My Other Half

Back when I used my brain for analyzing literature and thinking profound thoughts--instead of portioning out animal crackers and measuring medications--I spent a semester studying the concept of the "Other" in literature. I confess that I've lost 90% of what I learned about it, but a bit of it came back to me last week.

In case you weren't a literature or philosophy major, I'll give you my best vague recollection of the concept. Be warned, though: the concept of the Other is strongly associated with the French, at least in my experience, and if you're at all familiar with French literature and philosophy, you'll understand my lack of clarity. Here's my best shot: the Other is one who is excluded in some way by a set of norms, specifically those norms that are used to define those who are included. By defining what is Other, who is Other, a person or society or culture is able to more clearly define (and justify) itself. And that's the Self (capital S), too, which is maybe a topic for another post. (If you're wondering what this has to do with mothering or are wishing I'd just go back to portioning out animal crackers and measuring medications, stick with me; I promise I'm getting there).

Other-ness is often accompanied by isolation and loneliness. One who is Other-ed is excluded in some profound way that prevents him/her from engaging with and participating in the Self-s with whom s/he is surrounded. As mothers, we are Others. Attend a dinner party where you don't know the other guests: what's the second question a new acquaintance will ask (after your name)? What do you do? (Or even more to the point, Where do you work?). For those of us who work at home, portioning out animal crackers, this question forces us into the role of Other. If we spend any time with couples who are non-parents, we are Other-ed each time we are unable to attend a function, go out for an impromptu dinner or drink, meet for lunch; mothers (and fathers, for that matter) don't have the flexibility that defines the average American Self. We are Other.

But I wasn't thinking about this concept of Other-ness in the context of mothering when it first came to me. Rather, I thought of it as I went to the Department of Social Services to apply for services for my severely disabled daughter. As I drove into the parking lot--around a man pinned to a police car being handcuffed--I realized that I had arrived at a place where many of our society's Others spend a significant amount of time. And here, I was the Other, in a more profound and obvious way than I have ever been before. I did not look like anyone else there; I stuck out like a sore thumb as I read the book I had brought with me; I had no use for the "unknown" responses for "parent" and "race" on my daughter's intake form. It was humbling to have the limits of my small world expanded, to see so many people whose life circumstances I cannot even imagine. In fact, I saw one person there who I know, and I know a bit about the daily hardships she faces; multiply those by the fifty or so people with whom I shared the waiting room, and the challenges--and Other-ness--are unfathomable. Here, in a profound and fresh way, I was Other.

As I compared this new Other-ness I had discovered with the Other-ness of mothering, I realized that I live somewhere in between. We Other-mothers do well to find Self-s with whom we can relate: this blog, our playgroups, our moms'-nights-out. And those who are Other-ed from our society in a more concrete way find community amongst Self-s in places I hardly knew existed. Yes, I belonged at Social Services, as my daughter is entitled to its services as much as anyone else there. But that doesn't mean I fit in easily to that community. And while I share in the community of mothers in many profound ways, I am excluded--Other-ed--in ways that the group cannot understand. As the mother of a two-and-a-half year old who is severly disabled--"medically fragile" is a new term I've learned to describe her from my new community of Others--I am unable to share my mothering strategies and struggles with even those Other-mothers with whom I share so much. As the mother of a child whom I will almost certainly outlive and whose dire prognosis I have mourned for over two years, I am excluded in unfathomable ways from full participation in the society of mothers-of-kids-who-grow-up.

What I'll do with this new understanding, both of my Other-ness and of the Others whom I so easily ignore, I'm not yet sure. I'm hesitant even to put this out there in the great big world of not-so-private blogs rather than in some hidden, secret journal. I do know that my understanding of the golden rule--Do unto Others as you would have them do unto you--has taken on new life in some as-yet abstract way. I'll use that tried-and-true rule with my kindergartener in a new way for sure. In that sense, I guess, I'm glad for the reminder that I am--and we all are--Other.

Spell Love?

My two and a half year old loves the alphabet and spelling words, especially new words he finds funny. (Plum is a very funny word when you're a little boy, for the record.) I have all sorts of papers around with "mama dada house cow tigger thunder hi" written on them, along with the words of the day. Yesterday I asked Benjamin if he knew how to spell "love" and he replied "grandpa." Sounds about right, doesn't it?

