Happy Birthday to You (and you and you and you)

Once I decided it was time for us to start a family, it didn't take long. I was blessed with being freakishly fertile. The only time I ever wondered if I'd be able to have a baby was with my first pregnancy. I had gone off the Pill and still wasn't knocked up three months later. I was devastated and convinced I had nothing but a future of in-vitro ahead of me.
My husband and I were out for dinner one night and I confided to him, "Here's the deal. I'm not pregnant yet so I think I'm barren. But the good news is I've already researched international adoption and I think we should go with a baby from Colombia."
My husband finished chewing his sandwich and said, "First of all, I don't think anyone uses the term "barren" anymore, and second of all... shouldn't we give it a little longer?"
Turns out, I was already pregnant and didn't know it. Confirmed it a few days later with approximately seven home pregnancy tests.
And since I am probably the most selfish pregnant person you'll ever meet, I had all my babies in the spring because I didn't want to be pregnant in the hot summer months. I'm not kidding about the selfish part. It is mortifying to admit this, but it's the God's honest truth: when I was admitted to the hospital for my first baby, I had pre-eclampsia. I had no idea how serious it was until my friend blurted out on the phone: "Really? That's what that lady from the TV show "ER" died from."
Really? Thanks Jill.
Anyway, once we realized the seriousness of the situation I grabbed my husband's arm and said, "Now remember, if it comes down to either my life or the baby's...."
He nodded. "Yep, I know. Pick you."
"Right."
Now in all fairness, that was before I had ever given birth and still hadn't experienced that miracle of unconditional love a parent has for their child. I'd like to think my answer would be different now.
Back to the pregnancy thing... since I wanted to make sure my pregnancies were as comfortable as possible, I was pretty adamant with the fall fertility timing. As a result of that timing and the fact that I was always just one wine-cooler away from conception, I was pregnant at least part of the years of:
1996, 1997, 1998, 1999, 2001, 2002, 2003 and 2004.
I know, gross, right?
Also due to that timing, I'm now smack in the middle of Birthday Season. Ever since they were babies, I've almost always thrown a party for my kids. That means I'm throwing a party in March, April, May and June. I love to entertain, but kids birthday parties can be stressful. Ever have 15 kids in a Burger King Playland and have to listen to them run around and scream for an hour? I think I'd rather have a root canal.
Here's one thing I would like to outlaw: Those damn gift goody bags that we're expected to hand out. I am so tired of those things. It's become such an expectation now with party-goers that I've had more than one child come up to me at a birthday party and ask, "When do we get our goody bags?"
I'm always amazed that gumballs and silly putty provide that much gratification, but who am I to judge? I still get excited if I get free peanuts on an airplane.
Some parents tell me they quit throwing birthday parties once their kids reach a certain age. I wish I could do that. What I've done the last year or two is give them an option to invite one or two friends to a certain event or destination, like the Mall of America or a cosmetology school to get mini makeovers.
I just feel like they're little for such a short period of time.... it won't be too long before they have to worry about real jobs, property taxes and mortgages. At the risk of being a coddling mama, is it so wrong to want them to always feel like their birthday is special? I still remember waking up on the morning of my birthdays and smiling, just because it was my birthday. I want my kids to feel like that, too.
Going through my parents' photo album, I did find a picture of either my 10th or 11th birthday party. My cousins were all trying to capture me to give me a birthday spanking, and I was terrified. It was like a scene out of "Lord of the Flies." One cousin was choking me, one  cousin was spanking me, and my brother was holding a leather belt - while laughing.

Hmmmm.... maybe my birthday memories aren't ALL that rosy.... good thing childhood is so short-lived.

That Time of Year Again...

