My (Very Low-Maintenance) Valentine Wish List

For this Valentine's Day, I've decided to think outside of the box (of chocolates).  I have given it some thought, and this list is what I really want. I don't want to be pushy, but if you know my husband, please let him know that any or all of the gift options would be appreciated. One or two would even be fine. I'm not picky.

1.  a) I would like my metabolism of my early twenties. Think: the days when you could eat a bowl of cheese fries every day for a week and not end up having a belly that resembles a bowl of cheese fries. Valentine's Day is about love. And I love cheese fries.

                                                              -OR-

    b) I would like for the muffin top to be considered fashion forward. Think: Renaissance Era portraits where a bit of roundness meant beauty and fertility. Because I think we can all agree that this is a much easier look to rock, especially since it's the damn fertility that has caused the problem to begin with. I'll even accept that this trend be short lived. Just throw me a bone. And coat it in chocolate.

2.  I would love for my children to think of me and do me small acts of kindness. Off the top of my head, I could suggest they maybe clean the pee from the bowl as an act of love. Wiping up the floor would show devotion. Leaving pee everywhere, be it in the shape of a heart or not, does not convey the appropriate Valentine's Day wish.

3.  It would be lovely if a young teenager - I would even accept a tween - could show up at my doorstep and say these words to me:  Ma'am (I won't even be pissed when she calls me Ma'am), would you allow me to come in and help your children assemble their valentines?  I know it can be an activity that is taxing on the patience, and I would love to take that off your hands. To which I will say, "I will gladly pay you, and I will be in the other room."  I will use this time to drink wine. Red wine, because I obviously want to honor the color of this holiday. I will even go so far as to offer to pay double if this messenger of relaxation can talk the four year old through writing an O on each card and assure him that his arm will not fall off from the enormous amount of effort this task requires. Then I will refill my glass.

We were actually able to make it through without a helper. It was touch and go for a while - his arms simply "could not take anymore!" The good news: he has perfected his capital A. The bad news: his name does not contain the letter A. We are, however, still in need of help with the seven year old's notes. Please send positive thoughts and well wishes.

4.  Could we all please come together as fellow humans and decide that we love each other enough to each donate $1 to the scientific research required to eradicate the stomach bug? I know that in this day and age and crazy-ass political climate that is causing so much strife between us all, it can be difficult to find common ground and easy discussion. But lord help us, if we cannot love one another enough to agree that getting puked on by a child is in need of a solution, then there is really no hope for us as a human race. Let's get this thing solved before one more person has to revisit the previous night's chocolate truffles.

5.  Lastly, I would like someone to declare, officially, that leggings are pants. Also, if we could somehow work in that flannels are appropriate for 9 out of 10 occasions, I would be tickled pink. Or red with hunter accents. Whatever.

In the end, I want my Valentine's Day to be a day during which I am presented with zero calorie cheese fries in a house altogether lacking in urine that requires cleaning, surrounded by children who are all too happy to create crafts showing love for their peers, all the while having no one hurling chunks at my supremely comfortable legwear.

Not to set the bar too high, but Honey, if you love me, you'll make it happen.

xoxo

Never would I ever

I researched a minivan the other day.

"So?" you ask.

"So," I say.

So. This is significant. It will go on the list.

"The list?" you ask.

"The list," I say.

The list of stuff-I-swore-I-would-never-ever-(ever)-do-as-a-parent. The list.

And, friends, it is a long list.

My husband and I laugh - often - at what a-holes we were. For real. We were newly married and childless, and we sat upon our high, pristine SUV horse and made royal decrees of what would never happen in our kingdom should we ever procreate. We had visions of picturesque family moments involving children, happily dressed in Baby Gap, participating in activities of our choosing. There were several children; they never fought. We would never go crazy like our parents had. We would never lose control. Our children would always eat a balanced dinner that we chose, because damn it, we would always be in charge. We would never become that family that had so much going on that we couldn't find ourselves. Only one sport per season. Only appropriate television. Only lovely things in our lovely life. And never, ever a minivan.

The downfall started small. A rearview mirror on the backseat decorated with animals, just so I could see my firstborn cherub's face while I drove. Never would I ever have one of those. Until I did. It was green. It had a giraffe.

But the rest of the list? The rest of the list I would stick to.

It is now eleven years later, and the only thing I have left is my SUV. (And honestly? Regardless of the type of car it is, its floor is covered in crackers, and it is a disgusting Mom-mobile.)

