I'm dreaming of a white Christmas ...

When I was a kid, my brother, Mike, and I spent many hours talking late into the night about what Christmas would be like that year. I suppose a big part of the reason we all adored Christmas was that my mom put so much time and effort into making it magical for us, as she does this to this day. One thing my mom had no control over delivering, however, was snow, which was an integral part of our "perfect Christmas." Yes, we even plotted the weather we must have: specifically the ideal day would have our yard covered with a blanket of soft white snow. And it definitely needed to be snowing on Christmas Day - beautiful flakes softly cascading down.

The weather seems to have shifted in recent years. We actually have had quite a few white Christmases of late. If I recall correctly, though, back then we had plenty of Christmases that were more brown than ivory. Our yuletide hopes dashed! Of course, we had wonderful holidays despite the fact that our perfect vision did not come to fruition.

It's been a long time since I spent hours envisioning the perfect Christmas, but this year has shown me that some of that little girl must still be in me. I catch myself checking the forecast each day, hoping for snow, looking outside a little sadly each morning. Christmas doesn't feel the same without snow. I mean, come on, we live in the Midwest! We have to deal with foul weather for months on end. We should be able to enjoy one fringe benefit - having a movie-perfect Christmas morning outside, right?!?!

OK, so I know this is how many people end up feeling a little or a lot blue this time of year. We put so much pressure on ourselves to find the perfect gift, make the perfect meal and cookies, decorate beautifully, enjoy ourselves to the highest degree!!! Inevitably, we fall short. Gifts sometimes fall flat, cookies burn, families squabble. It all seems so much worse than it is when you set yourself up with such high expectations. That's why when I find myself getting swept away in the pursuit of perfection, I try to catch and redirect myself.

This time of year, we hear so much about the true gifts of Christmas, those that do not fit under the tree. It can almost seem trite after a while. Darn if it isn't true, though. As adults, I think most of us realize that the best part of Christmas is the time we spend with people we love and the memories we make. Some of my favorite memories are those of imperfection, like the year when I was about 6 and cried and cried because I didn't get a doll. Unbeknownst to me, my aunt was going to give me one when we visited Chicago. My dad ran out to some store that was open and got me a doll, my parents telling me Santa must have dropped it in the garage.

Snow or no snow, I wish you all a very merry Christmas that is perfectly imperfect and filled with lots of memories!

My dirty Christmas secret

I'm a sucker for Christmas movies. "It's a Wonderful Life" is not only my favorite Christmas film but probably my favorite movie of all time. Stories of redemption get me every time, and you can't beat George Bailey's. Frank Capra's masterpiece is at the top of my Christmas viewing list.

One time, my mom and I visited my Uncle Richard and Aunt Micki in Georgia. My aunt showed me part of the movie "Meet Me in St. Louis" and then gifted me with a copy of the movie. I have to admit my first impression was, "what an odd movie." The Halloween scene? The part where Tootie smashes all the snow people? It all struck me as so bizarre. I have to say, though, that I've grown to love this picture, quirkiness and all. Judy Garland's aching rendition of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," my favorite Christmas song, is tops.

Likewise, I adore watching "Elf" and "Home Alone" if for no other reason than hearing my kids laugh hysterically. I never miss "The Muppets Christmas Carol," shedding a tear as Tiny Tim sings "Bless Us All."

You can bet Zuzu's petals, though, that one movie you will not catch me watching is "A Christmas Story." I realize this may qualify as blasphemy, but I officially do not get that movie. I first saw it at my friend, Crystal's, house. I must have been 10 or so. I remember her dad guffawing, but I had a visceral dislike from viewing No. 1. The whole thing struck me as depressing and gross, from the mom making Ralphie put soap in his mouth to the boy getting his tongue stuck on the flag pole to the creepy Santa.

I realize, that I probably still view "A Christmas Story" with the eyes of my younger self. Maybe if I'd watched it for the first time at a different time in my life, I'd have enjoyed it, but as it is, my opinion is forever set. My brothers adore the movie, praising how it perfectly captures a period in time. Meanwhile, I scoff in dismay when I see it listed as the best Christmas movie of all time.

I asked my sister-in-law the other day if she liked "A Christmas Story," sure she would say no. She conceded that she thinks it's more of a male movie, but that she has warm memories of watching it with her family. So here's my question: am I alone in my dislike?

Happy birthday to my one-of-a-kind boy!

I'm a little late on this, but I couldn't let pass this opportunity to write a birthday tribute to my beloved middle son. Paul turned 6 on Dec. 6. It sounds cliche, but it truly does feel like just yesterday that I was pregnant out to there (I gained a whopping 45 pounds with Paul!) and the doctor told me I would be induced the next day.

Excitement kept me from sleeping much the night before my induction. Lucky for me, the birth went incredibly smoothly. When I first laid eyes upon my boy, I couldn't believe how big he looked, hence the enormous belly, I suppose. When the nurse weighed him, at first glance I missed seeing the 8 pounds before the 11 ounces and thought for one alarmed moment that I'd given birth to an 11-pound baby!

Paul is one of those people who still looks much like he did as a newborn, as perhaps you can see in the photos above. He has these big, expressive eyes. Of course, I fell in love instantly. Paul was a mellow and easy baby, a delight in every way. I took easily to becoming a mother of two, finding motherhood much easier the second time around thanks to having much more realistic expectations after the first time around.

Over time, of course, Paul's personality rounded out a bit. Alas, he developed his own set of quirks, but if anything I love him all the more for everything that makes him who he is. Paul is the the quintessential middle child, sandwiched between an older brother who's a standout in many ways and a younger brother with a larger-than-life personality. Nevertheless, Paul has managed to carve out his own special niche in our family.

Paul has the best imagination. When an idea takes him over, his whole face lights up. Whether he's talking to a new stuffed animal and taking it on a tour of our house, or picturing what it would be like to pet a baby sea turtle, he throws himself in heart and soul.

When I watch Paul, I'm overtaken with joy wondering what each of my children will become. He is happiest when he's perched at the table with his box of crayons and markers, creating an endless stream of pictures.

Paul once said, "Ben is the biggest, Gus is the smallest, and I'm the middlest." So true. Paul, you're the bestest middlest boy in the world, and I simply adore you.

Look, Mom, no anxiety!

The other night as I was putting Paul to bed, he looked over at me and excitedly said, "Hey, Mom, guess what? I got rid of my anxiety!" If a 5-year-old talking about anxiety sounds strange to you, let me explain. When Paul was in the throes of feeling majorly fearful about starting kindergarten, Mark and I did some reading. We came across an article that recommended referring to anxiety by its actual name and encouraging kids to "tell their anxiety to be quiet." So we told Paul that when he felt afraid of something, he should ask himself if it was indeed something scary and if it wasn't, he should tell himself that it was anxiety talking and that it needed to be quiet.

Whether our techniques helped or if it was just simple repeated exposure to his fears that helped alleviate the problem, I'm not sure. What I do know is that the kid has come a long way. From the time he started preschool, Paul had major separation anxiety. I'm not just talking tears when it was time for me to leave. I'm talking big tantrums with snot coming out his nose and sometimes him clinging to me and running after me as I left. Last year, his second year in preschool, was better but still not great. Needless to say, I anticipated a pretty bumpy start to full-day kindergarten.

What I got instead was an unbelievably pleasant surprise. Paul has done a 180. He goes to school happily every day. I thought taking the bus home would be a big problem, but after one or two days of angst, his bus ride home is now one of his favorite parts of the day. And I've not only seen changes in how he feels about school. I've watched him become much less fearful in general and more independent. I still can hardly believe the transformation.

