Toddler Sock Wisdom

Today as I was rummaging through one of my cupboards, I came across this:

A toddler sock. Never mind my poor housekeeping skills. I was instantly sad. Yesterday I had toddlers. Now those toddlers are 21 and 17. Not that I miss wiping poopy butts. I absolutely do not. And I find great joy in watching our kids turn into fine young adults. But here's what I do miss: my unmistakeable purpose. As in wiping poopy butts.

Right now I have a disgusting cold sore in my nose. (Sorry for the gross nature of this blog post so far.) It's something that happens when I'm stressed or overwhelmed. Of course, I can't admit this to my husband, because he will accurately point out that I do this to myself. (And who can stand a spousal "told ya so"?) But he's probably right. I don't need to teach a class, but I do. I don't need to help my mother at her shop, but I do. I don't need to write a book, but I do. I don't need to work at the bank, but... wait, yes, I do need to work at the bank. My point? I seem to fill in any little crack of time to the point of cold sore or migraine hell. Yesterday, I realized why I do this when I found that little toddler sock.

Every mother either remembers or looks forward to the day she can shop at a supermarket (do people say that anymore?) without having to mediate a meltdown or worry about a pile of apples tumbling on the floor. Going to the grocery store without a toddler seems to be one of the first benchmarks of parental freedom. Before that day, our world consists of ensuring the kids are fed, bathed, schooled, soccer'd, etc. So, when I wrote my first book about ten years ago, I'm guessing Cole had learned to cut his own meat. No, that's not right. I think that was last year. But he probably, most certainly, had learned to wipe his own butt, somewhat anyway.

Wrong colors, Kiddo!

Don't get me wrong. I'm still a mom, first and foremost. But I feel like I'm more on-call than 24/7. And in between signing up for ACTs or wielding a stressed out college girl, I dabble in these other roles in my life which I completely enjoy. But that's the key: dabble. Not immerse. Dabble. It might save me on Abreva. (That's cold sore medication for those of you who haven't had the joy of pustules in your nose or mouth.)

And perhaps, just perhaps, I should be stepping up my maternal helicoptering in spite of having nearly grown children. I discovered yesterday that kid #2 is considering the wrong state university! Excuse me, I have some talking to do before the next cold sore sets in and Cole forgets his Hawkeye pedigree.

Just Say No... Really?

Have any of you seen the movie Yes Man? The premise is quite clever - a reclusive naysayer is convinced to attend a self-help seminar and finds himself cursed to say "yes" to every request or suffer serious consequences. Well, my family has created their own self-help program...with the intent of teaching me to say no.

Of course, the village attitude always develops after periods of long days filled with various evening meetings. "You just need to learn to say no." "Yeah, Mom! Just say no. Practice."

I know that much of my hubby's intentions are to protect my sanity. Truly he's witnessed a few breakdowns when I'm completely overloaded. But after a week's worth of "no" counseling, I found myself very amused this evening.

It really wasn't unlike any other evening...

The kids and I walk in the door around 6:00.
Doug needs my help with an Excel formula for one of his farming spreadsheets.
I begin making a spaghetti dinner. (Sidenote: I'm still mentally preparing for the ribs I plan to make soon.)
I take the load of whites out of the dryer to make room for the wet towels.
Doug goes out to water our trees. Thank you!
Cole is putting his comics away. Thank you!
Alex is putting her clothes away. Thank you!
Then the Schwann's truck pulls in. All hell breaks loose.

My water begins to boil.
"Stef! Where are the pliers?" voices the man of my dreams from the garage.
"Mom? How do you spell Corbin?" says the little voice of my Coley.

Okay. Delegate. "Alex, answer the door, will you?" Get Doug his pliers since he doesn't have any idea where my gardening tools are kept. Hope the water doesn't boil over.

"Mom! There's a new Schwann's guy walking up to our door! I'm not answering it!" exclaims my nervous little girl.

Re-delegate. "Alex, add the spaghetti to the water. I'll get he door."

"How much spaghetti, Mom?"

I fumble with my spaghetti measurer. "Whatever. Just guess. I have a door to answer."

I get the door, thumb through the catelog, and put in a polite order (with a few shouted requests.. "Don't forget breakfast sandwiches!" As soon as Schwann's guy walks back to the truck, I'm hearing, "Mom! Can you get me some paper towels?" and "Mom? Do we have an envelope for the comics I'm sending to Corbin?"

Okay, must get pliers. Doug is indicating frustration. Then must write check for the Schwann's guy. How much again? "Just a second everybody..."

Well, it all gets done. The Schwann's man gets paid. We get ice cream. The spaghetti meal is served (with no shortage of noodles, quite the contrary really.) Cousin Corbin has a big envelope of comics coming his way. And our trees are now properly saturated...I'm not sure where pliers fit into the picture, but who cares really.

As we sit down to eat, I'm not stressed. I'm more amused, thinking how my family would've reacted to a few "no's." But I didn't have too much time to imagine the scenario...

"Is this Ragu or homemade sauce? It tastes kind of bland."

"Sorry. My time was compromised. I had to say no to onions."

"Oh. That's okay," says my dear hubby. "It will save me a little heartburn."

Aha. My one "no" of the evening at least paid off a little...


Now, on a very different note! From the girl who never says never....Alex took one of her first dress designs (with the help of her grandmother) and brought it to life! Isn't this awesome!