The Great Debaters

"But, Mom.  I really don’t think that’s a good idea."

"I don’t care if you think it’s a good idea, you’re going to do it."

"But.  Moooooooooooooooooooooooooooom."

"No buts."

"Fine."

"Whatever."

Reminiscing about adolescent angst?  Try again.  This is a conversation I had with a certain three year old legume the other day when I told her to do something that was just a tad bit more exciting than watching me clip my under-groomed toenails.  My pediatrician calls it advanced language skills.  I call it a pain in the butt I had hoped to stave for at least another eight years. 

Both girls are exceptional at communicating exactly what they think, feel, dream of and hope for.  It’s both a blessing and a curse.  On the one hand, it is so easy to tell them exactly what I need from them and likewise, for them to let me know what is is they need from me.  On the other hand…whoa.  Apparently I know how to make opinionated women.  They are certainly not shy, though Maggie has her moments of uncertainty.  Maggie tries to reason with me while Audrey sets on a path of telling me why what I am saying does not benefit her. 

I tell everyone that this is the age that is the most enjoyable.  I believe I have said that during every stage, but I really mean it now.  Now they are at the age where they can tell me what they are thinking, and inject their thoughts with bits of humor and mischievousness perfectly tailored to their personality.  We can have secrets and inside jokes and we talk about dreams and wishes and what ifs.  Now is the age that their imagination is in full force and has yet to be tampered with by the oftentimes cynical and cruel world that they live in. 

Sometimes Audrey uses made up, silly words and carries on a conversation with me in this pretend language, punctuating her meaning with an earnest look or a raised voice.  Other times, she demands that you only speak to her as if she was Alex, the lion from Madagascar.  And when she is in this mode, inevitably her trusty sidekick Maggie must play along as the hippopotamus.  If she responds to me in any way other than that of an animal, Audrey is quick to correct both of us.  When Maggie is not playing Audrey’s game, she’s playing the role of teenager in a toddler’s body.  She calls my bluff and questions my logic.  You see, she was the one that I was quoting above.  And yes, she says "Fine!" in that way.  "Whatever" too.  Only she doesn’t say it with the nastiness that teenagers can sometimes drum up.  She says it with a smirk, as if she already knows my reaction will be the incredulous look on my face and the slow shake of my head.

I love that I can tell them what I’m (mostly) thinking now and they can respond with their own ideas and opinions.  They give me suggestions and they remind me of promises made.  They keep me in check almost as much as I keep them in line and they force me to be honest with myself and with others.  That they disagree with me sometimes is only a sign that I’ve helped to create independent, smart little women.  But mostly, I revel in the fact that, not only are they growing into wonderful women, they are becoming great friends that I cherish on a level different from their places as my children. 

An American duty

Daddy Bean: Mommy and Daddy have to go vote for the president today.

Maggie: What’s that?

Daddy Bean: well, we live in the United States so we need to vote for the president. The president is like the king of the United States. Kind of like Julian is the King of Madagascar.

Maggie: Oh. I’m going to vote for Magglio!

My little wallflower…

I had to sweep the cobwebs away to even get here! I have so much to talk about yet I can’t get the words through my fingers and onto the keyboard. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t, but I am still here and alive and kicking. For those of you who are having Bean withdrawal, I give you this…You tell me if her father and I have anything to worry about in the future!!

Three Years

I told J last night that I don’t remember much about their birth day except for the hours leading up to the birth. It was a final appointment before the c-section scheduled for the 13th, but my blood pressure had again risen to dangerous levels. Waiting for J to come home, the check-in, the nurse’s pep talks and even the moment that the needle passed through my spine were all memories that are still crystal clear to me. The haze after the births was just that - an incoherent bunch of fragmented scenes, stolen because of the morphine/magnesium sulfate cocktail. The clearest memories that I have of their birth day is of me waking up in the dark and impersonal L&D room, J by my side and an ornery nurse saying, “Well, do you want them or not?” It wasn’t until a couple of days later, when it was just the four of us and the bright September sun was warming my Audrey, yellow with jaundice, that I grasped the magnitude of the moment. She was getting her first tan and J was basking in the pride of fatherhood, exclaiming that he was the best swaddler in the Midwest and holding up a perfectly packaged Maggie for me to admire. I am a mother; we are parents.

