When They've Got You, They've Got You

I sometimes enjoy echoes of my former career as a choir director and musician. I am a cantor/Psalmist at the Basilica in downtown Minneapolis, and also a pianist/organist at St. Hubert's in Chanhassen. Although I try to schedule myself to play or sing on Dave's weekends with the girls, sometimes they have to come with me while I do these things. This is not easy.

At the Basilica, the best-case scenario if it happens to be a girl weekend is for me to be the Psalmist, because the Psalmist sits in the congregation and only has to go up to the pulpit for one little part. Still, this translates to about seven minutes during which I am standing alone, perched so that the entire congregation is watching me, and NO ONE is watching my kids. Of course seven minutes isn't long enough to get into SERIOUS trouble. But it is long enough for my girls to rub in my face that for those few moments I am utterly helpless to modify any behavior that is even slightly inappropriate.

During a rehearsal at the Basilica - Winter 2014

This past weekend they had to come with me to the Basilica for the Saturday evening Mass. We brought some trail mix in a baggie to eat in the car beforehand, and when it was gone the baggie became a plaything - basically a very loud and crumply balloon of some kind. It provided gleeful entertainment all the way up to the first hymn of the Mass, at which point I realized that it was too noisy a thing to have around while other people are trying to listen to readings. I took it away and shoved it in my purse.

Finally my turn came to leave my girls in the pew so that I could profess the Psalm for the congregation. I flashed them a look of "BE GOOD," then stood, walked to the front of the church, took the requisite bow at the altar, gave the priest a little wink as I walked by...(nah, I'm kidding about the wink)...and ascended the stairs to the pulpit.

In the silence immediately before beginning, I scanned the congregation and then let my eyes rest on my girls. Ellen was sitting perfectly still but grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Cecilia's face was perfectly nonchalant...BUT. She was standing in the pew with the contraband baggie in hand, and she was brandishing it high over her head like a flag. The adults sitting directly behind her (who had also seen me confiscate the baggie) were stifling laughter. What could I do? I smiled beatifically and sang the Sunday's Scripture per my training, while my daughter's staccato crumply baggie punctuations echoed through the cavernous sanctuary. Beautiful and holy public mom fail.

Now, this same weekend was a double-header, since the next morning I was scheduled to play at St. Hubert's. The girls found their seats near the piano (which is in the front of the church next to the altar, in clear view), and I began with some soft, contemplative playing to evoke a sense of worship and calm. Things were going well. The opening hymn went by without incident. Then came the Gloria. A few bars in, over the sound of the congregation's singing came the unmistakable sound of a child's distress squawk. I turned my head from the piano bench to see Ellen holding Cecilia's stuffed animal just out of her reach, and Celie jumping and squirming to attempt a rescue. Sibling love at its very best. At least if I'm playing piano, my hands know enough what they're doing so that I can continue playing while briefly locking eyes with my daughters and mouthing something to the effect of "GOD IS WATCHING YOU AND SHE IS NOT HAPPY." This is the sort of discipline that does exactly nothing. When they've got you, they've got you. Surrender.

After the closing song at the end of the service, I informed the girls that we would not be going out to breakfast as originally promised, due to their Stuffed Animal Hooliganism. Just then, a woman interrupted us to say "Ma'am, I just wanted to tell you that you play very well and your kids were great."

"Really?" I said as I looked at her then back at Ellen and Cecilia incredulously.

"Definitely," she said. "It must be pretty hard to have them up there with you."

"Well, thanks," I said. "I appreciate that. Have a great day." As she walked away I slowly turned to look back at the girls, eyebrows raised. Ellen smiled and said "Mom, don't you think we can go to breakfast? We just got a COMPLIMENT."

I suppose. If we can find a place that serves bottomless mimosas.

The Unholy

She arrives

Small Cecilia Madeline is a sweetheart.  She makes friends easily, and she reports that she has two "Ooh Lah Lahs" at school - Tyler and Sam. When describing what an "Ooh Lah Lah" is, she says Tyler and Sam "have cwushes on me." She gives hugs when we sees someone sad, and she shares willingly and often. She plays in adorable and endearing ways, pretending that her tiny dolls and animals are alive and speaking to one another. Sometimes she wears Halloween costumes in public, not on Halloween. She matches pitch and she likes "Rainbow Connection" and The Who's "Eminence Front" ("M&M's Front"). She's a darling.

