It's Hard Being Five

And it's even harder being 45.  Even though I'm not forty-five yet.  I've got at least a solid 20 months left before that happens.  So yeah, I'm not going to make myself older.

But does it count if I feel like I'm 105?

Charlotte exhibited a temper tantrum of an entirely new and exciting way last week during Abby's Volleyball match.

That's the fun part about parenting...all of the unpredictable circumstances you find yourself in.  I especially love it when my kids go ape-shit in public  give me an opportunity to discipline in front of an entire crowd.

I swear to God, I can't even remember what set her off.  But let me tell you what I do recall:  Charlotte's incessant whining over fill-in-the-blank-here, that quickly escalated into annoying and rather loud crying, that I, nor did anyone in the stands need to endure any further.

And herein lies the predicament: this is the part where I knew as her Mom, I must physically remove Charlotte, knowing full well, that I could miss the entire Volleyball match, which was the reason I was there in the first place.

I picked her up horizontally to the floor like a guitar, (a flailing guitar, with red hair, kicking feet, and flying fists), and proceeded towards the exit.

Tom actually told me later that he thought she was going to take me down.  Any parent knows, that when their kid is in that state, it is a matter of pure will. The Notre Dame parents who were perched in the stands, sat with heads cocked somewhat sideways, sending me an understanding look of "Been there.  Done that.  Have the shirt and flask to prove it."

We walked, her dragging her feet, me pulling her along, as her screams echoed throughout the empty school hallways.  Eventually, we ended up next to a maintenance shed, enclosed by a chain link fence, where no other breathing person would be bothered by her screaming.

I said simply, "I can't even remember why I am giving you a time out, but it will start when you're quiet."

She went on.  I waited.  She continued.  I stepped away from her, fearing I may be on the 5 o'clock news for homicide.

Eventually, she quieted.  A minute passed, and I glanced over to observe Charlotte doing Child's pose.  Yoga...good for adults and kids alike!  A few more minutes ticked by, and she was in Corpse pose, little chest heaving for air, calming herself after a long and exhausting crying fit.

And then, just as if nothing had happened, she was ready.  Charlotte apologized to me for being disrespectful, and almost turning me into a raging alcoholic.  She then proceeded to say sorry to both my cousin, Nicole, and Tom for disrupting the game.

I swear, between Halloween (ie: my kids eating candy as a meal replacement),  the time change (we may have gained an hour, but why do I feel like a decade has been added to my life), and minimum school days this week (got to love Parent Teacher conferences), I feel like I'm talking and moving the way the parents did in the Peanuts cartoons:  wah, wah, wah, wah, wah wah.

Speaking of Parent Teacher conferences, guess what I learned about Charlotte at hers, last week?

That my five year old hired a Hit man to "take care of a boy that bothered her".

It's okay, you can re-read that sentence to fully process it if you need to.

Luckily, I attended Cosette's conference first, where I discovered she is doing swimmingly in 4th grade.  I walked out of Ms.Macon's room, feeling content for my girl, who is finding her way.

I then walked over to Ms.Pak's class, where Charlotte is attending Transitional Kindergarten.

For me, there is typically one child out of the bunch, that um, I've sort of neglected a bit.  Like I mean, she is fed and bathed, and read to nightly and everything.  But if we are being completely honest here,  I didn't really have a pulse on how Charlie was adjusting to TK.

And if we're being super duper completely, don't hold back honest?  I was just so stoked she was gone for 6 hours daily.  I mean, come on, raise your hand if  you're happy when your kids walk out the door for the day.  I really hope I'm not the only one raising my hand.

 Ms.Pak begins the conference with how Charlotte is performing academically: she's top of the class.  And I sit across from this teacher, who has more patience than me on even one of  my most Zen of parenting days, head cocked, listening, but not totally believing I will walk out of here unscathed.

 You know how you just KNOW something?  "This is great Ms.Pak.  But I'm sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop", I said.

This is when she leaned in, and said, "Well, there are just a few things."  I nod in agreement, and a weird sense of relief.  Shit's about to get real.

I sigh, lean in, and mentally prepare myself.

"Charlotte cries a lot. If she makes a mistake, she has a difficult time fixing it without getting upset."  I nod in understanding.  She continues, "She was also the last student to present from Craft Center.  I had to practically force her to do it." I nod yet again, at the visual of Charlie digging in her haunches, refusing to do something, as she often does at home.

"And there's just one more thing," Ms.Pak, continues.  "Charlotte was upset with a boy, and she told another boy to punch him in the stomach."

I sat, taking this in, my daughter, the red headed Testa Rosa, had embodied an Italian Mafia Boss Lady.

"She hired a Hit man, is what you're telling me", I stated, connecting the dots, to which Ms.Pak starting cracking up.

 And then, almost as to show me that perhaps this wasn't as bad as it sounded, she finished up, "But she kept her hands clean.  She's very clever."

I know.  That's what scares me.  Sigh.

Yet, at the end of a long day, as Charlie is climbing into her bed, she will ask, "Mama, will you snuggle with me?"  And there we will be... spooning Mama and child, on her twin size mattress, stuffed animals piled in the corner, books in a basket at the foot.  My long and fatigued body and back facing outwards, protecting us in our cocoon.  She nuzzles into me, her hair still damp from the tub, and grabs my hands into her small grip, saying, "Here, Mama.  I will keep you warm."  And soon enough, under the flickering candle glow of her nightlight, the sleep envelopes her.  Her breathing becomes slow and even.

And her restful peace reminds me of why I chose to become a Mom.  An often times, thankless job, that leaves us exhausted, spread then, balanced, and grateful beyond words.

The Tooth Fairy

"Baby, whatcha doing?," I asked Cosette, observing her hunched over a piece of paper, frantically scribbling a note of some sort, after prepping her lunch for school, the eve prior to her 10th birthday.

"Oh, I'm writing myself a note to put in my lunch, you know,  so I have something to look forward to.  All the parents write notes to their kids," she pauses, turning towards me, making direct eye contact, making sure I have her full undivided attention.

An awkward silence ensued, followed by me asking sheepishly, "All the parents, except me, huh?"

"It's okay, Mama.  Don't worry," she reassured me.

AWESOMEST MOM OF THE YEAR AWARD does not go to MICHELLE WALSH.

Our little Cozy Wozy,  has more than a few tricks up her sleeve.  She gives you the straight info, no added boring unnecessary details, and bluntly tells you what time it REALLY is...all the while, you listen, trying not to laugh out loud, but get the sense, that truly, Cosette is a spot on observer of this little thing we call, Life.

In fact, just a few weeks ago, a monumental milestone took place for Charlotte:  she lost her first tooth!!!

 TWSG  poignantly pointed out to me, "Oh babe, it's our last first tooth."   What kind of husband says nuggets of truth like this?

Tom. Walsh. Super. Genius.

As soon as Charlotte got wind that she would get money-money-MONEY for that loose Chicklet  she could not keep her grubby little 4 year old fingers out of her slobbery, wet, mouth.

I'm quite sure those same fingers, had touched at least one toilet seat, the inside of the actual toilet bowl, and/or  even what came out of her, while using,  the same said toilet.

But there she sat, during the twins Volleyball match, pulling that little grain of rice forward, backward, and side to side.

Until finally, the one little string holding it to her gums snapped, and BOOM, blood trickled down the front of her chin.

She appeared like she had just come victorious from a battle, as she clutched the tooth, and red drool puddled on her dress, saying with a lisp, "I losth a toof, I losth a toof," to anyone who would oblige.

That evening, Cosette explained to Charlotte, as a big sister does, what would happen next:  a Tooth Fairy, stranger danger, would enter her room under the dark of night, fiddle around under her pillow, all while watching her sleep soundly, to take Charlie's tooth, in exchange for a quarter.  This bedtime story, that upon further reflection, should scare the ever living shit out of most children, did not deter Charlie from going to bed without making a peep.  A 25 cent piece was in her immediate future...saweet!

Cosette rushed up to me in the kitchen after Charlie was tucked in her bed, "Mom, I want to give her some pixie dust to go with her money,"  I stood dumbfounded, not sure I was processing correctly what had just spilled out of her mouth.

"Cozy, how do you know how this Tooth Fairy thing works?" I asked, seriously puzzled.

"Mom," she answered in a hushed tone, as to not alert her little sister, who may still be awake, "I always see Emma come into my room, and take the tooth, but pretend I'm asleep," she answered, very matter of factly.  "Give ME the money...I'll do it!"

Cue the Oscar music...AND THE  BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS IN A DOCUMENTARY goes to COSETTE WALSH!

The other day, as I was rushing out the door for work, the 3 Bigs (code for Abby, Bella, and Emma), sat at the breakfast table, shoulders slouched over their stack of  microwaved pancakes, still rubbing the sleep from their eyes.  Although it was barely 6:45 AM,   I couldn't help but notice, Abby's hair.

