What a difference a generation makes

Do all y'all remember going to elementary school? Some grownup would boot you out the door at the appropriate time, and you'd walk to the bus stop or directly to school, carrying your lunch and books and, at least in Michigan in the winter, wearing your snow suit. You'd get to school, struggle out of your snow gear (ah, the complete humiliation of getting stuck in one's snow pants....I don't think I ever recovered) hang up your coat, put your lunch in your cubby and come to order before the bell rang.

Well, kiddies, I'm here to tell you it doesn't work like that anymore.

Firstly, one must drive one's offspring to school. Winter or summer, fair weather or foul. Then, having battled through the shoals of minivans, (the only time there are traffic jams here in Mayberry) you find a place to park. Then you unload all the kids, put the baby in the stroller, grab the toddler before she dives in front of cars and everyone heads to class. There is practically one adult on campus for each and every child, plus teachers, the principle and the volunteers on playground supervision and crossing guard duty. The place is positively swarming with grownups.

Claire and Aeron's class enters through the "back yard" door of their room, because the morning class is exiting through the front door. Mrs. Davis is outside, collecting papers and putting name tag stickers on all the kids. Backpacks, jackets and lunch bags are left outside on hooks on the wall. Once the bell rings and I give hugs and kisses to my girls, I join the stream of parents, grandparents and daycare providers and we all head to the main gate and back to our minivans. There is lots of chatting and admiring of babies and moms chasing down the runaway toddlers. Kids are strapped back into car seats to sound of "Sierra! Stop that!" and "Colin, don't hit Logan!" and everyone drives off. We in minivans had to be careful pulling out so as not to hit the few intrepid souls who walk, pushing strollers to and from the school.

This scene is played out three times a day! Don't these people have jobs?

Three reasons for all this parental involvement, as far as I can tell. First, there is no bus service in Mayberry. We can't afford it and still have things like music and libraries. Second, people are afraid to let their kids out of their sight. The media would have you believe there are child molesters behind every bush, such is our culture of fear. And, lastly, there is the meteoric rise of that dreaded creature, the "helicopter parent". A.k.a. the "lawnmower parent". A pejorative expression for the sort of mom or dad who "hovers" over their kids, micromanaging them or "smooths the way" for their darling poopsie.

I used to feel guilty about making Kayla and Cameron walk to school, but not anymore. Kayla, in particular hates it, probably as she feels it makes her look bad socially. So then I start talking about studies which found that kids who walk to school do better on tests and come closer to meeting their exercise goals. (which gets me eye-rolling every time) Plus, I just hate the idea that I must be a chauffeur to the kids. They have feet. They have expensive bicycles. They should use them.

Of course, I can't just pitch five-year-old little girls out the door. It's a twenty minute walk, at best speed. So I drive 'em to the park, and then walk them the few blocks in. One day last week, I dropped Claire & Aeron at the gate and they walked themselves to class. They were so very proud of themselves! Today, I walked them to class, but they didn't want me to. They wanted to be big girls and do it all by themselves!

I firmly believe the best thing I can teach all my kids is to not need me.

Kindergarten!

Ah.... the day my girls finally go to public school! Three hours of someone else keeping them busy that I don't have to pay for!

Sunday morning

OK, so, here's the drill on Sunday mornings. Miles takes all the kids to church and Mama stays home and enjoys her solitude.

Sounds simple, right? One would think I could sleep in while my husband marshals the troops and takes 'em all off to get right with Jesus. But, naturally, it doesn't work that way.

Miles woke me up and at first, it looked like it was going to be a smooth morning. Miles was dressed in a pressed shirt and the house was quiet. We coordinated the afternoon plans and he went away. Mitzi got up from her nest at the foot of the bed and came to lay on my head and nuzzle my ear.

But alas, such moments of peace are fleeting.....

"Aeron, stop looking at me!" It was not, as one might expect, her twin sister making this complaint. It was Cameron. Who is 12.

I started scratching Mitzi's ears, causing her to purr madly. And since I had one ear in the pillow and she was lying across the other, she made quite an effective white noise machine.

"Aeron! Eat your breakfast and stop looking at me!" Huh. I heard that one through the cat.

Heaving the sigh of the much-put-upon, I moved the cat and climbed out of bed. I'll just tell Cam to knock it off and I'll go back to bed.

"Cameron," I said from the top of the stairs. "Are you listening to yourself?" He mumbled something and I went back to bed. Mitzi joyously came prancing up my chest and began to lick my face.

For about two minutes. The sniping started up again and I again got out of bed. Put my glasses on and marched downstairs. Cameron was seated at the dining room table, wearing earbuds attached to his MP3 player, with some kind of electronic game in front of him, eating a cheeseburger. Claire and Aeron were at the breakfast counter, not eating their bowls of Mama-made granola. Everyone was in their jammies. It was ten minutes before they all needed to leave. Miles was nowhere to be found.

"Claire and Aeron. Eat. There will be no cookies at church if you don't eat your breakfast. Cameron. What are you drinking?"

"Lemonade," sheepishly. Totally against the rules and he knows it.

"Dude. Don't make me have to be the Food Police!" I glared.

Miles poked his head in the back door. "Jen, I'm on the phone. Could you get the girls into some decent clothes for church, please?"

Sigh......

I hustle the little girls upstairs and into their room, with instructions to get out of their jammies and into some clothes. I go back downstairs to get a cup of coffee, only to find none in the pot. What?!?

