Thankful

It’s been an entire week but I’m still recovering from Thanksgiving -- the hustle-and-bustle of going to three different family celebrations; the resulting three Thanksgiving meals; and the long (although very much appreciated) nearly five-day weekend. My work let us out at noon on Wednesday and we of course got Thursday and Friday off as paid holidays. I enjoyed every second of getting to spend time with my family, but boy do those long weekends make for a tough Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday. And today was kind of rough too. How long do I get to ride this out?

Our holiday was very enjoyable, although very, very different for me than it had been in years past. This was the first Thanksgiving since I have had children (nearly five years) that I didn’t have at least one of the girls literally pulling and tugging on me the entire time. Up until this year there had always been bottles to give, diapers to change, tears to wipe, or needy babies or shy toddlers to coddle. No, that doesn’t sound like fun. In fact, at the time all of that exhausted me, but it also gave me something to do at these gatherings. Like my daughter, I can be shy around those I do not know very well. Ever since I had children, however, I never had to be concerned with that anymore. My kids kept me too busy and distracted to be worried or concerned with what to say to whom.

Not this year. In years past, as I stated, the girls clung to me at extended family gatherings. This year, my outgoing two-year-old just isn’t a needy infant anymore and my four-year-old has broken out of her shell. At my husband’s brothers’ Thanksgiving gathering, my girls have six or seven young cousins who attend, all between the ages of three and six, most of whom are girls. They all just had a wonderful time running around, playing together, being cute. Neither of my girls found their way into my lap all night.

I found myself sitting in a chair, trying to figure out what the heck to do with myself. It was almost as if my girls had already flown the coop and I was an empty-nester. Silly, I know. My girls are only two and four; they aren’t going off to college. It’s just at that Thanksgiving celebration, in that moment in the chair, I came to the sudden realization of how much my girls have changed in just this past year. It is a huge adjustment when you have spent your existence catering to the needs of your little ones and you start to see the very first signs of that need beginning to wither away. Don’t get me wrong, a big part of me is happy to have a small bit of freedom back, but another part of me can’t help but feel sad. Poor Laur. Queue the violins.

That said, I am so proud of how much my girls have grown in the past year and the strides they have made. Recognizing their growth and watching them start to come into their own motivates me to do the same. To find myself again. The individual. The woman. The wife. Who is also a mom. So of the many, many things for which I am thankful this year, I am thankful for that.

Lost

Last week was Crazy Hair Week at my daughter’s dance school. I rushed home from work so that I could do her hair up as wildly as possible. When I arrived at my parents’ house, she was holding her head and said her brain hurt, which is four-year-old-speak for a headache. She said she was hungry, so I gave her a snack, the “brain-hurt” passed, and I proceeded to do her hair in an enchanting samurai style.

About halfway through her class, her teacher started to take measurements of the dancers for the end-of-year dance recital. I noticed my daughter was starting to hold her head again and would occasionally get a scared look on her face. I could tell the “brain-hurt” had returned and she was trying her very best to play it off as if it didn’t; she was too embarrassed to speak up. She then got a terrified look on her face, and the teacher noticed as well. I went into the room and as soon as she saw me, she started to cry, saying her brain hurt. Her teacher quickly finished up her measurements, commented that it was so unlike her, that something must really be wrong because she never complained.

I swept her out of the class, quickly changed her shoes, and rushed to get her and her little sister ready to leave, all the while her screams were growing louder and more frantic. In the midst of all of this chaos, I realized that I couldn’t find my keys. I knew I had put them in my coat pocket, but they weren’t there. I searched my purse, my pant pockets, her dance bag, her coat pockets, and the surrounding area. My daughter was becoming inconsolable, crying that she wanted to go home, to please make her feel better. I have never lost my keys before and of all times for this to happen, it had to be in the midst of my daughter being sick and in pain - a time when we really needed to go home right away.

