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?

Forgive Me My Frito-licious Transgressions

If a man's home is his castle, then a woman's car is her den of iniquity. And I'm not even talking about the kinds of trouble a young woman in the 50s might've gotten themselves into in the backseat of her boyfriend's Chevy.

The transgressions I'm talking about take form in little pieces. Little bite-sized pieces. Wrapped in cellophane.

Yesterday I had a conversation that really put me on edge. I thought about it, worried a little, got angry, worried a little more, and by dinner time, I was still replaying the conversation in my mind. Oh well, I sighed. I've got to let this go. It's time to stop obsessing.

So I set to the task at hand, which happened to be running to the store for a few odds and ends for that night's dinner. Hmmmm, y'know what would taste good with the hamburgers and the salad I'm making? I thought to myself. Chips. Some good, healthy, grainy chips.

The chip aisle is beautiful. All those bags with photographs of chips, magnified 100 times. You can see every ridge, every curl. You can practically see the grains of luminous salt on each chip. The bags make that satisfying crunch sound. I like to run my hands over all the chips. So many kinds! Healthy choices: multi-grain. Baked! Organic! Isn't it wonderful?

I did run my hands over all those healthy choices. But you and I both know how this story ends: Me, grabbing a bag of the Frito's Honey BBQ twists, the kind with the sickeningly artificial red powder. My eyes dart up and down the aisle. Did anyone see me? I dodged to the self-checkout lane, quickly purchased my items, being sure to put the bag of Frito's on the top of the last bag I put into my cart.

From there, it's all over. By the time I've returned home, half the bag is devoured, the shrunken, crumpled wrapper lying in a demoralized heap in my car's passenger seat, as I lick my fingers noisily.

What have I done?

For a brief moment, I was able to step outside of myself and see this scene. It struck me as being so funny and so pitiful all at the same time that I decided to mention it on my Facebook status. And the comments came rolling in. I was expecting some light chiding, or perhaps some encouragement to break my habit. Instead, I got a confessional. Turns out, I'm not the only one who pigs out in the car and hides the evidence. I got admissions from friends, profiling their vices: licorice, Pringles, dark chocolate mints, donuts. Beef jerky. Nutter Butters. My friend Chris asked me (or was she ordering me?) to share my Frito's, because those are her vice, too. (My answer? "No.")

I wonder if I will ever stop stress eating. I wonder why so many people do it. All I know is that when I am upset, stressed or hurt, my thoughts don't turn to revenge; they turn to the small stash of candy bars I hid in my glove compartment. And so do you.

Shhhhhhhhh.

Wouldn't it be Nice if a Failure Were Actually an Achievement?

It's Monday morning, and my kids got tardy slips at school.

Again.

I dropped my boys off in front of the school and watched them walk in, slowly. They hate getting tardy slips. The front office has a big window, and I watch the nice lady in the front office hand my kids the cheerful pink slips. They trudged to their classrooms. I drive home, feeling like I have a big red "FAILURE" stamped across my forehead.

A few years ago, when I was in a terrible habit of not getting my kids to school on time, I received a letter from the school.

Dear Distracted Mommy, it read. Please be informed that your student, Distracted Mommy's Son, has accrued quite a few tardies. Please make more of an effort to get your child to school on time ...

Okay, I don't remember exactly what the letter said. But when I read it, I swore I could see the words "You Fail" on the watermark of the paper.

This morning, I've decided I don't want to start a Monday off feeling like such a failure. So I'm drafting an imaginary letter to myself from my sons' school:

Dear Distracted Mommy,


Congratulations! Your sons were tardy to school this morning, but only by two minutes! That's a lot better than last week, when they were 11 minutes late.


Also, we want to commend you for never, not even once, sending your sons to school in their pajamas. We know the temptation has been there many times, and yet your sons come to school each day, fully dressed. Amazing!


Another list of achievements:


Kudos for not feeding your children last night's cold pizza and flat soda for breakfast, even though that would've been a lot easier than giving them a bowl of cereal.


Also, we're so proud that your son's socks match this morning! And the other son looked like he combed at least the front part of his hair.


Keep up the good work!


Sincerely yours,
Your sons' school

Hand-Me-Down Heaven

It's a weekday morning in early fall, and it looks like psychedelic fairies just threw up in my living room.

