Author Archives: Stacy Swiger

Let’s Agree to Disagree

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Everything comes down to the He'n and She'n

Sheepdog and I have a great relationship.  He is the yang to my yin.  The out to my in.  The pragmatic to my fly off the handle.  We make a really good team.

We met when we were both twenty-years-old in college.  We got married just one month after graduating.  We were babies.  We both say all the time that we are so fortunate that we still liked each other after we sobered up.  True story.

It helps that we are on the same page about so many of the big things… finances, religion, politics, discipline, priorities, work ethic, what color to paint the house.  Those things really matter when you are dealing with the day-to-day crap that can sometimes drive a couple apart.

But, like every other couple, we don’t always see eye to eye.  Sometimes Sheepdog can be a dummy and he doesn’t see things my way, i.e. The Right Way.  Our disagreements certainly aren’t marriage-ending or earth-shattering, but they are ongoing.  For example, these are a few of our always-on-the-table points of contention:

  1. Tattoos.  Him:  Has two already.  Negotiated for new tattoos every time I suggested we should have another kid.  Another tat would be so freakin’ cool!  Me:  Hell no.  I have a Sharpie.  C’mere and let me give you another “tattoo,” mister.  Oh, and wait until Kids B and/ or C (Kid A wouldn’t even think about it) come home with tramp stamps.  Let’s hear how you feel about tattoos then.
  2. Guns.  Him:  Grew up in West Virginia, where they apparently issue “Baby’s First Shotgun” upon pre-school graduation.  He is a proud, sticker-weilding member of the NRA.  Me: Didn’t touch a gun until Sheepdog taught me to shoot empty beer cans with a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun in college (romantic?) and paper burglar targets with a Glock 19 a few years ago.  I respect the gun, but will always be a little scared of it.  I’d rather not even think about them, frankly.  I always manage to forget the code to our gun safe.
  3. Camping.  Him: Avid outdoorsman who would choose to live in a lean-to if I agreed.  Loves everything about the outdoors, including wiping with leaves.  Me: I only use Cottonnelle Ultra.  I see no point in camping.  Camping is for people who are not smart enough to know where to find a 5-star hotel.
  4. Girls in (Really) High Heels.  Him: The higher, the better.  All women should be required to wear high heels when greeting their man at the door after a long, hard day at work.  And nothing else.  Me: I wear flip-flops year round.

We have always called each other out on our B.S.  If I can count on no one else (well, before we had children who couldn’t wait to tell me that my hair looked crazy or that I am wrong about the facts), then I could always count on Sheepdog to give me the hard truth, or at least his version of it.

Except for when he wants some.  Then he knows he had better see things The Right Way.  And maybe I’ll even put on some heels.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Sons and Their Girlfriends

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

During the last week of kindergarten Kid D came home from school and announced with both disgust and pride that, “Two girls in my class told everyone today that they loved (me)!”  He made a sound like he was gagging, but I swear I also saw the faintest hint of a smile.

The other day when we were bowling Kid E  noticed an older woman (she was, like, at least five-years-old) in the lane next to us playing with her family and announced to me, “She’s cute!  I’m gonna go over and say hi to her!”  and then he actually did.  He is still sporting a mohawk and foot cast – he’s rocking the Bad Boy thing so seriously that I’m soon going to suggest he get a tattoo.

And yesterday within minutes of us arriving at the pool Kid D had two different girls come up to him and ask if he wanted to swim with them.  He spent the rest of the afternoon playing pool games and having diving contests with his little girl friends, making sure to come back to me every once in a while to check in and throw me the occasional “I love you” or hug.  Were they genuine or did I sense a touch of obligation?

One of Kid D's first girlfriends. She was such a little tramp.

Good Lord, I can not fathom that I am losing these boys to girls already.

There is a saying that gives me chills and is the root of the fear in my brain with regard to my sons growing up and leaving me forever and it goes something like, “A daughter is your daughter for the whole of her life, but a son is a son until he takes a wife.”  You just know that some pissed off mother-in-law said that first, and she probably muttered “bitch” after she said “wife.”

