Getting older and wrinklier - I mean wiser ...

Today I am 36.

Wow ... that was harder to type than I realized (and not just because I have sub par typing skills).

I never really cared much about getting older. Age is just a number, you're only as old as you feel, like a fine wine ... all those cliches. I had no problem turning 30, or 31 or well, you get the idea. I really didn't have a problem turning 35 either. Truth be told I really don't have any problem turning 36. It's just now I am starting to feel like I am 36, or at least not 26 anymore. And as my friend Megan so delightfully told me - we're closer to 40 then 30. Yikes!

I'm not so naive that I don't know that when you get older things start to change. But I never really noticed they were changing until this past year. Something about turning 35 made my body go "Hold on, wait a minute, we're how old now? 35? Mid 30s? OK, Sarah get ready!"

Stupid body was so subtle about it I didn't even notice it at first. For instance my inability to eat sugary foods or drink soda (I know I'm from Michigan, but I call it soda, not pop - get over it!). Now I know these things are not good for me so this really shouldn't be a big deal. But it's not even like I got to make the choice to cut these things out of my diet to be healthy. My body went "OK, go ahead and drink that Diet Coke, but you are going to feel like poo in about 30 minutes so you'd better enjoy it!" And me, being the quick one that I am, didn't put two and two together for a few months. Now if I want Diet Coke I have to cut it with some rum. Sigh, the sacrifices we make as we age ...

Wrinkles or "laugh lines" as we ladies call them are starting to crop up. Oh joy. Now I need to spend copious amounts of money on creams and serums to "reduce to look of aging." Let's call it what it really is shall we? Caulk for your face.

Thirty-something-year-old skin is definitely not what it used be. Now when I walk into the corner of our dining room table or the foot board of my bed I get a big ole bruise. Of course I don't notice it for three or four days and when I do I can never quite remember where it came from.

Still, all in all, my 30s have been the best decade of my life so far. There is something comforting about your 30s. You are not in a hurry to grow up like you were in your teens. You are not trying to prove your not a kid like in your 20s. It's a good age to me. Bruises, wrinkles and all.

And from what my husbands tell me, your 40s aren't so bad either!

                                          Me in Kindergarten and me today at age, gulp 36

Happy dance!

Man I am in a good mood!




And it's not just because my Tim Horton's Cafe Mocha is kicking in. (Man, I love me some Tim Horton's!)

Some of it has to do with the weather. I have self diagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder so this sunshine, blue sky, temps in the 50s and climbing does wonders for my mood. How can a sunshiny day not just make you smile?

Some of it has to do with feeling extremely accomplished (and it's not even noon). *Brag alert* (You may want to skip these next couple sentences or  prepare yourself for a nice big eye roll.) I have gotten so much done today so far! Morning run, check, All three kids to school on time, check (ok the bus helped with that one), shopping for my mini me's birthday, check, mother's day crafts pieces picked up, check. Mini me picked up from school ON TIME, check. Home and typing a blog post before noon, check. (even though I am sure by the time you read this it will be after 12.)

Ok, brag over. Resume normal reading.

Probably the biggest factor in my awesome mood is the incredible songs playing on the radio on my drive home. (Yes, I listen to the radio - the regular radio. No satellite, no Pandora, the staticy commercial-filled radio.) It started with REO Speedwagon's "Keep on Rolling" - I mean what else do you need to get the minivan a rockin'? A little air keyboard, air guitar, and amazing air drums and I don't give a bleep who may be looking strangely at me as I drive by. I'm in my own little REO world.



Hard to top REO, but the next song came close. NKOTB baby!! (New Kids on the Block for all of you who were over the age of 10 in 1989.)No lie, it actually came om the radio. Step by Step! Love it!

Unfortunately the station got too staticy for me to hear Diana Ross and the Supreme's afterwards, but one switch of the station and it was "Uptown Funk." Switching gears to the classic country station, I then got to serenade with Dolly Parton's "Why'd you come in here lookin' like that" and Jo Dee Messina's "Lesson in Leavin'."

I mean was the radio on fire or what?

As I pulled in to pick up my little one I was jamming to "Heaven is a Place on Earth," by Belinda Carlisle.

