This is for AYSO

Tonight as I turn out all the lights in a quiet house that rarely goes quiet, I noticed the soccer trophy Noah received today after his last soccer game of his first soccer season. It reminds me of all the soccer trophies I won playing sports, which cluttered the shelves of my bedroom cabinets for years longer than was decent. It reminds me of early Saturday mornings at the Rose Bowl, the smell of wet grass, Mom's quick "pasta with nothing but butter, salt and pepper" lunches, Skittles from the Rose Bowl snack bar, Mom in her indecent referee short shorts and knee high socks and the post-game Baskin Robbins runs awarded for goals scored and assists made.

We were so excited for soccer to begin, Noah and I. We practiced in Vermont over the summer and that first game was a testament to our hard work. Noah scored 2 goals. I was sure he had inherited the Strong gene for the game and a lust for hitting the back of the net. It turns out, though, that an hour each weekend over the course of a 2 and a half month season is a long time to stay focused on a single activity for a 4-year old. Soccer lost its appeal almost as quickly as it held it for Noah. Toward the end of the season, Bryan and I would grudgingly throw the massive amounts of soccer equipment into the car and begrudgingly head for the fields. It is only because of my "we must see it through" mentality that we managed to finish out the season at all, but it was touch and go there for a while. Three weekends ago as Bryan was fighting to erect the banner I, in my enthusiasm to get involved, volunteered us to make, hammering stakes into the ground and telling me to shove it when I offered advice on where it might best be located and how it might not swing so awkwardly backwards if we were to punch wind holes in it, asked me for the dozenth time if this was perhaps the best use of our weekend time. I gave him my "we're sticking it out look" and he mumbled something about the wasted hours he'd never get back. I settled into my newly purchased, collapsable lawn chair in anticipation of the start of the game. There are only 5 players on each Under-5 boys team and they only play 3 a side, so 2 players always sit out. I was a little taken aback when Noah volunteered himself to sit it out for the first quarter. No biggy, I thought. He's just getting his head in the game, needs a little time to assess the other teams weaknesses. That's my boy. You relax. Gather your thoughts, Bud.

Perhaps I should have recognized the signs when they called for a water break at the quarter and Noah yawned, stretched and finally got up off the ground...to get some water. He looked a little less than enthused when the coach told him to hop to it and get on the field, but I knew he was just mentally prepping himself. As both teams are whistled to begin play, they start running around the ball in swarm fashion , kicking rather aimlessly at it in the hopes of making some kind of contact. With a little parental prodding on my part, "Go get 'em, Noah!", "Kick the ball", Noah seems to break from his momentary daydreaming and take a half-hearted swipe at the ball. But just as he started to find it entertaining, he lost his initial burst of energy and had, in fact, come to a complete stop at the opposing team's sideline, his attention drawn by the enthusiastic cries and displays of support put on by the opposing team's parents. I hit Bryan in the arm and tell him to be more supportive to which he responds "Noah, the goal's the other way." So, I take it on myself to light a fire under Noah and get him going again. Just as I call him over and work myself up to deliver a rather stirring, motivational speech about trying as hard as you can and staying at it, the spasmatic Mom on the opposing team's sideline, who is wearing all green in support of her son's Green Goblin soccer team, pulls out a 34" green cheering foam hand and starts rooting her team on to victory. That small thread of attention I had hold of on Noah was immediately re-directed to the over-zealous mother wielding props. That should be illegal. From that moment on, any activity taking place on the field where he stood was secondary to the activity happening on the sidelines. Bryan looked at me with a knowing smirk that said "She got you. Game. Set. Match." I looked back at him with an equally huffy expression and said "What are you looking at, Banner Bitch."

