Why I always kind of wanted a big brother...

 Or, reason Number 1 why the neighborhood moms suspect I might be crazy.

Like a duck to water

 In spite of the heavy handed pun, that title is completely appropriate. Last night, at the end of year DASH (Dubuque Area Swimming Hurricanes) party, we celebrated Grace's first year of competitive swimming with a pizza party and a family swim.

The 3 biggest ducks are great swimmers. They adore the water and beg to go to swimming lessons almost every day. But the queen, as has been well documented, is her own independent self. She will make up her own mind, thank you very much. So I was a little worried that she might scream and resist. Not in the least. Her smile was as big as the sky the entire time. She kicked and splashed and giggled and even experimented with putting her face in the water. All my ducks are swimmers, but none started this strong this soon. To complete the metaphor, Lucy wore a ruffled yellow bikini (compliments of cousin Bridget) that looked adorable with her dark eyes and skin. She was like the poster child for some baby water program.

I wish I had taken pictures, but unlike every other mom at the party (except one) I wanted to be IN the water, not watching from the sidelines. So you'll have to rely on my descriptions and future (hopefully) shots of my 4 little ducks in water. All 4 kids enter the water in ways that completely illustrate their personalities:

Grace carefully tiptoes to the edge, places one foot in front of the other and raises her hands above her head. Then she rocks back and forth from one foot to the other, back and forth, back and forth. She studies the surface of the water, checks to make sure we are watching, checks the water again, then, eventually springs forward in a beautiful swimmer's dive.

Sam walks to the edge, lifts his arms, and dives. He is graceful and quick--utterly effortless and completely self confident. His cannonball is textbook.

Claire starts as far back as she can (usually the wall) and dashes all out towards a joyful, splashy mouth open, eyes shining leap into the water. She literally pushes other kids out of her way as she sprints forward.

And Lucy sits on the side rocking on her plump little behind, grinning, waving her arms and vocalizing until someone pulls her into the water.

So for my 4 little ducks, the recipe for a happy family this summer is simple: just add water.

A good mom

This week we wrapped up our first session of 2010 swimming lessons. Traditionally, on the last day of any activity, I allow the kids one special "treat" for finishing the event. It's really not so much of a celebration or reward, as much as a tactic that allows me to walk past those stupid jaycees candy machines or random vending outlets amid the chorus of "momcanipleasepleaseplease" with the promise "on the last day". At the Y it is sprees or peanut m&m's. At soccer it is laffy taffy. At Loras swimming it is pop. You would have thought I had promised each child an all expenses paid visit to Disneyworld, so excited were they about the promised 20 oz. bottle of pop. They bubbled and fizzed in the backseat about what kind they would get, how much they would finish before and after, whether they would all get different kinds and share or keep their own to themselves. Then Grace realized that at the end of this particular swimming lesson, the teachers typically give each child some sort of treat (usually fruit snacks). In her most big sisterly voice, she instructed the others: "You can either have pop or the treat from your teachers."

An eruption of whining followed. "Mo-om--you PROMISED we could have pop." On and on. I was tired (the queen is teething and sleeping poorly) and distracted. I ignored. I said no. I agreed with Grace. Finally, I gave in. After all, I had said they could have pop before I remembered the stupid teacher's treat. "You can have pop, too," I caved.

"Mom!" Grace protested. "A good mom would only let us have one or the other." Nice.

While cleaning out the swim bag in the laundry room after lessons, I decided on a whim to check the size of Sam's trunks. He's been wearing the same ones for at least 3 summers (my little man doesn't grow fast--though he is healthy and average in height and weight). He has a new pair, but he prefers the older ones which are still in remarkably good shape. I could barely read the faded, curled up tag.

2T.

Sam is 6 and pretty much wears size 6 everything. Why do they make boy's shorts so big for the size? Would a good mom allow her child to wear trunks that (according to the tag) are 4 sizes too small? I guess I wouldn't know.

Garden of Eden

For some reason, I can’t get Sammy’s conversation with his little female friend from school last week out of my head. It was innocent and unextraordinary except for one thing. Both of them were completely naked. Before you wonder what kind of a freaky duck pond I’m running here, please note that both were getting ready for swimming lessons in the women’s locker room at Loras College. As every mother of a six year old boy knows—there are really no alternatives to getting dressed for swimming other than the women’s locker room, at least as long as swimming lessons are Mom’s job and take place immediately after school. When I realized that Sam’s classmate was in the same lesson, I had a moment of pause. It seemed a little, I don’t know, awkward, I guess, to look across the locker room and see a naked classmate of the opposite sex.

