I love me some YMCA

It seems that winter might actually give way to spring one of these days. We made it! There were times I wasn’t so sure we would. This winter has been a rough one around here. My kids watched a gazillion hours of TV; my house suffered messes so extraordinary that arson seemed like the only way out; we all ate mountains of carbohydrates; and they drank buckets of hot chocolate to my buckets of red wine. In all of this indoor festering, we had one saving grace: the pool at the YMCA.

Had it not been for the pool, my children’s little bodies would have fused to the couch. Instead, they had a healthy activity to keep them just on this side of ‘persistent vegetative state.’

I spent hours in the muggy heat, breathing in the steaming vapor and watching my kids bob around in the warm kid-broth. We were not the only people with this outlet. Some days, the pool was so crowded that it was difficult to locate which heads belonged to me as they swarmed in a noisy, watery mosh pit of other heads, pigtails, snot, and pee.

I had to tread a careful line all winter. My kids needed to know that the pool was a bastion of unblemished awesome, but at the same time they needed to know that under no circumstances would I be joining them in the bio-brew. Sure, I could have gone into the pool, like those good parents. I know that the high chlorine levels obliterate any organic matter smaller than a child within nanoseconds. The problem was just that I really, really, really, really didn’t want to go in. I’m not interested in marinating in recently obliterated bio-matter the temperature of Baby Bear’s porridge.

Also, there’s the matter of expectations.

My job is largely about managing expectations, and it’s a delicate balance. I want my kids to have fun, and I want to have fun with them, but most of the time I want them to have fun without my involvement. Join in once, and it will be that much harder to bow out the next time. I am not the mother on the play structures in the park. (Except in cases of necessary rescue.) I am not the mother joining in impromptu soccer games. (Are those mothers always wearing sports bras just in case the impulse to run around strikes? That impulse never strikes me. Never ever.) I am not the mother in bounce houses or on trampolines. (See note about sports bras.)

I am the mother fostering their independence while protecting my inclination to really, really, really, really not want to.

As the sun finally starts to melt the 400 feet of snow outside, I look forward to outdoor pools, to lakes, to rivers and the ocean. These I’ll go into with my kids. (When not freezing.) But until that time, thank you, YMCA, for your chlorinated feculent pools of awesome.

A letter to my son on his 7th birthday

Every year I write a letter to my kids on their birthday. I hope to one day give each kid a book of these letters – as way of apology and explanation. 

Dear Luke,

You turn seven today. SEVEN! This seems impossible, nearly as impossible as reconciling that the boy in front of me is the same as the baby I took home from the hospital. You are a million things that I never could have imagined on that day seven years ago when I tried, and failed, to button you into the too-small outfit that I thought to take you home in.

My baby is 7

The most astonishing thing about parenthood is the fact that my children are actual people- people who are different from me and have their own minds. You, my boy, are a person I’m so happy to know; a person unlike any other I’ve ever known; a person who is nothing like I ever expected.

I might have imagined tall towers of blocks. But they’re not you. You are the impetus, the intensity, and the energy it takes to build them. I might have imagined scraped knees and wet sneakers. But they’re not you. You are the racket, the commotion, and the spirit that it takes to fall a thousand and one times, get back up, and run into the wet with your shoes on. (Who am I kidding? You never wear your shoes. You are the boy who is barefoot no matter what.)

My words fall short of painting a full picture of all that you are. You are the chaotic blur between my organized thought and vocabulary.

You are the blur

This special thing you are- it is a plum I hold in my hands. Tender, impossibly sweet, and a complete mess. My job is to usher this plum through childhood unbruised. If you can retain all of your plumminess into adulthood, you will truly be one of the world’s most special people.

Your exceptionally strong will and unwavering moral code will serve you well in life. You stand up to any perceived injustice, especially if done against you or your little sister. I love this about you and I hope that sense of right stays with you and speaks louder than your peers do as you continue down the sometimes perilous course of childhood. The people you care about along the way will be lucky to have you in their corner.

Your innate feeling of protection over your sister is incredible. You will protect her from me, even when I’m coming down on her for something terrible she did to you. Please continue to do this. All evidence points to you being a pretty big guy as you grow up, and, right or wrong, I’d like you to intimidate the heck out of all boys who look at your sister.

Speaking of big guys, I can’t pick you up anymore. At all. This means that I’m left with only verbal options and facial expressions when I want to convince you to do something you might not want to do. The transition from me being able to physically “encourage” you, to you needing to listen to me based on your opinion of my authority has been bumpy at times. What might be defiance in a seven-year-old is something altogether different in a man. My job is to somehow curb the contrariness without crushing the chutzpah. That’s a tricky one- one of the many tricky things I’m charged with as your mother.

So much about you is surprising and special to me, but nothing more so than your capacity to love. Your love is huge and boundless. Staggering. As an object of this affection, it can certainly be overwhelming. How can I teach you to keep some of it to yourself without teaching you that so much love is wrong? Who can endure the number of hugs you want to give? Who can reciprocate with as much enthusiasm? I hope that one day you find someone who can. That’s what I want for you most of all.

Love

Oh, enthusiasm! Wow. I never knew that a person could have so much of it. Whether you are enthusiastically joyful or enthusiastically angry, you are most definitely committed and passionate. More so than anyone I have ever met. I love this about you so incredibly much. As a life-long cynic, I have a lot to learn from your unabashed zeal for life.

Jump in

Happy birthday, my astonishing boy. I love you so much and can’t wait to see what the future holds. So bring it, seven, bring it on!

Love,

Mom

You can see more birthday letters to my kids here.

The 12 Days of Christmas Mom

Originally published December 2012.

As a family woman, I have more than one true love. (I mean my kids. My husband and my kids.) Which means that I have more than one person I can beg stuff from. Here’s my ultimate wish list from my true loves three:

On the first day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the second day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the third day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the fourth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

four Colin Firths*

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

colin firth

On the fifth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

five golden rings**

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the sixth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the seventh day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the eighth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

eight maids a dusting

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the ninth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

nine nights romancing

eight maids a dusting

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the tenth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

ten hours o’sleeping

nine nights romancing

eight maids a dusting

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the eleventh day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

eleven days no griping

ten hours o’sleeping

nine nights romancing

eight maids a dusting

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

On the twelfth day of Christmas

my true loves gave to me

twelve blog posts cunning

eleven days no griping

ten hours o’sleeping

nine nights romancing

eight maids a dusting

seven coffees brimming

six hours o’peaceful playing

five golden rings

four Colin Firths

three French wines

two touch screen gloves

and a housekeeper who arrives each day at three.

 

* What? I want four of him.

** I like gold rings.