Roasting Hot Dogs

It was cool, far cooler than the nearly triple digit temperatures of the previous weekend. The workday was almost over and I had an evening with the kids plus Collin ahead of me. Sitting at my desk, I stared out the window at the blue sky and made a decision.

"Do you have scrap wood laying around?" I texted one friend.

"Can I borrow your parents' fire pit thing?" I sent off to Chad.

Visions of hot dogs roasted over the fire followed by marshmallows so gooey and sweet they'd give us stomachaches promised to brighten an otherwise normal Tuesday.

I walked into the house with a bag of marshmallows. The kids were ecstatic. I dug through a Rubbermaid bin of camping gear and came up with four roasting sticks that had seen better days. Cleaning them off, I noticed our neighbor was playing in the yard with the kids so grabbed another package of hot dogs. 

We started the fire and before long we were burning hot dogs. But the hot dogs were second to what they were all waiting for - the marshmallows.

I stuck them on the sticks and watched while they torched the white puffs into fireballs. I thought, briefly, of how far I was from the hose and then, like blowing out birthday candles, leaned over and extinguished the flaming balls of sugar.

There were burned fingers, dropped marshmallows, and one that fell into the fire to cries of "Oh no!" and "It's going to get bigger than the fire pit!!"

The giggled and roasted and ate until their hands and faces were sticky, smoke permeated their hair, and the bag of marshmallows was almost finished.

We put the lid on the fire pit, I sprayed down the deck - visions of smoldering embers igniting the nearby bale of hay belatedly paramount in my mind - and decided we needed to do this more often. Because if you can't have a camp out dinner on a Tuesday night, life has gotten far too serious.

She Had a Rough Day

"Honey, why are you crying?"

I watched as Elizabeth took a deep, shaky breath, large tears dripping from her lashes. "I've had a rough day," she got out before she broke into sobs again.

She seems to have had quite a few rough days lately. Most nights - not all, but most - find her, at some point, in tears. Tears and tantrum worthy, hiccuping sobs and kicking feet.

The first time it happened, I told her to go cry in her room because Joseph and I were eating dinner and, when she was done, she could come out for a hug. It's how we usually handle "tantrums" and typically works. She gets to vent her frustrations and we don't have to listen.

I say "she" because Joseph's thrown two tantrums in his life and the last one was a week after Elizabeth was born. I used to pat myself on the back, but then Elizabeth turned nine months and I realized, once again, Joseph was a decoy child created to ensure siblings.

Moving on...

Usually, Elizabeth goes in her room, closes the door, throws a rockin' tantrum, and then comes out calm and ready for a hug and a kiss within ten minutes. This has not been the case lately.

Lately, the "tantrums" have last at least twenty minutes and would have probably lasted longer, but I caved and went into her room during the first one.

"Baby, why are you crying?"

"I don't know," she said between sobs. "I just have to."

I pulled her into my lap and held her while she cried like her little heart was broken. She kicked a little, but mostly she clung to me and buried her hot face in my neck. I stroked her hair and, when she was done, gave her another hug and she was off, back to "normal" until the next day when the scene repeated itself.

Tonight, the "I just have to" was replaced by "I had a rough day" and I listened as she explained that she jumped on the trampoline fifteen times and had to run around and exercise and then L at school was bossy. The words came out in a torrent while I stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. She kept her arms wrapped around me and sobbed. When she was spent, I hugged her extra tight and told her I loved her.

It's rough being three, almost four.

Rougher yet being the mother of a three, almost four year old.

I have no idea how I'm going to survive this stage if it lasts much longer. The tears...they are ridiculous. And at the same time, I want to keep my cool about them because she doesn't seem to understand why she's crying herself and God knows there are times I feel the same way.

Of course, I thought I had about ten more years before this sort of thing hit.

Have you guys experienced this with your kids?

The World's Greatest Wallet

Today, after nearly seven years of service, I retired my wallet.

I loved that wallet.

"What do you want for your birthday," Becky asked over the phone.

"A wallet," I replied, gently patting a baby Joseph's back. "Something I can put all my crap in and move between a diaper bag and purse."

"I'll get you a Hobo style one."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but thanks."

