Everyday is Earth Day

Earth Day is like Valentine's Day to me. Do we really need a day to go rah rah and ignore the hearty issues the rest of the year? It's like being treacly sweet and clad in pink lace to woo your man one day of the year and check the hubba hubba off your list. I don't get it.

One day does not a habit make.

Everyday is Earth Day in my house. I need a T-shirt that says so.

Bird and Deal are in on it, and I love when they follow Mac Daddy to the trash and bust him tossing junk mail in there and yelp for him to put it in the recycling bin. Nowadays our trash can is practically empty while our recycling bin overflows. I am a nutso, recycling clothing tags and all bits of cardboard that pass through my fingertips. And yes, paper towel and toilet paper rolls can be recycled too, folks! We also save all sorts of "trash" in the art project box to craft into various nifty creations. Egg cartons are a big hit. Ditto for wrapping paper tubes...except that no matter the project at hand, those turn into swords or light sabers.

I happen to love Earth Day and get jazzed by all the attention it gets. Earth Day totally kicks Arbor Day's ass. It's kinda a shame since Arbor Day is all about the trees and all. Earth Day is the only holiday that espouses Love Your Mother. I happen to dig the double entendre.

Oh Earth, how do we love thee. Let me count the ways...

1. Our garden is planted: lettuce, chard, spinach, cucumbers, beets, green beans, tomatoes, all sorts of peppers, mint, basil, sage, lavender, thyme, cilantro.
2. We're the last family in North Carolina to turn on our air conditioning and the first to turn it off. Also, it's set at 80. Heat is set at 67 in winter. Mostly we rely on open windows and ceiling fans. And if you visit us in winter, pack extra socks. Pack scantily when traveling here in summer.
   
3. We ditched plastic water bottles. Thermoses are all the rage.
4. Mac Daddy packs lunch for the boys in reusable containers. When we do use plastic bags, we wash them and reuse them. Over and over and over.
5. When we take walks, we take along garbage bags and pick up trash. And wow is there a heap of junk littering our walkways, waters, and wildlife.
6. No dog poop is left behind.
7. Most of what we eat is organic (and local!).
8. All our appliances are energy efficient. And yes, we explain what that means to our kids.
9. Hand-me-downs rule. So do thrift stores and girlfriends' closets.
10. All our cleaning products are green. No bleach and icky fumes that make you go ewwwww...
11. Even our toothpaste is chemical free.
12. Deal collects rainwater in sand buckets to water the garden.
13. We embrace our clovered, creeping charlied "lawn." No ChemLawn here. And no, I'm not fooled by the rebranding to TruGreen.
14. I don't vacuum often. This saves electricity, right?
15. I turn my underwear inside out to double the wear. KIDDING! You know the neatnik in my couldn't stand for such a gross violation of grooming.
16. Rain organic vodka is the bomb.
17. If I used FourSquare or TriOut or any such location blabbering tool, I'd be the mayor of the public library.
18. Our cars, while not hybrids or electric, are not behemoths.
19. Front load washing machine. Double the load, half the energy and water.
20. We talk to our sons about the environment and our responsibility to it.
    

My family doesn't take drastic strides to be green. We value our planet more than we value a pristine lawn. That's about values, not sacrifices. Every one of us is a visitor here, and we owe it to our children (and theirs) to leave the earth a better place. Cliches ring true for a reason.

Everyday is Earth Day.

At least it should be.

Wordless Wednesday: Trouble Over Bridged Water

Wordless Wednesday: Self Portrait of A Mother and Bird

Reading a Lullabye to My Bird

Books can mend your spirit, even if you're a six year old who needs his mommy to read a lullabye to shush away scary dreams.

Read more at Deep South Moms...

Wordless Wednesday: Snack Envy

A Lesson in Peel n' Eat Shrimp

My sons are at an age that I can recount stories from my formative years. Only the G-rated ones, of course. Um, not that there are any stories that venture out of NC-17 territory. While we were waiting to be served at a restaurant recently, I told Bird and Deal about how I was a waitress for many years. Seven, to be exact. I was about to lecture them on how hard the waitstaff works but I knew they would be like the dog in the Far Side cartoon so I stopped myself. Instead I shared a personal story about one of my waitressing experiences.

