Bananagram Fun

I had another rough... let's call it day with Ella yesterday, and somehow righted the proverbial ship in the evening by asking her if she'd like to help me fix dinner.  I "needed" "help" cleaning and mashing the potatoes and pouring the baked beans -- her choice over lentils -- into the pot to heat up.  As she cleaned the potatoes, I poured myself a much-needed, much-deserved glass of wine and enjoyed it.  Honestly, despite still recovering from our... let's call it fight, I enjoyed that time with Ella, too.  It's not that it wasn't without its stresses (spilled cat food, potatoes flying everywhere while mashing, beans dripping from the serving spoon); but they were expected from an unskilled 4-year-old, and one who was eager to help and learn.  It also helped that we both had the right attitude, listening to and content with each other.

Anyway, we came up with some alternate seating arrangements for dinner.  With Legos pieces sorted by color in piles everywhere, our typical options for dinner tables were taken.  Instead, we decided she and Cal could eat at their little red table that we'd place alongside the kitchen island, where Dan and I would eat.  Ella then excitedly carried the red table and chairs into the kitchen on her own and proceeded to set our dinner places with plates, spoons and napkins.  Why just spoons, I'm not sure, but it didn't matter.

And then we ate.

After dinner, Dan had gotten back to Star Wars Lego set assembly duty, with Cal kind of participating.  I was on post-dinner kitchen duties, and Ella was running around.  Dan distracted her with the question, "Boopers (that's his name for her, short for Belly Boopers), do you know how to spell MIX?"  She scrambled to the pantry looking for something and after a bit of time scrambled back to Dan saying, "M-I-X" as she did.

Kitchen duty complete, I noticed that Ella had carried the yellow, banana-shaped bag of large Banagagrams into the family room, which is next to the kitchen. I asked her if she could spell MIX with the letters, and this led to an attempt to work on her sight words. I don't remember what I tried first, but I eventually got to the "AT" words -- there are so many, and I felt like I could get her to sound and reason them out.  We did AT, CAT, BAT, SAT, HAT, FAT... possibly more.

Eventually, it was bedtime; and I decided to end our Bananagram fun by finding and then laying out the letters:

(I really wish there were punctuation marks in these Bananagram sets.)

Anyway, Ella and Cal wanted to do their own... let's call them phrases.  Ella went first and assembled this:

(I love that she used a couple of the words that we worked on a few minutes earlier!)

And then this was Cal's gem:

(I'm still letting him sound things out when spelling and not worrying too much about misspellings; but I did tell him the correct way to spell RETURN after taking this picture.)

Their phrases made me genuinely laugh.  Leatherkids + Bananagrams are a fun combination!

A Good Book Spoiled

We watched a few episodes of Scooby Doo tonight.  As the kids watched one of them, I found myself watching them.  They were eating their dinner at the time, pizza from our favorite pizza place and what's become a staple for Family Fun Friday.  Eating it was automatic.  They were intently focused on the show, hearing every word spoken by Fred, Daphne, Thelma, Shaggy and Scooby and every grunt or growl made by the bad guys. They laughed, and they laughed again.

They had clearly recovered from last night's debacle of bedtime reading with Mommy.

Truth be told, I haven't recovered.  I'm still hurting.

I wish I had their resilience.  I suppose I am grateful for at least that.  At least they were able to get over it, have good days and still love me.  I believed them when they told me that tonight.

I'm not mad at them.  Not anymore.  Any anger I had was initially released when I threw their books across the room and against the wall by Ella's closet and then stormed out of her room.  As I did so, I announced, "no books" and noticed that the back cover of Cal's book had torn away from the spine and pages had spilled out.

I went to my room to breathe.  I cried.  A few seconds later, I heard a small scream.  I had to go back to make sure nothing was wrong, other than my awful reaction to their excessive complaints about my apparently flawed plan to read to them.

