7 Quick Takes Friday - Heavy on the Potty Mouth

I saw '7 Quick Takes' at The Mom Job ; it is an idea hosted by The Conversion Diary . All you bloggers out there can click here to go to the Conversion Diary and do your own! So here goes:

~1~

Finn is getting creative about ways to avoid going to school. Monday I heard him moaning in the next room, saying "Momma, I can't go to school. I willy sick. I got da spots." I came around the corner to find this:

Yes, that is permanent marker. And it's on the other side of his face, too. My little Einstein.

~2~

Greta said she wanted to draw a picture of me the other day. She said she was going to draw me, on a mountain top, with snow falling all around. She forgot to mention that she would be including one other little detail: what I am apparently thinking about when I'm standing on this mountain:

~3~

After a week of sickness, I ended up with the world's largest cold sore on my lip. Seriously, it's big. It has been kind of amusing to talk to people this week and watch them studiously avoid trying to stare at it. Last night I was lecturing Greta about one thing or another, when she put her hand up, and said "Stop, Mom. I just can't take you seriously with that THING on your face."

~4~

Parenting question I couldn't answer #435, from Greta: "Mom, who decides which words are bad words? Can I make up my own bad word and say it when I'm mad? Like, why can't 'glap' be a bad word?"

~5~

Sunday after church Greta is giggling to herself. I ask her why, and she says "Sometimes? When I'm in church? And it's quiet? I want to yell out "pooooooooop!"

~6~

Me to Greta: "Sometimes? When I'm in church? And it's quiet? I want to do that, too..."

~7~

It is 10pm, and I poke my head in the kids' room to check on them before heading to bed. Greta is wide awake, staring at the ceiling. "What's wrong?" I ask. "Can't sleep?" She looks at me and rolls her eyes. "No, I can't," she says. "It feels like my brain is doing the Cha-Cha."

It makes me so glapping mad when that happens to me.

Behold the Angry Squirrel, For He Brings Great Wisdom

"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, and always with the same person." - Mignon McLaughlin

When Steve and I were newly married, we took a trip; a long weekend getaway to a beautiful fishing camp in Maine. It was one of those all-inclusive-yet-rustic establishments - complete with three meals a day, fishing guides, and a romantic log cabin on a lake.

Each night we went to the communal dining hall, sat at the same table and gazed fondly into each other's eyes. We were tired but content, and bubbling with conversation about the day. A much older couple sat at the table next to us three nights in a row. Steve and I surreptitiously watched them out of the corner of our eyes, taking in how they just sat there quietly, looking around room, sipping their wine, silently chewing their food. At the end of the meal he would look at her and say "Done?" She would nod, and they left to retire for the evening. For three nights running, they exchanged a total of three words between them.

"That will never be us," I whispered to Steve conspiratorially. "We will never run out of things to say to each other. How sad."

Fast forward ten years. Steve and I are out to dinner on one of our twice monthly date nights. It is not until we're enjoying our dinner that I realize we haven't spoken in about five minutes, and I hadn't even noticed. We're sitting together in a comfortable, companionable silence, grateful for an hour's relief from the chaos of home. I smile quietly to myself, thinking about that night long ago, full of expectations of what life, marriage, would be like. How easily expectations can set you up to be let down, when real beauty is right in front of you.

Case in point: backtrack eleven years. Steve and I have been dating six years, and we're heading away for the weekend. I'm beside myself with excitement, absolutely certain that he will propose on this trip. We've been talking about marriage a lot recently, he knows I'm ready, and he has been dropping all sorts of hints that he has something special in store for me. I have it all mapped out in my head - the romantic getaway, the roaring fire, Steve down on one knee, the soft velvet box containing a sparkling diamond. I can hardly wait.

We arrive at the cabin, settle in and light a fire. The moment comes, he gulps and looks at me nervously. "I have something for you," he says, fidgeting. "I hid it so you wouldn't find it until I was ready. Why don't you have a look in the Backgammon game?"

I am shaking, I'm so excited. I open the Backgammon game and sure enough, there is the soft velvet box. Steve isn't down on one knee, but what the heck - I'm a modern woman. Everything else is perfect - just as I expected. I draw a deep breath and open the box, preparing to squeal with happiness. In the box is a pretty gold band with a little sapphire on it.

I look at him incredulously. "What is this?" I stammer.

"It's a promise ring," he says happily. "It is my promise to you that we'll get married some day, that I will always love you."

I'm furious. I cry and cry, so angry that things haven't turned out as I expected - as I practically demanded. But sure enough, one year later he proposes at Fenway Park, and a year after that we're married. It all worked out as it was meant to, not as I wanted it to.

