The perfect vacation souvenir...

My family likes to travel. We like to experience new places and their history. We like to take big city public transportation and explore.

We got back from Melbourne Beach, Florida yesterday afternoon. Mother Nature, in keeping with tradition that has been consistent throughout this winter, did not cooperate. For a planned two day getaway to the beach, we got a total of 4 hours on the actual shore, shivering most of the time.

But friends, the best was saved for last. Last night, Matthew threw up. From his top bunk. And blessedly, did not hit any sheets or siblings.

This morning, we woke up to find another dried up pile of vomit. From Andrew. Who also did not hit any sheets or siblings. But failed to alert us of the cleanup needed in children's bedroom.

As usual, we brought home the usual vacation souvenir for our family. The infamous traveling bug. It began a couple of years ago when we visited family in Memphis over Christmas. It took over a month for it to completely disappear from these parts. We still shudder at the thought of what those weeks held for us: doctor's appointments, lab work, endless, sleepless nights, diaper rash from hell, nightly vomit cleanups...not fun. So far, we have yet to plan any other Winter Break trip.

Plans for the Youth Fair were scrapped. We went to the pediatrician, as Matthew and Joshua have had a nagging cough, just to check it out. Because the boys looked better than they did when they woke up, I urged John to go to the barber shop for pre-Easter haircuts after the doctor's visit.

This particular barber shop is family owned. The barber and his mother are exceptionally nice people and the clientele is typical Florida retiree.

The last time we visited the barber shop, all four guys were going to get their hair trimmed. The older two boys are pros at sitting still in the chair. Joshua, not so much. We usually visit the kid's hair salon, which caters to two year old and delivers the toddler equivalent of crack: Dora the Explorer. When Joshua gets his hair cut there, no problem.

Last visit to the barber: BIG problem. Joshua went after one of his brothers, to be able to see appropriate modeled behavior. Except that he threw a temper tantrum. Until he threw up. In the barber's chair. I know how lucky I am...

So today, I'm thinking we are good. It has been MONTHS since the kids and I went back. Joshua does not need a haircut. It should be fine.

Not so much.

Because Andrew threw up. In the barber's chair.

You know how you know you're a mom? When you have to clean up your kid's vomit in public.

In his defense, he did manage to keep it all in the barber's cape and got none of it on himself.

So picture this, barber is knocking on back doors of the shopping center, trying to find a hose. Joshua is screaming his head off in the stroller. John is walking/running to the convenience store a couple of doors down to find water for Andrew.

No hose in the shopping center.

After he was done vomiting, I took the cape and desperately tried to find a hose to clean it up. I cross the street to the townhouse complex across the way. I find one: victorious. I turn on the faucet. No water.

Great.

My only other option is to go to the insipid lake that this little community surrounds. The water looks disgusting. What do I do?

I bent over a got a taste of laundry, circa 1840.

There is nothing I wouldn't do for my kids. This proves it.

Afterwards, I washed the cape again in the shampoo sink in the back, with real soap and water.

But I have been yucked out ever since.

The problem is I can't decide what did it. The vomit or the lake water?

And just so you know, it will be MONTHS until I go back to that barber again.

Great souvenir, huh?

I want a cookie for breakfast and life's other absurdities...

Have you ever wanted to get away so bad, that you would do it, even if your inner voice kept screaming at the top of its lungs not to?

I did, and I ignored the sane part of me.

We had planned to get away early on Saturday to John's parents house, as they live part way to where we were staying for a few nights.

Early did not happen for several reasons. John's work technology crapped out. Packing for five people. Laundry issues...'nough said.

John's parents, God bless them, had offered to watch the kids so that we could catch dinner and a movie. Caught a yummy dinner; movie, not so much. Who decides that people want to watch some of the crap that gets made, anyway?

The next morning, after a visit from the Sleep Chaser (Joshua), we got another late start, by choice. The kids have such a magnificent time with their grandparents. I want to be as patient, loving, giving and wise as them, but I guess that is your reward for your children surviving your parenting. When we left, we hit bad weather.

I know all places on Earth experience bad weather. But in Florida, as you are heading towards the promise of sunny, warm beaches, bad weather translates into "Oh, crap!"

