One.more.day. As such, gumbo! What I know to be true.

Friends, it seems no less than cruel that tomorrow is yet another day without school. I find myself with a burgeoning feeling of dreadful ick rising north from my toes- yes the boys and I are thrilled to participate in a wonderful service project at a local shelter, and I promised the Lego movie too, but it's been nearly a week since I've gotten anything of substance done, and I am most tired of the imbalance that tomorrow will perpetuate. Effing Presidents Day- this seems a "holiday" we could do without, at least when it comes on the heels of multiple snow days. But alas, nothing I can do except make a gumbo. And so I have. A big pot of thick chicken and sausage gumbo is bubbling away on the stove now and, as always, will be both tonic and balm later this evening.

You know what I've been thinking and feeling more sure about lately? That the following aphorisms regarding parenting are wise and true:

1. It is more important to be your child's parent than his friend. It is my utmost hope that my boys and I remain close forever and that our relationship turns into one of deep and loving friendship when they're adults. But it is terrifically helpful to maintain a distance above and apart from them that wouldn't be possible without the power differential inherent in parent versus friend. I believe they take me more seriously because of this relationship AND it helps me not take their nonsense quite so personally. Being able to laugh off the bullshit is an incredible tool in the arsenal of any parent; it's not always easy to do so, but when I can, it's bliss.

"I am your mother, and I am in charge. You may not always like it, and I'm always willing to listen to your perspective and positions but some things are simply not negotiable."

I recently told Jack that I'd known him longer than he'd known himself and that sometimes the plain truth is that I do know what's best for him. He may not agree at that point in time but as long as he's living under my roof, he simply will do certain things, like go to bed at bedtime. Which leads me smoothly into...

2. Sleep is paramount. Really! Besides my love and providing them good and healthy food, I think little is more essential than ensuring they get enough sleep each night. I have before been told that I am too strict regarding sleep, that I should let loose the reins on the sleep schedule I worked hard to get in place.

To that I say, A) read the studies on the importance of sleep to brain and overall healthy development, cognitive imprintation, memory formation, and body stasis (knowing when you're hungry and full, feeling sane, feeling truly restored), and B) if you don't read, ask- your pediatrician, a sleep expert, your child's school principal, etc because they will likely all say sleep is muy importante, and C) I don't really care. Why? For one, knowing their sleep patterns means I know the bit of time each night that I can count on for myself or for Tom and me. This has been amazing for me and for our marriage. Secondly, I know my children, I know how cranked out they are when they're short on sleep, and I feel 100% confident that because they've always had good and consistent bedtime and sleep schedules, they are all the better for it. Which segues me nicely into...

3. Know your child(ren) and advocate for the individual he/she is. As any parent of more than one child knows, no two are alike. This can be extraordinarily challenging when you try something for #2 and basically, he laughs at you. Like discipline, or a cool toy (well, it was cool for #1), or teething all of a sudden blows up your world (but wait for #1 it was a non-event), or #1 never puked and #2 does it all the time (this is true in my home), etc.

Because of innate personality, biological and other differences, it is imperative to know your children because at some point you will need to advocate for them. Example: I knew Jack's regular febrile stints weren't just a series of viruses. I was told for a full year that he just kept getting viruses. Had I not A) been keeping track of his fevers and symptoms and B) been hell-fire sure that he wasn't actually getting sick but was suffering from some bizarre disorder, I would not have been able to push so effectively and get him on the damn Tagamet (yes, your basic acid reducer of old that is an immune-boosting wonder drug) that made everything better. Knowing your kids leads me to...

4. Smart discipline is a dear friend on whom you should not be afraid to call or lean. If you know your kids, you'll ultimately figure out the best ways to discipline and guide them. Have I failed many a time? Indeed! Do I purport to know all the answers? Puh-lease. Let's be clear that I'm not trying to spout any such nonsense. On the contrary, I've learned this point well from repeated efforts that failed. Those failures and subsequent attempts to improve upon them -improv!!- have made me an infinitely better parent. And I firmly believe that with limits come respect, security, and ultimately better judgment.

