A Race to the Finish, or at least until Teeth Brushing

After having four daughters, I am within days of turning 46 and also within days of going away from my children for the first time in 18 years. I recognize that 46 isn't old. I can overlook the hypertension that I've had for years, as it runs in the family and is part of the "family gene pool". I can overlook the osteoarthritis in the hips, as that may be part of the "family gene pool". I can recognize that this may be made much more challenging by one too many raviolis, or even better, that large bowl of angel hair pasta, butter and just a touch of salt. I consider my gray hair a badge of honor. I earned them. Each one was earned learning a lesson, whether it be critical, three visits to the NICU or just the hurt feelings of a child. Sometimes it was less so -- and I had to realize that one more week of dirty sheets won't really matter.

Still, some days seem just a tad bit longer. Bedtime can seem like it's getting later and later for the smallest member of our family. Her sisters had a strict bedtime of 7 pm until my sister suggested that perhaps at 9 years of age they ought to be able to stay up at least until 8, when the sun actually went down. However, now I have this five year old who thinks bedtime comes when we all go to bed. Unacceptable on every level. And so our nighttime routines start earlier, are somewhat more regimented than they used to be, but still are longer than her sisters were.

Tonight I went out with a friend and left the "kids" at home with my husband. The only one that is really of age to need some assistance at bedtime is the youngest. On my way home from my dinner, I phoned home. I know, I know. Dumb decision. I was immediately informed that someone, who shall remain nameless, but is small and wears size 5T, refused to use the potty and brush her teeth. It was time to admit to my secret method. I knew it was time, but I didn't want to give up "the card". "The card" was the game that could be, if played correctly, the thing that ensured a timely bedtime, complete with a visit to the bathroom and brushing of the teeth. I call it the race card.

This child is competitive in nature. I have no idea where she got it. It must be from my husband. I'd sooner give in than to compete against anyone for anything, just in case someone's feelings might get hurt somewhere in the world, merely because I brushed my teeth faster. However, this kid loves a good race. So, casually, I mentioned on speaker phone that I doubted that Daddy could make it to the bathroom, efficiently, and get back to her room before she did. I mentioned that maybe I was wrong. Maybe he had practiced. That incentive was all she needed. On speakerphone, I heard the race ensue. It was a flurry of excitement, and giggling and feet pattering all around. Breathlessly, I heard her little voice squeaking "I won. I won. Daddy can't pee as fast as I can!" This is probably not the information that he would use in his new ad campaign for his business, but it did get the job done.

Next came the brushing of the "choppers", as we call it. Another race ensued. This time it was more precarious as the right toothpaste had to be located, then it had to be established that she could not, indeed, grab any random toothbrush and use it. Fortunately, after having four daughters, my husband put his competitive side aside and slowed down his brushing. She once again won the race, and was easily convinced to curl up in bed with the dog in between her and dad as he told a story from his childhood.

My night away was relaxing. It was inspiring as I sat with another woman and discussed our journeys, however varying. But my ride home, the rush and adrenaline gave me hope that the upcoming retreat I had planned would be okay. I could leave my daughters home with their father. The bigger ones had their routine. And that little one. . . Well, she had her races. God bless my husband because it's going to be a race to the finish for three whole days and nights. The only thing that will keep him going are the giggles that followed each and every accomplishment as she kicked his butt over and over again.

Nothing like a giggle from your child to reassure you as you go off for a first and scary weekend away from home. I'll bring my toothbrush and be ready for any races that may take place at the retreat. It's always good to be prepared. And my husband will get to compete, hear the giggles, and get those final quiet moments of the day, snuggled in with her and a silly little dog.

What Was I Listening For?

The time had come. I had reached my saturation point. Four homeschooled daughters, one family owned business, a multitude of pets and I knew the time had come. I was ready to venture out for a retreat. Actually, truth be told, I knew if I didn’t venture out to something, there would be nothing left of me. I no longer had a sense of self.

