I reach for one thing, grab another and nearly wet myself with the, “Damn, what if I had?”

See for yourself.

Follow through, organization, resolution!

Unfortunately the I-got-this attitude that so often sees me through, came right up and kicked me in the ass. The pineapple and coconut gum numbing stuff wasn’t working, the anesthesia didn’t seem to take, and then Finley spied the needle. Briar began to buck, tears streamed silently down her cheeks and the walls closed in. I had two daughters I couldn’t soothe, an environment I couldn’t control and, of course, an audience. There were furrowed brows and barely concealed, stage-quality tsk-tsks. Finley should not have been there, I realized that, but it is in those moments when a decision is proven to be less than perfect, that we should try to spare judgement.

Give me a withering look as I leave, don’t gawk as my family endures the consequences of a decision made in an effort to ease the most pain. How about a “way-to-go” for having the kids at the dentist? An “Atta girl” for having books and dolls? Even a silent, appreciative nod for keeping them entertained and quiet in the lobby and for raising them to smile and respond to the sing-songy questions you ask?

My hands shook, my heart raced and an internal monologue of , “You just can’t ever get it right, can you ‘manda?” ran through my burning head. The failure of the bum tooth and even worse appointment throbbed, then the dentist looked at me and said that he wouldn’t be wiggling the tooth out today and that Briar had done great. I nearly crumpled to my knees.

She did great.

I know that. They both did. We all did. But here’s the thing, we have to go back. Briar will be resistant, terrified actually. My schedule won’t be any easier. Somehow we’ll still be a production, loud and sloppy compared to those around us. I dread it and already feel depleted and defeated. I have to shake this, because as the work-day transitions to at-home time, the pace doesn’t slow, their needs don’t soften to match my reserves.

I want to cry, the part of me that thinks if I’d watered the juice down longer or started brushing her teeth sooner that this wouldn’t have happened. I hate that in these low moments I allow the twisted idea that there is some parallel life that was mine for the taking had I made different decisions haunt me.

I am a good mom. These are happy and healthy girls despite a bad tooth here and there. Today was just a really low day.

Fin: “Look’t this one mama.”

Ave: “And here’s this one.”

Fin: “And look at this one.”

Ave: “Mom, grab my shell. My shell! It fell.”

Bri: “Hey, Ave that was cool, that rhymed. Did you hear the rhyme, mom? Shell and fell.”

Fin: “What shell?”

Ave: “My shell! It fell! Please get it, mom.”

Bri: “See, you are rhyming still. Wait, does that rhyme? Still, shell, fell…”

Fin: “Can I see the bell?”

Bri: “Oooh, another rhyme.”

Ave: “What bell?”

I snapped at them, wildly waving an arm in front of me, “Do you see this girls? Do you see all the cars and people I need to watch? It’s too much.”

They were silent.

“Listen, I’m sorry. We are just having a bad day at work. I shouldn’t get mad, but I do need to concentrate on the road. I’ll look at your stuff when we stop.”

Fin: “That’s ok, mama. We did anything they asked us to at school because we were so good. You don’t havta worry about us today.”

They were quiet the rest of the ride. Why does the quiet always distract me more than the noise they make? When we got to the sitter’s Briar asked if she could show me her artwork. I said that I didn’t have time as I took her hand and walked her in to the house. They quickly shucked off any bad feelings as they began playing with Uno cards. I walked out to the car feeling defeated. I tried to shake it on the drive back to the office.

I parked my car beneath the shade of a tree and leaned back into my seat. The stack of art projects beside me shone against the grey upholstery. I decided to look through them so that I could rave about them when I picked up the girls. No sooner had I unfolded the first one that the color of the day shifted. Yes, there are some things I need to slog my way through, but I have three luminous, little girls who worship me. When I read them stories they trace their fingertips along my skin, they lean their heads against my body and murmur that they love me.

They see shapes and colors in different ways, offering perspectives that remind me of how much magic there is to experience if only we get out of our own way.

