Free time?

So many people have asked me how I'm spending my time without my baby.  Well, here are just a few of the ways:

Raspberry Lemonade Cupcakes

Root Beer Float Cupcakes

Candy-Covered Chocolate Apples

Croissants



In other words, my time is spent crying over my oven.  Seriously, I'm not exaggerating. 

Yesterday was the first time all three of the girls were in school.  When I got home from dropping them all off at their respective schools, I went around to let Maya out of her carseat.  Again... I dropped ALL of them off at school.  Once I got over the shock of an empty backseat, I went in to clean the house.  More than once, I called out to Maya because it was so quiet.  It was quiet because NO ONE was home.  The moment that was done (and my hands started shaking again), I needed something else to do.  So I made chiles rellenos.  While they cooled, I started the spaghetti sauce for dinner.  While that simmered, I made burritos out of the chiles.  Then it was time to go get Maya from preschool.  It had been exactly two hours and twenty five minutes since I dropped her off.

I sat outside the preschool and tried to loosen the knots in my stomach.  Since I had left her at 8:00 that morning, I had a clean house, a weeks worth of lunches for the husband, and half of dinner done.  But I would've traded all of that for those two and a half hours back with my baby.  I keep waiting for the "relief" to set in.  The yeah-I-finally-get-time-to-myself feeling that everyone said I would get.  I don't even see that on the distant horizon.

I've had three kids in school for three days, and all I can see fading is the definition of my waist line.  I hope school lets out before I have to let all of my jeans out.

Deep Breaths

Today was the day.  The day my heart was ripped from my chest, a nametag placed on it's back, and it was lured away by new toys.  The day I learned what it felt like to have a limb severed.  Oh yeah, it was also the day my baby girl became a preschooler.

While I have been in complete denial about the arrival of this fateful day, in the back of my mind I knew it was coming.  Hurtling toward me like a runaway train.  I didn't even get her a new dress for the occasion because, once I finally admitted that the day was approaching, I couldn't find a single dress I liked.  This has never happened before!  I usually have to stop myself from buying every thing in the store.  So, she went to her first day in an old dress.  Of course, I did get her a backpack.  But that's only because it was on clearance at Pottery Barn Kids.  And it was really cute.  And I could pretend it was only for dress-up purposes.  And throughout the summer, I reminded her about once a week that Preschool was coming!  She had some very interesting takes on it:

Me:  "In preschool you get to sing lots of songs!"

Maya:  "ALL BY MYSELF!!"

Me:  "No, everyone gets to sing."

Maya:  "Why??!!"

Maya:  "Mama, I'm not going to be able to go to the first day of preschool"

Me:  "Why not?!"

Maya:  "Because I'm not gonna feel good."

Me:  "Only three breakfasts left until preschool!"

Maya:  "You better make them good than!"

Anyway, yesterday, we actually got to the matter of preparing.

First, we made our "Kissing Hands".  This was something the preschool did on Eva's first day.  It really helped during those first few days.  I can clearly remember clutching it to my chest as I sobbed all the way home.  Since the school didn't assign it this year, I did it on my own.  So, Maya's is in her back pack and mine was clutched to my chest as I sobbed all the way home.

Then, we packed up her backpack and tied the little name card I made on the outside.  After lunch, we went for back to school haircuts.  Both of her sisters got one, but she refused because she wants to be "like Rapunzel".  With her braid now reaching to her waist, I'd say she's well on her way.

For dinner, I made her favorite.  Chicken enchiladas have been her favorite meal since before she turned three and they have always been the only thing she always eats.

She picked out the dress she wanted to wear and we did the requisite pedicure.  After all, a girl can't start preschool without bright pink toenails! Well, at least not this girl.  While sisters were getting ready for bed, we snuggled in a chair and talked about the big day.  We talked about all of the fun things she would get to do, and I told her how I couldn't wait to hear all about it when she got home.  We talked about how lucky she was that she has a cousin in her class.  I asked her if she was going to make any other friends.  Her response: "Well, if they come to me". 
*This is probably a good time to mention the main reason why Maya needs to go to preschool.  She is a complete diva.  And, she needs to learn that she is not actually in charge of the whole world (though, to be fair, she does run this house with an iron fist).

