All Adither

Wordiness. Or lack thereof.

SMITH magazine and Harper Perennial recently released a book called: Not Quite What I Was Planning--Six Word Memoirs By Writers Famous and Obscure. Media outlets, including The Seattle P-I, picked up on the idea and have solicited their own submissions.

I admit. I tried. I failed.

I wrote one, then several. Because I could not narrow down which part of my life I wanted to focus on, and I couldn't, obviously, fit in everything significant thus far: My family, my husband, my kids, my writing. Though that's close, at eight words.

So, here are a few different twists on the same life. Mine.

He came to me. He stayed.

I submersed myself in many words.

I loved my kids too much.

I loved my kids not enough.

I was easily distracted. Look! There!

Please leave your own six-word memoir in the comments section.

When does it get easier?

Sometimes my two kids, a freshly minted five and three, play together really well and I feel like we're gettin' somewhere, like my life won't always be about fetching this, reaching that, cleaning up after. But then, we have days (read: the last few) when it seems all I'm doing is scurrying around like a housegirl.

I repeat the mantra all day long: I'm not your servant. I'm your mommy. I'm not here to do everything for you. I'm here to teach you to do things for yourself.

But the learning curve? It is steep. For all of us.

I often have to sit on my hands to prevent myself from plunging in and finishing a task. It takes all my willpower to ignore their screeches of protest when I'm hanging back, letting them figure out the frustrating riddle of their jacket zippers.

Also, teaching kids things...takes sooooo loooooonnnggg.

I wish I could impart my knowledge, smile confidently and step away. But that's not how it works. They forget. The next time they confront a challenge (a stubborn glue stick top, a button and button hole, SHOE VELCRO FOR CHRIST'S SAKE) they, once again, expect me to pick up the slack. And the next time and the next. Until my gentle reminders that they can do it themselves turn into battle cries.

Then there is my guilt. Which is large and fuschia and sometimes hovers over all of us like a thick cloud about to burst. Only it won't disperse gentle fuschia rain, but large, sticky balls of tar that will bind our hands and feet.

I never feel that I'm doing enough. If I'm on the floor with the kids, I'm eyeing the crumbs scattered across the floor that need to be swept or the dishes piled high in the sink or my laptop which I want to fondle.

If I'm wiping the kitchen counters or folding laundry, it seems that I should be engaging more with Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat.

What I want to know is, When Will That Magical Day Arrive? The Day In Which I Can Stop Whimpering About What's Become Of Me, Because I'll Be Back. Fully And Totally Back.

Don't tell me it will never return. Please don't tell me that.

It is better to receive than to give

I think I've finally chipped the dried batter from my hair and scrubbed the fudgy frosting from under my nails. I'm so tired of the cakes. Really. I can't imagine ever wanting another one.

At least until next week.

Overall, the birthdays have gone well. Kitty Cat, on her special day, most wanted scrambled eggs–a delicacy since she can only have them when Fruit Bat is in Pre-K. So we went to Patty's Eggnest, and, of course, despite all the Duncan Hines I'd been sampling and the eyeballs jellybeans I'd been popping, I felt compelled to order a stack of pancakes. This was right after inhaling a giant turkey sandwich for lunch.

Kitty Cat ate eggs and ate eggs and was flexible and sweet and appreciative of her gifts.

Fruit Bat's birthday started out smoothly, but began to fall apart toward the afternoon. I should say HE began to fall apart. In his defense, this was the first full week in his brand new class. He's busy adjusting. He's busy "taking social risks", which is what his teachers, and J. and I, want. He's tired.

So, I wasn't totally surprised that he screamed like the roof was caving in when we asked him for a brief photo op (a quick pic of him in front of one of the many cakes I'd slaved over). I also wasn't too taken aback when he whined (nay, shrieked), later in the evening, because two of his gifts were intended to be shared with his sister. I was mortified by his greed. But the tantrum itself? Not too shocking.

We ended up confiscating the remainder of his presents and lecturing him mercilessly on gratitude.

The next morning, I made him sign five thank you notes before he could open the presents we'd cruelly seized.

For the last 24 hours, I've been cursing the American Birthday Dream. There's SO MUCH. All the gifts and sweets that have pushed our kids' expectations to grander, more decadent plateaus.

I like to think we're fairly modest in our giving. Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat each received two smallish presents from us, a few humble trinkets from our families. And our birthday party tomorrow will consist of four friends. No clowns. No mimes. No bounce house. Not that there's anything wrong with those indulgences. They are just not us.

We'll have some play. Cake (of course). Then a treasure hunt for goody bags.

My relationship with goody bags, as well, is complicated. Bristling. I don't like them. I don't like that, as a kid, we used to get paper cups half filled with M&Ms (and we were satisfied with that. And how old and crotchety do I sound?) and now, if Fruit Bat receives a nifty gifty that is actually a high quality toy rather than a bag filled with a dozen pieces of junk, he feels cheated.

But, still, I partake. Just today I bought several pieces of crap for my child to hand to his best friends tomorrow afternoon.

They will love him for it. And, as long as he's not yelping that I didn't provide sparkly enough swag, I will smile tenderly at his cronies, my heart melty that he has friends as good as these. And we will all feel lucky again.

