I Want

My middle child, Mister, is the quiet type. Literally, he doesn't speak much. His speech therapist and I agree it's a a mechanical issue. It's as if his mouth doesn't know how to make the correct shapes for sound production. He has had a speech therapist for one month and thus far it's going well. He follows her directions, he responds to her cues, and he is willing to transfer the tools he learns with her to his life with me.

Yesterday during his lesson I was listening from the kitchen and I heard him put two words together for the first time. He said, "I want". As he speaks normally in single words and single sounds, it was awesome for me, after only four visits with the therapist, to hear his little voice. But I wondered why is "I want" where we start? Oddly it would be helpful for him to be able to indicate to me what he wants: to eat, to do, to see, to show me, to play, to read, to watch. As a kid in a stay at home mother's house, most of his time can be filled with what he wants. There are a few things we have to do. We have to arrive in a timely fashion to The Y and to drop and pick up his sister from school.  Thankfully, he is a go with the flow kind of kid. I think though, as he learns how to communicate what he wants he will be more at liberty to tell me what he does NOT want, as well. Funny how those two little words weigh so much.

"I want" sets the stage for inescapable elements of being human. What do you want to be when you grow up? Where do you want to go to college? Who do you want to marry? How many children do you want to have? Where do you want to vacation? How do you want to spend your life? Where do you want to retire? What do you WANT TO DO? To drive? To own? From the smallest parts of our life to our largest desires - "I want" is where it all starts. To hear my little boy's voice utter the simplest of words with the most amazing possibilities stopped me in my kitchen, mid dish washing, and it gave me pause. How has my own sequence of "I want" panned out? How will his?

New Dog, Old Tricks

My husband and I often joke about our dog.  He is very large, very loud, and for an eight year old, still very energetic.  When there is movement on our street, we know about it: a car pulling in, a car pulling out, a walker, the mailman.  No one goes unmentioned.  His bark still makes my heart jump into my throat.  I know its going to happen a number of times throughout the day - but I am never prepared for it.  He is a good guard dog. 

We joke about all of the things he does that drive us crazy.  I think this is common among dog owners.  He eats out of the garbage can, licks the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, drinks from the toilet.  We have tried to train him not to do these things - but he's an old dog, and you just can't teach an old dog new tricks. 

He's a horny dog.  Poor, old fixed dog who can't really do "it", but tries all the same.  For 7 years he had a girlfriend, our couch.  Last year we junked the old couch and replaced it with a lovely new, dog-free couch.  We kept one section of the old sectional for him to lounge on. This one section was a human-free zone.  He would grasp the back pillow with his teeth and hump it daily - no matter how many times I would yell, "No!!  Stop that!"  He didn't care what I said - it was him and his pillow, and it was business time.

At Christmas this year we decided it was time to get rid of the remaining piece of sectional.  It was beyond gross.  This decision came shortly after I caught our son and daughter laughing wildly while watching the dog "jumping" on his pillow.  My husband found a very nice dog bed at Costco for twenty smacks - it is huge, round, fluffy.  Within twenty minutes of its arrival the dog had it folded like a taco and was, again, giving it all he had.  The last time I had him at the vet for his yearly check up I asked, "What is the likelihood that when he was neutered some or all of one of his testicles didn't get snipped?"  The vet gave him a feel and said, "I think he's just a 'dog'..."

The kicker?  Tuesday I was cleaning house.  I was upstairs and had forgotten the Pledge in the family room.  I headed down the stairs and as I made my way around the corner of the stairs I saw it happening.  I couldn't quite believe my eyes.  My two year old son had the dog bed in the middle of the family room.  He was biting it with his face submerged into the pillow, he grabbed at both sides with his little hands and was "jumping" on it as if he were the 8 year old Redbone.  I said, "Oh! No!  Ick!  That is really yucky, buddy."  He stopped quickly and stood up to point at the dog as if to say, "What? HE DOES IT all the time?!" 

Evidently, its nearly impossible for me to teach my old dog to stop licking the carpet or eating from the garbage; but, he is quickly teaching my new boy his old, nasty tricks.

The truth about: The Canadian and the Cleaver

The truth is, birds aren't my favorite of creatures because they are unpredictable.  I do appreciate, though, the nurturing motherbird: she braves the elements to provide a suitable nest for her babes; she sits on her eggs waiting patiently for their birth; she scrounges for worms to provide food.  I appreciate how pretty birds flit past my window, signing out to one another across my yard. 


My only beef with birds is their unpredictable pooping and spreading of germs.  I'm sure you recall the bird flu scare of 2005.  I retract my previous statements about truly disliking birds. 


The real meat and potatoes of this argument comes down to one thing: In my opinion, my husband's hobbies are disturbing.  Killing innocent animals for the sport of it is mean.   


This being the case you can imagine how I felt when I exited my car on Sunday evening to find a dead goose, lifeless, limp, lying on its poor pathetic stomach on my garage floor.  I screamed.  "Holy Smokes!" (The kids were in the car).  I then pressed my body up against the car, creating as much distance between me and the bird as I could; I side stepped my way past the deceased Canadian feathered creature.  The next morning when I headed out to the car it scared me three more times.  I screamed and my heart jumped into my throat three more times. 

As I sped away from my house I telephoned the murdering huntsman responsible for the garaged goosed.  I inquired, "Do you have big plans after work tonight, hunny?"  He replied, "No, why what's up?"  "The GOOSE IS UP! You GOTTA DO SOMETHING ABOUT THAT MANGY GOOSE!"  Defeathered, decapitated, deboned.  Problem solved.