Maybe Paul could teach me a thing or two. Believe me, I know anxiety. I've been a worrier and an obsessive over-thinker for as long as I can remember. Anxiety is such a pernicious little bugger. Rationally, I know that worrying does me no good and in fact can take a real toll. Knowing that, however, does nothing to release its grip on me when I'm going through an anxious period. I've lost whole days and even weeks consumed with worry. The good news is that my anxiety ebbs and flows. I go through anxious periods, and then my brain just eventually realizes that whatever I'm worried about isn't a real threat and I'm free of it, at least until some other worry creeps in.

After years of dealing with angst, I've come to accept that it's just a part of me, and I've learned to cope with it. I try to eat right, I exercise, I try to take some quiet time each day. And when things are really challenging, I take a deep breath and go back and read this quote from Marcus Aurelius: "Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present."

Phew, all this talk about anxiety has me worried about exactly what genes I'm passing down to my kids. No, that's just the anxiety talking. Be quiet now.

What I'm thankful for

It can be easy to lose sight of the fact that if you live here, chances are you are abundantly blessed compared to the majority of the rest of the world. That's one of the many things I love about Thanksgiving: it gives me an opportunity reflect.

I'm endlessly thankful for my husband. A better partner I could not find. He is a kind, loving, smart man, and, most importantly for me, he puts up with all my neuroses. And while I'm on Mark, I'm thankful for his job that is fulfilling for him and allows him to provide for our family. I'm lucky to be able to say that. I know that so many are struggling right now.

I'm thankful for my kids. They are clever, hilarious, naughty, and chances are they will end up driving me crazy on any given day. But they're mine, and I simply adore them. Again, I realize how fortunate I am to have three healthy, happy boys.

I'm thankful for my family. Mark and I are so blessed to both come from families that are loving and supportive. Our parents are second to none, and we feel so grateful knowing that we can always count on them. I am fortunate to have three brothers, five brothers-in-law, eight sisters-in-law, and eleven nieces and nephews (with one on the way!). I love each and every one.

I'm thankful for living in a community we love, for a great school with great teachers, for our church community, for a comfortable home that keeps us warm in the winter and cool in the summer. I could go on and on. Like I said, we are abundantly blessed to live in a place where we have freedom and opportunities. 

I hope you take the opportunity to count your blessings, too, and have the happiest of Thanksgivings!

Battlefield dinner table

The past two nights I have served my boys the most horrific meals. Yes, horrific, if you take Paul's word for it, anyway. Sunday night, it was lemon chicken. Paul took one taste and gagged - literally gagged. "This tastes horrible!" he moaned. To get it down, he made a slurry of ketchup and mustard in which to dip the vile chicken.

Last night, however, I outdid myself. I had made a casserole with rice, refried beans, cheese, salsa, corn and spinach. This time, he didn't even need to taste it before he declared it awful. "This is horrible!" he wailed again. "Why, Mother, why? What hath thou wrought? Why hath thou forsaken me?" Seriously, you would have thought I'd beheaded his pet rabbit and served it to him on a plate. OK, so I may have embellished his quotes a little bit, and he doesn't really have a pet rabbit,  but it was outrage on that level. I had offended him, deeply, with my offering.

I never know the right course of action in these situations. In the past, I've broken every rule in the book regarding kids and eating: bribery, threats, I'm ashamed to say I've tried it all. I know experts say not to battle on this one. Kids will eat when they're hungry. Keep presenting healthy foods, and eventually kids will start to embrace them. File those under easier said than done.

I like to think I'm pretty reasonable with my eating expectations.  Being a recovering picky eater myself, I'm empathetic to the boys' food dislikes and suspicions. I give them outs on foods they really don't like. If I make something they dislike and they try it and calmly tell me they don't like it, I've been known to let them eat peanut butter bread or cold cuts in lieu of the dinner I've prepared. The problem is, they usually don't tell me calmly, they go right to whiny. And when whiny comes out, I tend to dig in my heels.

Something tells me I'm in for several more years of mealtime battles. I'd better make sure I, at least, stay fortified. If you'll excuse me, think I'm going to go heat up some of that heinous casserole for myself.

Scenes from school

This week and last, I had the opportunity to spend sometime with Ben and Paul's classes. Last Wednesday, I chaperoned Ben's field trip to Madison, where the fourth-graders visited the Capitol and the Vilas Zoo. The kids were great, overall, but one thing I noticed is that they love to say the word "dude." A lot. I didn't realize it had made such a big comeback.

One of the things that struck me most watching the kids was that for the most part, they're all still nice to one another. No one, that I could see, was teased or set as an outcast. It made me sad in a way knowing that the inevitable social caste system, in which some kids will rise to the top while others will be deemed untouchable, will emerge in a mere year or two. How I wish kids could hold on to their sweetness.

Yesterday, I paid a visit to school to help with Paul's class's Halloween party. Before the party got under way, the kids had a Halloween assembly in the gym. The principal called out groups of kids by the costumes they were wearing, and the kids ran into the center of the room and did a little dance. I was amazed as I watched Ben and Paul happily run out and dance. It's something I never would have done. I would have pegged Paul, for sure, as refusing to go out.

When we got back to Paul's classroom, I was further astounded to see how much he has grown in a year. Last year in preschool, he stuck to me like glue every time I was in his classroom. He wasn't very social, was pretty much a loner, I thought. But yesterday, sure, he was happy to have his mom visit school, but that didn't stop him from sitting down with three other boys and making up a game to play with cars. I've never been so happy to be ignored.

Parents tend to label their kids. I know I do. I'm happy to learn that sometimes our kids surprise us in the best possible ways.

If you can't beat 'em ...

Over the last week or so, Ben has shown increased  interest in watching SportsCenter. He discovered fantasy football this fall and is known to walk around the house mindlessly tossing a ball, be it base or foot. All of this serves to further highlight my status as odd woman out. I've never been much interested in sports. As I've written, that attribute has already put me in second place for at least one child's parental affections.

My distaste stems from a couple places. First of all, go ahead and lay in to me sports fans, but I pretty much think watching sports is boring. Watching sports on TV, in particular, usually is guaranteed to make my eyes glaze over. More than anything, however, I simply cannot understand some people's infatuation with, say, how the Packers are doing. Yes, I'm one of those annoying people who grouses about the Packers being on the front page of the newspaper. In the days when I still worked in an office, I hated how a Packers loss could turn everyone's Monday mood sour.

How poetic then, that I would end up in a family of sports fanatics. To his credit, Mark is great about balancing priorities. He loves the Badgers, Brewers and Packers (in that order), but he's willing to sacrifice watching games if something more important arises. We've got a pretty good compromise going. I'll give up watching an episode of "Project Runway" to watch the Brewers in the playoffs with him.

With my sports agnosticism, I couldn't be more surprised by how heart-heavy I felt when the Brewers lost their chance to make it into the World Series. I had gone to three games with Mark this season, including the division-clinching game. I had followed the team, albeit casually. Suddenly, though, I felt myself swept away in a wave of Brewer pride and hope. What had I become? Was I actually caring about a sports team?

OK, so you couldn't really say I'm a sports convert. But it's a step, right? If this is my lot in life, I might as well embrace it. But becoming a Packer fanatic? Forget about it.

My comeuppance is coming at me fast and furious these days

On Saturday afternoon, we and, judging by the volume of cars in the parking lots, roughly 10 percent of the population of the Fox Cities took in the beautiful fall day and decided to head to High Cliff. The picture above illustrates how well it went - Ben's face in particular. Though Gus, in his typical good-humored fashion, had a fine time, Ben and Paul made it abundantly clear that they were in no mood for an afternoon hike.