Cal had noticed his book, his treasured Star Wars book, had fallen apart and was crying about it.  I didn't like that my baby was hurting; but apparently the throwing of their books didn't say enough.  I had something important to say.  I had their full attention; and without even thinking, I gave them a tearful, verbal beatdown complete with a choice swear word or two.  I will never again claim ignorance to where they learned that swear word they'll surely say.  The theme was a good one -- it doesn't fucking matter who's book gets read first.  My two babies sat next to each other on Ella's bed and watched me the whole time I laid into them. The typically incessant talkers didn't speak one word.

Feeling finished with my message, sad and tired, I picked up Cal's book which was now in shambles and headed downstairs to get some packing tape.  I brought it back upstairs to my room and, with my eyes wet and my hands shaky, started to repair the book.  I taped the back cover back on the book first.  I saw but didn't acknowledge Ella standing in my doorway watching me.  I then worked on the spine and last taped some still loose pages to their neighboring pages.  My repair job was good but not good enough to not have a regular reminder of tonight's happenings.

I walked toward the door and told Ella to go back to her room, and she did so without complaint.  Cal was in his room already, so I went there to drop of his repaired book and tuck him in.  I gave him a kiss, apologized for yelling, told him I love him, told him good night and left.  He told me he loves me.

I was sad.

I walked to Ella's room and was asked to read her a book.  Numb and feeling like I owed her this, I picked up her Snow White book and read it to her with no enthusiasm, inflection or interest.  I wondered if she noticed this.  I don't think she did.  She was content.

Once finished reading, I did the same with Ella that I did for Cal -- kissed her, apologized for yelling, told her I love her, told her good night, turned on her music and headed toward her door.  From her door, I turned to her for our routine exchanging of verbal and signed "I love yous" followed by blown kisses.  And I turned and left.

I don't feel bad about my reaction.  I've learned that I am human.  Things like that are going to happen every once in awhile, and I'm okay with that reality.  I needed it.  Being okay with it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt, though.  Did I have to break Cal's book?  Oddly, that's what hurts the most, not so much the breaking of a book but the breaking of the book that he loves and takes good care of himself.

I'm not looking for a positive in all of this or a better approach to being an effective mom. I don't want any criticism but would fully expect it. I am (was?) still hurting about a bad five or ten minutes I had with the Leatherkids last night and wanted to write about it.

Namaste, Daddy

I got home from work last night just after 6:30pm.  From the garage, I walked past the laundry room, through the family room and into the kitchen.  Not a soul was around.  It was quiet.  Peaceful almost.  I peeked into the microwave and saw a covered bowl of food and figured it was the meal that I had suggested to Dan that we have for dinner.  It was a quickie, one that I knew I could whip up and serve to the troops without cutting into bedtime.  “I’ll fix it when I get home,” I told Dan.  “If you want, you can get the noodles going,” I added.  Turns out, he did all of the fixin'.

I turned to the kitchen island to take a look at any schoolwork that Cal brought home that day.  This has been the routine that Dan instilled in him – arrive home, take off shoes, grab papers from folder in backpack and bring them to the kitchen for Mommy and Daddy to see.  There wasn’t much new to see last night.

I had been home for a few minutes now, and I heard a ruckus at the top of the stairs.  Not a bad ruckus, the kind where Dan or I might need to get involved to break up.  It was really just some stirring.  Shortly after I heard that, my two Leatherkids came bounding down the stairs, showered and already in their pajamas.  They were both smiling and came right to me to give me a hug.  Ella also puckered up and gave me a kiss.

We were all smiling at that moment.

Things are happening for me at work.  I’m working on a pretty big project and playing a big role in it.  This has demanded a lot of my time and brain cycles.  I take later trains home; once or twice a week, they're so late I only see the Leatherkids and Leatherdaddy asleep in their beds.  When I do see them and am actively participating in dinner, showers and bedtime, I’m whipping my laptop out and logging in shortly after getting them into bed.  Instead of complaining about the demands of all of this, I’m embracing it and really loving it.  There’s nothing to complain about!  Why is that?  Partly because of the company and the positive transformation it’s gone through over the past year (I believe in it), partly because of the people with whom I’m working (they’re great), and partly because of the work (it’s interesting and challenging).  I’m working hard and thinking right; and my commitment to this effort is paying off for me, not that that payoff is necessarily why I’m working so hard at it.  20+ years at this company, I’m finally doing something I really believe in and enjoy.  I’ve historically been a late bloomer, so maybe it's no surprise that this is happening to my career now.

