Censored! (Babble)

I have now been officially blogging for one year.  I’m really enjoying it, but wonder if once my husband is home from Iraq my story will hold anyone’s interest.  I hope so, because I feel like I have more to say.  I was a bit wary at first about the idea of dealing with unpleasant comments, but almost everyone has been so supportive and kind that I feel connected now to many thoughtful people who I will likely never meet but am glad to know are out there.  (The only really unfortunate comment that comes to mind was regarding this post, but I don’t suspect she ever read anything else of mine, and every time I think of it I actually worry for the commenter a little and hope she’s okay.)

In any case, last summer when I told people I would be writing this blog, several family members took me aside to express concern.  My mass emails that were the forerunner of this blog had ventured into some pretty personal territory.  Should I be sharing such details about my kids?  Was it wise?  Was it safe?  Was it something a good mother should do?

I assured everyone that I was sensible enough not to embarrass my children (more than I do in public normally anyway) or share details of our lives that would be dangerous out in the interwebs.  I figure the blog is about my experiences, and I’m entitled to talk about myself all I want.  I’m not entitled to tell other people’s stories without permission, so I run posts by people I describe and show my children any pictures I post before I publish them.  That seems fair and it’s how I would like to be treated.  There is enough stuff in my own life to explore in writing that I never suffer writer’s block, and I have no problem being honest with strangers and friends alike, so I shouldn’t need to delve into certain areas that could be problematic to others.

But the truth is that by necessity I have to censor myself.  Some of the interesting aspects about my children I’m not at liberty to share, as much as I may want to.  Some things are just not mine to tell.

However!  That doesn’t mean I’m not busting at the seams to get certain things out.  I feel the need to over share, so I’ve come up with a solution.  Holding Down the Fort Mad Libs.  I’m going to spill it all and take out the incriminating bits and you can fill them in with whatever makes you laugh, cry, or think I’m brilliant.  Here goes:



I love Aden.  I really do.  But she still __________ and it makes me crazy!  No one can figure it out.  We’ve been discussing it with the ______ for years and she says ________ and _________, but nothing has helped.  We keep hoping she’ll grow out of it, but how many years can you keep saying that?  In the meantime her _________ is _________ and I have to __________ twice a day sometimes to keep up and it’s wearing me out.  I try to explain that the real issue is the ________, but she can’t separate that from the _________, and I’ve tried everything.  Neither the ________ or the internet is any help, because all the suggestions for solving the problem involve ____________ and Aden is not _________.  Who knows?  I’ll just cross my fingers and hope she really will ___________ eventually and we will look back one day and _________.


Quinn says ____________.  I’ve struggled with exactly how to handle this, and it’s so _________.  He could be ________ or ________ or _________, but he’s so young it’s impossible to know.   I’ve had several people I respect, including ________ and ___________, tell me that my job as a parent is to make good decisions for my son.  He doesn’t get to choose about being ________or where we _______or all kinds of important things that impact his life, but where do you draw the line?  It seems to me Quinn should have a choice about _______ even if he’s young because _________ is not ________ and I don’t get to __________.  It could impact _________ later, but kids change so quickly it might not matter by _________.  I think about it every day, but at least I’m sure that no matter what, Quinn is ________ and that’s what’s really important.


Mona is pretty much an open book.  The only thing I could reveal than would potentially embarrass her is that she ________.  It horrifies everyone.  But when I tally up the things about myself that I should change it’s way more than _______ so really, she’s ahead of the game.  But when _________ loses its appeal one day we will all be glad for it.  Especially my _________.


One of the hardest things about Ian being deployed is there are a lot of things it doesn’t make sense to bother him with.  He’s busy.  He’s _____.  So I can’t tell him ________ or ________ or how his ________ is __________ and then I __________ and then ________!!!!!  It’s probably best that I’m the one __________ is __________with, because that way Ian is still ____________, and really that’s the way it should be, but it’s still tough.  Another thing that makes it hard being away from Ian so long is that I wish _________ and __________ and that I could _________ all ___________ and ___________ with ______________, and even get out the ______________ again to ___________ with.  (If Ian’s reading this he’s enjoying that last censored bit.)


