Summer Tales

Summer has begun!  We started off with a bang – Phoebe celebrated her 8th birthday on the last day of school, and Bridget had her’s on July 1.  We’ve been to the beach three times, my parents’ pool three times, and the San Diego County Fair.  We’ve had a sleepover here, and I got to take another “mom’s trip” with some dear girlfriends a few weekends back.  Lucy spent a week helping at her riding teacher’s horsecamp, and Phoebe’s had a few playdates, including a trip to the waterpark.

Despite the fullness of the fun calendar, the kids have paved the roads of boredom and bickering already.  Especially the two younger girls.  Man, can that be tiresome to listen to!

I’ve been reading for fun, too.  I read a book called The Restorer, a Christian science fiction work which I alternately enjoyed and thought was cheesy.  I’ve re-read Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince along with other patrons at the Hogs’ Head Blog, in anticipation of the movie.  (I really have a problem with seeing movies that have been made from books.  They always get so much wrong,  and things don’t look how I imagine them, and I know cinema is a different media and things have to be somewhat different, but I think I’m too much of a book nerd to be able to embrace the differences!!  I always swear, “Never again.” when I see a from-book movie, and I always see them anyway so I don’t feel left out of life and conversation, bit I generally regret it.)   I’m also working my way through Raising Great Kids again, which I find such a helpful “road map” to remembering what I’m trying to accomplish in this crazy endeavor known as…parenting.

I felt like I had to do a quick catch-up post, so that I can now resume the usual fare of thought-provoking, excellent writing that you are all used to. 

See you soon!

First Harvest

Dave, my beloved husband, put a garden in our backyard this year – a first for us. It’s been fun to see things actually growing. It feels sort of miraculous.

Today we had our first harvest – of green beans. Pole and bush. We’ll do a taste test tonight at dinner to see what we prefer! Bridget was very excited to pick the beans and put them in her little basket.

Incidentally, there may be more appearances of the older children after this week…school is out on Thursday! So we’ll have lots of together-time adventures to share. Or, I may be so busy breaking up sibling squabbles and keeping everyone on an even keel that I will completely drop out of the blogosphere for a few months. Let’s hope for the former option!

Another One Bites the Dust

This is a sad blog post, in memoriam of not one pet, but two that have recently left our household for bigger and better things (if you believe that animals go to heaven, that is.)

In the past two weeks, our cat Crisp and our white guinea pig Marshmallow have gone on.

We adopted Crisp just about one year ago from an animal shelter, on the condition that we would not allow him to be an outdoor cat. (They make all the adoptive parents promise this.) And we stuck with that promise, having lost our black cat a year ago to a coyote. The trouble is, our longtime cat, Beatrice, has always been a sensible indoor/outdoor cat. She is mostly an indoor cat but she also ventures out to sun herself around our yard and climb trees and catch an unsuspecting bird now and then. (Our next door neighbor has also said that Beatrice occasionally goes in their house for a mid-day nap, which is an oddly embarrassing and uncomfortable thing for me to think about, but that’s another story.) It’s an arrangement that has worked out quite well for her. She comes in at night. She doesn’t make herself a coyote meal.

Crisp, on the other hand, would stand at the sliding glass door, begging and pleading and meowing to get out. He’d wistfully watch Beatrice as she would dart out and tauntingly roll around on the patio. Finally I gave in. I let him outside. Just during the daylight, mind you. We always got him in at sunset. Well, until this last time. And he never made it home. I tacked up “Missing Cat” notices around our neighborhood, completely hypocritically since I always silently scoff at these notices when I see other people doing this. I mean, who are we kidding? A missing cat is a coyote meal.

Sigh.

I think there is a spectrum of animal understanding. They, in the created order of things, are below humans. We are to care for and respect their place in the world. I have good friends who fall on both sides of the “Animal-Stewardship Spectrum.” I have one friend who likes animals but doesn’t mind leaving kittens and puppies outside, even in coyote territory. A shrug and “circle of life” philosophy mark her understanding of pets. On the other end, I have a dear friend who thinks it is near-criminal behavior that I would allow our cats outside. I think I must fall somewhere in the middle.

And remember Marshmallow?

