Holy Crap, Or IS It?

We're back from a fantastic, well deserved vacation in Ocean Pines Maryland. Sean's youngest brother,his wife and son live about two hours from there. It was just what I had wished for. Lots of quality beach time and playing in the waves with Lola. Gibson loved the ocean but only in our arms with wave mist tickling his toes. I had more time to get to know my sister in law, who I've always know was a great woman and a devoted mom.

Driving back to Massachusetts was nothing short of hellacious! What Map Quest said would be a 7 and a half hour drive turned into a death rattle of 10 plus hours!!! Traffic was creeping by and we'd see the same irritated drivers with that "just wanna get home" weary expression on their faces. The kids were troopers, watching their DVDs, coloring, sleeping (Gibson), and playing with their stuffed animals. Gibson would hold Pup Pup up to the window and say "I see the pool!" whenever we would pass a body of water. He called the ocean the "pool" too!

We were navigating through New York, lower level, George Washington Bridge when the kids began to sing and make screeching noises together, trying to out decibel each other. Reading directions and making sure we weren't heading into Harlem was a bit dicey and we yelled at the kids to be quiet until we were out of the city.

Under quiet duress, Lola noticed lots of great buildings. She asked who made all the buildings. I told her people, architects, etc. I explained about blueprints and the machinery and bricks, windows, all the stuff needed to fabricate a building. She's often said she wants to be an architect or a rock singer when she grows up.

"Does it hurt when God makes people?" We were gloriously free from the sooty confinement of I 95 and on our way to I 91 when she asked this. "You know, when people are here, when they were born from God." Oddly enough, I never mention the word "GOD." Sure, when she tags along to Mass with the ending promise of a donut, she may have remembered a thing or two, but I usually speak in the "Jesus" lingo to her. The sweet, humble, young man who was the cute Italian ceramic babe nestled in the hay under the Christmas tree. The Jesus who is the Shepherd finding the poor lost baby lamb caught in the wicked bramble. The Jesus who is kind, likes to share his toys, not lip off to Mom, and eats his veggies and doesn't wipe his boogers on the pillow case at night, kind of Jesus.

I could feel Sean instantly tense up at the wheel. "I don't think it hurts him at all baby bear." She persists "But how does he do it?" I suggest by way of women having babies. "But why have babies all the time? Why does he let us do it that way?" My head is spinning and I don't want to dig myself into a religious tar pit. I would rather like to get out of the blankety-blankety car, have a couple glasses of wine and revel at the fact we are finally home!

"Because he loves us and it's his way of wanting more people to love each other and not be lonely." I felt pretty smug with my answer and Lola wanted her Simon the Chipmunk stuffed animal she won at the Ocean City Boardwalk.

Later that evening (10 and a half hours later, as fore mentioned) Sean said he wasn't really happy with my answers and didn't want his kids having any false ideas. "Do we really know there is a God?" "Are YOU really certain? I want her to make her own conclusions and not have her believing in fairy tales. I want her to know of other religions and other ways. I want her to have discussions with people and be aware there are other opinions and beliefs."

Sean and I have oil and water views on organized religion and subscribed belief systems. We've made it work so far, after ten years of living together, then a marriage in a Catholic church (thanks Mom), ten additional years of wedded bliss, baptism of both our children into said church, weathering heated arguments about my beliefs and the trauma (mostly self made) and all doubt and good 'ol Catholic Guilt!!! I can say we respectfully agree to disagree at most times. Do I know God exists? I sure as hell hope so. I've lived on this, thrived on this, denied this, banked on this, run away as far as I could on this, bet ponies on this....It's all I know. Am I brainwashed? Blissfully indulgent? Afraid of that huge hand coming down from the clouds to bitch-slap me or smote me.

Do I know God exists? I don't, I guess I really don't. What I do know, what I know deep in my heart, and I know that throbbing organ pretty well by now; I know I wish I were a better person. I WANT to be a better person, I'm just lazy. I want to do better in the world, to make a better world. I'm just lazy. I want to be loved and to love. I want to not judge. I could care less if someone judges me. At the end of the day I know oh so little. Yet, I plunder on, walking the walk, talking the talk, smoke and mirrors and all that gussied up stuff that makes me feel better.

