Dear Lego

Does anyone else want to tell Lego to suck it?  Anyone?  I mean, really, I can’t be the only one who has experienced the painful whine of a child who’s Recently Put Together Over Priced Random Lego Set slips from his hands and crashes to the floor and falls apart in a way that a NASA engineer might have a hard time putting back together.  I can’t be the only parent who has proclaimed a sick sense of victory after finding an impossibly small piece of plastic shaped like some sort of weapon stuck in a sofa cushion just TO MAKE THE CRIES STOP.  And, please, I know I am not alone in the joy I feel when I may or may not accidentally vacuum up what may or may not be little Lego nun chucks.  Hey-I’m not the one who deserted them in the carpet.  It’s like you WANT me to destroy them. 

But recently, I got to thinking that hey...maybe these Lego Executives don’t know that people want them to suck it and just need a little feedback.  I mean, clearly, these people have no children and hate mothers, why would they even have an inkling that many people consider them the devil?  So, in the name of fairness, I have composed a letter to alert them of this fact.  

Dear Lego,
Well, aren’t you just so clever?  You know, back in the day I used to really like you, Lego.  A big box of colorful bricks just waiting for my endless childhood imagination to build magnificent masterpieces all of my own creation?  Heaven.  But that wasn’t enough for you, was it?  No no no.  You had to go and get all greedy.  You had to go ahead take over the world with your Harry Potter/Star Wars/Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles/Lord of the Rings/Lone Ranger Lego sets.  Even THAT wasn’t enough for you.  Oh no no no.  You THEN had to go ahead and CREATE TELEVISION SHOWS whose sole purpose is to SELL LEGO SETS.  I know you probably think you must be absolute geniuses to have thought of such a thing, but the truth is, you are going to Hell.  But it will be a special Hell, designed just Lego Executives.  In this Hell, you will rotate from one Lego Created Painful Experience to the next.  Here are some examples.

ONE: Standing in the Lego aisle at Target surrounded by tired, hungry Children unable to function as Normal Human Beings because Mean Mommy refuses to even entertain the idea of purchasing an $80 Legends of Chima Craggers Command Ship, hence- you have ruined their lives forever.

TWO: Standing in a room full of Children who’s Lego sets keep accidentally crashing to the floor, breaking into 327 pieces.  I think you know what happens next.  

THREE: Listening to two children fight over who gets to be ‘Ninjago’s’ Jay and who gets to be Kai.  This may not sound terrible, but don’t worry...it will be.  

FOUR: Losing eyesight while trying to find miniature Lego handcuffs that have lost themselves in a tub of let’s say....3567 other Lego pieces.  Good luck.

FIVE: Trying to figure out which step a Child missed exactly in the 400 page guide to Wakz’ Pack Tracker.  Was it step 8?  Step 98?  Step 47?  The only way you will ever know is to Start.Over.Again.  For eternity.

You don’t have to go to this Hell, Lego.  You can just...stop.  Stop.  Please, for the love God, stop.  It’s enough.  We get it.  You can turn this back around!  Just create moderately priced colorful bricks and let the Children take over!  I swear...their own creations are far more interesting than your Special Lego Sets will ever be because they did it on their own.  

That’s all I got, Lego.  I will now retreat back into my own special hell called: “DON’T TOUCH MY LEGO BATTLE SCENE IN THE PLAYROOM!”  I think I’ll just go ahead and close the door and pretend that it’s not happening.  

Sincerely, 
Gelato Mama

Four Letter Words

Let me go ahead and start out by saying that if you find muttering four letter words under your breath around your Offspring and/or maybe sometimes flipping them off behind their backs offensive, you should just stop reading this now.  Go ahead and have yourself a nice, curse-free day.  But...if you’re like me and often think to yourself, wow...my Children really bring out the F-bombing in me, then keep reading and maybe we should consider being Best Friends.  Now, if you DO find this offensive and are STILL reading, then I take no responsibility for your choice and think maybe you should lighten up a little and that you might be lying about the words you may or may not be muttering under your breath or thinking in your head during the more...trying times of child rearing.

