Pulp Non-Fiction

     With Mother's Day this coming Sunday, I thought it would be apropo to share about the amazing experience that motherhood has been for me.  My life has been richly blessed and forever altered since that first butterfly flutter in my stomach 17 years ago.  My days have been filled with everything from marveling at the intricate details of my newborn's little fingers, to peanut butter and jelly kisses, to crying as I left my baby at their first day of school, nights laboring over homework together, to yelling at the top of my lungs at sport's functions, cheering on my grown athlete.  And then, and then there are days like today, the kind of day that can't be found in any self-help mothering books.  The type of day that when other, more seasoned mothers say, "Just wait.." are talking about ....

     After a morning at work, and an afternoon weeding the flower garden, fertilizing the vegetable garden, getting the backyard toys out and marinating chicken in preparation for tonight's dinner, I left my house feeling accomplished and ready for the task ahead of me.  I had to pick up 3 of my 5 children, head to my teenager's baseball game and arrange transportation for my middle-schooler from her track meet which was about 10 minutes from NYC and a whole world away from my house in the country.  After much driving, texting (not at the same time, relax) and some playground time, I loaded the 3 into the van and took them to 7-11 where they could fill their MEDIUM Slurpee cup with whatever flavor combination their hearts desired and headed to the teenager's  baseball game.

     I'm a huge sports fan.  I played sports in high school, I love to watch games on tv, and I love watching my kids play (well, relatively...see an older post).  My sophomore "plays" for Varsity.  Basically, as a sophomore that consists of mostly sitting on the bench.  I still love to go to his games and route on the team.  I sit on those splintered benches and gratefully accept the bouquets of weed flowers my 7 year-old brings me.  I wipe the baseball dirt mustaches off of my 8 year-old's upper lip, and dish out many a Goldfish Cracker while celebrating the victories and mourning the losses of the team that my son graces the bench for and I paid $250 for him to do so.  I also take many trips to the bathroom with the little ones.  Today, one of those trips proved epic.

     During the 5th inning, my son Luke informed me that he had to go to the bathroom.  The bathroom is located in the HS building and quite a walk from the ball field so I told him that I'd go with him.  He took off ahead of me like a bullet.  I resigned that he'd be fine without me and followed as far as the outfield where I decided to stand and watch the game while waiting for him to finish his business.  After some time, I realized that 1/2 an inning had just passed and Luke hadn't emerged.  He is prone to long public-restroom visits so I wasn't too alarmed but I decided to check on him.  I stood at the door of the men's room and called his name.  I heard a timid, "Mom?"  And then a panicked, "I need your help!"  Oh boy....  I made sure that the locker room/bathroom was clear of any other men and walked into a mess of Biblical proportions.  There was my little guy with his pants in his hands and, well.... a "mess" all over the place.  Apparently when you weigh 54 lbs. and drink a MEDIUM Slurpee, it can lead to bouts of explosive expressions that may or may not make it into the appropriate receptacles.  The poor kid tried to take care of the mess himself and in doing so managed to grace the sink, floor and top of the commode with his gift.  The remainder of articles of clothing he was still wearing were also decorated.  I had one of those moments where my mind traveled through so many different scenarios that I had a momentary out-of-body experience.  I grabbed the pants, cleaned the sink with locker room paper towels and closed the stall door on my son reassuring him that I'd be back ASAP.  I had no idea what I was going to do.  I ran to my car where I deposited the soiled and soaking-from-"washing" pants on the blacktop and then ran to the bleachers to get my keys.  My 7  year-old was happily rolling down a hill with her little friend and the middle-schooler was chatting with a friend so I quickly went to the van and took stock of my options.  I had a plastic shopping bag....and a rainbow parachute.  Taking said items back to the locker room, I ran into a very surprised older gentleman wearing a cowboy hat.  I made my apologies, mumbled something about my little guy having an accident and proceeded as if I were The Wolf from Pulp Fiction.  I needed to erase all evidence that this bio hazard ever occurred and safely get my now naked son from the crime scene.  I ushered him to the locker room shower where I turned on the ice cold water and handed him a bar of soap.  I stifled any complaints of water temperature with a stern look and headed to the bathroom.  My only options of cleaning supplies were the paper towel dispenser, the hand soap from a pump and the trickle of water from the motion-sensor faucet....Awesome.  I proceeded to pump soap, lever down paper towels and trickle water like a mad woman until the sink shone, the floor no longer looked like a barn and the toilet was as clean as a high school boys' locker room toilet should be.  I forced the boy out of the shower prematurely (he likes long showers like his father) and wrapped him in the only thing I had....the rainbow parachute.  The job was almost done.  I only had to get him through the outfield, to the parking lot and into the van unnoticed, piece of cake?....I started to walk trying to block him with my body, but he was falling behind so I grabbed his neck and held him next to me...a few steps to go and my 7 year-old appeared out of nowhere jumping up and down, holding herself and yelling, "I have to go BATHROOM!!...WAIT,,,WHY IS LUKE IN A PARACHUTE?!!"  I shushed her, ignoring the snickers from a mother sitting near the parking lot, told her to wait a moment, to which she responded with throwing herself on the ground, continuing her potty dance prostrate, and got my naked, rainbow-parachute-wrapped boy safely in the minivan, with his integrity somewhat intact.  I deposited the plastic bag of soiled clothing in the trunk and took the diva to the ladies' room......The rest is a blur...I do know that my middle schooler fell in a ditch, twisting her knee and that the baseball team won.....

