New England Mamas

A New England Transplant

I've always had a hard time answering the question "Where are you from?"  To clarify, I don't have any trouble when talking to other parents in my child's preschool class where the correct answer is my current hometown.  When I am on vacation, I am torn between being honest and admitting to being from "a galaxy far, far away," saying I am from where I grew up, Chicago, or describing where I now live in New England.  At what point do you become "from" the state that's different from where you grew up?  Is it when you've lived in that state for longer than you lived in your original home state? 

When I first moved to MA, I used to dress nicely while running errands because I knew no one and in some weird subconscious way I think I wanted to make a good impression.  You never know who's going to turn around in a grocery store and invite you to a family BBQ.  Alright, that might be a little creepy, and for the record it never happened.  After a while, particularly once I became a mom, I no longer cared if my hair needed to be brushed when I went to the grocery store.  I just went as I was.  Then I began to notice a surprising correlation between the amount of spit-up on my shirt and the likelihood that that I would encounter someone I knew.

Because I was meeting a friend today, I was actually dressed somewhat nicely when I went to drop my son off at camp.  It was the first day of the session.  I didn't think I knew anyone who was sending their kids to this camp.  I was therefore surprised to find that I knew half the parents from a number of different groups and activities.  So again, when I am officially from MA? 

Where Did She Come From?

Sweetie wants to be a stick of butter for Halloween. Before she decided on that, she said she wanted to be a plate.

Two Christmases ago, she wished for a Christmas Fork.

Last Christmas, all she wanted was a 78 Toy.

This year she says she hopes Santa brings her a (real) baby giraffe.

She thinks Fear Toxin is when her Daddy (or anyone) pushes all her hair into her face. And she thinks the green husks on an ear of corn are called Green (Sweetie) Crazy (okay - both of those items are ENTIRELY Hubby's fault).

Why isn't my daughter normal?

Whatever. Never mind. Normal is boring. Sweetie is AWESOME!

Or, as she would say - she's GREAT.

Will it ever be over?

Unlike most of the rest of the country, my kids are still in school. I know... it seems to last forever and yet it's never long enough! We've got one more week before they're out for the summer.

I'm of mixed emotions. I have to admit, I love tossing the alarm clock and knowing that I won't have to see 6:30 am again until September.  Sleep is very important to teenagers and for a couple of months they'll get enough to keep them on a fairly even keel. I hope.

I also love having them around much of the time. Despite what you might have heard, I like my kids and I enjoy their personalities and their wit. Most of the time. I like doing things together with them, I like when their friends come over and I can eavesdrop on conversations and find out what the heck is going on in their lives. I like when they come up with bizarre ways to entertain themselves.

However, they eat like starving grizzly bears, they are the messiest human beings on earth, and they tend to argue. A lot. It's never nice and peaceful for very long around here. My son tends to entertain his friends here more than he ever goes anywhere else. There will be 2 or 3 day marathons of video games, shouting, eating the shelves bare, and taking over my house. I think it's better that they are here than if they were unsupervised someplace else. But OMG, the noise, the mess!

My daughter leaves school and the second she is off the property, every single thing she has learned all year empties out of her head. I've never seen anything like it. It's as if she does this brain dump in the parking lot. As summer progresses she gets dumber and dumber. By the end of summer I'm ready to scream in frustration. I must say "THINK" about 3 million times a day. She totally loses the ability to think, read, or write come summer.

Summer is also the time when I become a professional chauffer for my kids. "Mom, take me here." "Mom, I need it NOW". This will be the last summer, because they'll finally turn 16 at the end of August and then the fun really begins.

Driving lessons.

Oh lord, kill me  now.

So maybe I shouldn't be so anxious for school to be over after all. I can't even imagine what kind of hell it will be once they learn to drive.

I Don't Know Why It Still Surprises Me.

Ever since Peanut was a toddler, we've used the phrase "developmental issues" to explain to strangers and acquaintances his odd and/or problematic behavior. To family and friends, he's just Peanut being Peanut, but every now and again some of the clothing-chewing, mouth-stuffing, spinning, rocking, bouncing, flapping behavior would come back and we might find ourselves at a party explaining, for the ease of understanding, that he was "mildly autistic."

As he has changed and developed, we started to understand much more clearly what his strengths and weaknesses were, and that meant we were pretty much expecting the PDD-NOS diagnosis we received this spring. Last week, we had an IEP meeting to discuss his transition from one school to another, from preschool to kindergarden. It went very, very well, and included some amazing news about a grant that will provide extra staffing.