It was, well, um, like most of us, at that time of day:  not brushed, and more than a little bit wild.  However, by the way the bundle of hair was thrown into a rubber band atop her noggin, and the fact that she was dressed in her uniform with her shoes on, it looked as though that tangled mass of bundled hair, was good enough for her to brave the day.

Now, please don't get me wrong.  We are not a "picture perfect" family.  In fact, if you want to know what NOT to do, just watch us, and proceed with our actions by doing the exact opposite, as your raise your kids.

But, I do believe it is my job as a Mom to teach my girls that  part of taking care of yourself includes, but is not limited to the following:  making your bed, packing your lunch, brushing your teeth, putting on deodorant, wearing clean underwear,  and yes, running a brush through one's hair.

So when I very innocently said, "Abby, honey, you need to brush your hair," she quickly and efficiently delivered  'The Look'.

You Moms of teenage daughters know EXACTLY what I am talking about.

The glare of all glares.  The direct eye contact that verbalized so very much, without saying one single word.  I do believe she was shooting laser beams at me, as I stood in the front entryway, wishing me dead at that moment.

Me, standing there with my brushed hair.

'The Look' will make even the strongest of Moms, quiver.  I still have the PTSD from 'The Look'.

As I stumbled out to the car, recovering much like a bomb had gone off in my face, I thought,  maybe my timing could have been better?  Perhaps I could have phrased it differently?   But the simple truth is this:  I was leaving for work, and TWSG wouldn't notice something like that, or if he did, would be too kind to say anything.

So that evening, I broached the topic again, but very carefully.  I decided the timing would be okay, like after she had been fully awake for a solid 12 hours, and had been contributing to society, and the like.

But still, I treaded lightly, "Abby, honey, you know that I wasn't referring to your hair, as much as I was taking care of yourself, right?"

Much to my relief, the laser beams, had been replaced with peace signs, and sparkly rainbows (RIGHT MOMS OF TEEN GIRLS?), and she replied simply, "Oh Mama, I know.  I just wasn't really awake when you said that."

Whew...another therapy session averted.

When someone invites my entire family over for dinner, I know they really must actually like me.  Especially, when this same someone special, had a house warming party, and all the other guests arrived with a nice bottle of wine, while Tom and I rode up on our cruisers, with a Costco sized bottle of Fireball buckled safely into the baby's bike seat.

Classy.

Inititally, when someone asks us to come to dinner as a family, (it's only happened like twice), I am skeptical.  I over think it.  I wonder WHY would you want SEVEN people up in your SPACE?

I mean, ask yourself this question, "When was the last time you had a couple with 5 kids over to your house to break bread?"  

Um, hmm.  Right?

My reply went something like this:  "You are so kind and brave!  I don't want to bore you with details, but this weekend is a little busy."

A little busy is code for:  you don't really need to know all the reasons of why tomorrow won't work.

Because you know how you're trying to get a date on the calendar with a group of 6 friends,that works for everyone, but one person, in particular,  feels the need to tell everyone else on the group text, how they have a colonoscopy scheduled and it just won't work out?  But they will be free after they have the fatty cyst removed from their...yeah, you know, THAT person?

I'm about to be her. Right. Now.

I can't come to dinner tomorrow night because:  Abigail has to be up by 5:30 AM, to be at her team mates house to get a ride, to play in an all day volleyball tournament in Belmont, or San Mateo, or some stupid place up north.  (I don't even know which city my kid is going to, okay?)

Cosette and Charlie have the Booksin Walk A Thon, where thousands of kids raise millions of dollars, all in the name of fund-raising.  (You think I'm kidding, don't you?  CHECK IT OUT.  I am NOT joking.  In fact, once Foxy got word that the WAT raises over $150,000, she plainly said, "I'm not giving them any more money." And I can't say I blame her.   A heads up: smart parents pack in a road soda, or seven to survive the day).

Next up, Emma!  She has the High School Placement Test tutoring class for the next 5 Saturdays.  She is so not EXCITED to be doing that from 10-2, on one of her only free days of the week!  And can you believe, that you too, can sign up your future High Schooler to do the same for the mere cost of $750!  It won't ensure that she'll pass the test, but between Emma's work ethic, and my prayers to God, I'm pretty sure she'll rock it.

Come to think of it, I bet I could pilfer some money from WAT to pay for it.  Too bad Foxy isn't here; she could drive our get away car.

But please, promise me something:  keep the dinner invitations coming!  God as my witness, I will bring the Fireball.

We're Going to Miss This?

Tom Walsh Super Genius and I have this little inside joke going between the two of us.

Just like all couples, shuttling between work,  kids' school functions, and other daily responsibilities, by the end of the week, we are filled with physical and mental exhaustion,  I call it hitting the wall.

I'm either loading the washing machine with the twins smelly work out gear, or am unloading the dishwasher to prepare for the next day.  While Tom is sorting through recycling, or mail, or a stack of accumulating bills.

And that, my friends,  is when it happens.

One of us, like a helium balloon that has a slow leak, releases this loud and exasperated sigh.

"The sigh" speaks volumes without saying a word.  "The sigh" communicates simply: "Put a fork in me, I'm done.  I'm not sure I can handle another day like this one.  Why, oh why, did we have 5 kids? How will I find the strength to this again tomorrow?"

Tom will look at me, twinkle in his eye, his grin reassuring me in only the way that he can.  And he says as if on cue, "Babe, someday we're going to miss this."  

And it makes me laugh every single time.

And then there are moments, and I know it sounds silly, but when I feel like I'm in a tug of war with Time.  You know, trying to like make it stop.

As I observe Charlotte confidently rolling into Transitional Kindergarten, Cosette devouring chapter books like the grown up 4th grader she is, Emma running Cross Country in 100 degree heat (true story: stay tuned), and the twins entering their Sophomore year in High School...I ask myself, when did this become my life?

And the tug of war against Time ensues.

I stand firm, holding one end of the rope: head centered, my shoulders strong and broad, heels digging into the Earth,  all my weight is thrown backwards.

Time decides to make direct eye contact with me, and plants itself firmly into the ground on the other end.  What an arrogant SOB.  I cling to the rope with weathered hands, in what proceeds to be an extremely futile attempt, to stop Time.

I did not see this coming.

Unbeknownst to me, Time has totally been to the gym lifting weights, and uproots me from the dirt, slowly at first, inch by inch.  But Time is gaining momentum, and soon, I'm being dragged foot over foot, until finally, Time yanks me off my balance.  I falter, as the rope slips from my grip, and Time drags me over the line, securing Victory.

 I can't win, I just can't win.

I surrender Time!  I get it Time!  You will continue moving forward, taking me, and everyone I love, with you.

Sigh.  Sniff.  Whimper.

As of late, Emma is emulating a college kid living in a dorm, even though she's still in 8th grade. When she showers in the evening, she has a make shift shower caddy, that has become like a trusted companion.  I guess my Dove soap doesn't cut it, because Emma brings 'her' Bath and Body Works shower gel, 'her' Neutrogena Deep Clean facial wash, and 'her' L'oreal shampoo and conditioner.

When she exits the bathroom, all squeaky clean and fresh smelling,  she takes all of 'her' bathing necessities back to her dorm room.  It is almost as if, well, as if she doesn't trust us.

But I can't say that I blame her.  Try living with 5 other females in the same house.  It's like, we have a terminal condition where we just can't get enough of all that Bath and Body works shower gel/lotion/body butter.  And it makes no matter, if we have smelled "Weekend Getaway" shower gel 100 times, we must sniff it up again!

Innocently, if we notice a "new" bottle of that deliciousness in the shower, (code for: that shower gel isn't yours because you did not buy that shit at the mall with your best friend, with your birthday money), we literally, just cannot help ourselves.

And God help you if you leave it unattended.

Flash forward 24 hours, and I can almost guarantee, that brand new bottle filled to the brim (that in most households, with a normal number of females, would last an entire month), will be empty.

It's like the Hunger Games, but with Bath and Body works shower gel.

The shower gel struggle is real, for Emma.  In fact, Emma probably sleeps with one eye open, keeping watch of her shower gel while she sleeps.  I wouldn't put it past her.

Can you believe that she had a Cross Country meet scheduled for Tuesday in over 100 degree heat?! These adorable 6th, 7th, and 8th grade kids were scheduled to run... a long distance...on a dirt trail...with no shade...at 4 o'clock in the afternoon...in a race.  Thankfully, it got cancelled.

Am I a bad parent if I confess that I was relieved?  I can't imagine anything worse than "watching" your kid run, while entertaining her other 2 sisters, in that kind of hotness.

I'm still not really sure how  I am supposed to "watch" Emma run.  At the start, she darts off in a pack of kids, running off into the distance of what I assume to be hills, and rocks, and dirt.  I am not exactly certain of the terrain, because the spectators can't see anything.  The kids, like any well executed magic trick, disappear, leaving only a cloud of dust in their wake.  Then about 20 minutes later, they return to the same exact place, trickling in, looking rather exhausted and flushed.