And just because my mom is always worried that I’m going to write some weird negative book about her for some reason, let me tell you about her!  My mom is __________, makes a mean _________ and can __________ like you wouldn’t believe.  And she’s _____! And ______! And incredibly __________!  I can’t believe when I was little that she __________, but now that I’m a mom I know that __________ was __________.  And I will always feel that way.


Well that feels good to get that out there.   Thanks for reading.  (And looking, because you can pretend there were some simply shocking photos with this post while you’re at it.)
Have a great day and may your ______ be ___________.  I really mean that.

Homecoming (Babble)

What a great week!  Lots of stress woven through bits of it and happiness to the point of feeling drained sometimes, but overall some amazing memories were made this week in our family.

Contrary to the look of final homecoming in these photos, that was actually the prelude to one last little goodbye.  Ian’s trip home took about a week.  For some reason the Army found it cheapest to get him back here by flying him from Mosul to Kuwait, then to Ireland, New Jersey, Atlanta, Minnesota, and finally LaCrosse, Wisconsin, where he was transported to Ft McCoy to turn in his weapon and receive some awards over the course of a few days.  My plan was to drive out to Minneapolis with the kids to spend a few days with my cousin and her family, greet Ian at the airport in LaCrosse on the way, and pick him up at Ft McCoy on the way back when he was ready.

The problem is that planning anything around the Army is complicated because there are no firm dates or times and things are up in the air until the last minute.  I got a call from Ian early on Sunday morning telling me that he was in New Jersey, and he promised to call me again from Atlanta.  When he did, he informed me sadly that he wouldn’t be in LaCrosse until almost eleven at night, and that would be too hard to do with all the kids and still get to my cousin’s house.  He happened to say something offhand about Minneapolis, and I said, “Wait, what?  You have another stop in Minnesota?”  I looked at my watch and realized if we didn’t really stop anywhere on the way we might just be able to catch him at the airport there.  I’d had the car packed since breakfast so I hung up the phone, told all the kids to use the bathroom and grab their shoes and we took off in our big black rental SUV thing.  We grabbed some lunch from a drive through, did one stop a few hours in to use a rest room, but otherwise just raced across Wisconsin.


I have to say I lucked out in the ‘traveling with children lottery,’ because my kids are great on long car trips.  They were no trouble in any way.  They napped a little, they pointed out cows, they played little games together.  My brothers and I were nowhere near that nice to each other in the car growing up.  I seem to recall my dad yelling at us to look out our respective windows a great deal.  Anyway, between their excellent behavior and the rental car’s satellite radio, it was a great drive.  Rural Wisconsin is beautiful, and the weather was gorgeous.  (I know there are more dramatic landscapes in the world, that Banff is stunning, and you can’t get your mind around the Grand Canyon even as you stand on the edge of it, vistas in Italy will make you melt, and I’ve driven through tea plantations in India that are lovely beyond words….  But Wisconsin farmland with its rolling hills and acres of corn is beautiful in an accessible and cozy way that is unlike anything else, and the kids were thrilled to see it and so was I.)

(Not the best photo since I just randomly clicked my camera without looking during a flat area, but still pretty.)

We experienced a rare moment of perfect timing.  All we had to go on was that Ian was flying into Minneapolis on Delta sometime around 7:15 pm.   We left Milwaukee at 2:00, parked at the airport at 7:20, found a desk with the word ‘Delta’ over it and got someone to figure out Ian’s gate and print us up a visitor’s pass. As we walked the last 20 paces or so to the gate, Ian called me on my cell phone to say he was about to step off his plane.  The kids and I waited maybe half a minute before we spotted him.  We got to spend a little over an hour together and eat a little dinner in the food court as a family before he had to get on the plane to LaCrosse.  I still can’t believe that all worked out.  I know he was pleased to see us at such an unlikely time.

I do have to say that people in military uniforms are more exposed than other people in an airport.  It was nice of strangers who took the time to stop and thank Ian for his service, but after awhile I kind of wished they would do it a little more quickly because our time was so limited.   I’m sure Ian would have liked that hour we had together to have been more private, but he was gracious to everyone who stopped to admire our little reunion.  He represents his uniform well.

