Things That AREN'T New

It started off as a good day. I had won almost limitless Good Mom points for the surprise 13th birthday party I threw yesterday for Natalee that was a raging success, and even the mountain of Bad Mom strikes I got for the guilt trips about never throwing an Awesome Party for my other kids couldn't cancel out the radness of a cross town, retail scavenger hunt, complete with mochas and holiday socks and mini shopping spree at Claire's. Today, even as I tripped over sleeping bags and unidentifiable teenage bodies, and I rushed through apparently twice as much french toast as a herd of 13 year old girls would eat (did I miss an eating disorder memo here?), and didn't get to wash my hair before work because Halle had to get dropped off for ski practice, I was still humming merrily though my nearly debilitating pain about What a Good Job we had done surprising her and how maybe I could win my parenting merit badge someday after all.

It seems like whenever I leave for work, all hell breaks loose. Suddenly there is an influx of woeful texts about crabby children and minor household catastrophes and how Aspen won't get off Pottermoore so Halle can do her homework, which apparently consists of three hours of Facebook and an intense round of some role playing game I have never heard of. I would like to interject here, that on the day in question, which is today, incidentally, that the girls were not parentless. Josh was home pretty much all day, doing countless loads of laundry that involved racing the girls to the washing machine between loads, and cooking pinto beans according to my recipe WITHOUT burning them. He's pretty much a stud.

I think the Bad Things that were happening at home today were magnified by many things, such as two weeks spent at DAD's house, which is nothing more than a sugar fueled, sleepless duration of as much awkward and random socialization as can be forced on 4 kids in a Christmas Break. Send four girls to spend time with a) disconnected and troubled biological father, b) super-enabling and guilt driven grandmother and c) a mini cultish place full of weirdos and a few innocent bystanders, and you get four confused, exhausted and basically snotty kids with misdirected sympathies and misplaced moral standards.

The aura of peace and tranquil positivity was also dampened by a series of flu bugs that would put Kevin Bacon to shame with their interconnectivity. Who needs seven degrees when I can trace this (the second) virus (without insinuating origin) from Bend, to Marble, to Olympia, to Spokane, and by now to Nashville, Washington DC and Pennsylvania. It's one thing to share friendly holiday germs with family. You kind of come to expect that when somebody ALWAYS has a snot nosed kid or husband running around. But the holiday cheer of passing the flu onto random passerbyers and realizing that YOU helped start the epidemic that is ravaging Maryland is somehow deeply satisfying. I have made an impact CONTINENTALLY! I have boosted the economy in sales of Kleenex and NyQuil, and connected millions of strangers to each other WAY more efficiently and intimately, biologically even, than Kevin bacon ever did!

Another exacerbating factor to consider for the entropy we were facing at home is the fact that it is January. With the exception of January 1st, the entire month of January is bleak, cold and desolate. We are broke from Holiday Overdoing-it, the bills are three times their normal amount because "Halle" left the space heater on the whole time we were gone, and work is slim. After the glorious rush of New Years optimism and joyfulness, we are faced with the hard truth that another year has begun and we have to do it all.over.again. Like right now. Turns out, you still have to take the garbage out on Thursdays in 2013 or you'll have overflowing cans for another week. Turns out that the puppy poop on the back porch and the mountain of laundry didn't suddenly vanish at midnight 12/31/12. Oh yeah, and the car is still running rough, and somebody STILL needs to go to the dentist, and you guessed it, I am still in pain. HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

I just wanted to come home from my grueling (4 hour) work day and curl up in sweatpants. All of the elements were right. Josh made amazing fajitas. I found a (mostly) clean pair of sweatpants. I almost made it to the couch. But WHAM!!! chore time hit with a fury unlike anything that a scorned woman has ever seen. I am not even sure what happened, but by the time the dust settled, Kizzie was doing Halle's chore, Halle was doing Aspen's chore, and Aspen was innocently MIA with her unfinished plate of onions. Josh started helping do Aspen's chore then disappeared downstairs to pout over a basket of laundry, and Nattie somehow squeaked by, messing around on the computer the entire time, until Halle finished cleaning the kitchen halfway and tried to remove her physically from Facebook, which, as we all know, is a scientific impossibility. All of this transpired with quite a bit of yelling, huffing and puffing, whining, stomping, a few tears and ultimately, me losing all my glorious good mom points when I unplugged the girls computer from everything and carried off the hard drive. Josh got mad at me for getting mad at him for getting mad at the kids for getting mad at him and after I got mad at him for getting mad at me for all of that I got mad at the kids, just for the heck of it and he started acting much nicer because I was REALLY mad. He even offered me wine. But I am not drinking. For a minute.