 Maybe I could put a Go Pro camera on her shoulder, named Mom.  It would be like my clone.

Then you would find me, relaxing in a comfy massage chair, getting a pedicure.

Which I did yesterday, by the way!

Like most moms, I had in my possession, an unused pedicure gift certificate that was given to me by a very sweet friend, circa 1999...maybe for the twins baby shower?   Well anyways, I finally got a chance to use it!

How incredible it felt, to have another human being slough off my dead feet skin!

These miracle workers even massaged my legs and feet (which, I will confess, I  feel a bit guilty about, mainly, because my legs are  super duper long, and my feet are a size 12, so it usually requires like 3 women, and a power hose to complete the process).

As I reached to put on my flip flops, I noticed that the woman who painted my toes, was visibly worried.  She stood up with a start, and spoke these words with conviction, "I DO.  I DO FOR YOU.  YOU NO DO," motioning to my shoes.

"Okay," I said surrendering, "You do it for me," picking up on her impending anxiety that I was going to completely wreck all of her very good work.

Which I did, about 5 minutes after I walked out.  Completely smudged by big toe...Murphy's Law.

Charlotte, who has started Transitional Kindergarten, is just loving life.  At the hour long TK orientation on the first day, I looked around the classroom, and recognized something pretty scary:  I was a solid 10-15 years older than most of these parents.

I guess most people, who find reliable birth control, stop having babies after age 38.  Not us...we love the Rhythm Method.  It's so reliable...

These 30 something, younger, wrinkle-free, adorable parents appeared all fresh and dewy.  They had also actually gotten a shower before 10 AM because they still had the energy to do so.

 Then there was me...sweaty, raunchy work out clothes, pony tail, and very tired.  So very tired.  They probably thought that Tom and I were Charlie's grandparents.

So many Walk A Thons lay ahead of me.  So many,

Charlotte has taken quite well to a little ritual we started about a month ago, before bedtime.  After stories, but right before she climbs in for slumber, she lays on the floor, and I give her a little leg massage with lavender lotion.

Her eyes usually sorta roll back in her head, and she says, "This is so relaaaaxing, Mama."  I tell her I'm glad she likes it, and I hope one day she will do the same for me when I'm old and gray.  "Don't worry Mama.  I'll massage your feet, just like you did for Nana."

Sniff.  Snort.

And  just like that, those twins think they can be all 15 and everything.  They completed Volleyball try outs, but this being only their second season,  were not  quite convinced they would make the team.

Well, they made it!  While Bella is playing for JV team, Abby got pulled up to Varsity,

This is the difficult stuff that isn't in the parenting manual: act proud, (but not too proud), that one twin got moved up, while the other stayed on JV.  I mean, it's so tricky.  I feel so proud of both of them.

When I explained this to my family in an email, it read: "So if you would like to see both twins play, just plan on living at Notre Dame for 5 hours.  And please bring me wine."

As always, my family has been nothing but supportive!  Everyone took time out to send their congratulations to both girls.

But I won't lie when I say that it created a bit of friction between the two.  They started bickering more, getting short with each other, pushing each other's buttons.  This behavior is very unlike them.

Finally, one morning at the breakfast table, Abby gently approached Bella, and said, "Bella, I think we both really need to work on our tone when we communicate.  We need to do a better job of supporting one another."

Those twins did not see me, sitting on the corner of the couch, as this took place.  I wasn't lurking, but also couldn't help but eavesdrop on their conversation.  And I felt a surge of Mama pride, as I observed Abby being courageous enough to communicate her truth to her sister.  Not out of spite or malice.  But rather, out of love.

And TWSG's words rang loud and true: I AM going to miss this.


*I would like to give a special shout out to Aparna, the giver of the Pedicure certificate. Next time, my friend, let's go together! Maybe you can even put my flip flops on for me, since I can't be trusted.

20 Questions

Except, not like the "Twenty Questions" game you played with your siblings or friends, on long car rides or walks home.

In actuality, the game I'm referring to should be called "One Hundred Million Questions That You Ask Your Mom On The Daily" so she never gets a break, or a moment, or to pee with the door shut. Nope, Moms never get much of a break... Not in One Hundred Million years.

The game is rather simple in nature:  it's you (the Mom) against all of these tiny contestants (your kids). These offspring that you grew for 10 months (not 9!), nursed, clothed, and continue to keep alive, ask these seemingly, innocent, even, silly questions.

These people throw these questions at you, (the Mom - not to be confused with Dad, because for some reason, he NEVER gets asked these questions), like little hand grenades.  Your kids pull the pin from the grenade, throw it at you, and then before you even have time to roll under a table to safety, they are throwing another bomb at you.  And you dodge, and swerve, and try to get away.  But NO!  More grenades!

Typically, this takes place before you have poured your first cup of coffee.  Or my personal favorite:   just as your head is hitting the pillow for bed.

Word to your Ma.

Emma asked me yesterday, "Mom, why do you get up so early?"  My answer came bumbling out of my mouth before I had time to edit (as is often the case), "So I get time for myself, before all of you are up in my booth.  I need to pray, journal, and think uninterrupted...like without kids around."  Big sigh, followed by direct eye contact.

She sort of finished up her smoothie with a half nod, jumped down from the counter where she had been perched, and left the kitchen mentioning something about "Homework" in a hushed tone.

So I now invite you to take a quiz.  You know, like those fun little quizzes you used to take in Cosmo magazine, when you sat on the beach, beer in one hand, smutty Cosmo mag in the other...BEFORE you had kids?!  Yeah, like that.


If your kids ask you these same questions, clap twice for each one.  If you clap more than 10 times, meet me down at Aqui's on Lincoln for an industrial strength Swirl at 5 o'clock.

And here we go:

Who's picking me up?

What's the weather going to be like today? ( Because I'm a GD Liberal Studies Major, not a Meteorologist)

What's for dinner? (asked at breakfast)

Where are you going?

When will you be back?

Do you know where my skirt / permission slip / knee brace for Basketball / lunch box / book report is? (usually, but not always followed by an annoying whine "I left it riiiiiight herrrrrre.")

Why did you take a shower?  

Why do you look fancy? (code for: I took a shower)

Why do you drink so much wine?

Why are you leaving?

How many times did you clap?  Please tell me 10 times. I'll see you in about an hour!  TTFN.

So Long Midnight...

Let me start by explaining that our dog ate our rabbit, Midnight.  Oh, and did I mention, that this homicide went down the day before Easter?

Yeah, true story.  You feeling me?

Let me back up a bit: for 2 years, that big old beast of a Black Lab, has effortlessly hopped the gate to Twilight and Midnight (God rest her soul), with one clear intention:   Bo would make his gene pool proud, do them right, and actually be victorious in retrieving a bunny.

Honestly, we never thought he had it in him.  Those bunnies are quick as lightning, and well, Bo, not so much.   Imagine Tom Walsh Super Genius' surprise, when after filling the buns water and food, turned around to find Bo with Midnight, clamped in his jaws.  No blood was shed.  Bo just sort of stood there, surprised himself, essentially embodying  Lennie, from Of Mice and Men, when he accidentally killed the puppy by "petting" it.

In fact, Midnight appeared to be sleeping.  Except that her eyes were open.  And her soft fur was matted with dog slobber.

When we broke the news to the tribe, it sort of went like this:

Me: "Girls, Daddy and I are going to share something with you,"

Cosette, interrupting at a rather deafening volume: "YOU'RE PREGNANT!!!!!!"

Charlotte:  "MOM'S PREGNANT!!!  I'M GOING TO BE A BIG SISTER!!!!"

Me: "No, no, no.  I'm NOT pregnant.  Usually I am, but today I'm not."

Collective head nodding, followed by, well-then-what? stares.  "Listen, you have to promise not to mad at Bo, but he killed Midnight, by accident.  He just couldn't help himself; it's in his nature."

 (Me, in my head, 'He can't help that he murdered your beloved pet rabbit, the day before the Easter bunny visits.  Fucking killer.')

All:  sob, snort, sniff, wail, "NOOOOO, not Midnight!  Why her?"

Being that Midnight was officially Emma's bunny, she was the most traumatized by the killing, and so I tried to calm her by running her a hot lavender bath, because, well, she's not old enough to drink wine yet.

Tom and I then took the beast on a walk, for fear the girls would take to him, like Piggy in Lord of the Flies.

All these literary references, are making me sort of feel pretty good about myself.  Thanks to my High School English teachers, Mr.Hardin and Ms.Gundacker!  Never mind, that now all I read is Us Weekly.

So while out walking Bo on Lincoln Avenue, a random guy asks Tom, "How old is your Lab?"  Tom answers politely, "About 3."

