picture thoughts

• I can just imagine what y’all are thinking: Good God, is she going to put up yet another blog post about that wedding?
• As a matter of fact, yes I am.
• But you are rewarded with this picture of my five beautiful children with the Pacific Ocean in the background.
• Lucky you!
• I look at this picture and I can’t help but reflect on how lucky I am to have five beautiful, healthy, happy children.
• How the heck did that happen?
• Then I take a moment to feel gratitude for being so blessed.
• I look at Daniel and I feel just as proud as he looks. He was the cutest and best little ring bearer ever!
• My sister in law told me that at the rehearsal he took it upon himself to go up to the wedding coordinator and introduce himself. As he shook her hand he looked up and said, “Hi. My name is Daniel and I am in the wedding.”
• The bride was gorgeous but next to her, my girls were the prettiest ladies there.
• Jodie looks so much like my mother as a young woman it gives me chills.
• I have to say while looking at Jodie in this picture, that I don’t ever recall giving her permission to grow up.
• Holly just glows. Young love does that to a girl. So does a pretty dress.
• I look at Zoë and find myself hissing, “Stop slouching!”
• I did the same thing when I was her age.
• As always, Abby strikes a figure flattering, pretty pose. She really needs to teach me that.
• I like this shot so much of my kids I am thinking that this will likely be the Big Top Christmas card. I know last year it was just the kids and folks complained that next year Bill and I should be in the picture but this shot is perfect. Get over it people. Trust me, we haven’t changed too much except to get older.
• Which brings me to one more thought…
• Why must time fly by so damn quickly and our children grow up so fast. Really, why?

a love note for adjustable waist pants

I am the mother of extremely skinny children. The kind that gets the grandparents and older aunties worried over the fact that clearly these string-bean children are malnourished. Never mind the fact that there mother was once a bean pole herself with toothpick-wide arms and legs…really….I was too…once…a long time ago. Okay, fine, a very, very, very long time ago in a land called Oakdale, Pennsylvania. Blame it on the genetics, blame it on the breast-feeding and the fact that something had to be wrong with my breastmilk. Blame it on my good cooking or blame it on the fact that I don’t cook much and let my kids eat birthday cake on Christmas morning. Whatever the reason, my kids were/are skinny people which, it would seem, is unusual in these United States.

Not only am I the mother of skinny children but I am also the mother who can’t sew. No, I didn’t say I won’t sew…er, won’t try to sew…no, I said I can’t sew. My mother was a professional seamstress who actually designed wedding and prom gowns and one very special Christening gown and yet I can barely manage to hem up a pair of pants. Okay, I can’t hem up a pair of pants…not at all. In my fantasy world, I am so good at other things it really didn’t matter that I couldn’t sew. Bill certainly didn’t think this skill was necessary when he was looking for a girlfriend/wife. Home Ec was never my thing and Mom didn’t seem to that I needed to know how to hem up a skirt or take in a pair of pants. That was what she did and she could do it before one Virginia Slims cigarette dangling from her lip burned out down to the filter. Teaching me how just might take a pack, or two.

So as Holly,  Zoë, Abby and Jodie grew out of their little Carters it was clear that even the slim sized jeans and pants were just too baggy for them. Thank goodness leggings were all the rage in the late 80’s and 90’s but ignore the fact that spandex and lycra leggings on my girls remained just as baggy as the super slim-sized jeans. They were that underfed. I tried to take in the waists of their pants sewing them by hand and it showed. Thankfully puberty set in and although the girls remain rather slim, they have filled out enough that redneck, ball cap wearing men will ogle them in spite of my open glare stabbing them between their eyes.

But, oh happy day, children’s clothing designers woke up and realized that there are virtually no “regular” children out there, rather more chubby and rail thin ones. Parents are desperate to find pants that fit their children no matter their shape and size. Some parents, okay, this parent can’t sew. I love you children’s clothes designers who saw the need and created the adjustable waist pants. You guys are absolutely awesome! My son might have a size 3T waist but he gets to wear boys sized 5 slim Levis with the adjustable waistbands hitched up the very last button and look good….no thanks to his lame mama who still doesn’t know how to sew.

