Hopefully-Not-Evil Twin

I fear I’ve somehow found myself at the beginning of a Stephen King short story. At least I hope it’s a short story. I really don’t have the patience to see what’ll unfold in the time it takes to get through a novel.

It all seemed so innocuous. A few weekends ago, Kate, Paige, and I ventured out to some yard sales on our street while Mark was on a bike ride. We hit what appeared to be the kid-crap jackpot–a family with some older children was purging some great books, puzzles, and Kate’s favorite thing–dolls. We actually scored three dolls, doll clothes, and even a mini Bjorn-type carrier which caused Kate to nearly weep with joy when she first laid eyes on it. Kate staggered away from that sale with the greedy satisfaction that rich kids in Manhattan have after an FAO Schwartz spree.

We got home and I tossed what was washable into the hamper, then grabbed some Lysol disinfectant wipes to kill whatever Ebola or Junta type viruses might be lingering on the dolls’ hard plastic faces and extremities.

That’s when, standing over the sink, I stared into the face of one of the dolls and recoiled to see none other than my own baby, Paige, looking back at me. I mean, it’s UNCANNY how much this doll looks like Paige. I nearly did one of those Looney Tunes head shakes followed by a close-up peer and squint to make sure I wasn’t seeing things.

I brought the thing over to Paige and held it up next to her. Aside from the doll’s Buddha-like man breasts, the thing is essentially Paige in inanimate plastic form.

Even Kate saw the freaky resemblance, but was nonplussed. As if coming to acquire your baby sister’s doll doppleganger is a perrrrrfectly normal thing to happen on a Saturday morning. Ah the sweet innocence of childhood.

So then. What next? Exactly my question. I mean, something like this doesn’t happen and then the family lives happily ever after, right?

Thus far I’m thrilled to report that it’s been life as usual at Casa McClusky. Though if something would happen I’d at least be relieved of this brutal state of suspense. But I guess that’s why Stephen King is so good at what he does, right?

At any rate, if anything weird goes down around here I can tell you right now, the doll did it.

Other People’s Mothers

When I was a kid I was always wishing that one or another of my friend’s mothers was my mom. It’s terrible to admit, but I’m sure other kids did it too.

Sleeping over at a friend’s house one night, her mom brought hot chocolate chip cookies to us where were watching a R-rated movie on cable–a movie she knew we were watching and was totally cool with. On the couch next to Leigh’s cute older brother I sat in a state of bliss, marveling at just how good she had it.

In high school another friend’s mom used to wake up early to make us lunches to bring to the beach. “Now Kristen, honey,” she’d say. “I know you don’t like mayo so there’s none on your sandwich, and I put the sliced tomatoes in a separate baggy so they wouldn’t get the bread soggy.” For real she would do this. I mean, that woman provided exceptional service. Of course my friend rolled her eyes through it all, but I was ready to have adoption papers drafted.

Now that I’m a mother myself, the thought that Kate or Paige would ever want to trade me in or upgrade me is loathsome. And the fact that my mother’s no longer around for me to take for granted is even worse.

At some point after my mother died I remember going through a sort of panicked phase of feeling like I needed to identify the person who’d act as her Second Runner Up. I wondered whether Mark’s mom would suddenly transform from mother-in-law to Mom for me. I mean, she was there being Mark’s mom already, so I thought I could just sort of slip in on that action. I considered whether any of my mother’s old friends from Rhode Island–or even one of my sisters–would step up and start being my new mother. I even wondered whether my dad would demonstrably start filling the role of both parents. Absurd as it is to admit, I think I expected him to start calling me twice as much to pick up the slack in my parental phone time.

Thinking back I’m not sure exactly what I was looking for this stand-in Mama to do. Maybe just shower me with attention? Be the person who after a conversation where I complained of having a scratchy throat thought to call me the next day to check on how I was feeling? Though, truth be told, I’m not even sure my own mother did that.