Fast forward another five years - it is the Christmas following our fifth anniversary. Steve has been hinting, again, that he has a special gift for me. My mind goes into overdrive - is it a five year anniversary ring? A sparkling diamond band? I ask him if it is jewelry, and he smiles knowingly. I can't wait for Christmas morning when, sure enough, at the bottom of my stocking is a little velvet box. My heart leaps. I open the box slowly, wallowing in the anticipation. I find this:

"Isn't it great?" he asks, smiling.

I won't get in to my reaction - suffice it to say it wasn't graceful and it wasn't pretty. I ruined a beautiful Christmas morning because things didn't turn out like I expected.

I now think of this pin as the Angry Squirrel of Expectations. It's a reminder not to get too caught up in what I want life to bring me. That life will bring me what I need, even if it is in the form of one pissed-off-silver-plated-acorn-carrying squirrel pin.

This year at Christmas, when Steve handed me a little velvet box, I simply smiled. I didn't know what to expect, and it didn't matter. Greta and Finn knew what was in there, and were standing next to Steve looking at me expectantly as I opened it.

Inside was my wedding ring, the same one I had worn since we were married, but it was polished to perfection, gleaming and beautiful. Ten years of wear and tear had damaged it, made it scratched, bent, dull looking and chipped. A few weeks before Steve had asked me if he could borrow it to size something for me, and instead of letting my mind go into overdrive - a new band? a bigger diamond? a sparkling guard ring? I simply handed it over to him and forgot about it.

The irony wasn't lost on me: it was what I always had, only better.

Just like him.

What It's Like

It is 6:15pm on a Saturday night. I'm stirring noodles in a steaming pot, and I'm angry. Finn streaks by naked, screeching at the top of his lungs. Greta is whining: Moooooom, I'm hungry, I don't want nooooooodles, over and over. Dishes are piled in the sink, the dog is barking, and my husband is in his workshop, tinkering away at God-knows-what. My head is in overdrive, a low roar forming in the back of my brain.

"FINN HIT ME!" Greta wails, and I cringe. Her hair is a mess, the kids need a bath, there is a huge pile of laundry to be folded. And the dishes need to be washed. Again. God, I'm so angry.

I want to run away, I want to scream. I want a drink.

Just one. I just want that warm glow, that peaceful, relaxed feeling that creeps into my limbs after the first few sips. I want to quiet that roar in my head; I just want to care a little less for an hour, or two.

"STOP IT, GRETA!" Finn screams. "MOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

Shutupshutupshutupshutupshup, I think. God, just please shut up and leave me be.

Now both kids are crying. The dog barks louder. I snap.

"THAT. IS. IT!" I yell, and the kids' eyes go wide. I slam the spoon down on the counter and march out of the kitchen.

I storm upstairs into my room and throw myself on the bed. I'm too angry to cry. Images swirl in my head: happy, normal couples sitting down to dinner with a glass of wine in hand, laughing contentedly. I hate that I can't drink. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.

It has gone quiet downstairs - no barking dog, no screaming kids. I hear my husband come up from his workshop. I hear murmuring, and the television comes on at a low volume.

I sigh. I try to think of all the things I've learned. I search for gratitude, for acceptance. All I can find is mean, red anger. I don't want to let go of my anger, I want to hug it to my chest until I explode.

I close my eyes, and lose myself in thoughts of a drink. I picture the weight of the wine glass in my hand, the sweet buttery smell of a good Chardonnay. I let myself drink it, in my head. I feel my body relax. I smile. I paint a mental picture of what I wish drinking was like for me, and I mourn it for a few minutes.

Then, finally, I do what I was told to do. I think through the drink. I mentally fast forward an hour, or two. I picture myself crouched in my bathroom, grabbing in the back of the cabinet for my stashed bottle, because my husband is done with his nightly drink and I don't want to stop. I can't stop. I've never been able to stop.

There is nothing in a drink for me.

I go back downstairs. My husband is stirring the noodles, Finn is dressed and the kids are happily watching a show.

"Okay now?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

And I am okay. It is going to be okay.

Twice Monthly Giveaway - New Item!

Congratulations to Abby, who won the Firelight Ring! Thanks to everyone who entered!

The next giveaway is the cleverly named Square Swarovski Ring. Made from a sparkling 8mm square swarovski crystal and a sterling silver bead frame, this ring is available in three different colors:

Click on any picture to see the ring listed in my Etsy shop. To enter, please comment below indicating you would like to enter, and please provide an email address and which color you prefer (amethyst, aquamarine or sage green). If you are more comfortable emailing me directly, please do so at: ellieandsteve@verizon.net.

The winner will be chosen at random on February 15th; my daughter draws a name from a hat. I will email you if you win!

Thanks!

Let Your Light Shine

Being a mother takes guts, we all know that. There are a thousand different ways to be frightened, as a mother, and a million more ways to screw it up. Moms who put themselves out there in the blogosphere, keep it real, and share their struggles and triumphs will always have my respect and admiration.