In a perfect world, we’re able to book those posh retreats that celebrities enjoy. The retreatant shows up, a suitcase filled with brand new luxury “retreat” clothing. I always pictured a lot of soft yoga-style clothing in varying shades of muted grays and blues, maybe even a beige sweater added in for variety. Regardless, I’m sure the material is soft and forgiving. I’m sure it looks fabulous on the thin, toned body I will also have acquired for my retreat. I’ll arrive, as all good stars do, with my entourage, who will also stay here in their own yoga clothing in a dwelling far from my own. My room will be quiet and serene with candles that stay lit all the time, with no concern for fire hazards. There are no fire hazards because this, of course, is the perfect retreat when I will become immediately enlightened. Fire hazards weigh too heavy on those who want to become enlightened quickly.

I’ll check in, sign my name on the dotted line and bliss will follow. Immediately, no questions asked, no work required. Bliss will become apparent as soon as I sign my name. I really won’t even have to do the work to find peace. I’ll just wear those cool yoga pants, and tank top, sign my name and presto-chango, I’m blissful.

The reality is I’m escaping to a quiet monastery located not far from my home. Retreatants are asked to check in at the gift shop. So, I’m to arrive between 1 and 4 pm on a Friday. I’m assigned a room, basic with a bed, perhaps a desk. I may get my own bath, but I may also have to share. Since I’ve shared a bath with five other people for quite a number of years, in addition to numerous bath toys, and pet shampoos, sharing a bath seemed like the least of my concerns. Regardless, the basic comforts will be met.

My real and main concern was that I would actually have to be alone with myself. All alone. Just me, myself and I, with no one to break the silence, ask silly questions like what did I like on my French fries, what time I went to bed, or what picture book would I look to read prior to bed. You gather for the meals at a precise time, in silence, and one of the monks reads. Everyone else is quiet. This took me back for a moment. I’m not sure I know what silence is. I haven’t been silent in almost forty-six years. But it’s mandatory. So, I would be silent – whether it killed me or not. I had already started to plan my demise caused merely by being silent. I took a deep breath, and plunged right in. I emailed, and made the reservation. There was no turning back.

I knew that the only way to find myself was to truly be with myself. The thought of it scared me far more than I thought it would. For years, I thought I craved being alone. But maybe what I really wanted was two hours during nap time to read, or a few hours in the evening to have control of the television remote. Three days and nights in silence was terrifying. I questioned the monk in charge of the retreat more often than he ever heard from his own mother, I’m sure. I asked questions ranging from the obvious and ridiculous – “Could I bring my fan because I can’t sleep without it?” And then “May I bring my diet Coke 12 pack?” Patiently. every question was answered with no obvious discord. Yes, I may bring my fan as long as it didn't bother other retreatants, and of course, I could bring my diet Coke. Phew, I thought. I’ll survive.

But eventually, after a few days, I worked myself up into a frenzy. An all-night, come-to-Jesus kind of frenzy. What was I doing? I didn't even like myself for the afternoon, how was I going to be alone with myself for three days? But slowly, really slowly, like a slug, a sense of peace came over me.

Then suddenly, before the retreat, I decided maybe it was time to create a small space in my home for just me. Without “stuff”. No television. No iPod. No papers, bills, dirty dishes, or picture books. Just a chair, a lamp, maybe a table to hold the infamous diet Coke. I found a s mall spot, in the corner of my laundry room, which I cleaned in a whirlwind. Now, I thought, now, I was ready for the silence. I had practiced in my little corner of the house. It was humbling, but it was okay. Mostly the washing machine noise drowned out the other distractions in the house.

I’m still a bit nervous, perhaps scared. When I sit in this small spot with only the hum of the washing machine, I’m not quite as fearful of the sense of peace I might actually find during that retreat. If it’s not there during that weekend, I’m sure I’ll come home with a bit more sense of self than I’ve had in a very long time. I’m hoping I’ll come back with an entirely new appreciation for silence. Perhaps I can pass that appreciation on to my girls. Or maybe I’ll just be able to mimic the hum of the washing machine, which will then, over time, teach them that it’s okay to be silent, even if we don’t know what we’re listening for.

