The Frenzy Before the Storm

Tonight is a night full of possibilities and hope: our entire family is going to bed tonight with thoughts of a snow day on our mind. Forecasters are predicting that our area will be slammed with over a foot of snow, strong gusts of wind and near white-out conditions tomorrow and the next day. The press is calling it "Snowmageddon" and "Snowpocalypse."


I decided to venture out tonight to stock up on the essentials: Bread, milk, a chicken to roast for dinner tomorrow night. Some cereal. I knew I wouldn't be the only one at the store, but by the time I entered our neighborhood grocery store at about 9 p.m. tonight, it was clear that the entire town had mauled the shelves. I passed several shoppers whose carts were piled high with orange juice, cans of soup and bottles of water. Here's what I saw in the bread aisle:

I checked beneath my feet to see if there were tufts of hair and streaks of blood on the floor: surely this kind of carnage could have only happened after much violence and rioting? And if this was the bread aisle, could I expect the same kind of devastation in the deli section, where the cold cuts and slices of cheese would be strewn about, punctuated with smears of potato salad and spinach dip?


Just as I brought my modest 3 bags of groceries to my car, the first flakes of snow began to fall. A modest beginning to ... what? I admit that I hope this can become a story worthy of bragging rights. Maybe this one will be the one we tell our grandchildren. We'll say, "Yup, I survived the Blizzard of '11. Why, Grandpa and I checked on the neighbors with our sled. We melted snow for our baths. We had to tunnel our way to the garage. And for some reason, I remember we ate a lot of sandwiches."

What I Learned About Simple Abundance

Two unrelated things happened this week. First, I went out for a little retail therapy. I was feeling a little stressed, so I decided to go shopping. Except for me, who hates to shop, retail therapy almost always happens at a thrift store. I hate that about myself. No, I love it. No, I hate it. Thrift stores thrill me to no end. You walk in, and you never know what you’re going to find. It’s like ransacking someone’s attic and searching for buried treasure. When I come home from therapeutic thrifting, my husband will say, in mock aggravation, “What’s the damage this time?” I’ll smile coquettishly and hide my purchases behind my back. 

Anyway, I’m at this thrift store and I found a sign. It was a plain wooden board, and on it were written the words, “Simple Abundance.” Hmm, I thought. What a great concept. Simplicity. But an abundance of it.

I bought it. That was the first thing.

Second, one of our sons went through a (cough) Behavior Decline. That’s saying it nicely. If SuperNanny had walked in during Thursday night’s temper tantrum, she would’ve turned right around and run the other way, throwing her arms protectively over her head and her tightly wound bun.

“When we’re not doing our job as parents right,” my husband always says, “the kids will tell us.” It’s my least favorite of his mantras because it’s so ... spot on. When our kids are acting out, we don’t have to look very far to find the reason. 

Yeah, try the mirror. 

And we have been distracted this week with other things. And we haven’t been paying enough attention to our kids. And our boy told us. Loudly. Angrily. This Mommy yelled. He yelled louder. She pleaded. He sulked. She threatened. He apologized. She forgave, then it started again.

And somewhere in the middle of all the commotion, those words flew out of my mouth before I could catch them and take them back:

“That’s IT! No TV tomorrow!”

He kicked. Screamed.

“Okay,” I yelled. “You just lost TV for the next day, too!”

Well, that was stupid, I immediately told myself. Who am I punishing? Him or me?

But it was too late. Two days of no screen time. No computer games, no movies, no anything. I’d said it. And in this house, what Mommy says, goes.

In the meantime, the sign, the one from the thrift shop, sat on one end of our kitchen table. I hadn’t found a spot for it yet, so I set it there where I could look at it, until it told me where it needed to hang.

We made it through the two days of no screen time. He only asked “What can I do?” about 47 times. And he only said, “I’m bored” about 38 times. Not bad.

But on the last night of the No Screen Decree, our son came to us with Scrabble Junior in his arms.

“Will you play a game with me?”

