Confession #9: I Didn't Cry on the First Day of School

Last week, I received a much-needed bit of parenting advice from an unlikely source: my personal trainer (who has no children of his own).  Now first off, I feel compelled to throw out this disclaimer: I employ a personal trainer not for the purpose of looking svelte and well-toned on the beach.  I’m hardly that type of woman.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.  But, just so we’re clear, I pay a trainer who forces me to do situps, pushups and various exercises involving a kettle bell for only one reason: so I can enjoy some regularly scheduled peace and quiet away from home.  On Wednesday nights, I make a beeline out of my house for the sake of, ahem... exercise, of course!  

“Goodbye, boys!”  I usually holler as I hastily sneak out the back door before one of them realizes I’m gone.  “Hopefully you'll be in bed when I come home!”  

Chances are one of the boys is mid-sentence and halfway out the door (“But Mom, when are you coming back?  I need—”) when I make my getaway to the gym.

But I digress.  This past Wednesday, I casually mentioned to my trainer how excited I was that school was starting the next day.  “But I’ve noticed,” I remarked in between crunches, “that every other mom I know is sad about the first day of school.  So many women seem weepy and sentimental about how much they’ll miss their kids during the day.”

I took a deep breath, the mom guilt flooding over me, and confessed: “Either I am the worst mom out there, or my boys are menaces compared to other people’s kids.”

The truth is, the summer had lasted long enough.  The family took one big vacation and then spent the rest of the summer getting on each other's nerves at home.  Granted, our vacation consisted of visiting seven countries in over three weeks, and should have provided enough action to last the rest of the summer.  And while the trip satisfied my husband’s and my own wanderlust, the kids probably would have been just as happy spending three weeks at the neighborhood pool eating hot dogs and practicing their cannonballs.  

Case in point: The only memory my 4-year old has apparently retained from all of our travels in Europe is--not the view at dusk of the Eiffel Tower from the River Seine or the morning we ran circles around Stonehenge but rather--one wildly exaggerated story of how Daddy almost got his body chopped in half in a London Underground station.  I would explain, but the truth is a lot less exciting than the version he spins.

Then, of course, after returning to the States, the boys dawdled away the next two months by engaging primarily in the following three activities: (1) Bickering non-stop about who accidentally smacked the other first with the iPad; (2) Fashioning ninja stars and other weapons out of copier paper, and then waging battles that ended with scraps of paper (“scrapnel”) strewn all over the house; and (3) Coming up with “epic” versions of popular songs by replacing the word “poop” in the lyrics (for example, “Poopy Gangnam Style”, “Don’t Poop at Night” and this little gem that is performed with, um… dance moves, to put it delicately: “Everybody Poop Now”). 

And oh, the noise.  It was noisy all the time, every day, around here.  And I don’t mean the kind of giggly, happy kind of noisy that makes you feel sentimental about your kids growing up too fast.  The brand of noisy that exists in my house is the Guantanamo Bay variety that deprives you of all rational thought and makes you want to confess to being a terrorist just to stop all that high-decibel yelling and stampeding. 

So during the last few weeks of summer, I started feeling giddy whenever I thought about the first day of school approaching.  After all, it's not like I had managed to make that DIY water slide for the backyard that looked so easy on Pinterest, or put together a single picnic lunch like I'd dreamily imagined in the Spring.  I had reached an all time low by letting the boys binge-watch Disney shows on Netflix so I could sneak on my laptop for a few hours of solitude.  And last Wednesday, the singular thought of soon having quiet time to read or write during the day, made the stomach crunches all that much easier.  

But, unfortunately... the mom guilt kept bothering me.

“Should I feel sad?” I asked, mostly to myself.  “Is there something wrong with me?  Does this make me a bad mom?"

My trainer, who is part drill sergeant and part therapist, replied, “Let me ask you one question.  How many kids do these ‘sad moms’ have?”

I thought about it for a moment.  “I guess most of them have one or two.”

“Four,” he replied, holding out his fingers.  “Don’t forget you have four.  Give yourself a break.”  