Peace and Quiet, for Two Minutes

I woke up early this morning and laid in bed enjoying the little tiny feet that had found their way into my bed in the middle of the night. After a few minutes of trying to pretend that I was going to sleep, I climbed out of bed, grabbed my morning beverage -- a cold diet coke, or two -- and headed up to my little haven. It's just the empty laundry room, now furnished with odds and ends from the house, and a couple of inexpensive purchased plants, but it's mine. As I sit here and type I realize that this little space was something I truly needed for myself. Not just the space, but the reality that I'm at a point in my life where I need to find out who I am, who I've become, and who I want to be.

About two months ago I emailed a few women friends that I admire, that seemed happy with their lives. I asked them what made them tick, what made them happy. I was surprised with their responses. One said she fought her own demons every day and that it was a constant struggle. One said she tries, every day, to live the life of who she wants to be, thereby getting closer and closer to that person. And the third was surprised that I thought she was together enough to even ask how she got there. What I realized is that I'm not that far off the mark. That we're all at the point in our lives when our children are not quite out of the house, but will be in the next few years. The kids don't need us like they used to, but we feel the need to be available for most of the time.

In my own case, I have two older girls in a local college, and two younger ones in elementary school that I am homeschooling. I'm stuck right in the middle. My husband has a growing business. I have found myself stagnant. Where is the direction in my life? Did I truly have any direction, or was I just so bogged down with the daily chores that come across my plate as I meander through my days with four daughters and a multitude of pets. I have friends, but they too seemed caught up in the daily stuff.

I've decided that I'm not going to wait until I'm sixty, which is the age I'll be when my youngest is old enough to go away to college. That's a long way away, and certainly I deserve better. So I'm grabbing the two minutes here and there. I'm calling friends and making plans to meet for lunch, or dinner, or even just a phone call -- uninterrupted. The time has come to put myself before others, because what I feared was truly beginning to happen. I was losing myself within the four walls of my home, and my role as mother.

So now my peace and quiet for two minutes is over for the moment, and I close with this thought -- if you were your 95 year old self, what advice would you be giving yourself? I think I would remind myself to take that time, regardless of the energy it takes to get it. Ultimately, it will be worth and truly I am worth it.

Frills Are Optional

There was a very brief time in my life when I was a slave to fashion. Unfortunately for me, these fashions included red parachute pants and a few "Flash Dance" sweatshirts. As a mother of four girls, I can usually be found in a tee-shirt and shorts. If my clothes are clean and I am not wearing a nursing bra, I consider myself dressed up.

I always knew I was going to raise my girls in a "non-gender" atmosphere. I wanted to let them find themselves among trucks, balls, bats, dolls, cradles and books. never would I have girls that "girlie girls" just because they happened to be born a female. I used to tell my friends from college, that if I ever was so lucky to have girls I never, under any circumstances, would dress them in pink or frills; they would never fall prey to the advertising evils and surely would push Tonka trucks with the best of them. I even gave them traditionally "boys" names so that their sex was not distinguishable on a resume. I was a woman obsessed. However, after one of my true blue college friends showed up when my first daughter was born with lovely pink outfit, I realized that my girls really look quite good in pink and so pink was added to the repertoire for dresses and other items.

When my oldest, now eighteen, was about four minutes old it became apparent that she took a natural liking to everything that could be considered girlie. She was immediately drawn to pink and purple sequins. She would gaze at other little girls who had nail polish on. She received dress-up clothing from my mother-in-law, who had hit the jackpot at a garage sale, and never again did I see her in something that was not pink, sparkled or ruffled in some other way. It was the end of my ideas of non-gender child rearing. She was inherently drawn to the snazzy.

Ryan has an unbelievable sense of self. She has worn purple sequins to Wal-mart before it was cool. She has sauntered down the aisles of Publix with her pink feathered and gold lame shoes with her purse slung quite casually over her shoulder. She has sashayed around the playground in her home-schooling tee-shirt with a black satin skirt and turquoise sweat socks with white patent leather shoes. I followed behind with a bewildered look in my eye as I meet the gaze of passersbys. Some of these are quite appreciative. They are probably mothers, old "war" veterans who can sense which battle was important and which was not. They smile "that" smile, and I can sense a bit camaraderie between us.

