Small Things

Don’t judge me. (Well, not too much.)

Redbook Magazine has declared a "No Judgment" day for moms. Which I think all moms can agree was really a long time coming.

We all know the cynical truth, universally acknowledged, that a woman in possession of a baby must be in want of advice. And with advice comes the implicit suggestion that you must really need it.

After ten years of mothering, and four children, I have learned that advice is not the problem. I can take it. I can nod and smile, raise my eyebrows and say, "Wow, that's amazing!" when you tell me the trick is getting up at 4 am to work out and shower before the children wake. In fact, good for you, because I completely understand that we all need to talk about the aspects of mothering that we have succeeded in. To me, advice is harmless.

It's the judgment that was harder to get over. Oh, okay, I'm still not completely over it. I still imagine all the terrible things people are thinking about my family after one of the kids has a tantrum in public. Or even worse, imagining the things other people are thinking after one of us parents has a meltdown while the windows are open.

But one of the significant changes that came over me while having and raising four children is the reduction in the number of things I do solely to impress people.

I am struggling to count them . . . let me think . . . yeah, I'm at zero. (Now.)

Baking pretty foods, spending on trendy diaper bags, dedicating morning getting-ready time for intricate hairstyles for my daughters—that stuff is dead weight.

Getting four kids up, fed, dressed, and in the car by 7:30 is enough of a challenge.

It's all about priorities.

What still lingers, however—the vestige of the things many women do in an effort to make a good impression on others, to attract admiration, even—is an instinctive motivation that I think may never completely go away.

When I am stressed over the time and energy I am spending on something, I sometimes stop and try to identify my motivation, and often I realize it is an effort solely intended to prevent being judged by others.

For instance, matching my toddler's socks? Not worth getting myself stressed out and making all of us late and grouchy. I realized one cranky morning that the ONLY reason I do it at all, the only motivation for searching through baskets of laundry trying to find two miniature cotton pieces with the same color and pattern and size, is so that other people won't think we messed something up.

In my book, getting grouchy over socks IS messing up. Because it doesn't matter.

My mantra these days is PRIORITIES. Prioritizing my family's money and our time is important, most everyone has to do that. But I have learned (the hard way, as with most parenting) that I have to prioritize my energy.

Cooking, cleaning, homework-helping, sibling mediation, book-reading, cuddling, and singing together—all top priorities. (Yes, I am Maria von Trapp.)

Shopping, sock-matching, fancy hair-styling, pretty-cookie making? Way down the list. I can't enjoy them when they are at the expense of the higher priorities. So I am not going to do them. For now.

But when I am a grandmother --when I am not the one doing all the waking and feeding and cleaning and cooking and homework-helping—I hope to enjoy all that stuff with abandon. And I hope it impresses the hell outta my grandchildren.

My son is always asking what superpower we each would want, and I've never put my finger on it before. But "imperviousness" is what mothers need. A magical force field of imperviousness. Or a "JPF" suit—a Judgment Protection Factor. Moms of big families have a high JPF.

Then again, without the fear of judgment, would I wash my hair more than once a week? Would my children ever learn good grooming? Would I ever clean my house? (Which, by the way, is a clear illustration of how high my JPF factor has risen.)

So maybe a little judgment isn't such a bad thing.

How to settle a sausage dispute

I read a line a while ago that that amused me. There are two kinds of people in the world: those who divide the world into two kinds of people, and those who don't.

Yup, I'm still amused.

I'd wager that married people in particular find themselves dividing the world into two kinds of people very often. Those who put their clothes in the hamper, and those that don't. Those who keep peanut butter in the fridge, and those who don't. Those who like watching NASCAR, and those who don't. If you're married, you can insert your own examples here.

When married people have children, it becomes an exercise in determining what kind of person you have jointly created.

This morning I made French toast and sausages for brunch. When we all had finished, our four-year-old had one sausage left, and asked who wanted it. "Me!" shouted my seven-year-old, as she ran back to the table.

"I'll take it!" called my husband, also making a u-turn.

I quickly stabbed the link with a fork and shielded it with one hand, before my husband could grab it.

He's a notorious food snatcher. The children resist sitting next to him at dinner because of this. When we were dating in high school, I once had dinner at his house and saw him steal almost an entire pork chop from his little sister's plate. (When she whined, my future mother-in-law told her she should've eaten it faster. At the time I thought that was harsh, but now that I am a mother of four, I understand where she was coming from.)

Holding the sausage in custody, I said to the eager father and daughter, "So what should we do about this?"

"Give it to me!" shouted my daughter.

"Rock paper scissors!" suggested my husband.

