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.