The toughest stares come from first-time mothers pushing tiny babies in buggies. They are pristine in matching clean outfits, their socks folded to the nth-degree under tiny satin baby shoes. Sometimes I look over the edge of the baby seat to see their little darlings, and when I see a girl, I tell them how wonderful little girls are and how it only gets better. They give me that completely false smile. I know they are thinking that I am the most corrupt mother, allowing my daughters to go out in that mismatched outfit.

I have no clue as to why I was so blessed with four daughters. They are all pink, purple, and frills. I am the original taupe woman. Everything from my cars, the walls in my home, and both of my dogs, are beige. I am denim shorts and clogs -- brown, of course. I only owned nail polish when my girls began wearing it. I recently bought a pair of funny flip-flops at Wal-mart. They were bright orange with huge fluorescent pink flowers on them. I have no idea why I was drawn to them. I had to buy them. My sister, who bought the same pair, put it best. She said, "I feel fabulous in them." That's it exactly. I feel fabulous in mine even if I only wear them to the pool in the back yard.

I watch my girls' faces when they wear an outfit that some would find odd or a bit off-beat (a fake leopard-skin jacket tossed over a shoulder in the middle of August), and I can see that they exude self-confidence. I am not taking that feeling away. I know there will come a day when they may conform more to those around them. I surely hope not. I hope they will always wear what thrills them, what makes them feel special, even different. When I follow behind them in khaki shorts, a tee-shirt, a stray dog hair or two, and my ever-predictable brown clogs, I feel fabulous. On some day s you may even find me sitting by the pool wearing "Cool Love" nail polish on my toes, fluorescent flip-flops and purple sequins. Come join me! Frills are optional.

The Laundry Room a Piece of Paradise?

I am fortunate to have a large home that we've lived in for twelve years. It's well-worn, and every inch of it is claimed by one daughter or another or by a pet. My husband does his manly man things in the garage and the shed. He also has an office in the garage. My daughters, all four of them, have their own room. They guard the entry of their rooms with a fierceness known by no other. No one may step across the threshold unless she is first given specific permission. The three bathrooms are taken up by, well, use of the bathroom necessity. Since we relinquished our master bedroom to a child in order to have a haven in the downstairs of our home we got the smaller of the bedrooms. It fits our furniture, but there is no place to create a small of my own.

I had even realized that I wanted a place of my own until I realized that I couldn't really have one anyway. Just that thought alone spurred my desire to find a retreat within my home for just me. I walked the entire house. Truly, inside and out. I considered the overgrown garden, as it used to bring such joy to me. Now it was a reminder of another thing on my list of things to get done. I came inside the garage. Nope. Tucked away in each corner was a motorcycle, a freezer, varying bikes of difference sizes for those "just in case" moments when a friend of a different size comes and we have to have that extra bike. There were bar stools, beautiful, but don't fit our bar area. Packing boxes, folded, neatly stacked for that moment when we might someday sell the house and move. Found those in someone's trash and surely couldn't pass this up. Plus it was blistering hot, and in the winter would be too cold to truly enjoy.

A few years ago I had a hideous pink recliner that my mother-in-law was getting rid of. I stuck it in the corner of my dining room, and it overlooked the kitchen. I actually liked that spot, but the chair who had come with a past life of its own, finally really and truly kicked the bucket. There went that spot.

Then it occurred to me. My laundry room and pantry is about 11 x 11. There are three closets without doors and the floor is usually covered with dirty laundry. However, with some careful planning, I could make that room mine. I purchased some inexpensive curtains and tension rods to hide the reminders of what I didn't get done, or needed to get done. Who can have a haven while the cans of beans are staring you down? I dragged in a chair from the living room. To heck with the kids. They're young. They can sit on the floor while they watch tv. I "found" an extra light, an end table from the family room. I even found a mirror, albeit small, to hang up on the wall. I moved a few plants in and there I had an instant space for myself. I plan to expand, maybe add another table if I can find one from the thrift store. I'm going to pick up some candles and then I'm shutting that door. It's mine. My little piece of paradise.