I shook my head, chuckling, and said, "Come on, there's an easy way to solve this!"

"Flip a coin?" guessed my daughter.

"No, rock paper scissors. Let's go . . ." repeated my husband.

"You guys! It's a sausage. It's not like it's a baby, or a bicycle. There's a way you can both win!"

My husband grinned, feigning confusion. "You can't get a baby from rock paper scissors."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Look, I can easily give you both a piece . . . ." I said as I picked up a knife with my free hand.

"NOOOOOOOOOO!" screamed father and daughter in unison.

My draw dropped at their united outrage at the idea of sharing this lone link of breakfast sausage. These two are hilarious!

Then my daughter blurted, "I know what to do!" and with fluid motion, grabbed the sausage off my fork, shoved it into her mouth, then turned and ran from the kitchen.

"YOU LITTLE STINKER!!!" shouted my husband, running after her.

It doesn't take the wisdom of Solomon to figure out where she gets it.

I am a Parenting Genius

Or I WOULD be a Parenting Genius. If only the kids would cooperate.

Yesterday we bought the baby a new pool float, and at the same time picked up an inflatable tube for the bigger kids, since it was on clearance for just $3.99.

I only bought one, and for this I have three reasons. First, it was just an extra impulse buy, and I had no problem spending 4 bucks on junk that will no doubt have a hole in it by the end of the summer. But I'm not going to spend 12 bucks on three peices of junk.

Second, I don't want to have three big inflatable tubes to carry to the pool in addition to the babies floaty, 5 towels, and a bag of snacks and various surf barbie/diving dora/swim goggles.

Third, I believe siblings need to learn to share. They need to know how to take turns and understand that they don't get their very own EVERYTHING.

Today we got ready to go to the pool, and blew up the new floats. An argument broke out about the new tube float.

"I get it first because I helped blow it up!"

"No, I get it first because I already called it! I said it last night AND I said it this morning! MOM!"

"Wahhhh! That's not FAIR! I get it first because I helped blow it up!"

Already tired of settling all the "not fair" arguments this morning, I came up with a brilliant parenting technique. The don't NEED me to settle everything.

"We won't go to the pool until you two come up with an agreement about who goes first, and who goes sec---"

"I GO FIRST!"

"NO I'M GOING FIRST!"

I am also tired of hearing it, so I kicked them out. "Go settle it in the backyard. Outside! And negotiate! Maybe whoever goes second gets extra---"

"I GO FIRST!"

"THAT'S NOT FAIR! WAHHHH!"

I closed the door and went back to packing the poolbag. Feeling proud of how I was making them come to their own solution. They'll probably argue about it until one of them figures out a way to get a longer turn in exchange for going second. It'll probably be the older one.

Then out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of purple pass by the living room window. I looked up. Next My son ran after the purple flash, spraying the hose, and shouting.

"WHO'S GOING FIRST?! WHO'S GOING FIRST?!"

"WAAAAHHHHHHH! MOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!"

So in the end we had a fifteen minute argument about who would go first and who would get extra time.

I should have saved the $3.99.

No fireworks on a bad-omen Fourth of July

I don't believe in omens. But the migraine I had this morning might make me a believer.

We love the fourth of July, and we especially love it in San Diego. We drive to Coronado and spend the day at the beach, and then watch the Big Bay Boom fireworks show from the helicopter hangars along the seawall on San Diego Bay. Year after year, it's a can't-miss fantastic holiday.

This year we brought a little grill and chicken wings and smores to tailgate with afterward, so we wouldn't have to sit in two hours of traffic to get off the island.

Thanks to the headache today, we got a pretty late start. And the beach was pretty cold. But the kids played anyway.

Now that I think about it, if the migraine hadn't been an omen, what happened next might've been.

My 6-year-old was crawling along the surf, digging on her hands and knees. I stood holding the baby while watching dolphins jumping just offshore. A very large lady stood several yards in front of me taking pictures of the dolphins with her cell phone. As a very cold wave washed toward her feet, she began to back up. Very quickly. I saw she was making a beeline for my daughter. I could see what was going to happen, but there was no way I could stop it.

The very, very large lady tripped over my Mary, sat down hard right on her, squashing her flat, then fell backwards spread-eagle on the sand with a big thud.

The woman's phone went flying onto wet sand, and I picked it up quickly to save it, as the woman was not making any move to get up. My daughter scrambled out from under the woman's legs, and ran to hide behind me, wailing.

It was a mess. They both ended up okay. I wrapped Mary in a blanket and made her sit down to calm herself.

I did not see that she sat right on my husband's key fob, sunglasses, and cell phone. Didn't know it, in fact, until she got up again and we saw the items lying in a puddle of water in the folding chair.

