Some of us are out of breath...

"For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"

Well, ain't this a great segway to my long over due blog landing at the end of the year! 

Happy New Year, My Friends!

It's just minutes now till the New York Ball drops.  And, call me crazy, but I've unlatched my bra already.  Oh, yes, I have!  I feel the need to unleash, to breeeeeathe.  My pant button is next.  Too much chocolate.  Too much of a good thang over winter break.

Time for my flannel pajamas.  This is how I'll end 2011.  Happy in flannels.

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My New Year's Eve Day is best described in documented texts with my BFFs ... which I won't bore you with.  Just check your own phone.  It's the same deal.  Like any other day.  Negotiating time and kids.  Mama 1 grocery shops with kids on NYE = nightmare.  Due to the trauma, Mama 1 takes Mama 2's kids, so that Mama 2 can grocery shop sans kids on NYE = also nightmare but sans kids.  Props for Mama 1.  Über props.

Today my hubbie is working.  And the hubbie of my BFF is also working.  The hubbies are firefighters.  So they are either scheduled to work, or in my hubbie's scene, he will volunteer to work... on New Year's Eve.

It's okay.

I like it.  

I like it simple these days.

I like that we plan for nothing on New Year's Eve.  The kids know nothing different.  I relish the Nothing Plan, but can't help but remember how it was for me back when...

I'm from Altadena, Ca.  Just north of Pasadena.  It's been more than twenty years since I've been on the Rose Bowl route...middle of the night.  I can say that I've camped out on the ROSE PARADE ROUTE. I was a teenager, a teenager yearning, planning, stumbling into the next party on New Years' Eve on Colorado Blvd.  One year, we were in sleeping bags along the route, and the sidewalk sprinklers turned on.  Some of my girlfriends were so pissed.  So Pissed!  I remember laughing.  I knew instantly and instinctively, the moment was about to be a precious memory.  It was so fun because we were, like, so teenagers. It was so OMG, way before OMG lead the Text Nation.  So many absurd memories, but that one sticks out:  Sprinklers. Priceless.

I can say that, as a teenager, I have partied in the best of homes adjacent to the parade route on New Year's Eve. Of course, I took it all for granted then.  Now I know it was all so unique, and precious. And I was just plain fortunate to be there, and then.  Some of it a blur, but...whatever.

--------

And I'm fortunate to be here now.

My fellow mama BFF and I have been, like OMG, texting each other all day... like two young teenagers yearning, planning, stumbling into the next party.  Only the party at sunset ain't so exciting.  This party is called "How to get kids happy and asleep by, oh say, 9pm."  That party. 

We have young kids now.

And together we are seeking a way to exhaust these energetic kids so that we can enjoy some Mama time after sunset.

--------

I respond to her text, which offered to host me, my 3 kids, and 1 extra kid I am overseeing tonight, at her home with 5 other kids.  I am responsible for 4 kids.  She is responsible for 5 kids.  We almost combined the masses.... almost... but better judgement intervened.  I wanted a chick flick on the boob tube, she wanted to hug her e-reader.  We Mamas felt each other's vibe, even through texting, and our New Year's Eve dusk began.

--------

My mom called me this morning.  I told her my plans.  She listened.  She told me her plans.  She and my Dad would be visiting my brother's party, aka Party No.1.  At 9pm, they planned to venture to their friends home, aka Party No. 2.  My parents are both in their mid-70s.  70s!  

I can't imagine a late night out these days, New Year's Eve, or any other.  But it sure is sweet living vicariously through all the teenagers on Pasadena's infamous Orange Grove Blvd. tonight and through my 70-year old parents enjoying the sunset of their lives tonight, with family and with friends... and they will be singing an old beloved Scottish song...

Auld Lang Syne... 

...The Good Old Days...

XOXO Breeze

Speaking of ME...

Speaking of ME...

---------

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

"But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"
"No hurry!" said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.

---------

I have made a note that I have not written since late August. I don't like that much of a gap between my blogs.  I equally love and cringe when I hear fans of my blog say, "I enjoy your blog...when is the next one?"  (Oh, God, the Pressure.)


But, like I said before, I ain't one of those mama bloggers who blog daily.  I'll be honest, I have no clue how they can pull that off.  Yes, I read their blogs, and I love them, and they are written whole-heartedly, but how do they do that daily?  Really? 


So, I promised myself tonight was the night, no matter how awful my writing may be.  Tonight, a new blog.  It's 9:20pm Sunday night.  Hubbie is at work.  My three kids fed and bathed.  We all had a great day, and like most days, critically dependent on carpools, pick-ups, drop-offs, soccer, b-day parties, all for the kids.  


Remember, my topic is "Me Time."


--------


9:20pm.  The littles went to sleep.  My big 8-year old son was watching football highlights.  Yes, he should be in bed now, but he had a great day, and he wants to stay up, and he deserves that.  So I sat down to the computer and cranked up some "Yeah Yeah Yeahs" on my iTunes and started to type...


"MOM?"
"Yes, babe?"
"Can you sit with me?"
"Um...honey... I, uh, I want to write..." 


My heart fractures... 


