Ode to Claire on Your 15th Birthday

My Dearest Claire Bear,

Happy, Happy 15th Birthday!

What an incredible year you've had--chock full of so many milestones--8th grade graduation from SMM, beginning of high school at Duchesne, and now both of your siblings away at college.

This is the first time in your life that it's just been you, dad and me at home without Sam and Kate.

Many days, I think of you like this...

And then, other days, I think of you like this...

You are this unique, brilliant amalgamation of wickedly intelligent, incredibly kind, stunningly beautiful, utterly precocious, unGodly persistent, feistily creative, and the strongest advocate I've met in the world. To put it simply, you cannot be pinned down.  You are a dynamic dance of it all.

This past year had you saying goodbye to a school that our family had been a part of for fifteen years--it was beautiful to watch you share your 8th grade Confirmation with Kate as your sponsor and all of our family as you graduated.

Next, you passed the baton and helped to celebrate Kate as she graduated from Duchesne and you got ready to enter as a freshman.

And during this transition, it has been absolutely incredible to witness you forge your own path.  You have immersed yourself completely with a fantastic group of friends, acted in your first play, began ringing bells in the bell choir, applied and got accepted to the Kent Bellows art fellows program at the Joslyn and have truly and completely hit the ground running.  It's been inspiring to watch and has us continually trying to catch our breath.

And, throw in that you started mowing lawns to make some nice pocket cash and found a great friend in an older woman from church who has been so kind to you.

And throughout all of it--the figuring out how to make new friends, how to manage your time, how to integrate into the challenge of high school academics, how to advocate for what you need, and how to largely do it alone without your brother and sister at your side-you have been nothing short of remarkable. An incredible force to be reckoned with.

As you belt Beastie Boys--your latest vinyl Aunt Lisa gave you--from your bedroom, I see that you are your own best you.  

You have a strong voice and you're not afraid to let the world know your perspective-particularly if you feel like there's an injustice or something/someone that needs to be reckoned with. You are powerful and stubborn and sometimes, we butt the heck out of our heads.  But the really amazing thing I've learned from you is the importance of a really good, "I'm sorry and I love you." You are quick to hug and there are no limits to your loyalty.

So, as you embark upon this new year, getting your learner's permit and taking driver's ed--while I'd love for you to slow down and let me catch my breath, I know that's not your speed.  So, let me promise you that I'm along for the ride--all of the crazy, the beautiful, the unknown, the hard, the Johnny Cash, the fantasy books, the acrylic nails, the skincare, the rockstar bangs, the treatise on teacher satisfaction, and the ways that we should all stand up to protect the underdog.

You, my Claire Bear have the world by the tail and it's such a gift to be on the journey with you.  

With wild abandon, keep being the boundless you and we'll keep loving you.

Love you so, so much,

Mom

Ode to Claire on Your Sixth Birthday

My Dearest Claire,

I want to tell you a funny story...

Long before you were born, papa and I were watching a movie and the main character--a feisty, classic, beautiful, impetuous girl named Claire captured my attention.  I fell in love with her.  Later that evening, I had a dream that our family was not yet complete.  We were supposed to have an addition, a little girl named Claire.

Fast forward to a snowy, blustery cold afternoon on December 14, 2010--we were in the hospital delivering you...it was the second to last push and I started sobbing...I mean I literally could not stop crying....not because I was in pain, but because I was afraid.

My doctor came to one side of me and papa came to the other.  She leaned down and said, "Kelly, what's wrong?  You're a pro at this...she is your third child.  What's wrong?"  With tears streaming down my face, I said, "I don't know.  I just think that something really big and amazing is coming into the world."

When you emerged, the umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck four times.  Immediately and like a lasso, the doctor freed you and you belted the most piercing screech I'd ever heard.  It was a terrifying and exhilarating feeling.

And the truth is, you've been screaming ever since. 

Even though you are a petite, blonde haired, blue eyed little girl, you are bold and powerful and you rarely take no for an answer which is why your daddy and I find ourselves beating our heads against a wall.