It looks like he and a couple other children on IEPs will be grouped together in a regular kindergarden classroom. There will probably be 18 or so children in the class total, and some of the non-IEP children will be half-day students, so it will be an even smaller class in the afternoons. There will be the regular teacher and a part-time teacher's aide for the class, and thanks to the funding that came through, there will also be a specially trained full time co-teacher responsible for the 4 children on IEPs and a special education aide as well. 

This is what we wanted for Peanut's kindergarden year: a high teacher ratio, as much inclusion in the regular classroom as he can handle, a teacher or an aide with specialized behavioral training. They relied heavily on the independent evaluation we had done, and we spent a long time discussing ways to prepare him for the big changes next fall.

As we were wrapping up and going over everything, we came to the part that startled me. They brought up the fact that his current educational diagnosis, which was assigned to him as he entered preschool 2 years ago, fell into the "developmental delay" category. Given all the changes we have seen in him, as well as the clinical diagnosis of PDD-NOS, we all agreed that he should be re-classified as "autistic spectrum disorder."

No surprise, right? I mean, duh - we've been saying he's mildly autistic for years, we've received an official clinical diagnosis, and hello? He's autistic. Not profoundly autistic, not by a long shot, but definitely On The Spectrum.

Except it still startles me to hear that. Hard as it may be to believe, it catches me unaware. Who, me? I have an autistic child? Really? Are you sure? Because I don't think of him as autistic, obviously. I think of him as emotionally fragile, easily excited, smart as a whip.

It's weird, because unlike some parents I've talked to, I've never shied away from "labeling" him. It always seemed to me to be the best way to get the services that have helped him, and it's honestly one of those things I didn't think too much about. I just never felt like "The Mother Of An Autistic Child" before this IEP meeting.

I guess I was too busy being, you know, "Peanut's mom."
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(Originally posted at A Smeddling Kiss)

I'm (Diaper) Free and Lovin Every Minute of It!

I AM DONE CHANGING DIAPERS! (Notice the Seinfeld reference in the title?  Well, right now I'm doing the Elaine dance.)

Baby became fully potty-trained in a matter of days. I swear it, you guys.

Get this though: I have had been changing diapers for over 6-1/2 years.

That's oh...approximately 2,400 days.  (Yep, I'm a dork and I added it up.)  In a row.

And, in 2004, when Middle was born, both Eldest and Middle were in diapers that summer.  Then, a year later, in the summer of '05 when Baby was born, both Middle and Baby were in diapers.

Of course, I'm not so naive to think that we will actually see any savings now that we are a diaper-free Trenches.  Oh no.

It's called PRESCHOOL PAYMENTS.  And FOOD.  *sigh*

So what's your number?  How many days/years--in a row--have you changed diapers? Anyone ever have, dare I ask, 3 in diapers at once?  (Bless your soul.)

Cross-posted at In the Trenches of Mommyhood

Let Go

That's a funny saying, isn't it? "Let go". It could mean a variety of things. Some good, some bad, some indifferent.

(A couple weeks ago), for me, "let go" was a very bad thing.

I was let go from my job. With a company I've worked for for 11 years. Purely budgetary reasons, I'm assured - nothing at all personal against my performance. I'm not the only one to go.

Still - it sucks.

I spent (that day) with Hubby, my mom, and Sweetie. I networked via email with friends, family and blogging/writing associates. I made the most of my day.

I'm glad I did, as it all helped me realize something very important.

I'm good. Hubby, Sweetie and I are all good. This is an opportunity. This is the kick in the butt I needed. Now I can get on with my life, pursuing the sort of career I truly feel passionately about.

I'm actually excited. I'm optimistic. I'm setting off on a brand new path - eager to realize my dream career. Writing, editing, educating - these are my passions. These are the areas I'm skilled in and the career path I'm eager to finally - confidently - plant my feet on and march on down. I can do these things. I've been doing them. Now's my chance to actually make a career out of them.

I'm good now. Soon, I will be great!

Oh, and one more thing. I'm going to make the most of this extra time with Sweetie before she heads off to kindergarten in the fall. This, right now, is the last bit of time when Hubby and I can really decide how she'll spend her days. This time with her is truly a gift.

Here's to the future. Here's to pursuing one's passions.

Here's to letting go.

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Reprinted from Sweetie & Me: Spina Bifida Moms.

Titles. Tags. And labels. STAY AWAY!

I was at the playground yesterday with the boys. There were 4 other mothers standing around next to me watching their kids play.