Next, I kid you not, the guy asks, "Do you ever hunt him?"  Tom answers, without missing a beat, "Well, today he got a rabbit."

Yea, he got a rabbit, all right.  TWSG failed to mention, Bo killed the family pet.  But I can't say I blame him.

Speaking of unfair, Cosette was explaining the very real injustice lunch time at Booksin, where the first, second, and third graders have to sit at certain tables.  while the fourth and fifth graders leave campus in their cars, and go to out to lunch at Mc Donald's.  (Okay, so that last part was embellished, but sometimes, I am pretty sure that's what it feels like to a third grader with NO freedom to chose their lunchtime seat partner).

So, Cosette did what any 9 year old would do: she made up a petition, and had hundreds of students sign it.

I think it read something to the effect of "We, the people, find it completely unfair that we sit at assigned tables, while the upperclassmen bring back Big Macs to campus, and eat them in front of us."  Yeah, something like that.

Anyways, the petition passed!  It sort of made up for Midnight's death.  Sort of.

Okay.  Not really.

After walking in from Basketball practice one day last week, Abby says,  "Do you wanna tell her Dad, or should we?"

I look at Tom, and then at the twins.  Tell me what, exactly?  Tom lets out a big sigh, and explains that while at Basketball practice at Grace Community Center, (a place where mentally ill folks can hang out during the day) a former inmate, who found God, befriended the twins.  Honest to God, when Tom walked into the gym, he thought the guy, the former inmate, (who found God), was a coach.  Tom gave the guy 20 bucks.  And his socks.

The sweaty socks were a genuine display of kindness, but I am adamantly against giving folks money, and I explained why, "NO MONEY!  No, no , no.  (because sometimes one NO isn't enough).  Money is a band aid that often, feeds their habit.  We need to direct them to the right resources, okay?  NO money!"

Well, I guess Charlotte was paying close attention, because the next morning she matter of factly told Tom, "Daddy, we don't give money to people who just got out of Juvy."

I looked at him, trying hard not to crack up, and agreed with our very intelligent 4 year old.  "Yeah.  NO money."

On our most recent trip to Santa Rosa to visit my Dad, I finally felt ready to go through Foxy's clothes.  Or so I thought.

Here is what no one will tell you about touching, and sorting, and smelling the clothing that someone you love so much feels like:  a wave of grief that leaves you missing them, wanting them, and realizing that the Coldwater Creek skirt you're holding, is the only material thing that is left.  And your mind will start to reminisce, the last time she wore that skirt, with that matching J. Jill  top.

My Mom and Dad did very well raising the 3 of us on a butcher's income.  We never wanted for anything, but as teenagers, we also knew better than to ask for money to go to the show.  That's what babysitting was for.  My Mom, especially, was very logical and thrifty.  We may not have ever gone on a family vacation to Hawaii, but the Francois house had more pot roasts than anyone in Campbell. Word.

So, I found it comical, that I went through THREE closets of my Mom's beautiful clothes, and TWO dressers.    It was like, once she retired, she thought, "I done raised those kids, and kept 'em alive...I'M GOING SHOPPING."

And Coldwater Creek, Anne Taylor Loft, and Talbotts were never the same.  In fact, I imagine that Stevie Nicks would have loved Foxy's flowing, rayon skirts, with paisley and flowered designs.

 As a family, we decided that the pieces we didn't keep for ourselves, would go to The American Cancer Society Discovery Shop, where all proceeds go directly towards Cancer Research and patient care.  But man, was that emotionally draining.

Cozy, who has been wearing one of Nana's zippered, sassy sweat shirts with a jungle print, ran up to me in a rush of excitement yesterday, and exclaimed, "MOM! Guess what I found in Nana's pocket?"

"What, baby?" I asked, taking a breath in.

"Candy!  Candy from the Olive Garden."

One of Foxy's favorite restaurants.  Candy.  Candy from the Olive Garden.

And I didn't feel so alone.

She Lives in Me...She Lives in You

Hello Sweet Foxy Mama,

I sink into the corner of our sectional each morning, before anyone rises from slumber,  I prop the pillows, and wrap myself with the fuzzy blanket, near the window, with the shades still drawn.

You know exactly where I am talking about because, this is where you sat Mom, each and every time you came to visit.  This was your corner, Foxy.  And I have come to realize that I sit here, because I long to feel you, in a way that is no longer possible.

March 26th marks one year that you left this Earth plane, and were born into Eternal life.  I feel you around me, Mom, grinning, laughing, whispering advice, and often times, shaking your head.

On our leisurely strolls home from Booksin, after picking up Cosette from school, Charlie will often inform me of the obvious, "Mom, Nana is dead now, but she's walking right next to us."

I half nod in agreement, and answer, "Yes, baby."  These little comments initially sting, but then after a moment, bring me a bit of comfort.

And have you seen how Cozy is growing, Mom?  She has become quite the independent Ms.Thang.   She is writing a Biography book report, and chose Dad because that Santa Rosa Baseball player is writing a book about him.  In true Cozy fashion, she explained to me, very matter of fact-like, "Mom, so I'm supposed to dress up like Papa for my book report," (pause for effect-dead pan look of seriousness), "so it looks like I'll hafta cut off my leg."

Emma continues to prepare to be the first female President of the United States.  But man, I love to raz her.  In fact, after opening her progress note of late, I called her into the kitchen, and sternly reprimanded, "This is unacceptable Emma," handing her the documentation showing all A+'s.  She dissolved into giggles of relief.  I say, "Use your powers for good, Em."

I'm sure you watch how Emma finds true pleasure in helping the adorable family with four little ones, 2 doors down from us.  On any given day of the week, 5 year old Sammy, 3 year old Leslie, and 2 year old Jake will amble down to our porch, calling for the Walsh girls to come and play.

And without hesitation, like a well performed symphony,  giggles, screaming, laughter,  sidewalk chalk and bubbles fill the air.  Emma and Bo typically lead the procession - on and off the trampoline, up and down our street.  It's like having a parade, audience optional.  Their zest for dress up, and make believe and warm cookies from the oven, insatiable.

 I love it, Mom.  I'm learning to cherish these precious shenanigans.  You taught me that.

And those twins.  God, Mom, you would be so proud.  You remember first hand,  how they struggled with their learning challenges?!  If you saw them now:  Abby and Bella are navigating the college prep waters of Notre Dame, like the diligent little fighters with 504 Plans, that they are.

Their grades are solid, their faith nourished and growing by leaps and bounds, their confidence bursting at the seams.  More importantly, they are genuinely happy, Mom.  Applying and being accepted into ND, was the first parenting triumph where I can honestly exhale, and say, "Whew...I'm glad that worked out."

Make no mistake about it, I'll put them into therapy for something, but it won't be linked to ND.

While out on a walk with Bella just recently, she shared with me, "You know Mom, Abby and I used to be jealous and competitive of each other."

"What?  You were?"  I took this new information in, dumbfounded.  "When did it change? And how did that change come about?"  I can't NOT interrogate.


Isabella contemplated for a moment, and answered quietly, "Probably around 7th grade is when it changed.  I think that we started loving ourselves more, and then we could then love one another more.  We were able to appreciate our differences, instead of viewing them as a threat."

Wow.  Did NOT see that coming.

Everyone says the first year after you lose someone is extremely difficult.  It's like learning a new dance without the partner that was an instrumental part of the routine.

There were all the "monumental days" without you, Foxy:  Mother's Day, all the girls' birthdays, Christmas, and now, your Heavenly Birthday.  I'm racked with this thirst to hug you gently, smooch on your sweet cheek, paint your nails sparkly.  And hear you say, "You're such a good girl," one more time.

I used to worry that without you here, I would lose the ability to seek your wisdom on raising the girls, feedback on growing in my marriage, furthering my faith journey, or sharing the latest pictures from People's Sexiest Men Alive, of Chris Helmsworth and Hugh Jackman.  That was pretty sweet, hugh, Mom?

But the funny thing is, I hear you,, I smell you, and I feel you all around me constantly.  It's like the Lion King song, when Mufasa is teaching Simba, that all of their ancestors live on, in and through them.  And now I am Simba, realizing, that you live in me.  And you continue to live in everyone you touched.

I am homesick to be with you, and our Creator, but understand and accept that my work here is far from complete.  And that fact, in and of itself, will make our reunion that much more lovely.

I have been incredibly blessed on so many levels, Mom.  I look at the girls and Tom, and I am continually humbled by their authentic love for each other and for me...especially when I feel unworthy of that love.

And when I miss you terribly, I remember the one thing you had on your bucket list: taking the grandkids to see the Broadway production of The Lion King in San Francisco.  We checked that one off, Mom.

And I listen to this song, and remember Mufasa's and Rafiki's words to Simba,
Happy Heavenly Birthday.  I love you so much Mom.

