Your Mom (Not Grandma)

     “Is that your mom’s painting,” my nine-year old asks barely glancing at the watercolor landscape of the Point Reyes lighthouse outside San Francisco, the one my mom, his grandma lovingly painted to commemorate another one of our mother/daughter adventures up the PCH. He doesn’t mean to but his words hurt me – reminding me of loss. Not just mine but his and his brother’s. Because no matter how many times I correct him to say Grandma Cathy showing him pictures of her in her floppy Disney hat with her name embroidered on the brim and her arsenal of cameras, purses, and fanny packs overwhelming her short, round body, she will only ever be my mom.

     Dead before he was twelve weeks along, the secret of his presence in my body frozen on my lips never uttered because I was told not to tell before I was three months pregnant, I didn’t even get to say the word grandma to her.  She never cuddled his sweet milk and Baby Bee smelling body to her expansive chest rocking him in the glider I bought with my inheritance wanting to pretend it came from her.

     I try really hard to show both my boys pictures of her even if they remind me of the pain I’ve buried. I tell anecdotes of her ability to fall asleep anywhere or how she travelled the world visiting the pyramids of Giza and dating a man with six passports before he dumped her for the heiress to the Goodyear fortune. But they half listen and rarely connect this person they’ve never met as someone related to them. They only know their Grandma Josie, their dad’s mom who spoils them with the junk food, video games, and hugs.

     Yet, I see her in my six -year-old’s flair for art. He's the child she longed for just one generation too late. He'd have gladly accepted her gifts of watercolors and sketch books filling them with more than scribbled margin notes about how I had no talent so lay off the art supplies. They would have created wonderfully imaginative, funky junk sculptures together from his hoard of toilet paper rolls and discarded wrappers. She hoarded too.  He even moves like her a deliberate pokiness, going at his own speed.

     But she’s also in my nine-year-old and his love of books. Brat that I was, I'd complain to her face that books were not appropriate birthday gifts, so where was my Barbie. But he snatches them out of the gift-wrap and dives in openly soaking up their worlds and knowledge the way I did in secret when she wasn't looking. He's cuddly like her, but also possesses her hang-dog expressions and ability to make me feel guilty.

     Why is that seeing her personality reflected back in theirs both warms my heart and pricks it at the same time? Probably because the boys and I both got cheated out of these moments.

     And I know how hard it is for them. My own Grandma Marguerite died when my mom was sixteen and was stuck in my memory as her mother no matter how many stories and photos she shared.  My mom probably felt the same way when I said “your mom” before she corrected me to Grandma Marguerite. And I wonder if she cried in private the way I do wishing there was a key or magic spell between the worlds, some Harry Potteresque ring where I could call her up for just a second so they could meet and hug and know the wonder of themselves, the people I love and loved the most.

     But I can’t create connection where there is none. I can just continue to recant my stories of her reminding them of the woman who would have loved and spoiled them with gifts and tight hugs against her ample, squishy, motherly bosom.

     Yet I know part of her still lives in my parenting style, the good: my zany antics of dancing in the kitchen and playing dress up and caring more for having fun than if I look stupid to the other parents at the park. The bad: her paranoia of public toilet seats and dirty cups; her obsessive checking to make sure the door is locked three times before leaving the house. After all, I am the woman she made me to be – her love and compassion and sense of fun and adventure and creativity all live in me.

     But be sensitive when a mom loses her mom, because she’s not just mourning her own loss but her kid’s loss too that she mourns. The loss of Grandma to Your Mom and all the connections in between.  

Day-Trip Dilemmas

     My palms sweat, my heart races, and my mind crashes like an overloaded hard drive over the simple prospect of going on an outing alone with my two sons. I search the internet for ideas to entertain two rambunctious boys begging Google to give me the answer, the perfect daytrip to wear them out but not make me loathe every second. But with each click of the mouse my mind comes up with five reasons why that’s not a good idea.

     Now let me preface this by saying that I love my boys, and we have had some lovely adventures together. But we have also had some miserable, scream crying, tantrum launching misadventures that left us all a little shell-shocked and mom in need of a fifth of Scotch even though the Instagram picture looks like we’re having fun.

     For one their idea of fun and mine don’t always align. I am an impulsive, adventurous spirit who loves bike rides, hikes, museums, and shopping. My kids on the other hand think Chuck E. Cheese or Dave and Busters is the ideal way to spend a day. If there isn’t an electronic device controlling the adventure, then what’s the point. But I persistently soldier on and try to broaden their horizons, but they are young. I mean I remember hating my mom for dragging me out to Pioneer Village while she drew Victorian churches and school houses, and I threw rocks at the dirt and cursed her under my breath when I wasn’t whining.