None of us had ever met, but we all had kids that were about the same ages - 5 and under.

Out of the 5 of us there, 4 of us had 3 children.  So there were 14 kids playing together.  It was very cute.

But then one of the little boys started crying because his older sister “by mistake” threw sand at him.

This mother (obviously embarrassed) ran over to diffuse the sibling situation.

As she was doing her “thing,” one of the other mothers asked the group of mothers, “So which one is your cry baby?”

Cry baby!? Gee… great term for your child.

All of us were a little stunned by the bluntness.  After all, we just met.

But then… she goes on.

“My oldest is my cry-baby. All he does is whine. My middle daughter is an emotional roller coaster. Drama. Drama. Drama. She’s up, she’s down. And my youngest is my shining star. He’s the easiest child.”

So let me digest.

Older one = cry baby.

Middle one = drama.

Youngest = star.

Can’t see this not messing them up at all. And let me interject that her youngest is exactly Benjamin’s age. He just turned one last week. Let’s face it, anything could happen.

I just sat there listening to 2 of the other mothers “labeling” their kids too. Shy. Outgoing. Reserved. Little clown. Attention-getter. My athlete. My bookworm. Needy. My messy one.

AND LET ME REPEAT… the kids are all 5 and under!  Not one of them is in kindergarten yet! 

And the list went on.

I just kept remembering a family friend once telling my parents in front of Jane and me as kids… “Well, I can tell who the little shy one is out of these two.”

It was me. I must have been about 7 or 8 years old. And I have never forgotten that comment. I never had thought of myself as shy, my parents certainly never called me out on it. I just remember thinking, even at the young age, I will NEVER do that to my kids. I always respected my parents for never “labeling” or “tagging” or putting “titles” to any of us 4 kids.

So William, Alex and Ben… yes, you all have different personalities. It’s a beautiful thing to see. And yes, one of you is a little more comfortable in group situations. And yes, one of you likes to be holding my hand. And yes, one of you attracts a lot of attention from strangers with your funny little antics.

But you will never know which one it is. At least not from me. All of you are the funniest… cutest… most outgoing… and most LOVED little men in my life!

While The Mama's at Work...

This past Friday was a rather trying day for me, work-wise. Not that I wasn't able to keep myself together and my duties as orderly as possible, mind you. Nonetheless, it was - shall we say - a long, 12 hour work day with barely a moment to breath.

And while I toiled away in my office cube, where do you think my little Sweetie and darling Hubby were? If you guessed gallivanting around York Beach, ME with friends on a beautiful spring day, you'd be right.

Lucky guys.

Yes, that's right. Hubby had an unplanned day off from work, and his friend from Portland just "happened" to take a personal day too. So the two of them, plus Sweetie and the friend's 3-year old daughter, got to go play all day while the Mamas worked.

Yippee for them.

Honestly, though - I'm told a fabulous time was had by all. There was a Hubby-proclaimed awesome playground at the beach for the girls to play in and the beach itself was not too big nor too crowded on that particular day. And, of course, Hubby was thrilled to get some quality "Man Time" with his buddy he doesn't get to see as often as he'd like.

Fortunately, Hubby also reports that this beach is only about 1 hour, 15 minutes from our So. NH location - so he's very excited for the three of us to visit there as often as possible in the coming summer months.

Okay! You bet!

'Cuz actually participating in a fun beach day with you and Sweetie sure would be a lot more enjoyable than hearing about it after a long, stressful day at work.

Why school vacations suck for parents

Once again, it's school vacation time. Yes, we just DID have a vacation about 6 weeks ago, but you know our poor little children are so stressed out by the terrible big bad school that we need yet another week off. That would be a week in late December, then another one in mid-February, and this one in mid-April. Gack!

The problem isn't that the kids are home. In fact, most of the time I like them home a lot more than I like them in school. The problem is, school vacations are really dangerous territory for teenagers staying around town. Like mine. They get into all sorts of trouble, and the trouble almost always revolves around alcohol, drugs, sex, and lying to their parents. My kids... oh, they're pretty much familiar with all those bad things these days. Just like all the other teens are.

This vacation my daughter didn't even get one day off before she ended up grounded. She invited a friend over. A friend she is NOT allowed to hang out with. A friend who has very sticky fingers and a much to familiar view of our upstairs medicine cabinet, if you get my drift. So my daughter had her freakout and now spends the day drooping around the house crying about how B.O.R.E.D. she is. Awwww. So sad. Too bad.

