Do You Believe In Magic

The age difference between my siblings and myself isn't the biggest, six and four years, but when I was a kid it may as well have been a whole lifetime. They seemed impossibly older than me, and I believed I would never catch up to them. I was left out of a lot of things because of this, which may explain a lot of my, you know, "quirks," but I especially felt left behind on Saturdays and Sundays when my mother and older sister would take their weekly shopping trips without me. I can understand as a mother myself that my mother probably spent all day, all week with me and wanted to a) make it up to my sister and b) get away from me, but all I could focus on was the latter and remained mystified by the WHY behind it. Seriously. Why would ANYONE need time away from me? I'm so wonderful.

I found a lot of ways to not let this bother me over the years. Playing checkers by myself, throwing a baseball in the air and catching it--one man catch is SO lonely, and then, ultimately through books and writing. I eventually reached a point where I loved to curl up under a blanket with a book, or sit down before an unoccupied, un-fought-for computer and create my own world where mothers and sisters never left anyone behind.

But sometimes, it was different.

Sometimes, my dad would come trotting down the stairs in what he calls his "ball cap," or would lean in the doorway, and say to me, "I have to go out. Are you okay alone?" I always felt like what he was REALLY saying was, "Will you come with me?" It may or may not have been the case, but I believed what I believed, so I'd turn off the computer or put my book down spine-up and say, "Actually, can I come?" And he'd tip his head to one side, smile a little, and say, "You want to?"

I never really knew what to say to him in the car. All together, my family adds up to yelling, wittiness, relentless teasing, and more yelling, and no one's ever really spared from anyone else's sparky jibes. But when we were all together, it was my brother on one side of my dad and my sister on the other, and me next to my mom: always. Pauly always seemed to know exactly what my dad was interested in, and Jane seemed, well, to just know everything. On my own, I was acutely aware of the possibility that I was just different enough from my siblings to not have anything else valuable to say.

My father would turn on the radio, oldies mostly, ones that I knew every word to and most people had probably never heard before. How many kids know every Four Seasons song, every Beach Boys song, everything by Connie Francis, and which girl bands Phil Specter represented, all before the age of ten? We'd break the silence by singing along together. During commercials or the switching of the tapes (no CDs or iPods back then), Dad would talk to me.

"That song was always playing at the diner I'd go to in high school," he might say. "It was right down the road, but I always drove." He'd wink and add, "Too hip to walk."

Or he'd point out something really cool, like the way the light was hitting the trees over the horizon. "Look at that," he'd say. "It looks like gold, doesn't it?" And always with this small smile that let you know he really did appreciate what he was thinking of, and he knew that I would, too.

My dad can start singing a song based on the last word of any sentence. He can come up with a perfect song that suits the theme in any given moment. He's a really cool dancer. When I was little and had "Father-Daughter Dances," my dad could lift me up and twirl me. Dancing With the Stars? What-EV. My dad could rock their socks off. He can walk faster than ANYBODY, in dress shoes, carrying a heavy briefcase. He drives pretty fast, too. When he taught me to drive he said, "Come on now, Mar, be in control. Put your fingers on the wheel, never your palms. Your palms make the car move with your emotions. Your fingers will keep you in control."  He knows every car, every make, every year, and can give you either a special memory or a list of relevant facts about them without looking it up. He can plant anything and make it grow. He has the world's biggest vocabulary ("You better make up with Mom soon, because this situation is becoming gangrenous.") He can scare the hell out of you when you're totally guilty, or make you feel like a million bucks with the only kind of compliment he gives: a genuine one.

When my mom and sister went shopping, when my older brother made me crazy or made me cry, when my day has been the worst and so completely bad that I walk around with eyes that are so filled with held-back tears I look like a pipe about to burst, there is one person who will always, always see the best in me, or the best in that moment. And he'll say it (or sing it) in just the right way to make me--impossibly--smile. I know I'm the youngest, and I know I'm called "Daddy's Girl," but I also know I can count on my Dad. Always.

Happy Father's Day.

Grandpa and Grandson, the magic goes on. <3

Fox Glove FIASCO

It's taken me a few days to muster up the energy to write this. As you may or may not know, I have a lifelong fear of death by poison. I used to stand and watch my mother cook at the stove every night to be sure she wasn't throwing anything questionable into the mix. Sometimes, I'd make her taste it first. It might sound weird, like, why would my kind and loving mother poison her husband and three kids, but trust me. She'd said enough times, "I wish I could just run away and live by myself!"