Don't judge. My music tastes may all over the place, but I don't care. Give me a good beat and some decent lyrics and I won't care about the genre. Expect death metal - I just don't get that.

So bring on the rest of the day! So far, so great! I mean I will probably crash at 2 p.m., but I'm going to ride this high as long as I can.

Or until the Tim Horton's wears off .... Roll with the changes, baby ....

Can't we all just get along?

BFFs or mortal enemies. Those seem to be the only two choices when it comes to how my kids get along.

Love or hate.  Not much in between.

It's so weird to me.

I do know what it it like to have siblings. That's not the weird part. I have three. So I know what it's like to share, wait your turn, wear hand-me-downs ... All that stuff.

But one sibling stereotype we did not fall victim to is fighting. We didn't yell at each other, fight in the car, draw lines down shared bedrooms, borrow clothes without asking, hit, punch or kick each other. We generally got along. All. The. Time.

Weird right? I'm not quite sure why. I'm sure if we all underwent some heavy psycho analysis we could figure it out, but who cares? We all got along and that's a good thing.

A good thing for me except that it did not prepare me AT ALL for the fighting, bickering, physical violence my kids were going to have toward each other.

I can't believe it some times. All the yelling! All the fighting! They hit, kick, punch, even BITE each other! Why? Because she is not doing what you want? Because he is playing with a toy you have to have? Come on!

And the tattling! Oh my the tattling! I am not going to intervene every time your sister tells you that you are mean. Or flicks you on the arm! And of course every little tap or bump is the worse injury they have every received and they come limping up the stairs bawling their eyes out from the sheer pain of it all.

Can't we all just get along?

I used to try to fix it all. Figure out who said what and who did what to whom. Funny thing though, along with it taking an exorbitant amount of time and energy, my kids' memory suddenly became very foggy. Now it wasn't quite clear who started it or who hit first. Interesting ...

Now, if a tattling kid comes crying to me with their crocodile tears I simply say "you want me to solve it?" Usually they don't. Cause when mom solves it, everyone gets in trouble and there is nothing tattling children like less than getting in trouble when they think they did nothing wrong.

Call it lazy, call it giving up, it's working for now so I'm going to stick with it. I do have to credit my husband with that little gem though. Thanks hun! Without your little epiphany I'd probably be huddled in the a corner somewhere rocking back and forth mumbling "no hitting, no kicking, stop sitting on your sister..."

But its not just the fighting and tattling. No, it's the way they roll on each other. Ask the three of them who spilled or made a mess or broke something and two of them will quickly turn on the other. "He did it!" "She did it!"

Geesh, your siblings, you are supposed to have each other backs. My siblings and I ALWAYS covered for each other. Mine rat each other out the first chance they get.

I tell them they aren't supposed to rat on each other. They are supposed to cover for each other. Then I quickly add "I'm not supposed to be telling you this, you know."

Some day they'll figure it out. Then I'll will wish I'd never told them how to keep mom and dad in the dark.

Well, at least they'll be getting along ...

                                                 (A rare photo of my kids getting along ...)

Busy with three kids? Who knew?

Being a parent is hard. And exhausting. And hard. Let’s just say it’s exhaustingly hard.

I thought when my kids were through the waking-up-six-times-in-the-night-for-food-or-a-diaper-change-or-the-room-is-one-degree-too-warm stage, I wouldn't be so tired. But I am. So. Tired.

Maybe it is because instead of having a crying baby who can’t quite articulate his or her needs and I have three very loud children who very clearly can.

“I want!” “I need!” “No fair!” “I’m hungry!” “Why?” “You’re mean!” (That’s a new one.) And lots of stomping of feet, yelling and door slamming.

And I’m trying so hard not to yell. I really am. Both my husband and I are trying SO hard. But it’s difficult. It’s tiring. It’s taking so many deep breaths I thinking I’m going to pass out sometimes.

But here’s the other thing – its working. Yes it’s hard – parenting is supposed to be hard. Yes, it’s frustrating – it’s supposed to be. They are tiny people who don’t quite know what they want or how they should act so they try out all kinds of personalities or “phases” on you before they morph into the adult you truly hope they can be.

