Just call me Strega Momma!

Last night, somehow amid the commotion of caring and disciplining two small children, I ended up with a bowl of spaghetti on my head. I'm not naming names here (EVA!), but I had to take a breath and really reel it in in order not to throw a pile of pasta right back. As I've already admitted to my friends, I mostly didn't send another plate flying because I didn't want another mess to clean up, not because I was trying to be a good example.

When I had taken all of the My Little Ponies away, cancelled bath time (yes, I have one of those kids who loooooves bath time) and put the iPad in a closet (after threatening in scary mommy voice that it would stay there for a week), I put the kids to bed and I opened a bottle of wine and got to thinking.

It's not my job to make nice all the time.

I love my kids, but I have never ever felt they should be the center of the universe (even though, let's face it, they usually are).

This morning, I told Eva about Strega Nona, the wonderful 1975 book by Tommie dePaola. She listened with wide eyes and I think, a little bit of fear, as I explained how Strega Nona (which means Grandma Witch) had too much work to do and she needed Anthony to help her watch the pasta while it cooked. She gave him very specific instructions, but he didn't listen and then the whole town ended up covered in spaghetti and Strega Nona had to fix it all with her magic.

I told Eva that the next time she throws food, I'm going to have to make her stir the pasta pot all night. And if she stops, it will start to take over our house and then maybe all of Brooklyn. Then I had to stop, because she really was looking at me like I had just told her Maleficent was about to become her new mother.

This all made me remember when my first grade teacher, Mrs. Gavette, first read Strega Nona to us. I was partly scared ("so let me get this straight -  a grandmother who is also a witch makes this guy watch over a pot of pasta, he forgets about it and then the whole town is in grave peril and the grandma who is also a witch is ticked.) and partly amazed by her very clear resolve.

A friend of mine once told me that she struggles being a parent most on the days when she feels like all she does is reprimand her kids. No real praise. No warm fuzzies. Just a lot of, "No, I said not to do that," "I'm taking away the candy," "No more TV if you keep acting like that," and so forth. But then she reminds herself, "It's not my job to be their best friend. It's my job to make them into good people."

My grandmother could whip out a witch hat if I was up to no good. She once left me a note on my bed when she was visiting that said she "had a bone to pick with me." To this day, I make my bed every day! When my mom was growing up, Grandma frequently told her that it wasn't her job to be my mom's friend.

Today, I decided I'm pulling out my inner Strega Momma. Let's face it, we all need to be a Momma Witch sometimes.

So yeah, baby girl Elise, when you want to go running across a busy street near the park and I hoist you over my shoulder and exclaim loudly that, "I'm stronger than you!," you'll know you've just been schooled by Strega Momma!

Just call me Strega Momma. Momma. Strega Momma.

You Might Be A Mommy Or Daddy If.....

**You might be a mommy or daddy if...

1. You know what MLP stands for.*

2. Needy interlopers sometimes take over your bed in the middle of the night.

3. Your living room often looks like a bad day at Chuck E. Cheese.

4. You can define any of the following: Beaba, nipple shield, sleep sheep.

5. Sweat pants are a fashion choice, not a faux pas.

6. You now rank bodily functions like this. #1 Pee (totally manageable). #2 Poop (Depends. But usually, this can be handled.) #3 Vomit (All bets are off. Get out the hazmat suits people).

7. You have a bejeweled anything (bonus points if your laptop is bejeweled).

8. You've ever dealt with this (see photo).

9. Your wallpaper is part-sticker-part-crayon.

10. You can speak Cranky Toddler. (It's a lot like Yoda speak only angrier. Example: "Me need bunny now!" "Me no like peas!")

11. You know all the words to "Let it Go" (Bonus if you know exactly when Elsa throws off her cape. Triple bonus if you know when she sheds the gloves.).

12. You have uttered these words, "No, we don't eat pancakes with our feet."

13. You've answered the question, "Mommy/Daddy what happens when you eat poop?"

14. You sometimes speak in the royal "we" as in: "First, we're going to go pee pee. Then, we're going to wipey. Then, we'll flushy."