Now I completely get the irony of the situation because Sheepdog has a mom and, technically, I guess I took him away from her.  But that doesn’t really count because (A) he wanted to move away from West Virginia more than anything, so he left and I just went with him; (2) my mother-in-law and I are completely different people with very different approaches to parenting (we’re talking for this argument’s sake); and (d) Kid E is completely different from Sheepdog (while Kid D is EXACTLY the same, but that doesn’t help my point at all, so I am choosing to ignore it).

I know that these boys will all grow up and move out and move on to their own lives someday.  And when that “someday” comes around I will even (maybe) be saying that I look forward to it.  I guess I realize that the boys will go away on their own, regardless of whether or not girls play a part in the decision.  But for now I like having my baby boys close by and I like that they rely on me and occasionally come find me for an “I love you” or hug, even if it is obligatory.  I’m taking whatever I can get.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Hotlanta

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Ask almost anybody who lives here and they will tell you.  Atlanta is awesome.  It is great place to be single or to raise a family.  You can live on a farm or have an exciting city life.  You can go shopping for anything, cheer on all kinds of teams at sporting events, and indulge in every kind of music, arts and theatre.  There are great public schools.  There are great private schools.  There are beautiful mountains, lakes and parks for almost every type of recreation.  And even in cities with huge populations, there are neighborhoods that provide a very strong sense of community (Go Crocs!).

It may be sMARTA, but it is scary as hell to ride at night.

But ask those same people and they will also tell you.  There are two main things that suck about Atlanta… traffic and the summer heat.  Traffic is inevitable because, “If you build it, they will come.”  Word is out that this place is great.  So plan accordingly and allow extra time to get places.  If you want less traffic then go live in South Dakota.  Or take MARTA (Sheepdog does).  But the heat?  Good Lord.  Some days I don’t want to leave my air-conditioned house.  And when I do it is only to spend the day at the pool.  It’s a good thing I don’t have a real job.

It is only the beginning of June and it is already stupid hot here in Atlanta.  We have had temperatures in the high nineties, and even into the triple digits, for a week now.  I am used to cross-winds and ocean breezes, so I have had a really hard time adjusting to summer weather in the South.  Even after almost ten years of living in Atlanta, I still pack up the family every summer and we head out of Dodge to somewhere that has air that moves.

The worst was a few years ago when we had the standard Summer Sauna Experience, but in addition we had state-wide water restrictions.  There was no new rain for weeks.  Under penalty of death you couldn’t water your grass or plants, wash your car, or hook up a Slip-N-Slide.  Conveniently, just before news of the drought broke we had just done some landscaping and wished to water the new plants.  I had to take a test online (similar to the S.A.T.s) and apply for a permit and make a deal with the devil in order to give each new shrub three droppers-full of water between 5 and 5:15 a.m. on the third Thursday after each new moon.

So, even though it is crazy hot here in Atlanta already, there is so much to do, both inside and out.  There are no water restrictions, so the swimming pools are full.  The lawns and plants are green and people are firing up their grills and Green Eggs.  Summer is here in Hotlanta, so let’s all take a turn on the Slip-N-Slide.

Have a great day!

“OK Day”

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Summer may seem endless, especially to a stay-at-home parent who is suddenly one day in May or June each year invaded by kids being all up in your house space.  The survival of all eighty-odd days without incident can seem impossible, especially early on in the process.  I just hang in there, taking it one day at a time (or more appropriately referred to as one Happy Hour at a time) until about day thirty-five, when I then realize that the summer is a few days shy of being half over and whereinthehelldidthetimegoandhowarewegoingtodo allthethingswewantedtodothissummerwithwhatlittletimewehaveleft?

For part of the summer the kids and I travel, mainly visiting both my parents and Sheepdog’s parents.  For another part of the summer we just lounge at our neighborhood pool.  We usually do not participate in any summer sports or activities, although this summer Kid B was planning to do a short soccer camp at a local high school (I just realized that the camp started yesterday and we have already missed two of the three total days…oops! no soccer camp this summer either).  We all seem to enjoy not having schedules and just doing our own thing and lounging around, watching movies, playing with friends and each other, reading books and magazines, and perfecting our tans and Triple Lindys.

