Category Archives: About Mom

October 5, 2012 · 8:28 am

Miscalculating: I Never Thought I’d Need Math Again

“I hate math! I wish it never existed. I’m no good at it. Ugh!”

Though that’s something one of my kids could have shouted over homework, those thoughts actually came from my math-incapable brain while editing a math book last week.

Always glad to have some freelance work, I shudder when I see pages of fraction multiplication staring at me. Immediately I recall splintered desks, stuffy classrooms, heavy eyes, and groups of numbers that could be anything from a top-secret security code to a phone number to a long division problem crawling across my page. The teacher spoke mumbo jumbo, a complex language that lulled us creative kids right to sleep so all the math whizzes would learn her special secrets.

I have a secret that my own kids don’t know: When my dad tried to show me why I was using the wrong algebraic and geometric formulas, I writhed and squirmed like a child getting a tooth pulled. I just wanted him to do my homework for me too, for it to be done. I didn’t want to learn it. I wanted to be put out of my math misery just like my kids do—and that was in high school.

Miraculously, I made it through algebra, geometry, and pre-calculus. The probability of that has to be one in a million, or something. In college I majored in journalism, never to look back at math again, but I failed my one college math course and had to repeat it. My parents started doing some math of their own. I figured that equation out just fine: no pass equaled serious trouble.

So who knew that in a career focused on words, the copy editor job I took before I had my son would require me to know math? Who knew that? In some sick, twisted joke, I worked for an educational publisher. I had to not only edit worksheets for elementary kids, but also make sure everything was right. Someone has to check answer keys, you know.

calculators make quick workLast week’s fractions have been quite the refresher. Quick, what’s 2/3 + 5/8? You can bet I know the answer. What’s 8 x 1/5? I am convinced the sole reason I had that job was in preparation for helping my kids with their homework. While they squirm and say, “I don’t get it,” I do. Even my husband, one of those math people, says, “Multiplying fractions, I’m not sure I remember how to do that.”

Sometimes what I edit is harder than fractions. Sometimes I’m thankful I’m not a fifth-grader anymore. I edit. I squirm. I think, “How are kids supposed to figure this out if a nearly 40-year-old woman can’t do it?” I walk around. I try again. I scribble all over scraps of paper. Nasty thoughts swim through my head. I sigh. I rethink the problem. Maybe the editor did it wrong, not me. No, I’m sure it’s me. “How in the flip flyin’ floo do they come up with this stuff? Grrrrr!” I ask my husband to do the problem. Of course he gets it.

Sometimes I have to cheat, working backward from the answer key. These people pay me by the hour. Surely they can’t afford me being slow to grasp a concept. And I am so happy to get problems that can be done with a calculator. I’m not sure fraction calculators existed when I was in school, but there they are on the Internet. Hallelujah!

One thing is certain: One day my kids will realize my math limits and for homework at least, I’ll be off the hook.

Problems to ponder:

1. It takes Muddled Mom 8 days to nibble a 6-inch chocolate bar. How much of the chocolate bar does she sneak each day when her kids aren’t looking? Ah, to hell with it. Eat the 6 inches in 8 minutes. That’s more likely, right?

2. Muddled Mom spends 4 hours a day editing a math book. Two-thirds of each hour is spent pulling out her hair. How many hours does Muddled Mom spend pulling out her hair? The bigger question: Does Muddled Mom have any hair left?

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October 3, 2012 · 9:21 am

Awakened: Reliving My Childhood

The moment my kids began to explore their surroundings, I began to see the world clearly. Like seeing through much-needed eyeglasses for the first time or a dirty window wiped clean, my view finally came into focus.

Maybe I just hadn’t noticed the details in all the years since I was the young one running around barefoot chasing fireflies, sifting dirt between outstretched fingers in search of writhing earthworms, or staring in wonder at a line of ants marching like soldiers across the driveway.

