I survived winter break!

It all begins with childbirth. The only thing that gets you through the torturous hell of some evil demon trying to rip you in half is knowing that you will be meeting your little angel at any moment. When you're in the thick of it, you swear to God that you will NEVER DO THIS AGAIN! And when it's over, and you are face to face with the angelic little devil, you thank God for this little blessing and for getting you through it and for (hopefully) overlooking that
"never again" thing.

And then your little angel learns to say "mama" and it is the most angelic little sound you have ever heard. I swear I heard harps playing the very first time I heard my angels say "mama". But then "mama" becomes "mommy", and that doesn't have quite the same heavenly ring to it. Somewhere around the the 3 millionth "mommy" of the day I start to feel like I am standing at the threshold of hell. Suddenly it gets REALLY hot in here and my little angels are growing horns. With four little angel, there doesn't seen to be any gap at all between the "mommy, mommy, mommies"! I'm pretty sure that sometimes, they just say it out of habit, and if I answer, they have to think quick of something they can make me do for them. AND THEN THE SOUND OF THE THESE LITTLE DEVILS TORMENTING YOU WITH THIS ONE SINGLE WORD EVERYDAY ALL DAY HAS YOU THINKING ABOUT WRITING TO THE MILITARY AND SUGGESTING THAT THEY USE THIS TECHNIQUE AS A TORTURE TACTIC! Come 5 p.m. (and 45 million "mommies" later) on any given day of motherhood, I will break any allegiance I have ever had in return for an hour of babysitting.

Truth be told, almost any heavenly moment of motherhood really does come with a pinch of hell. This week, my children had the week off from school which meant it would be just me and the angels/devils, all alone, all day, all week. Hell. That sounds harsh, I know but there are four of them and one of me and...do I really need an "and"? But, I made it my mission for the week to not only survive, which is usually all I pray for, but to enjoy.

One day, I took my little angels bowling, along with a couple other little angels from next door. That makes 6 little angels, but who's counting (ME!). When I walked into the bowling alley, the two people working there looked at me with great confusion and pity.

"Just you with all these kids?"

"Yes just me."

"Are you all from a school or camp or something?"

"No. Four are mine and two are our neighbors. I'm pretty sure if we were from a school or camp, I would have been legally obligated to bring another chaperone along."

Right away, all hell broke lose. I tried to sit down to put my bowling shoes on and next thing I knew there were bowling balls bouncing of the floor or rolling down lanes we weren't even using, a two year old running down the lanes, boys fighting over bowling balls and dropping them on their toes, a baby crying, waiting impatiently for a bottle, and four little devils already whining about being hungry and thirsty.

And then there was the thousands of "IS IT MY TURN?!" "HEY THAT'S MY BALL." "HE'S TOUCHING MY BAAAAAL!" "I WAS GONNA USE THAT LANE!" "WHO'S WINNING?" "AM I WINNING?" "HOW COME I'M NOT WINNING!!!!!!" "I WANTED TO WIIIIIIIIIN!!!!!!!!!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!"

And did I mention the broken glass?

After I loaded all of them into the car to go home, the little angels said "Thank you for taking us. That was so fun." And you know what? It was. Heavenly, even.

The next day, I took my two oldest angels skiing. It was the first time for both of them and it was the perfect day; warm and sunny. I had to lug multiple sets of skiis and poles all over the mountain, not to mention the occassional exhausted 4 year old angel who refused to rest because he was having so much fun. And again, I heard multiple, unsolicited "thank yous" and "this is so much fun!" from the angels. Heavenly!

And then we had to leave. I had to get home to relieve the babysitter who was home with the littlest angels. And the two little devils had simultaneous melt-downs that were so bad it was as if they were competing to see which one could be more evil. Leo was all at once, furious that we had to stop skiing, and so tired that he could not form a single excruciating sentence. And Madeline, who had had a wonderful day and spent the whole morning asking when we could come back again, had one bad run right at the end and was now swearing off skiing FOREVER!

"I'M NEVER SKIING AGAIN! I'M THE WORST SKIIER EVER! WHY DID YOU MAKE ME COME HERE! I HATE SKIIIIIIIIIIIING!!!! STOP CRYING LEO! YOU'RE SUCH A BABY!"

"YOU STOP CRYING MADDIE! YOU ARE THE WORST SKIIER EVER!!!!!!!"

Those first ten minutes with those evil little devils, on the ride home from our glorious, heavenly day together -pure hell.