Goodbye Elmo Bed Rail

"Mama, you know, I don't really need my Elmo bed rail anymore.  I won't fall out.  I'm a big girl now," Charlotte explained very matter-of-factly, in all of her mature 4 year old-ness.

This statement left me dumbfounded.  I mean, the Elmo bed rail has been attached to Abby, Bella, Emma, Cosette, or Charlotte's bed,  for the last 12 years.

Saying so long to the Elmo bed rail is symbolic of saying goodbye to part of her childhood that is over, to prepare us for the next chapter.

Sigh.  Snort.  Sniff.  Whimper.

So many phases I have been more than happy to see go!  Like, potty training, for example.

Any parent who has successfully moved their child from diapers to underwear, deserves a full inclusive vacation somewhere exotic, with bottomless fruity drinks with umbrellas.

There is nothing quite like a potty training a 3 year old,  who announces loud enough for all patrons in Target to hear, as you are waiting in line (ironically) to purchase an Elmo potty chair, "Mom...I have that feeling.  I gotta PEE."

 I mean, this is a do or die situation.  This is split moment decision making time, people.  No one educates you in college for this.  You, as a parent, are now responsible for getting this potty dancing toddler to the toilet, while the theme song of the year, "Let It Go", pipes through the Target speakers.

You have a TICKING TIME BOMB in your hands!

This scenario could end in of a number of ways:  1)  Rip open the Elmo Potty Chair box, and put it to good use right then and there, as onlookers gasp and shake their heads, or 2) Abandon your cart, and rush to the bathroom, where hopefully, a) it is not being cleaned, b) there is no line, and c) the largest stall is available, because the last time I checked, a 6 footer like myself and a red headed 3 year old dancing the potty jig, won't both fit.

Hypothetically speaking, let's say, that by the sheer grace of God, you make it to the Target bathroom in time, get the big stall, put a paper liner on the toilet seat, the child pulls down her panties, is gently placed on the throne, and - wait for it - PEES!!!!!  Insert applause here.

Don't mind the fact, that the entire time, this same child has an insatiable desire. to put her hands on  (gasp) the public toilet seat, while we frantically scream,  "NO!!!! It's dirty!  Hold onto Mama.  I'll keep you from falling into the Pee Pee abyss."

This scenario wouldn't be complete without the loud WHOOSH flushing sound that scares the ever living shit out of both child and parent...no pun intended.  It's like who invents these things?  I beg of you, toilet flushing sound maker, please devise a sound that resembles wind chimes on a calm summer evening, instead of one that convinces my child, the TOILET IS GOING TO SWALLOW HER WHOLE.

When I stand back and think about it, we could compare potty training a preschooler in a busy Target, to asking someone to walk across a tight rope between two skyscrapers during a lightning and thunder storm.  You are really praying that they make it across to the other side safely (ie: making it to the toilet in time), but you're also mentally prepared to observe, on live national television, this same person, plummet to their death (ie: peeing through the THIRD pair of Elmo panties of the morning, while waiting in line at Target).

And then it happens.  One day, while busy in the kitchen making spaghetti sauce (or pouring myself a late afternoon cocktail), Charlotte disappears for a moment, comes back and announces, "I went potty all by myself, Mom."

That right there, my dear readers,  is the peanut butter to the jelly, the apple to the fritter, a truly glorious day filled with rainbows, unicorns, and hot buttered popcorn.  Because simply put, that one moment in time, represents all that hard work and patience, has finally paid off for the child through her learning independence.

I must be an extremely slow learner, because I never really got how fast this all goes until Charlotte joined our family.  Maybe it was because we had 4 kids ages 5 and under?  I don't really remember much of those early years - they are misted with a dense fog.  Life resembled a  never ending cycle of monotony.  Dress them...feed them...go to the park...feed them again...put them down for a nap...go to a different park...feed them again...give them a bath...read stories...say prayers...put them to bed.  Wake up and repeat.

Enter our surprise baby, Charlotte Grace.  The twins were 10, Emma was 8, and Cosette was 5.  Cozy actually called 911 shortly after Charlie came home, because in her mind, not being the baby anymore, was an emergency.

I finally get it now: there are all these "Last Times".  The last time she nursed.  The last time she needed my hand to steady her while taking steps.  The last time I picked her outfit.  The last time I lifted her into the car.  The last time I buckled her into the stroller.  The last night she slept with the Elmo bed rail

And the "Last Times" have been replaced with the "First Times".  The first time she drank from a cup.  The first time she took steps on her own.  The first time she picked out her clothes.  The first time she climbed into the truck.  The first time she buckled her own self in the stroller.  The first night she slept snug as a bug in a rug, without her Elmo bed rail, and didn't fall out.

And I'm not sure what to make of all this.  Sometimes I feel like I'm watching a movie of someone else's life, who is overwhelmed and stretched too thin.  A Mom who needs to make brownies for school the next day, and buy triple A batteries before dusk,  because we need them for Charlotte's favorite nightlight, and have 2 teeth replaced with crowns, because she grinds and clenches, because she chose to bring way too many people into the world.

And then there are other moments, when this grace enters, and holds me up, and I stand back, and say, "Seriously, how did this blessed life become mine?"

My cup runneth over...right until the moment that someone asks me to go to the store for poster board for a project that is due tomorrow.  

And then I remember "The Lasts and The Firsts" and try to breathe deeply.

Naked Barbies

As of late, Charlotte, only 4 years in age, has quite interesting explanations of circumstance.  For instance, at the twins Basketball game earlier this week, she sat contently on the gym floor playing Barbies.  Three Barbies sat, disrobed, not a stitch of clothes to be found on their bodies, in the shoebox that Charlotte had used as a carrying case.

My brother Paul, visibly worried about the  buck nekid play ladies said, "Oh Gosh honey, why don't they have any clothes on?"

She answered, "Oh Uncle Paul,  they are relaxing in the hot tub."  Obviously, right?

Just yesterday, I handed her a glass of milk, after she had asked politely, and her reply?  "Gee Mom, thanks.  You're a lifesaver."

Daily.  I get this on the daily.

She has also started confessing her wrong doings without hesitation.  Usually, the reconciliation starts with, "Mom, I need to show you something, but you're not going to like it."

See, this is the part as a parent, where you take a big breath, and keep your cool.  I mean, she could have colored with washable crayon on the wall. (fixable)  OR she could have created a life sized scale model landscape, using permanent markers. (errrr)

I have learned to initially stay calm, and then after seeing the destruction, reprimand accordingly.  I mean, if Charlie is coming to me to confess, I want to keep that train coming back to the station, without completely freaking out on her.  

Which, by the way, is NOT parental instinct.  Parental instinct is yell, become infuriated, lose your marbles.  All this count to ten, and get your Zen on as a parent...yeah, okay.  I get it in theory.  I really do.  Just haven't mastered that one yet.

Her latest confession came just last week.  As Charlotte sat in the tub playing with her nakey Barbies,  I sat on the toilet, peeing across from her, she practically shouted at me, "MOM, I finally know why I have so much snot it my nose,"  She was obviously having a revelation.  She continued, "It's because I pick my nose and eat it."  Ewww...gross, right?

But I lost it.  I was cracking up,  Where's the recovery from that?  Charlotte, observing my reaction, sternly said, "MOM...SERIOUSLY,"  like get your shit together woman.  Can't you see I'm having a moment with you?

All these kids are so different, it never seems to trip me out.  I called Isabella on my way home from work, on a game day, trying to pump her up "Are you ready to be aggressive?  To rebound?  Crash the boards and box out?"

She answered, with a yawn, "Not really feeling angry today, Mom."

"Okay honey.  Kill them with happiness.  Give out hugs during the game," I responded.

Well, it only took the 175 pound Samoan Center from the other team, one attempt to try to take the ball away from Bella, and all of a sudden, she became aggressive.  As this massive Center manhandled my 115 pound Poopsie, Bella's arms and legs splayed out like a giraffe, and yet, she wouldn't let go of the ball.  Battered and bruised, flailing around like a seal in a shark's mouth, Bella held on, and refused to let go of the ball.  My first thought, NICELY done Poopsie.  My second thought, we're going to need to submerge you in an ice bath tonight to bring down the swelling in your entire body.

Abby, never needing convincing to be aggressive, recently was asked to play with the Varsity team, along with four other JV players, for an upcoming tournament.  She is a Freshman.  This is a big deal.  I told her how proud I was of her, and her response was, "I don't know if I'll survive Mom.  Varsity practices are like totally hard core."  I assured her she was strong enough, mentally and physically.

When I asked Bella how she felt about Abby being asked to play for Varsity, her reply was completely unfiltered,  "Great opportunity for her, but she is not going to be able to move after practice.  Sucker."  Aw, sweet sisterly love.