8-year old boys don't ask for Mom much.  This is their growth year of exploring their independence. Yet, we know they are still so young and innocent.  And although it is rare, they will show you they still need Mom or Dad.  So my Aidan has chosen tonight, of all nights, (my blog night- hello!), when no one else is around to witness, to express his needs and wants and vulnerabilities.  He wants to snuggle with Mama.  And I want to snuggle him...badly.


I do for too short of a time. 


It's getting late on a Sunday night.  I call this time "the end of Mother's Week." Face it, Mamas, we don't have weekends.  We end the week on Sunday night, and start Monday morning.  No weekends after the chord is cut.  Just trust me on this one.


I wonder, where the frack is my "Me Time"?  Those Post-Preschooler Mamas promised me my "Me Time"?!


Well, I had my Oprah "A-HA" a few days ago.  I realized, while the blur of September sped by, I was waiting for "Me Time" to land in my lap, and then wondering how to make this coveted "Me Time," and then trying to define "Me Time," and then concocting how to blog about my new-found "Me Time," in which I obviously have no experience.


I tried out this mysterious "Me Time" the other day.  I forced myself to watch some early morning channels on tv, forced myself to do the household chores at a slower pace, forced myself to run just a "few" errands on the big list.  I was half way through the grocery store errand, trying to be "slo-o-o-w" at everything, when I realized I had forgotten to call in the school lunch order for my three kids. I panicked and checked out with a scramble of grocery goods, called in the order, picked up and delivered lunch barely in time, to each of my kids on their school campus. "Me Time" disintegrated by 12pm.


Sophia, age 5, said, "Mommy, how COULD you forget?!"  (Ouch!)  Tristan, age 7,  didn't need words.  The less-than-sweet Lunch Table Monitor (I'm sure she has a much more respectable occupation title than this, but from my point of view... ) has placed Tristan on some sort of "isolation" table, and he looked like he felt isolated 'cuz he was.  The other table labelled "Nut-Free Zone."  This table labeled "My Mom is a Nut and Forgot Me Zone."  It was all my fault. And that was my Mama-Stabbed-in-Heart-Moment for the day.  Aidan, age 8, thankfully had his lunch delivered perfectly on time.  But this also followed his first speech for a Student Council position. He lost.  Crap.


--------


Totally yanked out of my pathetic effort for Mama Me Time, it hit me:


There Is No "Me Time"... No "Holy Grail of Motherhood." 


 --------

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—
Of cabbages—and kings—
And why the sea is boiling hot—
And whether pigs have wings."

 --------


I love this quote, and I recite it often to my kids, pretending that I am the Walrus, the Leader, the Mother, the Father, the Coach, the Wise One, Buddha.  And I wait for my faithful little "grasshoppers" to respond, and they always retort:

"Uh, that's just weird..."

"Yah, weird..."

"Pigs don't have wings, Mommy."


The satirical poem and their innocent retorts say it all:  Twist it, turn it, view it backwards, even deny it, and you just may see the truth in a new perspective.  Especially in Motherhood.

But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,
"Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!"


XOXO Breeze

Little Lessons are the Biggest Lessons

Here we are, just quietly closing the chapter of another summertime filled with memories and milestones.

We kept awfully busy since June, but nothing "life-changing."  We kept our days simple and very filled.  Somehow the unwanted life "biggies" avoided our home this summer. 

So we had plenty of chances to explore Life's Little Lessons.

I am typing this anecdote on my computer housed in our relatively new shabby chic french armoire that somehow managed to consolidate all my home-office sh...stuff from a prior 8x8 foot cluttered space.  As I type this, I can see a name... graffiti-ed in permanent green ink... on the half-inch facial side of the cream shelf just above eye-level.  Every day I notice it, and make a note of it.  Permanent green ink.  My son's "need to improve" handwriting reads

" r u  d y "

Aaah, Rudy...

On the last day of preschool for my little Sophia, we "accidentally" landed in the local pet shop.  And wouldn't you know, they had some new little hamsters for sale.  And, coincidentally, there were also "Hamster Habitrails," shavings, and rodent feed all ready for purchase. But we just wanted to hold a hamster, not take one home.  (Ha!)  Ten minutes later, Sophia had named our new hamster Rudy. 

"Why is your hamster called Rudy?" I asked her. 
"Because that's the name of the boy who put the hamster house in our car!" she answered, matter of fact.  Duh, Mom!

Yes, folks, our new hamster was named after the pet store clerk. Classic.

Rudy, like all hamsters, provided a very positive pet responsibility experience for all three of my kids.  Hamsters are very sweet when given love and affection and a big plastic ball with which to ram into solid walls.  Aidan, age 8, and always calm, just let Rudy cruise all over his shirt, shoulders, and head.  Tristan, age 7, liked to create elaborate obstacles for little Rudy.  Never tired of this.  Sophia, the original proud owner, played with Rudy probably way too much but had the best giggles when Rudy was happily hiding in her dress pockets.  This also made laundry time interesting.  Shriveled carrots and the like.

All fun aside, Rudy arrived in our house with big responsibilities for my kids.  Play. Water. Food. Clean. And always lock him in his cage at night.  Always.  Do all these things, Kids, and Rudy should live 2-3 years, text book style.