When you decide that you want something--whether it is a piece of banana bread, a container of chocolate milk or world peace, you are singularly focused and a have a level of determination that is unparalleled and usually means that through the sheer force of your will, it will happen.

A few months ago, you began all-day kindergarten...you are learning to write, to read, to do more complex math problems, to negotiate with your classmates and to follow the direction of someone other than me.  And you are in your element.  A social butterfly, you flit from one friend to the next, confident and capable in your ability to lead the way on the monkey bars and to fairly trade a Gogurt for a bag of Goldfish at lunch time.

To be honest with you, we are not terribly alike.

You are hard headed, fearless, persistent, formidable and stand unfazed if someone does not like your opinion or your persona--I am far more worried about what others think of me.  And for this aspect of your character, I stand in awe.  I yearn to have the chutzpa that you do and to so freely and largely inhabit the space that you do. 

You are beautiful and brilliant and a little mean all wrapped in one tightly powerful bundle.  As you grow, which I know that much to my chagrin, you will just continue to do, may you never stray from who you are.  Be belligerent.  Stay feisty.  Keep them guessing.  Give a little grief.  But remember that in the end, love always wins and that it is more important to be kind than to be right.

Your daddy and I love you beyond words.  We couldn't imagine our family or our home without you.  The Happiest of Sixth Birthdays, Claire!  Thank you for choosing to come barreling into our lives and for the cacophony of love you bring.

To the moon and back,

love, mama

I'm Just Super

Today was the kind of day where you have a million and one things to cross off your to-do list and a 4-year old companion who seemingly woke up on the wrong side of the bed with the all too familiar attitude of, "Fuck this noise...I do what I want."

Post a meeting at church and a drive through at the bank, I cajoled Claire into heading to the bookstore and hanging out while I grabbed a novel.

Standing in line to pay, she proceeded to grab the side of my shirt, tug as hard as she could and scream...."MAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMAMA!" 

I literally thought my head would start spinning, my eyes would shoot fire and I would kill her with my bare hands. Animals eat their young, right?

Miraculously, just as I was moments away from losing my shit, the soft voiced, gentle hipster looking cashier said, "How's it going?  Are you having a super day?"

To which I immediately grimaced and said, "You're joking right?"

And he smiled and said, "I dunno...I'm just reading your hand."

Oh fuck...I forgot about the sticker from the bank teller.

I burst out laughing which prompted him to laugh and the girl next to him to start snorting and laughing.  We just kept looking at each other laughing and my 4-year old, well, she was befuddled and slightly amused.  She didn't quite understand what was so funny.

After he handed me the book and the receipt and wished me well, he said, "Never underestimate the power of a smelly sticker."

And so, today, I'm just super.

My Crazy Life

I've been a bit disoriented lately...scattered, not yet in a routine, trying to adjust to the school schedule and lots of concentrated one-on-one time with my two-year old daughter, Claire.

And so true to form, I've had these, "Are you fucking kidding me?" moments that well, just need to be written down.

The first occurred in the toy room of a Hospice center.  My 15-year old cousin is dying of Leukemia which is painful and really hard to witness.  And so, on a recent visit, I decided to take the smaller kiddos into the fun toy room while I took a moment to breathe and pray.  While sitting in the rocker in the corner, I observed the following conversation...oh, here's the back story...Kate, my six-year old daughter is playing the doctor and Lilly, my four-year old niece is playing the mommy leaning over a table with a doll baby.

"See, the problem is that you have a fake baby...yes, that's right...your baby is actually a robot.  It's ribs are waaaaayyyy too big.  I'm not sure that there's much we can do," says Kate.

"Oh God...Oh no...help my baby!!!, " replies Lilly.

To which, I nearly peed myself in laughter.