Gandalf is My Mother-In-Law

In preparation for my in-laws' visit from Spain next month, I have been trying to get Eliana to say Grandma and Grandpa, rather than Nana and Papa, which she easily and articulately calls my parents. She loves looking at pictures and identifying things in them, so I've been using this little passion to get her going. She has managed to master one of the two names and confidently uses this name for both Ben's mom and dad.
So, why was I surprised when pulling out DVDs from the cabinet, she grabbed The Lord of the Rings, pointed to the picture of Gandalf, and proudly proclaimed, "GRANDMA!"?

Watch This!

We've been watching a lot of Olympics at our house. Have you? The television goes on Every Night these days, and this is very strange because, at our house, from the end of March Madness through the beginning of football season, we usually turn the cable off. Right off. Completely off. The thinking is that we all have better things to do out of doors during the summer than to sit in front of the television.

But we turned the cable back on little early this year due, of course, to the Olympics. And I think you can hardly blame us. The opening ceremonies alone were worth it, and then there's that Michael Phelps guy, and all the diving, and the gymnastics.

Our children are loving this. Yes, they all are. In fact, this unbridled television viewing-- not suspended by screen allotments (usually an hour a day) and continuing on until well past Everyone's bedtime (it is summer, after all)-- is a Feast for our children. They watch the qualifying heats, they watch the competition, they watch the commercials (ah! commercials!). They live in continuous awe of their newfound fortune. How long can it possibly last?

I think the favorite is the gymnastics. That stuff is Amazing. So Very. How do they do these things? The contortions, the twisting, the tumbling, the vaulting oneself into the stratosphere by sheer will- and leg-power. You don't want to miss this. You don't. You want to watch and watch and watch.

Which is why Emma became so annoying the other night. Yes, she did. For her seven-year-old self, the watching just wasn't enough. She was Inspired. She wanted to Be a Gymnast. She knew she could do it. And she did.

In the lovely open space just next to our little seating/television viewing area in our family room, Emma worked on perfecting her cartwheel. She twisted. She turned. She darted across the short space and flung her weight onto her hands, kicking her legs in the air.

And she implored us to watch.

"Watch this! Watch this!" she would say, and we turned our heads and watched her, and dutifully praised her, and were, from time to time, Duly Impressed. But this was her first real go at gymnastics and, with such limited experience, so also was her performance limited. The first, second and third cartwheels really looked a Great Deal like the seventeenth and even the eighteenth. Meanwhile, in Beijing, the Chinese Olympic team was, with what appeared to be really little effort, Blowing Our Minds.

"Watch! Mom, watch!"

"I am watching the Olympics right now, Emma."

Is that okay to say? Is it? I mean, these are the 2008 Olympics. They will not happen again. If previous experience has shown me anything, I can be fairly certain that I will not watch gymnastics of this caliber again for four more years.

But Emma Grace is seven.

"Watch how fast I can run, Mom," she tells me, and she is off, running through the rooms that compose the first floor of our house, hoping that I'm counting, surprised by her own speed.

"Watch me!" and she shows me (again) that she can whistle.

"Watch!" and she is jumping rope.

The boys have been "into" skateboarding this summer. They have learned how to ollie; they are working on kick-flips; they have grown their hair long. And they say it, too:

"Mom, watch this ollie!" "Mom, watch this kick-flip!" Sometimes they are successful ollies, sometimes they are successful kick-flips. Sometimes I am standing with my hands spilling the mail onto the driveway, in the heat, with mosquitoes biting my shins.

"Watch this!"

I don't remember if mosquitoes were an issue that summer evening long ago in Pittsburgh when my friends and siblings and I held a circus in our backyard. Yes, we had a circus: me and my sisters, some of the Munns girls, Megan Fergus, and Janet Fernando. All we did, really, was to hang from our knees from the rings, and work our way across the parallel bars, and maybe do a cartwheel or two. And at the end I, followed by two friends, walked the Entire Length of the split-rail fence, and turned around at the end, and walked back. I loved doing that. I did it all the time. I'm sure that, by the time we held the circus, my mother had seen me do it a thousand times from the kitchen sink window.

But for this circus, I'm pretty sure she watched.

"Watch this, Mom! Watch!"

I haven't said those words to my mother in a Really Long Time.

It's a privilege, you know, and a short-lived one at that. To be the one who is asked, I mean. To have one's attention sought. To be the One who matters.

