, Mama!

It's Potty Time!!

Potty training can be a nightmare.  With my son, it has been a 2 year process.  It is also an area where he expresses stress . . . notably by regressing.  We've had a lot of regression lately. 

When Ranita started potty training, I thought it would be a breeze.  He was eager, interested, successful.  We bought him his own seat and made a big deal about everything.  I read books on the potty.  We watched "Elmo's Potty Time" more times than I care to count.  We were on our way. 

Then one day he quit.  Cajoling, bribing, arguing, begging . . . nothing worked.  The kid refused to use the toilet . . . any toilet . . . for a YEAR. 

My pediatrician finally told me it was time, so I followed my sister's advice and tried the 3-day potty training technique.  It's pretty simple.  You clear 3 consecutive days in your schedule, put the kid in "big kid underpants," and clean up urine and feces for 2 1/2 days.  By day three, the child is trained. 

It worked.  Mostly.  Aside from aforementioned regressions. 

Enter Chinchita.  This one is a whole different ball game, and I could not be happier!  (As regards potty training ONLY!  They are both fabulous in their own ways, and I wouldn't change their uniqueness for anything!) 

My daughter, you see, potty trained herself.  Really.  She had watched Ranita's potty escapades and, like the go-getter she is, refused to be left behind.  She used the potty when she--or more rarely, I!--thought of it. 

I was not thinking about it much.  I frankly have had too much on my plate over the past 10 months to concern myself over my 2-year-old's potty habits.  My son had taught me not to rush things . . . they all potty train in their own time. 

Her time has come. 

One day she refused to wear anything but big girl pants.  We have had accidents: in the church nursery, at auntie's house, at the Sunday School teacher's house.  But dealing with the embarrassment of an accident was less of a hassle than trying to get her into a Pull-up, so deal we did. 

It seems like a surprisingly short period of time--2 weeks, maybe?-- but perhaps it's been longer.  I've been noticing this week that her accident-free days are becoming more frequent . . . and require less attention on my part. It wasn't until this morning that I knew I could declare her potty-trained. 

The three of us were working in the yard moving plants around.  (I'll write more about that another day!)  The kids were wandering from me to the sandbox and back again.  Suddenly she came running up: "I just peed on the potty!" 

"You just peed?" I replied.  "Did you have an accident?"

"No!  I peed on the potty."

"What?"

Oh yeah.  Six days shy of 3, the child stops playing, goes into the house, uses the bathroom, and comes back out to inform me.  All in about 4 minutes. 

THAT, my friends, is potty training success! Glorious day!! 

"Good-Enough-to-Wake-Up-For" Stir Fry

I know I promised not to turn this blog into a food blog, and I won't, but tonight I made possibly the best stir fry I've ever made and thought I'd share it.  (Mind you, stir fry was one of the few things I cooked that my ex actually complimented!)  And tonight my daughter woke up from a late nap just long enough to eat supper before going right back to bed.  I think that's a commendation . . . !

I don't really use recipes for stir fry, but I generally start with a few basics.  (I used to julienne everything, but once the kids came along I found bite-size pieces to be preferable.)  They are:

• Kielbasa (You simply CANNOT go wrong with ANYTHING made with kielbasa!)
• One onion 
• One red pepper (or any color but green . . . I almost NEVER use green peppers)
• One clove garlic
• Mushrooms (I usually use canned mushrooms because I can have them at-hand without wasting them.  Tonight I used Maitakes I had frozen courtesy of the guys at RI Mushroom Co.  SO AMAZING!!!)
• One can of beans (The kids requested black beans . . . good choice!) 
• One stalk celery
• Olive oil for sautéing (I've been known to use almost any kind of oil except vegetable . . . go figure.)
• A heavy splash of Worcestershire sauce (Again, I generally throw in soy sauce as well, but tonight I went bare.  The mushrooms spread through everything and were flavor enough.)

I have been known to throw in frozen string beans, corn, and/or carrots, but not tonight.  My ex liked stir fry over rice, but I'm not a huge rice fan, so I don't make it.  As long as I toss the beans in I figure it's a complete one-skillet meal.  And who's going to complain over less clean-up?!

