Reasons Like Seasons

I'm at the park, again, and the breeze is soft and warm. Boy Two is wandering around with only one shoe, a green monster truck clenched in each hand. Boy One is climbing on the outside of the play structure, showing off for an older girl in pink tennis shoes and a cat helmet with ears. The girl's grandmother watches her from a nearby bench, occasionally saying something in a language I do not understand. The girl speaks a mile a minute, peppering Boy One with questions. "Can you ride a two-wheeler? Can you climb on the top of the monkey bars? Have you ever been to a pool with a high-dive?" She's said more since we got here than he has said in a lifetime. Boy Two finds his shoe under the slide and waddles over to me, shoving the shoe in my face. I pull him into my lap and put it on his tiny foot. In a moment, he's off again, chasing Boy One as he rides around the blacktop on the little girl's scooter. When Boy Two finally catches up, the three of ...

At the Huntington Harbour Mall, the management company has decided to show movies on designated Friday nights throughout the summer. Tonight, they are ending this year's run with a showing of Cinderella. At least two dozen little girls have arrived in the open space between the Athletic Club and Noah's Ark Pet Grooming, donning their finest rendition of the famous Disney princess. They are a rainbow of tiny humanity, mostly frocked in frilly blue dresses. Some break the mold, like the little girl with a pink and gold gown. My favorite is the one with a blue tule skirt and a Leonardo sweatshirt from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. A few boys people the audience as well, outnumbered and underdressed. My boys stare at the girls, confused and entranced. Some things may never change. With blankets and wagons, beach chairs and snacks, we all gather together to say goodbye to the summer. We gather in hope of entertaining our children while we attempt to relax, sipping wine from p...

I feel as though I am on the brink of something. The brink of what, I can't tell you, but I hope it is something good, something rewarding. I could use something rewarding. Maybe it's the usual excitement of the new school year. As one who longs for routine, the comfort of established daily expectations, I certainly picked the wrong profession. Months of unstructured summers tear me apart, and the despite my constant vigilance, there is too much variation for my liking. I spend more time thinking about what I should do than actually doing it, and the stress builds more than it is relieved. I feel like the only person on the planet who gets stressed out by having too much time off. Maybe it's the promise of finally going back to work. Maybe it's the culmination of the steps I managed to take during my time off to put myself in a better position in my body. I got glasses, so now I don't have to squint and strain to read or write an email. I started going to the chir...

I went to work today for the first time in a few weeks. B1 was hanging out with me until his camp started, and while he colored on the white board, I began by opening my email... Me: I have over one hundred new emails! B1: Ohhhh uhhhhh. That is a lot of emails. Me: I know! What should I do? B1: You should erase all of them. Me: I don't think I can do that. Some of them may be important. B1: So read all of them, then delete them if they are not important. Me: Thanks, dude. That sounds like a plan. B1: How about a fist bump? Me: Only if it gets to explode. I love that kid.

I got home from my lovely vacation Friday afternoon and slept in my own bed that night for the first time in almost a week, only to be woken up on Saturday morning by the fact that July is almost over and I have accomplished less than one percent of the tasks I had planned for the summer. (Insert expletive of your choice here.) What on earth have I been doing for the last two months?  (Spending time with my children, packing, and cleaning my apartment are not legitimate answers.) Time to get with the program. My frantic attempt to accomplish tasks is pretty much my husband's worst nightmare. While I endeavor to clean, vacuum, reorganize, wash, and de-own, he longs for two uninterrupted days of sleep and playing Xbox. I feel you, my lovely spouse, but this weekend, things will probably go better for everyone if you stay the (reuse expletive from above) out of my way. I started with beans: almost six cups of Sprout's dehydrated pinto beans. On Friday, I made the mistake ...

The ER doctor was rugged, handsome, sharp. He looked tan like the rich get tan, not tan like those who work the land or sell their wares on the sidewalk. He was Greek god tan, I spent last weekend on my yacht tan. I bet he made the softball team swoon. I found it hard to focus when he was talking. "...going to push fluids and get him on some steroids. That should put him in better shape while we wait for the ambulance." "The ambulance? We just came in the ambulance." "No, the CHOC ambulance. They send their own people for transfers. We are just waiting for them to call us back." "A chalk ambulance?" I felt like an idiot and a moron. "We don't have a pediatric wing, so we can't keep children overnight. CHOC specializes in children, so you will be in good hands there. I'll have the nurse come in to get that IV started." I must have been staring as he spoke. Perhaps I didn't even blink. "Do...

