peevish mama

Four Monkeys by Andy Warhol 1983

It’s one of my many New Year’s resolutions. I’m sitting here in the sunroom on a sunny, frigid Sunday morning and I hear a rooster. Why do I hear a rooster? To my knowledge, we don’t own a rooster. But such is life with little kids. Now they are fighting. Apparently rooster sounds are annoying to the non-rooster types in the family.

When will I not find a plastic chicken drumstick under my pillow? When they are grown. When will I not find pink socks in my coat pocket? When they are grown. When will I stop catching rejected mouthfuls of food in my palm? When they are grown. When will I not have to clean the banana smoothie I just made out of the radiator? When they are grown. When will my phone be where I left it? When they are grown.

When will I get to stop doing giant mountains of laundry? When will I get to stop cutting up apples? When will I stop impaling the soles of my feet on the legs of plastic horses?  When will I stop reminding practice piano, brush your teeth, grab your lunch, hat, coat, backpack, clarinet? When will I stop hearing “mommy” a million times a day?

When they are grown. Which I most definitely do not want. Not yet. So I will embrace it. All of it.

I imagine most parents hope their kids will turn out to be better people than they are – that any weakness or shortfalls we see in ourselves will be smoothed over and overcome by our progeny. I never really thought about it until I had a kid who consistently blows me away with an optimism, a kindness, an energy, a fearlessness and an ease that I don’t recognize in myself. Many days, I am awestruck by my Supergirl. I think, how can this girl be mine? How can I take a page out of her book? I don’t know anyone who spends any amount of time with her, who doesn’t kinda sorta fall in love with her. She’s just a cool little chick – as cool as they come, but as sweet as the day is long which is why she’s so damn irresistible.

To my intrepid little tomboy, wise and confident and brimming with joy: Happy Eighth Birthday, my love. You will always and forever be my best Christmas present ever. I love you more than words can say.

So, as I type, Saint James is down in the basement playing a game of FIFA 11 Wii soccer with Doctor Dash. I saw this coming over a year back, but they really are two peas in a pod. Depending on which of them has been working, sleeping, or at school they will spring sports scores, news of injuries and awesome header goals on each other. I can see each of them savoring the piece of news, waiting to tell the other. They speak in code, as far as I’m concerned. It’s not that I couldn’t understand, it’s just that I don’t have room in my brain for the ups and downs of the fortunes of the Patriots, Barcelona and the Celtics. Every morning, Saint James sits at the laptop groggily walking in Doctor Dash’s internet footsteps from a couple hours earlier. Does that much happen in the sports world during the night, I wonder? Why is the ESPN NFL power rankings the last page opened every morning when I sit down at the laptop after the kids have gone to school?

On Tuesday, I ended up with a few hours alone with Saint James, and I wasn’t about to fritter it away on errands. Months ago, I had heard tantalizing rumors of some mythical Hmong barbequed pork belly somewhere or other – essentially, bacon to the nth degree – and my salivary curiosity was peaked to say the least. I knew I had to track it down and there was no better sidekick than my newly ravenous, bacon-obsessed boy. A swift google search yielded the name of one of the only Hmong restaurants in the Twin Cities and it sounded intriguing, so we set off. I may not be able to talk who’s getting traded by which team, but an intrepid drive deep into St. Paul in search of a hole in the wall Hmong restaurant to sample their pork belly for lunch? I’m your man.

We forded giant snow banks to get in the front door of a nondescript strip mall on University Ave and felt like we had stomped our boots out of snowy Minnesota into Southeast Asia. The tinny sound of a radio, a little boy running around with a stick and a mouth stained blue from a candy filched from his parents’ store, a cluster of older Asian folks drinking tea in what appeared to be a video store, and more kids chasing each other all greeted us as we shuffled through the hallways in search of Destiny Cafe. The restaurant is bright, airy, full of plants and packed with Hmong families at lunch time. Saint James surveyed the scene, took one look at the glass case of glistening meats at the front and whispered this is awesome!