Now I am in my sweatpants on the couch, waiting for some wine, Kizzie is playing nicely with the dogs, which should give you some indication of how serious the situation was, since Kizzie won't play with dogs unless her life depends on it. Josh is wearing his itchy Pendleton shirt just to make me happy and Halle went to bed with a headache. Aspen and Natalee are still trying to figure out how to make the computer work without a hard drive.

I am going to watch a movie. I am on the fence between a gangster flick with fedoras and a lot of shooting or a mushy tear jerker. Hmmm. PMS much?

Things That Don't Get Enough Attention

Recently, through the grapevine, I heard the jealous murmur of a child who was bemoaning the lack of mention in her mother's blog. While I am sure that Natalee was elated to have her anger issues showcased on a public forum, and Aspen never gets tired of having her cuteness promoted, and Halle is just weird enough to be mentioned at least monthly, poor MacKenzie, the upper middle child, is all but lost and forgotten. So Kizzie, this is for you:

Dear MacKenzie:

I was 15 once. When I was 15, I was aware of two things: boys, and how painfully unfashionable I was. At 15, I began an evolution of personality. Before I discovered the important things in life like The Avett Brothers and Frye Boots, I decided that I liked daisies and sunflowers and hippies that didn't smoke pot (because I didn't really know what pot was then). I liked poems, Shakespeare, beautiful language. I loved the stage, mostly because for a few brief minutes, the whole world was looking at me (including boys), and I was beautiful (or at least OK). I liked iced mochas with lots of whipped cream and rope licorice. I liked shopping at Goodwill for brand names I gleaned from my stylish cousin (BTW, Katey - I don't think The Limited was ever cool for 15 year olds). I liked my one brand new pair of Gap Jeans that Grandma Schiffman bought me for my birthday. I liked my big dog Frankie who looked like a black and tan Truck and was my best friend. I liked Jessa and Aimee and Muriel and Andy and Misti and Melissa, and pretty much every boy I knew. When I was 15, I thought I was fat. What I would give to be that fat now. When I was 15, my parents didn't understand the first thing about being 15, being in love, or being cool. How can a sophisticated 15 year old ever listen to parents who clearly had no clue, and no interest in getting a clue. At 15, I was grounded pretty much every other week. I was grounded for bad attitudes, for being unkind (hateful, mom always said) to my sister. I was grounded for writing notes to boys, for wearing clothes that were outside of the rules my parents had set (and for the record, their rules were IMMEASURABLY more strict that mine are for you, ask them). I was grounded for not taking care of my chores at home (which again, where IMMEASURABLY more than yours, but don't ask my parents about that one.), and for mouthing off, sort of like a certain 15 year old I know now does to her parents. When I was 15, I was in love with at least 4 different boys. There was Jake, there was Peter, there was Jim Miller, and oh my gosh - Forrest Greenough. All of these passionate love affairs occurred after I had experienced the wisening of love gone wrong with Jason Dotson, and Nate, and probably a few others that I can't remember now. None of these passionate love affairs included kissing. My first kiss was a few days after I turned 17. Lack of opportunity? I guess so. I guess I didn't have the opportunistic setting of an unsupervised school hallway, and truthfully, I am very thankful for that. I wish I could tell you that if I had the same opportunities that you have, I would have made only the best and wisest choices, but to be perfectly honest, I am not sure what I would have done in some of those settings. 