Miles comes back into the house and I ask, "No coffee?!?"

"That coffee pot is pissing me off!" he replies. I just look at him for a moment, then get out the french press and the coffee grinder.

Aeron yells from her room, "I'm out of underpants!" Miles yells back, "Get a pair from Claire's basket!" "Noooooooo!!!!" wails Claire. Above our heads, an argument breaks out over Tinkerbell undies.

"Dad." says Cameron, coming into the kitchen. "I don't have any clean underwear." Miles covers his eyes with his hands.

The little girls are screeching at each other by this time. "Would you go deal with your daughter?!" Miles asks.

"You go deal with my daughter," I remarked, all righteously indignant. "I'm making coffee."

Miles gives me the stink eye for a moment, herds Cameron out of the kitchen, issues some orders, and then goes upstairs to wade into the fray. As I leisurely grind my dark roast, I hear snatches of the battle above.

"Daddy! I don't wanna wear that!" "You had your chance to get dressed. Now I'm picking your clothes!" "Ow! Daddy! You brushed my ear!" "Those are MY underpants!"

I was stirring in my half-and-half when Miles called out, "To the van! Claire, the van is that-away! Say goodbye to Mama!"

A couple of moist smooches on the cheek, and then all was peaceful again.

Quick update

Hello, folks.

This July has been one of the busiest we've had in recent years.... well, except that July when I gave birth to preemie twins. The wee lassies and I attended Godmother Camp, Miles and Cam went to Boy Scout Camp, there was Birthday Week and swim lessons and internships and out-of-town guests. It's been Crazy Town.

I'm awaiting some photos to write about the wonderfulness that was Godmother Camp. As soon as they hit my inbox, I have some stories to tell!

In the middle of the night; episode 12

3:18am

It's cool and dark and peaceful in my Boudoir. Miles, Mitzi and I are peacefully asleep, when Claire appears at my side of the bed.

"Mom" she whispers. "I had a bad dream."

I hold up the covers and she climbs in, Purple Blanket wrapped around her neck. We snuggle up. After, I dunno, 10 minutes? "Claire," I murmur. "Time to go back to bed." I hold the covers up, she slides out and toddles off to her room.

It's quiet and peaceful once more. I begin to drift off.

"Mom."

Sigh.

"I had another bad dream."

We repeat the cuddle process and after a few minutes, I send her back to her bed. This time, however, it's not so peaceful. I can hear a distant rooster, Mitzi had decided she needs to nuzzle my ear and the neighbor across the street with the loud car is headed to work. After the sound of the vehicle with the loose belts faded from the air, and I tossed the cat overboard, I start to relax and head back to sleep.

At which point, Claire enters, hesitating at the end of the bed, then decides Daddy is a more likely prospect. She climbs in with Miles and gets settled in. My husband turns his head and asks, "How many times has she been in here?"

"This makes three." After a suitable cuddle, Miles escorts the child back to her bed.

Then, peace finally reigned. Well, except for the rooster,

What's a blogger to do?

Hello, out there!

I haven't been writing because, well, I have nothing to say. Life is just ticking along. School's almost out. The little girls are their usual energetic, manic selves. I've been washing dishes, cooking meals and watering my roses. I got nothin'.

But fear not! The Clark Clan Road Trip Extravaganza kicks off on Friday, and soon I will have more content than I can handle.

Stay tuned!

Musings on Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a emotional holiday for a lot of people. One's relationship with one's mother is often complicated, to say the least. But no other single person has as much impact on one's life as one's mother. Fathers are very important, and necessary, but your mom is ground zero, so to speak.

My mom taught me some critical things. My love of roses. A zero tolerance policy regarding disrespect from men. To indulge my curiosity. To make pie crust. And then, there are some things Mom definitely did not teach me: anything to do with sex or the female reproductive system, for example. Or how to cook. She also once advised me to NOT learn to type, 'cause then I'd be stuck in the steno pool. (bad call, Ma....)

Recently, I attended the memorial of the mother of a good friend. She was lauded and remembered as the best of mothers, a lady who alway set a gracious table and instilled good manners in her five boys. She was sweet, yet firm; a master-practitioner of "parental judo". These sort of skills and duties aren't gonna save the planet or cure cancer. They merely change the world in small, yet vital ways. To teach a young man that it is unacceptable to plunk a mayonnaise jar on the table, or chew with his mouth open, may not save his life, but it may land him a job, or impress any future in-laws.

My mother-in-law, a.k.a. "Super Gra-Maw" has taught me a lot about parenting. Her patience is legendary. (hi, Terry!) (hi, Trevor!) She, too, has a black belt in parental judo. To watch her handle my twin 4-years olds is to stand in awe of the master. She also has standards that she expects to be met. For instance, it drives the poor woman mad when the trash bins are left out in front of the house.

Then there are my children. Honestly, I'm still trying to wrap my head around the idea that I am a mother. I have to remind myself to model good behavior and manners, to eat my veggies, etc. Sometimes it really is a major drag having to be the grownup. You cannot just react to things, you gotta think 'em through and respond appropriately. There are times I just wanna flop on the sofa and eat something from a bowl, but I can't. And now I have to make my bed every morning, because I'm attempting to teach the wee lassies to make theirs. Although, Claire has an advanced technique to deal with the new chore. She refuses to sleep under the covers. She doesn't want to have to deal with the sheets in the morning.