When I used to think about shit in a bag, I would envision some evil teen schoolmate running away from a hated neighbor’s door, with the bag engulfed in flames on the door mat.  Obvious signs of boredom in the sleepy desert town that I grew up in. 

Now I have a different vision.

My husband and I were driving home from a day of trying to get our five- and six-year old boys proficient in skiing and most of the trip had been shockingly uneventful.

Then as we neared Sacramento, the traffic slowed, expectedly during rush hour and we were sandwiched among the many people trying to get home. Then, arousing me from a daydream about a hot shower and sleep in my own bed, I heard an angelic voice from the second row in the van:

                  “I have to go potty.”

                  “Pee or poo,” I said.

                  “Poo.  I have to go potty.  I have to go potty.”

The increasing urgency of pitch in his voice was not a good sign.  It had been just one hour prior that we had to make a specific stop in the middle of nowhere to do just that.  I had given quick wave to the pizza parlor owner as I hurriedly trounced my pajama-clad boys to the bathroom.

                  “You are standing. Didn’t you say you had to poo?”

                  “No.  I’m all done.”

                  “Are you sure?  Why don’t you try again?”

                  “No,” he said.”

I was catapulted back to the present traffic jam by his clearly less angelic tone.  Like a contractor who had just counted zero from ten on the biggest demolition project of his life:

                  “It’s gonna blow!”

My husband is behind the wheel, howling and saying through choked laughter:

                  “I’m sorry.  I know he’s in pain…”

The considerably more panicked voice from the second row:

“Hurry, hurry. It’s gonna blow.”

Looking around, I see a GPS screen, an umbrella, three empty single-serve chocolate milk containers, a pen and a package of saltines.  Oh Lord, not even a cup from a fast-food break.

My husband says in a MacGyver tone:

“Dump the bag of food and use it.”

Mind you, this is my re-usable eco-friendly near-canvas bag.  I picture removing my shoe as a receptacle and decide all other choices are grim.  The bag it is.

                  “Stand up, unbuckle, get your pants down.”

I am breaking laws that I hadn’t even realized existed and have no idea how I am going to make up for the dichotomy of imploring to my children that they are NEVER to unbuckle their seatbelt in a moving vehicle.

                  “Get over here, bend over and go.”

My husband is trying to move to the side of the road, but nobody is letting our car in.  I am trying to position the bag to not get any waste on me while contorting from the front passenger seat.  I look up at my other son in the seat next to his squatting brother, and see both fingers shoved up his nose.  He says:

“I’d gonna vomid.”

“Don’t you dare!”  from the driver’s seat, still striving for the highway exit, so close in distance but so far away in time.

Wiped and strapped safely back in his seat, the smell permeated the van.  I had to try as hard as I could to not think about the shit in the bag next to my foot.  Someone should have told me years ago that these were job requirements of a mom.  And as for Dad, I made him throw the bag away at the next pizza place when we were finally yet untimely able to exit.

                  “Windows down.  I don’t care if it’s raining.”

 By Jennifer O’Shaughnessy

Labels: bathroom, eco-friendly bag, go potty, GPS, Jennifer O'Shaughnessy, MacGyver, poop, re-usable, Sacramento, shit, sons, traffic, vomit

Stumble This Post

I took my ten-year old daughter and two-year old son to Bob's Pumpkin Patch five miles south of Half Moon Bay this morning.

My daughter and I alternated carrying Baby Brother on our backs through the corn maze. Our dog tore off ahead of us, absolutely ecstatic about this set of new smells and sounds.

Then I wheeled my son around in a wheelbarrow through the pumpkin and corn field. My daughter picked out some big fat round orange squashes. I pointed out a flock of red-winged blackbirds. It veered off in varying directions, settling down in a spot in the pumpkin field, then launching off toward another part.

Later, I found a ladybug on the spiny stem of a pumpkin vine. I put it on my son's hand. We watched it for a good while. It stretched out its translucent black wings from underneath its spotted forewings. Then it folded them back in, content I guess with its current location on the warm skin of my son's hand.

I just love those birds and ladybugs and dogs, each with its distinct design and grace.

I make myself look at them again even if I have seen a million before, because if I were to revisit my turbulent feelings regarding my fragile marriage, I might instantly cry again.

Before I had kids, I could just let my tears flow, go write in my journal, then go have a tea or a pint somewhere with or without a friend. Now, I have to keep going. Keep doing the things that I have liked doing with the kids, and let the future shape itself.

While I cannot prevent my daughter from seeing my distress at all times, I can try to focus on the next thing. Is it cleaning? Preparing a meal? Raking the leaves? Scanning craigslist for new job possibilities? Reading "Calvin and Hobbes" with my daughter? Wrestling my son?

By Vicki Inglis

Labels: daughters, fragile marriage, pumpkins, sons, surviving, Vicki Inglis

Stumble This Post

I am a mother who writes.

I steal precious slices of time away from the demands of my life to practice my craft. Last week, I had planned for a rare two-hour writing session by plopping my six-year-old in front of the otherwise forbidden TV.

Just as my fingers had touched the keyboard, my eleven-year-old son tore breathlessly into the room. It was his turn to bring a snack to his sixth grade class. He had told me two weeks earlier, but I had forgotten. I considered ignoring the matter altogether, but then I remembered the promise. I made it the last time it was our family’s turn to bring snack. I had used it as an opportunity to create a “healthy” dish. I made cookies out of whole wheat flour and rice bran. The result was a platter of brown blobs that tasted like baseballs. My son returned home that evening humiliated. He begged me to make “normal” cookies next time it was our turn.

And I promised I would.

Now it was time to make good on the promise. And it was also time to write. So I did both, moving from the computer to the kitchen counter. Later, as the cookies cooled and my attention had moved fully to the essay I was writing, my six-year-old plopped into the chair next to my desk. He sighed, signaling he had something on his mind. “What?” I yelled, angry at yet another interruption. “Mom?” he said, with a quiver in his chin. “What does ‘dead’ mean?”

My fingers froze above the keyboard. I turned toward my son and saw in his face a child’s curiosity – and a little worry. I smiled to myself, clicked off the computer and surrendered.

Sometimes you have to stop writing about life and just live it.

by Laura-Lynne Powell

Labels: Laura-Lynne Powell, sons, The Writing Mamas

Stumble This Post

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

Stumble This Post