I guess he meant we all need a little perspective when we're afraid we don't measure up. It's easy to forget this perspective while you're trying unsuccessfully to produce tears during the morning sendoff (when you're actually thrilled to have the next hour to play Words with Friends over breakfast). 

So, thank you, personal trainer, for the free parenting advice that came with last week’s ab workout.  My two oldest boys are off to school this week, my preschooler is about to start his half-day program next week, and I will resolve not to feel guilty about relishing whatever quiet time I can muster with the feisty 2-year old I still have at home.  It’s only Monday, and I already feel like a new woman.  The house is clean.  The baby is napping.  And I’m so recharged I might even break out in a few lines of “Everybody Poop Now.”

Confession #8: Maybe It's Time to Take Up Birdwatching

After writing about the abundance of boy-related vanity plates around town (see my previous blog entry on "5BOYS"), I thought it would be fun to visually document the phenomena.  I spend a lot of idle time in parking lots anyway, waiting to pick up the boys from school and extracurricular activities.  I figured I could use that time patrolling for license plates, and it might make for an interesting hobby.

"That's not a hobby," my husband shook his head, when I told him what I was up to.   

"How is it any different from, say, birdwatching?" I asked.  "Apparently some people spend entire weekends looking for rare birds."

"Birdwatching is a legitimate sport," he answered.  "Well, I guess it's not a sport.  But there are official field guides on birds."

"Well, this is my version of birdwatching," I retorted.  "So can you canvass your side of town when you're at work, and I'll cover the suburbs?"

"No," he replied.  "I'm not going to take pictures of license plates for you.  That's just odd. And a complete waste of time."

"You wouldn't even have to get out of the car," I replied.  "You could just whip out your iPhone if you happened to spot one at a red light.  How difficult would that be?"

He grimaced and shook his head again.  "You are so weird.  Did I mention this sounds like a huge waste of time?"

Having hit a dead end with him, I decided to solicit help from my next of kin: my sister.  A few days later, she sent me a photo of "3SONSMOM."  Her picture was just the motivation I needed.  I figured I'd see how many license plates I could capture on film in a week.   

On Monday, I snapped a photo of "TWO BOYZ" in the school parking lot.  This was kind of a freebie because I see the black SUV bearing this plate almost every day in the pickup line.  A few months ago, I met the mom who owns this plate at a birthday party.  I think I awkwardly blurted out something like, "So you're TWO BOYZ!" when we were introduced.  As if I need another reason to be a nerd.

Here's another "BOYZ" plate I snapped after soccer practice.  I'm guessing it belongs to a family named Butler.

I see "2GR8BOYS" around town a lot.  Incidentally, I also spotted "3GR8SONZ" at a traffic light but wasn't quick enough to capture a photo of it.  It has become by great white whale.










This one took me a little while to figure out, but I finally concluded that "DBOYZ NI" is license plate slang for "The Boys and I."  











Continuing on the same theme... I snapped a photo of "DA3BOYZ" at a red light some time later.  

Here's another one my sister sent me.  She captured  this "MOM4BOYS" plate at night.

Another SUV with 4 boys... I wanted to roll down my window and call out "me too!" when I saw "MY4SONS" at an intersection.

I saw this car on a rainy night, and loved the not-so-obvious, slightly geeky way of describing three boys!

This quality of this photo is pretty poor, but I like the message on this plate: "BOYS RUL".  Yes, they do!

Sadly, the quality of this photo is terrible.  Blame it on the fact that I had four boys in the car throwing Cheetos at each other while I made the discovery at a red light.  I'm guessing the plate either belongs to a mom with three boys, or the baby of the family got a car for his birthday and his mom picked out the vanity plate.





In the course of one week, I spotted "4ARROWS" three times.  This is probably a reference to Psalm 127:4, which refers to children as arrows in the hands of a warrior.  Older translations of the Bible use the word "sons" instead of the gender-neutral "children", so at first I thought the plate belonged to a fellow mom of four boys.  But the second time I saw the minivan, I noticed a stick figure family on the rear windshield.  I realized that said arrows were in fact three sons who enjoy basketball, weightlifting and soccer... and finally a daughter who dances ballet.  So technically, this one doesn't really belong in my collection... but I like it nonetheless.