Even though I must have warned the kids about two dozen times that we weren’t going to get to keep daddy just yet, they were still surprised when they had to say goodbye to him again and put him on another plane.  But this time we knew it was just for a few days.  That combined with his being here and not headed off to a war zone made this separation much easier than any of the past ones.

Once Ian was safely on the plane we went off in search of our rental car.  Maybe I was just too worn out at that point to appreciate whatever logic there is to the parking structure at the Minneapolis/St Paul Airport, but I found it to be the most confusing place I’ve ever left a car.  Luckily I knew I was somewhere on the ground level and at the end of a row which narrowed it down, and the kids and I walked around while I kept pushing the lock and unlock buttons on the key until we heard the car beeping.  It was in a direction I never would have thought to walk, so I’m glad the rental car came with such a feature or we might still be there.

The next few days we spent with my cousin, Ann, and her family.  (They are the same people who came all the way out to Milwaukee in February to help me move.)  I could not have asked for a better distraction.  If we had waited at home while Ian was at Ft McCoy I would have been climbing the walls.  The past couple of weeks have been really stressful in anticipation of him coming home.  The kids were acting out a little, I was not sleeping…. 

It’s hard to explain to people, because it seems like knowing our family would be reunited again should be all good–and it is good–but good is not the same thing as easy.  Ian told me from the soldiers’ perspective that leaving for the first deployment is stressful, and leaving for additional deployments isn’t as bad, but every return home is difficult.  He said many soldiers assume the physical symptoms they have before they return are due to the change of routine and diet that come with travel, but that often times it has more to do with stress.  There are a lot of unknowns about what ‘home’ is anymore, and that’s hard to deal with.

Staying at my cousin’s house removed me from the responsibilities and worries that come with being at home.  We could just relax, drink lemonade, and eat sandwiches made from tomatoes and basil from their garden.  Can you believe the view from their backyard?

My kids spent every minute possible in the swimming pool.  At one point we took all the kids out to a playground just for variety’s sake, and after a few minutes of watching them half-heartedly playing to please me we said it was time to go back to the house and they lit up and ran to the car.  They played Marco-Polo, they came up with a water dance show that required many rehearsals, and there was a lot of ‘look at me, Mom!’ stuff. 

It was one of those experiences where you didn’t realize how much you needed something until you got it.  Those few days of pleasant conversation and company and playtime for the kids in a peaceful setting were exactly what we needed.  I will always be grateful for that bit of time we spent in Minneapolis.  When we finally got the call from Ian that he was done with out-processing and we could come pick him up, the kids protested until I verbally shook them out of their idyllic daze to remind them that we were leaving to get daddy and bring him home with us.  To stay.  To keep.  That got them into the car.

The drive to Ft McCoy was beautiful, but the last leg of it got confusing.  The GPS took us through winding roads up in the hills above lots of farmland, and then five minutes from our destination kept telling me to turn where there was no road.  I passed the spot it wanted me to turn twice before I finally crept up on it very slowly and realized there was a grown over gravel path at that spot in the woods.  I pulled the car over and walked down the path far enough to see a gate with a stop sign on it, and past that was a real road.  Neat.

I decided that was not the best direction to take with three small kids in a car I was not familiar with in a spot where my cell phone wasn’t getting any signal.  I asked the GPS to find and alternative route, and almost half an hour later we finally pulled up to the main gate of Ft McCoy.

I discovered that my military spouse ID was expired (who knew such a thing expired?) but they let us in to pick up Ian anyway.  On his phone he talked us past the PX and lots of barracks and desert colored military vehicles until eventually we saw him waving near the road.  Christmas morning is a good analogy for how excited my kids were when they spotted him.  None of them could sit still.  I got to meet one of the soldiers he worked with (she seemed very nice, and you’d never guess she was the best person you could ask for manning the gun turret on a truck) then we loaded up all of his Army boxes and headed toward home.