There we sat, on a Saturday night. Cold outside, but warm and snug in our house. The soft light casting a golden glow in our family room. And we were playing a game together. And then the big bin of K’nex came out and I watched my boys—including my husband—laughing and playing and creating. And being. And it dawned on me that if I could, I would carry that big wooden sign around with me all the time. Simple Abundance. What a fabulous concept—to get rid of the abundant noise surrounding us so we really see—really notice—how much we really have. And so much of it can’t be bought or sold or traded. And it just figures that I got that lesson from an old second-hand piece of wood and a little kid. 

It just figures.

Mommy has a Migraine

Ever since I was a kid in middle school, I've suffered from migraines. And this afternoon, guess what? Migraine. I think, for me, the worst part about a migraine is that suddenly, without warning, your plans change. No matter where you were going, or what you were doing, the migraine means you must lie down and stay in a darkened room. You must stay very still and wait for the wave of pain to wash over you, then slowly recede again. I have a whole arsenal of things to help me get rid of migraines. I use heating pads, and a variety of over-the-counter meds. I even have a mask, suitable for a superhero, for over my eyes that I can either heat or cool, depending on what feels best at the time.

When Distracted Mommies get migraines, they still have to be the mommy. In fact, sometimes that's the part that's worse than the migraine itself. Because the migraine can be even more demanding than a three-year-old, if that's possible. And sometimes you have to juggle both, first answering to the demands of the child, all the while hoping the demands of the migraine don't overpower you completely.

All four of my children know that Mommy sometimes needs to lie down until the jackhammering in her head subsides. And as bad as those times have been, I also have some very fond memories of the sweet, care-taking side that emerges in my children.

When my oldest son was 2, he was worried about me one day as I lay in my bed, a washcloth over my eyes, writhing in pain from a migraine. I tried to reassure him that I would be okay, but even at his young age, he wanted to do something to make things better. He toddled off and disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he reappeared. Softly, he approached my bed. "Here," he said. In his hands, were two pieces of bread, carefully stacked and placed on a napkin. "It's a cheese sandwich," he told me, and I took it from him gratefully. When I peeked inside the bread, there was nothing between the slices.

"I couldn't reach the cheese," he explained, a little embarrassed at the limitations put on him by his height—or lack thereof. But I thanked him profusely anyway. It remains, to this day, the best cheese sandwich I've ever eaten. What it lacked in cheese, it made up for in compassion and sheer effort.

My other children have done the same: each migraine brings the little padding sound of feet approaching my bed, bringing treats of comfort: some crackers, a cup of tea, a handful of M&Ms, the candy coating sweating from the warmth of chubby little hands. They have no idea how these acts of kindnesses are the best medicine of all.

This afternoon, my daughter is treating my migraine with the delicious concoctions she's making in her make-believe kitchen. As I wait for my migraine medication to take effect, she shuttles back and forth between my bed and her room, where she retrieves cups and saucers filled with imaginary juice, or bowls filled with invisible noodles or chicken or pizza. She presents each new treat with a flourish. I sip some of her soup, where I scoop out each spoonful with a Superman action figure. Next she brings me a bright yellow bowl:

 "Why is Snow White in the bowl?" I ask, pointing to her little doll with the fluffy yellow skirt. She furrows her brow. "It's not Snow White," she says in that familiar defiant tone of voice I've come accustomed to since her 3rd birthday. "It's pudding!!"

"Ohhh," I say, slurping up my Snow White pudding appreciatively. "This pudding is delicious."

And it is. Despite the jackhammer in my head, we are having a moment that I will treasure forever. When I sometimes feel as though motherhood is an neverending series of non-reciprocal giving, I'm reminded that my children have the capacity to give something well beyond anything tangible. And it's right there, and all I need to do is to accept it. And isn't it strange that sometimes we need to be knocked off our course, or handed a little bit of pain and suffering, before we start noticing the beautiful roses growing right there in front of our eyes, among the thorns?