15. You have wiped boogers onto any part of your physical person.

16. You've wiped a lot of little butts.

17. Amazon sends you requests to rate "season four of Blue's Clues."

18. A trip alone to the grocery store is heavenly. No really, you're ready to set up shop in the cereal aisle and take a nap.

19. You've broken a sweat installing a car seat.

20. If you've gotten five straight hours of deep sleep in the past few years it's because you were having surgery or in the hospital.

21. You no longer use an alarm clock.

*That's My Little Pony for you newbies.

**I'm sure these lists have been done before, but this is my personal take on it.

Thursdays With Marthe

This is a photo of me with my friend Marthe.  We share a lot in common.  Our mothers are best friends, we're both married to total rock-steady guys and we're (more or less) stay-at-home moms to pre-school children.  We’re also the same age.

But Marthe, whose name is the French version of Martha, has the added complication of living with advanced ALS, the eventually deadly “Lou Gehrig's disease.  At present she can only move her right arm and her head.  She uses a 400-pound motorized wheel chair to get around, her home has been re-modeled to accommodate her increasing disability and she gets her nutrition twice a day from a feeding tube in her stomach.

The joy of her life is her two-year-old son August, born before she knew that the occasional foot drop she suffered was the harbinger of a deadly disease inside her.  He is the picture of healthy, like a cover-of-a-cereal-box boy.  He is playful, outgoing and exuberant and loves his ”Mama” more than he can actively express.  He goes to daycare five days a week now as it's impossible for his mom to care for him and she really can't safely be alone with him.

Her greatest fear is that he'll grow up without really knowing her and so every Thursday afternoon she and my mom spend a few hours together so that my mom can write up her life story.  So that when August is 15 or so and hates high school, or doesn't make the basketball team, or thinks he's met “the one” he can reference his mom's experiences and feelings at the same age.

And what a slew of experiences she has had. My mother has transcribed her experiences running marathons; training as a paratrooper in ROTC; leaving the business world to go back to school to become an ICU neuro-nurse, learning to fly a plane. 

Sadly, these are just memories now as the disease progresses.  Marthe suffers seizures from time to time, the worst when she's alone.  But she knows the signs of an impending “grand mal” and can open the necessary medication with the help of her teeth.

I saw Marthe in Atlanta a few weeks ago.  We met with our kids at a playground, Marthe and company arriving in a wheelchair-equipped van.  Her mom came to help and my mom came along too.  We laughed about the normal day-to-day stuff you deal with as parents.  I told her how my Eva had recently gotten a karaoke machine and then wanted to test it out at our local Applebee's. 

She told me how she deals with the restrictions of her "handi-capability" as she terms it.  She has come up with her own strategies for handling her active son. "I rig up a baby walker with a rope and can cart him around the house on my wheel chair," she told me.  Sometimes she will throw gold fish crackers in the path that she wants him to follow in the house, or if she needs him to get away from something. 

When he is doing something that he's not supposed to do, Marthe has a way of getting him to pay attention.  She says she read it in a book once, but can't remember where. She will raise her voice slightly, in a different “mommy tone” entirely, and say, “August, look at me.”  He stops whatever he's doing and rushes to her feet.  He places his hand on her lap and listens to what she has to say.

Why do I write about Marthe?  My mom friend? My contemporary? My inspiration?  Because I don't know what else to do.  When I am frustrated, when I question why God would do this, to this family, to these people, I have to write.  It's the only way I know.

I complain about wrangling two kids at the playground on a daily basis.  Marthe doesn't complain at all and she can't wrangle one bit.  I complain when our dishwasher needs to be emptied or there's a pile of laundry on my bedroom floor.  Marthe has to wake her husband up at night if she wants to change positions in bed. 

Marthe will tell you she most likely will not see August start Kindergarten. She talks very honestly about her death, how she wants to be memorialized and where she wants her ashes spread.

She is a reminder, I think, that we must appreciate what we have.  I don't mean to sound trite, but there's a reason the cliches work when you're talking tragedy or rites of passage.  They are the most appropriate way to acknowledge what's happening. So, this mother's day especially, I'm grateful for friends like Marthe. And, it should be noted, for my own mom and her place in all of this. My mom, who first got to know Marthe's mom and then Marthe, and now is helping Marthe get her story down on paper.