But Sammy has 3 sisters and his little friend has 2 brothers. It was the most natural thing in the world (no pun intended) for them to interact while going about the business of changing into swimwear. Last week, his little friend got to the locker room about 5 minutes before her Mom (who, consequently, also has 4 kids under age 8—including a 10 month old baby). So, this pretty little girl proceeded to undress and then stand casually next to Sam, chatting and waiting patiently for her mom and her swimsuit to catch up to her. It was the sweetest, most innocent thing.

I can’t help but wonder if this will be a future source of embarrassment (or maybe pride?) for my little man. It is probably worth noting that this little girl’s mom is completely gorgeous—so the daughter has the genetic material to turn into the class hottie. This other mother resembles Cameron Diaz (no kidding) and even though she wears almost no makeup, pulls her perfect blonde hair into a messy ponytail most days, and dresses (at least when I’ve seen her) only in jeans and t-shirts, there is no way to hide that kind of beauty. (She’s the mom that makes my “I look pretty good for a mother of 4” fly right out the window—her good looks and perfect body not requiring the qualifier “for a mother of 4”).

It was a sweet moment, though, no matter what, if anything, they think about it later. Sam heard me telling the story later and he felt obligated to explain it a little better. “See, Mom, her mommy didn’t get downstairs with her swimsuit yet. That’s why she had to wait,” he clarified. If I had to wait for someone to bring me a swimsuit, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t undress BEFORE waiting. That was my only point. But I guess that’s my own problem.

Sister love

I admit it. I still climb into bed with my big girls every night to put them to sleep. Lucy just needs a binkie, her lamby, and about 5 minutes with me in the rocking chair to go to sleep. Sam just climbs into his top bunk and goes to sleep on his own--3 prayers, one kiss, and he's out. Grace and Claire, my little lovers, are a little more needy. So we read, and we pray, and we talk. Grace sleeps next to the wall, Claire snuggles in the middle, and I sleep closest to the end so I can tiptoe out when both have drifted off to dreamland. I lay on my side with my arm around Claire and holding Grace's hand. It usually takes about 5 minutes.

Every morning before I leave, I sneak in to kiss each little sleeping duck goodbye. Most mornings, Claire and Grace are piled up like puppies, legs and arms all akimbo, blonde hair and brown tangled together on a single shared pillow. (Unless Claire is in my bed--another post altogether). This morning, I took the kids to school, so instead of a quick goodbye, I woke everyone up. Grace opened her aquamarine eyes and smiled.

"Mommy--I held onto Claire's foot all night long," she announced.

"What? Why?" I asked.

"I thought it was your hand!" she giggled. Is there anything in the world quite like a sister?

Cost Monkey

 I've been looking for this quote for awhile.

"...Five years ago...he told me he can take or leave what he does for a living. 'You don't need to ask polite questions about my job,' he said before we even ordered our meal. 'I do it well, and I get a kick of of having this weird talent to which no kid would ever aspire; I mean, I wanted to be a movie critic! But I'm not sorry. It's not my reason for being. It never has been" (from the novel I See You Everywhere by Julia Glass P. 266).

I love that, because it is exactly how I have always felt about my job (at least since the little ducks arrived). I have always LIKED my job--I never dread getting out of bed to go, and other than occasional bouts of longing to spend more time with the ducks and feel a little less like the proverbial rat in the race, I've never seriously considered quitting any of them. But really, who aspires to be "Global Product Line Manager, Skid Steer Loaders" when they are growing up? (Though, consequently, isn't that title cool? It is by far my favorite so far--though I have to admit it sounds cooler than it really is). I wanted to be a writer. But I think, even as a little girl, I knew that building a career, or at least much of a living, on writing alone would be a long shot. This wasn't because I questioned my talent--to the contrary, I never considered my writing to be so much a talent, as something I just had to do. I enjoyed it, inasmuch as I enjoy breathing (I miss it when its gone), but I have always had words swirling around inside of me that required the release of writing. I’ve kept journals and have written stories and poems for as long as I can remember. I got some recognition for my writing in my academic life, right up through college, but that wasn't why I did it.

