The Easter Bunny is tired

My advice to a young parent: First, if you are getting an Easter basket that you plan to use in subsequent years for your little cherub, or if you are planning to have more children, choose a very small basket. If you are trying forgo junk food overload and plan to dilute the pounds and pounds of chocolate with some non-edible trinkets, know that you are screwing yourself over forever afterwards because you have just perpetuated the “Easter is the New Christmas” ritual in your house; an idea at which you vehemently scoffed before you had any children. Although it might be easy to fill a basket with cheap, Chinese, lead-laden plastic when your child is three, it becomes exponentially difficult in subsequent years to fill that same basket with anything for $5 that you plan to spend.

My advice is if you choose the basket idea at all, which I highly advise to never take up in the first place, to choose a small one (we never had Easter baskets and we woke up early and watched my big brother find all the Easter eggs and eat them in front of us and we all turned out fine -yes, I know that last fact is debatable). Fill the basket to the brim with high-quality chocolate and eat most of it yourself and when it's gone it's gone. Plus you wont have to step on broken plastic junk for the next six months.

If you carry the charade for years after the kids no longer believe in the Easter Bunny, you can just tell the kids that the Easter Bunny went bankrupt and do the minimum and they won't even notice as long as there is some degree of chocolate in the morning.

Or you could move to Europe where people undoubtedly think that the Easter Bunny is the most ridiculous thing they have ever heard of besides Santa Clause.

There you have it. Unsolicited advice. I love to give it out and it's free.

Five in the Bed

This is a new post but it was written years ago....

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.

Working Together - A Labor of Love

Working Together

(Sadly,  since I wrote this a year or two ago,  we lost Grandma)

As a child growing up in rural Vermont, there were some chores I hated doing,

and, yet, for some reason I have this strange compulsion to drag my kids through

the same motions I so despised in my childhood. Why? Because now I see these

experiences as valuable.

This past weekend, while my husband and daughter were out on a father-daughter

trip, I spent the afternoon with my boys, ages 7 and 9, stacking wood for my

parents. There have been times when the kids have balked at the idea of manual

labor, but on this particular day they were amenable to participating. It was a

beautiful sunny, but chilly, day and perfect for such an activity. We went with

Grandpa to fix the tractor , but as daylight waned we decided to use more old

fashioned methods instead. The boys cooperated (a rare sight between

brothers in our household) to fill a dolly with wood and transport it across the

dirt road. My youngest, in little brother fashion, tried to one-up his big brother in

strength, but had to accept the fact that his brother had two years on him which

was not going to be ignored.

For a while, my 7 year old helped stack wood in the basement. He made a game

of it and started trying to see how many logs he could throw in before I grabbed the

next one to stack. Later, while I collected wheelbarrows full to add to the pile, he

showed me a marvelous stack that impressed me, and him. He was so proud of his

work, celebrating the sense of mastery he felt over a job well done. He didn't even

need praise from me, although I acknowledged the size of the stack he had built.

I left him to finish his work and went to look for his brother who was shirking in the

kitchen. After a bit of coaxing, my older son came with me to add to the stacks in

the woodshed. While he worked, he talked about the exercise we were getting

from all this work and mused: “Ya know, we don't do this to get rewarded, we do

this to help out the family; to be out on this nice day and so Grandma and Grandpa

will be warm”. All of this came not from me, but from the act of putting in some

good honest work. Sometimes, as a busy parent,  I forget how these experiences

provide, all by themselves, a sense of accomplishment, mastery and strength. Had

I paid the kids or even tried to sell the activity as a “good deed,” the point that didn't

need to be made would not, in fact, have been made at all.

As I worked, I thought to myself how thankful I am to have such an experience

to share with my children. As I breathed the fresh, crisp air that was infused with

woodsmoke and looked at the setting sun over the mountain, I thought about how

valuable this whole experience was and on how it was right on so many levels. It

would be a challenge to conjure up an activity that could rival this one for teaching

self-esteem, healthy exercise, the value of hard work and giving to others. And

the best thing of all is that it was free. Plus, when it was too dark to work, we

went inside and had endless cups of tea and chocolate-covered tea biscuits with

Grandma and Grandpa.