As it turned out, no one person presented themselves to me in whatever contrived way my mind envisioned it might happen. And I see now that it would have been absurd for that to have happened anyway. First off, anyone with any emotional sense would not have wanted to step on my mother’s proverbial toes. It was more respectful to honor her unreplicatable place in my life. But anyone’s attempts to up their maternal juju toward me would likley have come off as artificial anyway. Granted, I may well have lapped it up, but it would’ve been a rebound relationship borne out of my neediness. And we all know those are short-lived. At least they tend to be.

Once the shock that my mother was gone for good started to wear off–or once I became more accustomed to it–I realized I just had to butch up. I’d been trying to sidestep the whole dismal thing by finding a suitable maternal understudy. And for me, it just didn’t work that way. At least not in the form of one person. 

This weekend I got a great dose of Mama glory from my friend Mike’s mother, Marilyn. When I first met her ten years ago I remember thinking I needed to get myself to LA as often as possible. I wanted to sit at her feet–she the regal matriarch and me the adoring wanna-be daughter–and soak in all her sassy, brilliant, loving, opinionated, intelligent Mamaness.

In fact, years flew by without seeing her again. My plan to stalk her never came to fruition. And yet reconnecting with her this weekend was all I needed to re-set my eager ‘when-can-I-visit-you-next?’ agenda. What makes Marilyn especially addictive is, as you find yourself joking, laughing, and linking arms with her and her three sons–wanting nothing more than to be an insider in their scene–she’s so down-to-earth, letting you into her home and what she’s doing in the easiest most natural way, that you realize part of her feel-good brilliance is her ability to make you feel exactly what you want–like you’re part of her family, like you’re one of them. How can you not want more more more of that?

And today, I crashed my friend Lisa’s weekly visit-with-kids to her parent’s house. Her mom hadn’t met Paige yet, and with my weird scheduling luck with seemingly all of Lisa’s parties, it’d been ages since she’d seen Kate. I can use that as the excuse for the visit, but really I knew I was positioning myself for a hearty dose of Mama-ness. Instead of wallowing in my jealousness that Lisa has fabulous–and local–parents, it seems more productive to just get in on the action. Even when I know I’m engineering myself into the setting, it’s still nice to get a hit of it.

As I’m sitting in the back yard there today, seeing Lisa’s dad pull Kate through the grass on a wagon as she sips milk like a toddler Cleopatra, then watching Lisa’s mom make Play-Doh turtles and pancakes, happily letting Kate mix up the colors and admiring her advanced verbal skills–I realized that my special stealth skill for tapping into other’s people’s mothers isn’t lost on Kate.

Today Kate and Paige were entertained, fed, and admired by two devoted world-class grandparents, if only for the day. Before conking out on the car ride home, Kate sleepily requested that I “call those grandparents to make another play date” soon. For her sake and mine, I certainly will.

Truer Words Never Spoken

It was only a few years ago when hearing my nasally voice on my answering machine was the most cringe-worthy reflection I had of myself.

These days I have it much worse. A couple weeks ago we were hanging out barbequing with another family. Kate took their son’s play phone, cradled it between her shoulder and ear and walked around the yard saying, “Hi. Yeah, this isn’t a great time for me right now. Can I call you back?” And just to make sure everyone heard her, she repeated the exact same ‘conversation’ several times.

Needless to say my faux-innocent “Where does she come up with these things?” remark wasn’t terribly convincing.

Mark got a taste of this about a year ago when Kate wasn’t nearly as verbal as she is today. We were in the car and he slammed on the breaks and leaned on his horn, prompting Kate to lament from her carseat, “Come on, dude!”

Of course, Mark experiences the cute and funny version of what Little Big Ears can shoot back atcha. And it’s testament to the fact that as a parent he’s at least succeeded in cleaning up his language, even under driving duress.

