Driving home after an all-around blasé late afternoon, I find myself sneaking glances in the rear-view mirror whenever possible.

Behind me sits my three-year strapped in her car seat, her face morphing into what I can only call grade B variations of preschool drama. First, a stern look to the right. Then head pivoted to the left. At my next glance: her eyes are shifted upward with her mouth forced into a comical downturn frown. Next: a furrowed brow, yet placid mouth. And on. Each gesture clearly not bringing on the desired result, affirmed by the eerie silence from my usual chatterbox.

There’s been a dark cloud lurking across her little face all day, just waiting for any storm clouds to gather. And now preceded with a soft “hick!” sound a flurry releases in a warbled “I never had a purpu Pretty Pony!” followed by “Ooooh-hoooo-hooooo” soft wails.

“A what?” I respond, “You’ve never owned a purple Pretty Pony toy? And so you’re going to start crying?” I can’t help but call her on this illogic, but for my daughter my questions only serve as odd affirmation of this apparent injustice, and launch her into louder wails.

Of all the things to cry about…then it hits me. Why not? Why not just let it out and wail for the lack of some random plastic horse with a chroma-colored mane in your life? If that’s all you have to lament about, let loose!

And she does.

Starvation, deprivation, annihilation … it’s a wonder that daily crisis don’t send us all into a tailspin. All day we have the choice to tune into world events or tune out best we can, all the while juggling life in a global economic crisis. Gloom and doom: how can it not seep under your skin, infesting your membranes with fear and worry.

Day after day.

And, yet, we persevere as parents and continue to rally, until in my case, a random commercial shows say, a grandparent embracing her grandchild and whoosh, my tear ducts overflow. If I’m truly lucky I’ll get in some boo-hooing.

Yes, nothing tops a good cry.

Letting emotions out: how better to strengthen reserves so you can persevere during the true testaments to the psyche? And in a life of joy and sorrow there will be many, many testaments.

Now have yourself a Pretty Pony Cry.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: crying, emotions, Maija Threlkeld, parents persevere, preschool, purple pretty pony toy, wail

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“When Mommy’s old and shrively will you carry me too?” I ask my four-year old son hoisting him onto my side while walking into Whole Foods Market.

“Oh don’t ask me that anymore!” he snaps back annoyed, before instructing firmly: “When you’re OLD and shrively I will, but not while I’m a kid.”

I chuckle to myself at the response. I remember the first time his solid frame led me to ask that question. His face took a contemplative look before he eagerly offered “Yes!” with a jubilant smile. I think he too envisioned the “big and strong man” he hopes to become.

He and I are running errands together having left his two sisters home with Dad. It’s a rare excursion out for just the two of us. When he requested that I carry him I was tempted to lecture about how he’s a big boy and can walk. Maneuvering a clunky metal shopping cart one-handed is just never appealing.  I look at him from the corner of my eye, “Are you tired?”

“No,” he rubs his cheek against mine. “I just want you to carry me.” He leans his head in the crook of my neck before opting to keep his cheek pressed against mine as we continue on our way.

Together we meander down the aisles discussing what vegetables he hates, what apples to buy his sisters and what’s still on the list, all the while our heads leaning together, cheek-to-cheek. While we wait our turn in the meat department, I remind myself to take a moment to take in this moment. I feel William’s warm breath as he asks about the various meats, a butter-soft cheek pressed close and little arms resting on my shoulders. Tomorrow he may opt to never be carried but for now I have my little boy.

On the ride home he calls over the Jack Johnson music, “Mommy, I’m going to die the same time as you.” I repeat what I heard for clarification and he simply offers, “Yes.” I look back in the rear-view mirror and catch a glimpse of his content, smiling face looking out the window.

The next night while turning out the light I assure that I’ll come back and snuggle once he’s asleep. “Do other boys have their Mommies come back and snuggle?”

The question catches me off guard. Already feeling the pressure of peers? Just yesterday it seemed that he asked me to stay and snuggle. Wait, it was yesterday, so, “Yes,” I readily and assuredly reply.

“And ugh, I don’t need these things here anymore. Just give them to Grace!” he offers while flinging two stuffed animals off of his bed. I find myself actually feeling a pang of sadness for these once loved stuffed creatures, coveted Henry the bear and Telly the cat whose roles have suddenly shifted from loved ones to just things. But I take my cue and assure William that his little sister Grace will take good care of Henry and Telly.

For all that I love to watch my children stretch and grow I hold tight to these moments of a soft cheek pressed close and little hands reaching out.  Life in this stage is a rhythm of holding tight to memories and continually letting go so my children can stretch and grow. And somewhere in this rhythm I will continue to find my groove by taking my cue from them.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: cheek-to-cheek, four-year old son, groove, Jack Johnson, little boy, Maija Threlkeld, sisters, vegetables, Whole Foods Market

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I close the cover of our last storybook and reach over to turn off the bedside lamp while my son scoots down under his covers.

“Good night sweet boy,” I whisper while leaning down to pull the blankets over his shoulders how he likes it, making sure both sides of his Superman cape are still secured to his pajamas top.

“Good night,” a little muffled voice responds. It sounds heavy and resigning. I wait for its follow-up. “I love you, Mommy. Goodnight!” But instead tonight there is only silence.

An unexpected silence that jars to recollection all of the challenges of the day. All of the reprimands, reminders and more reminders to “please stop” or “let’s go now” or “will you please!” But now in the quiet of the dark my thoughts drift past the dawdling and defiance to my little boy who is just a little boy.

I sit back down on the side of the bed and let the silence settle between us. The Buzz Lightyear nightlight does little to dilute the darkness but my extended arm finds little shoulder blades, which I gently begin to rub.

How hard it might be to be the middle kid sandwiched between two sisters. And how hard it is to just be four-years old sometimes. A little four-year old who covers misguided explorations with, “Oops, sorry Mommy.” A lot of misguided explorations happened today I recall.

“You are our wonderful boy,” I begin sharing aloud.