Summer is my favorite time of year, and always has been. Aside from being totally addicted to the sun and warm weather (and say all you like about Buffalo; our summers can be amazing), I completely love the ease of life that summer brings. Flip flops, super casual clothes, messy ponytails...somehow "messy" becomes "breezy." I love it! Gone are the battles with ninety layers of clothes and coats, and the tug-of-war battle between mother and child over the donning of boots. Good God, the boots! Do everyone's children lay on the ground like rag dolls when it's time to throw on the galoshes?

Anyway, summer has come early this year, which I take as positive affirmation of me not working. A few mornings ago, Noah and I spent a couple hours in the garden. He's a great helper. Seriously. He stands next to me, all into it, with a cup of "food" for the plants, and dumps it carefully into all the holes I dig before we carefully place in the "baby" flowers. So adorable. But it was crazy hot out, so Noah said, "Let's go swimming at Grandma's, Mom." Good idea.

Here's another great thing about summer, though I suspect this one is unique to me. We don't have our own pool, but we DO live across the street from my mom (such a sweet deal--you should be jealous) and SHE has a pool. Not only that, but she's completely awesome. All around. When you have babies, she supplies the crib, playpen, swing, toys, and--GET THIS--buys diapers, wipes, and baby food for you. So you never have to pack a bag. And when your kids are older? She houses your sunscreen, swimsuits, towels, AND a change of clothes (that last one you have to be crafty about--she gets a little testy about "unnecessary" clothes laying around). So when Noah said, "Let's go swimming," all we had to do was climb in the car and drive across the street.

Yes, we're that lazy.

Anyway, it was so hot that we were not relieved by the temporary air conditioning in the car or in my mom's house. We jumped into the pool as soon as we were changed, reveling in the cool water. I paddled around thinking, "I have the best life in the world." And I do.

But it almost ended right then and there!

My father, landscaper extraordinaire, has beautiful plants and flowers growing with gusto all around his pool. His most recent addition are these tall, stalky flowers called "Foxglove." They'e beautiful and colorful and HUGE (and perennials, any gardener's favorite thing), but they are deadly poisonous. I didn't think much of this when he first warned me about it. I thought, "Well what do you think, I run around eating flowers for fun?"

But as I was swimming, guess what floated right by my head? Yup. A lone foxglove bud. Lovely and purple--so bright I actually thought it must be one of the kids' toys fallen in. When I saw what it was for real, I splashed away. Gah! I'm going to die!

Before you go rolling your eyes, let me tell you what ELSE happened. I know my own penchant for jumping to extreme conclusions, so I calmly asked Noah to please get out of the pool. (He wasn't happy.) Then I calmly phoned the first person I call in any crisis. My sister.

That was my first mistake.

"I am working!" she snapped, and hung up on me.

Well.

Next, I called my mother. Like me, she understands the true meaning of "emergency."

"Let me just look it up online," she said. I could hear her smiling, but I ignored it. Noah was hopping from foot to foot, all betoweled and adorable.

"Okay, got it," she said. I could hear her mouse click-clicking away, and could hear her reading silently. (You know what I mean.)

"'Foxglove is beautiful, but deadly,'" she read aloud. She read silently some more, and then, "Oh. Well....oh."

"What?" I said, immediately terrified.

"Um, well, just don't go back in the pool." She paused. "Well, maybe it's fine."

"WHAT????!"

"Let me just call a nursery," she said. Her voice was annoyingly placid, like she was suggesting maybe she was about to make a call asking for conversions from the metric system. She hung up abruptly and I stood there, dripping in my towel, staring at the phone, and waiting for death.

Seconds later, the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"It's only deadly if ingested," she said without preamble.

We hung up. Feeling slightly better, I called Joe and quickly updated him on The Foxglove Situation. Like my mother, he quickly Googled it. He, too, began by saying it was probably nothing, and then his voice changed into something new and different after reading the information online.

"Well," he said, and I sensed a logical explanation coming, "we have to assume this isn't the first time this plant has blown into the pool. Right?"

I thought about that. My dad planted it last year. Maybe even the year before. How weird would it be for it to have only lost a bud just this ONE time?

"I don't think we have to assume that at all," I said stubbornly.

"Well, let's say we do," Joe said. "And let's point out that we've been swimming in that water regularly, and none of us has died yet. And let's also point out that the amount of poison in that one tiny flower is probably pretty diluted by the time it reaches your body. IF it even does."