And then there was "3FELAS&I".  I passed this plate at a stoplight and assumed it had something to do with cats.  Unfortunately, after the light turned green, I realized it was Southern license plate slang for "Three Fellows and I".  Alas, I circled back in hopes of finding the sedan bearing this plate, but it was gone. 

On Friday night, I thought I spotted "3BOYSMOM" on a Toyota Sienna ahead of us.  I let out a giddy scream, startling my husband who was driving.  Energized by the good fortune, I frantically gesticulated to catch up to the black minivan in the right lane.  He obliged, muttering, "I can't believe I'm doing this for you."  I unrolled the window and held out my camera like a seasoned member of the paparazzi. After scrutinizing the photos, however, I realized that the plate actually read "3BY30MOM"... probably belonging instead to a woman who had three kids by the time she was 30 years old.

And alas, my final sighting, "MI3SUNZ", was likely a legitimate boy-related plate, but it was too dark that night for me to capture a good photo as evidence.  

During my little enterprise, I was surprised that I never encountered any license plates referencing daughters.  The scarcity of girl-related license plates started to bother me.  I began coming up with my own theories.  Perhaps there is a some kind of misogynistic conspiracy in the DMV.  Or maybe mothers of girls are more creative and therefore come up with vanity plates that don't state the obvious.  I asked a few moms their opinion on this question.  They all gave me variations of the same answer: "Girls are easy.  Raising boys is a tough, thankless job.  If you're a mom of a boy, you might as well come up with your own badge of honor, even if it's just a license plate." 

On that note, my own vanity plate finally came in the mail.  It might be the last plate I add to my collection, because as much as I hate to admit it to my husband, it might be time to resign this fake hobby of mine.  Summer's almost here, and there will be plenty of easier ways to waste time.  I might even try birdwatching.

Confession #7: How I Faked This Year's Christmas Photo

By the time I post this, my annual Christmas photo cards will be in the mail.  In the spirit of keeping it real for the five people who read this blog, however, I hereby confess that this year's family photo is a fake.  That's right.  After an hour of cajoling, bribing, pleading and yelling at the boys to give me one good pose with everyone smiling at the camera, I was left with only one option: Photoshop.  In the two hundred shots we took, every picture featured at least one member of the family squinting, grimacing, tripping, shoving, or otherwise not spreading holiday cheer.  Necessity being the mother of invention, this mother merged two different shots into one holly jolly pose to send to unsuspecting friends and family.

I am not proud of this forgery.  It was not so much clever as it was desperate.  You see, every year, the annual family photo session is the boys' dreaded event of the pre-holiday season. Perhaps if I had given birth to four girls, I might have produced children who enjoyed donning formal attire and striking glamorous poses for a family portrait worthy of adulations, tears and followers on Pinterest.  With four boys, however, a successful photo session is simply one in which no one is sucker punched.

In order to understand the challenges of taking photos of my boys, I present a random sampling of what I usually capture on film after the phrase "smile for the camera" is uttered. 

Lest you think I'm making this up, here is another set of vacation photos sabotaged by my boys:

I have literally hundreds of photos like these.  They are not products of a parent prompting, "Come on, boys, let's make some silly faces!"  No, these are actual shots of my offspring refusing outright to give me one decent smile.  These pictures are only good for one thing: making graphics for my blog.

So, here is a rundown of the morning we attempted to have our family photo taken for the annual Christmas card.  

9:00 a.m.  Begin dressing four boys in coordinating outfits.  Field indignant questions from older two sons on why they have to wear "fancy sweaters" instead of rumpled t-shirts they slept in overnight. 

9:15 a.m.  Search house frantically to find matching shoes for the baby.  Ignore reasonable requests from husband to calm down ("He doesn't walk yet, so why does he need to wear shoes?  Who's going to look at his feet anyway?").

9:30 a.m.  Chase boys around house in futile attempt to apply hair gel.  Field additional questions from sons on why they have to comb their hair anyway.

