The privilege is mine, for once

Being home with my kids is a privilege.

Yeah, I know I complain a lot about them driving me crazy, but I think that's just me working through some of my adjustment issues since I'm not really used to having them around that much.

When I worked full time, I defined myself a great deal by what I did.

I was a journalist.

I was a mom.

I was a wife.

Those were the things that defined me, but who was I?

Frazzled the way I was and stretched between everything I thought I wanted to be, I lost track of that.

What kind of mom am I?

What kind of wife?

What kind of journalist?

What kind of woman?

What really makes me happy?

The last six months without a job have given me a chance to explore a few of those questions. Even though I'm a little afraid to dig too deep. Reinvention is a scary thing sometimes. It makes you look a little too closely at yourself.

Mostly what I've found is that working was a good excuse to avoid other things. Things I was too tired to do. Things like volunteer, get involved in the community, garden, and yes, clean my house.

As you may have noticed, I've been on a bit of a cleaning and organizing frenzy. In some ways, as I get closer to being caught up, I think that, too, is just another attempt to avoid self-examination.

I do find that as I begin to organize photos and the kids' artwork and school certificates, I realize just how much of their lives that I've missed. I get a much better idea of exactly what I wasn't there to take pictures of and what I was too tired to really enjoy.

Thank goodness for all those other moms in the classroom who gave me pictures or discs with all the photos they had taken. Bless them!

The more I find myself thinking about those things, the more I find myself slowing down and taking time to play a game of catch, to dig worms in the garden, to build forts out of blocks, to listen to the made-up Godzilla and shark stories (anyone who's met Morgan understands) or play on the Wii.

As upset as I was - am - about losing my job, worrying about the mortgage and finding ways to cut corners, the more I realize how much I enjoy being there for my kids. It's hard work and sometimes exhausting, but in the end it's much more rewarding.

I enjoy curling up in the big chair with Gabriel and reading in the afternoon. I enjoy reading books with him that I loved as a child.

I really don't mind stopping what I'm doing to go pick him up from school. The truth is, most days I can't wait until 2:30 p.m. so I can see him.

I really enjoy being able to sit down to dinner when my husband gets home, with most of the homework done and nothing but family time left in the evening.

So, while I worry how long we can make it before the savings runs out, I'm enjoying the opportunity to figure out who I am and be with my kids. It's a rare privilege that I may only have for a little while.

Motherhood, me and Mom

I know it's past Mother's Day, but I've been taking some time to reflect on motherhood, me and Mom.


I've come to realize in the past few days that I'm more like Mom than I thought.

While that thought frightens me in many, many ways, there's comfort in it, too. After all, I don't think I turned out THAT bad.

My mother was a wonderful woman. She had a heart bigger than most countries and could charm a snake right out of its skin. She was, however, a bit obsessive about some things. Cleaning, germs, religion, garage sales, cooking, being frugal and her intense dislike of feet are a few examples.

I remember as a teenager thinking she was out of her mind for getting up at 6 a.m. to clean and vacuum the house. She would dust at least one room each day. She would do at least one load of laundry each day, too. She insisted that everything be put in its place before bedtime ... and by everything, I mean dishes put away, clothes in the hamper, newspapers and magazines in the rack, and everything off the floor.

If I left jewelry sitting on the counter in the bathroom or coffee table overnight, it would disappear to teach me a lesson: Put things where they belong.

I came to realize recently, that her obsessive cleaning was actually a symptom of an overly organized woman. She was very good at managing her time - and ours, too.

By getting a portion of the cleaning and laundry done each day, she was making sure the weekends were free to spend with the family. By vacuuming at 6 a.m., she was making sure we were getting up in time for school and that she was getting a chance to talk with us before we all headed our separate ways.

She'd get all the housework done by the time we left for school, then she would go out and do volunteer work in the community. Sure, she hung out with her friends and went antique shopping, too, but mostly, she was home when we got home from school, usually baking cookies, cakes or pie and asking us how our day went. She was always there for us.

Dinner was always on the table by 7 p.m., unless Dad was grilling or frying fish, then we'd wait until he got home. She ran the house like clockwork.

I'm not quite that obsessive, but now that I'm not working, I'm finding myself trying to get all the chores done during the day and during the week, so that when the kids get home or the weekend rolls around, we get to spend quality time together... reading, goofing off in the backyard, watching movies and playing games.