”Noooo, I’m not” the muffled voice replies flatly.

“You are to us,” I begin, letting every day memories guide the observations I share about all the wonderments of our William and the joy and delight he brings his family and those around him. And how lucky we are to have such a special boy.

“So goodnight sweet boy,” I whisper, rising from the bedside. My hand reaches blindly to the thick mop of short hair and I lean over to grant a kiss on the side of his soft cheek.

A slumber-heavy little voice calls out, “Stay and snuggle. Please Mommy.” And so I do.

“I love you, too, William. Goodnight.”

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: blankets, goodnight, Maija Threlkeld, only boys, pajamas, storybook

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Is it really so wrong that my three-year old son thinks his antibiotic medicine is peanut butter-flavored? That I, his mother whose duty includes teaching him right from wrong, has informed him of this, even though the medicine is actually that orange-flavored thick-coated stuff?

So I’ve lied. But it’s a white lie so it can’t possibly be so bad. Right?

Twice daily for 10 long days, as prescribed, I’m not having to force medicine into a clamped mouth while jousting the flailing appendages of a determined preschooler. My request is being met with “oooh, I like the peanut butter kind!” and a little mouth agape like a baby bird!

Before I do penance, I must confess that I’ve told my children, those same headstrong and impressionable young offspring of mine, white lies on more than a few occasions.

I’ve actually lied a lot.

White lies have informed the kids that the ice cream parlor is suddenly “closed” when proven inconvenient and that the computer “isn’t working” five minutes before bath.

Remember your Mom telling you if you eat spinach you’ll be as strong as Popeye? I just happen to stick in “tomorrow” for added enticement.

This week my first grader shared with her teacher how “Leo is our second Beta fish. Our first one missed his friends at Petco so Mommy returned him while I was at preschool.” Her teacher’s knowing glance was met with my impish shrug.

I didn’t have it in me to share with my little girl then that her fish died (Mom’s a fish killer!). But since then we’ve grieved over the loss of our beloved old cat, shared concern about Grandpa’s declining health, packed food for the hungry, and donated nearly new items to the needy.

My little white lies add convenience to small matters. And only small matters. Life’s harder truths are addressed openly and yes, honestly.

So, is it so wrong to lie that medicine may be peanut butter-flavored? That dinner is usually almost ready? That “we’re almost there!” at our destination when we’re actually not? I need a reprieve once in a while from the truth and frankly my Santa believing, tooth fairy anticipating kids do, too.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: cat, grandpa, lying, Maija Threlkeld, medicine, Santa, tooth fairy

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“Whoa,” is my immediate response. I hesitate after this initial jolt and then pull up again, trying to lift my heavy throbbing head off the wet pillow.

My condition shouldn’t have been a surprise. After all I’d been up throughout the night gasping for water and trying to double up the blankets around my shivering frame.

I blink back at the clock, trying to register the urgency of getting up after five snooze alarms. My throbbing head cradles the pillow, which feels like a rock rubbing a sore. You’ve got to get the kids ready for school. You’ve got to get the kids ready for school. It registers: a checklist of actions dart across my numb brain. The recognition of how impossible actual racing through the morning is also registers, and compels me to try again.

Ooof, up I go, the motion seems to pull against the front of my skull, forcing my eye socket tendons tight against my brain, while a cascade of soreness ripples down my body.

On and on I stagger to my robe, to a sweater I hastily pull on top of the robe. Still shivering. Down the stairs. Ow, ow, ow to the kitchen where I stumble about pulling cereal cartons down and start laying out lunch boxes.

There should be a Mom Medal of Courage given at times like this when it takes every will of your being to press on.

“Mom, are you OK?” my nine-year old cautiously inquires as she skips down the stairs.

“No, I’m sick,” a throaty bark returns back. Her eyes widen.

All three children now eye me from the table. One of them decides to test the waters by beginning to tease another. It’s all I can do to manage a deep, “Don’t you dare. Not today. I am sick.” Little bodies retract in their seats and quietly finish their Cheerios.

This impact doesn’t get past me and I realize I’d better use it to my necessary advantage. "Mom’s sick today guys,” I begin haltingly. “You need to step up and help. I need help. After breakfast you need to. . . COUGH! COUGH!. . . put your dishes in the sink and go upstairs to get dre. . . COUGH! COUGH! … dressed. You need to help.”

And in an amazing fluid turn of events -- they do. Quietly, helpfully, swifly. . . obediently.

With time to spare they pile into the car without so much as a tease or a defiant standoff (the three-year old’s morning modus operandi).

On the drive, as I squint painfully past my headache to the street ahead, I hear William say that he is going to make me a get-well card. Lauren chimes in that she will, too, and that they will all make one together as well. Interjected in this loving conversation are hopes and wishes that I feel better. And soon.

Huge hugs at drop off at the elementary school and preschool, and I stagger home with the realization I have a rare almost three hours before pickups begin. I pull back on pajamas over tender skin and collapse into bed, weakly doubling up the blankets around me.

For a brief few hours I will get to do what dads do when they’ve been walloped by the flu. I will get to stay in bed and just sleep.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: elementary school, Flu, Maija Threlkeld, preschool, sick dads, sick mom

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My seven-year daughter isn’t into Barbies. Or the lip-lined Bratz dolls with their wide, disinterested gazes.

She’s not into princesses either ­– “They don’t do anything,” she once explained – or the color pink.

None of the “girly stuff” for her.

Instead she loves animals (both herbivores and carnivores, but prefers those whose native habitat is on the African continent). She immerses herself in art (which our overflowing craft shelves can attest to) from crayoning to painting to building mosaics from colored blocks.

She also enjoys running, swimming, speeding about on her scooter and playing on the monkey bars. Anything with speed and motion, like a lot of her girlfriends.

Finding intriguing toys for her this holiday season should have been relatively easy. Instead, it was a grapple in the distinctions and assumptions made about boys and girls.