I sat with their pictures, photographing them to show to Sean and counting my blessings, of which there are more than I deserve some days.

I apologize that I am going to have to dance around the subject, but it is what it is—the is ironically being so much of what I do. I live in a small town, I work in a business that can be high-profile and I have made myself all but entirely transparent online. I don’t regret these decisions, but I have painted myself into a corner of sorts.

This goes so far beyond having someone I no longer speak to troll the archives of this blog, this extends beyond taking what I do and claiming it for theirs, this is the murkier more prolonged, side-by-sideness that goes unacknowledged. The overlapping circles. I’ve certainly made mistakes in my time, but I haven’t lied. I have not sabotaged. Knowing that what I am dealing with now is a reality that involves people willing to do that…I am just at a loss.

Spinning. Turning. Stalling.

I want to celebrate what I have achieved and push myself to do more. I have the callouses and war wounds to prove that the road to today was not without effort. I am assiduously digging for some hidden cavity of fortitude to pass these tedious but pervasive berms. The extra weight of hurt, frustration and indignation are doing me no good.

It’s transparent.

“Mama, are you workin’?” She waits. I stew. She sidles closer and sneaks her face beneath mine. She holds my gaze until I let the anger go.

“We could do a puzzle together, would that be a great idea?”

I think it’s time to put one puzzle away for another.

So many Easters, Thanksgivings and Vanlentine’s Day entries bearing my name and age were submitted with bottomless hope. Weeks later I’d run to that wall while my mom waited in line and I’d scan for my entry. Eventually I would find it, hung askance and partially covered by another entry. My heart would sink and I would feel broken, wondering wistfully what the winner felt like. I’d memorize their name and imagine what their life was like. My defeat would always be completely erased by the next contest and my confidence that this time, this time it would be my name that would represent the best of the 5-7 year old age bracket.

As an adult I bristle when I see the contests, realizing that the winners are often decided by an arbitrary drawing, or by some other methodology. I am torn between wanting my girls to have the same willingness to believe that anything is possible and fearing that my own relative rudderlessness has been passed in the genes. I know on some level that there were kids who wanted to be artists when they were five. They were drawn to the artbox at times other than the contest season. They spent their afternoons hunched over paper, while I dug for clay and sought out fairies beneath dewy rhododendron leaves. It wasn’t that I wanted to circumvent hard work, it was just that there was nothing I knew in the depth of my soul I needed to do.

My oldest daughter now has a similar inclination toward awards that have nothing to do with her skills. Her school has something called the Spartan Spirit Award. The award is given to students who demonstrate kindness unprompted by teachers. I can say without embellishment that she has come home from school every day since Thanksgiving with a breathless, “Mom, tomorrow might be the day I get the Spartan Spirit Award.” She regales me with the random acts of kindness, cooperation and cooperation that she has demonstrated and punctuates it with a, “sooo, I’m not sure, but I think tomorrow will be the day when they call my name.” I’m ashamed to admit that in the parent teacher conference I let her teacher know how doggedly she pursues the award. The teacher just smiled.

My resolve is wavering because while I didn’t practice drawing and coloring in order to win an award, Briar does lay awake at night imagining things she can do to demonstrate her exceptional spartan spirit. I am humbled by how indomitable her faith that she’ll get picked is, but at the same time I am fiercely protective and realize that it’s very likely she will never be recognized for her efforts. I want to intervene, I want her to not learn this lesson. Her goodness and hope are the most precious shoots of potential and I want to preserve them with everything I have. But damnit, I want it to just happen. This isn’t a coloring contest, it is a measure of her character.

I just worry that if I leave it up to others she’ll look up at me one day and ask why she wasn’t good enough for the award.

[I am well aware that every word I type plants me more firmly in the I'm-getting-too-old-for-this-shit-category]

I digress.