I am really up for most suggestions of things to do from the kids, as long as they don’t inconvenience me too much (e.g. interrupt my intense summer schedule of playing Zuma on my laptop, or of watching HGTV or MTV shows from my extensive DVR queue) or cost an arm and a leg.  So when somebody suggested each kid having a day during which they call the shots, I was certainly up for it (within reasonable limits, of course).  Everybody tossed around some ideas about fun stuff to do on their days, but most of them are playing it pretty close to the vest and not sharing details until they reach the limit of the required 48-hours notice so I can plan meals, supplies, travel and details.

Part of Kid D's plan was for his siblings to create and play a reality TV game show with him. He, of course, got to win.

“Mom, can I have cake for breakfast?

“OK.”

“Mom, can I play Wii all day long and go first every time and pick the teams and pick the games and win every time too?”

“OK.”

“Mom, can we go bowling after we go to the pool?”

(bowling – really?  ugh, but…) “OK.”

“Mom, can I have cake for lunch…and dinner?”

(you are so gonna vomit, but…) “OK.”

“Mom, can we set up an elaborate reality game show in the house, complete with video instructions, painted poster and challenges?”

(speechless) “OK.”

“Mom, can I take a shower with my clothes on?”

(weird, but…) “OK.”

See, that’s all innocent enough.  We are only on our first Special Day (the honor went to Kid D based on recent good behavior), which has now been re-named “OK Day” (obvious explanation above).  I love hearing their ideas and plans and what they choose to do when they have very few limits.  So far I have not had to say no even once.  But Kid B hasn’t gone yet, so give it time.  As the kids get older, their ideas will no doubt become more ridiculous and I will be wishing for the end of summer and start of a new school year, schedules and all.  But for now, we’re all doing OK.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Dance Recitals are Torture

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The other six of us all got dressed up this past weekend and we headed out to watch Kid A dance ballet in her studio’s recital.  It was held at a local high school that has its own performing arts center.  I just love watching Kid A dance.  Her movement is so precise and controlled and just peaceful to watch.  But the dance recital just kills me.  I don’t care how beautifully it is done.  Dance recitals are torture.

Let’s start with the preparation of the dancer.  Even the youngest of them (most studios have dance classes for kids as little as three-years-old) get full stage make up.  I understand the reason for needing it (stage lights are very bright and they drown you out), and I guess some people find it cute to play drag queen with their toddler, but it seems so very wrong to have these kids wearing six times more make-up than most strippers wear to work.  Then there’s the shellacked hair bun, which requires seventeen-thousand pins plus a net to hold it in place and a rocket scientist’s mom (because even the rocket scientist needs a mom’s help with this thing) to assemble.  And they don’t make enough chemicals to remove this stuff, so you’d better just get used to it.  Your dancer is going to look this way for most of the summer.

"You will TOTALLY were these again!" said their dance teacher.

Let’s move on to the costumes… they usually come in several parts, none of which I can ever figure out how to put on in the right order.  And they never come with assembly instructions, and I end up trying to put it together like it is a 250-piece play kitchen and I’m panicking at midnight on Christmas Eve.  It’s a good thing that Kid A is paying attention.  Oh, and you’ll need to buy new tights for the show.  The kind that you’ll never use again, and they cost half of a week’s worth of groceries.  The really great thing is that you get to keep the costumes!

Then there is the sales portion of the recital.  There are professional photo sessions (individual and group), DVD sales, poster sales, flower sales, and sometimes even keepsake sales to remind the dancers of the particular experience (As if the actual digital footage of the whole show to the tune of $40 a copy would not remind them enough.  No, they need a stuffed polar bear in a tutu made in Taiwan by a six-year-old who gets paid three cents a day to truly remind them).