Being a parent demands an enormous amount of patience.  It requires you to actually be an adult and remain an adult even as the most obvious solution to a six year old child throwing a tantrum better suited for a two year old child seems like it should be to also throw a tantrum.  All day your Children are testing you...daring you even...to just come on down to my level, Mom.  Come on.  Come down here and act like a total asshole with me.  It’s fun.  But...you can’t.  I’m the Adult, you repeat to yourself.  I am in charge. I must remain calm.  I am the Parent.  Oh, shit.  I’M THE PARENT.  So when you joyfully proclaim to your Offspring that it is time to go to Target and this announcement is met not with a Sure, Mom...I’ll get my shoes on...but with a Physical Collapse on the floor followed by a long soliloquy  about how their lives are so UNFAIR that they have to run ERRANDS and why are you so MEAN, you must, as a Parent, explain to them that it is summer and the majority of their days are spent playing and if they like to wipe their butts with toilet paper and drink those delicious yogurts they like so much, a trip to Target is necessary and I’m not asking you, I’m telling you, that it is time to get your shoes on and Get.In.The.Car.  

When clearly, what you really want to say is: Shut the hell up.  Get your damn shoes on.  And get in the fucking car.  And buckle the fuck up. 

But you can’t.

Because, as a Parent, you have to use Gentle, Firm Mom voice.  And surely, Gentle, Firm Mom Voice would disapprove of the truck driver living inside your brain.  Sometimes that Truck Driver wants to get out, but you have to keep him down....way way down...but just for fun, let’s explore what Truck Driver would say in daily, somewhat frustrating situations in the life of a Parent.

What I’m saying in Gentle, Firm Mom Voice:
Get out of the car please...come on guys...let’s get a move on.
Truck Driver:
Fucking seriously get out of the fucking car. I could have brokered a fucking peace treaty by the time it has taken you to slowly, tortuously, slide your body out of the damn car.

What I am saying in GFMV:
You know what, guys?  I’m not really in the mood to be jumped on right now.  Let’s find something else to do that doesn’t involve Mama breaking a rib.
Truck Driver:
Get.The.Fuck.Off.Of.Me.  I gave both of you my BOOBS for twelve fucking months.  Would it kill you to give me some PERSONAL FUCKING SPACE ALREADY?

What I am saying in GFMV:
Yes.  That’s what we’re having for dinner.  Eat it or be hungry.  Your choice.
Truck Driver:
MAYBE IF YOU LIKED TO EAT MORE THAN TWO FUCKING THINGS YOU WOULD NOT COMPLAIN ABOUT DINNER EVERY FUCKING NIGHT.

What I am saying in GFMV:
I’m sorry that you think you’re not tired, but it’s time for bed and you may not come out of this room again.  Good night.  I love you.
Truck Driver:
We just spent every possible damn second together today and now I need to have a very large glass of wine on the sofa and watch some terrible fucking television.  Good fucking night.  Go the fuck to sleep.  And I fucking love you so fucking much it makes my heart fucking hurt.

Of course, the most important reason to not speak to your Child like a Truck Driver is because you want them to feel secure and loved and after all, every day they’re learning.  They’re watching you, the Parent, to teach them how to be kind and decent.  But sometimes, every once in awhile, I wonder if they’re thinking, Damn, lady.  Can you get me my fucking milk already?  I only asked you like, 7 fucking times.  

And that, for whatever fucked up kind of reason, makes me smile just a little.  

