DC Metro Moms

Apparently We Can be Happy Campers

There's something to be said for discovering that you can stretch beyond your comfort zone, in any aspect of life.  In this instance, I'm referring to the very literal, sleep-in-a-real-bed and live-under-a-real-roof comfort zone.  A couple of weeks ago, my husband and I packed the minivan to its gills, including miraculously squeezing the kids into their respective car seats in the midst of all the stuff, and we ventured off to Cunningham Falls State Park in Thurmont, MD, with the plan to add  the item "Go Camping" to our official list of Family Firsts.  (We're not terribly adventurous, so the list features such accomplishments as "Attend an Entire Minor League Baseball Game without Losing Our Minds" and "Survive a Fourth of July in Washington, D.C.")

We opted to ease into the camping experience by going with friends who are significantly more seasoned campers, as well as booking a site that had electrical hook-ups, a nearby water spigot, and was just one short path away from the bathhouse.  Even considering those "amenities," I still felt like a pioneer woman just for the sheer fact that not only would I be offline for more than 48 hours, but I would be going to sleep for two nights with only a large piece of nylon separating me from the surrounding world of nature.  (Including whatever critter rustled the bushes each and every time I walked a child up to the bathhouse.  Memo to wild animal: I understood the deal the first time- you were there, and I didn't need the subsequent reminders/freak outs.)  Okay, perhaps the likening of us to frontier explorers is a bit of a stretch, what with our perimeter of hanging Christmas lights and trio of air mattresses, but I did walk away from the weekend with a few lessons learned.

Silly is as silly does

I'm no scientist, but I'm pretty certain that there are particular genetic traits that my husband and I have passed along to our children somewhere on their DNA.  I have no doubt that there is an anxiety gene (you're very welcome first-born, and I'm pretty sure you'll be thanking me someday soon as well, middle-child), and my condolences will definitely be sent to my daughter in the future when she, like many women in our family, discovers that her ankles have gone inexplicably missing. Sure, sure, there are plenty of physical, emotional, and mental humdingers that the kids will absolutely be able to directly trace back to either my dear hubby or myself.  But why focus on the negative?  (Other than for the sarcastic humor factor, that is.)

Since I do not have any connection to the scientific world, I might simply be ignorant about research that has in fact already been done, but I'm going out on a limb with my assumption that there is an untapped area for study in the field of genetics.  I want the hypothesis to be tested-- there is a sense of humor gene, and its presence is made apparent from very early on in life.

Mom, where's my jock strap?

I'm such a fan of subtitles on the books that I read; I love that they give the author another chance to catch the reader's attention and prepare him for what is to come.  In that spirit, I would love to subtitle this piece:

"And other questions that I'm clearly not old enough to be asked"

or even better, "How do I know?  I'm just as lost!"

My first born child will turn ten this summer, and even three months out, I'm having difficulty keeping my composure when I think about it.  How is it possible that he has already existed for TEN years?  How can it be that I've had the honor of the title Mom for almost a decade?  I could wax on about the oddities of time- how it seems to crawl through the colicky days and nights of infancy and then suddenly knock you sideways with its lightning quick speed through the first half of childhood.  That's certainly not new grounds for us Mommy-blogger types.  But the reality is that I've got an almost-double-digit-aged child, who has his own life that revolves around school, homework, making loud noises on the baritone horn, and playing baseball.  I'm learning to become more comfortable in my role as observer, but it's sometimes hard to reconcile this reality with the vivid memories I have from a decade ago, from when I proudly waddled along in late pregnancy, huge stomach leading the way along with my new found attitude of impending motherhood and a host of confusion that I tried really hard to mask.  I remember attending my husband's college graduation in my seventh month, suddenly feeling so adult-like.  There I sat- a wife, a soon to be mommy, a full-fledged grown-up at twenty-four.

Ten years later here I sit.  A mommy three times over.  One half of a twelve year marriage.  And I'm just as bewildered as ever.

That wasn't what it looked like... in my mind

With an almost six year span between my first and second children, I often feel like I'm living in perpetual Round Two of my parenting career.  This happens to be a sort of double-play level, since there is only an eighteen month span between number two and number three.  (For the record, we are officially done counting.)  So while I'm just entering the uncomfortably-named world of "tweendom" with my oldest son, I'm still firmly planted in the toddler/preschooler circuit with my younger two. 

As an almost-four year old, my daughter has begun to be eligible for some group activities offered by our city's recreation department.  Since she spends her every day with me and her younger brother, I was more than happy to sign her up for a Saturday morning activity that gave her the opportunity to experience what it's like to listen to a non-related adult in charge and wait her turn among ten other similarly aged children.  For years she has watched her older brother be part of a handful of group activities, so it's finally her time in the sun.  When I told her that there would a soccer "class" for three year olds this spring, she literally shrieked with intense joy, and we scrambled to find the shinguards that had protected her brother's scrawny legs before her.  That first Saturday morning, the sun was shining, her bright red hair was pulled back in a sporty ponytail, and I imagined cheering her on from the sidelines as she frolicked around the soccer field among a group of equally joyful children, a gigantic smile on her face and her silly giggle being broadcast over the spring wind.

Yeah.  Apparently predicting the near future isn't my strong suit.

I want to date my husband

It's been sixteen years since two kinda dorky freshmen in college started dating, kicking off a chain of events that went from hanging out in dorm rooms, to a college transfer and a year of long distance dating, to a first apartment, to a small wedding, to shared parenthood of three wacky kids.  The interesting thing is that the concept of 'dating' is still somewhat muddled for me.  As broke college students, I can't say that we did much official dating, but a whole lot of dining hall meals and free college concerts have to count toward something.  In our before-children-days, there were the last minute dinners at restaurants in the Inner Harbor, and in the last ten years, we've had babysitters here and there willing to take charge of our offspring for a few hours, (or at least sit on our couch and watch TV while they slept), and we've snuck off for the dinner/movie combo date.  But I don't think the activity is even the point necessarily.  

