Sister love part 2

 This morning Lucy woke up early and angry. She was inconsolable. She threw the sippy cup of milk I offered her. She spit out her binky. She even rejected her beloved lamby. She shrieked when Chad tried to hold her and clung briefly to me, then started arching her back and demanding to be put down. As she neared the floor, she held her legs up so I couldn't stand her up. She was the living illustration of the song "Tantrum" from the Dogtrain soundtrack.

"Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone"
bom bom bom
"don't leave me alone don't leave me alone"

She quickly woke up both of her sisters (Sam, in keeping with his gender, didn't seem to hear anything). Claire wandered in in her jammies and curled up on my bed, offering advice from her pillow. "Lucy tired." "Lucy need her binky?". A short time later Grace came in. By this time, I was growing increasingly frustrated. I had sent Chad out for a morning run since the queen was clearly not going to let him do much for her (nor was she letting me, but no point in both of us missing our morning workout). I put Lucy in her crib so I could go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Let me be clear: I don't believe in "crying it out", but when a child is every bit as miserable in my arms as out of them, I'm not as likely as I once was to keep trying. Sometimes, especially these last 2 babies, I've learned the best medicine is no human contact. Especially Lucy--she really seems to prefer not being held when she's in one of her fits. Or so I thought.

Enter Grace--sweet, sunny Grace. When I returned from the bathroom, Lucy was lying calmly in her bed gazing up at Grace adoringly while her big sister stroked her belly and cooed in a high, sweet voice. Next thing I knew, all three girls were crammed into the crib, giggling and chatting.

Last night at bedtime, Grace and Chad had the unfortunate timing of coming into our room just as I about had the queen to sleep. She turned her head at the sound of their entering, and immediately wriggled out of my arms and toddled over to Grace. She lifted her arms to her and Grace immediately swept her up to her hip. Grace is delighted by Lucy's obvious affection for her, and Lucy clearly adores her biggest sister. It's a beautiful thing to see.

Next time the queen wakes up in one of her moods, I'm calling Grace and heading for the treadmill. Looks to me like everyone would prefer that anyway.

Dazzled

On my way out of work today, my friend/pseudo-boss/co-worker/important guy at work called me into his office. Before I reached his office, I had seen that his door was closed and, being already late to leave for school pick ups, began coaching myself immediately "just keep walking. just keep walking." Of course I didn't, and ended up having a conversation that, well, sort of dazzled me.

He asked me if I would be interested in his job. Let me be clear--he is not the hiring manager. He will not decide who ultimately takes his position when he moves on to his recently announced promotion. But he will have a voice. And he proceeded to tell me how highly regarded I am, and how I shouldn't tell him I was interested unless I really was because I would have a shot if I said I wanted it. Let me also say that he happens to be my biggest fan. He has always been completely supportive of my work; he likes me and wants to see me succeed. I'm not certain he is altogether objective in his assessment of me and my capabilities.

Nevertheless, he is highly regarded within the company and recently received a promotion to a level within the company that I would say less than 5% of people within our company ever achieve. He isn't nobody and he isn't a sucker who thinks everybody is good at what they do. Even with his recommendation there would be no guarantee I would get the job. But it sure wouldn't hurt.

When he first asked if I would be interested, I said no. I don't want it. I've seen the hours he puts in. I've seen how stressed out he gets and how difficult and unrewarding the work can be. But woah.

When I started with this company this was the job I thought to myself "maybe someday". It looks interesting. Challenging. Full of opportunities for visibility. And the pay and prestige aren't bad either.

So, tonight, I'm allowing myself a moment of "what if... maybe..." even as I know that my initial instinct was correct.

Case in point. Tonight as we had this conversation, I had one nervous eye on the clock. I should have left before I even stepped into his office, but he started stroking my ego almost immediately and I'm a sucker for a compliment. So I stayed and the precious minutes ticked by--minutes when I should have been racing to school pick ups where my precious little ducks were waiting. But I didn't, and I ended up in the "third wave" at school. The first wave is for the stay at home moms and nannies and more organized working moms and dads. The second wave is for those of us who are a tad overscheduled, a bit scatterbrained, and just don't quite have it all together. The third wave is for the real losers. The ones who fall asleep or pass out when pick up time comes, the ones who are so obssessed by their careers they can't be bothered to make it to pick ups even close to on time. If I were to take this job that moment of needing to leave and being tied up and unable to would be repeated day after day. I would travel more and be pulled into late afternoon discussions and crack of dawn meetings. I would be needed far more and in dramatically higher demand than I am today.