Maybe as a child I never saw baby birds learn to fly. Witnessing this as an adult, I sat in the same wide-eyed wonder as my kids watching fluffy black pom-poms bounce through the grass, chirping at their mother. One by one, they flapped their wings and took off to the branch above. I couldn’t help but wonder if I were a child with no mother making me watch, would I? Were there better things to do? Is this why I missed so much as a child?

I take my time now, no rushing about. Before I had kids, I didn’t know much about outer space. No one asked me about Mars and evidence of water there, so I didn’t need to know. Now my spirit fills with wonder in a slightly different way than my son’s must when he looks at the sky and wonders whether spaceships full of Stormtroopers dart overhead.

A snail edges along a crack in our driveway and my husband could tell me for the tenth time to come in for the night. This creature hefts its top-heavy spiral shell to the side to make great strides, grasping bits of straw with its foot. I could watch it all night.land snail

A snow day from work used to mean housework, maybe a movie. Now it means bundling up in triple layers and heading outside before caffeine pulses through blood, our breath a blanket of fog as we pull sleds down the path looking for signs of deer. We make the first footprints in silvery snow that is like a fresh sheet of paper, ours to write the story of our day. I make sure to take turns on the sled too. The kids can’t have all the fun. I’m pretty sure I scream the loudest, slide the farthest.

I wedge myself in too-tight spots like a crayfish under a rock because hide-and-seek has tough rules in this house. On the field, I throw like Tim Tebow half the time, but the other half I am Drew Brees, throwing spirals 30 yards to a four-foot receiver who always makes it to the end zone.

Storytime started as a way to read to the kids but I look forward to it with such anticipation that I am the child most of the time, hearing books I never cared about when I was younger. Oh, I love that Laura Ingalls. And Bilbo Baggins, why did I shun you?

I don’t remember seeing the world through a child’s eyes all those years ago. I was so focused then on everything but. Having children to show the world to has opened up a universe of excitement, beauty, and joy to me that melted away during my 9-to-5 days sitting behind a desk.

Now that I have kids, I have an excuse to enjoy my childhood again. It’s like staying up late with your best friend, sneaking Skittles from the candy jar, and telling secrets about your brother—the best time of your life.

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September 21, 2012 · 10:17 am

Email Saves Me From My Phone

I don’t like to talk on the phone. I can hardly think of anything to say. If I do, after ten minutes, I’ve said all I can think of and squirm in my seat like a kindergartner doing schoolwork. I remember a dozen things I need to get done and try to quietly multitask. My neck gets kinked severely from holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder.

As someone who has always been able to put thoughts into written words more easily than spoken ones, email saves me. I’m a writer. When I have a moment to sit and reflect, I can remember the things that happened over the past two days: My son jumped on his bed instead of brushing his teeth last night after too much birthday celebration. My husband got mad. I quietly giggled.

My daughter melted down over her math homework. She couldn’t make the connection between the last problem and the previous nine. They were all the same. Why was that one different? I began the verge of a meltdown myself while she fussed at me. Sometimes homework really stinks and I want to cry too.

Those are the things I say in emails that I can’t think to say in a phone call that has caught me off guard. When my mom asks what’s been going on, I say, “Not much.” In the moment, I’m put on the spot. Nothing comes to mind. I need a keyboard to help the words flow.keyboard

I’ve always found emails to be a quick way to connect during the day. A moment to save if I wanted, not like a good phone call (when I have one) that’s gone as soon you hang up. Those good emails, I keep them to savor.

When my kids do something funny, I shoot my husband an email to brighten his day, like the time my son was cracking up because he heard the phrase “booby trap” and repeated “booby” over and over. Or the day my daughter saw a convertible and said, “Oh cool! That car has no lid!” Or when my son drew marker around his mouth, denied it, and then confessed he wanted to be a clown.

When my niece was born, my sister began emailing me every day, updating me about life with a baby and then life with a toddler who demanded twenty kisses every night before bed. Stories I laughed at and loved. When my son was born two years later, I shared my own: the time I walked by the bathroom and my three-year-old son was washing his hair in the sink, the time my son helped my daughter get dressed, the time my daughter said she didn’t love anybody because she didn’t get a bedtime snack. My sister and I have commiserated over the loneliness and heartache that is motherhood and shared each other’s joys.