My dad was with us, so I asked him to bring the girls outside while I searched the lobby for my keys. It was a nice night out, so I thought the fresh air might help my daughter’s headache. I retraced my steps throughout the entire dance school, but there was no sign of them. The dance class was now being let out, and all of the mothers started helping me comb the school for the missing keys. I went back outside to check on my daughter, who by this time had become so upset that she threw up all over my dad! I went back inside and bought a cold bottle of Coke for her, thinking 1) that if hunger was the culprit, the rush of sugar might do her good; 2) that I could use the cold Coke on her forehead to help the pain; and 3) that the fact that she was allowed to drink Coke was an incredible treat for her since she normally is not allowed it, so I it might distract her from her pain and the fact that we couldn’t leave yet. It actually worked! Within a few minutes, her screams stopped and she was back to happy daughter. The Power of Coke!

By this time, the entire school had learned what was going on and became involved, tearing the rooms apart in search of the keys, but they were nowhere to be found. The only thing I could imagine had happened was perhaps the keys had dropped out of the pocket in my coat, which had been slung over a chair in the lobby, and had fallen into another dancer’s bag that was lying underneath the chair. The lobby is full of dancers’ clothes, coats, dance bags, and that was entirely possible.

Regardless, the keys were not to be found, so I called my husband to bring the spare set. He was a good 20 minutes away. When he got there, he insisted on doing what we all had already done, go through the school, ask around, check the parking lot, check our bags, all to no avail. At this point, I would have been horrified if we had found them on me or in our things after all of the trouble everyone had gone through to help us!

We eventually all arrived home, safe and sound. I threw my coat over our kitchen chair and suddenly noticed a hint of a red pen hanging out of the small chest pocket of my coat - a red pen that looked exactly like the one that is attached to all of our key chains. This small pocket is one I hadn’t even remembered I had – it’s more of a faux pocket, just for show. I pulled the pen out of the pocket, which of course was attached to a set of keys to my car.

I dangled them in disbelief in front of my husband and said, This is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?

My husband shook his head no, in a paternal I-so-cannot-believe-you-did-this look.

So I repeated, Seriously, tell me this is the extra set of keys you just gave me to drive home, right?

Without words, he walked over to our hutch and picked up the extra set of keys that I had just used to drive home and dangled them in front of me.

With an embarrassed chuckle I said, If you breathe a word of this to anyone at that school, I will kill you!!!

He said that when he arrived at the school, he wanted to immediately re-search my clothes, purse, and pockets, but he knew that it would anger me for him to second-guess something I said I had already done. His plan was to wait until I went to bed, and then he was going to re-search all of my belongings. Well, apparently he was right to have thought that way!

In my defense, it was incredibly chaotic with my daughter screaming and crying in pain, and I truly never, ever use that pocket. I stand by my contention that the keys fell out of my usual pocket and someone stuck them in the normally unused pocket for me! That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, dangit!

Regardless, I wish that were the end of my tale in regard to lost items that were never really lost this week. Just days later, I realized that a daily prescription that I always keep in the outside pocket of my purse was missing – a routine prescription that costs me a whopping $53 a pop. I searched for two days for this missing prescription – I searched places where I thought it might had fallen out of my purse - my car, the drawer in my desk at work where I keep my purse, my parking spot and driveway, all again to no avail. This morning, as I was getting ready for work, I removed my wallet from the main part of my purse, and lo and behold – there was my prescription – right there in my purse.

That makes two items in less than a week that I had “lost” that were really always pretty much where they were supposed to be to begin with. I wish I could say my mind was.

Birthday Funk

Last Thursday I celebrated my 35th birthday. Since that day has passed, a few friends have reminded me that I am now officially closer to age 40 than 30. Does that depress me? Not really. It's hard to be upset about a number when I have all that I have in my life: a nearly perfect husband (I kid you not), adorable and healthy children, a new house, a good career, alive and well parents. What’s there to complain about? And it is just 35. C’mon.

Sure, I don’t have the rockin’ tight body I once had as an avid kickboxer, thanks to two c-sections and a hectic work and kids’ activities schedule that makes the prospect of going to the gym inconceivable to me. And yes, grey hairs have suddenly taken hold of my once thick, jet-black head of hair, forcing me to pay an unreasonable amount of money to my stylist to avoid the Italian skunk look. And sure, my once taut face is starting to show a few fine lines and evidence of one too many days in the sun when the thought of aging (or cancer) never entered my precarious teenage mind.

