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.

Haiti: "Te a fatige."

The earth is tired.

Words spoken by forlorn Haitian farmers. One cannot help but sigh. Or moan.

From National Geographic: "So what do you do if you live in the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, and the price of the primary carbohydrate—'Miami rice' from the U.S.—doubles? Mostly, you go hungry and watch your children do the same."

Such grim conditions are reality to Haitian mothers. Can you even bring your mind to the hell theirs must occupy? I simply cannot. I watched my sons inhale two helpings of sesame chicken at dinner tonight. As I watched them dawdle and chat and chew, all I could think about was Haiti. The people of Haiti. The mothers. And their sons.

Haiti has seen its share of hell. It is the Western hemisphere's poorest country. A long history of war, pillaging, greed, and destruction has made it so.

The recent earthquake devastation reeks of Katrina in its imagery, social classism, and utter despair. The income gap is more a canyon. The race and class divide is astonishing. The destruction is beyond my grasp. Katrina and the tsunami all rolled into one whirling nightmare.

Despite the bigotry masked as Christian righteousness that Pat Robertson spews, Haiti, and her people, did not deserve this. There was no pact with the Devil. Do people really buy this shit? If the Devil does indeed exist, I believe he looks a lot like Pat Robertson.

We are citizens of this planet. We share our humanity. Poor people do not love their children any less. Disenfranchised masses don't deserve less. We waste in one day what could clothe and feed a family of four in Haiti for days. As human beings who have so much, it is our duty to be giving. If you cannot open your passport to join an aid mission, then open your checkbook.

For just one day, I ask you to forgo that latte, Target impulse purchase, or eBay pair of Frye boots. Donate that money instead. What is so small to us makes an enormous difference to those in need.

We're giving here. Stop Hunger Now.

You can also give here:

Unicef

Yele Haiti (You can text "yele" to 501501 to automatically donate $5 to the Yele Haiti Earthquake Fund. The 5 bucks will be charged to your regular cell phone bill. It doesn't get any easier than this.)

International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies (Text "HAITI" to "90999" to donate $10 to the Red Cross.)

Doctors Without Borders

Charity: Water


And one last thing, don't wait for tragedy to strike or the advent calendar to count down, be giving everyday, in whatever small ways you can. We recently wrote down our family values on a board in our mudroom, an exercise I often do to help my clients define their brand and messages. I figure we represent brand Dirt & Noise so why not give this a shot. Here are the values that define our family:

Respect.
Kindness.
Generosity.
Gratitude.

Now, to make those four little words come to life....

This isn't just about Haiti; it's about Humanity.

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!

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: Headlock Love

Melting

Today I asked Deal, my four-year old son, what I was going to do without him and Bird for five days when I leave town on a little jaunt to New York and Asheville. He pondered my question a moment and then very matter-of-factly, replied, "You can dream about us, Mommy."


I am a Hershey's Kiss, while Deal brandishes the hot August sun.

Dusting Off Some "Me Time"

The weekend here was positively glorious. Sunny, with a gentle warm breeze, sapphire blue skies dotted with whipped cream clouds, and my favorite temperature. 82 degrees. Surely you're not surprised that I have a favorite temperature?

Mac Daddy took the boys to the park to play some baseball Saturday morning. They gathered their gear, a cooler of snacks (that I admit to checking on the sly to ensure Mac Daddy packed the right stuff), and sunblock, thanks to my nagging (no word on if that was actually applied). Hugs and kisses, smooch smooch goodbye. Off they went, downright dancing down the sidewalk. My three boys, to whom I owe all this dirt and noise.

And then I clutched the powder room pedestal sink to keep from falling to my knees onto the cheap plastic stool and wept. Fat monsoon tears that I didn't even bother to wipe away. I gripped the sink to keep myself from giving in to whim and bashing the weathered pewter mirror in front of me. I stifled the bellowing scream bubbling up in my gut and let a snarl escape instead, a rather unfulfilling impostor.

No park for me. No breeze was to grace my face. I stayed behind at home.

Ah, the house to myself. Just me. Unplugged and Twitter free. Illicit, decidedly un-kid-friendly lyrics cranking at rock star decibels on the iPod, hot, strong coffee in my favorite travel mug and another full pot in the French press.