     Plus maybe it’s just me, but I need another adult to talk or at least field half the questions of “Are we there yet? and “How much longer?”

     When I was pregnant, I dreamed about the fun outings we’d have making memories together filled with adorable conversations where we learned from each other, and made daisy chains and sang songs. In reality, after half an hour of a complete in-detail description of my son’s friend’s new YouTube video about a Minecraft cactus named Pete, my ears start to bleed. And Minecraft or Roblox or Smashy Road are the only topics of conversation my oldest wants to have. While my youngest speaks a language all his own and yells at me when I don’t understand what he’s saying.

     So do I suck it up and head to the arcade all the while hoping for spontaneous blindness and deafness from the bright lights, perpetual pinging sounds, and screams of happy children? Or do I slap on my uber-eager chipper face in an attempt to convince them that they love the Art Museum and cannot wait to see the new abstract art exhibit?

     Or there is always the beach but lugging all the beach chairs, sand toys, towels, sunscreen, snacks, and change of clothes alone over hot sand does not sound tempting. Plus, the added fact that I have one child who likes to be in the water and one who likes to sit on the sand and dig sand castles, but how do I supervise the both of them. Maybe not.

    Theme parks means a lone rider or a battle to the death for who gets to sit with mom. Water parks means grabbing the screaming six-year-old out of the wave pool while chasing the nine-year-old from slide to slide.

     I honestly don’t know how single moms do it. I now realize why my own mom drank lots of wine or sent me to summer camp.

Over-thinking it: This is Your Brain on Motherhood

Husband: I’ll take the kids for a couple hours so you can enjoy and get stuff done.

Me: Should I clean the house? No, I should do some writing? But I really need to clean out my files? I should check Pinterest for ideas. Oh look, I can check Facebook? No, I should read a book? Or maybe watch a movie? But I really should watch one of my shows on DVR? Actually, I should call a friend? Or write the thank you notes I haven’t done from Little Timmy’s birthday? But this is my time. I should lie out by the pool and relax? Or I could buy a new bathing suit? Or go to the gym to fit into my bathing suit? Or maybe go shopping by myself to buy a new bathing suit?

2 hours later.

Husband: So what did you do with your free time?

Me: Spend two hours obsessing over what I could do with my free time.

Dear Lady Road Ragging in the Target Parking: A Life Lesson in What Not to Do

     Dear Lady yelling out the window of your white sedan,
     My six-year old did not need to pick up any of your "motherfucking" f-bombs hurled angrily out the open window of your car when we were just there to pick up my allergy meds. And my nine-year old certainly didn't need to pick up your nasty, entitled, impatient, profanity spewing attitude. Yes, I understand that you were annoyed that the man in the gold sedan wouldn't move over in the narrow parking lane so you could maneuver your car to one of the better spots closer to the front door. I'd be really frustrated too and most likely quietly muttering a few of those choice words under my breath so my kids didn't hear them.
     However, it did not warrant you screaming like a banshee out the window that you were going to "Cut you mother-fucker" if he didn't back up. Nor did it merit a trip out your door to bang on his window and continue to threaten to beat the shit out of him among many other disturbing acts you promised to visit upon the said mother-fer.
     My nine-year-old tried to dive back in the car cowering at your tone and threats. And I had to run for the door with my hands over my younger sons ears as he whimpered. And they are used to seeing me foam at the mouth when I'm angry and not batting an eye.
     Now, I'm not saying they haven't heard language or voices raised in anger before. Again, there mom is a hot-headed Celt and my oldest learned the "f" word on the kindergarten bus.
     But what they didn't need to see but maybe did need to learn was that there are some things worth getting angry about and then there are the miniscule, ridiculous, little nothings that over-privileged people blow up about because in America, most of us have no real problems.
      Yes, we have poverty and racial discrimination and women are still treated less than men. I am not belittling those issues. But the average middle-class American's food worries are whether or not to buy the organic cookies or the gluten free ones, not whether or not they have enough money to feed the whole family. Most of us don't have to worry about war or famine or dying of vaccine and basic healthcare preventable diseases.
     We live in a world of some much "muchness" you would think we'd be deliriously happy with the plenty we've got. But no, we are yelling in the Target parking lot because we can't wait three minutes for the gold sedan to pass into the other road so we can score our prime spot.
     I mean I don't know you and maybe you really do have some worthy problems or something bad happened that left you roiling with anger. But to jump out of your car screaming every expletive ever coined and threaten bodily harm to a perfect stranger seems like the wrong venue for your pent-up rage. And my kids definitely did not need to see you lose your shit over a lousy right of way.
     And gentleman in the gold sedan, I use that term loosely as you should have done the gentlemanly thing and backed up instead of refusing to move to prove whatever machismo fueled ego kept you stock still and in her face. She should not have been raging at you, but you were not being kind either and backing up when you were both at loggerheads.
     I didn't stay to witness the end of your vapid performance play out. I had allergy prescriptions to pick up and children to reassure. But I hope it was worth it and that your parking spot and right of way was everything you hoped for. But actually, I hope you calmed down at some point that day because no one else needed to be on the end of that rage trip, including you.
     As for my sons and I, we spent the ride home talking about how we shouldn't get angry over trivial things as you provided a valuable life lesson on how not to act. Your immature tantrum gave them a prime example of adults acting worse than kids.