I’m the one who endures the shame of overhearing Kate say to a doll she’s loading her in a stroller, “We have got to get out of here. We have got to get out the door!”‘

At least I’m not alone. At dinner last night another Mama friend told me her 3-year-old goes up to her one-year-old, leans into her face and asks, “Do you understand me? Do you understand me?!”

God it’s brutal having to hear yourself like that.

Why is it so many people are afraid of sounding like their mothers? Take it from me, it’s far worse sounding like yourself.

The knee bone’s connected to the…

Kate: “My eyebrows hurt, Mama.”

Me: “Really? Why is that?”

Kate: “Because I ate a lot of food.”

Something I Vowed I’d Never Do

So here I am yesterday explaining all the end of the year school stuff that’s coming up to Kate. Her preschool closes for a few weeks in August, probably so the teachers can get electric shock therapy and be refreshed for a new school year in September. And really, who can blame them.

Anyway, there are all these little events happening like a pot luck (blech) and one of those useless-for-any-reason-other-than-parental-nostalgia “graduations”—she’s not even off to Kindergarten next year, just more preschool. And as I’m in the process of telling her about all these items on her social agenda, I realize that after her three-week break she’ll be going back to a different classroom, a different set of teachers—the same school but a whole new scene. She’ll no longer be a Duckling, but a Wood Duck. Or is it a Gosling? The classrooms there are as confusing as their non-parallel naming structure.

This was a dramatic realization for me, since Kate is blindly devoted to and some would argue co-dependent with one of her teachers. Had I realized sooner that this change was upcoming I’d have started an elaborate debriefing process to ready her for A) not being in that teacher’s classroom and, B) having to deal with some other woman who will no doubt be nurturing and kind, but whom Kate will likely reject like some disfunctional kidney.

I mean, I for one am not a fan of change. Or maybe I just don’t even get why anyone would ever want to change anything, never mind actually welcome it. Call me the gal who grew up in the same house, went to the same school for nine years with the same 35 other kids, and has worn her hair the same way since it grew out from my newborn crew cut. Be it nature or nurture, in all things other than, say, fresh underwear, my default switch is set to No Change, Thank You.

So, not only did I need to wrangle with my sudden realization about Kate’s imminent new classroom, and the fact that I’d been remiss in bracing her for the change, I also had to come to terms with the fact that I was doing exactly what I’d vow I’d never do as a parent. Since, it was what my mother did to me. Or rather, didn’t.

It all goes back to my own elementary school experience, at the hallowed halls of The Rockwell School in fair Bristol, Rhode Island. On the playground the different classes lined up in military-like rows after recess to file into our classrooms. For some reason on our first day back at school the fall after Kindergarten, we all had to line up this way when we first arrived in the morning. But when I went to stand in the line my Kindergarten teacher was heading up, she laughed and told to go stand in another line with the First Grade teacher. To which I thought, “Wait, what?”

Although this Childhood Traumatic Incident (TM) seems fairly ‘lite’ it somehow threw me for a loop. I guess I was just more confused than anything. The thing was, my mother hadn’t thought to tell me I’d be going into a different classroom, a different grade. And, when you’re a kid, if no one tells you stuff, then you often don’t know it.

I know that sounds like a basic premise, but I have other Mama friends who clearly weren’t neglected this way by their parents when they were kids, and are just realizing this now. My friend Becca recently posted in her blog about reading a library book about bees to her son. As she read it–stuff about hives, honey, yadda yadda–she was shocked by how fascinated and blown away her son was. It dawned on her that he didn’t know anything about bees. And she thought, “Well, why should he? We haven’t told him any of this stuff.”

And here’s the thing: The kid is 16! Well, not really, but my point being, I feel like I’ve been pretty good about trying to put myself in Kate’s shoes and explain to her things she has no background on. I’m not saying I’m a better parent than Becca–okay so maybe I am a little–but really, since I realized at a tender age that parents need to tell kids about the obvious-to-us-adults things or else they may find themselves trying to convince the teachers at school that, really, they are supposed to still be in Kindergarten, and could they just let them come back into the same classroom again, and please let’s not make a scene here.