Our phone calls to each other now sound more like war zones than a conversation: kids screaming, kids in desperate need of a snack right now, kids who can’t find the toy they haven’t played with in three years. We can’t even finish a sentence. But our emails help us stay connected.

And emails don’t interrupt, like when both kids need me at once and the onions are two seconds away from burning. One child has just fallen and scraped her knee and the other just slammed the door and yelled something, tipping you off that he is the one responsible. The phone always rings at just that time.

Sometimes I’m just better at conversation through email anyway. When I talk on the phone, I’m not always good at witty banter or saying what’s on my mind. I’m tired. There’s no awkward silence in email. My thoughts sound good in my head, but when I say them, I realize maybe I should have gone through a few drafts and revised before I said that out loud. At least typing can be deleted. And after the day I’ve had, I go through a lot of revisions.

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September 10, 2012 · 9:22 am

I Don’t Know Why I Say Good-bye or Hello

“I’m Karen. Nice to meet you.” Only it’s probably not, at least, not in that moment. I’ve probably said something strange, put my foot in my mouth, rambled on entirely too long, or sounded like a complete moron to someone I’ve just met. They’re scratching their head or anxious to just get away from me. Maybe not, but that’s the kind of first impression I think I leave. I stumble over words though usually not my own feet at least.

Good-byes aren’t any better. When to exit a conversation? My timing for leaving an evening of fun could use some smoothing out too. I mill around awkwardly. Should I jump in while these two are talking? “Hey, I’ve got to run.” Maybe it was rude, I don’t know.

Sure, I can carry on a lively conversation. It’s usually just the beginning and end I have a real problem with.

I think most of the time people don’t notice my awkwardness, but inside I’m a jumble of conflict. If I don’t have time to think about what to say, it’s even worse. When I met my son’s teacher, she introduced herself. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Smith.” I shook her extended hand and introduced myself as Mrs. Who says that? It’s not the 1950s. And I could have saved it by then coolly throwing in my first name, but my mind had already gone into panic mode and I’m not even sure what she said after that because I was busy mentally bashing my head against the wall. My only hope is that she met so many parents that day, she quickly forgot. That or she’ll forever think I like to be called Mrs., which I loathe, and call my son Beaver behind my back.

I’ve been as awkward as a teenager on a first date on my own interviews, the first day of the job, and on the playground as a mom. After school I often keep to myself because moms huddle around talking, and I’m not sure what the etiquette is on interrupting their conversations. Sometimes I say hello, join in, and things get really quiet. Hmm. And which group do I walk up to? Are they discussing something private or important? It’s too much to think about during my afternoon slump when I could really use a nap. Sometimes it’s not easy.

Meeting my firstborn didn’t go so well in fact. I’d been given something to help me sleep the night before. Unfortunately, it helped me sleep through the entire epidural, pushing, and birth of my son. And when I met him afterward, there I am on video, looking at him in my arms, smiling, and nodding off. Who does that?

Now that I have two kids, I try to set a good example during social situations. I don’t want them near my social awkwardness for fear it could be contagious. When I blow it, I just keep smiling or laugh and hope no one notices. But when I really blunder my words, who wouldn’t notice? When the host says, “Thanks for coming,” and I say, “You too,” it’s a bit of a puzzle. I lean to my kids and ask, “What did she say?”

Sometimes I nail it, that tough first hello after a fight and then everything settles and I can breathe again. Mostly I fumble and struggle with words and grace. So often I complicate hellos and good-byes that, honestly, I just hate them. Besides, it’s all that happens in between that I like best.

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August 29, 2012 · 8:25 am

Urging My Kids Not to Fear Failure

My kids fear failure. I’m baffled as to where this phobia came from. Perfectionism is not a trait I possess. My kids see me fail miserably all the time, but I trudge on. I try, try again or let the flop be the outcome. It is what it is.

