Tag: Maria

The problem is you think you have time.

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M &M enjoying the rain

I facilitated a retreat at my work a couple of months ago and my co-facilitator delivered this quote during one of our sessions:

“The problem is you think you have time.”

This serves as a powerful motivator for me.  It reminds me to do the things in life I sometimes have no desire to do but that in the end always end up adding a little something to my day and expanding my life experience.  Whether it be letting Maria and Mario stay up late to watch a movie and eat popcorn after I have had an exhausting day at work and just want to curl up in bed; reading them one more looonnngg book after I have already read them five before bedtime; or driving out to my family’s house when I just want to take a long walk around the neighborhood and read the newspaper at Stauf’s – it is forcing myself to not succumb to the gravitational pull of my tired or indulgent self.  

Let’s face it – between working full-time and taking care of two youngins, I get tired and I want some self-indulgance.  No doubt, there is a time and place for that.  But there also is an understanding that time is fleeting.  I want to spend it well enough that when I am 75, I am able to look back at my 30s and 40s and think “I led a pretty exciting, adventurous, fun-filled life and took full advantage of my days.”    

Take the kids to the park, have lunch with that old friend, spend some quality time with my hubby in the evening. 

Saturday was a rainy, chilly day and we were all inside doing random tasks.  Jon’s parents were down and they decided to go to the nursery for fertilizer.  As Jon and his parents were leaving, Mario stepped onto the porch to say goodbye.  I went out to grab him, and looked down at the sidewalk.  Big puddles.  Lots of mud and sticks.  What could be more fun to a kid? 

I rounded up Maria and Mario in their rain gear and their rain boots and off we went.  I knew Jon and his folks would come back shaking their heads and I knew I would have my hands full taking off all of their dirty clothes, carrying them up to a bath, scrubbing them down….  but hey, the problem is you think you have time. 

M&M with their worm friends

By the way, we not only got muddy and wet, but we found two wiggly worms to examine and hold.  Does life get any better?

Coloring eggs

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Maria showing off her soon to be colored egg

Coloring easter eggs has been one of my favorite past times both as a kid and as a 20 something adult.  I vaguely remember coloring them as a child but I do remember hunting for them – their bright primary colors bursting out at me from behind grandma’s chair, nestled next to a plant, under a big oak tree.  The thrill of finding a brightly colored egg far exceeded anything else in the day (except for maybe the foot tall solid chocolate bunny).  Now I get to transfer my thrill to my daughter who developed a passion for egg coloring starting last year in my mother’s kitchen.  My mom bought an easter egg coloring kit for her.  I was hesitant at first.  All of the cups filled with water, easily cracked eggs, color dye everywhere.  But, we were at my mom’s house so what the hey?!  Maria loved it.  She colored each of her eggs with pride and wrote on them and put stickers on them and treated them like fragile Waterford crystal.  Hence, a tradition was born.

Maria spotted the easter egg coloring kit about a week after Valentine’s Day (yes, god love the retail shops with their easter items packed in stores the day after Valentine’s Day – just keep those holidays coming for our businesses).  We bought the kit, and I was able to keep it up on the shelf for a few weeks before we decided that we just had to color some eggs.  We decided that we would color some this early in order to get out enough eggs to all of our friends and family before easter.  Maria begged me to start the process as soon as we came home from school tonight but I stalled as I picked up all of the poop outside in our backyard (I do have my priorities straight!).  I kept pumping Maria up as I picked up the dog’s remnants so that when we walked inside, Maria was ready to go.  Damn, I forgot you had to hard boil the eggs before you colored them!  Ugh.  That was a mistake.  Maria broke down believing that it would take all night to boil the eggs and we would NEVER be able to color the eggs.  Meanwhile, I filled the pot with water, got the water boiling, and placed the eggs in the pot.  By that time, Maria had found the stickers in the box and the dye pills.  I got her working on filling the cups with water and by the time she finished that task, our eggs were ready (always the key – keep them busy so they don’t have time to stew!).  Maria placed one dye pill in each cup watching the pill slowly dissolve and commentating on what color the water was becoming. 

Mario and his own works of art

Meanwhile, her brother cut his construction paper and drew his “letters”.  He asks me what letter to draw, I state “A” or “J” or “B” and he acts like he is drawing the letter.  Actually, the other day I looked down after telling him to draw a “M” and he had drawn what looked to resemble a “M”!  He may be getting it – god knows he talks like a four-year old so he may as well start drawing letters like one.  He had no interest in coloring the eggs, which came as relief since trying to watch the water cups, the eggs, and two hyper kids would have been a little much. 

