A New Kind of Soccer Mom

If only my husband and eldest son had not laughed maniacally at the mere invitation from a new gal pal that I join her newly forming soccer team, I might not have even considered it.

But when you laugh at The Mom, you will suffer The Consequences.

In this case, they will be required to attend every Friday night game, just like I've attended nearly every Saturday morning soccer game for years for my oldest, and countless baseball games.

Their laughter is not without warrant. Not only have I never played soccer, or any team sport for that matter -- in my life -- I am simply not athletic. Most friends and acquaintances know that I've run five marathons and countless shorter distance races over the past 20-plus years, as well as completed a couple of triathlons and duathlons. But friends who know me well, know that I run only because I'm not coordinated to do much else.

Karen's Recipe for Running:
1. put one foot in front of the other, quickly
2. repeat

Race medals ... perhaps soccer medals
will adorn my basement walls next?

But a fellow baseball/t-ball mom said she was putting a team together to play in our sleepy suburb's women's league and assured me 'no experience necessary.' In fact, she wrote in her recruiting email, the league is "really just an excuse for spry women well out of their college years to laugh a lot and then drink on Friday evening."

She had me at 'spry.' I mean, I've never been called spry before, and I was flattered. And as the saying goes, flattery will get you everywhere.

I just hope it doesn't get me a trip to the ER.

Bucket List-Making Time



My boys looking down on creation (from Sears/Willis Tower).

A wide berth exists between the 'great' ideas in my mind for my Chaos blog and my mediocre execution on paper, or, more precisely, on screen, of these ideas.

The ideas pop up several times a day -- often after surviving a Poison Control scare or while enjoying momentary peace on a child-free run or when experiencing a evanescent moment of clarity brought on by a glass of really good wine.

But while the ideas come and go, time only goes. And goes fast. Rearing children makes for long days but fast years, as my husband likes to say.

I once told a friend who asked why I wasn't blogging more regularly that I either need inspiration or I need time. If I have the time, I will find the inspiration. If I have the inspiration, I will find the time.

That is true for everything it is we want to do in life but just don't get around to it.

Which is why a bucket list is in order. I'm looking back on 44 years today. Yep, this is my birthday blog. And I'll cry if I want to.

No, just kidding. We're going to keep this light, per usual.

But lately I have been reminded of the tenuous nature of this thing we call 'life.' What is normal and good, albeit often challenging, today, can be gone tomorrow.

So before I'm "looking down on creation" permanently, I'm going to pull that bucket list together, but not until the round of golf my husband promised me for my birthday. (Ok, #1 on bucket list -- learn to golf.)

Fore!

Puberty? Again? And Again, and Again?

God help me. Puberty the first time, that being my own, was terrible enough. I mean, it's been 30 (plus?) years, and I still remember how terrible it was.

As a parent of a 10-year-old boy (and two more younger ones), it has dawned on me that I'm going to have to go through it at least three more times.

God help me.

I realize I probably have it easier, as a mother of three boys than a mother of three girls. Really. I get it.

Still, I'm not liking what's happening in this house. The moods. I'm not talking about mine. We're all pretty used to mine. I'm talking about Son One, the one who sorta smells, the one who thinks I'm a total idiot. The one who is eating me out of house and home.

One minute, he's a happy-go-lucky fourth grader; the next, he's a brooding, sulking punk.

One day, he's begging me to drive him to and from school; the next, he's shooing me away when I creep up in my swaggerwagon in a downpour. Oh, is that a GIRL you're walking with, in the rain? My bad.

Harry Potter and the Hunger Games are put away on the bookshelf. But I find a Spanx catalog under his pillow?

So I tell the dad, the husband, about these developments.

He says, "It sounds like it's time to have The Talk." I correct him. "It's time that YOU have The Talk."

We discuss whom we can go to for advice on how, when to do this. We decide maybe one of our closest friends, who's so far gotten three of four of his kids through puberty, might just want to give our son The Talk. But that doesn't seem right, to delegate The Talk.

In a conversation the other day about why Son One couldn't see a particular movie, the word "sex" came up. Father/Husband asked, "Do you know what 'sex' means?"

Son One says, sheepishly, "Yaaayyh." I prod, "Ok, what?" He answers, "It's when people are kissing in bed."

