Texting My Child

Noah and I have recently discovered a common interest. We love searching unique houses on Zillow. I've recently had surgery and haven't been able to do much. When I found one particular house on the border of New York and New Jersey, I immediately texted it to Noah. This is the conversation that followed. It nicely demonstrates why he's an amazing human. You're welcome for the story, and for bringing Noah to the world.

Me:

I CAN’T EVEN BELIEVE THIS PLACE!!

Noah:

WOAH!

Me:

It has its OWN lighthouse!!

Noah:

It’s like a castle-mansion mix! And 

        also a pool and lighthouse? AWESOME!

Me:

It was built in 1910!

Noah:

SO OLD!

Me:

And there are like 5,000 staircases. 

I don’t even understand.

Noah:

ok. They don’t have 5000.

They have 4999

Me:

😂

Noah:

🙄 

Me:

Ok. Listen.

It has its OWN STATUE OF LIBERTY.

Get.

OUT.

Noah:

Wait. Where is it?

Me:

In the yard. Don’t be ridiculous.

There are also floor plans!

Noah:

No

The house

Where is the house?

Me:

Between NJ and NY

Noah:

K

Noted

I’ll remember these houses, so that one 

        day I can buy one

IT WILL BE AWESOME

Me:

Or build it.

Noah:

ooooooh

Interesting 

Me:

And I will live in a secret cave in a secret 

location on the property.

Even you won’t know where I am. 

I will be Super Creepy Mom.

Noah:

I can use ideas from previous houses 

        to make my own

Me:

Yes. But please have a castle. It’s what 

every mother wants for her child.

Noah:

😂

It’ll be castle-like

Maybe a tier or two...

Me:

You’ll have to have two or it will just look stupid.

Noah:

No. Not tiers... TOWERS

Me:

Honestly, Noah. You can’t run around 

one-towered and expect anyone to 

take you seriously.

Noah:

TWO TOWERS ON EACH SIDE

mhmm

And...

Me:

The Statue of Liberty, of course!

Noah:

Uhhh

Me:

Except it will have my face.

Noah:

Mom that’s too expensive 

Weirdo

Me:

Whatever. I’ll pay for that.

Noah:

Oh

Then yes

Me:

What am I saying? It would lead 

straight to my lair. Never mind.

Noah:

It’s not weird anymore

Because it’s yours

Me:

I have to admit, you’d look handsome 

on a Statue of Liberty.

Noah:

I’d have a goldendoodle statue

Me:

of liberty?

LOL

Can you just see Bizzy?

Noah:

That’s fifty feet tall

Me:

With a little crown and a torch?

And a book of course.

Noah:

Haha

Me:

He’d look so regal.

Noah:

I will definitely note all of that

Me:

Good call.

Noah:

But I’d need a glass elevator

Like Willy wonky

Me:

lol

Noah:

Haha

Me:

wonky

Noah:

Willy wonka 

Me:

Also, you should have an astronomy tower.

Noah:

Mhmm

Me:

That seems important.

Noah:

Yup

Me:

And GOATS!

Noah:

No

Horses

Me:

Forget it.

The whole thing is off.

Noah:

Those are majestic though 

Me:

It’s goats or nothing, man.

Noah:

Goats are all beheh, and horses 

        are like BOOM

Me:

We’ll have our own special hair-

dressers hired to style the goat beards.

Different colors, lots of braids.

Noah:

NO 

Me:

And beads.

Noah:

NO

Me:

Over here (she said in a British accent, 

which we’ll need) we have Tippy, our oldest goat. 

You’ll see his beaded green beard.

Noah:

OK

I want Tippy

Me:

We can have contests with the goats.

OMG

Noah:

And one named Copernicus 

Me:

Goats against PIGS!

Noah:

Yes

Yes yes

Me:

Copernicus is so a pig’s name.

Co-pig-a-cus

Noah:

What?

No

Me:

Did you say it out loud? It’s perfect.

Noah:

Pig-puns are overrated 

Me:

It’s…NOT a pun.

It’s just good sense.

Noah:

No

The pig will be named Waddles, and that 

        is final

Me:

There’s more than one pig.

Noah:

No

Just one pig

Me:

You can’t name them all Waddles, or you’re racist.

That’s just mean.

Noah:

And two goats

Me:

But…how will the contests work?

Noah:

One goat is Tippy, and the other is Copernicus.

They all race each other

Me:

What color is the beard of Copernicus?

(and btw, Waddles will defy all odds and 

be an undefeated winner)

Noah:

He only has a red mustache, and yes, 

         Waddles will win, because we will give 

         him a jetpack 

This is the future we’re talking about.