At this point, I shall remind you that we have two cats.  The younger cat, Rocket, is an avid hunter.  Rocket often leaves "gifts" of bird head or rodent stomach at our kitchen door. Always at the kitchen door.

Well, summer days passed by.  One night Rudy was rocking out techno-style in his plastic ball.  I admit, I was kinda jealous.  Just throw me into a big friggin' plastic ball where I can go anywhere I want—but not too far—in my own plastic bubble with air holes.  So Sah-weet!  Sunflowers seeds, fresh water, and a fluffy bed... what's not to love about a hip n happenin' hamster's lifestyle?  Anyhoo, it was everyone's bedtime, and Sophia's "responsibility" was to put Rudy in his cage, that we kept in our garage.

The next day, alas, Rudy is missing, the cage door is wide open.  I weighed all my options knowing beloved Rudy had likely met his demise overnight.  Do we "wait" for Rudy to reappear?  Do I buy another twin hamster?  Do I explain the bitter facts of life?  While I worried and fretted behind a stoic mother's calm face, my 3 kids revealed each of their different personalities thanks to MIA Rudy.

Aidan, just like his father, assumed from the get-go that the cat ate the hamster, and he can now go play wii.  Done.

I found Tristan, just like his mother, quietly crying, and he said it was because he missed Rudy so much. Lots of hugs.

Sophia, just like Sophia, was adamant that she indeed put Rudy in his cage, she locked it, and that it was not her fault.  Although, please note, that no one has blamed anyone at this point.  The following night, little Sophia did confess to her Daddy that she forgot to close Rudy's cage.  GUILTY!!!

But we all knew this.

What closed the Mystery of Rudy's Disappearance was the little blob of rodent stomach placed carefully and very intentionally in front of the door—not of our kitchen—rather, of our garage, the garage door to the haven that held Rudy's little hip n happenin' hamster condo.

I never told the kids what I knew to be true.  I don't have to.  Aidan thinks Rudy got eaten by Rocket.  Tristan still misses Rudy.  Little Sophia has not looked back and has returned to dressing up with her stuffed animals.

Little lessons disguising building blocks to big lessons. 
For my kids. For my Hubby. For Oh-So-Selfish-Me.

Speaking of ME...

XOXO Breeze

PS: R.I.P. Rudy the Hamster • May ye rest in an eternal bed of fluffy shavings • June 2011-July 2011

Excuse me, Ma'am, are those YOUR kids?!

August 1st.  

This blog has been neglected for what seems like two months, but upon further investigation, alas, only two weeks.  That's what summer days will do to a SAHM... the days stre-e-e-tch out and SAHM has little power over this phenomenon.  Some summer days feel like a 2-days-in-1 Special.  Might be filled with vacation plans, birthday parties, adult parties, play date no. 1... then play date no. 2, relatives, visiting relatives, medical appointments, sick days, mental days, beach days, camping nights, sports- or arts- or whatever- camps. 

Other days, a tired-arse Mama is anxiously watching the sun in the sky aiming for sunset, while Mama pleads for sweet friggin' mercy. 2-days-in-1 has a very different connotation.  On this kind of day, Mama certainly dreads the amicable and inevitable question, what did you do today?


Hubbie and I attended a beautiful wedding of his colleague this past weekend.  It truly was a gorgeous celebration.  I was so excited! Oh-So-Selfish Me, I was so friggin' excited to get out of the house with my Hubbie With/Out Kids.  I over indulged in a dress purchase, borrowed my GalPal's abfab shoes.  I bathed, shaved, scrubbed, hydrated, quaffed, spackled and face-painted for 8 hours or so before the big event... all the while thinking of my own wedding day that seem so overwhelming, partially blurry, 100% unforgettable... way back when.

How could I ever have known way back when, the mark of the beginning of a new beautiful life...or two lives... that begin to reveal the strength we are given to gain.  All that pomp and circumstance surrounding such celebration in one day gracefully blends into a quiet lifestyle seeking and searching for balance within one soul–at the same time and ideally on the same path–and between two souls, with a faith in a future unknown.

------------------------

"Excuse me, Ma'am, are those YOUR kids?!"

------------------------

Thank you, Newlyweds, getting away sans kids for a night was pure awesome-ness.
Thank you, My Dear GalPal, getting away with 3 kids sans Hubbie for a quick vacation to our local island, also pure awesome-ness.  Also pure anxiety.  Also, priceless memories.

We boarded the small ship, heard the instructions, and found our spot on the stern.  Deprived children have I, so they ventured towards the bow and back to the stern... giddy like the flying fish we were promised to see.  After a few rounds of this, the Captain catches me by the elbow and says,

"Ma'am, are those YOUR kids?!"  
"Uh, well, no, I mean, yes, who's kids? but it's a boat, they aren't trying to jump overboard. I mean, C'mon, Capt!?"

Well, Ma'am, rules are rules, and them kids need to stay at their seat.

OOF.