I know what I wanted. I remember fantasies of being swept off my feet and having my heart stolen by a dark haired class clown... I wanted to be the girl that every boy wanted but only one boy had. In many ways, I still do. Doesn't every girl want to be wanted like that? I guess what I am trying to tell you is that I understand. I  know you think I don't, that I am just a frumpy mom who doesn't Even Know How It Feels, but I do. I remember wishing with EVERY OUNCE OF WISH in me that a certain boy would happen to be downtown when I rode my bike there. We didn't have cell phones and Facebook then; just wishful telepathy and parents who liked to hang out at Goodwill. I know it feels hard to deal with sisters and parents and all of the pressures at school - I can only imagine the school part, except that I remember how it feels to be so very different and wish desperately to be The Same. Now I value being different. Being different is the only thing that makes me the girl that every boy wants (they totally do) but only Josh has. Being different is what makes it possible for me to say I have never been fired from a job and every boss I have had would still love to take me back. Being different means that I can CHOOSE what I do with my life, whom I share it with, and how I want it to look. Being different means that I can listen to The Avett Brothers and Eminem and Frank Sinatra all on the same playlist and Halle's friends think I am cool (ok, that's a little risky). I know right now the most important thing for you seems to be survival, but what survival means to you now will be vastly different from survival when you are 22, or 32, and beyond that, I can only imagine (since I am not that old yet). It wasn't until after Natalee was born that I truly gained an appreciation for my parents, and the fact that they did their absolute best to raise me the right way. There are no perfect parents, but I will give mine an A for effort, even if I choose to do some things differently. I trust, and hope, and pray that someday you will look at me with the same eyes. If you feel about me someday the way that I feel about my mom and dad, then I will feel like I did ok. I don't expect you to like me now. I don't expect to be your buddy, even when you steal my clothes and make me cookies. I expect to be your mom, imperfectly, and often very badly. I am an awkward mom. I don't hug well. If you need a hug, you might have to steal it from me. If you need a pat on the back, you might have to remind me. But if you need a kick in the butt bottom, I will probably remind you. It's ok if you hate me now. It's ok if you keep throwing fits for a few more years, or decades. I have faith that you will be just fine. You are beautiful, and talented and intelligent. You are different, and it will serve you well. I hope you will learn to place a high value on your heart and your love, because there are many unworthy people out there, and Josh and I can't stand to see you wasted, so you can plan on a fight until YOU see your worth. I remember 15, Kizzie. Like it was yesterday. I remember the clothes and the smells, the music and the hair and the boys. I remember looking for my space, my self, my soul. I remember how strong the feelings are, how intense the problems seem, and how alone you can feel. But there is another side to 15, and I know that you will arrive there beautiful and ready for 16. Because you are my girl. 

I love you.

Mom

Things That Are Ridiculous

Holy cow. You know, I was looking for a mostly plan-less weekend last weekend, one where the kids are playing gleefully in the yard while Josh bar-b-ques in a manly fashion and I spend most of the sunny day in a hammock. For some reason, however, we came up with this great idea: see, Josh had just a little bit of work to finish at his jobsite to be ready to paint on Monday morning, and I felt a little guilty since I had distracted him from his work by making him take me to lunch (in Prineville) to meet our buddy John. So I suggested he take the girls with him to help, since he was demoing a deck and they would be good haulers (hahahahahahahaah). ANYWAY.... these little glimpses of Terrible Teenage started showing in all three of the biggers, and I could see the writing on the wall. I volunteered myself for the work party when I began to realize that if there was no mediation, some one would probably NOT be coming back from the Mountain High neighborhood on Saturday. Since they've already had their share of murder/suicides on that street in recent months (that will be another story), I felt it best to offer my mediation skills. This may have been the fatal flaw in my weekend planning.