We spent the next hour feasting, and I mean FEASTING, on a savory meal of vibrant purple sticky rice, a seafood stir fry with the most amazing greens and salty delicious sauce, and the mother of all pork dishes, the barbequed pork belly. I’ve had pork belly before and I thought it was just really thick bacon, but this had more actual pork on it, a layer of crispy fat and then a crackly caramel colored crust. Seriously, you guys, Saint James and I were in hog heaven and in between happy mouthfuls we managed to agree that snow days are good, that Asian kids are super cute and that we have to take the rest of our family to Destiny Cafe, like, PRONTO! I must go back and try the steaming bowls of pho that everyone seemed to be favoring on that cold day. And more of the pork belly of course. And those greens. Sweet mother, those greens! But most delicious of all was my stolen time with Saint James and the knowledge that as long as I’m willing to take him somewhere tasty and he’s willing to follow, all will be well in our world.

Destiny Cafe is located at 995 University Avenue, Saint Paul, MN  (651) 649-0394

It has begun. Saint James has jumped down the rabbit hole once and for all. He will emerge fully grown, taller and bigger than I ever imagined, utterly transformed from the scrunchy baby with the face of a boxer I held just yesterday. It has begun. When a child is growing up under your nose, you cannot possibly see the daily change, but there are certain points when the growth is palpable, obvious and crushingly bittersweet. The transition from tiny, tenuous newborn into unbeatable smiling buddha. The jump from toddler to big kid, seemingly overnight some time in the fourth year, when the baby fat melts away to be replaced by long legs, pointy scapula and verbose swagger. And now this. This.

It seems like forever he was the same. Maybe taller, in need of bigger shoes from time to time, but essentially the same. Always hovering around the 60th percentile, Saint James wore the same swim trunks from the age of 5 to the age of 9. Any time I tried to buy a new pair, I’d have to sew a little gather to make them smaller at the waist. My first clue that the winds of change were stirring the trees outside our house was when he ate five pieces of barbecued chicken one night earlier this fall. I could practically hear the latches of his stomach unbuckle to reveal a cavernous secret compartment. All of a sudden he was foraging for cereal after dinner, grabbing a banana on the way out the door, tucking into heaping bowls of pasta and then asking for more. All while I held my breath, giving him searching looks, bracing myself for what was coming.

And then he started to grow. Up and out. His hands are bigger, his face is bigger. His voice isn’t changing but he seems to be pulling it out of a lower spot in his chest. He still tries to climb in my lap when I’m on the computer but he’s really, truly getting too big. I can barely see over his shoulder. My legs start to fall asleep. He pokes me with his knobby elbows. Not that I would shoo him – no way. I will be the scrawny mouse with the giraffe in her lap as long as he’ll let me. I could be gasping for breath under his hulking boy mass, and I would still welcome him with open arms.

I can feel myself doing that thing that mothers do, staring at my kid just a moment too long, searching for the end point, the future, my heart thumping in fear, in joy, thinking: impossible, but true.

This morning Supergirl and Saint James were perched at the laptop while I got their breakfasts together when I heard Supergirl say Hey, google pole dancer! Even in my undercaffeinated state of grog, I whirled around with a snap. What? What? Everyone FREEZE! I blame my yelling “freeze” on the fact that Doctor Dash and I just finished watching Season 2 of The Wire last night. I may even have pointed a frozen waffle at their foreheads, but I holstered it pretty damn quick. The two of them actually kind of look like each other when they are giving me “the look.” You know what I mean. The look you might give a monkey dressed in bell bottoms and a fake beard running around with a butcher knife – like, is this funny or is this serious?

Me: WHY do you want to google pole dancer?

Supergirl: (with eye roll) Just to look at one.

Me: WHY do you want to look at a pole dancer?

Supergirl: I don’t know. pause pause. I like them.

Me: What? Why? WHAT? WHY? Why do you say you like pole dancers?