The next morning, I went on a 13-mile training run in preparation for my next half marathon race.  Feeling good about the weather, my pace, and in general, my endurance, I came home with a smile on my face.  After stripping down to dive into the tub, I realized that I had some nasty chaffing on my inner thigh...i.e. bikini line and thought I was going to die.  You know what a rug burn feels like?  Pretend it's nearly on top of your vagina...yeah, it sucked.  Until my husband suggested that I use neosporin and a bandaid.  That's right.  I put a fucking bandaid on my 'how ya doin' and when it was time to strip it off, I screamed like a fucking banchee making the neighbors think that a woman was being murdered.  Fuck me...don't ever do that.

The following afternoon, I took Claire (2.5) to the park to build sand castles.  After successfully creating four decent sized castles complete with a moat and twig decorations, she alerted all of the moms in the vicinity that she had a good sized amount of sand in her vagina.  Yes, it was as awkward as you're imagining.

After gracelessly exiting the park, we high tailed it to Target for a few items.  Hanging out in the check out lane, I smelled a huge pile of shit and realized that it was eminating from my daughter.  I quickly grabbed her and ran to the family changing room only to discover that I had no wet wipes or diapers in my purse.  I had to use her dress to sop up an unGodly amount of poop and then carry her out of the store naked.  It was a banner motherhood moment.

And then finally this morning after drinking wine last night with my girlfriends and running hard with a bit of a hang over, I settled into the toilet to do my business....upon which my six-year old daughter Kate barged in to brush her teeth and promptly said, "Oh God, mama...what's wrong with you...you need to get that checked out."

Beautiful.

I write these things so that you can feel better about you're own life.  I've decided to give up on any pretense of a Martha Stewart inspired life.  At this point, I'm just trying to survive and doing so by living on love. 

Just Another Day at the Movies

Allow me to set the stage.

I woke up this morning with a sore throat that to be fair, I'd been babying for a few days prior.

Against my better judgement, I decided that it might be best if the kids and I lay low and try to do something that required minimal energy output.

Boom.  That's when I checked Facebook and discovered that our neighborhood theater was hosting a free family movie morning.  The price of admission was canned food items for a local not for profit and the ability to get there at least 30 minutes prior to the movie showing time.

"African Cats" was the flick.  Beautiful.  A little popcorn, little Starburst, big fat Dr. Pepper for mama and we're in business.

Until.  This horrid lady and her crazy daughter sat down beside me and she begins with, "Do you know if there's a special on concessions today?"  "Um, no...I've never done this before, " I retort as I visibly pump my littles full of popcorn, soda, candy and previews.  "Oh, well, you should have waited.  They have dollar pop and popcorn days on Tuesdays. You could have saved some money."

And then, "Did you know that the lions kill animals in this movie?  I see that you have little ones."

Da Fuck??  Get off my back, bee-yatch or I'll infect you with my throat bug. 

And then, "Mama, I pooped," out of my two-year old toddler.  Holy Hell...in a rush to get out of the house, I forgot to bring a diaper.  Shit balls.

Just then, like an angel from Heaven, one of my besties shows up with her girlie and I beg her to sit beside me and shield me from Library Know-it-All while I run to the concessions and the potty with my shitty smelling daughter.

"You're gonna have to tell me when you need to go potty," I say holding her ass over the far too big toilet bowl, "Because mama doesn't have any fresh under panties or diapers."  "Okay, mama," says Claire with a mischievous look that says your moments are numbered and I'm planning to shit Reeses Pieces all over your shorts.

And then the flick starts.  So far so good.  The killing is manageable.  No poop in my lap.  My two-year old is busying herself with candy.  I'm living the dream.

And then she gets up and starts bugging the people sitting in front of us and threatening her brother for his Sour Patch Kids with a scream as if to say, "Give me the candy, bitch or I'll blow up the place with my shrieking."  And I beg him...give her the freaking candy!!! He reluctantly relents.

Finally, she yells, "Bathroom...I've got to go potty."  And I jump up to go and discover that she only goes a dribble.  We do this dog and pony show another time and then finally, I say, screw this.  I'm waiting with you out in the lobby until this Savannah, Lion Pride shit is done.