To do this, though, requires a commitment from Dan to carry more of the parenting weight during the week than we have grown accustomed to until now.   Some of this we talked about; others we just kind of fell into.  He hasn’t complained and may have embraced it himself.  He’s doing a great job with the kids.  The scene I encountered when I got home from work last night is not uncommon – all under control and on schedule.  Routine.  Namaste.  I laugh about the number of times in the past that he arrived home from work to complete chaos – me in the kitchen fixing dinner later than desired, the kids (still in their clothes from their days) running from room to room with that toy shopping cart and ridable Pooh plane or possibly beating each other with their plastic hockey sticks, all of us yelling at each other.  That just doesn’t happen under Daddy’s watch.

Tomorrow is NHL Rivalry Night.  I'll be working late and at some point while doing so, imagining the Leatherkids and Leatherdaddy, fed, showered, jammied and curled up together on our bed for what's become a special moment for the three of them on Wednesdays during the long hockey season.  You're doing a great job, Daddy.  Namaste.

At Last, We Skated

It finally happened.  Months (I dunno, maybe even years now) after the seed was planted to make a trip to the local roller rink for some roller skating/blading, we finally made it there... well, two of us did, anyway.  And it was pretty excellent -- lucky for me, I was one of the two who made it.

I lived in my roller skates for a few years as a kid.  I would never claim to be super skilled and know what I was doing; but I was serviceable.  During trips to Main Street USA, the local rink that was operational during a part of my childhood, I was skilled enough to be on the rink for all varieties of skates -- counterclockwise all skates, backward skates, clockwise reverse skates and couples skates.  I doubt I ever joined a skating race for fear I wouldn't do well; frankly, I don't remember those ever happening.

When I wasn't at Main Street USA skating, I was skating around our neighborhood in my white skates with orange wheels.  I even had light blue and pink yarn balls looped through my laces -- fancy, I know.  It wasn't uncommon to see me servicing my paper route on my skates with that monster-sized newspaper bag strapped around my body. I remember pretending to be in a band, complete with tennis rackets for guitars and buckets for drums, where I was wearing, yes, my roller skates.  I even climbed the oak tree in the front of our house on Eureka in my roller skates.

It's been many years since I last skated, but it was so much a part of a few years of my childhood that I can easily recall how much fun I had in my skates.  That it took me so long to get Cal over to the skating rink near our home is surprising and disappointing and can only be explained by either being too busy or too lazy... or a little of both. 

Dan and I had the day off from work and Cal the day off from school in recognition of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday.  (I learned later that Ella's school actually was open.)  We decided yesterday that we'd take the kids to the local rink this afternoon for a nice family outing.  Unfortunately, Ella woke up crying early this morning with an earache which was initially soothed by some Tylenol but that came screaming back just before we were going to leave.  So instead of the roller rink, Ella and Dan stayed home to rest before her doctor's appointment to confirm her ear infection.  But Cal and I still went.

So I'd never been there (Cal had).  I really didn't spend my time thinking about what it would look or feel like; so when I pulled into the lot full of SUVs and vans and saw the plainest of buildings lacking any updates in the past 30 years, I really wasn't surprised.

My expectations of the inside were immediately set to match the outside, and they were met.  To get in to the rink, we had to first pay a man sitting behind the window situated between the doors to the outside and those to the inside.  I told him it was my first time there and didn't know what I was doing.  He asked me if we both needed skates, which we did, and then told me it'd be $20.  "Do you take Discover?" I asked.  "We do," he replied.  This was surprising to me -- I fully expected to have to pay cash by the looks of things.

He instructed me to turn right once inside the doors to pick up our skates.  I am nothing if not a good instruction follower.  Five minutes later, Cal was wearing rollerblades... oh, sorry, inline skates, and I was wearing some traditional roller skates, nothing like my white skates with orange wheels and light blue and pink tassels.  These things were probably as old as the rink itself.