I mean, I’m grateful those teachers found a way to get through to me back then or God knows how many classes I would have held myself back in over the course of my academic career.

So here I am. Tragically I’ve somehow managed to almost stumble into the same parental snake pit that is perhaps my legacy. Though Kate will likely outshine all her Mama’s childhood foibles and sashay into the Gosling?/Wood Duck?/Mallard? room in September all cool and easy and down with the different teachers and the whole new scene.

For her sake, and mine, I hope that’s the case.

Move Over, Lance

Was it sheer coincidence that on the last day of the Tour de France Kate took possession of her new Big Girl bike?

Well, it’s true. Yesterday, with the help of Mark’s fervid encouragement and a set of training wheels, Kate rode about one-twentieth of a mile and .5 vertical feet.The sidewalk by our house wasn’t lined with spectators waving flags and shaking noisemakers, though our neighbor Tom was out doing some gardening.

Really, it’s only a matter of time before she develops her following.

In the meantime Mark is working to put together a customized training regimen for her, and has equipped her with all the latest protein goos and energy bars, not to mention state-of-the-art heart monitors and GPS systems.

We’re looking forward to being so proud of her.

Sponsorship, anyone?

Toddler Recidivism

When we were up in Pawt-land a few months ago, Kate and Paige and I went on a little road trip to see a friend and her kids in Eugene. After a weekend of family fun Mark had meetings to go to, and far be it from me to sit in a hotel with two children waitin’ for my man.

As someone who A) grew up in microscopic Rhode Island, and B) had parents who opted exclusively for air travel, I haven’t logged many miles in the car. But I figured what could be more come-what-may wacky and romanticizable than a road trip? Granted with a two-year-old and a three-month-old we weren’t exactly yucking it up at campy roadside attractions, shooting pool at honkey tonk bars, or flashing truck drivers the old fried eggs. Still, it was an adventure.

Our one-night visit was brief but totally worth the travel. When our hosts headed out early the next day for work and school, it seemed wrong to hit the road without seeing a bit more of Eugene. Since one of the things I love about not 9-to-5ing is the mini-indulgence of weekday breakfasts out, I got a tip on a good local spot and made my way across town with huevos rancheros on my mind.

Now everyone has their limits for what’s reasonable to do with two kids. I certainly don’t want to count breakfast out as one of those things. Mostly because I enjoy it so much, but also because if we can’t eat at a greasy spoon full of vegan college students and bearded men, what can we do? I might as well not leave the house. And I, for one, never understood why motherhood and the hermit lifestyle seem to go hand-in-hand for some women.

At the restaurant, when we’re about 80% through our good but not to-die-for brekkie, I realized I should nurse Paigey in the hopes that she’d sleep on the drive back to Portland. I’ve snarfed down many a meal crouched over a breastfeeding baby, at home and in public. But for some reason that day Kate sensed my mobility vulnerability, and saw an opening for some attention-getting of her own.

At first she just got down off her seat and started walking away from the table while looking at me tauntingly. My upbeat-Mama-voiced entreaties to “Come back to the table please, Sweetie” quickly turned to “Get over here, Kate” commands hissed between clenched teeth. At which point it seemed that Kate decided: Game on.

A couple times I managed to get up while propping up a latched-on Paigey with one arm to lug Kate back to the table. But then, like all sly toddlers, she decided to up the ante. It pains me to even recollect–never mind share–this. Since it was clearly so delightful to see me lose my patience, Kate went for the big guns, and while standing a few feet away from our table, got my attention somehow then puckered up and, well, she spat at me.

I was mortified. Open up the earth and swallow me now mortified. Mortified that this diner full of breakfast-eating collegiates, hippies, and misanthropes who I didn’t know and would never see again were witnessing my daughter’s ghastly behavior–as well as my inability to make it stop.

