Different is Good.

     It's Sunday morning.  I'm trying to relax.  But I'm not succeeding.  Craig is out of town hunting, and I've been on full time parenting duty since Thursday.  The kids and I have had a great time so far.  But already I can tell today is going to be different.
     Gabe just made himself some hot chocolate, but forgot to put his cup under the Keurig dispenser.  As my pre-coffee grumpiness was threatening to flare, I noticed there were two cups amongst the mess on the counter.  When I asked him why, he told me he was going to surprise me with a cup of coffee.  Of course he was.  His dad is out of town.  His dad usually delivers my weekend coffee to me.  He was trying to take care of me like Daddy does.  My temper was tamed.
     Until I opened the door to let Tucker out and was nearly deafened by the sound of our house alarm.  I had gotten out of bed to set it the night before as I always do when I remember Craig isn't home to protect us.  But Craig is the person who turns the alarm off in the morning.  It's one of those little jobs he does that I rarely even notice, but appreciate greatly.  So for the second morning in three days, I was on the phone with the alarm company apologizing for my absent-mindedness.
   And now the kids are blaring our favorite band over the house speaker.  Ordinarily, this would delight me.  Their loud, out of tune voices and desecration of the lyrics would usually make me chuckle, not cringe.  But I'm tired and crabby, and it's all my fault.
     When Craig is away, I stay up too late watching movies that I select with the intention of crying.  I'm not sad or depressed, but my favorite kind of movies are the ones that move me deeply.  It's not that Craig won't watch these same movies with me, because he will.  And often times, he's cries earlier and harder than myself.  But he doesn't agree that it feels good.  So when he's away, I take pleasure in my tears because I know no one is going to complain after they've been shed.  
     As I watch my movies, I drink too much wine.  Because without it, I have a hard time falling asleep when my husband isn't lying beside me.  But then I kick myself in the morning when my early birds arise, and I'm the only one home to take care of them.  A cloudy wine headache is not conducive to parenting three perky and energetic young children, that's for sure.
     So today is going to be different.  When I'm tempted to blame my kids, I will remember this blog and blame myself.  And when Craig walks through the door, I'm going to be really happy to see him.

   

If the Shoe Fits...

Parenting is a job. Let's not forget that. For some people, like myself, it is a primary job. For other people, like Craig, it is a secondary job. This is our arrangement. This is how we planned it. This is how we designed it. This is how we set it up. This is not to say that Craig, being the secondary parent, is any less valuable than myself, the primary parent. Both job titles are equally important, as there can be no primary without a secondary and there can be no secondary without a primary.

Craig, the secondary parent, goes to work to his primary job each and every day so that he can provide financial stability for our family. He is a Wealth Manager/Financial Advisor/Retirement Planner (there isn't really one title for what he does.) He is extremely busy and very successful. There is an enormous amount of pressure associated with his job. Not only does he have to ensure the financial stability/growth of his clients, but he also has to continue to accumulate new clients. He and his partner are independent, so they juggle several different companies, often times being forced to spend too much of their valuable time on the phone dealing with silly, internal paperwork errors that their companies have made. Simply put, while his job can be very rewarding, it is can also be very stressful on any given day.

But, it's his primary job. How could he expect it to be anything less than hectic?

His primary job begins every morning at 8:00am. It's hard telling when his primary job ends, as it changes on a daily basis. Three days a week we might get to eat dinner with him. He'll at least tuck the kids in four days a week. But his schedule is up and down, so the kids and I have learned to be flexible. We see it as a good night when Daddy is home, because we get to spend time together as a family. We also make it a good night when Daddy's not home by cooking simpler meals (like hot dogs, mac n' cheese, Spaghettio's, etc.) which makes all 4 of us happy.

When Craig's primary job is over, he comes home to his secondary job of being Daddy. He knows that the kids have certain expectations of him, and he knows that I, the primary parent, have certain expectations of him. It is a job. It is a working relationship. Because when he gets home, he walks into the middle of my primary job, which I take every bit as seriously as he takes his primary job.

