Fall foliage in Vermont

My fall scene may look serene, but behind every picture there's a story, and it's not always as pretty as the picture. I took a similar picture when the trees were green. In an attempt to re-create the scene with fall foliage, I dragged the kids up the hill a week or two later. It was coldish, and the sun came out for 20 seconds every 8 minutes or so. When the sun came out, I yelled at the kids - and I mean YELLED - to throw off their coats, stand there with their sticks and stop wiggling. I was horrified to turn around and find a very friendly couple standing two feet behind me. I don't know how long they had been witnessing a crazy lady yelling at kids who were standing on the edge of a cliff. (the cliff was rather innocuous, in reality).

Summer

The Summer of my Childhood


Get up! The cows are out! The cows are out!
So much for my stolen solitude; hidden in the recesses of the farm house or the hay loft. A few golden, precious minutes... gone for today.

We all run out like firemen to a rescue, responding to the air of emergency, jumping into our boots, although complaining and groaning. Snapped to attention and organized for the event ahead. The cows are out!

Back when I was seven, when haying was a glorious, fun-filled experience. Riding on top of the wagon, when it was new – watching the strapping sixteen-year-old hired boys, muscles glistening under a sheen of sweat and hay seeds. When I was sixteen myself, and able to heft a bale to the top of the wagon, the hired boys long gone, the job of haying less a romantic venture and just sheer, hard work.

Most of the time, hay fever kept me out of the fields and in the kitchen – relief- although not so much. Picking and freezing broccoli, miles of it spread along the counter. Sometimes the neighbors stopped on their way down the hill and took us off to the pool, my mother reluctantly letting us go. By brother, seething, and rightfully so, watched from the tractor seat as we sped away in the neighbor's Volkswagen bus. We paid later in blood, sweat and tears.
Long days, long hours, lots of complaining, followed by a precious half-hour at the swimming hole before dinner – if the work was done in time. More stolen solitude, sometimes with a book at the top of a tree or the barn roof, always waiting, waiting for my name to be called for one chore or another.

Anne of Green Gables my most negative influence, along with Pipi Longstocking. Anne inspired me to walk the ridge-pole, Pippi to pick up our pony (at least I am told).
Ah, the pony. The wild little pony who used to take me galloping up the road and throw me off on the way back down. Later I learned always to walk down and run up.

My sister and I used to put on old dresses and pretend to be the Ingalls girls, running by the banks of the creek, and driving our wagon which was a large gray rock.

When weeding the garden or scrubbing oven racks, she and I used to pretend we were indentured servants, my mother the domineering land owner.

Five in the Bed (2006 or 7?)

FIVE IN THE BED...

“You could be divorced quite comfortably in a king-sized bed,” my dad announced to me one day. “Your mother and I slept in one at a hotel on the way back from your sister's, and we felt like we were miles apart.”

I have heard that kids can be a barrier to intimacy. I would say they are more like ten-foot stone walls topped with barbed wire. Nature has it's way of making sure that children are sensibly spaced in a family. My husband and I have gone through three bed sizes during our ten-year marriage. We upgraded with each new addition to our family. We now have a king-sized bed so that six elbows can jab us in the ribs even though in theory there is plenty of room for morning snuggles. It's hard to even hear your own thoughts while hearing “scootch over!” “No you scootch over!” “Mommmmyyyyyyy...he won't scootch over...” “OUCH! Watch the family jewels there, son!” Never mind hearing sweet nothings whispered from the other side of creation.

We got a cheap bed for half the price of a fancy no-flip brand, so we can truthfully say that our sex life is in a rut. We just have to decide “will it be my rut or yours?” In addition, at least one of us has to have the desire and the wherewithal to ascend the growing mountain of mattress between the ruts in order to make any intimate contact whatsoever. To a childless couple that may seem easy, but to tired parents it can be as daunting as ascending Mount Everest. All the right conditions have to be met before any mountain climbing can be done. The kids have to be in their own beds, ASLEEP. It can't be too late. It will NEVER be too early. It is always better if the dishes have been done, preferably without argument, because even the slightest tiff can ruin the mood for a tired couple. Even if all the right circumstances are in place, in fragile harmony, if one of the parties is nursing, all bets may be off for the next year or so.

Just in case anyone is wondering why we don't just flip the mattress more than once a year - well, first of all, we're just too tired. Plus, last time we flipped it I had a raging backache the next morning and every morning after that until we re-flipped it. Besides, let's face it - sometimes it's just more comfortable to stay in a rut.