I glance at my kids traversing down the aisle on a shaky ship.  I think they are far more coordinated at navigating the rocky passenger aisle than anyone else.  They were not running and they were not talking to any strangers. They are simply running to the next passenger pole, so as not to trip, and find their way to the bow.

They were enjoying their first time on a boat, just like anyone on that boat who had experienced them sea legs before.

"Mama, what are 'sea legs'?"

Little Lessons are the Biggest Lessons.

XOXO Breeze

Stand By Me

I want them to stand by me, right-tight next to me. But it's time that they learn not to. And that it will be okay.


----------------------


Get in the car, and wonder what the next radio song will be. That never gets old. And the songs that remind you of that nostalgic time. That never gets old. For new parents, the radio is turned down a bit for a time (1465 days but who's counting) or hosts a "Disney" cd. (My deepest condolences.) Some folks might even be listening to a novel in their car, learn a foreign language...another testament of the fact that there's no time at home.


Friends, I have arrived!  My youngest is almost 5.  And I can blast my car radio...once again.
I feel like I'm 18. It's (over-used word) awesome!
School is out for summer. For my kids. For Oh-so-selfish Me.


I've been driving around town with my windows rolled down...er, I mean, push-button down.  Music blaring.  Led Zep, Abba, Lady Gaga.  Wind in my hair, and singing loud and proud. At least I know all the lyrics to Led. "Where's that confounded bridge?" The rest—so sorry, Gaga—I just ad-lib.  I'm feeling hip again, make no mistake about it.


I'm feeling...
FREEDOM!
{OR A SMIDGEN THEREOF!}


There's been a lot of little smidgens-of in our home since June.  Smidgens of Independence for all of us.  Even Mama.


In only a few weeks, I have transcended one of the Biggies of Young Parenthood.  My third and last child finished preschool and has enjoyed a few weeks of summer school, a schedule that gave me a raw (Edward Cullen-style) taste of what is to come in the fall...


This summer, I decided to let my boys stay home periodically for portions of an hour... by themselves.  GASP!  Yes, yes, I did. Having grown up myself in a house with one old Pacific Bell rotary phone attached to the wall by a 25' cord, with one 13 inch black n white TV with UHF and VHF and "rabbit" antenna, and with parents whose childhoods were largely defined by WW2 England... well, that said, in the early 80's, going on an errand, leaving child at home or in the car was simply a given, perhaps even a privelege, depending on who you talked to. And, no cell phones.


These days, leaving a child—under the age of 10—unattended for any reason for....well... if it's not illegal yet, it is at least seriously frowned upon amongst those paying attention.


It's kinda a shame, really. I grew up with so much freedom, riding my brother's sparkle-green banana-seat rusty dirt bike all over the neighbors' driveways with my fellow delinquent under-age-10 friends. And "neighbors" did not mean the next door neighbor.  I'm talking blocks away!  You remember the neighbor with the epic U-shaped driveway, uphill both ways.  THAT neighbor.  Only one kind of person owns those fun driveways...cranky-old-man-neighbor. Mom said be home before the street lights come on. THAT was freedom.


My Hubby and I are trying to recreate that freedom for our kids in a fishbowl world. So here it begins with smidgens of an hour when we run an errand, and pray there is no monstrous earthquake in those precious 15 minutes. Maybe "monstrous earthquake" is a relative term...


A little errand is like when I went to Radio Shack to get speaker wire for the amp for the Wii for the garage soon-to-be-stylish rec-room.  I sauntered into Radio Shack, obviously knowing what I needed...said speaker wire.  I decided between 18-gauge and 20-gauge, 30 feet-75 feet.  I picked the best and met the clerk.  He looked at me and asked, "Do you know know what this is for?" I replied, "Speaker wire. It's wire for speakers."  He gave me a look, and I realized that he must think I am A) a 38-year old homemaker who has no clue how to install speaker wire OR, more likely, B) I am an 18-year old, car-radio-blaring chick, who has no clue what speaker wire is and why would it even exist, but being dumb and 18 I'd purchase it anyways.  sheesh.


"Do you know how to install this?"  "Of course, I've got wire strippers." There's now a monstrous earthquake in my ego. I better teach my kids how to install speaker wire before it's extinct in two years.


I also better teach my kids how to behave when they are excited to be so independent. In a recent and very exciting boat trip to our nearby Catalina Island, the Captain asked me...
"Excuse me, Ma'am, are those your kids?!"


XOXO Breeze

When the Night Has Come

It's been a few weeks, that's all it's been. That Tuesday marked the end of a big chapter, and the dawn of a new chapter in my life as Mama.  


It was the last day of preschool for my third and last child. It was the end of a five-year run at our parent-participation school. To sum it up, that's a lot of friends, fellow parents, beautiful children, all of whom span a spectrum of personalities that have shown me not life as it should be, but life as it is. I appreciate the yearn for "should," but I have certainly learned to embrace "IS." With love and admiration for our littlest people, our next generation, I hope I never forget this eternal mantra: 


Embrace Life As It Is.


Prior to that Tuesday I had already had my moments of bittersweet sadness, so I was ready (á la Spongebob), with strength and happiness, to face the day that marked the end of preschool for my daughter (and for Oh-so-selfish Me.)  