Maria was very concerned about cracking the egg while she placed it in the cup so I assisted her on most of them.  We waited patiently for the color to soak onto the egg-shell.  Maria would pick one out (with her hands of course), give it a scrutinizing review, and then place it back in the water for a little more coloring.  Finally, she had enough of the waiting, and decided that no matter what color they were, it was just the right color for her.  They dried pretty quickly and she began writing our names and hearts and designs.  She wasn’t too into the stickers (I don’t think we ever got stickers with our kit) but she liked the little round egg holders that came with the

Maria modeling her creation (and yes, she was trying to "model")

kit.  She placed them gently in the holders after she finished her creation.  She had a minor meltdown toward the end when we only had a yellow and two blue eggs left and Grandma, who was talking to Jon, asked if she would make her an orange one.  She fell to the floor after looking up on the counter and not finding an orange egg: “Oh, no, mom, Grandma wants an orange egg and I don’t have one for her!” She sobbed hysterically and repeated “NO” each time I tried to come up with an alternative.  Finally, I realized that we still had the cups of dyed water so I threw the pale yellow egg in the red cup and viola, we had an orange.  I knew that science class which explained color mixing would come in handy some day.  Maria immediately popped back to life and got that little orange egg all spruced up for Grandma and Grandpa.   

I think the hysterical sobbing wore her out because after the orange egg, she left the other two to head into the living room with the boys.  And there we have it, the 2010 easter season has officially begun in the household.  The blue eggs lead the pack with four, pink eggs with two, purple eggs with two, green eggs with two, and orange egg with 1.  Thank goodness for Grandma – she added a little more color to our world.         

M&M expressing their disdain with having to clean up after egg coloring and art time

Open Wide

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It was as if Maria had been to the dentist ten times before our trip today for her initial visit.  She walked into the small cubicled room, swung her body onto the oversized dental chair, placed her limbs on the chair’s armrests, and waited to be pampered. 

Happy as a clam!

Cool Cat

Seriously, I had to pinch myself to make sure we were at the dentist’s office and not the spa.  The hygenist came into the small room with her perky self, talking three decibels higher than normal, and explaining everything in s-l-o-w-m-o-ti-o-n.  After about a minute, I would have thought that she would have toned it down some after seeing that Maria was cool as a cat in the chair, but it must be engrained in her to act that way with any child that comes into the office.  Maria seemed to like her nonetheless, so it was all good. 

Maria loved being taken care of and getting pampered with flavored toothpaste and fluoride while watching Nick Kids on the tv in the corner of the room.  She did not mind the slight tugging at her mouth and poking of her teeth because afterwards, she knew that her teeth would be shiny white and she would get to taste raspberry fluoride and get water sucked out of her mouth through a straw.  The only services she missed were a head massage and pedicure.  After the hygenist finished cleaning her teeth, she shot up and asked for a mirror.  “I want to see my shiny white teeth, mom!” 

When we got home from school tonight, she went upstairs and brushed immediately asking me to find her floss and asking me if I liked the color of her new toothpaste.  She asked when she could go to the dentist again.  She bragged about her teeth still looking so shiny and white.  She even admonished her little brother about brushing his teeth, and instructed him how to brush properly.  Of course, he smacked her right in the arm as soon as she tried to touch his toothbrush.  She should know by now but she continues to try. 

I wonder how Mr. Mario will do with his first trip to dentist – somehow I don’t think that he will be quite as enamored with the process or believe that any of it is “pampering.”  He will probably cram down ten donuts and licorice before the appointment just to be ornery (whereas Maria made sure she brushed her teeth right before we left).  Although he did show some promise tonight while we were rocking in Maria’s room.  He heard Maria tell her dad that she forgot to brush her teeth, and then he heard her get out of bed.  He turned to me in the chair and asked “Mom, brush teeth?”  I replied with an adamant “no way” and he looked at me with frustration continuing to speak: “But, mom, my teeth feel dirty.”  What do I say to that?  I figured I would take him in the bathroom and he would goof off but he actually brushed his teeth better than I do half the time. 

So, one for one so far at the dentist and maybe a two for two in another year.  For now, I will enjoy the memory in my head of Maria in that big ol’ dentist chair, mouth slightly open, waiting for her flavored toothpaste and watching her favorite tv shows – that content, mischevious little grin on her face.