The last time we spent the night at my parents' house, the kids and I brought them their morning tea in bed. Well, what a coincidence. Turns out my parents are in a rut also, although their's is smack dab in the middle of their full-sized bed. There they were, sleeping, arms wrapped around each other; I don't know if a chisel could have separated those two. It was a very endearing scene. One that not too many of us get to see any more. It all ended too soon. The threat of the next course of porridge in bed got them up in a hurry. No need for a chisel.

Rebel Without a Brain

This is unedited, written a few years ago...
JUST CALL ME A REBEL WITHOUT A BRAIN

Having worked in the mental health side of the education field for over a decade before I had any children, I heard lots of rules about parenting that I fully expected to put into practice when I became a parent. With every passing year, I seem to find myself breaking them more and more. There are certain rules that are unfortunately tried and true that I follow, like “don't let your children play in the road”, but there are others that I question. For instance “don't use the TV as a babysitter”. Pre-children, I would have said “why would any good mother do that?” Now I ask myself, “well why would anyone use the television for anything other than as a babysitter?” I remember when my daughter was about 18 months old I guiltily put the only video we owned in the VCR. It was an old Easter special that I had picked up at a yard sale, and I used it only out of desperation in order to get the dishes done. My heart would leap when it was time to do the dishes and my daughter would start asking for the movie. As my husband was upstairs doing his schoolwork and I had no hope of a human babysitter, I knew this video was a gift from God that allowed me half an hour to clean the kitchen unencumbered. Like any bad mother, sometimes on rare occasions I put the movie on twice. My sons didn't develop an interest in TV until well into their two's, and believe me I celebrated when the long-awaited miracle finally happened. Of course, now I'm dealing with the long term effects of my short-term relief and fighting with them to turn off the damned TV.

Another rule about TV is “always watch television with your kids”. Well, the kids only watch public television or educational videos (mostly) in my house, and I figure the people who put on these shows know more about education than do I so I toss all my trust in their direction. When my preschoolers are asking me how to spell “molecules”, I bask in the false security that television is somehow good for them – in reasonable doses, of course. Once when I suggested to my three year old son that because it was late he could skip brushing his teeth just this once, he became panicked and said “but if I don't brush I'll get bacteria on my teeth”! It said so on TV, I guessed. However, in one valiant attempt to be a good mother, I did decide to follow the rules a couple of times and settled in dutifully to watch Caillou. After about ten minutes I started feeling terribly depressed and inadequate. Not only that, but I felt that my husband was also inadequate. Caillou's house is always cheerfully colored and clutter-free. Although Caillou is one of the biggest brats I have ever seen, his parents are proverbially, sickeningly NICE. Sure he gets consequences when he breaks a plant pot and then lies and says his imaginary friend did it, but the patient parents take the time to explain and make a lesson out of it – delivered with an even temper and loving tone of voice. They back each other up always (at least when I've seen them). Of course they have the time, because they are always HOME! Once Caillou broke a doorknob, and the dad fixed it right then and there! Not next week, or next year, with Mrs. Caillou nagging and swearing at him to fix the damned doorknob that he broke two years ago. What's more, he knew right where to find the screwdriver. He didn't even have to search the kids' bedrooms to find it. I was so shocked I almost dropped the dish I was washing (no multitasking mother is going to SIT and watch TV by the way – that would be breaking my own rule). Not only was it always Saturday at Caillou's house, or they were trust-funders or whatever, but they live in a wonderful neighborhood where there is a sledding hill and a forest in the back yard, yet there is a well-maintained sidewalk out front and it is a short walk to the park, the post office and stores, but no traffic. I can't believe I was comparing my life to a cartoon! I finally said that I'm either going to have to stop watching PBS or else talk to my doctor for a prescription and a referral for therapy – in that order. Maybe I can get some of what Caillou's parents are taking (or smoking). Maybe they're drug dealers and that's why they're home and happy all the time. That's it – No More PBS! But then who would babysit and teach my kids to brush their teeth twice a day and remind them to remind me to read to them fifteen minutes a day?(although that doesn't seem like much to me)? Never mind. A little TV will keep them connected to the world. It's all about balance (my new mantra). Just about anything goes, as long as it's all about balance and degree. It's more fun to make up my own rules. (in case anyone is interested, four rolls of toilet paper appeared next to the computer right in my line of sight, and I know not how they got there.).

Premenapause Might Not be the Time to Start Camping...

