Say what?

Ah man. Life got busy.

Zoe girl has finally, finally been diagnosed with a delay in her expressive speech.
I am elated.

I am elated because I suspected this.

All mothers know what is going on with their children before anyone else does and I knew Zoe was miserable because she couldn't communicate. She was whining and shrieking and pointing and grunting all of the time. She was working so hard to speak with me. She was locked in her own little head.

So, as soon as she had a significant enough delay to secure an Early Intervention Evaluation, I got one. And now she has help. Lots of it. And I couldn't be more relieved because now my sweet girl can come out into the world and talk to me. I know she will have a lot to say.

She will receive speech services once a week (maybe twice if I can get her enrolled in a pending Boston program). Next week, she visits her Otolaryngologist to see if the fluid in her ear (Otitis Media with Effusion) has caused any sort of hearing loss. Most likely, this kind of thing can be corrected with tubes. I would welcome that as well because it would give her such relief. Of course, I have been very busy reading and learning about Expressive Language Delay and Otitis Media and the connection between the two. I now understand that both problems are common, however, arriving at this understanding makes me angry. I don't like that it took me this long to get both the information I needed and the level of knowledge I required to adequately advocate for my daughter. Zoe could have had services months ago.

The thing is, I feel as if Zoe has a sort of bottleneck of all this speech that can't come out. She runs to get me and pulls me to what she wants me to see. She comes and gets me if she needs help. If she wants me to play. To watch. To hug her. To get her her milk or Lovey or any of seven gazillion other things. We had set up our own little method of communication. Because she can't say "mommy" without prompting, she would scream for me in this certain pitch that she knew I recognized and I would come to her rescue with whatever she needed. Sign language has been really helpful in alleviating some of these issues. She now knows "help" and "diaper" and "more" and "all done" and "milk" and "juice" and "play" and "hurt". We always accompany the signs with spoken word and it seems to be giving her some relief. Today she was trying to tell me that something was wrong with her toe and I knew I had finally identified the problem because she kept signing "all done" when I touched a specific spot. She was crying and signing "all done". You cry and say stop when someone is touching something that hurts. It helped me find her pain and fix it.  That was incredibly liberating. We had a little conversation.

How frustrating must it be to know what is going on and know what you want to say and be physically unable to say it? Poor thing. She's stuck in a glass box.


Her language delay also seems to manifest itself in this constant crazy toddler stream of vivacity.  She's now enrolled in gymnastics twice a week and is loving it. It really seems to help with her boredom and energy level. One day, because he didn't have school (Zoe goes to Gynastics two of the three mornings Zach is at Pre-K), Zachary came along and got so jealous of the cool foam pit and zip line that I enrolled him in a class too. 

I love when they do things together.


Zoe will be attending a preschool program for two mornings a week in the Fall (this is going hand in hand with her speech services as we feel that exposing her to talkers and other SLPs will be a big help to her). Zach will be attending Kindergarten at the same school. 

With all of this scheduling and their classes and trying to get a few million other things together, I haven't had the time (really, energy) to get my ass in front of the computer and write. I'm here now though and hope to be here more often again over the next few weeks.

But, if I'm not, please know that I'll be back.
Life is just moving as fast as this kid raps.

Dinner's Ready

I know that it is possible to raise children who are eclectic eaters. Who sit down at the table and welcome new and interesting foods. Who seek opportunities to expand their fledgling palettes. Indeed, I think that my youngest is growing up to be one of these eaters. I am so grateful for that. She will eat anything.

My oldest however, often eyes food as the enemy. Though he begrudgingly follows the family rule that every new taste needs to be sampled at least twice per meal, that doesn't mean he likes it. He'll do it though. He listens. He is nothing if not extremely well-mannered.

My youngest, the adventuress.
My oldest, the tolerant bureaucrat.
Together, they are the perfect dinner time storm.

Here's the deal: Every day at around 3 o'clock, Zachary is engaging in some sort of quiet activity. It could be a craft. It could be a book. It could be building with blocks. It could be watching Curious George. But, every day at 3, while Zoe naps and Zachary plays, I begin the dinner prep.

Usually, if I am not sucking too badly as Chef-Mother, I have given dinner some forethought. I have come up with something new (will they like it?) or old (they better still like it!) and am busily throwing it together before the Diva Dynamo awakes from her slumber.

