Do you hear it? Or is it just me who hears the constant ticking. Supposedly, only God knows the number of my days, but sometimes I’m convinced there is a clock in my head that is pounding out each second in a deafening countdown.
It’s a mean little clock too. It never, ever sets itself back an hour, even when I’m at my breaking point.
No, time rolls on, and that clock is keeping count of everything from moments missed to events rushing toward me at full force and every second in between.
It seems I’m always aware of time, or the lack of it. I know just how few hours of sleep I will get if I go to bed “right now”, how many minutes ago I should have gotten up, how few minutes I have to actually apply makeup and curl my hair before being invaded by chatter about Legos and computer games. I know exactly what time I need to wake the big kid and how many minutes later he will actually roll out of bed, and I’m already dreading the number of times I will have to urge him to get dressed, eat his breakfast, get his school bags. I have a separate timer running in the back of my head which tells me what time I took my prescription medication, and therefore, what time I will be able to eat breakfast, if I haven’t passed out from the morning rush by then. Once the big kid is up, the clock instantly starts over in a countdown to the last possible minute I can get the toddler up, throw a sippy cup in her hand and still make it to school before the last bell.
It’s an endless rush to beat the little neon clock on the car dashboard - to school, to the babysitter, to work, back to school, back to the babysitter, back home to cook dinner before the kids start to melt down.
The clock tells me how many times I’ve called those same kids to the dinner table and how little time will now be left to eat before the clock starts over for homework and bedtime routines. And about halfway into all of this, I’m keenly aware of how many minutes til Daddy gets home and restores some tiny part of my sanity, or at the very least, runs interference, so my brain cells jump off at a slower pace.
The clock is always there. It tells me if I can finish a load in the dishwasher or washing machine before having to leave the house. It gauges which YouTube video to fire up for my various needs. For instance, I know that “C is for Cookie” can easily sustain a quick run to the bathroom, but if I want to go downstairs and switch my now very wrinkled laundry from the washer to the dryer, the full version of “What’s the Name of That Song?” will be required. And Heaven forbid I have to make an important phone call. That takes X number of minutes to gather a buffet of snacks, two different cups to choose from and load an entire medley by The Wiggles.
I know how many minutes the hair color has been fusing into my head, how long my toddler has been mysteriously quiet, how many hours it has been since I refreshed the cat’s food and water, how many minutes it’s been since my big kid took a breath between sentences, how long til the microwave beeps, and how long til the variety of toys playing music in the background all shut off.
Somehow though, this clock in my head, doesn’t just count in minutes. Amazingly, it simultaneously counts by days, weeks, months, years.
For, even while I am aware of the microwave whirring, dishwasher chugging, washing machine agitating, children talking, toys squawking, and YouTube singing, I am somehow also keenly aware of how many days it has been since I gave a child a bath, washed my own hair, paid the bills, refilled my prescription, checked my email, mailed off packages, or got my paycheck.
And even more amazing is that this clock has the ability to turn days to months as well! I know how many months it’s been since I heard from a long distance relative, transferred a credit card balance, or gave the house a thorough cleaning.
And what’s worse is I know how many years it has been since I bought my car, saw my doctor, or had a date with my husband.
Time is always running out, or running away from something. And yet, it works in reverse as well. Though I know how many days, weeks, months or years have passed, I also know what events are about to crash in on me.
I know exactly the amount of time until the next dentist appointment, birthday party to plan, shower gift to buy, school field trip to set aside money for, annual events my kids will expect to attend, Christmas pageant to buy clothes for, and loan to pay off.
Even through all of this though, the clock ticking in my head has not yet shown it’s meanest streak. No, that comes in the wee hours of the morning, when the house is finally quiet and I know I “should” be going to bed. That’s when the vicious attacks come, the reminders of just how much time you’ve already lost, while tending to the time you had to spend.
When I tiptoe in to take stuffed animals out of my toddler’s bed, and I see how big she now looks in her crib, when I hear my big kid shuffling around for his overnight bathroom trip and I realize how long ago it’s been since he was potty training, when I finally crawl into bed beside my husband and realize we’ve been married for nearly two decades, it hits me. So much time is fleeting. And it isn’t making a point of being obvious about it. It’s sneaky.