And me, hair swept back in a blue bandanna fished out of the dress up box, tattered purple tank tank top, supremely comfortable baggy jersey knit shorts, not a lick of mascara. Just me.

And a dustpan.
Broom.
Mop.
Murphy's oil.
Vacuum.
Sponges.
Rags.
Toilet bowl brush.
Stainless steel polish.
Method cleaner.
Dustbuster.
And those damned yellow rubber gloves.

You see, the only "me time" I get in my house is when I'm cleaning. Forget what I said before, now I regret firing my cleaning lady. First of all, cleaning my house makes me utterly irascible, while having a clean house makes me deliriously jubilant. The stream of pee around the bathrooms, thanks to two little boys and one big man, with poor aim, is enough to make me gag. You should hear me yell when I catch Bird leaning back to pee so he can (somewhat) aim and watch Kim Possible at the same time. He misses. Every. Single. Time.

And then there's all the dust bunnies.
Hair.
Fuzz.
Crunched leaves, twigs, and other signs of nature.
Sticky floors.
Crumbs.
Dust.
Fingerprints.
Hand prints in the least expected spots.
Toothpaste goop.
And all the usual suspects.

I. HATE. To. Clean.

The proverbial silver lining is this: I am all by myself when I am cleaning. That alone makes it more bearable.

No one is there to tug on me. I can pee in peace, whether the door is shut or not (and for the record, I have no issues with aim). I can eat three popsicles in one sitting, one in every flavor. I don't mentally tally up the constant chorus of "Hey, Mommy" in my exploding head. I don't have to endure knock-knock jokes or the Dragon Tales theme song. I don't have lunches to prepare or LEGO fights to mediate or bottoms to wipe or time outs to impose. There is no whining, bickering, yelling. The banshees have left the building.

And I am alone.

Me time.

Problem is, me time is not the same as time for me.

I suddenly don't feel so guilty about ignoring my family all day Monday while I curled up in the rocking chair on the front porch, with the ceiling fans on so I too could feel a breeze in my hair, to indulge in Twilight.

Sometimes I miss my little one bedroom apartment on Excelsior Boulevard. The one where I had a God awful floral wallpaper border in my nauseously girly bedroom, battenburg lace curtains, umpteem throw pillows on my bed, two walk-in closets, a tiny balcony covered in AstroTurf, a wall of mirrors in the bathroom, my very own stereo, even though it was just a little Bose shelf unit, and wall-to-wall carpeting. The same apartment where my Sunday paper was stolen on a regular basis. The same apartment that smelled ever so faintly of a potion of cat piss, stale Swisher Sweets, and bleach. The same apartment where doing laundry in the basement required a chaperon. The same apartment where I was alone but never lonely. Alone. By myself. Doing whatever the hell I wanted.

When time was all about me.

Family Vacation is Hardly a Vacation

Here's the thing about vacationing with family, there's nothing vacay about it.

Oh, it's always a grand time to see family (especially considering it had been over two years since we were back home...save the guilt trip; we've already taken it and have the T-shirts and passport stamps to prove it.). Spending time with family was the hands down highlight of our rendez vous to the Midwest. Bird and Deal loved playing with their cousins and kidding around with their grandmother. They were spoiled by their aunts and uncles and fawned over by family friends. Nonetheless, it was exhausting. Nothing rejuvenating about it. No sirree, no one around Chez Dirt & Noise is relaxed and rested.

Nevermind that Bird started first grade the day after we got home. I know, I know. Bad timing is the understatement of the century. You can revoke my Mother of the Year crown now. The title does come with a crown and sash right?

We actually had a fantastic vacation...in hindsight.

While we were in the throes of driving hours on end (sometimes in a torrential downpour), blotting juice box spills from the rental car, mediating brotherly boxing matches in the back seat, changing DVDs that mysteriously got scratched, maneuvering unmarked back country roads, monitoring unseemly lyrics on unknown radio stations, and timing potty breaks, we managed to sneak in a good time. It goes without saying that Mac Daddy and I teetered between bickering and paying each other off with the silent treatment for much of the drive time. It was reminiscent of my hellacious family road trips as a kid, only then the whole bunch of us fought, making the entire trip somewhat sucky. Mac Daddy and I got over once we arrived at our destination. Said destination always had a full stock of liquid refreshments. Our worst fights involve car trips and home improvement. This is why we fly and pay someone to install curtain rods. Every picture hung in our house has an unresolved fight brewing behind it.

