The Mommies' Diaries…Parenting, One Blog at a Time.

My twin girls just finished 4th grade. Here they are back in late August 2011 on the first day of school, ready and excited to get started.

In many ways it was a great year. I loved their teachers, they learned a ton, grew in leaps and bounds, were much more independent in getting their homework done and developed confidence in themselves. But in many ways, I couldn’t wait for 4th grade to be over. There were days I had to literally wipe the tears away as I dropped them off at school and watched them walk onto the playground. I felt like I was throwing them to the wolves.

Let me back up a bit… while my girls are twins and definitely have similar traits, they are not identical. They are very different in many ways and experience school in very different ways.  Since kindergarten we’ve had them in separate classes and this has worked very well for our family.

Third grade was a rough year for Macy. There was a new girl in class and a girl Macy considered her BFF was suddenly much more interested in playing with the new girl. They made up a secret handshake and wouldn’t teach it to Macy.  It was clear things had changed and she was experiencing something like a break-up with her friend.  This is all very normal, I know this. But those tears were so painful for me to wipe away. I felt like I was experiencing the whole thing with her. I encouraged her to write a note to her friend and tell her how she felt.  The note she got back (which I still have) was signed by three different girls and said, “we like you, but we are not going to teach you our handshake. It’s OURS, so stop talking about it.” Ouch.

It was hard, so hard, to watch Macy go through this. But Macy is a talker. She has no problem talking to me about what is going on at school.  She would come home, sit with me on the couch and we would cry together. She would listen to my advice and was willing to talk to her teacher and the school counselor.  She didn’t wish ill will on these girls, she wanted to be included with them, and she still does. I’ll spare you all the details, but it got more complicated and then better and then more complicated again.  Many tears were shed, and many lessons were learned by both of us. She came out of third grade with just a little bit more maturity. She definitely learned that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.

During this whole time, I never once worried about Avery. She was the kid who had zero interest in girl drama. Where Macy’s playdates were spent in her bedroom flipping through American Girl magazines and making up dances to Selena Gomez songs, Avery’s were spent in the backyard kicking a soccer ball, climbing trees or feeding carrots to the bunny. All she wanted to do at recess was find a kickball or four square game. Her friends were whoever was playing freeze tag that day. Her classroom didn’t seem to have the same relational aggression going on.  At least not that I could see.  She supported her sister and even called a couple of these girls out once for making her sister cry on the playground. Other than that, Avery didn’t really get involved.

Then 4th grade started.

Macy seemed to be having a much better year. She still had the same little group of friends, but she made some new ones too. She knew there would be drama, but she also knew that she could deal with it and it was normal. It was Avery who seemed to be having a hard time.  The transformation was slow and subtle. I would wait for them on the playground after school and Avery would come out by herself, shoulders slumped and head down.  I could tell by the look on her face it had been a bad day. She would lean her whole body in to mine as if she wanted to disappear into me, or shift the weight of whatever pain she was carrying onto my shoulders. She would start to tell me about something that happened and I would brush her off and tell her we would talk about it later. There was always another parent I needed to talk to, or we were late for softball, lacrosse, chorus, soccer, art class or whatever. Big mistake on my part.

Avery is not a talker. She never wanted to talk about it later. I had no idea how bad things were getting for her. You see, Avery is fiercely competitive. This is a trait that serves her well on the soccer field and sometimes even in the classroom. She wants to be the fastest, the smartest, the first one finished. This is not a trait that serves her well on the 4th grade playground. Like any relationship, friendship is give and take and learning acquiese sometimes.  I knew in my gut, this was a lesson that would be hard for Avery to learn. Both of my girls have watched other girls in their class form these tight, one-on-one friendships that sometimes last for a couple of years, sometimes maybe only one school year, and sometimes only for a few weeks or months.  I’ve never encouraged this with any of my kids.  But that doesn’t mean that my kids didn’t watch these BFF friendships with envy.  Avery wanted to be someones number one BFF and she made some mistakes along the way.