I guess it's right now, as the summer warmth give way to the crispness of fall, that mothers everywhere are sorting clothes. As I go through my daughter's dresser drawers, I longingly look at each item, remembering the ill-fated sundress that never recovered from the cherry-red popsicle—sadly, that will go in the rag pile—then smelling the faint smell of chlorine on the sunshine-yellow bathing suit with ruffles. A mother's heart breaks at the letting go of each little article of clothing, because it symbolizes the relentless forward march of time, and the irretrievable nature of childhood.

But just as soon as I drop off a donation to the local thrift shop, or give a bag of little dresses to a friend whose daughter will fit them, I'll get a call from a mother in my neighborhood. Her voice will be tentative, as if she realizes she is at risk of offending me.

"I have some hand-me-downs. Would you—could you use them?"

There is always a little bit of embarrassment in the voice of the mother offering hand-me-downs. I guess to the giver, it sounds like, "Do you want my leftovers? My garbage?" But to me, the receiver, I hear, "Do you want some nice, gently-used clothes for free, thus saving you loads of cash and time spent shopping in busy department stores with screaming children in tow?"

Uh, yes. The answer is always YES.

Hand-me-downs are magical. They are a hug from the giver. They are an homage to the "big kid" who has given them up. It is like a huge present of brightly colored fragments of rainbow.

My daughter is delighted with our latest gift of hand-me-downs. She will spend all afternoon seeing if the Tinkerbell shirt goes with the ruffled skirt; she may toy with the idea of striped pants with a flowered shirt; she squeals at the sight of the jammies covered in princesses.

When the Mommy drops off the bag of hand-me-downs, and I take them, I never hide my delight. I want her to know there is no greater gift than what she has just given me. And between us is the unspoken understanding that I will pay the favor forward, handing on the gently used hand-me-downs to the next mother, and the next, and the next. We will keep the clothes moving in that synergistic circle of hand-me-down heaven.

Ladies Night at the Shop

Ever since we decided to give our kids an allowance, they have become fascinated with the mason jar we gave them to hold their money. Each pay day, they gather at the table where we ceremoniously drop in their money, an amount calculated according to their age.

The six year-old is fully aware that his jar has less in it than his two older brothers. Just another harsh reality for the third son in the family.

"My shop is open, Mom," says my six year-old. He jangles his jar, and holds it towards me. He's not begging; he knows I'm a sucker for his massage service, where he'll offer to knead my back, my arms, or my hands—for only 25¢ a pop. It's an incredible deal for me, who is too thrifty and frugal to take myself to an actual spa, even though I dream of it daily. So my quarters have started to raise the level in his jar of money, trying to close the gap of injustice created by his rotten luck of being born after his brothers.

My little entrepreneur even understands that the consumer loves a good bargain, and offered "Ladies Night" a few nights ago, where I received the same gentle but loving massage on my aching shoulders for only a nickel (I bought two sessions).

I don't know how long this will last, but I will be his faithful customer to the end. And I've decided to be loyal, through the struggling economy and all.

The other night, as I prepared to be pampered by my miniature businessman, I got out my change. "Twenty-five cents, right?" I asked, secretly hoping it was Ladies Night again.

"No," he sighed, apologetically. "I'm sorry to say, the price has gone up. I have to charge you 28¢ now."

"Whoa," I say, trying to hide my amusement. "That's steep."

"I'm really sorry," he said again. "But I'm saving up for an electric guitar."

What Did You Just Say?

Some of the best comedy of motherhood, in my opinion, comes as our children learn to navigate the good ol' English language. One of our sons excitedly used to point out, "Look! Abstinence!" every time he saw an ambulance. Then there was the misnomer "catpicker," used to describe a caterpillar. My husband still remembers feeling a twinge of sadness the night one son realized he could say "movie" instead of the previously uber-adorable pronunciation of "moonie." (We still have moonie nights at our house—we can't seem to let that one go.)

On a recent car ride, our daughter was getting increasingly frustrated with being restrained for hours on end in her car seat. Irritated that her belongings kept falling to the floor of the car and out of her reach, she demanded, in a screaming voice: "I WANT MY BEER AND CRACK!" Horrified, my husband and I looked around at the customers at the gas station, hoping no one heard her. Of course, as seasoned parents, we knew her precise meaning: she wanted her bear and her crocs, both fallen victims to the crumb-covered floormats below her bare feet.