So, as we paraded the soccer gear out one last time today and watched Noah kick the dirt and pull the grass as his team swarmed the ball not two feet away, I was a little less persistent, maybe even a little less impassioned in my pleas to get Noah to give pursuit. It wasn't until I overheard him ask the coach in the middle of the game, though, just when he would receive his trophy that I fully understood the complexity of his priorities and more importantly the resigned acceptance of mine. So, while he's busy blazing his own childhood path, I have to sigh in remembrance of those long Saturdays at the Rose Bowl and remind myself that his path is his own to make and it may not include soccer. Sign-ups for baseball, though, are around the corner. I think it's Bryan's turn to hoist his childhood memories on the unsuspecting 4-year old.

A green foam hand, though? Really?

That sounded better in my head

Bryan used to jokingly ask after Noah was born if I was losing brain cells through my boobs. His amusement at his own joke lasted only long enough for him to realize that the smirk on my face was not in fact mutual approval of his creative wit and honest sense of humor, but was instead a look of "that comment just cost you access to these boobs for the rest of our newly shortened marriage."

I do not profess to having been a "50 cents in late library book fees", Good Will Hunting "smarty" prior to children, but I do know that my commendable B+/A- IQ has settled somewhere around a solid B- since my third child. You can imagine the depths of my despair when someone tells me to "bring my A game". My mental response, which at one time would have stayed in my head, but is now also my verbal gift to the world, is this: "That was impossible before children, ass-munch, to say nothing of my "A game" now." These comments are not appropriate in front of friends, to say nothing of complete strangers. You know that awkward silence that follows close-ended questions like "So, where are you from?" and "How many kids do you have?" That space of silence, that moment after those easy questions are answered and there is a feeling of "Now what?", that is my specialty. It is at this defining moment that I realize I have now made the effort to converse and that the conversation has reached the limits if its initial efforts. This is where my B- game steps up and brings his good friend Stupidity. While I'm thinking how not to let the thread of conversation come to an end, it is as though my mouth forgets to wait for good manners and propriety and says "Oh, Noah picks his nose like that, as though he's digging for brain matter, does little Joey always go to a corner and eat it afterwards, too?" And this is where I get the "Did that just come out of your mouth?" look. I know it well.

I used to think it was the lack of adult conversation that was responsible for the inappropriate comments I make at inappropriate times like the poor woman who, upon being introduced to me the other day, said "I may not remember your name. I didn't take my meds this morning and I often forget", to which I jokingly commented "Since children, I don't remember names either and there are no meds for that disease." Perhaps it is just a long history of social awkwardness or a genetic disorder that makes me predisposed to saying before thinking. I feel safer in my home most days, away from the lurking conversational disasters that await me outside my doorstep, safe from the sound of crickets that follow in the aftermath of my spoken words.

Parenthood is, I think, one of the most crippling jobs at times. It is certainly the most demanding, often requiring that you "bring your A game". Nobody tells you it will be this hard or that when it gets hard and all the kids are screaming at once, your over-exhausted, under nourished brain is quickly closing the doors to its' more complex departments in order to keep the reverberating noise contained so that the migraine that is already growing at the base of your skull can't grow to be quite so large. They don't tell you that once those doors close, you lose the keys. What is amazing about parenting, though, is how all of this brain collapse is conveniently counter-balanced by the fact that being a parent and bearing witness to the moment when your 2-year old finally says " I wuv you" back, makes it the most rewarding job as well. I wonder, though, how comforting all the "I wuv you"'s will be when I'm old and my children have claimed my old brain cells for themselves. I suddenly and completely understand mid-life crisis.

My optimistic mother tells me it's a permanent phase, this early dementia. If so, my kids are indebted to me for a lot more than just breast-milk and Bryan won't have to worry for too long about sleeping on the couch for his own inability to filter his comments. Chances are my limited brain capacity means I won't remember why I put him there in the first place.

For Jamen

Dear Jamen-

There is a lot we didn't know about each other. I wasn't as lucky as your family and friends or as my sister was in getting to know you well, but I know enough to know that you were the kind of person who would have made me a better person, a better Mom. You would have made my kids better people. I know this because I have seen the company you kept and I know the incredible character of the family from which you come.