Little Sophia's carpool buddy was dropped off at the same time as any other day, like it was any other day. I took photos for the memory books of these two little pals outside running around the tree. I corralled them into the car for the last ride to school. Clicked into reverse and turned on the tunes. The little ones have no understanding of the end of preschool. Luckies!


I reversed out the driveway while, no exaggeration, the beginning of this song filled my ears... name that tune in three notes, I knew it, and I knew I could no longer pretend that this Tuesday was like any other:


When the night has come,
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we'll see,
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid,
Just as long as you stand, stand by me.


For the fifteen minute drive to school I lapsed between fog, daze, and tears.  I thought about how this preschool was created for the kids. Yes. True. But I was also thinking of the parents I had connected with. Friendships that began with casual hellos and friendly complements like, "Your kid looks awesome in that LedZep black T... reminds me of when..." 


Just five years. Some have moved out of state. Some have or are facing serious health concerns. Most are struggling with an uncertain economy.  Working Moms, SAHMs, Hover Moms, Soccer Moms, Single Moms, Super Moms. (Feel free to apply these titles to Mr. Moms, too.)


With my mind filling up with all these memories, this Taxi Mom was still able to answer the important questions from my two little co-passengers on our way to Ice Cream Day at preschool.


Mama: "Yes, of course, I was once a Pirate Ship Captain of the Sea. Such a silly question..."
Child: "Mommy, I said, is there mint chip ice cream for me?"
Mama: "Oh, right, yes, ice cream just for you... made by pirates...just for you..."


Just five years. I have met many, many great kids. Many Mini-Inspirations. And their parents. Some of whom—obvious to the outside world—my family would have not crossed paths with if not for this little preschool. I try my best to keep in touch with the special ones (the ones who unconditionally accept me and my family.) 


I have helped coax little rambunctious tots to sit still on the learning mat.  I have hugged a parent after an unimaginable chemo-treatment.  My GalPals and I played Tooth Fairy together, giggling while spraying glitter on a dollar bill for a one-tooth-less child whose parents could not attend the summer camp out. The doors of my friends' homes wide open for my own kids, while I needed something for just me. Likewise, my friends' kids enjoy play dates with us. I hope that Super Mom or Mr. Mom relish the breather, a little bit of time or sleep... these are silent gifts.


When the night has come,
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we'll see,
No I won't be afraid, no I won't be afraid,
Just as long as you stand, stand by me.


XOXO Breeze

"___Other Explain___"

Toughen up, Kid!
As a Mama o' Three, every day I hear tragic stories of playtime war wounds that go something like:
"Mommy, I want to tell Daddy about my scraped knee.  Kiss it first."
"Mama, you can't see it, but my finger really stings even though you can't see it.  Can You see it?"
"Mom, check out this bleeding cut here, right here... and over here... and on my toe.  Doesn't even hurt!"

Seems like eons ago (only 8 years) that I was full of overwhelming anxiety when I had to carry my precious first newborn to the kitchen sink for his bath.  What if I dropped him on the way?  What if I tripped, or sneezed?  What if I blinked for too long and he slipped out of his plastic bath tub and flopped on the tile like a fish out of water?  I do distinctly remember being so exhausted that closing my eyes for too long—even while walking—was indeed very plausible.  And I'm a notorious klutz, so dropping anything, even a kid, was very likely.  It can be a cruel twist of fate for new mothers, so darn tired from nursing and caring for a beautiful new baby during all odd hours of day and night.  Time ticks sooo friggin' slow during cries of a newborn and tears of a mama.  On the flip side, days and weeks fly by too fast when you just want to take it all in.  (Hey, Mr. Sands Of Time, you are not playing nice... you need a Time Out!)  Meanwhile, coos, giggles, tiny-toe-nibbles, first words, first crawl, couch cruise, and big little steps... and falls.  Here is when you wish time would stand still.

Life don't work that way.

You become Mom amidst the Blur.

And "quick trips" to the grocery store, well, those are, quite simply, a world away from your single days.

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If you had to write on my Owie Report with your green sharpie pen, it would read:
" F' Yes  Other    Explain  My nerves are shot!"

My nerves are fragile at best.  At worst, they are shot.

I've been a Mama for 8 years now.  Fragile nerves won't stop me from going to Trader Joe's grocery store with three kids in tow, 30 minutes to kill, and "milk" on the list.

We landed a great parking spot; we have a little list in hand; we have grabbed the beloved hummus.  Smooth so far. "Mommy, I have to PEE!"  Aw, Sweet Pete!  I said something I thought I would never say in public, and especially in the vegetable aisle, "Honey, how badly do you have to pee right now?"  "Right now, Mommy!"  Hhhmph.

I scanned the store as I have not had to right-now-pee in this particular store before.  I spotted the restrooms and the pizza sampler bar nearby.  I told my two older boys to sample pizza while us girls use the potty.  Lo and behold, there was a line for two co-ed restrooms and a bit of a wait for both—which is NOT good for the next in line, am I right?  Yes.  My boys were already bored after their samples so I invited them to stay with us in line.  We waited and waited and waited.  Finally, our turn came after a bunch o' singles slo-o-o-owly sauntered out the stalls, and our party of four dashed in.