Early on in the year, Macy was invited to a friend’s house to spend the night so I had Avery invite a classmate to spend the night here. That Friday at pick up, I could tell that it had not been a good day for Avery. The whole way home from school she could not stop talking about how Cathy (not her real name), the girl coming to spend the night that very night, had got three prizes from the drawbox and Avery had not got any.  There had been other signs that Avery was jealous of Cathy for many other reasons too, but this prize thing seemed to really get under her skin. We talked about it and I thought she seemed OK before Cathy arrived at our house.  Later, as the girls were going to bed, I stood just outside the door and listened to their conversation.  Avery kept saying how lucky she was to have gotten three prizes that day. Cathy kept insisting that she really only got two, and yes, she felt lucky. It was getting tense and Avery would not let it go and Cathy was getting visibly uncomfortable. I finally walked in and told Avery she had to drop it, it’s not her fault that her name got pulled twice. Let it go. Things didn’t really improve. My daughter spent the rest of sleepover with a chip on her shoulder and in a very sullen mood. It was hard to watch.

Shortly after this, Avery’s teacher called me in to talk.  I had a pit in my stomach since I knew things with Avery were just not right.  My happy, sporty daughter was morphing into a withdrawn, unhappy girl. Her teacher showed me some notes that she had found and I was floored. They were notes written by my daughter and they were not nice.  I didn’t recognize the girl who wrote those notes and yet, I did recognize her.  I didn’t eat or sleep for days.  I wanted desperately to help her, to tell her that this is not how you make friends, by hurting those that hurt you.  I have to say here that her teacher was so great about the whole situation, she clearly wanted to help Avery and help me understand what was going on. She told her teacher that she sometimes can’t help herself when she acts “mean” to other kids.

I carved out some time to spend alone with Avery and confronted her about the notes and everything else that was going on at school. She was embarrassed that I had seen them, and had zero interest in talking to me about it. She just kept saying, “I know I’m a mean person.”  Let me just say, that is so very hard to hear your nine year old daughter say. It was even harder for me to accept that she didn’t want to hear my advice. It was not like with Macy, where she wanted nothing more than to talk to me about things and get my advice.

Just like everything with pre-teen age girls, it’s all much more complicated than I can write about here. It was clear that Avery was getting a reputation as a “mean girl.”  Once she had that label, it’s been a struggle to over come it… a struggle for both of us. It’s fractured my friendships with some of the other mom’s in 4th grade and left me desperate to get in to Avery’s head and help her turn things around, while still maintaining her trust and letting her be who she is. In my head, I know that the most powerful thing I can do is show her by example how to be a good friend and let her learn the hard lessons on her own.  I was also the kid that didn’t want to talk to my mom about anything school or friend related.  I am much more comfortable typing out my feelings from behind my computer screen than actually saying the words out loud.  For Avery, she communicates with notes.  Notes that I find under her pillows and hidden in the pockets of her backpack.

So what have I learned from all this? I’ve learned that 4th grade is hard. I’ve learned that none of these girls are “mean” and none of them deserve that label. Even the girls who made up a secret handshake and wouldn’t teach it to Macy are not “mean girls.”  They are simply nine and ten year olds trying to find their way, making mistakes and growing up. Avery and Macy will continue to make mistakes and I will too. I’ve learned little ways to let Avery know that I love her no matter what. I’ve learned that occasionally, she is in the mood to talk and I need to stop and listen even if that means we will be late to soccer practice or skip it all together. I’ve learned that you really have no control over the essence of who your children are and how they relate to the world, but it’s your responsibility to guide them and let them know that you will always be there to pick up the pieces when they feel broken.

Even if she rolls her eyes, I will continue to leave notes with song lyrics in Avery’s lunch box and under her pillow.  I want this girl back.

We will soldier on together, because I have a feeling this is just the very beginning of this roller coaster. Please send wine.

If aliens descended on our planet on Father’s Day morning, they would wonder what kind of strange civilization honors it’s patriarchs with automated tie racks, golf ball washers and valet charging stations.

Every year when I start to feel guilty that I have no idea what to get for Father’s Day, I simply take one look at a sales circular from any retailer to know that I am not alone. It’s the saddest gift selection since Lincoln’s birthday.