Ugh. Logical people.

"I don't think--" I began.

"Okay, how about this?" he interrupted. "I love Noah more than anything, right?"

"Yes," I said grudgingly, knowing full well where he was going.

"Well, I say it's probably safe to let him swim, and we both know I would not do ANYTHING to put his life in danger."

Damn.

So I let Noah swim. But later that day, after Joey was done with school and the three of us were back at my mom's and swimming again, guess what? THREE foxglove buds were floating. NOW WHAT????

I didn't want to call my mom or sister again (especially not my sister, who was so angry she posted about it on Facebook), so I just called Joe.

Joey overheard, and immediately began wailing that he was going to die. Was he going to die? He was going to die, wasn't he??

Joe reassured me by saying, "Listen, I AM at work. I can't talk foxglove with you right now."

I hung up the phone, feeling flustered and frustrated. Joey was hopping around going, "The poison is on my foot! I know it!"

Suddenly, Noah's face was right in mine. I looked over at him and he leaned even closer. "Mom," he said loudly but with a gravity that made me think he was about to list all the symptoms of foxglove poisoning because he had contracted it, "this is IMPORTANT!"

"What?!" 

"WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A PENIS????"

The foxglove plant, for your reference. BEWARE.

When Your Room Is In Order, Your Life Is In Order

So, when Joe was working in Pittsburgh, I think I got a little overzealous in home management. I think I overcompensated so much that now that he is back, I'm not really sure what to do with him. It seems like every room I walk into has a Joe explosion of some kind. A massive, toppling pile of mail (I've posted about this issue in the past) that no one can touch, lest the world end. A massive, toppling pile of pants. Seriously: hang them up! I would, but he says, "No, no, they're there for a reason." Okay...? The pile of shoes, which knows no bounds. What man needs so many shoes? I thought it was women who went shoe crazy? And of course Joe wears a size 13, so it's not just a pile of shoes. It's a pile of clown shoes that haunt me in my nightmares, chasing me through the house all clompy and muddy and angry.

I shouldn't be surprised that this morning I woke up with a headache. I'm a terribly disorganized person by nature, but it's really important for me to combat it. It was my mother who first noticed the way it affects my personality and mood. I was in my teens when she said, "You've been in a funk. Go clean your room." I was a teenager, so of course I ignored her. But the larger the mess in my room became, the funkier I became. I forgot my homework at school, I got snarky with my family, I couldn't find matching socks. Eventually, I had to give in. I cleaned my room. Lo and behold, I became calmer and more in control of all my other actions, just because my "home base" had been put into order. My mom noticed immediately--she's always way on top of how right she is. She nodded in satisfaction and announced, "When your room is in order, your life is in order."

This mantra has followed me through my entire life, and to my chagrin, has expanded to incorporate the many facets that make up adulthood. When I began working, the larger the pile of papers on my desk grew, the more anxious and forgetful I became. When I had my own apartment, I found myself just leaving all the time. I never wanted to be home, looking at the mountains of papers and mail and dirty dishes I'd accumulated. And I hated doing laundry and/or taking out the garbage, so I started eating at my mom's (so as not to MAKE any garbage or dirty dishes) and buying new underwear. Like, weekly. But suddenly, I felt homeless. I didn't live with my parents anymore, so I never felt settled when I was there. And I sure as heck didn't feel settled in the monstrosity that my apartment had become. So...I had to clean. Majorly.

The messes followed me into my first house with Joe, our second house, children's bedrooms and laundry. Basically, any time a new mess or new place for a mess existed, I found myself slipping back into the old funk. Avoidance, anxiety, aggravation, madness. I once had to be thrown through my kitchen window by my brother because I'd managed to lock myself out of the house. "Oh, anyone can make that mistake," you say. Yes. But I made it because I was feeling scattered and a mess. When I landed in the kitchen sink, my brother calling, "Okay, then?!" up from the patio, I was in a heap of pots and pans from dinner the night before, and I knew I had to make a change.

So lately, I've been forgetting things--even whole conversations I've had with Joe or my sister--and losing things and basically undoing all the fabulous order I'd created while Joe was gone. This morning, there were two empty juice boxes on the coffee table, a few stray toys, and, of course, a pile of mail. My head was hurting and I flopped down onto the couch, on top of a throw blanket that did NOT look casual and lovely. It just added to the general feeling of disarray I already had.

Noah said, "What's wrong, Mommy?"