Good Lord....she ran into the opening day showing of "Despicable Me," tried to rip the cardboard advertisement for the "Smurfs," and snuck under the bathroom stall door scaring yet another patron.

When it was finally over, I pulled them into the car and thought about screaming but just decided that I would laugh instead and then, I screamed for good measure.  My throat is more on fire...but at least no one died.

Just another day at the movies.

The Almighty Locker Room Scream

She's adorable.

She'll blow your mind with her sweet blue eyes, blonde hair and smile that will make you give her the world.

Until she opens her mouth, shrieks at the top of her lungs and belts you in the mouth like its her job and sends your glasses flying across the room to boot.

Don't be fooled.

Her name is Claire and she's my two and half year old toddler from Crazy Land.

I've always contended that bright children are hard to raise.  This is why I'm pining for a beautiful, sweet, dumb, loyal Golden Retriever who will let us pull her around the house, not require that we watch her do tricks or reward her for good behavior.

Claire unfortunately looks like a sweet Golden, but is really masquerading as a Jack Russell terrier deep down inside.

She knows what she wants, when she wants it and exactly how it will go down and far be it for you to get in her way of owning it.

And so it went today in the locker room at the gym.  After a delightful afternoon soaking up sun and swimming like fish, we headed in, along with her older sister, Kate (5) to get changed.

Claire's typical MO is to run up and down the aisle of lockers while she hides inside random ones and pops out shouting, "BLLLLAAAAHHHH!!!"  It mostly makes Kate laugh and gives me a desperate moment needed to feverishly change into my dress before grabbing her, ripping off the wet suit and trying to vacate the situation as soon as possible.

Everything was on track until a lady pulled onto the scene.

Unsuspecting, she had no idea that Claire was hiding in the locker next to hers and just as she was about to grab her clothes, my Jack Russell terrier jumped out of the locker and screamed, "BLAAAHHH!!!"  To which the woman, dropped her towel, yelled an almighty scream and then farted.

It was the most embarrassing experience I've had in a long while.

I apologized profusely, grabbed my sociopath toddler and got the fuck out of Dodge.

Why in the Hell do these things happen to me?

I have to say that it was awkward, but only slightly less than the woman two rows behind her who was belting out her own rendition of "Open Arms," along with the radio.

Is it 5 o'clock yet?  I need a margarita.

My Love of the Tub

There seems to be one sacred spot that for a few brief moments breeds beautiful isolation.

A destination for a recluse. 

A remote spot where no one's begging me to prepare a snack, to help find a lost toy, to locate the keys, or to return a call.

Complete with steam, it melts the frustrations of the day away and gives back some semblance of what it means to be me exempt of the stress and the chaos of raising little ones.

It's the tub.  And, I adore it.  Especially in the winter time.

So, you can imagine my chagrin when I found myself knee-deep, literally, in the throws of a "Calgon-Take Me Away" moment only to look up to see my two-year old dare devil daughter about to dive on top of me. 

"Jesus Christ!," I yelled while simultaneously ripping out my iPod ear buds.  "Jesus, Mary, Joseph and Saint Jude, can't a mama catch some peace?"

And then, she vanished and I realized, there's going to come a day when I long for her to chat with me while I'm in the tub...but today, is definitively not one of those days. 

I love my children more than I ever thought imaginable, but today, my adoration for the tub is at the top of the list.

There should be places in the home where children will be zapped similar to an animal with a shock collar if they try to come near.  I'm advocating that the tub (while mama is in it) be one of them.

That's not too extreme...is it?

The Dreaded Yoga Fart

I've been on a mission.

My youngest daughter, Claire is an 18-month ball of craziness. 

In an effort to stay sane, I've been taking my brood to the gym every morning to swim, take a class, and in general, to get our ya ya's out.  And I do this, while conditioning Claire to spend at least one hour in the nursery so that we can live in peace.