I am now a mother of 3. I don't think you knew that the last time we saw each other. In fact, I don't think even I was all that aware of MacKenzie's impending arrival the last time we spoke. It was the day of yours and your sister, Ashley's, birthday last October, a year ago today. You may not remember, but you, your family and your friends made my children feel right at home. Ryan chased Noah around your backyard tree and Ashley and Mary took turns making sure little Addie didn't eat anything more harmful than dirt. Your family has been a second family to my sister, Alexis, and like a second family to my kids. If Ashley weren't so close to Alexis, I might steal her best friend status for myself. Your mother comes to Noah's soccer games and your father rushed to my parent's house during the Station Fires to help move their valuables to safety and keep a careful eye on the fire's encroaching flames. If you are surprised by any of this, you are exerting far too much modesty. This is just the nature of what you and your family would do for friends. You gave Noah a book when Addison was born called "I'm a Big Brother". I remember this because it isn't everyone who thinks to celebrate and observe the importance of an older sibling at the birth of a new child. You did. Somehow I doubt that kind of generosity and perception was unusual for you. I am profoundly grateful for all that your family has done for me, for my children and most especially for my sister, who found great strength on the Marathon circuit at your guidance. You are the example I hope to set for my children. The world has been left a better place because you were in it. Your legacy will live on in the friends who loved you well and the family who took such pride in the life you led and the whole-hearted way in which you led it. It is my hope that I will pass on to my children your zest for the outdoors, your passion for sports, the goodness you saw in everyone and shared with anyone who needed it and then maybe, just maybe, I can raise a kid who is half as good as you. With any luck, I will convince that amazing family of yours to help see me reach that lofty expectation.

You are greatly missed, Jamen Amato

Ah, self- confidence. I should remember to pick that up the next time I'm out.

Looking back on all the awkward years, I would have said High School was the lowest point for me. A close second would have been Junior High, but even in Junior High I scored the occasional "Will you go steady with me?" note in my locker (so what if the handwriting was my mother's?). Nothing torments the soul and self-confidence, though, the way High School does. And nothing prepares you for how recklessly you must defend and prove your self-confidence like college. Is it any wonder, then, that by the time you reach parenthood, you look around in amazement and think "who qualified me for this task?"

You can imagine my surprise, then, when at that victorious moment of departure from the hospital after two days of sleeplessness and an on-going, drug-induced state of happiness they place a small, helpless child in my arms, wish me luck and, with no obvious signs of concern at my crazed look of panic, roll me out the door. This was my introduction to parenthood. There are no rules. There is no preparation, no required IQ test or behind-the-wheel exam. There is no manual. I remember thinking as they pushed my wheelchair down the post-natal hall towards the exit sign, "That's cute, they're letting me practice carrying the baby. Maybe in a few more days I'll be ready to try diapering on my own." I think the post-natal nurses take bets on the exact moment new Moms realize they're screwed, that they are heading for the unknown without a book of rules, that they're proceeding without the efficient, practiced care of licensed professionals. For me, it was that sudden whoosh of outdoor air coming in through the double doors opening under the hospital entrance sign that suddenly and irrevocably penetrated my veil of the hospital's sense of security. I felt like turning myself in, unleashing those pent up High School feelings of inadequecy on the poor, unsuspecting volunteer who unwittingly drew my discharge papers from the volunteer desk. "How can you entrust this child to my care? Do you have any idea just how immature I am? I still hide fruit loops in my bedside table so that my husband can't steal them from the exposed vulnerability of the kitchen cabinets. There is a very good chance this child will never know the delectable taste of sugar cereals because of my inability to share. How can you just stand there, smile at us complacently and wave us off knowing this child may never experience sweets until college?" And they do, you know, smile and wave, as you drive away from the only source of parenting security you know: the hospital, where Vicadin and a chipper night-time nursing staff make all ills go away.

