Today it was my turn to pick up my delightful, amiable, gifted daughters from daycare/after-school care (have to qualify that for the 7-year-old).  My husband and I take turns picking-up or dropping-off depending on who has a late or early meeting.  This is a total crap-shoot and we cannot achieve a predictable schedule….anyway…

We put our seatbelts on, I halt a skirmish over butt-cheek space on the back seat, and I make it to the street after fighting the parking lot traffic.  Merely 30-seconds into our commute  Eva sobbingly accuses me of giving her the ‘shortest name of anyone in the world’ and when she gets old enough she’s going to change her name to ‘Lucy’.  Wildly rolling my eyes, I attempt to change the subject (‘look, a red car!!!  Isn’t that amazing??’).   

Then, for some reason, the girls started talking about dying.  First Eva tells me she never ever, ever wants me to die, EVER!  (I know within an hour, she’ll reverse this opinion).  I calmly explain to her that everyone dies, someday, and if you girls are NICE to Momma, she won’t kick the bucket for many, many, many years.

They then began surmising about the afterlife (Oh boy).  Annika explains, in a worldly tone, that ‘our spirits go the heaven but not the body, and that’s a good thing because if you get punched in the stomach it won’t hurt’!

I almost drove into the bayou I laughed so hard. 

Unfortunately I’m on drop-off duty tomorrow.

It has been suggested to me that this forum is about supporting Mom’s and women in their imperfection. I don’t know if I’m the “perfect” person to speak to this topic, or the antithesis! Being a “one” on the Enneagram, my middle name is Perfection, so I’ve spent (and continue to invest) a lot of my energy learning to relax, flow, trust, give up control, “be” (rather than “do”) . . . trying to let go of my perfect standards – and yet I still judge myself harshly and struggle with judging my family and others by my excessive ideals.

Although people who know me insist it isn’t true, my struggle to be perfect is balanced by an almost insurmountable resistance to “just getting things done.” You may note that I am a month later making my first post than all the other guest bloggers – a month of RESISTANCE and guilt and to-do-lists and false starts . . . but here goes.

I am a wife and mom, daughter and sister, planner/organizer, bean counter, entrepreneur, adventurer/traveler, athlete, gardener, cook, environmentalist and social justice/mission leader. In light of all these things that I strive to be really good at DOING, my real challenge is to get in touch with my “being” side, which I try to do through yoga and taming my compulsive nature so that I can live and find joy in more moments in my life.

I hate to admit, however, that as great as this sounds today, I spent my child-rearing years taking very few cleansing breaths – and expected my kids to live up to some pretty excessive expectations. I now look at my relationship with my son and daughter – and husband – and wonder (trying not to judge) how my personality influenced our relationships – and their life journeys.

Interestingly, my son Collin who was always a daydreamer, full of questions but seemingly unable to perform simple tasks (like eating breakfast or making a bed – to say nothing of trying to respond to the list of unfinished business that I had in mind at almost any moment!) has become a disciplined, organized, compassionate, forward thinking college sophomore. Somehow, his easy-going nature shed my judgment and demands like water off a seal’s back . . . and he seems to have emerged rather unscathed from his years under my loving but somewhat tyrannical parenthood.

My daughter Ashley is much like her mother, struggling with stress and self-judgment as she tries to live up to standards of competence, intelligence and independence. I’m not sure if they are her standards or what she perceives as being MY standards – and I worry that her compulsion with being “successfully” independent creates pressures to portray an image to me/others(?) that is not based in reality. The manifestations of my “good intentions” as a Mom have had a really different influence in her young-adult challenges. Ashley struggles with addiction (I am still trying to get my arms around this reality) and is challenged to find appropriate coping mechanisms. On the other hand, she is loyal, motivated, competent and fun – and is enjoying great success at school and work.

There were times when my children were younger that I couldn’t wait for them to grow up and leave home – and relieve me of the exhausting moment to moment challenges of parenting. Now that I’ve joined the ranks of “empty-nester” I recognize what a myth it is to think that having your kids out on their own is restful. It is certainly different, but bigger kids have bigger issues. I look back now and wish I’d approached some of my parenting – and life in general – with a different perspective. Mostly I’d remind myself not to take things personally – and to lighten up a little!! I’m hoping it isn’t too late to put my own advice into action.

Crazy things happen when we get together with my sister and her children. Usually there is mass hysteria; screeches and squeals, running and jumping, occasional tears and lots and lots of laughter. Yesterday was no exception. Here is a glimpse into my world…

(click the thumbnail below)

Dont touch my breasts!!

Is a front-load washer?

Apparently Santa has me confused with ANOTHER woman. This other woman gets super-duper excited about things like appliances.  Last December, I had to get a $300 part for my fridge so that the freezer would stop filling up with ice. This year, it seems, without my concious knowledge, I must have sat on Santa’s knee and whispered, “Hey big guy. Make mama happy and bring me a front-load washer.”

About two weeks ago, my 12-year-old washer died. I wrote about it on Facebook (look me up! let’s be friends!). Within seconds, I had received notes of glee from friends who actually ticked off all the benefits of front-loaders and where the best sales could be found. Like, they read appliance ads for fun!?

That aint me.

In fact, when Dave and I decided that it was time to play “Taps” for the old washer, I let him do all the homework on a new one and he even did the shopping. I just don’t CARE what I freaking wash clothes with!  Unless it gives pedicures as it washes clothes, it is simply not going to excite me.

So, Dave did a bunch of research and went out and bought one yesterday. Front-loader. Kenmore. Terribly efficient (which does calm the tree-hugger in me but it does not ‘excite’ me).

And now, it is 10 days before Christmas and we’re broke. Yay me.

Santa, next year, if it seems like I’m sitting on your knee begging for a dish washer (it must be the next to go, right?) please ignore me. Instead, get me a day at a spa.

I’ve mentioned before that my just turned 4 year old son, Adam, is autistic.  He’s funny, determined, has his own agenda…and, you know, he doesn’t talk much. This year, his 4th year of life, we’re just beginning to hear his voice, really. If you are a mom with a four year old and are able to carry on a conversation, well, count your blessings.
Or maybe not. Yikes, here’s why maybe not:

The other day, I was driving like a mad woman to somewhere, who knows where (it was important at the time but now that importance escapes me, I’m sure you understand), and here comes that freaking yellow (red) light, ready to slap you right across the face just when you thought you were making great time. Screeeeeech. I brake hard, (because I’ve already gotten a traffic violation this year), so another one in twelve (two) months might get my driving privileges  examined by at least SOMEONE out there.

“SON OF A B-TCH!”

Yes, those words were uttered. And they were uttered just like you read them. IN BOLD FACE CAPITAL LETTERS. They were not, however, uttered by yours truly. They were uttered by Adam, who was placidly sitting in his carseat, minding his own business, not a care in the world about where we were going and what time we were going to get there. He’s simply learned the drill. Brake hard. Shout obscenity.

Yeah, um, oops.

Poor little guy, I kinda feel for him. All he ever needs to know he’s learned from ME? And I kinda fear for myself. Because who knows what he has learned from me!  The car thing? Not a one time deal. I’ve probably heard it ten times by now. Also, I’ve heard “OH SH-T!” flow from his mouth as freely and clearly as if I’ve sat down with him and forced him to recite it 50 times before breakfast.

So, moral of story? Yeah, probably nothing I can equate with moral anyway. I guess the only thing that one can take away from this is…just because autism can’t speak doesn’t mean that autism cannot LISTEN.

So God help us all.