No Hugging, Please

'Are you going to hug her when she walks off the plane? ...Just kidding.' Claire laughed.  We were driving to the airport to pick up my friend Erin who was coming to visit for the weekend.

Claire's question was humorous for one simple reason: I am not, in any way, a hugger.
I am not a cuddly woman.
I never feel compelled to hold a friend's new baby.
I don't indulge my children in unnecessary crying or whining. In our house it is understood that unless you are bleeding profusely, or your heart is sincerely breaking,  Momma will not attend to unwarranted upset.

I love my children fiercely and will do almost anything for them. But I don't coddle them. Pretty much the only things I coddle are puppies and eggs.

But I'm not cold. Ironically, most people find me to be casual to a fault and quite warm with my words and deeds.

At least I am honest about my hugging defect. A few weeks ago, the girls and I were driving home from the mall. We were stopped in traffic. On the sidewalk, up ahead there was a mother with her arm strongly encircling her teenage daughter's shoulders. I pointed at the pair and said, 'Look girls, that's what it looks like when I mother hugs her off-spring'.
My girls solemnly gazed out the window at the warm scene of motherly love, and sighed.

Maybe it is because I am so forthcoming with my anti-hugging convictions that my children love me anyway. On rare occasions, they approach and ask me for a hug. This always catches me by surprise and I feel a wave of guilt as I whole-heartedly squeeze and hug my daughter.
I just need to be reminded, I guess... not too often, though. I couldn't handle that.

My close friends know not to hug me. I am very clear about my personal space requirements. Ironically, it's only people who don't really know me who hug me. But that only happens once, I clear up the miscommunication after that first awkward embrace.

Erin walked through customs and saw us, my four girls and I, waiting behind the security barriers.  As she came closer I surprised myself as I stepped forward and threw my arms around her. I don't know what came over me, but I felt the sincere overwhelming urge to hug my dear friend. I stepped back and chuckled not only at myself but at the expression on my daughter's faces: complete shock.

We turned to walk out to the car and I put my arm around Claire's shoulders. She smiled and we walked through the doors of the airport into the chilly winter air.

Christmas Chaos

It's the same all over the world this time of year: If you celebrate Christmas, your life is currently in a state of chaos...especially if you have young children. It's a nice chaos, lots of annual activities that we all look forward to, but they seem to happen all at once.

I think sometimes that I am so crazed I am missing 'it'. In all my disorganized confusion, I trample right past some of the important, meaningful stuff.

Last night the twins had their Christmas ballet recital. My oldest, Claire also had a German course wedged in between school pick-up and the start of the recital. As the minutes sped by I noticed the sound of my voice rising louder and higher. I knew I was being unreasonable ('Mimi! Stop touching every pencil on the counter and just put your coat on!’ and, 'No Camille! I don't know where the Christmas cards for your class are! You signed them, where did you put them?!'), but I was like an out of control avalanche and couldn't didn't stop.

In the five minutes of spare time I had between school, German and ballet runs I threw a bunch of ingredients I had on hand into a pot, slid it into the oven, crossed my fingers and hoped to find something resembling a stew when we got home from the recital.

On the drive over to ballet I apologized to the girls for shouting.

We arrived with no time to spare and jumped out of the car into the frosty, December night. The twins had no tights on, no pants either— their bare, skinny legs were blue and prickly with goose bumps. My friend Sam pulled up along next to me; mother of three daughters about the same age as mine, she is equally harried most of the time, too. This always makes me feel better.

Sam emerged from her minivan with her youngest daughter, Emily hanging from her— Emily's hands locked behind Sam’s neck, her body, bare legs and bare feet dangling as her Momma trudged into the dance hall, scowling.

The sight of this actually made me relax a little.

Sam peeled Emily off of her and sent her into the pre-show room with my two. She and I settled into the last two seats at the back of the hall. At least I have brought my camera, I thought (remembering last year, when I didn’t). I turned the pocket-sized camera on and read in the display screen, 'No memory card'. I sighed, turned it off and stuck it back in my pocket. I mouthed to Sam, 'Will you take pictures of the twins, too?' Her expression changed to one of nausea as she whispered, 'I've forgotten my camera...' We both turned solemnly to watch the show.

