I Get By with a Little Help from My Friends

I belong to, arguably the oldest union in the world, “The United Federation of Moms.”

I was a probationary member the day the stick turned pink, but was issued my permanent card 14 years ago when I had my first child. I held my beautiful baby boy in my arms and became a proud member.

Whenever I'm facing a particular pesky parenting problem with one of my children, I fall back on the safety of my fellow members.

Mom: Why can’t I have ice cream for breakfast? Why can’t I jump off my bunk bed into 20 pillows? Why can’t I go without my hat and scarf during a blizzard?

I have found the quickest answer to be, “It's against union rules.” Believe it or not, this works most of the time. 

My relationships with other mothers has, and continues to be, vital to my sanity as well as my parenting.

Who but another mother knows what it feels like to love somebody so much you feel like your heart is going to explode?

Or be driven so crazy by the same child that you find yourself singing “brush your teeth and go to bed” to the tune of “Jingle Bells,” just because you're getting tired of your own voice and you need a little variety.

When I had my first child, Tom, we had recently moved to Queens from Manhattan, and I found myself a little isolated, caught between the world I knew and a world I hadn't completely accepted.

After four miscarriages, I finally had the most perfect, beautiful little boy known to mankind. I retired from my office job and was now a stay-at-home mom. I was thrilled, but I was also lonely. I missed the city and the daily interaction with my co-workers. The long hours my husband worked seemed endless, now that he was one of the few adults I had to talk to.

I needed friends and I needed them fast.

In those first few months, I used to joke that I felt like a single woman cruising the bars when I would go out searching for mom friends. I would walk through my neighborhood in Queens looking for women pushing strollers.

I joined a gym, took a baby-and-me swim class, and went to the library, but I had little or no luck. I might strike up a conversation with a mom or two, but they usually were on their second or third child and had an established group of friends. They were friendly and polite, but I didn’t feel I belonged.

My first year home, I went to my local Dunkin’ Donuts so often that the people behind the counter bought my son a Christmas gift. He still has the stuffed bear.

I still remember the day I met Debbie. She was walking to Dunkin’ Donuts, and I was on my way home. Our eyes locked, and it was kismet. We looked in each others carriages, joked about our lack of sleep and exchanged numbers. That was the start of many coffee, I mean play-dates, quieting and entertaining babies.

Soon after I met Debbie, we met a few other moms and formed a mother’s group. Our union local was born.

We cheered each milestone our children reached and worried when there was a problem. We saw each other through sleepless nights, trips to emergency rooms, speech delays, and the Terrible Twos.

The other day I was looking over some pictures from Tom's first birthday party, and there we all were. A group of extremely tired, but very happy moms. We were sitting in my basement that was decorated with Blue’s Clues balloons, holding our babies, and feeding them their first tastes of pizza and cake.

Eventually we moved from Queens. It was really hard for both me and a two-year-old Tom to leave the safety of our friends who had become so important to us.

But time moved on, and so did our friends. Our families expanded, the children got older, and soon schedules were filled with preschool and other activities. Time together got less and less frequent. New friendships were made, and new alliances were formed.

This Wednesday Tom graduates from middle school and will begin hIgh school in the fall. The other day I read a Facebook status that the oldest child in our group now has her learner’s permit. The babies that played in basements and playgrounds are now all teenagers who have little or no memory of each other.

But I will never forget them or their moms. I am forever grateful to those women and the memories I have from that very sweet time in my life.

I needed those friends to get me through the baby and toddler years, just like I need the friends I have today that see me through the fears and triumphs of the school years.

I am and will continue to be a very proud member of the United Federation of Moms.

Authors Note: The topic and main idea of this essay is from one of the very first posts I wrote for the dishwasher titled, The United Federation of Moms. It was first published in December 2010 when my blog was on Momster.com under the pen name, Blessed Mom of 3. I used it again as a guest post under my own name for the blog, Life As Five, in July, 2011. It then appeared on this site on January 19, 2012. The essay you read today has been updated from the original.

I Can Be Silent No More

Every now and then I have found myself in a relationship that stopped working for me but for the sake of members of my family I have continued to keep the offending party in my life. I’ll look to see what these relationships can teach me, see where I’m at fault, and do my best to change.

But today I have come to the realization that there are some things that just can’t be repaired. I can be silent no more.

  

Dear Peter’s Sneakers, Tom’s English Assignment and Lizzy’s DVD of a Christmas Story;

It saddens me to say this, but I can no longer handle you. Your constant need to disappear has reached a point where it’s no longer healthy for the rest of the family.