Tonight, as I was filling the bathtub, I instructed my son to get ready for his bath. "Okay, Mom," he said, starting to take off his shirt. "But just be careful of my nuts."

WHAAAAAAT? My mind raced. Did he already learn to talk so crudely from the playground? It's only the second day of school! How could this have happened?

I spun around, to see my son's angelic face, smiling at me. "See?" he asked me. "My nuts are right there."

I looked down.

*huge sigh of relief*

There were the acorns he had been collecting that afternoon, placed carefully on the bathroom rug.

Eulogy for Summer

The cicadas are chirping, the evening sun begins to take on a more golden hue, and the backpacks are parked by the door, lined up like soldiers ready for battle. Summer is gone, and school begins tomorrow.

I will miss Summer 2010, but I'm a better person having known her. Her life was short, but she lived it to the fullest.

Through her selflessness, our family enjoyed a trip to Graceland, time to visit with both sets of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins; she afforded us some dramatic thunderstorms, many hot days and slightly cooler evenings. Our skin bronzed in her glow. There was splashing in the pool, some mosquito-ridden camping, adventures with bikes, skateboards, and pogo sticks. There was a funeral, a wedding, a birthday party. There were concerts, fireworks, a trip to the blueberry patch.

I will remember fondly the endless parade of friends she allowed to come through my house. The smiles on the children, with slightly mussed hair, the "thank yous" in answer to the offer of cold lemonade.

Summer gave me more excuses to say "yes" and less reasons to say "no."

Summer gave us time. Time to love, to read, to get to know each other, to do the things we love to do.

We loved you, Summer. And we love you still.

Scene from a Road Trip

We’ve driven this car ride probably a hundred times, the interminably straight line between our house and my husband’s hometown, the hundreds of miles that stretch across flat plains, carved out between corn fields that run into more cornfields that occasionally back up to soybean fields. Eleven hours in the car. Each way. Four kids in the back of the van, asking, “How many more minutes?” Patient dog, incurably happy to be with us, drooling as she smiles a floppy-tongued grin.

The kids fight, or sing, or beg for snacks doled out from our cooler that I’ve packed before we left. We pass the time, remembering our favorite scenes from movies, or talking about current events. We fall into a pleasant kind of rhythm, between naps, then eating, then noisy, raucous laughter. Alphabet games as the bulletin boards whiz by. I like to guess where the other cars on the road are going, or where they’ve been.

These eleven hour stints are the barometer of our marriage. If there’s been a fight just before our departure, the eleven hours can seem like weeks. There have been long, quiet hours of angry silence, punctuated by perfunctory requests for a kleenex or a look at the map. 

But there can be those nice silences, those silences that signify that while, we may not have anything pressing to discuss at the moment, we are just as happy to sit side by side,watching the landscape fly past our car windows.

Oh. And there’s always roadkill to talk about. So. Much. Roadkill.

Inevitably, in the last few hours of the trip home, slap-happy-ness sets in. The kids have had just about enough of the seatbelt, the awful food and lukewarm drinks out of their water bottles, and we’re all anxious to see our house and play with toys and take a hot shower and get down to our at-home-ness.

“Do you know all the words to the ‘Love Boat’ theme?” my husband asks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he smiles. “Do you know it? Can you sing it? All the words?”

This definitely sounds like a challenge. And having grown up in the 80s, I’ve pretty much got this in the bag.

“Of course!” I blurt out.

“I don’t think you can,” he says.

I straighten in my seat. Quickly shedding my two-lane highway coma, I feel my competitive spirit coming alive.

“Oh, I can,” I say, with sass in my voice. “And I will.”

It was glorious, my friends. Somewhere from the dark recesses of my memory, I saw it all: the sparkling blue waters of the ocean, the smiling faces of Doc Bricker, Julie with the clipboard, and Gopher, waiting to grab my luggage. I filled my lungs and sang it full throttle while he grinned, shaking his head but keeping his eyes vigilantly on the road. I sang it all, right down to the little “Dee-da dee-da da da das” played by the synthesized trumpets between the phrases.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I didn’t think you could do it.”