As I look around the entry way to our house where the kids stash their supplies, I can't help but notice that (finally!) the winter coats, boots and snow pants have gradually been replaced with spring jackets and flip flops. While this makes me happy on many levels, it also means one thing that I dread every year: Summer Break is almost upon us.
I know there are many parents out there who absolutely love it when school is out for the year. They love it when their kids have at least 12 hours of schedule-free fun in front of them. They love that there are three months of the kids being home all day.
Let me be clear - I am not one of those parents.
I've always worked outside the home, and have almost always had a somewhat lengthy commute. During the school year, this allows me to be able to be fully engaged at my job during the day... and not wonder what kind of mischief my kids are getting into with minimal supervision. Aside from just a couple summers, we've never been able to afford to put all four kids into a licensed daycare/preschool program. We've usually gotten by with hiring a teenager to come in and help out. And while this definitely has its perks (mostly in the way of saving money) it also has its drawbacks. For instance, their "friends" will stop by to hang out and raid our fridge. Have you ever seen the damage a group of three 15-year old girls can do a week's supply of groceries in a matter of a half hour?
It's not pretty.
This summer my oldest will be 14 and will be watching the younger ones. As with the beginning of every summer, I will begin with the best intentions. I will sign them up for some local Parks & Rec activities. I will create an elaborate Chore Chart, complete with areas to check off what they're assigned each day. I will sit them all down for my annual "Expectations and Responsibilities" speech, and narrow my eyes and lower my voice to show I MEAN BUSINESS if things aren't done to my satisfaction. I will warn them about the dangers of hiking in the woods alone, and ignoring suspicious people in the park. I will implore them to use sunscreen diligently and without fail. I will plead with them to be nice to each other, and clean up after themselves so I don't come home to a scene from "Animal House."
They will do all that I ask for approximately two full days. After that all bets are off.
I will come home to cereal bowls with old milk sitting on the counter.
To a dog who hasn't been let out since I went to work.
To a living room that bears the evidence of some type of marshmallow experiment.
To four sunburned children who tell me they used up all the sunscreen already.
To four bicycles strewn about the driveway, just ready to be driven over by a car.
To mysterious neighborhood kids in my kitchen, all invited in because apparently we're handing out dozens of free Freezie Pops to anyone who asks.
To a hand-constructed Pyramid of Rocks that were all dragged in from outside because the kids wanted to create a sculpture.
To a bathroom sink mysteriously full of shaving cream and jello.
It is these things that make me go straight to the fridge and pour myself a drink after work.
Don't get me wrong, there are so many things I love about summer vacation - taking the kids to the beach, going on bike rides, picnics in the park, letting the kids sleep in most mornings... It's all the other stuff that makes me develop a twitch in my eye.
But this summer, in the spirit of wanting my kids "to have a kids summer" and also wanting them to not act like little uncontrolled heathens, I vow to do better. I will be firmer, more organized, more diligent of keeping their little minds and bodies occupied.
I mean it.
Because come August, school won't be able to come soon enough. I'll be ready to take a bath with a toaster.

Birds and the Bees

One of the things I always thought I'd do really well at was explain "the birds and the bees" to my kids. How hard could it be? Just be honest, straightforward and answer their questions. I figured anything I explained to my children had to be better than the way I heard about it from my mother when she was half-asleep.
I was 6 years old, and my mother was working second shift as a nurse. She crawled into bed with me when she got home one night, kissed me good night, and started to doze off immediately. Apparently I had a lot on my first-grade mind because I asked her, "Mom, where do babies come from?"
She mumbled something incoherently, so I asked her again.
She stirred and responded, "The man puts his penis inside the woman's vagina." She began to fall asleep again.
I, however, was very confused. The logistics didn't seem right.
"So the woman just LAYS there?" I asked.
"Mmmm hmmmm," Mom mumbled. "If she's really tired she does."
I laugh every time I think about her explanation now. Of COURSE that would be the response of a working mother of small children.
It wasn't too long that my children began to ask the ever-burning question of kids everywhere. And I've heard repeatedly, through books and talk shows, experts and authors, how important it is to have this conversation the right way. Parents are always warned that if they don't provide the correct information to their children, the kids will seek out answers elsewhere. Who needs that kind of pressure?
When my oldest daughter Frankie was in kindergarten, she asked me about it. I thought she was too young so I just turned up the volume on the TV. A couple years later she asked me again, so I went out and bought her the classic "Where Did I Come From?" book, complete with cartoon characters and descriptions of a "special tickle." I instructed her to read it in her room, and to then come out to the living room and we could discuss any questions.
She walked out about 15 minutes later, tossed the book on the couch, gave me a weird look and said, "No questions. Pretty sure I got it figured out."
Whew... that wasn't difficult at all.
A few years later my daughter Sophie asked me while I was driving with her on the way back from Red Wing. I gripped the steering wheel and blurted out everything in a matter of 30 seconds. I don't think I took a breath. I finished my speech with telling her, "And honey if you ever have any questions you can always ask me, and I promise you I'll always tell you the truth. And you know what? You can even ask your dad and he'll answer your questions truthfully, too." I mentally patted myself on the back for that little add-on. Way to promote co-parenting.
Sophie looked confused and asked, "But do you think he knows all the details, like what you just explained to me?" Poor dads... they never get any credit.
"Yes, honey," I told her. "Your dad knows all the details."
I wasn't sure he could draw a uterus-to-scale on a cocktail napkin like I did once for my kids, but he could probably pull something together.
Just last year when my daughter Chloe was 7, she informed me one night "I know what sex is. My sisters told me." I gave the stink eye to her older sisters, which they both claimed complete innocence. I sighed, sat down on the couch next to her, and proceeded to give her the talk. I didn't go into a ton of details, but I wanted to make sure she had her facts straight. When I was finished, I asked if she had any questions.
She wrinkled up her nose and said, "Ga-ross!  You mean you let Dad do that to you FOUR SEPARATE TIMES? Yuck."
I nodded sympathetically. "Yep, only four times."
Just recently my son Wyatt announced he knew what sex was. "What do you think it is?" I asked him carefully.
"You know," he said. "Where people get in bed with each other and hump on each others' legs. Like on Jersey Shore."
Great. Remind me to put a block on the MTV channel.
I rolled my eyes and told him he needed to talk to his father. After three daughters I was immensely relieved to share that duty with someone else.
So in hindsight, I may not have handled the "birds and the bees talk" as well as Dr Spock would have recommended, but I sure didn't leave any lingering questions about the logistics.