Three years later, I still try to rock them, only now it’s an ongoing joke and Maggie babbles like a baby while Audrey coos and playfully pats her head. We hold conversations and have arguments. I am their best friend and the thorn in their side. We have grand adventures and discuss silly daydreams. They learn and they teach me. Every day. Sometimes, when I look at them, I try so hard to see the full cheeks of infancy. When I breathe deeply into their hair, I try to smell the scent of newborn life. But instead, I’m met with the realization that they grow closer to adulthood than I am comfortable with. Their emerging independence and growing limbs reveal the little girls that they are now and the young women they will become. They are running full speed ahead and I am forever chasing them and praying that they don’t leave me behind.

Happy birthday, my sweet Beans.

Because he begged me not to post it.

Audrey, stifling a laugh at J’s expense.

Okay, so really it was that Audrey couldn’t stomach the smell of cow and pig at Wolcott Farm.  The girl does not know how to feign interest nor can she mask disgust for politeness’ sake.  Don’t ask her for an opinion if you aren’t ready to hear the answer.  But, oh, if she loves you.  She loves with the same ferocity that she despises, and the strength of it is so shocking, coming from such a tiny bean.     

Hey Part-Timer!

When I worked in The Firm From Hell, the guys would call one of the women that worked there "Part-Timer".  She did work part-time, after all.  She had two school aged children and she worked Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and she sometimes left early for certain events or if one of the kids was sick.  I laughed along with the rest when she would stand at the time clock at two minutes to five, card in hand, and be out the door precisely at five o’clock on the dot.

When I started working for my current boss (hereinafter, "B"), I didn’t have children.  I wasn’t even certain that I was ready to have children on the day that I accepted employment.  I worked full time and I stayed late when necessary, to work on a particularly complicated case or to prepare for an upcoming trial.  I was still contemplating going back to school and, though I was no longer passionate about the idea, I was a hard worker, ambitious and anxious for more.

But soon after, the switch flipped.  I’ve mentioned before that one day I was a child-germ-a-phobe.  I didn’t know how to speak kid, I hadn’t been introduced to muffin-top yet and I enjoyed life as one half of a childless couple.  And then, the next day my body teemed with child fever. Just like that.

In the beginning, it was an A and B conversation.  Only the two of us knew what the plan was and that’s how we liked it.  But, as the months went by, we were forced to introduce C and D and L and Q into the conversation and it became a veritable collaboration of people involved in our baby-making process.  And, as such, I was required to skip more and more days at work.  When it became obvious that we were jumping from one plan to The Plan, I knew that I couldn’t cover up my absences with excuses like veterinarian appointments and the ever growing litany of auto ailments.  I had to tell B why I would need so much time off over the next month.  I admit that I was apprehensive about it because this is a woman who had stellar universities and extensive tours of duty with the Army and other government agencies under her belt.  She was a no-nonsense kind of woman who worked eleventy million hours a week and saw her children only when they would visit her at the office.  But she couldn’t have been more kind and understanding.  She had been there, she knew what I was was going through and she empathized with me.

Months later, when I was six months heavy and went into pre-term labor, she urged me not to worry about the office or my duties.  And, when I called her, with a baby in each arm, I stumbled over words and made absolutely no sense at all when I attempted to ask her if she would agree to me working part-time when I returned to work.  I say attempted because the minute I sensed hesitation in her voice, I faltered and told her I might be able to work something out with regard to child care.  Days later, I cowardly left a voicemail that it looked like I would not be able to come back full time.  Oh, and by the way, I’m taking another month of maternity leave.  Thanks.  Bye.

It goes without saying that everything changed when I had the girls.  My life was always full and had purpose and meaning Before The Beans, but now, it was different.  It was more.  It was indescribable and I discovered that I was born to be a mother.  Or, more specifically, to be their mother. 