I sit back and adjust my seatbelt. I smile to myself, as we settle back into a comfortable silence. I look out the window. I see rows of corn, and a poor skunk at the side of the road, whose early demise left him in an unnatural position facing the unforgiving sun.

Under his breath, I hear my husband humming. I smile when I recognize the opening bars of the Love Boat theme. I have the feeling he’s going to have that tune in his head all the way to the state line.

“How many more minutes?” asks a tiny voice from the back seat.

Tears in my Dishwater

I had a happy reunion recently, and at the end of it, I found myself standing over a pan of hot soapy water, bawling my eyes out. Let me explain:

A few weeks ago, I got an unexpected call from an old friend. As soon as I heard her say, "Hello!" I knew it was her. She and I met at a block party twelve years ago when we were both young mothers of toddler boys (1 each). We were both navigating our new lives as stay-at-home mothers, still shell-shocked from the transition to our new careers as distracted mommies. Over the next two years, we forged a friendship that became very strong. We had each other's backs: I once called her, frantic, when an out of town visitor arrived a day earlier than expected. When her second child arrived, I was the one who got the call at 2 a.m. to come and stay with her son.

When I moved several states away, we wrote letters that really read more like novellas. Then she moved several states away. More novellas. We never lost contact. We emailed. We sent photos of our kids at Christmas.

So last week, I saw my sweet distracted mommy friend after 10 years. We hugged and giggled and gossiped. For a few hours, her kids played with my kids while we talked at break-neck speed and tried to fill each other in on the past decade.


So why was I crying?


Well, she had to leave. After our precious few hours together, my friend packed her kids up in the car and drove away. I stood in my front yard, and watched her car disappear around the corner.


Then I headed back into the house, ran a dishpan of hot soapy water, and started scrubbing at the pizza pans from dinner. And I started bawling. Silent tears, so my children didn't think I'd completely lost it. Being a mother, I cry about everything now. Not just sad movies and YouTube videos of adorable kittens. I cry now because of friendship. I guess I was crying because she left and I don't know if it'll be another 10 years before I see her again. But I think I was crying happy tears, too. There are precious friendships that come and go, but those few that last are pretty precious. Tears-in-dishwater-worthy.

The Best Worst Day

It was a rough day deep in the trenches of motherhood, my friends. If I heard, "It's not fair!" once, I heard it a hundred times. We had more than our share of tantrums today. Crabbiness abounded. And that includes Mommy. Nothing was going right today.

Late in the afternoon, my teenager had me drop him off at the city pool with a friend. They had never done this before. I think I felt a little nervous about this, but I didn't say it to them. I think they might have been a little nervous about this, too. Well, some fears must be faced head-on. What's the point of discussing?

In any event, their trip to the pool got me thinking: why wave the white flag on this day? Why let it go out with a whimper? I gathered up the towels and the pool passes. We were going to end this day on a high note if it killed us. I herded my three younger kids to the van, and off we went. Even on the way to the van, I had to referee a battle between two of the children. ("It's mine!" "No, it's mine!" "Mine!" "Mine!" "MINE!" "MINE!!" "MIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNE!"—with a quick swipe backwards with one hand while keeping the other hand firmly on the wheel, I grabbed the item in question. Both kids stopped screaming and stared at me. "Huh," I told them. "Looks like it's mine.")

From then on, the worst day instantly transformed to the best day. I don't know why. It's not for me to question. All I know is that I want to wrap up and keep forever a few little mental pictures of tonight at the city pool:

• My 9 year-old climbing timidly to the top of the huge water slide. In a glorious splash at the bottom, he swam triumphantly to the edge of the water. I smiled in approval. Later, he told me the lifeguard at the top gave him a test to make sure he was old enough to go down the slide: a quick history question about the first President of the United States, and a math equation.

• The two year old, Miss Independent, refusing to hold my hand, even in deep water. She'd strut boldly into deeper territory, lose her balance, and fall face-first in the water. I'd help get her upright again, and as soon as she was above water, she'd shake my hand off her arm again. Sputtering, she'd wipe the water from her face, laugh, and boldly strut some more. No fear.