My three-year old son loves anything with buttons, blasting and creating. As obscure as that sounds, finding toys for him is effortless. Store shelves are stocked full of tough superhero guys that shoot rockets, building sets, explorer compass/flashlight sets, etc.

Those toys also do something. They aren’t inanimate objects that can only pose. They may require three-dimensional thinking and execution through building. Or they reward instruction following with a cool effect. Kids can actually learn something while honing their motor skills manipulating small linking pieces to create a rocket ship or operating motor.

These same toys are considered “boy stuff” to most girls. The majority of the toy themes are geared to boys from war games to male rescue squads or racer cars with boys shown cheering the cars on the box lid. Generally these toys are also grouped in the “boy” section of the major toy chains. (To find the “girl stuff” follow the pastel hue until you reach the shelves of dolls, stuffed animals and craft kits.)

I see Lauren eye the gifts that William gets with envy and interest. He is given a head lamp to use for exploring. She, in turn, is given a beading craft. William gets spy goggles and a flashlight that can fit on his belt loop. She is given a set of nail polishes and a Beanie Baby.

I don’t know who cringes more, her or me.

As a Mom of two daughters I’m conscious of the concerns young girls continue to face around body image, esteem and eating disorders. As the sister to three brothers, I am also pleased that organizations are working to encourage young women to consider careers in math and science. But I also have to question why encouragement is needed.

Yet, I wander through the stores trying to find what is so obviously missing from the shelves for my inquisitive, engaging daughter who just so happens to not be into “girly” stuff.

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of. Sugar and spice and everything nice. That’s what little girls are made of. . .

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: Barbie, boys, Bratz, daughters, girls, Maija Threlkeld, sons, toys

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My son is flopped on the beanbag tuned to the Discovery Channel on TV. I justify this past time as post-preschool “downtime.” He’s watching The Magic School Bus whose episode today is all about energy expansion. So it’s educational downtime. It’s also cold and cloudy out with a big chance of rain.

Truth be told, I need to get to my work so I’ve turned on the tube.

From the behemoth beanbag I hear my son call, “Can we get that cereal? I want it!” I look up to see the tail end of a sugary cereal commercial. It’s a rare occasion when my kids see such commercials given their general scarcity on cable kiddie channels. But this one had him hook-line-and-sinker.

What amazes me is how eagerly and willingly William wants to try this new cereal. It’s a near extinct event when my son samples a “foreign" food product. Often dinner time at our home is an endurance test of patience and wills.

The only information he’s ingested (pun intended) about this sugary-cereal product is that a colorful character and his bird flock like it. It comes in an array of (artificial) colors and is fruit flavored. Clearly my fruitophobic son, who physically shudders at the site of an apple near his plate, did not hear this last part.

At the table, I recognize that our peer-pressure approach of “Try a little chicken. Your friends Tyler and Cole eat chicken! You can then run as fast as Tyler and Cole!” just isn’t cutting it anymore. Our son now simply responds with a cheery, “I don’t mind if they’re faster than me” before asking for buttered bread as an alternative main course.

My husband invented an ingenious game where he offers our son a high-five hand slap before William attempts a bite of chicken or peas or other good-for-you, non-carb food. Then, after eating that miniscule bite (often to dramatic affect ala a Fear Factor contestant eating live squid) William’s eager high-five takes on “upper hero strength,” which is acted out with bold effect by his Dad.

All of this effort and here with only a glimpse of the cereal my son is begging for on TV.

And then it occurs to me: advertisers could save us from a life of cajoling for “one bite, please” and wasted good food by advertising good food!

What if the same energy and expense of those sugar cereal, snack and fast food commercials were put into commercials for wholesome, good-for-you food? Is it just too good to be true?

So I plead (yes, I’m at the breaking point. Far too many dinner table battles have been had) to the advertising departments of all good-for-you foods: we need you on the kid TV channels! Advertise to the kids and not us moms who are tired of taking the brunt at mealtime. No more images of doting mothers overlooking happy eaters please. I want my kids to try good food for their own benefit, not mine. Build a desire for good food in my child and my pocketbook will follow.

Readily, I can come up with a few ad suggestions, too! I want a dancing bear with an energetic smile to proclaim the power of chicken without a fatty breaded coating! An Olympic athlete with incredible physique and glowing skin to give a thumbs-up to how “cool” steamed vegetables are!

On a fifteen-second commercial, a teen bop queen could show how to make a quick and healthy sandwich to go with organic ingredients -- in the time it takes to show a clown bonding with pre-teens over French fries!

While I’m dreaming, I’d like a popular superhero to pop on the TV at four p.m. announcing, “Time to play outside! Let’s go!” The TV would go blank. And Mom wouldn’t get blamed.

How about an ad for an eight-hundred number to call for a “promise to only eat good food and say please chart” for only $19.99! (And if you call now you can get a second chart plus the insta-tv-off zapper for free!).

Can you imagine the turnaround in our homes, in our neighborhoods, in our country if good food was promoted with the same intensity as all of the artificial colors and flavors ingested daily by our weight-challenged population?

A nation of healthy bodies chock full of vitamins and minerals.

Now that’s what I’d call good TV.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: healthy foods, Maija Threlkeld, television

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Bewitching hour at the grocery store.

I dare to venture into Safeway between four-thirty and eight at night, or whenever my kids start to melt down in the evening.

Over the din of crying babies and the glare of fluorescent lighting a chemical imbalance occurs in children. I’ve seen kids go from complacent and mute to wild-eyed Mr. Hydes determined to torment their parents. Tired, testy parents are forced to brush past other tired and testy shoppers in single-lane aisles.

Oh, the horror.

In my pre-kid life I remember moving my shopping cart around a father who was kneeling before a young child splayed across the dirty laminate floor. ‘Oh puleeze. Just pick him up and leave,’ crossed my mind. Now I imagine the no-food-at-home/no-choice-but-to-endure scenario that may have forecasted that dad’s ill-timed venture.

The art of distraction only works to a point, too.

