The morning began at 3am with the angels playing the game better than the cast of the Big Lebowski, or more appropriately, the tweens of the Disney Chanel original Ally Cats Strike. No sound makes his tiny feet shuffle down a dark hallway faster than rumbling thunder, and sideways, diagonal, legs sprawled, feet kicking adult heads, are the positions he finds most comfortable in the bed belonging to his parents. I’ve been meaning to turn myself into one of the productive mothers who wakes up before her kids, so after kick #5 billion, I arose 4 hours earlier than an hour suitable for awakeness and did the only suitable thing to do as a mother about to take my kid to his first day of real preschool: I stared at his baby pictures while holding his blanket.

After preparing a breakfast suitable for Pinterest, if  of course, bacon and eggs is suitable for Pinterest, I began dragging the sleepers from their beds, since, for the first day since summer began, James decided he would like to sleep in and so did the rest of the house.

With “15 minutes until school starts!!!!” I finally got my husband out of bed as the final kick to the head was given to him by a still slumbering James.

Within 26 seconds of Josie waking, the first fight erupted over her wanting to wear his school uniform and something about milk. Someone had it, someone else wanted it, why anyone thinks milk is good will always puzzle me.

With a backpack here, a lunch box there, and a frazzled mother everywhere we drove him to his first day as a family, as I shoved scrambled eggs in his mouth on the way, which I’m guessing no one has ever pinned? I forced the taking of mostly blurry photos and upon moment one of entering his super awesome classroom, he gave me a “bye mom,” and a real preschooler he became.

“Do you want a hug?” I said, and by ‘do you’ I meant ‘give me pretty please’

“No, thank you, I want this truck,” he misunderstood his emotionally needy mother.  I forced one more photo with him, my sister, and “his friend and cousin Bailey.”

James then went to each child and said, “Hi, my name is James, this is my friend and cousin Bailey.” Josie did her best to blend in hoping I would fail to notice her left behind, as Rita went a tap, tap, tapping on my chest as a not so gentle reminder of, “you forgot to nurse me.”

The sweet, adorable, pleasantly fashionable teachers assured me of his comfort and their ability and out the door we went.

I cleaned and scrubbed and made a quick trip to Marshalls (obvi!) because I could fit the two remaining kids in one cart, as I nervously twiddled and picked my cuticles waiting for the time it wouldn’t be super crazy lady early to pick him up. When the time arrived, I darted to the check out, and Big Sister still told me I was crazy lady early and continued her Marshall’s furniture shopping.

I imagined him nervous and anxiously waiting for my arrival. I called Jim on the way and said, “do you think he missed me too much?” to which he responded, “no” and Josie responded “no way, Mama, no way.”

With their answers not comforting me, I arrived as not the earliest one!, to him smiling and waving goodbye to the pick kids in the line.

“Hey mom, Bailey is my school friend now,” he explained with poise and confidence foreign to my experience of mothering thus far. “Before he was my cousin and now he is my school friend. And sometimes he is my neighbor, too. And I asked the class if they would be my friends and they said yes, except for a kid that stole my truck. And I drew this picture. It’s you. It’s on black paper. And I didn’t pee in the grass.”

Success!

I thought we should celebrate by going out to lunch. I’ve never taken all three out to lunch alone. And it wasn’t all that bad actually, until Josie came face to face with the moment in which she thought it would be funny to throw the smoothie on me and Rita and went for it with a flying strawberry sticky success. And then she did her classic “holding hands is for losers and I’m cool,” act in the parking lot. But, again, there were no run- ins with cars, so…

Success!

Just in case you were wondering.

Also, happy feast of St. Augustine! May he guide the minds of all those studying, or playing with trucks in pre-school.

Moments earlier I stared in amazement at their nearly silent playing while the parents learned the ins and outs of preschool. “I guess these are the types of children that can attend a parent meeting,” I thought.

But as the parents played the “pass the ball” introductory game, just like in real preschool, I began to worry in a way that produces underarm sweat.

 “As you can see, my child is very active!” the silently playing boy’s mother sweetly explained.

I caught hold of my sister’s widening eyes, “this is what my children look like when they are asleep,” I’m confident she was thinking. Imaginary visions of what our 9 kids were doing together with my babysitting mom gave my thoughts good reason to echo hers. Then, I described him as having a “fullback” personality. “We going to get kicked out,” was my next thought.

As a child, I loved the day leading up to the first day of school. Every year it was the same. My mom gave me an at home, sometime crooked, haircut before I slept in curlers for approximately as many hours as possible to somehow capture the beauty of my sister’s bouncing spirals. I had picked out my outfit for every day of the first two weeks two months prior at Gap Kids summer sale, so wardrobe planning had already been completed. My efforts to convince my sister that wearing matching outfits was a good idea were ignored. I organized my backpack and my pencils, the ones with the feathers, packed extra carefully. We had a turkey dinner, with biscuits that she pretended were homemade. In the morning we took a picture under the clock, and my smile and I hammed it up, feeling pure excitement until I found my seat on the bus and could no longer see my mom, but never once did I cry.