At least on Mother’s Day, our traditional gifts range from bath salts to a gift certificate for a pedicure. I feel sorry for all of the men out there who don’t particularly like rolling their own quarters or embossing golf balls.

Logic should have it the opposite way, wouldn’t it? We women who traditionally like to shop should be really good at choosing the perfect gifts for our male mates. And yet we continue to choose from the same stocking stuffer table that didn’t sell at Christmas. Tired gadgets that no one —  including men — care about.

Never once has by husband wanted to separate his sock drawer with an organizer, yet it’s on sale this week. The words, “you know, I do like the convenience and relative low cost of beer available at the grocery store, but it sure would be great to try a really expense, horrible-tasting, potentially lethal home brew with a package of yeast and a plastic barrel shaped like a football on the weekend,” have never been uttered in our home. And yet these are at the top of the Father’s Day gift guides every year.

At this point in the game, I feel like when my husband needs a new razor, he should just be able to go out and buy that item for himself and not wait until the next holiday. So on these parental gift occasions my husband and I exchange simply for the benefit of the kids because nothing says “You’re a Great Dad!” better than a metal detector or a monogrammed money clip.

So aliens standing at the windowsill laughing, could we perhaps import some curios from your side of the universe? Because I honestly have no earthly idea what to get for Father’s Day.

Breakfast in our house makes me itchy, so of course I immediately consult doctor google and then I’m all BAM!  I have bed bugs or scabies or maybe both. But really, it’s just a scorching case of my picky children.

In my head, breakfast is tv-show ideal. Daddy sits at the table reading the paper, the children discuss very important matters while they eat a full four-course breakfast and drink a glass of milk and orange juice, while I stand, aproned, at the stove, with a frying pan in hand and a smile on my face.

In reality, however, breakfast is a little bit different. Daddy is already at work, the children are only half-dressed and half-awake, and I’m standing braless in front of the coffee maker willing it to move faster and hiding behind my coffee mug, hoping no one will ask me any direct or difficult questions. It’s a beautiful picture, really.

They want nutella sandwiches or cinnamon toast or toaster waffles or sugary cereals and hot cocoa. They do not want the Cheerios that are placed in front of them. Cheerios is a big lie. It does not make anyone cheery at 7:00am in the morning. It just makes everyone grumpy.

So at the beginning of this week, in a moment of pure crazy, I announced the following:

“If I wake you guys up 20 minutes earlier, I promise to cook a well-balanced meal filled with eggs! and fresh fruit! and toast! and pancakes!”

Because, you see, in my head I was so sick of breakfast time. I was so sick of fighting about all the things I didn’t want them to eat and I was sick of hearing that breakfast really is the most important meal of the day when I wasn’t sure if any of my children were actually doing any eating at breakfast — they were doing a lot of arguing and a lot of sitting around and letting the Cheerios get soggy and then complaining that their Cheerios were too soggy to eat.

So I thought. Eggs! Turkey bacon! Fruit! Orange Juice! Pancakes! It’s a more beautiful picture, really.  Isn’t it??

Until I realized that this was basically a glorified punishment for me. Because even though I got to put on a lovely anthropologie apron, waking up  twenty minutes earlier means having to wake up twenty minutes earlier and then waking up all three of my very, very tired children twenty minutes earlier. And then I have to actually, you know, cook said promised breakfast before I am allowed to even attempt to percolate my coffee.

For the past three days I made breakfast. And somehow I’m the only one with a full belly. They didn’t eat the eggs, they didn’t eat the pancakes, they didn’t eat the toast, they didn’t eat the fruit. But I sure as heck did.

And we are all just so tired.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll just go back to fighting over soggy cereal and hiding behind my coffee mug.

I am so sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner…

This seems to be how I start all my email messages lately. I am waving the white flag.  I am overwhelmed.

This time of year is crazy for all parents of school age children.  Judging from my playground conversations, everyone is feeling the pressure and ready for summer. For me in particular, the past few months I’ve felt like I am barely keeping my head above water.  I have three children and we have been juggling 5 different sports teams since February. Both of my daughters play club (but not on the same team, of course), one of my daughters plays lacrosse and the other plays softball.  My son plays baseball and my husband coaches his team. I am the team mom for two of these various teams.