Moms are human, of course, and subject to the struggles and pitfalls everyone faces. The pressure to put your best face forward, no matter what, is always out there. We're allowed to be frazzled, overwhelmed and have ourselves a good old fashioned pity party - Mommybloggers (gad, I hate that term) everywhere commiserate about the delicate balance of raising children and keeping ourselves sane.

The world is increasingly full of Moms who have kids later in life, after going out into the world to get advanced degrees, have careers, or make their way up the Corporate Ladder where they can kick asses and take names. After kids, their days are now filled with changing diapers, playgroups, fixing dinner and carting kids around in their minivans. Important, if not exactly heady, work. We tackle raising kids the same way we approached our careers: head-on and with an exacting determination to do a good job.

Sometimes, though, the floor drops out from underneath us. We become depressed, angry or addicted. Sometimes all three. What then? Is the world ready for Moms to talk openly about the truly dark stuff? I don't know. But I do know that, increasingly, there are Moms who will open up, tell their truths, share their struggles in the interest of helping themselves and others. They face judgement, embarrassment, ignorance and outright denial from the world at large that Moms fall apart, too. And that, sometimes, they turn to alcohol or drugs and get caught up in the web of addiction.

I blogged a lot about Diane Schuler, because I felt the public's response to her tragedy spoke volumes about the world's readiness, or lack thereof, to speak openly about addicted mothers. From newspaper and television reports, people seemed more ready to accept that someone at McDonald's had spiked her coffee that morning than that she had been drinking the day she drove her car the wrong way down a highway, crashed and killed eight people.

How do we break down the barriers of collective denial? By talking about it. Increasingly, there are brave women who share their stories, openly share their struggles with alcohol or drugs. Mothers have always struggled with addiction - this problem isn't new. What is new, however, is the power of the internet, our ability to open up and share our hearts and voices with the world.

Two women who are doing just that: Maggie and Heather. More and more, brave women like them are coming forward, speaking their truths, keeping it real. Addiction thrives in the dark. They are helping shine a bright light on the truth.

Take that, Failure

One of my post labels is "who put me in charge?" Much of the time I feel like I'm winging it, especially when it comes to raising the kids. Emotionally I feel like I'm in my mid-twenties (and that is being generous), so how the heck can I possibly be responsible for these two beautiful little souls? More often than I can count, I just want to throw up my hands and say "Seriously, kids, I really have no idea what I'm doing. Can you chuck out a few suggestions? Like a customer satisfaction survey or something?"

But there are some things I have learned over time. They don't have much to do with how to handle day-to-day life, not really. They won't help me answer a complicated question from my daughter about how gravity works, or what makes people fall in love. Over the course of my four decades on this earth, though, there are some things that I now believe to be true. They are the beliefs I fall back on, like a safety net, time and time again. They come from the people who have traveled the path before me, who have imparted their wisdom on to me:

~ Time heals. No matter how badly I feel at any given moment, it will pass.

~ What other people think of me is none of my business.

~ Fear is at the root of most negative feelings. Anger, insecurity, hate, jealousy, petulance: all born out of fear. Fear of rejection, of success or failure, of being abandoned, ignored or misunderstood. Face the fear and healing can begin.

~ If I rely on other people for a sense of self-worth, I'm going to come up short. It's an inside job.

~ To be a the best person I can be, I have to love myself first.

~ I won't learn a damn thing if I don't make mistakes. On the other side of pain and adversity is growth, if I'm paying attention.

~ No matter how much I want to, I can't change the past. I will never, ever have a better past. The future is out of my hands. All I have is now.

~ When in doubt, choose kindness. Treat people with kindness, even those who are rude to you - not because they are kind, but because you are.

And, finally, a quick story behind my favorite saying. These seven words have given me strength time and again. Last year I was in a strange city, full of fear and insecurity about a difficult thing I had to do the next day. I hadn't eaten in days, because I was so anxious. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other. It was about 7pm, and to pass time I decided to head out to the local bookstore. I asked the concierge where the closest bookstore was, and he gave me some sketchy directions. I ventured out onto the sidewalk, my head swimming with fear, thinking that I could just get on the next plane home and forget about what I had to do the next day. I followed the directions exactly, only to find an old boarded up storefront. No bookstore anywhere . It was just about the last straw... how was I going to go back to the hotel and face a long night of fear?

A man walked by, and he caught my eye - he was just strolling along, whistling contentedly to himself, taking in the city sights. Dressed in an old worn suit, with a knit hat jammed down over gorgeous dreadlocks, he carried a book of some sort in his right hand, stuffed with notations and papers. He stopped to wait for the light to turn green so he could cross the street. I ventured up to him - he just had this content, wise aura about him - and asked him if he could direct me to the nearest bookstore.