Summer Fun

So, I’m not counting or anything, but I have approximately 13 hours of peace and quiet to myself until The Offspring are sprung from their school schedules and thrust into what is quite possibly the greatest time of a child’s life, while at the same time sends shivers down the spine of parents everywhere...yes...it’s Summer.  Now, I have to cautiously declare that after my first year of “real” school with my Kindergartner, I am kinda ready for summer.  I’m ready for a break from homework (Yes.  I need a break from Kindergarten homework.  Judge away.)  I’ll be happy to not pack lunches every morning and then washing those godforsaken little reusable containers every afternoon.  I can maybe relax a little over the next 10 weeks or so not thinking every day...what am I missing?  I must be missing SOMETHING!  I’m looking forward to lazy afternoons at the beach, exploring a few new museums with The Children and hitting the road for a couple vacations.  It’s kind of like I’m this little puppy dog, filled with fresh energy, my tail wagging with anticipation of all the FUN! and ADVENTURE! that awaits the Gelato Family.  Summer?  Bring it on!  

But who in the hell am I kidding?  We all know that in a couple weeks, maybe 10 days, hopefully not before a week passes, I’ll be thinking to myself: THAT WAS SO CUTE HOW I WAS ALL LOOKING FORWARD TO SPENDING EVERY WAKING SECOND WITH YOU and then I will cry when asked to play Monopoly Junior for the 72nd time that day and I’ll entertain visions of going to a JOB where I leave the Children with SOMEONE ELSE.  Every day.  It’s not that I don’t WANT to be with my Children, it’s just that sometimes I want to be somewhere else.  Alone.  

The other day, Son wrote a letter to his friends that he wanted to mail to them.  But instead of making a special trip to the store to buy a very large envelope that the “letter” would fit in and then going to the Post Office, GOD ANYWHERE BUT THE POST OFFICE PLEASE, I suggested we make the 12 block walk along the wood chip trail near our house to hand deliver the very special letter.  First, it took at least 17 minutes for Son and Daughter to get their shoes on.  Then, another few minutes to convince them to please go to the bathroom before we leave.  I know it’s fun to pee in the bushes, Son, but it’s not like we’re camping right now.  Then Daughter, in her eager anticipation to get the walk started, tripped and fell off the steps.  And cried.  A lot.  As she tends to do.  Once we settled down, we started off.  We made it about half a block before Son asked how much longer.  After one block and ten minutes, we made it to the trail and then made it almost 10 feet before Son stated complaining that he was getting wood chips in his shoes.  Oh, really?  And when I calmly explained that that is why I told him he should wear tennis shoes instead of crocs when we walk the trail, he not quite so calmly told me I was the meanest mom ever and he WON’T WALK ON THE TRAIL.  Okay, so off the trail we go and instead meander on a very narrow sidewalk which isn’t nearly as peaceful as the trail considering the cars whizzing by and my stress level heightened as I have visions of Son or Daughter slipping off the curb and getting hit by a car. (This is what Mothers think about.  It’s not so great.)  After that, Son walked into a telephone pole, Daughter fell again, and everyone’s legs were SO TIRED and HOW MANY MORE BLOCKS?  4 more blocks.  How long will it take?  Well, the normal equation is one minute per block, but at the rate we’re going, Son, we should get there sometime before dawn.  At long last, we arrive to the intended mailbox, fight over who gets to open the box, who gets to put the letter in, who gets to close the box.  And as I called Daddy to see where exactly he was and is there any way he can pick us up because I don’t think I can make it the 12 blocks home without going temporarily insane, my only thought was...THIS IS GOING TO BE MY ENTIRE SUMMER.

But, call me crazy, I’m still looking forward to it.  Because at the end of the day, when all is said and done and I’m snuggling with my kids before their goodnight kisses, there really is no one else I’d rather have test my mental stability.  

So...good luck this summer, Mama’s.  It’s always comforting to know that you’re not alone, isn’t it?

But for now...I gotta go.  12 hours left.

Crazy Love

In honor of Mother’s Day, I was thinking I should write something sweet and sappy about being a Mother to Son and Daughter and how they fill me with joy and wonder and my love for them is endless and how I couldn’t imagine my life without them and seriously, what did I ever DO on a Saturday before I had kids?