Let me just state for the record that this is simply too much to manage.  We knew this back in January, and we knew this would be a rough spring. Now that we are here in May and all these sports are winding down, I am so very tired and omgweareneverdoingthisagain.

One of my twins, Avery, has been playing club soccer for the past three years. When she first tried out, her twin sister, Macy, didn’t really have any interest. After watching her sister play for one year, Macy wanted to try out.  The tryouts were three afternoons in a row.  She went to one tryout and decided it wasn’t for her. Then last fall, as Avery was gearing up for tryouts yet again, Macy decided she would like to try out too.  After the first tryout, I was surprised that she wanted to go back. Then I was surprised again when she seemed to be sticking with it.  But I know my kids and I knew club soccer would lose its charm for Macy eventually. To make a long story short, it took Macy half way through the Spring season to realize that club soccer was not for her.  We are not quitters though, and she is sticking it out through June.

Some might judge my choice to let her join a team, knowing that she would lose her enthusiasm. However, again, I know my kids and I she had to experience it and learn for herself. Otherwise she would be watching her sister at try outs each fall and wondering. It may be at the price of my sanity, but at least now she knows.

In addition to making sure everyone has all the gear, water, energy bars, clean socks and proper footwear for all their games and practices, I seem to have bitten off more than I can chew as a school volunteer this year.  I didn’t take on any large, major jobs, but rather a whole bunch of smaller, what seemed like more manageable jobs. Do you know what you get when you take on several small volunteer jobs?

You get binders. Every volunteer job comes with a binder. I cringe every time I open my desk cupboard and the binders all seem to be saying, “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE THOSE NOTES DONE TWO WEEKS AGO” or “WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO SEND THOSE EMAILS AND UPDATE THAT SPREADSHEET!” I want to set fire to the binders right now.

When I run in to people, their first words are usually, “did you get my email about…”  Yes, I got your email and I am getting to it. Every thing in my life is a day late and a dollar short right now.  I am barely keeping my head above water just trying to stay afloat until summer when I can possibly catch my breath and clean out my gmail in box. And maybe actually meet some deadlines (see this blog post, which was supposed to be done this morning!)

I take all my little projects (and the big ones!) seriously and the frenzied pace we’ve been maintaining has caused me a to flounder in many areas.  I just finished up a big, very close to my heart project and I know I could have given it so much more.  It was amazing and came together far better than I expected, but still.   I don’t like the constant feeling of needing to play catch up. I don’t like starting all my emails with, sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner…

Since summer is fast approaching and for my family that means Road Trips!  My kids are seasoned car travelers and I actually love family road trips.  But my husband and I have some rules we like to stick to.  I’ve been over these before in the magazine, but it never hurts to review.

On a family road trip, there are Mommy jobs and Daddy jobs.

The Daddy job is to drive in a straight line on the Interstate for 1,000 miles. The Mommy job is to feed, entertain, cajole, referee, play, settle, soothe, navigate, translate, buckle, unbuckle, re-buckle, clean and every other mobile nurturing task possible at 70 mph.

Daddy must concentrate on the road. Mommy must concentrate on the three road-weary children who still need to eat every four minutes whilst unpacking their “surprise” bags that took her three days and $1,738 to assemble so that the children don’t disturb Daddy for seven minutes.

Daddy must stay in his lane.  Mommy must settle all other territorial disputes that erupt in the back seat resulting in no less than 13 hours of intense negotiations, treaties and bribes.

Daddy listens to sports talk AM radio in cities to which he has no association and about teams to which he has no allegiance nor apparent interest by the look on his face. Mommy must change 80 DVDs in order to find the only working one, Cars, which then is watched repeatedly for the next ten days.

Daddy says things like, “I know it’s midnight, but we just need to go a hundred more miles until we stop for the night.” Mommy says things like, “I’ll buy you a pony if you stop asking me when we’ll be there.”

Daddy points out interesting things along the way. Mommy repeats them in an audible voice because no one in the back can hear Daddy over Cars or sports talk radio volume.

Daddy is willing to travel extra miles to save two cents a gallon on gasoline.  Mommy wonders if her sanity is worth the fuel savings.