Finally, we get to the day (or days! with multiple showings! like Broadway!) of the dance recital.  The performance is usually held in the middle of some unincorporated town, at least six hours away from the studio.  On top of that, your dancer has a call time that is three hours prior to when the doors open to the public.  Until then, no one is allowed to come in out of the sweltering heat and sit down in an auditorium that never has enough seats, and then only the very front row has an unobstructed view.  Most of the time the air conditioning in the theater will crap out about an hour into the first half of the performance.  By Intermission (yes, the show is long enough to justify an intermission), you are so sick of watching all of the variations of “kick ball change” and dancers cross leaping across the stage that you consider encouraging your dancer to try Chess Club instead next year.

Business Idea: Figure out how to get approved for a temporary liquor license inside of a school to provide a mobile cash bar for dance recitals.  Offer theme drinks, such as “Ballet Bombers,”  “Jazz Hands Off My Drink,” and “Beer Straight from the Tap Shoes.”  Provide special honorary seating for dads and grandfathers who got dragged there by the moms trying to relive their own unfulfilled hopes and dreams.

Nevertheless, we all went to watch and support Kid A while she performed in her annual recital.  I sat next to someone who reeked of cigarettes and Sheepdog sat near someone who needed more deodorant.  We all smiled and clapped and cheered, especially when Kid A was on stage – and she danced so beautifully – but mostly we cheered when it was over.  That is just what you do.  You support the ones you love, even when it is complete torture.  Because that is how childhood dreams and memories are made… on the proud shoulders and empty wallets of the parents who love them unconditionally.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Beware the Silence

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Drowning can be deceptively silent.  People who are drowning in real life don’t look like they do on television.  There is no splashing, no screaming, no flailing about.  There is usually no noise at all.  Just eerily silent suffering.

I almost can’t bring myself to write this post, as the recall of memories still brings tears to my eyes and a physical pain to my heart.  But I am doing it to remind everyone to be vigilant this summer… at the pool, on the beach and on the lake.

At a community pool, with both Sheepdog and I right there, Kid C once almost drowned.  She had just turned four years old and she did not know how to swim on her own, so she wore one of those swim vests that zipped up the front and snapped under the crotch.  It kept her afloat while she learned the mechanics of swimming and developed strength in both her arms and legs.

She was sitting on a towel off to the side of the pool snacking on some fresh berries, and she had taken the vest off to be more comfortable.  When she was done she went back into the pool, forgetting to put the vest back on first.  She descended the pool steps, quickly – and oh so silently – she was submerged under the water.  A mother nearby noticed that she was perfectly still and miraculously yanked her out of the pool in time to keep her from drowning.  As she vomited strawberries and pool water all over me, I couldn’t believe how quiet everything had seemed.

I can tell you that this all happened in a matter of seconds and that, even in hindsight, both Sheepdog and I felt like we were being watchful.  You will most likely presume that we were distracted socializing with other parents or that maybe our attention was drawn elsewhere by another child.  Neither of those things is true.  I have gone over those seconds in my head more times than seems humanly possible and I still don’t have all of the answers.  I can tell you that I grew up with a pool in my backyard, and spent countless summer days at the beach and on a sailboat.  I know infant, child and adult CPR and have even taken lifeguard training courses.  I certainly thought I was an attentive parent, especially when my kids are around the water, but that day taught me otherwise.

Just this past Memorial Day weekend a three-year-old girl silently drowned in a community pool on the Main Line in Philadelphia, with her parents only a few feet away.  The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention site says that fatal drowning remains the second-leading cause of unintentional injury-related death for children ages 1 to 14 years.

The Atlanta forecast over the next few days is currently “hot,” along with several days of “very hot,” so there will certainly be an increase in water activities.  Please be reminded to watch your children carefully at all times.  Remember to always listen for the noise of them playing in the water.  And beware the silence.

Girl Power: Fail

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I have always been the kind of girl who wanted to do the stuff, instead of sitting idly by and watching someone else do it for me.  As a toddler I’m sure I petulantly said, “Do byself!” more than I said, “Mama.” (Sorry, Mom).  As a teenager I excelled in both Home Economics and Industrial Arts classes; I even earned the Shop (I.A.) Award at my 8th Grade Graduation ceremony. “That’s my SON!” yelled my dad, his chest swelling with pride.  I know how to sew a button, drive a stick shift, change out a toilet flapper, orienteer myself out of the woods, and cook a medium-rare petite filet on a gas grill that I lit all by myself even if the starter does not work.