But, like every other child since the Age of Reason, she gets cranky. She's hungry, she's tired, something annoys her, stars align, and a tantrum ensues.

It happens

Cecilia's tantrums are legendary. They are UNHOLY. If you could hear above the screams, you'd probably notice the approaching hoof beats of the Four Horses of the Apocalypse. I think she levitates, barely perceptively. I've never seen her head spin entirely around, but I'm sure it rotates at least 220 degrees.

There are many methods I've used for Tantrum Survival. One way was ignoring it. I wasn't wild about that way; Celie's tantrums are very hard to ignore (what with the head rotations and all), and without some intervention she tends to rev up rather than wind down. We experienced some early spring and late fall tantrums; in a few of those instances I said "Celie, it looks like you need to do some cooling off," and then I sat her on the steps in the garage, where it actually was cooler. This proved ineffective, mostly because I started to feel guilty that my daughter was in a garage, so I brought her back inside. Sometimes I just went to a basement room with no windows, sat facing the wall, and covered my head. I found this to be a useful coping mechanism for me, but it didn't do much for Celie.

Lately, for whatever reason, Cecilia has been extra tantrum-y. It could be a normal stage, it could be possession by a demon, or it could be Kindergarten nerves. In all likelihood it is a combination of at least two of those things. The good news is that these extra meltdowns have given me a chance to hone my survival skills. I think she and I are growing and learning together these days. I've determined what she needs during these tempests (other than a helmet).

She's 1

Last week we experienced a cabin tantrum; in a small space with lots of family around, removal from the location was of paramount importance. "Okay Celie," I said. "You are too loud to stay at the cabin. We will have to leave until you can calm down." While she yelled, "NO MOM, NO NO NO, I DON'T WANNA LEAVE," I placed her in the car. She buckled herself while still screaming (a delightful scene to witness), and off we went. "We can head back to the cabin after you've been calm for five minutes," I told her.

I drove. She screamed. I can report that the first circle of hell looks very much like rural Wisconsin. The tantrum snowballed until she finally yelled at the top of her lungs "I NEED A HUG!!!!"

I pulled over onto one of the dirt roads so I could get my girl out of the backseat. She clung to me fiercely and rested her blonde head on my shoulder. She hiccuped her way to calm and then we were still, with the corn and the sky and the dirt. I said, "listen to how quiet it is out here in the country. We can hear the bugs buzzing."

She's 2.5

"Yeah," she said. "It's WEALLY quiet."

She's 3

Then I recognized how precious that entire experience was. I was presented an opportunity to show my daughter that she is loved beyond measure, even when she is at her worst. The tougher the tantrum, the easier to understand what "unconditional" means. We've had a few more of these experiences lately, with the same scene playing out. I drive, she screams, we hug when the demon has been purged. And I try to remember, every time, to whisper in her ear, "I love you and nothing you ever do will make me stop."   

She's 5

Mom, Score One.

Sometimes I experience Mom Fails. Like the time I attacked a Nickelodeon character's likeness. And the time I drowned out the sounds of a giant tantrum with the sounds of Ted Nugent. Sometimes the Fails just...flow. So when I experience a Mom Win, recording it for posterity is an absolute must. I have to be able to prove that it happened.

Always a silly one

So last week, I decided to take us to Taylor's Falls to visit Interstate State Park, see the Glacier potholes, and walk along the St. Croix river. Pushback to this idea at its first mention was surprisingly minimal; usually when I announce an excursion to the park or a playground or a walk for Addie, Cecilia goes willingly but I have to drag Ellen almost forcibly from whatever book she's reading. Well, giant holes in cliffs formed by 10,000-year-old ice melt have more of a draw than swings and slides.

There are so many wonderful things about the experience of bringing my girls to impressive nature sites. I get to capture them in great pictures (*pats self on back for remembering fancy camera*).

This was the time Celie was scared

I get to watch them actively overcome a fear. at the beginning of the trek, Celie needed me to hold her through our descent into the Bake Oven (named for the shape of the entrance to the pothole). On the way back she led the pack with a "remembuh it's a little syippery down there." (I'm quoting her phonetically of course].

I get to see my 36-year-old increasingly creaky self next to their light, effortless selves. Time slows down for a bit and their grown-up years feel very far away.