OK. I'm good with that. Yep, that's what it means when your are 10 years old. That's all you need to know. Until the book, How to Talk to Your Kids About Sex arrives from Barnes & Noble.

I'm a sucker for those parenting books. They look good on my bedside table.

Good luck out there!

Who's in Charge Here?

I have a book next to my 'reading chair,' a.k.a. my 'clothes-awaiting-folding-and-putting-away chair,' titled "Who's the Boss?" It is subtitled, "How to Regain and Maintain Your Parental Authority When Kids Rule the Roost."

After yesterday's shenanigans, I think I'd better move it up my reading list, because the day was not pretty from a parenting standpoint.

First there was the half-naked almost-3-year-old son dancing on my yoga blocks. I posted a (discreet) photo on my Facebook status, prompting my husband to later ask why our youngest son didn't have on any pants. I explained that he had taken off his own underpants and was trying on undies from one of his older brother's dressers. He's pull them on and say "See, they fit," when of course, they didn't. Then he would say, after every try-on, "I'd better put these back or Tob'll get ANGRY."

So after trying on about 10 pairs, he just decided he didn't need any at all. He found an old broken set of headphones, placed them on his head, pulled out my yoga blocks from my dusty 'fitness paraphernalia basket,' and started demonstrating his finest Solid Gold moves.

I put away the work I was attempting to do, got some pants on the boy, and played puzzles with him. Figured if this were a cry for attention, I'd better give him some.

Later in the day, this same son came in from playing outside. This time, he had on pants but nothing else. Yes, it's a warmer-than-usual winter, but clothes are still required for outdoor play. I asked why he took of his coat, hat, shirt, mittens, socks and shoes and he said that the slide was "slippier" this way. It was then I noticed one of our many snow sleds on top of the garage. Fun, in his mind, and catastrophe in mine, was clearly avoided, so I'll put this in the win column.

Only a few hours later there was a knock at my front door. Opposite me stood one of my oldest son's buddies. I was certainly glad to see him but was confused when he told me why he'd walked home from school with Luke. "Toby called this morning and said it was ok with you that I come over."

Well, of course, I always enjoy Luke's friends to come over to play. But why, and when, exactly, was the middle guy making calls and setting up his older brother's social life for him?

My husband of course had the same question when I told him about my day. "Where were you?" he rightly asked. "I was standing right there," I countered. "He'd asked me to help him call Papa and Grandma, and I showed him how he can scroll caller ID to find their number. God only knows who else he may have called this morning!"

Clearly it's time to up the parenting during the day here. So if I don't return your call, your email, or update my Facebook status for the next few months, know that I'm trying to pay a bit more attention around the house here, and I have a few parenting books to devour.

I may be the same woman I was when I woke up yesterday, but, kids, there's a new sheriff in town.

In the words of Rihanna, "I'll drink to that." Cheers, my friends and happy weekend.

TJ's new PJs

TJ's new PJs are purple with decorative birds.  I know the design is intended for girls. But he doesn't. He says he's 'warm and cozy,' and has been begging for 'footie' pajamas for weeks. They're hard to find in a 5T. But Costco had a table-full of Carter's footie flannel pajamas yesterday when we made a quick stop for the essentials (eggs and wine).

My first stab at the dinosaur, pirate and sporting-themed designs netted me about 20 pairs in 3T and another 15 in 6 months. Neither was going to work. 

So I dug deeper, trying not to make too much of a mess (I worked retail once; I know how it goes). The sign told me I had a chance: Carters One-Piece Pajamas, 6mos-5T, $7.99.

My second go of it netted me another few dozen 3Ts and several 18-months. Finally, a dinosaur 4T and the purple, birded 5T. I held up the 4T to TJ's back. Nope, way too small. The 5T was going to fit perfectly.

"But those are girl ... ," Luke started before I shot him one of my shut-your-pie-hole-before-I-shut-it-for-you looks.

"I love them," said TJ. "Can I wear them now?"

I figured for $8, if after only two weeks he decided they were too girly, I'd send them on their way to our pint-sized niece. But for now, the boy is warm and cozy. 

Which melts my heart.

Happy new year! Stay warm, stay cozy.



Where's Your Crisis Nursery?

The little guy loves his time on the farm.