You're Not Entitled to Fun

So I just viewed a blog post that not only got under my skin, it set up camp and festered. In the article, a snarky mom (because it's the cool thing to be nowadays) boldly proclaimed not to her kids' teachers privately, but to the Internet that her children would not being doing homework because they needed to have fun.
Excuse me for a minute while I jump on my soapbox and state my own opinion on this subject:
1. Great example for your children - No kids, you don't have to do something if you don't want to or it interferes in your playtime.
2. You are not entitled to fun!

In our pampered overly privileged society, where we no longer have to toil for endless hours working, cleaning the house, making food from scratch, and helping others in society; we now expect all our massive amounts of free time to be fun.
I know my own family suffers from this phenomenon. To their ultimate chagrin, my kids have both on occasion complained "but that's not fun" when asked to do simple chores around the house. To which I respond, (after the urge to throw something passes) that it's not fun for me to clean the toilets, make them food, clean their clothes, drive them to school, and go grocery shopping. So maybe I should stop and see what happens because I want to sit on my butt and play too.

My mom always told me:
1. You make your own fun.
No one owes you a positive attitude. It's what you bring to the table. That's why I blast my Glee Radio on Pandora while mining for cat poo in the litter box and dance while cleaning house. If the new attitude is that's it's "all about me", then it's  "all on me" to make the best of things.
Homework can be a chore, but I also see it as a challenge. Something to be conquered. I always took pride in doing what my teacher asked wanting to do the best I could.

2. Suck it up kid & get it done.
My mom was a secretary most of her life. She was also a brilliant artist. Did she enjoy slogging all those mindless hours filing paperwork and writing reports for bosses who underappreciated her? No. But she did enjoy a paycheck that she used to pay the rent and fill the fridge and put gas in the car for our weekend adventures. And she found time for her art when she could.

Homework is boring to everyone. Even the teacher grading it. I know. I was a high school teacher. I also know I had to pull teeth just to get kids to turn anything in because the attitude was that homework was not fun and therefore, didn't need to be done.  Some of these seniors had spent their whole school career avoiding homework and even hating school except for P.E. because it was not fun. That's why they couldn't write complete sentences in 12th grade. Some didn't even know that Arizona was next to California. But why should they, it's not fun!

Look! I hate homework too. But I hate the attitude even more that we can blatantly be rude to the teacher, and disregard her time and energy for our own selfish agendas. I also fear the lessons being taught at home that you don't have to do anything unless you want to, and it's fun.
We are not entitled to have fun! As a society and decent human beings, we should be respectful, work hard, and entertain ourselves. Fun is a bi-product of our own attitudes and efforts.
After all, we are not separate islands floating on a social media sea. Our actions and the lessons we teach at home ripple out and affect others.