All day, the three of you have caused perfectly lovely children to cry, scream and fight with each other. Enough is enough.

First off, Tom’s English assignment, how dare you just disappear right before he needs to hand you in? Forget that Tom has known about you for a week and just realized the day before you’re due that the assignment sheet with the instructions is nowhere to be found. Don’t you have feelings? The life of a 14-year-old is hard enough without papers vanishing.

You caused an otherwise very rational, well mannered and happy boy to simply lose it. Did you not know how important you were for the world to continue to rotate on its axis?

You are irreplaceable. A call to a friend or an email to a teacher can not solve your disappearance. Personally if I ever see the words “English Assignment” again on a piece of paper, well, let’s just say, you should be afraid.

And, just so you know, we did contact his teacher and the idea Tom came up without you and worked on all day is perfect for his assignment. So as it turns out, you weren’t needed.

Lizzy’s DVD of “A Christmas Story.” Well, what can I say? For weeks, you have caused our very sweet daughter nothing but heartache. Did you not know you were her best friend and she does not know what she will do without you? For such a happy holiday movie, you have wreaked havoc on our otherwise blissfully happy household.

We have searched everywhere that a DVD could possibly be. Underneath beds, behind dressers, and even in the very unlikely places of two dvd players and the three cases we have that manage to keep all your other dvd friends perfectly happy.

Why, oh why, did you just leave your happy DVD case? If you were tired of her playing you every single night, couldn’t you have just told us? Did you need to resort to such drastic lengths?

I would like you to know that your services are no longer needed. Lizzy found three other DVDs. She likes them better than you. I realize that in a few days she might once again mourn your loss. But she is 11 now and is really leaning that if you can’t love the one you want, you can love the one you’re with.

And, now for Peter’s sneakers. What can I possibly say to you to make you realize how you ruined a very happy, charming little boy’s Sunday? (Not to mention the huge migraine you gave me.)

Do you know because you disappeared, he got into a fight with his brother and sister? Then he got sent to his room because everyone knows that you can’t hit people just because you are heartbroken over where your shoes are.

He also missed running errands with his father. That is just unacceptable.

I hope you know he almost considered leaving the house with his, (we know now) way too small dress shoes or his sister’s flip flops. I am glad you finally decided to show up after being missing for four hours. Peter is very glad to be able to visit his grandfather. But I am thinking that your days on his sweet little 8 year-old feet are numbered. Get ready for that big shoe bag in the sky.

Let this be a reminder to any other items that are thinking of leaving our house, or just as worse thinking of disappearing under a chair for a few hours. If you harm any member of my family, or cause me a mind numbing headache I will go after you. I have a blog and I’m not afraid to use it!

Sunday in the Car with Fran

My name is Kathy. But my mother, the woman who named me, has a habit of calling me Francine.

Now I know what you must be thinking, I have a sister named Fran, and she just mixes us up. This would make perfect sense. Heck, I’m guilty of mixing up all three of my kids’ names, and I have two boys and a girl.

But Francine is not one of my sisters. She’s my aunt. For some reason, I’ve never figured out, my mother always calls me by her older sister’s name.

This can get a little confusing, especially when all three of us are together.

“Fran.”

“What?”

“She’s not talking to you Aunt Fran, she’s talking to me. Mom, I’m Kathy. Your oldest child. You named me.”

“Very funny Fr... Kathy.”

Then we all start to laugh.

Today we were all together for a few hours. Oddly, not once did my mother call me Fran. I believe this may be the first time, ever, this happened.

Feeling a bit like a sprung inmate from my wonderful, but exhausting family, I had taken a ride with them to visit my aunt’s home and get a few of her summer clothes. My very independent aunt has been living with the comedy duo, otherwise known as my mom and dad, since she started her second round of chemotherapy in November.

Two months ago, her doctor said she was cancer free. Though she was still very weak, the hope was that her energy would soon return and she could go home. Perhaps even be able to go back to her job as a high school drama teacher.

Last week we found out that the cancer is back. She can not be alone.

As we pulled up to my aunt’s house, I could see all of Fran’s beautiful flowers. Gardening is a passion of hers, just like it is with my mother and me. I knew it was killing her that she couldn’t work in her flower beds.

It occurred to me that as long as I have known my aunt, this has been her house. This was where I learned to swim and eat with chopsticks when I was little. It was also a place of refuge when I was a teenager.