The irony of it was not lost on me when I had to bug out of a Maryville Crisis Nursery tour a few minutes early so that I could drive the two-and-a-half hours north to the nearly-half-way point between my home and my inlaws' farm to pick up my 2-year-old.

That was just after Halloween.

Eight weeks later, I'm readying myself for another trip to pick up the tot. I admit to getting pretty greedy this time. Eight weeks ago, Andy spent three nights with grandma and papa simply because we'd met at our half-way point for another purpose and it seemed like a good idea to 'take a break.' Plus, it meant Halloween night for our two older boys without the stress of having to get 'the baby' down by 6:30 p.m. and then worrying every time the door bell rang.

This time, it's been four nights for my little break. It was going to be three nights, but then I realized how much more I could get accomplished during these fast, last days leading to Christmas, without Andy underfoot. And I had a timing challenge on our originally scheduled day. How was I going to drive the five-plus hours to get there and back and still be back in time to pick up the middle guy from his standard two-and-a-half-hour preschool day?

So I asked for the extra night, and my wish was granted. And did I EVER accomplish great things with my extra day (mostly sorting out/wrapping Christmas gifts that have been shoved into a crawl space, the only hiding space I think is still unknown to the boys.)

I consider my inlaws my "crisis nursery." When I'm drawn in too many directions or simply feel I'm getting sucked into a vicsious parenting undertow, I know I have dependable and loving people in my life who will throw me a lifeline and keep me afloat.

I'm so lucky to have these generous people in my life.

Many parents are not as lucky, which is why the Maryville Crisis Nursery opened five years ago. Whether their crisis is like mine (but x10) -- or one of a more dire nature, such as hospitalization of a parent or sibling, some parents have no one they trust to care for their children.

I first discovered Maryville Crisis Nursery nearly five years ago when we'd moved (back) to the area and (incorrectly) thought we were done having children. I was looking for a worthy place to take all my old baby gear, and discovered the nursery, which could either use my stuff in its facility or sell it at its resale shop.

Halloween without the youngest brother. Scary.

Many parents are not as fortunate. Many parents have no one to care for their young children if tragedy, simply a hard turn, or plain-old exhaustion befalls them.


They may be single parents, young parents; they maybe parents who are trying to stay away from trouble that seems to come knocking at their doors on a regular basis. They may be parents just like me, but with no one to depend on. It doesn't matter. They are parent who care deeply, who love their children enough to know they need a little help.

They're parents, just like me, a Mom who needs a little help from time to time, no matter the reason.

I soon learned the the Maryville Crisis Nursery:

• is a short-term shelter for children when parents are in crisis
• provides care at no cost to families
• is the only crisis nursery in Chicago and one of only six in Illinois
• can show that 98% of families who use the Crisis Nursery indicate they are better parents through its use
• have had  more than 3,000 admissions since it opened its doors five year ago.

I'm so very thankful that my inlaws can take care of any (and sometimes all) of my children when I need them to. I'm just as thankful for the Maryville Crisis Nursery to provide the same comfort to other parents. That's why our family chooses to support Maryville Crisis Nursery.

Cheers, and happy holidays!

Getting to the Art of the Problem

When my oldest was little, and for the nearly five years he was an 'only,' every art project his brilliant, creative hands and mind engineered was a Picasso. Sometimes we could even determine what it was 'meant' to be (unlike most Picassos, which leave me scratching my head).

Many of his Kindergarten and 1st grade creations are framed and adorn our otherwise art-less walls.

But then more "art" came home from school. While the "art" didn't really improve much in the past few years, we added two children to our family, both of whom create equally beautiful one-, two- and three-dimensional artworks at preschool and with their talented babysitters. That's a lot of art.

I view them; I appreciate them. Entering any of my children's bedrooms, you will walk into a gallery of beautiful, unique and often curious works. What doesn't get Scotch-taped to the bedrooms' walls, I usually toss into the recycling bin. I'm usually narced by Someone. "You're recycling THIS?," Someone cries regularly. So I've had to get sneaky about getting rid of all the artwork, but get rid of it I do.

Do I feel guilty?  A little. I'll get over it. I hope they do too, someday.

To the many artists I am proud to call my friends, cheers! I wonder if your Moms kept everything you created as tots?