Star Wars-obsessed children

The boys have officially crossed to the dark side of Star Wars obsession. This morning we awoke to find that they'd used red markers on their faces so that they resembled Darth Maul. The bad guy. Naturally. Jack even drew down and around the back of his neck. Oliver washed some of his off, but I'm sure that several folks at the farmers market wondered about the little boy with red lines all over his face. With a profound appreciation for their creativity and ingenuity, I do, nonetheless, sometimes balk at the sheer amount of cleaning up these endeavors require.

The space between

I often find one of the most difficult and painful things about parenting to be the space -sometimes a sliver, sometimes a gulf- between your hopes and expectations of any given situation and the actual experience of it. More times than I can count, I've planned a date or activity with one or both of the boys which, according to plan, would be relaxed and fun. Perhaps it'd be educational and enriching, perhaps simply silly, hopefully memorable, at the least some pleasant time together. Or I've set aside a day or afternoon with the express purpose of having unplanned time together. Doesn't that sound terrific? Yes, in theory.

Not infrequently, these times turn out to be intense affairs of management and negotiation which leave me feeling frazzled, defeated and a bit sad. Not always, of course, but enough that they seem a seriously vocal minority. As if I'd left the room for a second and when I returned, the kids had turned into a manic subset of needy citizens, all trying to stake their claim and be heard. Wait, I think, what happened? This time is supposed to be lovely and simple (I didn't say easy; I said simple), not exhausting and wild. It's like emotional whiplash.

My perception of the parenting experience is that it's largely one of idealistic hope which draws from a vast expanse of love. You hope that your children are healthy and remain that way. You hope that what you do makes them happy. You hope that the opportunities you provide them foster maturation into good and kind and thoughtful individuals. You do all you do because you love and want the best for these precious creatures you've brought into the world.

That many parents' idealism can never be completely tamped is a beautiful tribute to all we do get from our children. The love we bestow on and receive from them often acts as the best sort of amnesiac. It's certainly one reason women so willingly go through labor and childbirth repeatedly; the pain is erased by the afterglow of happiness (and hormones). It's why parents endure night after sleepless night, give up what raising children demands we do.

But in trying so hard, so constantly over days, weeks and years, you also realize how much harder things are made and/or can feel when between what you hope and what you get emerges a discrepancy. Food for thought.

Profoundly peevish

Friends, I am fully peeved out today. It began when I was awakened by the children dragging a large cushion onto our bedroom floor, crouching on it, and "driving" this "snow scooter" with wild and loud abandon. At one point, they came to a screeching halt, grabbed an Etch-a-Sketch (now their control panel), and, per Oliver's mandate, each took charge of a dial. The race continued at a fever pitch. It was not yet 6:25am. The loving part of me could appreciate both their imaginations and cuteness but the tired mommy part of me wished only that hubs -just returned from his trip- would spirit them out of the room for breakfast, leaving me alone to catch a few extra winks. Har. I got up, as DH read on his phone (grr), and quickly decided that as his mind-reading capabilities were at Complete Failure I'd suggest to him that he get the flip out of bed because which one of us hasn't been out of town in a fancy hotel room since Tuesday?

Breakfast, carpool, yada, yada, and then to the derm. Now, I love my derm. She's a hoot, and I always enjoy seeing her. But, as with most docs, there is always a seemingly inexplicable stint in the waiting room as truly awful music plays too loudly and you look, baffled, at the large assortment of magazines that no one wants to read right there for your reading pleasure. Who makes the music and mag decisions in these offices? And the icing on the cake is always the horrendously pukey wall color made even worse by a (usually complete) lack of windows. Pepto mauve for your own home anyone?

When I was ushered back into yet another waiting room, the sweet gal accompanying me took all of three seconds to begin telling me her story. Too many people are rude (there are some real buttheads out there) and she's taking motivational classes to learn how to strengthen herself. I learned about several recent grievances (and truly, I'm sorry she's had these bad encounters) and inwardly thought, I just want to be quiet.

It's a bit of a bummer when you know, at 10:30am, that the quiet time you might enjoy in a dim exam room is your best chance for such time until Monday. Ultimately, all was fine, she definitely seemed in need of some venting but I was left, again, with my sense of self being largely this.

Fortunately, Oliver has managed to stay at school today, so I've enjoyed a bit of post-derm downtime and a completely hilarious email exchange with some foodie pals. Hmph!