So, let's point out the ways in which I must eat my words, shall we? Just yesterday, I herded three boys into a dirty-ass car after work to get Mason to hockey - a sport I swore no child of mine would ever play. They were dressed in head-to-toe NFL and Star Wars attire. They watched Sponge Bob in the car that now has a TV. As if that technology weren't enough, Andrew played Pokemon Go on the ride back to a house where french toast sticks were dinner for two out of the three. (The third chose chicken, rice and a raw carrot, so I guess I'm 1/3 not a terrible parent.) Bedtime was like an hour after it should have been, and although yes, they did all read, it was not the full 30 minutes required by their school. Oliver, now 4, had me read all of the Star Wars guns to him. Guns. To my four year old. (There are rifles, blasters, and bows in addition to the various lightsabers, in case you were wondering.)

And all of that nonsense will happen again today, tomorrow, and the next day, because we'll also have to get to soccer and football. In case you haven't kept track, that's three fall sports. Three, not one. We'll also have to somehow make it to Open House at the boys' school. Because we obviously have time for that.

I'm sorry. To anyone I've ever judged for anything, I am sorry. My children are so incredibly far from being J. Crew fashionable it's ridiculous. Cereal is a meal. It is sometimes followed by ice cream. My ten year old says "crap" and "freaking" when he thinks I'm not listening. My seven year old lies about doing homework. My four year old loves weapons more than he loves me. All of them probably need a bath, and I imagine that their 28,394 hours of screen time a week would be frowned upon by the American Academy of Pediatrics.

To my 2005 self, I say this: You are a fool. Kids will pee on your rug. They will want to dress themselves according to their taste, not yours. You will buy light-up sneakers. (No, really. You will.) You will buy electronics and allow them to watch horribly non-educational things. You will tread water every day just to get by, and in doing this, you will stop caring if Lucky Charms may not be the best choice. Because at least they're not going to bed hungry AND dirty.

So in this moment, I admit defeat. I admit that I no longer care. This is our life, and we are happy. This is our life, and when we are not screaming at the children, we are happy.

And if I ever end up in the driver's seat of a minivan, I'll honk that horn and give a nod to my old decrees. Then I'll drive the kids to McDonald's for dinner. Because, honestly, we're probably late for something else I swore I'd never do.

Beep, beep.

Always late. Always dirty. That's how we roll.

Port-O-Problems

The spring has hit us this year, as it always does, with chaos of the no-time-to-breathe variety. We, the five of us, have been driving from field to field, game to game (although never together, and always in two separate cars) with nary a chicken nugget to sustain us, and if the winds are favorable that day, we might (**probably not) have all of the requisite sporting equipment for where we are headed. We are never home.

Craziness has consumed us.

If we could do the math for a moment, there are four field locations in town that we've been rotating between, which have six port-o-potties between them. They draw my children in. Call to them. Woo them with their wretched blue magic water that hides neither visual nor smell.

"Mommy," said Oliver one day in a wonder-filled voice of a boy who is horribly and happily three, "is that MY big, huge poop in there?"  He had just walked in and readied himself to add to the glorious and most extensive collection.

"No. No, it's not."

"Do you think a giant dog came in here and did that big poop?"

"Um, I don't think so. But maybe."

"That would be so silly," he concluded, all the while hovering over the poop under discussion, allowing us to fully appreciate its splendor.

Problem number one: The children think it's OK to have a discussion this long while inside the potty. It is not. Gag.

Problem number two:  Number Two at Number Three. On an extra special day a few weeks ago, we were at the farthest possible location from the potties - dreaded Baseball Field Number Three, where the child spectators have an array of broken glass ("Sea glass!!") ("Nope, just regular glass. Give to Mama, please!") along with a used mattress in their wooded "fort" area to entertain them. It is all sorts of awesomeness.  This is when the potties speak the loudest to them. Both the 6 year old and the 3 year old decided that they had to go IMMEDIATELY, and let's GO GO GO!

There are two port-o-potties side by side. Common sense dictates that I had to enter with the younger, sending my middle child in to fend for himself. The good news is that they have air vents that allow him to shout through so as to best communicate with me (along with every single spectator at Field One).

"Mom!! I have a bit in my pants! I couldn't wait!"

No. No. No. No. Noooooooooooo.

Meanwhile, I looked down to help Oliver, and not to be outdone by his big brother, he had decided to bless his undies just a bit, too.