I also tend to leave the veggies a bit al dente.  I like there to be just enough crunch to feel like you're eating FOOD . . . and I appreciate each element retaining some of it's own texture, making each bite a little different. 

I eat my stir fry with a fork.  (I also use chop sticks, but I don't bring them out with the kids because I hate seeing my food dropped on the floor!)

My son is a different story.  At first he was leery of the Maitakes.  (I think it's the texture . . . my kids are big on texture.)  I told him the idea was to eat a bunch of different things in the same bite.  True to form, he decided to eat stir fry as a sandwich. 

He started with a celery piece, layered it with Maitake, and topped it off with a black bean.  The part of me that is trying to inculcate good table manners wanted to remonstrate.  The part of me that wants my kids to eat healthy food was glad he was eating.  The latter part won. 

Naturally, Ranita's approach takes longer than using utensils, so I was finished while he still had quite a ways to go.  I wanted seconds.  Seeing as I have now practiced yoga two consecutive days and am already feeling results, overeating didn't seem like a good idea. 

So I had dessert instead! 

Oh, yeah.  One kiwi, cubed, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled with rich, chocolaty Ovaltine.  Can I just say that fresh fruit and whipped cream (and ANYTHING with chocolate!) is the best treat ever?!  Are we surprised that my son asked for a second kiwi? 

This supper probably won't find its way into a cooking magazine, but it's awesome comfort food . . . without the comfort food guilt.  (Some may think kielbasa "unhealthy," but I say all meat is good.  Besides, the beans help counteract the cholesterol, so it evens out!) 

Happy supper!

My Go-To Summer Salad

I am not the world's greatest cook, so have no fear that this is going to wind up being a foody blog.  I do like to eat, however.  Even better than that is watching my kids enjoying food I've made them.  Tonight was one of those nights. 

After a week or so of lovely fall weather in which I dug out the bluejeans (a little snug . . . gotta get to that diet!) and long-sleeves, today hit the mid-90's.  Beautiful for summer.  Not so beautiful for autumn.  (The diversity of the seasons is one of my favorite things about New England; I feel a little betrayed when they boundary-violate each other.)

My kids were not feeling up to par today . . . coming down with their cousins' colds . . . and the heat made us all lethargic and mopey.  Come supper time, I wanted something cool to eat. 

Out came my go-to summer salad. 

The recipe differs every time depending on what is in the house, but here was today's variation:

1/2 box whole-grain penne, cooked and cooled
1/2 summer squash, coarsely chopped
1/2 cucumber, coarsely chopped
1 celery stalk, coarsely chopped
1 cooked chicken leg (and thigh), coarsely chopped (This one was grilled with balsamic dressing!)
(I usually add 1/2 a red pepper, coarsely chopped . . . but I was out!) 
Relish and mayonnaise to taste
(I like to use Italian salad dressing because it feels healthier, but Chinchita requested mayonnaise . . . and it is pretty yummy that way!)

Ranita ate one serving and opted for white mint chocolate chip ice cream for dessert.  Not my little lady.  Four helpings.  Dessert?  Nope.  She just wanted more pasta salad. 

Gotta tell ya, no gourmet winning their third Michelin star could feel prouder than I did at that moment. 

The Pre-School Diet

My kids have always been good eaters.  Today, however, my son must have set some kind of record.  I don't know if it was "I'm settling into school, gotta have brain fuel" or what, but my four-year-old ate like someone 10 years older.  At least.  Check out what this child ate:

Breakfast

• Glass of milk
• Two Chobani flips (Coco Loco is our family favorite!)

Lunch

• Glass of milk
• Stroganoff
• Four helpings of salad (He is a big fan of Marzetti's Roasted Garlic Italian Vinaigrette!)  

Snack (at school)

• Cheese stick (in a Spider Man wrapper, of course!)
• Morning Glory Muffin (that he helped me make, chock full of fruits and veggies)
• One banana

Snack (after school)

• A second Morning Glory Muffin (His sister was having one, after all . . . )

Supper

• Glass of milk
• Grilled cheese sandwich
• 1/2 of a cucumber
• A strawberry Oikos yogurt (He asked for a second one . . . I told him to eat more cukes . . . and he did!)   