One of the first orders of business once we were set in our room was placement of the IV in my tiny baby's arm. This entire enterprise was an unqualified disaster. On the first effort, a forty-something bleach-blond nurse with a ponytail and bright red reading glasses on a chain tried three different times, twice on one arm and once again on the other. I held B2 as he screamed. After the third attempt, she lifted her glasses and smacked her mint gum. "He must be dehydrated," she said. "I'm going to get someone to help you hold him down." "I'll get someone to hold you down," I thought. My better self responded instead. "Could we get him something to drink first?" I asked. "Sure, honey," she replied. She left, and B2 and I together both cried and struggled to breathe.

- macaroni and cheese from a box - snack bars - hot lunch from camp - pepperoni pizza and bread sticks from Taco Bell - more snack bars - several juice boxes - hot lunch from camp - cheese sticks - a happy meal - tortilla chips - ice cream

At the hospital, the same giant men rolled my little baby out of the ambulance and into the crowded chaos of Sunday afternoon at the ER. Thankfully, we were wheeled directly into an empty room, a by-product of a call from the beautifully haired nurse practicioner from the urgent care who had called ahead to let them know we were coming. A pleasant seeming woman with a blond ponytail asked us to wait inside, then quietly argued with the EMTs as B2 sat quietly on the bed, struggling for breath. I held him and tried to stay calm. The rest of the ER was like a crooked slice of humanity sprawled out for view at its least attractive. In the waiting room, half of a softball team was waiting loudly for their teammate who had started throwing up after being hit in the head while at bat. In the entryway, an woman of a certain age in ridiculous shoes sat in a wheelchair with an ice pack on her knee, a likely victim of a fall. In the hall, an ancient man in a hospital gown stared blankly at the...

I once read that families are comparison machines. In the story, it was argued that the close proximity of one sibling to another drives innumerable comparisons to the surface, often with life-long implications for those compared. For years, during the formidable childhood years, kids are told they are this one or that one: this sister is the smart one; this one the outgoing one. This brother is the funny one; this one is good at math. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if both sisters are outgoing and smart in comparison to the rest of the human beings on the planet. It only matters that this one seems smarter than that one, that this one seems more outgoing than the other. In this way, brothers and sisters learn to carry these beliefs like widgets, widgets of judgement and self-limitation. Widgets that help define who they are and how they see themselves in the world. So, of course, I compare my boys. Boy One was an articulate speaker almost  immediately ...

(Spoiler Alert) This blog post discusses details of the plot of the movie Inside Out .  If you would like, please feel free to come back to it after you have seen the film. In an attempt to have a constructive discussion with Boy One over lunch, I asked him which emotion he would want to be from the movie, Inside Out. “What's an emotion?” he asked. “The different feelings,” I replied. “All together, they are called emotions. Joy, Disgust, Sadness...” “Anger!” he interjected. “I would be Anger!” “Anger? Why?” “Because he's so awesome!” Puzzled, I asked, “What do you like about him?” “He's so GRRRRRRRRR!!!!!” Thanks for that articulate clarification, Dude. It has taken me awhile to get over myself enough to watch animated movies with my son. I was never one of those girls who loved the princesses or dreamed of a “Whole New World”  or looked forward longingly to trips to Disneyland. But, admittedly, parenthood has messed me up softened me enou...

Dearest Reader, Tonight, I would like to amuse you with a long, detailed description of my near endless adventures with not one, but two steam-cleaners. Similarly, it would bring me great joy to regale you with my mis-adventures trying to make sense of the gluten-free print-out I brought with me to Trader Joe's. In the same vein, I long to wax poetic about the drama that unfolded as my husband came home, tired and over-worked, to find the boys using a bike lock as a grappling hook from atop our piled-up belongings (see steam-cleaning in sentence one). However, tonight, the best I can do is this lowly paragraph and a new page on my blog documenting my meager attempts to feed my younger child food that does not exacerbate his breathing and skin problems. Watching a child unable to breathe is torture of the cruelest kind. May my efforts bring him, and me, some relief. Sincerely, RL

Yesterday almost killed me. It was Tuesday, which is supposed to by my day with Boy One, but Boy Two has been really sick, so he was home with me as well. Clearly, I am not cut out for having any more children, and may the universe bless the Stay At Home Moms out there, because my people had driven me to the edge before ten-thirty in the morning. Boy Two was up at 6:00, because apparently he did not get the memo about it being summer vacation. He also missed the one about not requiring two doctor's appointments in the same week. Man, I really have to teach that kid how to read his email. Order your own at http://shop.lego.com/en-US/ByCatalog Boy One slept until 9:00, by which point B2 was bringing me my shoes and banging on the apartment door to be let out for the day. B1, cooperative as ever, refused to get dressed and replied to all requests for progress with some variation of, "I'm reading my magazine!" by which he means he is pouring over his Lego catalog...