No, none of that consumes me because I am exactly where I wanted to be at this point in my life - and then some. I can always join another gym, pay a hairstylist, and buy extra moisturizer and sunscreen if those things bother me. I’m truly blessed for the life I have. I know that.

So, why is there still this small nagging part of me that is annoyed by Father Time this year? And at the still tender age of 35?? Is it because my husband and I decided this year that we wouldn’t have any more children and I’m sad about that? Is it because my husband had to work a crazy on-call schedule the week of my birthday, causing it to go uncelebrated, and I felt neglected? Is it because I'm starting to notice that my husband (who is younger than I am) is growing more attractive, distinguished with age, and I feel like I'm just getting older (and thus feeding into society's unfair view of aging men versus women). Am I dancing around it all and I really am narcissistic and worried about the grey hairs and the lines around my eyes, things I have never had to deal with before? I think a little bit of all of that has put me into a bit of a birthday funk. But it doesn’t consume me. Really.

Mama Bear's Claws

Last week my four-year-old went to the Halloween party at her dance school. She was so excited. She got to wear her Pocahontas costume, put on glittery gold eye makeup, and give and receive treats to her fellow dancers in the school.

We got there a little early, so we hung out in the lobby with the rest of the kids that go to the school, who range in age from three to over 18. As soon as we arrived, I noticed that a girl, who was at least 12 years old, was glaring at my daughter. She was staring at her, sizing her up and down, with a nasty scowl on her face. I had never met or even seen this girl before, but I didn't like how she was looking at my daughter. After a few minutes of her rude looks, she stomped over to us, hand on hip, and said in a very nasty voice to my four-year-old, Are you supposed to be Pocahontas? Like it was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever seen.

My daughter looked terrified, so I piped in with a slightly defensive, Yessss.

Then she all-knowingly and nastily responded, Well, Pocahontas doesn't wear shoes!! She then pointed down at the cute moccasin boots that came with my daughter's costume.

The happiness and excitement that had been so expressive on my daughter's face ten seconds earlier immediately drained from her entirely. She looked like she was going to burst into tears any second. It took every bit of maturity in me to retain my composure and remind myself that this snotty little girl was just that and I was the adult here, but the truth is I wanted to rip her hair out. I mean, c'mon. My daughter is only four, and here this 12-year-old insisted on knocking her down, breaking her heart, just because she could.

In that instant, I suddenly became terrified of the years to come. This girl's behavior gave me just a small, small glimpse of what my girls, and therefore I, am in for over the next 14 years and beyond. Girls can be so cruel and mean, and their words to their peers have such incredible power over each others' emotional well-being. Often moreso than their own family unfortunately. I can barely stand to think about the heartache and drama that my girls will undoubtedly have to face at some point.

What's equally terrifying to me, however, is how I'll handle these difficult situations when my girls have been hurt by a peer. If I'll be able to keep my Italian, tempered mouth shut. I know that being protective of your child is entirely natural and necessary, I just worry I err on the side of being overprotective sometimes. I think this stems from my childhood (doesn't everything?), particularly the relationship that I had with my little brother when I was a child, and to some extent still today. Our father is 100% Italian, but my brother inherited more of the Italian skin and coloring than I did. In the summer, his skin gets incredibly dark. This became a source for teasing by other kids, and he was often called the "N" word by the nastier group. I cannot tell you how many full-fledged fights I got into with other kids over my brother as a result. He was and is so easy-going and mild-tempered. Someone would call him that name or similar ones, and he'd let it roll off his back. I am not so easy, especially when it came to my little brother. If I heard anyone pick on him in any way, it tore through me like a raging fire. I would drag kids off their bikes if they dared to shout out a slur of any kind to my brother. Boys, girls, older, younger, it didn't matter. I eventually outgrew the physical scuffles, but a negative word about me and mine never went unchallenged verbally by yours truly. No way.