You want to see graceful? You try to take dirty undies off the 3-year-old pooper while making sure he doesn't tumble in / touch anything / lick anything while contained in a 3 foot cube-o-filth, all the while listening to "Moooom! Can you come in and help me?!?" from the filth cube next door.

In the end, I took both pairs of undies off, folded them up nice and tight to contain the damage, left them in the car, and then bathed the children in the sanitizer-like substance they provide. When we finally got home and pulled into the driveway, I shoved the undies into my purse because my hands were full. And then, I got distracted. Distraction is a mother's enemy.

So, the next day, my husband was lucky enough to receive this text at work:

And finally, to make you feel so much better about your own personal parenting decisions - and also to show you that sometimes, the poop emoji might actually serve a purpose - I give you problem number three: The Day It Was Raining, I Was Wearing Flip Flops Inappropriate for the Weather, and Oliver Had to Go.

I'm on the fence as to whether I should even admit this or not. But in my defense, it was really cold, really rainy, and my wet feet just could not (COULD NOT!) handle yet one more trek through a sopping field over to the potty. We were watching the game from the shelter of the car, and we were so happy and so dry. And then, in what was probably a poor parenting decision, this:

(I sent this to my sister. Because if nothing else, sisters can laugh with you about poop and do not judge.)

This, my friends, is what motherhood looks like. It is not sexy. It is not even sanitary. But God bless the soul who created picture messaging so that I can share it.

So now, on this Saturday, we're off to gymnastics, one soccer game, and two baseball games. Since we must find the good in every situation and learn from our mistakes, I'll be wearing sensible footwear and will be armed with wipes, plastic bags and changes of clothes. I'm ready for what the day may bring. I just hope it brings us to potties that have recently been cleaned and emptied. I've set the bar very low for my happiness.

Happy Saturday, friends. May your day be free of all things portable toilet. This is my wish for you.

The last letter

Well, this is it. I knew it would come one day. But I also knew that I still wouldn't be ready.  You've been my pen pal for twenty years now. Twenty years! I know that for you, having been 88 and all, that's sort of just a drop in the bucket. But for me? That's more than half my life. If Gramma had lived, it might be that she had been the intended recipient. But she left us, and it was up to the two of us to forge our way through and figure it out. So I wrote to you. And you saved it all - every last bit of it - and now, without even knowing it (or maybe you did?), you've given me this gift. My life, in snapshot form, there on your faded, red counter for me to rediscover. Every trip I've taken. Every bit of mundane nonsense I've babbled about. Every apartment and car and assignment and job I've ever had was there, documented and ready to relive. It's like having a conversation with you, which is something I have to understand will never happen again.

Life got so busy with three kids, a husband, a job, a house. You understood; you lived it. And I know you knew it without my even knowing you did. So the letters slowed down. Never stopped, but slowed down. Because life sped up. Instead of details about my comings and goings, you opened Christmas cards and party invitations. Instead of postcards from far-off places (I really did see the world, didn't I?), you opened updated wallet sized pictures of little boys who loved you so much. Each new picture different - crazy teeth, no teeth, crazy hair, no hair - all of them marking another change in life for us, while your life chugged steadily along with change so much more subtle that I almost didn't notice. First a cane, then a walker, but always (always) a Subaru, always your music, always your smile and your absolute refusal to admit defeat.

Until now.

So here is my one last letter to you. I know you can't open it. I know you can't save it. But I hope beyond hope that you'll feel the love it's filled with from wherever you are.

∞ ∞ ∞ ∞

Dear Poppy,

Hi there, my old Poppy Pop Pop. We went by your house the other day. We knew you wouldn't be there, and it was so strange to be there without you. But with every step inside, I could feel you. I could smell you. And I can't tell you how much I wished I could hug you again.

We used to talk about everything. I loved to hear your stories. Old tales about your mom ("Mother"), who so desperately wanted proper young gentlemen, but who instead had to wrangle you and your crazy brother out of the pond and into white gloves. I never could quite picture you the proper one. And I still love your refusal to attend anything if you had to wear socks. We used to talk about your love - my Gramma (who probably would have forced you to wear socks to my wedding, by the by.) Your life together, and how much we both missed her. We talked about the old world and what it was like, how it changed, what it became.  We talked about politics and culture, sometimes religion, and we talked about how you built the life around you.

I still have questions.  But you can't answer them.  And this hurts my heart.