While we were at the park that day, August picked a flower and handed it to her.  Then, my daughter Eva followed suit and returned with a flower for me.  We were calling them our “mommy flowers.”  When we took this picture, Marthe asked me to place her flower in her hand.  She couldn't reach, or move her arm to do it.

We smiled, and later decided to keep our already wilting “mommy flowers.”  I'm not sure where mine fell later that day.  Eva asked for it back at one point while we were driving in the car and I acquiesced.  Then, later, I couldn't find it.  But just before I handed it to Eva, I remember thinking that even though the petals were already drooping, their vivid color remained so vibrant.

 

"A Lesson From My Grandma In The Miracle Of Life"

Picked up by the Huffington Post...so happy Grandma's story lives on!

Article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/meredith-franco-meyers/a-lesson-from-my-grandma-in-the-miracle-of-life_b_5113490.html

Traveling With Kids!

Stories live on Volvo.com (via TheBump.com). If you're a mom or dad to a young child or baby, please read the one on car seat safety!

http://content.thebump.com/sitelets/volvo-life-is-an-adventure/

Why I Wish Tim Gunn Could Be My Own Personal Parenting Guru

I wish Tim Gunn could live with me.  Every time I feel like a complete mommy failure the fabulous Project Runway star could just appear, a stoic presence in some cute little pinstripe suit, all six foot two of him, and with his usual words of wisdom and a clean pocket square to dry my tears with. He would pick me back up, outfit my children in looks fit for Suri Cruise, and - voila! - we'd make it work together.

This idea recently came to me when a good friend, about to have her second child, asked me for my best advice for handling two kids together. I quickly recalled one day in particular when my youngest was still a newborn. One afternoon, my older daughter, who was still mastering potty training, ran into my bedroom, "Mommy, mommy, mommy! I can't...." and then she peed all over herself in front of me. I had a newborn baby stuck to one boob and couldn't do a darn thing about it. At the time, a dear friend of mine texted me, "At least you know urine is sterile," and somehow, that made me laugh and I was able to make it work. When I finished feeding one child, I was up and getting paper towels and fresh clothes for my other kid. It's just what you gotta do.

We all have our own "make it work" moments and stories. My mother in law likes to tell me about the time she was ridiculously exhausted, like near comatose, and watching six kids at once (her four, her sister's two) one afternoon. She dozed on the sofa while they drew in crayon on her new wallpaper. Her thought, before she let her eyes close, "I can always paint over it." She made it work, people.

It's what we all do as parents. We make it work. Every day. Whether we go to work or stay home, whether we juggle one, two or more than three kids. Whether we live in houses, apartments, on communes or campsites. We all have to make this thing called parenting work.

So, here's where Tim Gunn comes in. He's always trying to get the Project Runway designers to see that even if they lack the proper supplies (who knew taffeta was so pricey?) or don't have enough time to finish sewing, there's always something else that can be done to make the situation work. And if it's not perfect, that's okay too.

Is your little one pooping in her pants on the playground? Make it work, he'd say.

Toddler kicking you in your pregnant belly and yelling, "I don't want a new sister!" What's that you hear? "Make it work."

Eleven o'clock on a work/school night and your kids are still awake? Oh, you actually need to get some "actual" work done? You know what I'm gonna say, "Make it work."

Nobody wants a bath? Make it work, my friends.

Your kids' babysitter tells you she doesn't know who Punky Brewster is when you reference the 80s child star. You old hag! Stop crying and make it work!

I cannot count the multitude of times when I need to just make stuff work because anyone with kids knows from experience, you cannot plan worth shizz when it comes to kids. Someone gets all cranky, someone's wheels start to come off in the middle of a grocery store aisle, someone gets puked on and that's it! Plans? Out the door!

That's when it's time to channel an inner Tim Gunn and say to no one in particular (or, heck, say it to that crazy lady who just told you your daughter needs to be wearing a hat in this weather!), "I can make it work."