I wouldn't say I was worried about skating, but I did wonder how natural I'd be in these things.  Turns out, it's much like riding a bike.  I also wondered how much I'd need to help Cal.  He had gone skating with school a couple of times; but I had never seen him skate, so I didn't know what to expect.  He wasn't tentative at all and rolled right on to the rink. where he spent the bulk of his time looping around the lane closest to the center oval (other than the oval itself).  He wasn't completely sure of himself, but he wasn't shy about skating.  He managed to stay on his feet most of the time, a few times with some good saves, and fell only a handful of times.  Frankly, I fully expected to be back at the skate rental window exchanging the inline skates for the four-wheeled variety after our first trip around the rink.  But that never happened.

Time and time again we rolled around the rink.  Sometimes I was behind or next to him, other times I was trying to lap him only because I got ahead of him too much to hold myself back.  I read his cues and kept my distance -- I don't think he felt like he needed me or wanted me to necessarily be near.  He wanted to be alone.  I really didn't mind that because it gave me a chance to be on my own, too.  I had forgotten how calming and soothing rollerskating can be, even among all of the people with constant stimulation and constant dodging of the reckless or those unsure of themselves.

Though most of our time there was spent "all-skating," there were a few breaks to change things up.  Once we found ourselves circled around Will and Michaela to help them celebrate their birthdays.  Another time, we found ourselves trying to skate backwards.  And then there were the races.

When I heard the announcement that there'd be races, I turned to Cal to tell him that we needed to get off the rink because they were setting up for these races.  I had no intention of joining and assumed Cal wouldn't either.  But then, bless his heart, he said, "Mommy, I wonder if I'm the fastest."

He wanted to race and actually thought he could win.  I know my kids are not lacking in confidence, and normally this works for them; this time, I didn't know if it was a good perspective.  I really didn't know what to do -- encourage him to get out there and race and just do his best or protect his feelings and drill into him the reality that he probably wouldn't even come close to winning and might even finish last?  Without thinking, I kind of chose both.  I initially responded to him, "well, Cal, I don't think that you're the fastest" and just left it for him to interpret that however he wanted.  When it came time for the inline skaters to race, I let him decide if he wanted to do it or not.  Without batting an eye or uttering a word, he headed out onto the rink.

And you know, I wasn't worried.  I wasn't hurting for him.  I wasn't hoping that he just wouldn't fall.  I wasn't hoping that he'd just not finish last.  I wasn't hoping that he'd just finish.  I knew he'd finish last, and it didn't matter -- he was participating because he chose to participate.  Who am I to tell him not to?  Who am I to tell him how he'd feel? Who am I to deny him an opportunity to try and fail... or, better, try and have fun trying? I was so proud of him.

I watched him skate awkardly to the starting line and awkwardly stop once he got there. And then I recorded the race.  He was the last off the line.  He fell early.  He dropped back farther and farther behind as the race went on.  He finshed last among ten, maybe more kids who participated.  He technically didn't finish it, I think only because he had been forgotten or maybe even because he didn't know what the finish was.

Off the rink, he rolled himself down to me.  He was smiling, clearly okay with the race results.  I couldn't not have loved him more or been more proud of him at that moment, and I told him so.

And then we got back on the rink for an all-skate and continued to skate until it was time to leave.  With our skates returned and our shoes on, we headed to get our coats and he told me, "Mommy, I finished fourth.  I was so close."  Hmm... fourth?

I still think I might have some work to do on his expectations and perspectives, but he's still young; so I'm going to let this play out for a bit.  As long as he keeps trying and isn't destroyed by not winning, I think he'll figure things out.  I think.  This is yet another parenting thing that I'm making up.  I really have no clue what the right thing to do with this is.  I'm good with this approach for now.

And I'm good with that roller rink -- can't wait to get back!