You were never quite certain what would happen in "the after."  You didn't think much of much would go on. But Gramma had so much faith in her faith, and she never doubted. So which is it? Did you find each other? Can you see us and feel our love for you across space and time? Could you see us all together - your family that you created - in the house that you built, sharing stories and smiles and tears?  I hope so. And as much as I miss you and am sad to see you go, I have to say this: Whatever it is, you finally solved the mystery of what happens "after". I wish you could share this last tidbit of wisdom, but I know it doesn't work like that. So I will think about you often and wonder. And I will miss you.

Thank you for saving my letters. Rereading them is a gift. A glimpse into the past. My own personal time capsule. I will treasure it always.

So that's it, then. I'll go on my way. And you go on yours. Until we meet again, if that is indeed what shall pass.

I love you so much. But you always knew that.

Love, Alli

p.s. Thanks for all those years of breakfast dates. You were right. The pancakes were fabulous.

p.p.s. If you could please just go find Nancy Reagan, I really do need to know what she thinks about Donald Trump. This I must insist on.  xoxo

Nine is just fine

I've never been overly impressed with the "six" year of any given decade. Nothing against them - it's just that they were always one year before or one year after something really cool happened. 1985: my baby sister was born. 1987: I turned 10. 1986: just bleh. 1995: I graduated from high school. 1997: I started dating my love. 1996: just bleh. 2005: Mr. '97 and I got married. 2007: We bought our first house. 2006: WAIT! FIRST BABY WAS BORN! NOT BLEH AT ALL! (Although, on days when he wouldn't stop screaming even for a gulp of air, I was totally wishing for some bleh.)

The little guy who finally made a "six year" worth something!

So now, as the calendar has turned to 2016, my initial reaction was to be like, "Oh, a "six" year? Bleh. Nothing much to see here."  Except that, a minute later, I was like, "Oh, holy hell! Wait a minute! 2006 was a big deal, which means that 2016 is just as exciting!"  Because my "baby" boy, the one whose socks are now confused with mine in the laundry, is turning ten this year. Double digits, my friends! It's the only major digit change in this boy's life until he reaches the big 1-0-0! (Which his children had better celebrate grandly, so help me.)

But here's a secret: I'm sort of wishing we could just pause here for a bit. Because nine is not bleh. Nine is charming. Nine is sweetness and sass, both in manageable amounts. Ten scares me. Ten looks way too much like middle school and girls and the reality that is hours of homework and friends doing crazy things. But nine? Nine is just fine, thank you very much. And nine is all mine.

Nine rushes downstairs in the morning to check SportsCenter, but does it clutching blankie in the remote control hand.

Nine tries to cuddle and nuzzle in for a hug, but almost tips me over doing it with the force of a wild boar.

Nine believes in all the magic of the world but all the rationality of the times tables in equal parts.

Nine wants to swim out to the deep end to do tricks, but wants me to watch each and every one.

Nine wants to go to school to see his friends, but runs off the bus and into my car every day back to our safe cocoon.  

Nine loves Sponge Bob, but still laughs at Sesame Street.

Nine loves me in all of its single digit glory.

I really hope that ten doesn't come along and tell him that loving his mommy is "so last decade." And when he hits the triple digits in another far-off, not-so-bleh six year? I hope that third digit wants a hug from me just as badly. Wherever I am, I'll be waiting for it.

~ {p.s.} ~

I sometimes wonder where this little face has gone to...

but then this guy wants to cuddle and read a story, and I suddenly see that it's been right there this whole time.

An unexpected magical moment

A few years ago, I had either been feeling extra jolly, or I had just had a nice glass of red. But either way, the result is that our Christmas card had the following message in it:

"Every day has a bit of magic to be found. Look for it. Believe in it. And treasure it always."

Well, here's the thing. It's sometimes rather difficult to look for magic in a day when you're busy yelling and looking for the one missing shoe that is going to make your kids miss the bus. Life is chaotic. Every day. All the time. And lately, with the rush of the holidays and the general mess that is life with children, I feel like I've lost my way from my original optimistic message.

My coping mechanism has been to sneak out of bed and down the stairs around six in the morning in an attempt to be somewhat productive until the house wakes up. I grade papers, or I make lunches, or sometimes - dare I say it - I just enjoy a quiet room. I may get thirty minutes. Sometimes I get a full, blessed hour. (This is when I hear the actual angels on high.)

