I'm Old and Wise Now That I'm 40

This is the year I turn 40, and instead of guilting all my friends into making a big deal out of me (no, really, you're too sweet!) I'm going to give you all a present instead. A present of my Wisdom and Experience. You're welcome.

A Random Number of Things
 I Have Learned in the Past 40 Years 

If you need to get something from the kitchen in the middle of the night, an open microwave gives a nice non-blinding light.

Having Tres Leches cake for your birthday means low-guilt leftovers for breakfast the next day. It's cake soaked in milk. It's basically cereal.

You can get a baby or small child to swallow yucky medicine instead of spiting it out by putting one finger in the corner of their mouth and giving it a tug (so they look like Two-Face) while squirting the meds into their mouth. The kid can't get the right mouth shape for spitting.

If your life is boring, try injecting adventure into your everyday tasks. When cleaning, wear rubber gloves and imagine you're getting rid of incriminating evidence after a murder. When starting the dishwasher or washing machine, pretend you're on a starship. "Set course for the laundry nebula, maximum spin." BOOP BOOP Dial Turn START thrumming noise

It's easier to open a box of macaroni and cheese from the bottom. I'm sorry, did I just BLOW YOUR MIND?

You will never not freak out about your housekeeping when your mother comes to visit. Ironically, embracing this fact can lead to less freaking out. Try leaving something obvious messy or undone or objectionable out for her to focus on. This will deflect her attention from anything you actually feel bad about (which you have stuffed into a closet or basement).

The helpful person in a new workplace who takes you aside to warn you about someone else MIGHT be the person you should watch out for.

If Sunday night is the most depressing night of the week because you have to go back to work the next day, you should consider getting a new job. Don't wait two more years while you lose the will to live.

There is such a thing as too much bacon. Theoretically. Much like Absolute Zero, one can only approach Ultimate Bacon under carefully controlled circumstances.

Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies, much like revenge, are best served cold. Stash them in the chest freezer and forget about them until you're looking for freezer space on a boiling August day. Finding cool Thin Mints might change your outlook.

If you rinse off spaghetti, a four-year-old will still be able to detect the foul taint of marinara.

In Which I Complain About An Ancient Greek

I’m a bit envious of Sisyphus. Who’s Sisyphus, you ask? He’s the Greek king who was doomed by Zeus to forever push a huge boulder up a hill only to have it roll back down again, over and over. Sisyphus has come to represent fruitless actions, monotonous, never-ending labor.

As a mom, I feel like I know a little something about monotony, work that is never done, and having my accomplishments undone. It's basically the job description. By the time the dishwasher is finished running there are dishes piling up in the sink. There's always a basket of laundry somewhere in the house (clean? dirty? clean but ruined?).  And I'm pretty sure there are more runny noses per capita than is normal. With luck, in another nine or ten years, I can start paying for college for people who are SURE they know way more than me.

I say, Sisyphus had a good thing going. Sure, working hard at something just to watch it come undone is annoying, but it’s not like Sisyphus was almost to the top when his daughter came up and repeatedly poked him in the leg, “Dad Dad Dad Dad Dad DAD DAD DADDADDAD!” and then when he was distracted the other child hit the boulder with a basketball and knocked it loose. “I told you kids not to bug me when I’m on the top third!!” Sisyphus would yell. “And how many times do I have to tell you, no basketballs near the boulder?!” Nobody actively interfered with his task, is what I’m saying. He pushed that boulder all day long with nobody to bother him.

After the third or the thirtieth or the three-hundredth time pushing that boulder up only to have it tumble back down, I figure Sisyphus must’ve given up and just enjoyed the process. The feeling of strength and power. The cleanness of pure physical exertion. There was probably plenty of time to think, to achieve a meditative state as he pushed and shoved. Lots of time to become one with himself. I mentioned the banging on the bathroom door, right?

And then, at the top-ish, when the boulder tumbles back down. . . Crashing through trees, bouncing off other rocks, getting airborne? That honestly sounds fun to watch. There’s a reason Angry Birds was so popular—it’s fun to wreck stuff, as long as you don’t have to clean up any of the destruction. If I’m in the middle of doing the dishes and suddenly the glasses tumble out of the cupboard, I’m going to have to clean it up. There are consequences. But the myth says nothing about Sisyphus having to replant sacred trees or pay for damaged Parthenons or appear in court to answer for his reckless boulder-pushing.

Maybe, you say, Sisyphus was far away from anyone who would care if the boulder smashed up a Parthenon or a Volvo. Nobody cared about his labors? Nobody cared that he was working super hard on getting that rock from the bottom to the top? Boo. Hoo. Every day I plan, shop for, and cook meals that are not only delicious but healthy, and what are the results? We sit down to the table and my kids inform me that,"Dinner is . . . not good. I want Ramen noodles." That right there is a boulder tumbling back down the hill.

Sisyphus didn’t have to convince the boulder to get itself up that hill. No, he just pushed it, no mind games, no reverse psychology, no making up silly games to fool it into thinking it was fun going up the hill.

"Uppsy-daisy! Let's jump SO high! Let's go see the zebra at the top of the hill! You LIKE zebras!"

Sisyphus only had one boulder. I’d like to see how he’d do with three! Then we’ll talk about insurmountable tasks. Just as he’s getting somewhere with one boulder, the other ones are banging into each other and making a ruckus. Deal with those two, and the first one is rolling into the Aegean. Turn around, and none of the three are where he left them. I doubt that boulder ever embarrassed Sisyphus at a playground or grocery store.

And another thing! The boulder didn’t talk back. “But I don’t WANNA go up the hill! You can’t make me! I hate you! You’re the worstest rock-pusher EVER!” I’ll bet it was really quiet on that hill, nothing but birds and wind and rustling leaves and the crunch of rock on gravel. Sigh. So quiet.

