The Mom Mulligan

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The stranger’s name was Dexter. He was an older male, reserved, quiet and wary of others. I tried to be friendly but he seemed completely disinterested in any conversation. At one point he even turned his back towards me to get his point across. Finally, I relented and left him alone. Dexter was an attractive, tie-wearing yorkie with missing teeth.

His owner, on the other hand was very chatty. Like Dexter, he was an older gentleman that went everywhere with his tiny companion. I asked how he chose a yorkie and he said he didn’t, his wife had brought it home unannounced a long time ago. He went on to share she had died of cancer and now he and Dexter were as thick as thieves. He got teary after I told him she was better off than us. He said she had told him that exact thing from her hospital bed. It was obvious he loved her dearly.

Somehow I began sharing with him how overwhelmed and stressed I was taking/sending four college students back to school while working my job. From their car tags, utilities, rental agreements, packing, shopping, etc. I was completely spent. (At some point during this conversation, Dexter, the dog, turned and faced my direction.) Surprisingly, the gentleman told me, “Quit your bitching. That’s what moms do.” He went on to tell me that one day I will miss all this chaos. I told him that I wasn’t sure I liked that and that maybe I just needed a mulligan this time. He smiled and said, “Moms always get mulligans.” About the same time, Dexter crawled into in my lap and rested his little head in the crook of my arm to go to sleep.

Happy “Birthing” Day!

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Birthdays are a big deal in our culture. We celebrate, Facebook post, give parties, send cards, eat cake and get gifts. The fortunate friend or family member may have a surprise party, incredible trip, special dinner or some other token celebration. What is odd to me is that we don’t celebrate our “birthing” days. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to do away with birthdays I just want to add recognition for a “Birthing Day.”

People should want to honor and applaud the person who nearly died bringing them into the world, don’t you think? From gestational diabetes, ruptured placentas, BED ARREST, hemorrhoids, extreme NAUSEA (we feel you, Kate Middleton) to a myriad of other horrors, why do we just forget about it and not even thank that person? It is truly tragic women go through irreparable body morphing only to have that moment shoved under the rug, that is, until one goes to a baby shower. That is the one exception where it’s like women relish how gruesomely detailed their story can be. One-upping birthing stories are quite impressive, actually.

To remedy the situation (since I cannot see a BIRTHING Day added to anyone’s calendars), I highly recommend the act of celebrating it yourself. Birth moms, treat yourselves! Do something extravagant for you. Buy yourself a present, schedule a spa day, take yourself to dinner- just make it happen! Tomorrow is my triplet sons’ 21st birthday. I honestly do not see my three, 21 year old sons coming to me and saying, “Oh mom, thank you so much for the hellish two months you spent in the hospital for me. I am sorry you had wear 2 large hospital gowns for weeks,” or “Mom, here’s a bottle of your favorite wine for our 21st birthday, let’s all stay home together tonight, just the family, and celebrate you.” NOT GONNA HAPPEN! Instead I have made peace with it. Now I just have to go to Metal Benders and pick something out…..

Car Line Catastrophe

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Like many parents, I have spent many hours in car lines at schools. In an effort to offer each of our four children the best possible education, for a few years I’d dash between two different schools picking up from one early and the other late. This did not make me a very popular parent. In fact, I KNOW I was not a popular parent.

My boys were consistently in trouble in car lines. Either excessively talking, running, wrestling or tossing a rock around. It really didn’t matter, they always seemed to be in the hot seat. It probably didn’t help that they ran as fast as they could and body slammed themselves into the side of our vehicle vying for the front seat each afternoon. I finally assigned seats for each day of the week. That helped….a little. One afternoon, the assistant principal got wind of what was going on (or got complained to, more likely) and outran the boys to the car and jumped in the front seat first. The shock on their faces and stunned reactions ended all fighting (that day). I admired him for how he handled that.

I also remember the last day of school when a teacher grit her teeth at me in a grimacing smile as she shoved our car door shut. She said, “Have a good summer!” But I read through that look to mean “Thank God this is the last day of carline with the Turners!” That was just about the time I learned the truth….

You see, prior, I was eager to please and concerned with what others thought. Having triplet males was a cure all for that. As I wondered if I had an “It” tattoo on my forehead most days, I later realized I grossly underestimated reality. While I anticipated flying book bags, shoes and lunchboxes at carline, I did not realize the walkie talkies the teachers used were for conveying surveillance of the load and launch of the Turner triplets. Yep, they were all talking about us alright- EVERY. SINGLE. AFTERNOON.

I now get to tell people that they don’t need to worry about what other people say about them…..it might be much worse than anything they could imagine!

9-1-1

There have rarely been times when I have been totally and completely blindsided by my offspring. Since I had become so conditioned to strategize, I always felt the best possible outcome would ensue with the least amount of negativity. I became so accustomed to this mindset, I literally divided my day into quadrants- morning, afternoon, evening, and night. I micro -managed each detail so I might feel the tiniest bit in control.

It was farcical to be so type “A” when I lived a perpetual play date (triplet boys) that could go wrong at any second. Sure, I could plan but something was always bound to pop up.