We are going through a few phases in our house at the moment. With three kids ages 8, 5 and 4 it’s easy to hit a few. We have the fibbing phase (I don’t want to say lying because I can’t bring myself to call my cute little five-year-old a liar). We also have the can’t-make-up-my-mind-so-I’m-going-to-throw-a-fit phase, and we have the eye-rolling exasperated sighing of the almost pre-teen stage.

Needless to say there are a lot of feelings and a lot of tears in our little house. Oh, and the kids are an emotional roller coaster, too.

Most days it is pretty difficult to keep a level head through the whining, complaining, fibbing and eye-rolling. Some days I fail. OK, most days I fail, because moms have tough days too, gosh darn it! But some days, when the stars align just right and my third cup of coffee has given me an energy boost at just the right moment, I say the right thing and I don’t get an eye-roll! Or some words of wisdom actually come from MY mouth and miraculously seem to connect with the tiny person! I am able to find humor in the situation instead of frustration! The toys get cleaned up without me having to ask them!

Ok, that last one never happens, but maybe someday right? And that is what makes the frustration, the tiredness, the not yelling when you just want to jump out of your skin worth it. Those moments when you feel like you are not totally messing them up for the rest of their lives but actually doing something right. They may be fleeting but they are so worth it.

Yes, parenting is hard, but nothing that was worth doing and worth doing right ever came easy. Somebody famous probably said that, but I’m too tired right now to try and figure it out. And a cute four-year-old needs some juice …

Superhero, with a side of evil

Moms are superhero's. The phrase is uttered so much that is practically a cliche. But did you know that we don't always use our powers for good? Apparently we can be quite evil and deceitful as well.

I discovered this last week when I RUINED my daughter's day with my mere presence and was deemed untrustworthy by my son. It was a banner evening for mom to be sure.

It all began so innocently (as it always does). The kids had gotten off the bus, snacks had been eaten, school worked finished, even dinner consumed with few feathers ruffled.

We all got to swimming lessons, the kids took part in said lessons and were even able to enjoy a bit of the hot tub after to warm up. But see, there - there is where we got greedy. After the kids didn't listen to dad when they were told to get out of the hot tub and DID NOT, scolding, protesting and whimpering occurred all the way to the locker rooms.

My oldest then proceeded to yell at me that I WAS NOT to take her clothes out of the bag and give them to her to put on. However, I already HAD taken them out I did not see the need to put them back just so she could talk them out again. It made perfect sense to me a 35-year-old but to a seven-year-old this was the most illogical thing I could have said (right up there with "before you get another toy out, why don't you put this one away first").

And here comes the battle of wills. She is refusing to put her clothes on until I put them back in the bag so she and can them out and I am refusing to put them back in the bag because ... it doesn't matter why because I AM THE MOM, DAMNIT!

Yelling ensues - by her not me. I have decided to not engage her and just wait for her to calm down. Maybe she will even apologize .... If I were holding my breath I would have passed out a LONG time ago!

More nastiness on her part all the way to car (including her running away from me and then me making her hold my hand until she got in the car. Hey, I'm not above humiliation).

On the drive home, me fuming in the front seat, she sniffling in the back (and the younger two brown-nosing like crazy in the seats between), my husband tries to calmly find the source of this horrible behavior. Surely mom taking you clothes out of a bag is not worth all this?

After a bit of coaxing she says is "I was having the best day until I got home and mom ruined it."

What had I done? I racked my brain. I hadn't been upset with her, demanded anything of her, I barely even talked to her when she got off the bus since I learned (the heard way) that she doesn't like to talk about her day when she gets home from school. I ruined her day?

Sticks and stones right? She's only seven, she doesn't really know what she's saying. Well, moms may be superheros, but we are also humans and that sentence felt like a punch in the gut. Apparently all that superhero-ness was not enough to cover up the evilness that was my mere presence in my own home.

Along with ruining lives by simply being ourselves, "superhero moms" along show their evil side by being deceitful and deliberately trying to get their kids in trouble.