This afternoon, the kids (forgiving, generous as all kids are) started laying it on the moment I was within earshot "Mo-om. Did you forget about us? Where WERE you?" I admitted to them what I was doing and why. "How would you feel about extended care every day?" I asked. "YEAH!" Sammy exclaimed. "No-o," Grace sighed. Claire had already been delivered to extended care since her loser mom failed to show up in the first 2 respectable pick up waves so wasn't available for comment. So the score stands at 1-1. Since Lucy cries and runs away as soon as I arrive to pick her up every day I can guess where her sentiments lie. (I'd pick Theresa over me as my mom any day, too. I'm not judging). And Chad is dazzled by the prospect of so much more money.

But I already know what I'll decide. My little ducks are growing so fast and as flattered as I am by his suggestion, I know I would be miserable. So, okay, I'm 80% sure. My ego is pitching a screaming fit worthy of the queen at her most irrational even as I type the words. So I'll need to let my inner queen duck have her say. But, in the end, I'm certain cooler voices will prevail. Is it a bit troubling that I describe the "sides" in this argument so convincingly as separate people? They are both me. Completely me. Therein lies the rub. Motherhood forces me continually to deny one part of myself. I know that I am choosing correctly, it's just that the career duck is so polished, so professional, so damn convincing. The mama duck is so simpering and inarticulate, muttering about big blue eyes and time racing by. Her arguments are so pale by the world's standards. I walked away from my best career prospects when Grace was an infant and I've never regretted the decision. I cried for the first and only time in a professional setting when I made my decision known, but it was unquestionably the right one.

Oh, sure, my pride throws her little tantrums now and then, especially on nights like tonight when I have to decide which path I'll choose yet again. She will thrash and shriek and dance dozens of scenarios before my eyes. I've learned to ride out these outbursts the same way I do toddler furies. I make sure she can't hurt herself with the flailing and writhing, and I stand calmly aside until she's finished. I've chosen my path and the promotions can wait. This isn't the right opportunity and I (am pretty sure I) know it. Before long these precious ducklings will need me so much less. They will all consistently sleep through the night and wipe their own butts. When that time comes I can look for more opportunities again. My career is bound to last another 30 or so years. My babies will be small for far less than that.

Still, I am completely flattered. And dazzled. And that keeps me just this side of certain what I'll decide.

Busy

I stumbled across this poem that I think I need to memorize. My precious little ducks: I'm hanging this up over my wash machine, my desk at work, and my kitchen sink. I promise I will keep trying....

My hands were busy through the day.
I didn't have much time to play
The little games you asked me to,
I didn't have much time for you.
I'd wash your clothes.
I'd sew and cook,
But when you'd bring your picture book
And asked me please to share your fun,
I'd say, "A little later son."
I'd tuck you in all safe at night
And hear your prayers, turn out the light,
Then tiptoe softly to the door...
I wish I'd stayed a minute more.
For life is short, the years rush past.
A little boy grows up so fast.
No longer is he at your side,
His precious secrets to confide.
The picture books are put away,
There are no longer games to play.
No good-night kisses, no prayers to hear,
That all belongs to yesteryear.
My hands once busy now are still
The days are long and hard to fill.
I wish I could go back and do
The little things you asked me to.
Author Unknown

Let down

My sister Carrie and my two nephews Nico and Eli went home today. I have loads of posts (all in my head just now) about the fabulous week we've had--the birthday party, the baptism, the First Communion, the almost frog catching extravaganza. But I'm afraid I won't be able to write much until all the crap I've put off the last week is done. I literally had to dig my computer out from under a mountain of unwritten thank you notes and unopened mail just to type this. Not to mention the fact that my ebb and flow job is ebbing like crazy right now (enough in depth cost analysis to make someone far more mathy than me start to see double), my kids need a complete detox to come down from the permanent sugar high of cake-and-ice-cream events back to back to back, we all need to catch up on a dozen or so lost hours of sleep, and we may be eating leftovers for the next 6 months (due to a slight miscalculation on ham and white buns).

But for now, I'm tired. Lucy and Claire have been whining since Chad walked in the door (no judgement on him, just the inevitable awful timing of a punchy pre-schooler and a tired toddler), and I've been negotiating jolly ranchers vs. chicken as supper since Sam woke up from his dreaded late afternoon nap (will the boy ever go to sleep tonight?) Chad is coughing and cranky and I have little reserve to nurture much more than a nice glass of red wine right now (as if!) I'm feeling the inevitable and predictable let down I feel every time my beloved sister and her boys heads home to Texas. I know living the permanent vacation isn't reality, but it is so fun while it lasts, and so not fun to wrestle my way back into our hectic reality, especially when I let myself get behind like this.

Fear not, however. Mama Duck will return--maybe about the time we eat up the last of that ham. Fourth of July sounds about right...