One such afternoon, the children were all together at a friends’ house. They were having a fun time playing and there were about 5 of them. Our girls were in charge since they had reached babysitting age and could easily access us moms who were two blocks away.

It was a welcome break to see friends myself and get to visit. We were at a local tapas and wine store sipping and chatting when our cell phones began blowing up. Apparently, one son had gone upstairs to hang out and decided it would be fun to play on the phone. This resulted in cop cars WITH BLUE LIGHTS FLASHING to dash to their house assuming there was an emergency. One son had curiously pushed “911-111-1111” on the phone just to see what would happen. The cops asked where the parents were and they told them, “At the wine store drinking wine.”

Not only did our friends get highly embarrassed that cop cars pulled into their Main Street house for the world’s speculation, but we moms felt no parenting awards were coming our way either.

PLU or Who?

The first time I heard the term “PLU” was when I described a crowd. My sis-in-law said, “You mean PLUs.” I asked what that meant and she said, “People Like Us.” She nailed it. She wasn’t referring to people like her, but rather a group of similar people. The homogenous crowd I described WAS so alike I could have easily described one individual or the collective group and they seemed the exact same.

Recall being pigeon-holed by people as a prep, jock, or geek in high school? It was how kids identified themselves and each other. It was major effort to get to know someone outside your bubble. And more often than not, that cross- pollination didn’t happen that much.

Calling a crowd a “PLU” is not necessarily a compliment. When people only associate with like minded, like-appearing and like-interested groups, not a whole lot of influence or change occurs. It’s like we sometimes cocoon ourselves in familiarity, therefore protecting ourselves from appearing different from our perceived assigned group.

Growing up, our children were very open to a vast array of friends. Some were foreign exchange students from Germany, China, Roatán, and Poland that would visit. One of our sons called his friends “the misfits” in middle school. It wasn’t negative, just a description of his “Non-PLUs.” He already got how it was cool to get to know and get along with a myriad of people.

I used to be concerned with being in a PLU crowd. It was exhaustive trying to maintain the associations, relationships, activities and enrollments I self imposed on myself. Once I got over my petty insecurities, I realized I identified with all ages of people. I met some of the coolest people in non-PLU territory. They are 81-94 years and I love them! Had I not looked outside my PLU, I’d have missed that HUGE blessing!

“BAG of WEED”

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Before anyone calls the cops (or DHR for that matter), please read the rest of the story. When our daughter was about two years old, she had a really hard time verbalizing syllables. Her brother’s name, Jordan, was especially hard for her to pronounce. She ended up spontaneously calling him “Weedo.” We all ended up calling him that for nearly 15 years until he finally (exasperatedly) expressed his true feelings about his nickname. And they were not pleasant!

The term of endearment did, however, apply until high school. Since we typically made his lunch on school days, one morning I absentmindedly wrote “Weed” on his lunch bag. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. When he went to lunch, his friends died laughing over the fact he was carrying his bag of “Weed.”

THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!

It started 21 years ago when I was Orca the Whale. I was already on “bed arrest” for a high risk pregnancy but then had to be admitted to a teaching hospital with a neonatal unit. This aged facility was where my Cornish hen-sized babies would enter the world too early at 30 weeks. I recall there being lots of preterm, laboring moms that night and no room for admittance. So I got to lie on a gurney for a bed with a curtain as a partition. I recall garish, exposed, fluorescent bulbs, and the view of a mega dust bunny gliding back and forth over my head. To keep the babies baking longer, I was given a med that caused vomiting. Not just a little either. So, in my 1/2 star accommodations, I thought to myself, “This can’t be happening.” But it did. And it kept happening for 6 more weeks….

The next time it happened I was outnumbered and carting all my brood to a public library. It was one of the very few places I could go with 4 preschoolers without doing a perpetual head count. Since we were potty training, I was relieved there was a potty right there too. We go in the library and one of my guys is so engrossed in his trains that he goes #2 right there by the train table, completely unnoticed. (As you know, children run around and around and back and forth A LOT when playing at a train table.) To add insult to injury, my sons also had on deep-trekked shoes and were innocently “painting” the carpet with the “accident.” I got a sudden whiff and the panic set in. My 911 button was pushed and I went into damage control. Mortified, I take the culprit to get cleaned up. Then, the perturbed librarian comes at me with carpet cleaner. I thought to myself, “This can’t be happening!” But as sure as stink it did! I got to clean carpet, clean children, clean shoes and accept the fact we couldn’t go there ever, ever again.

Looking back, those minor horrors were “Boot Camp” to prepare me for a whole lot to come. I can take a whole lot more stress now than I could back then. I am not as fazed at shattered windows, fender benders, and escaped pet snakes. Maybe God knew I needed to be pushed. Maybe He knew what would get through to me. I really don’t know, but I can definitely say I got the message.

What’s In A Name?

