compartmentalizing

I am nothing if not a supreme organizer, from my unending list-making to an unnatural love for bullet points. I like to think it's a simple sign of intelligence & efficiency but if I'm being honest, I'm pretty sure it comes from my desperate need to [pretend to] Control Things. At first glance over my life, it doesn't look like much was out of control - I only have 1 point for ACEs - but I've come to realize that even a single event in childhood can color the world going forward, and I have long had a stay-in-the-lines attitude that ended up being a hindrance, frankly; when getting hung up on How Things Look and How Things Should Be more than What Things Could Be, we miss a lot of exquisite little details. I still get hung up sometimes but I work harder at looking around corners and in the cracks, too. I'm working on crying out loud more, too, but in a controlled cute Rachel McAdams way as much as possible (it's never possible). 

On that note, here's a thing I wrote from a series of observations I was making when trying not to directly look an uncontrollable thing in the eyes. 

_________________________________________________________

I Practice Believing My Son Has Cancer

I sit in the hospital room on a dumbly comfortable recliner,

consolation gift for the parent who finds herself

in a foul game of fighting

disease by picking poisons that might or might not make him sicker today or later, really

nobody knows.

Don’t worry.

I’m offered a discounted lunch delivered with his free meal,
cheer the salad with salmon and blackberries, as if I’ve won a significant award.

My boy pores over his two-page paper menu with excited eyes vowing to try everything by the time he is done

in the fall, as if
that will be the bigger prize than
life past 19.

Don’t worry.

There is so much sun streaming onto my exposed neck, 

wrapping itself first around idiot yellow flowers staring over my shoulder at the magazine I took from the absurdly welcoming waiting room.

Everything a flavorless joke
reminding us that life goes fucking on outside of here.

Don’t worry.

I brought a book I will neglect in a bag full of other website-suggested things,

because mothering instincts say that if I have 

everything we need we will not need anything:

Not the extra soft socks or the unscented lotions or powerful sunscreens 

or ginger-infused organic candies meant to quell
toxic nausea. We are 

prepared and prepared and prepared
and...

Don’t worry.

best part of the day #photoadayjuly

After a few hours of rain, it was sunny. My son & I were midway through the 5 hour trek to my hometown. We had shared fries, strawberry lemonade, and a love for Queen (though he prefers I not sing along). Just as I told him to put away his DS for awhile, I noticed two enormous airplanes coming our way - military transports. Even though I grew up in a Navy town, I still marvel at jets and all things jet-related. I pointed them out to Mason and told him to get a picture. He took about a dozen shots of those first two before we spotted another; he aimed my phone through the windshield, sunroof, and behind my back out the driver's side window.

The best part of any day for me is connecting with my kids. In these moments on the road today, my son was not negotiating video game time or lamenting the lack of Weird Al in my iTunes or arguing about how stupid everyone in his school is. He was giddy with me about the size of these machines, their seeming proximity to our car, and what they symbolize; we giggled over his frantic attempts to find a perfect angle within the confines of our Mini Cooper.

Transported.

13/365 "bright"

Game night at my school
Kids versus grown-ups for fun
Hope there's no trouble...

wait a minute

When I was pregnant with my son, I decided I would no longer say "I can't wait." After the hundredth person remarked "I bet you can't wait for that baby to be born!" I realized that was not necessarily true. Of course I was excited to have my child out in the world with me, but I also genuinely relished my time before he arrived - feeling a human growing & grooving inside my body, appreciating all of the enhanced sensory experiences that came with hormones in overdrive, enjoying multiple naps every day, looking forward to meeting this person no one else knew yet savoring those final days of simple couplehood with my husband. I felt like if I gave in to the "I can't wait!" mindset, I would be cheating the now out of its potential for specialness, and maybe even exaggerating the specialness of what was coming, making it anticlimatic. That was the beginning of my commitment to mindfulness.