While I’m tending to all those appointments and homework and loads of laundry and bills to pay, the clock is still ticking. And though I hear it ticking away the minutes quite often, I seldom hear it ticking away the years.
Maybe I shouldn’t be sitting here blogging right now, and maybe you shouldn’t be sitting there reading. After all, your clock is ticking too. (Just be sure to come back tomorrow)
Friday, September 18, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Getting kids to smile for pictures
We've all got them, 52 pictures of eyes blinking, weird grimaces, children crying, half smiles. They are the very reason mothers today thank God for digital cameras. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Still, you want the doggone happy picture already!
So, try this:
Instead of begging your children to say "Cheeeeeese" or squeaking and shaking a myriad of toys, ask a question!
If you say to your toddler, "Did you get to see Aunt Sally today?" or "Was that cookie really yummy?", the smile of recognition will be immediate.
For older children, say something like, "Remember that time Daddy tried to swat the fly and he fell into the pool?"
Happy memories bring smiles. Just make sure you have the shutter button pushed halfway down before you ask the question. You need to be ready to snap the photo when their little eyes light up.
Still, you want the doggone happy picture already!
So, try this:
Instead of begging your children to say "Cheeeeeese" or squeaking and shaking a myriad of toys, ask a question!
If you say to your toddler, "Did you get to see Aunt Sally today?" or "Was that cookie really yummy?", the smile of recognition will be immediate.
For older children, say something like, "Remember that time Daddy tried to swat the fly and he fell into the pool?"
Happy memories bring smiles. Just make sure you have the shutter button pushed halfway down before you ask the question. You need to be ready to snap the photo when their little eyes light up.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Infected by the full moon virus
I don’t need to study astronomy to know that there must be a full moon right now. I can tell because, growing up, my family always said a full moon brought out all the “crazy” people, and today, it was I who got a crazy notion in my head.
Somehow a blip occurred in my brain that allowed me to believe I might actually be able to leave the house, unaccompanied by children, for a full 90 minutes.
I was invited to a group dinner, even blessed to be offered a free meal by a very kind new friend who knows we are struggling financially, and I was looking forward to getting to know this group better. Now just how exactly the blip in my brain convinced me that the mere invitation, generosity and eagerness were all I needed to make this rub of the lamp a reality, I can’t really say.
Oh, but what a powerful little blip it must have been! For, it erased all former certainty of the shackles around my ankles and replaced it with delusions of freedom.
Imagine, a tiny glitch in the circuitry that could completely wipe clean the mile-long list of work days, wedding anniversaries, birthdays, bridal and baby showers, friends’ holiday parties, doctor, dentist, lawyer, estate planner, financial advisor, and auto repair appointments for which I have never had a babysitter! Oh the wonder of such a malfunction that could pry off the choke hold of anger, bitterness, resentment, self-pity, and sadness with which years and years of unreliable people have gripped my spirit! How amazing a surge that could pry off the fingers, heal the bruises, and actually give me the courage to ask for babysitting assistance again. Why, it’s simply remarkable!
Watch out though, lest you fall victim as I did. For this is no ordinary little computer blip. It masquerades as an innocent helper, when in reality it is a vicious virus, pulling you in and then wreaking havoc once it gains your trust.
For there are no babysitters. It’s all an illusion, created to make you think that people are anything other than selfish, uncaring, and conveniently forgetful. For there will be files upon files infected with all kinds of mumbo jumbo about how they aren’t able to stray from their normal routine, and unresponsive commands when you state all your reasons for needing to get away, and yet, strangely enough, the entire system will shut down when there is any mention of how many places to which you drug their little rugrats to get them off their hands before someone got hurt.
The good news is this virus can be easily uninstalled. All you have to do is take a good, hard look at your family and friends, start counting just how many there are and put that number in a ratio with how many are actually ever available to watch your children, watch the absurdity of the numbers for a few seconds, then wait a few minutes for the old system of bitterness to reboot, and voila, you’re back up and running - ragged, that is.