There must be something wrong with me, as I am a person who sees vacation as something to be endured, and if it is enjoyed, it is a bonus. After days of packing, two 12-hour days of working and one day of driving, I'm toast by the time we get to our destination. Camping. There are two reasons for camping. One is for it's own sake. We are supposed to get sufficiently bored and thereby be forced to commune with nature, our own family, and board games. The second reason to camp, for lack of funds for a hotel, is so we have a relatively cheap place to stay while we run around seeing the sights or hang at the beach. (However it will take a couple of years to balance the cost of the camper. ) Well, there's a third, and that is for the sake of the children. Therefore most pleasure gained is of a vicarious nature.

Day one. Misty rain. 8 am. I'm already at my breaking point. Not a good sign. My boys' voices seem to be reverberating throughout the campground. I fear our friend in the next campsite will awaken, even though his music kept us up 'til 2 am. After several pleas for quiet, I, the psychotherapist, with years of experience helping others to raise their kids, cannot think of anything more creative to hiss between my teeth other than: “shut UUUUUPPPPPPPP!” I feel a pang of shame as I hear myself. Then I hiss it again. Louder this time. The only thing that gives me a shread of comfort is that minutes ago I heard a woman admonishing her kids in the bathroom. I thought she was a bit harsh. Now I feel as if I'm her soulmate. Then I enter the camper, which yesterday looked rather roomy and comfortable, is a veritable tossed salad of clothing, toiletries, books, cooking utensils and people. I spend half an hour looking for my toothbrush and can't remember in which compartment I stuffed the towels. By 11 we are off to the beach. Just in time for everyone to get hypoglycemic. I prefer cold and rain to searing heat, but even two coats and a snuggie cannot keep me warm. I can't believe I brought TWO books. What was I thinking? I settle myself on the beach to read about parenting rather than partaking in it. Fortunately the book is about kids under pressure, and says that kids should be left to their own devices to play with minimal adult input. Perfect choice! Thank goodness I didn't grab something off the shelf that touted consistency and routine. The kids have a ball. So does Russ. I have a pretty good time and would like to be warm, but who's complaining. I'm READING!!!!!!!

Day two: 1 am. I wake with a start to a strange noise, and I know instantly what it is, even before I hear the whining from the other child. It's the sound of Johnny puking. All over the sheets. We all get up, lights come on (thank goodness for lights) and assess the sheets as terminal. Also the mattress. I put a towel down and turn the mattress over and discover that the flip side is waterproof. Nice to know that now – for later. The upshot of the night of puking is that I get to spend the whole afternoon reading in the laundromat. About parenting. While not parenting. It turns out that the kids in Taiwan and Korea have to go to cram schools after regular school. They'll either self-destruct or take over the world. It will be interesting to see how it turns out. Meanwhile I'd sign my kids up for Chinese classes if there were any around here, but the whole point of the book is not to.

Day three , four, five, six, seven:
The weather gets better, I have most of a warm-but-not-hot day reading on the beach, we do a little crabbing, have a glorious dinner with relatives, have a campfire and smores. The rest is a blur. I remain tired, but plod along appreciating Russ for just feeding me coffee every four hours and not complaining that I look as if I'm about to faint at any moment. He even suggests I take a nap, which I attempt, but then I martyrishly get up to play mini-golf, to which I have previously been given an invitation to abstain by my dutiful husband. But motherly guilt has a hold on me.

On the day we leave, unbelievably, I have energy. Thank goodness because we have to pack up. I'm even in a fairly good mood. After fumbling with the trailer hitch for an hour and finally lubricating it with margerine, and then losing the brake-light plug and driving to the next town, fearing a collision, to buy a new one, we arrive at the Maine diner just before all our blood-sugars plummet to the center of the earth. On the way home we discuss future camping trips. Maybe to the state parks, or Arcadia. How romantic. Maybe we'll use some of the board games I bought.

Lessons Not Learned

Lessons Not Learned

These lessons seem to play out over and over again. When am I going to learn?

Since my knee is injured, I did not respond to the construction noises downstairs. Had I smelled smoke or heard screams, power tools, or heavy things falling, I would have hobbled down the stairs to investigate. However, I hoped it was just two young boys building, and to my knowledge I was correct. Later, however, I did respond to the giddy cries of “we're making a volcano!” that were coming from the kitchen. I snapped a few pictures, decided that they couldn't do much damage in the sink, and left the two boys to their own devices. I regrettably did not swipe the open container of food coloring that was sitting on the counter at elbow's reach. I can blame it on my knee, or the fact that I had to make an important phone call, or even the hope that all this time I've had ADD and not known it, but for whatever reason the bottle remained untouched. Until I heard “there's red food coloring all over the floor and I didn't do it!” The kitchen looked like a murder scene. There was, in fact, red food coloring all over the floor, and a little black dog was playing in it and licking it up. There were red paw prints all over the place. I had to get “the man upstairs” (my husband) to stop working and come to the rescue as I couldn't kneel down to wipe up the mess. I put the dog in what looked like a bloodbath, and before long everything was fine except for the permanently stained linoleum. At least the stains detract from the duct tape holding it together.