Last weekend my dad was, to quote my mother, "the sickest [I’ve] ever seen him in thirty-five years,".  We were at the Shelby Township Art Fair when my sister called me to tell me that my mom was trying to get a hold of me and they were headed for the emergency room.  I yanked the girls away from the face-painting table and called my mom.  She sounded confused, nervous.  She said that she would call me from the hospital and asked that I come as soon as she called.  It’s a call that, as the years go by and I begin to see the age in my eyes and theirs, I had been preparing for.  Or, at least, preparing to prepare for.  They are only fifty-seven years young and they look and act even younger, but neither are completely healthy.  My mother, tiny and frail, suffers from diabetes.  My father, just opposite, smokes and loves his food and drink as much as the next person.  So, when the call came, I went.  There wasn’t a doubt.  J stayed back with the girls and only had to call me once to lay down the law via speaker phone.

I was gone for four days.  He was in the hospital for four days.  Of those four days, I had previously scheduled two off work in order to take the girls to see The Wiggles and to go to a couple of doctor’s appointments.  It doesn’t matter really, those were my days.  They were scheduled.  The other two days were not.  I emailed B from the emergency room at around 8:00 p.m. Sunday night, to give her a head’s up and to let her know that I wouldn’t be in on Monday.  I left the hospital at around midnight.  I didn’t return to work until Friday.  Without anyone to watch the girls while my mom was by my dad’s bedside, I really had no choice, aside from dragging the girls to the office, plopping them in chairs and shutting my office door to contain them and their squeals.  Oh wait.  I could have had my mom park them in the hospital lounge. 

Or, as B told someone (who told me), I could have found a back up.  Spite and disappointment might have me misquoting her.  Or it might not.  Nevertheless, you get the picture.

When I flew into a rage after hearing what was said, that someone told me I needed to just let it go.  But I can’t.  Two days later, I’m still fuming.  As a mother, a working mother, I expected more from B.  I hoped that I’d be on the fringes of the SAHM/WOHM debate by (barely) juggling my part-time career with my full-time family.  I can’t imagine how I could survive as a SAHM, and at the same time, I know I could never keep it together at the pace of a full-time working woman.  I am lucky that I have two mothers that so willingly sacrifice their free time to care for their grandchildren.  And even luckier to have an employer that is amenable to my ala carte schedule.  But, I think I only have this luxury because I started out as that ambitious, career-minded full-timer.  Had I interviewed as the mother of twin toddlers, slightly frazzled, almost put-together, requesting early hours and warning that it would be me and not J that would stay home with the children and take them to appointments, B would have graciously passed.  I would have been punished for putting my family before my career. 

Family Visit

The Okies were in town for the past couple of weeks and just like the tornados their state is known for, they brought with them chaos, mayhem and a little bit of excitement. 

When Arisa and Jack come back to Michigan, they come home.  In fact, I spoke with Jack one evening and asked him what he thought about Michigan.  He told me that this is his home because this is where his family is.  Home isn’t necessarily where you live, where you sleep, where you eat.  He loves his life in Oklahoma, but here, with us, is home.

While they were in town, we had a barbeque at our house to celebrate Logan’s first trip to Michigan.   It was great to see everyone and to introduce our newest family member. 

And we learned that, when the time comes for Maggie to have a boyfriend, she’s going to fall hard.  She followed Jack around like a little puppy the whole time that he was here and was devastated when he had to leave.  Just yesterday, when I told her that we were going to the Shelby Township Art Fair, she asked if we could bring Jack.  I told her that he was back in Oklahoma and that he couldn’t come with us.  She replied, "But I want him.  Let’s go get him."    She asked me again today, when she would see him again.  When I told her Christmas time, she became distracted by the prospect of sharing with him the wonders of the season, which to her includes snowfalls, Christmas trees and presents. 

We also learned that Audrey gets her bluntness from Arisa and that she might just have the mommy bone after all.

And finally, we determined that we are definitely not equipped with the patience or stamina to handle two toddlers and a newborn.  We’ll save that project for another couple of years.  Maybe.

Wordless Wednesday: The Grandchildren

Random Meme

I was planning on posting some photos of the grandchildren and of M&A in all the glory of sisterhood, but I’m still sick and I’m tired from the craziness of family being in town, so I thought I’d do something here that I haven’t done in ages. Deb had this free-for-all meme and I’m stealing it to pass my last hour of work.

What Was I Doing 10 Years Ago?

I was just out of school and learning the ropes of the “real world” while at the same time contemplating applying to law school, as was the original plan. I was working at a law office on the corner of my parents’ street, where I would begin the path of disillusionment toward the profession in general. I was still living at home and had been seeing J for almost three years.