• The six year-old, who faced—and conquered!—the "Mushroom of Doom." The mushroom spills gallons of water over its rounded top, and you have to pass through a wall of water to reach the inner sanctum of the mushroom, where you hover close to the stem until you're brave enough to pass through the wall of water to the outside again. Last year, at five, the same child screamed bloody murder if I even suggested we go near the mushroom. This year, my manly six year old whooped and hollered and beat his chest, no longer afraid of the giant mushroom. He ran through the wall over and over, puffed with pride.

Each little "ta-da" moment is a precious gift. I've done this motherhood thing long enough now to know that this whole experience is a continuum of "never to be seen again" moments. So many firsts. If you miss them, they are gone. And you don't even have time to mourn the missed ones, because more firsts might get missed while you brood.

This is exactly why distracted mommies can't wave the white flag on those bad days. Because in just a moment, the worst day can turn into the best day. Why? I don't know. It's not for me to question.

The Power of Powerlessness

 

A powerful storm knocked out our power earlier this week. It was a storm with a fierceness that I don't think I've ever seen before. Rain and hail pummeled the pavement and wind snapped trees in half like mere toothpicks. In a few furious minutes, our quiet town was whipped and hurled and abused, then left in a battered heap. The storm came while I was in the grocery store with my husband, and we hurried home to check on our kids. 

The first thing we saw was the huge tree lying across our street. The way the mangled roots were exposed at the base of the tree, I could imagine a lonely giant, pulling the tree out of the ground like a child plucks a flower from a garden, then drops it to the ground when some other playful object catches his fancy.

As soon as the storm clouds cleared, the early evening light cast an eery golden sheen on everything. It made me wonder if the storm had really happened. But the evidence was everywhere. Branches and leaves peppered the landscape in addition to, I noticed with a twinge of disappointment, many shingles from our roof. Power was out in the entire neighborhood, and people slowly emerged from their homes to see what had happened.

An interesting thing transpires when a group of strangers experience a big event together. There's a camaraderie that comes on full force, without warning. I watched my neighborhood gather around the large uprooted tree as men swapped stories and decided on what tools were needed to dismantle the tree. Women gossiped and took pictures. My young neighbor headed straight to the home of an elderly neighbor, to check on her. The children squealed at the sight of a tree laying on its side, and they stood on top of it like kings and queens surveying their empire.

I've never loved my neighborhood more than in the aftermath of the storm. The twilight dwindled, and people stayed outside. Darkness came, and children began to beg for comforts: But without electricity, there was no hot food, no TV shows, no video games. No soft music to fall asleep to. Only darkness, and the warm flicker of candles. Perhaps a storybook, sliced by the sharp beam of a flashlight. And still, neighbors congregated outside. Down the block, colorful extension cords criss-crossed between houses, as gas generators were wheeled out and power was shared between neighbors.

The power was out, but I was witnessing a powerful display of friendship and compassion. We were all in this together, and for the next 36 hours, we often convened on our lawns, comparing notes and speculating when our power would be restored. 

Last week's storm was like a bubble of time standing in quiet isolation; the laundry would have to wait, and all small tasks took a back seat to clearing branches, repairing fences and most importantly, clearing out leaky basements. Our powerlessness braided our lives together for a brief time in a way that rivaled the power of the storm.

HIM: Mom, what does it feel like to be a girl?

ME: Hmmm. That's a tough question. I've always been a girl, so I don't know anything else. Can you tell me what it feels like to be a boy?

HIM: I don't know. It just feels ... regular.

Oh ... Now I Get It

The longest leg of a road trip is the distance between the front door and the car.

My Mom used to say this all the time when I was growing up. In my literalmindedness, I used to think that was such a ridiculous thing to say. Everyone knew it was just a few steps between the front door and the car parked in the driveway.

As our family prepared to leave for a vacation last week, something sank in. As I poured myself one more cup of coffee, I looked over my volumes of lists of things to do before we left. I had various columns in an effort to sort out and categorize my To Do list. I had a column for each of the four children; then there was the Food/Snacks column; then the Travel column, for guide books, the map, the brochures.

While I began sweating profusely over the task at hand (Item To Do #13 - shut down air conditioning to save energy), my kids sat slouched on the couch.

"Mom," sighed one of my sons, "when are we leaving??"

