Identity

So here we are; three and a half years post OZ landfall, still in the land Down Under.  Fortunately, we still live in the same beautiful home in dreamy Manly; the beach is one block away, and Sydney a 17-minute ferry ride.  The boys are thriving at their new school and look like Angus Young miniatures in their smart and proper school uniforms, minus the sneery, floppy lips of course.  Not surprisingly, they’re growing up beautifully, but shockingly, they’re growing up, Australian?  Will that be their identity?     

Reid has lived in Australia longer than he lived in America.  The boys use vocabulary like ‘cross,’ as in, “Mummy, why are you cross?” and ‘reckon,’ as in, “Do you reckon?”  But the craziest reality is they sound nothing like us anymore!  Every morning upon first hello, I’m always startled at their little voices speaking to me in a different tongue.  Where did your R’s go boys?!  When did your O’s become so nasally?!  It’s a frequent occurrence for Mark and me to throw sideways glances at each other upon statements like, “Oh, that’s such a shame.”

Parker was recently remarking on a framed photo we have of Mark and me a lifetime ago snowboarding in Lake Tahoe…sigh.  He asked, “What’s in the background of this photo ‘Mummy,’ it looks like an ocean.”  I said, “Actually, that’s a valley and Reno just beyond.”  He then, subtly, under his breath as he turned away from me said, “Vaalllleeee…” I startled!  “What did you just say Parker?!”  He smirked and giggled a bit and said, “Oh nothing.”  I hesitantly asked, “Did you just make fun of my accent?!”  He turned with a cheeky smile sprawled across his face, looked at me square in the eyes and said, “Vaaalllleeee.”  I burst out laughing and we both howled in hysterics.  He confidently remarked, “Well, you and Daddy always make fun of my accent, so I’m making fun of yours.”  Fair dinkum Parker, fair dinkum.

So it’s one thing – and quite funny - to have your son make fun of your accent, but it’s entirely another when a table full of your female peers makes fun of your accent behind your back – not funny.  Such an event recently happened to me.  I really shouldn’t care.  These women are not my friends, and throughout this dinner said women made no attempt to ask me a question, or show interest in anything I had to say.  But as I left, I lingered around the corner like an insecure little girl to eavesdrop, and sure enough, one of the women pulled out her best American drawl and mimicked something I said as the rest of the women burst into laughter.  It bruised. 

Through this experience I’m reminded about my identity, I am American!  And I’m damn proud to be American!  I mean I don’t have a gun raised in one hand and a McDonald’s cheeseburger in the other, it’s more like a rainbow flag in one hand and a quinoa salad in the other – which is just as “American.”  Anyway, I didn’t know what identity was until I left America, hell, I didn’t know I had an accent until I left America!  And I find it surprising for such a transient population as Sydney has for a group of women to have a laugh at my expense – about an accent.  Obviously if someone can’t get past my drawl, or doesn’t want to know me because of my nationality, then they’re not worth my time, I do know this.  I happen to find accents amazing and entertaining, but by no means does the way I sound define who I am.  It’s not what identifies me. 

Identity is so much more than the country you originate from, or the accent you have.  I have lots of identities, and I choose to focus on the identities of wife, mother, friend, traveler, a positive contributor to the world I live in, and many more.  And when I feel lost and lonely, which I sometimes do, and I wonder what we’re doing living so far away from the people that love us most in the world, I remind myself that this experience is only broadening our identities, more importantly, the boys identities.  They’ll always be American, but I believe they will always be a little Aussie too.  We’re just riding the wave of identity adventure.  All this is true, or maybe I really am that loud and drawly?!  

A Day in the Life of Supermom

For Halloween I decided to be Supermom.  I figure if I channel this fictitious super-heroine then maybe I will become her, "Be the ball, Danny." Right?!  So here I go...    

My day started at 6:30am with Reid bounding in shouting 4 inches from my face, "Happy Halloween Mommy!"  You would have thought it was Christmas morning.  I found this excitement puzzling since he still hadn't figured out what he was going to be for Halloween, and because he's continued to say over the previous week, "I hope we see the Easter Bunny!"  He also refers to yesterday as last week and thinks when he grows up he's going to marry me.  I love this confusion, it reminds me he's only been alive for 4 years.