I am NOT that mom

…and I never was.

Well, okay, when Daniel was 2 or 3 and his sensory dysfunction was at its worst because he couldn’t articulate, I was that mom ignoring her kid screaming his bloody head off in a restaurant but who could hear him? His left vocal cord is paralyzed so at that age no one could hear him. Still I enjoyed the hate-filled, dirty, your-child-is-ruining-my-fine-dining-experience-here-at-Applebees looks from folks because obviously something was wrong with my child. I got it after a couple of times. Actually I got it not for the sake of those dining around me or the wait staff but for the sake of my son.

Although I have never shied away from taking the whole circus act out to dinner at all ages and stages when we could afford it, I realized that there is truth to the wisdom of Solomon that for everything there is a season and a time. When Daniel was a toddler who just could not deal with being confined in a high chair assaulted by the cacophony of loud voices, clanging cutlery, music that was not his choice or volume and this weird textured, smelly stuff they call food that people put in their mouths, I accepted the fact that this was not the time for him to enjoy the experience of eating out at a casual dining establishment. I was a little disappointed because it meant that I couldn’t then get out of the kitchen to sit down with my family at a restaurant but how enjoyable was it really when my son was stressed out to the point of mental and emotional anguish? Really? I am not that mom that can dig into my chicken fajitas platter, suck down my iced tea, engage in conversation with the hubs and ignore my screaming child. It clearly isn’t enjoyable for him so how the heck can it be a pleasant experience for me, nevermind anyone else around our table?

But like all seasons in our children’s lives, that time was very brief. I soon  figured out how to keep Daniel happily distracted from the sensory assaults that is a casual dining establishment…thank you Hot Wheels, iTouch apps and Nintendo!…and he was mature enough to understand the expectations of how one should behave when dining with the family circus in a restaurant and eventually he gave up tube feedings to discover that the kids’ menus rock. When we can afford it, we do take the entire circus act out to a casual; dining place near you. Consider yourself warned.

So what has brought this on? Of course a recent dining experience but also a recent post by Lindsay over at Suburban Turmoil. Lindsay shared recently that she is that mom and her defense for it. I have to admit that I wanted to join the flurry of comments and wisdom being shared as a result of that post. Obviously I had my 2¢ to share but then I stopped myself. I like Lindsay and I enjoy her writing. We may differ on some things when it comes to parenting but the girl is my kind of mama. But I stopped myself also after my own dining experience last Tuesday with Daniel, Jodie, Holly and her daughter, Hazel. Hazey-Face is a very active, rambunctious and, sometimes, loud toddler. While we were enjoying our “family dining experience” at the local Chili’s, I couldn’t help notice the evil, angry looks from a diner two tables away from us. The 50-something lady seemed displeased that Hazel was there in her high chair banging her spoon on the table and loudly demanding her share of her mommy’s dinner. It was obvious that my darling, but loud, grand daughter was ruining her dining experience. She wasn’t crying, screaming or shrieking but she was loud…in a loud restaurant. Holly, who arrived at the restaurant before her brother, sister and myself, told me that the matron had been shooting dirty looks her way since she and Hazel were seated in our booth. Why? Who knows? Who really cares either? I mean it was a family style, loud, restaurant. It wasn’t the quaint, hole in the wall, dark bistro where soft, cool jazz is playing. Hazel’s antics actually were drowned out by the cacophony of activity around us. I think the lady was just pissed because she was obviously a baby and she was in the restaurant. Clearly children like her should not be seen nor heard in that lady’s opinion. I came to this conclusion as she and her dining companion got up to leave at the close of their meal. The gentleman smiled at us as he walked by. The lady, she glared as I looked up and made direct eye contact with her as I smiled in her direction.

Whatever! I mean at least I dressed up a little but then again, anything is dressing up compared to pajama pants isn’t it?

I may not be that mom but I guess I am that grandmom and for that I am glad that I stayed out of the discussion over at Lindsay’s blog.

owwies DO always get better- a guest blog

Owwies always get better. At least that’s what I tell my guys. At their age it’s a good enough working theory and all they need to know for now.