Yeah.

Sisyphus—More like Sissy-wuss. Mothers are the true mythic figures!

The Twos Are (Not?) Terrible

I had a really sappy post drafted up about how two-year-olds get a bad rap. This is my third time parenting through the Twos, and I get a lot of pleasure from two-year-olds. The post was sweet and loving and was going to be filled with pictures of my little guy. He has a goofy sense of humor, he loves to help (especially if he gets to vacuum), he gets excited about the tiny wonders of life (like the ants that keep crawling under the back door), and he's just the right size to scoop up and tickle-kiss.

It's a wondrous journey of self-discovery

BUT

Then I had to haul him out of various establishments like a bouncer and it reminded me why two-year-olds can be rotten stinkers. Just about every day last week he did a public impression of a screaming octopus, wailing and screeching and kicking and thrashing. And through it all I had to paste a calm look on my face. "I've got this totally under control. I don't mind that he's kicking me. I'm not resenting my toddler for humiliating me in public, because that would be silly."

Go ahead. Punish me.

And then there were the incredible things I had to clean up because of him. I feel like his entourage sometimes, following after him and trying to fix things he's messed up, apologizing to bystanders, replacing things he's broken.

WHY SO SERIOUS??

But even at the worst moments there are bits of joy showing through, I just have to remember to recognize them. Aww, he's so cute with that nail polish he thought was lip gloss.

This is a Serious Post

Let's get real for a moment. It's time for a Serious Post. I'm going to talk about a hard subject.

My oldest child has ADHD. This means that people are allowed to just walk up to me and give me parenting advice and criticism. Generally the advice follows one of three styles:

1. If you disciplined her more/better/the way I disciplined MY kids, she wouldn't act like that
2. You shouldn't medicate her, you should accept her and take joy in her specialness
3. ADHD is made up

This kind of commentary also implies that I am parenting wrong. After someone says something like that to me, I laugh it off and get on with my life. Oh, wait. No, I usually cry the whole way home.

So I thought I would take a moment to show you all a TINY glimpse of what it's like for me to parent my particular almost-nine-year-old with ADHD. Please do not try to generalize this experience, because for heaven's sake, all kids and parents are different.

I took the kids swimming one day last week and on the way back we stopped at my aunt's workplace, a small upscale candy and sweet shop. The shop had a lot of nutcrackers, mostly up on shelves, and one big one in solid wood that had to be five feet tall, standing by the door. Kimmy ping-ponged around the shop, picking things up and putting them down, completely oblivious to my efforts to get her to quiet down and act more appropriately. Her behavior was rubbing off on her siblings, too, and I was pretty embarrassed that we were creating such a spectacle in front of the other store patrons. I apologized to my aunt (who is a laid-back saint of a woman) and explained that Kimmy wasn't on her meds that day.

"Oh, I thought she was just excited to be here!" she smiled. We laughed about it, and I explained my theory of Kimmy's behavior, namely that when she isn't on her medication, I appear to be escorting a drunken third-grader around town.

That's right. It's like she's drunk: slurred speech, poor motor control, loud talking, loss of inhibition.

I told my aunt about this, and we looked over at Kimmy. She was at the big nutcracker by the door, with her arms draped around it, kissing it on the mouth. "He's sho biig!! Look how big an' srong he i'!" she called loudly to the two ladies who were leaving the store. She tossed her hair back and leaned over to sloppily kiss the nutcracker's hand. "Wook, Mom! I kissin' his han'!"

I wish I was inventing this, or at least exaggerating, but this is exactly what happened. She is sweet and funny and creative, but sometimes she's an unruly drunk.

Spring Break is Hard on Everyone, Especially Their Butts

I was down in the basement sorting laundry when suddenly my mommy-senses tingled. Somewhere my children were fighting. I raced up to the TV room, where the girls were yelling and crying and hitting each other with their Wii remotes.

"Kimmy bited my butt!!" sobbed April, clutching the wounded cheek.

"What the?! KIMMY!" I yelled. "You BIT her BUTT??"

Flustered, Kimmy reverted to her standard defense. "It was a accident!" she insisted.

"No, it wasn't!!" cried April, falling to the floor in devastation. I pried her hand away long enough to check her butt--a little red, no blood. No need for medical intervention. I turned my full attention on Kimmy.

Like a desperate cornered animal, Kimmy went on the offensive. "She made me do it!!"

"What?!" I was incredulous. "Unless she sat on your mouth and mashed your jaws together with her hands, there is NO WAY she made you bite her butt!!"

"She just made me mad," she finished lamely.

"That's it!! You are GROUNDED from all electronics for two days!" Furious, I delivered the verdict and separated the girls.

The next day, Kimmy was subdued by the knowledge that she was still in the electronics-free doghouse, and spent quite a bit of time up in her room, quietly playing legos. Late in the afternoon, I needed to run out for a quick errand and left the girls home. They hate shopping, especially when there's so much nothing to be done. If you're going to judge me, don't let it be for that. Please.

When I came back about twenty minutes later, I was met at the kitchen door by both girls eagerly clutching Wii remotes.

"I forgived Kimmy and Kimmy forgived me and we really wanted to play together on the Wii so we are playing together on the Wii," explained April in her usual thorough fashion. Kimmy and April looked up at me hopefully.

I wanted to be upset, to insist that Kimmy was still grounded, I really did.  But if they've found a way to forgive each other and play together, who am I to get in the way? Isn't that what I was trying to foster in the first place? Isn't it my job as a parent to raise two children who don't let a little butt-biting get in the way of their friendship? And so I let them keep playing.