Parental Sacrifice - or not

Please excuse the lack of punctuation (run-ons  and double spacing - sorry but I am old and I just can't help it)...
The private,  inner,  underside that lurks in the mind of a mother... Thoughts  that shouldn't be thought much less uttered aloud... or on paper... or in cyberspace for that matter... either because they are very bad or just a pure waste of time.

There is a reason why I am willing to let my kids eat something that has recently expired or might be a little off rather than throwing myself on the sword, so to speak and eating it first.  Behind most seemingly illogical and scatterbrained maneuvers on my part (which are many) there are several carefully speculated calculations (although my husband doesn't believe this to be true).   I digress...     The reason is this:  First of all,  the probability of the food actually harming someone is a fraction of 1% and the kids don't know that  the food is expired and so they will eat it happily and not get the willies like I would even though I know intellectually that it won't hurt me. Probably.  Second,  if they get cheated by statistics and get some awful food poisoning and are in bed puking for a day at least they will have a healthy parent available to nurture them,  whereas if I am the one afflicted then the whole shebang shuts down, even though a part of me would welcome the bedrest (albeit preferably not that kind of bedrest).   Third,  my mother used to just cut or scoop the mold off something and hand it to us,  ignoring our cries of "it's moldy,  we're going to die" as if we had taken leave of our senses.   I assume most people don't way over think things like I do, and I am certain my mother did not either.

At any rate, this morning I did take the first bite of  the pink pancake that was made (without my knowledge) with the frozen raspberries that I have a vague memory of buying several years ago in an attempt to get more fruit into my toddlers by making some delicious concoction probably topped with whipped cream and the open container of maple syrup that someone took out of the back of their fridge and gave to me when they were moving last July  and that a kid  had rescued from the back of our fridge this morning  to put on the pancakes and so I know not the origin or age of the product - not out of motherly sacrifice,  but because my blood sugar rendered me desperate for sustenance.

Going to the Gym (or anywhere) ADHD style

A long post about nothing...
I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym...

You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless.
First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Another post about going to the gym

A long post about nothing... I know that "going to the gym" might be simple to some people, but this is how someone with ADHD (minus the H) "goes to the gym": If I had the H I wouldn't need to go to the gym... You look up from your book and decide that yes, today will be a day you go to the gym and that you have just enough time to go if you stop reading now and get out the door. So you read a few more pages and finish your coffee and say that if you hurry you can get there before your blood sugar renders you completely useless. First you search for your (barely effective) sports bra that you must have bought ten years ago and then you try to locate two socks - color is of no consequence since finding two of anything is considered a miracle. Then you look and look and turn the house upside down for your sweat shorts that you bought specifically for the gym. You mutter and then graduate to panicky whining while you dig around in the pile of laundry on the couch but the things are gone. Just gone. So after interrogating everyone in the house you find your Khaki shorts and whine to yourself "I can't wear KHAKI's to the the GYM!!! so you give up for a while hoping that if you stop looking the other shorts will turn up and you go looking for a shirt. You find a perfect one a few layers down in your hamper and though it is wrinkled you put it on saying that who cares, you are only going to the gym. Then you look in the mirror and say to your reflection "so you won't wear khaki's to the gym but you are willing to wear something -unashamedly - that totally looks like you grabbed it out of the hamper???" So you look for the spray bottle that you bought to spray on wrinkles because you never, EVER iron anything and never intend to either and when you can't find it you accuse your boys of destroying yet ANOTHER spray bottle and demand an explanation as to why a spray bottle never lasts more than five minutes in your house. You of course are standing in your undies in a wrinkled shirt having a hissy fit so you remember that "oh, yeah, I was looking for my shorts" so you go upstairs and look under a few piles of clothing and finally locate them. You find some headphones that work after rejecting three pairs of broken ones and find that your phone has just enough battery after you snatch it out of your boy's grubby little hands. Actually, you don't snatch it, you wait tapping your foot while he finishes the game and all the while you go on and on about how you have told him a million times before not to use up the phone battery and can't you just have ONE thing that is yours and that other people don't have to take from you..... then your blood sugar plummets and you realize that you waited too long and so you grab a handful of cashews which make you thirsty which reminds you that you forgot to get a water bottle and where are all the parts to the bottle that you just bought the other day so you finally get it assembled and run out the door and get into your car but you forgot the keys so you go back in and when you do you grab some more cashews but forget the keys so you get back in the car and swear and get out and go after the keys and when you get in the house you see the bag which holds your sneakers and you are so glad because last time you forgot them and had to come ALL the way back and you were pissed. So now you are ready to go and the whole way you calculate how you are going to fit your whole workout into half the time you had planned and you wonder if you should just say to hell with it all and go out to breakfast instead... Oh - a yard sale!