Now don’t go thinking that I am some angry feminist who does not need no ma-an around to help me survive.  I just like the security of knowing that I could do these things if ever I need to.  I have no desire to cut my ma-an off at the boy parts to show how strong I am.  That would be a dumb power play and, I think, the mark of an underconfident, weak woman.  I respect and value Sheepdog and his contributions very much.  I think that Sheepdog and I make an excellent team because we respect each other and we have walked a mile in each other’s shoes (well, as much as that is even possible) and we both work together to run this family.

The problem with our current roles is that we have been in them for a while, so my survival skills are now a little stale.  I haven’t been the breadwinner in this family since we were first married and I worked full-time and Sheepdog was in law school.  I would most likely not succeed in an office environment at this point in my life (Um, so you’re saying that I should not take a little siesta after I watch The Real Housewives of New Jersey on my computer.  This company is lame.  Take this job and shove it!), nor would Sheepdog last being a full-time stay-at-home-dad who has to sacrifice regular workouts for sick kids and cross-country travels for SpongeBob SquarePants (truth be told, SpongeBob is awesome and we both watch that show if it happens to be on), but you understand what I’m saying.  Unless you keep practicing all of your skills, you may lose them.

As you know, the past few days have been filled with E.R. visits, pediatric orthopedic surgeons and Wee Walker Boot applications.  It has also been filled with the cold-that-will-not-go-away, a kitchen knife accident (I actually have a lot of these – I think my knives hate me) and a broken dishwasher, thanks to good old Mr. Murphy and his stupid Law.

Fortunately, the home improvement stores were having Memorial Day sales this past weekend, so we got a new dishwasher for a great price.  Delivery was scheduled for Wednesday.  On Tuesday the robot lady called and informed me that our delivery time was to be between 8 and 10 PM.  Odd, but I can’t exactly question a robot and I know we’ll be home then, so I pulse uno para “si.”  Sheepdog says that it is a good plan, because he can disconnect the old dishwasher when he gets home on Wednesday night.  Don’tcha know that the delivery guys call me the next morning, after Sheepdog has left for work (that is decidedly not near our house, by the by), and tell me that the robot lady has a screw loose and she actually meant AM.  So they’ll be by within the hour and could I be ready to accept delivery of the new dishwasher and give them the old one for free pickup?  Ever the “Do byself!” Girl, I again respond in the affirmative, and proceed to get my dishwasher disconnecting groove on.

Do I cut the red wire or the blue wire? Do a good job. Do a good job. Do a good job.

Long story short, even though I have Sheepdog on the speaker phone for tech support and I send him a picture of a new problem every two minutes from my phone, I do not manage to disconnect the dishwasher by the time the delivery guys ring my front doorbell.  I do, however, manage to almost flood the kitchen (which is directly above our fancy media room, mind you), seriously scratch up the wood floor in a spot that I look at every single day and it will quickly drive me mad and require a complete refurbishing of all of the wood floors on the first level, and also turn off both of our hot water heaters which later required Sheepdog to relight the pilot because no one was getting hot water for their evening showers.

Sheepdog then comes home after a full day of work, uninstalls the dishwasher, installs the new one, diagnoses and fixes the above-mentioned hot water issue, and then does about two hours more of work on his computer before bed.  I think I heard him make a couple of Tim Taylor Tool Time self-satisfied grunts throughout the night, but I did not comment at all because they were completely justified.  In my self-pitying rut, I threw in the towel about making a nutritious dinner, ordered pizza and picked up a giant bottle of wine.