Until.... this morning when I headed into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee and found the cleaver he used to perform the revolting task in my sink, awaiting the wash.  Staring at me.  It talked to me (in my head) like it was a Stephen King creation, "I gutted a goose last night, I gutted a goose." 

Some Memories

A great man I know once wrote, “The great thing about Moms like mine is that there are so many of them on our little planet.”  His mother inspired a forward moving, forward thinking mentality.  She created optimism.  The matriarch of a family having seen its share of challenge, she encouraged positivity, humor, making the best out of life’s situations. 

My own mother encourages me to be the best version of myself that I can be.  She doesn’t set an expectation of me to win her approval; rather, she has taught me to be introspective – to listen to my own heart, follow my own path.  Better still, she has backed me at every turn, every fork, and every step.  When I met my husband I was not in the best mental place – I wasn’t up for taking chances with love.  I thought all men were jerks.  I was out of college and living with she and my dad in Chicago.  I’d wasted too much time having my heartbroken by the same boy.  It was a Saturday night and my friends were gathering at a small party on Lake Holiday, about 90 minutes outside the city.  Jamie, my husband, was going to be there.  My best friend, Amy, called me and encouraged me to come to the party to meet him.  I told her I wasn’t up for it.  I was singing that old pathetic “woe is me” song that all heartbroken women have sung.  As my mom busied herself around her bedroom, I sat in her purple velvet chair explaining why I didn’t want to go to the party.  She said, “But if you don’t go, you’ll never know.” 

I went.  Now, 12 years later, I sit in the basement of my home with that man, three children sleeping upstairs, and I am grateful for my mom’s advice that Memorial Day weekend in 2000. 

My mom has given me advice, like many mothers, on everything from how to pluck my eyebrows to what shade of pantyhose to wear.  She drove four hours from Downers Grove to Iowa City at the drop of a hat my freshman year of college when I broke out in a very bizarre allergic reaction to the mildew in my dorm and woke up covered in hives.  She has moved me to and from eleven different residences since 1995.  She has cleaned and painted over half of those residences.  Three times she has sat with me before I have given birth, nursed me back to health, and taught me how to mother. 

I have watched her do everything from power wash a deck to jackhammering a concrete patio. She has painted a kitchen pink, then blue, and then demolished that very kitchen for a remodel with a sledge. I’ve seen her bake a coffee cake from a recipe in her head and sling a chainsaw like a good lumberjack would.  She makes me a chocolate cake every year for my birthday and taught me the difference between homemade icing and store bought.  She is a jack of all trades in terms of mothering.  She can do it all…and she has.  She will sling a shot of Jagermeister, mix the best G&T, and get red wine out of a white shirt like no body’s business.  She is the most-singingest Mama around and the best at making sunshine on a cloudy day.     

She takes a vested interest in everyone she is speaking to.  She is genuine and honest.  She doesn’t muddle me up with guilt trips or unspoken expectations about silly things.  She is straightforward and positive.  Through her own choices and behavior she has taught me how to be kind, selfless, and loving.

She has taught me that I should never wait for a man to do anything for me unless I want to take the chance of waiting a very long time.  If there is a light bulb out, it is better to just change it.  If the garage door needs oil, ask the guy at Ace and make it happen.  She has taught me to be resourceful; Maxi Pads can be band aids, too.  Never take something camping that only has one use.

Most importantly, she has expressed to me through her actions that I am important and loved simply by being me.  In so doing, she has taught me that no matter what is happening in my own life, my children come first. 

My father, the man I know who wrote, “The great thing about Moms like mine is that there are so many of them on our little planet” was lucky like me.  He encouraged me, five years ago, to write about my memories of those I love.  There are few people I love as much as I love my mom.  I cherish her.  His mom and mine have at least one thing in common, three adoring children.   

All I Want for Christmas is My Four Front Teeth

My daughter lost two teeth this summer.  The first she knocked clean out when she fell from her bike.  The second she loosened in the fall so much so that the dentist had to pull it.  The week before Christmas she lost two more teeth the natural way.  The teeth became lose, they fell out of their own free will.  One came out in bed and the other came out while we were at Go Roma having dinner.  She said, "MOM! My tooth just came out!"  I went over to inspect the chicken nugget covered tooth and she said, "I cannot believe this happened AT A RESTAURANT!"  In one week she was visited by the Tooth Fairy twice and Santa.  Talk about a stellar week for a four year old.  Unfortunately, her smile resembles that of hockey defenceman, Duncan Keith.  Holiday photos aren't exactly what I'd hoped.

When, a few days before Christmas, I heard her singing, "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, I mean my four front teeth..." I couldn't help but giggle.  If Santa and the Tooth Fairy could only pull some strings with Mother Nature that wish could have come true. 

I'm reminded, though, that parenting is best approached with the fewest expectations.  While I can keep them clean, fed, and having fun and learning whenever possible, I can't control much else.  I could not have predicted or planned for my third child's early labor, my first child's arthritis diagnosis, or my second child falling down an entire flight of stairs.  I think its only natural to have a mental map of what we hope for our children.  We should be wary of creating too big a mental map, though, if we want to have any hope of keeping our own heart in tact.  Creating a baby, raising a child, and watching that human grow into an adult is wrought with heartache.  If we, as parents, set our sights or expectations too often or too high we're sure to be disappointed.  If we keep our own plans in check our children will likely exceed our greatest dreams for them.  I'll never be able to make a deal with Mother Nature, but I will be able to raise a strong, brave and self-confident girl by letting go of my expectations of the experience of Parenthood and helping her create and navigate her own path.