Family Fun Fest, aka Parents’ Torment

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Yes, we waited all week for Family Fun Fest.  The kids, because they were excited about the games and toys; me, because I was excited to have an event to go to for a couple of hours on a Saturday afternoon (although, I had no idea that the weather would break today and reach a high of 45 degrees, which after weeks and weeks of below freezing temperatures feels like a Florida heat wave!) 

Unfortunately, as soon as we walked into the school, there was a table full of brownies, cookies, cakes, and donuts.  Maria’s and Mario’s eyes and feet both dashed to the table.  Mario proceeded to touch about three different cupcakes and five cookies, which I was then forced to buy.  Of course, Maria did not want any of the ones he touched – she wanted the brownies with the chocolate sky-high frosting (she is my daughter).  Why does every school fest have to have loads and loads of sugar for sale?  I know, it is the easiest thing for parents to make and sell (can’t really imagine a table full of hummus and pita – although the parents would probably pay $5 a shot for some of that after spending an hour running after their kids and the PTA would make more in one sale than in fifty cookie sales – but I diverge…). 

After scarfing down our sugar treats, Maria and Mario spot the face painting, which

The stunned kitty and the whiskered boy

they both gravitate to at any festival that we attend.  Maria became a very cool cat and Mario became a clown with whiskers.  I think Mario’s face painter wanted to meet up with her guy friends so she slapped a little red on his nose and stroked the brush a few times on his cheeks.  Poor guy.  Thank god it was him and not Maria because she would have had a fit (nothing but the best for that girl). 

We continued to travel around the lunch room making random sand necklaces and tie dye paintings, and then headed to the gym for some duck pond and bean bag tossing.   It is funny to see the parents.  I think it is fair to say that we all dread being at these things.  Who wouldn’t?  Kids running around trying to find their friends; toddlers screaming because they want to play a game and they have to wait in line; preschoolers crying because they lost a game and didn’t get any prize tickets; and all the kids whining and pleading for more candy, more cookies, and more game money. 

But yet, we are all there.  Suckers among suckers.  Wondering why the hell we thought it would be a good idea to go to this thing.  In the middle of the week when you have cooked mac-n-cheese for the third time, and have sat in the same living room watching the same Scooby Doo for the third time, and have heard “what can we do, mom” for the fiftieth time, you start to hallucinate and think that a Family Fun Fest would be a joy!  Then the day comes and you try to remember what was going on in your head mid-week to make you become so delusional. 

At least other parents noticeably feel your pain.  They all shakes their heads with you, make sarcastic slight comments about how much fun it is, breathe heavy when their kids beg for five more minutes in the gym, and every so often, scream under their breath at their kid who will stop at nothing to throw that bean bag one more time. 

This is an event that should undoubtedly be taped for our children to let them know what hell we went through in order to allow them to funnel sand into plastic bottles, spray paint onto spinning paper, and throw toilet paper into a toilet seat rim mounted on a piece of a wood (yes, that was a game).  

We should be able to use this as Evidence 101 when they are arguing to us that they should not have to come visit us in the nursing home or they should not have to help us figure out how the ten electronic gadgets work together to turn on the tv.  We bucked it up for you so now you repay it to us! 

Maria and her jar of 1238 M&Ms

I have to admit that the day ended with a bang when we got a call from the Festival volunteer informing us that Maria had guessed the closest amount of M&Ms in a jar so we had won a prize!  My heart dropped.  Yeah, I am serious – I am such a sucker for any game.  I walked up to the school to collect our prize, which not only contained a bunch of goofy Nerf toys but a Mama Mimi’s pizza certificate (yummy!) and the entire jar of 1238 M&Ms.  I thought I had died and goe to heaven when they told me we got to keep the jar of M&Ms.  I will be pumped full of chocolate for weeks.  And Maria was just as charged when I brought the gifts home to her – she looked at the Nerf toys for a mini-second but then reached out for that jar of M&Ms, eyes full and glazed, smile filling her entire face.  “Ahh” she sighed.  Yeah, that is my girl.

The power of appreciation

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I have not gotten to the gym all week.  Jon left town on Monday and returns on Friday.  I hate these weeks for numerous reasons: first, because my hubby is gone; second, because these kids know they can get away with murder with their mama; and third, because I am unable to start my day with a run or with gym time, which can make me very grumpy.  It does not help that I am compulsive about everything so if I don’t work out, then I eat really bad food.  If I workout, I eat really good food.  So, Twix bars and M&Ms have been my diet all week, which makes me even grumpier! 

