Bring on October

I love spring. The air feels full of hopeful anticipation. The light is softer, the air warmer. Everything is buzzing with life. I am not an outdoors kinda girl, but spring makes me want to be outside. It's my second favorite season.

Autumn is my favorite. It feels funny to say that, because it's a season of...well, dying. Mold. Rot. But it's a pretty rot.

I love the colors. The smells: crunchy fallen leaves, dusty heating vents, cinnamon spice, squash. The crispness in the air. The blindingly blue skies. Heck, even the dreary rain is prettier in autumn, against a backdrop of amber and russet trees. I love that the endless, blazing days of summer gradually grow cooler, shorter. Nudging us to head inside, bundle up, eat good food, drink something warm. I love sweaters and flannel and blankets and boots. Just...everything.

Two signs of fall that I eagerly anticipate each year: My neighbor's tree changing color, and the reappearance of Orion. I haven't seen Orion yet, but my neighbor's tree is looking a little gold around the edges. Puts me in an autumn frame of mind.

Fall is a time of celebration around here. My parents' birthdays, Halloween, and Thanksgiving. Since I procreated with a goth, Halloween is a month-long celebration. (He would say it's a way of life.) I stretch Thanksgiving into a month, as well, because I like thanks, and food (though not, of course, turkey). Which leads up to December, the Month of Christmas. From October 1 until January 1, it's one long party at my house. (Okay, not really. But we have lots of decorations.)

I've come to recognize that I've fallen into certain annual patterns. August is my month of self-reflection and mental housekeeping, and has been since my 20s. (I just have to take a break in the middle to celebrate the birth of my first child. As is befitting of her nature, that takes at least a week.) September is a month of doing -- all that navel gazing in August gets me itching to take action. So I make lists and schedules and set goals and push myself. Or at least I plan to. Then October rolls around, and life fills up with creature comforts. What didn't stick in September typically rolls over to January, and becomes my resolutions.

This year, I'm entering October with more momentum than I've had in a while. I'm starting to feel like I have a handle on things. Which is probably a sign that the bottom is about to fall out, but I'm happy to ride the wave of optimism til it crashes.

Bring on fall!

Multitasking and memory

I have always had a frighteningly good memory. I can remember things that happened on my first birthday, for instance, and way more about my toddler years than anyone I know. I remember my childhood phone number. My address when I was 8. The birthdays of my high school friends and boyfriends. And loads more inconsequential stuff.

My memory used to be better; as a child, I had a nearly comprehensive memory of everything that had happened to me back to that first birthday, down to the outfit I was wearing on a given day. But my brain got full, and some of those memories fell out. Still, I remember a lot.

There are some things that, interestingly, I can never remember. Like the order of brackets and parentheses in a sentence; I always have to look that up. But I am able to hold a lot of information in my mind at one time. It's part of what makes me a good editor.

What I can't remember are little, immediate things. Whether or not I put the clothes in the dryer. What I intended to buy at the store. Where I was going with the story I am currently telling. Those sorts of things. The reason for this lapse is not age; it's multitasking.

I am never not multitasking. I multitask in my sleep. (Really, I do. I sort through emotional and mental baggage, work out problems, and feed a baby. All while sleeping. Sometimes I snore, too.) I am doing at least three things at once 24 hours a day. So occasionally I go all absent-minded professor. I think that's understandable.

I've read articles in recent years that claim multitasking is bad. That it ruins productivity, accuracy, morale. Probably serves as a risk factor for disease and early death, too...everything does. But when you are a parent, multitasking is a part of life. (And life, as Facebook tells me, is the leading cause of death. For once, Facebook has a point.)

I am a little worried about age-related memory loss. If I have to write everything down now, what will I have to do then? Hire a personal assistant? Probably. Maybe I can pay one of my kids to remember things for me. After all, it's their fault I can't remember anything.

The fun of failure

Anya is addicted to Reading Rainbow. It's up there with candy in terms of bribe power -- it is that good. But I am unsettled by her reaction to one of the themes: Learning. She seems genuinely puzzled by the episodes that focus on someone learning to do new things. I know she's curious; "But why?" is her favorite question. But she actively resists learning new things unless she pursues it and can stop whenever she wants.

I think I understand what her issue is: She is afraid to fail. But why? Other than the speech therapy (which we stopped just as soon as she started reacting adversely to it), she has never been pressured to grasp a new concept. It's more like an innate response. One I want to nip in the bud as soon as possible. Learning is one of life's greatest joys for me, and I just hate to see her so averse to it so young.