I'll be doing whatever snowmen do... June...the mixed blessing of months. On the one hand, my students are itchy to be finished with work and get away for the summer; on the other hand, my older son gets out of school, and I have to entertain him 24/7.  Wait. Mixed blessing?! Where is the good part?! (I love my boys, but after about four straight days with them, things start to hit the fan.) Camp. I am calling camp to the rescue. The treacherous balance of quality time, sanity, and cost weighs large. After much careful consideration, I decide to mix things up with a Monday/Thursday/Friday schedule for the big one and a Monday/Tuesday/Thursday for the small fry. That means I get Mondays to myself, Tuesdays with big guy, Wednesday with (gasp!) both of them, Thursdays to recover alone, and Fridays with baby. This schedule costs more than my usual monthly childcare budget, but as I mentioned before, sanity is one-third of the calculation pie, and sanity, appa...

"Can we go swimming?" asks Boy One. My heart rate soars and breathing enters hyper-drive. Few things bring greater terror than the one activity (other than riding in my car) in which my children are most likely to die. "It's too cold to go swimming." "It's not too cold for me!" "Can we just go to the park?" "Plllleeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeeee can we go swimming?" "Okay, fine. But you are not allowed to drown. There will be absolutely no drowning! Otherwise, I am going to have to resort to cutting off your Netflix privileges." "I promise I'm not going to drown, Mom." I must be overreacting. Things can't possibly be that bad. I should check an authority that can soothe my inflated sense of dread and foreboding. I am clearly being irrational. According to the CDC (Center for Disease Control), "Every day, about ten people die from unintentional drowning. Of these, two...

Me: When are you old enough to drive? Boy One: When you are older than one-hundred. Me: Then why am I allowed to drive if I am not one-hundred yet? Boy One: Are you ever going to be one-hundred? Me: I hope so, but it will be a long time before that happens. Do you think you will make it to one hundred? B1: Um-hum. Me: What makes you think so? B1: Because! Me: What do you think you will do when you are one hundred years old? B1: I think I'll have a wheel-chair. Me: Where do you think you'll go in a wheel chair? B1: I want to go on an airplane. Me: Where do you want to go on the airplane? B1: To visit you, but not if you're dead. Me: If were dead, where would you want to go? B1: To visit my kids, if I had any. Me: How many kids do you think you want to have? B1: A googol! Me: That's not going to work. B1: Fine. Like three. Me: That sounds more manageable. Where do you want to live with your kids? B1: In South America. I want to li...

My children fed and myself fully-caffinated, we venture forth into the Ikea abyss. With surprisingly little resistance, we round the first floor smoothly, with minimal impulse spending (see giant stuffed broccoli) and only a small indulgence on my niece's upcoming birthday gifts (see adorable stuffed toys). I even manage to contain (most of) my living-spaces envy as we "experience" three unique "apartments," each of which is significantly smaller and yet still meticulously better organized than mine. I try desperately to remember that an entire team of dedicated professionals constructed each of these displays with the help of an unlimited budget and without the noticible distraction of another job, but it is a difficult battle. Upon reflection, I really would seriously consider moving into one of those apartments if I could let the boys jump on the couches without getting shamed (again) by a lovely, helpful member of the Ikea staff. But, again, I digress. ...

Boy 1: Brother, No! You are Not allowed to play with that! Give me back my head! Boy 2: No, I will never Give back your tiny Lego: Consider it mine. Boy 1: I dare you to eat The very piece you just stole. Mom will love that plan. Boy 2 You cannot trick me That easily, my brother. Small but smart am I.

The text from Boy One's teacher read, "Hi...hope you are feeling better...just wanted to let you know that [boy one] smacked [another little boy in his class] in the stomach as [he] was leaving the table at pick up for no reason that I could tell and neither [Boy One] nor [the other kid] could tell me why...." Clearly, I have completely failed as a parent. My son will never learn how to read, and he'll be arrested for assault before he hits third grade. Life has officially ended. In response, I set forth to remind Boy One that never, under any circumstances, do we use our bodies to express our anger. Everyone gets mad sometimes, but no one gets to punch people in the stomach, even if they really, REALLY, want to. Ray: Why did you hit him? B1: Because he said, "Ha, ha. You're the worst person on the planet." Ray: Why do you think he said that? B1: I don't know. Ray: Did you do something mean to him first? B1: No. Ray: Are you sure? B1: Yes, ...