After they finally settled down and fell asleep, I went in to stare at her.  It was the last time I'd watch my baby sleep.  Once school started, she would be an official "big girl".  I, predictably, didn't sleep at all.  This was going to be the last first day of preschool.  I got up with a stomach ache, and it hasn't passed yet.

I made her one of her favorite breakfasts (still trying to fulfill my instructions to make them good) and went in to wake her up.

Putting on a brave face, we sang songs about how great this day was.  We bounced around the house giggling about all the fun she was going to have. 
*Alright, maybe I was trying to delay everything by making her late for her first day.  But she thought it was fun, so we'll just go with that.
After getting dressed, teeth brushed, and hair done it was time for pictures.

This is my big girl.  Isn't she beautiful?

Then, it was off to school.  She was quiet, her mama was desperately trying to hold it together.  We made the long walk up to the front door.

Thanks to Sofia who offered to hold my camera for me... then evilly graciously documented the occasion.

She wouldn't let go of my hand when I asked her to take a picture outside of the school.  Or when I asked her to take a picture with her sisters.  So, that will just have to be memorialized in my mind.  Once inside, we hung her backpack on her hook.

Then, stood in line to get her nametag.  Luckily, her cousin was in line behind us, so she was a little comforted.  Though, she still wasn't ready to let go.  Once Elliot had his tag on, they slowly wandered off to the toys.  I thought that was it.  But, after a couple of minutes, she came running back to me. Of course, I hadn't left yet!  Once she got another hug, she went back to the play area.  Again, I thought she was done with me.  I moved closer to the door (as I felt I was about to throw up).  Remembering that I had two other kids there, I went to make sure they hadn't been kidnapped.  *Wouldn't that have been a great addition to the day!  When I came back in, I stood as far back as I could without losing sight of her.  She started searching for me, and when our eyes met (cue the soft music), she came running back with her arms outstretched.  That's when I officially lost it.  Through my tears, I told her to look at all of the fun toys and all of the cool kids (a GROSS over-statement).  She clung to me for a minute, looked at me with her big dark eyes and gave me a kiss.  I told her I loved her and I couldn't wait to hear all about her fun day.  Then, she slowly re-joined the group.  I couldn't stay in there a minute longer without showing all of those strangers (and my sympathetic cousin) my complete nervous breakdown.  I couldn't even speak to her sisters, so I told them to "come on" with hand signals.  I made it to the car before I went in to the (as Oprah would say) ugly cry.  It wasn't pretty.  But, with her little pink handprint clutched to my chest, I let it all go.  All of the anxiety, the stress, the emptiness, the insecurity, the longing, the loss ran down my face.  The two girls in the back of the car sat quietly in uncomfortable shock.  Their mama doesn't cry like that.  Their mama never loses control like that.  However, I had warned them about this all morning.  I assured them that, although I celebrate their first days now, when I dropped them off at preschool the first time - I cried just as hard.  I don't love Maya more, I just have a harder time with "first times" than I do with fourth and seventh times.

Once, I had gained enough composure, I put the car in drive and slowly left the parking lot.  All I could imagine was my baby running out the front door crying for me.  Wondering why I left her.  I am sure, however, that she was playing happily inside - not thinking about me.

Exactly two hours later (and 35 minutes early), I was right back at the front door anxiously awaiting her little face.

And, there she was.  I can proudly say that she was really excited to see me, though not nearly as excited as I was.  Apparently, the only thing she did today was get "fruity snacks" for someone's birthday treat.  I admit I was very disappointed that she didn't bring anything home for us to look at.  No drawings or anything!! I tried to convince her that she's learned everything she will ever need to know, so there's no need to go back again.  I don't think she's buying it though.  So, I guess we'll go through this again on Friday.

Today, and every day since Sofia was born, I let a little piece of me go.  There's no turning back now, she's on her way down her own road.  This is where she starts to shift away from me, and that's hard to accept.  Yes, this was just three hours in preschool, but it's her first three hours of life without me.  She didn't tell me every detail of her morning, so those are experiences I'll never share with her.  She's always been her own person, but never on her own.  I am so happy for her, but equally sad for me. 