Take me this morning. I woke up to my four-year-old flicking my nipple and asking in a snarky voice, "Mom, what's this thing?" She had pulled down my pajama shirt and was just staring at me. Later, her younger sister let forth an epic Number Two during a close commute on a crosstown bus.

Guess what I did? I called upon my inner Timmy G and I made it work.

In all seriousness, though, wouldn't life be so great if we could just make it all work? If we could actually be okay with whatever came our way while parenting - instead of fighting the incessant urge to control everything?

Why, as parents, are so worried about this concept? Making it work means admitting defeat, in a way, doesn't it? But it doesn't have to.

Throwing on the TV instead of reading three books aloud because you actually have something else you need or want to do while you're with your kids? Why do we, as a culture, think of this as akin to showing the kids porn or feeding them cat food for dinner? We are that crazed about being perfect parents that we can't just let stuff work the way it's gonna work sometimes.

And, you know what, it's not gonna always work the way we want or hope or ever expect.

What Tim Gunn, and anyone else who tries to "make it work" is actually telling us to do is to forgive ourselves, to accept our greatest parenting triumphs and the things we perceive as the fails. Tim Gunn says "make it work" and we can be confident that we can and will. The only one who can make this parenting thing work is you.

So, next time the parenting racket has got you down, get back up and make it work people! We've got a runway show to produce and some kids to raise!

Before Becoming a Stay-At-Home-Writer...

It was the beginning of December and I had just met my best friend's new baby. Joy filled the air as I talked with her, a first-time mother, in the hospital. I asked her all sorts of questions ("What was labor really like?" "Did you go for the epidural?"), watched her tackle a round of breastfeeding, and marveled at the bond already forming between mother and daughter. Her pregnancy had been abstract up until that day when I was finally holding the physical manifestation of all those months of planning - she and her incredible husband's precious new cargo - a small miracle.

We spoke briefly about my own baby-making project and I left feeling impressed that she had asked about me when clearly her whole sights were on the tiny package she’d just born.

Later that evening, I wasn't feeling so hot and part of me wondered if maybe I was pregnant. I mean, it was entirely possible. Weeks earlier, my legs in stirrups, the doctor on duty was telling me, "This is the month. You’ve got a lot of follicles. Just be prepared. It might be twins." He inserted a syringe full of my husband's sperm (mixed with fancy chemicals to make it last within my body for longer than is natural) and - voila - I had been artificially inseminated.

Each night, I gave myself hormone injections in the stomach, flinching only remotely from the pain. I was used to it.

Then, the waiting game began again. And, this game, win or lose, was coming to a close right around those early days in December. I had been here before and I didn't want to get my hopes up.

A day later, when I still hadn't gotten my period, I caved and picked up a pack of 3 pregnancy tests at the drugstore. I knew now to buy them in bulk. It was cheaper, I’d been down this road before, and I always felt the need to test one more time a few hours later just in case the initial negative wasn’t right.

Later that afternoon, home by myself, I took a test. One minute later, no dice. Ten minutes later, no dice. Not pregnant.

That was the beginning of December, the close of a long year. Holiday music filled the air at every coffee shop, department store, and often in my doctor's waiting room.

I called to tell the nurse that we hadn't been successful. With an indifferent tone, she said, "Well, I'm sorry. You should come in and we can get you on injectables right away again and schedule your next insemination."

Pause. Breath.

"I'll have to call you back," I said.

That night, I cried harder than I had in a long while. I felt pretty hopeless about the situation. Even though we hadn't yet explored IVF, I knew it was the logical next step, whether I opted for another round of IUI (insemination) plus injections or not. I felt stressed out to the max, high strung, and couldn't remember the last time my husband and I just hung out, free of this baby-making obsession.

"You don't have to do it," he said.

I agreed. And, we decided to give ourselves at least two months (or cycles, as they say in the fertility biz) free of doctor visits, hormones, and ovulation calendars.

We would just be, whatever that meant. We'd enjoy Christmas. We'd book a trip to Amsterdam to see my brother. Maybe we'd get a dog.