As I cook, I fantasize about a dinner where everyone Comes-To-The-Table-When-Called and Eats-What-I-Have-Cooked while Engaging-In-Stimulating-Conversation. We will have a Toast (Zach does this nightly) and play a round of Best and Worst (we all share the best and worst part of our days) and then laugh about whatever it is we are discussing. The kids will listen as Tim and I catch each other up and will interject with tidbits related to what we are speaking about.

Sharing the nightly meal is a big deal to me. I've read the studies. I know that the more often families eat together, the less likely the kids are to become mass murderers or jump off a bridge or smoke some Crack in my bathroom. I also know that eating dinner together makes it more likely that my kid will be able to do long division in her head and be able to identify an escargot fork.

So, every day, I continue to prep a meal at 3 o'clock and serve it at 5:15ish (The time when old people without teeth and young people with toddlers sit down to eat all around America).
I do this 
every. 
damn. 
day.

It should come as no surprise to my family when I yell "Dinner's ready". They should be prepared for this, shall we say-- predicable --turn of events. 

But every night,
every.
damn.
night. 
The same dance occurs.

"Dinner's Ready!" I announce.

BAM! Like the 5 o'clock express train, Zoe streaks across the kitchen floor. She is first to the table every night. In fact, approximately 20 minutes before dinner hits the table, she starts circling her chair and shrieking like a wounded animal who is also starving and severely dehydrated. She makes this noise even if she has a snack in her hand. She begs to be buckled into her booster. I comply. 


Arrow starts whining and wiggling for me to serve him his dinner. I forget to set up his dish before dinner almost every night because I am too busy trying to feed the humans I call my family. I put two scoops of kibble in Arrow's dish. He sniffs it and dismisses it. He walks away.


"DINNER'S READY!!!" I shriek.


My husband saunters downstairs from his office. If it's winter he decides that right now, at this exact dinner time moment, is when he has to add three more logs to the wood burning stove. And he has to stand by the stove and watch the logs catch fire before he joins us at the table. This fire watching will last until he can no longer withstand my bitching. Only then will he join us. (If it is not winter he will do some other small project-- like beginning to Spackle the walls --immediately before the meal) When he finally approaches the table he will make a detour for an extra ice cube or a special spoon, and then he will sit down.


"Zachary! Get to the table" I demand.

Zachary drags himself to the table. Sometimes he crawls over while trying to dig up the hardwoods with the top of his head. Picture a large pig snuffing mud with its snout while sprinting. That's the image I'm going for. Finally, he sits down. He informs me that his milk isn't cold enough. He feels cold. His napkin is not folded correctly. Anything to delay eating.


But, success...right? The four of us are around the table. I get us to at least this point every single night. If it's a good night (and this has happened approximately 3 times in the past 4 years) everyone eats and shares and relates and laughs and stays consistent with my aforementioned fantasy. If it's a normal night, dinner falls rapidly apart.

Zoe (who can not yet talk) begins to shove food in her mouth so quickly her cheeks puff out like small hot air balloons. She chokes the food down and regurgitates whatever doesn't make it. She spots the dog begging for scraps and attempts to share with him by flinging her entire plate off of the table and onto the floor. Tim or I pick up the detritus and salvage whatever the dog doesn't steal. We place the plate in front of her again as she swipes a dinner roll and chucks it at Zach's chest. Usually her aim is dead to nuts and the two of them share in a round of hysterics.


Zachary (who can talk very well) calls out, "Cheers! To Family!" and then engages us with tales of fighter jets that can fly "60 and 100" miles an hour (four year old speak for reallyfuckingfast). He regales us with stories of a child at school who hit another child and received a time out. We beg him to take just one bite. We play a round of Best and Worst. He nibbles a morsel of food off of his plate. Picture biting a Cheez-It in half and in half again. Then, eat half of that half. That is a Zachary size bite.


Tim and I have not yet taken a mouthful. Our food is congealing.


Zach announces he has to Pee. Zoe rubs salad dressing into her cheeks like it's Creme De La Mer. Tim's boss sends him a critical email. The cat meows a hello on the way to her litter box. Arrow farts.

Zachary takes a final bite and, ever the rule follower, clears his plate and places his milk back into the refrigerator. While he is on his way to the sink, Zoe tries to take his head off with a flying, half-eaten, Brussel Sprout.

She nails him.


My fantasy collapses.