Example: While I know carrots are generally better than sticks, there are some behaviors that simply need to be beaten back with a damn stick. In my home, the latest two in need of this treatment would be the wildly overused term "butt-crack" and the unbelievably irritating action of dissolving a bar of soap in the bathtub in two days flat. Some people wouldn't give a hoot about either of these things, but for me, they were simply too much. Like stepping in dog poop just after cleaning my shoe each and every day. So about three months ago, I created a Fine Jar. For every butt-crack transgression, the offender put 25 cents into the jar. For every bar of soap dissolved, $2 in the jar. "Once these behaviors are extinct, we'll use the money in the jar to go on an ice cream date or the like," I said. A month later we were at $2.25; we're still there, I almost never hear butt-crack anymore and no bars of soap have been wasted nor was it ever necessary to bank two hard-earned bucks for trying. Terrific, boys!

Example 2: We place enormous value on the kids' education. As such, homework just is: a daily element of life from 1st grade until post-grad work is complete. Accept it, kiddos, and let's get busy. Since the boys know this, I really have little patience for not just getting the worksheet or whatever done. Today I told Mr. J that he needed to finish his word work homework which was to choose five vocab words, look up their meanings and write the definitions in his notebook. My mom recently bought J a children's dictionary to assist. Nonetheless, he went on and on about how this was boring work and ooh, he already knew four of the five words I'd chosen. I countered his futzing with, "Well, if you're bored, let's up the ante. I issue the Mommy challenge: write down each word, then write your definition, then look the word up and write the actual definition, whether or not it's the same as your own."

Y'all should have seen his face. He tried to tell me his teachers would not accept my challenge (unlikely), and then he tried to go on about how long it might take. Well buster, you said you were bored so here's what you get, an extra challenge. He ended up enjoying the exercise and I imagine we will not have this silly discussion again.

Meanwhile, Oliver will do anything to not lose dessert so I'm sticking with that tactic for him for now.

5. As best I know, this is one of my own but I think it has its merits: I (and you) am going to mess up. Several times. I'm (and you) also going to scream on occasion or more though I'll try my very best to keep it minimal. Sometimes I am not going to like them and they are not going to like me.

In my opinion, all of this is cool and the gang. I am pretty sure that at some point in their lives, my kids are going to speak to some counselor about something. I hope they do. Everyone should. Therapy should be a rite of passage. I mean that. In the meanwhile, I am simply doing my best, trying to parent two kids with whom I share so much but also little. We're not even the same gender for pete's sakes, and they're each half Tom and all his ancestors. I don't even know most of those peeps so how can I possibly know what recessive business they passed on to my kids?

As each person is his/her own brew, all I can do is try to understand that concoction, love it like crazy, ask for help when it seems off, do my very very best and then hope for the best. I really mean that. How can any of us do more? I am not perfect, my kids aren't perfect, we're all gonna mess up and love each other and make the most marvelous memories and also some we want to obliviate (HP ref, y'all). It's how we grow from and stay together during and what we do with all that beautiful dissonance that counts, I think and hope.

That's it for tonight. I am eyeing the newspaper with lust and a deserved glass of wine with desire. We've got a Real Time from Friday, our dryer broke and our ceiling is leaking slowly in two places. But I'm just gonna take it as it comes and settle in and soldier on and keep my mantra close: I'm just doing my best!

Ooh, the rice timer pinged. Gumbo time!

Benedict, great article on parenthood and (many) thoughts on it

After watching the final episode of this season's Sherlock last night (how three episodes constitutes a "season" is beyond me. And no, I don't much care that each is 90 minutes; I still wish for more because I'm borderline obsessed), I was fully set to write a fan club tribute about Benedict Cumberbatch today. Seriously, though it pains me to say this because such a teen crush at my age is slightly embarrassing, I could be his club president. He is SO talented and sexy. I haven't "felt this strongly" about a celebrity stranger since Jani Lane, lead singer of Warrant, circa 1989. I taped a cut out, glossy magazine photo of him on my childhood wall and slept next to him for years. Truth be told, his looks were terribly 1980s and didn't come through the era well at all. Additionally, he died of alcohol poisoning back in 2004. I believe my adoration of Benedict* shows how significantly my taste has evolved. See pictorial comparison below for proof.