At the same time all of this was going on, my grandmother's health was beginning to wane. Diagnosed with Alzheimer's in 1997, her physical body had held on for years. During the past four seasons, she hadn't spoken or really moved very much on her own, yet each time all of her vitals and organs were checked, she was in top-notch working condition. She sometimes made moaning sounds upon hearing her and my grandfather's favorite song ("Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole) or when seeing a family member, but other than that, she sat relatively lifeless most days, a small baby doll clutched in her hands, her one comfort.

At the end of November, I went to see her. As soon as I reached her hospital room at the nursing home, I shut the door, slipped off my bulky coat and boots, and crumpled at her side. I bawled, grasping her hand, touching her face, and begging her for a baby. I knew she understood, somehow. My grandma and I were very close. She was not your typical 1950s housewife. Growing up, I idolized her sense of style. She made her own clothes, and those of her children, from patterns in Vogue magazine. She held fancy theme parties on a budget. She had a high school education, but never stopped learning. She had been reading  “Corelli’s Mandolin” when she noticed she couldn’t really remember stuff the same way she used to.

By the end of December, we were receiving calls daily that her health was slipping and that she could go "any day now." We waited, watched the phone, and prayed.

It turned out, Grandma held on for one more Christmas. Then, sometime during that first week of the new year as I thought very deeply about my grandmother's influence on my life, knowing her light was fading, I began to feel sick and very, very tired.

One day, I checked the calendar and realized that "if" I'd ever had a normal menstrual cycle (in my life!), I was indeed late. Three or four days late, to be exact. I didn't want to get my hopes up. Later that evening, I said it out loud.

"I think I might be pregnant."

My husband couldn't betray his own smile. There was a flicker of anticipation in his eyes too.

"Really? Tell me."

I told him about checking the calendar, feeling like I had the flu.

"I have two tests left over from last time. I think I'll wait one more day and then test."

We agreed this was a sound decision. Knowing how many ups and downs we'd already endured, we couldn't get too excited just yet.

The next morning (a day before I said I would), I waited until he'd left to get the paper and I dug under the bathroom sink for those other pregnancy tests. I reread the directions quickly, my heart beating faster, my hands clammy. I took the test quickly, put the cap back on the stick, flushed the toilet and then sat down on the cold, tile floor.

I said a prayer, out loud, to Grandma. And, then I checked the test. The window had changed color from white to pink and within seconds, a bright pink line had formed. Not pregnant, I thought.

I was already playing my runners-up speech in my head when I looked back at the test. There it was - another faint line next to the brighter one. Yes Virginia, there is another pink line.

The whole scene wasn't as dramatic as I had envisioned. I didn't burst into tears, mostly because I was in shock and not entirely sure this meant I was pregnant. I dug the instructions out of the trashcan and read them again. Sometimes, one line might appear lighter than the control line.

The front door opened and my husband bounded in, newspaper under one arm.

"Well hi," he said, oblivious, "What's with the Ed Grimley dance?"

I was doing the pee-pee dance, quite literally, though not because I had to go to the bathroom, but because I'd just seen a positive result on the pee-pee stick!

"I think I'm pregnant!" I couldn't contain myself. I rushed back down our hallway into the bathroom, "I took a test," I called out.

He followed me. We both stood there staring at the two pink lines.

"That's a line, right?" I kept saying.

"Yes, it's a line. It's faint, but it's definitely a line."

I made him reread the same instructions I'd read, in which the packaging claimed that false positives pretty much never occurred, but that false negatives were frequent.

It was 7:30 in the morning and I felt alive, invigorated, refreshed. We hugged and kissed.

At 8 a.m. when my regular OBGYN's office was open, I told the receptionist on duty.

"Day of last menstrual?" she said.

I told her.

"OK, you need to come in at 8 weeks, that's end of January."

"But, shouldn't I get a blood test to confirm I'm really pregnant?"

She giggled. "Oh honey, those tests are 99 percent accurate. You're pregnant. Congratulations."

I hung up.

About an hour later, my mom called with the news. Grandma had died peacefully. I like to believe that on her way up to heaven, she sent a baby girl down.