Open letter to the entertainment industry

I can feel Hollywood executives rolling their eyes already.

"What is it this time?" they ask. "What are we being blamed for now? The unrest in Baltimore? School shootings?  Homosexuality, teen pregnancy, the rising cost of kale? What?!"

You are being blamed for my undoubtedly-very-expensive-8pm-on-a-Sunday-house-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-emergency-plumbers-visit. I don't have numbers, because I haven't gotten the bill yet. I'll forward the damn thing to Pixar when it arrives.

Why is it their fault? Finding Nemo, A Turtle's Tale 2, Flushed Away. Movies aimed at children, wherein some creature is flushed down the toilet to safety. Admittedly, they are cute stories. Top notch. Big name actors, big money in the theaters, very popular on DVD and Netflix.

But seriously, guys. Have you ever even met a kid?

Here's how the whole thing came about:

Plumbing problems have suddenly become a really big deal in my life. The initial issues cannot, I'm perfectly willing to admit, be blamed on Hollywood. The problems that led me to be on a first name basis with a plumber, the kind of relationship, in fact, where they answer my phone calls with "Hello, Darcy"...those issues can be laid at the feet of the house-flippers who remodeled my home.

One night, several weeks ago, I discovered sewage backing up into the shower in the kid's bathroom. When BJ got home from work, he snaked the drain, things started running again, and we thought we were good to go. However, the next day, when I drained the bathtub, Bryn ran out of her room, screaming that there was water coming in. When we tore down the ceiling, BJ noticed a few things that didn't look right. We called a plumber, who told us it was likely an easy fix, and stopped over.

I knew, by the look on his face, that it was NOT an easy fix. He looked like he would have rather been anyplace else in the world when he told us that the plumbing was an absolute disaster: wrong types of pipes, wrong (or non-existent) venting, held together with caulk rather than plumbers putty. His advice? Pull it all out, and start over.

So we did. The poor teenager lost all her privacy, moved onto the couch, and had all her belongings stashed in the basement, for lack of a better option. Ceilings were pulled out, holes were hacked in drywall, new pipes were installed. Contractors were called...and called....and called. Plans were made to repair ceilings and walls, paint was purchased, carpet picked out. We thought the worst was over. I heaved a sigh of relief, certain that things would start getting back to normal, and my plumbing trauma was over.

I was wrong. Once again, we started draining the bathtub, and someone ran out screaming. This time, it was BJ, running up from the basement. This time, water wasn't coming from the ceiling, but from the floor. Panicked calls were made to the long-suffering plumber, who hitched up the trailer and started for our house. I tried to resist the urge to yell at small children who were attempting to go on about their toddler-business while we attempted to manage yet another crisis.

When the plumber arrived, he and BJ vanished into the basement with some sort of equipment that took both of them to wrestle down the stairs. I heard clangs, cursing, and, suddenly....laughter. BJ came upstairs with a bright yellow, plastic fish.

I recognized the damned thing: I'd pulled it out of the toilet several days prior. At the time, I thought it was rather funny. Sam had just watched A Turtle's Tale 2, which featured fish that wanted to be flushed down the drain to the ocean. Shortly afterwards, I had found the toy in the toilet bowl. Since he had just dropped it there and hadn't made any attempt to flush it, I just laughed, pulled it out, cleaned it, and told Sam not to put toys in the toilet. Unfortunately for me, that had not ended it. Sam had, evidently, decided to take it one step further, freeing his beloved fish forever.

Explaining to a three-year-old the workings of modern septic systems in a land-locked state is an exercise in futility. Especially when his new favorite movie has made it completely clear: "All drains lead to the ocean, kid!"

So, Hollywood. Disney. Pixar. All of you. A plea from the heart of a mother: NO MORE FLUSHED FISH, OKAY?!?

Uncharted Territory

If there is one thing that I have learned from having had four children, it's that you NEVER know what you are doing. Oh, after the first one, you have the basics: you know how to change diapers, how to feed them, how to get stains out of clothes. You know that, until they are six years old, it's best to keep, not only a change of their clothes, but a change of your clothes in the trunk of the car at all times. You add a few tricks with each subsequent child: with number three (that would be Sam, my wild man) I learned that crazy children should always be dressed in overalls when taking them grocery shopping. The reason being, you can unhook the straps, loop them around the cart, and re-hook them. It secures them to the cart far better than the flimsy belt that is provided (or, not provided: it seems at least half of the grocery carts in town are missing the belt entirely), and means that you can actually use both hands to get the bananas into the little plastic produce bag. 