Actually, I have not been too grumpy this week because I have had such a great time with Maria and Mario.  I have let them stay up late every night (it will be a rude awakening when Dad comes home on Friday!).  We have hit the library, Jeni’s, Wendy’s, and tonight, the indoor swimming pool!  I picked M&M up early and we headed straight to the pool (I had run to Target on my lunch hour and bought swimming suits for both of them since Maria outgrew her suit (when both butt cheecks are falling out you gotta hang it up!)) and Mario had pooped in his a few nights back and I had yet to wash it – lovely).  They were so excited, especially Maria who has been begging to hit the pool for months.   Maria also loved her new bathing suit, which relieved me because I decided against the Princess suit this year and went for a suit full of colorful Peace symbols. 

We arrived to an empty pool, which is a beautiful sight.  No one to bump into us or splash us (all of us are such loners!).  Maria is doing so well with going under water and even went under water while “swimming” to me tonight (scraping her arms along the bottom of the pool with her head submerged – but hey, it is something!).  I make her feel proud with my boasting but I am simply so happy to see her liking the water.  Mario just splashes around, throws his ball, goes down the little slide, and hangs out.  He will not submerge his head, yet.  But I gotta believe that with his crazy self the time will soon come.

We left around 7:00, and we were all starving.  Yes, another Wendy’s night.  Although, Maria chose a baked potato over french fries tonight, which is a positive change (does it matter that she loaded it up with two packets of sour cream!).  As we sat there savoring the salty french fries dipped in ketchup, Maria chimed in with a bit of appreciation that completely took me off guard. 

“Mom, I have two things to thank you for tonight.  Thank you for picking me up early. And thank you for taking us to the pool.”

My little appreciative soul

Just like that my day transformed.   I got more sincere appreciation from my four and a half-year old daughter than I have at work for two years.  

After our dinner, I bought them kid sized Frostys (and myself an adult sized one with M&Ms (they are daggone good!)).  Maria got whipped cream and chocolate sauce on hers.  I looked over at her on her stool with chocolate syrup on her upper lip and Frosty cup in hand.  Her head turned in another direction and looking around the restaurant in a whimsical way, she whispered “What a great ending to the day.”  You hit it on the head, girlie. 

She brings me back to what is true and real to me – my time with family, yummy food, and letting go.  Thanks, Ms. Ria.  I love you!  And, Mario, thanks for keeping us laughing all night with your madness! I love you, too!

The Taste of Spring

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Happy to be outside on their bikes!

Yes, we got that sweet taste of Spring yesterday afternoon.  

The sidewalks cleared of snow early in the morning, and the sun smeared itself onto the land through the grey clouds above.  It is obvious that Mario has Spring fever – he continues to rip off his pants and pull-ups, and dance around the house half-naked screaming “Naked boy!”  Maria is less obvious in her antics but I know that she is anxious to see the sun and warm days with the way she talks about picnics in the park, swimming at the pool and biking around the neighborhood.  

When Maria woke up from her nap at 5 pm, it was still light and a balmy 39 degrees.  We threw on our coats and hats and gloves, and headed outside.  Half way out the door, Maria remembered that she needed her knee pads and her helmet.  I had to give her my bike helmet because she has officially grown out of her Dora one (poor girl has her daddy’s head)!  I grabbed Maria’s bike in one hand and Mario’s plastic big wheel in the other.  I made sure Maria’s bike was in the front because Maria gets very upset when her brother gets ahead of her; she worries that he will go in the street or hit a pothole.  “I need to be the leader so my brother does not get hurt.”  

Of course, Mario got irritated with this arrangement at first.  But he felt better after I told him that he was in charge of “saving” Ria if she needed a push from behind.  We trucked it up the street with Maria leading the way in her velvet green dress and white stockings.  Mario did not do a bad job keeping up with her, especially on a plastic big wheel.  When we reached Grandview Avenue, we took turns pressing the walk button.  They ran back to their bikes at my command and we darted across the street as soon as we had the walk sign (this is quite a sight with me running up to push Maria onto the opposite sidewalk ramp and then running back to help Mario get across the street before the light turns green for the cars).  

We finally arrive at Panera.  