After we got home from swimming lessons I decided to turn my attention and energy to my two younger children - you know the ones who actually LIKE me. After my son was in bed I heard him crying and carrying on in his room. I went in to investigate. (A little pretext: the next day was Halloween and his class was dressing up as their favorite storybook characters.) He was going as Curious George. All of that was fine except for one thing. His costume had a hood with Curious George's face on it and he was told that he could not wear it at school.

Now, I knew he could. I had talked to his teacher about the costume and everything was fine. I think he was confused with the hood he was wearing and masks - which were not allowed to be worn. I tried to explain the difference to him. He did not agree with me. I tried to explain that without the hood no one would know he was Curious George, He still protested. I told him that I talked to his teacher and she said it was ok to wear. He still was CERTAIN that he could not wear it. I finally told him "yes, you can wear it. Don't you trust me?"

"No, I don't" he said.

No? What the what? No? Why would he think I would lie to him? I mean sure, we've all lied to our kids (McDonald's is closed, I don't know why the lights are on; the cute little elf reports back to Santa EVERY night, you better be good; I have no idea where the rest of your Halloween candy went) but a deliberate lie that he knows would get him in trouble? I wouldn't do that.

Must be the evilness creeping out again.

Shocking as it may be, I was right about the costume. My husband was at the Halloween parade the school had and has photographic evidence. The punk even smiled and waved as the picture was taken - the little stinker ...

After all that drama do you think he came home and said "you were right mom, I could wear my costume." Noooo .....

I guess being a superhero (with a evil side) is a pretty thankless job.

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Three's a crowd

I have three children. I have three adorable children age seven, five and three. I have three sweet, funny, beautiful children age seven, five and three who get along with each other – sometimes.

To state the obvious, three is an odd number. So it stands to reason that much of the time someone is going to be left out. There have been times, however, – large chunks of time even – 30 minutes, an hour, even several hours, when they have all gotten along, and gotten along well. Usually it involves an elaborate idea thought up by the oldest and the younger two are ordered around. Catch all that on a good day and the giggling and laughing may go on long enough for me to fold a couple loads of laundry or *gasp* read a book in peace.  More often than not, however, when the third child gets added to the mix, someone gets unhappy.

Interestingly enough, it does not seem to matter which two kids are paired up to begin with. Naturally it would be assumed that the two girls would gang up and exclude the lone boy, but sometimes the younger two (separated by a mere 19 months) like to keep out the big bad older sister and then other times my son wants to be a “big kid” so he and his older sister exclude the youngest. It seems any combination of two of my kids can get along swimmingly. Add the third and chaos likely ensues.

Two very clear examples come to mind – both a which have happened in a five-day span.  My son recently turned five and for his birthday he got a “big kid” bike with training wheels. My oldest has a similar bike (sans training wheels) and they decided that anyone who did not have a bike like theirs was a baby – which of course included their little sister who is still riding a tricycle. Never mind that my son has been riding a bike just like his three-year-old sister’s the day before, now he was a big kid like his big sister and could not stoop to playing with “babies.” Needless to say there were many tears shed by my youngest.

Then just days later – and the bike incident a distant memory – the younger two were enjoying the beautiful weather playing outside in the leaves while their older sister was inside doing her homework. For almost an hour I watched them run around the yard, ride their bikes and have what looked to be deep intellectual conversations where I no doubt believe they were solving the world’s problems. Then the oldest finished her homework, looked around and saw only boring old Mom, and decided she too would go outside and play.

Now, you many not believe me (and I agree that I do tend to exaggerate sometimes for effect), but I SWEAR, not two minutes had passed from the time my oldest shut the back door to go out and play when my son came inside crying. In those tiny 120 seconds the oldest had managed to undo all the goodwill between her younger siblings and had formed an alliance with her sister against her brother. 

“They won’t play with me,” he wailed. The proceeded to tell me in detail all the mean things his sisters were doing to him. He could have been exaggerating a bit too, but I really don’t know where he would get that from!

It all can happen that fast. One minute happy as clams, the next they are using physical violence against each other.  The teen years ought to be real fun …  

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Lessons learned the hard way ... the VERY hard way ...

Patience. It is something I like to think I have, but really have very little. When it comes to my kids it can go away VERY quickly.  When I lose my patience, I tend to be a yeller. Not something I am proud of, but I admit and I am yelling mom.