And all those things are 100% true.

But then last night, Daughter roamed around the house screaming for, um, you know, like two hours about, um, you know, I HAVE NO IDEA and Son was extremely upset about getting knocked out in Sorry even though we’ve played that game together maayybbee 100 times and each time we start with a disclaimer:  Warning-you WILL be knocked out in this game and it is NOT a reason to cry.  And Husband was out “networking” for the third night in a row and I was trying really really really hard to not have a glass of wine until 5 pm and I’m pretty sure I sent Husband a text that said something like “I hope those f*%&ing people are appreciating your f*$#ing time right now” which, in retrospect was probably kind of mean and unnecessary but at the time seemed perfectly reasonable and totally necessary because HE DOES NOT KNOW WHAT HE IS MISSING OUT ON and I thought maybe he would want to know.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to come home to a Wife that sends you such lovely messages?  And then, of course, there was dinnertime, which is always a joy and sends smiles down my spine when I hear those words “What are we having for dinner?” and I know...I know SOMEONE is going to complain about peas, or chicken or macaroni and cheese. (Yes.  Someone on this planet complains about having to eat macaroni and cheese and that someone is a shortish, youngish male who lives in my house.)  And then, ohmygod, how many more BITES do I have to EAT to get a TREAT?  But...you don’t get a treat tonight because remember when I was just being all Motherly an hour ago and WE MADE COOKIES TOGETHER and we ate all that cookie dough?  And a warm cookie from the oven?  REMEMBER?  But please, continue your emotional breakdown because it FILLS ME WITH JOY.  And then there was that lovely little ditty Daughter was singing in the bathtub at the top of her lungs.  I think it went something like this:  I I I I HATE HATE HATE HATE THE THE THE THE BATH BATH BATH BATH.  Those were the only lyrics and it happened to be a really long song and then I realized that I had no idea where Son was and when I found him, he was hiding in the top bunk playing with legos asking me- Why is She so crazy?  Also, I’m pretty sure he realized that Mommy could only handle so much crazy so he decided to shut up about losing in Sorry and just practice self preservation and very smartly played quietly while I chased Daughter around the house with a hair brush because the PAIN, oh the PAIN of hair brushing is apparently excruciating and oh my God pleasepleasepleaseplease let it be time for bed and how in the hell is it only 6:45 pm right now?

Tomorrow will be better, I told myself as I was finally able to close their bedroom door for the night and make my way to the sofa for terrible television and delicious wine.  Tomorrow will be better.  A mother’s mantra.

And tomorrow came.  And it started, as it so often does, with two pajama clad sleepy heads telling me to scoot over and I want to be next to Mama, no I want to be next to Mama until they are both next to Mama, 4 sets of arms draped over each other for a few precious minutes before the morning hustle begins.  Tomorrow is already better, I thought to myself as I inhaled the sweet morning smells of my Offspring.

So, dear Son and Daughter, on this Mother’s Day, I want to tell you that I love you endlessly, you fill me with joy and wonder, life is unimaginable without you and you keep my Saturdays and my every day full of...adventure.  (Although I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to sleep past 6:30 on Saturdays.)  Being your Mother is an honor for which I am eternally grateful and I am really really really  trying to not screw you up too much.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the Mama’s.  Enjoy that Crazy Love.

Boston

I’m so lucky tiptoe into my Children’s room at night and watch them sleep.  I’m so lucky to feel their breath on my face as I lean in for one more silent kiss.  I’m so lucky to quietly sneak around their room, turning off their bed lamps, leaving them in a quiet whisper of darkness as they tangle themselves in blankets.  I’m so lucky to be awoken each morning by the footsteps of Daughter as she makes her way into our bed to snuggle for a few precious minutes before announcing that, really, Mama...it’s time to wake up.  I’m so lucky to be able to get frustrated with my Children.  To put them in time outs.  To laugh at their jokes.  To listen to their extremely detailed stories.  They are mine.  And I love them more than anything.  The thought of losing them is so extremely painful that one must not think of it.