But, in the really tough parenting stuff, you know nothing. Every child is so different, that you are learning everything over again from the moment that baby is placed in your arms. I parented Ian, my angry, defiant, wonderful, funny, tender child much differently than I parented Bryn, my sunny, happy, resilient, dramatic, anxious child. Sam changed the rules yet again, proving to be sly, stubborn, creative, independent, and in constant motion. They enter the world with their own little personality, right from day one. Seeing how they grow into that personality is one of my favorite parts of parenting. 

When my fourth child arrived, I thought I had learned not to have expectations. For the most part, I waited to see what she would reveal herself to be. As time went by, I found something I had taken for granted: my previous three were (and are) extremely outgoing. Ian can, and will, talk to anyone. Bryn can walk into a new place and make a friend in seconds, a talent that helps her in her acting. Sam was called "The Ambassador" by the ladies at the fabric store I frequented, due to his adorable way of drawing people in with nothing more than a smile and the twinkle in his eye. I was accustomed to parenting children who would never seem to get the "stranger danger" message: "Mom, this isn't a stranger! This is Bob! He told me his name!" Ok, honey. Bob has prison tattoos and is drinking at the park at 9am....lets give Bob some space, ok?

When Sam was tiny, he came to drill (300 miles from home) with me, my mom along for babysitting during the day. It worked great; I didn't need to pump as much, since he could nurse in the evenings and overnight. It worked so well, in fact, that he was 2 years old before I ever spent a night away from him. I had anticipated doing the same thing with Astrid, but it was not to be. 

Astrid is...not. Not outgoing. Not a traveler. She is also not timid, or fearful, or unhappy. She is just a tiny introvert. She doesn't like strangers, loud noises, crowds, or unfamiliar places. When we go to the mall or the zoo, she prefers to be held close. She will hide her face from strangers who want to come up and coo at the cute baby. If they persist, she will cry. She stays close to us at the playground, looking back frequently to make sure we are there. 

From the very first overnight trip away from home, when she was only four weeks old, she was miserable. She would not sleep, not in a crib, not in my arms, nothing. She cried and cried, making me panicky with fear that she would disturb everyone else in the BOQ at Camp Rapid. She refused to take a bottle during the day, making her a miserable, cranky, nightmare of a child by the time I got back every evening. She clung to me and fussed, non-stop. Clearly, this was not working. 

At home, it's a different story. She is a little whirlwind. Into everything, running through the house, laughing as we try to catch her. She loves climbing up on the the landing, where she has a view of all the goings on in the living room. She will call out and wave to each of us as we go by. She is happy, adventurous, and, above all, busy. Here, in her own space, with her own people, she is delightful. Seeing her here, no one would ever think to call her "shy".  She isn't. Not really. She just needs time to get to know you before she welcomes you in with smiles and slobbery baby kisses. 

So, once again, I've adapted my parenting style. While she doesn't like me being away from her, she likes being away from home even less. It's ended up being easier on her to stay at home with Grandma, while I go off to drill. It was, initially, a little harder on me: I felt guilty and anxious, worried that somehow I wasn't being as good a mother to her as I was to Sam. I've since come to the realization that she and Sam need a different mother. Or, rather, they need different things from their mother. Sam thrives on novelty and change. He loves it. Craves it, even. Astrid needs consistency and stability. It's something of a balancing act, providing for each of their very different needs, but we are making it work. I try to take clues from my husband, himself a pretty serious introvert: don't do too many errands in one go. Alternate between busy, crowded places and quiet, peaceful places. Schedule downtime. Rather than using a stroller when we are in busy places, I wear her in an Ergo carrier, where she can hide her face against me when she gets stressed out. When strangers get too close, I tell them "She bites", which usually gets them to keep their distance. 

BJ asked me, "What can we do to make her more outgoing?" I laughed at him. "What could we do to make you more outgoing?" 

"Hey, baby," he said, "I want to be invited to the party. I just don't want to go." 

"Don't worry," I told him. "You and Astrid can stay home and have ice cream. I'll take Ian, Bryn, and Sam with me, and tell everyone you are home with the little one." 

He smiled. I may not always understand them, but I know how to keep them happy. 

Failing the Parental Love Test

About a million gallons of completely-hypothetical-internet-ink have been spilled detailing the many battles that are summed up as "The Mommy Wars". I decided some time ago that the best approach was to try to stay out of it. For one thing, if you name a group of mothers to demonize, I've probably been a member. Teen mom, single mom, married mom, working mom, stay at home mom, student mom, military mom, deployed mom, hippie mom, drill-sergeant mom...been there, done that, and if they were giving out tee-shirts, I got robbed. For another, I am utterly terrified that someone will figure out that I have no idea what I am doing, and I'm making it up as I go.