Once in a while, just a small glimmer, a nugget of truth embeds itself in my brain. I look at my two children. There HAS TO BE A REASON for them, a tangible reason they free fell into my lap. I look at my husband, so complex and so readable at the same time, surely this person was meant for me, and just me. I look at nature, such a gift, the people around me, who love me, truly love me. This I know is all true and tangible. All bets are on. This I am taking to the track.

There Aint Enough Calgon In The World...

Someone tell me, remind me it gets easier? There are days I cringe at the word "MOMMY!" I literally have to barricade myself in the bathroom and throw myself down on the floor, rocking in a fetal position for a few minutes before I have the courage to venture back out and become "MOMMY!" again!

Lola is into raging fits and blaming everything that goes wrong on me. She gets out of the tub and she's wet and cold, it's my fault. We go to the playground and she gets sand in her shoes, it's my fault. She gets marched up to her room for a well deserved time out, YEP, it's my fault. The other day she screamed and called me a "stupid loser!" That vitroil rant earned her another 15 minutes and no TV that night. She fights with me when I brush her hair. She didn't want a ponytail and got syrup in her hair at breakfast....AGAIN, my fault.

The best way to handle these is to also give myself a time out. Gibson has resorted to throwing everything and anything her can get his hands on. He throws his heavy Tonka trucks at Lola. He lobs his sippy cups at Lola's head. He hurtles his plates and bowls to the floor, usually with food still in them. He's taken to spitting his milk out and allowing it to waterfall down his chest and belly onto the floor. He's reverted back to using his fingers in his applesauce and creating his own hair elixir with mashed fruits and cracker crumbs. And I thought sand was hard to get out of his hair!

He loves to play Sean's drums in the attic and will scream "Dums, Dums" until hes's almost passed out. He screams "bathy" at the top of his lungs and rams his head into the bathroom door if we don't open it. Best of all, he takes off his diaper and flings it anywhere he likes. This is most often followed by peeing on the floor or rugs. We've started potty training, silver lining I guess. He found a Coco Puff wedged in the sofa cushion, pointed and said "poop!"

He's insists on clinging to me at every chance. He pinches and hits Lola when they're in the convertible back seat. The car is fairly small and there is less than six inches between their car seats. On the way to the grocery store today I had to pull over and referee their hitting, squabbling, bare knuckle brawl fest.

While Gibby finally took his nap, I thought I'd put off vacuuming and bake banana bread with Lola, some quality mom/daughter stuff. That Betty Crocker moment resulted in a time out for Lola, in her room with no DVD privileges for the rest of the night. The banana bread smells great though. Maybe I'll lock myself in the bathroom with a book and a loaf of that!!!!!!!

Big Thoughts About Babies.

"But how do the babies get in the tummy anyway?" Lola asked this again today. Last month she wanted to know why I wanted children and why we chose to adopt Gibson. Not an easy question to answer. Why did I want children? I was never one of those girls who dreamed of growing up, getting married and having children. I never really thought about it.....until I met Sean and he was eager to have a family far sooner than I was. I felt I had worked hard to become who I was, I was finally comfortable with myself and had quelled all my demons (at least summoned them far, far below for another time.) Having children would change everything. Most selfishly it would change ME!

Two kids and a few years later.....THANK GOD it changed me!!!! So, back to the birds and the bees with Lola. She then asks "Will I ever have babies?" We're driving home from Gibson's first hair cut. "Sure, If you want to have babies..." She's quiet, I study her in the rear view mirror. I know she's really mulling this one over. "I could have two, one for me to take care of and one for Jakey to take care of." Jake is her neighbor, partner in crime, shorter sidekick, preschool buddie, and like Burton and Taylor; they've been stormily married and divorced several times.

"But how do babies get in the tummy anyway?" I told her once before, as simple as possible about anatomy and how the two are needed to make a baby. She knows the correct terms for both sets of anatomy but proclaims loudly she owns a "Pagina!" She doesn't believe it's fair to only have one name and likes the combined sound of both!