My son has been hanging out with his friends, but while he was out this evening I found an empty rum bottle in his room. He's grounded forever. I'm furious. He tried hard to blame it on his sister, the one that doesn't drink alcohol. Um, not working. So off to bed he went, screaming at my evident inability to be a good parent. Oh, my feelings are HURT!  I may  never get over it!

Of course, just who is it who is really punished by this school vacation. Yes, it's me. The parent. The one with two grounded kids. Again.

And if anyone even reminds me that summer's coming, I'm gonna scream!

The post where I complain about life

You would think that I would have nothing to complain about. The weather is finally spectacular, the bulbs are up and smiling prettily at all who walk by, the shrubs that were seemingly dead all winter have come alive with flowers, and even the trees are showing signs of life once again.

Yeah, you would think so. But no... I'm going to complain about the pollen. Because the prettier it is outside, the more miserable my entire family is. We have allergies. Allergies to pollen. Especially tree pollen. We all look like we've been smoking blunts all day. Our eyes are swollen and red. They itch like crazy. Our faces are slightly swollen, too. We sound like we all have sore throats. Oh, that's because we DO have sore throats. Worst of all, we're all exhausted. For some sick reason, the allergies drain every ounce of strength out of our bodies.

My kids, usually serious night owls, are taking naps and going to bed by 10. No matter how much sleep they get, they're wiped. I'm even worse. I can't seem to wake up out of my stupor. I mean it, my sofa and I have become one. The only time I can ever remember being this exhausted was during my twin pregnancy. At least then I had two parasites sucking the life force out of me. Now, I just have mean old trees attacking my very reason for being.

Plus, if the exhaustion and the itchy eyes aren't enough, my children, they are horrible. They're rarely pleasant on a good day. They're teenagers. They're supposed to be horrid. But my God, my daughter is getting on my very last nerve. Because I have the unmitigated gall to ask her to help in the kitchen. I KNOW! What kind of a bitch am I? What is WRONG with me?

Last night I asked her to make the chicken soup for our Passover seder. Making chicken soup isn't hard. In fact, it's so easy it's ridiculous. This is how it went:

M: First you get the chicken and put it in the sink.
G: You mean I have to touch it?
M: Um, yes. Yes you do.
G: Gross! I'm not touching that.
(Stomps off to get something and comes back with cleaning lady's disposable gloves. Brings chicken to the sink)
M: Now take the wrapper off and rinse the chicken.
G: I have to TOUCH IT? With my hands? No way.
M: Oh, shut up and do it.
G: grumble grumble under her breath grumble
M: Put the chicken in the pot and fill it with water until it covers the chicken and then an inch over.
G: How much water?
M: I just told you.
G: I wasn't listening.
(repeats instructions)
M: Now go into the fridge and get out the carrots you peeled this morning and the celery. Oh, and one of the big onions.
G: grumble grumble  I can't find the celery.
M: It's in the fridge,  I just used some this morning.
G: It's ROTTEN.
M: No it isn't. It just has one brown stalk. Throw it away and the rest is fine.
G: I'm not touching that. It's ROTTEN, it's gross.
M: It is NOT rotten, take it out of the fridge.
G: No, I'm not touching it.
M: I'm really  losing my temper. Just take it out of the fridge.
(Still wearing gloves, she picks it up with her pincer grab and makes all sorts of gross noises like she's dying, but eventually gets good stalks to cut up.)
M: Now put the onion, celery and carrots in the pot.
G: I have to CUT UP THE ONION?
M: (Weary voice) YES, you have to cut the onion or it won't fit in the pot.
G: But I'll cry.
M: You're gonna cry if I have to get up and do it for you.
(She cuts onion and puts it in the pot)
G: Now what?
M: Get the parsley and the dill out of the fridge.
G: I don't know what dill looks like.
M: For God's sake, it's in the same bag as the parsley.
G: It's a plant. I hate plants.
M: Put 1/2 of each bunch in the soup pot and SHUT UP.
M: Now add some salt and pepper.
G: How much salt and pepper.
M: Like a teaspoon of salt and a bit less of pepper.
G: OK, now what?
M: turn on the burner to high, let it boil, and then turn it down to low to cook.
G: You mean I have to stay here and watch it?
M: YES YOU DO.
G: I'm marrying someone that knows how to cook because I'm not doing it. I hate cooking. 

By the time we were through that exercise I was exhausted and ticked off. Honestly, why make something so difficult? But that's my girl.

Have a happy and sweet Passover to those that celebrate!