I'm glad my kids have good appetites.  I'm even happier that they eat healthy foods and enjoy doing it.  But if he eats like this now . . . what in the world am I going to do when he's a teenager???

School Days

I don't recall my first day of school, but my parents do.  Numerous times my mother has recounted that the four-year-old version of myself trotted onto the big yellow school bus ready to take on the world . . . or at least kindergarten . . . and never looked back.

My father, on the other hand, hopped in the car and followed the bus the mile up the road to my elementary school and peeked into my classroom to assure himself I was really okay.

(I try to imagine that now, when you have to pass a gauntlet of locked doors, buzzers, cameras, and vigilant administrative assistants checking photo ID's just to pick your kid up from preschool.  Both beautiful and terrifying, those innocent days of yore.)

This is not the story I will recount to Ranita 20 years hence.  Our day was not quite so sepia-colored.

The kids slept in late, which was fine because he has afternoon pre-K . . . and only 2 days a week due to his doting mama's conviction that 4 is too young to hand him over to someone else 5 days a week. 

Ranita woke up grumpy.  Mama woke up grouchy.  Chinchita woke up unwillingly as her brother had jumped on her in bed while she was still sound asleep.

The Castrataros need their sleep.  This was not an auspicious beginning.

The rest of the morning was a head-spinning vacillation between war and peace.

War: Children disagree--at the top of their lungs--on what to have for breakfast, pancakes or cereal.  (Really?!)

Peace: Children color ("do schoolwork," my son calls it) while I clean up the kitchen.

War: Children move from coloring to glittering, dumping vast amounts of glimmering gorgeousness on the table, the floor, their half-naked bodies, and our two furry beast-dogs.  (Mommy cancels the remainder of art class and again cleans the kitchen.)

War: Both kids have poop accidents.  No more words necessary.

Peace: The kids watch a Signing Time video.  (They're having a sale, by the way . . . worth every penny!)

War:  Lunch is not to my son's liking, so he heads off to school with a delicious snack in his lunchbox and half an orange in his stomach.  (Does the child not realize that food is necessary for a successful day of learning?!  Has his mother taught him NOTHING in four years???)

It is as my son refuses to get out of his bunk bed and get dressed that I realize what all this chaos is about: the poor thing is scared of his first day of school.

It makes sense: the need for "schoolwork," the angry outbursts at sister and me, the inability to eat, the refusal to get dressed.  If I were four and afraid, that's what I'd be doing: trying my best to be so poorly-behaved that my mom put me in time-out for a full year and deprived me of a first-rate education. 

Nice try.

I sit down with him and do some cuddling.  I tell him it's okay to be scared . . . everyone is afraid starting something new . . . but I promise he will have a blast and make a ton of friends.

He's not buying it.

Eventually I have the kid dressed, shod, and ready to go.  I pull his cold food out of the fridge and pack it in his Thomas lunchbox.

Poof!

Something happens in his brain.  Don't ask me what.  I have no idea.  He slips into his Star Wars backpack, grabs his lunch, and heads out the door calling, "Come on, Mom!  We're going to be late!"

Are you kidding me????

And from that point on, my son didn't look back.  He waltzed off with his teacher as if she were Cleopatra and I were the scullery maid.  I managed to steal a hug and a kiss, and off he went.  I was proud . . . and sad . . . and all the crazy emotions Moms experience at a landmark event such as this.

Until my daughter started to cry, "I want Ranita!"

Good grief.

I gave up my hopes for a couple hours of her napping and me writing.  We stopped at Lickety Splits and had ice cream deliciousness.  I finally got her home for a nap only to have to wake her up to go pick up her brother.

He walked out with a happy grin, a homework page he couldn't wait to complete, and a bunch of nameless friends he was excited about.

So began my son's foray into the world of organized education.  Good luck, my son . . . enjoy!

The Law of Sowing and Reaping

I've been re-reading Cloud and Townsend's book Boundaries, and this week I had a first-hand illustration of what they call Law #1: The Law of Sowing and Reaping. 

I was putting breakfast on the table one morning and noticed that my son wasn't wearing his glasses.  (Those of you who are regular readers are already groaning!)  In response to my request to don his glasses, Ranita replied, "I don't know where they are."