It’s a little surreal.  He’s really home.  In some ways it was like he never left, because certain habits instantly fall back into place, but other things will take time.  I picked up food at the grocery store this morning and it took much longer than normal because while we were away they rearranged the whole place.  Cereal is where the greeting cards used to be, where pasta was is now a giant section labeled simply ‘Hispanic,’ and things like crackers are broken up into categories I couldn’t quite follow.  Most of what was on my list I stumbled into by chance.  While I was waiting at the checkout it hit me that if I found the new layout of the grocery store disorienting, how odd is it for Ian to come home to a whole different house?  It’s like a huge scavenger hunt for all your own things.  He laughed in the kitchen at one point because he started to empty the dishwasher and realized he didn’t know where anything was supposed to go, so he just stopped.  It will take time for Ian to get to know not just what the rhythm of our days are like here, but even just where the outlets are and in what drawer we store the light bulbs.

In the meantime it will be days before we finish sorting through all of the giant Army boxes of gear and military items that need to find a place in this house.  Ian’s going to be camped out in the living room for awhile, sorting through piles of paper and camoflage patterned clothing.  Not to mention all the boxes of mystery cords and books and computer items that have been waiting for him in the basement since the winter months.  I told him to take it slowly, we’d tackle it all together, and he can stop and take a nap whenever he likes.

It’s only been a couple of days, but in terms of the adjustment process, so far, so good.  I told him he needs to give the kids a chance to get used to the sound of him, and over time he can assume more of the old role he used to play in terms of exerting some authority.  Right now he’s just available to them if they want him, and he helps me when I need it, but we’re taking a slow approach with his involvement in our routine.  There is no pattern of him being in this home, and he has no experience with the kids being the ages they are now.  We haven’t had any problems yet, but I’m doing my best to head any off before they can develop.  At the moment I’m just proud of myself that he hasn’t had any allergic reactions to anything in the house.  (I remembered!) 

There’s more to tell, but it will have to wait.  Everyone is sleeping but me and it’s time for me to join them.  There are few things greater than the joy of knowing everyone who is supposed to be here is under the same roof.  We’re a whole family again.  It’s one of those things that makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.  There is no one on earth more fortunate than I am right now.  Life is grand.

Who Needs Words? (Babble)

Dear Ian, (Babble)

We’re excited to hear that you are wrapping up the last of your responsibilities in Iraq. 
Not long until you’re home!  Here are a few things to ponder on the flight to the United States:

Omega Burger closed down.

I threw out any of your clothes that had holes including that one nasty pair of sneakers.

The top dozen slots of our Netflix queue is just episodes of Mad Men.

That empty retail space near the violin store was briefly some kind of gym and now it’s empty again.

The birch tree you didn’t know we had has been removed.

Be prepared to address many computer issues when you arrive.

All the kids can use the microwave themselves, but still need to ask how much time to heat things for (unless it’s ravioli–they have that down).

Aden eats grape jelly, Mona eats strawberry.


Aden likes onions on her hamburgers, Mona likes pickles, Quinn would rather die than have either of those things with his meal but he does like salad.

The violin store is pretty messy, and there is a big stack of mystery papers on your desk there waiting for you.  Also that pole next to our building that I don’t know what it was is now gone.

The play structure in Humboldt Park was torn down awhile back, and they just started building the replacement.  Aden is upset because it will be different.

I will be asking you to move rocks in the backyard.  (But you’ll get two kisses for every rock and there are a million rocks, so it should work out in your favor at some point.)

The little girl ringing our doorbell repeatedly is named Karla.

The radio was stolen out of our car again.  (Ha!  April fools!  I didn’t have you around on the first of April so I’m getting caught up on that now.)

I have no idea where your keys or library card are.  (That’s not an April fools joke.  Sorry!)

Mona has four loose teeth.

Quinn has forgotten all his geography information but can talk about planets and write his own name.

Remember to turn right instead of left at our intersection.  The blue and white house may look like home, but the new neighbors will be very surprised if you show up there.  We’re across the street at the house with the lawn that needs mowing.

We’ll need to shop for a lawnmower.

Neighborhood Recess is every Thursday at 5:00.  Wear good running shoes.

I’m claiming the side of the bed near the windows.

All those giant army boxes you shipped home are stacked in your little study room.  (Good luck getting into your little study room.)

There is supposed to be a new garage out back when you get here.  (Right now it’s a muddy mess that I like to think of as ‘the moat.’  That’s nice too, but I’m still keeping my fingers crossed for a garage.)

The kids want you to select the new Rock of the Week.

Aden doesn’t need a booster seat now, but she still likes to use one.