Glasses and key fob spared. Phone is now a paperweight.

I'd forgotten a lighter to light the grill for our hotdogs, but we finally borrowed some matches from some kind folks. A lot of matches, actually, as it was cold and windy.

Made it over to the seawall and settled in to watch fireworks. We were at the perfect point to see three barges surrounding us, all set to fire simultaneous shows. It began with a crazy huge one-minute inferno. Then there was nothing. All the families along the seawall waited. We speculated. Jamie's grill went out and his wings got cold, so he put more coals on.

Then an MP drove by with a loudspeaker, saying that there were no more fireworks, it was time to clear the area. Began flashing his lights.

I didn't know if the little grill was kosher on base, so I told Jamie, "I'm gonna make these smores right now before the popo shuts us down."

So Jamie held a rack of half-cooked chicken wings in his hands while I made smores for everyone.

The MP got out of his car and walked over to us. Mary repeated excitedly, "He's gonna arrest us! Oh no, he's gonna arrest us!"

"Hush, Mary! Shhh! Stop it!"

Jamie sat in his little folding chair with the chicken in his hands and the fire dying to coals and the MP told him we needed to pack up and get going . Jamie pointed out there was two hours of traffic jam to sit in before getting off the island. The MP said he understood, and just to leave when we could. Then left.

Jamie leaned to me, "Popo not shuttin' US down."

We ate our wings, then began to pack up the car. We'd been listening to the radio, like most of the cars tailgating.

But we should have heeded the omens.

Battery was dead.

One other family was left, fishing further down the seawall, and they were happy to give us a jump.

Jamie accidentally let the clamps touch and sparks flew. The helpful stranger said, "Wow, that's a better show than we had tonight."

We finally got loaded and left, only to make a u-turn ten minutes later to search for my phone in the dark.

On the way home, the main road to our neighborhood was closed by police, and we had to take a dirt road detour.

As I put the kids to bed, my son asked why we took the "bumpy road," which woke everyone up. I said there was a roadblock. Of course. He rolled his eyes and said this was the worst Fourth of July ever.

My daughter pipes up, "No, this was the best Fourth of July ever!"

I couldn't stop myself.

"What? What was the best part? When the fat lady fell on you?"

And then I laughed myself to tears. And the kids all laughed in bed.

Then I kissed Mary goodnight, and as she closed her eyes, she told me, "The best part was the smores."

Sex or Parent Magazine?

I often make comments to other wise and experienced mothers about how parenting is not how the parenting magazines depict it. You can literally drive yourself crazy feeling like a failure if you try to fill your days with crafts made from recycled trash, beautiful snacks made to look like small animals, and long family walks discussing self-esteem and gratitude.

And sometimes pragmatism has to over-rule the official word from the American Academy of Pediatrics on things like co-sleeping, or how old a child has to be before you can give them cough syrup, and how a child under two should never look at a TV screen.

I have four children and it's been many years since I was a new mother looking at a parenting magazines in the grocery-store checkout aisle. Because these days I am much too busy checking out magazine  covers like this one:

And as I scan such covers, my mouth forms a tight little line, and sometimes my left eyebrow might go up a notch. Because I often have my six-year-old daughter with me. Who reads EVERYTHING. My nine-year-old son might be with me sometimes, but he has no interest in looking at images on ladies' magazine covers. (Yet.) But I have seen his mouth drop open and an embarrassed look come over him when faced with a 4-inch-tall SEX headline at his eye-level.

My daughter, however, is entranced by glamorous and fashionable role models. I was especially irked to see her excitement at finding Disney star Selena Gomez on the Cosmo cover, and tried to distract her before she read the words surrounding the teen star.

Yesterday at the commissary, my husband and I were in the checkout line for a long time with our two grocery carts and four kids. Leaving plenty of time for looking at glossy covers. My daughter quickly said, "Mommy, someone needs to cover up these inappropriate words!" Smiling with mirth, she puts her hands over some of the giant, bold-font "SEX" headlines.

My husband gives me a look. My son grins and reads aloud, "How to feel great NAKED?!"

My daughter spreads her arms wide and says, "I always feel VERY comfortable naked!"

I give my husband a look. We read the rest of that cover. And I can't help myself, I say loudly to him, "I would love to take that magazine over to the manager, along with our kids, and ask HER to answer their questions about it."

But I didn't. I am glad that Mary's response was one of healthy and innocent self-esteem. But as she pays more attention to the rest of the words that grace Cosmo's cover every month, I worry how that self-esteem and innocence will erode.

Tell me again why it's better for girls to worry about being good at sex when they grow up than being good at housekeeping?