We hadn't gotten more than a couple hundred yards into our hike before my two eldest asked if we could turn back and go home. Then the whining kicked in full force. Their feet were killing them. They simply couldn't go on. They were dying, literally dying, from the heat and the lack of water. Oh what irresponsible parents were we to have left the water in the car! "We've been doing this for two hours, when will be done?" Ben moaned about 20 minutes into our trip. "Hiking is about the journey, not the destination," I intoned with mock sincerity. Would you guess my wisdom had no impact on how they felt? The ill-fated venture culminated in us beating a hasty retreat after a meltdown from Paul about Gus drinking more than his share of water and furor at me for leaving an oak leaf he really, really wanted sitting on a picnic bench.

Taxing though the day was, I couldn't help feeling I had somehow gotten what was coming to me. At some park roughly 27 years ago, I likely was behaving the exact way my boys did, if not worse. Though I thoroughly enjoy hiking now, back then I remember clearly thinking it was a pointless waste of time. Through my vocal dissatisfaction, I'm sure I successfully managed to quash any and all of my companions' hopes for a Waldonesque commune with nature.

If you haven't guessed already, I wasn't an easy child. I was often sullen, if not downright surly at times. I presented my parent with a veritable panoply of challenges. I was an extremely picky eater. Despite my mom's best attempts, probably more than I deserved, to make food that would appeal to me, I turned my nose up at almost everything. My mom must silently laugh to herself every time she sees one of my boys do the same to me. Paul's tantrums that vex me so? Yeah, I had a lot of those myself, too.

With all the karmic payback that was headed my way, I should have realized that becoming a parent would be an extremely risky endeavor for me. Even with all of that, I don't think any of my kids are as difficult as I was. I guess I should take comfort in the fact that people change, even cranky kids like me. I love hiking, have much broadened my eating horizons and rarely have any more tantrums. ;) Just to be on the safe side, though, Ben and Paul should watch out. You know what they say about payback.

Happy birthday, big Ben!

I guess it's kind of a slow realization, the one that your child has progressed from kid to big kid. The boy who once  needed you for everything from getting dressed to shoe tying is suddenly independent. He no longer needs you to read books at bedtime - he'd rather do it himself. In the pie chart that is his sphere of influence, your parental slice has begun to grow smaller while his peers' share steadily increases.

Ben turns 9 on Wednesday, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around how that's possible. Veteran parents always warn new parents to enjoy the time, that it goes quickly. Mostly, it doesn't feel that way when you're in the middle of it, but milestone moments like birthdays usually work nicely put things in perspective. Those veteran parents are right.

If you'll forgive me being an insufferable braggart for a moment, I must say, Ben is special kid. At the age of 4, Ben taught himself to read and soon was doing so fluently. Soon after, he was able to add two-digit numbers. I wish Mark and I could take credit for this, but we can't. It's all him. At the end of first grade, when we came to the realization that Ben's abilities were outpacing his grade level, we reached the difficult decision to have him skip a grade. What we asked of Ben required a lot of courage on his part. Not only did Ben survive the change, he thrived.

Ben amazes me. He isn't a tall kid to begin with, but being younger than his peers puts Ben about a head shorter than most other kids. But Ben loves to run and play sports. Through his sheer determination, he ensures that he excels in whatever he pursues. It inspires me.

Happy birthday, Ben! I celebrate you today and every day.

I'd like to close with the lyrics to a song, "You and Me" by Frances England. The first time I heard it, it undid me with its simple, beautiful words that capture so perfectly what it's like to bring up a child. I highly recommend you download it, but be ready to dissolve into a puddle of tears.

You and me, happy as can be
Flying through the park on our bikes
On a Sunday afternoon

You and me, rolling on the floor
Practicing your somersaults, cartwheels,
Your donkey kicks and more…

How did you grow so big overnight
How did you get so smart and bright
Yesterday you were asleep in my arms
Today you’re growing off the charts

I’m so proud of you

You and me, drawing pictures wild and free
While the paint goes flying,
Your big smile brightens up the room

You and me, reading books in bed
Your head on my shoulder,
Your eyes on the pages ahead

How did you grow so big overnight
How did you get so smart and bright
Yesterday you were asleep in my arms
Today you’re growing off the charts

I’m so proud of you

Er, my kid can do no wrong?

Add this to the list of parental shortcomings I told myself I'd never have but ended up having anyway. Yesterday, Ben came home from school and told me that the lunch supervisor had sent him to the back of the lunch line because she had told his class not to touch the wall, and then she caught him leaning against the wall. Sheesh, that seems a little harsh, was my first thought. What fourth-grader isn't a little spacey sometimes?

See, this is where the whole parent-I-thought-I'd-never-be part comes in. I've heard so many stories about those parents whose child misbehaves at school, and when the child is disciplined at school, the parents get upset and defend their child as if their darling offspring could do no wrong. I would never do that. Or would I?

Now, never mind that Ben didn't seem too upset about the situation. When he told me about what happened, it was more like this: I got sent to the end of the lunch line, and they ran out of French toast sticks, so I got pancakes instead. Yay! No matter. Suddenly, I was feeling what you might describe as defensive of my child.

This wasn't the first time I'd felt this way in recent weeks. A couple weeks ago, Ben forgot at school his agenda, which a parent needs to sign each day. He told me, again with no fretting on his behalf, that he would lose a ticket (part of his class's reward system) and have to stay in for a recess. I felt a ridiculous urge to save him from his penalty. Could I somehow get to school and get the agenda, I wondered. I felt like Gloria on last week's Modern Family, wanting to save Manny from the consequences of taking his classmate's locket.

Alas, unlike Gloria, I didn't act on any of my wacky ideas or urges. I didn't complain about the lunch supervisor or make a desperate dash to school to pick up Ben's agenda. Rationally, I know that logical consequences are good for kids. I know that kids, or people in general, for that matter, rarely recount happenings completely accurately. For all I know, Ben had been warned several times not to lean against the wall. Anyway, it doesn't matter much, does it? When my kids are at school, the discipline decisions by and large belong to the responsible adults there. So I guess I've had to arrive at a somewhat uneasy peace with that. But man, that lunch lady was a little harsh, no?

Guilty of insensitivity in the first degree

As a parent, there are few things I'd like to avoid more than hurting my kids' feelings, but yesterday I managed to do just that. It all started after a trip to the doctor's office. Ben no longer cares much about the stickers the office hands out to kids, but this time, he happily chose a Garfield one, and as soon as we got home, he announced that he knew just where he would put it.

Apparently, Ben has a favorite coloring picture, nay the best coloring picture he's ever done. On that coloring picture, he likes to affix the stickers he procures. It is that coloring picture, I realized with a sinking feeling, I had thrown in the recycling bin a few weeks earlier.  Crap, crap, crap! Ben searched for the picture on the "Look What I Made" clipboard that hangs on our kitchen wall. "Maybe I put it in your artwork box downstairs," I said feebly, hoping that maybe I'd forgotten that I'd thought better of my callous decision to recycle his pièce de résistance. "You threw it away?" he asked me tearfully. Ben's hurt feelings blew over fairly quickly, but I was left feeling terrible.

This all comes back to my lack of organizational skills. I am unendingly flummoxed by the problem of what to do with all the boys' creations. In my closet sits a paper bag filled to the brim with Paul's preschool projects from last year. If I still haven't figured out what to do with those, what hope do I have? Each day, Paul's folder comes home from school containing new paintings and drawings. Seriously, what's the right thing to do? I don't want to cross over into hoarding territory and keep everything the boys make.