The grill has sat untouched since you left.  We all want you to grill stuff.

Don’t let the kids use the sidewalk chalk on the bricks outside the violin store because apparently that counts as grafitti and our landlord will get fined.

The squirrels are more entertaining on this side of the street.

Aden desperately wants to go to Incrediroll.

Tony and Megan have a baby girl with lots of names but they call her Katie for short.
Smokey Joe, Mrs. Coleman, and our mailman have all died.

Quinn’s favorite color is still purple, but Aden’s is now blue, and Mona is conflicted about the whole concept.

I apologize that the change from the glove box feels funny.

We have a garbage disposal now, so you don’t have to flinch when I toss egg shells into the sink anymore.

We may be picking you up in a brainless rental van.

We love you more than you remember.  We’ve missed you like crazy.  The kids are bigger than when you left so be prepared for some power hugs.

I love you.  I’m proud of you.  See you soon.

Kory

Accommodation vs Overindulgence (Babble)

There are very few absolutes in parenting.  Many of us have similar goals but employ different methods of getting there.  The one element of parenting I had never considered in more than very basic terms until I became a parent myself was how vulnerable that role makes you feel.  It is the one job that we want to do better than any other, the one by which we are most closely judged, and the one where we are guaranteed to be seen as failures along the way by someone. 

Some of us parent more successfully than others, but I have never met a parent who was satisfied that he or she was doing it as best they could.  I’m proud of myself if I get through a day without having raised my voice at my kids, but before I had children I would have thought that bar to be set pitifully low.  I love being a parent, and my children are wonderful, but it’s hard.  And part of the reason it’s hard is that many of us grapple with feeling inadequate as we do it.

The real problem with that sense of inadequacy hovering over what we do as parents is that it creates a vulnerability that makes us more likely to be defensive.  I think that’s the root of where most of the snarkiness (often called ‘the mommy wars’) between different parents comes from.  If you’ve spent a long time researching an issue (breast feeding, daycare, co-sleeping, organic food, homeschooling, vaccinations, television….) and have reached a conclusion that you think is the best choice for your family, it is very difficult to accept that the opposite choice can also be fine.  It throws everything into question at a time when we’d like to feel certain.  To see other parents making very different choices can make us feel like they are undermining our own.  Accusing someone else of bad parenting is often just a means of making ourselves feel more secure in an attempt to prove our choices are superior.  The reality is, as painful as it is to admit, the opposite choice made with loving intentions can be equally valid.


One of the trickiest areas where I see a lot of judgement tossed around but haven’t seen it discussed anywhere to my memory, is the line between accommodating a child’s needs or whims, and overindulging him or her.  This is an area where I know I feel particularly vulnerable and try not to take other people’s opinions too personally.

Every day when my kids ask for something or just start behaving a particular way, I have to balance in my mind not just whether it’s good or bad, salubrious or unhealthy, but if it’s something I should care about at all.  Unfortunately that’s where most of parenting lies.  Most of the things our kids do minute to minute don’t matter, and the degree to which we feel the need to control those things as if they do varies wildly from parent to parent.  If a child wants to use a red crayon instead of a yellow one, most of us don’t offer an opinion, but what if a girl only wants to wear pink?  Some parents actively fight against that and others would encourage it.  Now imagine a boy who wants to wear pink.  Suddenly there are people who see meaning in that and either feel a need to defend or condemn it, even though to a kid it’s probably just a shirt and not a statement about anything.

How much do we let our kids make certain choices on their own?  It comes down to how much meaning you personally think that choice is imbued with.  Most of the time when I find myself going head to head with one of my kids about something, I ask myself, “Is this the hill I want to die on?” and most of the time the answer is no.

When Mona taught herself to escape her car seat at age two, that was a battle I had to win.  We had a painful month of not being able to drive on freeways, and a five minute trip could take me an hour with having to stop and re-buckle her every few feet, but I was willing to go to the mat on that one.  But most situations aren’t like that.  That was a clear safety issue where my opinion was the only one that mattered and the two year old shouldn’t have a say. 