Here's the thing, visiting family and vacation are not synonymous. In fact, I would argue that they are indeed mutually exclusive. For that matter, traveling with children is not always vacation.

Sure, hanging at Legoland and the Chicago Children's Museum was grand. I don't even mean that sarcastically. I even had a blast riding the ginormous ferris wheel at Navy Pier with the boys, though I wish I had worn Depends because that shit was high high high! We stared at our reflections in the Millenium Park bean and laughed at the boat tour guide's bovine jokes about Mrs. O'Leary's cow. We ate ungodly amounts of ice cream and frozen custard and indulged in more cheese that Mrs. O'Leary's cow could produce in a year. I have the extra 10 pounds and double chin to prove it. The back fat was already there; I only have the gestation of two boys to blame for that.

What stinks is that I didn't spend a minute or a dime indulging in Chicago's most famous sport - shopping. A quick jaunt to Nordstrom earned me whining and fits that I couldn't bear lest I start spinning my head and spewing unsavory remarks to my children in public. Mac Daddy did indulge me by letting me sip my champagne in peace atop the Hancock Tower observation deck restaurant while he wrestled the boys who were hopped up on pineapple upside down cake.

That three minutes was the extent of my vacation.

Did I mention that the whole famdamily shared a hotel room too? Good times. There were moments I was reading by the light of my Blackberry. That's sure to put a strain on the almost 41-year old eyes that are next in line at the presbyopia store.

Truth be told, Bird and Deal were great. Most importantly, they were true princes on our flights. Fellow passengers are sure as hell thankful for that. We laughed a lot, walked even more, and ate our body weight in Garrett's popcorn, cheese curds, Kopp's tasty treats, peanut squares, tapas, bratwurst, and Jelly Bellys. And no doubt Mac Daddy and I indulged in plenty of Wisconsin's finest ale (nevermind that it was actually Corona). But since we divided our time between seeing family (which means we were all "on") and playing the part of Tourist, we never had (or took) the time to simply exhale.

Our family's trip was what our friend Janet coined a "kidcation," not a vacation. Like I said, it was awesome, but it wasn't the least bit relaxing. No beach. No Matt Dillon cabana boy. No pool raft. And for the most part, no sunshine.

But based on the boys' recollections, stories about antics with their cousins, memories made, and "remember when" moments, I wouldn't change a damn thing...except adding vacation days to Mac Daddy's schedule and a traveling baby sitter armed with a corkscrew.

In the mean time, I revel in the fact that we were making memories and more importantly, cementing familial bonds for our children, who don't benefit from the joy of family often enough.

I'm 6 Years Old. Today.

I started first grade yesterday. I just walked right in, green backpack that my mom made me monogram, slung across my shoulders, and started whooping it up with my boys. High fiving and smack talking and giggling and stuff. I didn't miss a beat considering I missed the first three days of school. I even got all sorts of attention, being the birthday boy and all. I just might be the only kid who was five when first grade officially started. Well, no matter because today I am six.

Let me repeat: Today I am Six.

Six.

I was born six years ago, a so-called "Ice Storm" baby of 2003. Mommy says I popped right out after three pushes and 20 minutes. Her friends roll their eyes and turn away when she tells that story. Mommy and I shared an inferno burger and vanilla shake just before that. And we rocked the prenatal yoga classes. Apparently I had some feeding issues a few days after I was born, making me all weak and whiny and wobbly. I think they official term is "failure to thrive." Wow, Mommy and Daddy would croak if that were ever on my report card. Anyway, that's when the doctor ordered the syringe.

You have been wondering why they call me Bird, right? Well, Daddy christened me Bird when I was three days old, and it's clearly stuck. Sometimes my teachers even call me Bird. Mommy calls me Bird on the playground when it's time to go. She even called me No-Strike Bird when I played T-Ball, claiming that would make a fantastic headline-grabbing nickname when I play for the Brewers one day. Actually, I bet it was Daddy who mentioned the Brewers because Mommy doesn't know a thing about sports.