It's hard being three

She cried because the sun was too bright. She covered her eyes with her small hands because she did not want to wear sunglasses. Then she wept because she could not see.

This simply cannot be

Fruit Bat awoke at 3 am again this morning. What did he arise at that ungodly hour to do, you ask? Did he wake up to go to the bathroom? Get a drink of water? Kiss my cheek and murmur PC, which is his code for I Love You?

Nope. None of those things.

He got up to vomit.

Yes, again.

I can't believe it. He just recovered from the last bout and was finally starting to eat again.

And I don't know what upsets me more, the beginning of another illness, one that keeps us quarantined and itchy, watching too much TV and gazing longingly at the outside world where there are trees and other people. Or the clumsy way that J. and I fumble and bicker in the middle of the night when confronted with a screeching, spewing child.

You'd think we'd have a system down by now. Or that, at least, I would keep my stupid mouth shut when I'm too tired to speak very coherently or kindly.

But, nope. None of those things.

On a happy note, Fruit Bat's preschool teacher wants to bump him up to her Pre-K program. A little late in the year it is. He'll be all kinds of challenged, though. And, I think, have more fun with kids closer to his own age.

The best part about the switch: afternoons. Five of them a week. Which means, until Kindergarten starts next fall (at which point I'm screwed) we're done with mornings where I'm dragging Kitty Cat to the car in her pajamas while stuffing an allergen-free granola bar into Fruit Bat, combing his hair and sniping at him to hurry up and choose a show-and-tell because we're late! Late again! Yesterday morning, with the time change and all, was so bad that I was in tears by the time we got buckled in and started rolling toward school.

Ah, life. Ain't it grand?

The outline of my discontent

I. Stomach Flu
   A. Fruit Bat. Barfing
   B. Up a lot in the night
       1. J. is a good and kind martyr--
           he did most of it
       2. I slept
   C. Lots of Cleanup
       1. Glad we own a carpet steamer
       2. Relieved J. initiated the purchase
           of large capacity washer and dryer
   D. Fruit Bat Won't Eat
       1. Tried waffles
       2. Tried milkshake
       3. Tried popsicles
       4. Nothing
   E. He's better tonight

II. Today Was Second Homebound
     Day of the Week
   A. It was the best day of the week
   B. Barfing aside
   C. Fruit Bat was too tired and sick
        to whine and demand
   D. Kitty Cat tried to be helpful
   E. We somehow managed to pass the time
       1. Much TV
       2. A few books
       3. Several repetitions of my lurching for
           the barf bowl as I cried,
           "Are you going to throw up?!?"
   F. Yesterday, when everyone was healthy,
        I thought I might lose my mind
       1. Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat don't know
           how good they have it
       2. Think they might have it too good
       3. Think we might need a trip to Malawi
           so they can witness this first hand
       4. Or perhaps just a ride on a Metro bus
   G. I'm better tonight

Thank you, mom with the wipes

Last week, the day before we left for Michigan, we met some good friends at a playground for lunch. The kids played. Ate a little. Played some more.

Near us was a small group of parents, two or three, and their children. These children ate peanut butter sandwiches.

For those of you who've been reading All Adither for longer than a month, or who've read my About page, know that I don't have many nice things to say about peanut butter sandwiches.

Yes, I know they're portable. I know they're the favored protein source for much of the under-10 set.

But, quite simply, they make my chest hurt.

Watching a child weaving around the playground with a smeary peanut butter sandwich and knowing that Fruit Bat will, moments later, be shooting down that same slide or grabbing that same merry-go-round, makes my brain spin like a top, until it is a squealing, eardrum oozing shriek, reverberating through my entire body.

I have to be on constant alert. We will not avoid playgrounds, or any other public venue because of the risk of Fruit Bat contacting peanut products. We have to live, to get out there.

And so, when one of the moms of the kids eating peanut butter sandwiches made sure to wipe down her children before they jumped on the swings or leapt into the sandbox, and exclaimed to another of the parents that she was "paranoid" and didn't want to be responsible for any peanut allergic kids' reaction, my shoulders relaxed. My stomach unclenched and I was able to enjoy watching my kids be kids at the park.

I wanted to thank her. But I couldn't, despite my best efforts, find a good time to edge toward her and verbalize my appreciation.

So, I'm saying it here. For any of you who've considered other kids' needs, even when they're foreign to your family's own ways of doing things, thank you.

Thank you so much.

A summary of our Michigan trip

We did go all these places.

Yes, indeedy.

Lest you think Northern Michigan has nothing better to offer, however, I need to proclaim that Harbor Springs, my hometown, has many charming qualities. An adorable main street with some shops too expensive to even step my be-Croc(ked) foot in, a majestic white church whose tall steeple can be seen over the treetops, a quaint old library with creaky floors that, in the summer, shimmers with the smell of warm fudge from the candy shop below.

Harbor is an odd dichotomy of the have and have-nots. Neighborhoods brimming with mansions (called cottages) with their great, green lawns reaching into Lake Michigan. Then, dotting some of the more rural landscapes, manufactured homes butting right up against crumbling country roads.

It means a lot to me though, and it always will.