So I roll out of bed and begin my normal routine, but today I'm Supermom, so I'm doing it with grace, ease, style, and a bit of finesse, at least that's my plan.  Parker has assumed his alter-ego as Colin Kaepernick and is in the garden playing PFL (Parker Football League).  His one-man football games are truly inspiring to watch.  As quarterback he starts the play with a deep-throated, guttural yell that I'm sure resonates down the street crashing into people's mornings, "Red Right, 62...Kill, Kill!  Hike!" Then he "passes" the ball by throwing it up in the air, catching it, and running the play.  He'll also throw in clapping, crowd cheering, and some woops and woots for the well-rounded football experience.   I wish him a good morning and a, "Happy Halloween Kaepy!" as he updates me on the game asking if I want to see a replay of the touchdown he just made - well of course!  I trip over a wiggly, chatty, and hungry Bodi as I walk into the kitchen to assume my position - ok, commence feeding and watering of offspring.  

I continue to bob and weave through the morning rituals and gems of unexpected cannonballs thrown my direction; scraping dog poo off Parker's shoe, prying scissors out of Reid's hands as he cuts leaves on the hedge - reminding him that plants are alive and he's killing nature - say, "Parker get dressed!" at least 6 times, wrangle Reid into his clothes after his spontaneous gymnast performance,  and then there's teeth brushing, the Lex Luthor to my Supermom.  

Brushing teeth always involves singing, dancing, hugging, tugging, zipping, twirling - all while trying to brush teeth.  Whoever said men weren't multi-taskers have never met my boys.  Maybe that's something lost in puberty.  I'm amazed at the shit they try and pull-off while brushing teeth!  It's all usually met with my wide eyes and gritted teeth, "Just. Stand. Still.  Stop touching me!"  But today I'm Supermom so I do all the singing, dancing, hugging, etc, and they're laughing so hard they can't wriggle and combust.    

Ok, almost out the door.  I lean down to tie Parker's shoes while Reid jumps on my back, little fists balled under my chin stealing my breath away, "Mommy, I'm your cape!" - how fitting.  The cheeky monkey draped on my back is in fact what makes me Supermom.  On y va!    

Parker arrives at school with a minute to spare - Supermom, always prompt, yet teetering on tardy.  Reid and I have grand plans for the day - hitting the gym (my sanity hour), grocery shopping, laundry, and dog walking.  We attack our day with gusto, as two superheroes would; Supermom and Super-Reido!  

Things take nearly three-times as long with my side-kick because, well because, he's four and is a cross between Dory from Finding Nemo and Dug from Up; shiny things and squirrels, a deadly combination.

Upon Parker retrieval Reid falls, probably because he saw something shiny, and bloodies his knee.  After screams and shouts of, "Don't look at it, don't look at it!" we resort to side-stepping, kind of like a zombie sideways crawl, the remainder of the block to school because that leg "doesn't work anymore." Parker runs out with a toothless grin shouting, "Halloween!"  Oh right, I'm Supermom I can champion this energy. We locate the side-stepper who's running freely and swinging on bars only to resume side-trudge as soon as I come into view.  I'm assured a smoothie will fix his knee and give him "power" to walk again.  In the meantime he's weak and needs to be carried.  I give in against the incessant parenting voice in my head saying, "NOOOO!"  I heave him up while emitting an unattractive, ughhhh sound, knowing that he's getting blood on my shirt.  Oh my little R2, Super-Reido, he transforms into my baby koala and clings to me while whispering, "Mommy, I love you."  This kid is the kryptonite to my Supermomness.      

We journey home and commence next phase of day.  Smoothie made, knee fixed - check.  Salad made for Halloween sausage sizzle - check.  Trick-or-treating bags located - ummm, hmmm, begin search - fail!  Sand buckets rinsed and ready to use as trick-or-treating bags - check.  Break up PFL game and Octonaut play amidst groans - check.  These kids have NO sense of urgency!  Ok, out the door again!   