Maria has been concerned with her manners and etiquette lately because of a Princess CD that talks about them all the time.  We ordered Broccoli and Cheese soup and wheat bread.  She placed her napkin on the neck of her dress and picked up her spoon.  She filled her spoon half-way, blew on the soup, and ate it pristinely.  I worried I had an alien daughter for a second but then she asked “Mom, am I showing good etiquette?”  As much as I detest those princesses, I have to give ’em a shout for pushing the etiquette.  It was like eating with another adult. Amazing.  

Meanwhile, her heathen brother sat in his chair with a straw in one hand acting like he was shooting bystanders.  After playing that for five minutes, he jumped down from his chair and ran over to the counter trying to play hide-n-seek with the Panera workers.  I scolded Mario for the next 20 minutes about sitting still (worked really well).  I sighed.  Maria sighed.  Then Maria lamented that Mario has no etiquette, and that he really needed to learn some quickly.  I seconded that, and we grabbed him and left to the workers’ glee. 

Maria wanted ice cream at Jeni’s but we had to discuss whether Mario should get any because he did not act the best at Panera.  Maria finally made the executive call that Mario should get some but only because we loved him.  Mario has no idea how much that sis of his stands up for him.  We ate our “purple ice cream” (black currant yogurt – yum!) while sitting in our favorite booth next to the picture window.  We love it because we can people and dog watch and comment on which dogs we would want to own and which we think are better left with their respective owners.   We finally finished up and jumped back on our bikes for the ride home.  

I saw a glimpse of Mario in his later years on the ride home.  Maria is a fairly careful biker – she pedals pretty good on a long stretch of sidewalk but when the handicap ramp comes she makes a complete stop and slowly goes down the miniscule ramp.  Then she stops at the sister handicap ramp and usually needs a push to get up the ramp.  Then there is speed racer, Mario.  He sees the tiny down ramp and jives up those little legs pedaling as if to get away from a horrid monster behind him.  He soars down the ramp and slides on the pavement with no control.  It jars him and I get prepared to have to soothe him from the scare.  But no, he looks up at me with a smile from ear to ear and pronounces “that was so fun, mommy!”  I can already see him with his buddies coming home every day with a new bruise or laceration.  

Spotting the nest above

When we were almost home, Mario looked up in one of the adolescent trees on the street and shouted “Look Mom, bird nest!”  He had spotted a newly spun nest.  We stared at it for a few moments and I commented that this was a great taste of Spring.  “Where are the birds, mommy?” asked Mario.  “They are gathering more twigs to build the nest even bigger, Mario,” I responded.   Maria looked at me and replied “The nest looks pretty good to me, mom.” 

Yes, it does, little one.  And Spring is another day closer.         

The inspiring sight of Spring

Just Say No

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M&M at Krogers (for Halloween): a little better place to run around!

I should have declined. 

When my dad told me that he was bringing Grandma Menkedick and Grandpa Bill up to see my little brother in his first OSU play and that they wanted to have dinner with us prior to the show, I should have said “no.” Not because I dislike my Grandma Menkedick or Grandpa Bill.  In fact, every chance I get, I see them. But because my children display the absolute worst manners ever possible when out at a restaurant. 

My husband has mini-coronary arrests when we are out because he cannot stand the sight of them running around and acting goofy.  I, on the other hand, do not quite get to that level but I do get frustrated and anxious, especially when older guests are eating with us.  Why? Because 9.9 out of 10 of them do not find anything funny about two children running around the table, climbing underneath it, banging their spoons, and winging table scraps at each other.  In fact, they cannot even hide their disdain.  They either stare at them in disgust or they shake their heads and sport those disappointing faces with the mouth turned down and eyelids half-shut. 

Maria and Mario did better tonight than they have in months at other restaurants (may have had to do with Jon and I both lecturing them for the past few days about acting right or taking every privilege from tv to eating away from them!).  Nonetheless, they still didn’t sit still, they still moved chairs and climbed on them, and they still whined about how long the food was taking to arrive at our table. 

Grandma Menkedick just chuckles through it all but I heard her true feelings the other day when I called her.  She went on and on for 10 minutes about my cousin’s children and how well behaved they are when they eat with her.  I joked “and mine aren’t Grandma?”   She sat there in silence probably trying not to scream “Hell No!” and then responded with a slight laugh stating “You just have to keep working with them, Mary.”  Nonetheless, god love her, she did not make any comments while this was going on and she did not engage in any head movements or sighs that would make me even more anxious and irritable.  She is an extraordinary grandma to say the least. 