Cal's Take on Motherhood

As I finished making Cal's bed tonight, having gotten some help from him (where "help" means that he secured one corner of the bottom sheet onto his mattress), I increased the level of encouragement I had been laying on him to pick the book he wanted me to read to him.  I don't know if it was my delivery or if he had been watching me, but he sensed something that was telling him that I was tired and/or struggling.

He asked me, "Do you wish you weren't a mom?"

Taken aback by the question that seemed to come from left field, I immediately responded honestly, "No, why do you ask?"

"Because being a mom is hard work," he answered.  "You have to waaaaaaash clothes.  You have to connnnnnstantly  yell at your kids.  You have to send your kids to school E-V-E-R-Y day."  He then paused.

He had hit on three things that I do in my role as a mom, but I had to ask, "What else?  Anything else?"

"No, that's it." 

Ahhh... if only.  It must be nice to live in his little world.

An Unconventional Headband

When we were in the Wisconsin Dells over the holidays, the kids all got wolf ears from the Great Wolf Lodge, which is where we stayed.  Each pair was just a white, furry headband with two little, white, furry, blue-filled "wolf ears" sticking up from it.  Cute, but for me just another couple of seemingly useless things to keep track of.

Anyway, Cal put his on his Darth Vader Angry Bird head, which is sitting on a shelf and collecting dust in his bedroom.  But Ella... Ella emerged from her bedroom this morning, dressed and wearing her wolf ears; and as she did so, she declared, "Mommy, this is a headband," as if it was perfectly normal to be wearing them and went on her way... or as if she was anticipating that I would even question her wearing them... which I didn't, nor would I ever, really.

So, off to school she went, alone today since Cal had no school due to some sort of teacher work day one week after returning from winter break.  I dropped her off, wolf ears... I mean, headband still on her head.  No one asked anything about them, and she just fell into the morning routine with the kids who were already at school for the day as if everything was "normal," not that it wasn't normal, but, you know.

Ella, in her headband, painting

Ella, in her headband, cutting

As the day went on, I just forgot about it and later looked at her daily activity report produced by the the school describing what she did that day -- what did she eat at lunch, how long was her nap and what educational, creative and physical activities did the class do that day.  Attached to this electronic report were two pictures, and I was reminded of the wolf ears because she still had them on.  She was sitting at the table painting and cutting and she still had the furry, white wolf ears... I mean, headband on.  She really did treat it like a headband.  So funny!

My Hoopster

One of my dreams for Cal became a reality today.  I've been having this dream since last summer when he first started showing an interest in playing basketball.  It didn't take much -- one dribble, I believe -- and I was all about wanting him to play basketball, through at least college.  We installed a basketball hoop in our driveway, and today was the first day he participated in an organized basketball skills camp.

I didn't even know this dream was brewing inside me until it happened.  I can explain my expecting him to play baseball -- his dad played through a couple years of post-college minor league ball and later instructed kids how to play, and I played many, many, many seasons of softball, through college. And that's not counting the years of playing co-ed softball when I lived in the City or the many, many, many times I sat in the bleachers of Wrigley field where, as a rare White Sox fan, I actually watched the games.  Nor does it count the many times I've travelled many miles to catch a baseball game in the ballpark of a different city.  So baseball is in Cal's blood.  The kid is going to play.

He's got some basketball genes, too, though.  I started playing in 7th grade, did pretty well at it in high school and then played a season in college, after which I concluded I couldn't keep up well enough with man-to-man defense to continue playing and switched to playing volleyball in its place -- having watched my D3 school's volleyball team play a season, I knew I could compete at that, and did.

I love the game.  I make no bones about believing that good basketball players are the best, most complete athletes -- they're strong, have crazy endurance, exhibit fantastic body control, show great touch and can simply be beautiful to watch.  If my kid can be one of those athletes, I'll be one proud, happy mama.  And that's the selfish side.  I know how happy I was and how much fun I had playing -- if my kid has similar experiences, well, yippee!

That this dream was brewing inside of me is really not surprising.  So about his first day of organized basketball...