I waited tables in an English pub in town. It was part local watering hole, part tourist trap, part college cheap eats, part businessman's brouhaha. I donned the requisite khaki shorts and hunter green polo shirt and set out for the night. I sipped Diet Coke in the back while noshing on ungodly amounts of bread slathered in butter. I was in college then and had no idea that one day my thighs would touch. I remember being in a particularly chipper mood. Again, this is because I didn't have a crystal ball telling me about my mushy future.

A tweed jacketed gentleman of about 50ish came in alone. He was the kind of guy whose jacket actually needed suede patches on the sleeves and weren't there merely for professorial effect. He had a mop of brown hair that was tousled and sloppy, and I recall that his pants were so ill fitting his belt looked as if it could wind around him twice. He ordered a Boddington's and the Peel n' Eat shrimp.

Not only was the entree entitled "Peel n' Eat Shrimp," the menu blurb clearly described it as such. I did not feel the need to be even more explicit when he ordered the PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP. I served 'em right up, and he smiled and nodded, as anyone with a dollop of manners would do. When I checked back, he had cleared his plate and piled up the shrimp shells on the side of the table. I asked him how his meal was in my most friendly waitress voice (This is akin to phone voice but much trickier because people can actually see you.). In one sweeping gesture that caught me totally off guard, the gent (who turned out not to be one) picked up a handful of shrimp shells and threw them at me. In the middle of the dining room. In front of everyone. He exclaimed, "I didn't realize I'd be working for my dinner!"

"Well sir, the dish is called PEEL n' EAT SHRIMP, " said I, suddenly feeling my chipper attitude being chopped away.

The bastard wanted his meal comped.

We said no way. After all, he hadn't flagged me down to complain. I'd like to interject here that I was a very attentive waitress so it's not like I deserted him and hung out in the back smoking with the cooks or anything. Besides, he ate the whole damn thing. He paid but didn't tip me. The good news is that all the other patrons who witnessed his tantrum generously tipped me as a kind show of sympathy.

So I recounted this tale to my sons at lunch as we were waiting for a waitress to serve our chicken and dumplings and crayfish soup. I was hoping they'd get the gist of my parable, as I going all Aesop on them. I asked the boys what they thought of the man's behavior and how it made me feel. I was probing for a lesson in empathy here. Bird and Deal gave the expected head nodding and shoulder shrugging and said that the man was mean. Not exactly what I was going for, but I took it.

Then Bird, who couldn't hide his killer grin that's gonna make him the male version of Helen of Troy one day, snickered and said, "He was rude, but it's still pretty funny." He cracked up while saying this and could barely get the words out.

And with that, we all laughed.

My Latest Hang Up

You know how when you bring home all those teeny tiny itty bitty onesies and Jon-Jons that are so cute when your baby is the size of a sprinkle? You know how the outfits are so dang small that your husband couldn't wear them as mittens, much less snap the things? You know how you so gently washed them and folded and hung them on those precious little hangers that are impossibly adorable and fit for a pixie?

Remember how small they once were?

Being small equates to so much more than size. The utter smallness of a newborn son nestled in his Moses basket or better yet, upon your chest, is love and mortality and family and goodness at their finest. The simplicity of smallness. That smallness means miracle, responsibility, opportunity, potential, glory, dedication, future. That smallness is the starting line for the growth of a family and the bonding of a mother. The first drop of immense love that fills you up a thousand fold over. That smallness is larger than life.

And then they grow.

And grow.

I was almost awash in tears last night as I was putting away Bird's laundry. Yes, his laundry nearly drove me to tears. Granted, I hate laundry so it often drives me to whining hissy fits but this is not what I'm talking about. I caught a fat salty drop before it fell to my cheek. You see, Bird's teetering on the cusp of seven.