Girl Power: Fail.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a crap load of This Old House episodes to catch up on, so that I may continue to be worthy of that Shop Award.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Kicks and Moans and Broken Bones

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

On a beautiful spring afternoon in 2005, Good Friday to be exact, Kid A and Kid B were out in the front yard of my mom’s house kicking a soccer ball around.  Sheepdog was at work, but my mom and dad and some sisters and brothers-in-law and nieces and nephews were there.  I stepped inside the house to breastfeed Kid D, who was only four or five moths old at the time.  My dad was doing yard work outside where the girls played.  Then any moms’ nightmare happened – an ear-piercing scream of pain reached my ears.  Even though it was louder and more intense than any I’d heard up until that point in her life, I knew it was Kid B’s cry.  In the twenty seconds it took for me to yank Kid D off of my breast and my dad to carry Kid B (a mother’s instinct is usually right!) into the house and lay her down on the couch I had run every horrific scenario through my mind about what had happened to cause her to create such noises.

It turned out that Kid A had kicked Kid B square in the shin (I told you before… graceful ballerina, clumsy athlete) instead of kicking the soccer ball.  By now the whole family had gathered around to see what was causing the ruckus and everybody was adding their two cents.  There was already bruising and some swelling, but no compound fracture and nothing that was a clear indicator of anything obvious.

“There is no way that a little kid could break her bone from a frontal kick like that,” said both of the brothers-in-law, each of whom played a little high school football.  (To be clear, one B-I-L played a little college ball at Georgia Tech, but that’s not what today’s story is about).

“My leg is broken.  My leg is broken.  My leg is broken.  My leg is broken, ” chanted Kid B.

My dad was so busy hugging his favorite grandchild (let’s just call a spade a spade here) that I almost couldn’t hear him say that he thought it was indeed broken.

So I packed up the four kids and drove back home.  I called the pediatrician’s office, which was closed for the weekend, and I was referred to an after hours urgent care for x-rays.  Sheepdog met us at home by then and he tried to lighten the mood by betting Kid B that she did not have a broken bone.  She was still busy chanting, but she shook on the bet nonetheless.  Sheepdog and Kid B headed out for a long night in the emergency room.

This x-ray earned Kid B five bucks

It turned out that Kid B was right, because she was diagnosed with a Z-shaped spiral fracture of her right tibia.  She got a splint and a visit to a pediatric orthopedic specialist to get fitted for a cast.  And did you know that a five-year-old will not fare so well using crutches (their coordination is just not developed enough), so they get to be issued a pediatric wheelchair for the duration of their broken bone healing process?  Question: Where do you put an infant’s car seat in order to push around a pediatric wheelchair (recall that Kid D is only four or five months old at the time)?  Answer: Sucks to be you, lady.  You sure have a lot of kids.

Ha!  And I wasn’t even done yet.

So Kid B got to spend Spring Break and almost the rest of her kindergarten year in a cast and a wheelchair, getting waited on and shuttled around and catered to.  I’m sure she was in pain in the beginning (mom recall of those screams… I still get chills), but I would bet it was a tad more painful for me at one point or another during the whole six to eight week process.  By the end, Kid B was a Rock Star in her school and I was getting phone calls from moms who said that their daughters wanted to have broken bones just like her.  Um, that’s really disturbing and I don’t even know how to respond to that information.  I was never more happy than the day she got her cast removed and had confirmation that the break healed well and should not affect her subsequent growth.  P.S.  She is only twelve and already about five feet six inches tall.

So why am I posting about this story today?  I’ll give you a hint… it is not Good Friday.  Nobody got hurt playing soccer.  There’s not even anybody being breastfed in this house.  I’m sure you guessed it, though.  Yep… somebody broke a bone.  On the First Official Day of Summer Vacation.  Classic.

Kids C, D and E were playing in the basement (it is a nicely finished basement, not some death trap).  There are two things that frighten a mother to her very soul… complete silence when a group of children are gathered together to play and the ear-piercing screams of pain I mentioned earlier.  Out of the blue I heard the latter  – this time from Kid E.  He had tripped on a toy and smacked his other foot against a door as he fell.  One of the coolest parts of this story was Kid D’s slo-mo re-enactment of the fall so I could see exactly what happened.  He was really good at it.