Plus I have two girls who like to test the little patience that I have very VERY often. This morning was one example. My youngest daughter is four and has a lot of difficulty making decisions. I try to give her only two choices but even then it takes her forever to make up her mind. This morning was no exception as she could not decide between the two shirts I gave her to choose from, the two headbands and then the two choices of footwear.

We were getting ready to leave for preschool and I told her to put on either her tennis shoes or her cowgirl boots. She hemmed and hawed for five minutes and still was without something on her feet. I told her I was going to the gas station and could take her to school as well, but she needed to get something on her feet – some fit throwing and yelling ensued (by her, not me). I removed myself from the meltdown and went into the garage to take care of some recycling and put my purse in the car. When I turned around she was standing on the steps with her boots in her hand. I figured that meant she chose her boots and needed help putting them on.

Nope. 

Instead she started freaking out again saying she didn't want to wear them. With as much calmness as I could muster I told her that if she chose NOT to wear the boots I was going to pick out her shoes. So, did she want to wear the boots or not? No, she said. Then as soon as I started walking in the house to get her some shoes she started yelling and screaming, “No, no, I do want to wear them, I do want to wear them!”

Now I could have stopped turned around and given her the boots to wear. But I have been down this road before. Many, MANY times. It never ends well. If I were to give her the boots she would then say she DIDN’T want them and we would go back and forth and then I would start yelling and there would be tears (probably from both of us).

So I stuck to my guns, grabbed her tennis shoes and struggled to get them on her feet as she literally kicked and screamed at me. Then, I picked her up and she continued to kick and scream and buckled her in her car seat. (This is very difficult to do with a kicking and screaming four-year-old.)

We started backing out of the garage and she (still screaming) began kicking the back of my seat. As calm as I could be I asked her stop. She continued I began counting her and told her if I got to three I was turning around and going home. I counted to one before the car was fully out of the garage. By the time we reached the end of the driveway I was at two. Then at the stop sign at the end of our street she kicked it again.

I knew I had a choice, I could turn the corner drive her to school screaming and carrying on and be to school on time. Or I teach her a lesson.

So I put the car in reverse and pulled into our driveway. In a calm clear tone I told her we were not going anywhere until her voice sounded like my voice and she said she was sorry. 

Then the bargaining happened. She cried and yelled that she would apologize and calm down while I was driving. Nope, not falling for it. I waited. She kicked the back of my chair again. I opened the garage door. More tears and yelling. She kicked, I pulled into the garage. More tears and yelling.

“When your voice can sound like my voice and you tell me you are sorry, we can go,” I calmly said again. She yelled and kicked. I turned off the car and continued my mantra. And she yelled and kicked. I turned off the car. She continued her routine. So did I.

I opened my door. Still she protested. I opened HER door. She yelled and kicked some more. I unbuckled her car seat. She freaked, BUT she didn’t kick.

I silently stood outside her door as she sniffled for a solid five minutes. It was the longest minutes of my life. I wanted to jump up and down yelling – “just say you’re sorry so I can take you to school. Don’t you know how easy this can be fixed? Just say you are sorry!!” But I calmly stood there and said nothing. I didn’t even look at her.

“Mommy, I want to give you a hug,” she said.

Whoa. Now what?? I had held my ground this long, did she think a hug was going to end this stand-off? It was well-played on her part I give her that, but I decided I wasn't giving in, mean as that may sound.

“I will give you a hug when you say you are sorry,” I told her. I waited for another two minutes. Then in a voice just above a whisper I heard it – “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

Hallelujah!!

I wanted to jump up and down and jabber on about how it is important to say you’re sorry and all that but I decided to just be calm and concise. “Thank you.” Then I gave her hug. (I may be mean, but I’m not a monster.)

I buckled her in, closed her door, got in the car and we drove to preschool. It was a quiet ride, but there were no tears, no kicking and we walked in to her school hand in hand. We were 10 minutes late, but that’s ok. Hopefully the lesson I taught her was just as important as whatever she missed in those 10 minutes.

Now I am exhausted … And I need an Oreo – or 12 …

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