7. Years. Old.

His clothes aren't so small anymore. His clothes aren't even all that cute(sy) anymore. His shirts could pass as mine, and in fact, Mac Daddy often questions whose T-shirts are whose when he folds the laundry (Yes, I have a husband who folds laundry. I told you he is a keeper.). What made me weepy was that Bird's big boy clothes don't fit on the baby sized hangers anymore. Those tiny hangers that have been in his closet since the day we started stockpiling a baby wardrobe are now too small. My little Baby Bird is becoming a Big Bird. All that means to me is that he's slowly growing wings. To fly.

Away.

And all I can do is watch, beam, love, applaud.

And maybe shed a tear.

Fly, Bird, fly.

Wake County School Board Has Me Fired Up...and Worried

Our school board has bullied, bushwhacked, and axed a wedge clear through the county, and it reeks of party line politics. I'm up in arms, fancying myself an activist these days. Read on to see what has me so irate.

Here's a hint: Diversity isn't just about color.

Wordless Wednesday: Up in the Air.

Project Enlightenment Saved My Family

I posted this to Facebook this morning when I read about the drastic cuts proposed for Project Enlightenment.

"My family was in crisis when our son was 3. Not medical or financial crisis. Behavioral crisis. It is no hyperbole that we would not be who and where we are today without Project Enlightenment's support and care. Without those counselors and programs, our son would not be thriving in first grade now. The impact of that experience fixed what was a potential shattered relationship with my son at that tender young age. I'm emotional even harkening back to that time. These programs are not just for those people whose paths you don't cross. "Those people." These programs are for ALL of us. And they work."

My fingers quiver on the keyboard as I conjure up the memories of when Bird was 3. He had violent raging temper tantrums. I'm not talking the I-Want-Candy variety. He'd overturn furniture and fling books out of his bookcase in a head spinning rage. He would yell like a banshee and writhe in fits of fury. 15 minutes would pass. Then 30. 40. Most rages lasted 45 minutes to an hour. Full on screaming, flailing, kicking, hitting. Deal was an infant then, cradled snugly in my arms for fear he'd be in the path of Bird's destruction.

Destruction.

Not just his room and his belongings. Our family. Our relationship.

I sat in tears, quaking with stress, worry, fear, resentment. I never knew what would tip the scale to make Bird fly into a tantrum. I tiptoed and spent every waking moment anxiously awaiting the rage to begin. He saved it all up for me. Bird didn't demonstrate this behavior at school. Whatever he corked up at school came gushing out at me. He spewed all his emotional venom and bile upon me. We spent many hours huddled in his room sobbing. Feeling helpless. Alone. Defeated. Guilty. And just terribly sad.

All while tending to an infant.

I was alone. No family support. A husband at a new job.

Bird's tantrums were escalating. It was as if he were possessed. Seriously out of control and a danger to himself. I began to resent this behavior. To resent my own son. Do you know how that feels? I feel ashamed admitting it now. My heads hangs, my whole being awash of guilt. I defied all truths of motherhood; suddenly I was rewriting what unconditional looked like. I loved Bird, of course, but I didn't want to be around him. I didn't want to cater to him and fear him. I wanted to instead protect the sweet baby Deal who was innocent and vulnerable. And yes, easy. Easy to love. Easy to care for. Easy to adore. Then I was swept with such guilt for feeling so that I mentally collapsed.

Once, just once, I slapped my son.

In the midst of one particularly violent rage I slapped Bird across the cheek thinking I could get him to snap out of it. It didn't work. He didn't even take note of my hot hand on his wet cheek. I still feel the sensation of my sweaty shaking palm making contact with his tear streamed soft skin. His face. I literally shake my hand to get rid of the sensation as if it were an EtchASketch. My eyes well with tears and a coal-like lump rises in my throat as I write this. I've never said this before. I never talked about what hell it really was. For all of us.

But that afternoon I called Mac Daddy. I told him I couldn't do it anymore. I wasn't fit to be a mother. I was overwhelmed and under supported. In retrospect I am most certain I suffered remnants of undiagnosed and untended-to post partum depression. I was the camel, and my slapping palm was the straw.