I make a new recipe and end up scraping the burned contents off the pan. I constantly scramble around my kitchen in a frenzy due to some bombed dinner, but we still eat something.

I attempt a craft with the kids that totally flops—stamps made out of wooden blocks and puffy paint that are too lumpy to make a legible print. “Well that stinks,” I manage as I clean up the mess.

homemade stamp

Homemade stamps made out of puffy paint are actually not FUN!

Sometimes things work out. Sometimes they don’t.

I try to instill this wisdom in my kids, but they’re not buying it. They want immediate satisfaction. I gently push them to try to do their best, to just give it a go even. I’m the least competitive person I know, but sure I want my kids to know their potential. Am I putting pressure on them that I’m not aware of?

Honestly, I hate to see my kid mosey over to the soccer ball like a limp rag doll with all the spunk of a blade of grass. I’m not asking for a goal. I’m not asking for my kid to be the best player. I’d just really prefer that my child not look lifeless.

But I also haven’t mastered that art of parental encouragement. How do other parents get their kids to perform? Is saying, “Try to kick the ball” or “Run” too much? I don’t feel like it’s overbearing.

I find it’s often hard just getting my kids to the “try” stage. My daughter never wants to draw because she thinks the outcome will look terrible. I tell her to practice. How else will she get better?

All summer, my son said he’d dive off the diving board. His dives from the side of the pool looked great. He would do goofy jumps off the diving board but he thought it looked too high to dive from. He was afraid he’d end up doing a belly flop and embarrassing himself. He was afraid to fail.

I tell my kids that everyone fails before they do a good job at something. You never start out at something doing an awesome job at it. It takes time and practice…and failure. That’s not good enough for them.

I constantly set examples. I offered to bring dessert to a friend’s house for dinner: blueberry hand pies. I’ve made them before and they tasted great. I couldn’t believe I made them. When I made them for my friends, one of the pies burst in the oven and the blueberry juice leaked all over the pan, soaking the bottoms of all the pies. These are good friends, so I packed up the pies, took them to their house, and said, “I’m not sure about the pies.” After I tasted them first, I said, “They don’t taste very good.” Everyone politely ate a soggy pie anyway.

blueberry hand pies

A cooking flop you will only see here, oh, and in my kitchen. Had we eaten these at this very moment, they would have been delicious. I just know it.

My son told me at home later they were gross.

I’m just not afraid to fail. I can accept I’m not the best at something, but if it’s important to me, I keep trying until it turns out OK. Maybe my kids are learning from my failures and they don’t want to be a part of it. Maybe they can’t bear the disappointment of soggy desserts and crafts that don’t work.

Of course I must admit one area where I can’t accept failure: parenthood. And I can tell you that I’ve never tried so hard in my life.

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August 21, 2012 · 8:51 am

My Back-to-School Struggles Aren’t What You Think

I have less than a week left of summer with my kids. For some parents, the school bell can’t ring fast enough. For others, creek days, learning to dive, and making papier-mâché crafts still wait to be crossed off summer’s to-do list.

In six days two kids in my house get dragged out of bed by their toes, driven six miles to school, and put into someone else’s hands. I’ll wait 180 days to have my turn with them again. Which parent am I? You do the math.

I’m guest posting today at Triad Moms on Main. Come read about my annual back-to-school struggle. Pretty please?

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August 16, 2012 · 9:20 am

A School Supply Rant

When I was a kid, one of the few things that took the sting out of going back to school every fall was getting to pick out new school supplies. Finally getting to use markers in fourth grade was the epitome of excitement until I found out they would only be used to diagram sentences.

And for my kids, this tradition of choosing a special notebook to scrawl their math work in is no different. So when we get the list of supplies, buy them, and fill and label a bag of supplies for each kid every August, I expect my kid to use what I bought.

school supplies

School supplies for my kids. Some were carefully chosen.