Boots, the 3-year-old, was skeptical a month of so ago when he encountered the most painful owwie of his short life, scraping off half the skin on the pinky side of his hand in a nasty case of road burn from a treadmill.

Within weeks, though, he waving the hand in stunned amazement. “It did get better!”

Big Guy, 5, was a doubter about a year and a half back when hernia surgery sheered an elephant-trunk-like appendage from his belly and closed a hole in his abdominal muscles. He’d wake up crying in the wee hours for a few days after the operation, begging for his old belly back. “It didn’t hurt,” he’d weep.

Now, though, he takes great pride in his brand-new belly button that looks almost like his brother’s.

And I, too, had trouble believing when I was about Jodie’s age and I blew away a section of my femur in a car accident. I’ll admit to having more than one case of the weepy “why me’s” while I was stuck in a hospital for three weeks as my friends enjoyed the summer.

Dad and I have been lucky so far that the guys’ owwies have been minor and short-lived. Except for the surgery, which we at least had ample time to plan for, to arrange work schedules, to see that there was help with Boots as Big Guy recovered.

I can’t even imagine how to begin dealing with what The Big Top’s gone through of late, ever since a happy weekend at a dance competition, complete with Mom-appropriate juice boxes, went bad. Way bad.

I suspect my reaction would be a bit like Laura’s, which is to run myself into a frazzle commuting 80 miles to visit my kid in the hospital while still half to three-quarters sick myself. Moms are like that, aren’t they?

Which, of course, doesn’t help anyone much in the long-run. But we never can see that when we’re in the throes of it.

Here’s wishing Jodie the best during what has to be a frustrating hospital stay – in isolation, no less. And here’s wishing the rest of The Big Top the best during a juggle that’s recently become 10 times more complicated.

And here’s wishing Laura the wise counsel I saw on Twitter just minutes ago:

“I’m thinking when the doc said I need to rest for the next two weeks he meant something different than what I can do. Thinking his idea better.”

Yes, it is. Hint, hint!

Debra Legg is a blogger and free-lance writer in California’s Central Valley. You can read more about her adventures in boyland at debralegg.com.

what blind dates and kissing can lead to

Billy and Laura sittin’ in a tree…

K-I-S-S-I-N-G…
first comes love…

then comes marriage…

then comes all these babies (and grandbaby) in the baby carriage!

yes he's smiling...he's smiling on the inside so he says

and that, boys and girls, is what blind dates and kissing can lead to.

Happy 26th anniversary my darling husband!

living with my consequences

Way back when I started out on this juggling journey, I really did think that I would be a good mom. I really did picture that I would raise amazing, awesome, honest, high-achieving, and every other positive adjective type children. There would be no misbehaving shenanigans of any kind…and my kids would be great too. But reality sets in pretty fast. That kid wouldn’t sleep when I wanted her to. She would insist on eating when I wanted to eat. She went on and at times tested the boundaries of what the word “no” actually meant. I still believe today that she and the other circus clowns don’t quite understand the meaning. It was then that I realized that this parenting thing is a learn as you go kind of endeavor. I’m a quick study that way.

Mistakes are made. Wishes and dreams are cast aside because they don’t quite fit. Battles are fought. A lesser person would probably throw in the towel. This parenting gig sucks and is too hard they would likely complain. But a parent doesn’t give up nor do they give in. But they do deal with and live with consequences and so do the fruits of their labor. One can only hope that we all will learn and grow by living with those consequences.

the end of good things…for some

Winter break was fun, wasn’t it kids? We were mostly healthy…at least there was no nasty, disgusting flu striking us all down at once like it did two years ago…not so fun times that was, wasn’t it kids? No, this year was a good Winter Break. We had a pretty good Christmas even if y’all didn’t get every-single-thing you were wishing for and there was lots of things to do…

Movies to see…

Slumber parties to go to…

Snowboarding

Ice skating too…

Basketball games to attend…and perform in

and meeting Michael Phelps wasn’t half bad either.

We shopped and shopped and shopped…

we even got to ring in the New Year in San Francisco.

We played and played and played.

It was fun. Lot’s of fun.

But Winter break is coming to an end. It’s time to get cleaned up and get ready to head back to school.