I have come a long way from that dreamy little girl with the notebook. Now I spend my days chasing little ducks at home and managing the strategic sourcing activities for a major construction product line at work. At times, I grow quite frustrated with the work I am paid to do. There isn't much writing involved (beyond email--ugh). Instead, I have become a whiz at excel and (curse the thought) MATH!! I stopped taking math classes my junior year in high school. That is not to say that I have no mathematical ability—if I’ve learned anything in my 12 years of professional life it is that I’m better than I think I am. And there IS a certain poetry to making excel dance. It has become my tool of choice and I’m pretty darn good at it, if I do say so myself (you would be to, if you spent 4-6 hours on it every day for 5 years). But if I had had to guess, back when people still asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have been off by about 180 degrees.

But it IS frustrating to be pretty good at something that you just aren’t all that interested in. A friend and I often joked that a lot of the work we did could be accomplished by trained monkeys. Since we worked in the cost department, we wanted our slogan to be: “Cost Management: I’m your monkey.” (It never really caught on).

Still, I’m paid well, my boss leaves me alone, my work is often enough challenging and interesting, I like my co-workers, and my hours are reasonably flexible. (I can work from home when the ducks are sick or on snow days, I can sneak out for doctor appointments and class Masses, I’m off in time to pick the big kids up from school at least 80% of the time). I live just a few blocks from my parents and most of my family is close by. My husband is self employed and doesn’t have benefits, and I’m not sure I’d be a great stay at home mom anyway. So I’m not inclined to leave.

It can be a bit disconcerting to look at the years racing by and wonder if I’ll retire from this place, though. Even though I never had a crystal vision of my future (I never thought “I’m going to be a teacher,” or “I’m going to be a doctor” or even “I’m going to be a writer”). What I knew I wanted most was to be a wife and a mom and that I am. This job—this career—allows that to be my primary focus while still providing a nice living for my family and filling my fundamental “achievement” need. (Those sporadic promotions and periodic performance reviews stroke my ego enough).

So I realize, as I write this, how "underwhelming" my approach to my career and my job are. I’m content, certainly. And I think it is good for the company to have people who aren’t desperately clawing for the next promotion or fighting for some internal vision of what they should be when they grow up. I’m malleable and engaged enough, and I let my bosses set the direction (which they are all, without exception, happy to do). I am smart and competent and a good leader. If I weren’t me, I would want a me working for me (know what I mean?)

All this doesn’t mean, of course, that I will never suffer periods of restlessness and irritation in this job. It just means that it isn’t my reason for being. Never has been.

Lueken life

 3 Monday stories:

1. At breakfast, Chad was trying to describe daylight savings to my tired little ducks. At one point, quite perplexed, Grace asked "does the world start spinning faster during daylight savings?"

2. Tonight, during dishes, we looked outside to see Claire pulling down her pants. "What are you doing!?" Chad and I shrieked simultaneously and dashed outside to bring her inside. (Now, I'm not saying she saw anyone--say her big brother--peeing outside, but I'm not saying she might not have either. All I can say with confidence is that I've never seen it happen). Chad led her into the bathroom off the kitchen. Then I heard him say, "I guess you'll have to go upstairs." Curious, I headed into investigate and found Sam's socks floating in the otherwise empty (Thank God!) bowl. Why, you ask, would he not just fish out the socks (undoubtedly deposited there by a mischevious one year old), then let Claire go about her business? And who do you imagine he assumed would deal with said socks? I leave it to your imagination.

3. After dishes, Chad headed out to take the last of the Christmas lights off the roof. And, yes, we know that St. Patrick's Day is Wednesday. And yes, I was out in my own front yard with a baby on my hip.

Bad hair day? Grab your backpack!

Yesterday was a bad hair day. Since having Lucy, my hair has become thick and coarse. After more than 30 years of fine, thinnish hair, I'm learning how to deal with an altogether unfamiliar mop on my head. I'm not complaining--to the contrary, it is refreshing to finally have enough hair--especially since I am now reaching the point where I have to yank a few every few days as they stubbornly insist upon turning gray. I cut my hair short on Labor Day last year, and lately have been attempting to grow it out again--wearing it in a very short bob that I straighten most days. Left to its own devices, it likes to drift into a bouncy sort of bowl shape. I had more or less left it to its own devices yesterday.

At supper, Chad told me I looked a little like Mindy (of Mork and Mindy fame--how's that for showing our age?) While on the subject, Sam looked at Chad and said, "Dad, if you took off your glasses and wore a hat, you would look like Indiana Jones," (they've been watching the original lately). Now, my husband is a good looking man, but its a bit of a stretch to say he resembles a young Harrison Ford. Sensing that Sammy was in a generous mood, I asked him, "Who does Mommy look like?"