Is he tired? Absolutely. Would he love to sit down and unwind? Of course, and I can't blame him for it. But, unfortunately for him, he is not afforded that luxury. In order to keep the peace and order of the house, he must unwind in the small amount of time it takes for him to take off his suit, hang it up, use the bathroom, and change his clothes. When he is done with this, he has no choice but to return to us in Daddy-mode.

Since all three of our children are now in school all day/every day, I start the day with my secondary job as Mom-Maid-Wife. I spend my days in a variety of ways. As a Mom, I spend countless hours volunteering at the school. I love to be present to see the kids in their element, without them necessarily knowing that I'm watching. I see the things they are doing great on their own, and I discover the things that we still need to work on. This is invaluable for their social and academic growth. I also am on-call for the emergency moments, like when I have a sick child at home or when I have to run up to the school because someone has forgotten a lunch, or gotten stuck in the mud and needs new clothes, etc.

As a maid, I spend my time doing the laundry, picking up the house, getting groceries, organizing closets, making phone calls, scheduling appointments, etc. It's the boring stuff, but sometimes it tends to be the key to making it all run smoothly.

As a wife, well...he's pretty easy on me. Except for occasionally having to pick his pj's up off the floor, or run a random errand here or there, he doesn't ask very much of me at all during the day. I am very thankful for this.

Every day at 2:45, my secondary job draws to a close. When I pick the kids up from school at 3 o'clock, my primary job begins. And when it begins, it goes non-stop, 100 miles per hour, in all kinds of different and unexpected directions. The kids, especially my twin, 6 year-old Kindergarten daughters, are always exhausted. And, since they're female, their emotions are usually all over the place for the first 20 minutes after pick-up. So from the get-go, my patience is tested. Gabe, my 8 year-old son, is pretty even keeled by now which is very much appreciated. However, since he is in second grade, his homework load has increased dramatically. On any given school night, he has 2 home-room assignments, 1 Spanish assignment, and an independent reading requirement. We can usually count on at least one hour of homework for him. Since he is also in piano lessons, he has a nightly piano requirement, too. He is also currently part of a traveling soccer team that practices two nights per week, with up to two games per weekend, and on a flag football team. (In the winter, the commitment will be basketball, and in the spring he will have baseball and hip-hop commitments.)

The girls now each have 20 minutes of homework per night, in addition to piano and swimming lessons. (In the winter they will start volleyball, and in the spring they will play baseball and hip-hop.) This is a huge transition year for them, which always requires patience times 2 because they are twins. We have two girls beginning to read (and being frustrated when they can't.) We have two girls learning to write (and not wanting to be told how to do it.) We have two girls beginning piano (and not wanting to focus while practicing with them.) We have 2 girls who want to tie their own shoes every morning (even though it still takes them forever to do so, and often times we are on the verge of running late.) We have 2 girls who are still babies with their blankies in one moment, and big girls learning to blow-dry their own hair in the very next.

The speed of our lives after school is overwhelming. I deal with silly, internal problems of my own with the kids. Maybe Sydney doesn't want to do her homework, or Taylor doesn't want any help with her homework even though she has no clue what she's doing, or Gabe has a project due that requires my full attention even though I have to oversee the girls at the same time. We have to sprint from lesson to practice, which requires getting all three of them to cooperate at the same time in order to get ready to leave somewhere with the adequate equipment packed and the correct clothing, shoes, coats, etc. on. Somehow we have to fit in a healthy dinner, even though they are starving when they come home from school and all they want to do is snack. All 3 must shower, have their hair dried, teeth brushed and outfits for the next day picked out before they go to bed. It's a lot, anyway you look at it.

But, it's my primary job. How can I expect it to be anything less than hectic?

Having said all that, yesterday Craig and I got into an argument. He (the man) said something stupid without thinking, and I (the woman) got defensive and over-reacted.

He said, "Aren't your days more peaceful now that you don't have the kids bugging you all day?"

I said, "Yeah, they are."

He said, "Then how come it seems like you're still uptight when I get home at night?"

(KABOOM.)