It was all coming together nicely - Actually, it was coming APART nicely, since we were tearing out a deck - until something set Nattie off. Whether it was the black widow nests on the beams from the underside of the deck, or the slippery mud in the flower beds that they had to tromp through, or the weight of the soggy 2x6es that were being hauled through the muddy flower beds, we may never know. My personal theory is that the socio-emotional cumulative stress of the first week of school combined with staying up until 1 AM watching H2O (this show is a socio-emotional stress in and of itself), did her in. But at any rate, Nattie snapped. Now, for those of you that know Nattie, you know what this means. Nattie is the child that learned that climbing stairs was a bad idea only after she took a header from the top at 22 months. Spankings, reprimands, lectures - none of these have ever borne any weight for the petite blond that is, in the words of all of her teachers, an ideal child. Nattie, in addition to her will of steel, wrote the book on The Human Temper. Being her mother, and primary disciplinarian, I have to admit, she terrifies me. I once sprained my wrist just trying to keep her from throwing her skull into the wall of the bathtub. Of course she was doing this to avoid a spanking that would have hurt much less than bashing her head on bathroom fixtures, but for Nattie, it's all about who's idea it is. So last Saturday, Nattie snapped. It started off with minor fuming, under-her-breath cussing and dramatic huffs-and-puffs indicating her displeasure with her tasks. The lure of a $5 reward + Cuppa Yo did nothing to dissuade her from her downward spiral, but then it got Really Nasty. I asked Nattie to help Aspen carry a piece of lattice that was twice her size to the trash pile. I knew it was a bad idea before I finished pointing, but once it had been issued, I had no choice but to back the order up. With some carefully placed grunts and sighs, Nattie found an ideal moment to "accidentally" drop the lattice on Aspen, and as it grated down her bare legs (goodmom FAIL - always wear long pants for construction demo, especially if you are 8), the shrieking started. Aspen is a tough kid, especially for a girl. Her boy cousins can cry circles around her, and everybody knows if Aspen makes a deal out of it, it's a DEAL. She was crying. Full-on, hold-you-breath, passing-out, crying. There were big, bloodyish scrapes down both of her thighs all the way to her knees, where apparently the lattice got bored with tormenting her and fell to the ground.

Nattie INSTANTLY threw her hands in the air and starting screaming about the accidental nature of her transgression, and running wildly across the yard to escape her apparently imminent retribution. Picture, if you will, a serene, wooded neighborhood, of sprawling ranch style homes and large open yards, all decorated with the ceramic cats and cement fairies that somehow become intensely appealing upon retirement. Mountain View is peopled largely by upper-middle class retirees from everywhere except central Oregon. While the clients that Josh works for in this neighborhood are some of the nicest Californians you would ever care to meet, their neighbor must have come of age in the wealthiest district of Fairbanks, Alaska, where entitlement and Seasonal Affective Disorder come crashing together in a miserable existence. She is not a nice person, and really likes to make sure Everybody Knows It. Her favorite complaint, however is about any noise. Especially noise in the morning. Like the kind of noise that Natalee was generating at a galloping pace. As quickly as I could I herded the screaming demon into the cab of the truck, where she proceeded to thrash around wildly, projecting about her impending death, which was apparently going to be inflicted by me. Natalee spent most of the rest of the morning in the truck, and I would like to establish, for the record, that I did not lose it with her. I'll admit the thought of duck taping her mouth and hands flashed through my mind, I reflected on those stories you read in the news about parents who do crap like that and since I would rather garnish fame in other ways,  I discarded the notion.

Somehow we all survived the morning, in spite of Kizzie being Bored Beyond Belief, and Aspen bouncing mindlessly through piles of old boards with rusty nail-spikes just begging to skewer her foot. We are working on that whole awareness thing. We had a robust reward of Taco Bell and Cuppa Yo (under 6 oz - which is No Small Feat) and went home, where Josh and I had a nap. Really a nap is a great way to avoid doling out well deserved sanctions on misbehaving kids, like Halle who had woken us up at 5 AM looking for a pair of shorts that I was supposed to have exchanged for her (this was the latest in a long stream of how-to-make-your-parents-despair-moves on her part).

I am writing this as I am on hold with the medical clinic to cancel appointments for sports physicals that apparently, the older girls didn't even need, but let me panic about for weeks. I can never understand a 15 minute wait time to cancel an appointment. I should have just gone to the appointment, it would have taken less time! But at least the wait music is a really terrible tropical sounding interpretation of "land down under", which will make the rest of the day seem awesome, once I am set free.