Marshmallow of the exotic pet doctor fame? Well, after all my work to rid her of lice, treat her itchy skin, give her antibiotics twice a day with a tiny oral syringe, and give her oatmeal baths, the oddest thing happened. She dropped dead last Saturday night. I thought everything was fine, she was doing great, her sores had finally healed, no lice, she and Ebony were back in the same cage, everything was great. I was out of town (Mom’s getaway trip with girlfriends…ahhh!) and Dave called and said, “Uh…I don’t know how to say this, but Marshmallow is DEAD.”

Poor Dave. He’s never been a big rodent person. And he had to deal with this. He thinks she may have died of a broken heart, since I, her beloved caretaker, had abandoned her for two days. Who knows? But she’s gone. She always was a bit more high-strung. Maybe her blood pressure was high and she had a heart attack. We’ll never know.

The interesting thing is this: either my children are becoming calloused to death (bad), or they are learning to grieve well the losses of life (good). They’ve been sad, but not devastated. In my hopeful “mom” heart, I want to think that all this dealing with loss and sadness is preparing them for life, where grieving is required for things both great and small.

Rest in peace, dear animals. And we won’t replace you too soon. Not because we can’t bear to try to fill the aching holes in our hearts, but because Dave has made me promise to have a “pet-acquisition” hiatus for a year.

Discipline

Last week Dave and I scheduled an official meeting after the children were tucked in to discuss: discipline.

We’ve had the sense (me more than Dave since I’m here with the kids most of the time) that we needed to put in place some consequences for the increasing bouts of attitude, sassiness, and unwillingness to do what they are told. I realized that I’ve been tip-toeing around, trying not to upset the children by telling them what they don’t want to hear. Examples: “Wake up! It’s time to get ready for school.” “Okay, time to put your clothes away.” “Clear the table please!” Simple requests like this have been met recently with resentment and bad attitudes. What is wrong with these children?!

I know it sounds like normal mothering woes, but I think discipling children is one of those insidious things that creeps up when you’re not looking and you let the children get away with way too much, because really, they are good, thoughtful kids for the most part. But things were getting out of control. As I was re-skimming a book by some of my favorite gurus of parenting and emotional development, Henry Cloud and John Townsend, I found this idea:

Your child has to give up an entire way of looking at life. His philosophy of “Don’t worry, let them do it” is being replaced by “Worry, it’s going to cost you!” This is distressing for him. (from Raising Great Kids).

I’ve been realizing: I cannot control my children. At least, once they pass about the first 18 months of life. After that, I can only make their existence pleasant and comfortable when they do what’s right, or I can make it uncomfortable and miserable when they don’t. And I’ve been shirking on the latter.

During our meeting, I jotted down our ideas for things to take away from the children when they are acting entitled and spoiled, or when they blatantly disrespect us. After our talk, I left the index card I’d been writing on sitting on top of the piano. I felt armed and dangerous, and was determined to make their transgressions the problem and the consequences the enemy, not myself. I didn’t really think much of the card there, I just am not a neat and tidy person who puts things away.

My first real follow-through moment came with Phoebe the next day. I asked her to clean up a craft mess she’d made in her room before starting on the new craft idea that she’d thought of (a mobile!). She protested and whined. I said, “Okay, you can also empty all the trashcans upstairs for showing me disrespect. And…I can think of some other chores if that isn’t enough for you to get the point.” She glared at me, and, I am not kidding, sobbed and screamed throughout the whole cleanup – of the original mess, and the trashcans. Honestly, the thought that came to mind was “Howler monkey.” But she was doing it, so I figured, fine, let her protest.

This is the strange part: as soon as she finished I said, “Thanks, Phoebes, good job! Can I help you find the supplies you need for that next project?” she hit the “off” button of the tears and screams, and began eagerly chatting with me about her idea for the mobile.  This is the truth.  The rest of the afternoon passed in peace and harmony.

It’s been a few days.  Things are going well.  Phoebe has even been picking up her clothes from the bathroom floor and putting them in the hamper without being reminded to do so.  When I commended her on that last night, she replied, “Well, I’ve just been remembering because I don’t want you yelling at me.”  (I really am not a yeller, but okay.) “And,” she continued, “I saw that card on the piano and read it.”

Lucy overheard this conversation and chimed in, “Ooohh!  I saw that thing too.  Scary!”