Oh, crap, we just booked two nights. Oh crap, we have three kids that are stir crazy in the car. Oh crap, I can't see while I am driving. It was raining on and off while we drove, with dark skies looming overhead. But when we drove up to the hotel, God unleashed. Torrential rain, lightening, thunder, the whole kit and caboodle. Thanks, Big Guy!

We decided against unloading the car and the children and opted instead to getting dinner first. Great idea, right? Except that the weather really wasn't conducive to getting out of the car. And it was COLD. Did I mention that I had not (in my extensive, mad, packing skills) packed anything heavier than a t-shirt for the kids or myself?

And dinner, well, let's just say that Sleep Chaser, I mean, Joshua, really didn't think his mother needed nourishment. I mean, I know I could stand to lose a few pounds, but did he really have to hold back my arm as I tried to eat? And Andrew decided that nothing would be lovelier than spilling his pink lemonade on himself.

Then came getting everything out of the car. John and I have a pretty solid system: get the luggage cart, put everything in it, and take it up with the kids in tow. John had already checked in, been in our room. No problem. We get up to the eighth floor, try the key, SEVERAL times, nothing. He goes back downstairs, I stay with the kids. The problem was that this particular hotel has no interior hallways; the wind and rain are whipping us pretty good, and I am praying that the kids don't get sick right before we have to go back to school.

Finally, John comes back. Informs me that we are in the wrong room. They gave him the wrong room number and key, but hey, he just has to get our complimentary breakfast passes and then, we get to go back downstairs. Take a different elevator and go out to a different exterior hallway. YIPPEE! I feel relaxed already.

Finally, we get everyone bathed and in bed; Joshua is insulted that he will be bunking in his pack and play for the duration of our stay. I get a warm shower, catch up on my rabid magazine addiction and settle in for the night, yearning for some sleep...that never comes.

The next morning, Sleep Chaser is back. Weather is as bleak as it was the night before. Weatherman says sometime around 3 p.m. we might get some sunshine. Can't wait. Decide to go do some sightseeing, in the car, in the rain, to make the time pass. Hey, desperate times call for desperate measures.

Eventually, the sun did peek out. The boys had a tremendous time running on the shore, building a dam, shoveling and frolicking. And somehow, the warm (but not quite warm enough, by Floridians' standards) seemed to melt the crap that seemed to have followed us.

Last night, as I gazed out onto the dark beach, the full moon danced on the water. It was a glorious sight, and I understood why Mr. Sleep Chaser was in full force.

This morning, after a full night's sleep, and the day of our return home, the sun was shining. The beach was warm.

Absurd. You drive three hours to get some rest and relaxation. You get neither. A little sunshine and warmth would be nice, though.

This morning, Joshua was walking around demanding a cookie for breakfast.

Absurd.  Because you don't eat cookies for breakfast, but I gave him a chocolate donut instead.

After we finished packing all of our stuff and loaded up the car, we went on final walk on the beach. I got to hold my hubby's hand, which is a treat. Our children ran in front of us; children of the sun, and then walked together, chatting, happy.

And there is nothing absurd about that. It makes everything else worthwhile.

Mom meets Diary of a Wimpy Kid

As a kid, I loved to read.

Not much has changed in the last thirty plus years.

Last Sunday, I took the two older boys to see Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I know, not much of a cinematic challenge, but my boys LOVED those books. My oldest wanted to reserve a copy of the latest book in the series, The Last Straw, last summer. He wanted to be sure he would be one of the first people to have a copy, hot off the press. Although my children own each book in the series and I have several copies in my classroom, I have not actually sat and read the book.

I read it aloud, in Spanish to my class, but somehow, it lost so much in translation, and in the read aloud.

The movie was genuine. It depicts the painful awkwardness of Greg, a typical middle child, as he embarks on his first year of middle school. It captures the reality of the social atmosphere of middle school to perfection.

And while some of the antics are ridiculously funny, the movie offered a poignant view of what it is like for the middle son to find his way in a family, in a school, in society.

And even though the movie was entertaining, it helped me gain some insight on what it is like for boys growing up. How much their self esteem hangs on the acceptance of others. How much undercover nurturing they need so that they don't end up with the wrong crowd because they are worried about their social standings. Because they need to feel acceptance at home, within their family, so that they can spread their wings and soar.