I feel proud of the girls for different reasons: of Cosette for being a genuinely authentic human being, who actually cares about others.  Not a day passes, when she doesn't ask, "How was your day, Mom?"  And she asks because she really wants to know.  Not because she is making polite conversation.  She is nine.

I feel proud of Emma for being self-motivated enough to bring home all A's.  And just for clarification, that is ALL her, not me.  That is Emma.  Emma will strive to be the best in everything she does, because quite simply put, it is what floats her boat.  But like Cosette, she craves authentic relationships, and has fallen in with a really sweet group of girls at school.  I mean, it is the kind of group that does a bake sale on a Saturday afternoon, so they can raise money to buy a goat for a family in another country.  True story.  I'm convinced that one day these same girls will also be part of Congress, or be the first female President, or start some amazing non profit organization, or find a cure for Cancer.  "Don't believe me? Just watch!" (Bruno Mars)

I ran into another Mom that I have know since our kids were in Kindergarten together at Booksin, and we were both still wrapping our heads around the fact that we have High School Freshmen.  And suddenly, it dawned on me, and I said, "It feels like, I only have 3 more years left with the twins...and then they'll be gone," and the tears came, out of nowhere, they tumbled down my cheeks onto the sidewalk,  and I fell silent.

Sometimes, being a Mom, hits you just like that.  An emotional sledgehammer.  And gently, I am reminded, yet once again, how incredibly lucky I am to have these awesome young women in my life. And to pay attention to all of their different gifts, and struggles.

 And to remember, that even permanent marker can be covered with a fresh coat of paint.

I Shake It Off...I Shake It Off...Off...Off

Oh Taylor Swift...you adorable, little red lipped, cutie pie!  I became VERY excited when I received  pre-sale ticket information that your 20 something, sassy self,  will be performing at Levi Stadium in August of 2015!  I mean, who could be more fun to take the girls to watch in concert, than the ULTIMATE "throw that old boyfriend under the bus" by making a hit song about it, than YOU?

Sure, Taylor's dated a lot of boys.  Like, A. Lot. Of.  Boys.  But, in her defense, who in their 20's, HASN'T?  Taylor, my hat is off to you for making sure you kiss a lot of frogs before you get the Prince (who doesn't really exist, but let's just hope you find that out before you turn 30).

But much to my chagrin, (and with the aide of my dear cousin, Nicole), we sadly discovered that the cheapest tickets were going for (gasp), over 100 bucks!  Come on Taylor  Swift!!!  You're not Jesus Christ!  Even the Son of God, would like let everyone into the venue, despite whether they had the funds or not.  In fact, I can almost guarantee that He would provide Salvation for FREE, and seat the most destitute, prostitutes, and lepers, in the front row!

Are you listening Taylor?  Are YOU?!  No, you're probably writing your next hit  break up song about a boy who you met on Instagram.  Sigh.

I guess I must really be searching for something to look forward to, because quite frankly, November in the Walsh house, completely sucked.

First, Abby came down with the common cold.  Innocent enough, right?   Well, that song and dance quickly turned  into Pneumonia.  By the time she had been on Anti-Biotics for 5 days, and had not improved in the least,  Isabella was exhibiting similar symptoms.  One more x-ray later, confirmed: TWINS DOWN.  Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Emma was running a fever.

The good news:  Emma kicked that fever two weeks ago!  Bad news:  only to finally succumb to (you guessed it) Pneumonia, the day after Thanksgiving.  I feel like the Candy Man, doling out ginormous, white, horse pills twice a day.

As a Mom, whenever, I am feeling overwhelmed, I contemplate, "Okay God, what are you wanting me to learn from this?"  Well, I got the memo:  watching your children suffer from being listless, fatigued, and hacking their lungs out, makes you REALLY appreciate when they are well!!

I can completely empathize with parents who say, "I just need this day/week/month  to be over, because we need a re-start!"  Good riddance November 2014!

And yet, as with most things, there is a silver lining, and this was no exception.  I shot out a text to my family and friends, asking for prayers and healing thoughts.  And you better believe, they delivered, with support, love, and genuine kindness.

Not only did Grandparents, Uncles, Auntie's, friends, and cousins check in daily to see how the girls were doing; they came with gifts of home made soup, and muffins, and magazines, and games for those who were subject to quarantine.

This experience left me exhausted, yes.  But more importantly, feeling some tangible, concrete, and unconditional love.

It also left me feeling like I wanted to pour a triple Vodka Cran by 11 AM for about a week solid.

One night a few weeks ago, before the cursed Plague hit our home, the twins had a Volleyball Awards Banquet.  Unable to attend it myself, I asked Abby about it, who sat parked at the dinner table solo, sorta slumped over her plate, looking a little dazed, but content.

"So, how did it go?" I inquired.

"Good."  Typical teenage answer.

This generic info would not do.  I wanted details.  I wanted answers.  And  I realized I would need to change my interrogation technique.

"Well, I know that all the girls voted, so...(pause for effect),  who got MVP?  And who got Most Improved?" I continued on.

"Anjali got MVP.  And I got Most Improved, but I don't really want to talk about it," she answered quietly.

"Oh honey!  Congratulations!  That is so exciting, but I don't understand why you're whispering about it?" I was practically hugging her from across the table.

Abby then laid it out for me simply: she didn't want to seem like she was bragging in front of her sisters, most of all, her twin, Isabella.  She felt proud, but conflicted about receiving the award, because Bella did not.  So Abby put the trophy under her bed in a box, as not to upset Bella.

Well, of course, me being me, and unable to leave things alone, took Bella one on one, plopped down on her bed,  and asked her, "Honey, are you upset that Abby received this award?"

She looked at me, head cocked, eyes softened, and answered right from her heart, "Oh Mom, not at all.  In fact, because we are twins, I feel like we both got it.  I am so happy for her!"

"DID YOU HEAR THAT ABBY?!!!!" I boomed from their room, "Your sister is truly happy for you!!  Come on, I want to see that trophy!"

"Thanks a lot for the therapy session, Mom," Abby replied slightly annoyed that I had gotten involved.

I can't help it.  I paid thousands of dollars for counseling, man.  I have GOT to put it work somehow.  And on my kids?  Money well spent, I'd say.

Like with most teenage daughter and mother relationships, Abby and I have hit more than a few road bumps since she started High School.  I think it's safe to say a Paradigm Shift has most definitely taken place:  my Poopsie is becoming more independent, pulling 12 hour school days, while balancing academics, work grant, and sports.  We don't see each other for but 20 minutes a day.

She is pushing away from me.  Not intentionally.  But I get it, and understand that it's normal, and expected.

Please don't tell her I told you this, but it does break my heart just a tiny little bit.

Because it is a concrete reminder that time ticks on, and I can't do a damn thing to make it stop.

Abby doesn't need me to wrap her tight in a towel for a bear hug, after she slips out of the bath tub.  She doesn't need my help to squirt the toothpaste out of the tube, or comb her tangly knots into the perfect pony tail.   She doesn't ask me to take her to the park, so I can push her on the swings, and as she comes near me, taunt her by saying, "I'm gonna get YOU!" only to have her disappear away from me,  into a giggling fit that filled my Mama spirit to the brim of overflowing.

She needs me in other ways now.  But no one tells you this.  No one warns you of this.  Or perhaps if they do, we don't hear it because we are not ready for it...that push away.

As she stumbled out of bed this morning at 10 o'clock, as most teenagers do, we met in the hallway.  And do you know what she said to me?

"Mama, I really want to hang out with you today, okay?"  I stood, aghast, shocked at this request, but practically screaming in my head, "She LIKES me, she really LIKES me!!"

My Abby, my first born, she may be as tall as me, but she is still my little Poopsie.

And my heart is full.

Dry Pull Up's and Ice Cream

Of course, these two things go together!!

Anyone who has tried to potty train a small toddler sized, human being, knows this simple fact:  BRIBERY is the answer!

Most adults, are content to wake up feeling dry, fresh, and not smelling like pee in the morning.

This same logic does not pertain to a 3 or 4 year old.  They have absolutely no qualms about wallowing around in their own feces.  Urine or otherwise.  And so, this involves a bit of  "positive trickery" as a parent.

It seemed that Charlotte's 4th birthday would be the perfect time to gently encourage her to keep a dry Pull Up for the morning.  Charlie has been potty trained for a long time now.  But as it was with the other girls, it's always the night time Pull Up, that is the last to go.

And as a parent, if you really want this to come to fruition, it is your duty to say inspirational half-truths, in a sing-song, voice of encouragement, like, "Big four year old's stop drinking milk and water after dinner."  And "Big four year always go potty before bedtime."

And here comes the money, the big ticket item, sealing the deal: "Big four year old's who wake up with a dry Pull Up for 5 days get ICE CREAM."

That was all she needed to hear, and Charlotte darted towards the bathroom, resembling a girl at Mardi Gras in search of beads, ripping off her clothes, and leaving them in a strewn pile, to run to the toilet before bed time stories.