For you will never, ever get a break, not for 9 minutes, let alone 90. Well, maybe you will. Maybe you have generous, selfless, sympathetic people in your life who regularly check your hardware for bugs and put you into “rest” mode at the first sign of trouble.
But over here, where I sit tonight, there is light streaming through the window. Hold on, let me check.... yep, just as I thought... there’s a full moon outside.
Somehow a blip occurred in my brain that allowed me to believe I might actually be able to leave the house, unaccompanied by children, for a full 90 minutes.
I was invited to a group dinner, even blessed to be offered a free meal by a very kind new friend who knows we are struggling financially, and I was looking forward to getting to know this group better. Now just how exactly the blip in my brain convinced me that the mere invitation, generosity and eagerness were all I needed to make this rub of the lamp a reality, I can’t really say.
Oh, but what a powerful little blip it must have been! For, it erased all former certainty of the shackles around my ankles and replaced it with delusions of freedom.
Imagine, a tiny glitch in the circuitry that could completely wipe clean the mile-long list of work days, wedding anniversaries, birthdays, bridal and baby showers, friends’ holiday parties, doctor, dentist, lawyer, estate planner, financial advisor, and auto repair appointments for which I have never had a babysitter! Oh the wonder of such a malfunction that could pry off the choke hold of anger, bitterness, resentment, self-pity, and sadness with which years and years of unreliable people have gripped my spirit! How amazing a surge that could pry off the fingers, heal the bruises, and actually give me the courage to ask for babysitting assistance again. Why, it’s simply remarkable!
Watch out though, lest you fall victim as I did. For this is no ordinary little computer blip. It masquerades as an innocent helper, when in reality it is a vicious virus, pulling you in and then wreaking havoc once it gains your trust.
For there are no babysitters. It’s all an illusion, created to make you think that people are anything other than selfish, uncaring, and conveniently forgetful. For there will be files upon files infected with all kinds of mumbo jumbo about how they aren’t able to stray from their normal routine, and unresponsive commands when you state all your reasons for needing to get away, and yet, strangely enough, the entire system will shut down when there is any mention of how many places to which you drug their little rugrats to get them off their hands before someone got hurt.
The good news is this virus can be easily uninstalled. All you have to do is take a good, hard look at your family and friends, start counting just how many there are and put that number in a ratio with how many are actually ever available to watch your children, watch the absurdity of the numbers for a few seconds, then wait a few minutes for the old system of bitterness to reboot, and voila, you’re back up and running - ragged, that is.
For you will never, ever get a break, not for 9 minutes, let alone 90. Well, maybe you will. Maybe you have generous, selfless, sympathetic people in your life who regularly check your hardware for bugs and put you into “rest” mode at the first sign of trouble.
But over here, where I sit tonight, there is light streaming through the window. Hold on, let me check.... yep, just as I thought... there’s a full moon outside.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
A Mommy's job is endless
Sometimes, it just feels endless. It’s just one long day, with a tiny bit of sleep in between. I don’t think it’s ever enough sleep to qualify as a whole night’s sleep. So, I wake up and all I see before me is endlessness.
I see my toddler calling my name as though it is a sentence, “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee.” I see myself answering her, to the exclusion of every other adult thought that needs to take place to keep this ship running. I see myself trying to think about something for more than four seconds in a row, and either not being able to think above the mind-numbing shrillness that has now become the calling of my name, or the suddenly too-quiet moment that jolts my brain into realizing something isn’t “normal” and I must go in search of her standing on a table or some other such danger.
I see my older child slipping further and further away into the fog that obscures him while the spotlight is shone brightly on the little one. I hear the turmoil in his life as he switches from trying to tell me every little detail of something that is interesting to him, to getting frustrated with me, to doting on his little sister with such sweetness or trying to protect her, to being the one who assails her. I hear it with those in-tune mother senses, and yet I watch powerlessly as he fades into the fog.
There are two drastically different sets of needs vying for my attention, and though my soul longs to fulfill all of them, all my ears can hear is the beating of my own heart, fiercely pounding out the rhythm of restlessness that reminds me how many of my own needs are not being met.