Truthfully kid, I love you but I'm bored to death with your chatter

     Yes, I've read the e-cards informing me that if I don't listen to my kids now and instill the habits of family conversations, they won't talk to me in their teenage years about important issues. And I get it. I want my kids to trust me and talk to me about all their insecurities large and small because I truly care about them and their personalities.
     But does that mean I have to feign interest in all twenty levels of Geometry Dash told to me in mind-numbing detail while walking the dog? And am I expected to memorize each Minecraft YouTubers name and alter-ego? Because I really don't fricking care if The Diamond Minecart is now known as Dan TDM, and he loves waffles and makes fun of pixelated cubic pigs. Or that there are 15 bosses in Terraria.
     Yes, I'm a horrible person and mother, the kind that doesn't believe everything my kids say is pure Facebook posting gold. But I am pretty sure my own mom tuned me out after ten minutes of regaling her with every My Little Pony or Cabbage Patch Kid doll, or the how I finally conquered the spider in Mountain King (I miss my Atari). (Have I given away my age?)
     But sometimes having the deep, soft-lighting conversations I envisioned when I was six months pregnant and talking to my over-stretched, chocolate filled belly evade me. My kids aren't deep, at least not yet. Yes, they are six and nine year old boys who favor fart jokes and Simpsons references and recaps of Gravity Falls.
     Questions about school invariably result in answers of "nothing", "the teacher yelled", or "Aiden chased Kaden around the playground with a dirty sock". When probed, I get long-winded details about the color of the sock, what it smelled like, how many people touched it, and how funny everyone's faces looked. This story is then repeated at least five more times with me trying to paint interest on my face each and every time.
     But their chatter bores me the same way a trip to the grocery story or an account of the minutes of the P.T.O meeting bores them. I can't tell them this though. I don't want to hurt them or have them stop talking to me making me miss out on all those deep conversations waiting patiently to happen.
     So for now, I plaster on the smile, bobbing my head up and down, making the expected conversational responses all the while counting calories or planning tomorrow's dinner as I pretend to learn about the door activating properties of Redstone in Minecraft.
     Just being honest, at least to myself.

Get out of my head

Trying to find balance between motherhood and anything is hard. Just fill in the blank: eating, sleeping, working, pooping those darling little spawns of your womb believe if you shared your body once with them, then they are entitled to inject themselves into your business at any and all times of the day.

That's how I find myself writing staring at a computer screen trying to even complete the next sentence in my head let alone complete a plot while Child A bangs and sings Minecraft parodies at the top of his not so adorably off-key lungs through our shared wall, and Child B pops in every two minutes to ask what I am doing and why and what can he eat next because he's part Hobbit and has only had three lunches today and I realize this is a run on sentence but I can't seem to stop because at least I'm writing words down one after another in some babbling order.

After all, that's more than I've accomplished in the last two hours since my kids have been home from school.
So I break down dramatically, throwing bags of Boom Chicka Pop and organic apples in their direction and begging for a little quiet so mommy can finish the latest thrilling chapter in her dark young adult novel. And for a second, they are quelled and quiet until five minutes later when the little one sits in my lap and starts hitting the keys and asking if he can help me write while the older one reads over my shoulders asking what "Sexual tension" means only to be completed by the cat jumping onto the keyboard and helping the younger one write ckfhtjkosiwje all over my now sexually unfulfilled heroine.

And I love them. I really do. I think its adorable when they imitate me with their little notebooks and weak plots about Piggy Wiggy and the Beanstalk. But I just wish there was a way to extricate them from my head without waves of guilt or pawning them off on my mother in law or equally exhausted friends.

I've told them time after time that I'm a person too with dreams and desires of my own and not just an automaton who makes them chicken nuggets and drives them to basketball. But I don't think they believe me.

I know J.K. Rowling's mantra to make writing time sacred.  So I have neglected PTO requests till the other moms give me dirty looks at drop-off; my friends think I've "lost the plot" and have dissolved into an anti-social weirdo who doesn't brush her hair and skips coffee talk and gym sessions to play pretend; and I cram errands into the two hour window where I only have to drag the six year old with me.
And I'm lucky. I have three hours in the morning while my youngest goes to half day kindergarten to organize, research, and write.  But my sadistic brain really gets going about thirty minutes before I have to pick up my six year old.

So I spend the next eight hours till bed-time trying to repress any creativity so that I can do homework and make dinner and tie knots at cub scouts, all the while waiting to unleash that next sentence after their heads hit the pillow.

Yet, after the third request for a tuck in or a desperate search for teddy, I fall into my chair behind the computer screen staring blankly and trying to remember words and what order they go in. My brain has turned to mush. The plot has run away and my characters won't talk to me.

In the grand scheme of things, I know this is a 1st world problem, and I even glare with contempt at my own whining. But I wish there was a way to balance motherhood and creativity that didn't involve locking them in a closet with two iPad, a bowl of Goldfish, and a muzzle (please don't call C.P.S. I never actually did that, just contemplated it). I know some people will say, it will happen in time when my kids are grown up. But I'm afraid the people in my head pressing my brain to get their stories out don't want to wait. I don't want to be in suspended animation until they are 18 and out of the house. Isn't there a way to be mother and me?