Since then, if I catch myself saying or even thinking "I can't wait until...," I will stop and look around. Sometimes it seems perfectly justified - in the midst of a mammogram or pap smear, for example, or during hot f*cking yoga. But for the most part, I want to keep reminding myself that life is indeed short and we don't get many do-overs. Things can change in the proverbial blink of an eye, or if we're not paying attention to even the most seemingly mundane moments, passing years can start to feel like the blink of an eye.

Obviously I have known that my daughter was starting middle school today, but what I forgot about was the fact that no one would be watching for me to wave at the bus anymore, because instead of it rolling past the house, it picked up on the corner down the street (and also because, GAH, MOM, we're in MIDDLE SCHOOL). Since my son started kindergarten and through my daughter's 5th grade year, I have had the privilege of being home most mornings when the elementary bus came by; I always waved from the porch, the front door, or my bedroom window (depending on my state of readiness for the day) but every time I had a kid or two peering out of a sweaty window, waving back. This morning I drove by their bus stop, ready to not make a spectacle and embarrass my preteens with a sappy mom display but secretly hoping there might be some tiny acknowledgement.

Both of my big kids waved from the midst of a gangly crowd and yelled "BYE MOM!"

I did not blink.

a visit from saint mom

'Twas the night before Christmas

and all through our home

Sounds of whining & groaning

heard wherever we roamed.

The stockings were hung

all set right on up

but there was great concern

about no milk for Santa's cup.

I in my foot cast

and Stu in his shorts

were in no great moods

to assuage the cohorts.

_____________________________________

Alright, I can't do anymore rhyming at this point. We just got home from a fantabulous party at the brilliant Shana's where my kids did have fun, despite the stories they told on the way home about somebody throwing a ball at someone's face and someone else saying mean things about other people. But it is rather late for them, plus NORAD has tracked Santa in the midwest - mere minutes away from our house in the Pacific Northwest! [Enter panic mode]

As we came in the door, Bad Mom & Dad remembered that the kids needed to help wrap parent presents, and kids remembered they needed to write notes to Santa & set out treats. [Insert more panic] Paige noted we were out of milk AND egg nog; Dad suggested beer to much eyebrow furrowing from the womenfolk; Mason pointed out that last year we put out a juice box and he didn't seem to mind.

Once we got snacks straightened out (reduced fat Nilla wafers and orange juice) and detailed messages completed (Paige has 2 stockings into which she would like her gifts evenly divided), we once again checked NORAD and the kids frantically got into pajamas and brushed teeth. Bad Mom & Dad lounged on the couch, marveling over their offspring's strange combination of intelligence AND nuttiness.

Now for the surreptitious filling of stockings and eating of snacks and disguising of handwriting on a note TO our children from a grateful Santa (who started this ridiculous tradition??). Then maybe a little metaphorical rockin' around the Christmas tree...

Merry Christmas to all, and to all

a *good* night.

the day after

As I try to be a not-rampant materialist, and as I try to hold on to my tenuous belief that humanity is not degenerating, I do not participate in Black Friday. I like to sleep in [again] and hope my children will bring me breakfast in bed; I make all kinds of fascinating plans in my head then roll over and resolve to at least enjoy the time I have to make plans, even if I do nothing.


My daughter wrote a poem for school this week that I begged her to let me share with you. I tried not to weep in front of her, because GAH, that'sembarrassing! But it reminds me that every little tiny thing I do is more noticed than I realize, and with great power comes great responsibility.

Thankfully I Am From

by Paige

I am from my stuffed animals.

From grapefruit-lavender shampoo and Skechers shoes.

I am from the warm, comfortable home where I find the smell of fresh.

I am from the occasional flowers on the dining room table.

I am from saying a prayer every night at dinner and in bed.

I am from watching every single football game on T.V. with my mom.

I'm from "Brush your teeth or they'll turn green and fall out!" and "I've told you a million times!"

I am from going to my Grandma and Papa's every spring break.