"Watch this, Mom!"

I'm watching.

Building my house

"Mom, you're really good at building with Legos."

I had just reattached a door that had come off its "hinges" on a house that I built out of Legos months ago for my son. It's your standard rectangle, window at one end, door at the other, slanted tiles at the edges of the roof and one for the front stoop, too.

To tell the truth, I've never been all that good at building with Legos (though the one nice touch on this house, in my opinion, is that all the colors are symmetrical...not that my son would ever notice such a detail).

Anyhow, for an almost-five-year-old who's just mastering the art of building, this is an impressive structure, one he puts on a high shelf when friends come over so it won't get smashed.

But the door came off...and as it turns out, not only can I build a pretty solid Lego house, but I can do a mean door repair, too.

The Proverbs tell me that "The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down" (Prov 14:1). If only it were as easy as Legos.

What does it mean for me to "build my house"? To encourage, to provide comfort, to quench, to love, to teach, to mend...to reattach what comes unhinged. It's no small order. What comes unhinged for a husband is very different than for a kindergartener, which is very different from what comes unhinged for a severely disabled toddler. Not to mention all those guests--temporary residents--who cross my threshold and whose doors I may need to rehinge, too: playmates, family visitors, neighbors, coworkers.

Even in my small house, keeping it built up--not to mention avoiding tearing it down--is a tall order. Perhaps someday my son will pay me the ultimate compliment on my house-building again...but not just with Legos. Until then, I'll keep building.

Having It All

"Where am I? Who am I?
How did I come to be here?
What is this thing called the world?
How did I come into the world?
Why was I not consulted?
And If I am compelled to take part in it,
Where is the director?
I want to see him."

- Soren Kierkegaard

One morning last spring my friend Madeline dropped by for a visit. We sat in lounge chairs in my front yard on the little circle of synthetic green that, in Arizona, constitutes our ‘lawn.’ Our babies, born a week apart, ogled each other beneath silk sunhats, groping now and then at a loose thread that sprouted between the faded quilt squares beneath them.

Madeline’s three-year-old, Lizzie, quickly made a game of tossing pennies into the stone fountain that stood beside the lawn. Occasionally she trotted lightly round the fountain’s base and, tucking her chin into her neck, abashedly made us guess at her ‘wish.’ When I suggested that, perhaps, since it was so terribly hot, she might have wished for a cold soda or an iced cream cone she said, “No,” more solemnly than I thought any three year old capable. “I asked God to make me more grateful.”

Madeline and I exchanged glances, at once baffled and delighted by her innocence and depth.

In between slow sips of iced tea we chit chatted about this and that – the books we were reading, a newly discovered recipe for chocolate dipped coconut macaroons – and at 11 o’clock shared a snack of fresh strawberries and crackers and cheese. By 11:30 the babies began to rub their eyes. “I believe our window is closing,” I said.

Lizzie, at my elbow, looked up at me quizzically. “Miss Heather,” she ventured, searching stoically about the yard, “which window is it?”

I started to answer, then stopped myself, having grasped her meaning. “Oh, sweetheart,” I said, making little effort to conceal my amusement, “that’s called a metaphor.”

“A meta-what?”

“A metaphor. For example, have you ever heard anyone say, ‘It’s raining cats and dogs?’

“Nooo.”

“How about: ‘She has a heart of stone?’”

Lizzie shook her head.

“Please,” interrupted Madeline, “stop while you’re ahead.”

“I don’t believe I ever was - Oh, Madeline. She's an absolute dream.”

Madeline smiled. “Moments like this make it all worth it,” she said her voice trailing off “…which is why I am embarrassed to admit I sometimes fear I will wake up one day and wonder if I wasted my life. I wanted to have it all, you know? And I’m terrified that perhaps staying home was the easy answer.”

I squeezed Madeline’s arm and told her I didn’t think there were any easy answers.

But after we waved goodbye I lingered a few moments on my front step, feeling a stab of regret that I hadn’t a better response to my friend’s admission. If she could only see herself through my eyes, I thought. If only she knew what she had gained compared to what she had lost…

Madeline met her husband in law school. They clerked together, graduated together, and after their marriage took a job together with a Phoenix firm. When they got married, Madeline was sure she’d return to work after having children. But two weeks into her maternity leave, her husband began to rethink his convictions regarding childrearing. He felt it was important for children to have their mother at home, particularly during their earliest years. And so, contrary to her own preferences, Madeline submitted to his wishes, choosing to honor him at the expense of her career.

