Category Archives: Maverick

Gravity.

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Do you ever feel so emotionally raw from dealing with the people in your house that you feel unable to cope with “real life?” I am so there.

I can’t watch the news. I don’t want to hear about children dying in cars, I don’t want to think about the President or what’s happening at the border. Anything that requires extra thought or emotional energy, I don’t want to know it. And if it’s too late, I want to un-know it.

The other night I was completely shredded mentally and emotionally from dealing with Maverick. He’s a difficult, smart, hilarious, handful of almost-six years. When Maverick is awake, you know it. When Maverick is upset or bored or happy, you know it. He shouts every emotion and thought from the rooftops. EVERYTHING IS LOUD. EVERYTHING IS HARD. This type of child is really, truly exhausting to parent. If you don’t have a kid like this, you might think you understand.

Nope. You don’t.

I could write pages and pages about this topic alone — raising a so-called “spirited” child — but I can’t right now because raising my spirited child is sucking the life out of me. And also, would it be fair to him for me to tell the world about our struggles? No. Not yet, not until later on, when I have gotten out of the thick of things and I can see better. Right now I don’t have perspective, I just know it’s ass-hard, and people who have never met us would unfairly assume that he’s a sociopathic brat and/or I’m a horrible mother.

Anyway, I’d had a rough day. Robbie got home and turned on a movie called “Gravity.” Have you seen it? It’s about astronauts being lost in space and I could not handle it. I want to un-know that debris can hit a space station and kill astronauts, and that a person can just bob away in space, gone forever. I’d never thought about that happening. I’d like to never think of it again, but oops, it’s too late.

I now know something I want to un-know.

Robbie said something like, “You’re so much more sensitive to stuff than you used to be,” as I sobbed because Sandra Bullock was flying through the air, grabbing at things, failing to get a hold of the space shuttle. I just knew she was a goner.

YES, I AM. I am more sensitive. I am more exhausted. I am an emotionally-raw person who shouldn’t be allowed to interact with others or have access to the internet. So many moms in this same season of life talk about how becoming a mom has made them feel lobotomized, like they can no longer carry on normal conversation or even act like a normal human being.

It’s because we’re just way more of everything. Whatever I was before has been amplified, good and bad. I’m way more of a mess, and I pour way more of myself into raising my kids to be good people than I even realized I had to begin with.

So. While I may not have the answers to anything I’ve lamented above, hear this: I’m never, ever going into outer space.

Ever.

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Thank you, but no thank you.

 

Chats With Maverick.

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Maverick: I’ve got two secret pee spots in the yard outside.

Me: (silence)

Maverick: I selected them carefully.

Me:  Um … I’m not sure what to say.

Maverick: I made sure to pick places far away from where people walk.

Me: Well done!

***

Me: It’s almost your bedtime. Thank goodness. I’m very tired.

Maverick: That’s because you keep riding that bike at the gym and carrying Pepper around. She’s really heavy, you know.

Me: You’re right.

Maverick: I’m also really good at math.

Such a wise 5-year-old I have living in my house.

Such a wise 5-year-old I have living in my house.

 

 

 

 

“You Make Me Have A Good Life.”

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This morning, before Robbie left for work, he hugged me. I leaned against him, exhausted even though the day was just starting, and told him that I wish he was home more.

I try to avoid complaining about his work schedule or making snide comments about how he’s never around, because it only makes a difficult situation even worse. If I allow myself to go down that rabbit hole it never leads to anything but self-pity and resentment, and that doesn’t help anyone. He doesn’t want to work 60-70 hours a week. He is just doing what he needs to do right now for our family, and so am I. But that doesn’t mean that it’s not fucking hard. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to scream, “PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE ALONE WITH THESE CHILDREN!” every morning over coffee.

I feel tired and inadequate and unprepared. I run out of ideas for meals and discipline and I lose my temper. I am so tired that I’m sure that I’m not being the kind of mother that my children need and deserve.

Being on a tight budget means that there isn’t money for a sitter or even for bread sometimes. We just keep pressing on.

Sometimes I wish I had gone to school for something high-paying instead of Mass Communication. Sometimes I wish Robbie was a trust fund baby. But I didn’t and he’s not, and we met when we were both working at a grocery store. Trust fund babies don’t work at grocery stores. Neither of us had grand visions for the future … we just married for the love that struck when we were least expecting it.

Some people say that marriage is luck. I’m not sure what brought us together, exactly, but this morning I didn’t want him to go. I didn’t want to be a mom. Some days, like this day, everything is a struggle. Some days I need help.

I spent the rest of my morning fighting off feeling like I was drowning under waves of snotty children. I counted down the hours until bedtime and told myself over and over again that I could get through not only today, but the next day and the next. And then it was nap time.

Blessed nap time.