We called Project Enlightenment.

Our counselor saved us. Saved me. Saved our son. Saved our relationship. Without the skills and insights and therapy we received....

I'm afraid to even think what might have been.

Project Enlightenment gave us specific tools, words, exercises to manage Bird's tantrums. We learned how to handle anger, fear, anxiety, in him and in ourselves. We learned how the parenting we were a product of made us the parents we were becoming. We learned how to repair what was shattered. Just yesterday I opened my Project Enlightenment file to get a quick refresher on how to teach empathy to my sons.

That file has sat atop my desk for almost four years. Its contents are dog eared and highlighted. Those resources have given me my son back. Project Enlightenment served a need, a desperate need, that no doctor or grandparent or teacher could have filled. Or fixed.

If our counselor at Project Enlightenment hadn't helped us, my resentment toward Bird would have surely escalated. I know this much is true. I find myself still battling it at the times he's particularly difficult or defiant now. My brain takes me back to those fits when he was three, and I think, "Haven't we been through this? Haven't I paid my parenting dues?" But now I know how to change. Now I know what resonates with him. Now I know. The self loathing I have from that time still haunts me. There are times I want to rewind, words I want to retract, steps I want to retrace.

Project Enlightenment, while unable to magically erase or rewrite the past, has enabled us to walk into a shinier future. Hand in hand.

Bird is now a thriving first grader. He has no behavioral or medical or psychological issues. Well, he does pick on his little brother and talks too much in class, but that's all normal, right? My Bird is bright, curious, eager, and awfully funny. He knows he is loved and adored. I still call him my first baby when I kiss him good night. We exchange Eskimo kisses, butterfly kisses, and lip kisses. Then he blows me a kiss from his bed, and I pretend to catch it and put it on my cheek. This is our ritual.

And we have Project Enlightenment to thank.

Join the Facebook Group here.
Send an email to the school board. You'll find their contact information here.
Write to the paper.

Raise your voices, people. Cutting funding for early childhood development and education will prove to be disastrous, and expensive. Our children are an investment, not an expense.

Wordless Wednesday: Utter Joy

Want vs. Need

Bird's homework yesterday was to make a list of five things he Wants and five things he Needs. Then we had to work together to determine the price of one item he covets, find out where to get it, and figure out how he could earn the money to buy it. We went through the exercises, but the outcome is realistically never gonna happen. Can a six-year old really earn 300 bucks to buy himself a freaking gaming system? Pretty damn unlikely in this house. I can't speak to what grandparents might succumb to.

Bird's homework got me thinking about how we're teaching our sons the difference between wanting and needing. There's simultaneously a fine line yet a jagged abyss between the two. It's clear that I'm not setting a very good example. I pine for the perfect pair of black boots and whine about how I nnnneeeeeeeeeddddd them. Of course I know and Mac Daddy knows I don't need them. Mac Daddy knows me well enough to know that all I really need is a slick cool slap of reality once in a while. That, and ice cream.

Have a look at Bird's list. You'll note that it ain't gonna win him any points on the pageant circuit. Looks like I'll have to return all the bow ties and black tap shoes I've been hoarding in his closet.


Need (He's clearly one to harp on the obvious.)
Water
Food
Clothes
House
Mom and Dad (I'm amazed we made this list, with me getting top billing even!)
Car (This is because we live in Raleigh, the world's most unwalkable city.)
Air

Want (Hmmm...this list harkens to the letter Bird wrote to Santa.)
Xbox
Nerf gun
TV in my room (Nevah!)
Blendy Pens
Legos
Wii games
Ds games

The pageant folks might be impressed with the inclusion of artsy Blendy Pens (despite the As Seen on TV pock mark that blemishes this choice) or the future architect potential of LEGO, but the rest of the stuff is mindless clutter, literally and figuratively. I will say this: Bird is a kid who knows what he wants.

But what he needs is an attitude adjustment. As for me and those perfect black boots, I realize I don't need them. But I really really really really really want them. In a size 6. You know, just in case anyone is feeling particularly generous.