Needless to say, she was not the kind of person with a predilection for easy answers.

I knew she loved being a mother. I loved being a mother. Yet I resonated with her fear - not because I felt ambivalence at my decision to stay home – but because I shared what I believed was Madeline’s underlying desire to live a purposeful life. I considered that all people harbor such desires – to live lives that have impact and, as worn out as the phrase may be, make some lasting difference in the larger world.

The desire for meaning and purpose are intrinsic to human nature. But how, I pondered, does one go about attaining these things? More specifically, how does one do so as a mother and a Christian?

THE PROBLEM

As a woman, the culture tells me that I should be able to have it all – love, career, and children – and that I am justified in pursuing my dreams regardless of the cost to my husband, child, and – above all – my relationship with God. Moreover, I am given the subtle but unmistakable message that doing something “important” and being a full-time mother are mutually exclusive.

In contrast, Christianity teaches that in order to find my life I must lose it; and that the key to living is dying. Thus the two states are directly opposed. To live a life of temporal significance – according to the world’s value system – I must devote myself to self-actualization whereas, to follow Jesus Christ and live a life of eternal significance requires self-sacrifice.

Madeline chose to sacrifice her own plans by submitting to the leadership of her husband. From a Christian standpoint, she made the right decision.

But if so, why are there lingering doubts in her mind, and the minds of so many women like her? If what we are doing as wives, mothers, and children of God is really meaningful in His eyes, why does it so often feel mundane and purposeless?

THE SOLUTION

I have come to believe that life often feels meaningless because it is meaningless. King Solomon surveyed the nature of existence and concluded that all things are absurd, futile, and without meaning. Whether you are a lawyer a mother or a world-renown tightrope walker “all is vanity and striving after wind.”

A man may build an empire today but tomorrow no one will remember his name. As the Psalmist says, “[There is] no remembrance of former [things]; neither shall there be [any] remembrance of [things] that are to come with [those] that shall come after." The Bible teaches that we cannot effect any lasting change in the universe. Whatever impact we are to have is in, through, and by the power of Christ at work in us “to will and to work for His good pleasure.”

Galations 5.6 says, “…In Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any value. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.”

I thought again of Madeline. She was but one of a great many of the women I knew who had “put to death” their own plans in order to be obedient to the thing which they believed God had called them to. Madeline was staying home with her girls even though her preference was to practice law. Lucy, a surgeon, was working faithfully despite the fact that her real longing was to be a wife and mother. Jane had made great domestic sacrifices in order to care for her aging parents. And Elizabeth - who had been eager to cease working after the birth of her first child - continued after her baby was diagnosed with a serious illness - just so her family could maintain health insurance!

All of these women have drastically different circumstances; none of them is living the life she envisioned for herself. Yet each is stewarding her circumstances with a faith that is expressing itself through love.

Thus it is neither working nor staying home, mothering nor remaining single, that have any value. What is valuable is being faithful to God through the circumstances He gives – believing Him, hoping in Him, and staking our lives upon His Word.

Hebrews 4.2 says, “For indeed we have had good news preached to us, just as they [the Israelites] also; but the word they heard did not profit them, because it was not united by faith in those who heard.” If we are to live profitable lives, lives that, in God’s kingdom, “amount to something,” we must spend our energies believing in the gospel that was preached to us and the God which it reveals: a God who became man and died a sinner's death in order to reconcile us to Himself. It is this gospel - and not the gospel of self-actualization or self-empowerment - which must become the single, unifying power that holds our lives together. It alone must be the foundation upon which our life is built, the framework through which our every decision is made.

Ephesians 2.10 says, “For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God has chosen beforehand that we should walk in them.” The American mindset is that I am my own workmanship. The world is my oyster; and thus my destiny is my own. I must set my mind on the thing I want and work relentlessly until it is my possession.

But if the Word of God is reliable and true, if we are His workmanship then, like any master artist, He decides precisely what we are to be. He chooses the medium (whether oil, watercolor, charcoal), the subject (perhaps a portrait or landscape) and the period in which the work that is my very soul is rendered. We choose whether to comply with Him in the making, whether – in faith – to persevere through the circumstances He chooses, letting Him have His way, or whether we will dig in our heels and in defiance say, No, You must use this color! And how about sketching me in a grand old house by the sea instead of out here in the desert or the mountains or the swamp?