Supergirl: I don’t know, you know. And here she hops off the stool and starts doing a little soft shoe number and jazz hands in her pajamas, singing da na na na bum bum de bum pum . . .

Me: Are you tap dancing?

Supergirl: Ya, like those peanuts who wear suits. They dance with a pole.

Me: There’s only one of those guys. And that’s a cane.

Supergirl: Same thing.

Me: Not at all.

When the glorified futon in the sunroom becomes known as the BARF LICE COUCH, it is high time to kick it to the curb. Good riddance, I say. Although BLC will be missed . . . by one small person, which, I suppose is appropriate, it being her barf and all.

Hope you all got down with your bad selves, on what is, arguably, the BEST night of the whole year.

I think we’re in the clear, but I say that as I knock on wood with all the knuckles of both hands and feet. That’s TWENTY knuckles, mother fuckers! It is dangerous to underestimate the louse. You need to go in hard. Like a psycho. And you need to keep at it, day after day, like a psycho marathoner. Endurance is key. I think Doctor Dash would agree that I was indeed a psycho last week, and as I breathe my first few tentative sighs of relief (With the wood knocking! With the wood knocking!), I realize that this battle was not without its casualties – namely, my sanity and the signature blond pouf.

How else can I explain the fact that I paid $22 for a hard cover book called 100 % Official Justin Bieber: First Steps 2 Forever: My Story? I was at the bookstore buying this, when Supergirl approached clutching the Bieber tell-all to her chest. I totally don’t want this at all, she blurted, but (Devil Baby) would want this so bad. What is it with my children and their inability to admit love for the Bieber? I can totally admit I love Justin Bieber. So far Devil Baby and I are the only ones who will come clean, but I know there is more love for that young teen nugget in this house. I know it. Since I am understanding and benevolent and INSANE, I said If you read it to her, I’ll buy it. And now we own it. If you want to borrow it, just let me know. I should be done with it any day now.

Further proof that I have lost my mind? I can’t stop buying accoutrements for our new Halloween Spooky Town that I’ve set up in the dining room. WHAT is my problem? These Lemax collectibles are NOT MY THING. In fact, before the lice, I would have sworn on my life that NO collectibles were my thing. But look at me! I have been to Michaels three times looking for the Dreaded Zeppelin with the mechanical spooky blimp that spins around. I want it. I want it so bad. I HATE Michaels, with its smell of cinnamon, vanilla and craft-loving old lady – it’s like Mrs. Claus is  standing in front of a fan and waving her skirt at us. Bluh. But the collectibles are all half price, you see? And, well, the kids are only young once and they love our Spooky Town, right? And I really do love Halloween. So, so, so much. And also, I am not well. Not well at all.

And if it weren’t enough that my sanity is gone, gone also (and arguably more tragically) is Saint James’ signature blond pouf. Panicked with having to pour through several pounds of hair (this family has A LOT of hair), we asked Saint James if we could buzz him. He acquiesced rather than submitting to hours of my nitpicking and sighing and belly aching and now he looks like this:
Beautiful, no? But you know me and my unhealthy love for THE HAIR. This is the first time in his life he has ever had it short and lately we had a good thing going because he and I sort of banded together on the hair thing and we would shut down Doctor Dash whenever he suggested a haircut. It wasn’t just me loving the locks – Saint James loved them too! And I would say to Dash with a cavalier swish of my wine glass, Oh, please, who cares about hair? Respect the lad’s wishes. He’s entitled to have an opinion about his own hair. Let him be. Let him be. La-di-da. Di da. Who cares about hair . . .

Although he looks like a handsome devil and I can see the soft skin on his temples for the first time in ten years, I am bereft. I know hair grows but something tells me he’s going to like it this way and that I’m not going to see da pouf around these parts for a very long time. If ever. So let’s take a moment to say our good byes to the golden pouf. I thought better of putting together a montage set to music for fear it would seem strange, so I leave you with the pictures below. The golden pouf was in rare form a mere two weeks ago at the NSC Cup – extra golden, extra poufy, barely contained by the gigantic bandana. Sigh. Good times . . .