And two disclaimers I must share. Behavior like this is, blessedly, out-of-character for Kate. And the spitting wasn’t all out loogie-level gobs–more a light spraying of spittle. But still.

In my fury I don’t even remember what happened next. (Or at least that’s what my attorney has advised me to say.) I jarred Paigey off my boob, slapped some cash on the table, scooped a soon-screeching Kate under my arm fireman style, and lugged the whole happy McClusky family to the car, vowing to Kate under my breath that she’d never enter another restaurant as long as she lived. I thought I used to be bad at walking through lodges carrying skis, but holding a howling horizontal toddler takes that to a whole new level. To any diners whom I errantly whacked upside the head with my evil child, I extend my most sincere apologies.

So here we are months later with plenty of time to have figured out what to do if a spitting-type situation like that were to arise again. I wish I could say that that lovely behavior has ceased, never to rear its ugly head again. Instead, Kate has cataloged spitting as The Ultimate Way to Piss Us Off. And frankly, she couldn’t be more right.

Not that it’s happened a ton more, thankfully, but in the rare (knock wood) times she’s busted out this move, we’ve found that denying her things that are too far removed from the situation is an utterly ineffective punishment. “That’s it! No dessert for you!” we’ll say at 10AM–child light years before dinner. We might as well threaten that she won’t attend her prom.

The we’re-not-going-to-do-what-we’re-about-to-do approach is also a wash. If she doesn’t get to go to the pool or the park or the zoo, then we don’t get to go there either, and honestly we don’t want to punish ourselves in the process. Then we all just sit home covered in spit in exceptionally bad moods.

All this talk of punishment may make it sound like we’re using the ACME Abu Ghraib Child Rearing Kit, which is hardly the case. 99% of the time Kate is a pure joy–which most every other post in this blog will attest to. We try to explain why certain of her actions are inappropriate, we don’t spank, yell, or waterboard. We’re generally pretty mellow and groovy parents. It’s just that the spitting thing is so ugly and base, we’d really love a magic bullet to make it stop. And so far the groovy tactics have fallen short.

The fact is, recidivism in the toddler set is a bitch. Just when you think you’ve gotten through to them, the bad behavior rears its head like some unkillable alien that bursts out of your stomach when you least expect it.

After something or other the other night, Mark asked Kate again and again to stop what she was doing to no avail. Finally he told her if she kept doing what she was doing he was only going to read one bedtime book to her–instead of the usual two. When moments later at bedtime Mark stuck to his guns on the book reading, it was devastating to Kate. Between sobs she tried the work-around of “But Mama read me books, Dada?”

Of course, Softie Parent that I am this killed me. I wanted to sneak in her room and read her endless books. (This is why Mark and I could never train a dog together.) And even though I know Kate was in the wrong and Mark gave her every opportunity to stop whatever she’d been doing, I was suspect about denying her books–something we love that she loves. Denying her reading time seems like telling her she can’t eat brussel sprouts or take a nap. Like, “Okay then Missy, no math homework for you!”

But the book thing ended up to be Kate’s Achilles tendon. When she woke up the next morning the first thing she said was, “I didn’t get books because I spit, Mama. Dada said no books.”

Of course it broke my heart and made me want to slug Mark, but also made me grateful he’s willing to take on the Bap Cop role. It’s both noble and no fun. And God knows I cower away from doing it.

So now that Kate knows we mean business around the ‘no book’ thing, there’ve been a couple times when we–well, Mark–has mentioned it when Kate continued to do something after we asked her to stop–like clobbering Paige in the head with a wooden toy. The thing is, the consideration of not getting her Curious George fix actually makes her stop and listen. Hey, this setting boundaries for kids thing seems to have its merits! Who knew?