Daddy protests a questionable “s” int he 98th round of the alphabet game. Mommy lobbies for “straightjacket,” “suicide” or “for the love of all that is good and holy, could you please let this one slide?”

Daddy sometimes gets cross at Mommy when he asks her to look up something on the map and she can’t quickly figure it out. Mommy apologizes, but her eyes are bleeding from lack of sleep.

Daddy needs the air conditioning set at 62 degrees because he is the driver and must be comfortable. Mommy makes blankets out of pocket tissues and straw wrappers.

When Daddy does finally stop, he seems to always pass the restaurants Mommy chooses. Mommy eats a lot of BBQ and deep-fried items on sticks on vacation.

When the family finally arrives at their destination, all of the relatives exclaim to Daddy, “Oh! You must be exhausted from driving all that way!”  Mommy silently weeps and wishes that commuter bus they passed back in Fresno would suddenly careen out of control and put her aching, road-filthy, utterly dog-tired wretched body out of its misery. Oh, for a bottle of wine!

Curiously, Daddy does not offer to switch jobs for the return leg.

I don’t need the calendar to tell me that the school year is almost over. I merely look at the slow deterioration of my children, home and what little is left of my mind to know the end is near. The kids are down to one frayed strap and a piece of dental floss precariously holding their backpacks together. Since I refuse to by any new pants until the day before the first day of school next year, my son is getting sunburns on his calves at recess. We’ve got one sock left between us, and they are alternating days wearing it.

And we’re tired of homework. Specifically, the never-ending projects which somehow require me carrying the bulk of the workload. I’ve used so much glue this past year that all of my fingerprints have been cast in Elmer’s skeletons 10 times over. Our kitchen table looks like we’ve been paying the home version of CSI or we’re experimenting with different identities to enter the Witness Protection Program. I truly hope I’ve made my last late-night trip to Target for supplies to recreate the Eiffel Tower in popsicle sticks.

We could sue a little break from the book reports as well. While I certainly appreciate a healthy appetite for books, I could do without another story about childhood angst written with a plethora of italics and exclamation points!!! The only things I want my nine year olds reading this summer are Interstate signs and lemonade recipes.

But it’s the waking up early that’s killing me. I’ve noticed that we’ve gradually pushed our wake-up time later and later each week with the snooze button forsaking some new element in our morning routine for a few extra minutes of blessed sleep. First we gave up making beds, now were are lucky if we leave the house without shampoo in our hair and a breakfast of Tic Tacs and Chapstick.

So if you think I am dreading the end of the school year — that somehow my workload will increase with all three children at home 24/7 as opposed to 18/5 — you would be wrong. I look as summer as my 2.5 months to undo all the good habits their teachers have instilled the rest of the year. We need some mornings to sleep through the alarm. We need mid-week sleepovers.  We need lunches on plates, not scrunched up in paper bags. I need to smell sunblock and chlorine not industrial janitorial cleaner and sweaty gym socks.

Feel free to remind me of this nostalgia in August when I’m complaining of walking into the grocery store for yet another package of hot dogs in unmatched flip flops and a sheen of bug spray. But until then, the only number 2 pencils we’ll be using will be on the miniature golf course.

I think my husband is going to sue me for textual harassment. I sent him 24 text messages in less than an hour. Based on that alone you may think he has a pretty good case, but let me present my defense.

It all started with this email exchange:

To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:40pm

Thinking of taking the kids to Pasta Primavera for dinner, do you want to meet us?

———————————–
To: Kirsten
From: Jay
Subject: Dinner, 4:42pm

Sure — what time?

———————————–
To: Jay
From: Kirsten
Subject: Dinner, 4:46pm

Will probably go pretty soon — Anders is teetering on the edge of losing his s#*@ and now Macy is crying because I told her to stop reading over my shoulder.
———————————–

Pretty innocent so far. I knew I was taking a gamble bringing three tired and cranky kids to a restaurant, but the place is pretty family friendly and I did not feel like cooking. I also went into this knowing that my darling husband has a pretty hard time managing his time. I always add anywhere from a half an hour to an hour to whatever time he tells me he will be home.

My texts below are in bold and Jay’s are in italics.