Sophia took the throne.  The boys talked about if they had to go or not go, big decisions for young boys.  I encouraged them to go.  My patience thinning, I said, "JUST GO!"  Nope, they are old enough to decide for themselves.  Aidan, the oldest, had decided to be in charge of the door.  Tristan decided to be in charge of lights.  The lights went out.  It's pitch black.  I barked, "OMG! What's going on?"  The lights flashed on for a split second, then off again.  Sophia, still on the pot, started screaming.  I said, "Aidan, open the door!"  "But, Mom, I can't see where the door is!"  Lights flashed on again.  And off again.
On. Off.
On. Off.
On. Off.
"Tristan, turn ON the lights!"  "But, Mom, I'm trying!!!"  The lights flashed back on for a second and I spotted the "cage" around the small light switch, and I spotted my son's even smaller finger desperately trying to turn the caged switch on/off, meaning this bathroom is really weird, and also that the lights will be off for the remaining customers.  Mama finally figured this out right quick, Friends, and we made a dash for it... after Sophia washed her hands, of course.

As you can imagine, my anxiety was elevated that day.  But I can happily say, I was with an anxiety unmatched to trying to over-cautiously carry my first born to his first baths.  This day's anxiety was much more fun.  We were in it together.  Me and my kids in the dark, the light, the dark, the light.  Little Sh*ts.

We landed home two and a half hours later... with no milk.

The sun had set.  The day was done.  The moon was full.  The night had come.

XOXO Breeze

New Day, New Story

A new day brings a new story. I have had many little mama stories to tell since my last blog. But no time to tell them. Sure, I could have made the time to write. But I didn't.  I felt a lot pressure to write on Mother's Day. This is a Mom Blog, after all. But I didn't. Geez, I should have at least sent a "shout out" to you moms the day after Mom's day, or at least an inquisitive, "Hey, fellow Mama, are you as tired-arse as me, today?" But I didn't.

I feel so guilty, but I know you understand. I am not a professional mom-blogger. Do not expect me to blog every day, that will not happen. I get moody, tired, distracted, in the least. Then, on top of that, life throws that curveball. Thankfully not directly at our family, but to a few of my close friends as of late. We all can relate to that. The rumor, the call, the announcement, the caringbridge site, and the worst news.

Some of our family friends are in the Valley of Darkness, not my favorite phrase, but it's universal... moving on.  We can and should help them in any way. And we do—through delivered meals, promises to babysit or chauffeur, and donations of any kind. To pray. To listen. To offer a shoulder to lean on or to cry on. We offer to help in any way, and we hope they take us for our word, yet we know they will not accept all of our promises.  But our promises are there for the taking. Unconditionally.

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My 4-year-old daughter brought home an "Owie Report" from preschool today.  Our preschool is parent-participation, so the note is signed by a fellow Mama. Among other scribbles, I read, "Sophia was very brave and cute as always!"  Hand-written green sharpie on a scrap of white paper.  And it is now one of my most valued treasures. Testament to her bravery... and cuteness. In ink. 2011.

We all warrant an "Owie Report" from time to time.  But us adults have to pretend that green sharpies on white paper won't cut it. To that I say, don't insult the intelligence of our youngest generation by not writing your thoughts down...now. Even if you are at the last option—and likely most important—option on the "Owie Report" typed:

"___Other   Explain___".

XO Breeze

Confessions of a Soccer Mom

That's right. You heard me. I am officially a Soccer Mom now.

Soccer Mom is a title I had hoped to avoid... er, like, forever.  But here I am, Soccer Mom. I claim this title with love and jest and angst and irritation.

Straight to the point:  I did not want any of my kids to excel in soccer.  My oldest, Aidan, started playing organized soccer quite late.  In my social circle, I would frequently receive comments like, "Your kid is not in AYSO??!!"  And I would reply, "No, I cherish my Saturdays."  I had good reason for my anti-AYSO insanity.

My big brother told me what AYSO stands for: "All Your Saturdays Occupied." My brother raised his own two super soccer players. He was Dad, Coach, Ref, and now–10+ years later–on some sort of "Administration" (cuz AYSO is that huge.)  My niece and nephew excelled in soccer.  Of course, we are all so proud of them.  Yet, selfishly, I thought for many years, when is there a weekend for us as family without circumventing the friggin' soccer schedule?

Oh, I was so naive... way back when...

My Aidan, age 8, has quickly advanced to Club Soccer.  Two practices and one skills class per week, a phat check, to boot.  As a mom, it feels like too much: the commitment, time, money.  But as a mom on the sidelines, it feels just right.  He is not perfect.  He trips, falls, mis-kicks.  He unconsciously grabs his crotch when he is nervous, which absolutely drives me insane in the membrane.  I watch him listen to his coach... My young Aidan's eyes averted to the grass but listening attentively to his coach.  I know the lesson sinks into his brain.  I know he wants to excel. I know he wants to prove that to everyone. I quietly want him to prove that to everyone, too.  This makes me an official Soccer Mom.