As a parent, I am terrified. I can’t decide what traditions to begin. Do we hold a sign that says the grade? Do we wake up early and somehow avoid the 57 fights that break out each morning at breakfast? Should I attempt at home haircuts or save him the embarrassment and possible head bleeding?

I’ve planned two family meals and washed his clothes twice. I’ve reviewed the names of the kids in his class 5 billion times. I have yet to pick out my own outfit, but, his is already laid out.

What if he pees on the playground? I’m sure he’s going to steal the other kids’ snacks. Will he and cousin Bailey break all the rules on purpose? Will the teacher’s quit because of us? Probably.

Will he cry and miss me all day? Will he not care and make me cry and miss him all day? Will the other moms like me?!

Wishing you all a happy first day of school. May you be a bit less crazy than me. 

Momily Monday!

Gospel found here

Or should we call it Miley Monday?

We stood in a crowd of thousands, sweaty and smelly from sleeping outside; our toes still slightly frozen from the German countryside’s cold evening, waiting to load one of the too few trains scheduled to transport the World Youth Day crowds. With my future husband beside me, I didn’t quite mind the wait, so long as he didn’t accidentally smell my armpits. Those behind us, however, weren’t quite as patient. A train came, and though the impossibility of it fitting the thousands of international Pope fans standing in the way back of the crowd was clear, they stampeded anyway. Medics rescued several people my size or smaller as they were being trampled, put into anxiety attacks, or unfortunately not being protected in the strong arms of my boyfriend, like me.

The narrow gate: not everyone fits; especially when irrational choices to shortcut the path create disarrayed chaos.

Miley and her gross suggestions, exposed bum, and worst hairstyle of all hairstyles is, to me, simply one example of the first being last and the last being first (see most VMA performances, I believe Nicki Minaj dressed up as the pope last year while dancers dressed as altar boys danced their way to explicit sexual suggestion? Or maybe that was another cultural value revealing performance?). Last night, as Matt Walsh explained quite well here, she revealed the true nature of her lyrics, and we are shocked as we should be, maybe because she used to be Hannah Montana? Or the naked visual finally creeped us out as the lyrics also should? Yet, her song is making millions, and so too, is the dismal Blurred Lines naked song (fine it has a good beat, but I prefer the Marvin Gaye version.) Sure, they are first on the charts and center stage, but it is doubtful the lock on the gate referred to in the Gospel will be figured out with the same ease, especially if Growing Pains boy continues to wear such dizzying outfits (not a knock on his moral character, but an observation of it being difficult to open things when dizzy, and his suit was the dizziest thing other than actually spinning.)

I have absolutely no idea what these people do in their private lives in relation to God, but I do know that actions have consequences, and celebrities are often a depiction of what the buyers find to be cool, or they wouldn’t be famous. And all of those middle school children who watched last night might not be able to decipher what or why any of those gyrations were offensive at all; their ability to develop a normal sense of sexuality or moral compass further trampled by those unwilling to take the right path.

And as a side note, I watched my son wait in line to get his face painted at the park. Lines are tough, especially when waiting for eternity. 

Today’s story, like so many of mine, begins with a trip to Target, with three kids and a cart bigger and heavier than most European vehicles. My list was long and Big Sister made it even longer. The thing about living close to an older sister and a mom is a trip to the store should probably be kept on the DL or else requests for both heavy whipping cream and skim milk are made before the “but that doesn’t make any sense!!!” is received on the other end of the cell phone mostly used to communicate with these two women who live within walking distance.

There we chugga chuggad through the store as Rita reveled in the freedom of the broken buckle by standing and bouncing her cute, sort of little, but definitely inherited from her mother, bum in the air in the most dangerous way a shopping cart allows earning me parenting advice from strangers such as “your baby!!!!” and “she should be sitting down.” I opened a bag of Cheetos like my maiden name taught me, and she sat so long as she had one in each hand.

Before I even made it past the shoes, I received the “come to the pool within 10 minutes if you want to…” text from the sister whose milk and eggs remained in the grocery aisle as I caught a glimpse of my still sweating from the 35 seconds we were in the sweltering parking lot Italian made son, and made the fastest book-it to the check out line a small woman pushing three humans could. So maybe I was leaving my shopping ambition prematurely with only raisins and pull-ups to show for a venture for which it took 45 minutes to prepare. But, the sun was shining and school begins next week for so many children older than mine! To the pool! To the pool!

Six boys dressed in matching bathing suits, one of every size that Old Navy sells, jumped from her vehicle as if it were a clown car.

The lifeguards spotted the 6 of hers and 3 of mine from a distance of an otherwise childless pool. I’d like to ask them what they do to mentally prepare for our arrival. I imagine it’s a mix of prayer and “want to rock paper scissors to switch me?”

She placed an order for lunch: 6 grilled cheeses, 6 cheese sticks, 9 orders of French fries, 6 grilled chickens. She began the lunch with the sign of the cross and grace further proving the already obvious Catholic family identity as several bathing readers peace and quiet was ruined by the general behavior of so many eating boys and a Josie and a Rita.