But what about getting dressed?  All my kids went through a naked phase.  (Actually, I just watched a naked little Quinn go by carrying the bingo set to ask his sister if she wants to play, so he’s still in it.)  I know this is not something my mom is comfortable with, and I can feel her biting her tongue when she visits and watches a naked little person walking around the house.  This one doesn’t bug me so I’m not inspired to fight it.  Am I being accommodating or overindulgent?  Depends on your own arbitrary stance.

I know there are many people who feel I overindulge my kids.  I don’t make them do chores but they help me when I ask.  I don’t put any significant limits on the TV but there are days I announce we’re leaving it off and they don’t mind.  They have too many toys but most of them aren’t from me (and frankly, I like toys too), and they are very good about sharing them.  I figure as long as they are respectful and kind they are entitled to make choices that appeal to them and get on with enjoying being kids.  They are good people and seeing them look delighted is what I live for most days.  I don’t want to get hung up on too many irrelevant details. 

But I’m constantly amazed by ways other parents feel they are simply accommodating their kids.  The main example that comes to mind is when people let boys act out on the playground simply because they are boys.  My definition of what is acceptable behavior is not gender based.  I once had a problem with a little boy who kept shoving Mona out of his way on a play structure, and after telling him firmly a few times to not touch my daughter I asked him where his mom or dad was.  He pointed to the woman sitting behind me on the grass a few feet away who had watched the whole thing.  I told her I thought her son was being too rough and she just shrugged and said, “He’s a boy.”  I make a point now when I see boys on a playground who are polite to my kids of telling their parents that I’m impressed.

I show my kids how to set the table, but remind myself it’s not a law, and that whatever way they do it makes just as much sense.  I would rather my kids stand when they practice violin the way I make my students do, but if sitting means less fuss to get them to play then I let it go.  It’s pointless to get anxious about play dough colors getting mixed together, or Mona wearing her shoes on the wrong feet, or Aden not being ready to put her face underwater at the pool yet.  There are just days I’m better at reminding myself of that than others. 

I’m sure there are other parents who feel there are underlying issues of control that need to be enforced in order to teach children respect or to just be able to make things run in a more orderly fashion, but that’s not me.  It makes me uncomfortable to watch other parents enforce some standard on their children that I would find unnecessary, but most of the time I trust that they are doing the best they can with what they believe is right.  Just like I expect them to let it go if I bring Mona to choir dressed as a kangaroo.

So my biggest challenge when I’m out in the world and confronted with other parents and the choices they juggle minute to minute is to remember to ask myself if whatever seems overindulgent to me really matters.  On rare occasions it does, but most of the time it doesn’t.  I think it’s important to give other people the benefit of the doubt because we don’t have all the information.  I hope other parents do the same for me.  It’s hard, but I think if we can recognize our own feelings of vulnerability we may go a long way toward extending compassion toward the people around us and stop being so defensive.  (In the meantime my kids have gotten eerily quiet, so this post is done.)

Rain Rain Rain and Basement Cards (Babble)

In the Midwest of the United States we are spared things like hurricanes, volcanic eruptions, tidal waves, dramatic earthquakes, and even dangerous insects.  But hoooo boy do we know about thunderstorms.  As I’m typing there is a huge storm raging outside with lots of thunder and lightning. We just spent the last hour in the basement because we heard the tornado sirens go off.  It’s nice to be upstairs again.

My children are easily spooked by crisis.  Their lives are pretty easy going, so when something dramatic happens they take it very seriously.  There was an Amber alert all over the television a couple of weeks ago and Aden kept finding me wherever I was in the house and breathlessly telling me about the two children who were missing.  I told her it didn’t really concern us since we were just at home and not likely to spot them here, but the concept of kidnapping injected into her afternoon cartoon deeply affected her.  After the third time the Amber alert popped up, Aden came and found me again, clutching her pink bunny, tears in her eyes.  I asked what was wrong and she said, “I’m scared of kidnappers.”


I sat her down and told her that there are indeed scary strangers out there who take children, and that’s why I need to know where she is and why we review not going off with people she doesn’t know without telling me, even if they seem nice.  But then I told her those cases are extremely rare, and I asked, “Do you know who most often kidnaps children?”  She shook her head.  “One of their parents.” 

