How Do We Do This?

It's a question that bites at four in the morning, when you just went to the kitchen for some water and discovered your teen asleep at the computer, having pulled the high school equivalent of an all nighter.  You send her down to bed.  The seven year old comes down the stairs, thinking it's breakfast time.  You send him back up.  The next day there is a parent teacher conference and a basketball practice which runs late, and a presentation at ten which two of your children are in, and who will feel crushed if no one shows.  You go.  There is a pile of a laundry in your room because you took everything out of your drawers looking for your daughter's pair of white pants which she insisted were missing, but which she found in her drawers after you'd done the damage.

My five year old slumps on the floor, demanding food and entertainment.  My ten year old chafes at being told to take a shower.  She doesn't have anything red, white or blue that's clean for the show, so I fish through the laundry, while my husband drives the two to their school, and the overtired teen who missed the bus to hers.  He stops and gets our daughter a shirt while I'm at home doing pony tails and trying to brush long hair without snagging, for she snarls when there are snarls in her hair.

And I know I'm not the only one feeling the crush of things.  My sister's family is rocked by my niece who broke her arm so badly, it will need surgery.  My mom needed care at the start of October. Fall has been hard.  The fall is hard.   Being fallen, harder still.

So what do we do? How do we do this? How do we keep doing this?

It is a choice, gnash or sing, weep or pray, growl or read.

Sunday, we took a late date night to see the latest James Bond film. We forced it into the schedule, because it wouldn't happen any other way.  The next day, I put out table cloths and Thanksgiving decorations and we had apple pie. There's only one way to fight chaos and stress, and the pain and nuisances of this life, with deliberate kindness, delight, service and beauty.  

The Blessed Mother did not scream at the crowd for mutilating her son.  She did not rage at the injustice or the cruelty of it all, and she had cause.  I just have nuisance value.  To prove the point, the nurse called from the elementary, to let me know Paul's eye is red, and he might have pink eye. I felt the sting of it, even though I know my sister is dealing with far more vexing medical issues.  I can understand how we are to respond.  I do not respond that way...also,  my four year old does not want to go back into the car.   She slumps onto the floor, rump in the air and says, "This is boring. I'm so bored.  I don't want to do this."

How do we do this?  I bribe her with mini-muffins, clapping hands and a song.  By recognizing we are always in a fight against time, against all the paper cuts and bigger wounds of the world.   This morning, my ten year old came down the stairs with a case of the grumps.  Her father hugged her until it melted away.   We have to keep remembering, to try again and together, with flowers and light, table cloths and books, hugs and games, kind words and second chances, we will make today, and all the days that come after, memories of light, and not one long scratchy dull fall of frustration.

But it is tempting to fall into that way of thinking, so God keeps sending reminders through other people.

Today, I went to Veteran's day at my children's school.  They sang songs. They asked the men and women to stand and be recognized. The principal asked them to speak.  The kids clapped, they recited a poem, and all children who had family still serving, were asked to stand.   Two boys stood for their father.  At the end of the school ceremony, when we'd clapped and sang and saluted the Veterans, a special guest arrived, and these two boys saw their father in the flesh for the first time in a year.   There wasn't a dry eye in the auditorium.  Here was a reminder that all of the pain and nuisance of life, is fleeting, this is what remains eternal.

Parading on my Reign

Friday was a hard day to get people moving.  I don't know why but every human being, self included needed the equivalent of a cheerleader hopped up on Red Bull with the strength of the Incredible Hulk to get their eyelids propped open.  When your teen drops into the bin of socks and starts to snore, you know it's not good.   I am a doggedly cheerful person in the morning and eventually got them marching.  However I crashed later and no about of diet coke was going to work. So I put on a DVD and let the two youngest watch UP with me in hopes all three of us would nap.  Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha.  Slow clap if you wish.  It was a dumb bit of optimism on my part.

What I should have done, is strap them in the van, drive around the block once with music on, and then parked in the driveway for a snooze.  However, the reality is, I didn't.  So I awoke to my toddlers planning a surprise picnic on our bed.  They had out the bread and the milk and the bagels and the grapes and cheese sticks.  It was messy and delicious and I had to vacuum my bed.  

The sluggishness of getting going continued to persist.  We had pick up at 2:45.  At 2:30 I was still searching for socks and shoes.  Getting them on everyone, I said, "Let's go!" in my most enthusiastic voice.  Paul marched out.  Anna refused.   She didn't want to go.  "Come on!" I cajoled.  "Look, your big brother is going. Paulie is going.  Look at Paul.  Don't you want to be like Paul? He's a good boy..."  She started to go out the door.  I hadn't checked Paul while I was singing his praises for going out the door.

He was sloshing through puddles.  I mean kicking up Gene Kelly Big Finish Singing in the Rain I can out crash the cymbals kind of splashing.   His sister had heard my appeal to be just like him perfectly.  Guess who followed suit?

I grab the two soaking wet toddlers but they're already beyond salvage.  Each will need a complete redo on the outfits down to the shoes.  They are soaked soaked soaked soaked.  I get them in the car and shut them in their car seats, making the car seats damp while I run back inside for fresh diapers and outfits.  I bag the extra shoes, they can be barefoot.  