So when I saw this girl, who at 12-years-old should know better, being carelessly cruel to my little girl, I felt that protective surge all over again. Except this time, as the adult and mother, I of course held back. But it's so not in me to hold back. The fighter, the protector, the Mother Bear in me instinctively wanted to go on the verbal attack with this girl for threatening one of the cubs. It's how I felt, but of course I know better.

The best I can do as a mother is step in appropriately when it's called for and give my girls the skills and confidence to stand up for themselves and each other; but perhaps just as importantly, I remain committed to raising girls that are not these emotional bullies who are out to cut down everyone in their path.

Cute or Disturbing?

I normally do not post pictures of either of my children, but because she is in costume, full makeup, and a wig, and thus unrecognizable, and because I want to demonstrate that the disturbing characteristics of a clown can permeate even into the sweetest of beings, behold my daughter, dressed as Jo Jo the Clown:

Cute? Or Disturbing?

Now as the temporary clown's mother, I have to (and will say honestly) that I thought she was adorable (and this is the first time I have ever been able to honestly say anything remotely positive about a clown). During Halloween, I was completely ok with my own daughter embodying the character that absolutely terrified me as a child. But this morning when I downloaded the pictures, I felt very unsettled in looking at the photos. Instead of being a big step in my coulrophobia recovery, I think allowing my precious two-year-old daughter to dress as a clown caused a major setback. No Ringling Bros tickets this year.

The past two years we had been spoiled with unseasonably warm weather on Halloween. We were able to enjoy our annual Halloween-ie Roast outside, while the kids ran amuck. This year, it drizzled all day long, which forced us to bring our normally outdoor party indoors. My husband, the trooper that he is, had to dodge raindrops as he grilled and we partied. Gotta love him.

It ended up working out for the best because it inspired me to transform our basement into a haunted house of sorts for the kids. I hung flashing scary eyeballs and pumpkins on the walls. I cut up Halloween tablecloths into long, large strips and hung them from the ceiling for the kids to pass through. We have a large playhouse in the basement and I covered that with Halloween decor as a haunted house within a haunted house. And of course we played the requisite scary music. All in all, easily 20 children and their parents came by and a fun time was had by all.

Every year, my good friends hand out candy while my husband and I take the girls trick-or-treating, which for us normally only lasts a half-hour or so. My toddler was done with trick-or-treating within a block, so I had to carry her the next couple of blocks. All 32 pounds of her. Those high-heeled, knee-high boots turned out not to be the greatest idea. My four-year-old, on the other hand, sprinted from house to house to get her loot. At one point she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, let out a blood-curdling scream, and ran for Daddy's arms. I thought that maybe she had seen a scary Halloween costume. Perhaps the Grim Reaper? Dracula? A clown? Britney Spears (the Federline years)? Nope. It was merely a dog. A dog dressed up as a princess. I would think the princess garb might have won her over to the canine-loving side, but no such luck.

We spent the next hour or so handing out Halloween candy, and this was my husband's favorite part of the night because he got to perform as Shrek for his girls. And boy does he love to perform.

As each group approached our house, he would exclaim, What are you doing in my swamp??!

If a group of Disney characters or the like were in the mix, he'd state, Attention all Fairy Tale Creatures...

For a good bit, he was eating a meaty bowl of chili while he passed out candy. He often pretended to pour some of the "stew" into the kids' trick-or-treat bags.

He saved his Shrek belches for only those neighbors closest to his heart.

I did recognize that several groups came by our house more than once. Was it because we give out mac-daddy treats? Or was it because of the fascinating entertainment?

After all was said and done, we went through four Sam's Club sized bags of candy. Four. I would bet no less than 200 kids came to our house, the great majority of which were under the age of eight. We live in a new development, and probably 100 homes went up just since last Halloween. It is frightening to think that if the majority of these families remain in our neighborhood over the next five to ten years, all of those kids will be teenagers in our neighborhood at the same time. That is my idea of hell, especially since two in that mix will be ours to worry about. That is one concept that scares me even more than clowns. Because, of course, I was never, ever an unruly, obnoxious teenager. Never ever.