Kid E was limping and wincing.  He’s a tough little man, so I figured something was wrong.  Again I was sent to the same urgent care center for x-rays.  Again Sheepdog bet me that nothing was broken.  Again Sheepdog owes somebody five bucks.  The diagnosis was a fracture of the fifth metatarsal bone on his left foot, which would require a cast for at least four weeks.  When I asked if they made pool and beach-friendly casts, the doctors and nurses all laughed heartily and told me to have a nice summer.

Nothing says "white trash baby" better than a kid with a mohawk in the E.R. for a broken bone

My texts to Sheepdog were as follows:

Broken foot.

Call u in a bit.

Motherfu*ker.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

R.I.P. Baths

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

My life is a loop, like that movie Groundhog Day.  Every day.  But I’m not complaining, not one bit.  I like schedules.  I like knowing what is around the corner, over the hill, beyond the bend.  Weekdays during the school year?  Wake up, get Kids C and D on the bus. Kids A and B soon follow.  Sometimes Kid E goes to pre-school and I have to try very hard to keep myself out of trouble.  They come home at the same time, we run the seasonal sports schedule, have dinner, clean up, give the boys baths and everyone goes to bed.  Wake up.  Do it all over again.

Every once in a while when I get to be somewhere by myself I wonder how it got to be Summer/ Fall/ Winter/ Spring again so fast.  Then things get shaken up once more when we start a new schedule and I panic that some glitch will require me to be in three places at one time (physically impossible… I’ve tried), but somehow it all works out and we manage.  It may be little, insignificant day-to-day stuff, but the end of it seems to be making me more emotional than usual.

In the past as one kid would move out of a developmental stage, there was always another one right behind her or him.  We were never really done with things.  I was always having another baby.  Our crib has been assembled and disassembled more times than I can count (probably more times than recommended by the manufacturer – I even think I remember stripping the screws and needing to replace them).

As Kid E gets older and outgrows things and moves on to something else, I always feel like I should have some sort of ceremony or at least acknowledgement of the end of these things I will never do again.  When he was done with breastfeeding or diapers or naps I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know exactly what to do. (Honestly, when he gave up naps I just wanted to cry all the time, but that’s not really what I’m talking about).

So I just decided that it was a part of life and I donated my pump and got rid of the Pull-Ups and moved on to whatever pressing issue was waiting to be dealt with next.  Most recently the boys asked me to put up a shower rod and curtain in their bathroom so they could take showers instead of baths.  Kid D is certainly big enough to shower on his own now, but it was just easier to draw one bath and throw both of them in it at night for a quick hose down.  For some reason the end of baths is just tugging at my heartstrings.

Thinking about why brings me back to Kids A, B, and C taking baths as little girls. It seems like a lifetime ago… those pink wash cloths and Malibu Barbies and shampoo bubble hair-dos.  Bath time was often tedious, but it really was such a sweet ritual to be able to spend time with all three of them lined up in a row in the tub and tell each other about our days.  The girls would always ask questions about everything… sometimes profound, but mostly just silly.

I remember one time in the Pepto pink bathroom that one of the girls – most likely Kid B – asked a question about female body parts.  I always have answered those questions with age-appropriate honesty, using the correct names for things whenever possible (instead of the tee-tee, gucci, and ba-jingo that I grew up calling girl parts).  When I answered her, she thought I said “Cha-China” (she was in a Montessori preschool at the time, so the little smarty-pants knew her geography).  She then countered that Cha-China was an odd name for it and insisted that she was going to call it her Ja-Japan.  Thank goodness that didn’t last long.  Weird kid.

I guess I am just so moved by the end of these little things because it is the sum of all of the tiny parts that makes up our lives on the whole.  Mine is whizzing by and a break-neck speed and I want it to slow down. All of my kids are getting older and, while I look forward to each new stage and the experiences that come with them, I want to enjoy the ones we are in just a little while longer.  All of our kids are still just babies with little people issues.  The passing of time means that they will just get bigger and bigger issues come along with that.  I don’t want them to deal with college and love and drugs and sex and jobs and real life just yet.