The free-spirited choreographer who always looked so graceful struggled to just get out of my mother’s car. The chemo had erased her dark curly tresses from her scalp. Her body, once lithe and graceful, moved slowly and cautiously. She was clearly worried about falling. She held on to the car, then shifted her weight to her cane as she slowly made it up the stairs to her home.

As my mom and Fran went through the mail and got what she needed, I sat on the couch that I remember helping her and my mother pick out years ago. I looked around at the Asian art and pictures of dancers on the wall and remembered how much I use to love to come here.

Her home always seemed much more exotic and interesting than the conventional decor of my parents’ house.

“Fran, three dresses? That is all you are going to take with you? Three dresses?” I could hear my mother’s voice from down the hall.

“Yes. This is all I need.”

Both women looked at me with frustration about the other.

I laughed and realized how different they were. To my mom, the clothes she wears and her looks are a vital part of who she is. Whenever I say I have somewhere to go, her first question is almost always, What are you going to wear?

My aunt has always been more comfortable in t-shirts and flowing skirts that allow for easy movement. Fashion has never been important to her.

I always wanted to be more like her. Free-spirited and committed to my art. It took a while, and enough money spent in therapy to buy a small house, to realize that as much as I admired her free-spirited artistic ways, I longed for security.

She has always made her living as a dancer, director, choreographer, and teacher. I left acting years ago in order to pay my bills. I worked in an office and then left work to take care of my children. Very different choices from the ones she made.

We took one more look around and left. But not before my mother made one more mention of the fact that three outfits were not nearly enough.

“Aunt Fran,” I said. “My mother will be on her deathbed, and she will ask me what I’m going to wear to her funeral and suggest what piece of her jewelry will look best.”

We both started to laugh as my mom got into the driver’s seat.

“Are you two making fun of me again?” she said, laughing.

“Yes,” we both replied at the same time.

As we left the house, I wondered if I we would ever get to come back as the three of us. Everything was up in the air. Would she try chemo again? Would she decide she has had enough? Nothing was certain.

“Fran, before we go too far, get your water ready and drink some. You’ve only had one bottle, that’s not enough.” My aunt looked back at me and made a face.

“Kathy is my sister making a face at me?”

I was very struck that my mother very clearly called me Kathy.

Mommy Makes The World Go Round

In my fourteen years of being a mom, I’ve had my share of tough questions.

The ones that induce the reddest blushes have to do with sex.

What is sex? Do you and daddy have sex? When do you ever find the time to have sex?  These are the tip of the iceberg in a long line of questions from my three kids that I’ve fielded over the years. Usually while we are all at the dinner table and my mouth is full of tea or pasta.

I will never, ever, forget the time our eldest child needed the complete, don’t-hold-anything-back, tell-me-right-now, explanation of sex.

We had already dealt with the basics of where babies came from. I always answered every question that was brought to me.  But every time we would get to the nitty gritty part, Tom would change the subject.

This day was different. He wanted the truth, the whole truth. Nothing else would suffice.

Of course this was also on a day that my dad was over.  I will spare you the details of our conversation, but let’s just say that five years later, I still haven’t completely recovered from having to explain ejaculation to my son IN FRONT of my father.

I give my dad extra points for remaining very calm and then patting me on the back for a job well done.

Some of the toughest questions I have had to answer have been about our beautiful 11 year-old daughter. Lizzy is beloved by her two brothers, but her brain disorder that still has no name stumps some of the top medical professionals in the world. How do I answer questions about what her future will be when I don’t know?

Being a mom means being prepared for anything. I get that. I am also fairly proud of my ability to appear calm and unfazed even when I’m laughing or dying inside.

But I have to admit that I was caught off guard the other day when eight-year-old Peter asked me if he really had to go to heaven one day, and if he did, could our whole family go at the same time.

“Can I at least go with Grandpa Warren?”

Peter has been struggling with life, death and what it all means.

He has become painfully aware that he only has one grandma.

My husband lost his mom when he was 12. Peter has figured out that if his dad’s mom can die when he was little, it could happen to him too.

My explanation that I am healthy, and that Grandma Josephine had cancer a long time ago before there were so many good medicines to help have done little to calm him.

What is heaven? Where is heaven? Can we all go at the same time?

Peter asked these questions as I was serving dinner.

I did my best to reassure him and let him know I believed heaven was a beautiful peaceful place where we would be with God and see all our loved ones who went before us. I said that it must feel comforting to think that we would all be together, and that even if we didn’t all go to heaven at the same time, I believed we would all be together again one day.