I thought I had a system. I try to keep a sampling of what the boys make. For a while I had been taking a picture of the boys with their art projects and then throwing out the projects. Ugh! Even writing that sounds heartless, somehow. Besides, that doesn't take into account that I rarely manage to follow through on my best-laid plans. I have friends who display their kids' works in adorable and creative ways. I aspire to be able to do that, but then my complete lack of design and aesthetic skills kicks in.

Honestly, I don't know where this leaves me. I think all I can do is keep doing what I've been doing. I can't ask the boys: "Hey, do you mind if I throw this away?" I can see where that would go. I'll just have to use my clearly flawed judgment and hope for the best. But those tears, those sad, sad tears. I won't soon forget the sorrow I inflicted.

Who's really struggling?

With the second week of school tucked safely behind us, it's time for me to do a little reflecting. As I had predicted, the week that contained Paul's first full days and maiden voyages on the school bus did invoke some worries in my boy. And in me.

As the hours until bedtime dwindled last Monday night, Paul's anxieties began to mount. It's always evident with him because he begins to ask a lot of questions. How am I going to get to the bus? How will Ben find me? What if I can't sit with Ben? And the statement that about broke my heart: I don't want to go to school, I want to stay with you, Mommy. Feeling sad for the umpteenth time these past few weeks, I promised that Paul's teacher would get him safely to the bus, that we'd ensured Ben would be able to wait for the bus with Paul, that Gus and I would walk down to his bus stop to greet him when his bus arrived. Furthermore, I said that we'd give the bus a try for this first week, and if he really didn't like it, I could start picking him up instead. Paul's worries were assuaged, for the moment anyway, though my malaise lingered.

The next morning went fine. No tears during the drop-off at school. When I met Paul at the bus, he was smiling. However, soon he told me rather emphatically that he did not want to take the bus again the next day. Using the rationale that if taking the bus was the one issue that was getting in his way of feeling comfortable at school, I slipped into his folder a note to his teacher saying that I'd pick him up that day.

That afternoon, the phone rang. It was Paul's teacher. First of all, there was confusion because Paul was insisting that I was picking up, but my note must have gotten shoved down in his folder because his teacher hadn't seen it. After I cleared up that I was indeed picking him up, it quickly became clear that his teacher was irritated with me for giving in so soon. She delivered a mini-lecture about the need for consistency. I felt affronted, tried to explain that I was viewing the situation as his mom, trying to shield him from discomfort. She stood her ground, saying that he cries at the end of the day whether he gets picked up or takes the bus. That was true so far, but, but ... OK, she was right, a fact that took me a while to admit to myself.

That night we came up with a plan: Paul would take the bus home from school but would be able to choose one day a week to be picked up. Thursday and Friday both were successes. Paul had some tears on Thursday and none on Friday. 

So who really was struggling so much? As much as the 5-year-old boy, it's the 34-year-old mom who's having a hard time letting go and maybe was secretly hoping her boy would need her to pick him up. I've learned now, though, I've learned. I think we'll both be happier now that Paul's conquered a fear and I have, too.

And they're off!

After a lot of fretting and some tears on my part (and a few on Paul's), I must say I'm glad to have the beginning of school under way. You know the anticipation is always the worst part. When I dropped off the boys at school on Thursday, their respective behaviors said a lot about who they are at this point in their lives. Paul hung close, holding my hand on the walk into school. Ben, on the other hand, blurted, "Can I just go, Mom?" Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted away without so much as a goodbye for his weepy mom. I suppose maybe a fourth-grader doesn't feel like receiving a schoolyard hug from his mom, anyway. (See the reason for the tears? Suddenly it's feeling like time is passing too quickly!)

With Ben having taken care of himself, all that remained was getting Paul to his classroom. I'm so thankful to Paul's kindergarten teacher. She'd had him in her get ready for kindergarten summer school class, and seeing his separation anxiety, she ensured us she would work to get him placed in her class for the fall. I think it's for that reason Paul's transition has gone relatively smoothly. Paul immediately found his seat and sat down with a smile on his face. (He did shed a few tears at the end of the day worrying that somehow we would fail to pick him up, but overall I'm calling his first two days a victory.)

The kindergarten teachers hold small group meetings with the parents the first week of school. As we met with Paul's teacher, I was struck by how much kindergarten has changed since I was kindergartener. There's the obvious changed that kindergarten is a full day now, but where I recall kindergarten as largely a rather laid-back preparation for the whole school experience, it's now very academics-focused. My recollection can't be crystal-clear, but I remember mostly snacks, play time and rest time. Paul's teacher explained that 100 minutes each day are devoted to literacy and ensured us that Paul soon would be writing short sentences. Wow! And that's not even to mention the time they spend on math, social studies, science.

As for Ben, he's in teacher heaven. For the first time ever, he has a male teacher, and not just a male, but one who is a sports fanatic. Ben's classroom is covered almost wall-to-wall in football and baseball clippings. It's funny how differently I view this when I have a son. I remember being mildly irritated when I came across teachers like these in my education (I remember one middle school teacher who used to give extra credit for predicting football scores - I'm pretty sure as a seventh grade girl I couldn't even conjure a plausible football score). As it is, I'm happy for Ben. Anyway, Ben's third-grade teacher thought this particular teacher would be a great fit for Ben because he previously taught in the district's now-defunct accelerated learners program. He told Ben he was going to challenge him and asked Ben if he was ready. This is exactly what my bright boy needs.

After I dropped off the boys and reached my car on Thursday, I had a good little cry. I'm glad to have the hardest part finished, but I know some unknowns still remain. Tomorrow Paul will have his first full day and will take the bus home with Ben. And Paul's teacher's baby is due in November, so he'll have a different teacher for three months. I know all of these are good life experiences for Paul. I'm optimistic that this will be a great school year.

The big K is almost here

Thursday will mark the end of an era. Five and half years ago, the arrival of Paul began my journey as a stay-at-home mom. He's been with me every step of the way, so it is with decidedly mixed emotions that I will be sending him to kindergarten. Like all milestones, it's bittersweet. I will miss seeing his sweet face and having him available for a snuggle whenever I want to take one.

Now that the time for school is upon us, I want to take back all the times the boys were squabbling and I wished that school would just start already, as if by some feat of magical thinking I could gain back those hours and days. Even if I'd cherished every moment, this day still would have arrived just as quickly, I know. OK, so my heart is heavy right now. The parenting book I'm reading right now urges me to acknowledge what I'm feeling and accept it. I'm sad, and that's OK!

This time around, I have the benefit of experience on my side (not to mention the fact that, unlike when Ben started kindergarten, I don't have a 2-week-old and wacky hormones to deal with). I know from doing this once already that the first days are hard, but soon everything will feel routine. With my heavy heart, that's what I'm going to hold onto for now. I'll focus on that and the new friends and new experiences I hope await my dear boy. Ready or not, it's time for Paul and me to embark on a new journey. Maybe I'll have some new adventures awaiting me as well. No matter what, each day at 3:30 I'll be waiting to claim my missed snuggles.

Happy 3rd birthday, Wild Man Gus!

"Challenging." "Spirited." "A handful." On really bad days, "such a sh*t." These are just some of the phrases I've used to describe my third-born. Before Gus's arrival, I thought parenting was pretty tough. The reality of newborn sleep habits hit me hard and sent me reeling when I had Ben. Unlike Ben, Paul, an otherwise laid-back kid, was known to climb a bit. Having had two boys, I thought I had this down pretty well. Little did I know, none of my experience would prepare me sufficiently for Hurricane Gus.

As I mentioned in a recent blog, Gus was colicky and then after a period of a few calm months morphed into crazy, reckless boy. With Ben and Paul, we installed the standard child-safety devices: outlet covers, cabinet locks. Once Gus was mobile, we had to invest in gadgets I didn't even know existed. Door knob covers, locks for our Lazy Susan and oven. (The last I quickly ordered on Amazon after finding the oven door ajar one day while I was baking cookies. Miraculously, Gus didn't burn himself.)