Mother's Day Misgivings

I have come to the conclusion that there are two great humblers in life: Unemployment and children. Both are subjects that anyone can be an expert in, even if they have no experience in either. Before I was unemployed for seven months last year, I used to haughtily assume the unemployed just weren't looking hard enough for their next job. Before I had kids, I used to assume all you needed was to be firm in your parenting and your kids would fall in line.
I didn't really account for the fact that the unemployment gig was such a crushing blow that, despite a minimum of 10 applications a week, I began to feel physically ill with worry... what if I never worked beyond a job that required me to ask "Would you like fries with that?" ever again?
I also have come to the conclusion that no matter how many times we tell our kids to wear their helmets while riding bike or to turn off inappropriate television, they're going to push the boundaries anyway.
Last week I came home from work, and instantly had to leave again to run to the grocery store. As I was driving down a residential road, I noticed a little boy riding his bike, weaving in and out of traffic. He wasn't wearing his helmet, and that made me of course roll my eyes.
"Nice mothering job," I said to myself. "Whoever is his mother should maybe pay a little more attention to what her kids are doing."
Turns out, it was my son Wyatt on the bike. Lovely.
I pulled the car over and yelled out the window, "Wyatt Robert! What is the matter with you?!"
He looked at me with utter 6 year old disgust. "What's the big deal, Mom?"
"Your head bouncing off the concrete, that's the big deal." I loaded his bike into my car and drove him home.
Shortly before Thanksgiving, my daughter Chloe came home and informed me that she was invited to spend the night at a friend's house that evening. I was supposed to drop her off once her friend was done with her guitar lesson.
Now, I know what I was SUPPOSED to do. I was SUPPOSED to call the friend's mother to confirm everything. I get that. I've read the books. But I didn't. I'm sure I was just relieved that one of the kids would be out of the house for the night. One down, three to go...
Around 7:30 that evening I drove Chloe over to her friend's house. I walked with her to the front door and rang the doorbell, prepared to do a little friendly chit-chat with the girl's mother. The girl and her mother came to the door, and within a few seconds it was apparent that the mother knew nothing of the overnight plans.
She stood in the doorway, wearing a pink track suit and holding a little dog in her arms. She reminded me of a Hollywood reality star.
Once I realized what had happened, I felt like an idiot. "I am so sorry," I told her. "I just assumed this was all right with you. I should have called. I'll just bring Chloe back with me."
The mother sighed and said, "No that's ok. She might as well stay overnight as long as she's here."
I thanked her profusely and turned to leave, but she stopped me.
"Just so you know," she said, leaning forward and still clutching her tiny dog, "the last time my daughter spent the night at your house they apparently watched an R rated movie. Were you aware of that?"
Fan-freakin'-tastic.
And as I always do when I'm under extreme stress or shame, I tried to crack a joke. "Well, at least it wasn't porn."
Paris Hilton was not amused.
Several years ago a friend of one of my older daughters came over. They were around age 8 or 9, and playing outside. When I was getting ready to take her home, one of my daughters tattled that this friend had pooped on our sidewalk.
I was completely confused. "Honey, we have indoor plumbing. You can use our bathroom inside anytime you need to."
The girl was non-apologetic. "Well, your daughters dared me to."
Not exactly a moment that you're bursting with pride as a mother. However, secretly I thought to myself "As least my daughters were doing the daring, and not the public pooping. That has to count for something."
Fast forward several years, to early this week. I was at work, and got a call from one of my older daughters.
"Mom," she began in a shaky voice. "The vice principal is making me call you, because of an incident."
Instantly I was on alert. The child of mine that was calling, had been getting into some trouble lately. Who knew what she got busted doing?
"What happened?" I asked slowly.
She admitted that she may or may not have used a gay slur on a classmate.
I was beyond pissed. I consider myself a bed-wetting liberal and have just assumed my progressive beliefs would mean that my sweet children would never, ever stoop to hateful words. Another humbling moment. In all honesty, I would have RATHER she pooped on some one's sidewalk.
With Mother's Day right around the corner, we can take this opportunity to do inward cringes when we think about some of the not-so-loving things our children have done....
OR
We can relish in the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Last year I got a homemade card from one of the kids, written in crayon: "Thank you for feeding me. Thank you for making me feel like I am the only purson on the planet."
So I may not be June Cleaver, or Carol Brady. I feel like I lean more toward the harried mom in "Malcolm in the Middle." But that's ok, because as imperfect as my children may be to others, they are perfect to ME.