Em crush of 1989 - 1993, give or take ↖

Em crush, present day ↑

Yet I woke up on the hormonal migraine, grumptastic side of the bed this morning and really have never recovered, not least because cold rain prompted a two-hour school start delay. This winter and the generally hyperbolic, overwrought, hand-wringing responses to it in my area (D.C.) have led me to wonder if all peoples purported to live north of Boston are really a lie being foisted upon us all. I mean if we cannot handle cold rain, how could anyone live in more severe climes?? Surely no one in Buffalo! Saskatchewan! Siberia! could possibly remain alive in temperatures that near the terrifying zero mark.

Are snow plows and warm parkas and salt and heated interiors really such pitiful counterspells to cold precipitation? I grew up in Louisiana for god's sakes, and I feel perfectly confident driving on chilled roads. Has a plague of winter anxiety swept over us like an amnesiac ether? Snow, sleet and cold aren't new, for the love. People have handled these climatic challenges for millennia. I mean seriously, hasn't the postal service taken enormous pride**, for decades!, in their determination to deliver mail despite rain, snow, heat and gloom of night?

All this to say that my ode on Benedict just didn't flow this morning. An ode on a crush must come from a happy place, not a dour, sour one.

As such, change of subject.

Do you read New York Magazine? I've been a subscriber for years; the mag is excellent journalism, a weekly crossword and highbrow gossip at their best. I can hardly think of a better evening than a freshly delivered NY Mag, pen and glass of wine by my side. Yes, I do my crosswords in pen, and I am extraordinarily protective of them too; ask T or J. They tried to participate the other night before I'd even had a thorough once-over, and I nearly locked the 'zine in Fort Knox to keep them away. If I get stumped, only then might I seek consultation.

Two weeks ago, the cover article was "The Problem with Teenagers is Their Parents" by Jennifer Senior, one of my favorite journalists. She has recently published a book entitled, All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood, which I look forward to reading. Additionally, she will be presenting it tomorrow night, 7pm, at DC's own Politics & Prose bookstore; I intend to go, but damnit, you just never know.

Anyway, I found the article totally absorbing and thought-provoking despite the absence of teens in my house. The primary thesis is that while teenage adolescence really rocks some kids' worlds, for the most part, it's the parents who struggle and are beset by anxiety, not their teens:

"Is it possible that adolescence has a bigger impact on adults than it does on kids?"

The arguments made, by Senior and a number of experts whom she interviewed, include the perhaps unsurprising notion that as kids need less from their parents, their parents feel hurt, displaced and somewhat lost; the "who am I" question forced upon adults as the kids who've been the centers of their worlds pull away and mature. As the parents (mostly moms) wrestle with these feelings, they try to hold on even more tightly. It's not hard to see how attempts at growing up and out in dissonant concert with attempts to cling and remain important could yield fraught relationships.

Another point clearly presented is that adolescence might be rougher on parents because their child's burgeoning independence illumines the absence of other things -a job, interests, hobbies- in one or both of the parents' lives, "exposing what's fulfilling about it and what is not." Though raising younger children can also make people question how to parent and in what manner (staying at home, seeking help, continuing to work full time, etc), Senior suggests that teenagers force us to think of these issues in different, intensely acute ways.

This might by why so many parents struggle mightily with empty-nest syndrome when their children head off to college. When their foci are gone, it makes sense to me that parents would then reflect on the years spent raising them, considering what was sacrificed to do so, weighing whether or not the things given up or delayed were worth it, thinking "What now?" Surely many parents feel satisfied but as surely there are others who feel bereft at the time in their own lives they've lost, or at least the parts of their own identities they neglected to tend.

It seemed to me that my mother had a very difficult time adjusting after my sister and I left. I remember her once calling me at college, in tears in the milk aisle, bawling because, since my sister didn't drink milk, she no longer needed to purchase gallons. I remember wishing I could hug her through the phone. Once my sister left, Mom did return to graduate school, get a masters degree and teach, but she also still feels that life is only at its best when we are all together. While I love how much she loves us and our nuclear family, I do admit to hoping that I don't feel as she does. That I do, rather, feel the way I think I will which is that I did my job well, I loved it, but I'm damn thrilled to be in my renaissance. To have time to deeply explore and live in a way that I simply can't right now. To welcome my children home, always and happily, but not pine for them and their regular presence in my house.