As much as Gus has tested my sanity, as I like to say, there's another side to him. He is the happiest person I know, and it's infectious. Whether he's having a giggle fit or belting out "Frère Jacques" in the middle of a quiet church, he has an irrepressible joie de vivre. My family had this chocolate Lab, Bailey. Gus reminds me a lot of a Lab. Lab puppies are irresistibly cute, and the grown dogs are good-natured, making them a great choice for families with young kids; however, Labs also are incredibly mischievous. In fact, remembering dearly departed Bailey putting his paws up on the counter in order to reach some food, I think of Gus pushing a chair over to the counter so he may better reach the fruit snack cupboard. Even when Bailey committed one of his jaw-dropping acts of naughtiness, and believe me, we have many stories, it was hard to stay angry with him. Such is the case with Gus.

Gus has given me a great gift, one I really needed. He's taught me patience. The frustrations of child-rearing used to get me really tense. In his special Gus way, he's changed me a little bit. Having him challenge me in so many ways has helped me mellow. Instead of flying into a mini rage in frustrating situations, I've learned to just take a deep breath and move on (most of the time, anyway - I am still human).

Gus, you are one-of-kind. You filled the Gus-shaped hole in our lives, and you bring us so much joy. You make us laugh and smile every day, and I don't know what we'd do without you. Happy 3rd birthday, sweet Wild Man Gus!

Mom, I don't feel so ... bleahhh

That's the best imitation I can come up with of the sound my kids make when they uncontrollably vomit all over. I don't know if I'm alone in this, but my kids seem to throw up a lot. I'm sorry if this topic turns your stomach, but it's on my mind this week, especially after yesterday. I'll get to that soon. Last week wasn't a great one for the Thiel family. It started a week ago Friday when Ben and Paul were supposed to go on their first camping trip with their Grandma and Grandpa Thiel. Ben came down with strep, and though he and Paul were able to go the next day, they were sad that their much-anticipated trip had to be shortened.

When the boys returned from camping last Sunday, Ben was pale and feverish. For no reason I can see, as he was on antibiotics, his fever lingered into Wednesday. Then Paul, who has tubes in his ears and was on ear drops for an ear infection, spiked a fever. A very expensive trip to the ENT revealed that his infected ear was so full of fluid and crud, the drops weren't even making it to their destination. Lovely. Sickness always stinks for kids, but it feels especially unfair during the summer.

We had a busy weekend planned: for Saturday a gathering with all the Thiels at Mark's parents' house, for Sunday Mark and I competing on relay teams for the Oshkosh Triathlon. We thought we were in the clear, you know, at least we had gotten the boys' sickness out of the way in time for them to share some fun with their cousins. Not so fast.

After eating a big lunch and two desserts, Paul began to look green and said he didn't feel well. I should have known: note aforementioned proclivity toward puking. I think I was in denial. It was hot outside and in the house. Maybe it was just getting to him. I was sitting outside when Mark came and said we had to leave. Paul had, well you know, down the steps and onto Mark's parents' carpeting. I went in to discover the acrid smell of bile mixing with the warm air in the house. I was mortified.

Sadly, I think we're developing a reputation. This isn't the first time we've had a run-in with Mark's family. Two Christmases ago, Ben and Paul had stomach flu, and they inadvertently passed their malady to numerous members of the family, resulting in a very ill New Year. I wouldn't blame them if they shudder a bit every time we arrive. (Side note: turns out strep was to blame for Paul's sick stomach this time.) Believe me, I have other embarrassing stories as well, like the time Ben threw up at church and it ran down the sloped floor, and the second time he tossed his cookies there, this time in the hall. Come to think of it, we probably make St. Bernard Parish a little nervous, too.

Next weekend we will go on vacation with my family. At least the boys have gotten it out of their systems. Or have they? Watch out Ceman family.

Whatever will I do with myself?

I'm on the cusp of change. It's dawning on me all of a sudden that my kids are getting older. Ben is almost 9. Paul is starting kindergarten next month! Soon I will have only one boy home with me full-time. And even though I still sometimes think of my baby, Gus, as an actual baby, clearly he's not. He'll be 3 in a few weeks.

As a newborn Gus was colicky. After he got over that, he spent a few months as a content baby before walking at 10 months and rushing right into becoming the little wild man I know so well. Since Gus has been challenging to me from the time he was a newborn, I've spent a lot of time wishing and praying that things would get easier. Improvement has seemed to come infinitesimally slowly overall, but I think we're actually getting there.

Summers with Big G are particularly challenging, and each year when the season has rolled around, I've hoped that this would the year things would get easier. His first mobile summer, Gus was newly walking and into everything. He climbed, he put anything and everything in his mouth. Last summer, he was fast, determined and reckless. He obeyed no boundaries and would dash into the street without a thought. It doesn't always feel this way, but I have to say this summer has gone more smoothly. Gus has a longer attention span. He can engage in imaginative play and keep himself entertained for a reasonable amount of time. And while he's still a wanderer outside and needs to remain under close supervision, I think he's finally beginning to learn to keep himself safe.

All of this has me wondering what lies ahead for me. I've spent the last nine years in a haze of nursing, diaper changes and potty training (though, no, Gus isn't trained yet). I was only 25 when I became a mom, and while I worked full time for more than five years before becoming a stay-at-home mom, it feels like I've been out of the work force forever. I genuinely wonder, who will I be without these things? Will I feel unmoored? After all, it won't be so long before all my boys will be in school. I know it's another two years (or three, depending on what we decide about the whole summer birthday issue), but I also know how quickly two or three years passes. Sniffle.

Time is a funny thing. When we're young, it can't move quickly enough. Even when I was raising babies, I felt that way. Yes, I often felt wistful, that time was slipping away too swiftly, that milestones were arriving too rapidly. However, at the same time, I think I prevailingly wished for progress: for my boys to sleep through the night, to become just a little bit more independent. Now is one of those times when I've stopped and realized how quickly the years have marched past. My God, I'm in my mid-30s. I have a 9-year-old?!?! My answer to my above question about who or what I'll be is I don't know, but I'm optimistic. I'm happy with where my life stands and excited and curious to learn what will come next.

Time for school yet?

It's funny. As I sat down to write this, I came across a forgotten blog I wrote last year right around this time. In it, I complain about the very same things that are bugging me today. It must be a theme with me, this summer exhaustion. It's not so much that I'm itching to get the kids out of my jurisdiction, it's just that they are on one another's nerves in a big way right now. I think it all comes down to that state dreaded by kids and parents alike: b-o-r-e-d-o-m.

My kids seem to wake up bored, and in this house, my boys' ennui (yes, I used the thesaurus to come up with that word!) leads to bickering. I'm embarrassed to detail the boys' fights here, because really, the worst of it is between Ben and Paul, and I feel that at 8 and 5, they should be getting beyond this. Usually it's a chorus of something like this: "Mom! Paul spit at me!" "Well, MOM, that's because Ben pinched me!" This happens every day. This morning, during another battle, I asked Mark if he now understood why I hang on to my sanity only by a thread. Yes indeed he did.

One of my aunts who has two sons said that when her boys were growing up, she simply refused to be dragged into their arguments. The fighting never stopped anyway, she reasoned, and the boys weren't happy with her resolutions. I can see a lot of wisdom in that, and I've tried and failed to adopt that strategy for myself. I don't know if it's my temperament or the fact that unlike my aunt and uncle, who lived on a farm and had lots of land and could put some distance between themselves and the malcontents, I must stay in close proximity to the boys. Whatever the case, I seem to have difficulty extricating myself from their fights. As a result, most days my patience is worn thin by roughly 8:30 a.m.