This was a new one.  Broken I am accustomed to.  MIA?  At 6am?  How can such a thing even be possible?  Do we not put them on the dresser at bedtime?  How do you LOSE them between bedtime and breakfast???

All other thoughts are driven from my mind.  I must find the glasses.  (Not the $35 pair, by the way.  Oh no.  Has to be the $150 pair.  And something tells me my replacement policy discount does NOT include LOST.  Mangled?  Ok.  Lost?  Tough luck.) 

So I begin a modern re-imagining of the parable of the lost coin.  I search everywhere: under the beds, under the couch, in the bedding, in my room, in the bathroom, in the trash . . . you name it, I look.  With each failed attempt, I can feel my blood pressure rising. 

(Meanwhile, both kids are contentedly eating the breakfast I could not think of eating before finding the glasses!)  

In my search I stumble across the new pair of diving goggles Grammy and Pop bought for Ranita.  The goggles he adores.  The Law of Sowing and Reaping blazes across my eyes:  "Rescuing a person from the natural consequences of his behavior enables him to continue in irresponsible behavior." 

I take a calming breath.  "Ranita," I say in a conversational voice, "I am going to take your goggles and put them on the fridge until you find your glasses.  You can wear your spare pair until then.  I will not look for your others.  It is your responsibility to find them." 

If I expected a tantrum, I was mistaken.  He replies, "Okay." 

Suddenly all my frustration dissipates.  I am no longer carrying a burden I don't deserve.  The glasses are his, after all.  He always knows where his stuffed animals are . . . and definitely where his goggles are . . . he can keep track of his glasses.

The glasses--and goggles--are forgotten until after lunch when I announce, "Let's go swimming!"

Ranita wants his goggles.  (Aha!)

I quietly remind him of our agreement: glasses in exchange for goggles.  All at once he is in a dither, checking under furniture and amid toys and in every place he can consider.  He crawls under his bed to search when I remember that I hadn't pulled out the plastic bin with Chinchita's next-size-up hand-me-downs in it.  I do so.

Ranita squeals in delight.  He emerges with the glasses, sporting an ear-to-ear grin.  We high-five.  I review his success in responsibility and assert that it feels great to take care of your own business. 

He gets his goggles back.

That night I reflected on The Law of Sowing and Reaping.  When I was growing up, "You reap what you sow" usually came at the end of a tale of woe, reminding you that bad things follow poor decisions.  However, the reverse is also true: good things generally follow wise decisions.

When Ranita embraced his responsibility for locating his own possessions, he got more than his goggles as a reward.  He gained a sense of pride in his accomplishment, something he would never have experienced had I found the glasses for him.  (I also suspect he learned that keeping track of his glasses in the first place is easier than hunting them down after the fact!) 

As for Mommy, she learned how much more pleasant life is when you let other people shoulder their own responsibilities in their own way.  I enjoyed a pretty peaceful day while the glasses were missing because they weren't my problem.  When Ranita found them, it was one of the proudest moments of my life.  I was so impressed by his determination to locate them as well as his obvious pride in doing so.  (I was a bit proud of myself as well, for giving him the opportunity to succeed!) 

Not a bad harvest at all, if you ask me. 

A Safe Place

I've been thinking about "safety" lately, particularly in terms of relationships.

For too long, I think I have had an operating definition of "safety" as the freedom from physical harm.  Obviously that is a key component, but I am realizing it is far from the only one. 

Almost as important as the freedom from physical harm is the freedom from emotional harm.  Everyone needs a place where their emotions are given space "to be," even if those emotions might strike someone else as irrational, excessive, or "wrong." 

(Emotions can't be "wrong," by the way.  They just are.  It is what we do with those emotions that earns the labels "right" or "wrong.") 

It is only recently that I have realized that denying a person emotional safety not only feels like abuse, it actually is abuse.  The pamphlet "Peace at Home" put out by the RI Coalition Against Domestic Violence identifies five areas of domestic violence: physical; sexual; emotional, verbal, and psychological; financial; and digital. 