I'm from Vancouver, Washington and the Netherlands

and homemade chocolate chip banana bread.

I'm from my mom taking me to the mall and having fun

and my mom's Snoopy earrings in my jewelry box.

take hold

_________________________


_____________________

Time, that transient.

Always moving through our lives.

Take hold; remember.

he goes to 11

Our 4-lb baby burrito

1998

Our 95-lb enchilada
2009

Happy birthday to the bad mom's first offspring.

big kid

My son, the would-be actor/comedian/general goofball, was offered the chance to do a 2-minute opening gag at David Cross's Portland show next week. We first got an e-mail a few weeks ago saying they specifically wanted a 10-year old who was good at imitations and had stage presence, and they were paying $100 plus 4 tickets [for grown-ups] to the show. Mason was ecstatic about the opportunity. We watched some of David's kid-appropriate videos and made contact with the promoter who would be our liaison. P.S. We were told that even though the show would be Adults Only, Mason's bit would be "clean."

Fast forward to this past Sunday when we got an e-mail from the very nice promoter Dan at Square Peg Concerts that let us know "the kid part has some adult lines." Hey, I'm a forward-thinking, alternative-school teaching bad mom, no? I replied that some innuendo and/or mild language would be acceptable but could we please have a peek at a script? Very nice promoter Dan sent the bit back with the ominous heading "Here it is...".

I am not one for sheltering my children from life's realities. I do not hyperventilate over words. I do feel it is important to allow kids to make their own decisions in matters that directly affect them [not life or death, of course, but comedy - though hard - is not life or death; it's a job].

And so. Even though as we read through the lines and cringed a few times, particularly at the parts that included the f-bomb, bitch, and a**holes, Stu & I agreed to let Mason decide if this was an endeavor he felt worth taking. Since he got home from Scouts close to bedtime, we explained the situation and told him he could read the e-mail and make his decision in the morning. But our boy was conflicted without even reading it; he tossed and turned then started crying, unable to sleep. When I went in to calm him and asked what was on his mind, he wailed "I don't know what to do!" Our almost-11 year old "Don't kiss me in front of friends" middle schooler needed me to take this off his shoulders. I hugged him, said I could tell it wasn't in his heart, and assured him that was okay. In fact, better than okay - it takes a big person to walk away from fame and cash in exchange for peace of mind & dignity.

Though it makes me wonder if I should have been the bigger person and made the call for my kid in the first place.

hormonal encounter

You: Cute, young Gary Oldmanish dad at science museum wearing strangely appealing cantaloupe-colored ringer tee, khaki cargo shorts & Birkenstocks.

Me: Naughty Average mom in pink t-shirt & denim capris reading at various spots coincidentally near you while my children were nowhere to be seen played in the vicinity.

I enjoyed the adorable way you & your boy laughed and delighted in each other's company. And I wish I could have thought of something witty and/or wise to say when you lingered six inches from one of my benches, just because I am hormonally imbalanced & a touch inappropriate at this point in my life you seemed nice and I had grown tired of my book.

Happy Monday.

He looked just.like.this.
...in my mind

photo by Barbara ~ many thanks!

please make my day as difficult as possible

I love that my girl is a Girl Scout. I love that she looks forward to going to Girl Scout camp each summer. I love that Girl Scout camp encourages carpooling. I love that Girl Scout camp is committed to keeping her safe.

Things I don't love?

Having to show not just the personal postcards for each girl I'm volunteering to pick up (see "encourages carpooling") - which alone seems an adequate means of proving I am, indeed, authorized to take a girl home to her parent who gave me the postcard - but being required to produce a NEW, ORIGINAL parent-signed note each day.