9:40 a.m.  Locate pair of matching shoes that are unfortunately two sizes too large for baby.  Accept defeat and vaguely nod to voice of reason, i.e. husband, who mutters for the third time: "Trust me, no one's going to notice." 

 

9:55 a.m.  Swipe hair gel in boys' hair as they run out the door.

10:00 a.m.  Attempt initial shots at first choice of location.  Listen to repeated complaining from boys about the sun being in their eyes.  Ignore melodramatic demands to be provided sunglasses to wear in photo.  Realize that one of baby's ill-fitting shoes must have fallen off his foot on the way to photo location.

10:10 a.m.  Move to a shady location after prolonged complaints about the sun.  Attempt further efforts to recreate saccharine "hugging family" pose pinned last week from Pinterest.  Efforts are derailed when oldest son begins to climb "hugging family" like a tree trunk.

10:15 a.m. Baby and 4-year old begin odd combination of yelling, laughing and crying in sync.  Take 15 minute break for younger sons to calm down.  Upon realizing opportunity for freedom from onerous family obligation, older sons use breaktime to climb trees.

10:30 a.m.  Resume phototaking attempts.  Baby begins grabbing my nose and poking fingers into my nostrils.

10:45 a.m.  Take second break and attempt discussion with baby on the inappropriateness of sticking fingers into other people's orifices.  During fruitless negotiation, boys quickly become bored and resume climbing trees.

10:55 a.m.  Baby falls asleep.  After series of shots with baby's face turned away in sleep position, photographer (my ever-patient sister) asks if we want to try again next weekend.  Husband and I look at each other, glance at our boys hanging from tree branches, and shake our heads "no" at the same time.  Photo session is officially canned.

Confession #6: You Mean "911" Isn't a Helpline for New Parents?

New parents tend to be pretty uptight about their first baby.  When you bring that first child home from the hospital, it suddenly hits you that you're completely in charge of a miniature human being.  It's pretty daunting.  You don't want to screw up.  So you read a lot of parenting books in the hopes that you'll do everything correctly.  And you try to avoid every scenario that may present even the most hypothetical, remote danger to the baby.

By your third or fourth child, you lighten up.  You accept the fact that you can't protect your child from every possible harm known to mankind.  There will always be playground bullies, flu outbreaks, and bike accidents that even the most careful parent can't prevent.

I was no exception to the borderline paranoid tendencies that I now refer to as "first-time parent syndrome."  I think I could qualify as a textbook case.  No, I think I could write the textbook.

For example, I've seen enough cuts, scrapes and bruises by now such that I simply hand over a band-aid without batting an eye.  As long as there are no broken bones, we're good.  But the first time I saw blood, I panicked. 

I had been a working mom through most of my first son's infancy.  After the standard maternity leave, I was back at the law firm while my husband worked from home and took care of the baby during the day.  About a year into this arrangement, he was called away on a business trip to the West Coast.  So I took a week of vacation and brought my case files home.  This was the first time I had sole responsibility of my firstborn for more than a few hours. 

Toward the end of this week, I was finally beginning to feel confident in my mothering skills.  By Friday morning, I had figured out how to review depositions and entertain a 10-month old at the same time.  Close to noon, the telephone rang.  I hurried out of the bedroom to answer it, intending to return immediately with the phone in hand.  However, the baby started in my direction, anxious to follow me.  In his eagerness, he stumbled over a wooden alphabet block and fell, facedown, on top of it. 

Mind you, he was not yet walking, so the distance a crawling baby has to hit the ground is only a few inches.  Nevertheless, he somehow managed to cut the inside of his lip, right near the gum line. 

Before I knew it, his mouth filled with blood.  I tried to apply pressure, but I couldn't see the cut, and I panicked.  The following questions crossed my mind: Is it possible for a baby to choke on his own blood?  Is there some kind of oral analgesic or first aid I'm supposed to use to treat a cut inside a baby's mouth?  Was this scenario covered in one of the baby books, and if so, how could I have missed it?   

I thought about calling the pediatrician's office for advice, but knew it would take several minutes before any nurse would return the call.  So I did the only thing I could think of at that moment... I dialed 911.