At this time last week, I was a naif. A rube. A foolish, frivolous little woman. I did things like cook and read. Sometimes I went to yoga. Ha, ha, heh, heh, YOGA! Imagine that. Sometimes I even watched shows on TV. Oh, and I did all sorts of other indulgent stuff like open mail, look out the window, shave my legs, and eat yogurt. One time, I even shopped for boots online. I looked at a bunch. It took a while. What an indolent innocent, I was. What a fool.

Little did I know that in a matter of hours I would discover that something sinister and foul, tiny and insidious, had crossed the threshold of our home and taken up residence in the heads of the people I love the most. That’s right. Believe it. We had – I can’t even say it. We had . . . cough cough . . . it rhymes with mice. Oh, I’m not ashamed. It’s everywhere right now. No. I am SHELLSHOCKED. I have never worked this hard in my life. My hands and nerves are raw and cut up. I am battle weary, bone weary, way past the point of sceeve and reason. I am angry. I am wrung out and scarred.

I am exhausted.

And yet, though it defies belief, I discovered that it is possible to love your children more than you did. There is still unchartered territory in the heart, more room to step into, to turn around and look from a different perspective.

It is a simple truth: when you look at every hair on your child’s head, you love him or her even more.

Now excuse me while I go dig an underground swimming pool in my back yard, fill it with vodka, and jump in. Whether or not I put cement blocks on my ankles, I have yet to decide.

Thanks to a fortuitous bit of timing, I was able to meet The Wishing Tree Lady yesterday and she couldn’t possibly be more lovely. But I just as easily could have missed her, had I lingered at home just a bit longer. A little bit of kismet, I think. We were all comfortably ensconced in the backyard after school, enjoying this gluttonous string of fantastic weather: Supergirl on the monkeybars, Saint James drilling balls into his rebounder, Devil Baby sweeping leaves, Doctor Dash and I sipping adult beverages. I wasn’t going anywhere, except that earlier, I had promised Supergirl I would take her to the wishing tree after school and she was holding me to it. I decided we would make a break for it, just the two of us, but Devil Baby got wind of our plans and insisted on coming. I sighed, looking longingly at my wine and my chair. Forget shoes, just hop in the car, let’s go, quick.

When we got there, there was a cluster of people around the tree, including a woman cutting down the wishes. There were no more paper tags. Supergirl’s eyes filled with tears and she started walking back to the car. I called her back. Surely there was a way for her to add her wish. The woman with the scissors found a couple blank sides that Supergirl could reach to write on. It’ll still count, I whispered. I waited for Supergirl, reading more wishes and listening to the gentle chatter around me. A man who had apparently stopped to ask about the tree and ended up helping to cut wishes handed me a pair of scissors: It’ll help them come true if you help. He smiled and continued on. Maybe so, I thought. I held the scissors in my hand and looked around. The sun was setting over Lake Harriet, Supergirl was reading wishes, Devil Baby had made a friend (a cute little dark haired boy who turned out to be the Wishing Tree Lady’s son) and suddenly there was no better place in the world to spend the next ten minutes. I started to snip. So, is this your project? I ventured.

It turns out that the wishing tree is part of a bigger project, specifically, The Hokey Pokey Project, which The Wishing Tree Lady, also known as Deb, also known as Mrs. Hokey Pokey (to me, anyway), has undertaken with the simple goal of making people smile. Every week for one year, she will pull together some cool thing in a public space to that end. She’s doing it for the smiles, but also to teach her children “that they can be a source of joy for friends, acquaintances and strangers . . .” My God. Can you imagine what this world would be like if we all did this? She calls it a “modest” project, but when you think of the implications, the symbolism, it’s huge. Especially now, when everything can seem so bleak. And if you think of the ripple effect, there is no way to know how this could turn out. I am smitten by the concept of putting something into motion which then takes on a life of its own.