To you, teenaged girl with the shorts hiked up to define where your cheeks end and your crack begins-

1. High knee exercises can in fact be accomplished with your back to the wall as opposed to my face.

2. One does not have to weave through the free weight section like a Family Circus comic* to get to the water cooler.

3. Some people do come to the gym to work out, no really.

4. The guys you are trying to turn on are more turned on by their own reflections. Seriously.

5.The mat is not for writhing, unless it’s a Whitesnake video**.

6. Jennifer Beales*** wants her top back.

7. Dirty hair isn’t sexy, it’s just dirty.

8. If you want to have fun with your pre-kids, pre-bills, pre-deadline addled body, go bigger than the YMCA.

Sincerely,

A mom of 3 who can still rock it, but chooses to do so for her husband, not grunting meatheads slinging gallon-sized jugs of water and debating whether to bulk up or tone up first.

*It’s a comic that used to run in newspapers, which were a way we got the news in the olden days.

**Before nudity became commonplace among performers, music videos provided men with writhing women.

***Before she played a lesbian that you may or may not have been old enough to know about, she defined heterosexual sexy in an off the shoulder top. She also welded and I’d bet my shortest shorts you can’t do that.

This article was no different. It really made me think, it also made me uncomfortable, afraid to speak and afraid not to. The article, if you haven’t already clicked the link, was about guns, specifically guns in homes that children might be able to access. He wrote it because a child did find it. Another child was with him and now one of those two children is dead. The comments on the article bring up plenty of waves of “How dare you!” I am not writing today about the right to bare arms or about whether the author is liberal, out of line or off base.

I am writing because I have to work this out sooner rather than later. I was ready to teach our girls about the danger of guns, just like I’ve taught them that they are in control of their own bodies. Eating disorders are an enemy on my radar as are mean girls, apathy and trans fats. So seriously, from the monumental to the maybe mundane, I’ve been ready. I am not ready to think about guns in homes. I barely manage playdates for the requirement they carry of talking to strangers, that awkward exchange between people who have nothing in common but kids. I’ve finally accepted I don’t have to be friends with them, just need to facilitate play time, but guns? I have to ask parents if they have guns in their home? I should probably ask about pills too. The list is infinite.

I am not ready for this.

I have no choice. I cannot keep my three girls safe from everything, but I can be aware of the steps I can take to keep them a little bit safer. When I muster the courage to ask will parents be honest? I have no idea, but if they aren’t, will it at least get them to go and make sure that guns are locked up tight with no ammunition nearby? That pills are out of reach? Maybe. Am I still terrified? Yes.

I guess that’s what it’s all about though. We need to keep a measure of fear and we always need to be thinking, no matter how uncomfortable it makes us.

I have been known to play:

The Tide is High

Fighter

I’m awesome

Random, yes, but also they make me think about working out. Considering the work I have to do and the shopping that I must tackle, the biggest workout I have to look forward to is holding back my stabby thoughts in the overly long lines in the heated to Bikram Yoga levels stores.

So, c’mon, take 30 seconds and leave me some songs I can ask Sean to put on an iPod for me. I plan to run through the shops wearing big ass headphones and singing along. Badly. Everyone will leave me alone, no?

No, I am not an out the door in ten person if I am actually trying. I don’t think anyone would hold it against me. What I do think is crap is the, “My kids are angels and in bed by 8,” said with a beatific look and a nod that says, “Yup, mine are good, aren’t yours?” That scenario is about  as plausible as the knockout, dressed-to-the-nines who says she doesn’t even try.

I have had people tell me that I have a unique perspective on life with kids, that I give people pause and help them to reconsider the frantic pace and relentless hunger for attention so that they can enjoy it. I cherish those sentiments from people, but it does get me to think about bedtime. I think I should give a little glimpse behind the old curtain…

Because bedtime really depends upon dinner time, indulge me the wider window.