And the next ten minutes, when both of my new little skiing angels fell fast asleep and I reflected on our day...heaven.

I could go on and on with this heaven and hell thing. In fact, I think all of my stories about motherhood reflect this. It is truly the hardest job you could ever love. But it's true what they say:

Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Anything worth having is worth fighting for.

No pain, no gain.

I often feel like my children have been possessed by Satan and are trying to throw me into the fiery pits of hell. But at the end of every day when I do that final check to make sure the little devils are tucked in nice and warm, I can always see a bright halo over their little sleeping heads (sleeping children are especially angelic). And as that painful little knot in my neck begins to loosen and my migraine begins to subside, I lay my head on my pillow feeling just a little bit like a battered warrior.

Baby Ginger is 1: A fresh start for an old soul

The Stork Story, (an excerpt)

You know the stork brings babies,
But did you also know
He comes and gets the older folks
When it's their time to go?...

Their memories are all removed
And they're shrunk down, and then
The stork flies them back down to earth
As newborn babes again.

~ Shel Silverstein

A few months ago, my brother Mark, shared with me, a conversation between he and his 4 year old daughter Ava;


Mark: "Do you remember Grandma Ginger?"

Ava: "I remember that she died, and now she is a little baby."

Even now, I can't type this story without tears. The thought that my mother's soul is behind my beautiful baby's eyes is...comforting. When I look at her, or say her name, or hear someone else say her name, it heals me. My heart is mending. It's not broken anymore. It's just forever scarred.

When I found out that baby # 4 was on the way, I was...surprised. I spent nine months telling myself that "I am going to have FOUR kids. FOUR. KIDS!" It made me chuckle really, at the thought of how in over my head I was about to be. But I have faith in God and the universe and I was not scared. And now, as we celebrate her first birthday, I can't believe I ever considered our family complete without her.

We have a habit of going right down to the wire choosing the perfect name for our children (having had four kids I can actually use the word "habit"). It's nerve wracking. A name will inevitably evoke something in others when they hear it. We also have a habit of honoring family names. Each of my children share at least one name with a loved one. So for at least one special someone, it evokes love and honor.

Ginger Jayne is a beautiful collaboration of my late mother, and Darren's mother. Once we found out that we were having another girl, we decided that we were going to use my mother's given name, Virginia, as the baby's middle name and had no idea what the first name would be. Then one day I was searching through my mother's cookbooks looking for the her buckey ball recipe, the candies she notoriously made EVERY year for Christmas, millions of them. Ok, probably not millions, but it seemed like they took over our lives for a few months. Eating one (out of obligation) was like pulling out a gray hair; suddenly seven more appeared in it's in place. We all grew to loath them but that never stopped her from painstakingly making them "for us". So it only makes sense that I have to continue this tradition in her honor. And I vow to do so until my children grow to loath them too and hope that one of them will do the same for their family someday, in my honor. What better way for a loved one to live on than through millions of nauseatingly sweet, chocolate covered peanut butter balls?

Anyway, while looking for this recipe, I found this one page of a journal entry from over 20 years ago. It was the very first page of my mother's new journaling venture (no doubt, a homework assignment from her therapist) and she was just introducing herself to...herself:

"I'll use my real name-my only name: Ginger. That would have been fine enough as an identity. Why they formalized the name, I'll never know. I guess it was the proper thing to do. Hence, Virginia. So unbefitting. I hated it. No one ever used it except school teachers and others who knew me not. Always an embarrassment to say it. To hear it. I am Ginger. GINGER! Short, cute and good enough."

That's when Darren and I both agreed that we preferred Ginger too, rather than Virginia. That is also the moment when we both knew that Ginger might possibly make a great first name. Darren would like full credit for pushing for this idea. He's right, he was the first to mention it, and after doing so, he looked at me and said, mockingly, "I know you think finding this journal entry is a sign or something". He was right. And I knew he did too, but he would never admit it because it's silly or something.

I loved the sound of it, but I was a bit worried about that little bit of momentary heartache that I was getting every time I heard someone, including myself, say it out loud. How long would that last? Could I handle it if it never went away? Could other's handle it? I decided that I thought I could (it was an oddly pleasant heartache after all), and hoped her other loved ones could too. (And not only have they handled it, but they cherish it.) I decided all of this within about two minutes of reading that journal entry, and it only took a few more weeks to convince that little aching piece of my still healing heart that it would be ok. Her name is Ginger.