As for the hundreds upon hundreds of wishes, Deb says she wants to spread them out on her sidewalk, count them and read them. There are at least 400 but likely many more because when the tags ran out, people started writing on the backs of tags and even on leaves. Incredible. She promises they won’t be thrown away but she’s still not sure what she’s going to do with them. Maybe they’ll resurface in some way shape or form as the Hokey Pokey Project evolves. Check out her blog and keep your eyes peeled for more joy to come.

And if you have the good fortune to meet Mrs. Hokey Pokey, make sure to thank her.

This morning when I opened the lap top after the kids had gone to school, their last google query popped up. It said: is t.i. in jail again? In case you were wondering, not that you were wondering, the answer is yes. Yes he is.

And to my children, with your plaintive little google search and Cindy Lou Who eyes: best you figure it out now, T. I. is a thug. You can like him, you can like his music, but he’s a thug. Come to think of it, I think we need to talk about jail too, because all jails are not like the one we saw on the side of the road in Wisconsin when we went hiking. That jail looked kinda nice, right? All those prisoners sort of milling around, enjoying the sunshine in comfy chambray shirts – it almost looked like a picnic for carpenters or something. That’s not what jails are like. Not at all.

Sometimes I think raising kids is all about minor corrections in misperceptions. But I’m definitely guilty of being an over-corrector. I think there is some benefit to letting them muddle about in confusion to a certain degree. They don’t need every little thing explained to them, do they? Maybe, in some cases, we just let them figure it out. Maybe going to jail twice speaks for itself.

And a chestnut on the sidewalk? Sometimes that speaks for itself too. There is nothing – no acorn, no sock, no stuffed animal, no rock, no Barbie – that can remain in St. James’ path without him having to kick it. And kick it again and then try to dribble it. I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. The other day he was kicking my brand new t-shirt with the tags on across the floor of my bedroom.  When I yelled at him to stop he looked surprised – like I had interrupted him while he was shredding thru Real Madrid’s defense. On Sunday he kicked a dog turd that was lurking on the sidewalk and got it all over the front of his new indoor soccer shoes. As he dragged his toe on the grass to clean it off he sheepishly admitted he had kicked it on purpose. Nasty? Check. Hilarious? Check. Lesson? Check. Now he knows that just because it walks like a chestnut and talks like a chestnut, doesn’t mean it is a chestnut. You just can’t kick everything in your path. But damn, over-corrector or not, had I seen that chestnut, I never would have let him kick that chestnut.

So I’m driving Devil Baby home from preschool and she says: Oh… My… God… Mom. We got popsicles for Reed Sprinkle’s birthday and it was, like, sooooooo amazing. For whatever reason, I lowered the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse. Maybe because she sounded so old and tweeny, to settle the incongruence between the voice and the face. Or maybe because she was amusing me. Or maybe it was that Reed Sprinkle that caught me. Reed Sprinkle? Whatever the case, without thinking, I lowered the mirror and there we were – framed together in a small telling rectangle. Belied by her words, her face is still the face of a baby – creamy round cheeks and shining eyes. I, on the other hand, well, not so much.

It’s odd to catch a glimpse of yourself live, especially next to the poster child for youth. There is something unsettling about seeing yourself when you’re not looking at yourself – like those video cameras in stores that you don’t know about until you see yourself, shockingly haggard, on a grainy monitor. But these surprise sidelong glimpses must represent the truth, no? At least more of a truth than when you actually look in the mirror, sending alarm bells to your unconscious which mercifully calls forth teams of tiny men in pastel leotards with “denial“ calligraphied across their taught rumps to leap about our minds unfurling long bolts of gauzy sheer fabric to soften the blow and shroud the truth. Right? Am I right?