What is more, if we are His workmanship – His works of art, like living stones being built up into a spiritual house – then it is fair to say that He made us for the same reason that the painter paints her painting, or the sculptor sculpts her clay – she does so for the sheer joy of the thing! The process is certainly painstaking, but it is also delightful! And the outcome remains forever afterward something that brings glory to the Painter, something that proclaims to the whole universe just how magnificent He is.

Proverbs 16.4 says, “The Lord has made everything for its own purpose. Even the wicked for the day of evil.” The clause “for its own purpose” comes from the Hebrew word maaneh which, when translated literally, means “for Himself, for His answer or response.” Accordingly the King James Bible says, “The Lord has made everything for himself.”

Thus we find our life’s purpose in belonging to God, and being the thing He has made us to be. We are valuable because He says so. Specificities of application aside, He has made us to be conformed into the image of Jesus Christ; to love God with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength; and to love our neighbor as ourselves. Such love, if it is genuine, is demonstrated through obedience: “This is love for God: to obey his commands” (1 John 5.3). Like Christ, ours should be an obedience that persists, regardless of circumstances and irrespective of cost.

If we believe Him – and spend our lives seeking to conform ourselves to His word – then we will become increasingly immune to the oft-times alluring but hopelessly mistaken values of our world.

“Having it all” will always be defined as having all of Him. John 15.5 says, “Abide in me and you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.” Only God can effect change in the universe. He accomplishes the work; but I can participate. I – with Madeline, Lucy, Jane and Elizabeth beside me – can allow Him to take the mundane and meaningless tasks that often form the substance of my days and use them to shape me into something beautiful, something that brings everlasting praise to His Name.

Voices

A few weeks ago I mentioned that my 2 1/2 year old daughter Zoe had a potential medical issue. Turns out she has nodules on her vocal cords, a very benign problem that results in a raspy voice. They don't do surgery on kids, and the worst case scenario is that she'll have...a raspy voice. Which she already does. Nonetheless, the ENT recommended some voice therapy.

(As an aside, most adults with vocal cord nodules are prescribed vocal rest. For, say, two months. I was having a lot of fun imagining this. "Zoe, we love you, but for the next two months, you may not talk.")

So we have been dutifully attending our voice therapy sessions. They are ridiculous.

Therapist: "Zoe, can you make the owl sound? Hooo...Hooo..."

Zoe: Silent. Shakes head "no"

Therapist: "Zoe, look, here's a baby. Can you hum to the baby? She's sad."

Zoe: Silent. Shakes head "no." Takes baby and proceeds to "feed" her. Opens play bottle, pretends to pour something in, puts top back on, feeds her some more. All silently.

And so on.

So the therapist and I have a lovely conversation about how Zoe really shouldn't scream. And how we need to encourage her to talk in a sing-song, pleasant voice. Gently. So as not to strain her vocal cords. I'm looking at this very competent, sincere, childless 24 year old therapist, and I can't decide if I want to burst into hysterical laughter or sob. My inner sarcastic voice wants to say, sweetly and in a sing-song voice, "Oh, you're right. We've been encouraging her to screech and yell when she doesn't get her way, but since it's so bad for her vocal cords, maybe we should consider asking her to speak gently." For the love.

But the therapist and I speak in gentle, sing-song voices for the whole painful 45 minute session, so as to model this new, excellent way of speaking.

Every once in a while, we address Zoe.

Therapist: " Zoe, what sound does the bee make? Bzzzzz....Bzzzzz... Can you do that?"

Zoe: Silent. Shakes head "no." Resumes feeding baby.


We get in the car to go home. I mention to Zoe that we need to run a quick errand on the way. She announces, defiantly, but in a gentle, sing-song voice: "No, I don't want to, Mommy."

And her vocal cords breathe a sigh of relief.

The Great Deception

Maybe he'll need counseling.
"My mom deceived me, even bought a book about how to deceive me. She lied to me."
Maybe he'll never trust--his food--again.