The children inhaled and dispersed into the baby pool because life is much more fun spent with all brothers together even if the baby pool was outgrown years ago, and with so much man- power it can easily be turned into a wave pool without the hassle of a machine, and to the shock and horror of life guards of the age of 16. 

One sweet little boy brought two awesome dinosaur rafts, a kick board, a pair of flippers, and two noodles, and he enjoyed playing with none of them.

Our kids, however, took these toys not belonging to them to their optimal playing power teetering on destruction making me wonder if the violence demonstrated was even more vivid in their imaginations. Styrofoam noodles slapped the water with force as if swords defending the motherland. The plastic green dinosaur made for floating charged the sea toward its yellow dragon nemesis not allowing its popped plastic deflating with every forceful tackle to distract from its mission of whatever boys imagine dinosaur rafts do. The owner of these toys watched in a terrified awe from the edge of the water hoping his turn, if he could ever regain ownership, would be as spectacular. I scrambled to his mother who sipped wine and ate a salad, wondering if I should stop them, but the view of such youthful masculine enthusiasm, and so much of it in one small area, mesmerized her as well. Josie joined in swimming by swiftly with flippers and her brother’s goggles as she giggled and endured their splashing, spitting water on whomever got her in the eyes. Rita looked over once in a while with a clap and a slobber smile, but the chance to eat their chips in peace suited her much more than the war of inflatable water monsters. My sister, un-phased and unimpressed for it’s a scene like so many others chatted with other moms about wishing summer could last a while longer and how she would miss the days with everyone home hunting stuffed animals or battling light sabers against Kings and power rangers vs. beasts of the Sahara. The faces of the other moms were a mix of confusion, wonder, and amazement at how anyone could want more moments like the one in which they witnessed.

The questions continued, as they always do from, “you surely must be done now at 6 and with all these boys!” to “what about your body? Hasn’t it taken such a toll?” To which she replied as she always does, “God’s done such a great job planning this already, I think I’ll let him keep on going so long as He promises to send an army of guardian angels, too.”

And hopefully their next door neighbors get a few extra angels, too, for life with them is extra crazy, but if I’m sure of anything at all today, its that those dinosaur rafts will never again be filled with so much purpose.  Or anything, actually. They are filled with holes.   

Linking to this super big internet party

1. Mom’s makeup looks way better on the walls

It’s not that she doesn’t notice that I put it on my face. Usually, the red lipstick is met with “ooooooo pitttty!!” from her, and a “you got the paint stuff on, mom?” from him. Maybe it’s that the walls near the vanity are so freshly painted, or cream, or clean. Or maybe it’s that mascara is black with a wand inspiring dreams of dark princesses. Or that I’ve recently invested a bit more nickels into makeup that isn’t sold at a drugstore or made of mostly water soluble ingredients. Whatever her motivation, its clear, actually, its stained, that she believes makeup looks much better on the walls than my face.

2. A tale of two pennies: how he made bank

First he offered to buy lunch and take me to the car wash. Then, upon attempting to make a quick exit he insisted he retrieve his “big money” before we went anywhere so that he could “buy stuff.” He describes the work for his earnings as “hurting his arms to move all those tree trunks” which in adult speak are actually known as wood chips. Two singular pennies often referred to as “nickies” or “dowas” by his younger sister have inspired limitless spending imagination, including diamonds, race cars, and French fries at the drive thru. When asked if he would like to earn dollar bills, he replies “no, that’s just paper, I like real money.”

3. Weaning is cool during the day, but nursing like a newborn at night is more preferred

Any tips on this one are welcomed. Also, biting. What to do?

4. First Words

Its been weeks of effort to turn Rita’s velociraptor demand scream into any sound 2-3 octives of lower pitch. High chair time is full of spoon feeding while saying “ppppllleeeeeeeesssssseeeeee” in a soft soothing register so as to inspire imitation as the sincerest form of drop the scream to keep your parents sane. She has yet to offer any of the sounds when food is involved and insists that screaming is most certainly the best way to be fed. If, however, either adult unit is to hold a camera, “cheessssse” most certainly is spoken. The toothy smile, slobber, and shoulder scrunching only aids to the cuteness. Selective listening? Unaware of rhyming sounds? Enjoys power? Not sure.

5. The easiest way to get daddy out of bed is to drink lemon water super fast and throw up on accident

Its one of Jim’s post hockey work out rituals. He leaves a bottle of lemon water by the bed. This morning, Josephine found it, and proceeded to chug it. Maybe it was the acid not sitting well, or a creative way of getting what she wanted, but, I have literally never in all of my married years, ever seen him jump out of bed so fast or at such a high pitch. For .2 seconds I feared flu, but my fears quickly dissipated as hysterical laughter erupted faster than the vomit. And if Josie has taught me anything, it’s giddy up in the morning.

6. Need a snack? Head to the garbage

It’s a baby right of passage, I think.

7. Scissors, no matter how high they are placed can always be found and used.

And if the toddler is particularly creative, they are used to cut her brother’s bed sheets.