When I, Soccer Mom, am on the sidelines, I am trying my best to entertain a 6-year old, a 4-year old, beach blanket, spilled munchies, pencils, paper in the breeze, and an iphone with low-battery. Then, when you'd least expect it, Aidan is racing down the field, focused like a predator, and low-kicks that soccer ball hard into the corner of the goal!  That moment is the BEST!  That kind of moment eclipses everything of my day.  That moment he is so proud of himself, and I am so proud of him.  That moment will be part of our bedtime chit-chat that night.  The BEST part of his day. It's a big deal for a little eight year old. It's a big deal for Mom.

That Big Moment will have faded by breakfast time.

The new day will surely bring a new story.

xoxo Breeze

From Broken Pieces to Ten Bells

[I have to side step "Confessions of a Soccer Mom" for now.]



Yesterday was one of the days I call "A Day in the Life."  To me, it's an ordinary day made more ordinary when enlightened by an extraordinary event.  A day to appreciate the ordinary, the rut, the stride, the laundry piles, the broken pieces around the house.


All in all, life around the homestead has been progressing smoothly. So the other night, my mama balance tipped over when my second son, Tristan, could not shake off the night terrors.  Perhaps it was a fever, I suggested. We took his temperature, but it did not read out of the ordinary.  My stomach sank with dread remembering when I was young and how I had the worst nightmares that just never went away.  I knew exactly the horror he was feeling even though I could not see the images of his complex imagination. 


And then a deep, soothing voice filled the bedroom:
"Son, it's gonna be okay. You're okay. It's just a dream. Daddy's here. Mommy's here. There's nothing to be scared of."


We all finally fell fast asleep through to the dawn of yesterday. The Ordinary Day.


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Just Another Day in the Life began with bumping into the trash compactor.  It broke a few days ago.  Actually, it started to smoke and I had to call Hubby at work for his step-by-step instructions on how to unscrew the machine.  Not the first two screws I unscrewed - not those - screwed those back in before unscrewing the other two screws.  Then I had to muster some muscles to pull the compactor out of its tight under-counter cave. Little peanuts from the gallery chimed in: "Mom, what are you doing?"; "Mom, what's that smell?"; "Mommy, is our house on fire?"; "Shoo, Flies!!!"  The smoke dissipated. And the compactor has been sitting broken, unplugged and pulled out of its domain for a few days.
Yesterday afternoon, the kids delighted in playing soccer and football in the front yard with Daddy while I nailed and netted a new chicken run in the backyard. Everyone was busy and happy.  But when I overheard that they needed to take break, I joined them in the house. Aidan, our almost 8-year old, had retreated to the garage crying. Apparently Daddy's super goals and light-hearted "In Yo Face!" unsportsmanlike conduct were too much for our first born child.  With a bruised sensitive ego and tears running down his dirty face, he sulked in the garage, aka: the playroom-in-progress, where he played Wii Madden instead (to build up his football confidence again.)


So during half time, Hubby decided to try to fix the broken fire starter pipe in our fireplace. I had started this filthy ungrateful (get it?) chore a few days with no luck at all despite the fact that the expert at the fireplace equipment store assured me replacing a fire starter is easy. Hubby was discovering for himself how not easy it was when he exclaimed, "YES! I got it!"... "NO! I broke it!" in one breath. He held the old pipe in his hand, but the pipe's threads were still in the L pipe.  We need wrenches and all sorts of gadgets to unscrew the rusty L hook without damaging the gas line that runs under the house. (Because that means calling the plumber, which we all know is the very last resort!) While I frantically forged through the garage to find a tool, I knocked over a glass jar filled with tidbits like random buttons, broken toy parts, beads, dust bunnies, marbles. Glass shattered all over.  At least this gives me chance to share with you one of my Mama-isms:  There are Three things that will guarantee that your child(ren) will run to your side, like moths to a flame.  1) The Almighty Cookie, 2) The Important Phone Conversation, 3) The Sound of Broken Glass.


Two hours later...
which included a can of WD40, 5 various wrenches and a trip to the hardware store, the broken fire starter pipe was in the trash, the new shiny one still waiting on the floor next to its future home, and the kids started the second half of football. There was a trail of ash across the floor thanks to the tiny hole in the trash bag. I went to yoga class. And I came home to a kitchen filled with the scents of steak, fries, herbs.  Hubby handed me a glass of Chardonnay.  Everyone was happy and hungry, and a little bit chilly.


The later evening brought a task I have not needed to do in quite a long time.  I needed to press my husband's Navy Class "A" Uniform.  I pulled the freshly laundered dress trousers from the dryer - the ones with the bleach stains in the crotch - held them up to him and asked, "Do you have another pair?"  "No, those are my best ones."  I do not understand why these have been the best ones. Why these? Has he gained weight? Lost weight? Comfy because they are old? Comfy because they are the newest of the old?


I examined this only pair of uniform trousers in this house. Before I ironed, I whipped out my black Sharpie and blue Sharpie and started to "paint out" the Gawd-awful bleach marks. The Nomex fire retardant fabric resisted the ink, but I kept "painting."  I thought it looked pretty decent...  Until my son sauntered passed and inquired, "Mom, why are you drawing poop on Dad's pants?"  He has since regained his confidence, I see.  Undaunted by my little critic, I continued on my artistic quest.