We arrive at our friend's house for an afternoon of trick-or-treating and a sausage sizzle.  We kick it off with 5 boys and end the evening with 13 boys ages 3-7, running amok in the garden, all chowing on Halloween lollies.  No joke.  It's a Halloween (not Festivus) miracle that only 2 kids were flung off the non-netted trampoline, only one child was lost during the trick-or-treating mayhem, and only one rock was hurled - unfortunately at my car.  But there were sausages sizzled and thankfully a glass of wine.  

Things one might have heard during this testosterone filled Halloween afternoon:

1)  "Don't step on his face!"  

2)  "Only one lollie in your mouth at a time."

3)  "Watch out for my wine glass!"

4)  "Please put your underpants back on."

5)  "He'll come home eventually."

We leave Halloween celebration with minimal whines and resistance and arrive home to a jumping, hungry Bodi and the bedtime tasks ahead.  Ok Supermom, this is the home stretch!  

The evening teeth brushing episode is much the same as the am version but they are hopped up on lollies, bare-bottomed, and running witlessly around while screeching like wounded animals.  Then they pause, start producing giggly sounds while shaking their hips to and fro making their little penises jostle; that's a nature thing, not nurture - have penis, must wiggle it - I get it, I would. 

Ok, sugar cleansed from chompers, naked bodies clothed in Star Wars jammies.  In bed.  They sugar crashed after 5 minutes.  Good night my little heroes, until we do it again tomorrow.     

I retire to the outside lounge and watch the day's final color of buttery ginger fade from the sky as the bats swoop in for their nocturnal frolic.  I sip, (gulp really) a goblet of Shiraz and reflect on my day.  I believe daily self-reflection is the mark of any human who aspires to be decent, kind, worthy, and moral.  Upon today's self-reflection I say to myself - I was a good Supermom this Halloween.  But then I realize, as I take another sip of my red, that I'm Supermom everyday, not just on Halloween.   

Parker Saved the Day!

Road trip!  I decided to join the Caulfield family on their vacation to Bend, Oregon because it sounded WAY better than staying home and pouting about being a Dreamforce widow on my birthday.  So the boys and I headed up to Bend, and then continued our road trip to La Grande, Oregon to visit Auntie Sarah.  After a wonderful visit with Dakota Ralston we were going to head back to Bend to stay with Cailin and family.  The morning of our departure Sarah had to go to work and we weren't quite ready to leave; because packing up the arsenal of supplies and "stuff" is forever time consuming, not to mention getting the boys dressed, fed, and cooperating is a feat next to herding cats - which I've never done but sounds challenging.  As Sarah was leaving she said, "Just turn the lock on the front door and close it behind you.  If you accidentally get locked out, just call me and I'll come let you back in."  I thought, how silly, I wouldn't lock the door before everything was in the car.  Well, as I began to pack the car with our cache of belongings I walked out with my arms jam-packed and Parker and Reid followed.  As I put everything down next to the car I see Parker (with his shirt tucked neatly into his jeans and belted, with his backpack and Yankee hat on) close the door behind them.  My head immediately started to pulsate.  I said, "Parker, did you lock the door?!"  He looked at me proudly and said, "I did!"  I fell to my knees and screamed, "Shiiiiiiiiiittttttt!"  Both boys looked at me with such fear and confusion in their faces.  Their mom was losing it, and I did.  I started crying and yelling to no one in particular, "Oh my God, what the hell am I going to do, and my phone and wallet are inside!!!!  Fuck, fuck, fuck!!!"  I'm pretty sure the neighbors were about to call CPS as they watched this strange lady rolling around on the grass crying while two adorable, scared, little boys stared in disbelief at their crumbling mother.  I realized I was making a scene so I put the boys in the car, sat in the driver seat and continued to sob.  At this point Parker was crying saying, "Mommy, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lock us out.”  I had to pull it together.  Would I wander around the EOU campus calling Sarah’s name?  Would I try and borrow a cell phone and call Mark, who could then call Sarah?  I knew she hadn’t left any doors or windows open, but then again, what if?  I got the boys out of the car and walked to the side yard.  Above my head was a window that led into the kitchen.  I remembered it had been open the previous night; maybe Sarah hadn’t locked it.  I pulled a chair up to the window and removed the screen.  I then tried to push it up, and low and behold, it opened.  A wave of relief washed over me – we were saved.  I was just about to heave my body through the small window opening when I looked down and saw my boys staring at me with concern and wonder.  I said, “Ok, we found a way in!”  I then realized after Parker locked us out, one way for him to find redemption would be to climb in the window and open the front door.  I said, “Parker, hop on up here, you’re going through the window.”  His face lit up.  He jumped on the chair and I hoisted his 40 lbs through the window - much more graceful than hoisting myself through.  Once through the window, he stood on the counter not knowing how to get down.  He eased his way to the stool, climbed down, and was off toward the front door.  I looked at Reid and said, “Parker’s saving us!”  Reid said, “Kaker!”  Seconds later Parker was running around the corner where Reid and I stood, and was yelling, “Mommy, I saved the day!!”  I picked him up, squeezed him hard and said, “Yes, Parker, you did save the day!”  He’s still so proud of saving the day, and I continue to remind him.  Every time I mention it he gets a wry little smile and says, “Yep, I saved the day, just like Fireman Sam!”   