After a hard early morning run, I thought that taking a relaxing yoga class was exactly what I needed.

Purple yoga mat in hand, I quickly made my way into the studio and prayed that I wouldn't get paged to pick up a screaming toddler.

No teacher in sight, I joined the other 60+ year old women and placed my mat in the circle of trust.

And then he walked in.  Sweet Mary Mother of God.  Are you kidding me right now...how is anybody supposed to focus, the hottie yoga teacher is on the scene?

Is he gay?  Is he metro?  WTF?

Mind reeling, I thought, screw it.  I don't care what I look like, I'm getting my Downward Dog on and taking this one hour for myself.

And then it happened.  Instructed to lay flat on our backs and to lift our asses high in the air while we swing our legs over our heads and push our feet to the back wall....I landed in what I thought was a perfect "Plow" pose. 

Feeling a little queesy and wondering if the cream in my coffee was making my innards turn to mush, I heard foot steps.  Shit, he's correcting us...ass and all.  And that's when he pressed on my lower back and I

farted in his face.

And it was no delicate "paaahhhh."  No, it was a gutteral, truck driver, try to clench your ass only to make it worse FAARRRTTT.

And then, I was fucked.  With 25 minutes still left to go in the class, I never resumed eye contact.  My circle of trust was broken with the other ladies.  I was the stinky black sheep.

The only redeeming detail I learned is that he was a sub for the regular instructor.

Sure as shit, I'll never be returning to that class.  The good news is that Claire did fine in the nursery.  So, at least I've got that going for me.

Hell on Wheels...Parenting a Toddler

Today and for the last several days, I've been challenged beyond my limitations in parenting my toddler.

Claire is 18-months of feisty, "I do it my own way," sass that breaks the heart of every person she sees because she is both adorable and complete hell on wheels.

I will be the first to admit that there are bigger (much bigger) problems in the world.  But right now, this 26 pound, blonde haired, blue eyed daughter of mine has me dreaming about liquor cabinets on a regular basis.

Most everywhere we go, she shrieks, occasionally bites and frequently pinches those she doesn't see eye to eye with.  We've been kicked out of the nursery at church, paged to come back to the nursery at the gym, given the stink eye countless times at the grocery store and endured sad stares in the park.

To say she's a handful is an understatement.  She is by far and away the most independent, fearless, determined little person that I've ever met which is probably why God gave her to us as the last of the brood.

So what do I do to maintain my sanity?  The trick seems to be to exercise daily, indulge in some form of chocolate, commiserate with like minded mommies, and wait for the magical day when she starts speaking in paragraphs (which is what my pediatrician assures me happens with the littliest siblings).

Until then, if you happen to see me with my brood and my patience looks worn, the bags under my eyes look thick, tell me that I'm beautiful and that my children are dolls...I'll give you $50.  Lying is sometimes a good thing.

Finding Our Own Language

We taught sign language to our first two kiddos.

But Claire, well as the third child, she got the short end of the stick. 

She knows how to sign, "more," and "thank you," and to point and grunt at everything else.

Our children call us "Mama," and "Papa," so she can say those words too...but that's about it.

Because our older two are pretty darn articulate and communicative, I probed the pediatrician at Claire's last well-baby check.  Worried that she may be developmentally behind, he immediately put my fears to rest.

"Watch this," he said.  "Claire, go get the book." (to which she did)  "Claire, where's the sky?"  (to which she looked up)  "Claire, give mama a hug."  (and she hugged me).

Siblings (particularly those farther down the food chain) don't have to learn to verbalize early on because their brothers and sisters do all of the talking for them.  Which makes me feel a little bit better.  But unfortunately, we still struggle with constant shrieking, temper tantrums when we're not getting her what she wants, and high pitched grunting at items of her choosing.

To which the doctor said, that really has more to do with who she is as a person...feisty, particular, determined, and it would appear, fairly independent.

Great.  I think we're in for it when it comes to this one.  Our sweet little Claire...the crazy one.