I'm Finally Ready for a Weekend

It's Friday night and I've wrapped up another day, another week, with the girls with the same mix of elation, exhaustion and frustration that I feel I end almost every day.

I did manage to put a balanced meal on the table. Of course, that doesn't mean they ate it, but at least I tried. I can prove that by the piles of dirty pots and plates, the macaroni dropped on the stove top and squished into the edges of the high chair. That I'm hungry three hours later is as much a testament to the fact I can't even focus on a meal when I prepare one as it is to trying to fix what they will eat instead of what I might want.

In fact, the kitchen isn't the only disaster area. The playroom is wall to wall toys; the living room has caught the overflow, much of it towed by the baby as she wandered back and forth and shifted gears from one room to the next -- a slobbery Duplo block, an escapee from the Little People zoo, a bit of macaroni that was stuck to her pants; the new work table (handily crafted in Pinterest style from the old crib) has already been decorated with crayons and two kinds of glue.

The day has passed like most others. I spent the morning grooming and bathing dogs -- no walks today due to the weather -- writing my blog and trying in vain to find a web hosting site that works well so that I can create my own domain for it. That's followed by the girls' arrival and a brief flurry of early activity punctuated by lunch and on milder days some outdoor play. In the afternoon we have naps that may be ushered in quietly or by threats of bodily harm for E2 and the baby and on some days E1 as well. While they rest, I do kennel duty again, with E1's help on days she doesn't sleep. Sometime along the way I grab a necessary cup of coffee or two, then Papi's home, naps are over and it's time to fix dinner.

Three nights we leave before dinner for activities -- mine or the girls -- but the night's we're home we've started doing crafts after dinner. That's another challenge for me (coming up with something, I really enjoy the process) but a quiet activity that lets the working man of the house retire since his 10-hour workdays start early.

Regardless of the day, or the week, we never get done what I hope we'll get done. I'm always undone by the diverse needs of three very different little girls at very different points in their development. Whatever achievements I manage with one, I usually feel I've neglected the other two and just trying to keep all three safe, fed and suitably rested on some days is a balancing act I feel lucky to manage.

I'm frustrated not only by my inability to do what I would like to with them, but my inability to successfully meet their expectations. E1 tends to have high expectations of miracles from Ma -- and my successes, which this week included a weighted blanket that seems to help her sleep, are often dimmed by my shortcomings as she cannot understand why it takes more than one day to make the crocheted turtle pillow we've agreed on. I'm frustrated because even though we are learning tools to help E1 handle her SPD, I have trouble remembering to do them, or finding time, or convincing her to participate, and I don't feel like I know enough to be a real help sometimes. I'm frustrated by not being able to be perfect and create memories that are flawless in my mind, because I know that the moments and even life are so ephemeral.

I'm elated when I do manage to accomplish anything -- the blanket for example -- and that we did, in fact, construct a pompom caterpillar on Monday night and tonight we did cutouts of their hands with a heart in the center. They were quite nice when decorated with glitter glue. Then E2, practicing with scissors (another mess entirely) cut off one of her fingers -- not her own, but the construction paper hand. I'm elated that I fixed a meal and that E3, at least, was willing to try everything on her tray and ate well, a true accomplishment since at 11 months she refuses to eat from a spoon so only finger foods work for her, although her definition of a finger food is broader than most. I'm elated when I make it anywhere on time, most notably to my exercise class, Awana, and their gymnastics. I'm elated when we have a positive night at gymnastics, because sometimes dealing with a handful of little people through nearly two hours of classes stretches my last nerve.

I'm exhausted, not just by the energy demands of three little girls, but by tending to my kennel, which even when slow as it tends to be this time of year requires time and care to operate smoothly and when busy, well, that's another big demand entirely. I'm exhausted by the fact that sleep seldom comes before 11 p.m. and sometimes midnight and I'm awake and heating coffee before 7 a.m., although lately I've managed to not be up before 6 o'clock. I'm exhausted by the emotional toil the last month has taken on me and my family and my relationships and inner peace. Some days, I'm even exhausted by this blog, although most of the time I find it therapeutic to unload whatever is on my mind.

So it's Friday night and the house is quiet. My Lab is barking and howling at some sound apparently only he can hear in the front yard, but only the clicking of the keyboard breaks the silence inside. It's time to turn out the lights and turn down my brain, but I'm not yet ready to relinquish my hold on the day.

Instead, the musings of a former coworker and friend who blogs about her own small child, (Anarchy in the Sandbox) have reignited the pain I feel for a lost little boy, and her dreams for her daughter made me revisit the dreams I once had for him. Instead I sit at my computer, a mental picture of him hovering behind my eyes and tears on my cheeks, as thoughts of what I lost do battle with fresher memories of slender wrists and toothy grins, tearful entreaties and gleeful celebrations, and "Ma! I love you" shouted and whispered at random times through another simultaneously tiring and priceless day.