“Here, help Mommy count out six apples,” I’ve commanded my kids. We’ve counted bananas, examined oranges, plucked lettuce, learned about kiwi. But fatigue inevitably overpowers engagement, and in a flash the kids are battling.

When it’s gotten ugly I’ve left carts full of groceries in the store and dragged the kids back to the empty car with lectures about shopping etiquette. But I feel like I'm being penalized. While the kids listen behind hooded eyes I’m lamenting the missing milk or other staples back at home.

Come morning, though, sometimes milk-less Raisin Bran leaves a better taste than the memory of the dairy aisle from the night before.

by Maija Threlkeld

Labels: grocery shopping with kids, Maija Threlkeld

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Lately my five-year old has been drawing profusely after school.

Always with a red crayon.

As he draws he shares aloud the ‘story’ that he is creating. No surprise, there’s at least two “blasts” and lots of “pew-pew” shooting sounds mixed with rockets, fireballs and something called blasters.

By the time the narration ends, his drawing is covered with a swirl of red hiding the layers of events underneath. These action-filled abstracts add excitement to our bulletin boards.

Today as I sifted through the basket holding the drawings – with three children it’s spilling over by day’s end, I was startled by a red outline of a creature with distinct boobs, areola included. I knew my son’s artwork had evolved to the current potato stick people stage but so far there hadn’t been any detailed anatomy. The one time I had thought a potato person had been ‘enhanced’ -- I was quickly informed “that’s his gun on his belt.”

Oh.

But these were clearly boobs. Long, droopy boobs in need of a serious breast augmentation. The only boobs he seems to focus on are his Mom's so this wild-eyed monster creature with hanging boobs is meant to be me. And here I thought mine were, well, still relatively perky.

Motherhood has its share of indignities but this just sucks.

What a vision, too.

I commanded the entire vertical sheet. My feet stood on the paper’s edge and my swirly hair graced the other. My body was one enormous vertical square from which the boobs slung over like straps off a saddle. My arms (drawn as thin lines but what does that matter now?) were raised from my sides, topped with circles depicting my hands and jutting out stick fingers. I appear to be wearing pants and heavy boots or shoes.

All femininity shot to hell.

To my son I am Hulk Mom.

At least at my side is an adorable cat, or what appears to be one. The cat’s smiling whereas I have a serious straight mouth.

I look angry.

My mind darts to all of the recent battles of wills and scoldings and challenges. Obviously, it’s been too much for my poor little boy: this monster mother overpowering the page must mean he is overwhelmed by me.

I feel William’s warm cheek as he peeks over my shoulder and then catches my eye, happy to find me admiring his artwork so intently.

“See Mommy? It’s Mario!”

“Mario? Mario, the character from Nintendo?”

“Yeah!” he beams back.

“But what are… what is this?” I carefully inquire, pointing gingerly toward the areola of one boob.

“Those are his BUTTONS!” William cheerfully hollers before scampering off to draw some more.

So much for art therapy.

My femininity – and perky boobs are reclaimed.

For now.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: boobs, Maija Threlkeld

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My eighteen-month old is in her crib, arms stretched out around her head, her little face a picture of calm, blissfully off in dreamland.

Sound asleep.

And I'm envious.

I'd love to go to sleep right now! Can you imagine how great it must be to get to go to sleep when you're tired?

To actually HAVE to go to sleep?

To have someone else try very hard to get you to sleep? Awesome, I know!

Here I am, bone-tired, dragging, just struggling to clean up the carnage from the last hours of indoor play. . . well, make that here I sit typing, thereby avoiding all of the clean-up I should be doing.

But I'm just too tired.

Admitting how tired I am seals my fate. I'm now destined to drag through the remains of the day, yearning for sleep.

Amazingly, my kids will end their day battling to stay up until my final pleas of "GO TO SLEEP NOW!" finally will them into slumber.

And, even then, I won't get to go to sleep (okay, I'm whining, but I'm tired!). Once the house is quiet I'll finally have to get to my day of "to-do's," while my three little ones are all nestled snug in their beds, on fluffy pillows under warm blankets.

And I yawn. And I am envious. And tired.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: dining out with kids, Maija Threlkeld, sleep, tired mommy

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I’m lounging in my pajamas again, on a school morning at that. Why not? There’s no need to race from the shower in order to beat the family morning rush with wet hair. Instead I’ve gotten used to actually reading the newspaper cover-to-cover before the kids stampede down the stairs. My day is beginning with a quiet, peaceful morning graced with a strong, aromatic cup of coffee.

It’s just too good to last.

Summer is finally hitting a nice groove in our home. After weeks of camps and various other activities, we are all enjoying unstructured days spent outdoors, often returning home from the park near eight p.m. under a sunny August sky. The kids are relaxed, content to lollygag about, playing with friends, climbing trees or retreating to enjoy a favorite book.

Last night they got an even later bedtime and so I’m pleased and surprised to find it’s almost eight a.m. again without the interruption of feet stomping down the stairs.

Ah, summer.

I take in the view of the hills outside the glass doors and relax in the quiet of my day before doing a mental check of any agenda. Let’s see, it’s Thursday which means a trip to the pediatrician’s office for a yearly checkup and oh, a stop at Staples to buy school supplies. And have the lunchboxes we ordered arrived? Did Lauren want to keep those jeans or return them for others? Does William have enough socks, any socks? I better look through those shirts, too. Grace needs to start wearing those shoes again since Crocs aren’t allowed at preschool.

I feel a familiar rush of adrenaline surges through me then my eye intuitively darts to the oven clock. Oh shit, it’s eight-thirty a.m. already. On Monday the kids will be expected to be attentive in class at this time rather than slumbering against soft pillows.

I have exactly four remaining nights to readjust my kids from roughly sixty-eight nights of different sleeping schedules.

But it’s the Olympic season so anything’s possible, right? I wonder if Michael Phelps’ Mom let him sleep in during the summer. No, I bet even in preschool he was completing his warm-ups by now and probably made his bed before he left the house.