Grandpa Bill is pretty good, too.  Although, I still get the feeling that he reflects back to his days raising my stepmom and her brother and sisters and thinks “I would never have allowed….”  But, again, he gives slight smiles and sticks in there as the two crazy children climb on me and dump the salt and interrupt every word I say. 

So, again I walked out of the restaurant thinking “no way will I return until the children are 18, if then.”  Of course, I will be back in another week or two with the two of them in tow, meeting grandma or a cousin or a friend, and I will get that anxious and frustrated feeling back as I try to control the two nutballs.  If I was more of a disciplinarian, I would simply put them in the corner or enforce a no tv rule on them but so far I have found that I don’t have it in me.  Nonetheless, I feel the day a comin’ around the corner and when it does, watch out you two – I owe you some!

Not My Garlic Bread!

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Maria eating her pasta

Maria was starving when we got home from school last night.  She opened the freezer and found a frozen spaghetti dinner that also included a slice of garlic bread.  You would have thought the box contained a princess Barbie or gold.  She held it up in the air as if it were magical, and screamed “Mom, can I have this for dinner!” 

Well, before my organic, “my kids would never eat microwaveable food” mothers go nuts, I typically cook spaghetti with wheat noodles and pour on some yummy tomato sauce.  However, I was tired last night.  I had felt nauseous all day and I just wanted to sit down on the couch and rest.  So, it was Maria’s lucky night. 

We popped the dinner in the microwave, and kept the bread out until the dinner cooked.  The entire time the dinner was cooking, Maria kept touching the plastic on the garlic bread and chanting “this bread is going to be so yummy.”  I made some other toast with our wheat bread and slathered butter and garlic salt on it.  I told Maria that this bread would taste just as good.  She knew better.  She has experienced “true” white bread garlic bread smothered in butted and garlic before – at our local pasta shoppe – so there was no tricking her.  One bite of that wheat imposter, and she made it clear that the plastic wrapped garlic bread was her choice. 

The spaghetti finished and the garlic bread went in.  Twenty seconds later, the bread came out.  Maria ogled it.  I broke the bread in half and told Maria she had to split it with Mario.  She protested at first but figured she would get Mario’s half anyway since he eats nothing but Goldfish and suckers.  I took the two pieces of bread to the kids’ Dora table and went back in the kitchen where Maria was putting parmesan cheese on her spaghetti. 

Before I knew it, I heard Mario running into the kitchen and yelling for Cy.  Next thing I knew, Maria was screaming uncontrollably and then sobbing and then darting toward her brother with both arms out ready to strangle his little neck.  I caught her during the choke hold, and pushed her aside.  She ran in the living room like a frantic lost animal. 

“Daddy, Mario fed my garlic bread to Cy!” 
“Maria, it is ok, we can make you some more.”

Still sobbing uncontrollably “No, Dad, that was the only good piece we had and Mario fed it to Cy.”  She threw herself onto the chair and cried and cried and cried.  Mario tried to get near her and she scolded him to get away from her.  “I never want to be your sister again!” 

Pretty harsh words over a piece of garlic bread.  Ahh, but that is our Maria.  She enjoys her food and is willing to give up friendships and even family when it comes down to it.  Mario has bitten her, scratched her, head-butted her, hit her, pulled her hair, and she still gives him hugs and kisses and sings “I love you little brother.”  But last night, he went too far.  He relinquished Maria’s garlic bread to the dog. 

It may take days, even months, for him to win her back over.   I advised him to invest in another piece of garlic bread, and this time, to make sure the dog is no where in sight.  Kroger’s here we come….

Hope

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Maria enjoying dress up at school

I drove downtown today to head to an appointment to tour the YWCA in hopes of volunteering there in the future.  I got thrown back in time as I drove down Spring Street towards the heart of downtown.  I had taken that route for eight years – four of them with my daughter to and from daycare at Bright Horizon’s at Grant Hospital and two of them with my daughter and son.  

I had placed my daughter in the Grant daycare because it was directly across the street from my law firm.  I still remember those first few months of dropping her off at daycare, age three months old.  It devastated me to drop her off in the morning because she always cried – always.  The daycare providers tried to console her but unfortunately they had lots of other screaming babies to console (although I would always unreasonably expect that my sweet baby should get all of the attention – not those other babies).  What made it worse, too, was that I would go over in the mid-morning or early afternoon to see her, and she would be crying when I walked in the room.  