So today, just as I sat down on the couch with a most glorious cup of coffee, I heard the creak of size 9 baby feet creeping down the stairs. Creak, creak, creak. And I cringed just a bit. I am ashamed to even admit it, but I did. Because I really just wanted to be left alone for one minute.

But then, just as I felt myself getting irritated, this happened:

He shuffled silently over, climbed right up, and lay his soft little head in my lap. The warmth of this little boy in pajamas filled me with so much love. Peace that was almost tangible settled on my shoulders and into my being, and I saw what it was all about. Over his head, I could see all of our family memories on this tree. The macaroni wreath of a preschooler, a baby handprint made as we held our little bundle, a popsicle stick snowflake that came home crammed into a backpack - all of these hold a moment frozen in time where our boys have handed these things to us with their chubby little hands and so much pride in their eyes. And this littlest boy with his littlest hands lay on me with trust and so much love, and I felt my heart grow in that moment.

In the end, I did nothing productive before we started our day, but I was every bit the better for it. Because this was today's bit of magic to be found. And I will treasure it always.

Accepting It

Our oldest "gentleman" just turned 9, followed by his brothers, 6 and 3, so we've had them for a while now (and I guess we'll keep 'em). It's taken some time, but we're finally starting to get a handle on this whole parenting thing. Only recently, however, have I come to realize this: No matter what I say or how I plead, there are a few truths in our crazy life that I never expected to come to terms with, but shockingly, come to terms with It all I have.

(Please note: "It" will henceforth be referred to as a proper noun with a capital I, because It is a being unto itself, a thing who comes to live amongst your family members right under your nose, completely unnoticed by you until the very day you realize that life is going on, but not at all according to plan, because It does not actually care what you had planned.)

So after nine years, this is what It means to us:

It means that every time I take a shower, there will be a conflict / injury / general discontent in some other quadrant of the home involving cartoon choice / Pokemon card debate / wrestling injury that I will be able to hear through running water AND a closed door. No joke - every single time. People, I just want clean hair and a moment of peace. Why don't they get It?

It means that if I clean my car inside and out on a Wednesday, this same car will end up twice as dirty by the stroke of midnight on Thursday - goldfish literally swimming out of the seat cracks and the rear windows smeared with disgusting mystery opaqueness. I appear not to have any regard for cleanliness or my surroundings regardless of what I do. I cannot solve It.

It means that one child will always wake up at least one other child in the house at a ridiculously early hour, no matter what I promise or what I threaten. I cannot control It.

It means that by the time all the children are in some type of safe learning environment and I'm on my way to work, I will need to find a way to disguise at least one smudge of substance, identifiable or otherwise, on my skirt and/or shoulder before I start my day. It also means that regardless of personal preference, I wear more patterns and fewer solids because of the need to camouflage It.

It means that no matter how I instruct the children otherwise, at least one of them will come home with dirty trash in their lunch boxes. For the love of all that's holy, can we at least agree that the Gogurts need not be returned home half-consumed? Are they thinking of finishing them later? Are they just that lazy? Gross, boys. The word for It is gross.

It means that at the end of the day, I will be exhausted from defending valid arguments against nonsensical beings. Oreos are not ever going to be for breakfast, but after a 20 minute tantrum, there's a quick second where I think It would be easier to just give in.

It means that as much as I have whimsical visions of my boys being a walking ad for Baby Gap, Mini Boden, or similar, they will instead look like this:

His hat pains me, but it was his birthday dream come true. I can possibly persuade him to wear a polo shirt once a year for an hour photo shoot, but only if the Red Sox necklace stays on.

And this:

He is dressed like a different character every day.
I can still trick him into wearing polos and boat shoes on occasion.

And this:

This guy? Always looks like a mad scientist.
He may or may not be wearing clothes at any given point in the day, polo shirt or otherwise.

I have to find the pride that at least they are taking charge and finding their own identities. And wearing underwear. (Sometimes.) It's the little things, isn't It?

And finally, as I deal with It day after day after day, the children are somehow suddenly years older, and I realize that It is life. And whether or not I like their flat brim hats or character T-shirts, I had better get on board anyway, because if I don't, I am going to wake up, and It is going to have passed me by.

It may mean that daily life will never be totally in my control - sigh, wipe boogers off shoulder, shove slimy lunchbox into dishwasher that I will forget to run. 

But It will never mean Oreos for breakfast. For them. But me? I have earned It.