I love it.

Farm Trip Fiasco

Today was the Annual Farm Tour of the C.S.A. we belong to.  (Community Supported Agriculture.)  It’s a local organic farm where we get fresh organic veggies and fruits bi-weekly.  I thought it would be fun and interesting for the children (and for me) to see exactly where this farm was, what it looks like, and get a little closer to the land and the growing process.

In theory, it was.

The reality was a little different.

The farmer was a very nice man, and I’m sure he is exceedingly good at farming.  His skills for public speaking to a large crowd and his ability to logistically orchestrate a tour of his farm were…lacking a bit.

I had harbored secret visions of pulling my older girls out of school for a worthwhile “personal field trip” experience.  I imagined them skipping with delight through rows of newly planted crops, exulting in the way God’s creation is ordered and subdued by people, to grow food and banish pests in a natural, wholesome way.

I was disappointed.

The “tour” got started 40 minutes late, and by the time we actually got up and joined the eclectic group of homeschooling families, hippy-looking people, sweet elderly people and cool-looking young adults with nose-rings, my children were already griping and complaining.  Lucy said she would have preferred to go to school today.  Phoebe claimed she was hot, then she complained she was cold.  Bridget wanted me to carry her and whined incessantly.

We left early.

I’m glad to see where our crops come from.  I’m grateful to that nice farmer and his vision for growing organically.  I’m appreciative of the people who belong to the C.S.A. with us.  And I don’t think we’ll do the tour next year.

Memorial Day Camping Trip

We took the girls up to William Heise campgrounds for a quick one-night camping adventure.  It was fun, except for our dog, Piper, who was very nervous about the whole ordeal.  (He’s only camped in a campground once before.)  The night was the worst.  We took him into our tent where he nervously paced and licked himself, startling at every noise outside.  Dave and I took turns taking him out to try to calm him down, let him pee, etc.  Nothing helped.  Finally, at around 1am, I fed him a children’s Benadryl and stroked him until he got so drowsy that he finally conked out, stretched out next to my sleeping bag. Ridiculous.

Otherwise, we had some fun hiking, exploring, s’more toasting, reading and talking around the fire, and above all (at least for our younger two children) – getting as dirty as possible.

Dave and I celebrate our 13th anniversary today.  Yay!  I love that I still like hanging out with that guy.

Silly Story

Remember in Pride and Prejudice, when Elizabeth Bennett is described as having “a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in any thing ridiculous”?   Well, this story fits in with that description.

Yesterday I had to take Phoebe to the Urgent Care Center.  (She’s fine, by the way.)  As we drove away, we had to take the little two-lane access road which runs from the doctors office to the main street.  It was pretty deserted, being Sunday afternoon,  so I was surprised to notice a little dog, some kind of Chiguagua mix just wandering next to the road.  A quick scan around assured me that no owner stood nearby.  I stopped the car and got out.  The dog came near and sniffed my hand, and I scooped her up and into the car, where I read on her tag that her name was “Zoe” and quickly dialed the phone number on the tag.

Meanwhile, Zoe was hooting and sniffing around our van, much to Phoebe’s delight.  She was a very sweet dog.

When a man answered, I explained I had found his dog.  He asked where I was and I told him, and he said, “Oh, we live nearby.  Just let her go and she’ll come home. She always does.”    Okay, I thought.

I got out of the van, holding the dog, and crossed over the other side of the street to set her down.  Just then a man pulled up behind me in his car, trying to drive out to the street.  He eyed me with confusion as I let this dog down and the dog proceeded to meander across the road in front of this man’s car.  He looked at me like, “What the heck are you doing, setting your dog free right here?”

I smiled and shrugged, wanting him to roll down his window so I could explain the circumstance.  He didn’t, and I felt rather foolish.  Finally Zoe moved out of the way and I got back into my van.

That was a ridiculous experience, just imagining how this looked from the man in the car’s perspective.   I just had to chuckle at it, and myself.  Just call me Elizabeth.

The Glass Menagerie: my review

Last night Dave and I had a date night: we saw The Glass Menagerie performed by The Lambs’ Players Theatre in Coronado.

I had never read this play by Tennesee Williams before, so I had no idea what we were in for before going.