Anyway, when I had trouble feeding from my mommy the doctor told my parents to let me suck my mommy's pinky while my daddy used a syringe to shoot some formula into my mouth. It was apparently the only way to nourish me while keeping my suckling in tact. I don't really get the ins and outs but I do know that Daddy said feeding tiny little baby me with a syringe was like feeding a baby bird. Hence the name. By the way, Mommy still has that syringe in my baby box. And obviously they still call me Bird.

Mommy tends to get all weepy on my birthday. She says that her vision improved after I was born so I'm not sure why she gets all emotional, seeing that she doesn't need glasses anymore. She also loves a good party so I bet the luau I requested for my 6th birthday party is gonna rock. All I know is that boxes from Oriental Trading have been littering our living room. I'm just excited to wear the tiki shirt my Dadu gave me. For some reason Mommy refuses to wear the grass skirt and coconut bra I found for her at the party store.

So today I'm looking forward to a few of my favorite things: playing the Star Wars LEGO Wii game that my Uncle gave me, eating beignets for breakfast, engaging in a fierce dart launcher war with my brother (thanks to the Nerf shooter from my Nani), chowing on cheeseburgers and shakes at Red Robin, and generally being spoiled. I'll squeeze in some LEGO time and an art project or two with my Mommy too. And I get to go to a swimming party since my friend Sarah and I share a birthday (Happy Birthday shout out to you, Sarah!). I might even test my limits and whine a bit just to see if Mommy and Daddy have the heart to scold me on my birthday. heh heh heh. I mean really, six won't come around again.

Mommy tells me that I'm just like her. I guess that means she's smart, funny, and clever, Ha ha ha. I swear I am the funniest person I know! Strangers stop me and Mommy on the street to comment how our smiles are so much alike. I guess it's a good thing we make each other smile...most of the time. I share my mommy's temperament but I am definitely a daddy's boy. I also pretend that my little brother Deal drives me crazy but I actually love him and race home from school to play with him, even though my interpretation of "play" is wrestling and shoving decorative throw pillows on his face.

The birthday horoscope my parents have for me says that I will grow up to be creative and mathy. It claims I will make a living as an architect or engineer. It also says I will inherit a sweet tooth from my Mommy. Right on all counts so far!

My name is Bird, and I am six today.

Joy to the World

The best thing I can do for my children is raise them in a home bursting with joy. Unabashed, no-excuses-for-laughing-obnoxiously-loud, snorting-and-squirting-milk-out-your-nose, pee-in-your-pants, jokester joy. Joy, unlike happiness that is often misconstrued as a destination, is happenstance, free, serendipitous. It prances on us unsuspectingly, melting us into giggles and grins.

Joy is a team sport.

For much of my life I thought I grew up in house that was devoid of love. I realize now that I was indeed loved, albeit shown in ways different than how Mac Daddy and I raise our children. For starters, we have marital love, which is a far cry from my house growing up. I never doubted that I was loved but I did doubt that I was adored in the same way I treat Bird and Deal. I was cared for, fed, warm, clean, educated, and given all the opportunities in the world. But no one ever tickled my funny bone. No one nurtured and caressed the orb of innocence and delight that lollygags around in all of us, especially in children. That orb shrivels if it is not stimulated. Oh no, it was not love that my home lacked. It was joy.

I have one photo of my parents laughing. I don't even know where it came from. I recognize the clothes they are wearing so I am figuring that picture is from about 1980 or so. They are looking in different directions, but it is clear that the same thing struck their funny bones. It is a beautiful candid moment that looks like the kind of picture that comes with the frame. I have never seen my dad laugh like that in person; all I have is that photo.

My home was shrouded in a veil of stress, anger, discomfort, trepidation. Those walls rarely heard laughter. We were not a family of pranksters or joke tellers. Mine was a serious house. I never learned the philosophy of work hard play hard until I went to college. We didn't play much. At least not as a family. No one played tag in the yard, built obstacle courses out of bean bag chairs and hula hoops, or trashed the kitchen decorating Christmas cookies.