Imagine her disappointment, when she woke up this morning, and her Pull Up was wet.

There were tears, people.  Tears.

As long as the Confessional is open for business, while pushing Charlie on the swing  at the park yesterday,  I pulled her right off, by her ankles.  And she landed, with a thump, on her head.  Don't ask me how or why.  Because I am not exactly sure what happened, myself.  Mental note:  adults are supposed to push, not pull their small children on the swing.

The lady next to me,  pushing her 2 year old, while cradling her newborn,  just sort of looked at me with concern, head titled sideways, like "WTH just happened?"

 So I did what any incompetent mother would:  I scooped up my inconsolable Preschooler, and what was left of my pride, and we scurried away into the safety of our car, where a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich would make all right with the world once again.

I apologize for sounding repetitive, but this parenting thing is really hard.  I feel like I am in this constant tug-o-war between wanting to keep it real, and then wondering, "Oh man, did I tell them too much?"  Or "Did I handle that situation correctly?"

Case in point, I gave Cosette "The Talk" in about 5 minutes flat just the other day.  Yeah, I get the whole "Keep it simple" philosophy, but maybe I kept it too simple?  But then, I also didn't want to completely repulse her.  Like I said, it's a slippery slope.

While driving to the library, (where we had over 100 items checked out - yes you read that correctly! Even the Librarian informed us that she had never seen that before, but I digress), Bella asked me for twenty bucks.  And her reason for wanting it was legit.

 Calmly, I explained, that I am not made of money,and she has been babysitting for awhile now, and she could earn it the old fashioned way.

Pleading her case, she said, "Mom, haven't you noticed that I have been putting forth all of my time and effort into studying and doing well in school?  I just haven't had time to babysit."

And truly, she was spot on.  She really has been burning the candle at both ends.

And so I replied, "Yes I have noticed.  And I'm extremely proud of your diligence.  So why don't we compromise?  I will loan you the money, and you can pay me back?  I just don't want you and your sisters to be those people who get everything handed to them.  Kids like that don't appreciate what they have,"  and under my breath, said, "And they tend to be little assholes."

On cue, "MOM!!  Little ears in the car, here!" Bella yelled, gesturing to Charlotte and Cosette.

Tom is much better, than I, in this parenting department.  He is all calm, and peaceful, and like, Zen.  He's like a mini Jesus, or Buddha.  Or just someone who emanates patience, and tolerance, and everything I LACK.  I don't think Tom would ever pull Charlotte off the swing by her ankles at the park, or (gasp) drop a four letter word in front of the girls...just saying.

 Besides, his go-to saying, is "Oh my stars!"  How can I compete with that?  NO ONE has a better all-American saying than that!

Lately,  I find myself, getting fired up about things, that I never even cared about before.

For example, we have a very "everybody helps out" attitude in our home.  So after sorting, washing, and folding laundry for our family, I don't think it's irrational to ask my children to put away their clothes.  Did I mention that the laundry is clean, and folded, and neatly placed in their baskets?

One of my daughters, whom shall remain nameless, thought this was a preposterous idea, one evening, this past week.  And who knows?  Maybe she had a bad day.

Or perhaps, she had just lost her mind.

It's neither here nor there.  This story does not end well.

Little did SHE know, I was in the bathroom, located right next to her room, and heard her ungrateful complaining,  "Well THIS isn't mine.  And THIS isn't mine," as she removed articles of clothing from her basket,   "Gee Mom, thanks a lot for doing my laundry."

I sat, dumb founded, on the toilet, mid-pee, my rage starting to rise from deep within,

Really?  Really?!  Oh no, she didn't.

I stood up with such a start, that I didn't even stop to pull my pants up, or finish urinating,  As I stormed out of the bathroom, and down the hallway, my body was tense; my eyes full of anger and fury.

I barged into her room, startling her, with my pants down, and said,  "You know what?  You do not have to ever worry about the wrong articles of clothing being placed in your basket.  Because I will never being doing your laundry again.   The next time you're going to say unkind things about me, make sure your damn door is shut!  AND, you owe me an apology."

Yeah, I'm still waiting for that apology.

And so I ask you, dear reader, why do I lose my mind over a child who's been caught being ungrateful?

When you figure that one out, meet me at the Elks Lodge.  Because that's where it's always Happy Hour, no matter what time it is,

Has any parent ever figured this one out: when one of our children misplaces something,(hypothetically speaking, their one and only uniform skirt), it becomes our problem?

One day about two weeks ago, I patiently observed, as she frantically scurried around the house, resembling a crazed mad-woman.  In those wee morning hours before her ride left for school,  she searched under her bed, only to come up empty handed.   She started  tearing  up when the skirt was not located in her Volleyball bag,  Finally, in a last ditch effort, she dumped the  dirty laundry basket, wailing out, like a wounded animal, "I don't know what I'm going to dooooooo." Sniff. Sniff.

To which, I replied, "Be a problem solver.  Whether you have to borrow a skirt from the office.  Or email your team mates to see if someone picked it up for you.  You will figure this out."

Now I'm going to let you in on a little secret:  I had an extra, brand new uniform skirt in my closet.   Did I offer it up?  No, I did not.  When the tears started,  I wanted to,  When a Mama watches their kiddo losing their mind, you can't help but want to save them.  But what happens the next time she misplaces it?

Which she did.  A week later.  And she borrowed a skirt from our neighbor, problem solver, that she is.

Sigh.

One early morning, as the twins sat eating their pancakes at the breakfast table, I asked Bella, "Did you know that I am at Notre Dame on Tuesdays for my Women's Spirituality Group?"

She looked at me, half-awake, and said, "Not really, Mom," as any teenager would, because how or why would she care to know that?

"Would it be okay if I popped into one of your classes, and called you guys 'my little poopsies' in front of everyone?"

I do this, because it works just like it did for Ursula the Sea witch in The Little Mermaid...they are repelled and run away from me.  Which I absolutely love.  Me calling the twins, "my little poopsies" is like Kryptonite.  And I file and use it, especially if I want to embarrass them.  I think that's only fair, don't you?

"OH MY GOD, MOM!!!!  Please DON'T do that!"

I held back a chuckle, "Why not?  I grew you with my own body for ten months.  I have kept you alive for fourteen long years, and you won't even let me come into your class to say 'Hi'?"

"Now, you're totally making me feel guilty, Mom," she pleaded.

"Well, I am Catholic.  Just doing my job."

And we both started cracking up.  Parenting is a hard job, this much is true.  But if I can remember moments like these, I can keep going.

And I hope that one day, a very long time from now, I will convince myself that if any or all of my girls end up in therapy, I did my job JUST the way I should have.  Because I can't handle any more guilt, guys.

Sigh.

Taking a Step Back

Raise your hand if, as a parent, you have ever found yourself completely intertwined in your children's emotions.  

Seriously, I hope I'm not the only one with my digits turned upward towards the Heavens. 

Because these last few weeks, being that Mom who is grounded, centered and balanced has totally eluded me.

Any and all of our child(ren)'s emotions, may or may not be felt at any given time, or ALL at once.  And don't forget, depending on how many offspring you have, could contain your very own variation of: 

1.  Extreme test taking anxiety

2.  Enthusiasm for life in general, because everything is AWESOME

 

3.  Disappointment for life in general, because everything is not always AWESOME

4.  Motivation and drive to be better at anything and everything

 

5.  Overwhelm at their sense of responsibility, and getting it all done

6.  Pride in performing well in a game/match/tournament

7.  Confidence that they "got this"

 

8.  Only to be followed by nervousness, of maybe, I don't really "got this"

9.  Fill in your blank here.

It's safe to say my girls are tethered to me, like a boat to the dock.   I can't help but feeling all of their emotions.  It's like once they exited my womb, we became connected forever...and ever. 'Til death do us part. 

Lately, this cocktail of my children's emotions, feels like heavy anchors, strapped to my wrists and ankles, pulling my limbs into the abyss.  Down, down, down, I go.  My body never to be recovered from a deep, dark, dense and murky body of water, that suffocates my very being.

Yeah, this is the chapter of Motherhood in "What to Expect When You're Expecting", this has been deliberately left on the cutting room floor.

In fact, just yesterday, Charlie was drawing pictures in the dust on our coffee table.  

Yes, you read that right.  

When I asked what she was doing, she answered, "Oh, just drawing all the things in the house that are broken, Mama."

Well, this left me a little confused.  Was she referring to the random chunks of  missing paint and drywall, that our Beast, Bo, has pawed off from his rolling, and frolicking, and knowing HE doesn't have to fucking re-paint the wall? 

Or was she drawing my kitchen drawers that randomly come off the rollers, and in my frustration, are placed on the counter until um, I don't know, until we re-model.  Move?  DIE?  