But, I'll keep trying because I know that practice makes perfect and someday, before my children turn into surly teenagers, we will master the art of The Family Dinner.We already kinda have, don't you think?


Until then, I'll be here in the corner eating my Pasta Primavera.

Om.

I have anxiety.

Sometimes it's better. Sometimes it's worse. But it's always there. More and more lately, it seems to take over what I am doing at the most inopportune times. And it always drops in to say hello when things get chaotic.

There are times when my anxiety is social in nature (like at those big parties where I know some people but not others), and times when my anxiety is directly related to all that I feel that I have to do to feel calm again (Dry my hair. Fold the laundry. Write a thank you note.) Anxiety has the ability to make things that may seem small to others-like returning a phone call-feel really big to me. I don't feel anxious because I don't have confidence that I can do the things that need to be done. I feel anxious because even a small task gets added into the bucket of all tasks. I have a hard time differentiating which should take priority. All things on my things-to-do list feel big.

I have recently noticed that the sense with the ability to send me spiraling into a frenzy is that of sound. When there is too much noise, I start feeling anxious. If, say, the news is on in the kitchen and Tim is listening to music and the kids are playing loudly, I feel the need to put my hands over my ears. I have been known to turn down the volume on the television in other people's homes. Not because I am trying to demonstrate my dislike of T.V., but because I know that turning down the sound is directly proportionate to turning down my anxiety.

My battle with anxiety kicked into gear after Zach was born and the baby monitor found its permanent place on my night table. I don't know about you other mothers out there, but when both of my children were babies, I was able to identify and hear a distinct change in their breathing that would signal to me that soon, soon, they would be awake. And if they were awake, that meant I would have to be awake too. And I didn't want to be awake. I was tired. So, that thought of the change in breathing caused me anxiety.

I hope I haven't lost you non-anxiety sufferers here.

In other words, just the thought of that change in breath, the thought of that sound, made my heart beat faster. I am willing to bet that if you hooked me up to a heart monitor, you could track the physical changes. The sound, the experience itself, doesn't even need to be occurring. Simply the memory of the experience can cause an attack.

Sure, there are lots of things that make me anxious and there are lots of things that I do to mask it. Take, for example, the fact that I do not use my hands for the first few minutes after arriving somewhere or doing something important. That means not holding a drink or a plate of food when I first arrive at a party. Even if I am not afraid-anxious and I am just excited-anxious, my hands are a sure tell. They shake. Uncontrollably. At my most recent job interview, (a few years back) I had to keep them folded in my lap and stall for time instead of handing out the lesson plan I had brought to share because I knew that my hands would tremble as I distributed the papers to the panel of interviewers. I didn't want to give myself away.

With the realization that I need to soon do something to help me better cope with feeling anxious (something other than cleaning or writing) I have been repeating a little phrase to myself every so often: Stop. Breathe. Listen.

This is something I tell my son to do all of the time. Something I tell my daughter to do-though she might still be too young to understand. I liken it to the cliched phrase of taking time to stop and smell the roses. I am trying so hard to slow down.

This evening as Tim and I were cleaning up after dinner I focused on the sounds around me. I heard my children laughing, then screaming, then laughing again. Zachary said to Zoe, "Come on, you can try to hold the broom!" Arrow made a weird moaning sound as he stretched out in front of the fireplace. The dishes made that clank (that always makes me feel happy) as they were placed in the dishwasher.

That dishwasher dish clatter noise has the power to whisk me back to laying in my childhood bed and listening to my mother in the kitchen. It's a good noise. A safe noise. It's as good as the return of the peepers to our stream in the spring. As good as my fingers clicking on this keyboard. As the sound of my ceiling fan turning.

Sounds are closely linked to memory. I often set a scene in my home by setting the sound. Try to think of what I am doing as being akin to selecting a playlist for a party. You probably don't want to get things bumpin' by queing up some Enya. It's kind of like that for me. I purposely work to create an environment that is audibly friendly. I don't necessarily try to control what happens. I just try to shape it.

Humor me for a minute and stir up some happy childhood memories of your own.
Go to that moment.

You there?

Good. Now, listen to what's going on. Dial in on it and really focus.

Are adults speaking loudly and laughing? Is the Charlie Brown Christmas Special on T.V.? Do you hear the ice cream truck? Crickets? Dogs barking? What is happening around you? What do you see? What do you hear? What do you feel?