But in my haste to get back to the house, I'd neglected the reality that I put them in each other's car seats.  Paul can escape Anna's.  So I'm zipping up the backpack and I hear HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HONK HOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNK! and I'm running back to the car to find my son beside himself with joy, soaking wet, drenching my seat and holding down the horn.  It is in this uncontrollable moment of pure chaos, that the rain begins to drop down as a solid sheet once again.

After I get them changed, dry down the seats and get them strapped back into the correct seats, I call my husband to tell him the whole story.

"At least they listened." he quipped.  

Oh....to Be Bored

When your morning starts with, "Mom!  The water balloon downstairs broke."  It might be time to figure out how to call in sick.   It's not that I don't love my children or find their endless means of amusing themselves via heretofore completely unthinkable venues interesting; it's just I'd like the option to be bored for a few minutes.  

This past week, I've been clearing out broken stuff, doors, old mattresses and bed frames, things which will require me to hire people with a truck to come take them away.  My oldest had dutifully stacked this stuff outside to await 1-800-Got Junk to show up.   That same day, my two middle sons decided they needed to practice soccer and low, two bed frame mattresses were outside just waiting to become goals.  Propped up by planters pots, they served admirably until it started raining.  Then my oldest got to growl and mutter under his breath as he repeated the task he'd done the day before only this time carrying soggy mattress bed frames and made me promise to threaten major carnage if anyone thought about moving anything from the pile. 

The 1-800 people weren't coming until Tuesday so Sunday came and those mattresses still sat there tempting until it proved too much and I looked out the window to find four children playing scale the tower with the table, door and mattresses strategically placed to allow them to climb to new heights.  It's amazing how inarticulate one becomes when faced with the distinct possibility of serious injuries.  "You!  Get! Off! NOW!" was all I could sputter and that was after repeated attempts to say something else like "Hey, get down before you get yourself hurt!" or some other reasonable command to require compliance.  My oldest was then dispatched to re stack everything in such a manner that future mountains/forts were not possible but I had to promise him a steak for the trouble.

Meanwhile, the attempt to maintain order continues, but everywhere, chaos seems to be breaking out, revealing just how thinly below the surface of my veneer it lurks.  Changing the light bulbs in one room, the ceiling fan decided that was just too much to bear and disconnected from the light fixture requiring an emergency dispatch of an electrician. I'd cleaned out the closet and folded the blankets, only to find six of those said comforters draped across my living room as tents.   I'd rearranged my daughter's room to put the single beds against the wall, giving more floor space.  I found her dancing on her bed next to the glass window.  "AH! AH! AH! AH!"  was all I could get out as I gestured frantically for her to sit down.

Trying to settle them down, I went to turn on the tv, only to find I couldn't find the remote.  Looking under the couch, I discovered the remote plus scads of other missing objects and a few that should not be found at least not under a couch if ever.  Dispatching a child for a trash bag, I began cleaning out the couch and discovered one of the springs was sticking through and that one of the arms had been broken and had exposed staples. (It was an 11 year old couch so I didn't get too crazed by it, but it was decidedly unsafe and needed to be added to the Got Junk Pile).  Getting out their bikes, three needed air and that required a trip to the store for a pump and a pin, and one needed the chain refitted but that was only discovered after the child tried to ride and fell and needed a large band-ade. 

It was at this point I wondered if I could afford to get our house organized, since every task seemed to either threaten with the possibility of a jaunt to the ER or the contracting of a specialist or both.  I also considered whether the natural chaos of our home sans my attempt to impose order somehow insulated my offspring from potential harm.   They couldn't see the bed to jump on before because it was covered with stuffed animals. They couldn't get to their bikes, hence we didn't need to go run another errand.   Cleaning was rapidly increasing my to-do list past my capacity to get ta-dah done.

For the moment, the forces of order won out...symbolically anyway as I made a mental note to rearrange the room once again to ensure spontaneous jumping on the bed wouldn't result in the potential of falling out the window and managed to string back on the chain on the bike. I was grateful their guardian angels had been busy keeping me in the loop.   I was grateful there had been thus far, no injuries; but I had to wonder what else I was missing that was going on whenever I walked into these situations.   To underscore the point, when I went to plug in my cell phone in my room, my guitar and the crib had been moved and someone opened my drawers while I spent time dealing with the bed jumper.  

The guys from 1 800 Got Junk arrived today.  The piles will go away, but now I'm wondering if it would be safer for all concerned if I just send everything out but their beds and dressers.  And for the record, I went down stairs and found all the remaining water balloons.

The Perfection Found in My Chaos

First, to those visiting from Creative Minority Report, Welcome to my blog!

“You have how many?” I had seven in the store. “Nine.” The clerk began showing us off to her fellow workers as if they had not heard and could not see the stroller and two toddlers led by two olders and one boy who was trying desperately to figure out how not to be associated with us while his brother posed and preened in the three way mirror.