What is crueler still is that in the safety and relative peace and quiet of your car, you convince yourself in that short, 10-minute drive home "this isn't all bad. How hard can it be?" As you cross the threshold into your home, your inner sanctuary, those awkward years at High School and even Junior High came back to haunt you. You think just because you gave birth to them, your children are pre-disposed to love you, to accept you, to want you in their exclusive social circle. My kids are not yet 5 and I find myself hoping they'll think I'm cool enough to host play-dates at our house. And if you think the peer pressure from you own kids is bad, just wait until you get sucked in to the black hole of mommy cliques. High School lives on long past graduation. It doesn't die, people, the games just grow more advanced, more manipulative to include your children. It would have been nice to find self-confidence back in Junior High/High School. Maybe then I wouldn't be wearing this target on my back that says "Pick me, choose me, include me." " Yes, I can chair that committee, raise 3 children and try to work part-time." "Sure I can bake brownies for the whole preschool class and remember not to include nuts, to make them organic and to divide them into cute, cellophaned packages of four with Pottery Barn perfect ribbons on top." How hard can it be?

I cannot begin to count the number of times in the last 2 wee s I have tried to sit down and record the more outlandish tales of my recent days as a "this-too-shall-pass" mantra-thin ing parent and recount the more creative and abundant ways in which my children bring that particular phrase to mind. I have lusted after these brief moments of solitude daily...actually, hourly, if truth be nown, only to be thwarted by my three I-love-you-more than-life-itself monsters, a small hillside fire that almost engulfed our forest-surrounded home and a 4000 mile tre cross country... all day...all night...on pac ed planes...with a 3-hour layover...and a 21-month-old who thin s it her personal duty to introduce herself and her family to all 74 strangers on board. You put the pieces of that puzzle together.

I have longed for this moment of piece and quiet so much that when the house was finally "put to bed" I lingered over the process of ma ing a cup of tea. I should now better. After I attended to the continual cries for comfort from my 5-month-old who clearly thought our last half-hour of roc ing and feeding were just foreplay, answered the 3rd question about tomorrow's schedule from my in-bed-and-supposed-to-be-asleep 4-yr-old, stepped in baby spit-up, which everyone wal ed past, but failed to mention was still on the floor, I have finally achieved the moment I so craved. I can overloo the small inconvenience of lu ewarm tea and the late hour now causing me to emit my third yawn in the last few minutes. What's really upsetting is that I have just realized why it is some of my words are missing the letter located between "J" and "L". Surprisingly, it is not as I initially believed, that parenthood had caused my IQ to drop yet a few more points, but rather because that liquid Noah was wiping from my eyboard in Atlanta during our 3 hour layover was in fact the orange juice I had allowed Addison to have in the hopes it would eep her quietly entertained. Evidently, it has also rendered the letter between "J" and "L" quietly unusable. Ah, yes, the jo e is on me. I hope you can fill in the blan s.

The great irony of parenting, though, is that thing they call unconditional love. It is a chemical imbalance I am certain develops immediately after you have your first child. Perhaps it isn't so much an imbalance as it is amnesia. It is the only possible explanation for second, third, forth, etc. children. It is the only rational reason behind wa ing up each morning to the unwavering belief that today "will be a new day. Today I am going to get it all done and I am going to be an awesome parent. My ids are going to love me". A chemical imbalance. It is a cruel job that starts each morning ma ing you feel empowered, visualizing success and ends the day with a truc load of guilt, an unhealthy dose of resentment and a deeper understanding of cynicism. A chemical imbalance. How else can you explain why not 10 minutes after you put your children to bed you can thin cute, cuddly thoughts of them when all day long they've said inappropriate things to strangers for which you are then forced to aw wardly apologize, jumped on the bed sheets you have now washed for the 3rd time in 2 days because of their dirty-outdoor feet and have unrolled the toilet paper for 4th time today because you are now pretty sure they just enjoy watching you turn red with frustration. A chemical imbalance.