I get to hear things like "I punched my fear of heights in the face" (Ellen), and "this is my favorite spot in the world next to Mall of the 'Merica [Celie, phonetically]/the library [Ellen]," and I get to say things like "don't run too far
ahead - your sister is still enjoying the Bottomless Pit."

The top of the cliff

I get to kiss my Ellen at the top of the tallest cliff she could climb, because she asked me. That's like a Win WITHIN a Win.

She's climbin'

Fantastic morning. Completely worth the tiny "I don't wanna GO" meltdown we suffered through when the time came to hit the road.

They're mine - can you believe it?

One Big Important Post

The Ingham Family didn’t put up a Christmas tree until December 22^nd this season.  We waited so long that when we drove up to the second closest Christmas tree lot to our house (the closest being already closed up), we found it was completely devoid of people, staff included.  There stood maybe two dozen trees, and the warming shed had a sign on it that read, “ANY TREE $25, LEAVE MONEY IN SLOT.”

            It was a bumpy beginning to an evening that we all anticipated with excitement.  But when we finally got it home, in the tree stand, and had strung the lights and hung the ornaments, we huddled on the couch and let the glow of the tree be our only light.  As we stared, Ellen said, “I love my family.” 

            This sort of statement from a 5-year-old, for whom the magic of Christmas still thrives without any effort at all, (unlike we adults who must be very intentional about keeping it from being diluted by stifling lists of Christmas to-dos and Christmas expenses) would bring any mother to tears.  But at Christmas 2012, Ellen’s words had a very particular gravitas.   

            At the end of the season, as the calendar year becomes gray and wrinkled and long in the tooth, the custom is to look back on the happiness, the sadness, the changes, the constants, and to ponder how we arrived at this time, and who we are at this moment.  Just as we don’t notice the distance we have swum until we pass a buoy and think to look back to the one prior, we don’t notice the passing of a year’s time until we bring to mind who we were and how far we’ve come since the last time we toasted auld lang syne.  We “traveled” far this year – farther than ever before.  The Ingham family of January 2012 seems so far in the distance that we, the Ingham family of January 2013, can barely see it. 

            In November, Dave and I made the decision to end our marriage.   

            Although we believe with conviction that this decision is the right one for us as we move forward, we don’t believe that our decisions of the past were misguided or wrong.  So, out of deep and sincere respect and gratitude for the life we had as a couple, we look back upon not only the past year, but the past fifteen years.  Since we began – at high school graduation in 1997 – we have experienced college graduations, graduate school and medical school graduations, engagement, a wedding day, the purchase of a new home, the beginning (and welcome end) of a residency, acceptance of new jobs, weddings of siblings, funerals of grandparents, and the births of our own two daughters. 



The beginning - 1997

            If we must condense the passage of time into one sentence, the easiest way to do it is to highlight these Big Days.  Without a doubt, they are important – buoys in the Ocean of Time.  But an ocean is made of the water in-between the buoys.  And a life is made with the days in-between the Big Days  – days of “do we have a dinner plan?” and “I’ll be home in fifteen minutes”; days of “have you seen my keys?” and “watch it, that milk’s been in there awhile”; days of “did you grab the mail?” and “thanks for folding the laundry.”  The 5,000+ Everydays which Dave and I shared are the ones that really defined us, and from them have sprouted the elements of our relationship that will never be dissolved, regardless of the dissolution of our marriage.  As we enter this new phase of our relationship and our lives, Dave and I will continue to be held together by these important elements – our care and love for one another, our respect for one another, and the memories we made during some of the most formative years of our lives.       



Ellen, age 5

And of course, we will be held together, forever and ever, by our beautiful, beloved daughters.



Cecilia, age 2.5

September 1997

Thanksgiving 1997

1998

St. John's graduation 2001

St. Olaf graduation 2001

Medical school graduation, 2006, with my brother and sister

October 14, 2006

First day of residency

December 2007, 2 weeks before Ellen arrived

October 2008




May 25, 2010, very shortly before Cecilia's arrival

Bringing her home

All of us

Last shot at Division Street house, July 2012

Stumbling Toward Success

Both girls have begun another year of preschool now – Cecilia in the 2 class and Ellen in the 4 class, her last year before the Big K.  Cecilia had a fabulous time on her first day, and she now requests frequent sing-alongs.  “Mommy, SING with me” is my cue to begin either the “Choo Choo” song or “Twinkle Twinkle.”  At the end of class on her first day, she waved and smiled brightly at her teacher, Miss Kathy, who rewarded her with an enthusiastic, “What a nice goodbye!”  For the next day or two, when anyone in our family asked her what she thought of preschool, her proud answer was, “I’m good at saying goodbye!”     