5:30 get home

5:45 announce bedtime will be early

6:00 say dinner is gong to be in 30 minutes

6:30 say dinner in five and bedtime immediately following

6:45 yell dinner in five

6:50 announce dinner is ready

6:55 call everyone for a 2nd time

7:00 sit down to dinner

7:01-7:11 get up every 2 minutes to fetch drinks, napkins and ketchup

7:12-7:16 cajole, negotiate and warn the girls to eat

7:17 clean up a spill

7:18 agree to say grace

7:19 “do cheers”

7:20 apologize for not doing cheers with each girl twice right at the beginning of dinner

7:20 excuse girls

7:21-7:30 sponge the disaster area that is the dinner table, the floor beneath and the walls around

8:05 look at clock and curse

8:10 breathlessly brush teeth with girls after corralling them upstairs

8:15 sweat through undressing and dressing them in their pjs

8:16 start story

8:17-8:23 field questions, requests for new books and referee as they jockey for position on my lap

8:25 begin bedtime – a lullabye for each girl + one for all 3, kisses, cuddles, hugs, setting the music and nightlight, handing out sips of water, nursing Fin and requisite, “I think I have to try to pee” pleas

8:41 stagger to my bed to “go to bed early”

8:45-9 Three trips back to their room to retuck-in and shush.

10:30 carry Ave to pee again

1am Fin wakes up and comes into our bed

2am Briar has a night terror

2:10-2:20 cuddling Briar

2:40 Briar has another night terror

2:50-3 More Briar soothing

4:30am Ave joins us

4:35-4:45 listen to Ave talk about why she woke up

4:50 convince Ave to go back to sleep

5am Fin wakes up and cries for milk

6am Ave wakes up again

7am Briar comes into bed

7:01 Briar complains that everyone left her loenly

7:02 Ave and Fin begin consoling Briar over my prone form

7:03 they begin to sing

7:08 Sean takes the girls downstairs

7:30 I stumble downstairs shaking my head that I don’t feel rested after going to bed so early

It is the same each night with very little variation.

The truth in my mirror is that bedtime is hell, except of course, when it isn’t.

Disappointment. How is that possible?

Somehow in the time between thinking about kids to having kids, a switch was flipped and it became a life or death matter that I do it all myself. That the herbs be grown in a garden of soil tilled by my own hands, that the cards be hand made and that the magic of fairy blankets and Santa’s ding-a-ling-a-ling be upheld at all costs. I was unwavering in the face of other, more seasoned parents saying, “You know, you can just go buy her one.”

I stamped my foot and grunted like a bull in the coliseum, “I will not give in. I will not mail it in!” I was indignant that I was not going to be like the people that took the easy way, refusing to sacrifice a bit of time in the name of convenience. Briar did love her costume and the photos I have show a radiant me, triumphant in my feat.

Five years later I am changed. It isn’t that I don’t believe in homemade, quite the contrary. I still have these fantastical visions of me as the perfect mom, balancing work, family and life with ease. I can picture homespun holiday cards and DIY crafts, but the other thing I can see, and can remember from my own childhood, is yearning.

A store-bought has no fuzzy edges, costumes from Target don’t elicit questions of “What is it?” or “Who are you supposed to be?” There is belonging in having the predictable, the known and the tested. I have seen my girls cock their heads and say with a high voice, “Yes, mama, it *is* nice. I. I. I love it, I do.” It seems inconceivable at 3 and five they know to fib.

The glue stuck the pages together, the sparkles bled and the colors ran. We all flatlined emotionally was we conceded, “Well, it got done.” Not exactly crafting nirvana. I suppose I have a new fantasy of sorts, one that has my girls growing up to be comfortable in wanting what they want. Valentine’s Day is coming up, last year we made cards, not because anyone wanted to, but because I didn’t make it to the store*.

As I look back, I wouldn’t change making that costume for anything in the world, but reading that blog entry I remember the pain and suffering— mine, Sean’s and Briar’s as I made her try it on time and again. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t relaxing, but it was worth doing to know that I need to balance my dreams and the girls. In the end, it’s listening to each other that makes it perfect.

*This year we’ll be buying Princess cards for Briar, maybe Handy Manny for Ave. I couldn’t be happier because frankly, I get no mom-joy from glue. Or paint.