5 Things On My To-Do List Today:

• Catch up on blogs I love and find new ones to fall in love with.
• Clean. The. House. The BBQ is on Saturday and I haven’t so much as picked up a stray sock since Wednesday, when I began to feel sick.
• Make a menu plan for Saturday. We had one. Then we changed it. And again.
• Continue to encourage Peanut to use the potty.
• Get new batteries for the new camera and take more photos of the visiting nephews.

Snacks I Enjoy:

Let me tell you something about myself. I don’t do diets. I love myself and food too much to deprive myself of something that gives me such joy. Let me tell you something else. I’m not one of those women who can say “I can eat anything and not get fat! It’s in the genes!” and gracefully ignore the raging glares from other women. I’m not that woman, but don’t I wish. And, no Mother, I cannot still fit into my size four wedding dress. My secret is moderation. Without it, I’d be the size of a house. Because snacks I enjoy would entail everything from chocolate covered raisins to cupcakes to Doritos and cheese popcorn. I once stood in line at Garrett’s in Chicago for an hour in thirty degree weather for their famous popcorn. I’ve never met a snack I didn’t like.

Things I Would Do If I Were A Billionaire:

• Cry tears of joy.
• Hide.
• Pay off all of our debt and that of our family and close friends (stole this from you Deb.)
• Hire a moving truck for Arisa and Amanda to pack up their family and move home.
• Begin the search for our family compound. And we would have a compound. That’s how close we are. The compound would include four separate houses, a large pond, a central activity/play/entertainment area, a pool and several golf carts because the houses are going to be just far enough away so we don’t drive each other nuts.
• Establish a trust fund for my children, my niece (?), nephews and godchildren.
• Create a scholarship program for students from my high school that attend Michigan State University.
• Buy a navy blue M6. Not very practical for a mother of young twins but hey, I’m a billionaire. I’ll get another car.
• Take the love of my life on a much needed, much deserved two week vacation to some distant, tropical, fabulous island.
• Volunteer and donate to charities that mean a lot to me.
• Really, I could go on and on with this but you’re starting to get bored, I’m sure.

Places I Have Lived:

• Selfridge ANG Base
• Germany
• Bangkok, Thailand
• Fredericksburg, Virginia
• Salinas, California
• Fort Ord, California
• East Lansing, Michigan
• Metro Detroit

Well. This only took up half of my remaining hour at work. Damn. So, like Deb, I’m not going to tag anyone, unless you’re bored, sick, waiting or tired. If so, you’re it. And let me know if you’ve done it so I can check in!

Painting

I’ve never been the crafty type. I am not an artist, I’ve given up on scrapbooking at least three times and the extent of my pottery experience is painting a mug at Plaster Playhouse. But Shawn inspired me to step out of my comfort zone of coloring (with washable markers) inside the lines and letting the girls get a little messy with some finger paints. Truth be told, I was looking for a way to keep the girls from the eighty-nine degree, 100% humidity back yard. Movies weren’t motivating them and they were tired of the playroom. So, I pulled out the paints, some sheets of paper and their paintbrushes.

Initially, the girls stayed on the paper. Audrey is as precise about her paint as she is about her markers. I think she was around twenty-eight months when she began coloring within the lines of a picture. Her attention to detail is amazing, and when she is working, she zones out completely. So, she began dabbing her paintbrush neatly into different colors and painting a portrait of polka-dots, making certain that she did not mix any of the paint colors.

Meanwhile, Maggie had tossed her paintbrush aside for a more convenient tool. Fingers. Soon enough, she had mixed all the colors of her palette until it was a wet mess of brown. She plopped her hands on the paper for a bit but soon became bored with this form of art. So, she squished her fingers together and giggled at the sounds of the paint oozing through her hands and onto her bare legs. Once there, the floodgates were opened. By the time she was done, Maggie had painted most of each arm, her belly and the bottoms of her feet. When Audrey spied what Maggie was doing on the other side of the table, she shook her head in disbelief and continued to quietly paint. But Maggie and I coaxed her to try it too and so she took her paintbrush and gently dabbed a bit on her arm. And then some more. And still more.