Watch out Queen Amadala

I don’t claim to be the best mother, or even the most involved mother, but I do have one thing on other moms of boys that no one can mess with; and that’s that I know Star Wars.  Not only do I “know” about the Star Wars movies, but I know details, I know philosophies, theories, connections, characters, costumes, and so on.  In fact, I could probably educate many a man on Star Wars.  It’s something I’m proud of, and one of the things Mark loves most about me.  Also, my love for football, but that’s for another day. 

Parker is really into Star Wars.  He’s never seen the movies, and states that he’s not ready to until he’s six, but he’s got interest.  Whether it is the Star Wars books his daddy has, or the Star Wars socks his mommy wears with her rain boots (they just fit well with my boots), or really, because RJ is into Star Wars.  Uncle Dave just brought Star Wars Band-Aids for the boys and Parker is treating them like temporary tattoos.  Parker has one on his arm, and Reid has one on his arm, and his back, because Parker says it looks good on his back.  He also has two light sabers, but really, he just has TONS of questions.  Questions that I, as the cool Star Wars mom, can answer.  Tonight at dinner he asks me, “Mommy, is Anakin really Darth Vader?”  This arises from his wanting a Vader Band-Aid when there aren’t any because the Band-Aids are from The Clone Wars.  So I tell him, “Parker, Anakin turns into Darth Vader, so if you want a Vader Band-Aid, you might as well wear an Anakin Band-Aid and it’s essentially the same thing.”  This of course confuses him.  “Mommy,” he says, “Why did Anakin turn into Darth Vader?”  “Well,” I say, “That’s a loaded question my son.”  I begin to enlighten him on the complexities of Anakin’s past and why he possessed the intense anger and sadness that eventually overcame him and led him to the dark side, which made him vulnerable to Emperor Palpatine, which then led to his becoming Darth Vader.  He watched me with intent, and I could tell he was processing my response, but I’m sure he became lost in the sentence, “Well, Parker, Anakin is a complex character…” His next question was, “Mommy, do the Storm Troopers work for Darth Vader?”  I immediately launch into a diatribe, “That’s an interesting question Parker.  One would think the Storm Troopers do work for Darth Vader, but in fact they work for the Galactic Empire, and the Empire existed before Darth Vader.  In fact, the stormtroopers were originally called clonetroopers and were commissioned by the Republic to be their grand army…”  Parker turns starry eyed and says, “Mommy, I want a Darth Vader costume.”  My knowledge is lost on this young padawan, I shall save my energy for another day. 

Hey, I may not play Playdo for hours, or shout, “Arghh!” with enthusiasm as I dress up as a pirate, but I know Star Wars, and when Parker and Reid want answers to their Star Wars questions, and Daddy’s at work, they know where to come. 