As I watch the coverage of the Boston bombings, my mind can’t help but wander, wondering if our city, our town, is only a news story away from being the next sensational act of terror.  Why couldn’t it be?  Why shouldn’t it be?  This new reality...this constant threat of lives destroyed by shameless terror attacks...is this the world my Children are inheriting?  As I laid in bed last night, my mind swirled with thoughts; dark thoughts.  I thought of all the places we go as a family where something like this could happen.  I wondered how we would stay together.  How we would survive.  What would we do?  The tears squeezed out from my eyes and I rolled over to ask Husband...what is going to happen?  How does this keep happening?  There is no innocence.  How can my Children live in this world when there is no innocence left?  He held me tight and let me cry.  I’m so lucky.

It seems almost cruel that in such times of tragedy and terror, we are reminded so much of the beauty and inherent goodness of humankind.  Strangers helping strangers.  People concerned more about the welfare of their neighbor than themselves.  How a nation that is too often divided and hateful to each other can still unite and put aside all of those differences to help lift one another up.  Don’t we learn from this?  When will we learn that we can always act in kindness and love?  To be patient and tolerant of those around us?  Can it last longer than a few weeks?  A couple of months?  How long before we argue about guns?  How long before we berate someone for being different from us?  For having different beliefs, different love?  How long?

As I woke up with my Children this morning and hustled them along in their morning routines, Son was enthusiastically explaining to me how some people live in space.  Can you believe that, Mama?  Some people live in SPACE!  Oh yes, they do, Son.  Isn’t that amazing?  And Daughter piped in explaining that of course there must be a mailman in space, too.  How else would those people in space get their mail?  I smiled and laughed and almost suggested that maybe their families on Earth would keep their mail for them until they return from space.  But then I thought better of it.  

Let them keep that innocence.  Just for now.  

Space Mailman.  Totally exists.  

God Bless you, Boston.   

Little Lessons

As a parent, I can feel intimidated with the responsibility of teaching The Offspring the basic lessons of life.   Lessons such as the golden rule of treating others the way you would like to be treated. I often wonder if I will be able to teach compassion and generosity. Will they be able to lose gracefully but also win graciously? I worry that growing up in an affluent community will make it difficult for them to realize that less is more and more is just...more.  But, most importantly, how can I ensure that Son and Daughter grow up to be Kind Human Beings?  I mean...isn’t that what we all really want?  Children who mature into healthy, adjusted Adults who aren’t douchebags? 

But these thoughts are quickly interrupted when I realize that, once again, Daughter has run outside to play with no pants on.

And I remind her, once again, that pants are...necessary.  

And...once again, I am reminded that as a parent, I am not only responsible for teaching Major Life Lessons, I also have to teach The Offspring that People Wear Pants Outside.  And: We Don’t Lick Our Sister.  Also: Please Stop Eating Your Shirt. And let’s not forget: Please Attempt to Appear to Live in a Home That Has a Bathtub and You Actually Use It.  Oh, you think that the desire to wear underwear comes...naturally?  No.  No it does not.  Neither does brushing your teeth.  Or not walking around with a rat’s nest on your head.  Mention the words ‘brush your hair’ to Daughter and she will react as if you just announced it was now time to pour hot lava on her head.  Hey...peeing feels good.  Try to do it more than once a day.  