Reality bites. But what was I supposed to do? Keep staring at myself in scared awe, rear-ending the car in front of me, essentially pulling a Narcissus, modern minivan mommy style? No, I smacked that shit shut. And I turned my attention back to Devil Baby, because what can be more important than a little girl talking like a big girl and the road unfurling before us both?

I’m not sure when it happened or how it happened, but we have become a soccer family. We started out doing the sweet recreational soccer teams at the parks with Saint James when he was four, one thing led to another, the boy fell hard for the game, and we followed him over the abyss like a family of lemmings. Until now, it’s been all about Saint James. Supergirl also went through the parks’ soccer programs and we tried our best never to let on that her games were in any way less important or fun to watch as Saint James’, when truth be told, they were. As the Minneapolis United boys’ legs grew long and strong, as their feet got as quick and nimble as fingers, their games have gotten to be really really cool to watch – nail biting, heart wrenching, and beautiful. Her games were cute and itty bitty in contrast. We scarcely noticed how good she was.

Supergirl came out of the gate knowing what to do. Where Saint James’ first couple seasons had Dash and I shrugging our shoulders and painfully joking to each other that maybe sports weren’t going to be his thing, what with all the break dancing and donkey kicks he was doing out on the field, Supergirl was focused, aggressive and coordinated. Sure she had spent countless hours on the sidelines, arguably picking up the rules of the game, the point of the game, but she never appeared to be paying attention. She was always in a tree or running around with other younger dragged-along siblings.

This year we asked her if she wanted to try out for Minneapolis United. She would be playing up by a year, but since Saint James did it, we figured she should have the chance. She thought about it for days and days. Playing MU, assuming she made a team, would mean saying goodbye to playing with her guy friends on the park team. It would mean more practices, winter training – just more soccer. I got the sense that she was hesitant to try-out because she didn’t want to commit to all it entailed. There was also a little bit of fear – fear that she wouldn’t make it at all.

Consistent with her ability to surprise us at every turn, she made the top team and her fate was sealed. She was proud. And she was playing MU. I watched her first game on Sunday, and I don’t know if it was the fact that I was alone (Dash and Devil Baby were at Saint James’ game across town), the fact that it was a spectacularly gorgeous day, or the fact that I was feeling a wee bit fuzzy around the brainy bits after a late night, but I felt about ready to weep at the sight of these girls going at it as hard as they were. We played Plymouth, who were all giant blonds with matching head bands and backpacks perfectly lined up along the sidelines like menacing black tombstones. We got creamed. But our girls played with so much heart and sweetness and toughness that I could scarcely contain myself.

Girls bring such a different energy to their sports. They hesitate just a titch too long if someone takes a tumble. They say sorry after collisions. They talk to their parents on the sidelines if the play brings them close. But make no mistake, they are no less intense. No less fierce, no less swift, graceful and powerful. It’s just different and as much as I adore watching Saint James’ team play, I am beside myself about these girls. Go girls! Go!!!

This is my kind, my ken, my kin.

And I cannot wait – I simply cannot wait – to see where this goes for my Supergirl.

Or maybe it should be Last Best Chance. Regardless, I’m obsessed with summer’s passing and all the “lasts” that it entails. Maybe because autumn has come upon us so quickly and quietly, like the whisper of a turning page. Yesterday I was biking around the lakes and it occurred to me that I should take the kids for one last plunge. The thought naggled me throughout the day, but truth be told, I didn’t really feel like putting on a suit and going for a swim. At all. But the thing about a last chance, is that it’s just that. Hesitate, procrastinate and you’ve missed it. So I said to my kids: will you guys do something nutty with me? Arguably six o’clock in the evening when it’s 67 degrees out is not optimal swimming time, but in a few months this lake will be a white block of ice and it will be 70 degrees colder. And when it is, I’ll remember floating on my back with the waning sun in my eyes on a beautiful September night.

What are your “lasts” for the season? Do them. Do them all.

Truth be told, I kinda sorta LOVE the first one. I may blow it up and hang it in the living room.