I tried being efficient yesterday by stapling the signed notes, which were dated for the week and provided the girls' names, unit numbers, parent signatures and names of volunteers who would be picking up, but the Gestapo Very Serious Pick-up Coordinator said ohhhhh no, that paper had to stay and a new one had to come each day with whoever was picking up the girls. Doesn't it make sense that if on the first day I'm okay with another mom driving my daughter home, I'll still be okay with it a day later? Maybe I'm missing a crucial piece to the safety puzzle.

Oh, and then I had to sign next to each of the girls' names before they were delivered to my car. This level of security rivals getting galleons out of Gringotts.

AND THEN I am reprimanded for trying to help one of the girls into her car seat before driving down the hill to "a safer spot." Gah.

In the morning, I only drop off Paige because I'm transporting Mason and his friends to their 4-H camp nearby. So it looks like I have a bunch of people to leave at Girl Scout camp, though I do not. The Gestapo One would know this if one actually walked up to my rolled-down window and asked who I was dropping off instead of going to the passenger side, opening the back car door and telling the bewildered non-Girl Scouts inside to get out. Wish I were kidding.

And then I was again reprimanded for helping readjust the kid whose seat I had to slide forward for Paige to get out. Because "there's a long line of people waiting!" (One car directly behind me).

Plus I didn't get a chance to give my girl a kiss goodbye in all the frantic commotion. Tomorrow I wear my Bad Mom t-shirt and make everyone just slow the hell down & lighten up. It's supposed to be a FUN place, right? Disneyland finds a way to keep kids safe without making it feel like a concentration camp; come on, Girl Scouts.

slightly sad mom

This kid

is growing up before my very eyes.


And this kid

is growing up at a camp far away this week.

____________________________

Be back soon.

the edge of fairytale land

Once upon a time, my young prince was our sole source of rollercoaster emotions. As the days wore on, my princess dabbled in hysteria. Now I'm not sure who wears the Drama crown considering Mason successfully, with no very little mania, packed all of his needs for a week at Boy Scout camp and left yesterday morning with a beaming smile on his face while Paige, the Birthday Girl, has spent the better part of today alternately sulking about perceived slights (the nondairy chocolate frozen treats are a different brand than the vanilla ones! STUPID TRADER JOE'S), singing along to The Beatles in the car, and whining about nonsensical issues (I DON'T KNOW IF I'M SUPPOSED TO BRING IN THE GARBAGE CAN OR THE RECYCLING BIN!).

At this very moment, she is fast asleep in her slumber party-ravaged room; I banished her to napdom after she listened to a phone message from a friend inviting her to spend the night then dissolved into a wailing puddle because she wasn't sure WHAT TO SAY if her friend's grandma answered when Paige called back. What?? Now I'm confused, and I have a headache.

If the nap works wonders, I'm sending her to the friend's house and taking my man out on the town to erase this headache...

9 x 3 + 40 = 4 young(ish) ladies pampered

An equation for a fun finishing touch to the birthday weekend - Paige invited a couple of special friends (who were absent from yesterday's festivities) to enjoy spa time [her present from Mom & Dad]. And of course the taxi driver/benefactor got to partake as well. I love summer vacation.

Birthday girl + best friends + The [Good] Mom

get fresh

I have mentioned the Fresh Air Fund before [and they are not paying me to do so] but I'm doing it again because a) it's summertime, when the living is not-so-easy for some kids until they get out of the city and b) they are receiving matching funds for all donations through the end of June - so if you can spare a few bucks toward their program, it will be doubled! Oh, and because Tiki Barber! sigh



And if you are out East in a Friendly Town, please consider hosting a city kid this summer. I'm not sure if Tiki Barber delivers them but it's still an honorable program.

blazing amazing grace

Yesterday, my 10-year old was angry at the people gathering for Portland's Cannabis Rally. From my grown-up superliberal perspective, it was an over-the-top, irrational reaction - Mason wanted to "punch all of them" or "flip everyone off" [wha??]; he hoped the SWAT team would come take them away, and he bitterly predicted they're all going to Hell [trust that it is not our family policy to surmise who is or is not going to Hell; I might have a chat with the Sunday School teacher next week]. All of this vehemence came between bites of pizza and my attempts to counter his disgust with calm tolerance for different beliefs & values. It was startling, exhausting, and depressing.