Now…Today! I’ll see y’all this afternoon kids. Love you! Buh-bye!

500 teeny-tiny pieces with some assembly required

Karma does come back often to bite one in the butt. I know this is true. The scars are my butt (and pride) are proof enough of that.

Years ago, when Bill and I were fresh, young, newbie parents who knew everything there was to know about parenting…even more than our parents who managed to raise us and our siblings, because we were younger, smarter, hipper and we had technology; okay, back on subject, years ago Bill and I made a very conscious choice to NOT make a big deal about Santa Claus with our children. We would make it clear what the true meaning of Christmas was and eschew any and all suggestion that the fat guy made their Christmas wishes come true. Our hearts were in the right place, really. We both were overwhelmed by the the spirit of gimmee-everything-I-want-because-I-asked-for-it-dammit that was all around us and just wanted our kids to be focused on the birth of the little Lord Jesus and to want to give, share and love.

Noble goals.

Altruistic goals.

Good goals!

Goals made by parents of a newborn child with no other parenting experience other than scraping meconium off their baby’s tender butt.

Still we persevered…vainly.

Our growing family, with a little help from the family and friends, tried their hardest to include the fat guy as much as possible. We grudgingly obliged but still made it clear that the gifts under “our” tree come from mom and dad who work their butts off for you because we love you and you, our children still managed to thrive and grow knowing that yes, there is a Santa Claus…at the mall, our church, their school, on tv and (in their reality) in their mommy and daddy. Our karma for our efforts extended further in that since we did not believe in the fat guy we were doomed to have to assemble all the trikes, bikes, Barbie Dream Houses, Barbie Campers and any other crazy-0assed Barbie contraption that contained at least 300 Barbie feet-sized pieces. all by ourselves on Christmas Eve. We were on our own as the fat guy, with his eight tiny reindeer, would pass over the Big Top.

Where the hell are Santa’s elves??

Not here under the Big Top because there was no love for the fat guy here and he and his elves were ho-ho-ho-ing over our karma.

But time has softened our edges a bit. We are now “experienced” parents who have come to learn what battle is worth going to war over versus the one we seek armistice over. In other words, Santa is okay. In fact, Santa is kind of cool. It turns out he doesn’t diminish our super powers at all and he only helps in the whole idea that this is a season for love, for caring, for sharing, for giving and to celebrate the little Lord Jesus’ birthday. Hey, Santa likes birthday cake too!…Yeah, we are “older”, “wiser” and tired now. We are counting on the future high-school-aged Daniel’s sisters to keep him from having a kegger in the sitting room while we watch Jeopardy in the family room because, on this one topic ONLY mom and dad were wrong.

So given the fact that we have caved and we now openly embrace Santa and all his santa-licious goodness one would thing we wouldn’t be dealing with the tears and trials of assembly of the toys Daniel tells Santa that he is wishing for. That’s what we were thinking as Bill fumbled, grumbled (and maybe cursed) while assembling with Daniel an early Christmas gift from Santa’s wish list…the Lego Sponge Bob Chum Bucket….Barbie’s Dream House was a piece of cake compared to this thing. Whatever happened to a plain old bucket of legos and a kid’s imagination? That’s what Bill grumbled. My dad, the giver of the Lego Chum Bucket, just laughed because he remembers our anti-Santa rhetoric back in the day.

Still I wonder after the ordeal of assembling this toy and-no-we-are-not-tearing-it-down-and-putting-it-back-together-ever-again I am wondering if the jolly, fat elf in red is really going to leave us twisting in the wind if Daniel gets this Quercettiu Marble Run with motorized elevator. Okay so it isn’t 500 teeny-tiny pieces to assemble but it may as well be come Christmas Eve night. I mean I do work in a hospital…on holidays…on Christmas Eve night…c’mon, Santa! It was on the boy’s wish list…the one he emailed to you. You could give a little love here…just one little elf, please.

Boys are easier!

Sheesh!

dining with children…really?!

