Celebrate Good Times, C'Mon!

So it's my birthday and the 1st anniversary of my blog.

TJ & Luke get along, if only for my birthday.

I started Chaos is the New Calm to meet a need I had for a certain creative release, even a level of mental discipline, lacking in my life. Days filled with laundry, meal planning, prep and cooking, cleaning, and, ultimately, caring for three small boys was making me a bit cranky, and I did not want to be a cranky person. So this blog was born to help me embrace the life I was leading, not the life I thought I should be living.

Though I sought order in my life, chaos was the norm. I gave up fighting it, embraced it and made it my calling card.

Andy enjoys today's picnic.

Today was no exception. Years ago I might have pouted or whined about not being wined, dined and otherwise catered to on my birthday. I think birthdays are a big freekin' deal, whoever is celebrating, and whatever birthday is being celebrated.

My day was chaotically awesome. The boys and I hit the gym early (where I got a workout and an awesome massage, just what the doctor ordered after a 3-week-long respiratory infection); we had a picnic at a local park, created DQ-enviable sundaes at home (on a Tuesdae, TJ pointed out), napped, hit the pool with our long-term b-sitter, Christine, followed by dinner at Noodles & Co., found a flower arrangement at home, left by my husband who was busy with in-town board meetings, dinner and other work chaos all week and read numerous text and FB messages from friends far and wide. After the little guys' baths and stories and bedtimes, Luke & I enjoyed the first hour of the sixth Harry Potter film (we've never seen them but are trying to get them all in before Friday's big game).

Life, and this birthday, are good and worth celebrating.

Cheers!

Surrender, Dorothy!

Back when I was a *Perfect Mother,* that is, before I had any children, I had several rules by which I planned to live my life when I did become a mother.

1. I would lose my baby weight within three months after delivering baby.
2. I would not yell at my children.
3. I would not wear sweat pants outside my home.
4. Only PBS would be allowed on the TV.
5. Snot would not be left hanging from my childrens' noses.
6. My children would not leave the house in dirty clothes, wearing their PJs or without shoes.
7. Toys would be relegated to a play room and/or the childrens' bedrooms.

That first one has become "I would lose my baby weight before my 25th high school reunion (coming up in two short months)."

I did ok with the second rule until the bonus baby showed up; yelling has since become the only way I can cut through the noise clutter around here.

Numbers 3-6 were dropped somewhere along the way.

I held fast to #7. I bunked two of the three boys together so that in our 100-year-old house, whose basement is simply that -- a basement, not a usable space for a kids' play -- we could use a large bedroom as a 'play room.'

But bunking together two boys, nearly five years apart, and centuries apart in personality, has proven, after two years of trying, to be a failed experiment in social science.

So a toy purge began in the play room. Toys and books were divided among the three boys' bedrooms, the family room, the living room, the dining room, the porch, the backyard, even the basement took a few donations. So now I have toys everywhere throughout out my house. Yes, they're in pretty baskets and behind frosted glass cabinet doors, but they are everywhere.

And as the middle guy, the guy who has moved happily into the former play room, said, "Now only you and Daddy have to share a room."

Like a Good Neighbor ...

We have been very fortunate in all our moves to end up with good neighbors. Our neighbors now are no exception.

It was one of my neighbors whom I ran to for help and who got me to an ER when I put my hand through a paper shredder one afternoon; the same neighbor trucks my oldest kid to and from school on those days not nice enough for him to walk or to ride his bike.

Another neighbor regularly invites my middle guy to walk her giant of a dog with her, knowing that those 30 minutes that I have one fewer boy on my hands might make the difference between my making it to 8 p.m. without a major breakdown or not making it.

The guys with the snowblowers start clearing the walks those mornings those of us without snowblowers don't get outside first.

Everyone closes garage doors when it seems one has remained accidentally open; everyone brings in the neglected newspapers when left out on the sidewalk, before it can signal the random opportunistic thief that no one is home.

I mean, we're all quite neighborly.

But I became very self-conscious after receiving two notices in the past week. The first notice came from someone who just bought a house two doors from us. Before moving in, they were going to be doing some flooring work and general decorating. They just wanted to let us know and apologize in advance for any noise or inconvenience this might cause us. Very neighborly; can't wait to meet them and their young girls (I'd been hoping for boy playmates for my guys, but I'm happy knowing more small children are moving to the block.)

The second came from our across-the-street neighbors who were hosting a high school graduation party for their daughter. They warned there 'might be extra cars parked on the street' and that it would likely 'be noisy later than usual.'

Again, very neighborly. I mean, it's a quiet street. The noisiest things get -- outside of jumbo jets using the newest O'Hare runway -- is the occasional summer backyard party.

But after the second notice I wondered if we shouldn't send out notices to everyone in a three-block radius, apologizing for the noise that begins in our backyard at about 7 a.m., and, when the windows are open, the ruckus going on indoors all day long. Try as I might, I have not figured out a way to bridle my three boys, to keep them quiet at least until 9 a.m. And it's not just them. My voice tends to rise in order to get the boys' attention or when I join in the games.