Taking deep breaths until Friday.

Things I want to teach them

I want to tell them that everything will be alright.  I want to show them that things could be better, and that's why we're always moving forward.

I want to tell them that there is a light at the end of every tunnel - even if it's a million miles past the next exit.

I want to look them in the eyes and answer every one of their questions with all of the right answers.  Answers that will clear their worries and their confusion.  I want to make everything easy for them.

But is that fair?  Because, sometimes, things aren't alright.  And, sometimes I can't erase all of their fears.  And, often, things are not going to be easy.

They are still young enough that they think I know it all.  (Up until a couple of years ago, I thought I knew it all.)  Every answer I give them, they run with it.  So, I am as honest and forthcoming as I can be.  But, that doesn't mean that I'm not wrong. 

One day, when they're much older, I want to be able to tell them about all of my mistakes.  I want to sit them down and explain why it's important to look inside before searching outside of yourself.  I want to school them on the ways of being a young woman instead of an "average chick".  I want to tell them all about the giant errors I made and the huge lessons I learned from them.  Because, I don't want them to learn the hard way.  I don't ever want to have to apologize for not warning them about the brick wall in front of their faces.  As someone who's navigated the tricky roads they will encounter, I want to give them a map, a GPS, and a chauffeur to get them through it all.  But, is that any way to really live?  If I throw myself in front of every speeding bullet, how will they learn how to patch themselves up and keep moving?

All of my best lessons came after the biggest knockdowns.  Wouldn't it be a huge disservice to deny them their own lessons?  No one wants to see someone with a broken heart, but what if that's the only way to know what it feels like to have a full one?  What if trusting the wrong people is the only way to learn how to trust yourself?  And, what if throwing up in the bathroom of a club is the only way to learn that you should really eat something before you down all of those free drinks? 

I don't want them to be the girls who don't know what to do when they fall on their faces.  Or be afraid to make a mistake because they don't know how to handle failure.  Even the best trip up sometimes.  And, I want them to know that it's ok to make mistakes if you learn from them the first time.  If I'm always one step ahead, carrying them at the first sign of a stumble, I can't imagine how they'll learn to walk on their own two feet.  And, as women, that's the most important skill they'll need.  I don't want them to depend on anyone, so maybe that means me too.  How do I teach them to count on me without depending on me?  Or at least to be able to tell the difference between the people who will always be there and the ones who are just passing through. 

Because, more than anything, I want them to learn from me instead of with me.

The journey to "scratch-crazy"

I didn't use to cook.  There was a time when I couldn't make more than  salad & a sandwich.  People who have only known me in the last few years would never believe it, but I used to heat up a mean can of Chef Boyardee.

See, I wasn't raised with homemade food.  I've been feeding myself since I could see the top of the counter, and all I could reach was the microwave.  If it didn't need a can-opener or some bread, I didn't eat it.  Honestly, I don't think I even knew that people made their own food.  I assumed all people were fed by jolly white chefs who's pictures were emblazoned on cans of "pasta".  Of course, I also thought everyone's power and phone were cut off every month - so, what did I know??

When I started dating my husband, the first thing his mother said was "You need a Mexican woman.  She'll cook for you every night... that girl won't feed you anything."  Did someone say "challenge"?  Because that's what I heard.  Then his sister was constantly making snide comments about my presence in the kitchen of my own house.  Now, aside from my immense irritation with these two women, I was worried that they may be right.  And, since I can't ever let anyone be more right than me, I taught myself to cook.

It started with boxed "meals".  You know... add a pound of hamburger or an egg and oil.  And, I was so proud of myself.  *cringe*  I was feeding my man (and our daughter), so you couldn't tell me anything.  Then I started thinking "outside of the box".  After all, if someone could figure out what to put in the mixes I could certainly do the same.  What made that stupid faced-glove smarter than me?  I certainly didn't need his help to make hamburger casserole.  And, that's where it all started.