I really just want to date my husband again.

Can you hear them now? Yeah, I thought so.

I'm sorry, but if you're talking to me, chances are I can't hear you. Well, at least if we're in the general vicinity of any of my children, that is.  I have birthed three of the potentially loudest little human beings on this planet.  There is no conversation conducted at a normal volume. No song sung together at a reasonable level.  No disagreement that is resolved in a regular tone of voice. It's as if their only settings are loud, louder, and for the love of God, my ears are bleeding! 

It's as simple as this: they are descendants of loud people.  Just as a few particular physical characteristics are passed down in excess, apparently vocal amplification is a genetic trait among my people.  Just ask my husband, who has been privy to an insider's view of gatherings of my large extended family.  Like Jane Goodall, he has sat on the edge of the group, marveling at the dynamics of the group, their hierarchies, their relationships, and their unique way of communicating solely through raised voices.  According to him, my own voice instantaneously raises whenever I get on the phone with my mother.  I swear that I am unaware of this supposed phenomenon, but even I do have to concede that, at times, I may speak in a louder tone than average folk.

A Question I Wish Wasn't Rattling Her Brain

That day had dragged on, and although it was early evening, much still remained on my agenda.  As I eased myself into the cushy rocking chair, I envisioned a few quiet moments in my immediate future, nothing too taxing or remarkable.

Man, I couldn't have been more mistaken.

Not thirty seconds after settling down for my intended act of respite, the bright red hair atop my almost-four-year old daughter's head came into my line of sight, and it didn't take more than a moment to detect the look of pure distress on her face.

"Mommy?  Are we going to live forever?"

The Intersection of Parent and Playmate

Right off the bat, let me clear up any potential confusion from the above title- think in the direction of that old children's song, "Playmate, Come Out and Play with Me," and not of the Hugh Hefner connotation to the word.   Now that we have that straight, let's see how effectively I can sort out my thoughts about my role as a parent when it comes to my children's entertainment.  You see, I recently read a blog post and an article by Lenore Skenazy, an author who I deeply respect, and the topic is one that has definitely filled my own thoughts as well as conversations with friends or general playground chit-chat-- playing with our children.

While I'm not particularly a fan of the title itself, officially I am in the "stay-at-home-mom" category for occupation.  Yes, the salary is ridiculously awful, and the hours are ungodly, but it's the right answer for me and my family right now.  After we send their big brother off to school each morning, my 2- and 3-year old children and I settle in for our day, which usually consists of toys scattered around the entirety of our small house and an outdoors jaunt if the weather cooperates, interrupted at periodic breaks for reading books, eating and napping.  I have tried to set up our small home in a way that the children's toys and art materials are easily accessible for them, and they are close enough in age to still be interested in the same kinds of play.  Seems ideal, right?

Back to Life, Back to Reality

All over the DC metro region, people have been hesitantly, questioningly, longingly opening their front doors and venturing out again.  Visits to the grocery stores and big box stores more closely resemble regular old shopping than preparing for the End of Days.  Recreation classes and events for area children have begun again, leaving parents to breathe a sigh of relief, one that will grow to a measurable gust when schools reopen this week after approximately 65 snow days.  Yes, we're survivors of every snow-prefixed moniker of disaster that has crossed the lips of the witty among us.  Snowstorm talk is so last week (and the week before... and don't forget last December, too).

It's strange to see topics other than the weather being used as fodder for Facebook statuses and tweets.  I happen to have been one of the annoyingly chipper online folks, who was grateful for her P.G. County city's underground power lines and a hubby who was amazingly timely in all of his preparations of shopping, wood cutting and shoveling so that we never lacked for baking supplies, a fire blazing in the wood stove, or at least a narrow sidewalk path out toward civilization.  It was heavenly.  Yeah, I know.  Those of you who froze your tushes off in darkened homes awaiting the non-answers from Pepco, or rifled through pantries equipped with only canned beets and half-filled bags of crushed Goldfish crackers in an attempt to feed your loved ones, would probably enjoy smacking me around a bit, but the truth of the matter is that for us, this was a wonderful snowcation.

I am a much better parent in the spring

Yeah, I said it.  I am a sucky wintertime parent.  In the spring?  Oh, you should see me in action.  Last spring had me toting around the two youngest kids in the double stroller, heading to playgrounds, the library, and play groups.  My kids were active and happy, and we got fresh air like it was going out of style.  By the end of many days, our yard appeared well used, with toys strewn about and even a play tent making frequent appearances.  The bottles of sunscreen were emptied at a healthy pace, keeping our fair skin burn-free, but still benefiting from a little vitamin D in the process.  The noise levels that two young children can produce weren't even an issue when we spent so much time outdoors.  Yay for non-medicinal headache relief!

But now we're stuck in the coldness of the winter, that even a few days of 40 or 50 degree temperatures cannot fully undo.  Whereas Springtime Mommy wants to get the kids dressed and outside in the morning sun, Wintertime Mommy desires nothing more than to close the blinds tighter and curl up under a multitude of blankets.  Sure, you kids can snuggle, but shhhh!  Wintertime Mommy believes in quiet and calm, books read by the fire, and warm baked goods to munch on.  Since a two and three year old can only take so many minutes of reading books, gazing at the fire, and stuffing their faces with banana bread, Wintertime Mommy finds her desired hibernation interrupted by the needs of the pesky little cubs.