"Mommy's house is. A. Mess," I told him. I had my arm thrown over my eyes and everything.

"How come?"

"Because Daddy has a lot of STUFF," I said. "And you know what?"

"What?"

"Grandma Judy always told me, 'if your room is in order, your life is in order.' And our house in NOT in order! I'm going to have to do something about this. When things are a mess, Mommy just feels crazy."

Noah was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Well this ISN'T Grandma's house. This is a Bielecki house, and she can't make us clean anything! So just relax, Mom. The mess is okay."

Oh, little man. I so admire the black and white of your world. I'm also jealous that you have a mommy who cleans up after you so you think cleaning is just...optional.

Not the Way I Planned It

As my first year of being a stay-at-home mom comes to a close, I reflect back on what my plans were this time last year. As with most things, the way I pictured this was NOT the way it ended up happening.

First of all, I imagined I'd wake up at 5:30 every morning, like a farmer. (Or do they wake up earlier? I guess I really don't know). I'd shower and put makeup on, because it was going to be the same as "going to work." I'd wear an outfit, not my sweats.

Next, I'd go in the kitchen and make a well-balanced breakfast for my family. Fruit, pancakes, maybe some bacon. Juice and milk. I'd finish this up as my family joined me in the kitchen and then we'd sit down together and have a lovely meal to start our day.

I'd pack my husband and school-aged son healthy lunches, send them off to their respective jobs, and then Noah and I would do some laundry. He would love this, the doing laundry. By May he would know how to fold clothes and would assist me in this task.

Noah and I would go on an educational field trip, perhaps to the science museum or, weather permitting, the zoo. We would have richly educational conversations and I would turn him into a child prodigy in more than one area.

Noah would take lengthy naps and I would become a for-real novelist.

Joey would arrive home from school to a healthy snack, and he, Noah, and I would complete an educational activity that made us all laugh and hug at the end because we are so happy to be together.

The boys would entertain themselves by performing one of Shakespeare's best (in Old English) while I prepared a wonderfully delicious dinner for the family. My husband would arrive home, and for the second time that day, we would sit and eat together, perhaps joining our hands in a prayer of thanksgiving before digging in to a meal of such splendor that I'm asked to have my own cooking magazine.

Before I tell you how things REALLY went, I want you to know that for, like, two weeks last summer this all totally happened. It DID. Then I went and stayed at the beach with my parents, and THEN Joe started his job in Pittsburgh and was gone all week long, so...

ALL BETS WERE OFF.

This morning, Joey and Noah came downstairs hollering and hooting that it was a new day. They attacked me in my bed, shaking me ferociously and shouting, "Get up, Mommy! Get up! We NEED FOOD!" Their voices get all Hulk-y when they say this. My husband Joe, who missed me terribly in Pittsburgh (wouldn't YOU?) and has since moved back to Buffalo, rolled out of bed before me and trudged to the shower.

After a full five minutes, I myself rolled out of bed and stood unsteadily, hating the sun and hating the morning and hating the world in general. I went into the bathroom and washed my face because if I don't, my eyes will not stay open and I will bump into large inanimate objects, like the wall. I made my way to the kitchen, where my children bounced off walls and windows and sang too loud for any human before 7 AM. Joey had an Eggo waffle and strawberries and Noah had sugar toast and watermelon. After they were set, I had granola.

In the middle of the granola Noah yelled at me, so I went to his new behavior chart and gave him a big black X next to "Be Nice To Mommy." This enraged him, so he jumped off his stool and attacked me, insisting that I erase the X. I gave him another X for this, which made him call me a name. This brought him his third and final X before he shouted, "FINE! I'LL BE A NICE BOY! BUT I WON'T LIKE IT!"

Joey helped me clear the plates and then went to play on the computer. Noah joined him. I did the dishes and made myself tea which I forgot about. It got cold. I went and found my husband, who was readying for his day, and we talked about our plans for later. Dinner at my mom's of course, but what time? He said, "Do you really hate cooking that much?" and I said, "Yes. I HATE cooking THAT much." He laughed and said, "That's okay."

Joe was ready to drive Joey to school, but I had forgotten to get him his clothes. I raced to the dryer and dug through a mountain of clean clothes searching for Joey's uniform shorts and shirt. I found them. They were wrinkled, but I have decided that no one probably notices that.