I consider my kids’ academics for the first time all summer. Does Lauren remember any regrouping for division? Can William write anything besides his name? I better make sure that ‘a’ is kept lower-case. OK, four days to go. Can I cram a recap of the previous year’s curriculum between now and Monday?

Should I?

Oh hell, the kids will probably be sleepwalking those first weeks anyway since I, their Mother, didn’t keep our schedules on track. Dark eyes, sullen looks, snapping mouths – wish it were true that I was describing characters from Maurice Sendak and not my own offspring.

I had also hoped to take on one home project given the freedom and flexibility summer allows … what was it going to be again?

The dog barks, interrupting the downward spiral of thought. A crisp, autumnal morning chill greets me as I open the door. The season will be changing soon. Gone will be the daylight-basked evenings and warm air wafting pleasantly through the window screens.

I imagine the dark winter mornings with my setting out breakfast and packing lunch boxes while weary little forms trod down the stairs with the greeting, “Do I have to go to school again today?” and their little sister chirping at the mere mention of the ‘s’ word, “I don’t go to my school. I miss my Mommy.”

Ah, fall. Summer was too good to last.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: endless summer, Maija Threlkeld, school

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For longer than I care to admit I have bought into the concept of “fall back-to-school fashions” as envisioned by retailers nationwide. Back to school fashion means abandoning faded T-shirts and khaki shorts for autumn-hued sweaters and thick corduroy trousers to wear stomping in crackly maple leaves.

Or hopping off the ubiquitous yellow school bus in cable-knit stockings and solid jean jumpers with the smell of wood burning in fireplaces wafting through the cold, still air. Perhaps a dapper plaid hat is added to the mix? A comfy scarf wrapped around the neck? Brown leather shoes!

Yes, fall has arrived!

Problem is, fall hasn’t arrived here in sunny northern California by the time children are marching back to the classrooms. The autumn months here are known for their long “Indian summer” days of sunny skies with record temperatures.

Has that stopped me from giving in to the retail buyers’ vision of fall? Have my children sweated through recess on their first day back to school in heavy “fall” clothing?

Before I answer that I’ll share with you how cute they looked --during the first photo taken at the front door, before they stripped down halfway through recess in a desperate attempt to cool off. I, too, remember that first day of school, partly for the memory of happily flinging off my heavy, hot, fall outfit the moment I arrived home and donning a faded T-shirt and cool khaki shorts.

It’s almost a twisted right of passage.

This year will be different. My kids will enjoy their first weeks of school in appropriate warm weather clothing, though not faded T-shirts and khaki shorts.

Come Halloween when the weather tends to take a turn towards fall, chilly nights and we often receive our first rainy days, and I’ll allow myself to buzz happily over the fall clothing in the store windows.

By then, however, the retail shops will be bursting with Christmas-themed pajamas and Santa red sweaters, garments which adorned in November may be a greater fashion faux pas than donning a faded t-shirt and khaki shorts.

But don’t tell my kids.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: back to school, clothing, fall, Maija Threlkeld, summer camps

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I’ve had years to decide what kind of Mom I would be. The criteria has been honed and re-honed in my head through the decades but always delivered with great conviction and certainty.
I started my “note to self” list as a child. Ogling the enormous, multi-tiered candy display at the grocery store after hearing Mom’s denial I vowed that my kids would get all of the candy they wanted! (I suspect the same declaration was made about toys, too.)

Now the thought of all that sugar combined with our inherited sweet-tooth would be… cruel! The visual is already interrupted by a deep “no way!” bellowing from my head.

In high school I swore that I would never be one of those moms who leave the house with curlers in her hair! Or an uncool outfit! Or just lookin’ like some frumpy mom.

Well, so far I haven’t donned the curlers, but I would have to claim the term “frumpy” on many occasions. In my defense, I now understand how being in public in an uncool outfit happens when the last time you shopped outside of Gymboree was several fashion fads ago.

The fine art of reason would be my way of disciplining, too. I think this idea arose from watching tired parents deal with kids’ meltdowns at the mall. If my future children understood why they can’t do something, they wouldn’t, right? Just dragging a screaming child outside the store doesn’t give them a chance to explain why they’re screaming.

Laugh aloud all you not-new mommies out there who have since learned that reasoning with a toddler is just plain exasperating and often getting out of the environment gives both parent and child a chance to cool down and recharge.

I swore that I would never yell, never bribe and certainly never spank.

Since then I have.

I find myself yelling to be heard, cajoling with bribes to get behavior turned and have twice spanked on the bottom in exasperation. I’ve failed what mattered most not to do in my envisioned loving home.

I wish I could say otherwise.

But I have used the opportunities to figure out what would actually work, clarify expectations and my reactions with the kids and to try, and try, and try to become the Mom I want to be.

To my three young children I promise that I will always aspire to be MOM.
I hope they will define that as their Mom who:
Is always there for her kids.
Has an open heart and open arms.
Tries to be a good listener.
Provides honest answers to tough questions where possible.
Joins in on the laughter and goofiness – even instigates it.
Gives “I will try” or “I tried” higher value than any accomplishment.
Establishes expectations whenever possible.
Firmly executes “time outs” and our “reward” charts.
Praises the virtue of empathy.
And admits mistakes.

What I still do know is that love, love, love will always be overabundant in our home. That promise to myself for my family has never changed.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: Gymboree, Maija Threlkeld, mothers

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I got my hair chopped. Chopped as in scissors liberally snipping at my increasingly exposed scalp. A salon chair surrounded by little piles of my locks. And the white skin on the back of my neck revealed for the first time in years.

I went in for a “trim” and left with seriously short hair.

To be fair, there was an ‘interim’ haircut between my longer hair and this pixie do. That haircut was a great “tousled” look, layered and funky. Friends commented on my “cute do” and offered how flattering it was. The cut was a change and a welcomed one.

Today I happily plopped myself back down in the salon chair with my outgrown hairstyle, fully expecting a return to that fun look.

I could tell things were going differently than expected when I saw the stylist’s pointed shears angled farther and farther up the hairline, but I decided to see where this venture would go given my full faith in my hair stylist.