Maybe Bird and I can get a BOGO deal on that attitude adjustment.

Merry Christmas! I'm on it in 2010.

We, rather I, didn't get around to sending Christmas cards this year. Let's be honest. How many husbands are the ones ordering, writing, stamping, and mailing holiday cards anyway? Mac Daddy does an awful lot, but he's never dealt with holiday razzle dazzle of any sort.

And I really did have good intentions.

I had a whole host of photos that I just never got printed into cards. I'd putz about on tiny prints and poke around to find the perfect card. The. Perfect. Card. I'd become so overwhelmed that I just clicked the little X to close the window. My head is in no condition to make such choices during the most wonderful time of the year. Such choices! Wonderful schmunderful.

I like to simply go with the green argument this year. I saved lots of trees and resources by not sending holiday cards this year. While that might not have been the impetus of the year without a card, it sure was a pretty good by-product.

I vowed to make 2010 a banner year. Our year.

I'm getting a jump start on the holidaze.

Merry Christmas from our Dirty & Noisy home!

The Debate That Mary Sparked

Once again the boys showed just how different they are. And yeah, it's painfully obvious that our parenting is severely lacking. Read on. I'd like to pull what my friend Erin calls the "Indian card" and just say hey, I'm Indian, what do I know about Jesus?

While listening to Christmas music on the radio, Bird was asking why all the songs were about Jesus. Gulp. If I said that on Twitter I'm betting I'd lose most of my followers. That song about "Mary's boy child, Jesus Christ" did him in. I was beaming with pride right about then. Yeah, oodles of it. I emphatically explained that the whole point of celebrating Christmas was the birth of Jesus Christ. I further covered my bases and explained that some people believe this, but we just respect their beliefs and embrace them. I babbled. And babbled.

Deal chimed in right about here as I was fiercely backpedaling, which is pretty difficult considering I don't even know how to ride a bike.

Deal: (flabbergasted) "Yeah Bird, Christmas is for Jesus! It's Jesus' birthday! Christmas is about Jesus!!!"

Bird: (very calmly) "No Deal, Christmas is about SANTA."

Sigh. Parenting fail.

Thanks. Giving.

At the risk of ringing the cliche bell and sounding treacly mushy, I'm going to tell you that today I am feeling particularly blessed. I am thankful for Mac Daddy and my family. I am most thankful for my Bird and Deal. I cannot imagine what I was thankful for before I had them. I am thankful that they gave me the kind of family I longed for.

On this day of pies, crumbles, brown bettys, cakes, dressings, gravies, turkeys, hams, taters, casseroles, and elastic waistbands, I want to just say that I am most thankful for the little things.

Those little things that are actually quite grand.

I am hugging my family a tish tighter.
I am counting my blessings a bit slower.
I am saying my prayers a pinch louder.

This Thanksgiving my heart is full. My belly is full. My life is fulfilled.

And in my prayers are my dear friend Jen who is battling stage 2 breast cancer, Anissa, 35-year old mother of three who suffered a massive stroke one week ago, my nieces who are desperately missing their mother, Mac Daddy's sister, who passed away eight years ago, and my father-in-law, the grandest of grandpas, whose gracious gravely laugh and 'Sconsin accent I still hear.

Let's take today to show Thanks for those who have touched us. And to be Giving of our hearts, our tolerance, our grace, our goodness, our selves.

Happy Thanks.Giving.

Wordless Wednesday: Veteran's Day Salute

"Um, why are we getting the day off from school to honor animal doctors?" Bird, age 6

Wordless Wednesday: Shaded

The Problem with Reading a la Bret & Jermain

The problem with Bird learning to read is that I ca no longer wear my favorite T-shirt that my friend Will brought me from a Flight of the Conchords concert (never mind that he bought the shirt in a youth size for his son and in his Newcastle stupor he didn't realize that the shirt looked like this).

Wordless Wednesday: The Prince and the Pea

Wordless Wednesday: Headlock Love