I realized next that I'd also forgotten to make Joey and Joe's lunches, so I flew into the kitchen and yanked out bread and peanut butter and cold cuts. I slapped together their sandwiches and put them in their lunch boxes (Batman for Joey, Yoda for Daddy) with a Sani-Hands wipe that I'm pretty sure they both ignore when they are away from me.

At this point, Noah looked up and said, "Mommy, your hair is CRAZY." Joey jumped to my defense, "Don't say that! She's beautiful!" Then he looked at me. "And don't listen to anyone. You don't NEED any makeup." I was not reassured, but always appreciate a compliment.

Joe and Joey left, so I sat down to go on Facebook and Pinterest. I can't do this when Joe is home because he might think it's all I do all day. I looked out the window and saw that Joe was coming back into the house; he'd forgotten something, too. I snatched up my laptop, shoved it under a pile of laundry, and breathlessly began folding clothes. Joe dashed past me, paused, and said, "Don't forget to have some fun today." Snicker, snicker, snort.

Let me fill in the rest for you. I am still in my pajamas. My house is NOT immaculate. Noah will go in for a nap, but he will not sleep. He will jump up and down and sing rock songs, but I will continue putting him in because it is my only few moments of sanity during the day. I once had a glass of wine during this time. Judge all you want. You haven't met him.

I have not written a novel. I write a blog, and I have about five local readers and one random one from Russia who I am confused by but appreciate.

My mother is a waaaaaay better cook than me, and I'm okay with that. I hope she is, too. Noah and I will spend the morning on a field trip to Target, because I like to put him in places that keep him contained and distracted, and shopping carts are good for that. I will beg my mother to come with me so I have adult company. Noah will be jealous of SOMEONE and complain often and loudly.

I will come home to feed him chicken nuggets from the freezer and we will watch Miss Spider. He will pretend he's going to take a nap and I will catch up on laundry and/or cleaning. I will not finish. I might head out into the garden. It is soothing and I will daydream instead of actually gardening.

Noah will need to be saved from himself eventually, so I will get him out of bed. We will wait for Joey's bus to come, and then we all play a noisy and insane game outside, because we are noisy and insane. We might play loud music and dance around. We will eat popcorn or cookies and drink Capri Sun and wait for it to be time to go to my mom's. If my mom is ever away on vacation, my children wail, "WHAT ARE WE GONNA DOOOOOOOOOOOO??????"

At my mother's, my children watch television, play Legos, and deliberately annoy my father because he has worked all day and is easy to annoy. Joey cannot sit still after a long day at school so everyone takes turns asking him to please sit down. Sometimes we add, "Both cheeks on the chair!" This is what they said to me when I was little, and it annoys me that Joey is no better than I am.

My mother clears away the plates before I am satisfied that my children are REALLY done eating and she feeds them candy and cookies and ice cream. When they have a good, thorough sugar rush going, we head home, snuggle on the couch, and make plans for tomorrow.

Joey and Noah have their bath, and morph into sparkling, smiling angels. They snuggle into me on the beanbag chair in Joey's room and together we read a story. Last night, Joey read to us. He told jokes in between the pages, and we all giggled. Noah and Joey hugged each other good-night and said, "I love you," and then I tucked Noah in. I used my "Mommy Magic" to make him feel safe and sang, "You Are My Sunshine," because it's true. For all his bad-itude, he is the sunshine of our family.

Then I went and tucked Joey in. He snuggled under his Batman blankets and whispered, "I hope you had a good day, too, Mom." I used Mommy Magic on him, too, and sang him "Dream a Little Dream of Me." He made me check around his room THREE TIMES (once using X-Ray vision, because I have that) and then finally, I went back downstairs where Joe was microwaving leftovers from my mom's house. He smiled, retrieved a fork, and then came his usual greeting.

"How was your day?"

It's not paradise, and it's not perfect. But I think it's pretty great.

The First Baby I Ever Met

I was born last in my family, and I think I was pretty much a textbook youngest child. You know, perfect in every way, learning from the mistakes of the idiots who came before me, loved by all. But I was also four years younger than my brother and six years younger than my sister, which may not seem like a lot--and isn't now that we are adults--but it was just enough when I was little to make them seem unreachably older. Jane, as I've mentioned in the past, always seemed like an adult to me. This is a detail I actually remind myself of often when I see my own children look up to my 12-year-old niece as if she were an equal to me (God help us and save us). And my brother took his role of older protector and adviser so seriously that he didn't make much of a buddy. The only time I got to play with him was when I was sure to get hurt. He was Superman and I was the person about to die. "Don't worry, Mar, I'll catch you" (as I'm crashing down off some precarious perch he promised was totally safe). Or his favorite. "Get out of the room." I really, really hated Get Out Of the Room.