Lola has a simpler explaination about babies. She likes to imagine everyone is born with a small, wee baby in their tummies and when you are a grown up, and you decide to have babies; you simply let it grow!

Shave and A Haircut.

I thought summer was supposed to be lazy, spending tranquil days in the shade, cocooned in a hammock, sipping a Mojito, great book in hand? Oh, wait....I have two kids......

Gibson had his first REAL HAIRCUT today!!!! He has the greatest, and I mean the greatest hair! Super curly and it just springs out of his head, these perfect corkscrews of follicle joy!!! Picture Tigger bouncing on his tail in The Hundred Acre Woods....you get the idea.

Ethnic hair is a bit labor intensive. It needs conditioning and picked out several times a day and nightly. I use all natural hair products without parabens and all those nasty laurel sulfates that strip hair of natural oils. I'm on top of this one! Then I noticed the back becoming matted, the curls were turning into dreads in the back, no matter how much I picked or conditioned.

I phoned a place nearby, Global Cuts, who specialize in ethnic hair. I was assured by Leslie that Gibson was in the best of care. We walked into what appeared to be a classic men's barber shop but with a funky edge. Framed posters of Jimi Hendrix covered the walls, black and white photos of 60's and 70's jazz greats shared space with a large map of Africa, mini flags from all over the world framed the mirrors.

Gibson sat on my lap as the cutting began. I had hoped a few matted strands could be dealt with easily. Leslie suggested a decent trim and said the regrowth would be even healthier. I expected Gibby to be squirming and fussing as she picked through his hair. He did great, I was the one sweating as his black curly locks cascaded to the worn tile floor. Lola said he didn't look like Gibby, that he didn't look like Baby Gibby anymore. I took photos of his abandoned tresses covering the floor and photos of him with his new look. He kept patting his head saying "hair cut!" and then clapping for himself.

He looks older to me now, and I have to say I miss the curls. They will come back and I'll know to be more vigilant with his styling. He's growing up and it makes me a bit sad. I'm not sure what I'm longing for; his curls or that precious time before his trim today. I look at him and my heart breaks, my little Gibby is changing, morphing, growing into a little boy who is becoming so sure of himself at only the age of 2. Lola says Daddy will definitely like Gibby's "new do."

A Cookie In One Hand Is Better Than None

Lola is onto me!!!! I bought Chips Ahoy, Reduced Fat. She and Gibby were munching on their before bed snack. "Mom, these aren't the cookies we've had before." She extended the cookie out before her eyes and gave it a mistrustful once-over. "What do you mean? They're the ones you wanted me to buy." "No, there's something funny with them."

When they are babies, it's easy to make sure they eat veggies and fruits. I find the older they get, they develop color aversion to certain foods. Green to Lola means NO GO!!! I made her spinach ravioli the other night and she noticed suspicious green specks of vitamin goodness. Once in a while she will eat corn on the cob. As a toddler, she loved grape tomatoes and avocados. I'm overjoyed she at least eats apples and blueberries!

Out of desperation and fear of rickets and scurvy, I made fruit smoothies and added two containers of pureed carrots. "Mom, why does it look orange?" I said "Oh honey, that's the color of the fruit." I served it to them both in fancy brandy snifters with straws. They loved them, for about three seconds and then abandoned them. Newman the mutt gave an appreciative wag after licking them both clean.

Last year, maybe several years ago? there were two popular cookbooks giving tips on providing veggie laden meals and snacks by hiding said unpopular food groups into everyday dinners. I'm torn, do you surprise attack and become the "sneaky chef" or do you teach them veggies are good for you, join a farm share, let them help you pick fruits and veggies still warm from the sun.

It continues to be an ongoing battle when Lola wants cookies or chocolate for breakfast. She knows she will get "the look" from me and be handed a yogurt drink and an organic blueberry breakfast bar. I'm not a complete food Nazi. Once in a while if she's running late, I send her out the door with Sean: a cookie in one hand and her toothbrush in the other.