It's a skills camp and not a league.  It seemed like a good idea to lay the groundwork and start developing some basic skills before throwing him into a league. I appreciate the value of fundamentals.  On day 1 of this skills camp I witnessed some stretching and running exercises, some of which work the aforementioned body control that good basketball players have.  That's what they started with, and Cal was actually one of the fastest kids.

Cal and what might be his signature tongue

The group of kids were then separated into three groups and cycled through three different stations -- 1) strictly dribbling, 2 moving around a defender and then shooting and 3) rebounding and laying it back up.  I enjoyed watching Cal at the dribbling station the most, I'd say for two reasons: he did really well! and he did it almost entirely with his tongue hanging out.  It was great.  That was one of Michael Jordan's (THE greatest basketball player EVER) signatures... that and all of the aforementioned features and skills that I think make basketball players the greatest athletes.  Cal was one of the better dribblers, though he didn't dribble enough because I caught him travelling many times. This was not surprising -- I caught him travelling many times when I'd play with him this past summer and called him out on it even then.  He'll learn.  He needs to work on his shot, too -- he didn't use the backboard and missed a lot; but frankly, I'm just glad he can get it to the hoop.  My assessment is that he's ahead of most kids his age, even in shooting.

Anyway, I loved it.  He'd peek over at me periodically after having attempted a move or a shot and just smile.  Whether he made it or not, he'd smile. When the session was over, he kept a ball and showed off a bit, dribbling it between his legs... or, I should say under his left leg which he'd lift off the ground to get the ball through.  It was hilarious and cute, all wrapped in a set of three dribbles and a lifted left leg.  He was so proud he could do this.

Yes, I loved watching him play.  And, better yet, I think he loved it, too.

I'm a Woman Doing What?

Well, I'm back at it.  After having two weeks off to celebrate Christmas and New Years and, actually, to be with my kids who were also on Christmas... d'oh, Cal corrected me... Winter Break from school, I returned to work on Monday.  Two whole weeks with the Leatherkids... well, kind of.  I did have some breaks from them (a few family distractions, a Leatherkidless trip to Arizona, a few hours here and there locked up in my room to do some work).

Honestly, I attempted this post several times over the past week and a half and failed miserably. When I started, I intended to write about how, during my two weeks of PTO, I felt like I was getting a taste of what it would be like to be a stay-at-home mom, recall how that's what I thought I had wanted and repeatedly thank fate that things didn't work out that way.  I have learned that it is so not my thing.  Never really was.

But that was difficult to write without being presumptuous, or more presumptuous than I was comfortable doing.  It didn't seem possible that I could know what being a stay-at-home mom is like by spending a few days, albeit solid days, with my kids during their time off from school during the holidays.  So I abandoned that.

Then I got to thinking: why isn't being a stay-at-home mom my thing?  And then I started beating myself up for all of those reasons and, further, all of the things that I don't do for my kids.  I don't take them on a lot of play dates or make friends with the moms of their friends.  I don't sign them up for ballet and soccer and gymnastics and whatever else it is that all kids are supposed to do, keeping them busy after school the entire year. I am not involved in the PTA (I tried...), nor am I a class mom.  I don't walk them to the bus and back.  We haven't done a lot of museums or zoos, and crafting is kept at a minimum, partly due to higher priority things trumping it (work, dinner, work, showers, more work) and partly due to lack of collective interest at the time of the proposed craft.  I wasn't the primary potty trainer for either Leatherkid, nor did I play much a part in teaching them the alphabet.  I didn't do much to teach Cal how to read or to tie his shoes and am currently planning the same approach for Ella, i.e. let someone else do it.  I don't play enough board games with my kids.  And I still haven't gotten them to that stinkin' local skating rink, something they've been asking to do for some time now. Need more than that?  Let me know, and I'll lay them on you.