Me:

Noah, that sounds made up.

Noah:

Nope

Me:

Try and be realistic.

Noah:

We’d obviously teach him

Me:

Fine, but not before we all learn 

Pig Latin together.

Noah:

Aren’t we doing that this summer

??

??

????

Me:

I don’t want to start before Waddles is BORN!

That’s not fair.

Noah:

Umm

😐 

Fine

😐 

Me:

Good talk, man. I think we have a solid plan here.

Noah:

Mhmm

More info in your next spy message

THIS MESSAGE WILL NOW SELF-DESTRUCT

When the Dentist Asks Questions

Max was referred to a pediatric dental specialist because has unusual decay along his bottom teeth. While the dentist and pediatrician (kindly) attributed this to the acid reflux Max has had since infancy, this new specialist decided to interview Max for more answers.

The dentist (who, it must be noted, was charismatic and delightful): So, Max. Do you watch the Buffalo Bills?

Max (rolling his eyes): Only in real life.

The dentist: Oh! Only in real life. Well, okay. So I looked at your teeth and I talked to your dentist. Do you know why?

Max: Well, I'm a kindergartener now, so I'm guessing it's because I had a growth spurt in my teeth.

The dentist: Aha. So...you're a very bright light bulb, aren't you.

Max: I did just graduate Pre-K.

The dentist: Oh! That's nice. I have a question for you. Do you eat a lot of candy?

Max: YES.

The dentist: I thought you might. And, I'm just thinking here, but...you're awfully handsome and pretty smart. I bet people really like giving you candy.

Max: Yes.

The dentist: Are your grandparents in town?

Max: My dad is not.

The dentist: ...Oh? Okay...?

Me (attempting to intervene): His dad is just out of town for work for a couple days.

Max (jumping right back in): He brings me presents.

The dentist (chuckling): I see. What's your dad's job?

Max: I don't know.

(The dentist turns to me expectantly, but I don't know either because my husband does mysterious accounting work that eludes most people. I explain this, stupidly.)

The dentist (realizing I'm a lost cause and turning back to Max): But are your grandparents here in town?

Max: Well, yes. They are.

The dentist: Okay. Let's use our imaginations. If you and I were standing outside your grandma's house RIGHT NOW, and I told you I'd give you TEN DOLLARS to run in the house and grab me some candy, could you do that really fast?

Max: YES.

The dentist: You'd know right where to find it?

Max: In the kitchen cupboard. I had a Snickers today.



So...I feel like the dentist got all the information he needed from that conversation. And more.

When To Call/Text Before 7:30AM

Update: By the time I finished writing this, I was so amused and full of love I wasn't annoyed anymore. Text if you need me.

Reasons It Is Acceptable To Text Or Call Me Before 7:30 AM

1. Someone we know has died. CAVEAT: Famous people, while interesting, do not count. Distant acquaintances do not count.

2. Someone we know has just given birth. CAVEAT: Famous people, while interesting, do not count. Distant acquaintances do not count.

3. It is a work day, and somebody needs a ride somewhere. CAVEAT: The ride should be required within the next two hours. Otherwise, the text/phone call can wait.

4. Someone in your household has become entangled in a sun roof and needs immediate assistance. No caveat. Please call, don't text.

5. Someone in your household has tumbled whilst running and thrust their arm through a plate glass window. No caveat. Please call, don't text.

6. You, your family, or any part of your home is on fire. Honestly, if your kitchen towel catches fire via carelessness by the stove and everything ends up fine, please text anyway. It is entertaining.

7. Someone in our family is stranded and needs help. CAVEAT: Only if I am actually able to help.

8. Someone in our family has been rushed to the hospital unexpectedly. 

9. Your house has been burgled and you are traumatized. CLARIFICATION: Don't call me for help. Call the police. I will, however, be glad to provide moral support by phone or in person.

10. Our brother has done something quirky and humorous. No caveat.

11. You are experiencing an emotional crisis and cannot cope for another second. 

12. You are reading an amazing book.

13. You need to tell me I was fantastically right about something. BONUS: Everyone else thought I was wrong and you're going to set them all straight. Definitely text.

14. You or someone in your house is sick and needs help. CLARIFICATION: If you need my help or advice, I don't care if the situation is minor or major. I will help you.

15. You want to talk about my novel.

16. You think I'm pretty and/or would like to wish me a nice day.

17. Advice about a crisis I am currently experiencing or you suspect is coming. 

18. Someone in one of our favorite books has done something amusing. CAVEAT: Quotes are appreciated.

19. Important information about my children. Compliments are acceptable.

General Caveat: If it is something that requires immediate assistance that I can provide, call/text. This does include pet emergencies. If it can wait for two hours, wait.