These lessons...these daily reminders to behave and dress in a somewhat appropriate manner while respecting the laws of basic hygiene, are not the lessons I dreamed I’d be teaching my Beautiful Geniuses while they were growing safely inside my body.  I was dreaming of the big picture; the end result.  How they would be so funny and happy and successful and love to try new things and go on adventures and eat sushi. I didn’t realize that most days, the opportunity to teach Major Life Lessons would be in the tiny, minute to minute victories that sometimes pass by without you even realizing.  Keeping my cool instead of losing my mind.  Accepting 107th daily Go Fish invitation instead of doing the dishes.  Taking the time to give a neighbor or stranger a hand.  Because it’s only when you recognize yourself in your kids do you realize one of two things: Wow...do I really sound like that?  Or: Wow...I created that Little Human and he is awesome.

And let’s face it; being awesome trumps being a douche any day.  (And seriously-stop eating your shirt. It’s gross.)  

Losing My Marbles...

When I was a kid and long summer days loomed ahead of my siblings and me, we would stumble downstairs in the morning, the house emptied of parental figures who were off to work, and find a daily note from my mother with a cheery Good Morning followed by our list of To-Do’s for the day that needed to be completed before she got home.  Clean the bathroom, mow the lawn, vacuum the floors, dust the furniture, ect ect.  This was normal.  Expected. It wasn’t just a summer day of life, it was an every day of life.  Each night after dinner, we did the dishes.  We shoveled the walk of freshly fallen snow at 6 am on more than one occasion.  I spent many a spring and summer day with my tape player attached to my shorts listening to Kris Kross while making neat lines in the lawn with the mower. We raked leaves and took down storm windows.  For God’s sakes, we even painted our own damn house one summer.  There was no monetary reward for this.  There wasn’t an empty jar waiting to be filled with marbles for some sort of fantastical reward. We were a unit; a team.  You know what my reward was for cleaning the bathroom?  A clean bathroom.  (And in my 32 years on this planet, I have been forced to use some pretty awful bathrooms so turns out, this is a very good reward.)  

This whole Chore Chart/Marble Jar/Sticker System/ Reward  ThingaMaJiggy stresses me out. We did the Sticker System and lost the stickers.  We tried the Chore Chart and I would inevitably forget to mark down chores completed.  Then came the Marble Jar and The Offspring spent more time fighting over who got to open and close the jar and how many they each got to put in and why is Mama taking all of our marbles and shoving them into her ears?  I’ve had to admit to myself lately that maybe this whole Reward System isn’t for me.  Maybe it’s because I’m too lazy to keep up the consistency required.  Maybe it’s because I have a deeply innate issue with bribing my kids to do things that I would, yes, I’m sure complain about doing once in a while as a kid, but knew that it didn’t matter what I thought about it...I was expected to make my damn bed every morning.  It’s one of those phenomenon's that you can only experience about your parents after becoming a parent yourself: HOW DID YOU DO THAT?  How did you get us to just...DO stuff without the promise of you know...something?  

It’s just another example of this Parenting Journey that I can’t help but question my daily habits.  Do I coddle my kids too much?  Do I sometimes resist the urge to force them to put their pajamas away because oh my God it’s just easier if I go and do it myself?  Each afternoon when I pick Son up from school he tries to hand me his backpack.  Each afternoon I explain to him that it’s his and he can carry it.  Every other afternoon he finds this to be an unacceptable answer and does his best to embarrass both me and himself with his trademark Irrational Breakdown.  And I can’t help but question, as he is dragging himself behind me trying to hand me his backpack, what the fuck, dude?  It’s a backpack. You have to carry it for two blocks. THIS IS NOT A BIG DEAL.  There will be plenty of big deals in life.  Trust me.  Buck up.

So...I’m going Old School I think.  I mean, of course I’m not going to give up bribing completely...I’m not insane.  But last night, as Son was sitting naked on the living room floor, trying to explain to me that he wasn’t ready for his bath yet...I looked at him and instead of saying ‘5 marbles if you get in now!!’...I said...Dude.  What part of you thinks you have a choice right now?  Get. In. The. Tub.  And He did.

Minor victories keep us parental types motivated.  We don’t even get a sticker for doing something well.  But...I will take a glass of wine.  If anyone’s offering.