It's actually become more crucial for me to be organized, to have a menu plan and to get the chores done, so I can enjoy the rewards at the end of the day: hugs from my boys, quiet time with my husband and fun weekends that we never were able to experience before.

I've become so obsessive that I've printed out a monthly chores spreadsheet in Excel, so I make sure we're all on track. Mom kept hers in her head.

One other way I'm like Mom, I have several junk drawers/baskets hidden away. They look really good from the outside, but never, ever open them unless you have a few hours to sort through them.

It takes some time. There's junk in there all right, but there's also some pretty cool mementos, too. Tickets from Dodger games, Thomas the Tank Engine outings, and old birthday and Mother's day cards. Perhaps even a few broken, favorite toys of the boys that Mom can't seem to part with. There's also I-love-you notes and drawings, too.

When my mom died in 1995, my brother and I went through some of those drawers. It took us hours for just one. We found all the above mentioned items along with favorite recipes and poems she wrote about us. It was like a treasure chest of memories.

She didn't leave us with scrapbooks or even bothered putting pictures in albums, but all the ephemera of our lives was saved in those junk drawers. She left the organizing to my brother and me. Someday, we just might get it done. But, someone else will have to take care of my junk drawers.

P.S. Here's another one of Mom's secrets. If you find that you've been goofing off a little too long and you get home moments before everyone else and you're running late for dinner, saute some onions in butter. It will make the whole house smell wonderful - just like you've been cooking for hours. You can always use onions for something.

Bizarro's world

Have you ever tried to win an argument with a 3-year-old

I think it's an impossible task. I feel like I'm living in Bizzaro's world.

No means yes. Don't means do. Stop means do it again.

My first theory was to play along, but Morgan is on to me. Or, more likely, doesn't know I exist today. He's in his own world. Listening to his own drummer.

The laptop makes a great dance platform. Talking as loud as possible while Mommy is on the phone is a fun game. Pulling out every Thomas the Tank Engine train you own, not to play, just to make a mess seems logical. Spilling a juice bag on the leather couch creates an interesting pattern.

Despite my frustration, his world is more pleasing. No cares, no worries, no rules. He sure does seem happy doin' his own thing.

I caught a glimpse of him this morning as he bit into a whole green apple for the first time. The juice was glistening on his lips in the sunlight and rolling down his chin and little fingers. His eyes were shining with glee at the experience of something so simple.

His smile became wider when I told him his older brother had never bitten into a whole apple before.

It was his own first. One thing his brother hadn't done before him. He reveled in it.

It's moments like these that I cherish.

The picture of him sitting there with juice running down his chin, a smile on his face and joy in his eyes will be forever in my heart. Right beside the first time he said, "I love you, Mom," unprompted and the time he cupped my face in his little hands, caressed my cheek and said, "You're beautiful, Mom."

Moments like these make my little Bizarro's world a pretty perfect place to be.

Productivity hangover

Have you ever had one of those weeks where all the productivity of the past month just seems to catch up to you.

I'm having one of those weeks.

I've finished several projects that have been simmering on the back burner for months; helped mentor my son's Lego League team; carted the the kids to swimming lessons, T-ball, Spring Fling class; cleaned out the closets; planted a small garden; weeded the flower beds, twice; baked; organized our photos on the computer; planned a vacation; hunted for jobs; cleaned the house over and over; done many, many loads of laundry; and helped organize pajama reading night at my son's school. That's just a partial list.

I feel like I've accomplished a lot, and I have, yet there's still a ton to be done, and my body and soul are calling it quits and screaming for renewal. My head is pounding and I can't keep a clear thought.

I call it the productivity hangover.

Just like a night on the town, when you squeeze too much work into a small period of time, you're headed for a backlash. And, just like a hangover from a night out, sometimes it's worth it.

I think this calls for a girls' night out. Call it the hair-of-another-dog cure. I'm pretty sure it'll be worth it.

Sweet nothing

Quiet.

It's a beautiful thing.

When I was younger, I never appreciated the beauty of quiet time. I always tried to fill it with music, TV and background noises.

I detested quiet. It made me think.

Now, after marriage, two dogs, two boys, noisy neighbors and years of working in a noisy, bustling newsroom, I've learned to treasure those fleeting moments of quiet.

No screaming
No barking
No sound effects (I love you, boys and Eric, but you never stop)
No constant chatter (ditto above)
No TV
No music
No interruptions

Just quiet, stillness and clarity of thought.