Aden’s eyes got wide and then she laughed because that sounded so odd.  I explained that sometimes things get messy between moms and dads who don’t live together, and sometimes those moms or dads take their children at a time they are not supposed to and people get frightened.  I went over the rules one more time about dealing with strangers, and told her the secret word we have in case we do send someone she doesn’t know to pick her up somewhere so she’ll know that person really is safe to go with, and reminded her that she may run and kick and scream if a kidnapper ever did try to grab her. 

I added, “But statistically the most likely person to kidnap you is daddy, and he’d just bring you here.”  We both agreed that would be awesome, so she really didn’t need to spend time being scared.  That night on the news they reported that the children from the Amber alert were fine.  They’d been taken by their dad and returned to their mom.  Aden felt better.

Anyway, today my kids were getting really freaked out by the weather alerts on the television.  Neighborhood Recess got cut short because of lightning, and my kids were worried all through dinner about tornadoes.  When the sirens went off at about 7:00 they all looked panicked.  That’s where the real test of being the grown-up comes in–being the one to guide them calmly through the fear if possible.  I grabbed a book, my laptop, a phone, a stack of games and some marshmallows.  It’s hard to think of any situation as a crisis when there are marshmallows available.

Our basement gets pretty wet when it rains.  Not knee-deep flood water kind of wet, but water trickles in from all edges of the house toward the drain in the center of the floor.  The kids took turns jumping over the dozens of little rivers running all over while I set up a card table and chairs in the driest area.  We watched a bit of a Buster Keaton movie on YouTube.  We called to check in on a neighbor.  But the kids were still concerned about the tornado warning and all the thunder we could hear from overhead, so I pulled out the big guns.  I invented Basement Cards.

I’d grabbed Operation, Boggle and a bag of what I thought were Uno cards before heading into the basement.  Aden didn’t want to hear the buzzing of the Operation game right then, so I opened the bag of cards only to discover it was a weird mish-mash of things.  In addition to the Uno cards there were parts of several different regular decks, bits from two Old Maid decks, instruction cards from various games, Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh trading cards, an aquatic themed Crazy Eights deck, and one card from the game Cadoo. 

I dealt them all out, told everyone to make a neat stack, and then just made things up.  Quinn laughed so hard he kept slipping off his chair.  Aden looked annoyed at the randomness of it all until I announced she was winning, and then she was all into it.  Mona’s squeals drowned out any thunder.  I ordered people to trade cards, pick cards, put cards on their heads….  By the end it was kind of like Slap Jack or War where I was having everyone put cards in the middle at the same time and then I would tell them who’d won that round by deciding Quinn got all the cards because his pig card beat the ace of clubs, the rules to cribbage and Autoworker Alan.  They were all sad to leave the basement by the time the tornado warning was over.  (Quinn ran up to me a couple of minutes ago while I was typing to say, “I love Basement Cards!”)

I asked Mona to run up the stairs first and tell me if the house was still there.  She ran up excitedly and started yelling, “Yes!  It’s all still here!  Hooray!” and then went off to play with legos.  Aden was still scared of the lightning.  I asked her why, and she said, “Because we have so many big trees.”  I said, “Do you know why they are so big?”  She shook her head.  “Because they’ve never been struck by lightning.”  That made her feel better.  I also pointed out that the abandoned smoke stack on the next block by the old tannery was the tallest thing around and no lightning would be attracted to our house while that was available to strike.

I didn’t tell her about the NPR program I once listened to about lightening that made it sound as if it would practically come hunt you down in your bed while you slept.  Those nightmares are for another day.  I have a terrible time sleeping with Ian gone, so at least if my kids sleep I feel good about that.  I remember during the first deployment lying in bed, pregnant, listening to a terrible storm, and wondering how I would know if it was bad enough to wake up the girls and drag them into the basement.  I kept thinking about how everyone who has ever heard a tornado says it sounds just like a train, and then it hit me that I live down the street from railroad tracks.  How would I possibly be able to tell the difference between a tornado and a real train?  Then I really couldn’t sleep.

Anyway, I hope the rain lets up soon so I can go move the car to the right side of the street for overnight parking without getting completely drenched.  Not that I think the overnight parking checkers will be out in force tonight with so many people stranded in all the flooding all over town, but with my luck lately I’d be the one person they’d find to ticket.
I left the card table set up in the basement just in case I hear sirens in the night and need to move the kids to safety and another round of Basement Cards.  If I get too bored lying awake in the dark I may go down there and invent Solitaire Basement Cards, but that doesn’t sound like as much fun without the kids laughing their heads off. 