Now, here we are ten years later and I haven't used pre-made anything in a long time.  Everything that goes into my family (except the garbage their grandparent's feed them - which I refuse to ask about) is made from scratch.  I know exactly what is in every bite on their forks, and I'm proud of that.  Does that mean I look down on people who still dump the contents of a can in a pot and serve it to their kids?  Of course not.  I don't have a job outside of the house, but I know how hard it must be to work all day and come home to feed your family.  Working mothers don't have time to simmer soup all day or stand over a pot of enchilada sauce for hours making sure the seasoning is right.  However, I do have that kind of time.  Or at least I can fit it in between refereeing fights and helping with homework.  So, I do.

So many people have made a big deal out of how much I cook.  Yes, I spend 80% of my time in the kitchen.  Yes, if Maya walks in there and I'm not standing in front of the stove, she starts to panic and scream out my name.  Yes, my girls have never been introduced to Chef Boyardee or Papa Anyone.  Will they kick me for that one day?  Maybe, but I hope they'll appreciate the time I put into their bellies.

In first grade, Sofia told a mom who had brought cupcakes in to class for a birthday, "I don't eat cake from a store."  Last year, Eva came home and told me "Mama, no one else's mom makes the bread for their sandwiches."  When Maya plays in the kitchen, she's making "chocolate cupcakes with cream cheese filling and chocolate ganache". 
Yes, I may have gotten a little crazy with it. 
Yes, my husband does occasionally ask for Hamburger Helper or frozen pizza.  Yes, he is denied every time. 
But all I can say is... there's not a woman in his family who can out-cook me now.  He has even confessed that my food is better than his sainted sister's. 

Point.

Match.

Game.

Once again, one more week

One week from tomorrow, the school year madness will begin.  We'll go back to the struggle of getting the girls ready for school before the sun comes up.  Back to "Hurry up!!"  every two minutes while they take their sweet time eating breakfast.  Back to "Brush your teeth!"... "No, seriously, I meant ALL of your teeth."... "Do you need me to come and brush them for you?  No?  Then JUST DO IT!!".  Sound fun?  I can hardly wait *insert my patented sarcasm here.

The difference this year is that all three of the girls will be in school.  As a matter of fact, they'll be in three different schools for the first time.  Middle School, Elementary & Preschool.  My hands are shaking just typing that. 

Sofia lucked out in the fact that she starts Middle School the same year that Maya leaves me for the first time.  If I could focus on my trepidation of her being in school with 7th and 8th graders, we would be having talks about it every day.  About how she needs to avoid them like the plague.  About how they're stupid and evil and she should never listen to anything they say.  About how much I will love her when she gets to that age; but, until then, Middle Schoolers are our sworn enemy.  I don't think they should put ten year olds in with fourteen year olds.  They're not ready to be initiated into that step of life.  From what I hear, Middle School now is like High School was when I was a kid.  If that's true, this knot in my stomach is well deserved.  Seriously, neither of us is prepared for this step.

Eva will be in the Elementary School by herself this year.  And, while she hardly ever saw Sofia anyway, she's a little concerned about it.  My fingers are blue from being crossed so hard in hopes that she opens up a little bit this year.  We found out, however, that her friend (in truth, her only real friend) is in her class this time.  I definitely felt my shoulders relax a little when we learned that.  Honestly, I think this is the first time Eva will ever really feel the "middle child syndrome".  Her 2nd grade year is truly being lost between her sisters' current school years.