Mind you, Mark is not goose-stepping around the house trying to come up with beloved things he can take away from Miss Kate. And I’m not always sliding candy bars to her when he’s not looking. And, thankfully, she’s not getting tattoos (yet) or sneaking out her bedroom window at night–giving us many opportunities to have to come up with appropriate behavior-snuffing consequences.

Mark and I are just feeling our way along the path to mutually-acceptable parenting techniques, and hopi
ng that we’re doing a better job of it all than a pack of wolves might. Someday when Kate gets in a fight with her college boyfriend, perhaps she’ll find a better way to express her frustration than spitting in his eye.

Master of All Excuses

In what has to be one of her most unique don’t-want-to-sleep stall tactics yet, Kate called out to Mark tonight soon after he’d tucked her in.

He went into her room, talked to her for a few seconds, then came out shaking his head as he closed the door.

Me: “Yes?”

Mark: “She asked me if I’d cut her toenails.”

Farewell to Beauty

I used to have a housemate whose name was Beth. As an adult, prior to going off to work at some hippie commune/primal screaming retreat on the Monterey coast, she decided to start calling herself Joey.

Somehow one of the nights I was hosting Bad Movie Monday this came up. Mind you, the now defunct BMM posse was comprised of some of my most ruthless and hilarious friends. When Rick learned of this Beth/Joey thing it was like throwing his sarcasm an immense piece of bloody chum. I think every time he called me thereafter–in the time that I was still living with that cah-raaazy woman–he’d say, “Hi. Is Beth–I mean Joey–there?”

Ah, the fun we had mocking her.

The closest I ever got to some kind of name change was around the issue of my non-existent middle name. I blame laziness on my parents’ part for why my three sisters and I feel bereft every time we fill out a form requiring a middle initial or name. Or, I could say something like what my friend Scot who only has one ‘t’ in his name says: My parents couldn’t afford to give us middle names. In his case it’s a second ‘t.’

Anyway, my father once made up some line about how he and my mother wanted to let us pick our own middle names. Riiiiight. To sweeten the deal he said when we came up with middle names we wanted we could go down to Town Hall and make it legal–have it be like a little field trip. As a lawyer I think my father over-valued the thrill factor of a trip to Town Hall, especially for an eight-year-old.

Determined to be like all the other kids I went to my room to ruminate on my new name.

And let it be known that for a great stretch of my life I was hellbent on finding a way to Wasp-ify or feminize my last name, Bruno. I even went through a short stage of spelling it Bruneau on my homework until some teacher put an end to that. I was happy with the name Kristen. But I saw this middle name thing as an opening–an opportunity to inject more femininity into my name as a whole.

After some musing I came down and told my Dad I’d decided on a name. Told him to grab the car keys, we were heading to Town Hall. Of course, he asked me what I’d decided on, and I announced with great pride: “Cherry.”

That’s right. Kristen Cherry Bruno. I thought it was brilliant.

At any rate, my father did the ole look at his watch and say, “Oh no! Town Hall just closed.” It was probably something like 2:20PM. Undeterred I pointed out that there was always tomorrow. At which point he likely fabricated some kind of week-long government holiday.

Whatever his stall tactics were–and I’m sure they teach you some great ones in law school–they worked. Thank God. To this day I am middle name-less.

Actually, now that I think of it, that’s not exactly true. In some cruel twist of fate I decided to take Bruno as my middle name when I got married and took McClusky as my last. (McClusky not exactly being the Smith or Jones I’d always longed for, but what can you do when you’re in love?) So, ironically, the frilly and pretty middle name I eventually got was, uh, Bruno. Ah well.

So a couple weeks ago when I took Kate to preschool she marched me over to meet her classroom’s resident caterpillar, Larry. But by week’s end on the notes outlining what the kids did during the day I learned that the children had named the caterpillar Beauty.

I never found out what brought about the need for a name change. Did Larry just come to a place in his life where he wanted to reinvent himself a la Beth/Joey? Do caterpillars have penises? If so, did what the teachers suspected was Larry’s turn out to be something else altogether? Had there been a terrible gender mix-up when Larry was originally named?