We had our share of issues, as all families do. But no one was violent or drunk or enraged. We were safe. In fact, we were guarded. We lacked spontaneity, a sense of fun, and the freedom to laugh until our bellies ached and cheeks stiffened. It was not all unhappy times. But there was no joy.

The best thing I can do for, and with, my sons is chisel my face with laughlines so that they know joy and can pass it on to their own children one day. Memories of joy is what will bring them home.

Things I Didn't Say When I Was 5

My Bird is teetering on the cusp of 6. He just finished kindergarten and is warming up for first grade. First grade! Bird is a smart one. I realize that statement holds no credibility, considering they are borne from the keyboard of me, his mother. But trust me, he is a smart cookie. I imagine he takes after me. Ahem. Bird's precocious in a way that is charming and often alarming.

I wish I could hook him up to a tape recorder, if such a thing still exists, so I could capture the funny, crazy, silly, ridiculous stuff that he blurts out. I am amazed at the way his brain works, not only as a testament to the inner workings of his very being, but the sheer shift in how times have changed.

Just a sampling of things I know I did not say when I was 5-years old:

1. This one time, in Chinese class...
2. My German teacher said...
3. That water is zu heiss!
4. I think we need surround sound.
5. Whale is a three-way homonym.
6. But's a homonym too.
7. That hair is called blonde, not yellow, Deal.
8. I'm a LEGO architect.
9. Actually, Mommy, that is a crustacean.
10. My brain must be smart because my head is hard, not mushy.
11. Take my picture! Now can I see it?
12. Can you please pause the TV while I go to the bathroom?
13. Can you please fast forward through the commercials?
14. More proscuitto, please.
15. I'd like to have mussels for dinner tonight.
16. Do those popsicles have high fructose corn syrup in them?
17. The guy in that Hummer thinks he's so cool.
18. That huge car is bad for the environment.
19. Here are my plastic sandwich bags to wash and reuse.
20. Every animal has a job to do on our earth.
21. Sometimes you don't know who's a man and who's a woman because boys can have long hair and earrings.
22. We need some more olives.
23. Smoked salmon for breakfast? Only if we have capers?
24. Super heroes don't exist. Someone just made up the stories to teach us stuff about being strong and respectful.
25. That house is obnoxious!
26. Today in school we learned about nanotechnology.
27. Don't forget to pack the beer for the grown ups!
28. Sometimes the truth makes people feel bad.
    
29. Are you going to blog about that. Mommy?
30. Are you going to tweet what I just said?

So tell me, what are your kids saying that floor you?

Why I'm Sorry This Mother's Day

What? No requisite Mother's Day post here at Dirt & Noise? I mean, this is a parenting blog, right? One of many in the mommy blogosphere. Sigh.

I did have some profound words to share but decided to thwart the Mother's Day mushiness and write an apology instead.

Sorry I was such a bitch before I had children of my own. Check out Deep South Moms for the scoop.

Life Lessons

While the economy is top of mind in the media internationally, nationally, and locally, here in North Carolina the two wars we are waging still make the top headlines. North Carolina's fallen make daily headlines around here. There are two major bases close enough to my home that their stories make our local news. Fort Bragg is home of the elite 82nd Airborne and Special Ops. Camp Lejeune is the largest marine base on the East coast. Soldiers from the esteemed bases of Fort Bragg and Camp Lejeune continue to depart to war zones, some never return, some return broken, none returns the same.

Recent estimates count over 4200 U.S. military deaths since the war's start in March over six years ago. Those fallen 4200 were someone's son, daughter, first born, namesake, middle child, only child, flesh and blood, heartbeat. The data is comprised of people; we choose to dehumanize it to make the news more palatable. Let's not forget that each soldier killed, injured, missing, or scarred is someone's child. That soldier's heart beat inside a woman's womb for nine months, and his head sleepily rested upon his father's chest for what seemed a lifetime ago. I know North Carolinians don't forget that.

The Iraq War began in March 2003, before I became a mother.