I put the younger two down and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror — I needed a shower. I headed into my oldest child’s room and tucked him into his bed with the Kindle. He mumbled something I only caught the end of, so I asked him to repeat it.

He looked at me very seriously and said, “You make me have a good life.”

Grocery shopping.

My eyes filled with tears. “YOU make ME have a good life,” I said. Because he does.

My husband and my children are the very breath I breathe. I don’t just exist; because of them, I LIVE. My days are long and lonely, but that moment reminded me that the energy I pour into my family isn’t wasted or unnoticed. It’s making them have a good life.

So maybe this day isn’t so hard after all.

The Things I Do For Milk.

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The key to effective parenting is emotional energy, of which I have a limited supply. I have to hoard some from my children so I’ll have a little left over for my husband when he gets home, but when I’m out, I’M OUT.

I used to say that parenting was more physically taxing than anything. I did something to my back last week when Asher threw an epic tantrum in the mall Food Court because the carousel ride ended and I told him it was time to get off. He freaked out, requiring me to lift him up and twist to maneuver around the big metal tiger he had been riding on.

I carried him like a stack of firewood all the way back to our table and my friend Jamie tried to help me jam him back into the stroller. She commented that it’s like he is made of rubber; you push him down or pull on his legs and he just snaps right back. I don’t know how long it took to get him strapped in, but I was full-on sweating by the end of it.

A few years ago, I would have been mortified by that kind of scene — his angry screams echoing throughout the entire mall — but now, I feel like I’ve been hardened against embarrassment by an ongoing series of experiences. I don’t really have time to dwell on anything that happens. We get through it, and we move on. I think that is why so many women have trouble recalling what it’s truly like to live with small children. If you don’t take the time to dwell, the memory doesn’t stick. And then we have more children.

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Mothering is obviously physically demanding, but the emotional demands are what really get you. If my emotional energy is off, the kids pick up on it and things get shitty fast. Sometimes, even when I am emotionally capable of dealing … things get shitty fast. This afternoon was the perfect example.

After nap time, I herded my children through eating a snack and changing diapers/going to the bathroom. I told them we had a few errands to run; most important was the grocery store. Ever since I started transitioning Pepper to milk, WE CONSTANTLY RUN OUT. I’m a milk snob and prefer to give the kids organic, which seems to only be available in half gallons. I need a five-gallon jug. Where can I find that?! Someone please tell me.

So anyway, I cranked up the van and Maverick climbed in. The baby pooped her pants. I changed her and put her in her car seat. I went back inside and find that Asher has also pooped. I tell him it’s time to change his diaper. He screams “NO!!!” because he’s two. He also screams that he wants milk. I tell him he may not have milk, and I leave to get a fresh diaper.

When I returned, I found him standing in front of the open refrigerator guzzling what remained of the milk, directly from the carton. He was displeased when I took it away, and even more displeased when I wrestled him down to change his diaper. He was so displeased, and he fought so hard, that poop pellets rolled away and disappeared in between our couch cushions.

This is when I yelled.

I cleaned up the mess. I put him in the van. We drove to the store.

In the parking lot, I got a shopping cart. Not the big kind that I needed, that looks like a police car. Those are kept inside. I had to get a regular one, and I put Asher in the big part of the basket. Maverick got out and I instructed him to stand right next to the cart with his brother. They were right next to me. I turned to unbuckle the baby, and look up to see Maverick give the cart a hard shove. As it rolled into the road with my middle child in it, Maverick yelled “Look Mommy! Asher’s rolling away!” Presumably he was acting out what took place in January when Asher really did roll away. But who can say.

This is why I feel it’s important to try hard not to be judgmental of the mom you see on her phone at the playground, ignoring her children as they play … or the mom who is drinking before 5 pm … or the many, many mothers who let their kids eat whatever they can find and watch back-to-back episodes of whatever is on Nickelodeon. Those mothers have probably run out of emotional energy. They need to recharge. Let them do what they need to do. If your emotional energy level is high enough for you to look on with judgement, then you might consider offering to help.

Because I love my children, I do things like make special trips to the grocery store to get organic effing milk. But because I did that, the cart thing happened, and I ran out of emotional energy. When we got back home I sat in one place for a really long time and stared at my phone while my children did God knows what. I eventually found all three of them in a closet. Don’t know what they were doing. Probably hiding from me, which worked out well, since I was hiding from them too.

Later on, Robbie asked him, “What were you thinking when you pushed Asher into the road?” And he said, “I was thinking that Mommy would believe me when I said the wind blew him out there.

 

Graduation Day 2014.

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I’m having a lot of trouble wrapping my head around how my kid went from this roly-poly wad,

To this handsome boy, the youngest in his class, graduating from Kindergarten with an award in Reading Excellence.