I followed her discerning eye as she pulled sections of my hair with a fine comb before snipping closely this way and that. Fun, flippy wisps of wet locks appeared.

She commented on the way the “line” of the hair was flowing and for once in my life I caught on to the lingo.

I did notice that the sides seemed a lot higher and that my long bangs were now short. It was definitely a different look, but what do I know?

You see, I’m not a hair person. I guess if I had gorgeous thick hair resembling a shampoo ad that requires a saw to cut through I would worship my locks. But while I have a lot of hair, it’s baby fine. It’s no lion’s mane, even when it falls past my shoulders.

In my youth I pined for the dazzling photos of happy girls with thick, curly hair. I fully expected that the right hair cut or perm would accomplish the same for me. A bad bowl haircut and Mom’s sponge curlers with extra Dippity-Do couldn’t manage such a feat. Neither could the many perms I endured back then – that created serious trauma to hair and psyche.

Poodle perms are never good for adolescence.

Various styles captured the years (yes, even an attempt at feathered hair with lots of hair spray). Somewhere post-college I realized, through all the different hairstyles, the short, and the long, that my hair grew.

So why not just try new styles and see what works?

Even so, it’s hard to embrace short hair when long hair is worshipped everywhere. I can’t recall the last time I saw short hair on a fashion magazine cover. Within the glossy pages models flaunt their lustrous, flowing and healthy locks, which graze the cleavage of sexy sundresses and playfully cover exposed shoulder blades.

Celebrities, desperate to emulate the look, glue-gun yardstick lengths of fake hair to their heads.

I have girlfriends who swear that they will never cut their hair. One announced that she will be an old women with long locks twisted atop her head in a Kaiser roll bun.

But why?

There is a baffling security of keep hair “long” even if it doesn’t “work for you” (i.e. looks dumpy, frumpy and just brings down your face). Shouldn’t face-drooping hair be in the same category as Mom sweats worn all day? Ditto for hair left wet and pulled tightly back into a big plastic butterfly clip?

There is something about hair just hanging limply like a dishrag that reminds me of an old rock star still trying to hold on to his long hair. Honey, sometimes we need to change with the times and accept what is – and isn’t.

My husband looked stunned when I arrived home with my new look, and then offered,  “But it looks really good.”

My eight-year old, who’s our truth serum confessed, “I don’t like you with short hair but I notice your beautiful face so I like it.”

That was the best.

Hair grows. Styles change, as does our appearance as we age.

Perhaps we need to celebrate what we have, rather than what we wish we did. And for me right now that means short hair. Maybe next will be a longer short style.

As I acclimate to this newest change, I must confess that I’m trying to determine whether adding a headband will make my hair look longer. And as I do, I imagine a lion’s mane cascading down my back.

Change might take time but it’s still good.

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: hair cut, hair styles, Maija Threlkeld, short hair

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On our return to our hotel we pass a mother who’s lecturing loudly to her two young boys about how each of their toys are identical. What is implied by her speech is that they should each be grateful and perhaps -- not test Mama anymore.

What I see are two little children trying to stand attentive while their small frames shake with exhaustion, little lips quivering and dark, tired eyes welled with tears. Their eyes don’t meet their mother’s glare but seek out the strangers walking past.

How I feel for them.

What’s apparently not clear to their mother, who’s focused on her rant, is that it’s past ten p.m., non-Disney time, and they are all exhausted.

At Disneyland time is a concept ordered by parades, twice daily, meal stops and how long it will take to stand in line for a ride.

Time is also a relation. If that rides means a forty-five-minute wait, then let’s wait in this thirty-minute line first. Three rides may mean one hour of ‘real’ time passing, the majority of it standing.

Consider also that if you’re a family on a tight budget you probably also want to get your money’s worth given the pricey entrance fee so the day is spent trying to stretch the experience further.

Everywhere I see little children wilting on their parents' shoulders or begging to do so as their parents look baffled at their offspring’s “bad behavior.” Parents hiss, “knock it off.” Children wail. Others are dragged by raised arms back into the long line they attempted to escape. Whimpers and more wails almost drown out the loud “Be our best!” music blasting from a nearby parade.

These dark memories from our recent trip over a hot holiday weekend compel me to offer the following gentle suggestions on how to actually enjoy Disneyland:

1. Bring a backpack.

Stock small, sport-top water bottles, one for each child. Also bring along a squirt bottle to help beat the heat while waiting in line. (The water bottle fans offered at the park are a whopping seventeen dollars). Bring along healthy snacks since the park is loaded with short-energy sugar-drop snacks. Cracker packets, cheese sticks, trail mix are all great energy boosters.

2. Don’t forget the sun block!

 The Southern California sun is intense. Remember to slather on another layer mid-day. Don’t park the stroller in the sun.

3.  Keep on real time.

Twelve to one p.m. is lunchtime: the kids are hungry and tired. Three to four p.m. may be a good break time: the kids are hungry and tired. Stop for dinner five to six p.m.: the kids are hungry and tired. If you’re planning to stay at the park through the nine-twenty nightly fireworks show, take a longer midday break: the kids are hungry and tired. There’s an obvious theme here. The kids convey it all over the park.

4. Rent a stroller or two.

The park demands a tremendous amount of walking which can tax little legs. We see our three kids visibly relax while taking turns reclining in the two strollers we rent each day. Our pace through the park avoids the “come on, come on” drag commonly seen with young kids.

5. Be mindful of your child’s limitations.

You may be in Fantasyland but a three-year old is still going to raise a fuss if tempted by sweets or a plethora of toys during naptime. Fears about the dark or sudden jolts are still quite real at Disneyland. From a child’s perspective that cute character may resemble a hulking furry huge-eyed monster so don’t force an intimate hug.

6. Take a moment to enjoy and capture memories.

Rather than racing through the crowd to reach a Disney character or get to another ride, notice your children and try to see Disneyland through their eyes. The look on our two-year old’s face when she saw Cinderella’s Castle (“my pink palace!”) for the first time was priceless. That’s the magic that Walt Disney wants us all to share as a family. 