The pamphlet describes emotional abuse in these terms:

Includes constant put-downs and criticisms; minimizing the abuse or blaming the partner for the abuse; isolating the partner from family, friends, and activities; excessive jealousy; accusing the partner of cheating; monitoring the partner's every move; using threats and intimidation, such as threats of violence, angry looks or gestures, using weapons, driving recklessly, threatening to self-harm, or threatening to report the partner to social service agencies (e.g. welfare, immigration, child protection).

Hopefully you have never been in a relationship characterized by any of these things.  Since the National Intimate Partner and Sexual Violence Survey reports 1 in 4 women and 1 in 7 men in America have, however, the odds are good that many of you out there know what this looks like first-hand.

For those of you in a relationship like this, it can be a lonely, desperate, miserable place.  There are some steps you can take, however.  The first is to talk to someone experienced in these issues.  A counselor/therapist and/or a local or national domestic violence agency would be a good first stop. 

The degree of the abuse and the degree to which it is negatively impacting your sense of self, your social interactions, your financial or emotional independence will impact whether you can or should remain in the relationship. 

I think it is important to remember, however, that any form of abuse is about power and control.  The fault for the abuse, all the time, is the abuser's.  It is never the victim's.  You don't make someone abuse you; they choose to abuse you. 

It is also important to remember that abuse can escalate.  Emotional abusers can turn into physical abusers . . . and you may not see it coming until it's too late. 

Oftentimes, the people in the relationship are the ones least likely to term it abuse . . . even as they are suffering intensely under the weight of it.  If you are a friend of someone in such a relationship, find a quiet time to gently and firmly describe what you see that concerns you.  Perhaps bring a resource like "Peace at Home" and cite concrete examples that illustrate your point. 

DO NOT PREACH, however.  If your friend cannot hear what you're saying or is unable/unwilling to act upon your words, that is okay.  Assert your support and love for them.  Remain close to them.  And let them know you are there for them if they ever want to talk. 

If they finally reach the point where they are ready to act, they will need you beside them more than you could possibly imagine.  It is okay to bring it up when you are concerned, but stop if they ask you to and refrain from judging them in any way. 

Getting into an abusive relationship is a thousand times easier than getting out. 

Everyone deserves a safe place, in every sense of the word.  Let's work together to make that a reality. 

Boys and Bunk Beds

When I was a little girl, my brother, my sister and I all shared a bedroom.  My brother and I had a bunk bed; I had the top bunk.  I can't remember a time before my bunk bed.  I can remember lots of fun times after. 

One night my parents were papering the walls in my room and didn't want the bed up against the wall while the paper dried.  (I think, anyway . . . I can't really explain this to myself any other way!)  Being a roller, I rolled . . . right out of the bed and onto the floor.  I woke up crying, not sure how I got on the floor!  I was then kept awake--no easy feat!--until my parents were sure I hadn't suffered brain damage. 

My other big bunk bed memory is of my brother teaching us girls to jump from my top bunk to my sister's twin bed across the room.  Fortunately the room wasn't very wide, and we never missed . . . though the bruises on our legs from almost missing were enough to make our pediatrician ask my mother some pointed questions. 

With these as my touchstone memories, you may wonder why I love top bunks to this day.  I can't explain it; I just do. 

It is natural, therefore, that I would want a bunk bed for my kids.  (There is also the fact that their room is TINY and would never in a million years fit two twin beds and two dressers.)  We had tabled the bunk bed discussion because Ranita had been dealing with some severe anxiety.  Last week, however, he announced he was ready . . . so Grammy took us out and we bought a bunk bed . . . and scheduled delivery for this upcoming Tuesday. 

This evening, my son called to me long after he should have been asleep.  When I went in to him, he said he loved his toddler bed.  Uh oh.  He didn't want his toddler bed in the barn: it would get dirty.  Oh no.

I assured him I would wrap it up securely and it would remain clean until he grew up and was ready for a full-sized bed, at which time he would have it again.  Not good enough.  He doesn't want to move out of his toddler bed.  (Chinchita, on the other hand, is happy as a clam to bid farewell to her crib and get to sleep in a "big girl princess bed."  Kids!)

