Vrumm-rumm-rumm-rumm-rumm...
That is the sound my 2001 VW Jetta is making. As soon as I turn the ignition it roars to life, scaring the snot out of pedestrians and slumbering old people in their homes. The sound is deafening inside the car, my seat vibrates when I accelerate; I can't hear my children speaking to me from the back seat. OK, maybe that part is not so bad.
Yeah, it's time for some exhaust work on the old girl. She's got 161,000 miles and has been crazy dependable. But she sounds terrible and I am mortified to be driving her around. Mor-ti-fied.
So why am I? We have three vehicles -- the Jetta, a Saturn Coupe, and a Ford F-150. Couldn't I just swap the car seats to the Saturn and call it a day?
Well, the Saturn is sitting dead in our driveway, an expensive lawn ornament at the moment. The starter is out and, since Scott doesn't mind driving the truck, we've kinda let it sit there for a couple of months because we didn't really need to fix it.
Until now.
Naturally the local Ford dealer won't touch the Jetta. And the earliest appointment available at the VW dealer Scott prefers is next Tuesday afternoon. I'm not sure if he'll agree to take the car to the other dealer, his opinion of them is pretty low.
So, in the mean time, I drive around town in the loudest car I've ever driven, refusing to make eye contact with people I know, ashamed to be driving something so uncouth, so rough and uncivilized. The campus I work on employs many people I like who are as green as Kermit, and I drive past them, chugging loudly up the ridiculous hills next to campus, and willing myself to look like another person, terrified of being recognized.
Oh, I am sure that there are likely a few testosterone-mesmerized teens out there who think I might have created this monstrosity intentionally with hot-rod mufflers and glass packs, but nope. It's just me, the weary mom of two pulling up in a fuel-efficient and nerdy import.
If you hear me coming, and I'm sure you will, please be decent enough to pretend you didn't notice me, that's all I ask.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Sometimes I Get It Right
There are some days that I love being a mom, really love it -- not just say I love it because I'm overwhelmed and exhausted and need to say it to remind myself that I do. I wrap my entire being around my life, infused with energy and goodwill from my children, knowing that, at least for this one moment, I am doing it right.
There is so much uncertainty that goes with parenting, so much second guessing. I have never felt less sure of myself than I do now, when instinct and intelligence battle daily. My instinct is always, first and foremost, to show my children love. My intellect riots when, instead of demanding an over-tired toddler sit in time-out, I cradle the child close, rocking and soothing, instantly forgetting and forgiving the transgression because I just ache from places I didn't know existed when they cry.
Today I had one of those moments of clarity when I felt sure, felt competent, felt that what I am doing and how I approach my children is right.
Milo's first bit of homework is an "All About Me" project. Scott helped him complete a worksheet on Sunday night and I helped him decorate a paper-wrapped shoe box with markers and an odd assortment of stickers (Halloween, Batman,Chocolate Labs, and dots). He had to place three objects in the box which give insight into who he is.
His first selection is a small figure of a Chocolate Lab. His second selection is one of his Star Wars guys -- he waffled for a while about whether or not he wanted to put one in, but ultimately decided that they really are his favorite toys. His third selection? I suggested a Wii game, a book, his favorite food, a plastic egg (because of the chickens), a tractor, a car and numerous items. He refused all of them.
Finally he said, "Mom, why can't I just put in a picture of my family? They are the most important thing to me and I want to share that. I'm me because of my family."
Talk about blown away...
Of course I immediately printed a picture for him and let him tuck it safely into his box.
The other part of the assignment is a "Meaning of My Name" note. So I quickly typed up an explanation of how he got his name. When I read it aloud to him, his eyes filled with tears and he squeezed me more tightly than he's ever squeezed me before. He whispered, "Mom, that's the most beautiful story I have ever heard. Thank you and I love you."
Naturally, this turned on my waterworks, too. And we both sniffled sweetly at each other for a moment, that moment when I felt like the best mom in the world.
There is so much uncertainty that goes with parenting, so much second guessing. I have never felt less sure of myself than I do now, when instinct and intelligence battle daily. My instinct is always, first and foremost, to show my children love. My intellect riots when, instead of demanding an over-tired toddler sit in time-out, I cradle the child close, rocking and soothing, instantly forgetting and forgiving the transgression because I just ache from places I didn't know existed when they cry.
Today I had one of those moments of clarity when I felt sure, felt competent, felt that what I am doing and how I approach my children is right.
Milo's first bit of homework is an "All About Me" project. Scott helped him complete a worksheet on Sunday night and I helped him decorate a paper-wrapped shoe box with markers and an odd assortment of stickers (Halloween, Batman,Chocolate Labs, and dots). He had to place three objects in the box which give insight into who he is.