It's Friday, and for most of two days I'll be Angela or Sweetheart, friend or lover, dog sitter or classmate. But behind all of those identities, I'll still be Momma to my daughter and my lost boy and Ma to three little miracles, even if like a super hero, I'm not always dressed in my special snot and sticky-hand covered wardrobe.

Now enough of this. For the first time in four weeks I don't dread the weekend and the lack of distractions it brings. I've got a turtle to crochet and a house to clean before Monday arrives. I need to get some rest.

Remembering The Woman Who Defined Ma

Eight years ago today my Ma Mary, who had been sick for much of the summer but rallied in the fall, got up, had breakfast and coffee, and sat down in her recliner with her husband of more than 60 years in his chair next to her. They were going to go lie down again, but she wanted to catch her breath.

She'd had surgery and was dealing with the effects of Type II diabetes and glaucoma. She was worried that she was having trouble getting around on her walker and didn't want to get to the point that she couldn't.

A few minutes later Pa looked at her and she was gone. He later told the preacher, "She was just smiling cause she knew she'd beat me."

Like she tried to do most of her life, Ma managed to get away without a lot of fanfare. Always in the background of family pictures, unless you snuck up on her or corralled her, Ma didn't want the spotlight. Losing her, however, took the nucleus out of our family so while she never looked to be in the center of it all, she was exactly that.

When I was growing up, Pa and Ma lived across the rural road from us. Pa was the easy one; Ma a bit tougher (gee, that sounds familiar). He would take us to the store for chocolate milk and goodies. Ma was always busy cooking, cleaning, working in her garden (where we loved to run the rows of towering corn), sewing shirts at her textile plant job. She made my dolls the most awesome clothes and salvaged my much beloved "Susie" doll when her body rotted after years of loving and neglect. The dog that was set out nearby and that we claimed chose to live at her house with her dog.

As we grew up, it was always Ma who would give you the unvarnished truth, whether you wanted it or not. You couldn't pull things over on Ma, and she was far less trusting than Pa. She was always the family's best cook and in many ways most progressive thinker. She had the first color TV, the first artificial Christmas tree. We never left her house hungry and she made the world's best mashed potatoes, stewed beef, chicken and dumplings and chocolate pies. If she had none of those things on hand, she would always offer you a cheese sandwich and my lasting love of pimento cheese sandwiches, grilled and dripping, comes from her. Her chocolate pie recipe is a family treasure.

There were probably many times during my younger years when she wasn't my favorite grandparent. The truth isn't always what you want to hear. There were probably times I avoided talking to her so I wouldn't get a good dose of it.

Yet, when I became an adult (not a magical number but a state of maturity), I would have to say it was Ma I looked up to the most. Ma was the one I wanted to sit with and talk to. Ma was the one with the best hugs, the best ear for listening, the best things to share.

I'd give about anything for one of those good, soft hugs now. I'd love to sit with her and catch up on everything she's missed. I'd love to spin her a tale about my week and watch her smile and listen to her laugh. I'd love to hold her hands again.

When she died, Pa's heart, like the center of our family, was gone as well. There was nothing we could do to pull his interest back to our world. He woke at night to hear her call and see visions of angels and Mary. I didn't wake, but I dreamed of her regularly. Neither of us really believed they were dreams, because in them, I knew she was gone. Once she had my dog, Lucy, who had died a few years earlier and who adored my grandparents, with her. I remember hugging the dog and wanting to hug Ma.

Shortly before Pa died just under 11 months later (the day before my birthday), Pa fell and was hospitalized and largely unconscious. I stopped having any "dreams" about Ma and haven't had one since. Somehow, I think, she was waiting on him.

So when I became a grandmother, although my name was supposed to be Mimi, I considered it nothing short of an honor that E1 chose, simply out of the blue, to call me Ma. (No one had selected that title so no one had been referred to by that name.) It was like a gift had been handed to me. I got to be Ma, with all luggage and honor that came with it.

While my ma didn't have the freedom to keep me (she still had a "real" job when I was small), she was always willing to have little people around when my children were born. I'm betting they found the same no nonsense Ma I did, and I'm afraid my little people are dealing with the same.

I hope that if I'm not always their favorite grandparent (and Lord knows when Papi comes home, I'm apparently not) that I can give them the same gifts Ma gave me. I hope I can fill their hearts with love and memories, their tummies with recipes they'll want to pass on, their heads with honest advice even when they don't want to hear it.

Every time one of them randomly spouts "Ma, I love you," my heart just about breaks with joy, especially when we're doing something as random as loading the car to go to church and I feel like I've not been the ideal Ma because of some disagreement earlier in the day. I hope I was able to give Ma Mary that same joy, and a part of me know that I, my brother, and my cousins all did.

So, although I cannot hug or converse with Ma any more, she's not gone. She's still in my heart and a very important part of the Ma I am every day. That's who I want to be to my little Es. The person that, when I'm gone, they remember with the love and gratitude I feel for her even today.