For a split second I was tempted to hold my head in my hands and scream in frustration, but I didn't.  Instead, I took a quick look at the room and estimated space.  His toddler bed is pretty low-profile, so I think we can fit both the new bed and the crib in the room if we don't expect to have any play space between the two.  I told him I would try that and he could stay in his toddler bed til he was ready for the bunk bed.  Good grief. 

I can guarantee you that my parents would NOT have handled this situation in this way.  I can hear my father now: You wanted the big kid bed.  You got the big kid bed.  Now you're going to sleep in the big kid bed whether you like it or not. 

Part of me wants to do it that way, to just get the beds switched, already.  We've been wrangling over this foolish bed for over 6 months now. 

The other part of me, the part I'm going to listen to, says that the bed isn't the issue.  Security is.  I have a little boy navigating a divorce, just returned from his first extended sleepover, looking ahead to a family trip to Maine (when he realizes we're no longer a family), and expecting to start school in a few weeks.  (I'm excited and nervous, Mommy.  A little nervous and a lot excited.) 

So, we'll keep the toddler bed and somehow find enough room for the bunk bed as well.  Worst case scenario I move some kids furniture into the living room where the turtle tank used to sit.  Not optimal, but what is optimal anyway? 

If it gives my little boy a sense of safety and security and continuity in this time of instability and change, it'll be worth it. 

Re-entry Sucks

Do you remember the scene in The Right Stuff where Gus Grissom re-enters Earth's atmosphere in the Mercury capsule?  He's shaking and rocking and bouncing and then crashes into the ocean.  He's supposed to wait for the retrieval team to secure the capsule before blowing the hatch.  Somehow the hatch blows early, and the very expensive piece of space hardware becomes flotsam.  The poor astronaut spends the rest of his life trying to convince the world that he didn't "screw the pooch" . . . the hatch "just blew."  

 

That's how I'm feeling right now.  

My kids and I always find "re-entry," the return from a pajama party sleepover, a challenge.  There's always a potty training regression.  There's always a day of short tempers and fatigue.  I usually salvage it by not too many outside activities and a movie or two.  

This week, my kids stayed on their first 2-night sleepover, and boy has it kicked our butts!  Mind you, included in their sleepover was the purchase of a bunk bed, new bedding, pajamas, and underwear PLUS a very fun trip to Boston to tour the aquarium AND take a duck boat ride.  Add the three dogs fighting and tearing Grammy and Pop's house apart, and you have an exciting couple of days!

The day I brought them home was unpredictably bad.  The 45-minute ride home was spent with my kids screaming at each other, hitting each other, and throwing things at one another.  (Once in a while I expect this.  This was the first time it lasted the WHOLE ride!) 

I sang lullabies.  It was not for their benefit.  

We had the potty debacle.  

I pulled out the movies.   

We survived day 1 of re-entry.  

I expected today to be a little better, but we had a busy day planned.  It started at 8 with an oil change, usually pretty fun.  Today, however, instead of playing with the toys, the kids fought over them.  Loudly.  Until I took them away and read from Highlights instead.  They got us out very quickly!

Then we needed to go to Benny's for new tires.  (Four, they said, because my car is all-wheel drive, even though one is practically new.)  Ok.  Except, they only have 3 in stock.  (Yippee!  I don't have to purchase the fourth after all!)  All the money I just earned in NH went to lube and shoe Cebu.  Oh well.  

While we wait for the tires, we shop for a present for my nephew's birthday party on Sunday.  Not good.  Kids want to touch everything, drop 5 boxes of Lego sets on the floor, fight over what to get him, and try to coerce me into buying something for my niece whose birthday is about 6 months away.  Joy.  

We purchase the gift.  The car still isn't done.  We wander around the store until the squabbling and touching does me in.  I buy Reese's Peanut Butter Cups which we consume outside (it's about 90 degrees) in the display chairs.  

I wipe up chocolate fingers with a tissue in my purse.  (Backpack with supplies?  In car, of course.)

I will skip ahead to the point where I am sitting in a chair in the sun wrapped around both of my screaming, kicking children being told by an old lady that it's too hot to have my kids outside, they should be in the air conditioning, and by no means should I take them to the beach.  (BEACH???  Are you crazy, Lady?  These kids are getting put to bed as soon as I can find wheels to get them there!  I may steal a car at this point!)  