The woman helping us buy uniforms for the school year told my oldest daughter, “Your mother is a saint. You do know that right?” I caught her eyes. She was barely concealing her urge to roll them. This particular teen has a steel trap mind and as she said when she was five, “I never forget anything.” Then and now when I’m reminded of this fact, a deep chill runs up my spine and I know if I ever need to go to confession and am struggling with making a proper assessment of my failings, she can provide an annotated list for my convenience. Even though these words were meant as a compliment, they irk. First, if a case were ever to be opened on my behalf for canonization, the first ones to testify against it would be my children.

Second, I know that motherhood is hard whether you have one or nine. It’s 24-7, it’s without end and there are times when the tasks involved grind you to exhaustion and beyond. I know many mothers I wish I could emulate more; my own for example –she plans. I follow up understanding how much easier whatever it is I am doing would have been if I’d only planned. My mother-in-law is another shining star. She is thorough and thoughtful. I’m fitfully creative and live perpetually with the hope that the thought counts enough even if the birthday card is three days…alright…weeks…late getting into the mail.

I know moms who are so present to their children, I’m envious. I try doing it and both the kids and I get bored of each other or one group of kids wants me to be a judge and another, the designated monster or a third, the set home base. I’m an accessory to their play and a refuge, not a colleague or collaborator. I also know moms of one and two with ample dollops of charity for others to spare; charity I think of only after witnessing them. And I know mothers of six that I watch with awe who arrive on time and well dressed and combed and think, one day, I hope I can be that together and know that my current course and speed aren’t going in that direction no matter how much I flail.

But the polished present planning playing careful mother I’m not is not because of the how many I have. It never was the number that has prevented me from being a planner or thorough and thoughtful or charitable or present, for the number has continued changing, but the constant in the equation has been me. Instead, they’ve got this dreamy fitful enthusiastic and sometimes together mom who spends too much time on my computer, doesn’t write things down and when she does, she doesn’t check her calendar. I know because when we got back to the car and loaded everyone in, I asked my daughter, “Do comments like that bother you?” and she shook her head no and said, “Don’t worry Mom. I know you’re no saint.” And rattled off examples of my many failings, all 100% accurate.

She patted my shoulder but somehow that didn’t make me feel better. When you get a reminder of your sins, it’s a cue to at least make sure you aren’t stagnating spiritually so I talked to one of my go to priests about the trials of trying to raise 9 without discouraging any of them from practicing their faith throughout adulthood because of the obvious work load involved.

He told me to pray and remember “You know, some days, just staying sane is sufficient.” I told him I thought that was setting the bar a bit low.

But today, my four year old is dancing on a chair in her swim suit. No one told her we were going swimming, she just felt it might happen and because her mother is an impulsive person, it might. The three year old comes into the room. “Do you want to potty train today?” I ask. “No, I need to color.” And she marches to the table to demand paper for her latest magnum opus. My eight year old comes down to explain she stayed up reading and writing and illustrating a book and my eleven year old triumphantly explains how he beat his dad and older brother last night in an epic hour long magic game.
 
These whimsies won’t get them scholarships and aren’t brag worthy to strangers in the way that “we just got back from the semi-finals in 10U baseball” or she’s performing at the Kennedy Center in the junior orchestra or he’s spending the summer studying immersion Sanskrit, but I wouldn’t change or trade those for this blessed abundant and lavish creative chaos I’ve both promoted and created. They’re my triumphs of ordinary time. And while this work won’t generate a tv spot where one of mine flashes a victorious smile and says, “Thanks Mom.” I can look at them in the midst of their clutter, crayons and music dance and song and feel my heart burst as I whisper a prayer to hold onto this moment and say, “Thanks God for these kids.” And mean it with all my heart.

Summer Mana

I do not know how many people fall asleep in their lives, but I do know that there are moments in my own history where I suddenly felt slapped awake by reality, and I wondered how it was that I did not appreciate before what I now could not appreciate except in memory. Whether it was a friend who moved or a toothless grin, a beach house or a favorite bakery in New York, I always labored under the foolish self deceiving perception that these good good things, these would last, these would stay, and even decades would not alter the landscape.

Nothing in reality reinforces this dillusion, yet it persists just the same. Children grow. Friends move. The seasons even though they come again each year, do not echo their prior manifestations, and the beach is never the same two days in a row. Music played live never repeats itself even if it is the same song. Berries picked from the same plant are not uniform in taste, color or size. Every instant of our lives is a moment of variety, at odds with all that came before and will be. Life is change, and not all of it expected, pleasant or easy.

It is only our morals and our relationships that we can fix, by how we choose to act. I can always wear red, but even the same red will fade with the washes, and the color will seem brighter or duller based on current fashions. But one can always choose to hold a truth to be true, regardless of fashion. One can hold that charity towards all will ultimately make a difference in how we experience the whole world. One can choose to love, and allow that choice to dominate all actions that flow, regardless of the other's response. In fact, the way in which we can be like God is to choose to be constant in truth, in charity and in love.

We can also hold that even with all this chaos that defines our breathing in and breathing out, God loves us in all our disorderly messiness, in all our sins and flaws and faults. Knowing that in all the universe, there is this one constant, makes all the discord of everything else, bearable.