On days like today it’s hard to imagine the rain will ever end.  Just like July seems to be stretching on forever.  Thunderstorms are more fun with Ian home, even with Basement Cards to distract us.  I wonder if he’s awake right now, wherever in Iraq he is.  I wish I knew.

Influence (Babble)

I have a BA in music with distinction in Music Cognition.  I’ve been playing violin since third grade and viola since high school.  I’m employed at a conservatory, play with Festival City Symphony, and founded my own string quartet that was awarded ‘best in weddings’ for our region by the magazine The Knot two years in a row. 

I am not bragging because I know how much practice I sorely need to become the musician I aspire to be, and in the music world pecking order I rank very very very low.  Yeah, now think even lower.  No, I mention all of this just to stack some weight on my side in order to salvage a bit of my ego when I say–with all seriousness–that the greatest musical influence on my children has been my husband.  Ian.  The guy with the engineering and economic geography degrees.  It’s ridiculous.

Not that you have to have degrees in music to have your opinions or preferences on it be meaningful.  That’s insane.  Musicians strive to make music that is appreciated by a world primarily populated by non-musicians.  Without an audience the final step of what we are trying to do is obliterated.  I spend a lot of time telling non-musicians that their opinions count and not to be intimidated by snobs.

What I am trying to say, is that music is such an important component of my life that I made the (apparently crazy) assumption that when I had children, I would be the one to introduce them to the wonders of it.  I would have an impact on their preferences and could lead them down a musical path that I was familiar with.  Ha.



Turns out I can’t compete with my husband.  Ian could have been a jingle writer.  He comes up with catchy/annoying little tunes that stick in your head he and used them for reminding the kids to do things.  He made up one for telling the kids to brush their teeth, and one for washing hands, and one for eating corn….  He used to organize little dance-a-thons before bedtime to wear the kids out so they would sleep better, and he would drag out his Art of Noise records and play them songs by the Cranberries on his computer.  They knew all sorts of music he liked by heart.  During his stinits as stay-at-home dad the kids were introduced to all sorts of songs I didn’t even know.  It was silly to let it bug me, but there where days it did.  You can’t always control what rubs you the wrong way, even when you know better.

I’ve been thinking about this more than usual lately while we prepare for my husband to return home.  I will admit I have taken advantage of his absence to commandeer the CD and record players.  I can’t be accused of forcing too much of the stuff I like on my kids, especially since in the car I try to let them pick the music, and more often than not we find a middle ground between what they will enjoy and what I don’t mind listening to again and again and again.  We listen to a lot of They Might Be Giants, particularly ‘No’ and ‘Here Comes Science,’ but they can also sing along to quite a few Barenaked Ladies tunes now.  My kids know a lot more music from the 1980’s than is probably normal, but that’s because they like to run the record player themselves and that was the last time I bought any records.  (When Aden has friends over the ‘Ghostbusters’ soundtrack often ends up on the turntable.)

It’s been so long since Ian was a part of any routine here that all the little tunes he sang have faded from the kids’ memories.  Aden might remember a few of them if she heard them, but I don’t think Mona or Quinn would.  (It’s amazing what kids forget.  Mona used to have all of Mary Poppins memorized–every bit of dialogue, every song, every gesture–and when we ran across it in the video store recently it was completely new to her just a few years later.)  It will be good to have all the little songs back, and probably new annoying ones to get stuck in our heads when Ian is a real live present member of our family again and not just some kind of ghost who calls us on a satellite phone from time to time.

Between choir and TV, school and their friends, I don’t kid myself that I will have much influence on my kids’ musical lives in the grand scheme of things, but I’m trying to decide if there are a few more tunes I can worm into their little heads before their dad comes home and his influence becomes dominant in that area again.  I may be able to play along with them as they practice Bach and occasionally sneak some old Paul Simon tune onto the CD player on the ride to school, but I know where their true source of musical inspiration usually lies.  I can’t fight the tooth brushing song.  And at this point, I don’t even want to try.