So there I was, kind of an only child in a family with three children. I had younger cousins, but I either didn't see them very often or didn't know them well, or both. And my mother was adamant I was It for her--I was told frequently, and I overheard often, that I was the last surprise my mother ever wanted. Therefore, when I was ten years old and my aunt and uncle had their first baby, I was destined to fall in love.

I'd never really seen a brand new baby, so seeing this one was a bit like visiting a zoo. An exotic creature right there in front of me, who I was sure I would never be able to touch. Imagine my surprise when we had been standing in my aunt's family room all of two minutes when my aunt turned to me--ME!--and asked, "Would you like to hold him?" Never mind that I almost fainted, my mother squawked, "MARY?!" She looked at me, eyes wide and smile huge. "Can you handle it?" she asked. My own grin was too big to allow speech, so I just nodded excitedly.

They set me in a wide chair, showing me how to rest my elbow on the arm so it wouldn't get tired. Then my aunt reached into the swing where my impossibly tiny new cousin was bundled so tightly he couldn't possibly move. His hair was jet black and his wrinkled skin was smooth and golden, and he reminded me of a little cartoon papoose. When he was placed in my arms I could hardly breathe. He stirred slightly, his head turning a bit from side to side as he found a comfortable position, and then his eyes opened. Only a little, but enough for me to see how beautifully blue they were, and for him to look right at me. I will never, ever forget that moment. It was the first time I ever really knew what it was to love a baby, someone smaller and more helpless than me. And I did love him, immediately and overwhelmingly.

"Talk to him," my aunt prompted gently.

I looked down at him and said, "Hello. I'm your big cousin Mary. And I'm gonna love you sooo much."

Somehow, as the men sat and watched football or some other such nonsense, and the women (my sister included) sat at the kitchen table chatting, I was forgotten. Minutes ticked by, I have no idea how many,  but I know that my arm went numb resting there beneath that tiny, fuzzy head on the arm of the big chair, and that with each minute, it became sealed more and more that this baby was as close to mine as any would get. At least when I was ten.

It didn't matter to me that my brother and sister loved him as much as I did, and even my mom and dad. I had staked a claim on him that first day, and from then on, at all gatherings (which were pretty often back then) from the moment he arrived, I scooped my baby cousin into my arms and carried him everywhere I went. Somehow, this was okay with my aunt, even though I was only ten and eleven years old, which is kind of a miracle. And how else would I have trained to become such a good mom? I learned from my cousin all about how to be with small children, how to play with them, how to talk with them, not at them. I learned what to do when they cry (besides carry them, arms outstretched, to their mothers), and how to keep them occupied for long whiles with mundane things. Like collecting rocks at the beach, playing police with a cordless phone, and transforming Transformers back and forth five billion times. Looking back, I guess it was the best practice I could have had for the two little boys I ended up with.

As he grew and I grew, I actually got to babysit him officially. When he was three and four years old, he'd insist I cuddle him as he fell asleep, listening to his snuffly little breathing and smelling the stinky blanket he carried with him everywhere.

I love children, mainly because for a long time I assumed they were all as cool as this boy. Even after that, I had discovered that all children have something unique and magical to offer in their own ways, even the very worst ones (and there are some doozies). But there have been very few children, my own included of course, who have crawled up into my heart like this one did, to stay forever in a special place.

And so, in my way, I say Happy Birthday to you, Baby Cousin. You are OLD now, and I'm so glad to know the person you've become.

Needing a Sister

Since a lot of people we know have been having babies, Joey and Noah have "decided" they should have a sister. They're not being terribly pushy about it, but remarks are made at least five times a day. It's usually a casual, "We should really have a sister next," or a breezy, "So, Mom. When are you going to get another baby in your belly?" Each time I smile, sigh, and say, "We're probably not going to have a sister in our family. It's probably going to stay just us." As children who are used to getting what they want (because they only ever make reasonable requests, of course), they are irritated by instant shoot-down. Why am I not even considering their reasonable request? Why don't I want a darling little angel to add the verve and pizzazz to our family that's so clearly missing? And the biggest question of all: Why don't I want another girl to hang out with?

None of my answers ever appease them. I don't really think it's appropriate to discuss adult decisions with children, but this one is a little bit their business and certainly affects them. This leads me to give small inadequate responses since a simple "No" isn't quite fair.