He thought for a minute, tilting his cute, curly head and narrowing his eyes. They lit up as it came to him, "Dora!" he cried proudly.

Monday Buttons

We are all tired today. When the big kids were little and we did a lot less running, I used to plan my easiest meal for Monday nights. I knew the ducks would come home cranky and need more of my attention than a normal weeknight. Now, I have to plan our easy meals for swimming/basketball/girlscouts/gymnastics/soccer (etc.) so I don't have that luxury. But Mondays are still hard.

Before we were even in the car, Grace & Sam were bickering. "Mo-o-om. He's pushing my buttons,"Grace whined. "What buttons?" Sam asked innocently, pushing it again (I honestly don't even know what it was about). "Mooooooooooom" (question--why, when kids are mad at each other, do they yell at Mom? And, consequently, how come when Dad says no, Mom has to deal with the fall out?)

Here is how I know they are tired:
Grace gets weepy.
Sam gets mean.
Claire gets clingy.
Lucy gets lean. (sorry, it was turning into a nursery rhyme). Actually, Lucy gets bossy and demanding.

Come to think of it, they all act a little bit like ME when I'm tired. How many hours til bedtime?

People are more important

 I am consumed by guilt this morning.

Last night I blew up at my whole family, ranting about how it is always about someone else and I never get to do what I want to do and I didn't accomplish one thing I wanted to this weekend because I was constantly waiting on or assisting with something someone else thought was important (you know, like taxes for the business, poopy pants, a drink of milk etc. etc.) It was not pretty and I am decidedly not proud. More, I feel terrible.

My own mother was steady as the sun. I rarely saw her explode like that. She got a little worked up once and awhile about how clean the house was, and my brother Brad somehow managed to push her buttons moreso than the rest of us. But by and large, she really was unselfish and hardworking to a fault. It's a hard model to live up to. I don't doubt, of course, that I may be oversimplifying what from the perspective of many years, looks like a pretty unselfish and constant mothering. I can only hope my own children are generous in their memories of my continually imperfect attempts at loving and raising them.

Yesterday when the girls and I returned from Mass, Chad was standing at the door in his workout clothes. "What do you want to do today?" he asked. Still full of the Holy Spirit, I generously responded, "Whatever you want. I'm flexible." You all know me. I am decidedly NOT flexible. But I'm trying. So he went down to run on the treadmill and I started the daily treadmill of feeding and caring for 4 little ducks. (Claire wanted eggs, Sam had just finished leftover PB&J, Grace wasn't hungry, Lucy was sleeping). It went on from there. Sundays are tough days, sort of, but shouldn't be. We have no routine--we sort of eat when we eat (which is frustrating. You finish feeding one, get the kitchen cleaned up, and the next one is hungry. Chad likes a big breakfast, I don't. I like a big supper on Sundays, but if we go out to do anything, its hard to get it prepared). You see how this is shaping up?

So our day went on. We spent a couple hours at Mines of Spain, hiking through the melty woods in the late winter sunshine. The kids threw rocks in Catfish Creek, Lucy fell asleep in the backpack against her daddy's back, we petted every dog and made friends with every dog owner we passed. We got home and I did the usual--housework, laundry, started supper. The kids watched their new favorite movie, "Evan Almighty." You see--in general, it was a peaceful, happy day. Except I am obsessed with my to do list. I wanted to finish our stupid Disneyworld scrapbook and clean off my desk (it looks like a paperwork tornado). I also wanted to do some yoga. Those were the ONLY 3 things I wanted to accomplish this weekend. And "to-do's" burn in my head with almost physical pain after awhile. Who the hell cared if I finished those things? But I can't shake it.

So, at 9 o'clock, when Claire and Sam were stage whispering in my bedroom about some task or other related to going to bed and they woke up a restless one year old queen I had finally settled down, I lost it. It was ugly and I'm aching just thinking about it. All because I didn't get 3 stupid things done that matter so little right now it is embarassing to even admit it.

A mantra we repeat often at home is "People are more important than things." I tell the ducks this often--when they are fighting over a toy or feeling bad about a spill or something broken. I don't think I will ever forget the time Gracie told me, "Mommy, people are more important than things to do." She is wise, that sweet little girl. Would that I could only get that message to sink into my bossy heart.