I am a puppet, but I do not dance. I am yanked to and fro in some sort of gangly display of limbs flailing as words spew out in no particular order and without the benefit of a well thought out script.
There are endless messes to clean up - cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, unidentifiable crumbs. There are globs that have splattered and those that have congealed and hardened into some sort of permanent fixture. There are potty sprinkles and water drips and worse - explosive diapers, projectile vomiting, blood stains and cat puke.
There are telephones ringing, bills I can’t pay, bank accounts to juggle, forms to fill out, inquiries to make. There are papers to shred, endless boxes and jugs and jars to recycle, light bulbs to replace, a dishwasher to load or unload - or heck, just try to determine if it’s clean or dirty. There is laundry to spray with stain remover, laundry to wash, laundry to fold and put away, clothing to buy, clothing to purge, clothing to mend. There are batteries to replace, 14 different size screwdrivers to hunt down, toys to curse for the ridiculous way I must nearly injure myself to access the battery compartment.
There are play dates to make, lunches and a bewildering array of bags to pack, routes to plan, and a whole host of “ace in my sleeve” games I must conjure up as “while we wait” sanity savers.
There are things to vacuum, scrub, dust, and scrape at with curiosity. There are lists to make, important papers to keep track of, and 876 phone numbers and email addresses I must store in my brain.
There is research - so much research, on everything from financial aid to how tall can trees grow to the pains in my own chest. There are computers to reboot, mice to shake and smack, and programmers to plot revenge upon.
There is milk to buy - AGAIN, diapers to buy - AGAIN, and longer jeans to buy to accommodate a growth spurt - AGAIN.
There are invitations to make, thank you cards to write, rooms to reorganize, forgotten toys to sneak out, 48 different tools to gather just to open 3 new toys.
There are moments to capture on video, memories and milestones to document, 3 owners manuals and 23 pages of website instructions to read to figure out how to then share those priceless gems.
There are baths to give, splashes to sop up, toys to air out, knots to detangle, fingernails to clip, hair to cut.
There are forgotten vitamins to take, doctors to avoid, weight to lose, and a pan of brownies whispering “resistance is futile”.
There is an infinite sea of reading, writing, calculating, budgeting, consuming, restocking, sorting, bagging up, bringing home and hauling away; an unending wave of checking, double-checking, turning off, unplugging, putting up higher, hiding away, and locking. All this is amidst the never-ending current of planning, asking, begging, coercing, manipulating, bartering, distracting and outsmarting.
And yet, when, in the endlessness of “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee” and listening and refereeing and safety patrolling and training up in the way they should go, does anything else get done?
After all, I haven’t even eaten a warm meal or used the bathroom in 8 years and I’m not even sure I could pick my husband out of a line up.
Endlessness. Overwhelming, Stressful, Exhausting Endlessness.
Yet somehow, in the midst of it all, a mother is still so aware how fleeting the “little-ness” is. If only we could freeze in time those little arms and legs that snuggle us, those silly “mwaaahs” as they attempt to blow kisses while smacking themselves in the nose, the excitement in their little voices as they ask for a “gockie” (cookie), the way they hold the tv remote to their ears and say “Heh-wo”, the most priceless little giggles. If there were only some way to keep all of it and yet fast forward to a day when they’re more independent at the same time, we might just feel whole - like we could actually enjoy them and yet breathe at the same time.
But for now, I’ll just hold my breath and try to brace myself for the next yank on my puppet strings. I’m sure if I turn blue, nobody will notice anyway.
I see my toddler calling my name as though it is a sentence, “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee.” I see myself answering her, to the exclusion of every other adult thought that needs to take place to keep this ship running. I see myself trying to think about something for more than four seconds in a row, and either not being able to think above the mind-numbing shrillness that has now become the calling of my name, or the suddenly too-quiet moment that jolts my brain into realizing something isn’t “normal” and I must go in search of her standing on a table or some other such danger.