That's right, mommies dearest. I've been deceiving my son. Deliciously, I might add. Cauliflower puree in his mashed potatoes. Sweet potato puree in his spaghetti sauce. Butternut squash puree in his tacos. And even--gasp!--broccoli puree in his chicken nuggets. Next up: spinach puree in his pizza. Yes, I'll even stoop to defiling his pizza.

All this lying, and all in the name of love.

Yes, believe it or not, Jessica Seinfeld has got it right. Deceptive can be delicious. Miraculous, really. It's as if I can hear my son's very body cheering for all the nutrients it is receiving nowadays. Vegetables! Eaten--with relish, I might add--by the very boy who has been known to vomit if an undisguised vegetable touches his lips.

Success. And one puree-happy mom.

My Little Monk

There is a little Brother Lawrence in my midst. Since becoming a mom I have often thought that the dear old monk’s experiment in Practicing His Presence would be something to attempt, but it seems as though the real lesson in prayer has come from my 18-month old daughter. We have begun praying with Elli before meals, each of us holding one tiny hand, trying not to giggle as she peeks at us through squinted eyes and adds an enthusiastic “Amen!” at the end. It was sweet when she began asking to “Amen” or more recently to “Pway” as soon as we sat down, extending those pudgy palms expectantly.

However, in the past week she has really taken it up a notch. In the bath the other night she stood up, held out her hands and asked to pray. So we prayed, her naked little body dripping into the tub. Another morning she stopped, mid-nurse, and asked to pray again (Jesus, I pray that this child will soon be weaned…). Then, in a move that shocked me, she looked up from playing with her dolls, said, “D-dad?” (her name for Great Granddad who she had just met a few days before), ‘Pway?”, “Boo-boo, arm?” Sure enough, Granddad had a large bandage on his arm when we had seen him and Elli wanted to pray about it. So we did. Then she wanted to pray for her Nana and Papa. How did she learn this? More importantly, why haven’t I learned this, this desperate desire to pray in the midst of my every day actions?

“…and a little child will lead them.” Isaiah 11:6

Kristin

No Shoes Day

To most people, I think, a No Shoes Day would sound like a very good thing. In fact, when I was a young working woman, I suspect a No Shoes Day would have meant something like a carefree Saturday, a lazy day off from work to relax, recover, spend time with my husband. When I was a student, a No Shoes Day was probably a day spent sleeping in to some ridiculous early afternoon hour and then accomplishing nothing before heading back to bed at night. And when I'm a retired person (do moms get to retire?), I think a No Shoes Day will probably be a pretty good day, too.

But as a stay-at-home-mom, a No Shoes Day is a very bad day indeed.

Because, of course, if you haven't worn shoes all day, that means you haven't left the house. And for my type-A firstborn and me, a day without leaving the house is a bad, bad day.

Most every stay-at-home mom, especially those with more than one child, can relate to such a bad No Shoes Day. Competing nap schedules conspire to prevent even the shortest outing. Rain keeps you from venturing out into the backyard. None of your kids' friends (and, let's face it, your friends) are available to come over to play. Every toy your children own is scattered all over the house. You've read Dr. Seuss ad infinitum; you've permitted as much TV/video watching as is reasonably safe for small brains (and maybe a little bit more); you've served breakfast, morning snack, lunch, afternoon snack, pre-dinner snack, and endless sippy cups; you've colored, glued, cut, and folded; you've played Go Fish, Candyland, Chutes and Ladders, and Hi-Ho Cherry-O enough to turn your stomach...and it's not even dinnertime yet, much less time for Daddy to get home from work.

Yes, a No Shoes Day is a very bad day around here.

And there are so many places you could be going, out there in the great Beyond: museums, parks, zoos, pools, friends' houses...not to mention Target! (Yes, if you go to Target--or even Kroger--after 7 or 8 pm, you might find it an interesting sociological study to count the percentage of customers who are clearly escaped stay-at-home moms. Just check the shoes they're proudly wearing: likely very clean and not at all worn.)

I was unable to end our most recent No Shoes Day without going somewhere. But where? I didn't need groceries, had plenty of diapers (so no excuse to go to Target--shoot!)...stamps. We definitely needed stamps. Whew. I love the post office at night...

A Trip to Target

I make an effort not to do many errands with my kids. I don't want them to spend their lives in the car, for one, but also I'd like to keep the materialistic monsters within them (and me!) tamed by limited exposure to aisles and aisles of toys-we-don't-have. Added to that, I worship efficiency. I'd rather wait until the Target list reaches 20 items and go by myself at 9 PM than...well, do what I did today.