Now, I must go to sleep so that I can loo forward to doing it all over again tomorrow.

My kids are my social life.

Noah often ends each day with a not-so-subtle attempt at what I would call "bedtime escapism". It is always appropriately timed to coincide with my closing his door and telling him "Good Night". I don't usually make it as far as the stairs before I hear "Mooooom?" With resignation, I respond "Yes, Noah". "Well, it's just that, um, um, well, (this is where he frantically searches for a question to ask now having successfully and unexpectedly caused my delayed departure) what are we doing tomorrow?" "Noah, there's lots to do." I say. "Like what?" he asks. Several nights ago I replied impulsively to this question with "We'll be making mud-pie" not thinking much would come of it until I was forced to empty the entire contents of our candy drawer into what was supposed to pass for chocolate pudding, stir with enthusiasm and sample with gusto. I took mental inventory of our cupboards content before answering him this time. "We're going to hang out." I said. "Well, who's coming over?" he asked. "You get to hang out with your super cool Mom and sisters." I said. Preparing for the eventuality of his 'delicate' response to this, I took a seat on the bench just outside his door. "Uh, Mom. I just want to hang out with my friends. Can't you call someone to come over?" Only slightly stung that I didn't qualify for the 'friend' category, I tell him "Mom's on a social break. She's tired of being chauffeur to your schedule. She wants to stay home and be miserably anti-social with you."

He pauses to consider and I stand to leave thinking the issue resolved.

"But Mom, we did that last week."

Perhaps a bit more sharply than I meant to, I say "It's an on-going break, Noah!"

This isn't the first time I have had to curtail his desire for social interaction and play-dates. As we spend more time in VT, away from his social networks in CA, Noah and Addie both look for new ways to make friends anywhere they can.

If I thought an outing to the La Crescenta Ralph's with its 1/2 dozen child-size grocery carts was difficult, try taking my 3 currently under-socialized kids to a small town grocery store with only 2 fire engine grocery carts to its name. Do you know what I do right after I slip the car into park outside the store? I mean, besides wish for an inhaler and earplugs. I pray. I pray that Shaw's has seen fit to make at least one of its red fire truck carts available for our use. You know why? Because, not even that quiet, oblivious place in my head I go to in moments of great stress where the mantra of "if I look around blankly, maybe they won't notice me" will keep me safe from Noah screaming his outrage and accusing the near-by grocery clerk of grave injustices done to him and his sisters or Addie from screaming in support of Noah's frustration and Kenzie crying at the universal disappointment of being a 3rd child.

Let's assume though, for a moment, that we pass this first hurtle without incident and I can pull from every corner of my being the willpower needed to bypass the alcohol aisle. We make our way slowly through produce and onto the Deli, at which point I am just starting to regain confidence in my ability to handle my children and remember that this is a perfectly normal jaunt to the grocery store. It is at this moment, this "I can be a good mother" moment that Noah screams in Addie's face "I said 'No', put that back, now, Addie", which, of course, only elicits one of Addie's more ear-piercing screams and stops the 5 most immediate shoppers dead in their tracks with their hands over their ears. Lunch meat? Who needs deli meats anyway? I quickly recount the contents of our fridge and bread products. There's nothing wrong with peanut butter quesadillas I conclude and we move on. Instead of the 5 essentials on my grocery list, we are now prioritizing 2: milk and diapers. We move on to the diary aisle where Noah's social radar locks on to a 6-yr-old girl and Addie's onto her not-much-younger-than-Addie- herself little brother. From the far end of the aisle where Noah first spots them, he yells "Hi, what's your name?" The conversation progresses no less quietly from there. As we get closer to this unsuspecting family, Noah continues to make small talk with the little girl who seems less than tolerant of Noah's pursuits. Meanwhile, Addie is collecting yogurts from the nearest shelf and proudly placing them next to the little boy sitting in the front seat of the cart. "Tank 'em" ('thank you' and 'you're welcome' in Addie language) she says with each gift, proud of her voluntary efforts to share. Fortunately for us, the children's mother shows remarkable patience with my kid's social on-slaught and encourages her daughter to address Noah's fire-squad questions. Addie has now amassed a grouping of yogurts that reach the boys chest and is clapping her hands and holding them out to the boy in a gesture I recognize as "I want to hold him". Trying to explain that the boy is roughly her size and doesn't need to be held like MacKenzie only gets me two additional screams and a defiant toddler who abruptly plants herself on the dairy aisle floor in protest. At this point, I grab whatever milk is close at hand, mutter apologetically to the other mother something about my socially awkward kids, forget about diapers, find my way through checkout and make it back to my car.