     My marinated chicken was forgotten, baseball game was over at 7:00 and pizza was ordered.  The windows were wide open on the ride home to air out the contents of that plastic bag,  and I sat, the matriarch, driving my minivan....my victorious bench warmer to my right, the non-stop-talking diva behind me, kicking the driver's seat the whole way, my ballerina with the twisted knee plugged into her ipod in the back seat, my naked-rainbow-parachuted brainiac discussing his class-trip to the Sterling Cave like he wasn't naked or wrapped in a parachute, and my middle school track runner getting chicken pot pie at a friend's house.

     So tonight, my kids ate pizza instead of the healthy homemade dinner I had planned.  My 1st-grader didn't complete her homework because dinner was finished at her regular bedtime.  I ended up doing an extra load of laundry I hadn't anticipated.  I assured Luke that what happened happens to everyone (doesn't it?) and that even though Mommy seemed like it, she wasn't angry with him.  She was just overwhelmed with the situation.  My teenager, who painted my barn doors this weekend, went to bed early to get a jump on tomorrow.  The twins put away their laundry and are tucked in...and I sit exhausted wearing the $2.00 ring my son bought me today at the souvenir shop from his class trip, knowing that I am the luckiest woman in the world.

    

Baby It's Cold Outside

     Happy New Year!  OK, so it's been a new year for 18 days now and it seems that the last time I posted a blog, I was working on embracing a farewell to summer and a hello to fall.  It's now mid-January and with the holidays behind me, I'm deep in the trenches folks.  Gone are the crisp autumn days with their flirtatious reds, yellows and oranges.  Everything now is either a chilly steal gray or icy white.  Since I last wrote, we've weathered (quite literally actually) a major hurricane that devastated 1/2 of the tri-state area and displaced us for 2 weeks, a car accident on Christmas Eve that totaled our family van and about 2 weeks of the flu that ran through almost the entire household.  Yay winter!

     I really want to love winter.  Truly, I do.  I was actually born in winter so it should be a time to celebrate.  However, I remember many of my birthday parties cancelled due to illness and in many of my childhood birthday pictures I'm sporting a rather bright red mustache from wiping my nose too often.  Having a birthday so close to Christmas also meant the well-intentioned but totally lame Christmas/Birthday present.  I have to say that one year though it really paid off with a Cabbage Patch Kid and a trip to see Annie on Broadway.  Did I mention that I had the best grandparents ever?

                                      Notice the slight red-stache?  Dig the Holly Hobby plates!


     I guess I have a love/hate relationship with winter.  There are some redeeming qualities.  I love the way everything looks covered in newly fallen snow.  I love how silent the world seems as the snow falls.  It's almost as if you can hear each one of the flakes landing.  I love the smell of fireplaces warming my neighbors homes. I love being the only one on the hiking trails and hearing my steps crunching on the frozen path. Also, there is something so satisfying in a cup of hot chocolate or bowl of savory soup after a day of sleigh-riding. 