Reasons It Is NOT Acceptable To Call/Text Before 7:30 AM

1. Current Events. CLARIFICATION: Yes, this includes election results.

2.  Television/movie news.

3. Interesting scuttlebutt. CLARIFICATION: Even if we know them.

4. Local enterprises/entrepreneurship. Even with regard to our family's favorite sausage vendor.

5. Food/Shopping/Restaurant Concerns.

6. You are on a group text sent by Jane and are also awake. If you respond, this will also come through to Mary Pat. One-word responses/emojis are the most offensive.

7. You are replying to a text I sent you the day before (at an appropriate time).

8. Anything communicated by just an emoji.

9. Anything insulting aimed directly at me. (This is a terrible way to wake someone. Just mean.)

10. School has been canceled. I receive updates directly from our administrators and have usually known about this for several minutes.

11. You will be attending an exciting concert that is several months away.

12. You have booked a vacation to which I am not invited.

13. With regard to a purchase, you are torn between two things.

14. One of your home appliances is on the fritz.

IMPORTANT: I do enjoy these texts/calls at some point during the day. Just not when it interrupts sleep. 

ALSO IMPORTANT: If you have texted me for any of the above reasons, we are probably close and I definitely love you. Again, I just need sleep.

Too Little

Max, my five-year-old son, stands before me with a pink face and wet eyes. His blond hair, badly in need of a haircut, stands up off his forehead in all directions, and his mouth trembles in an already-lost war against crying.

"I'm just a baby!" he shouts at me.

The words of my grandmother: You look so beautiful when you cry, float through my memory, and I'm struck by how clearly I hear them. How often she must have said it to me that I remember it so well. But on the other hand, I'm not surprised at all.

I understand this moment, Max's anguish. I know it well. When I was five, my brother and sister seemingly threw me away in favor of friends their own age. I was left behind.

On a week off from school, my bigger boys fill our house with friends and Nerf wars and Dungeons and Dragons and, it must be said, an inhalation of food like I never imagined. And do they want a "baby" trailing after them, needing supervision and admonitions and ruining the fun?

It's a rhetorical question.

This is a part of life. It's a part of the role assigned: Youngest. Baby in the family. Littlest. Kid brother. We don't ask for birth order, or siblings, or any of the things that are packaged up for us before we're born. Like those brown bags of school supplies for less fortunate children thrown together at big chain stores in September. Do we even know if we've compiled what they need? Or want? "Yes, of course I'll donate," is what I always say at the check-out line, and then off I go on my merry way, satisfied that I've done my part, helped someone out. In that moment, I'm almost as thoughtless as Joey and Noah are now: focused only on their own moment, all the while rejecting Max.

"Get him out!" 

"Mo-om! He's ruining the game."

"Come ON. He's too little."

I have no doubt in my mind that all of these statements are true and fair. But I have this boy--this boy who absolutely looks beautiful as he cries, emotionally tortured--standing in front of me. This is humiliation and embarrassment and hurt in the most basic form. It's rejection. It's my own children, asking me to choose between them, essentially.

I remember my own mom, kneeling down in front of me, the expression on her face something between pity and trying not to laugh.

Max's huge eyes, wounded and accusing as he yells at me, "Stop laughing!"

My mom saying with offensive false cheer, "Hang out with me! I'll be your friend!"

The disdain in Max's glare.

The truth is, when you are the youngest, there's nothing in the world that matters more than being accepted--nay--wanted by your older siblings. There will never be anyone cooler, or more interesting, or more fun.

And as a mom, nothing will break your heart, or make you laugh, like your littlest little one feeling that pain.

Small Hero

In early October of the year 2007, I was eleven weeks pregnant. Of my three pregnancies, this was the only one that was planned. Number two. As my husband joked (over and over) at the time, "I guess what happens in Vegas, doesn't stay in Vegas." Good one, babe.

We were living with my parents while we waited for our newly purchased house to close. In the bedroom that was mine as a child, with the same pink walls and frilly window valance, I woke at five-thirty a.m. Deep in my belly, there was a pop that shook me out of a sound sleep. It didn't hurt, but I figured my bladder must have burst because I thought I'd wet the bed.

I was hemorrhaging.

The sight of the blood caused my heart to drop, a broken elevator lurching down. I sat in the same bathroom where my mom had bathed me as an infant, the same one that served as my bedroom for an indeterminate amount of time in my babyhood. As a little girl, this was the toilet I'd run to when I was sick. And just like those long ago days, I waited until I could get up and walk, then went straight to my mother's bedroom door.

"Mom. I'm bleeding."