He stopped whistling and flashed me a huge smile. "There used to be one right there," he said. "But it closed down a while back. I'm afraid the nearest one is several blocks away." He winked at me and started whistling again.

"Oh, okay, thanks anyway. I just thought I'd ask," I said. He must have seen something in my expression, because he stopped whistling and looked me dead in the eye.

"It's alright, Miss. Nothing beats a failure but a try, right?" The light turned green and he strolled off, whistling, leaving me standing there with my mouth hanging open.

His words rang in my head, and suddenly what I had to do the next day didn't seem so daunting. At least I was out there swinging, right?

Nothing beats a failure but a try.

Chickenhawk Down

Yesterday I was washing the breakfast dishes (oh, who am I kidding, I was washing last night's dinner dishes, too) when my eye falls on a the spaghetti pot, still partway full of cooked noodles. I decide to give the chickens (yes, we have four chickens) a treat; they have been trapped inside their coop since the last snowfall, and began gleefully running around their pen as soon as we let them out this morning. The chickens love spaghetti.

Greta follows me outside (Finn is at a friend's house), and I open the little gate and step into their pen - a small fenced in area in our woods that is about 20 feet x 20 feet.

That's odd, I think. The chickens are nowhere to be seen.

"Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!" I yell - this always brings them running. Nothing. I spot one chicken through the trees, cautiously making her way over to me. I scoop some noodles into my hand and slowly walk towards her. "C'mere chicken, I have some noodles for you!" I say, and hold the spaghetti out like a peace offering.

Now, my eyesight isn't what it used to be, so I'm only about four feet away when I realize that what I'm looking at isn't a chicken at all: it's a hawk. A big one. Five feet beyond the hawk lies the sad remains of one of our chickens.

"Stay where you are!" I yell to Greta, who immediately catches the alarm in my voice. "WHY?" she yells back. "WHAT IS IT?"

I'm trying to spare her the sight of what is left of Bubbles, and I don't know what hawks do when they are cornered, even when offered spaghetti. So I say, as calmly as I can, "It's a hawk, sweetie. Stay where you are."

"NOOOOOOOO!" she says, and starts to cry. "Are the chickens okay?" Before I can stop her, she runs up to the side of the pen. Thankfully, Bubbles is mostly covered by leaves, but she knows what she is seeing, and she cries even harder.

The hawk is eyeing me cautiously. I back away slowly and check inside the coop. The remaining three chickens are in there, safe, but clucking nervously. "The other chickens are fine," I tell Greta. "But we have to get the hawk out of here."

"BAD HAWK!" she says. "Go away go away go away!"

The hawk starts walking towards the far side of the pen, and I notice that it's hurt. One wing is dragging on the ground, and it is limping. Greta sees this, and her affections change immediately. "The hawk is hurt, the hawk is hurt! MommayouhavetohelpitohmyGoditshurt!"

I'm standing there helplessly, holding limp spaghetti, with my mouth hanging open. I decide to regroup. I throw the spaghetti at the hawk, back out of the pen and close the gate.

"I'm confused now," Greta says quietly, tears streaming down her face. "I'm mad at that hawk because it killed Bubbles, but now I want it to be okay, too."

"The hawk was just doing what hawks do, honey," I say. "Let's go inside and figure out what to do."

We go back inside and I call my husband at work. He doesn't have any bright ideas, but says he wants a picture. We head back outside with the camera to take a picture of the hawk. It is back to pecking away at the chicken, but when it sees us it starts limping away, dragging its wing. It look so pathetic that I feel badly for it, despite what it has done to Bubbles. I inch closer, camera raised. It limps faster. When I'm about six feet away, it spreads its wings and soars to a high tree branch. It is fine.

"It's not hurt!" Greta cries indignantly. "Stupid hawk!"

I have one of those moments where I just want to blink my eyes and forget about it. So that is what I do. I know - I'm great in a crisis.

"Let's go back inside, sweetie," I say to Greta. "There's nothing more we can do for Bubbles, and the other chickens are safe. We'll deal with it when Dad gets home."

Greta is still quietly crying, and we cuddle on the couch for a bit and talk about the circle of life, and the food chain. I get into a complicated conversation about who is higher on the food chain - humans or sharks - since sharks can eat us with their bare teeth and we can't eat sharks with our bare teeth. I'm in over my head, clearly, so I suggest we look up the hawk on the internet to learn more. Turns out birds will pretend to be hurt to lure threats away from their prey.

I'm going to try that the next time I'm in a confrontational situation and don't have a witty retort. I'm just going to limp away flailing one arm helplessly and go for the sympathy vote.

Or maybe I'll just chuck some spaghetti and run away.