And these are the memories our children should be allowed to bring back home from the Happiest Place on Earth.

By Maija Threlkeld

 

 

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It transforms her.

In it she is an enchantress, yet fearless. There’s the confidence to twirl at will and serenade with exuberance. Life is richer, fuller, more enthralling. Or so it seems to my two-year old whenever she slips on her favorite pink cotton dress with its short puffed sleeves and full skirt.

Coco Chanel had her knit jacket. Jackie O her sleeveless Oleg Cassini. Grace has her spring 2004 (a wild guess given it’s a hand-me-down from her older sister) cotton candy pink dress decorated with streams of multi-colored ruffles down its skirt and an embroidered butterfly on its bodice.

Her 'It' ensemble.

Never mind that Grace’s selection happens to be the perfect outfit for an afternoon tea party on a sunny spring day with the girls. Or attending church on Easter Sunday. Instead, it’s worn down to the creek to catch tadpoles or while squatting in the sandbox making wet sand cakes. Or on a chilly weekday morning without her practical fleece pullover since that would ruin the desired Princess affect.

I’ve tried to attempt a life without The Dress.

If I manage to get my two-year old dressed, and might I add quickly, there’s a slight chance that the swiftness of the act will distract her from immediately noticing that I selected the outfit. There’s the rare, but reasonable, chance that we will venture out into the world together with visible evidence that Grace owns more than that pink cotton dress. But to a good majority of the world Grace and her uniform are one.

She looks like the impractical socialite of the toddler set crashing the casual BBQ.

Then there’s the fact that it’s wrinkled. Make that more wrinkled than not. “I thought that was the look,” one Mom politely offered. Bless her. She must iron. I don’t – especially not a dress worn almost daily.

Generally, Grace searches me out when I’m most vulnerable and half-aware. During our manic morning rush she’ll greet me with, “this one Mommy!” happily holding up her adored party dress while I’m distractedly brushing my teeth. How to reason with a strong-willed toddler?

You can’t.

Being a mere amateur, I have actually tried explaining, “No sweetie, you wore that yesterday,” which was met by her blank stare and a repeat, “this one” -- delivered with toddler edginess.

Just the other day, Grace fished it out of the laundry and I tried to meet her meticulous side with, “but it’s dirty. Look, dirty, dirty!” pointing to chocolate marks.

When that didn’t work, I actually appealed to her reason: “That’s dog pooh-pooh. You don’t want to wear dog pooh. Let Mommy wash it first.”

I’m still troubled that she wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

When I finally do give in with a sigh and Grace happily reaches her little arms up to put on The Dress, her body utterly swoons. She extends her arms from her sides daintily; fingers arched back, and then curves her neck to the side and twirls, twirls, twirls. Visions of Disney princesses surely dancing in her toddler head.

She feels like a princess, which at present means she feels like Grace. I guess Grace is supposed to be party-ready, even if it’s a hike or gearing up for the park.

Right now I love the idea of variety in her attire but I’ll miss the day that “this one, this pink dress” is no longer requested. I imagine that I’ll tuck it away in a drawer and take a peak each morning to greet the memories it conjures.

This pink dress is Grace at two years old. I’m glad to watch a memory unfold.

By Maija Threlkeld

 

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I just had a vision: my three children home on a school day with n-o-t-h-i-n-g to do except complain and bother one another. . .

Oh that’s right, Friday's the first day of summer "vacation" in our home.

Don the black armbands fellow parents -- school’s almost out.

Can you hear a din on the horizon? A certain low-high hum slowly increasing in velocity? Does it go something like this? “MmmmmmOOOmmmm, where Aaare yuuuuuOOoooo Wwwwhhhooo can I PLAY wuuuuiiiith todaaaay?”

The pattern varies a bit and may include a “Nooooo, thaaAAAt’s boooOOOOringggg. MmmmmmOOOmmmmeeeeee ”

Piercing I know. But it’s coming!

Vacation time.

Vacation time.

Vacation time.

Yeah, still isn’t registering for me either. Where’s MY vacation? Make that, where’s MY vaaaAAAcccation! (Two can play that whine game.)

Back in March, I began stockpiling enforcements. Park camp. Check. Another week of park camp. Check. Y camp. Horse camp. Wildlife camp. Art camp. And what about the two-year old? Preschool camp. Check, check, check…

Checks with many digits flew out the door.

I know I shouldn’t fear an expanse of “down time” for my high-energy offspring. What better way to increase focus and expand imagination than to start building with Legos or even create homes for the backyard lizards.

Or let creativity flow at the drawing table. All good. It’s just when my eight-year old excitedly announced, “Did you know we have a hundred days of vacation?!” 

I thought I was going to throw-up.

In our home, the ‘bored’ level hits far too quickly, even when held back by fierce warnings to “give Mommy a moment.”

So Thursday it is.

At one twenty-five p.m., the school doors open, the children flood out, hand their awaiting grim-faced parents all of their gear, race ahead to the car and announce: “So what are we doing tomorrow?”

Mama’s hoping it involves yoga.

By Maija Threlkeld

 

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“Mom, you’re doing it again!”

“Huh? What honey?”

“You’re doing that thing you do! I’m talking to you and you’re not answering! It’s like you’re not here or something!”

Maybe I’m not.

I know what she’s referring to. While shuttling the kids to yet another activity, I let my mind wander. It’s a deliciously self-indulgent past time. I notice the green of the trees and open the car sunroof to breathe in the clear blue sky. I just breathe and listen to my thoughts, eyes ever focused on the road ahead. New ideas sprout and thoughts resolve.

And I simply breathe.

It’s my own form of meditation. I don’t release to the moment, but retreat to the sanctuary of my pondering.

The backseat may be a buzz of activity but unless it hits octaves indicating siblings battling, I tune it out and retreat.