I was afraid to fail for many years, but that came later -- after people had made a big deal out of my intelligence. I was afraid a failure would prove them wrong, and make me not special anymore. It was only when I was much older, trying things in the privacy of my own home, that I realized failing and then succeeding is way more fun than only doing things you know you can do well. I don't want her to wait that long.

And I certainly don't want her to set out at the age of 4 with the attitude that learning sucks.

So I guess I have my newest project cut out for me.

I've been trying to let her see me fail. I know part of my issue as a kid was that it seemed like my parents knew everything, and did everything right all the time. So I thought she might feel better seeing that even Mommy screws up sometimes. (Daddy isn't as willing to admit to mistakes. ;) But aside from mistakes of an emotional nature (I always apologize to her when I lose my temper, for example, and admit when I have reacted badly to something -- something she seems to deeply appreciate), seeing me mess up or even admit to being unsure of myself tends to freak her out. No matter how inconsequential the matter is, or if it even affects her.

For instance, the other day I mumbled under my breath about a concealer I bought based on some reviews I'd read. It wasn't quite what I was hoping for, and I said something to that effect. (I think my words were "Well, I don't think this is the makeup for me.") She asked me what I meant, and I told her -- and she looked like she was going to cry. Because I bought the wrong makeup!

When she was a baby, she got herself all worked up over every little skill she tried to master. At four months, she would throw temper tantrums while trying to roll over. Her face would turn beet red and she would shriek. I thought at first that she was in pain, but she was just frustrated. So this is definitely a personality trait at work here. And truth be told, it probably comes from me; I am the perfectionist in the family. (Poor kid. Of all the things I could have passed on!)

What helps me push through my perfectionist angst is focusing on the fun I have doing the activity. For instance, I'm finally returning to drawing, after deciding at the age of 12 that I sucked at it. Having kids means I have a "legitimate" reason to have art supplies, and I am enjoying the heck out of making things. Are they as good as some of my artist friends' work? No. And likely never will be. But it's fun for me, so I don't care.

That's the attitude I want her to have. I just don't know how to get her there before the age of 40. :)

I think I need to start a new family tradition: The Fun of Failure. I want to sneak in learning in a way that makes it too fun to resist, and that rewards trying and failing as much as success. I'm not sure how I will pull it off yet, but I'll figure something out.

Enough

I am not the type of person who believes everything happens for a reason, or that things always work out for the best. Suffering is real, and I refuse to believe that there is a purpose for the extreme suffering some people endure.

But I do believe that things work out neatly sometimes. Maybe not as good as you'd hoped, but well enough. And I believe in recognizing and acknowledging those moments when they come to pass.

• The house next door to my parents that became available for rent for the first time in several years the month after my first child was born.
• The job that allows telecommuting, which I had been trying to obtain for years, that became available the month after I returned to work from maternity leave.
• The freelancing gigs I pieced together to keep us afloat until my job became full time and R found work.
• The job R found with hours that complement mine, so we can still be their main caretakers.
• The caterpillar that comes back to life just when you and your daughter most need an emotional win.
• The kind words and gifts from family and friends, too numerous to list, that came in just when I needed them most.

It is not all sunshine and roses. Bad days happen. Not everyone is supportive. At times, I feel it is all falling apart in my hands. Other times, I feel like I am on a treadmill -- no matter how long I walk, I get nowhere.

But we have enough. Thanks in no small part to these little happy coincidences.

Enough is fine with me.

A matter of life and death

The morning started with tears. In some YouTube video, Sonic the Hedgehog died. (You thought Sonic was just a video game? Au contraire.) Anya, a Sonic fan, was crushed. 

We'd been up all of about 20 minutes. I hadn't even touched my tea. Way too early for this sort of thing.

"It's just a video, sweetie," I crooned, rocking her like a baby. "On Netflix, you can see that Sonic is still alive." She wasn't quite satisfied with my answer, but her sniffles slowed. And in an hour, the incident was completely forgotten.

After I got off work, we ventured out for groceries. Which is when she noticed that her fuzzy caterpillar friend, who appeared to have claimed a corner of our porch as his home, was in two pieces. R and I found it like that a couple of days before; we assumed a spider had gotten to it, because we have huge wolf spiders around our house and it's spider season. I'd hoped R would have disposed of the body by now. But he had not, and the secret was out.

She was devastated. And not quiet about it. With the way she carried on, I began to worry about the day when she loses a grandparent. I'm certainly not up for her getting a pet, unless we can find a tortoise or something equally durable.  