It has been a mighty long time since I was a student in middle school. Yet watching that movie on Sunday, I felt compassion for these children...Growing up is hard work.

And if growing up is hard work, BEING a grown up is no picnic either.

So, I decided to do the most UN-grown up thing I could think of: I decided to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I know, what a rebel.

But sometimes, you need to remember where you have been so that you know where you are going.

And really, in many ways, mothers slightly resemble middle school kids, don't we?

We really don't know what we are doing. We are trying to fit in, with our kids, with other mothers. We want to be liked by the other moms, we want to be respected by our kids. Most of the time, we roll out of bed, pull a brush through our hair, brush our teeth, and get the day rolling.

We are finding our voice, our place in this great big world.

We are discovering who we are, what are strengths are.

We know we are not perfect. We are trying things out, finding our way.

So, as I frantically try to finish laundry and pack for all of us, for a couple of days at the beach, I will make sure I pack that book.

'Cause this mom is totally okay with being seen with a wimpy kid. Whether he is the author of a diary or not.

Friday Follow for March 26, 2010

Do you live in a pig pen?

For the last few weeks, it feels as though that phrase is all that comes out of my mouth when I look around my home. There is clutter, of course, because we have three children. But apparently, the clutter, much like it's amorous neighbor, laundry baskets, likes to get frisky and multiply.

I am sick of picking up after people. I realize that I have a long way to go in this never-ending race; but seriously, I feel as though I am living in a frat house. No one cares if things are growing on the bathroom floor, the garbage is overflowing or whether or not you can walk on the floor. And it would be really cool to make a wall entirely of empty Horizon Organic Chocolate Milk boxes...All we need is a toga party to be right up there with Animal House...

I get it. Boys are messy. They smell if not reminded to bathe and practice personal hygiene. They like to grow hair and nails (on both their hands and feet). But what about having some dignity?

And the whole messy house thing? I cannot deal with it. I work a full day. I come home to homework and making dinner. Sometimes, I would like to go for a walk with my neighbor.

But, I ignore the clutter like I ignore the laundry and it debilitates me. I glance from corner to corner, wondering why people send my children gifts, wondering if they will ever understand that I cannot (and will not) jump over book bags, lunch boxes, binders and other junk in order to walk from one end of the house to the other.

This evening, when I walked into the boys' room to kiss them goodnight, I found clothes on the bed, hangers on the floor, shoes everywhere, and the drawers in the dresser bulging open. When I opened said drawers (or tried to) I couldn't. The shirts and whatnot were so crammed in there, I had to take everything out and re-fold them.

And I was angry.

Because I think a little neatness can go a long way.

Because a little neatness can make my life a lot easier. Because there are children that are old enough to go through their things, get rid of the stuff that they no longer use or need. They can use things, and then put them back where they belong after they no longer need or want them.

But they are not entirely to blame.

Perhaps it is my own fault.

In an effort to be efficient, I have always gotten restless waiting for the kids to finish picking up. And I jump in to do it.

Or, I tell them that the way they were doing it was not the "right" way. And so I would show them, and end up doing it myself.

So, I guess that the saying , "You reap what you sow" is really true.

So now, it's time for this little piggy to pick up his towel. And this little piggy to pick up his shoes. And this other little piggy to pick up toys and put them in right place.

So that we don't live in a pig pen...

Get on your boots...

Today was Career Day at school. Parents and other community workers paraded through the school, speaking to students from Kindergarten through eighth grade, discussing the in's and out's of their careers.

Among the things they discussed, they talked about the amount of education that they required in order to be prepared to do the job, and how much they enjoyed what they do for a living.

And in the meantime, our State Senate passed a preliminary bill that will devastate the public school system in our state.

And while our presenters drove up to our school to do their civic duty, a handful of teachers, emblazoned in red shirts and armed with signs and flyers with pertinent information, stood outside our school, educating the community.

Many of our students waved as they were dropped off, parents honked for their support.

For the remainder of the day, I pondered the irony. Here were community leaders; parents, neighbors, relatives, friends, role models discussing the future of my students.