I really want to say that all of us are making it up as we go. I really want to. But I feel like I can't. Because, while I know it's true of every mom (hell, every PARENT, regardless of gender) that I know, there is a chance that someone out there really does know what they are doing. If that magical unicorn exists, I'm pretty sure they are on facebook and pintrest. And every one of us has bumped into one.

I felt like I was doing a really good job as a mom when I threw my kid a birthday party at home. We had a couple of games, I made a cake (sheet cake, in the pan, just frosted on the top), and the kids ran around the yard for a couple hours. It reminded me of every birthday party I went to, or had, as a kid. It was great, right? Right, kids?

Nope. It was not great. Sasha (damn you, Sasha's Mom) had her birthday party at the skating ring. There was a concession stand. Cotton candy. Songs played especially for her, with a DJ who KNEW HER NAME and colored lights that flickered like magic, while she stood on her rollerblades in the center of the ring, and all her friends skated around her like moons orbiting the awesomeness of The Birthday Girl.

In that instant, I failed the Parental Love Test.

Do you know the Parental Love Test? Even if you don't, you've probably failed it. The Parental Love Test is the any one of the million things that we could, in theory, do for our kids...but don't. Somebody, somewhere, is drawing a detailed comic strip depicting their child doing amazing things. They are going to gift this collection to that child on their 18th birthday. They have passed the test. You? You failed. The parents who got the massive Anne Geddes-style portraits of their infant? They passed. Skipped that? Fail.

I tried to redeem myself the next year, by reserving that damned skating ring, but, by that time, it was old news. Trinity had her birthday sleepover at a hotel. With a water park. Bree's parents rented out a whole movie theater, so all her friends could see her favorite movie (complete with an introduction filmed by her family, telling her how wonderful and amazing she was). Shelby had a cake that spouted fire.

Failed again.

The fact is, I fail almost all the Parental Love Tests. I have never gotten up at 2am to stand in the freezing cold for hours in order to get my toddler into the right preschool. I didn't reserve Sam a spot at the charter school prior to six months of age. I haven't paid for my kids to have a meet-and-greet with the animals at the zoo. They have never gone on a cruise, much less a Disney cruise. They haven't even been to Disneyland! None of them! The only one of them that has ever been to a real beach (the kind with an ocean, midwesterners...the lake DOES NOT COUNT!) is Bryn, and her only because her dad lives on the East Coast. I don't start making their halloween costumes months in advance, and I flat out refuse to spend $100 on one night of playing dress-up, no matter how "TOTALLY AWESOME!" the costume is.

My latest Parental Love Test failure arose from my teenaged daughter's ethical dilemma. It's pretty much a cliche, isn't it? The teenage animal lover who decides they need to be a vegetarian. Suddenly, my meal plan has a little bit of a kink in it.

I suppose I could have told her to stop being silly. I could have laughed at her concerns, told her that the lives of the animals we eat don't mean anything. But I didn't. Because I don't believe that. In fact, I share many of her concerns about animals and their wellbeing. I've chosen to address those by trying to obtain as much of our food as I can from local producers who raise their animals in way that respects them. Bryn felt, pretty strongly, that that wasn't far enough for her. So, the menu needs to change a bit. No big deal; some extra veggies in the diet isn't going to hurt any of us.

It also means that she needs to pack a lunch every day. As I made up my grocery list, I decided to check out the bottomless pit of information: Google. "Vegetarian School Lunch Ideas", I typed.

First thing I learned: Bento boxes are, evidently, a REALLY BIG THING. In many cases, they are also a REALLY EXPEN$IVE THING. Holy cow.

Then next thing I learned is that, in Pintrest land, it's actually illegal to send a child to school with a vegetarian lunch if the strawberries aren't cut into hearts, the pineapple isn't cut into stars, the vegetables aren't formed into one of the Minions from "Despicable Me", and there isn't at least one grain that I don't know how to pronounce.

I'll be honest: I had been feeling really good about the fact that I managed to slice up a bell pepper into colorful little strips that she could dip into the single-serve organic hummus I got from Costco. Strawberry hearts and a cold, whole grain salad with saffron and lemon juice just seemed a little...involved. Especially once I checked the price of saffron (mother of god, are you kidding me?!?) I have no hope of passing The Parental Love Test: Vegetarian Child Edition. She is condemned to a life of boring lunches, unless she takes it upon herself to learn the ins and outs of Quinoa salads.

I love her. I adore her. I would move heaven and earth for her. But saffron? I'm just not that kind of mom.