When I announced that it was time for a bath, both girls protested. They were having too much fun and they didn’t want it to end any time soon. But I knew if I didn’t put an end to it now, my Beans wouldn’t be the only things covered in paint in the kitchen. Thanks again to Shawn for suggesting this activity. I will definitely come back to it to fight the boredom (and the heat).

Wordless Wednesday: 4th of July Weekend

Motivation or a Sad, Sad Cry for Help?

Day 1 was easy.  Except for the Fed Ex guy bringing my shoes from Endless which, of course, I had to try on in the middle of the twenty minute workout.  They are for the wedding, after all, which is why I made this painful ultimatum to myself.  Trying to walk in 3.5 inch heels are, in itself, a workout.  But trying to fit into this is what’s at stake here.

Oh, and except for two Beans who insisted on participating and barking orders like, "Lift your head up Momma!  Like her!" and "Kick harder Momma!  Like this!" 

We’ll see how it goes.  Either I’ll be posting, reading and shopping on the Internet to my heart’s content or my sweet Delly will wander the days lonesome for a warm touch and a willing lap.  At least, by making my ultimatum to myself public, I’m a little accountable, right?

Let’s hope so.  Ten pounds to go.

Wordless Wednesday: Future Prom Dates

Promises

Pie, still reeling from that damn whale, has finagled a new routine of pre-bed bedtime out of me, where both Beans crawl into our bed, I put on the symphonies channel on Sirius and they drift to sleep in the safety of our room. It’s been a little over a week now and every night at around 11:00 p.m., J and I trudge up to our bedroom to collect the thieves of the cool sheets (which, let’s be honest, are the best thing ever!) and return them to their cribs.

Last night, I had to run upstairs twice, all the while muttering the decision to go with the colonial over the ranch, when I overheard the girls pushing and shoving each other off the bed. I gave them each a stern talking to, reminding them that, just because they were in our room, doesn’t mean it isn’t bedtime. Same thing, different room, Girls. By the third trip, I was tired and fed up with the shenanigans. I flipped off the music, took the stuffies away and demanded silence and sleep. Then, I turned and left, leaving behind kicks and wails of protest. Finally, things settled down and I stopped hearing whispers and began to hear the soft snoring Pie and the faint rattle of Peanut’s breath. I settled in to my newest book, while J worked on the laptop in the basement. Soon, my eyes began drooping and not even the sound of the Tigers tying up the game could keep me from nodding off.

Until, just before eleven, I heard a crash and a wail. I sat straight up on the couch, wondering if I imagined it. The crying intensified and I flew, quicker than I ever had, up the stairs. I found Peanut laying in a crumpled heap of sheets on the floor beside the bed, eyes closed, head in hand, moaning, “Momma! Momma! Momma!”

I gathered her up into me and shushed her. I asked her where her boo boos were and peppered kisses along her forehead and on her elbow, at her direction. I held her up and looked into her face to ask her if she was okay after all, but she was still sleeping. And still chanting my name. My name. Momma, momma, momma. She wouldn’t stop right away and my heart broke at the haunting way that she called to me.

“Shhh, shhh. Baby, I’m here. I’m here. You’re okay.” I kissed her head again and held her tighter to convey that she was safe with me, and to apologize for allowing her to be injured. I wanted to wake her to make sure she was okay, to verify that she didn’t hit her head just the right way and had a worse ailment than a bumped elbow and head. Tears formed in my eyes, listening to her cry out to me in her sleep, so I kept rocking her until her chant became a whisper and she weakly pulled from me to lay on the bed that she knew was near. I watched her until her brow relaxed and her breathing regulated.

I thought about my family and friends who don’t have their mother to run to them when they are needed, through distance, through death, through a horrible misunderstanding. I thought about my mother and how she was half way around the world when her mother died. And how she was half way across the country when my sister’s daughter passed away. And how blessed I am to be four miles away from her, to leave my children in her loving arms while I am away. To still have her chide me for my clothing and food choices. To be nearby when I fall. We’ve had our differences, but in the end, I’m still her little girl. And with those thoughts, I gathered Peanut up for one last hug and moved on to her sister, oblivious to the accident, and ran my fingers through her hair and whispered the promise that I would always be nearby.