So it is a Sunday evening and you find yourself ready for dinner after a busy day shopping or holiday decorating or perhaps you have just kissed the family buh-bye after a wonderful week-long holiday visit and you don’t feel like cooking. No problem says your hubs, lets go out to the local moderately priced restaurant…just the two of us…you deserve a break and it ain’t McDonald’s baby!…

Okay! You are all for his wonderful idea because, yes, a break from cooking and an opportunity to spend more than fifteen minutes alone with him, even in a crowded restaurant, sounds absolutely delightful.

So there you are, enjoying your slightly overcooked (I did say rare, didn’t I?) steak and martini and the company of your darling husband when who come and sit in the table directly across from yours but a party of eight including: young parents, grandparents, the maiden aunt and three darling children who are dressed in Spider Man, Batman and Dora the Explorer pajamas. The pajama clad children’s ages range from preschool to probably around 8 years old. They are a loud bunch but they are a party of 8. You smile perhaps a little too sweetly at the darling children and take a big gulp of the martini. Hubs, who knows you better than you do sometimes, signals the waitress to bring another round…pronto. Just then it happens…

AAAAAIIIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The littlest darling in her oh-so-cute Dora the Explorer pajamas is screeching as loud as she possibly can all the while making making direct eye contact with you as she wiggles away from her mama, grandmother and her grandfather. Her father, doesn’t seem to hear or notice.  Mom immediately scoops up the wriggly, screeching bundle and wanly explains to her folks that she had a feeling that the kids would be exhausted before they met for dinner…that’s why she bathed them and put them all in their jammies.

Just then, the brothers, armed with the butter knives, leap away from the table and snake between the two closest tables (yours included) in classic Errol Flynn style fencing.  Auntie is quite enchanted with this display. I’m thinking they are fighting for her honor. Mom, while clutching the wiggling, screeching little sister, is waving her finger “No” at the boys. Grandparents are both trying to wave down the waitress to see where their drinks are. Dad, well, I think he is conscious…I mean I did see him blink and hear him grunt. Finally he does show signs of life when he stands up and takes the little girl into his arms for a walk…around the table chasing the boys.

The rest of the dining experience pretty much goes on like this until we finally pay the bill and get the Sam-Hill out of there.

Am I being unfair? Am I being judgmental?

Hmmmm…..

Money is tight all around. Our opportunity to dine out even at a busy, noisy restaurant is truly a treat for just the two of us.

We are raising FIVE, count ‘em, five kids of our own, plus a grandbaby…we do know what a challenge it is to eat out with the entire family.

So am I being too harsh or judgmental when I come down on this dim-bulb set of parents for taking the kids out to dinner last night?

Am I?

Let’s look at the facts shall we?….

Mom herself states that she KNEW how tired her children were. Shge knew. So she bathes them all, pouts them in jammies and then takes them out on a cold, wet, December night to a sit-down restaurant for dinner? I’m going to probably give more credit than the daddy deserved when I say he knew this too. Clearly the fact that his children were overly tired and hungry was not his problem…not when he wanted those baby-back ribs and the ginormous stein of micro-brew beer. Auntie clearly did not have kids of her own and clearly knew her role as the “fun” aunt as she did demonstrate to the boys sword play potential in the table service. The grandparents did try to help the poor, hapless (and likely exhausted mommy) but I imagine they were a little overwhelmed themselves. Perhaps they all were looking forward to a lovely dinner out together but is this really a lovely dinner out while they are wrestling with screaming children? Is it a lovely evening out for the people in the tables next to them either?

Er, no, I don’t think I am being too harsh in my judgement.

Dear family in the Chilis in Manteca last night around 7:30 P.M., you should have stayed home!

Mom, get a clue, really. Your 3 year old is a whiny, screaming, clingy mess even after a bath then perhaps she just can not deal with an hour or two in a loud, crowded restaurant. Your boys are tired and hungry and you expect them to sit at the table and wait patiently for mac-n-cheese for 20 minutes or so…really?!

Dad, it is wonderful to spend the evening with your folks and big sister but have you noticed that your wife is OVERWHELMED? I mean she is standing at the table and balancing your darling baby girl upside down on her hip trying to negotiate a sip of her beer in between the flailing feet of your child while she kicks and screams. But hey, it is okay because you get to have yourself some baby back ribs… Really?!