Let it rip!

Reid, who is 20 months old, laughed the other day when he farted. After I joined in on his giggle, not because his fart was funny, but because he was funny for laughing, I realized some fart/laugh combination must be carried in the Y-chromosome. How does he know that farting is funny? We didn't teach him that - not yet at least. He also laughs when he burps. We've taught Parker to say, "excuse me," after he burps or farts - like a gentleman would - so now he laughs, and then says, "excuse me."

Bodily functions and I go way back. I know every woman has fart and burp stories, but the men in my past, I believe, had more vulgar bodily functions than most. In fact, growing up with a step-father and 3 brothers who lead the parade for the, "let it fly" philosophy of releasing bodily gases, set a precedent of "maleness" that no one, thankfully, has been able to match. Bathroom doors were never closed, and toilets were rarely flushed. I had to share a 5x4 foot bathroom with my 3 brothers and wore flip-flops while I showered because the bathroom scared me. When Mark and I moved in together I was shocked at how clean he was! He shut the toilet lid after use and actually used the bathroom door for its intended purpose! I was thrilled and constantly remarked about how clean and neat he was. His reply was, "Steph, you grew up with overly disgusting men, my cleanliness is considered normal." Wow, what a wake up that was! You mean, not all men fart, role up the car windows, lock the doors, and turn on the heater full blast?! Or, you mean, not all men fart, sit on the nearest person’s head, and hold their arms down?! Phew! I had arrived to true adulthood.

So here I am with two boys of my own - two boys who will fart and burp, and then laugh. But this time around, I get to teach them, or mandate rather, that they flush the toilet, use the bathroom door, say, “excuse me,” after they fart or burp, and not torture me for entertainment. I’m pleased I have some control. So the next time one of the boys, “let’s one rip.” I’ll join in on the giggle, not because they’re laughing, but because farting and burping is funny!

He's a pirate! Oh wait, he's an astronaut! Uh, wait again, he's a football player!

Every morning at 7am Parker's stoplight alarm clock changes from red to green, giving him “the green light” to get out of bed.  He springs out of bed and begins his first morning routine, which is putting on some sort of costume.  At any time of the day he could be a pirate, police officer, fireman, astronaut, football player, chef, construction worker or a combination of the above; sometimes he’s a football player/construction worker, or a fireman/pirate. 

After dressing himself in some flavor of costume, he packs his backpack with whatever costume he’s feeling a second connection with but cannot wear, gathers up his entourage of stuffed animals, and heads out, ready to start his day.  He then barrels down the hallway bumping the walls with a pirate sword or football helmet, enters our bedroom, arms brimming with stuffed animals and costume props, and I think “How can a 4 year old need so much STUFF?”!  This is what he tells me when I ask: “Mommy, I NEED my fire boots, and measuring spoons, in case anything comes up.”  I find myself wanting to go clean the fridge, or clean out my purse – just the sight of all of his “stuff” makes me want to simplify my life.  It’s like watching the show “Hoarders” makes you want to go in your closet and get rid of clothes you haven’t worn in a year, or go out to the garage and purge. 

I used to be like my son.  I carried a purse, before kids, chock full of everything I “might” need.  I thought that I might need a Band-Aid, or a sewing kit while I’m out.  If anyone needed Advil or hand sanitizer, they knew where to find it – in my purse.  Today, things are different.  The older I get, the simpler I want my life to be.  But is a simple life an oxymoron when you have kids?  Even if it’s unattainable, I strive for a simpler life nonetheless.  I find myself making more lists, doing more meal planning, putting every detail of every day into my calendar so that I feel organized.  When I leave the house without kids, as seldom as that is, I bring my wallet and phone.  I feel naked without my “stuff,” but it also feels liberating.  I often need reminding to do more things like, leave the kitchen sink at home when running to 7-11.  I can only hope to face everyday with ease and calm, and maybe working on simplifying the little things is the answer.  I can dream, can’t I?!