So, neighbors, if you're reading, my apologies. There's always, and will always be for the foreseeable future, a cacophony of giggles, cries, yells, screams, growls and other unsettling sounds coming from our home and yard.

Why not come over and join in the fun?

A Funny Thing Happened on The Way to the Remote Control

Crazy things happen on Tuesdays and Thursdays in and around our house. Thursdays have been designated as "tech-free Thursdays" since last summer; and this summer, we, meaning, I, decided Tuesdays would also be free of TV, Wii, Nintendo DSi, Leapster products, computer, etc.

It's not that I dislike any of these forms of entertainment. While I still don't 'get' video games, whether they come on an Atari machine or I-Pad, I see value in them, just as I find value in parking my boys in front of Elmo or Johnny Test for 30 minutes so I can shower or make dinner or take a phone call.

But the oldest of my three boys is, how do I put this, nicely? He's intensely focused. If he's reading a book, he will not notice that his baby brother sitting next to him is on fire. I've been told by "experts" that this intensity will serve him well in life; but I find it bothersome when he's watching TV or playing computer or any of his other electronic pursuits and I cannot get his attention without switching off the main house fuse. Left to his own, this son would be plugged in from when his 6 a.m. internal clock goes off until we force him into bed in the evening.

Hence the daily limits. Everyone has limits. But the totally tech-free days started out as a bold experiment, one that has gone so well that I decided to expand it to two days a week, much to my oldest son's chagrin. (The two younger boys can pretty much take or leave the electronics.)

Rainy days, or bitterly cold days, pose more of a challenge than the nice days. And mornings, especially if I have to do something other than the usual dress/feed/cleanup routine, can also start out rough.

But a funny thing happens every tech-free day. My boys end up playing with each other. Maybe that's what you'd expect them to do, a 9-year-old, 4-year-old and 2-year-old. But they don't. It makes me crazy, especially when the younger ones beg, beg so enthusiastically, to get their big brother to play with them. On a day that he can turn to his electronic crutches, the big brother does. But on the days he can't, well, he eventually gives in and I observe creative play at its best.

Sure, the house usually ends up a complete wreck, with sofa cushions used to build forts or as landing pads, blankets turned into super hero capes, multiple games' pieces strewn about the living room and Lego creations in various forms of completeness littering my dining room table.  

But that's a mess I'm happy to clean up, any day.

Reading is Fun .. da ... Mental

Grandma reads to Andy.

Reading is fundamental.

Fundamentally ruining my life, that is.

I love to read, but I don't have a lot of time to enjoy a good book.

Right now, I'm supposed to be reading The Hobbit so that my 3rd grader and I can discuss it (he's reading it at school.)

But the night after I started The Hobbit, I was already bored with The Hobbit. I think this happened 10 or 20 years ago, when I tried The Hobbit before. So when I went to put away book seven of the Harry Potter series (another group of books I read simply to understand what my 3rd grader was reading), I came across one of the hundreds of books I kept when cleaning out my mother's library. My brothers and I donated hundreds of her books to a local charity's book sale, but I kept a few hundred that I knew I'd want to read some day, some day when I could.

When Kevin asked for butter for his bread at dinner the other night, I explained that I'd mixed up a little olive oil with cheese for the bread. That's when Kevin said, "I hope you get done with this book soon so we can move on, culinarily speaking."

Yes, the night before I had made this rare-for-us heavy pasta dish with roasted peppers, garlic and pepperoni. It was de-lish-us, but totally out of my normal menu plans. Kevin had asked, "why the pasta tonight?" Pasta is a rare treat for us because neither one of us can stick to the suggested serving size.

I answered that I'd eaten very light that day, so I was craving a heavy pasta dinner. But then I realized, my desire for rich Italian food was due to the book I was reading.

Mario Puzo's The Godfather had sucked me in, hook, crook and bullet. My mother had always praised its qualities, but I figured it was just a cheap, stereotypical Italian mobster tale.

But as I dove into the book, I knew, this was one of those books that would take over my life, if even just for a few days. It would challenge me, in that it would challenge my devotion to my health, family and general well-being. I would sneak into the closet after Kevin fell asleep so I could read another chapter; lock myself in the bathroom under the protests of my sons, just to sneak in another page or two; pick the longer drive-through ATM lane to steal another hit, if only a paragraph or two.

Reading is like a drug to me. I have a list longer than Long Island of books I'd like to read, but I purposefully take a month or two off between picking up a book I really want to read. Because I know I will neglect other parts of my life -- basic hygiene sometimes -- when I get grabbed by a good story.

Sometimes I wake up from a good night's sleep not sure if I'd dreamt something, lived it or read it. I confuse characters I've met in books with people I've met in real life. I always figure it out -- reality  vs. fiction, but, still, I recognize a problem when I see one.

Rest assured none of my children has gone hungry or missed school because of my addiction. My work gets done, life, real life, goes on, and once a book is finished, I move on.