I see my older child slipping further and further away into the fog that obscures him while the spotlight is shone brightly on the little one. I hear the turmoil in his life as he switches from trying to tell me every little detail of something that is interesting to him, to getting frustrated with me, to doting on his little sister with such sweetness or trying to protect her, to being the one who assails her. I hear it with those in-tune mother senses, and yet I watch powerlessly as he fades into the fog.
There are two drastically different sets of needs vying for my attention, and though my soul longs to fulfill all of them, all my ears can hear is the beating of my own heart, fiercely pounding out the rhythm of restlessness that reminds me how many of my own needs are not being met.
I am a puppet, but I do not dance. I am yanked to and fro in some sort of gangly display of limbs flailing as words spew out in no particular order and without the benefit of a well thought out script.
There are endless messes to clean up - cracker crumbs, cookie crumbs, bread crumbs, unidentifiable crumbs. There are globs that have splattered and those that have congealed and hardened into some sort of permanent fixture. There are potty sprinkles and water drips and worse - explosive diapers, projectile vomiting, blood stains and cat puke.
There are telephones ringing, bills I can’t pay, bank accounts to juggle, forms to fill out, inquiries to make. There are papers to shred, endless boxes and jugs and jars to recycle, light bulbs to replace, a dishwasher to load or unload - or heck, just try to determine if it’s clean or dirty. There is laundry to spray with stain remover, laundry to wash, laundry to fold and put away, clothing to buy, clothing to purge, clothing to mend. There are batteries to replace, 14 different size screwdrivers to hunt down, toys to curse for the ridiculous way I must nearly injure myself to access the battery compartment.
There are play dates to make, lunches and a bewildering array of bags to pack, routes to plan, and a whole host of “ace in my sleeve” games I must conjure up as “while we wait” sanity savers.
There are things to vacuum, scrub, dust, and scrape at with curiosity. There are lists to make, important papers to keep track of, and 876 phone numbers and email addresses I must store in my brain.
There is research - so much research, on everything from financial aid to how tall can trees grow to the pains in my own chest. There are computers to reboot, mice to shake and smack, and programmers to plot revenge upon.
There is milk to buy - AGAIN, diapers to buy - AGAIN, and longer jeans to buy to accommodate a growth spurt - AGAIN.
There are invitations to make, thank you cards to write, rooms to reorganize, forgotten toys to sneak out, 48 different tools to gather just to open 3 new toys.
There are moments to capture on video, memories and milestones to document, 3 owners manuals and 23 pages of website instructions to read to figure out how to then share those priceless gems.
There are baths to give, splashes to sop up, toys to air out, knots to detangle, fingernails to clip, hair to cut.
There are forgotten vitamins to take, doctors to avoid, weight to lose, and a pan of brownies whispering “resistance is futile”.
There is an infinite sea of reading, writing, calculating, budgeting, consuming, restocking, sorting, bagging up, bringing home and hauling away; an unending wave of checking, double-checking, turning off, unplugging, putting up higher, hiding away, and locking. All this is amidst the never-ending current of planning, asking, begging, coercing, manipulating, bartering, distracting and outsmarting.
And yet, when, in the endlessness of “Mommy Mommy Mommy Mom-meeee” and listening and refereeing and safety patrolling and training up in the way they should go, does anything else get done?
After all, I haven’t even eaten a warm meal or used the bathroom in 8 years and I’m not even sure I could pick my husband out of a line up.
Endlessness. Overwhelming, Stressful, Exhausting Endlessness.
Yet somehow, in the midst of it all, a mother is still so aware how fleeting the “little-ness” is. If only we could freeze in time those little arms and legs that snuggle us, those silly “mwaaahs” as they attempt to blow kisses while smacking themselves in the nose, the excitement in their little voices as they ask for a “gockie” (cookie), the way they hold the tv remote to their ears and say “Heh-wo”, the most priceless little giggles. If there were only some way to keep all of it and yet fast forward to a day when they’re more independent at the same time, we might just feel whole - like we could actually enjoy them and yet breathe at the same time.
But for now, I’ll just hold my breath and try to brace myself for the next yank on my puppet strings. I’m sure if I turn blue, nobody will notice anyway.
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