Chances are, if the memory is good, then the sounds that go along with it still have the ability to make you feel great. Maybe I could argue that it starts in the womb with the shuuush shuuush of our mother's heartbeat. We try to reproduce that environment to calm our infants. We rock and shhhh. We place white noise makers in the baby's rooms. We employ fans. Play soft music.

Most of us know that if we want a calm baby, we need to set a calm scene.*

*I am not saying that it should be quiet every time your child needs to sleep. Conversely, making sure you don't create a hushed house will most likely make your kiddo a better sleeper because they won't need silence to drift off. I'm also not for a moment claiming to be Weissbluth or Sears. 

I'm just saying, for me (and therefore, for my family), a little zen goes a long way.

Bigger kids, bigger problems?

Don't let the title of this post fool you. This evening, I am not proselytizing about what you should or should not feed your children. Most days, I don't know this myself. 

Instead, I want to share with you the question that has been nagging at me lately: As my kids get older, will parenting get tougher?

I have been a mother for a little over four and a half years. A mother of two for a little over 18 months. I've had hard days. I've experienced exhaustion. I have faced unknowns and health scares and boo-boos. But, when the challenges pass and the tantrums are reduced to simmer, my children sleep peacefully in their own safe beds. Every night. They end their days with kisses and hugs and books and a sip of water. They end their days safely under my watch.

I have been a high-school teacher for a little over 8 years. I have taught grades 9 through 12 in inner cities and affluent suburbs.  It stands to reason then, that I may know more about adolescents than I do young children. My students' achievements range from receiving a Presidential Scholarship to receiving a GED. Neither child is more or less intelligent than the other. They have simply made different choices. 

As parents of young children know well, "choice" is a big buzzword. We encourage our children to choose good behavior. To choose to set the table. To choose play over television. Choice takes on a different tone as our little loved ones get older. 

I can recall clearly two very different conversations I had with two very different students of mine. They shared one thing in common though, both were pregnant and both had not yet graduated high school. I cried with them as they spoke with me and confronted frighteningly real decisions: "Should I have my baby? Should I tell my parents? Will I be able to graduate? How can I care for my child?". Oddly enough, during both of these conversations, I was pregnant with my first and second child, respectively. At the time, I was scared for them because I knew intimately the toll of mothering. I knew the stress. I will also tell you this: These were not "bad" kids. Neither had a history of poor decisions. They were high acheivers in my classroom. They were bright, vibrant young women. Now, they are strong, successful young mothers. And both have my respect.

Then, there were my two male students so clearly struggling with their own sexuality. My God, as if we don't struggle enough with sex and the accompanying hormones in high school, these young men were facing an enormous hurdle: "Should I admit this to myself? Should I tell my parents? Should I open up to my friends?". Remember that dreaded high school social hierarchy? It's worse now. Now, instead of rumors spreading by note or hallway whispers, they can reach every student in the school at the speed of a text. One Facebook post and everyone, everyone, knows you are Gay. Before, maybe, you know it yourself. I can recall one of the young men telling me that he had to speak with me after school and then proceeding to cry for an hour. He told me of every problem in his life, but never once shared with me that he suspected (that he knew) he was Gay. 

I knew though. I wanted so desperately to throw my arms around him and whisper, "Kiddo, once you are out of this place, life opens up. Just survive for a few more years." But I was a brand new teacher when that conversation was taking place and felt afraid that getting too personal with a student would earn me a ticket out the door. So I settled for listening and supporting.

There are the students who have sat in my classroom, high on one drug or another, thinking I didn't know. But I did, I knew. 

There are the bullies and the bullied. I remember vividly being bullied in sixth grade by a group of four girls who told me that if I didn't get on my knees and beg, they wouldn't let me sit at their lunch table. I can still feel the rocks digging into my knees as I looked into their eyes and asked for a seat.

There are the young women cutting calories. Eliminating food altogether. My eyes find these sufferers immediately.

After 8 years of teaching I have realized that most relatively tuned-in adults and parents know whatever a teenager is hiding before they admit it to us because we have been there. We have done it. 