We were both sprinting out the door, as I was already working my secondary job of Mom and had to pick up Taylor from school to take her to her eye doctor appointment. And he couldn't be late for his first primary job appointment of the day. So, I suggested that maybe we not finish the conversation at the given moment, because it was going to take longer than either one of us wanted. In other words, I told him I was too mad to talk to him and I would call him after I cooled down.

So when I called him, I asked, "What is your day like around 11:00am on a daily basis?"

He said, "It's usually completely crazy by then."

I said, "Is it a 'let's skip-and-be-merry' kind of crazy, or a 'I wanna pull my hair out' kind of crazy?

He said, "If I'm at the office, I for sure want to pull my hair out. If I'm out on appointments, then it's hit or miss."

I asked, "Would it be safe to say that 11:00am is usually 3 hours into your work day?"

He said, "Yeah..."

I asked, "And, if I walked into your office at 11 when you were in the middle of planning, directing, and putting out fires, do you think it would be fair of me to expect you to drop what you were doing, forget about your problems, and shoot the shit?"

He said, "No."

I asked, "How would that make you feel?"

He said, "Annoyed and frustrated."

I said, "I go to work at 3 o'clock everyday. When you roll in at 6/6:30, best case scenario, that is 3 hours into my workday. I have already been planning, directing, and putting out fires for 3 straight hours. So, I apologize if I don't drop everything or feel like shooting the shit."

He got really quiet.

I finished, "When you come home at night, you are walking in to my office at 11:00am."

He got it. He said it was a good talk. He said he'd never thought about it that way before. And I made the mistake of assuming he had.

So for all of you secondary parents out there, we (the primary parents) don't mean to be uptight. We are not trying to be impatient with you. We are actually very appreciative of you, even if we don't always say it.

We are simply trying to get our jobs done the best way we know how. In a perfect world, we would have an endless supply of patience. But it's not a perfect world, whether you work first or second shift, or whether you are a primary or a secondary.

Some of my favorite smells, in no particular order.

1.) The warm, cuddly smell of the kids when they're sleeping. They smell like heaven. I wonder if they'll ever get tired of me sniffing them awake?

2.) The way a man smells in a suit after a long day at work. Craig smells just like my Dad used to when he came home from teaching. He smells familiar and safe.

3.) Freshly mowed grass. It's like a whiff of contentment.

4.) Burning leaves. The smell makes me feel warm and full inside on an otherwise cool night.

5.) Beautiful, by Estee Lauder. My Mom has worn that perfume for years. Ironically, I never like it when I smell it from the bottle. But when she's wearing it, it smells feminine and comforting.

6.) Freshly baked brownies. It's the smell of breaking the rules and feeling good about it.

7.) Spaghetti and meatballs. Not just any recipe....OUR recipe. The aroma fills the house with generations of love, laughter, and tradition.

8.) Cooked garlic. The smell literally makes my stomach growl.

9.) Babies. They have a most perfect smell of purity and innocense. Every time I smell one, I want one.

10.) Lilacs. My Mom fusses over them every Spring. They always remind me of her and make me smile.

11.) COH. It's the name of the big-girl perfume that we bought for the girls this past Christmas. They wear it every day, and it smells so clean and soft. Every time I smell it, I smile. It smells like little girls who want to be like their Mommy.

12.) The kids' nasty blankets. Only a parent can love this smell. It's the smell of unconditional love.

13.) Craig...when he's not wearing cologne. He's got the best natural scent of a man.

14.) Puppy breath. It smells like giggles. Love it!

15.) My doggies, Tucker and Bella. They smell like loyalty.

16.) Clean sheets, fresh from the linen closet. They smell like serenity.

17.) Anything cooking on the grill. After a long cold winter, it smells like liberation.

18.) Gasoline that has dripped on my hand at the pump. Every time it happens, I take a whiff and then look around to make sure no one was looking! It's the smell of the forbidden!

19.) Bleach. It smells clean and fresh. And, most often, it's a smell of accomplishment.

20.) Wool-lite laundry detergent. It smells like my Grandma. That's the reason I use it.