The tears started anew when we returned from the grocery store. And once again when we ventured out for ice cream after dinner. I was seriously contemplating a caterpillar funeral, just so we could come and go in peace.

Then a minor miracle occurred. When we returned from getting ice cream, the caterpillar was alive! Just crawling along the top step like nothing had happened. The second chunk of fuzziness is still in the corner of the porch. R thinks the caterpillar was perhaps molting, or hibernating, though hibernation doesn't explain the spare fuzz. (I know nothing of bugs, nor do I care, so I am taking him at his word on this one.) At any rate, the dead had risen, and Anya was overjoyed, in that way you are after you've suffered terribly and are starting to feel good again. For the rest of the evening, she was her spunky, sassy, spastic self. 

I, too, was relieved. We'd gotten a pass. I know how rarely those are doled out. But there will be a next time. I need to prepare for it.

I'm just hoping they come one at a time, not two in one day.

Me time

I suck at me time.

It's not that I don't get any; I steal moments here and there throughout the day. But they are inconsequential minutes. A stolen cookie. A little Facebook while the kids are otherwise occupied. A 2-minute yoga session while making a cup of tea.

I need more. I need a 3-mile walk, 30 minutes of yoga. I need 10 minutes of meditation. A long drive. I need time to read books, time to daydream, time to game. Time to recharge. Or just time to fix my hair and put on makeup.

Some moms are good about taking that time, so that they return to their offspring refreshed. I am not that kind of mom. I feel too guilty.

But I am working on it. Because I have seen the difference my me time has on my children. They may protest in the moment, but they are happier when I've had time to myself. Because I am happier. It's true what they say: When Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

So I am shooting for a balance. Spending quality time with the kids -- not staring at Netflix for hours on end, but watching an episode or two of Reading Rainbow while cuddling and talking about what we see. Getting down on the floor with Kai for half an hour and looking at the world from his angle. Instead of insisting on a 3-mile power walk* every day, mixing it up with yoga or Wii Fit games that she (and even baby Kai!) can participate in. Taking the time for a mani-pedi session with Anya.

Such intense togetherness satisfies their need for me far better than hours of less hands-on attention. And with the time I have left over, I can do something for me. (In theory. I haven't actually managed that yet. Usually I just clean, or go to bed early.)

*Walking is the only true alone time I ever get. I pop the earbuds in, crank the music, and walk until my calves start shaking. It is my drug, my forbidden fruit. I feel strange just thinking that, but it's true. 

Mommy Voice

I don't have a very authoritative voice. I'm soft-spoken; when I try to speak loudly, or yell, my voice cracks and shakes. Even when I try to project my voice, as I was taught to do in chorus years ago, my voice falls flat. For added fun, my allergies are so bad that when I do achieve any volume, I usually taper into a coughing fit. Noisy venues are not for me. And it has made motherhood more challenging than I'd anticipated.

My daughter is headstrong -- which is putting it nicely. Daddy can bark a word or two at her and she snaps to attention. I try the same, and it falls on deaf ears. (Unless I threaten the loss of a treasured possession or activity, which is not how I want to parent.)

So imagine my surprise at this turn of events:

While we were at Celebrate (our town's annual street fair), we stopped by our favorite booth: the rock shop. Where I talked Anya into buying her first grab bag. Daddy was still looking, but she was eager to dig in her new bag. So we headed for the park, where we could sit down.

The park is atop a small rise, and I was pushing the double stroller with Kai and all his gear.* Anya, of course, was not in the stroller; she was trying to dash ahead of me, to get into her bag. As I struggled to the top of the rise, where the walking track is, two teenage girls walked past. Anya zipped around them and took off.

Still fighting with the stroller, I called out to Anya. "Anya, slow down!"

"Yes, m'am," one of the teens said, and slowed her pace.

Her friend looked at her quizzically. The girl looked at me, looked at Anya, and laughed. "I thought you were talking to me! My name is Tanya," she said.

"Oh," I laughed. "No, I was talking to her." I pointed at Anya, who had for once done what I asked. "Her name is Anya. She keeps trying to run away from me."

The conversation had two benefits. One, it showed me that my Mommy Voice works on someone. Two, the sight of me talking to a stranger made Anya come back to me.

*The smaller they are, the more crap they require with them at all times. I am really looking forward to the day when I can venture out with just my debit card, phone, and keys. Which I figure will happen, oh, about 20 years from now.