Finally satisfied with my work, I pressed the pants and dress blues shirt.  His bell cap and tie waited on the table until morning.  End of an ordinary day.


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Today is an extraordinary day.  He left early in the morning, dressed for the Walking Procession.  The last thing he does before he says goodbye is put on his Black Bell Cap.  Today he is one of thousands of Firefighter Brothers attending the Last Call of a Fallen FireFighter, an extraordinary man of family and service.


Today Ten Bells ring.


“Since the beginning, in the Fire Service the bell started the day, rang through out the day’s work and at the completion of each every alarm, the fire department signals that they have returned to the station and are ready for duty. The next Alarm.

In times past, the bell was used as the signal. We signal today with Ten Bells that our brother, Firefighter Glen Allen has lost his life in the Line of Duty and has returned home safely and awaits his next assignment. Gods Speed”

xoxo

Breeze

Lifetime Mama Club

Did you know today is Platypus Day? 
No?  Well, my 4-year old daughter is wishing everyone a Happy Platypus Day! Why not?! THAT is the big lesson:  Why... Not?!

Tonight, I overhear my little Sophia do the platypus dance in front of her semi-annoyed older brothers who are meanwhile trying very hard to focus on that cute husky-voiced girl of Disney's "Wizards of Waverly Place."  Each of them have their focus right now.  Just as we all want and need a focus.  What was your focus today? Does it match your focus right now?  {insert wicked laugh}

I'm not sure what my focus was today. Being Friday, just to get to 8pm with kids sans hubbie was a good aim for me.  That's usually the goal I set by 6am when hubbie dashes out the door to make le bacon.  I'm seasoned enough to know it does not work that way in reality.  And I am always ready to bend...

I had an attainable schedule today.  2 out of 3 kids in school. A little time at the gym. Groceries. Painting. Replace the fire lighter pipe in our old fireplace. Finalize the old-to-new computer transfer. All fun things.

Thankfully, I read an early morning email that erased most of my chores. My Tristan was to receive a coveted Gold Card Award at school today.  Mama's schedule has changed.  I ditched the gym, I was there at school with Sophia in stride.  At the all-school-assembly, I tried in vain to get Tristan to notice me, but that's not how he thinks. And I have to let that go and hope to get in his face with my camera after he gets his award.  He is so different than the other two, and so much like me.

Gold Card Awards are handed out by our school's principal who encourages a quick reception of award, brief applause, blah, blah.  Well, Tristan has been waiting since December for his Gold Card Award... and the rest of the world was waiting today while he sauntered... I mean, sauntered... to the stage, in his own sweet time... meanwhile the rest of the school assembly giggled and applauded. My Tristan showing his peers, his teachers, his family, his world, to just friggin' chill. Take it all in. Take it all in stride.

This is my motto for the Lifetime Mama Club: Take it all in. Take it all in stride.
My fellow mamas, plan your day loosely because you never know when it'll be Platypus Day!
Next stop... Soccer Mom Confessions

xoxo
Breeze

The One Day Knitting Club

I am blessed. I have a special group of gal pals that I adore, admire, and will cherish forever.  When I thought of starting a Knitting Club (of non-knitters), I was sure I would start a new über cool mama club, with the aforementioned group of über cool mom gal pals.  A Knitting Club for Moms, no kids allowed.  No metro-sexual husbands allowed neither. We could express our creativity through yards of 50% wool, 25% cashmere, 15% nylon, and 10% organic cotton. More importantly, we could gab about our mama lives, the ups and downs whilst knit one, purl one. Creating something.

We will make history!... inspired by all crafty women before us throughout history.  That's right, I'm even claiming that our club would add a little smidgen to women's history!  Bold, yes, I know.  Be as excited as I am at this point, unknowing to the reality check that comes next...

Reality check: We didn't need yarn n needles to bond. We already had US.  I didn't see that on this night of knitting, pathetically knitting. One gal pal crocheting, which meant the club was already getting complicated...sheesh! Wine was readily available, but, wouldn't you know, we creative mamas were all so dang set on learning to knit or crochet that barely a drop of alcohol was consumed that night. We were all trying so hard to concentrate, to focus, to cast on!

I call it the One Day Knitting Club because that's exactly what is was. One Day. Of Knitting. Of the Club. An outsider might see this as a failure of sorts. But for me, not at all. I will never forget that night because it unknowingly highlighted a big aspect of Motherhood.  We long so much to gather together with kids, without kids, with the whole family (birthday parties seem to fulfill this need), with ANY excuse to meet over coffee or wine. We simply need each other. We need adult company. We need to bounce our thoughts off of a "fellow" female.

And we laugh together.  Like when my long lost panties found its well-earned place neatly tied in the most beautiful festive bow, hugging the stem of my chilled "Winter Formal" wine glass at My Beloved Friend's holiday party.  Those In The Know knew. Kinda like a club... a Lifetime Mama Club.

xoxo Breeze