            Ellen’s class activities will provide copious material for blog posts, I have a feeling.  Her 4 class will do a repeat of one of my favorite activities from her 3 class – the bringing home of the Class Stuffed Animal, naming it, then sharing its adventures with your classmates.  (Last year, when we opened our home to the Class Bear, the Bear was christened Elizabeth and then wed to Ellen’s own bear, Melissa, in what must have been the first Stuffed Animal gay marriage in the nation). 

            About a week before school began, Ellen received a 3x5 index card via snail mail.  One side was blank, and the other had a note from her teacher instructing her to draw any picture, of anything she wanted, so that she could talk about it with her classmates on the first day.  As I leafed through the pile of mail and saw the index card, I figured that Ellen would set to work on her drawing as soon as I could tell her that she had had something in the mailbox.

            “Ellen!” I exclaimed as I came through the door.  “You have something in the mail today!”  She came running over and I showed her the card and read it to her.  Her eyes did not alight as I assumed they would.  “Do you want to do it right now, and then you’ll be all set for school next week?” I asked. 

            “Nah,” she said.  “I’ll do it in a bit.”  I put it on the kitchen island and let it go.  When she never came back to it, I set it in plain view of her dinner plate, so she would be reminded of it that evening.  Dinner came and went and she never mentioned it.

            Two days before school was to begin, I said, “Ellen, your index card is in the kitchen.  I’ll go grab it so you can get started.  Are you going to use crayons or colored pencils?”  No reaction.  This was getting tricky.  What to do?  Ask again?  Launch into reasons why she should do it?  Make her sit at the table until it’s done?  Now (realizing that the following Words may have a “Famous Last” ring to them), I do not plan on being the kind of mother who hovers over her kids’ homework, at least once they’re old enough to understand what would be the natural consequence of not turning in an assignment.  And I like to start as I mean to continue, so now would be the perfect time to get into the habit of not being a homework nag.  But…this index card isn’t really “homework” per se – it’s just a little project the preschool teacher wants the kids to do so that they have a starting point for introducing themselves.  My desired Mother Persona is still intact (where homework is concerned, anyway), if I do a bit of reminding here.  This is the very first thing her brand new teacher has asked her to do this year.  And Ellen is only 4.  She still puts on a nighttime Pull-Up before bed, for crying out loud.  Surely if she showed up without her index card, that would reflect poorly on ME, not on her.  Better to be seen as a nag by my daughter than as an un-involved and/or disorganized parent by her teacher, right?  All these thoughts swirled and collided in my brain as I tried to decide what to do about this damned index card. 

            I came to the conclusion that two days was still plenty of time for her to get it done on her own terms.  I would just keep putting it where she could see it, and hope she’d do it without another reminder.  I would only bring it up again on the morning of her first day of preschool.  The index card went back to the kitchen.    

            The next day came and went, and the index card still lay blank on the table.  Finally, the First Day dawned.  “Ellen, we have to leave in half an hour,” I said, “so you should make sure that you’ve finished your drawing on your index card.  You might feel really sad if you were the only kid who didn’t bring one.”

            “I already DID it, Mom,” she replied.  “It’s by my backpack.”  What welcome news!

            “Oh, that’s GREAT!” I said, excitedly.  “Tell me about your picture!  What did you decide to draw?” 

            “Just a coupl’a brown scribbles.” 

            Brown scribbles on an index card.  This is the 4-year-old’s version of the extended middle finger.  “Hmm,” I said, mulling over how I would broach this issue.  “Really?  But you’re a great artist.  You didn’t decide to draw a picture of yourself, or of your family or something?”

            “Nah,” she said, with satisfied complacency.

            So I launched the discussion about doing our best work, so that we can feel good about what we’ve shown our teachers, and so that they know our potential and can best help us learn things we didn’t know before.  I led her back to the crayons and handed her the index card.  She wrote her name in the corner, then added some colors between the lines of the original brown scribbles, creating a stained glass effect.    