Take THAT, Paris Hilton!

Boob Fascination

Ever since I can remember, my kids have been fascinated with two things: dirty jokes and breasts. They're like little miniature sailors running around. Both things capture their attention like nothing else. While the older ones have seem to outgrow the titty titillation, the younger two are still mesmerized. You know that song by Jay-Z "Can I Get A..."? Yeah, I used to be just standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, and one of the kids would walk by and nonchalantly raise up both hands, doing a cupping motion, and sing, "Can I get a woop! woop!"
So much for singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider."
And my kids have no hesitancy in sharing their opinions of breasts, either. Especially mine. One morning a couple years ago I woke up (I was just sleeping in my underwear). Apparently the covers were not strategically placed enough around the chest area, because I opened my eyes to see Chloe and Wyatt standing next to the bed, each eating a bowl of cereal. "Gross, Mom," Wyatt said. "Cover up."
Chloe made a circle motion with her index finger and announced, "I can see your little meatballs."
My what? My little MEATBALLS? Granted, after 4 kids I'm well aware I'm not sporting tiny pink erasers, but I take great offense at being compared to something that belongs on a hoagie.
When my oldest daughter Frankie turned 9, she had a slumber party. I was upstairs, decorating her cake, and she and her friends were all downstairs playing the game "Would You Rather..." I could listen to their questions they posed to each other and it was all pretty innocuous. Pretty cute, actually. One of them would ask the other, "Okay, would you rather... eat a spoonful of dirt... OR, kiss Luke so-and-so?" And I would hear a chorus of "Ewwwww!" and I would just have to smile. Well, Chloe was sitting on the steps and was just dying to be included in this game. She kept raising her hand and telling everyone, "Pick me! Pick me!" Frankie's friends were ignoring her, and it was just tearing Chloe up. I decided to go downstairs and get Chloe to come upstairs, so she wouldn't continue to bother the girls. I started coming downstairs toward Chloe. She looked at me and knew she only had a brief moment in time to make an impact on the girls at the party. "C'mon, Chloe..." I told her. "Come upstairs with me." She looked like a trapped animal and instantly blurted out: "Hey guys guess what! One time I saw my grandma's vagina!" The chorus of "ewwws" was instantaneous.
(Now, to be fair to my mother, Chloe never actually saw her grandmother's va jay-jay. She just happened to be in the same room when they were changing one time to go swimming.)
I dragged Chloe upstairs, as she was kicking and screaming. I told her I'd play "Would You Rather..." with her. How hard could it be, I thought, to come up with questions for a 4 year old?
I sat down on the couch, next to our fish tank. "Let's see," I said. "Let me think of a question for you...."
"Oh no," she replied. "I get to ask YOU the question."
"Ok. Go ahead."
She paused, tapping her finger on her chin, as she looked around the room for inspiration.
"Ok, Mom, would you rather... swallow a fish out of the fish tank... OR (dramatic pause) let your husband see your boobs?"
I was speechless. I sat there with my mouth open, not sure if I should be shocked or burst out laughing.
"I know," she said, nodding knowingly. "I'd swallow a fish, too."
So now that the weather is finally getting nicer, and clothes will eventually get skimpier, do I dare risk the comments and criticism from the kids? I'm not up for any more "meatball" critiques...
Nah... I can handle 'em! Kind of.