Every June I get a little miffed when my kids bring home what they’ve used all year and it wasn’t what I paid for. It wasn’t the special Tinkerbell notebook my daughter picked out. Some other kid got that. And look, that’s not the red folder I bought because scratched out in the tattered bottom corner is some kid’s name from the previous year.

Our school tries to encourage pooling supplies like crayons, glue, markers, and pencils. You buy it and bring it in and the teachers divvy it up for the kids. It’s a system that “works best.”

I can certainly understand that not every family can afford to buy school supplies. I’m OK with buying extras, contributing to a fund, anything. But if I splurge and spend a few extra dollars on a white three-ring binder that won’t fall apart the first month of school and Susie So-and-So gets hers from the dollar store, guess who ends up with the cheap binder and who gets my nicer one? If I put my kids’ supplies in a bag with their name on it, why don’t they end up with it? Do little elves decide who gets what? Do they run around the room and pick an item from Susie’s bag and put it on Johnny’s desk? Would Johnny like a Tinkerbell notebook? It’s like those Christmas swaps. You spend the $10 limit on a gift and end up with the gift someone grabbed from her yard sale bin, where it should have stayed.

As for the pooling, for half of kindergarten my son had only orange, brown, and gold crayons. I’m certain I bought him an entire box with a rainbow of colors. Why could he only draw muddy pictures? I volunteer in the classrooms. Pencils are never sharpened and are strewn across the floor. Glue sticks are always empty. The kids don’t care about those supplies because they aren’t theirs. But their scissors are labeled with their names, and I’ve seen kids panic when they misplace those for more than twenty seconds. So doesn’t keeping up with their own things make them take care of them better?

Kids can’t take ownership and responsibility if they aren’t required to keep up with their own things. When I was in school, we had our own bins filled with our own supplies. We had to keep things neat and in control. We learned organization. A pooling system doesn’t encourage that kind of responsibility. I’m sure it’s supposed to encourage sharing, but kids can share their own supplies. I’ve seen that in action.

Next week we take in our bags of brand-new supplies, ready for someone else’s child to get. I hope they like the notebooks my kids spent an hour picking out.

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August 7, 2012 · 9:24 pm

A Mother’s Hope

Throughout her children’s lives, a mother hopes…

her baby will be born healthy

the baby will go to sleep

the baby will stop crying

the fever will go down

her doctor is wrong

physical therapy will fix it

she won’t miss her child’s first steps

she can handle two kids under three

she can survive the terrible twos…twice

she can learn patience

her two children love one another

her firstborn knows he isn’t replaced

she can survive the first day of kindergarten…twice

her daughter will try new foods

her son isn’t too old for hugs in second grade

her daughter’s spirit won’t be crushed by mean girls

her kids find themselves a lot quicker and easier than she did

she can handle their disappointments

she can make the pain go away

she doesn’t try to fight their fights for them

the car pulls up in the driveway every night

she can show them how to be the bigger person

a late-night phone call has her child’s voice on the other end and not bad news

she teaches her kids to laugh at themselves

she can send them to college without bawling, even though she’s been crying about it for years

her children find their place in this world

her kids remember everything she taught themrelay for hope 2012

I’m participating in Melanie Crutchfield’s Blog Relay for Hope. Mary at A Teachable Mom handed me the baton. Be sure to check them out.

I’d like to invite Five Uninterrupted Minutes, Ice Scream Mama, Cozzi’s Corner, Welcome to Grace, and Fortyteen Candles to write a post about hope. If you’re interested, just link up to me and the bloggers you plan to recruit.

Melanie Crutchfield will be holding “Closing Ceremonies” around August 10 and will gather up little bits from people who wrote about hope, so link back to her.