21.) Apple jack & peel candles. While it's not necessarily the scent I would pick, it's Craig's very favorite smell. Whenever we have them lit in the house, he is instantly in a festive mood. He is so affected by aromatherapy. He notices and appreciates it every time he walks into the house and I have a candle burning for him. It's the smell of a simple act of kindness.

22.) Hot coffee. It smells like time set aside to spoil yourself.

23.) The smell of our house after we've been away for an extended period of time. Simply put, it smells like home.

24.) The halls of the kids' elementary school. It's the smell of wishes, hopes and dreams. It reminds me that anything is possible.

25.) A Perfect World, by Origins. When I was pregnant with the girls, Gabe would rub it on my big belly every night. I still use it every day and it always makes me smile when I picture those chubby little baby hands of his. It's the smell of time flying when you're having fun.

Thinking Back...

I am sitting in the lobby of Gabe's music school with Sydney and Taylor. Gabe has piano for an hour (30 minutes of lab and 30 minutes of lessons) every Monday evening. We only live 5 minutes away so, usually, the girls and I drop him off at 5, and come back to pick him up at 6. But, today, he asked if I would wait inside for him. When I started to object, he looked disappointed.

I asked, "Why do you want me to wait today, Honey?"

"Because, sometimes when I'm there I feel lonely," he answered honestly.

And, even though the idea of entertaining the girls for an entire hour in the teeny-tiny lobby seemed like a headache, my mind flashed back to some 20 years ago. As a kid, I remember being dropped off at the gym every night. Most nights it wasn't a big deal that my Mom didn't stay and watch practice. I got it. I knew 3 hours was an unreasonable amount of time to expect her to sit there and watch me. I knew she had other things to do, like run my big brother to his activities, clean the house, cook dinner, etc. I understood that a three hour practice, each and every night, was just plain boring to sit through.

But, I also remember loving it when she did stay to watch me, even if it was only for 20 or 30 minutes. I remember how excited I got when she happened to get there early before practice let out. I always felt more secure when she was there. Being at gymnastics didn't seem like such a chore when she was there to support me.

As a result of my own childhood, when Gabe told me he felt lonely at practice, I could relate. Therefore, I loaded up the girls, packed their DS's, and we all attended piano together.

So, that's one of my goals as a Mom: to never forget what it felt like to be a kid. Whether it's sitting through piano, finding a failed test in a backpack, respecting their first crush, understanding the impact of that first kiss (among other things,) finding out they took their first drink, nursing that first hang-over, consoling their first heart-break, or enduring public humiliation for a poor, spontaneous choice…I hope to be able to do what I did tonight: Pause long enough to remember what it felt like some 20 years ago, take that into consideration, and then react accordingly and fairly.

I'm not looking to be their best friend. My hope is that if I make a conscious effort to find empathy during their most serious and important moments, rather than dismissing their feelings because "they're just kids," I might have a shot at having an open, honest and trusting relationship with them. And when the big situations arise, I hope to have demonstrated enough compassion along the way for them to seek my guidance and learn to trust my experience.

Frankly Speaking...

It's another Tuesday morning at Speech with Sydney. We come each and every week. I sit in a little salt-box of a room, watching her through a one-way window. She has worked so hard for the last 3 years, only to go back to her classroom and continue to be the student that is the most difficult to understand. That's saying a lot, too, considering she's the oldest at 5 1/2, while the youngest student turned 4 just yesterday.

At two, she was diagnosed with Apraxia of Speech. While she was able to hear words and could understand what they meant, she couldn't change what she heard into the fine-motor skill of combining consonants and vowels to form words. She has since overcome the disorder entirely, which is an amazing feat. She can now communicate exactly what she is thinking, however the words still tend to come out sounding muffled and distorted. And, unfortunately, if you are not used to her speech, her original meaning can get lost in translation.

And while she is slowly and steadily improving, her identical twin (who was also apraxic) no longer struggles with the clarity of her speech. Everyone, even perfect strangers, can now easily understand Taylor. Taylor will, more than likely, test out of speech next Tuesday. I foresee at least another 6-12 months for Sydney to focus on her clarity. So, by default, Sydney is now the twin that can't talk.