            Later, I relayed the story to Dave.  He grinned and said, “Sounds like the way I used to do homework – at the last minute and with the least amount of effort possible.” 

            Here was some food for thought.  I used to do homework as soon as it was assigned, obsessively and to perfection.  Excelling was the key to happiness, and any career path could be the right one, as long as it let me keep pumping out A-plus-work.  Go Go Gadget Brain, to a high school diploma, Bachelor’s degree, and Master’s degree, without really thinking about how what I was learning would serve me in the end, and definitely neglecting to recognize that excelling doesn’t mean much unless you’re excelling in the right thing.  Now, seven years after closing the last blue book after the last final of graduate school at the U of MN, I have a waaaaay over-educated hobby of choral music, and an overdue (albeit freeing) realization that my true calling is not music, but writing.  The career path I chose was no “path” at all, but a deception – like a trail in the woods that looks promising for just enough steps to lure you in, then peters out so that you are utterly lost and being whacked by low-hanging foliage to boot. 

            On the other hand Dave, Mr. At-the-Last-Minute, is now properly addressed as Dr. At-the-Last-Minute, and hasn’t questioned medicine as his true calling since he graduated.       

           
           “Yep, she’s like you alright,” I said to Dave, and I walked away without a shred of worry.

"There's one...set to stun"

Being the first to rise in the morning is an absolute necessity for me.  I have to “calibrate to the day,” and if anyone else is up with me (except my sweet fuzzy Addie), then it can’t happen.  I need time to have half a pot of coffee and do a little writing and sitting in silence.  It helps if I can be dressed and ready to walk out the door before anyone else is up, too. 

Some days, like today, I fail at that endeavor.  I didn’t sleep very well last night, so when my alarm went off at 5:30, I promptly reset it for 6:30.  Then at 6:30, I reset it for 7:30.  Before it could go off, I was awakened by Dave plopping a pajama-ed Cecilia next to me.  All went downhill from there. 

I just got back from vacation in Arizona yesterday, and so I should be well-rested and restored, with patience to spare.  But with no “calibrating to the day” I had to lock myself in Dave’s office before 8:00 so that little girls would leave me alone.  I turned on Thomas the Train, and that gave me just enough time to text Dave all sorts of rude and irrational things: 1) he must have REALLY spoiled the girls while I was gone, 2) we must be raising terrible whiny children who don’t listen to a word I say, 3) I can’t handle this anymore, and 4) (the crowning text, the piece de resistance) “I have the fattest and manliest neck in this entire joke of a world.”  I didn’t water that last one down for you all – it’s a direct quote from my iPhone.

We escaped to Choo Choo Bob’s for a while, then had McDonald’s in the car.  Now they are watching Pee Wee’s Playhouse while I type this. 

My standards are so low that sometimes I think I need to dig a hole in the ground to find a single one. 

The Morning Hustle

I think there is not a parent alive today who does not understand the difficulty of the morning hustle out the door.  In fact, there has probably never been, I mean in the history of the world, a parent who does not understand the unique irritation of Preschool Putz when trying to make it to the earliest engagement of the day.  I imagine the dads of the Upper Paleolithic era had several mornings with one foot out the cave, looking back and yelling to their sons to grab their spear and come NOW to get a jump on the best large game.  The son of course would yell back that he can’t FIND his spear, to which the dad would reply that it should be right where he LEFT it after the LAST large game hunt, and then the son would go looking and become distracted by the cave drawing he was working on yesterday.

In my house, we have a problem of figuring out priorities.  I can yell “we’re leaving in 10 minutes!” and then find Ellen wearing only underwear, furiously kneading some Play Doh and saying, “I KNOW Mom, that’s why I’m HURRYING to finish this Play Doh dog!”

After fighting this losing battle many times, I have determined that I can’t decide for Ellen what needs to get done in the morning for her to have a successful day (besides the obvious things like getting dressed, brushing teeth, and having breakfast).  My solution is to get her up a looong time before we have to leave, so that she has plenty of time for all the important stuff, like dressing her American Girl doll, making animal sculptures out of Play Doh, and packing her backpack for the overnight at Grammy and Papa’s which is happening five days later. 

If I have fewer moments to myself before the action starts in the morning, I have in exchange a peaceful and unhurried exodus.  At least until Cecilia dumps her cereal on the floor.