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August 6, 2012 · 10:31 am

My Saturday Night: a Slumber Party, Detectives, and Too Much Sugar

Since when did the slumber party even involve the parents? Besides throwing some food on a table, I don’t recall my mom being around. If she came near us, I’d shoo her out of the room. I know I certainly didn’t seek her out for fun, as the entertainment of the evening, yet here I sit with three giggling girls sneaking up on me every 30 seconds. They try so hard not to breathe heavy, breathe at all, lose control of the laughter bubbling up inside, and then I have to go and do something silly like scratch my back and they erupt like a shaken soda. Girls with too much sugar in their systems—who on earth would do such a thing?

I turned on the sprinkler. I fed them dinner. I snapped too many pictures. I set out bowls of metallic beads so they could string bracelets. Then I punched out shapes and let them make flowers with pipe cleaner stems. Finally, I let them loose so they could play and I sighed with relief that my part of the evening was done.

Only evidently it wasn’t. Now I keep turning around to a trio of girls clad in dark sunglasses who think they are stealth enough to sneak up on me, loud whispers echo behind me after thunderous footsteps and a chorus of giggles announce their arrival. “She doesn’t even know we’re here.”

I keep thinking that if I ignore them, they’ll go away. They keep coming back. “Go play,” I sing. “OK,” they promise. Darn it all if they don’t keep coming back. Didn’t they all bring dolls to play with?

Purses slung on shoulders, they sneak into the room behind me and wedge themselves behind furniture. I think they’re taking notes. Detectives. Someone bumps into a bell. The cover’s blown, kids. “Why don’t you play with your dolls?”

If it were my own kids, I would have finally made threats that I’m selling their toys, anything for just five minutes of peace. What is so funny about boring old me sitting in this chair? This game got old twenty minutes ago.

Up and down the stairs they go. My word, here they come again for the hundredth time. Give me patience. I won’t move. I’ll just sit here until they leave. I’ll ignore the snickering and throat clearing.

Oh. They’re ready to watch a movie. Now that sounds like a good idea.

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July 19, 2012 · 9:31 am

In Moment of Grief, I Could Have Been a Better Mom

A year ago I said good-bye. My grandfather was slowly losing his fight for life. My kids never got one last chance to see him.

I had taken the kids back home for a fun summer visit and he suddenly took a turn for the worse the day we arrived. He had rebounded before, but I knew it would be the last time I saw him. You just know.

Before I left to come back to North Carolina, I went to the hospital hoping he’d wake up and know I was there, say something, anything. The day before I couldn’t wake him so I tried one last time. I held his hand, pulled the blankets over his legs, nervously ran my fingers over his soft, white hair. Did he know he was dying? How do you tell someone you love good-bye, that you won’t be back? I felt so inexperienced at this, not that I wanted more. He said my name. He said he was glad I came. I didn’t get to tell him everything I wanted to say, but I don’t think he would have heard me. I don’t think I could have choked it out. I’m not good at good-byes. I hide from them like a child under a bed.

I’m not sure I made it out of the elevator or the lobby before coughs turned to sobs. I’m not sure how I found my car through the flood of tears. I don’t know how I started the car with shaking hands. But I clung to the steering wheel while grief overtook my body in a way that both surprised and relieved me. It came in a time and place when I could just let it sweep over me and I didn’t hold back.

When my grandfather died, my son wanted to go to the funeral. They had been close, some inner pull you can’t see but you know is there. I told him no. At age 8, I didn’t think he was ready. Funerals always scared me as a kid. They scare me now. I was afraid he’d get there and change his mind, seeing his great-grandfather’s body but no signs of the jolly, gentle soul that he loved. The truth is, I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t handle it. I am supposed to be the adult, but in that time I was still the child, seeing my grandfather’s body but no signs of the jolly, gentle soul that I loved.

I regret that I didn’t take my son, didn’t give him that chance to say good-bye when he knew he was ready, even if I wasn’t. I felt like the kid. I’m the one who doesn’t like funerals. I said my good-byes. And I regret that I took that chance away from my son. At the funeral, I was still the granddaughter who couldn’t comprehend seeing a lifeless body of one I loved. In my moment of grief, I couldn’t also be the parent.

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