The red wallet arrived shortly thereafter. With two clasped pockets and a full hinged center, it was perfect. Perfect in so many ways.

It held my chapsticks, my pressed powder, my gift cards, my cash, my drivers licence, my insurance cards, my credit cards, my sanity.

With it, I felt a sense of regained control in a life that had shrunk to the size of a receiving blanket and exploded in an avalanche of baby chaos. I shoved it into a diaper bag packed with more than a baby might ever need, I tossed it into a nearly empty purse and pretended I was someone other than a new mom, I threw it into the bottom of the stroller, I carried it as a clutch, I wedged it beside my camera.

"I love your wallet!" Sales clerks looked at it with admiration. I'd smile and say thanks, grateful they didn't appear to see the nursing bra straps, the baggy shirts, the sagging jeans. I might not be the height of style, but my wallet was.

Over the years, I thought briefly of replacing it - after the hinges were bent when it got caught behind a car seat - but I couldn't ever find anything I liked as much in my price range. I learned to open it with a slight push to counter act the hinge issues and continued to take it to Disneyland, the aquarium, work, the park, the zoo.

And then, a couple months ago, it started to fall apart.

Literally.

Long strips of the exterior leather shred from the corners. The interior pockets began to gape and tear. I knew it was on its last legs, but was in denial until I opened it and pieces came off in my hand. I emailed Becky to ask her where she'd gotten it. I'd hoped to find a new one, an exact replica.

"Target."

"You're kidding me." All these years I'd assumed she'd bought it at Nordstroms where she'd worked at the time. This must be a record for a Target wallet. And, if I'd known how much I was going to love it, I would have bought a half dozen so I wouldn't be in this position. The position of not being able to find a replica for less than $150.

Yes, I realize $150 isn't a bad price to pay for seven years worth of wallet, but I'm on a budget. A tight budget. So I kept using my beloved wallet and began to look for alternatives to replace it. Nothing was the same. Nothing worked as well.

Finally, with the large pockets beginning their slow decent into decay, I bit the bullet and bought a new wallet. Well, actually, a new wallet for my every day needs, a credit card case for my gift cards and reward cards, and a pencil case for my chapsticks, my pens, and my pressed powder. And all for under $25.

I couldn't even pretend that the purchase of the three small items would equate the splurge of the more expensive style.

And with that, I said good bye to my lovely old wallet. And hello to another era of transitional purse organizers. I hope, someday, I'll find something similar to what I had.

Are you suddenly beginning to analyze me and wonder if perhaps the wallet is representative of the changes in my life? Stop. It's not that.

It was simply the most awesome wallet I've owned and replacing it took me months.

And I'm still not satisfied.

Seriously. Stop analyzing me.

Facebook Mother's Day

When I went to write about my Mother's Day, I had to laugh a little at the difference between my Facebook Mother's Day and the reality. Not that I lied, on Facebook, but...

FB:
I'm laying in bed listening to the kids make breakfast while Joseph tells Elizabeth how many donuts they each get because he's "good with division and this is just like a word problem".

Reality:
It was 6:30 when the kids woke me up to tell me they wanted to make me breakfast in bed. 6:30 in the morning on Mother's Day. We've long established that I'm NOT a morning person so let me repeat. 6:30. 

Now, there are times when they get up and play quietly while I sleep in. There are times when they make toaster waffles without a sound and I can continue my dream of eating all the waffles without concern for their calorie count. This was not one of those mornings.

They did an amazing job and, with a little help from a friend, were able to put together a delicious breakfast and not eat all the donuts. They presented me with handmade presents that made me smile wider than a diamond necklace ever could.

But still...

6:30.

FB:
Working off breakfast with a Mother's Day hike. Should have gone before the heat hit. Oops.

Reality:
We procrastinated our hike until nearly 10 when the temperature began to hover around 80. On the way to the trail, I realized I'd forgotten to pack bottles of water and made the colossal mistake of mentioning that fact out loud.

For the next hour while we hiked through trees and up hill and down, I got to hear "I'm thirsty" and "I'm going to explode from thirst" and "I'm going to die of thirst" approximately once every two feet. On a mile and a half hike.