If you have little kids, this might as well be a unicorn

So today I am taking all of our bath toys and putting them out with the trash and recycling.  Maybe I’ll hum “Taps” while I do it, or maybe I won’t because something new will come up in the meantime that demands my immediate attention.  Or maybe I’ll go in the master bathroom and draw a bubble bath, light some candles, and turn on some spa-like relaxation music and get into the tub myself.

Except that as soon as I do that, everybody will suddenly want to take baths again.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Memorial Day

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The town I grew up in holds the best small town Memorial Day parade.  Even after I moved a few towns over and had my own family, I still took them back to Absecon every year for the wonderful experience that is their Memorial Day parade.  They traditionally start at the American Legion Post 28 and work their way down New Jersey Avenue, then they turn onto Route 9 and head up to Veterans Memorial Park.  The American Legion and the Veterans of Foreign Wars Post 9462 then hold a Memorial Service in the park.  It is thoughtful and reverent and a wonderful tribute year after year.  The park is filled with veterans and their families and friends.  Generations gather together to pay tribute and remember those who have served our country.  They deliver speeches filled with words like bravery, sacrifice, heroes, honor and patriotism.  They end the tribute every year with a gun salute.  It always moves me and makes me proud to be even a little part of it.

My uncle, Lance Corporal Gary Fredrick Paarz, H CO, 2ND BN, 7TH MARINES, 1ST MARDIV, III MAF, was one of the many who died during his service to our country during the Vietnam War.  Because he also grew up in Absecon, his name is on the memorial in Veterans Park.  He was my dad’s older brother by less than sixteen months.  I never met my Uncle Gary (he died before I was born), but I have heard many stories about him over the years.  He was fun and funny and full of life.  I can’t imagine losing a child or a sibling, but I do know that his family is so proud of his service.

Pop Pop at the World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C.

Another source of pride for me is that I get watch my grandfather, Henry Singleton Speed, Torpedoman Second Class, who served in the U.S. Navy during World War II, march in the parade.  Actually, he’s in his eighties now, so it is more like he rides in a classic military vehicle or a convertible, but he is in the parade nonetheless.  Afterwards, we go with him to the V.F.W., where he previously served 15 years as Quartermaster, to hang out and eat barbecue.  He served for almost four years on two ships… a DE-181 and a DD-808 everywhere from the Atlantic Ocean (both North and South) to the Pacific Ocean.  His family is also very proud of his service.

There are so many people who have similar stories… those who have served and those who are serving, those who have died in battle and those who now carry the title of veterans.  We owe them all our gratitude for their bravery.  It is on this day that we gather each year and stop to remember those who chose a path that can be difficult and dangerous and certainly requires sacrifice by them and their families.  And to them all we should give respect and thanks.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. gave a speech on Memorial Day 1884 in Keene, New Hampshire, to the Grand Army of the Republic in which he said, “I heard a young man ask why people still kept up Memorial Day, and it set me thinking of the answer. Not the answer that you and I should give to each other-not the expression of those feelings that, so long as you live, will make this day sacred to memories of love and grief and heroic youth–but an answer which should command the assent of those who do not share our memories…But Memorial Day may and ought to have a meaning also for those who do not share our memories.”

He continued, “So to the indifferent inquirer who asks why Memorial Day is still kept up we may answer, it celebrates and solemnly reaffirms from year to year a national act of enthusiasm and faith. It embodies in the most impressive form our belief that to act with enthusiasm and faith is the condition of acting greatly. To fight out a war, you must believe something and want something with all your might. So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching. More than that, you must be willing to commit yourself to a course, perhaps a long and hard one, without being able to foresee exactly where you will come out. All that is required of you is that you should go somewhither as hard as ever you can. The rest belongs to fate. One may fall-at the beginning of the charge or at the top of the earthworks; but in no other way can he reach the rewards of victory.”

So please take time to remember all of the service men and women today, as well as their families.  Thank and shake the hands of the ones you see and pray for those you don’t.  And in their honor, believe in something and want it with all your might.  “So must you do to carry anything else to an end worth reaching.”