They stressed the importance of a good education. I wondered how many would call their representative and demand better for the students they had so enthralled this morning.

I wondered how many parents stopped during their busy day, and called the numbers we distributed. How many told someone else of the atrocities that are being planned as I write this?

And me?

I wrote, I called, I organized. And I will continue to do so, until this wrong is righted.

And I taught my sons the importance of fighting for something that you believe in. I taught them that education: their education, my students' education, is important enough for me to stand so early in the morning, across the street from my school, waving a sign, demanding action.

I taught them to pick a career that will invoke that passion: instinctive, protective, proactive reaction when threatened.

Today, people came in to speak to my students about their careers.

Today, I taught all my kids, birthed and otherwise, that I love my job.

Chips off the old block...

As most parents, I can see certain traits that my children have inherited from their father and I. I was recently surprised at how scary close those traits mirror my own in my two oldest sons.

Andrew has impeccable comedic timing. He can deliver the punch line and find the humor in just about anything, if he is not interpreting for Whine. Much like Andrew, I can find the humor in just about anything. It has been a defensive mechanism for far too long, and one that has served me well. As I wrote that post, he stood next to me as I typed, laughing his behind off at the characterizations of the unfortunate newest residents of our home. And he kind of stood back in awe, amazed that his mother could write in a way that was so funny to him.

But Andrew's skills do not end there. His verbal skills are outstanding. He is a wonderful writer, no doubt, from the variety of his literary diet, which is voracious. Even as I write this, late at night, my little night owl is perched in a chair beside me, reading as I write, smiling to himself, understanding the love of words and their flow from my thoughts through my fingers and onto the screen.

See the thing about Andrew is that he loves to read with the same intensity and passion that his older brother has. And he and his brother both inherited that trait from me. Because even to this day, I am SO HAPPY when I am reading a really engrossing book. Words have always held a certain thrill for me...

But, they never knew about my secret love affair with writing. So, of course, when I told them that I was going to start this blog, the two older boys were a little confused (in the sense of, wait a minute, you had a life BEFORE us, you were good at something that you liked doing, you DON'T like waiting on us hand and foot?) and they were concerned (as was their father) that they would be portrayed in a negative light. What could they possibly be so worried about? Mama just likes to tell a story well... And apparently, so do my offspring.

Matthew received a form to compete in a drawing to be a kid reporter for Time For Kids (TFK), a monthly periodical designed specifically for school aged children. One night last week, he sat diligently, completing the form with all necessary information. As part of his entry, he had to write a letter to the editors of TFK, explaining why he would be a good choice for the position. My son wrote eloquently for a third grader; explaining that he was writer, he enjoyed gathering the latest news, and then, the clincher; his mother had her own blog.

He spent the next fifteen minutes following me around the house like a love-sick puppy, try to get me to stop whatever I happened to be doing at that particular moment and sign the application. Of course, I would not sign it until I read the letter, and when I read it, I felt a familiar tug in my heart.

I remembered how excited I felt when I wrote a piece to be considered for my junior high's newspaper, and was able to secure the feature editor's position. I remember the sense of fulfillment when we would finish the layout for the latest edition and put it to bed, the thrill of seeing the paper published and seeing my name in the byline. And even today, when I see comments on my posts, when I hear my coworkers discuss topics that I have discussed here, it makes my heart sing.

My son came home on Friday and told me that he had to write a sample article to submit with his application. For a brief moment, he had the look of a seasoned, old time, newsman; on the prowl for a good story to work his magic on.

Over the course of the last few days, our state legislature in its infinite wisdom is trying to pass a potentially devastating piece of legislation that will cut education off at the knees. Among other things, it threatens the professionalism of teachers throughout the state, who already work miracles in the most adverse conditions and circumstances. Many teachers at my school are organizing to make the issue known and drum up parent support. I painted my car windows and the boys were asking me about it this afternoon.

When I suggested to Matthew that this might make for an interesting story, his eyes gleamed. And we discussed a possible story and angle. Two writers, creating...

Many things can be taught, but many things; the best things, are passed on in families.

And of all the things my boys could have inherited from me, I am overwhelmed that they inherited the things about myself that I treasure the most.