In my defense, I had never called 911 before, and I figured someone would just talk me through how to treat the cut on the phone.  However, five minutes later, three stocky paramedics showed up in an ambulance at my front door.  They rushed in, carrying a defibrillator and various other bulky life saving equipment.

"Where's the baby?" one of them asked, rapidly scanning my house.   

The little guy was sitting in a corner.  His face was smeared with dried blood.  But by now, the bleeding had already stopped on its own.  I picked him up, and he giggled.

"Where did you say he fell?" another inquired, examining the patient.

"He didn't exactly fall," I replied sheepishly. 

"Did he roll down the stairs?"

"No, that wasn't what happened either." The paramedic looked perplexed.

"Well," I continued, "he was crawling on the floor, and I suppose he must have slipped on a toy." The three paramedics exchanged glances at each other.

"Was he unconscious for any period of time?"

"No."  The baby giggled again.

"So let me get this straight," the head paramedic concluded, "the baby didn't fall down a flight of stairs, he never lost consciousness, and the bleeding stopped right after you called 911."

I nodded, wondering if there was some law that allows emergency response teams to sue people for wasting their time.  He just chuckled.

"I'm guessing this is your first child." There are few times in my life when I've felt more ridiculous.

The entire visit probably lasted five minutes.  The head paramedic awkwardly asked me to sign a waiver to refuse emergency transport to the hospital, apologizing that it was standard procedure.  I could tell they would all have a good laugh at my expense once they were back in the privacy of the ambulance. 

 

My only excuse for all of this crazy behavior?  A bad case of first-time parent syndrome.  Until you've been afflicted, don't judge too harshly.  And the cure?  That's easy... just have another child.  

Confession #5: The One Driving the Minivan in the Footie Pajamas is Me

There are a lot of glamorous moms out there. I see them arriving at school to pick up their children in coordinating yoga outfits, perfectly coiffed hair and flawless complexions. The other day, the mom before me in the pickup line stepped out of her car wearing a Lilly Pullitzer dress and stilettos. Wait... stilettos? At an elementary school? Really? 

Sadly, this isn't me. I once drove the boys to school wearing footie pajamas and a scarf. It was chilly that morning, and well... I really just wanted to go back to sleep.

"You're not really going out wearing that?"

This is a question I hear often from my husband. Unfortunately, when you have four boys, there really is no point in getting dolled up for the grocery store, soccer practice or any of the other exotic destinations I frequent in a given week. Anything I wear will likely be spit up on, smeared by sticky fingers, or tugged out of shape. Plus those fifteen minutes I'd use getting properly dressed, combed and applied in the mornings can be spent on far more critical activities like sleeping.

And this is one of the fringe benefits of being a stay at home mom: Now that I no longer have to wear a suit and heels to the firm every day, I can literally spend my entire day in my pajamas! Why didn't anyone mention this when I was considering whether to leave my legal career?

I know what you're thinking. First, why slack off in the hair, makeup and fashion department simply because I no longer report to an office? And second, why does a grown woman wear footie pajamas anyway?  

These are questions without adequate explanations. At least not from a woman who's never owned a pair of stilettos in her life.  

The funny thing is, I realized a little while ago that my firstborn is as hopelessly fashion-challenged as me. The other day, I caught him going out the door wearing pants that were two sizes too small (I think he'd grabbed his brother's pants by mistake). How had he compensated for the length problem? He'd pulled his athletic socks all the way up... over his pants. He'd created his own footie pajamas! What can I say? I guess he inherited the gene that determines one's complete inability to elevate form over function, couture over comfort, Prada over practicality.

When I asked him to go back into the house and change, he replied in all seriousness: "Mom, I really don't mind what people think of me. I'm comfortable... just the way I am."

I don't think I've ever been more proud of him.

In that moment, it hit me: I was meant to have only boys. Imagine what a poor example I would have set for a daughter. Little girls want to dress up in sparkly princess dresses, put tiaras in their hair and paint their fingernails in shades of bubble gum. Just to go to the playground, girls require matching hair bows, color-coordinated socks, and any number of jewelry items made from shiny plastic beads. I'm afraid such attention to fashion would have been totally lost on me. When I head to the playground with my boys, the only thing I need to bring is band-aids. And let's face it... what kind of mom would have applauded a daughter's creative use of socks to make ill-fitting pants look even more socially unconventional?