I'm Jealous of the Other Grandma

I'm jealous of the other grandma.

Not every day mind you. Most days I'm quite happy with my role as the everyday, hands-on grandma.

But on a Friday at the end of another long week of mealtime debate, sisterly squabbles, diaper blowouts, and relaying three little girls from my house to other destinations, when the two oldest girls are excited about an overnight with their other grandma, I have to be honest. I'm a little jealous.

I know if she were being honest, she's probably jealous of me sometimes as well. I know if the roles were reversed I would be. It's nothing against her, because she's a wonderful nanny. It's just that she's more the grandma I would have expected to be, the cool nanny, the fun nanny.

Yes, I treasure my time with three little girls and there is a lot to be jealous for in my week. It's not all tantrums and potty trips and meltdowns (usually theirs) and who really slapped who. There's a lot of time just to soak up watching three little girls learn how to be sisters and play together, a lot of warm hugs and sweet sticky kisses, a lot of "I love you"s.

But sometimes there is so much it overwhelms me. Squeezed in among the things we have to do on a day to day basis and the schedule of meals and naps and taking care of my own business, the things that I always imagined doing seldom take place.

But when I stop and take a deep breath, I realize I'm not really jealous of Nanny either. Like me she fills a totally unique spot in the lives of three little girls that we both love. Because we are unique and different women, we balance one another. Between the two of us, we should be able to provide guidance and a good role model whatever kind of young women the girls grow into.

The other grandma that I'm really jealous of exists only in my mind where the perfect grandma lives. She no more lives in Boone, where Nanny spent the evening dealing with a wild boy in addition to two little girls, one of whom didn't sleep well, than she does at my house. My jealousy isn't directed at her, it's all about not being, every day, who I'd like to be and when I let it, those expectations for grandmotherhood can be quite depressing.

That other grandma is full of endless patience. She never loses it and throws away the crayons just because they've been broken into half inch pieces and poured out on the floor for the baby for the umpteenth time. No, she comes up with some clever craft and melts them into window hangers for her grandchildren.

She never says I can't when one of her grandchildren asks for anything. No, she finds some way to do it or convince the child it doesn't need to be done. And I'm sure she would never let the baby cry to be picked up because she had her hands full doing something else.

She prepares a healthy, colorful, tasty meal for every occasion that the children sit down to eat. The children, of course, eat it without getting it all over them or complaining, because the food is that perfect. She never relents and feeds them a lunch of pepperoni slices, cheese, crackers, carrots and baby food for dessert because they're hungry and she is going to cook a real meal for dinner. She never despairs because those crackers are eaten in tiny nibbles like a mouse, leaving them everywhere. She doesn't have to wonder if they are eating enough.

The other grandma entertains the older children with some wonderful craft every day and the children never color on the windows, or use markers on each other, or put glue in their hair.

If she feeds her grandchildren cookies for snack, they're homemade and fresh from the oven, every time. And the children help make them without throwing flour all over the kitchen or fighting over who gets to add the next ingredient.

When potty training, she never has to suppress the urge to treat them like a puppy and, just once, rub their nose in it. She's endlessly patient and knows exactly when a little one needs to make a potty stop. She never scolds a child who has been potty trained off and on for using her panties again. I'm sure she wouldn't let that child take a shower and clean herself up, even if that was finally the concept that made it all click for her.

She never has a dirty house, a harsh word, or a jealous thought about anyone either.

She never finishes a day tired and feeling vaguely guilty that she wasn't all she wanted to be for the three most precious people in her life.

But maybe, just maybe, she doesn't load a baby into a backpack and take three little girls and a kite into a dirty tobacco patch where they don't manage to fly the kite, but between the dirt and the kite's antics they're all entertained and happy for a while in the wind, and tired and dirty later.

Maybe she doesn't have a kennel full of dogs and let the 4-year-old help feed them and clean cages, because that might make a bigger mess than it eliminates. Who am I kidding? There will be food everywhere and at least one argument about who carries which bowls and feeds who.

Maybe she doesn't know to tell them about the different kind of tooth marks they find in an apple, or the tracks on the side of the road. Maybe they wouldn't go for walks in the woods and get scratched and dirty and carry leaves and nuts into her perfect house. Maybe she would avoid having to say no to carrying a preschooler, by not putting herself in that situation.

Maybe there's a lot her perfect world doesn't embrace as well, because it's too messy or just not part of her experience.

So when I find myself being jealous of the other grandma, I'll take a deep breath and remind myself that my granddaughters' other grandma isn't her either. That the other grandma who makes me feel less than what they need exists only in my head and not in theirs.

Whatever our successes of failures, we love the babies in our lives and the grandmas they have are perfect just as they are. Both of us. And even on bad days, when I've lost my cool or felt like a failure, there are moments of sunshine and forgiveness in a little girl's smile.