New Jersey Moms Blog

Random act of a mother

This is a story of how a stranger brought me to tears in the middle of a department store.

But first, the back story.

My kids aren't ducks. They don't follow behind me in a line, marching like little soldiers. No, as their mother I can admit they tend to be more like little terrorists. Is it okay to say that here? This isn't like an airplane where that kind of talk gets you booted off in handcuffs.

Hey, it's been a long day with the kids. I'm grasping for anything funny here.

Anyway. My kids. They like to touch things. Cool wind chimes! They run ahead of me. Let's race! And when I go out I'm surrounded by frowns and people who look like they blocked out any memory of goofy kid behavior or skipped childhood entirely to go directly to sour faced grownup.

My kids, they are full of life. They run, jump, laugh, sing, punch and quarrel. No matter to them where they are - home, backyard, library (especially the library!) or Kohl's customer service department.

Route 78: one mom's solution to this asphalt enemy

Let's give the confirmed death trap over to the minivans filled with kids and a mom behind the wheel. That should rescue the roadway from the chaos and Speed Racer commuters.

I hate driving Route 78, my enemy in asphalt. I'll go out of my way to avoid it; adding extra drive time to my trip is fine with me. I'd rather get to where I need to be intact - late even - as long as we're safe. No white-knuckle driving for me.

I schlep around with four kids in the car. Recent events on the roadway only convince me all the more: drive rush hour Route 78 at your own peril and pray like crazy to survive (I'm completely serious when I say pray for protection. I remember my mom instructing us kids in the back seat: "Okay, here's the Somerville Circle, Let's ask the Lord to keep us safe.")

My grandmother

My grandmother - my mother's mom - celebrated her 104th birthday last week. We went to see her, had a nice visit, looking at old photographs, taking new ones. Looking at those black and white photos, I can recognize her, her sister too, but the other faces gazing back at me - I have no idea who they are.

Now that I'm the mom, and not just a carefree granddaughter, I wish I knew more.

I wish I had paid better attention. Asked more questions, learned more about her mother and father, what she did as a girl. What her experiences had been as a mother. Now at 104, she's lost a lot of hearing and conversation is hard. Plus to just sit alone with her, not easily done. I'm busy being a mom now.

Cold weather play

In the middle of my living room, my eldest boy makes a fort out of the sofa cushions and a blanket. It collapses and he smacks a hand against the coffee table. Dust puffs up above the arm of the sofa after he hits it too. His younger brother talks toward the blanket and his two sisters underneath. 

You sound like a bunch of birds. 

I sit at the kitchen table with pen and paper before me. I smile to myself. A boy of constant movement and energy, he's noticed the sounds of nature.

Needs vs. wants: failing banks, falling stocks, and a crisis among the clothing

I stand next to the rack of girl's clothing, holding a $15 blouse. The weather cooler now, my girl needs clothes. She can't wear short sleeves much longer. I think of the stock market, banks and Washington DC. My husband took a dust-covered tin, heavy with loose change, to the bank today. It gave us $100. On the way to the store tonight, I only put $30 worth of gas into the minivan instead of filling it up like I've always done. 

I slip the blouse back, and point my cart toward the sale racks, hoping to find something cheaper.

Normally I would've bought that blouse, and maybe a pair of cute pants to match. Another blouse too. But not tonight.

 

Stupid boy tricks

I don't understand the male mind.

I have two boys and two girls. My girls I get, I know where they are coming from, we are connected in the sisterhood of femaleness. When Susan wants to be alone, doesn't want me to see what she's writing or wants the kitchen free to make coffee cake without me watching, I get it. When her little sister cuddles her baby doll and stuffed animals, carrying them around the house as their mommy, I understand that too. I see myself in their actions. 

But do I relate to my boys? Not so much.  Boys are a mystery. The thought processes leading them into their crazy tricks- where does it come from?

The following are a sample of their eight and six-year-old antics from the past few months.

 

Lady of the Flies

Two black flies occupy my house right now. My children brought them home, inviting them to stay with a wide open front door.  “Shut the door!” my constant call of the summer. 

I've tried hunting down the flies like I'm on an African bug safari, but these insects are of superior intelligence.  And fast. The cheetah flies of Hunterdon County, defying my bright green swatter. I swear they have evasive maneuvers that would serve them well in a war zone.

I stand at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes and they bounce against the window pane. When I cook dinner, work on the computer or sit at the table, making a to-do list, a fly passes from the living room into the kitchen. I write Kill Flies on my list. It's a wonder I have yet to be bugged when I'm sleeping.

The intensity of being me

I sipped my overpriced coffee while sitting at a table in the middle of the bookstore cafe, a modest stack of trashy magazines in front of me. All the kids home with their daddy. My little camp out on a busy Friday night. I logged onto Twitter – just to prove to my friends I could tweet beyond domestic life. I'm in Borders! People watching, catching up with the antics of Brad and Angelina!

All was well until she walked past my table.

“You're so calm!” Acquaintance said as she breezed on by. Talk about Hit and Run; I doubt she noticed my mouth drop open in shock. If I had a mouthful of sugary sweet drink, I'm sure I would've sprayed it over all the magazines.

I immediately went into Hyper-Internal Reflection Mode:

First time, second time

Of all my four children, it's my second child's birth that is my favorite. His birth showed me how strong I can be, and set the stage for all my other childbirth experiences.

With my first, I had no idea what I was doing, even though I read all the right books (What to Expect When You're Expecting, was one) and planned for a natural, medical-free birth. Actually, I was ready to ditch my obstetrician for a home birth until pre-term labor at 23 weeks squashed that dream. The pre-term  labor put me on bed rest for three months and daily medication to control contractions. When I did finally have my daughter, my dream birth became almost a nightmare.

Lemonade

I love lemonade stands. Hopeful children on the side of the road with a card table, homemade sign with large marker letters, maybe a plate of cookies too. I could be driving in the opposite direction, but I'll turn around to get a drink. They happily pour lemonade into a paper cup and take the change I pass out the window. You never see a mob at a lemonade stand.

Then there are the parents supervising, hanging back at a distance to give their young ones a feeling of independence, maybe sitting on the front porch or weeding a flower bed. A mom walks over to my car when I stop, grinning thank you. The kids are too shy to talk with this overly friendly stranger. After the children run off, the mom and I chat a few minutes about how long they've lived in the house or their summer plans. Years later, I can still identify at what homes I've stopped for a cup of lemonade.

Lemonade is a mix of biting tart and sweetness, not unlike my summer memories.