Birdie Blues

Almost every spring, a robin attempts to play house atop the pillar of our front porch. Some robins begin the nest process only to leave under cover of night, their nests half built, a gaping hole with grass and twigs blowing in the warm breeze. It must be the activity of the house that makes them so unsure. I wonder about the birds that build under noisy train tunnels or choose sun scorched street light posts in busy downtown cross sections. They seem to stick it out, or tuck it under, or whatever they do in that nest?

I watched a tentative expectant birdie begin the building. She would fly to our porch with beaks full of grassy brick and mortar. Last week she added some tissues we had left on our side porch. Sean wanted the nest down last week. He's freaked out by birds in general and the poop is unsanitary and gross. I asked him to leave it alone, hoping eggs had been laid. I wanted the kids to see the nest and eventually babies learning to fly for the first time.

A few days ago while Mama Bird was away, I grabbed a step stool and my camera. I hovered the camera above the nest and captured some gorgeous pics of three perfect, bluest of robin egg blue creations. Nature is an amazing study.

I remember several years ago I miscarried our first pregnancy. I was five months along and we had named the baby and received Christmas gifts from family while visiting in Pennsylvania. We lost the baby that New Years Day. That spring, I watched a bird build her nest. Sean knocked it down with a broom and disposed of it in the woods. I watched that bird come back to her roost and take in the horror of no hope, no home, no babies. I knew how she felt; raw, drained, ripped empty, confused. I sat in the hallway and cried for almost two hours.

I showed Sean the photos of the eggs and it triggered that memory. You never forget, you sometimes talk to your spouse about it, even after seven years, and two beautiful children later. Most days I feel slightly like those eggs, soon ready to hatch. I am resilient: yet feel a scuff, a peck, a small crack kept under control.

Boom Boom, Out Go The Lights!

Power outages are a bitch! Some sort of mini tornado swept through Madison Circle (as well as Franklin County and beyond) and played twister with trees and power lines. Walking the neighborhood the next day was a bit eerie with plucked out trees and intricate, one hundred year old root systems pulled from the earth like baby carrots.

Live wires were everywhere and people surveying the damage. I wandered around in my pajamas, coffee less and wondering if preschool was axed for the week. Other folks crept out of their homes looking up at the sky and then the front lawn carnage below. My newly planted perennials held their ground well.

I thought of New Orleans and other areas hit by disaster and thanked God it was nothing like those events. Crews began to arrive on the scene with trucks, blocking access to our circle and firefighters were stationed at all entrance points. Every now and again, one of them would knock on my door to use my bathroom, clomping up the stairs in their heavy, yellow gear. My neighbor had to show up for work, so I babysat her son. Other kids seemed to hone in on my house for a play date. The afternoon was filled with kids, snacks, and water play in the yard.

Sean was home early with flashlights, lanterns and dry ice. Lola was distraught, no cartoons and no computer. I would flick the light switch on in the pantry only to be reminded we had no power. By day three we were all pissy! I could not suffer through another night of whining kids wanting cartoons, warm wine, and Scrabble by lantern.

3 AM, Sean wakes me...."Everyone's lights are on except ours!" I was dreading cleaning out the fridge and throwing away groceries bought the day before the storm. Sure enough, the next morning, everyone was basking in electrified, glorious, artificial light. All were having freshly brewed coffee, reading their papers, sending e mails, making phone calls to other happy full wattage friends. We were still acoustic.

We needed to call an electrician and fast! Memorial Day Weekend was looming and our hopes were fading. Sean made at least 15 calls from the yellow pages. (Amazing, the phone book: we never use the phonebook, we just Google the number!!) A half hour went by, then the cell rang. An electrician was on his way!!! It seems the storm blew, completely fried our breaker panel. We were fully restored within 20 minutes! I hate to see what our bill will be, these guys charge extra for weekends, and holiday. We brewed a lovely, hot pot of coffee, had steaming hot showers and turned on the TV for the kids. Lola was so happy she kissed SpongeBob, leaving lip prints on the screen.