"I just love you two so much, I don't need anyone else."

"Why do I need a girl when you boys are so much fun?"

"Babies cost lots and lots of money, and we don't have any of that." (This helps me out later, when they make unreasonable requests at Target.)

Or Joe's stand-by: "Mommy likes being the only girl. Another one would only steal her thunder." This one, though partly true, doesn't really satisfy Joey and Noah at all. They don't think I have much thunder. They think I'm pretty lame.

But today I decided to give Noah a little more. I wasn't going to get into the whole, "Joey would be eight years older than the baby," or, "How would Mommy handle having been home with you but returning to work with a new baby since she used all her time up and then changed her mind about how many kids she wanted?" No, that's the stuff that I think they don't need to know or be concerned with. But again--there is a lot that would change in their lives, and it seemed safe to share what some of that would be.

"Mommy, when are we going to have a sister? I really want one."

"Well, I'm not sure a sister would make you very happy. Babies are a big deal. Even bigger than a bicycle."

Noah made a face, looking at the bicycle he was perched on, one foot on the ground, one hand on his knee. His Buzz Lightyear helmet was slightly askance and his shaggy blond hair, in need of a cut, stuck out from the front over his forehead.

"Do you know that if we had a baby girl, she would need her own bedroom?"

"That would be okay," said Noah. He furrowed his brow, nodding his approval. Of course that seemed fair. At first.

"Well, that means you'd have to share a room with Joey. You'd have to give your bedroom to the baby."

"What?"

"We'd need to get rid of your Toy Story bed so we could fit the crib in the room, too."

"My Toy Story bed?" he repeated, his voice getting panicky. "But I love it."

"Well, yes. But you'd sleep in Joey's bunk bed, and the new baby would have the crib."

"But what about my toys? And my clothes?"

"All that would have to go in Joey's room. You'd have to move all your clothes in his closet and share the space."

Noah scratched the back of his neck and glanced from side to side as he processed this. But he wasn't done.

"Joey's bunk bed is awfully high. I know how to use the ladder, I guess. But I sure love my Toy Story room. When would I get it back?"

"Well, never," I said. By now I was seriously fighting a smile. "If you have a sister, that would make her a girl. And she would need her privacy. Just like Mommy needs privacy."

"But you share with Daddy!"

"I do, because we're grownups and we're married."

"What if my sister wants to share with Daddy?"

"She can't. He shares with me because we're married. It's something you get to decide when you're a grownup. You get your own house, and decide if you want to share it with someone you marry."

"Get my own house??" he screeched. "I can't live with you forever?!"

"Well, no. When you're a grownup you don't live with your Mommy anymore." In my head I muttered, "God willing."

"And I'll...I'll never see you again?" His little voice was shaky.

"No, you will. We'll see each other all the time, just like we see Grandma Judy all the time."

Noah considered this a moment, then brightened. "Okay. I don't need a sister, and I will grow up and have my own house. And I will have a pool."

He hopped on his bike, shoved off the pavement, and pedaled off at a hundred miles per hour.

Mr. Thoughtful

Boys Who Cry

I could expound for hours on what I believe are the differences between boys and girls. I understand I don't have a daughter of my own, so this may seem unfair, but I'm a girl myself (for one thing) and I'm about as close to my nieces as anyone can get (for another). So while I admit I don't know it all, I do know a little.

Instead, I'd like to just focus on one particular thing. That when little boys cry, it completely breaks me.

I remember feeling this way--overwhelmingly--in elementary school. There was always that one kid--you know the one--who held things up for the rest of the class. It might have changed from year to year. Let me see...there was Mark (he wore brown pants every day), Jack (who had an eye patch like a pirate), Mark (who still wore brown pants two years later), Jason (who stuffed a note from the teacher to the principal in a radiator and totally got in double trouble for potentially causing a fire hazard). But about once a year, it happened that that kid cried. In front of everybody. Blotchy face, snot, bangs pushed up from a sweaty forehead. I think this is hugely indicative of larger issues for these boys, but again, that isn't my point here. My point is (like always) what happened to ME in those moments.

I'm not sure why exactly it broke my heart every time. Perhaps it was the complete unexpectedness of it all, that this boy was absolutely the last person on earth I would expect to feel so helpless in any moment that he had to cry. It might have been that I was raised in a family where girls cried and boys just didn't, or that literature and the media perpetuated that stereotype. For whatever reason, seeing a boy cry made my heart clench and my stomach drop and made me want to do the unthinkable: get up out of my assigned seat in the middle of everything and offer comfort to a person I would normally steer clear of entirely.