Though I can't know now, it feels that I will definitely not miss some of the more inane elements of child-rearing. I can already say with near certainty that when I no longer have to encourage and manage excellent tooth brushing, clean bums and eating with utensils, I will be thrilled. I suspect that when I don't have to try so damn hard to simply be a person (as distinct from Mom), to maintain my identity and interests in stolen, nonlinear moments chock full of interruptions, I will feel less scattered; I believe there will be a deep happiness there.

This is not to say that I'm not happy now, but my experience of motherhood is that it sits on the fulcrum of fulfillment and desperation. That has been unexpected and is a hard place to perch, day after day, year after year. Every day brings new demands to improvise, teach, support, struggle, fail, feel terribly confused and utterly alone. Simultaneously, every day brings the joy of your child learning something new; the pride in watching him shake hands and say thank you, just like you've taught and reminded him so many times before; the unfiltered, no holds barred hugs and kisses that will, at some point, become things of the past.

I know that I will weep for those moments in the future, as I swim in the nostalgia of memory. But I also hope that the efforts I've made and continue to make to be a woman, friend, wife and individual will sustain me in deep and happy ways when my children are grown. The thought of feeling utterly unmoored at that time is terrifying and serves as a terrific motivation to keep current with myself, to make time for me, my marriage, my friends and my interests. Does this mean that at times I make a choice to value those things more than my kids? In a way, it does. They are always primary in my thoughts, yet I believe the adage, "a happy mom is a happy home," is truer than its platitudinous phrasing sounds.

To me it means not only that if I'm happy I have more happy energy to share but also that I am modeling for my boys all that a mother/woman can be, deserves to be, should be respected for being. If my sons marry, have kids and are not the primary parent, they should know that if their partner (woman or man) takes on that role, it is not to the exclusion of his/her self. It is in addition to. So I feel I need to model that. To show that even though I am here, always and intensely, I am also more than that. I have needs, limits, desires, and interests in addition to and well beyond them.

What I get tangled up in sometimes is the difference between who I was before kids and who I am now. Then, I was well-educated, well-traveled, social, happy and dying to be a wife and mom. Because I hadn't found a career about which I was truly passionate, I looked to marriage and motherhood both because I wanted those things but also because I thought they would be the answer. That because they would need what I wanted to give, they would be the source of peace and satisfaction for which I'd long searched.

Once I had Jack, however, I started to become my truest self, a self that is still well-educated, well-traveled (though now slightly less so, damnit), social (though with less energy), happy and dying to also explore the passions I didn't know I had. The timing feels shitty at times, and negotiating the two poles is rather a conundrum. But without my sons, would I be this woman? I think not and so I am indebted and grateful and thrilled. But it's not easy.

To bring it back to Senior's article, I guess I would again say that I hope my experience as the mom of adolescents is different than the women she interviewed and the many out there like them. No judgment there, just hope. I see myself as mother as a way-station of the most serious sort. I was gifted with incredible, unformed beings, and it is my privilege and most serious duty to raise them well, thoughtfully and with every ounce of love and strength and energy I have. But it doesn't stop there. No, my privilege includes sending them out into the world, to make it a better place, to touch others' lives the way they have mine, to make their own mark on this world. Because of that perspective, I feel it would be a disservice to them, my husband and myself if I didn't keep anything for me, didn't tend to myself along the way. I don't want to have worked this hard for that long to then feel bewildered by or unexcited about the time left before me.

Food for thought, friends.

*Puritanical thinkers out there, rest assured that my husband knows of and is comfortable with my damn celebrity crush. **"Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." is inscribed on the wall of a NYC post office and is often invoked with pride. That said, the postal service has no official creed or motto.

Strange Monday

So much rain and gray, and then, what's that? Snow?! Phew, it's ephemeral and, like a quick glance, gone. The yard is soggier than a bowl of kids' cereal left out all morning; it sucks and squishes and squelches underfoot. The mulch Jack and I carefully laid down yesterday is unnoticeable now but at least the detritus is cleared away. I wonder how the worms are faring. Are they suffocating? Frozen? Compacted? I'd be miserable down there. Still, there are signs of animation. Spring green buds push north through the cold ground, brave little beacons of life from below. Perennials are so optimistic, aren't they? So ever-hopeful for the light and warmth that does finally come each year, even when we humans consider that such might never be so again. A bit more each day, I hear the happy sing-song of birds returning home again after another season away.

