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.