I finally lost it.  I grabbed my kids by the hand, stalked up to the first employee I could see and said, "My car is getting new tires.  My kids have pushed me to the brink of insanity.  I need my car now, tires or no tires."  

The poor teenager just looked at me like I was a Martian and said, "Uh, okay."  A few minutes later the car was ready.  

We went to the bank drive-through next door.  Can I say no lollipops today?  

Or naps?  Because instead of sleeping my kids climbed into my daughter's crib and "rested" together, in Ranita's words.  

Best of all, Ranita and I were both supposed to go to counseling tonight while my daughter stayed with my sister-in-law.  

Can we say temper tantrum?  "I want to stay with my cousins!"  Never mind they'll be at a party together in a few days.  So I left them both and went myself.  

It was a vent session!  

I'm not sure why these re-entries are so difficult.  Is it the change in routine?  The extra energy Grammy and Pop exude?  A slight degree of separation anxiety?  Punishment for Mommy having a life without them?  A need to reestablish closeness with Mommy and being uncertain how to do it?  Fatigue?  All of the above?  

I don't know.  What I do know is that re-entry is much easier if Mommy has had some rest time.  (A work trip does NOT qualify!)  It also helps if we have a day or two at home . . . if nothing else there's a safe time-out place!  At this stage, it also seems that one night is better than two.  (When I picked him up and put him in the car my son said, "Mommy, you were gone a long time!"  I reminded him he had requested two nights.  He looked at me very solemnly and said, "But I meant one night!")  

Our next re-entry comes in a few weeks, after our first all-family trip to Maine since the divorce.  We'll have one day and then he starts school.  

Lord help us all! 

Coming to Grips With Not Going Along

When my ex arrived to pick up the kids for Daddy Day today, I was ready to be cheerful and happy.  I was coming off the best week I've had in I can't remember when, I have been just loving being Mom to my kids, and I wanted to really put that forgiveness thing into practice. 

He looks at the kids and says, "Hey, guys!  Do you want to go to Edaville Railroad today?  Grammy and Pop want to take you there." 

Happy feelings gone like last winter's snow. 

I love Edaville.  I love the trains and the rides and the food . . . but most of all I love watching my kids enjoying every second of it.  I hated the thought that they were going to make a trainload of delightful memories . . . and I wasn't going to be a part of them. 

As my ex drove away with my kids, I signed "I love you" to them and sobbed hysterically.  I thought very unforgiving thoughts.  I raged anew at how he gets to be the "fun" dad, doing all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime stuff with them while I am the Mom who takes them to doctor appointments and corrects table manners and enforces time-outs for hitting and washes laundry and cooks meals and ... (I think you get the idea.) 

Let me admit here and now: my children probably did not miss me one iota.  They had a fabulous time, as I could tell as they prattled on about their adventures when they called me on the way home.  My sorrow was not that they were missing out.  It was sorrow because I was missing out. 

After my initial crying fit and two episodes of Zoo, I was able to take a deep breath and get some perspective.  No, I will not be able to take them to all the cool things their dad will.  For one thing, there is a very real time issue.  (While they went to Edaville, I mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, and wrote an article, all of which needed to be done.) 

There is also a money issue.  I can't drop $90 just on admission to a theme park for one day. 

But there are lots of things that I get to do with them that are building more than a single memory, they are creating an ethos of childhood.  I want that to be an ethos of love, of safety, of reliability, of laughter, of God, of joy ... and also of godly discipline and responsibility and fortitude. 

What are those things?  Our pool times, our spontaneous picnics in the backyard, movie suppers, post-dentist ice creams, bad-day visits to the playground . . . and the 20 timeouts in the first 90 minutes of the day, the loss of a toy after leaving a bruise on a sibling, and the question, "Is that how you speak to your Mother?" 

I think it's working, too.  Because when my munchkins called me tonight and told me about the princesses and dinosaurs and roller coasters (about which my son was very "brave"), they asked me to read them their Bible story . . . and to pray with them . . . and to sing to them.  

It was beautiful. 

So I'm no longer angry with my ex.  I am at peace with the loss.  And I am so thankful for all I have . . . especially those two precious little ones asleep in the next room.