On Sunday, Tim and I took the kids to Jordan's under the guise of finding me a writing desk. Really, we needed to get out of the house because Zoe was miserable with a cold and whining non-stop. As we neared our destination, we realized that neither of us had checked what time the store opened. The resulting Google search informed us doors opened at 11 am. It was 10:15. We stopped at a nearby Dunkin' Donuts to snag coffees for the grownups and munchkins for the munchkins. Zach and Zoe sat side by side in their coordinated fleeces eating happily. The group of old people that can be found in every Dunkin' Donuts everywhere on Sunday mornings looked at us admiringly. One man said to us, "Enjoy it. As they get bigger, the problems will too."

I nodded and smiled and thanked him and filed the advice away to that region of my brain where words from kindly old people wilt and disappear.

But it surfaced later after Zoe had stopped whining and was playing happily with some straws and trucks. I looked at her and wondered about the choices she will make. I thought about what I can do to give her advice that won't be filed away to the parts of her brain where she will store words from mommy that she thinks are prudish and antiquated.

So, mommies of older children. Mommies of children who are 8 and 10 and 18 and more. Please, tell me and all of the young mothers reading this post, what can we do? How can we do it? How can we make sure that our children make good choices long after we can tuck them in at night?

I promise, I think we all do, we'll listen.

A good day.

Today was one of those days. Nope, it's not what you think. Not one of those baby vomits on the floor while your four year old throws a tantrum because you didn't hand him his milk the right way, days. But one of those days where everything, everything, goes right.

I think that I can chalk this one up to all of you. The day started out well because last night ended so perfectly. I went to bed exhausted (so, what else is new?) but content. Truly happy and heard. And I woke up feeling the same way.

Today is Wednesday, a Z-man school day, so our mornings are usually frenzied and rushed. I can most often be found with a whiny toddler on my hip cooking up breakfast and lunch and taking some form of protein out of the freezer for dinner, all at the same time. In other words, at 6:45 AM, I am making an omelet, stirring cheesy noodles and processing what is going to go in everyone's stomachs 11 hours from that moment. And the caffeine has not even hit its stride in my bloodstream.

This morning Z-girl woke up content and was happy to play downstairs with Tim as I dried my hair. Zach called me from his bedroom at 6:30, grabbed a book and snuggled next to Arrow (our Boxer) in our bed as I dried my hair in our bathroom. Periodically Zach would interrupt the blow-drying to ask me questions about his book (one of those big picture books of famous facts), "Mom! Look! Is this a Redwood?" Or, "Is this bug really that big in real life?" Stuff like that.  

 Zach peed and brushed his teeth with no production (this fact alone can shape my morning. Someday I will write about how Zach seems to be shocked and appalled every morning that teeth brushing is expected of him. He tends to make his point clear about this issue, loudly, before the birds have ventured out for worms) and even happily got dressed before we went downstairs. It helps that he was elected Star of The Week at his school and was excited to share his homemade snack of fruit skewer rainbows (thanks Pinterest! Guess you are not all bad) and fruit-salad. Being Star of The Week also afforded him the privilege of filling out an "all about me" worksheet and bringing in 20 pictures of his closest family and friends. I had been meaning to print pictures anyway.

I digress.

So Zach trotted downstairs, and ate breakfast with his sister with no complaint. He brought his shoes to me without having to be asked and helped me carry bags down to the car. All the while Zoe is running around laughing. We arrived at school at 8:30, brought in snack, and he ran  to play with his best buddies. Zoe and I did a few errands and then headed home for our girls morning.

This is where shit normally hits the fan. But, surprisingly, my fan remained shit free today.

I turned on some Regina Spektor Pandora, cooked up some Sausage and Peppers, and rocked out while Zoe ran around throwing goldfish at the the dog's ass, gleefully pummeling balloons and pushing kitchen chairs into my legs. And guess what? She and I even had time for a little trip to the LL Bean outlet for a new Duvet cover before we picked big man up at school.


By the time we got back home, Zoe just about leaped into her crib for a three hour nap and, since dinner was already prepped, I got to have a cup of coffee and watch the news and play with big Z.

Seriously folks, by the time dinner hit the table I thought my luck was due to run out. It didn't though, and we experienced a phenomena rare at all dinner tables that include any number of children under the age of five. We had a genuine conversation. Zach asked us why Pluto was no longer considered a planet, Tim and I discussed some exciting things happening to him at work, and I shared my idea for this evening's blog post.

It ended with some strawberry smelling hair for my sweet Z-girl; early bedtime and books for the big Z.