He smiled and he asked for a hug. I added that I really thought we were all going to be here for a long, long time. And I let him know that when I was little, I was worried about my parents dying and leaving me.

“But now they are really old, right mommy?”

“Oh yes, Peter, really, really, really old!”

As we were laughing at this I looked over at Tom, Lizzy and Peter and I realized that to the three of them, I wasn’t just an important part of their life, I was their life.

I am the filter that they see the world through. If they are scared, they come to me. If they are sad or not feeling well, or happy, they come to me. They adore their father. They love their grandparents, but it is me that has been their constant from the day they took their first breath.

All at once, I felt grateful, humbled and a little scared to be that important to not one, but three of the sweetest people on earth.

Motherhood is a strange job. The hours are crazy, the working conditions are not alway optimal, and the people that we work for can sometimes seem very demanding. I don’t always feel up to the job. Yet, on that day I was once again reminded that it is not so much what I do that means the most to my children. It is that I am there to do it. I may not be my ideal of the perfect mother, but I am theirs.

Twenty Ways to Deal with Writer's Block

Ever since I decided to go back to blogging on a regular basis, I’ve been plagued by a massive, dare I say epic, case of writer’s block.

For the last week, I’ve wracked my brain for a topic to write about.

Each time I sit down at my desk and look at my empty screen.

I went over past blog posts. I spent hours on Facebook, Twitter, and Pinterest trying to find an idea that would be worthy of an essay. And, just to be clear, all the hours reading social media sites was only for research. I did not enjoy doing any of these things. (I sense your doubt.)

No ideas were coming to me.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

 Finally at the end of my rope, I came up with twenty ways to get over writer’s block:

1.  Moan, groan and complain that you have nothing left to write about. Use a very dramatic voice for more effect. If you can conjure up some tears, it will totally add to the “poor me” effect.

2. Sit down and try to write again. Start and throw out 10 essays.

3. Ask all your writing friends for ideas on how to get over this annoying block.  Love the ideas about unplugging from the computer and walking away from writing. Hate the ideas about having to just sit down and write because if there is one thing you don’t want to do to get over your block, it’s write.

4. Remind yourself that your friends are talented writers, feel intimidated, quit writing, take up underwater basket weaving.

5. Spend some time thinking about whether or not there really is something called underwater basket weaving or was it just something your high school choir director would tell you would be your major in college because clearly you would never be good enough for anything else.

6. Go into kitchen where family is eating a late lunch and beg husband for an idea.

7. Get into argument with husband when he tells you that the only way through your writer’s block is to sit down and write. If you feel up to it, throw back in his face all you have done to help him over the twenty years you have been married.

8. Plead with all three of your children for an idea, any idea.

9. Dismiss the eleven-year-old’s suggestion of writing about princesses and the eight-year-old’s idea of writing about his deep fear of animals. Not because they are not good ideas, but because you have already written about them

10. Decide that you have exhausted everything in your life to write about and that you are a complete failure as a writer. You might want to throw in a few more minutes of deep self pity here, but that’s only a suggestion.

11. Get another cup of coffee.

12. Look around for a snack that is only 2 points with Weight Watchers because you blew 5 points on the chocolate that you swore would end your writer’s block. Sadly it did not.

13. Start to get not-so-secretly annoyed by 14-year-old son, who has clearly become too much like his father when he laughingly suggests writing about the “Harlem Shake.”

14. Now that husband is laughing along with son, go ahead and give the man a very dirty look. Make note of the fact that he gives son secret hand sign to let the poor child know he better quit teasing his mother because husband knows his wife and he knows that any minute she is going to eat her firstborn.

15. Go into your office, which is really just a small corner of the bedroom, and look at the blank computer screen. Again.

16. Change the radio station from the soft pop station to the one devoted to songs of the 70s.  Maybe listening to the same songs that you did as a child will spark a memory.

17. Listen to a song from Jim Stafford and realize that the song is about growing and smoking pot. Start wondering if your conservative parents knew what this song was about and if they did why did they let you listen to it when you were just a little girl?

18. Start thinking maybe you don’t know your parents as well as you think you do.

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19. Make mental note to mention this fact the next time they question your parenting skills because you let your youngest child watch Friends with you and your 14 year old.