Although it took me a few minutes to get out of my head and really pay attention to the little ballerinas in front of us, I soon sat back in my seat and enjoyed this treasured moment. I'd like to say that my girls were the picture of grace and poise, but unfortunately they take after me in the dancing department and were remarkably awkward, even for 4 year olds. Tess fell down twice while standing in place and Mimi drifted from one end of the room to the other, stepping on tiny pink toes as she went.

My daughters were the comic relief of the show, which, in my mind, made it even better.

We arrived back home, opened the door to the house and were enveloped in the fantastic aroma of tomato, herbs and chicken. I had forgotten that I had stuck dinner in the oven before we left, it was a nice surprise. It wasn’t, as I had envisioned, stew—it was even better. The tomatoes, stock, shallots and herbs had melded into a rich sauce.

Nothing that evening turned out the way I would have planned. But ultimately the recital and the dinner turned out to be better than I expected.

I am Disney’s Bi-otch

We’ve just returned from the ‘Happiest Place on Earth!’ I have my doubts.

When we visited Disney World six years ago, we had only two children who were roughly the same age. They enjoyed the same rides and experiences, and it was magical—it truly was. Every day was like Christmas morning for my then three year old and five year old daughters, and so it was for me, too.

This visit, eh... not so much.

But the story begins six months ago. After making the hotel reservation, I settled in to research all things Disney; where to eat, which events to go to, what was the best time to meet up with Minnie Mouse and exactly the best place to sit to see Finding Nemo—the Musical. I was so excited in the details, truly euphoric in my anticipation that my husband mused, ‘How are you going to keep this going for 180 more days?’ Bah-humbug! I was intent on reliving the magic, only this time it would involve four children of very different ages... and interests.

I had written and rewritten an itinerary that scheduled us down to the half hour, literally. I spent about 60 hours researching and compiling the most efficient use of our time during our nine days (that’s 216 hours) there. There would be time slotted in for naps, of course I’m no tyrant, but the children would have to drift off to sleep within fifteen minutes of lying down and be awake a refreshed, ready to carry on within two hours after initial slumber.

I was able to successfully suck the fun out of Disney for pretty much everyone in our party.

And the thing is I am normally the laid-back one. I am the one who says, ‘Let ‘em play, will ya? It doesn’t matter of they stain their shirt or stay up too late—they’re kids, they need freedom.’ That lady was nowhere to be found in the Magic Kingdom. She was kidnapped, bound, gagged and replaced by the uptight, schedule-wielding bitch I had become.

Couple this with the fact that although they agreed to it, some members of our party (I won’t name any names, but his gender is male) refused to stick to simple plans. ‘Okay, Daddy —you take the big girls to ride Thunder Mountain, I’ll get in line with the little girls to see Chip and Dale and meet you back here in 30 minutes!’ After standing in the sun, waiting for two hours at the assigned meeting point, I gave up, took the bus back to the hotel, laid down for a nap with my four year olds (all of us hot, sticky and tired), and had a good cry.

That was day one.

And then there is the extreme cash lay-out. Buying a package that included hotel, tickets and meals, we thought (completely naively) that we would actually be spending very little in the parks; maybe a t-shirt and some mouse ears for each kid.

We
were
wrong...
really,
really
wrong.

There was the Halloween Party (extra entry-ticket required) that Mickey threw for his favourite little ghost and goblins in the Magic Kingdom ($58 per person). The family fought through the costumed crowd of thousands of other Disney World suckers devotees and managed to stay for about 45 minutes. Then there was Bibbity Bobbity Boutique, a beauty salon for children three and older, where their Fairy God-Mother in Training works her magic (with rhinestone hairclips, lip gloss and hair-extensions worthy of the finest trailer park in southern Arkansas) to transform weary, sweaty little girls into the next pre-school beauty queen, or as my father-in-law proclaimed as my newly coifed daughters squeezed their way of the fully-packed beauty salon, ‘Hey! Aren’t you Joy from My Name is Earl?’ Including the princess dresses, this one came to a staggering $500. And of course, who could reasonably resist buying the five by seven inch photos of our little princesses documenting all of these events ($42 a pop).