She sat by my side as I called the doctor's emergency hotline. As he told me an eleven-week pregnancy wasn't a guarantee. As I sat in the doctor's office beside Joe, my mom was still there, holding my hand. The three of us leaned on each other when the sono tech said, "No, no. it's okay. The hemorrhage isn't hurting the baby."

Eight months later, that same baby caused me more trouble in the delivery room. Once again there was blood when there shouldn't have been. Once again there were doctors and nurses rushing around me. This time, they lifted me onto a gurney and raced me down the hall. My heart pounded in my chest as the worst pain I'd ever felt stabbed at the place where my baby rested in wait.

C-section baby. My little emergency.

When they put him in my arms, everything about him was golden and perfect. He was alive! He was beautiful. Gold cheeks, gold hair. A little round angel with a scrunched-up nose and an ear that folded in on itself. I kept pressing it down with my finger, worrying it might stay that way, and then yelling at myself for even thinking it. He was alive. My little boy.

Noah.

There are a million Noah stories on this blog, and sometimes I wonder if they all say the same things. He is too much, but not enough. He makes me crazy. Why is he so loud? This is not regular-child loud, this is cover-your-ears volume that could wake a dead person from their grave. He hates spiders, and the dark, and being alone. His hugs are proof that heaven is real. He fights, but only about things no one can help...like having brothers, or going to school on Mondays.

When you're a parent, there is one thing that continues to challenge you over and over again. It can be so ordinary it's actually mundane, though sometimes it isn't. There are days where it's awful on a level for which you can't find words. Either way, it sucks. Watching your kid struggle.

Is that all? Yes.

For a million reasons, a parent suffers alongside their child through every bump, bruise, and break. Through every tantrum, disappointment, and failure. Sometimes we don't let it show. Sometimes we can't help it. We say things like, "I'm so sorry this is happening to you. Please tell me what I can do." We cry with them. We wait until they go to sleep and then close our doors and cry for them. Our hearts fill up and crack open and leak out pain we never knew existed.

One day awhile back, Noah was being...well, Noah. We'd just finished dinner and the other boys had gone off to do other things while Noah stayed in his seat, head in hand. Complaining. Disgruntled. Feeling all the world was against him and it just wasn't fair.

He was being a shit and I knew it.

But that doesn't change the instinctive need inside me to make things right for him. "What's wrong?" I asked. He gave a list of silly things: His brothers were against him, school is the worst, the dog likes someone more. But each one was delivered with such anguish. What a performer. The world is his theatre; every step he takes, he builds more stage.

"Noah, you have to stop letting these things bring you down." It wasn't the first time I'd said that. And his response wasn't new, either.

"I can't help it!"

"Yes you can," I said that day. "Every day that you wake up, you decide to get out of bed, you begin another chapter. Your life is a story, and you are the main character. You decide every single thing that character does. You don't like the story? Don't blame other people. You have the power to change it yourself."

"That's not true!"

"Okay, well, fine. But you know, one time, when I was a little girl--"

"Yeah, yeah. Your mom put you in the bathroom and nobody wanted you. You've told me this story like a million times, Mom. I've heard ALL your stories a million times."

Oh, Noah.

He really is a performer. Luckily, we've found ways for him to use that part of himself to be successful. He wants a stage? We found him real ones. But none as special as the one on which he stood last night, playing the part of a disgruntled little boy hearing his dad's crazy stories. Last night, costumed in a t-shirt and jeans, he climbed up on the stage, lifted his fist into the air, and into a quiet theatre, his small voice rang out.

The small voice of that baby who lived through the hemorrhage, through the battle of birth, and so many other challenges life has brought: a baby brother ("I'm not the youngest but I'm not the oldest...I don't know what I'm supposed to be!"), never quite fitting at school, the lifelong stomachaches that landed him in the hospital a year ago with a tube down his nose. His little voice, punched with something he has more of in his little finger than most people will have in their lives: heart.

 "Let's fight the dragons and then storm the castles 'til we win what needs to be won..."

The story of a father and son--and I don't mean to steal my husband's thunder here--a parent who raises a little boy on stories of giants and witches and battles and victories, to prepare for a great big messy world where he absolutely can, should, be a hero.

Noah, you already are my hero. "Proud" doesn't even begin to cover it.

When I Woke Up

At thirty years old I walked my son into kindergarten orientation. He was a fresh, adorable five-year-old with a big smile and absolute self-confidence. He let me gel his hair that day. He'd picked out a lunch box, and I don't remember what it was.