This pissed me off beyond belief.  I would remain calm and pick her up and try to talk to the girls about different ways to calm her down.  They would listen in between feeding other babies, burping them, changing their diapers.  I was yet another neurotic parent telling them how to do their job in their eyes, I am sure.  Heck, they were only making $8.00 an hour to take care of my child for eight hours – what could I expect?  I always felt bad for not speaking up more about the hourly wage that these gals were making; it is such a travesty that the women and men who watch over our children and care for them while we are off at work make the same or less money per hour than a valet or grocery store bagger. 

I never have come to terms with leaving them at daycare while I go off and work.  I still feel conflicted when I think about my choice to retain a career.  There are nights when I watch a certain scene of a movie or read a story on-line, and a flood of emotions come over me and I feel like I am the worst mom ever and I think my children will grow up to feel abandoned and lonely and despondent.  I don’t think that will ever go away – subside, yes, but never vanish forever. 

Maria grew into her own at the daycare, and of course, was the little munchball that everyone wanted to hold and play with through the day.  So, it got easier to some extent.  She still was never the type to jump up and down for school (and still isn’t) but at least she was not crying hysterically everyday when I left.  Now, I take her to her new school closer to our house (she started there in September 2009) and she begs to return to that old school because it was so much fun and she misses her teachers.  So, I guess it wasn’t the dungeon that I always made myself feel it was when I left her in the morning.  

It is funny how the same routine consumes you day in and day out, and you feel like there is no way that you will ever forget the monotony of it all.  How you will never forget the devastation and loneliness and sorrow that encompassed your entire self as you tip-toed out of the infant room trying to calm your little one as she sobbed for you to stay.   How you sank deep in your chair at work bombarded with thoughts about whether you were doing the right thing, how your child would be affected by your decision, what you could do to make it better. 

But then they get older and they are less fragile, and they enjoy interaction with friends, and you see them developing, and they say something that is so heartfelt and so enlightening that you think “they are coming along just fine….” 

My darling, happy daughter in her Mexican dress

And those moments from the past, that heartbreak from the past, that confusion from the past, does subside greatly and you feel hope rising up.     

My goofy, muffin-loving son

From Monsters to Cherubs

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It has been a long week. 

Jon was gone two days.  I let the kids stay up late with me so they were grumpy and mean in the morning.  Mario had a horrid meltdown when I turned off the fan yesterday morning.  He flung his little body against his crib and wailed.  I tried to turn the fan back on and allow him to turn it off but that just pissed him off more.  “No mommy, go away!”  Wah, wah, wah, wah.  Ugh, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs during these moments and tell him to get a life. 

But rather, I walk into my room, lay on my bed, and breathe. 

It usually takes 3 minutes and then he brings his sobbin’ butt onto my bed.  Maria, on the other hand, turns completely silent when she is grumpy or angry.  While Mario was busy wailing and flailing all around, Maria was in her room, door closed, stewing over the fact that I told her I didn’t want to play Barbies 2.2 seconds after we woke up.  I need time to get into that Barbie playing thing.  Before I could even get out the words “not right now” she stomped away from my bed, slammed her door shut, and yelled “Don’t come in my room, Mom!”  Oh, that is so fine with me, little girl. 

After Mario got in bed with me, he realized Maria was not around.  “Where’s Ria?’ I think to myself “the prima donna spoiled thing is in her room wishing evil on me” but I paraphrase that thought to “Ria is in her room.”  He jumps up to check on her sensing something is wrong. 

I continue to lay on my bed, eyes on the cracked ceiling, thinking about what this life is all about.  I tend to get philosophical in times like these for good or bad.  After about 10 minutes of silence out of Maria’s room, I decide I better check on the insane children.  I go in and see this picture.  

Maria reading to her little brother

Every horrible thing they have done or said in the last twenty minutes is forgotten and I am consumed with affection.  Maria is such the mother hen to that little brother.  She is patient when he asks five questions about the same thing on a page and she allows him to choose any book he wants to read.  He is mesmerized with her as she reads to him and trusts her words completely.  The scene is heart-stirring.  

Why can’t it be like this every second of the day?  I mean, really?! 

In sum, it would be boring, I guess.  I wouldn’t get any philosophizing done without the craziness.  I need those meltdowns over fans and Barbies to genuinely appreciate such charming moments.