                                                            Just needs marshmallows

     I remember the excitement of waking up to snow as a kid.  I'd wait in the early morning gloom to hear how many whistles would blow from the fire station.  After the last blessed blast that signaled a snow day I was too excited to possibly fall back to sleep.  My house was always freezing in the morning as my frugal grandmother who controlled the thermostat for the whole house wouldn't turn the heat back on until around 8 am, so I'd wrap myself in an afghan (strategically made by said grandmother) and make my way to the kitchen.  I could always count on a hearty breakfast from my robe-clad mother who would be drinking black tea as if her life depended on it.  As soon as the hissing of the radiators started, that meant that I could start to get my clothes on, huddling as close to the radiator as I could (geez, you think I grew up during the Great Depression!).  Now, I don't know if snow pants didn't exist in the 80's, but if they did, I didn't own a pair.  I'd don my dungarees (oh yes, that's what my mom called them) and my sweater, and the hat, mittens and boots
(generally quite mismatched)  and head outside into the winter wonderland.  There were some snow storms where I could barely make my way through the snow.   I'd drag my Radio Flyer sled (you know with the wooden planks and red metal blades) to the County Park and attempt to steer that thing away from trees and other children all morning. I could play for hours if only my damn dungarees didn't soak through and the frost bite didn't begin to burn my thighs.  That was always my signal to head home.  The burning of my flesh.  I'd strip off  my soaked clothes and lay them by the furnace to thaw and I'd drink Ovaltine in my pajamas until my my clothes were dry and then I'd start the whole process over again.

     As a former frost-bite victim I have acquired an impressive collection of snow gear for my children.  No child of mine has ever played in the snow without at least 4 inches of thermal, water-proof fluff to protect their chicken legs.  I have bins of the stuff.  Bins upon bins.  When friends come over with their kids, I have enough gear for my kids and theirs and some strangers that may show up.  My kids don't have to pull a rusty sled 8 blocks to a county park.  They're blessed with a pretty amazing sledding track in their own backyard.  They also have snow boards and plastic sleds that don't require a perfect snow terrain to whiz them down the hill.  About three years ago I decided to join them and hot-dog it down the hill...threw my back out for 2 months.  I wish I was kidding.  I'm a bit more careful about sleigh riding now.

     That's not to say that I don't get to have my fun.  When I'm not mopping up the mounds of snow my kids track into the house, or drying my 20th load of snow gear, I get to have my own fun.  I love simmering the Dutch cocoa on the stove for my kids knowing that their Rosy-cheeked faces will be looking for it as soon as they come back in.  I get to go ice skating now as an adult and take my kids with me.  This was something that was never an option in my childhood home of non-athletic and pretty much all-the-time-broke parents.  I also get to watch my kids do something that I have never done (and probably never will)...snowboard.  It's exhilarating to see your children master something that you know would put you in traction if you ever tried it.

     Do I love winter?  No.  I can't lie.  I will be doing a dance with the first sign of a crocus popping its head up through the thawing ground.  However, that doesn't stop me from appreciating the beauty of this time of year.  I love the fact that we're all kind of forced to slow down and spend more time together in our home.  We don't participate in organized sports during the winter so we get to play more games with each other.  I am grateful for my cozy house and am happy to say that I've become quite adept at building a mean fire in my wood-burning stove.  I love my heated seats in my "new" mini van.  I absolutely live to see my children's excitement when they wake up to a white world and watch as their imaginations emerge from their electronics and they build forts and igloos and snow people. 

     I have a confession to make.  This year, late at night during one of our snow storms I was, shall we say...moved.  All of the kids were in bed and it was snowing outside.  The glow from our Christmas lights was playing on the falling snowflakes and I couldn't stay inside any longer.  I put my coat on and went outside.  I just stood there and listened to silence and then I did it.  I allowed myself to dance.  Throwing my arms out wide, I gave in to that inner-child-like rapture and twirled around in the snow.  It only lasted a moment, and I laughed at myself, but I didn't feel foolish.  I still don't.  I felt as if winter and I made peace with each other if even for a fleeting moment.