I remember very well what summer boredom felt like when I was a kid, and my brothers and I got ourselves into the very same situations that drive me nuts now (perhaps this is my comeuppance?). Though I can keenly recall the feeling, I can't understand it anymore. It's just another one of those disconnects between kids and adults. Like every other parent, all I can think now is, what I wouldn't give to have that much free time on my hands.

My cousin who has older kids once told me how she loves the summer, the fact that it's carefree and unscheduled. I'm simply not there yet. Somehow, for my kids carefree and unscheduled ends up being a recipe for disaster. I'll take heart in what she said, though, and hope that someday summer will like that for me. Until then, I might casually note that there are 38 more days until school starts.

I'll have to settle for third best

Look at these two in the picture. That's me with Paul one of the many days I worked in his cooperative preschool last year - that's right, I volunteered many hours at his school and in fact chose this very school because I knew it would help him through his separation anxiety. I'll pause so you can admire my selflessness.

You would think my middle son would hold me in pretty high regard, right? Not according to him. Apparently, in his eyes, I'm only third best. This all came to light the other day at the playground. Paul and Gus and I were playing at Clovis Park while Ben was doing his weekly park & rec game time class. I noticed Paul watching Ben, and I said, "Ben's your favorite person in the world, huh?"

Paul said, "Yeah, and dad's my second favorite, you're my third favorite, and Gus is my fourth favorite."

What!?!? My first reaction was slightly amused surprise. I tried not to take it too seriously. These were, after all, the musings of a 5-year-old, but next, I felt the tiniest bit wounded. Third favorite? Hello, I'm Mom. That should be good for an automatic second favorite, if you ask me. I pressed him: "What do you mean"?

"Well," he said, "Dad does more sports and plays with us more, but I like you better for snuggling."

I guess if those are his criteria for parental ranking, he's got a point. I am what I am, and sporty is not it. I do wish that I could take more time to just have fun with the boys, but that seems pretty hard to do at this point. When Mark's at work, and it's just me and the boys, I tend to spend a disproportionate amount of time keeping Paul's maniacal 2-year-old brother in check. It doesn't leave me a lot of time for playing baseball or tossing around a football.

I suppose I will have to just accept my role as long-suffering, under-appreciated matron of the house. "Mother - that was the bank where we deposited all our hurts and worries," wrote T. DeWitt Talmage (I have no idea who that is, but I like it). That's me: repository of hurt and worries, snuggler, cooker of nutritious meals, doer of laundry, settler of arguments. If that's only good enough for third best, so be it. Sigh. I think I just may work on my sportiness, though. You know I'm vying to take over second place.

Gotta stay off those comments sections

Though they never fail to make me feel sad and hopeless, I'm irresistibly drawn to comments sections. You know what I'm talking about - those areas after news stories et al on the web where readers can leave their feedback. They often are filled with personal attacks on other commenters and outrageous arguments. I peruse with sorrow that people are so divided and can't seem to find a way to even hear what others have to say.

Last week, I wandered onto a doozy of one. I have been somewhat following this NPR series about mothers about to give birth. This one featured a blog a woman had written detailing the way she and her husband had decided they would not choose circumcision for their soon-to-be-born son. The blog itself was fine: the woman offered a reasoned, rational explanation of how she and her husband had arrived at their decision. What followed in the comments section, however, was what I can only describe as (excuse my language) a sh*tstorm of controversy. In the end, nearly 2,000 people sounded off.

I had heard a little about the issue of circumcision, but I had no idea people felt so passionately about it. I have to admit at first I was a little puzzled. After all, circumcision is optional. Seemingly, and I say this without judgment, opponents are not satisfied with that. From what I gather, they think the procedure should be outlawed. The anti-circumcision crowd threw around phrases like barbaric, mutilation, child abuse, human rights violation. And that's where they lost me. You may not agree with circumcision, but how can you call it child abuse when there's plenty of the real thing going on?

Here's a sampling of some of the more outrageous statements:

• Many, many people compared the issue of male circumcision to female genital mutilation. This is preposterous and insulting to women who have suffered that atrocity.

• One woman stated that people who circumcise are just like people who don't breastfeed: too lazy to take care of their children. (Aside: as someone who breastfed and thinks breastfeeding is important, I hope that this woman doesn't argue for the cause of breastfeeding. Ever.)

• Another poster stated that her son was born perfect, and she wasn't going to change that. Implicit message: those of us who choose circumcision believe otherwise about our sons.

• Then there was the guy who said people who circumcise should be imprisoned. I can only hope he was being ironic, but somehow I doubt it.

Don't get me wrong, people on the pro-circ side made their share of rude, flippant comments as well. This is my whole problem. Every website I've ever seen warns readers to keep it civil and refrain from making personal attacks, but please. People in these situations take advantage of their anonymity to write things they would, I hope, never have the nerve to say to someone face-to-face.

When people descend to the level of attacking others and making hyperbolic statements, they really are hurting their own cause. If I were a first-time parent considering the issue of circumcision, and someone used phrases like barbaric and child abuse, I would label that person as a fanatic and stop listening. If, however, that same person simply would state his or her beliefs calmly, I would listen.

Reading people's comments bothered me. A lot. It's not easy to hear a choice that I've made characterized using those strong, ugly words. For the record, as you probably can guess, and I hope this isn't a TMI moment, we chose circumcision for our boys. When we thought about it, we decided that we wanted the boys to enjoy the health and hygiene benefits (I know opponents would argue that this is a non-issue with a little bit of care and teaching), and we wanted them not to suffer teasing when they got older in those locker room situations. If I had it to do over again, I would do more research, and I'm not sure how we would decide. As it is, we made the decision that made sense at the time, and I'm comfortable with that.

Later last week, I was listening to a program on WPR about the need for people to listen to one another and try to understand opposing views. The guest stated that if we keep holding tightly to our own beliefs and shutting everything else out, nothing will ever change for us. It struck me as a virtuous, if challenging, goal. Though I hold my beliefs strongly, I feel that I'm willing to listen to opposing views. The understanding part can be harder, but I certainly can aspire to that. I'm stilling trying to apply this bit of wisdom to the comments section brawl I witnessed. This one could take some time ...

A day at the beach

If you've read my blog, you know that I've established the fact that my pre-kids, idyllic vision of parenting has not panned out for me. Resignedly, I operate with much-reduced expectations and am much more content. That's why when I saw that Friday would be a hot day, I didn't just come up with a plan willy-nilly and expect it to turn out great. Get the boys into their suits, pack them into the car, head to the pool - that simply would not work. No, I had to plan for all contingencies.

You see, pools, with all their slippery surfaces are not a good choice for my little wild man. At a beach, it would be virtually impossible for Gus to run away from me and crack his head open, so the beach it was. After I tackled gathered the boys for the torture that is sunscreen application, I began to assemble what we would need. Our needs included kick boards for Ben and Paul that I soon would learn they would not be allowed to use at the beach and toys I knew Gus would refuse to play with as soon as he saw some other child's better toys. Notice that I still brought the toys, the better to facilitate my futilely waving the toys in front of Gus while frantically exclaiming, "Don't you want to play with your truck, Gus?" Anyhoo, I picked up my mom, because, please, like I'd attempt this on my own, and we were off to Sunset Beach in Kimberly.