Maybe Larry was just looking for something a bit softer and more feminine in a name. I feel you, brother.

Soon after Larry became Beauty I was picking Kate up from school and one of the teachers scurried out of the nap room to talk to me. It was Monica, a kind of wacky older Chinese woman who has been working at the school for a few hundred years.

“Big day today! Big day!” she yelped.

I’d never seen her so keyed up.

“Today the caterpillar made a cocoon! While we watch! It take one hour. One hour! It so incredible! We watch! The children watch! In many many years of teaching this the most special day for me!”

When we were walking to the car I asked Kate about it. But I think she changed the subject to something like, “Emily picked her nose today.” I could appreciate that. With someone else so hopped up on something it can be hard to find room for your own excitement.

Needless to say there was a lot of anticipation awaiting
Larry/Beauty’s debut as a butterfly. They moved the cocoon into a small
netted enclosure so they could contain it once it was born. (Is born an appropriate word to use here? I’ll have to ask Kate.)

The daily activity notes and Kate kept us updated. Mark would ask how school was and Kate would say something about “Beauty and chrysalis,” causing Mark to ask, “Who is Beauty and what happened to Larry?” And me to ask, “What’s chrysalis?”

Along the way Kate learned a caterpillar-to-butterfly song complete with little hand gestures, and how to say ‘metamorphosis.’ Despite the call I put into MIT as a result, they still seem to think we should hold off a bit until she at least takes the SATs.

On Tuesday’s preschool pick-up, before I had a chance to read about the days happenings, Lilia, Kate’s most favorite and adored teacher, walked out of the nap room to meet me. She closed the door behind her and leaned her back against it with a dreamy look in her eyes.

“Oh Kristen. When I saw you I just had to come out and tell you. Beauty turned into a butterfly last night, and today we had such an incredible ceremony at the meadow. I mean, it really really was magical.”

During this Kate sticks her head into the carseat carrier and screams, “Hello, little Paigey!!!” at volume 11, causing Paige to shriek and start bawling. Then Kate comforts her by leaning all her weight into her for a hug. I try to pull them apart while still looking up to listen to Lilia.

“In my 14 years of teaching, today was no doubt–it was–it was really the best day. Ever! And Thalia took her harp and we had the most magical ceremony in the meadow, and the children danced and sang. Then we set Beauty free. It was just beautiful.”

I thought of my most magical work days and none of them sounded even close to this. Was I ever misty-eyed with joy over delivering that perfect e-commerce platform to a client? Uh, no. Then again, the thought of changing diapers all day–other people’s kids diapers, that is–pales in comparison to developing Excel pivot tables, in my mind at least.

But truly, I was happy they had a good day. It’s such a great little school and Kate really loves it there. And it’s nice that all her teachers are having peak experiences.

On our walk to the car I asked Kate what her favorite part of the day was. She looked up at me and said, “The hawp! The hawp!” Leading me to realize that no matter how far I raise my children from Rhode Island the accent may still find its way to them.

So, aside from the leaf-chomping, cocoon-makin’, chrysalis and metamorphosis, Kate has also came to understand that you sometimes have to set the ones you love free–while a hippie preschool teacher serenades you on harp.

Fly away, little Larry/Beauty! We have learned much from you, and hope you are happy in your new home in the meadow.

The Blue Ball is Dead! Long Live the Blue Ball!

Peggy and Gary, Mark’s mom and stepfather, left today after a great visit packed with NorCal sightseeing, eating and drinking, and excessive granddaughter adoration. One of those visits that make you wonder why we all live so damn far away. I wasn’t at the airport this morning for the final farewell, so I don’t know exactly what took place. But even before Kate and Paige were on the scene, Peggy was known for getting teary-eyed at goodbyes, especially when she didn’t know when she’d see Mark next.