He wants to be a geologist when he grows up. I told him he can be whatever he wants to be. He’s Maverick. He’s a doer. I don’t know what’s going to happen, but something’s going to happen. That’s just how it is.

It’s weird how intimately you know your child, without them realizing you know them at all. I see qualities in him that he isn’t even aware of yet. I’m so proud of him, and so proud of me, because for a very long time I struggled and felt like I was failing because he was just … well, he was just awful. But now I think the awfulness is behind us because he understands that he doesn’t run our house.

It took a very long time for him to come to this understanding.

Maverick does not cower under authority figures, older kids, or bigger kids. Robbie and I took our three to the park a few months ago and we saw some of our friends there. One of the little girls climbed up a pole and was sitting on a bar. A mean little boy started yanking on her leg, trying to pull her down. Robbie and I noticed this because we heard Maverick’s voice, calm and clear cutting across the playground:”What are you doing? Leave her alone.”  

But the mean kid didn’t leave her alone, and Maverick didn’t back down. The kid pushed Maverick, but he stood his ground. He asked the boy to leave his friend alone, and the boy pushed him again and again, harder and harder. Maverick just popped right back, undeterred. Robbie and I discussed if we should get involved, but we decided no. We waited.

That was hard.

The mean kid ended up punching Maverick and it erupted into a fight, so we intervened at that point. I don’t want my son getting into playground fights on the regular, but I was proud of him for standing up for his friend. I was proud of him for not being afraid. I may have trouble knowing how to deal with some of his qualities, but I love his boldness — even when it manifests in questioning me. I love that he doesn’t just accept an answer. He pushes for more information, more explanation, more examples. 

So to my son I’ll say today, and again when he graduates from high school and then hopefully college: never stop pushing for more. There is an endless amount of knowledge, love, and fun to be had. 

I want you to have it all.



Something Worth Something.

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I made it through Spring Break. Wow. I guess it was just a preview of what this summer will be like. A lot. 

A lot of good, a lot of bad, a lot of tears, a lot of laughter, A LOT OF CHAOS, and a lot of life. As hard as this is and as much as I struggle … and believe me, I struggle … I came away from that time exhausted and sunburned but feeling that good kind of tired that I feel when I know I’ve done hard, worthwhile work.

Maverick is 5 years and 7 months old and he now knows how to make his bed, take out the kitchen garbage, put a new bag in the can, set the table, and make his own sandwiches. He can also sweep and steam mop the kitchen with some help. He learned how to climb trees, which caterpillars are the stinging kind, and we’re working on tying his shoes. He can wash his own hair, takes a shower on his own and is pretty much all of the sudden a big boy.

Brothers sharing an afternoon snack.

Maverick picked a bouquet for me every day.

Climbing.

These are the things I had in mind when I signed up to be a stay-at-home mom. It brings me joy to sit outside on a blanket and watch my kids discover the world right there in their front yard. I love watching my younger kids watch their big brother. I love fostering independence in a safe environment.

We don’t have much money, so everything we do is simple — but it brings me so much happiness to see the magic that unfolds when you put a child outside and just let them do their thing. So while I may be nervous/terrified about the three months I’ll have this summer with my children, who will be 5, 2, and 1 years old … I think I can handle it? 

I was totally cringing with fright as I typed that sentence. I probably just jinxed myself for the next 7 years. Yikes. 

Anyway, clearly it’s not going to be easy, but I hope we can pull through it in one piece. And while I am certain the house and my eyebrows will be a hot mess, I hope I will feel kind of like I do now. Like I did something worth something. Because I did. I really, really did.

Watching big brother arduously drag the garbage can up to the house.

Talks With Boys.

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I’ve been feeling guilty lately for having trouble giving my first born, Maverick, my full attention. When he comes home after school he wants to talk to me and tell stories about his day, and we are constantly interrupted because I have two other children who are always trying to eat bugs when my back is turned.

So last night after I got the younger two to bed, I turned off the TV and said “Maverick, I want to spend some time talking to you tonight! I put my phone away, and you have my full attention for the next 20 minutes. I’ll read to you or we can talk about whatever you want. If you just want to sit here with me in silence, we can do that.”

He thought for a moment and then he said “Okay!” and pulled down his pants. “What’s this line going down the middle of my balls?”

And without changing my tone or expression I said I wasn’t sure, but I would be happy to look it up if he really wanted to know.  He was like, “No mommy. You need to SEE IT. DO YOU SEE IT?” And I was like … “I have seen it, yes. Pull your pants up now.“

It’s called the perineal raphe. 

At some point my son will come to realize that it’s virtually impossible to shock his mother … but I have a feeling he’s going to make it his life’s work to try. Which means I’ll never, ever run out of stories to tell.

Maverick’s book report on The Cat In The Hat.