Or maybe she's showing her artistic side by portraying my drapes that hang heavily with dust, and cobwebs, and grossness that comes with a family of seven, and splay from a Beast that eats the inside of houses "just for fun".

I haven't even HIT on the mismatched lock on the front door, or the juice stained, paw printed, pee stained carpet, but I think you've got the gist.

Poor Cosette.  She had not an inkling that Mommy was feeling a bit emotionally overwhelmed...until she broke my last good coffee mug right before school on Tuesday. 

Nothing like sending your 9 year old to school, with red rimmed, glassy eyes, because her Mom lost her shit, over something stupid.

And then there is Emma.  I give huge props to Emma because she is pretty much living, like she's out on her own.  But she doesn't have to pay rent.  Or buy groceries.  Or pay the cable bill. 

But Emma all in all, she is extremely responsible.  I never really check the Parent Portal for her grades, because, well, the two times I have, she had solid A's.  Emma gets herself to and from school.  Packs her own lunch.  Takes the initiative to email her teacher, and then ask me 50 times, if she has yet replied.  

But Emma is also my kid, who has a bit of anxiety.  I mean, we all do, right?  

But Emma takes it to another level.  

Let me give you an example:  PE is swimming this week, but NO white suits are allowed.  

Guess what color suit Em has?  White.  Guess who schlepped themselves to Target, followed by Ross, searching high and lo for a NON-WHITE bathing suit, in the middle of October, on a Sunday afternoon, only to completely strike out? Us.  Guess who needed to email her teacher, when we arrived home, to ensure that she wouldn't be in trouble for having a white suit? Emma. 

So there I was at 5:45 AM, the morning after the NON-WHITE bathing suit debacle, curled up on the couch, prepping for my day.  This is code for: coffee (in a plastic tumbler, because I was out of coffee mugs), snuggles with Bo, and prayer.  

Imagine my surprise, when Emma stumbles into the living room, big ol' head of hair askew, and says half awake, but more asleep, "Mom, I have GOT to turn in my Tech-Crew theatre permission form." 

WTF, right??!!  Can't she see that I am trying to be ZEN?  To have a moment with the Great One.  To keep my dog from eating the walls? 

But the story gets better.  We turned this form in a MONTH ago.  I know this information, because she stood over my shoulder, stalking me, waiting and watching, wearing her anxiety like an old pair of jeans, making sure I wouldn't forget to sign it.  

But somehow, someway, it never made it to the correct location.

Let's just suffice it to say, I sent another one of my children to school with tear stained cheeks.  

Two for two.

No, I'm sorry, supportive Blog Reader, you can't have the "Parent of the Year Award".  Michelle Walsh already holds the title for:  MOST CHILDREN SENT TO SCHOOL CRYING BECAUSE THEIR MOM LOST HER SHIT OVER STUPID STUFF.

I don't blame you at all if you're wondering about Abby and Bella emotional state, at this point.  Quite honestly, the twins are navigating the waters of Notre Dame as Freshmen, quite well.  But between balancing the academic workload, playing competitive Volleyball for the first time, carving out time for peer tutoring because they need that extra support, and fulfilling their obligation of work grant, due to financial aid...well, let's just say, there have been a few meltdowns.  

Them!  Not me: yet.  But I'm pretty sure, there are plenty more on the horizon, for all of us.

As a Maternal figure, as the Matriarch of the family, how do we stay balanced, centered, and grounded?  

I am finding myself taking on other people's emotional states, when I can barely, weather my own.  

A dear friend, that I have known since Kindergarten, diagnosed with Melanoma. 

Another sweet, young, Mama, only 38, batting Breast Cancer, with four littles at home.  

And yet another friend's Mom's struggle with Lung Cancer.  As my girlfriend described her Mom's symptoms, it felt like I was re-living Foxy all over again.

I want to throw up my  hands, and say, "I can't do this, Lord.  I am not qualified.  I am ill-equipped.  I am not good enough."

So I came to this epiphany: either start drinking everyday before noon, OR, join the Women's Spirituality Group offered at ND, that meets on the one of two mornings that I get to sleep in.  

I CHOSE THE WOMEN'S SPIRITUALITY GROUP!  Geez.

  And this is what happened at my first meeting:  I bawled.  

As we sat, that lovely group of 20 women in that circle, and we settled in the peace that evades me almost all of the time I am breathing, I actually felt it.

You know...the calm.  The quiet.  The solitude that I, probably much like you, am so very thirsty for.  

Even when I try to pray at home, I fail.  My wheels turn, and spin, and I start thinking about clean underwear, and whether we can make our mortgage payment, and non-white bathing suits.

But for the first time, I felt it.  The very solitude of these women, tethered to me, in an uplifting, life-giving, way.  

Their energy centered me, balanced me, and grounded me.  

And I bawled.  Not like the ugly cry, but still.

And so, dear ones, I am not sure how to handle all of these milestones with my daughters.  I am not in least bit convinced I know what the hell I am doing.  But as I fell into bed next to Tom the other night, he told me these heart-felt words:

"You smell like Home.  And summer.  And all things good."

In that moment, I realized, I don't need to have it all figured out.  As long as that man is by my side, we will do this dance together.

And I slept soundly.

 

  

 

I Can't Think of a Title...I Am Sort of Rebellious, Like That.

You know what I have been noticing lately?  Old people.  Walking unsteady, with leathery, wrinkled hands, purses slung on crooked shoulders.   Holding on to someone or something, a cane, a walker, and the like, for support.  Full of knowledge, that only life can and will bestow upon me, if I am ever as lucky to learn what they have through experience, and circumstance.

 I also have been taken with young ones.  Babies, toddlers, preschoolers, kids on the playground.   Full of energy and pure joy.  Limitless.  Beyond enthusiastic, to take on the next moment.  To experience, as Pochantas so eloquently sang, "What's just around the river bend."

In fact, just today, I witnessed a little dark haired cutie, clutching the hands of her grandparents on either side of her.  She was giddy, and jumpy, and full of that insatiable zest for LIFE.  As she bounced between those elderly bookends, this little one exuded pure excitement.  She was going to have an amazing day, there was no doubt about it.

I ponder, how is it that my "Littles" are Freshman in High School?

I remember the days of going to the park, like, Every.  Single.  Day.  I remember filling sippy cups with juice, and filling snack bags with goldfish.  I remember watching their excitement of sliding down the Crooked House at Happy Hollow, and taking afternoon naps, and life being, well, really simple.

Don't get me wrong: I was also exhausted.  I felt like it would never end.  There were many times I thought, "If I NEVER go to the park again, I will not miss it one bit.  If I have to fill ONE more sippy cup, I am gonna jump, so help me!!!"

And then that day comes: the day when no one asks to go to the park.  The day, when they make their own lunch.  The day, when they wash and pack their own work out clothes for Volleyball practice.  The day when they leave at 7:15 AM, and do not arrive home until 6:15 PM, only to repeat it again the next day.

And I sit back and think to myself, "Ah, this is what folks mean when they say, 'In the blink of an eye, they'll be off to college.'"  Yup.  Duly noted, wise, more knowledgeable folks, than myself.  I think I may be sorta catching on.

How did this happen?  How did I grow this small people in my very body, and now, they think they can grow up on me?  NO ONE warns you.  Or perhaps, when they did, I couldn't hear it.  Couldn't possibly understand it.  Wasn't willing, or even able, to wrap my head around it.

Our family had a really fantastic summer.  Between going camping with dear friends at Big Basin, countless beach trips collecting sea shells, heading to Arnold, where Tom and I, sat out back under the stars after our day trips, and (gasp), spoke to each other uninterrupted.  And capping it off by taking a trip down south to see Ms.Molly, and T, and Ella Claire.  It was a truly superb 10 weeks.

But by the end, like many parents who are longing for routine, I felt like, "Okay, I have had enough 'family time.'  Enough hanging out with the 6 of you, constantly, for like, a week at a time.  Back to normalcy.  Back to work.  Let's get this ball rolling."

And then, came the Back-to-School anxiety.  "OHMYGAWD!!!! how are we possibly going to get 5 kids to 4 different schools on time?  What were we thinking?  Do you think we should make a flowchart?  What have we signed up for?  How is this my life?"

It is in these white knuckled moments, God shows me:  the older folks, who live in the moment, with no apparent rush, nowhere in particular to go, just relaxed with who they are, and satisfied with where their journey has taken them.  It is in these moments, God shows me: the wee ones, with their zest for life, their boundless energy, and infinite amount of enthusiasm.

And I am reminded:  pay attention to the small things.  Pay attention to details.  Listen to the whispers.  Enjoy each and every moment. 

 And I recognize how incredibly and utterly blessed I am.

If I could write God a letter, it would say:

Dear God,

You totally rock.  Thanks for being totally awesome.  And thanks for not letting Foxy kill me in my teen years, when I totally deserved it.  You seriously had my back on that one.

Love,
Michelle