Pets’ names are often curious and have an interesting story behind them. I love to inquire how they got their monikers. Our first family dog, Fluffy, was named by our daughter due to her fascination with the Harry Potter series. The beastly, three headed dog that protected the secret passageways of Hogwarts was ironically named “Fluffy.” We considered this first, family dog a metrosexual since he loved carrying his “Chewy Vuitton” purse around. Our neighbor down the street fed him a scrambled egg and bacon most mornings. He had his daily route of progressive dining which lead to excessive weight that I got chastised about by our vet. Once, I actually attached a sign to his neck that said “Please don’t feed me” but no one listened and his girth became like a pot bellied pig at 120 pounds. Still, he lived 17, happy years (and was amazingly buoyant in the river).

A recent addition, Skippy, was not named after the peanut butter brand but the dog food we gave Fluffy when he got insulin shots. Our daughter was dismayed when she heard the name and said that it figured. She said, “Of course I’m not there and it gets named after off brand dog food!”

A favorite pet name was one our son gave his pet goldfish. A family friend had won it at the fair but wasn’t interested in keeping it. Our son, however, was. He got his prized pet and immediately named it “Grace cannot name me” so his sister couldn’t have a say. That fairground goldfish lived three, unheard of years. It was a value added pet!

Annie is our elderly chihuahua that we found on the side of a highway. Obviously an orphan, her name came easily. Artemis is half feral and brought home numerous dead “prizes” before she realized she was actually going to be fed and didn’t have to hunt anymore. Thus, she got the name which means “goddess of the hunt.”

We recently had a kitten chase our vehicle a quarter mile in the woods. He was tiny and starving. My son who picked him up (or got picked up by) named him Opossum and we call it Opey for short. That name was the only one after a week that we could all agree on. (It’s hard to not agree on any reference to Andy Griffith anyway.)

Unenforceable, implied laws of pet naming require animals get interesting names. Who’s ever heard of a cat named Sara or a dog named John anyway?

WRAP ‘EM UP

Human condition can be measured without scientific, in-depth studies. It can easily be assessed when three, preteen boys have too much time on their hands.

Not realizing their idea was of the psycho-sociological nature, they took several rolls of plastic wrap and attached their willing brother to a pole on our road purely for reaction. He willingly complied since he had watched one too many episodes of Impractical Jokers. (Thoughtful as the perpetrators were, they left plenty of room for him to breathe.) The other two hid nearby in anticipation of stranger’s reactions.

Apparently, they had only two passersby and only one vehicle slowed down long enough to check he was actually breathing.

From a scientist’s perspective, the study was a bust. Not enough participants and the results were skewed. But to the boys, at least two hours had gone by and they got what they wanted- their own laughs.

Tattoo Who

I always thought tattoos were interesting. I have no idea why, but I would look at them and think to myself, “What does that mean?” and “Why do they have that?” I was inexplicably drawn to them and could only imagine the story behind the ink. I even researched what the Bible said about them. However, I was raised by a father that said a tattoo was a “permanent reminder of a temporary feeling.”

Throughout history, tattoos have sometimes had negative connotations. My husband had a grandfather who was a merchant marine that was embarrassed of his – so much so, he hid his with long-sleeved shirts in sweltering heat. Cher even had hers lasered off. Yet they seem more ubiquitous and socially accepted now than ever.

To me, tattoos are interpretive, personal art. The only thing that stopped me from getting one was the fact my intuitive husband said I’d want to change mine out after a month like an accessory. His opinion was correct in that I was easily bored with decor and fashion. In those areas, he had me pegged.

There were, however, nonnegotiables in my life: my devotion to my family and my faith. To explain, it takes supernatural, God- equipped strength to raise (much less live with) 4 teenagers. So, when I hit a particularly difficult, rough patch, I decided to take a personal “break.” I have no clue how to define or what constitutes “a break,” but I will say it was the healthiest choice. No kidding, I hit a very high, hard wall in parenting. So, I separated myself to avoid perpetuating anymore negativity and to gain perspective. I went to the beach and started praying fervently. I had no idea what to do, how to do it, or what could come of my quandry. I just kept seeking divine guidance. I knew God was there and would help me but I didn’t know what that would look like. The more I prayed, the more God drew closer. I felt His comforting presence and sensed my job was to back off and let Him do His work. I felt without a doubt that God was telling me to “Be still” and just “Be Thankful.” That message, after days of prayer, was all I needed to stop trying so hard to force change. My role rather, was to rejoice and be thankful for all God’s blessings. This was new for me: I was to stop micromanaging everything and just “be.”

After contemplating this reality, it dawned on me that I felt a permanent reminder was in order. It was like I was driven by an external force that sunny weekday to go to the beach tattoo parlor. Yep, a middle aged, mother of 4 had an unwavering plan to commemorate this “God moment” in ink.

With their high-tech, graphics design program, and medical grade equipment, the artist created a light- hued, grey scripted message on my inner wrist. It was and is my permanent message from God to be still and be thankful.

It has induced hilarious banter from some like, “Did you get that in prison?” I also find it humorous that I am the only one in my family with one- none of my college kids do. Interestingly, it has also been the impetus of deep conversations with strangers regarding faith. I don’t regret it and haven’t for one moment wanted to change it out either.