But today, the library was closed unexpectedly. And we only had three things on the list: a birthday present for Owen, a birthday present for Opa, and a graduation gift for Grandpapa. Surely we could accomplish that, I reasoned.


10:30: We pull into our spot, negotiate the who-rides-in-the-cart-and-who-has-to-walk situation. One in the front baby spot (with none of those wimpy germ protector seats for us!), one in the basket (Mommy, will I be smushed by the presents?) and one hanging precariously onto the back. Their faces are so sweet. I wish I had my camera.


10:34: We make our first stop, the restroom. Davis takes care of business; Zoe definitely does not need to go, she says.


10:39: We breeze by the train section, full of direction and purpose. Zoe spots a crown, a pink and gold glittery thing that she really, really needs. True, it would serve to illustrate what we all know already: she is the queen. We bypass the crown.

10:42: We head for the aisle to look for Owen's birthday present. His mom, my good friend Wesley, has tipped me off about something he'd like to go with a gift his grandma will get him. I stand, dazed, on what I know is the right aisle, but I can't figure out what I'm looking for. The kids busy themselves pushing lots of buttons on various toys. Wesley is in California, so I call her husband Brian at work. He's a little fuzzy on this issue, too, so he promises to call me back after a few minutes of poking around online.


10:50: We start to look for a birthday gift for Grandpapa.


10:55: Zoe announces that does, in fact, need to go to the potty. Off we go, back to the front of the store.

10:58: On the way to the potty, Davis spots a new Cars car. He is elated. I promise him we can take a closer look on our way back.

11:00: Almost to the bathroom. Zoe retracts her previous statement. On second thought, she does not need to go to the potty. Not at all. From past experience, I know the futility of trying to force a child to go to the potty. It's kind of like the old, "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink." The direction of the hoped-for water flow is reversed, but the outcome is basically the same.

11:05: We check out the new Cars car. I tell Davis I will buy it and he can have it when he accomplishes a bowel movement on the toilet. (Yes, he is 4 1/2 and still refuses.) He clutches it very excitedly. A loud and detailed conversation between him and his sister ensues. It centers around the difference between "little poopies on the potty" (worth a couple of fruit snacks) and "big poopies on the potty" (worth whatever the heck will motivate it in my mind...trip to Disney World, a small European country...or, in this case, a Cars car).

11:07: Zoe stumbles across the pink and purple aisle. She is a new princess devotee, heretofore unaware of the riches of all-things-princess available to small, curly-haired girls. She is enraptured. I am simultaneously amused and repelled, not being the princess-type myself. Many items are inspected and requested. We manage to exit the aisle without the princess laptop, the princess dress-up costume, or the princess playing cards.

11:12: My friend Brian, bless his heart, calls back with very helpful information. We find the present for Owen with minimal trouble. One item down. Check.

11:14: On to find the present for Grandpapa. I realize my idea is actually really lame, but the creative juices have run dry. So I pick it up anyway.

11:16: We have to go across the store to look for Opa's gift. This means crossing the VERY treacherous waters of the school supply area. The back corner is teeming with people-- annoyed mothers, annoyed preteens, enthusastic kindergartners. Lots of all of them. We make our way through.

11:18: Zoe realizes she really does have to go to the bathroom this time. We, again, head to the front of the store.

11:20: I leave the cart with our one item, take the baby out of the cart, go find the restroom again. We wash our hands, exit, and find our cart. Now to find a gift for Opa.

11:25: We're back where I thought I would find inspiration, but none is to be found. I call my husband. It's his grandfather, after all. We review Opa's loves: wine, trains, and coffee. Maybe a book? We traipse all the way to the front corner of the store, near to where we started. No books. Davis gets hooked on the promo video in the electronics department. I give up on Opa. We'll figure it out somehow before 12:30 tomorrow when we leave for his house.

11:30: We check out with 2 of the 3 items on our list, plus the pooping incentive car. All in all, it's been a very successful trip. Let's review.

Number of tantrums=0
Number of bathroom accidents=0
Number of trips to the bathroom=2 1/2
Number of cell phone calls made or received=3
Number of well behaved, happy kids=3

Remembering why I don't shop with my kids often= priceless.