When days like these happen I try to breathe them in like one might breathe in the smell of suntan lotion skin. Or that first Spring day. Or a Fall campfire. Or that crispy clean air that happens before a snow.

I try to gather them up and store them away because I know they are so rare.

Don't get me wrong, almost every day has its gold nuggets. But today? Today was chock full of 'em.

And I am grateful.

Can you see me?

The thing about social sites is that they fool me. Pinterest tricks me into thinking that I have done something with the hours I have spent on the site because I am not just an observer. I am active. I am Pinning!

Red skinny pleated silk capri poncho pants with a hot pink plaid flannel shirt and a skinny patent belt? Hell yeah I could rock those to go and buy some Half and Half and kitchen garbage bags at Hannafords. Cookies made from a gluten free hand pounded flour mix? Who doesn't have the time?!

"Whatcha doin' today?" someone would ask. "Oh, just picking up some repurposed labels and recycled glass Mason Jars to make my washing machine detergent and dryer sheets aesthetically pleasing." (I'll do some leg lifts and mutter inspiring phrases as I get organized).

Pinterest makes me feel creative when I am actually sitting down and slamming back a bag of Sour Patch Kids. When I am nursing my wounds and celebrating the victories of getting through another day as a Stay at Home mom to two young children.

For most of us, I think the thing that it all boils down to is wanting to have time to nurture passion. But don't be tricked. It's not enough. Pinterest is just a bunch of pretty pictures. And we all know that all of those friends of ours on Facebook are not truly our confidants.

What I am learning is if I don't nurture me, it all falls apart. I can't be creative and energized for my babies if my creative stomach is empty. How can I feed them if I'm starving, right?

You see what I'm getting at here?

You know that feeling you get when the Gas Station attendent pays you a little extra attention even though your shirt is nasty and you feel like you just got slapped in the face by a whole box o' ugly? You know how it can change your mood for the day? How you feel about yourself?

Yeah it's like that.

I find that when I rely on Pinterest and Facebook and other social sites and blogs to fuel my fire, my fire starts getting less and less hot. And I get less and less excited about, well, everything.

But when I start thinking and moving and writing and singing, life gets better. And I get happier.

In order for me to get amped about being creative, I need to come to terms with where and what I am. I have made the choice to be a Stay at Home Mom. But a Stay at Home mom is not what I AM.

Get the difference?

In order for me to Carpe Diem, I need to seize myself. And I want others to see me too.

What we all want is to be seen. Not celebrity-walk-the-red-carpet seen (unless that IS what you want and, if so, go for it.), but rather to be recognized. Heard.

To have loved ones or friends or strangers think to themselves, hey, that chick is good at that.
That chick is capable.

A friend did this for me the other day. I had been sitting on my hands and dreaming about what I could be doing. Wondering if I was good enough to do it. Whammo! Out of the blue she emails me and says,"Hey, you know what? You should do this. You're good at it. I support you".

In other words, she saw me. And it felt awesome.

Moral of the story mommies? Do something for yourself. It doesn't matter what it is. If you DO like organizing your dryer detergent in Mason jars, recognize that! Stack those jars high and be proud. Make shoelaces out of old dental floss and food coloring and slap those pictures on Pinterest if that's what gets ya' going. Or run. Or write. Or rap, for God's sake!

But take a moment, too, to give another woman a pat on the back.
Chances are you'll make her day.

Tired.

Ho. Lee. Shit.

Let me tell you something about having a toddler and being tired. It is a force. An intrusive alarm clock ringing cymbals crashing body crushing force.

When they are young, these children go into bed around 6:30-7:00. They sleep, like sweet angels, through the night (if you are lucky and are past that infant "baby wakes every 3 hours-or twenty minutes- for a diaper change, bottle, nurse, binky, chicken caesar wrap [or whatever]" phase). Yes, if you are lucky and you have a toddler, that child sleeps through the evening hours while you are busy greedily capturing some time for yourself. You are doing laundry or catching up on emails or, as I tell in an earlier post, staring at the wall. You fall into bed around 11 and that toddler decides to be done sleeping at 5am.

(bear in mind you haven't gotten 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep because at some point during the night your husband drapes his arm across your face or the dog steps on your throat or the 4 year old needs a snuggle).

Anyway.
At 5am that toddler does not wake with the same molasses slow process we adults do. Oh. No. Sir. Eee.
That toddler wakes ready to motherfuckin' play.