Every time we opened our wallets, there were thirty people standing behind us waiting to do the same.

I began to see that Disney World truly is magic—Mickey is a marketing magician. He has figured out how to get people to pay handsomely for things they not only don’t need, but usually don’t even want.
The little rat.

So on our last night, we went to the Luau at the Polynesian. It was really beautiful, everything lit by great baskets of fire. We bought the girls full-on Polynesian outfits, grass skirts, flower wreaths for their heads and leis for all of us. My mother-in-law bought the group photo for $42 and my husband fell asleep at the table before the fire juggler came on. I was about to punch him on the shoulder to wake him, when my tiniest girl, Tess crawled up on my lap and flung her arms around my neck, following her daddy off to sleep. I realized that this was the first time I had slowed down long enough to hold any of my children in almost ten days. I kissed her cheek then buried my nose in her soft, skinny neck.

And as I gazed at the glowing fireball being tossed around on stage I began to think about how soon we could come back to Disney World.

The Easter Bunny

Grab a nice, hot cup of tea, a latte or whatever your favourite beverage may be and get comfortable—I am going to tell you a story that will, without a doubt, reassure you that you are not the worst parent in the world.

I am.

This afternoon, Camille (my nine year old) and I were watching tv together. We’d been out all day at a cool, historic property, marching around an Easter Trail. Great outdoor, parent-children bonding time.
Camille had been saying things like, ‘I know when I am a parent, I will ask the Easter Bunny to give my children a present along with their chocolate eggs,’ and ‘Do you think that the Easter Bunny will bring me a giant cream filled egg this year? I just love cream filled eggs’.

Here’s where my misunderstanding began.

These hints continued into the later afternoon as we sat watching a cooking show together. So, as we were sitting there on the couch, I looked at Camille, and maybe it was because I was tired from our day’s adventures, or maybe it was because I was temporarily insane, but I said to her, ‘Okay now, Camille—we all know that you know that the Easter Bunny is not real.’

Cover wide-open mouth with left hand. Mumble expletives, if desired.

Camille looked at me for a few, very long seconds, then she blinked and blinked again, then the tears came streaming down her cheeks.

Oh shit. Oh my God—what have I done?

‘Oh no, Camille—you thought the Easter Bunny was real??? Oh no. I am so sorry. I truly thought you were kidding around with the hints about gifts and cream eggs...’ I held her hands and stared into her soft, brown eyes brimming with tears. The idea that I had put an end to her childhood innocence swept across me like a cold, sharp wind; I shuddered.

After a while she sniffed and wiped away some tears. ‘Camille, I am truly so very sorry. I thought you knew,’ I managed. ‘It’s okay, Mommy... Now I can help you with hiding the Easter eggs for the twins. That will be fun,’ she said. I just stared at her, then she reassured me, ‘Mommy—really, it’s alright.’

I sincerely did not know what to say, how to repair the heartbreak I had caused—I can be so dense in that way, in damage control. So I just kissed her head and stroked her hair and snuggled her up closer as we watched the rest of our cooking show in silence.

After a few quiet moments, Camille looked up at me and was wiggling her most recently loose tooth. Then she said earnestly, ‘You know, this is all okay because maybe I will lose this tooth and the tooth fairy will come tonight, then I'll never miss the Easter Bunny.’

Amen.

Sugar and Spice

My 4 year old twins were wrestling this morning. Rolling on the floor and laughing a lot. At one point, Tess (who is tiny and tough as nails) stood over her sister and said (in her most serious, toddler voice) , 'Oh, it is ON! It is BERRY on!' then she jumped on top of Mimi and began tickling her mercilessly.

This scene was made funnier due to the fact that they were wearing little, pink princess dresses. Sequins and satin blurred in the fury.