Motherhood has given me perspective. With every staid military portrait of a young man in uniform flashed on the 6:00 news B-roll, I see a cooing infant expressing pure love, a babbling baby learning to crawl, a curious toddler peeking beneath the tablecloth, a deliriously happy and innocent preschooler collecting rocks in his pockets, a restless kindergartener squirming in his chair. And then the slideshow stops because I have not yet ventured past kindergarten with my oldest son. I am still making memories.

It was an unremarkable morning when I was taking my Bird to school. As we approached the car pool line we were both flummoxed by the stream of soldiers in dress uniform walking silently by. I was struck by their exceedingly perfect posture and shiny patent shoes. Bird was fascinated with their hats and trappings of decorated men in uniform. Soldiers are glamorous and glorified to a boy of five. I followed the path of those soldiers with my eyes and realized they were walking to a funeral home. How could I have been coming to this school all year and not even noticed the funeral home across the street? The subtle signage and beige brick faded into their elements, almost camoflouged within the backdrop of the neighborhood. Suddenly the sight of an elementary school, where children come to grow, and its neighbor, a funeral home, where people come in their passing, was hauntingly ironic. I gulped and tried my damndest to keep an even tone when Bird asked me what all the soldiers were doing.

Because it was a rare moment we had alone, without my three-year old son in the car, I told my little Bird the truth. I explained that a soldier died and his friends and family were coming to celebrate his life and their love for him. I told him that America is waging war in two different countries and that war is scary, dangerous, and scarring. I told him that the soldiers sacrifice an awful lot to help keep America safe. Sometimes they sacrifice their own lives. I struggled with what I had just done. Will this be a moment my son recalls in his adulthood as the time his mother punted him into reality? Will he have nightmares? My Bird, my oldest son, simply looked more sad than bewildered. He told me he didn't think he wanted to be a fighter pilot anymore, and I was secretly relieved. Granted, he will choose 734 different professions before he's 16. He'll engage his imagination and ask questions and keenly observe the world around him. I won't stop his flirting with the military at this tender age but I won't encourage it either. He will eventually make these choices on his own, and I will support him.

Bird has seen death and what it does to a family. He understands why his daddy cries on Father's Day. We still talk about Grandpa and Capote and Casey. He understands that we'll never see his grandfather or our family cats again. And so he stated, in an innocent, heartfelt manner, "Well, I hope the soldier can see Grandpa and pet Capote and Casey in heaven."

I exhaled. And brushed the welling tears from my eyes as I thought about that soldier's mother.

Cross posted at Deep South Moms.

Order and Chaos and a Little Girl Named Maddie

First, forgive me for my inarticulate yammer today. I am struggling with words, for they are all so inadequate to express the roaring going on in my heart. Read on and try to get past the rambling. This is clearly not my best work, but I had to get it out. I warn you that I say nothing profound or comforting or meaningful. But please, read on. Coaxing out words and coherent thoughts when your mind is empty and exploding at once is not an easy task. But here goes...

To go against nature and disrupt order results in chaos, no? To shirk the natural order of things is to play chicken with the universe, tempting the Fates. Order is fundamental to our existence, Chaos its unwelcome disruptive cousin. And so it is a mystery, a painful, heartless mystery, when a parent must bury a child. The natural order of things turned upside down.

And so it is for Heather and Mike Spohr, who lost 17-month old Maddie last week. Their baby girl.

I don't know the Spohrs but I know their story, and that is enough. More than enough. Our paths cross in the blogosphere and on Twitter. The funny thing about this sorority of so-called "mommy bloggers" is that we do indeed feel like we are friends. We share more intimate thoughts and tales online that we do in passing coversation with our friends in real life (IRL, as we say). We laugh at the zany antics of our children, boost each other up when we admit our shortcomings, applaud our families' milestones, and mobilize when someone is hurting. If you simply google "Maddie" or "Maddie Spohr" you'll see the amazing words and prayers and love that the blogging community has poured out. You'll see how these virtual friends from all across America rallied to walk for the March of Dimes in Maddie's name. You'll see how Heather's March of Dimes donations on her blog went from $3000 to $20,000 in a blink. We are kindred spirits.