Summertime in Vermont

This was written at least six years ago after an elderly friend of the family visited for two days and told me with much disdain that: "children thrive on routine, you know." It is supposed to be in some form of poem fashion (I don't usually even read poetry much less write it) but when it appears on the blog it's all smushed together. Forgive me. * * * I re-read this with sadness, as the bowling alley closed this summer, the drive-in is probably on its way out since the new Walmart went up directly across the street with all the lights and traffic. The grandparents are still there, rattling around in their old farm house but the cows are gone and the hayfields are growing over with weeds. Time is fleeting and family is precious. * * * * * * * * * * SUMMER TIME IN VERMONT by Gillian Ireland ******************* Summertime is a time of beauty; a time when chaos reigns,  routine is banished and bedtimes are  ignored, and when dirt and sweat intermingle. Adventure becomes the word of the day. Kids are brought home, tired and happy from the folk festival or campfire and put to bed with dirty feet from dancing in the mud,  or smelling of wood smoke. That's okay, they'll jump in the swimming hole tomorrow. Or maybe they'll flood the sandbox again.  I'll wash the sheets  before the summer's out. Six kids overpower the car radio by chanting "Beach! Beach!" when the driver comments on the impending rain.  But she mentions bowling under her breath and the chants change to "Bow-ling!  Bow-ling!"  - Kids are so fickle. I should wash the kitchen floor instead. Nah, not on a rainy day. It would be covered in mud in an hour. Lazy days spent in the hammock with a book or hours spent in the sandbox. Gotta tell the middle child to get off the computer and go outside while I hide near the new air conditioner and clean the living room. Summertime is a bad time for frogs.  They are caught several times over, stuffed in a jar and stared at by  the not-so-innocent eyes of their young captors. Not to mention run over on  rainy nights. I always think of the frog families on those nights.  Do they pace (hop) and worry when Freddy hasn't made it home yet? When I query the kids about this, they just say "OH MOM!" Summer means haying old-time style.  Romantic memories quickly turn to hard, sweaty work and longing for the end-of-the-day plunge in the swimming hole – if there's time. The vicarious joy (and slight fear) of the kids riding atop the wagon can't be manufactured by any company, by any means. Cousins arrive from the west coast. The attic and woodshed are pillaged. Small fingers comb piles of artifacts – a bear trap; an old horseshoe - and there is talk of making money at the Antiques Road Show. Every tree is climbed, feet are muddied in the pond, and flashlight tag competes with the fireflies. Everyone's too tired for a bonfire. Maybe tomorrow night. The kids are corralled by Grandma  to help pick gooseberries, which are miserable to pick and not tasty, except in jam, which the kids don't always like. I hope to goodness that my kids are too polite to refuse. They'd rather play in the attic with the treasures, no matter how hot it gets. Dinner at the farm brings stories of the war, when Grandpa had to dive behind the couch when the bombs came and the next day the school windows were blown out.  The audience's eyes are wide.  Grandma tells the story about when mommy was chased by the bull. Later Grandma enlists volunteers to march with her peace group in the parade.  Hands go up. I wonder if we'll make it to the drive-in this year Summer is too short