Last week, I snuggled in my big bed with the little girls and watched a mutually favorite program, Sponge Bob Square Pants. At one point, the cable blinked and Patrick, the obese, pink starfish was sucked from the screen-- all went black. Tess, so very mellow, but clearly annoyed didn't take her eyes off the t.v. but sighed, 'What the hell...'

I froze, not knowing what to do. I wanted to laugh, but bit my lip instead. I knew if I said anything it would draw attention to the word. I also knew for sure that she didn't understand what that word meant.

The cable came back on and I laid there silently, sort of holding my breath.

Tess has not used that expression since. At least not at home... I can only hope she is not throwing it around in her pre-school cafeteria.

Birthday Cake

It was the twins' fourth birthday yesterday. As I think I have stated in past postings, I do not bake. Trained as a chef, yes-- I can cook dinners for 200 people without too many issues. But bake a simple birthday cake? No... No, I can't.

But bake I did. Or rather attempted... and failed. Using a Dunkin Hines mix I baked up a decent smelling chocolate cake, but immdiately broke it into pieces upon shaking it from its silicon pan (purchased just for this occassion).

I glued the cake back together with a pot of Dunkin Hines frosting, smearing the remaining frosting on top of the now, offense-to-homemade-birthday-cakes worldwide. It was at this point that I handed each of the twins a shaker of sprinkles and let them have their way with the white-frosted-black-crumb-coated cake. They decorated with glee (read: thousands of sprinkles).

It was an unaquivocal baking disaster.

I looked at it and thought to myself-- 'This is the ugliest birthday cake ever made. Ever.' Then, as if she was reading my mind and wanted to change it, Tess said, admiringly, 'It's so pretty!'

I looked at her and smiled. 'It is,' I agreed.

Worst Mother Ever

I am a bad mother. Not like, ‘that is one bad mutha’, more like, ‘I know it’s winter, but we’re late for school! There’s no time for shoes and socks-- just pick one!’

This past weekend, my oldest daughter, Claire was in the kitchen, and grumbling. She is just beginning to go through puberty. Her mood swings are almost comical. Thank God she doesn’t read this blog.

So, she’s in the kitchen riffling through the cupboards looking for a snack. All she could find that interested her was peanut butter and crackers. Fine. Settled. She made up a couple, all the time telling me that I, ‘just have to get better snacks in this house’-- when you read this, in your head, use a really high, piercing voice, while pinching your nose. This is not how she sounds, rather how my ears hear her.

She walks by the kitchen table where my middle gal, Camille and I were reading a book together and she screeches, (again with that high voice and pinched nose), ’That’s my Tree House book, Camille! You didn’t ask me if you could read it! Mama, Camille may not read my Tree House book!’ (I let out a ‘jeeeze…’ while Camille rolls her eyes.)

At this, she turned on her heel, and intended to huff down the stairs in grand dramatic fashion, but instead, fell down the stairs. Bumpity, bump, bump-- BANG!

I got up from the table, ran to the stairs and looked down. She was sprawled at the bottom, getting up, not crying (she rarely does that), her peanut butter crackers were scattered like confetti after Mardi Gras in ‘Nawlins, all over the family room floor.

I went down the stairs, asked her if she was okay. She was. I moved her ankles around, wiggled her toes-- the whole bit. Then I helped her walk over to the couch and sit down.

Here’s where the bad mother part comes in to play. I sat down next to her and busted out laughing. It was uncontrollable. I was shaking no, convulsing as I tried desperately to hold in the snorts of laughter. Eyes shut tight, tears squeezing out, teeth clenched. I knew that this was the worst thing I could do. But I couldn’t help it-- the more I tried to stop, the harder I laughed.

She had been acting like Nelly Olsen on Little House on the Prairie, and Nelly would have deserved to fall down those steps after telling off Laura Ingles like that, right? I mean, that is classic physical comedy (reference Lucille Ball, Charlie Chaplin, Chevy Chase)-- it was impossible not to laugh.

Claire hugged a big pillow over her face so that I couldn’t see that she was beginning to laugh, too and screamed (employ screechy voice again)-- ‘You are the worst mother, ever!’