20. When all of that fails to work, write an essay about the ways that you deal with writer’s block.

* I would like to thank the following amazing bloggers for taking the time to give me some great suggestions and support through my (very dramatic) hour of need; Faith of An Edible Mosaic, Gina of Totally Full Of It, Leigh Ann of Greeen 4 U, J.D of Honest Mom, Erica of Northwest Edible Life, Tara of Noshing with the Nolands, Nancy of Skinny Kitchen, Katie of Katie Neuman Photography, Alexandra of Good Day Regular People, Patsy of My Arms Wide Open, Pam of Momma Can and Laura of Find Catharsis. You guys are the best!

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When the Whole Wide World is Fast Asleep

It’s hard to believe but another Mother’s Day is coming to a close. I am now the very proud owner of a beautiful fingerprinted decorated picture frame from my 11 year old daughter Lizzy. A heart shaped wall hanging that my eight year old, Peter, made me and a lovely pair of earrings that my 14 year old son, Tom, picked out for me.

We had a fun day of being together, planting flowers and eating Chinese food. The only missing thing this weekend was a visit with my own mother. But, that will be corrected tomorrow when we meet for breakfast.

Becoming a mother 14 years ago changed my relationship with her in a way I never thought was possible. I now have a much deeper appreciation of who she was, and what she has given me.

I wrote the following piece last May under the title, In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning. It seemed especially fitting today. Thank you for letting me share it again.

Peace has descended on my happy home. My house has recovered from a full day of children running around, bouncing on beds and putting their hands all over the walls.

The air conditioner is humming, and I can hear the occasional creaks from a house that is well loved and well used.

No children are laughing, screaming or asking for bowls of cereal.

This is the time that dreams are made of.

Or more accurately, this is the time I should actually be dreaming, because everyone else is sound asleep.

Everyone but me.

I'm so tired during the day that I could fall asleep while standing with a cup of coffee in my hands.

My eyes have such black rings under them that it took me a whole two minutes to realize that it wasn't mascara underneath my eyes.

But I can't give up my midnight rendezvous with someone I don't get to spend much time with: me.

There is something about the middle of the night that is just too seductive for me to resist.

I don't have to worry about a call from a school nurse telling me someone is sick. No calls from my teenager, Tom, telling me that he forgot the book that he has to have for English class.

Not even a call from my husband, Joe, telling me his train is late again or asking me if we need milk.

All my chickens are present and accounted for.

I can breathe. A feeling of serenity comes upon me.

Some nights I just lay in my bed listening to music and the sounds of Joe breathing. Sometimes I catch up on a movie or TV show from the DVR.

But mostly I'm on the computer working or communing with other digital moms in blogger nirvana.

When I was growing up in the dark ages before computers and movies on demand, my mother used the hours after midnight to indulge her passion--cleaning.

As a young girl, I would go downstairs to get a drink of water only to end up scaring my mother half to death as she was scrubbing the kitchen floor on her hands and knees--too lost in her own thoughts to hear me approaching from behind.

My sisters and I bruised our shins more times than we'll ever count because we happened upon mom in the dining room or living room, with the furniture rearranged at 3:00 a.m.

I couldn't get over how much my mother was able to accomplish while we were sleeping.

I loved the times I would find my mother wide awake and engrossed in some household task. She would greet me with a warm, reassuring smile as she polished the silver or cleaned out the fridge.

She was a willing and captive audience. I could tell her about my day, or what boy I liked without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my sisters or a call from her office. I loved it.

My mother was a great sport about it. Never once did she complain that I was interrupting her time or make me feel unwanted. For that I thank her.

She might even deserve sainthood for it because now I know how precious the hours between midnight and sunup are for a mom.

As tired as I get and as much as I may regret my lack of sleep the next day, I love and cherish my nightly solitude.

The chance to think a complete thought without a seven-year-old Peter asking to join the circus is hard to give up.

I also love to watch my children sleeping. It doesn't matter what Tom said to me hours before that had me contemplating boarding school, or the screaming fit from Lizzy, my special needs daughter.

Or the endless, yet entertaining questions Peter asks. At that hour, they look like angels. Their beauty take my breath away.

Memories of little babies lying in my arms fast asleep after a 2:00 a.m. nursing come flooding back.

Back then, when exhaustion takes on a whole new level, I would use my second wind to just hold and rock my baby.

I would will myself to remember the feel of the weight of a sleeping newborn, or the sweet smiles of a six-month-old dreaming.

The time goes by so quickly, every day moving faster than the next. One day, sooner than I care to admit, I won't need the quiet of a sleepy house to recharge my spirit. My children will be grown and gone.

I guess I'll sleep then.

For now I will enjoy my peaceful sleepy house. And remember to buy a better concealer for those under eye circles.