Grandparents, it is clear that this get together is a big, hot, steamy mess for you, your kids, the wait staff and the diners around you but you still want to go through with it because you can’t bear to face another blue box of mac n cheese or a Happy Meal at the kids’ home so you are willing to put up with their crazy, adorable chaos in an even more chaotic environment with the dagger eyes of everyone else in the room upon you…Really?!

Really?!

Really?!

Really?!

Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying that no family with small children should ever consider dining out at any place that does not have the Golden Arches over it. I’m not saying that. But what I am saying is use a little bit of common sense. We have been enjoying dining out on a regular to semi-regular basis with all of our children since Holly was a toddler and over the years (and occasional tears) we have learned a few things.

• When dining out with the kids you need to consider their usual meal time. In other words, if you eat dinner at 6 PM having the kids wait until you meet the grandparents at Applebees at 7 most likely won’t fly even if  you fed them a little snack before. If you cant be seated with food that appeals to them in a 15 minute window of time that is their normal meal time then you’re better off feeding them their own dinner before you go out. …But then they won’t be hungry…they’ll waste all that food we order them….Get over it. Reasoning with a small child in a crowded noisy environment is hard enough but add a very hungry little tummy and it will be disastrous.
• Don’t bring the kids out to eat if they are exhausted after a long day visiting Santa, shopping and hunting for that perfect tree. How fair is that? Yes, you are tired too and you don’t feel like cooking. Fine then…order a pizza in and go ahead and put the kids in their jammies.
• If you have made the choice to dine out with the little kids then you must accept the fact that you are most likely not going to have a quiet, relaxing meal. This message goes out particularly to the dads out there (you know who you are) who seem to act as though it is the mom’s job to deal with the kids. Having said that, parents you and you alone are responsible for keeping your children reasonably behaved in a restaurant…not the staff because they don’t get paid enough and you don’t tip them enough. They are busy enough already. The other diners aren’t there to watch or entertain your children either. Yes, your darling daughter is oh so cute but really I am not here to admire every dolly, booger and half-chewed chicken nugget-like substance that she wants to show me as she wanders away from your table or peeks over the the booths. Also my child is not here to play with your kid. My child is here to have dinner with his family and try to behave in a way that is expected of him in a restaurant. Don’t assume because we are seated in close proximity that you can send little Junior over to play with that little boy seated at my table…In other words, take care of and entertain your own kid at your own table.
• And while I am at it, the entire restaurant is not really set up for a walkabout. It is a busy place with people rushing about carrying trays of hot food and drinks. Your little one is restless and needs to stretch their legs then get up, hold their hand and walk outside the restaurant. Too cold? Too wet? Dress accordingly. Seriously, if your kiddo can’t sit still for 20 minutes or you can not keep them entertained or distracted long enough for a meal to be ordered, served and cleared away then maybe they aren’t ready for dining out.  Having said that take the time to bring their own props. Bring their own crayons, legos, video game or other relatively quiet favorite toy. Most restaurants do supply something for the kids but if coloring isn’t their thing then it is likely they won’t like Applebees’ offering.

This is all common sense, really. But then again it would seem that a lot of folks lack common sense. It can be a very expensive choice to eat out these days and because it is I think I am well within my right to complain here and to explain what might seem to be the obvious particularly to the family dining next to us last night.

And what do you think?

good enough to eat

More than anything in the world right now, well, almost more than anything in the world right now, Daniel wanted to make a gingerbread house. Poor boy! He has the misfortune of having a lame-o mommy who doesn’t bake hardly at all. It’s really okay because my sisters, Ange and Elana do. Lucky for Daniel and Jodie my sisters are here to help them make their holiday wish of building the most-awesome-gingerbread-house-ever come true. All they need is gingerbread house kit thanks to Costco and a big bowl of homemade icing (powder sugar and milk) because the kit doesn’t have nearly enough.

Trust me, lots of extra icing is needed.

And in Daniel’s case, frequent handwashing because heaven forbid we have sticky hands when dealing with massive amounts of sugar.

The finished product, while not as visually pretty as some, is quite delicious.

Yum!