If my memory serves me, my mother and I used to cap off most visits with a rousing argument. It made parting so much easier. Even without a separation anxiety spat, my mom was hardly the crying type.

There’s actually a famous story in Mark’s family about when his mom and sister dropped him off at college for the first time. When they left to head home, Peggy was crying so hard she somehow managed to drive off the road into a corn field. (Mind you, they were in rural Minnesota where such fields are abundant, not Manhattan.)

Needless to say, Mark and Lori will never let Peggy live that down. But now that I’m a Mama myself, I can totally empathize. How in God’s name do you deposit your beloved sweet baby at college–off in another state or even a different time zone–to not see them again until Thanksgiving, if you’re lucky? I’m hoping by the time Kate turns 18 homeschooling will be a popular collegiate option. Or that she’ll insist on living at home and attending a nice local costmetology school so she can be near her Mama.

Even though the kiddies are still so young I’m finding I’m already nostalgic about things. At the park the other day there was a three week old baby I was mesmerized by. “A baby!” I thought to myself, as if it were such a novel thought–an unattainable object of desire. All this while I’m holding my own four-month-old. But, you know, Paige seems so big already. And the thought that she’s probably the last of the little McCluskys makes it that much harder to watch her mini milestones pass by.

Mark, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to share my sentimental streak. Nor does he share my on-again off-again yearning for another baby. In fact, after a long evening of bouncing Paige on the big blue yoga ball–our favorite method for getting our fussy babies to sleep–he turned to me and said, “God I’ll be happy when I never have to do this again.” And despite how my own lower back was crying out for an end to non-stop bouncing, my mind was aghast at the thought.

When that ball goes away, that means Paige will have grown up a bit. She won’t be a teeny newborn who needs the motion of her Mama’s movements replicated to soothe her. She’ll nearly be independent!

And another thing. When that ball goes away after Paige, it’s retiring. It will never be called to serve again–at least for anything other than yoga. And still for Mark there’s no looking back. I think he mentioned something about gleefully taking an ax to it…

Well, unbeknownst to him, the other day as I was vacuuming the house I lamented that that huge ball, wedged under the lip of the TV stand, was taking up too much space in our small living room. And really, we hadn’t had to use it for weeks. So I figured I’d stick it down in the basement where we could always grab it if we needed to.

The impulse to stow crap in the basement comes up often, so it wasn’t until I was walking up the stairs that I thought, “My God. We are now officially finished with the baby-bouncing segment of our lives.” May the big blue ball rest in peace.

No, no. I didn’t cry. But hey, it’s on to a new phase and goodbye (forever) to an old one.

Another thing that Mark doesn’t know–not that I’ve actively been hiding it from him–is as Paige has been outgrowing clothes I haven’t had the heart to give them away quite yet. For now I’m taking some comfort in just putting them back in the age-labeled plastic bins on the shelves downstairs. (See? The basement is my enemy and my best friend.) How can I let go of the soft froggy jacket with the satin bow that Lindelle got for Kate? Or the brown cable knit sweater-suit Mark got at his office shower?

In part, there’s just so much cute stuff. I can’t just give it to Salvation Army. But there’s also the thought that there won’t be another baby here to wear it some day–a thought I clearly haven’t gotten my head around.

And for the record, I’m not planning to do some soap opera poke-a-hole-in-the-condom move for a third child. In my rational, non-emotional moments I truly agree with all the reasons why we’re better off as a family of four. It’s just–babies are so sweet!

Is this how my brother-in-law’s parents ended up with 15 kids? Perhaps.

Maybe I just need to reflect more on my neighbor’s deadbeat 37-year-old son who’s just moved back home. Oy! Imagine finally being back in the swing of what life was like without kids, then being tossed into telling your grown son to pick his socks up off the floor. Even for a crazy love-addicted Mama like me, that just seems wrong.

I’ll have to remember that when I’m veering off into a corn field 16 years from now.