Which leads me to Maya's first day at Preschool.  Sigh.  Next Wednesday, I am expected to show up with my baby and then leave her there.  For three whole hours.  I don't know about all of that.  This will be the last "first day of preschool" I'll have to live through, and I can't imagine surviving it.  When Sofia started, I was a MESS.  In fact I pocket-dialed the preschool (because, of course, I had made it the top number in my cell phone) while I had a complete wailing breakdown in the parking lot.  Once the call got cut off, the school called the number back (they didn't know who it was) and asked if there was an emergency and should they call the police?  Yes, there was an emergency!  I had left my three year old with complete strangers!  What kind of mother was I?  Obviously, we both survived it.  When Eva started, it was a different kind of trauma.  She, of course, wouldn't speak a word.  She clung to my hand and pleaded to me with her giant eyes not to leave her.  So, I stood there with her for as long as I could.  Eventually, the teachers were able to walk her to the other side of the room.  Still staring at me with her big brown eyes, I backed out very slowly.  And sobbed all the way home, clutching the little handprint the school had suggested we make for each other.  Again, we both survived it.  Now, it's Maya's turn.  I'll walk her in to the school at 8:00 next Wednesday morning.  Though, to be honest, it's only because I will have already paid an enormous amount of money in tuition.  Once I pay for something, I have to go through with it.  So, her and I will slowly make our way into the big colorful room.  She'll have on her super cute new backpack and a new dress.  I'll have a wad of tissues in the pocket of my sweatpants.  She'll hold my hand.  Then, if I am right, she'll squirm from my grasp and join the other kids on the carpet squares.  I don't think she'll cry or plead or even notice when I leave.  She's a heartbreaker like that.  I, on the other hand, will sob, beg, and make a complete fool out of myself.  Normally, I pride myself on being very stoic and private about my feelings.  This goes right out the window on the first day of school.  The janitor will have to scrape me off of the floor, and I feel no shame in that.

I've been (half-) joking about how excited I am for school to start since the second day of summer break.  Now, it's almost here, and I'm not ready.  Not ready for the morning chaos.  Not ready for the homework chaos.  Not ready for Middle School.  Not ready for Preschool.  Not ready to admit that this is the next step toward these girls growing up.  I'm just not ready.

Until you've been a parent for awhile

There are all kind of books/articles/blogs/Hallmark cards that tell you the things you won't know until you become a parent.  They tell you about how you didn't know you could love like that and how you won't sleep the first year.  They tell you to remember all of it because it flies by so fast.  And, all of that is true.  However, there are some things that you can only learn with a few years experience of being a parent.  Now, obviously, my oldest is only ten; so, I haven't yet learned all there is to know about motherhood.  But I have had more lessons in the past few years that taught me more than anyone ever told me.

Yes, I didn't know I could love this much.  This overwhelming love can only be given to someone you nurture and watch grow every day.  However, it is matched only by the stifling need I have to protect these children.  Protect them from strangers, traffic, boogie men, rabid dogs, stampeding rhinos, lightning strikes, partially hydrogenated anything, red dye #8, heartbreaks, mean girls, shadows, bright lights, the thing that lives under their beds and in their closets, reality.  I could go on, but that would take more time away from my guard duty.

Perhaps because of the need to protect, I also have learned the meaning of frustration.  The kind of frustration that strangles you.  The kind that comes when you've been "potty training" for almost three !@#$ years.  The kind that comes from repeating the same simple request ten !@#$ times.  The kind that makes you want to take them by the shoulders and shake them, but you can't because you're sure there's a hidden camera somewhere in your house with a direct link to Child Protective Services.  Because, of course, these are your babies.  You love them.  And, although they do the most baffling things imaginable, you can't treat them the way you do anyone else.  My children have done things that would've had me breaking up with, cussing out, and/or dismantling anyone else; but, I still have to tuck them in at night.

No, you won't sleep much that first year.  But, it doesn't stop there.  You will wake up every time you hear anything for the rest of your life.  I swear, if my neighbor sneezes at two am, I'm up to say "Bless You".  I truly don't understand how my cousin and I were able to sneak out so much as teenagers, didn't our grandma still have her "mom ears"?  Maybe that's why old people start to lose their hearing - it's the only way they can get any rest.

They say that, once you have a child, it seems that your heart now lives outside of your body.  That you get to watch it walk around and grow.  You know what else you get to see??!!  Your money live outside of your wallet.  Your Friday evenings live outside the realm of fun.  Your plans live outside of the schedule that's so full of their social lives.  Your retirement live outside of your hands as you pray the money you're putting away for their college educations not be blown on a summer trip to Cancun in ten years. 

I have learned more in the last ten years than I ever would've learned if I had stayed in college and done something with my life.  And, more than any calculus or European history, these lessons have served me well.  At least, they've gotten me this far.  And, I certainly use them more than I ever use fractions.  So, take that 5th grade math teachers everywhere!