Armed with my realistic expectations, nothing much about the trip surprised me. Gus, fearlessly wading into the water up to his neck? Saw that coming. Gus glomming on to someone else's far-superior Cookie Monster and Big Bird scoopers? Check. At one point, Gus set his sights on two boys' Tonka trucks. That was fine when they weren't around, but when they saw him playing with their stuff, they were not happy. "He can't play with our trucks. Do you know why? Because he's not 5!" they said indignantly. Soon, they were bored of playing with their trucks and went off to the concession stand, but not before threatening me, "Guard our trucks - don't let him touch them!" I took the 5-year-olds seriously. After all, here was my opportunity to wave futilely and exclaim frantically.

I kid, but all in all the trip was pretty successful. Ben and Paul have reached that glorious stage in which they can be fairly independent, and they played really well together and had a marvelous time. And aside from trying to filch other kids' goods, Gus did pretty well, too. I spent the bulk of my time following him as we went down the slide roughly 150 times. It went so well, in fact, that I might even do it again. Just don't expect to catch me at the pool.

To Mark on his 34th birthday

This being the eve of my dear husband's birthday, I thought I'd take this opportunity to sing his praises a little bit. Mark and I celebrated 13 years together in May. The guy I'd dated before Mark was, let's just say, not a good choice for me. I was stumbling through college at UW-Fox Valley not working particularly hard and kind of aimless. My whole life shifted when Mark came into it. He was the kindest, smartest guy I'd ever met, and he made me want to be a better person.

The fall after we started dating, I transferred to UW-Oshkosh. I became much more focused. I did well in school for the first time in a long time. Mark was attending UW-Madison, so we had a long-distance relationship for two years. It was hard to be apart, but still, our relationship thrived. A little more than a year after our first date, Mark proposed. We were young - just 21 at the time (one uncle called me the child bride when we married at 23), but I'd say we've done pretty well for ourselves.

When Mark showed up at my bridal shower with dozens of roses, my sister-in-law, Sara, who's married to Mark's brother, Steve, laughed knowingly and said, "Don't expect that to last." She was right, because I'm sure she knew that grand gestures are a small part, at best, of good, long relationships. Don't get me wrong, Mark still surprises me from time to time, but that's not really the point. Long after the romance and excitement of new love has faded, after we've been married several years and the appearance of kids has whittled our one-on-one time to nearly nothing, I know: Mark is the kind of guy you want by your side for the long road ahead. There is no one with whom I'd rather experience the good times and bad.

I recently read a piece Tom Hanks had written about questions he's always asked on the press circuit. One is, "What's your secret to a happy marriage"? His reply? "I was smart enough to marry Rita Wilson." That would be my answer, too. I was smart enough to marry Mark Thiel.

I'll close this post with some lines from a favorite Avett Brothers song, All My Mistakes. Mark first quoted these to me in our 10-year anniversary card, and I think they're perfect.

I made decisions some right and some wrong
And I let some love go I wish wasn't gone
These things and more I wish I had not done

But I can't go back
And I don't want to
'Cause all my mistakes
They brought me to you

A holy terror

Leave it to my youngest child to lay waste to yet another situation I thought I had all figured out. As soon as my firstborn was past that sleep-all-the-way-through-church phase, I decided that though it would be tough, we should try to keep him in church rather than putting him in the nursery or sitting in the "cry room." Sure, each week, Mark or I would have to take him to the lounge to run around a bit, but it always seemed logical to me that a child couldn't learn to behave in church unless he was, you know, in church. Besides, the little chapel reserved for parents at our church, aka the cry room, oddly seems to attract plenty of random adults without children, so I would still feel like my child was bothering someone.

Our philosophy served us fine through our first two kids. We did the whole pack a snack, bring some books thing, and most of the time church went fairly smoothly for us, as much as can be expected with two little boys in tow, anyway.

Then along came Gus. To put it simply, Gus and church do not mix. He is just too much of a frenetic ball of energy to be contained by the confines of church. By the time the first two boys were almost 3, as Gus is now, of course they still would be wiggly and bored (let's face it they're still that way now), but at least they could sit somewhat calmly in one of our laps and look through a book. Not so with Gus. By the time he was about 2, we had quickly abandoned our no-nursery policy - and just as quickly learned that the nursery often doesn't have volunteers, anyway.

Most weeks, we have no choice but to slog through our first chosen method of bringing kids to church (could this be some kind of punishment for my self-righteous proclamations about the right way to do things?). On a good day, Gus makes it through 20 minutes of Mass, and then he'll loudly announce that he'd like to take a walk. Mark and I usually trade off weeks of Gus duty. Yesterday was my turn.

I had forgotten to bring a drink for Gus, so less than five minutes into church, I took him out with the idea of taking him to the water fountain. Instead he ran right to the nursery. Fine, I thought, we'll just stay here and he can play a while. What's the difference, really, anyway? He stayed there a bit, and then got bored of it and decided he'd like to head back to church. He barreled down the hallway, much faster than I could walk, and really it didn't seem appropriate for me to be running through church. He was about to slam right into a door and cause a big commotion when I finally caught up to him. I snatched him up and took him to the lounge, where, in my best try-to-control-my-rage voice, I fruitlessly tried to explain to him I would be holding him for the rest of church. That's not how Gus rolls. He always wins these battles of will. I ended up closely tailing him for the rest of the miserable time. When it was time for Communion, I carried him in, and though the whole thing takes but a minute or two, he whined loudly and tried to wriggle out of my grasp. I encountered Mark, and said, "keys" through gritted teeth. We proceeded directly to the car to wait out the end of church.

We're at an impasse. Taking Gus to church truly makes us unhappy. The unlucky provider of Gus care inevitably winds up grumpy for the next couple hours. It's the opposite of the peaceful experience I want from church. Mark and I have discussed several possibilities, from going to church separately to avoid taking Gus, to simply having one of us stay home with him each week. But while churchgoing with Gus drains me so, I'm stubborn. Having us all go together there is important to me. I still think Gus needs to go and try to learn how to behave in church. So I guess the answer is, there is no answer. We'll just have to keep doing what we're doing and hope that this is one battle of the wills we can win - eventually.

I'm back! And, yeah, still the same ...

So it's been a few months. My blog had been on life support and, you probably assumed, died a slow death. I'm here to tell you, reader, that I'm redoubling my efforts to keep my blog up to date. Please accept my apologies for having left you breathless with anticipation.

I'll pick up right at the present, the first glorious day of the first full, beautiful week of summer vacation. I will give you a rundown of the boys' schedules, and you will never believe that I had intended to keep them "relatively free" this summer. Paul is taking a "get ready for kindergarten" summer school class, mostly because I feel strongly that he's not at all (emotionally) ready for kindergarten. I hadn't planned on signing up Ben for any summer school classes ... but then his teacher recommended this great robotics class. I signed up Paul for T-ball, because, hey, he might like it. And I enrolled Ben in kickball and "It's Game Time!" because, man, that sounds fun. Summer school runs Monday through Thursday mornings for the next four weeks. T-ball games are Monday and Wednesday mornings, after summer school, natch. Kickball is Wednesday afternoons, and Ben will partake of game time Friday afternoons. Rounding out our schedule, all three boys take swimming lessons on Saturday mornings.

Honestly, I have the best intentions. I know for a fact that I do not enjoy spending my days driving the boys from one place to the next, and over-scheduling is no good for them either. All I can surmise about how I get myself into these situations is that I develop some sort of amnesia about how much I am indeed undertaking. Summer school? Great! Park and rec activities? Those are such good opportunities for learning sportsmanship and social skills.