Round tables were set up in the gym of his school. We picked a seat near the middle, because I wanted us to appear friendly and open to meeting new friends. Joey tried to sit on my lap, but I made him take his own seat. He looked around, that grin never leaving his face. He was happy just to be there. A great big kindergartener.

I hushed the voice in my head that wanted to scream, "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...and also, he's terribly sensitive, and if eats Cheez-Its on a hot day he might throw up. And call me if you need anything! I'm still trying to master teleportation but I'll get here lickety-split!"

I watched other moms walk their children in. You can tell the difference between the first-timers and the more-experienced parents. Some let their children run away from them, too far ahead to possibly catch. Their faces showed no apprehension, their mouths were relaxed into smiles as they called, "Hello!" to other calm parents.

I was the youngest one, and I felt like everyone knew it. I was sure I had an aura visible to all of the other adults in the room that said, "She doesn't know what she's doing."

But my Joey sat beside me, his feet swinging in the too-large chair. Every time his gaze fell on me that smile widened, his eyes lit up, and he said, "I can't believe I'm in kindergarten!"

He believed, unfailingly, that I knew exactly what I was doing. My perfect boy.

I went to bed that night, my heart racing. A broken record played in my head: "Please! Please, please love my child. He is creative and funny and caring...."

When I woke up the very next morning, I heard him down the hall. I called out, "Joey! Joey?"

And this emerged from his bedroom:

Just like that.

Today I took him to his eighth grade orientation at the very same school. Some of the students from his kindergarten class have left and moved on, other kids joined his group in later years. To see him sitting at the table today with those other gigantic boys...are they MEN? dear GAWD...slouched down in the chair with his feet sprawled across the floor, all of them laughing at some goofy thing. There were a few remember-whens from them, and my heart did a somersault.

What happened? How did I kiss a five-year-old goodnight and wake up to an eighth grader?

College Good-Bye

My hands are poised at the keyboard, the screen is glowing, and I'm all alone downstairs in my dark house while my boys sleep. My cheeks are wet with silly tears. I'm crying because of all that I have, and all that life is, and everything in between.

Today I left this little person in a parking lot.

Except...somewhere along the line, it turns out that that little girl actually grew into this:

And it wasn't just any parking lot. It was a college parking lot.


What the hell?

For years my family has rolled their eyes at me, repeating what has become a mantra: She's not your daughter.

No. No, she isn't. But she still asked me to come today. And then, with brown, scared eyes she asked me not to leave her. But I had to. For a million reasons, not least of which is that my sister pulled her away and my mother (who also came) pulled me back. Torn apart, like the elephants in Dumbo.

Okay, I admit that's a bit dramatic.

She will be okay. I'm not worried that she won't. I'm excited for all that she will grow to be. I remember this fierce little monster girl, about three years old, with shiny red ringlets and a scrunched up nose, singing into a turkey baster on the coffee table. A little girl who whispered, "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" in our ears when she thought her mother couldn't hear. You'd never guess she was once that little ball of fire who had us all laughing...everybody's baby. She has become so much. Tall, for one thing. (Ridiculously unfair. I'm having flashbacks to my first day of kindergarten when I cried in the driveway because my mother told me I'd never be tall.) But she is smart. Creative. Classy. And...I know it shouldn't matter, but it's just icing on the cake. She's so beautiful.

Why do we love people? A million different reasons, I guess. Livvie isn't perfect, you know. My own kids aren't either. They drive me crazy. Liv has always driven me a little crazy, especially on her bad days. But maybe that's part of it. Family love. Mother love. Sister love. I'm neither her mom nor her sister. I'm her aunt. I'm her godmother. I never knew, eighteen years ago, how much that would fill my heart. Or in what ways. I don't love her for her talents or her strengths. I don't love her in spite of her flaws. I love her because I love her. It doesn't need to make sense. It doesn't need a reason. It just is.

My arms were locked around her today like iron bars and she shook with quiet tears. I whispered, "Remember what I said. Call me. Call me any time. Middle of the night. I don't care. You call me."

"Okay," she whispered back.

I would do anything for her.

She will learn life. She needs to. She will rediscover that fire we all found so irresistible all those years ago. I hope with all my heart she manages to mesh it with who she was today: my classy, smart girl, poised to hide her fears. She will be unstoppable. The little pip who stood with her hands on her hips and her chin lifted up while she stared you down. Whatever she decides to do with the next four years, and all that she encounters after that...it will be amazing. I have no doubt.

But in the meantime, my heart is here.

My head is here.

And my girl is there.

Olivia, you are loved. You are the most loved child I've ever known. 

You've just been handed the world. I can't wait to see what you do with it.

Whatever that is, I'll be here for you. I love you always, no matter what.

Love, Your Goddy