In the car on the way home, as I struggle to rehearse all the many reasons I love my children, Noah says,

"Mom, I really liked them."

"Liked who, Noah?"

"Our friends from the grocery store. We should call them for a play-date."

" Sure, Noah, maybe their Mom won't mind peanut butter quesadillas on the outdoor patio, which is where I'll have to keep you naked until I can manage a return trip for diapers."

Now, lest you think I am a light-on-discipline parent, who lets her kids walk all over her in a grocery store, I suggest you ask any parent whether they haven't had several moments as parents where it just seems easier to sweep the embarrassment of their children's behavior out the door, restore mental balance and well-being to their psyche and address the issue in the privacy of their car.

is this thing on...

I dedicate this crazy idea to my more impulsive of sisters, Meredith, whose idea it was to start a blog and who will provide 1/3 of this blogs viewership. The other 2/3's will inevitably belong to my mother, whose sole job in life it is to support whatever reckless fantasy her kids create and whose recent fanatical introduction to the iphone will keep her on hand for running commentary and my unwaveringly dedicated other sister, Alexis, who continues to believe I know what I'm doing as a parent. Lex, this blog may quickly relieve you of that delusion.

Day 1: I am reminded of an email Meredith sent me on the mental ramblings of dogs and cats. The dogs profess their undying enthusiasm to their owners and the schedule they set for the day while the cats take a less than optimistic stance on their position "in captivity":

From a Dog's Diary

8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 pm - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 pm - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 pm - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 pm - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 pm - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 pm - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 pm - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!


From a Cat's Diary

Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.

They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.

The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed insolitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe. For now...........

MacKenzie, my 4-month old, would be the dog, eager for approval and desirous of only love and affection. Noah, my 4-yr-old son, would be the bird, the informant, whose job it is to keep me abreast of Addison, my 20 month-old, the cat, whose entire existence is dedicated to escape and the necessary plots required to obtain freedom from my rule. She has been close to succeeding on several occasions. Perhaps it was the time she stuck her hand in her "soiled" diaper and presented me with the evidence of her recent grunting efforts or maybe it was the time she carefully plotted to empty her pockets of 6 crayola crayons into the open, waiting-for-the-last-of-the-whites-to-be-loaded door of the dryer. Do you know how many drying cycles it takes to completely clear all the unreachable crevices of a dryer of orange crayola crayon? 6. Hopefully, the last 5 cycles were all darks. I think, though, she came closest to escape (with a "for sale" sign hanging around her neck) this afternoon, when she came to me looking like Krusty the Clown, having managed to open my makeup bag, extract my favorite "chianti" lipstick, apply it to the whole bottom half of her face, her legs, her arms, the bathroom walls and my personally recovered white chair...for the 3rd time in 3 weeks. (Yes, I know, I need to invest in padlocks for my makeup kit. ) You know that moment when you see red and think "be reasonable, Court, she's only one and a half, how could she know?" Well, I missed that last part. All I saw was red and one lipstick-covered toddler who was ever-so-delicately replacing the lid onto the now mangled remains of my favorite lipstick. Oh, she knew, all right...