I’ve always been a daydreamer. Lots of ideas and thoughts are fruitful distraction. My oldest daughter seems to have inherited my propensity to allow the mind to wander. We both don’t fair well during church sermons, or any sermon for that matter. There are too many tempting ideas to explore.

Back home my kids hold my attention captive and I find myself lately fighting to stay present. I just want to sink into my thoughts and “take a moment,” instead of explaining why you can’t hold a cloud, or whether we can set up a play date for that afternoon.

I just want to have time to think, which is such a rarity nowadays with an active household of three young kids.

It’s a push-pull that my children win out but they don’t necessarily have me present. They seem to know it, too. We drift through those moments or afternoons, everyone unfulfilled. They don’t have me and I don’t have me. It’s getting harder as they’re getting older and I need a plan before frustrations build further.

I just need time to think of what that is.

A balance is required between my need for quiet contemplation and my family’s need for me, clear and present. For now they know they sometimes have to demand my time rather than request it in order for me to fully hear and be here.

Perhaps in my old age I’ll just be considered “hard of hearing; hopefully the mind still brimming with ideas.

By Maija Threlkeld

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“They grow up so fast,” a voice shares from behind me in line at the grocery store. I turn toward the older woman who’s gazing down at my three young children with a familiar, wistful look about her face.

Never mind that my children are a mass of flapping hands and bobbing heads while I’m silently willing the shopper ahead of me to stop chatting with the checkout clerk and actually write her (expletive) check so I can get the (expletive) out of the grocery store. (I must return to yoga.)

I’ve heard this comment before. I suspect it’s familiar with moms of young children. Usually it’s dolled out by an older woman apparently lucky enough to have survived these fledgling years herding jousting offspring out of polite society and back into the confines of the cracker-strewn car before their mother seriously loses it again.

Day after endless day.

Why is it so often that I’m in the throes of a more challenging moment of parenting that I hear this remark, too? In a way, it’s oddly reassuring to know that whatever difficult developmental stages I’m up against will zip by at warp speed and soon I’ll be providing my self-reliant adolescents a nice send off as they fly the coop to conquer their worlds; my own head abuzz with self-indulgent opportunities to finally pursue.

But the older mother’s wistful look? Could it be that like childbirth she has somehow forgotten all of the pain and suffering and recalls only the happier moments of child rearing? Then there’s this need to remind me, guilt-gullible me to savor every precious memory of little hands with dimpled knuckles and flush-cheeked faces beaming while going “weeeee!” down the playground slide.

I truly wish I could take in these moments more. I’m sure somewhere in my paper-strewn office I have a reminder scribbled on a ragged-edged paper to do that very thing. Catch is -- I’m too distracted by the more taxing elements of rearing, like tantrums and potty training. Plus, moments when I’m trying to escape the grocery store with hyper kids in tow as aforementioned above (and now relived momentarily in a rude flashback).

Politely I nod back in response to both acknowledge the sentiment and try to mask own my disbelief. ‘Grow up fast?’ It never seems fast enough during the trying times of parenting.

I wonder if boarding school or boot camp would make the time fly quicker?

But I know that her intent is to remind me that the arduous times will pass, too. And to try not to lose sight of the little hands behind the messy finger paints.

I’m reminded of a conversation I had with a customer service representative who came on the line just as my son started to drill me loudly with questions, having been quietly playing independently all the while I waited on hold. The service rep couldn’t help but hear him in the background demanding my attention. “I remember those days!” she chuckled.

“He was quiet until a moment ago, of course,” I laughed back in my exasperation. Our conversation continued while I placed my order and then she paused and offered, “A friend once shared about parenting, ‘These are the longest days and the shortest years.” Then I paused, too.

How true it is.

How I wish the moments of soft-cheeked kisses and little voices singing in the house were longer and the trials of parenting shorter. But time flies regardless and in a blink the kids are grown. Years from now when I overhear another woman share,“They grow up so fast!” with a mom fraught in a parenting moment -- I hope I don’t weep too loudly.

They grow up fast. Far too fast.

By Maija Threlkeld

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When life gets rocky in our household on weekends we head to the beach. Before the snapping, fussing or whining escalates, we wisely load up the car with beach towels, the old flowery sheet that we use as a picnic blanket, requisite sand toys, snacks, and our huge long-haired pup.

And off we go.

The drive to one of the local beaches we’re lucky to reach within the hour is long and windy, but just short enough for books and the sights to distract from too many “are we there yet?” inquiries.

“Look! Water!” one of the kids will inevitably call out as we draw near. All eyes crane to see and eager smiles replace concerned frowns and tense jaws.

It doesn’t matter whether the sun’s beating down or the wind’s chilling foggy skies. What matters is that we are at the beach!

Little bodies start scampering toward the sand before weaving back at the reminder to come help carry something! Toes dig into thick, shifting grains. Lungs fill with cool sea air. Minds relax to the rhythmic roar of the surf.

The flowery sheet is dutifully pinned down with flip-flops and more towels, but mostly abandoned as the kids bound toward the surf and start digging in the heavy, wet sand with us parents following not far behind. Giggles erupt as the foamy surf flirts with little feet. The loud crash of the tide and rhythmic surge of the waves complement quiet contemplation and focused castle building.

I observe my oldest daughter dancing in and out of the surf, sheer joy across her beaming face. My brow relaxes as it hasn’t in many days and I give thanks.

I look over at my restless four-year old and find him immersed in creating a cityscape with waterways. His body crawls about his creation changing and correcting mounds of sand. He raises his head and exclaims, “Look!” I smile and nod back.

Our youngest chases the seagulls that swoop up to the skies at her approach, only to land a few yards away. Up again they ascend to her shrieks of delight. She lurches her body ahead ready to conquer another resting flock. The perfect repetitive task for a diligent two-year old.

Brett drags a long strand of seaweed toward us. At its end is our dog furiously trying to usurp it. Duke spots the seagulls and joins Grace’s charge.

And once again peace is reclaimed and perspective restored.

By Maija Threlkeld

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