His first selection is a small figure of a Chocolate Lab. His second selection is one of his Star Wars guys -- he waffled for a while about whether or not he wanted to put one in, but ultimately decided that they really are his favorite toys. His third selection? I suggested a Wii game, a book, his favorite food, a plastic egg (because of the chickens), a tractor, a car and numerous items. He refused all of them.
Finally he said, "Mom, why can't I just put in a picture of my family? They are the most important thing to me and I want to share that. I'm me because of my family."
Talk about blown away...
Of course I immediately printed a picture for him and let him tuck it safely into his box.
The other part of the assignment is a "Meaning of My Name" note. So I quickly typed up an explanation of how he got his name. When I read it aloud to him, his eyes filled with tears and he squeezed me more tightly than he's ever squeezed me before. He whispered, "Mom, that's the most beautiful story I have ever heard. Thank you and I love you."
Naturally, this turned on my waterworks, too. And we both sniffled sweetly at each other for a moment, that moment when I felt like the best mom in the world.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Out of the Mouths of My Babes
My dear son is now a three-day old Kindergartner. The shiny new student smell is still there, though I am noticing differences in the child. For one, his usual tendency towards motor-mouth has been revved up into fifth gear, likely from sitting quietly all day in class. Or as quietly as a five-year-old boy sits. But the instant I pick him up until the moment his eyes snap shut at bed, he talks. And talks... and talks, talks, talks, talks...
On both Friday and today I had to swing by my office after picking him up from school and complete a few mundane tasks. He chattered like a tweaking squirrel all the way into my office, as he fished out a piece of scrap paper and started adorning it with a freebie highlighter. He narrated his drawing process, zipping sound effects as he created four-armed aliens with twenty-seven toes.
And when he's not talking? He's a teakettle. It started about a week ago as he was having some sort of Star Wars firefight -- he made a vaguely whistle-sounding noise, surprising himself. Then he came running to show me, "Mom! I can whistle!" as he pooched his lips and made a breathy, windy sound.
"Almost, little buddy! Keep practicing!"
And now I regret having ever given that edict. Keep practicing. Am I an idiot? Why on earth would I suggest that to him?
Because he did. And now he can whistle. One note. Over and over and over again. He'll whistle rhythmically to songs he hears, doing pretty well with that, but he has no pitch control. So guessing what song he's whistling is nearly impossible. Hint: when in doubt, go with "Ironman."
Not that our little princess is to be outdone! Nope, she's now sleeping in her own room, in her little toddler bed, with dry safety diapers every night. Well, it's been a couple of weeks of dry safety diapers, but one night of in her own room. I have a lampshade to cover and a couple of sheer curtain panels to pick up before I take the "after" pictures, but I think it's pretty cute!
And she is walking around naming things, everything. Sula, Lala, Lissa, Nilla, Bracebrace, and other Scrabble names. Scrabble? Put all the letters in a bag and draw out five or six random tiles to make up a name. Please tell me this is a phase and I won't end up with a granddaughter named Kisla...
And actually she's saying actually a lot. Pretty funny, really. It comes out "Ak-shlee" but she's using it correctly.
"Ak-shlee, mom, your granddaughter's name is Bleena..."
On both Friday and today I had to swing by my office after picking him up from school and complete a few mundane tasks. He chattered like a tweaking squirrel all the way into my office, as he fished out a piece of scrap paper and started adorning it with a freebie highlighter. He narrated his drawing process, zipping sound effects as he created four-armed aliens with twenty-seven toes.
And when he's not talking? He's a teakettle. It started about a week ago as he was having some sort of Star Wars firefight -- he made a vaguely whistle-sounding noise, surprising himself. Then he came running to show me, "Mom! I can whistle!" as he pooched his lips and made a breathy, windy sound.
"Almost, little buddy! Keep practicing!"
And now I regret having ever given that edict. Keep practicing. Am I an idiot? Why on earth would I suggest that to him?
Because he did. And now he can whistle. One note. Over and over and over again. He'll whistle rhythmically to songs he hears, doing pretty well with that, but he has no pitch control. So guessing what song he's whistling is nearly impossible. Hint: when in doubt, go with "Ironman."
Not that our little princess is to be outdone! Nope, she's now sleeping in her own room, in her little toddler bed, with dry safety diapers every night. Well, it's been a couple of weeks of dry safety diapers, but one night of in her own room. I have a lampshade to cover and a couple of sheer curtain panels to pick up before I take the "after" pictures, but I think it's pretty cute!
And she is walking around naming things, everything. Sula, Lala, Lissa, Nilla, Bracebrace, and other Scrabble names. Scrabble? Put all the letters in a bag and draw out five or six random tiles to make up a name. Please tell me this is a phase and I won't end up with a granddaughter named Kisla...
And actually she's saying actually a lot. Pretty funny, really. It comes out "Ak-shlee" but she's using it correctly.
"Ak-shlee, mom, your granddaughter's name is Bleena..."
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