We got back to the car, grumpy and sweaty and raced to the nearest store to get water, of which they drank approximately three sips before capping their bottles and putting it away.

FB:
Beat the heat with a trip to the beach, good friends, chocolate banana gelato, and, later, Gatsby. What a perfect Mother's Day.

Reality:
Still sweating from our hike, we decided to take Anne up on her offer of a place to put our things while we joined her and Collin at the beach. A few minutes after I responded, we found out that Sarah would be joining us with Jackson and Harper. Win!

We packed sandwiches while eating left over donuts - lots of veggies between the bread per Joseph's strategy to counteract the amount of sugar we were consuming - and loaded our lunch boxes with fruit and peanuts. The kids changed into their suits, I threw on a skirt with my tank top and we headed out the door, hats on heads.

At the beach, we sat in the warm sand and basked in the thirty degree cooler weather. We ate our sandwiches, played in the water, and soaked in the sun.

A little too much sun.

In the rush to get out the door, I made a rookie move and forgot to sun block myself and reapply it to my gingers. Even with their long sleeves and hats, Elizabeth was a little pink on her legs and cheeks and Joseph was rosier than I'm comfortable with.

As for myself, I'm currently taking ibuprofen and hoping The Peeling that is sure to occur will be as non leprous as possible.

We got home from the beach to meet Chad who took the kids home for the night, leaving me to take a shower and cool off with banana chocolate gelato, one of my all time favorite "treat me" treats.

I closed my eyes and pretended I was in Rome, sitting on the edge of a fountain, then remembered that was my sprinkler and it needed to be moved to keep my plants from dying a horribly dehydrating death.

With gelato for dinner, I went to see Gatsby - an emotional roller coaster from which I'm still recovering and processing - with a glass of Wild Horse Chardonnay because I like the VIP section of the theater with its wide, plush seats and booze.

It was, overall, an amazing Mother's Day - both the reality and the FB version.

A Letter to the Mom of the Teenage Girl

Dear Mom of a Teenage Girl,

You don't know me, but I'm the woman who was trying very hard to avoid eye contact while we three - you, your daughter, and I - were standing in the aisle of WalMart. I was just there to grab a pair of cheap flip flops. You, it seems, were there to exhibit the patience of Job.

I wasn't judging you. Far from it! I saw you look at me sideways, face ashamed. If I'd known that it might be accepted, I'd have defended you - Mothers Unite and all that.

Your daughter is in eighth grade apparently. She has her graduation coming up where she'll leave middle school and venture into the world of high school. That's a scary, wonderful time. I heard the conversation while you tried to help her find a pair of shoes.

I tried not to get in your way, but you were sort of right in front of the flip flops. I walked an aisle or two away, hoping to give you space and then, I had to make a dash to your aisle.

I'm a little ashamed I walked away, truth be told.

Because the abuse being heaped on your head was more than any woman - any person - should bear.

For the record, you are not ruining your daughter's life because you suggested the brown sandals. You are not stupid because you thought the white ones would match her dress. You are not ugly because you were wearing Crocs. You are not an idiot because you thought the wide size might fit better. You're right, shoes can't make you look fat. You are also just as good as her friend's mom.

Yeah. I heard all that. I couldn't help it. Your daughter has a voice for the stage and the drama to match. Her sighs could be heard two aisles over, her sneers four.

And I know you know all this. I could tell by the way you kept your calm, kept your voice steady, and patiently offered another option.

I admired you for that. I'm not sure I could do it. I wish you hadn't looked so embarrassed. I wish you had realized I wasn't judging you. I wish there was something, anything I could have said.

But I know there wasn't.

Just know in a few years, you're going to be the first person she calls when she needs advice. In a few years, you're going to know everything and she'll wonder why she ever thought you didn't. In a few years, she'll ask you for help picking out shoes for her wedding and she'll listen and maybe laugh at how awful she was as a teen. In a few years, she'll hold up the shoes you buy for her baby and exclaim at their perfection.

You just have to get through this bit first.

Stay strong, stay patient, and I hope, really hope, you have someone with whom you can vent and maybe drink a glass of wine. After that shopping trip, you need it.