I'm looking forward to the summer. My oldest (the soon-to-be-4th-grader) and I are embarking on a book-movie club, where we'll read a book then plan to see the movie based on the book. Think Mr. Popper's Penguins (for current film releases) and Diary of Anne Frank (for older ones).

In that spirit, I suffered through nearly three hours of The Godfather movie the other night. I'd never seen it, but I'd always wanted to. It paled in comparison to the book. The characters weren't rich like they were in the book. Major story lines were left out. I'm sure I irritated Kevin, who'd seen the movie before but humored my obsession, as I would explain little side-notes throughout the movie, such as, "See, in the book, this guy was a freaky little pedophile, which makes the whole horse head thing not as out-of-bounds as it might seem ...".

Here's to a summer of books, maybe a few movies.

Now, what to read next ... ?

Q is for Quitting

There's always soccer.

I informed Luke's piano teacher last week that he has decided to quit his lessons.

His decision, and his parents' acceptance of it, did not come easily, or quickly.

Luke has brought it up a few times over the past six months, but I attributed it every time to wanting to do something other than practice. I took lessons for nearly 12 years, so, I get that. (Mom, can I sign up for cross country? No, you have to practice piano. Mom, can I go play outside with Cath? No, you have to practice. Mom, can I join cheerleading? Oh, yeah, well, I simply didn't make the cut on that one. But never mind, she still would have said I had to practice my piano.)

Luke always seems to get re-energized after a lesson, where the benevolent Ms. Anna works with him and praises him and encourages him. After less than two years of lessons, that kid is better than I am after 12. Yes, I sometimes cringe as I listen to him practice something new, but once he gets the hang of a piece, it really is beautiful.

I have memories of my own piano practices and lessons, and they are not so pretty.

First, there was the problem of our piano being situated in the living room of our modest Georgian. Although some neighbors had 'recreation' rooms in their basements, typically the living room was the general purpose room. It was where we did our homework; it is where our mothers sipped coffee, or martinis, depending on the hour or the mothers, while we played. Most importantly, it was where the TV was and where my parents would watch the 6 p.m. news before we sat down for dinner. And it seemed that no matter what time I sat down to practice, it was inconvenient for my brothers or my parents or I'm sure in some instances, our dogs.

Then there was my teacher, Mrs. Sittner. She was a stout woman with a bottom that would make J.Lo and Beyonce look anorexic today. Must have been all that sitting on piano benches, but that's not my point. She scared me. I'm sure she was a very lovely woman, but I just remember being scared of her. Every Monday I couldn't eat because I knew I had to sit next to her at 4 p.m. and hear her disappointment for 30 minutes.

And, finally, the truth is that I simply have little talent when it comes to music. I can read it. I can appreciate it. But I do not have the gift my maternal grandmother had and which Kevin's side of the family certainly has, and which I think Luke inherited. They had, have, and he has, the ability to hear a piece of music, feel a piece of music, and then bring that music to life.

My parents and my maternal grandparents bought me the piano I played and on which now Luke plays, when I was six years old. It was a big deal, a big expenditure, and they did not let me forget about it. Quitting was not an option in the Bennett household, so we all suffered through until I was a senior in high school and finally convinced my parents a future in music was not to be mine, and I finally quit.

Clearly I'm not over it, but I accepted Luke's decision, albeit with the hope that he'll just take off the summer and pick it up again in the fall. Ms. Anna said she hoped so too.

I've had a week to get used to this, and I'm no longer looking at Luke's quitting as a bad thing. In fact, he has inspired me, and I've begun to quit some of my own "obligations," deciding if I no longer enjoy something, I shouldn't spend my time on it. Thanks, Luke, for showing me the way.

All for One, and One for All?

We've banned the word "mine" in our home. I expect to hear it from the 2-year-old, but it was the 9-year-old's constant use of it that put us over the edge.

"That's mine," Luke yelled when is brother, half his age, came to breakfast wearing an old Megatron costume.

I pointed out that the costume had not fit him since his last growth spurt, the one that's made him tall enough for all the rides at Great America. I added that it was great that TJ was putting the costume to good use, dressing as the megalomaniac character from Transformers to devour his scrambled eggs and sausage.

Later that same day, TJ, always resourceful and curious (read: sneaky and nosey), found a box of very cool Micro Fliers given to Luke a few years ago, and wanted to build some of the planes. Knowing it was Luke's, and knowing that might be a problem, I suggested that TJ and I play them together and have Luke join us when he got home from school.

My bad.

Upon returning from school and seeing us building the Micro Fliers, the older brother screamed, "Those are mine. You are ruining them."

Gosh, I thought we were playing with them. Don't you want to play with them, I asked Luke. "No, I want to keep them nice."

Clearly, I've got bigger problems if that's what he really thinks. Is there a Future Hoarders of America he could join at school?

So I've stopped trying to make things 'fair,' when it comes to managing the material wants and desires of my three boys. Their toys and games no longer have my protection. You don't want your brother to play with that? Too bad. Jealous of that birthday gift Aunt Jen gave your brother? Don't worry, he'll share. No excuses, no exceptions.

The toy room is open for business, and I suspect things might get a little rough.