5:10pm  We are on our way to the restaurant.

5:11 pm Leaving now

If he was leaving his office, it should take him about 30 minutes to get the restaurant. When we got there I looked over the menu and found what I thought he might want to order.

5:20pm Do you want us to order you the salmon… artichoke hearts, capers, roma tomatoes, pasta with lemon?

5:31pm  How far are you?

5:33pm  How far are you?

5:35pm  How far are you?

5:39pm  You’re coming to Pasta Primavera in Our Town right?? Not Pasta Pomodoro in Next Town Over.

5:41pm  They are not bringing my food until you come.

5:42pm  How far are you?

5:50pm  Please answer?

During this time the waiter brought the kids food and they were just about done eating. They were already tired, so I knew I didn’t have too much longer.

5:55pm  Kids can’t last too much longer, how far are you?

6:00pm  I would like to eat soon?

6:01pm  How far are you?

6:02pm  Hello??

6:10pm  Please tell me your ETA?

6:12pm  Um, how far are you?

In normal time, about 50 minutes have passed from when we arrived at the restaurant. But remember, I was on three tired kids in a restaurant who have already eaten time. So it was actually two hours or so. They were starting to entertain themselves. This involved spoons, straws, ice cubes and tiny pieces of torn up paper napkin. I was on my second glass of wine.

6:14pm  We are in Our Town at Primavera.

6:15pm  Where are you?

6:16pm  We are going to leave soon. Please tell me where you are.

6:17pm  Not doing this again.

6:18pm  Kids food is boxed and I have not eaten yet.

I ordered each kid a gelato. They had already had two popscicles before we even left the house and I made it pretty clear before we left that we would not be ordering dessert. My credibility is now shot.

6:19pm  Where are you?

6:20pm  If you don’t answer me, we are leaving…

6:21pm  Without your food.

He finally arrives and I was not surprised to see that he walked in with his phone next to his ear. Usually he stays in the car if he’s on a phone call before he comes in the house or to meet us. But I imagine he had to weigh his option here… stay in the car and endure more text messages or come in and stop the madness. Guess what he picked.

6:22pm  Get off the phone or I will take your picture!

When I am in the car, driving around town with my kids, I like to play a game called, “Let’s be very quiet and listen to NPR.” And instead, the kids like to play a game called, “tell us a story.”

I’m very bad at making up stories. I’ll start strong with a tale about a giraffe who escapes from the zoo and falls into a vat of pink dye and becomes the first pink giraffe but then I completely lose focus and all of a sudden everything takes a dark turn and the giraffe is in foreclosure and living in a homeless shelter.

So we usually compromise and play a game where I’m thinking of an animal and the kids ask me questions until they can guess the animal. Except my six year old asks the same question over and over again. “Does the animal eat doughnuts?”

So I always give my best guess on whether the animal I’m thinking of… like a snake, a monkey, a possum or an elephant would actually eat a doughnut if given the opportunity. Usually I say yes because who turns down a doughnut? Except maybe a fish because soggy doughnuts just aren’t worth the calories.

After we decide which animals do or do not have a hankering for pastries, the kids ask for music which is come for: please find a Taylor Swift or Sean Kingston song. When I can’t immediately find a suitable song on the radio, the six year old wants to know why we don’t have the iPod in the car because that song is definitely on our iPod. And I want to know why a six year old is so well versed on iPods but can’t come up with a single question in our animal game other than, “Does the animal eat doughnuts?” It’s one of life’s mysteries.

Is today Thursday or Friday?  I have to really stop and think about that because when this is what you see when you look out the window it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.

So please forgive my day late post! We are enjoying spring break on the big island of Hawaii. It’s been lovely as I’m sure you can imagine. We don’t usually travel over spring break and the past three years we’ve been saying, “we should go to Hawaii.” But then we never actually plan the trip and then the next thing you know, it’s April and we spend the week at home. But this year, we kicked ourselves in the behind and here we are enjoying the sun, sand and lava rocks.