I know a significant portion of my son's personality has been overtaken by the surliness of imminent adolescence yet I cannot be still while he seethes over other people's behavior. I desperately want to help him understand it is okay to hold onto his opinion but wishing others ill will is not only mean-spirited, it serves no purpose - they are oblivious to his feelings [and probably care little] and he only keeps himself from delighting in sunny afternoons, pepperoni pizza & root beer, and Muppet-like dogs bounding around while he agitates about the fate of stoners.

During our half hour at the square, I was finally able to bring my boy off the ledge of condemnation by explaining what marijuana really is (apparently the school's "drug awareness" program lumps everything from pot to meth into one terrifying, irreversible death sentence) and assuring him that most people who smoke it are still reasonable & valuable, if occasionally spaced out, citizens; I finally instructed him to channel any remaining irritation into political action or prayer but no more ranting will be allowed.

Later, as we stood in the rain waiting for a streetcar, an unshaven & heavily backpacked young man made his way through the crowd asking for $8.34 for bus tickets home. I gave him the $4 in my coat pocket, which he graciously took before announcing excitedly to the crowd that he now only needed $4.34; no one moved. Mason turned to me and asked if I had any more money; I dug a five out of my wallet. When Mason delivered it, the young man shook his hand and said "God bless you, dude!" As he walked away, a young woman wearing a lei of fake pot leaves joined him; they both flashed peace signs at us and shouted thanks.

Mason beamed. He told me, "That felt really good to help them out." I gave him a sideways Mom-to-preteen-boy hug then gently squeezed his shoulder and asked if he realized the couple had been at the rally; a shadow crossed his face, fleetingly. After a moment he said, "That's okay. I'm still glad I helped them."

For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith ~
and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God...
Ephesians 2: 8-9

high times

What do bad moms do with their kids in Portland on unexpectedly sunny Saturday afternoons?

Find a pot festival and eat lunch in the midst of it.

Revelers

But we did find other more tasteful things to do...

Showing a friend's Flat Stanley the Central Library
from the 7th floor of a downtown parking garage

Visiting with a sunbathing ladybug


Marveling over the optical illusion of clouds moving
behind a crane

*Not pictured: The grim reaper-like sky covering the city on our way home, and the buckets of 6-lb. raindrops pummeling the car. For real. I was not hallucinating.

day tripping

Despite the incessant rain, we headed off into the city for spring break fun [as long as most of our time is spent indoors, I'm game].

One of Portland's many bridges
overlooking some of Portland's many crazy outdoorsy individuals

Kids at the Willamette

Pollution can be pretty sometimes

Our beloved Oregon Museum of Science & Industry

Cool stuff even in the bathroom

Paige in the Technology Lab
(because we don't give enough computer time at home)

Mason at the probability machine
(Probability his mom is sitting in a corner reading? See below)

A good time was had by all

the zombie, the fighter, and the mutant puppy

First thing on the kids' "IT'S SPRING BREAK!" list was surprisingly not the science museum, the zoo, or even a movie in the theater - it was face painting. Apparently Bad Mom is a good makeup artist.

Mason chose to be a zombie, even though anything marginally spooky in movies still creeps him out. In the daylight, scary is cool.


Mama Milton's boy went with a simple black eye. We did a quick pantomime to decide if he wanted to be clocked by a left or right hook.
(He also wanted a mustache but I forgot and he was too polite to ask again; sorry, Zack!)

Paige stuck with her preferred Dalmatian but this time wanted pink spots, which ended up looking more like giant measles but she was happy.

Need a face painter for your next church function, club fundraiser, school event? Call Bad Mom.

puzzled

mad jigsaw skills & photo by Paige

2009

Wordless Wednesday puts it together