These instinctive behaviors just are. Elemental drives that remind me how simple some things really are or could be.

A nap with the cat, a dust-buster gleefully taken into the depths of our closet, some cooking. Time lapses with total or no accountability. Before I know, it's time to pick up the boys. Bless you, Monday. Usually you come when another moment of weekend simply seems to much to bear. A quick glance at my attire shakes me into a rapid change: I can't possibly go to pick-up in this get-up. Then again, it's still raining and a slicker and knee-high rubber boats will obscure most of my wardrobe randomness.

3:05p: I am at school, simultaneously thrilled to soon see my darlings and anxious about the two minutes of freedom I have left. It's like a reunion you've been dying for meets Sunday night re-entry anxiety for disgruntled workers; what a strange combination of feelings in the early afternoon. I keep in mind that I have just set up a whole table of cheerful Valentine card making materials in the basement. Won't we have fun making cards for friends?! And by starting this early (I'm learning!), there won't be a moment of stress.

I read the boys a book about the Chinese New Year while they happily make cards. Surely two young boys have never made such pretty and thoughtful Valentines so willingly. I bask in this plan that went according to plan. Those can be awfully rare.

I set the table for dinner and prepare their favorites. Oliver loses his mind over something, and I sense that staying up relatively late last night is coming to haunt us. He says he can't possible take a deep breath or stop crying so how on earth will he eat dinner. I feel like I suffered whiplash between the basement and the kitchen. What happened? How?

I take Oliver up for an early bath. He is still wailing and I try some tough love. He informs me that I have been mean to him and that once again he can't possibly stop the torrential flood of tears and snot. My oven timer blares, reminding me about the sixth and seventh pans of cheese straws that are now ready. Jack asks for more dinner, a blueberry yogurt sundae please. Oliver says he has to pee and as I lift the seat and wipe someone's splatters, he pees on my hand. "Mom, you shouldn't put your hand there when I'm peeing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" "Oh, I never thought about it like that." Said no mom ever.

He is finally undressed, the cheese straws are out, next pans in, Jack is eating. Into the bath goes O. Five minutes later J joins. An argument about a waterproof bendy doll named Soaker Bob ensues. Then a battle over scuba goggles. Do you have any idea how fascinating it is to scuba in three inches of bath water when all white tub surrounds you? Un.real. Surely each boy needs to see the amazing visions the tub offers at the same time which is now. Oliver, who has resumed wailing, pinches Jack and says "it was an accident." Puh-lease.

I pluck him from the tub and he says a girl in his class is mean and that he's having a very bad day. I hug him tight and give him some advice and try to get his Pull-up on. Have you ever tried to pull a Pull-up up chubby, wet legs? It is cute but it is not easy. It is like trying to get a wet bathing suit back on without it rolling and snagging so that you end up looking like you're wearing a sadistic twist-tie.

Jack's response to "sweetie, please get out and get your jammies on" is "I'm STARVING. You NEVER feed me enough. Ever. I'm starving." He slams the door. In addition to now knowing that staying up late last night was mos def a mistake, I think, "this load of horse shit again?" I am Ms. Cook for pete's sakes. My kids can attempt to blame me for many things, but not feeding them is never going to be a successful accusation. "Think it through, boys."

I ignore him completely and settle in to read Oliver a different story about Chinese New Year. Jack sidles up, kisses me, apologizes profusely, and as I look at his tired, sweet eyes, my heart aches with love, fading irritation and the compassionate 'ugh' I always feel when I remember how hard it is to grow up and feel you've made a mistake. "Don't worry, honey. I know you're tired."

Oliver wail-begs for another story so I agree IF I can choose. Knuffle Bunny it is because "going boneless" is the ultimate way to describe a melting-down toddler and I've got to hand it to Mo Willems for coining that one; it cracks me up every time I read it. Also, KB is not too long. "Don't think y'all can trick me into Mike Mulligan tonight, kids" I whisper to myself.

Finally they are in bed. I reheat chili for dinner, watch Downton with T and head to bed myself. G'night.