I think my husband and I were subconsciously terrified to bring our kids here. See, the last time we boarded a plane bound for the islands was eight years ago when my twin girls were 11 months old. Let me just repeat that for effect: we brought eleven month old twins to Hawaii with the intent of having a relaxing vacation. I had done my research and was well prepared. I had new toys for the airplane, a suitcase full of all their favorite snacks, hypoallergenic sunscreens, a portable DVD player and brand new Baby Einstein videos, etc. However, I was not prepared for the fact that my girls would be in the very beginning stages of learning to walk. I timed the flight so it would coincide with their naptime and game them the smallest possible dose of Benadryl. Sleeping was about the very last thing they were interested in doing on that plane. Once their crying stopped, my husband and I walked up and down those aisles endlessly for five hours. I was the mother that childless passengers hate and parents pity on airplanes.

Once we arrived in Hawaii, things got progressively worse. My girls never adjusted to the time change. At home, I was so regimented about their nap and sleep schedule that even the slight changes seemed to throw them off.  The were up at 3am every day and just cried and cried. What I remember most about that trip is sitting in that hotel bed with a crying baby.  I was so worried about disturbing other hotel guests, we made hurculean efforts to quell the crying madness.

They hated the beach. Every time their little toes touched the sand, the would scream. If the waves were large and we even came close to the sand they would cling to my legs in terror. They had zero interest in sitting in the stroller I had lugged all the way from SFO. They were anxious to walk, but of course, fell over after just a few steps. And the diaper rash. OMG, the diaper rash. They both developed horrible, blistering diaper rashes which would cause them to cry in pain for at least 10 minutes before and after every diaper change.

We even brought my mom along on the trip so we could possibly sneak away for dinner. She didn’t seem to adjust so well to island life either. What we didn’t know at the time was that she was about one month away from needed a triple bypass. While we thought she was just unwilling to really step in and help us out, she was actually quite ill. You can imagine this caused a little tension in our mother-daughter relationship during that trip.

I was feeling even more run down and stressed than I had since they were tiny newborns. My husband even tried to get us on an early flight home. When we were back at home I was complaining to my twin moms group about what a horrible trip it had been.  A more experienced mother whose twins happened to be her 3rd and 4th child put her hand on my shoulder and said that vacations with kids are simply the same chaos in a prettier location.

The problem with that vacation eight years ago was not my daughters, it was my expectations. I really did think that a vacation in Hawaii would be the same as it was before we became parents. We would sit by the pool or on the beach and sip drinks while our toddlers played in the sand and took naps on beach chairs. Maybe it is like that for some families.

Lucky for me, kids grow older and moms grow wiser.  This time we may have one more kid in tow, but we also have eight more years of parenting experience. My kids are now experienced airline passengers having flown to Europe and back two summers ago. They were perfectly fine on the airplane, pleasant and polite even. When they wake up at 5am Hawaii time, they sit in their bed and read for a while until the rest of the family wakes up. No one has diaper rash this time (THANK GOD) since no one wears diapers.  They are eager to play on the beach now and are no longer terrified of the sound of crashing waves.

Of couse there have been arguments over who wants to go to the beach and who prefers the pool, who gets which bed and where we eat dinner. But they are old enough now that we can have discussions about what it means to be on a family vacation. It’s the same compromises and chaos, just with a prettier view.

I can complain about my mounting pile of to-dos and in the same breath proclaim that I actually like to be busy. I like feeling useful. I like ticking things off my list. Done. Done. Done. But sometimes I’m just plain overwhelmed. I sit and stare at my computer screen without knowing where to start. I curse myself for taking on too much, for saying “yes, sure, no problem, I’ll take care of it.”

I’m overwhelmed this week. My to-do list is long. I’ve been talking about motherhood, thinking about motherhood, working on sharing motherhood, writing about motherhood, fretting over my motherhood choices. I’ve been planning school events, reading emails, writing emails, renewing car registration online, monitoring field status and cancelled practices, rescheduling rained out soccer games, frantically racing to the mall in search of white tights with no embellishments for uniform check day that somehow slipped my mind.

Last night I was forced to simply stop and sit still for 45 minutes.

My son made his debut as the blue shark in the South H Elementary production of Oceans of Fun.

I was forced to stop organizing motherhood and actually live motherhood. And it was marvelous.