It follows then that when my sons cry, it's all over. This is something that really irks my husband, I know, because a lot of times they are crying for valid reasons. As in, they did something pretty bad and deserve to be crying a bit.

I will say I've become a bit impervious to Joey. He's incredibly sensitive, so he cries far more often than really anyone I've ever met. He doesn't cry at school, which is a relief, because he must recognize the weirdness that could cause in front of his friends. (I asked him once and he was totally appalled. He said, "Ugh, Mom, no WAY.") But apparently, I'm a "safe" person, as is anyone else in our extended family. And Joey doesn't cry--he wails. It's like his jaw is on a hinge, and he just flips his head back, his mouth gaping open, and at first nothing comes out. He holds his breath, building up the big loud cry. And then it comes out, long and strong and embarrassing and uncomfortable for everyone but Joey, who's too involved with his episode to notice.

There are some times, though, when I'm not unmoved by his pain. That's when I know he truly feels broken and I can't do a thing about it. Like the first time he watch Charlotte's Web, or when we were in Disney World and he thought he couldn't participate in the Star Wars Padawan training. I'll never forget that one. Joey wasn't the kid in Disney having meltdowns or acting spoiled. He was the happy-go-lucky kid who said cheerfully, "Okay!" to pretty much everything we said, from "Let's try that ride out,
 to "Oops. Guess that ride is closed this week." So when Joe and I were discussing that maybe we'd missed our chance for Padawan training, we were shocked when we notice Joey's head hanging down and him desperately fighting off The Wail. After that, I would have taken out any kid who got in our way. Joey WOULD be trained as a Jedi. And he was.

Noah, on the other hand, continues to be my proof that it doesn't matter if you have the same parents and upbringining: you can be totally different than your sibling. Noah is pretty tough. When he falls off his bike, rolls across the blacktop, and skins both knees, he grunts, lifts himself off the ground, and gives a wave. "I'm okay!" is his mantra. To my great confusion, he didn't spend nights crying as a baby. He spent them playing--so much so that I decided he must see ghosts and be talking with them. I remember talking to the pediatrician about this when he was almost a year old. "Why do you keep going in?" she asked. I was baffled. "I don't know," I said. "Because he's not sleeping." Her response, "Stop. You'll know when he needs you."

And that is why it breaks my heart when Noah cries. It's always so unexpected. Although, I have to say, it usually happens when he knows he's done something bad. Like yesterday. He was mad at me about something (not unusual), so he jabbed me in the ribs with his pointy little elbow. I'm not kidding--he meant to do it! What a little jerk. So I said, "Ouch! Noah, it is NOT nice to do that to ANYBODY, but definitely not your mother. I don't want to be around you if you act like that." WHOA. That was the IT thing to say, if I wanted him to "get" my point. He stood up, shocked, and his face contorted slowly into a pained, I'm-going-to-cry expression. His eyes got all scrunched and his mouth became an almost cartoonish frown, his chin jutting out beneath it, and then these crocodile tears began to tumble from his eyes, rolling over his cheeks and onto his t-shirt. He SO deserved to be in trouble--he elbowed my ribs on purpose! But I knew I'd hurt his feelings, and he looked so devastated I felt a crumbling all around my heart. I had caused this tough, tough, mommy hitter to feel heart-broken. Joey, too, felt I'd crossed some sort of mommy line, and he was instantly at his brother's side, rubbing his back. But he was stronger than I would have been if I'd allowed myself to speak (something I've learned not to do when I know the child was truly out of line). Joey said, "Well, you can't hurt our mother, Noah. You just can't. But we do love you. We just want you to be good." I couldn't have handled this better, and found myself thanking God that Joey is as sensitive as he is. Who would have thought he'd be the voice of reason when I couldn't be?

I don't really think it's bad that they cry. I don't want them to be...you know, sissies--and be real, here. You know what I mean. But I do want them to feel comfortable...feeling.  Isn't everyone entitled to that? They can be manly in lots of other ways, but sometimes, especially when you're little, crying is okay no matter who you are.

Still, I suppose this is all just another reason I'm not meant to have a daughter. If I can't handle the drama boys bring, what on earth would I do with a girl? Sure, you might tell me, "Not all girls are dramatic, Mary Pat," but seriously, the odds aren't in her favor. Have you met me??