And so I look at my sons with an even greater love. I hug them a little longer. I smother them with wet kisses. I find myself reaching out to simply touch their hand or whisk away a tendril of overgrown hair from their eyes. I get to do that. I get to touch them and hear their boisterous guffaws and giggles. I get to smell their warmth. I get feel their hands slide into mine, their eyelashes brush my cheek. I get to nuzzle them and kiss them good night. I won't take it for granted. This I promise myself.


Note:
Maddie's memorial service is at 2:30pm on Tuesday, April 14th, 2009. It will be held at the Old North Chapel at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Hollywood Hills, CA. Everyone is asked to wear purple in honor of Maddie. Even if you can't make it to LA, wear purple in a show of support for the Spohrs and as a reminder of how precious our children are.

Wordless Wednesday: And Then There Were Two

Happily Ever After

The best we can give our children is a happy marriage. Mac Daddy and I, together, are the blocks that built this family. We are its foundation, which is apt since we can both be stubborn as bricks. I think we would both say that the family we are nurturing is far different from the families we grew up in.

I grew up wanting for nothing. Well, nothing but an emotional connection, some affection, a belly laughing good time, and a little less tension swirling around the atmosphere. All of my physical needs were met but few of my emotional ones. My family's "emotional intelligence" would have been off the charts, as in below the starting point. My home was not filled with laughter and silliness. Whimsy was not a word I understood until I had children of my own. We were simply four silos sharing a last name living amongst each other in the same field. And then we were three, one silo having moved away, changing its name.

Perhaps I am overcompensating now that I have a family of my own. But is there such a thing as over doing it when we're talking about building a strong, healthy, happy family? Can a mother overdo her love (well, aside from the helicopter mom syndrome)?

Mac Daddy and I spend loads of time with Bird and Deal. We rarely miss dinner together at the table (TV off, natch). We all truly enjoy each other's company. Whether it's on the tennis court or traipsing the aisles of the grocery store, we spend our time together. We are a very affectionate family, giving each other drive by kisses for no reason. Bird used to do this as a toddler, and I can still picture him tossing his arms around my neck and then scampering off in a blink. The thing is, all the time we have amounts to a cosmic blink.

And so in that time, I want my sons to grow up and remember their childhood fondly. I want their memories to be filled with kitchen delights, stolen kisses between Mommy and Daddy, tickle fests, games of baseball in the backyard, family slumber parties, Dance Party USA. I want them to want to emulate the foundation Mac Daddy and I have built. I want to give them a sense of HOME - belonging, security, unconditional love, trust, warmth, fun, connection.

I have no connection to my family's roots and heritage, giving me no sense of belonging. Despite my many years of prodding (13 to be exact), I have little to no information about my family to share with Bird and Deal. I don't even know my grandparents' names. I have no family lore to share. No tales to weave about their Indian heritage. No tools to celebrate 50% of their ethnicity. Luckily Mac Daddy has a wonderfully detailed tome about his family roots so we can share that with the boys to enrich their sense of family ties. It goes back several generations to the first settlers in America. It does make for a great read, especially because the old fashioned names like Muttes crack us up.

We will no doubt embarrass our boys, tormenting them throughout their adolescence. You should hear the whooping and groaning when I kiss Mac Daddy goodbye every morning. The decibel is exponentially louder when we kiss for no reason at all. You would be hard pressed on at any given time of day to find someone in the family not touching someone else - bestowing a hug, grasping a finger, climbing atop a shoulder, perching on a lap. I know that deep down inside, we are showing our boys what it is to be loved. Mac Daddy and I have a great marriage, not without its pockmarks as every relationship bears. But we are best friends, cheesy as it sounds. He lifts me up, bails me out, cracks me up. There is, however, an ongoing argument about who's funnier. I have contended it's me since the day we met. He says that being my own best audience doesn't count. The boys say it's Ms. Kris, Deal's teacher whom Bird also had.

Mac Daddy and I are among the fortunate few who don't have to pretend the happily ever after. We live it. And love it.

Wordless Wednesday: Yum Thumb

Am I Less of a Mother?