Now, I suppose in a few years, my little boys may grow into teenage boys who suddenly care about their appearances. I imagine that one day, I'll spy them studying themselves in the mirror, fixing their hair in a style I don't understand, and applying zit cream with the unrestrained hope of adolescence. Maybe they'll refuse to wear the clothes I pick out for them because they complain the pants are too stodgy and the shirts are ridiculously old-fashioned. On that day, I will remind them of who drove them to school for years wearing footie pajamas and tell them to be comfortable... just as they are.

Confession #4: I Haven't Folded Laundry in a Year

When I was pregnant with my first son, I asked my friend Leah what advice she had for me before I embarked on this journey of parenthood.  Leah is a few years older than me with three children of her own, and I remember her reply very distinctly.  "Don't get caught up in housework," she said.  "There will always be messes and spills, but your kids won't be little for very long.  So make sure you sit down on the floor with them every day and just enjoy their company."

That kind of wisdom resonated with the kind of parent I wanted to be.  So when I finally left my legal career to stay home full time, I made myself a promise to follow Leah's advice.

Somewhere between my third and fourth son, I decided that if I was going to make good on that promise, something in the housekeeping department had to be sacrificed.  The first expendable item on my to-do list?  The all-consuming task of folding laundry. 

You see, now that we're a family of six, I easily run the laundry machine once every day. Between the baby spitting up and the older boys playing sports in the backyard, our family generates a lot of dirty laundry.  And laundry, like time, waits for no one.  If I miss a day, which happens pretty often, the pile just keeps getting bigger and bigger. 

If I only had to throw clothes into the washer and dryer, I'd probably be able to keep up.  Unfortunately, it's not that simple.  There are boys' shirts, pants, shorts, socks and underwear of four different sizes to differentiate.  The older two boys wear school uniforms five days a week, so their tops and bottoms are virtually identical except in size.  Add in towels, sheets, pillowcases, blankets, bibs and seatcovers, and the laundry takes on monolithic proportions.  

Once upon a time, I hung up shirts buttoned up to the collars, tucked neatly folded pants into drawers, and rolled pairs of matched socks for the boys.  However, my work was undone the moment one of them ransacked through his closet to dress himself.  My boys have a knack for pulling down five shirts off hangers to reach the one they need, or pouring out the entire contents of the sock drawer in search of the elusive pair that fits their shin guards. 

Enter the pile system.  (If you can call it a system at all.)  This is how it works: First, I unload the clean laundry into one massive pile on my bedroom floor.  Then I sort the clothes into six piles, one for each member of the family.  Next, I transfer these piles into six larger piles that reside in each person's closet.  If I'm having a good week, these piles might be shifted into large baskets (I don't know what the point of this step is, except that I feel less guilty if the clothes aren't actually on the floor).  But more often than not, the piles just remain on my bedroom floor; and in the mornings, everyone sifts through his own pile to get dressed. 

So, on any given day, there are probably six large piles of clothing on my bedroom floor.  I've gotten used to them, actually.  And if you think about it, the piles are multifunctional.  They create a serpentine path from my bed to the hallway, which is useful for the baby to develop his crawling skills... Look, it's a baby maze!  How ingenious of me!  The piles also serve as soft landing spots for the older boys to practice the long jump; so if one of them makes the varsity track team someday, you know who to thank for providing all this training.

Someday, the boys will be old enough to fold, hang and maybe even iron their own laundry; then we can retire my deplorable pile system in favor of something more civilized.  For the time being, though, even my 3-year old helps sort the clean laundry into piles and carry his pile into his own closet.  The system works.  It's enough for now.

My friend Leah was right.  It is tempting and all too easy to sacrifice time with your kids in order to keep up with housework.  I'd rather be guilty of the opposite while there's still time to enjoy their childhood.  Even if that means I don't see my bedroom floor for the next few years.