By their calculations, we should've left hours ago. They had packed their most necessary items: iPod, underwear, and a swimming suit for the hotel pool. They had movies and CDs for the car, and they had their wallets stuffed with coins for the perfect souvenir they were sure to find.

"I just need to do a few more things," I told them, and they rolled their eyes.
I turn the page and read the To Do column on page 4: "Close and lock windows."

I am sweating even more. I dump out the rest of my hot coffee and wonder if I have time to mix a batch of cold lemonade instead. Never mind; it's too late to dirty any more dishes. That was #11 on the list: NO DIRTY DISHES IN THE SINK!

So this is what Mom always meant. Just getting out the door and starting the vacation is the hardest part. It's so hard to let go, so tough to choose just a few items to take along on our travels, to try and anticipate what exactly we will need for the next few days while our house sits empty and lifeless. And un-air conditioned.

My kids are glaring at me now as I rustle through my voluminous To Do list one more time. In them, I see the reflection of a younger version of myself, wondering why it was taking my Mom so long to get ready for a trip.

I really, really need a glass of lemonade right now. Maybe I'll get it after I find the camera charger and grab the first aid kit.

"You know what Grandma always used to say," I smile, trying to cajole my kids into a better mood. "The longest leg of a car trip is—"

"The distance between the front door and the car," they chime in with bored voices. "We know," says one of my sons. "You already told us."

"Like, a thousand times," my other sons adds.

"Oh," I say sheepishly. "Sorry." But inside I'm laughing. No, I'm cackling. It will all come full circle, like it did with me. Someday, they'll be the adults who have to think of everything. They will be the ones who have to wrestle with the endless lists, the planning.

I get it now, Mom. The longest part of the trip is just getting out the door. Oh, I get it.

Off With His Head!

As much as my daughter loves lace and flowers and glitter, she can also be a sword-wielding Ninja. I like to think she's well rounded.

When I look at this photo, it makes me chuckle. See that vacuum cleaner in the background? This Distracted Mommy thinks that by leaving the vacuum cleaner out, it gives the impression that some cleaning is going on. I assure you, there was no cleaning going on that day. Housekeeping comes in a distant second to enjoying the sight of a pretty little Ninja running after her big brothers.

The Perfectly Impractical Lesson of Lilacia Park

The smell of lilacs at their peak is so potent and so sweet, I find myself burying my face in the blooms. I can never seem to fill my lungs with enough of their heavenly scent. It's why I mark my calendar each year for "Lilac Time," when the blooms in Lilacia Park in Lombard, Ill. are bursting. This park, formerly the estate of Colonel William and Helen Plum, was bequeathed to the Village of Lombard to be used as a public park and serve as the grounds of the public library. The Plums began an extensive collection of lilacs after a visit to the gardens of Victor Lemoine in Nancy, France.

Each spring, I look forward to my visit to Lilacia Park. It is 8.5 acres of purple. Along the pleasing brick pathways are every imaginable variety of lilacs: some are white, some have tight, red buds, others flaunt a deep purple, others a pale lavender. Despite the noisy commuter train that passes just one block away from the park, peacefulness pervades the park. Rabbits and birds and insects and butterflies take residence there, and I am starkly aware that I am merely a visitor in their gorgeous purple palace.

I can be a painfully practical person. So my yearly visits to the park make me shake my head. What were the Plums thinking? Throughout the gardens, lilacs are the prevalent plant. Once, my family visited the park in late summer, and we were somewhat disappointed. "These are just bushes," one of my sons said. True, the lilac bushes are "just" bushes the rest of the year. So why would the Plums collect just one kind of plant, that only blooms for a short time each year?

The Plums have been gone for decades, so I can't ask them. But it reminds me of something very important each year. It reminds me that while practicality has its merits, sometimes practicality has to go right out the window. Sure, it would be more practical to have a variety of plants that bloomed continuously all summer, but where is the magnificence in that? One lilac bush is beautiful, but hundreds and hundreds of lilacs is something so awe inspiring that I can hardly speak when I'm inside the park at lilac time. It's the impracticality of it that makes it extraordinary. Years ago, one of my sons walked into the park for the first time. He was probably 4 or 5 years old. His eyes grew wide as he surveyed the pathways lined with lilacs. "Mom," he whispered reverently, "it looks like Jesus pushed the purple button."