As her Mom, it is very hard for me not to talk for her. I understand everything she says. My first instinct is to act as her translator. I want to listen to what she is telling someone and repeat it exactly the way she intended for it to sound. I instinctively want to shield her and protect her from the mean, judgmental world out there.

Ya know, like the people (and we're talking about adults here, most often-times other mothers, no less) who ask her a question and are only able to hear what she can't say, instead of offering her the common courtesy of truly listening to what she is trying to say.

Then, while ignoring her answer entirely, they turn to me and ask in confusion, "How old did you say she was?"

And what I really want to say is, "She's old enough to know that you're being a rude asshole right now."

But, instead, I re-direct the conversation back to Sydney, as if I don't notice the condescending tone.

"Tell her how old you are, Sweetie," I say with an encouraging smile and a casual tostle of her hair.

"I five and a haff!" She says with a huge grin, followed by a giggle of excitement because she's so proud to be able to tack on the "and-a-half" part.

"You sure are, Big Girl!" I tell her proudly, usually followed by a triumphant kiss on top of the head.

She's always tickled by my reaction. She gets it. She has a hard time talking, but she's certainly not dumb. She knows that her Momma won't waste any time making excuses or justifying her poor speech to someone who doesn't have any more manners than that.

Struggling to overcome a disability is nothing to be ashamed of, in fact, it's quite the opposite. Sydney's preserverance is admirable. She is a strong little girl and has managed to develop an inner-confidence that blows me away at times. She will attempt to talk to anyone. And when it's obvious that someone is really trying to hear what she has to say and not judging her, she'll glance at me for help if she's struggling. I'll give her a little boost or offer her audience some background, and then she'll pick right back up with the story-telling.

It is extremely hard for Sydney to speak clearly. But, it's not hard for us to talk about that fact. Sydney will tell you all about speech. She'll tell you that she has a lot of fun with her teacher, Miss Ericka, but sometimes it's really hard. She'll tell you that she gets really tired of her Mommy interrupting her all the time to make her use her Big Girl Words. She'll tell you that she doesn't think it's fair that Taylor doesn't have to go to speech very much any more. In the same sentence, she'll tell you that she likes to go to speech because she gets to go all by herself with Mommy. She'll tell you that the best part about speech is the candy that her teacher rewards her with at the end of every hard-working session. She'll tell you that she'll be glad when Big Girl Words are easy for her. She'll tell you that in order for you to understand her, she has to speak slowly and carefully.

She'll tell you all of this and have no problems doing so because it is simply a fact of life. It's a problem she possesses, and we're doing everything we can to solve it. And, someday, when she's standing at the altar and doesn't need anyone to translate her wedding vows, it won't be a big deal. But, right now, it still is.

So, if you have questions about her speech, please feel free to ask. I actually enjoy talking about it. I am so proud of Sydney for all of her hard work, patience and progress. She absolutely deserves to be recognized and I am happy to share our experiences.

But...if you're mocking my child right in front of her, I'm certainly not going to bend over backwards to explain the situation. Not only do I have more dignity than that, but so does my five-and-a-haff year old daughter.

Think Spring....

Time for a little decompression. The kids are downstairs playing video games with their Daddy. I can hear how much fun they're having from here. I should go down and tell the girls it's time for Hooked on Phonics. I should. But I'm not going to. I'm going to save that for tomorrow night.

Tonight, I'm going to enjoy the fire and the quiet family room. I'm going to listen to myself think, which is a luxury when everyone else is home. It's been a long couple of days. Taylor has had the flu. And, unlike her 7 year-old brother, she has yet to master the art of making it to the toilet when she feels the need to vomit. So, therefore, I've spent a lot of time on my hands and knees scrubbing and sanitizing the carpet, the bathroom, the couch, and our bed. This is definitely not a perk of motherhood.

The sun was beaming today and it was a warm 40 degrees, which of course is a rarity these days in Michigan, and I could not go out and play. Instead I was cooped up with a sick little girl who wanted to paint fingernails, play Candyland, paint with glitter-glue, and watch cartoons. And while we had a great day, I could not help but wish we could be having fun together outside!