Nope, play is not the right word.
That toddler wakes ready to interACT.
To bang pots.
To throw shoes at your head.

To communicate in the only way that they know how.
The high pitched wake the hibernating squirrels scream.

At this point, as an exhausted parent, you become irrational.
You bargain with God.
You offer to BECOME a hibernating squirrel.
You offer to do and give anything for five more minutes of sleep in a bed that seems like Mecca.

You think to yourself, if the doorbell rang and a stranger was standing there and that stranger offered to take my sweet child for the hours between 5 and 7:30am, I would give that stranger my child and crawl guiltlessly back into bed.

But, no such stranger comes and you find yourself peering out the window into the dark and seeing if there are lights in your neighbor's windows. Not because you would go over and knock on their door and hand over your toddler. No, you look to see if any other human is experiencing the same suffering as you.

Let me tell you, they are not.
They are sleeping.

And you. You? You, are feeding your toddler blueberry yogurt. You are gathering up dropped smashed cheerios because even the dog doesn't get up this early. You are playing farm. Picking up a thrown spoon.

By the time you speak to normal waking humans at around 8am, you realize that you have been awake for three hours.

Wanna torture prisoners of war?
Give em' a toddler and run.

I'm looking at the wall.

I am 17 years old and I have taken a sick day. Truth be told, I’m not that sick. I could definitely have muscled though it and gone to school. But, I didn’t. I stayed home. My brother is at school. My parents are at work. And I am alone. At home. It’s around 11 in the morning.  The Today Show is over and The Price is Right (circa Bob Barker and bad wooden dinette sets) is about to come on. I run up to the kitchen for a snack and notice the sun pattern on the hardwoods. I stop. I realize that I can’t remember if I have ever seen 11a.m. weekday sunbeams in the house:

“Look at how motionless everything is; see how the light comes through the drapes like that?”

 I feel excited to be still and watching the living room.

 I think to myself, “When will I see these sunbeams again?”

I feel exhilaration and vindication.

I am justified in being home. How could I have witnessed that moment of stillness if I had been in Mr. DeFeo’s English class?

15 years later, sitting quietly poses a challenge. I am almost always doing something. I am moving. I am chasing my children. Reading a book. Folding laundry. Making dinner. Typing an email. Teaching a class. Going to a class. Going for a walk. Coordinating pickups and drop offs. Breaking up sibling arguments. You get the point. And, if you are a quasi normal human being, you are likely doing the same.

You are busy. Life is busy.

Once, one of my mommy girlfriends shared a secret with me: “Sometimes, when the baby is napping and I have a moment to myself,” she said with a smile, “I sit on the couch and stare at the wall.”

“Ha!” I said, “I do the same thing.”

Of course, this kind of typically guilt ridden quality quiet time has been something I have enjoyed since pre-mommy days. I find that the guilt doesn’t rise up if I am caught up on everything I am supposed to be doing (yeah, right). Guilt makes an appearance as I am carving out silent doing nothing time when, in actuality, I have seven zillion things I should be doing.

And, what’s worse, I am reachable (and therefore accountable) 100% of the time. Information is pouring in in endless ways-like a stock ticker in my brain. Even when I am trying to shut down and breathe, the information is present and, therefore, pulling and nagging at my consciousness. My text alerts are beeping while my email is refreshing as my facebook notifications are scrolling and my tweets are tweeting. And, for me, it’s like the call of a Siren. Goddamnit, try as I might, I can’t turn my back to it.

So, even when I am trying hard to succeed at doing nothing, I am doing something.

In a recent Sunday Times business section article, Phyllis Korkki reasons, “More devices can lead to more multitasking, which, though viewed by many as a virtue, has been shown to interfere with concentration. More devices also harbor more vortexes of distraction, like Facebook, shopping sites and cute animal videos.”

I mean, seriously, how many of us even just watch TV anymore? My husband and I bounce back and forth between conversation and the show on the tube and the updates on our Iphones. Have you seen the new TVs (or do you have one) with the Facebook and Twitter applications? Or is your TV linked directly to your computer? You’re watching. You’re checking. You’re reading.

We are never really alone. Our brains are never truly quiet. And, of course, I feel guilty about that.

This year, I resolve to carve out some time for guilt- free- 11a.m.- sun- drenched- motionless relaxation.

After all, it’s not doing nothing if doing nothing is what you are doing.