As if some kind of divine sign, today, the first day of all the activities, was perfectly awful. I knew Paul would be fretting about starting his class. That's why I roped Mark into dropping him off today. When I called Mark for an update, he said Paul had been weepy and that I probably wanted to get there early (so I'd be waiting for him, not vice versa). While Paul was at school, I had brought Ben to my mom's while I took Gus to drop-in at the Y and went for swim. I ran back to pick up Ben to take him to his class and was supposed to have plenty of time - and I would have had the Clovis parking lot not been a nuthouse. Yes, that's nobody's fault but my own for failing to have foresight. Nevertheless, I flew into a mini road rage trying to get out of the full parking lot and to a spot on the street. I called the driver in front of me an idiot for taking too long to make her move; meanwhile Ben, I'm sure, looked on in horror at my bad behavior.

I reached Paul's classroom at the appointed time, but the door was open already and other parents had begun picking up their children. Paul sat sobbing while an aide patted his back. "He was fine until he thought you were going to be late," she said. Great. I got him calmed down and brought Ben to his class. "These kids all look older than me," Ben worried. I assured him he was in the right place and left with Paul and Gus to run to Shopko to get the boys snacks and drinks before Paul started T-ball. When I was at the store, my cellphone rang, which almost never happens, and I was so surprised that I dropped it on the floor and it stopped ringing. I didn't have time to think about it: we were running late for T-ball.

Once at T-ball, Paul and Gus dropped into their normal, comfortable roles. Paul, watching me like a hawk to make sure I was in sight at all times, Gus, running away from me at every opportunity, ensuring that I would not be in Paul's sight at all times. At one point, I was chasing Gus around, and Paul came to our spot for a drink. I saw him, but he could not see me. "I want you to stay close!" he wailed. In the meantime, Ben came to the field as planned after his class. It turned out that I had gotten the time wrong, that his class wasn't starting until later. The phone call. He had played computer in the lab during the other class, and now he actually had to go to his class.

Ben ran back to the school, and I realized that I didn't know when his class ended. I called Mark and asked him to call the school and figure it out, as I was more than a little frazzled - and still chasing after Gus. He called the school, and the secretary told him that she couldn't help him, that summer school is separate from Clovis. She gave Mark the phone number, and of course it rang and rang. Mark called the Clovis secretary again, and she told him that though the summer school office is ADJACENT to the Clovis office, she couldn't do anything to help. The best thing, she said, would be to come to the office in person to straighten it out. So Mark left work to do just that. Finally, we figured it out. By this time, it was past our normal lunchtime, and Paul, Gus and I were tired and hungry. My mom agreed to pick up Ben after his class, and finally we headed home.

Later, when we were playing outside, Ben accidentally squirted me with the hose. I glared at him and said his name in that just-so way. He burst into tears. When I asked why he was crying, he blurted, "You've been in a bad mood all day! And I didn't like it when you called that person an idiot!" I told him he was right, that I had been in a bad mood all day and tried to explain that I was wrong to call the other person a name, that I was only worried about getting to Paul.

The first day of the first full week of summer, and I had managed to damage Ben, making him witness my bad behavior, and I scarred Paul, when I turned up late and failed to stay in sight. At least Gus was spared. Unless you count all those YouTube videos I let him watch while I prepared supper. (One of them he chose was a "My Friends Tigger and Pooh" that was in some language that sounded to me like a cross between French and Japanese - turns out it was Thai. Do I score some points for making him more cultured?) The summer is young. We'll see if I can manage to do more good than harm.

Taking time for me

I recently read the phrase that being a mother is the toughest job you'll ever love. So true. I've written many times about how unprepared I was for the unexpected challenges that stay-at-home mommyhood entails. While the job is gratifying and I am incredibly lucky to be able to do it, it has got to be one of the most emotionally, not to mention physically, exhausting jobs you can do. Whether your child is acting sullen, hyper or anything in between, Mom must rise to meet his needs. On any given day, you could be called on to diffuse one or many temper tantrums, be puked on, or have your child blow his nose on your sweater. You just never know. OK, it sounds like I'm complaining, but really I just mean to say, it takes a toll.

Ever since I began staying home, I've found myself in an odd position. It's hard for me not to earn money, to fail to contribute to our household in that tangible way. It feels wrong sometimes to buy Mark a gift with money that I haven't actually earned. And while I'm married to one of the best guys of all time, who reminds me all the time that I contribute plenty and that it's silly for me to think of it as "spending his money," the feeling remains. I think that's why it's been hard for me to justify taking time for me.

Last year, after I had faced a couple months of insomnia, I decided to see a counselor. We quickly zeroed in on the fact that anxiety mostly was responsible for my sleeplessness. (I know - surprise, surprise that I'm an anxious person!) One of the things Mary, my counselor, encouraged me to do was take more time for myself. Get a baby-sitter, put the kids in child care for a few hours a week while Mark was at work. I was, to put it mildly, resistant to this idea. How could I justify spending money on child care - it's my full-time job to take care of my kids. Are other stay-home moms bad for taking a couple hours for themselves during the week? my counselor challenged me. Well, of course not, but ... Mary actually assigned me homework: take some time for yourself. I fudged, I did it as minimally as possible. I finished up my counseling sessions in the fall. I still hadn't done so well on my goal of taking more me time.

Slowly, I began to take some steps. I brought Paul and Gus to drop-in care at the Y for an hour a week while I took a class. To my surprise, both have done great with it. Gus, in fact, loves it. I took my mom up on her offer of watching Gus while I went to the grocery store on Wednesdays. It felt good, very good. Then on Friday, for the first time, I brought Gus to drop-in at the Y while Paul was at school and went and did something completely frivolous: I shopped by myself. I practically skipped out of the Y.

I always understood, at least intellectually, why taking a break is good. We've all heard this before: a happy mom is a good mom. Well, it turns out it's true. It was hard for me to be that good mom when I was going around with a near-empty tank all the time. Taking a few hours for me can make a world of difference. For a couple bucks, I brought Gus to the Y for child care. He got to play with other kids. I got two glorious hours of silence and unencumbered wandering around stores. Priceless. Mary would be proud.

Groundhog Day

This time of year is always hard for me. January feels like the longest month ever, so even though February still is part of the doldrums of winter, I'm eager to flip the calendar to a new month. Around Feb. 2 each year, I also love to watch the movie Groundhog Day. Of course it makes me laugh, but more than that, it's utterly relatable, I love its message, and it puts me in just the right mood to face the rest of the cold winter that lies ahead.

In the beginning of the movie after the confusion wears off and the caustic and self-centered Phil Connors realizes that he's doomed to keep reliving Groundhog Day, his first instinct is to live it up a little bit. He has some flings, he steals some money. The novelty of that soon wears off, and Phil winds up depressed. No one can understand the hell he's living, and he offs himself in many and varied ways - all to no avail. He always wakes up to the sound of Sonny and Cher at 6 a.m. on Groundhog Day in the same insipid B&B. Finally, Phil decides he will become a better man. If he's stuck repeating the same day ad infinitum, he wants to make something more of his life. I'm a sucker for redemption, and this part of the movie always gets me.

Even if you're not Phil Connors and living the same day over and over again, winter in Wisconsin can make anyone feel that they are. Invariably, when winter has really only just begun, I'm already feeling cooped up, ready to go out of my mind if I'm stuck inside one more day. After my dose of Groundhog, however, I'm trying to remind myself that I'm really not stuck. Undeniably during this time of year, it's more challenging to overcome inertia, but I have options. I may not take this winter and learn to play piano and carve Andie MacDowell's likeness in ice a la Phil Connors, but I can take the boys sledding, take a walk, make some popcorn and hot chocolate and watch a movie with my family.

At the end of the movie, Phil offers what will be his final commentary on Groundhog Day: "When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

I may never feel that warmly toward winter, but since I'm stuck in it, I want to try to make the best of it and recognize its beauty.