I am a 40 year old woman. I have two sons, ages five and three. I spend my days between my office and my sons' schools. I cook three squares a day. I mend the occasional seam and fix buttons when I can find a match. I make homemade Valentines and sew super hero capes for my sons' stuffed animals. I, with my husband, raise our children with no family network to support us. I work part time. I mother full time. Yet some women claim that I am not really a mother. Apparently this has something to do with not paying my proverbial dues to earn the badge of Motherhood. Perhaps some context will help you track with me.

• I got pregnant on the first try, one month after going off the pill. Same story the second time. I kid you not.
• My pregnancies were easy peasy. Sure, I gained 45 pounds, half my body weight, but most of it melted away eventually (not without a struggle, mind you).
• Bunion surgery was worse than childbirth. From the first pang of labor pain to a swaddled baby in my arms was all of three hours. I even fell asleep during labor the second time, and the nurse woke me up to push. Three pushes, 20 minutes, done.
• I had an epidural for both births. I was dilated eight centimeters before I lugged my ass to hospital. I almost missed my epidural window and am grateful to those anesthesiologists who boogied to get me drugs in time.
• My babies were champion eaters and sleepers. Still are.
• My babies were bottle fed.
  

Some women have told me, uttered behind my back and boldly to my face, that I am less of a mother than they are.

• Am I less of a mother because I did not struggle to get pregnant? Does that mean I don't cherish my children and the miracle of life? Of course not! As a new mother on the cusp of 35, I was and am eternally grateful for bearing two healthy children. I am astounded by the cliched miracle of life every. single. day.
• Am I less of a mother because I don't have pregnancy war stories to share? I did faint in the cereal aisle of Lowes Foods once. Luckily my husband was there to pad my fall before I lost my battle with the linoleum.
• Am I less of a mother because I did not toil through an excruciating labor? My babies did all the work. I watched my children being born in the mirror and I swear they swam out.
• Am I less of a mother because I made use of the medical advancements available to me? The way I see it, I don't get my cavities filled without Novocaine so why labor through excruciating pain without the benefit of drugs? The epidural made my experience pleasant and pain free. I was admittedly lucky to experience no complications. I labored to eight centimeters on my own so perhaps I could have finished the job too. I didn't want to find out what I was made of; I had nothing to prove. At the end of the day, it's a personal choice.
• Am I less of a mother because my children eat a varied and healthy bounty of food? Am I less of a mother because my children relish their sleep? My boys, since they were itty bitty, ate like champs. To this day they probably eat better than any adult I know. My first son, Bird, slept through the night at 12 weeks old. My second child, Deal, beat his older brother by two weeks. Bird napped until he was 4 1/2. Deal is 3 1/2 and stills naps regularly. And they both go to bed at 7:15 and sleep until 7:30. I realize I am lucky. Developing healthy sleep habits for our kids did not come without some tears and threats and tantrums. But bed time is generally a perfectly pleasant time at our house.
• Am I less of a mother because I didn't nurse my babies? Oh, this is a touchy subject. Let's just say that I tried. Hard. My baby failed to thrive. He rapidly lost weight. My physical issues prevented him from getting nourishment (details to come in another post, another day). My team of doctors and lactation consultants ordered the baby on formula. You might say I went through heroic feats to try to nurse, even using a contraption that fed my baby formula through a tube that was attached to my breast to simulate nursing. I toiled so hard, yet my efforts were futile. The second time around the hospital lactation nurse, upon reviewing my file, advised me against breast feeding. To this day I see a nursing mother and child and feel pangs of regret. But in the end, my babies were nourished. And the best part was that my husband could cradle his infant sons and feed them too.
  

Motherhood is a patchwork of experiences. There is no handbook telling us what to do. There are no rules, no maps, no guidelines. Yet there are many, many tests. We all became mothers in different ways, none better or worse than the other. The women who took in foster children. The women who cared for a sister's daughter and raised her as her own. The women who adopted children who would otherwise face a bleak future. The women who rode the in vitro roller coaster. All are mothers. All see the magnificence and magic of motherhood. All feel our children's pain tenfold worse and rejoice in their glories tenfold more. All see the simple breathtaking beauty in her slumbering child. In the end, motherhood is a sisterhood.



Reposted from an original Deep South Moms Blog post.

Wordless Wednesday: Warning, Hearts Melting Ahead

Wordless Wednesday: Sunny Disposition