The boys have since been fed peanut butter bagels, told how many times I have previously told them not to play with the food coloring, and are now safely watching The Magic School Bus. I should use the term “safely” with a pinch of salt, as Ms. Frizzle and her Magic School Bus are partly responsible for all this volcano stuff in the first place.

I can't believe that people still want to send their kids over here, then again, it's not their kitchen floor...

The Bad Mother

I'm going to chop up and post some stuff that I wrote a few years ago, especially since many people I know have recently had babies...Remember it is completely unedited, so you'll have to take it as it is. However, constructive feedback is welcome. Many of my friends have already seen it...At some point I want to come up with a new title. One more note: People who don't know me sometimes don't fully appreciate the tongue-in-cheek, It's-okay-to-laugh-at-yourself tone of my writing. I'm working on better delivery in the future (writing, that is, not babies!)

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THE BAD MOTHER

Author's note: These are the largely unedited ramblings of a mother. They do not claim to be classic literature. I hope that I can collect stories from other mothers and put them into a book later when I have time. This book is likely to serve two purposes apart from the cathartic value for myself. Because we mothers are all different as people, some mothers may read it, think I'm horrible, and feel they are better mothers by comparison. Wonderful! I like to help people. Others may read it and feel that they are less alone in this chaotic world. I would love to be an organized person, but I am not, so I'll have to learn to love creative chaos.

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As I make my way through the squalor and wave a crowd of kids away from the computer like flies from manure, I sit down to write my first book... or perhaps article. With a tacked up flannel sheet on my left that has replaced the torn-down curtain, and Clifford keeping me company on my right, I bask in the oblivion (new found) of the computer screen. I know the kitchen table is covered with rice Crispies and milk (rice Crispies are the worst to scrape off when they dry) but that mess will have to wait. I've often heard of women who spend hours on the computer chatting with a new boyfriend while their kids destroy the house. First, I have neither the time or energy for any kind of boyfriend – cyber or otherwise - and second, Even if I can get a turn on the computer I always have a “helper” who is teaching me how to dismantle the printer while I work. My house gets destroyed anyway.

Let me just say that the first thing I did which in some circles could label me as a bad mother, besides a small amount of coffee and half a beer once prenatally, was to have a C-section. Then I had one more (after trying everything including hypno-birthing not to), and then I had one more (scheduled of course – it's the way to go). It's not having the C-section so much as being naive and unassertive enough to allow the medical profession to bully you into having one that labels one as bad.. Unless you read the kind of magazines I read, this may not affect you. My daughter decided that hanging upside down in a womb was just an uncomfortable way to spend her last month in utero, and she thought she'd stay right where she was, transverse and comfortable, thank you very much. As it turns out, she doesn't like to do ANYTHING the way everyone else does it, just on principle. With my second child, I was determined to have a VBAC. I read a wonderful book called “Labor Without Fear” or Tears, or something like that. It would have all been roses if I were one of the percentage of women (like my mother) who just pop kids out easily as pie with a smile on their faces. In the end, after three days of contractions (hypnobirthing didn't help me although it did wonders for my husband) and no sleep and no dilation past ½ a centimeter, I had to choose between lunch and a C-section. It was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon and it seemed the nice thing to do to not inconvenience my wonderful doctor and to have the baby at a reasonable hour. Or I could eat lunch and be in great pain for another 24 hours or so and probably have the same result. I just felt like a failure because I didn't successfully imagine enough flowers opening (per the book Labor Without...). It's nice to talk about natural childbirth and women taking control of our own bodies and health care when all turns out nicely. The truth is, childbirth and parenting are among the most humbling of experiences.