Quick thoughts on it: It’s a story of a Southern belle mother whose husband abandoned the family, and she is left with a very shy, mentally/emotionally unstable daughter and an aimless, restless son. It was a tender story, sad at times, funny at others, poignant in its rich characters and the nuances of each personality. On the one hand, the mother was controlling and nagging, and couldn’t seem to grasp the fact that her slightly disabled daughter was unlike herself. She pushed and nagged this poor, fragile girl to be other than what she was: very shy and probably mentally ill. The mother (Amanda) also took issue with her son, criticizing him to the point of complete exasperation, giving him no space to develop and cultivate his passion for writing and adventure, and constantly shaming him with accusations of selfishness and laziness.

What made this play so rich and interesting, though, was that you could see beyond Amanda’s “controlling mother” persona and into her heart – a woman who couldn’t grasp how her life had turned out so differently that she expected. The many “gentleman callers” that courted her as a young Southern belle and offered promises of riches and land and stability somehow faded away and she picked a man who charmed her but then abandoned her and her children. She is left, bewildered and overwhelmed, with few options as a single mother living in the 1940s, with a son who she fears is following in his fathers’ irresponsible footsteps and a daughter who will be left an old maid, uncared for and dependent on the mercy of others for her sustenance.

This theatre company had a forum after the show, where they invited  interested patrons to an informal dialogue with the cast.   During this time, a man commented how he thought the table filled with the glass menagerie of animals (that the sister loves to care for) should have been more brightly illuminated, noting that that was the title of the whole production. One of the actresses responded that she understood the characters of the play to be, in fact, the glass menagerie. Fragile and brittle. Able to reflect and refract light. Unsure of their ultimate purpose and aim in this world.

I thought that was a brilliant response.

The play ended sadly, in Dave’s and my opinion. I’m not sure what literary critics do with the ending of this play, but it felt to us like a tragedy. The boy just takes off, and never returns. In a sense, it’s good that he broke free from the tyranny of his mother and the hopelessness of his sisters’ situation. But ultimately, he must squelch each remembrance of his sister’s light, and this was powerfully symbolized by her snuffing out five candles of a candelabra, one by one, until the stage is left in complete darkness.

How Cool is This

A quick fun post to follow up after that last serious one.

I was making Bridget lunch today after preschool and cut a strawberry horizontally.  Inside: a fun reminder of the joy in creation!

Happy Mother’s Day?

(Warning: this is a heavy, somber-feeling post.  Beware!)

It’s Mother’s Day.  I was given the luxury by Dave and the kids to sleep in, enjoy some coffee and the Sunday paper in bed, and be treated to hand-made cards and potted flowers.  Very nice and simple.

Ironically, it’s been a tough weekend, mother-wise.  A good friend from my college days (Hi Mel!!) came and visited from Friday to Saturday.  It was so nice to see her, to catch up, to have some good conversation.  What wasn’t so great was the display of defiance and chaos that our littlest daughter exhibited during my friend’s whole visit.  Screaming, tantrums, manipulation, whining.  It was humbling and embarrassing.  Add to that a few well-placed sarcastic jibes by my older girls, and I have found myself having major doubt about my mothering skills.

Earlier this week, I had a moment (unrelated to parenting) where I experienced some good old fashioned “godly sorrow.”  The kind where a sudden realization of pride and self-satisfaction and smug self-righteousness hit me like a ton of bricks, but softly.  I felt chastened by the goodness of God, and bent down by my own sin.  It was a sad place to be, but a good one, because it reminded me of the all-too-easy-to-forget truth: that apart from Him, I can do NOTHING.  Those are painful, terrible words to hear when I think I’m doing a pretty decent job on my own.  They are words of hope and consolation when I see the truth – that I am clueless without Him.

I want to be a good mother.  I wanted to have the feeling of satisfaction that I am a good mother today.  Instead, I’ve felt helpless and rather miserable.  Children are a miracle and a mess.  And so am I.

It’s not been a Hallmark card Mother’s Day in my soul.  But some of these truths are creeping into my thinking, and I’m bending the knee and trying to listen to that tiny voice of God that reminds me that in Him, I can do all things.  And from that place, I’m trying to gain some calm wisdom and think of some good strategies to re-establish with my daughters who is in control and how they are allowed to speak to me.