On several occasions, because I knew it was above freezing, I found myself chanting, "Melt, melt, melt!!" to the snow. I need Spring. I need consistent sunshine. I need fresh air that doesn't hurt. I need to go outside and play! I need rejuvenated.

I feel like a kid who has had her recess taken away. I look at my screened-in paradise of a porch and long to be out there, enjoying the sounds of nature. I can almost smell the freshness of the air as it blows my hair across my face. I love everything about Spring. I love the reassurance of knowing that Summer and Fall are still to follow. I love the fresh buds on the trees, the new daffodils and tulips that magically pop from the ground to say hello, the tremendous high I get the first time I drive with the windows down, the smell of the grass being cut for the first time...oh, that's my favorite.

It's coming...I know this. There are signs everywhere. Like tonight when I pulled into our drive-way at 6:15 and the sun was just starting to set. And today, when out of the blue, Taylor wished we could go on a bike-ride because she, too, can sense Spring's nearness. At pick-up, I saw several parents in sweatshirts instead of coats, willing it along. I see the girls' Easter sundresses hanging in their closets and choose to ignore the little matching sweaters that we bought for "just in case..."

And even though these harbingers of Spring should be comforting, they instead make me anxious. I have to work not to be irritable. I have to take more deep breaths than usual. I have to make it one more month. The amazing part is that March never gets any easier. It is this hard each and every year. You would think I would get used to it, but I don't. It gets me every time.

Winter is always fun, but it is a month too long. The kids and I have already officially wished for no more snow. We are over it. We'll save the hot chocolate for next December and be fine with it. Go away snow and let the sun come out to play! We promise to make good use of it!!

Dear Spartans,

So here's the deal, Coach Izzo: You offended a lot of people with your passion yesterday. While I think you meant well and what you were trying to say may have been valid, I fear that a number of people are not hearing your true meaning.

How do you think Mateen Cleaves or Morris Peterson felt when they learned that they had no identity as Michigan State University National Basketball Champions? How do you think Chris Schaller, a former Michigan State University Lacrosse Player, felt when you claimed that his identity as a Spartan never existed, even prior to his sport being yanked out from beneath him as a result of Title IX? How do you think I felt, a former NCAA National Qualifying Spartan Gymnast who endured four shoulder surgeries in an effort to continue to compete for her school?

No matter what logo we had on our shirts, we knew who we were and what school we were representing. We never questioned our identity as Spartans. In some cases, we were more Spartans than we were people. We gave our heart and soul to Michigan State University. So, please, don't shame us.

When I went home to my small town and wore my Block S Varsity letter jacket, I can promise you that everyone there knew I was a Spartan. Never once did I have to explain where I went to school. I was a Spartan, a Big Ten Athlete, and people were impressed with the reverence of the jacket.

I can promise you that when my husband, a former Spartan Soccer Player, and I write our annual donation check to Michigan State University, there is no confusion as to which school we are sending it to because of lack of identity.

I know this is not how you meant it. But, the fact of the matter is this is how it is being heard. This is why people are upset. At Michigan State University, we were taught to be winners. We were taught to preservere and endure. We were taught to take pride in ourselves, our teammates and in our school. We were Big Ten Spartan Student-Athletes because we were committed and coachable.

And right now we need to be coached. We need to be led. Inspire us to jump on board with the logo. Don't bully us. Remind us that a logo doesn't define us as Spartans. It is your heart that makes you a Spartan. It is your winning attitude that makes you a Spartan. It is your ability to overcome difficult obstacles gracefully that makes you a Spartan. It is your willingness to look past your own opinions in an effort to stand strong, united, and proud that makes you a Spartan. It is leading by example with strong, moral character no matter what the given scoreboard may read that makes you a Spartan. It is what is inside of you that determines whether or not you deserve to be identified as a Spartan, not the picture on the front of your shirt.

I am a Spartan. You could paint my shirt red and adopt a puppy as the new mascot. I would still be a Spartan. No one can take that away from me.