I had the Leatherkids with me at the veterinarian the Tuesday before New Year's.  Our cat, Zoe, had been showing signs of having some kind of worm (uh, as in, she puked up a worm), and the furless patch on her back continues to get bigger -- the flea allergy shot that the vet gave her when I had her in for the same issue last year proved to be ineffective.  The vet offered a second explanation for this furless phenomenon during Tuesday's visit, and that was that she could just be stressed.  Ya think?  He said this as Cal was rolling around on the floor after my sternly insisting he stop doing so on three separate occasions and as Ella was annoyingly baby-talking Zoe right in her face and just before Cal slammed the door on Ella's head. The vet had probably heard the loud, incessant talking coming from the exam room we were in even before he arrived for our appointment.

As we finished up with the vet, I told him "thank you" and "happy new year."  He told me the same, and then, from out of left field, I mumbled something to the effect of just wanting to go back to work. His response to me when I said this may have been genuine but was too chauvinistic and stereotypical for me to really appreciate any kindness in it. He said, "I was just going to say, I don't know how you women do it."  And he ended with, "you're doing a good job."

You women?  Do it?  I knew exactly what he meant, or thought I did. It seemed to me that he was suggesting that my primary role in our household was to care for the kids.  I don't know if it was just that I was a woman flying solo with my two loud, obnoxious kids during that cat appointment or, moreover, that I looked the stereotypical part in my pen-stained pants and no makeup and sporting some air-dried (but clean), frizzy hair that fell alongside a clenched jaw that was showing the stresses of my day.  Could be that wasn't it at all and he was suggesting that I was the primary caregiver (I'm not) in our household and balancing that with work.  I wasn't offended by his suggesting either was my role so much as taken aback by it.  Either way, he was being incredibly presumptuous. Yes, I am a woman who is a mother; but what is it that I am "doing?"

And that's the point of my post.  What AM I doing?  Well, I'm doing a lot.

I am working long hours, and the positives (money, fulfillment, success) of this far outweigh the negatives (being tired, less time with my family).

I am making parenting choices that seem right at the time but that turn out to be not so good, and I'm learning from those experiences and adjusting accordingly... usually.

I am taking Ella to porta potties because she likes them despite there sometimes being a normal bathroom a few steps away, and I am supporting Cal and his crazy passion for Pokemon trading cards... well, kind of.  Everyone needs a passion.

I am making both good and bad decisions and using both the right and wrong words.

I am putting the Leatherkids in really good schools. I may not be teaching my kids everything, but I'm making sure that they learn what they should.  I am raising them.  I am making sure my kids' backpacks are packed and ready for school the next day.  I am making lunches, sending them to school with Cal and will do the same with Ella.

I am introducing my kids to activities (swimming, baseball, now basketball) when they're ready but not burdening them with too many at any given time.  I am working out regularly, and the Leatherkids know, see and sometimes participate in this -- maybe the importance of this will rub off on them.  I am trying to fix healthy dinners with fresh, not packaged foods... at least, that's how I shop.

I am making sure not to give the Leatherkids all of my attention every time they crave it -- the world doesn't work that way and won't cater to their every wish and whim, and the sooner they learn that the better off they'll be.  I am giving my kids space so they learn how to play together and resolve things themselves and just be independent.  Despite the occasional... frequent?... "I don't like yous" and tears shed, they really do enjoy each other's company and like each other.

I am reading to my kids and have been since each was born.  I know more about dinosaurs and princesses than I ever thought I would because of this.  I taught Cal, the kid who, like his mother, doesn't like to do anything unless he knows he can do it, how to ride a bike.

I am occasionally yelling at the Leatherkids and then feeling better but not proud having done so.  I am always rushed, perhaps mostly because I'm trying to do too much, but, really, it's just my nature to be late.  I am dealing with many quirks with pants, socks, buttons and coats and keeping my cool about the irrational nature of them most of the time (see aforementioned comment about yelling).

I am giving my kids secret kisses and whispering "I love you" to them when they're fast asleep just before I go to bed.

I am laughing and smiling.  I am sometimes crying, be it because of stress, frustration, exhaustion or just sadness.  I am apologizing.  I am hugging.  I am being cranky.  I am being goofy.  I am being my kids' mom, not their friend.  I am being human.  I'm doing the best I can with the collection of responsibilities and goals on my plate.  And I am always, always, ALWAYS loving my Leatherkids.