WHAT IS YOUR CAMP?
Depending in which circles a woman travels and what she does or doesn't read, she is bound to be perceived as a bad mother by the other “camp”. If you walk into the library during story hour and mention the words “family bed” you're likely to incite a riot complete with flying diaper bags. With my second child I subscribed more religiously than I should have and less religiously than some to the Attachment Parenting Camp. I was doomed from the start considering that I was a working mom and you can only become so attached to someone with whom you are not constantly in contact (or so my camp says). Our daycare provider got our son on a nice routine for four days of the week, and I was his slave the other three. I used to put him in the swing instead of the sling occasionally and joke about the attachment police coming over and citing me for child abuse. Once I pointed to my happy boy smiling away in the bouncy seat, and questioned a friend as to whether she thought he was being damaged because he wasn't being held. She pointed out that from the bouncy seat, he could easily look around and take in the world, whereas in the sling he couldn't see as much. This should have been a no-brainer, but it seems as if parental instinct diminishes with every parenting book read. Although I still lean mostly toward the attachment camp, if I were to do it over again I would at least let myself brush all of my teeth while my little darling fussed a little. Once my brother expressed disbelief and disapproval that I hadn't “sleep-trained” my middle child yet. I immediately assembled a collection of articles to send to him that cited permanent emotional and biochemical damage done to children who are “sleep trained”. Then, in a sleep-deprived state of desperation, I finally ferberized (sleep trained) my son about eight or nine months too late. (all those months of sleep lost!) He's now five (seven), very well attached and sleeps great. So do I. I imagine that, being a counselor, somewhere along the line I confused the term attachment disorder with attachment parenting; the former being a result of a lack in the latter. The fact that it was a complex matter of degree among other things didn't occur to me.

Danger Danger

THIS IS SOMETHING I WROTE A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO: HOPE IT RELATES.
DANGER DANGER
Once you become a parent, apart from the fact that you find out you can talk about all the qualities of poop for hours, you tend to see danger everywhere. We're all on the over/under protective spectrum somewhere. My wonderful husband truly thinks that I just favor fun at all times regardless of the risks. I tell him that I refuse to live in the fetal position all my life. One day as I was reading the Cat in the Hat, It suddenly dawned on me that my idol was the cat and his was the fish. We had a wonderful conversation regarding our cat and fish viewpoints. “Well somebody's got to be the fish” was his viewpoint, well-taken. Children need cats and fish in their lives, of course not battling it out constantly as often happens, but gently tempering each other and settling at some middle ground (that's fine in my house but the middle ground absolutely must be on MY territory). Contrary to what may appear to be NOT going on in my head, when my kids do do dangerous things it's because: A: I have put a lot of thought and calculation into the perceived risk involved - “is someone going to accidentally hang themselves from that rope...exactly how much damage can one do if they fall from the tree house – will they break their arm or their neck (there's a big difference). The relatively low height of the tree house is not an accident. It was all planned out by me, and the danger versus fun and developmental need for -you name it- factor has all been taken into account. Or B: I am just too exhausted to do anything about it and I make a quick calculation of the odds of anything really dangerous happening and just hope for the best. Apparently, I do not “freak out” enough for my husband's taste. He would be much more comfortable if he heard my silent screams audibly. He has finally agreed to settle for the fact that “I'm freaking out inside, OK?” “OK as long as I know you're freaking out”. I didn't spend twenty years perfecting the art of NOT freaking out while working with emotionally whatever-the-current-politically-correct-term-is-now- kids for NOTHING you know! The stories I could tell about the King Street Kids and their antics could chill you to the bone. I know that working with and raising kids is a chess-game. They make a move, we anticipate their next move while planning our own, and so on. You don't see chess players jumping up, flailing their arms and saying “Don't you dare move that pawn there – don't you know you're going to kill yourself?!!!?” I save those antics for really serious things. I certainly did freak out when my fifteen-month old ran into the road when a car was coming. I'm not completely crazy!

Duct Tape Holds Our Lives Together

> Well, something that I can never be accused of now is being pretentious. I have officially applied duct tape to my kitchen floor. It complements the decor of the ripped flannel sheet on the living room window and the broken lamp shade. For you Martha Stewart types, you should be happy to know that it is special white duct tape, which matches the color of the floor when it is clean (as far as I can remember). The crack in the linoleum was exacerbated the day I left the house with the famous last words: Alison, would you mind mopping the floor? I should have noted the over-enthusiasm in her voice and the gleeful look on her friend's face. I had forgotten the glorious afternoon in the recent past when I had the whole daycare skating around "Pippi style" with sponges attached to their feet. When I returned home I nearly slipped on pools of water. The girls were so proud. I was so devastated. I noticed that the crack in the floor was beginning to buckle. Russ had been obliviously working upstairs, knowing nothing of the destruction -rather cleaning- going on below. Thanks again to Pippi Longstocking, my mentor and most admired person from my childhood.
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