I can't say for sure if baby Ginger is in fact the beautiful little baby version of Grandma Ginger, but I can tell you, for certain, that she is VERY happy to be here with us. She is ear to ear smile almost ALL the time. When she opens her eyes in the morning, she is beaming even before
she has lifted her little head. And all one has to do is glance at her, and she will smile in reply. She is happy.

I know my mother's regrets, the ones that matter anyway, and not the ones she un-deservingly riddled herself with. She just wanted to be "good enough" to everyone. And in the end, she may have regretted being so hard on herself. This fresh start for an old soul will always know that she is good enough...and then some. She is Ginger Jayne, and "that would have been fine enough as an identity", especially to all of us who loved her namesake. But she is indeed, "and then some". This soul, by any other name, may not have been quite as sweet.

And if it's true (and I prefer to think that it is), that I am now the keeper of the keeper of my mother's soul, I intend to make sure that that smile never goes away. I will give that soul the happy, peaceful, childhood she always yearned for. I will praise her and smother her in hugs and kisses and love. I will teach her that her imperfections are inevitable, her obstacles are surmountable and her mistakes are forgivable.

Little Ginger is one year old. She is "short, cute, and good enough" (perfect actually). She is carrying on my mother's name in her honor, and carrying my mother's soul in her eyes. And when her name is spoken, it evokes very special memories, and a very bright future.

Confessions of a shame-filled mother

I know that sometimes, it sounds like I'm complaining about some of this motherhood stuff. I am. And I have some nerve. And almost every single day when I am knee deep in diapers and tantrums and fights and juice requests and hair that I have pulled out of my head and "mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy....", I am reminded that I should be ashamed of myself.

The other day, I was picking up Leo from pre-k when his teacher told me that her (only) son is so jealous of Leo when he hears all of his stories about his brothers and sisters. He wants a brother or sister soooooo bad. "So what are you waiting for?" I foolishly asked. "I've been trying for four years." Needless to say, as I drove away, I learned that I can drive with one foot in my mouth.

Just the other day, I posted a rant on Facebook about not wanting to teach my almost one year old the word "mommy", at least for another year or two. This was an actual thought that I have had. I can't help wondering if my mental well being will remain in tact (or at least remain hanging on by a thread) when child number four begins to abuse the word like the others do. And just now, I referred to their precious little voices uttering my name as abuse. Shameful. I can't help wondering how some poor infertile woman hasn't responded to one of these mommy rants with a well deserved "shut up and count your blessings you ungrateful witch!"

I have an amazing friend who lost a child whom she had carried full term, very unexpectedly, and only hours after meeting her. It still takes my breath away just thinking about the pain she must have endured. I had no idea, in that moment, how she would pull through that sorrow. And now I admire her as I watch her thrive as a beautiful, happy, healing, positive and thankful mother of three. No bitterness, just a newfound strength.

And just recently, I followed, in awe, a story of a woman who had died just days after her daughter was born, as a community pulled together to honor her dying wish to have her baby thrive on breast milk for the first year of her life. When her doctors told her that her body was shutting down, she told them it was healing. She was going to die, and leave behind her four children, and was at such peace with the process, that she found it therapeutic.

I thank God for my "four beautiful blessings" every night when I say my prayers. And then I apologize for all of my shortcomings as a mother that day, and ask him for more patience to be a better mother tomorrow. I won't lie, it's challenging. One healthy child is challenging for a new mother. Four healthy children can be down right maddening, even for an old pro like myself. But when I am offered up any bit of perspective from any of these amazing ladies, I have to wonder how I got so lucky. What did I do to warrant four beautiful, healthy, happy babies without even trying when there are women out there who struggle to conceive even one?

And while I know my other amazing friend who lost her baby has similar moments of feeling completely overwhelmed and yearns for the patience and strength to be a mother of three, I know that she would give anything to have her baby back, and be an overwhelmed mother of four.

My struggles as a mother of four stem from the good fortune I've been truly blessed with. My children are healthy and strong-willed and capable. When they need something (and they ALWAYS need something) they can ask me, or they may try it themselves (and perhaps make a huge mess in doing so...BREATH...It's ok), or they can try it themselves and succeed. They are growing strong so they are ALWAYS hungry or thirsty and depend solely on me to feed them and quench their thirst which means I live in the kitchen, which thankfully connects to the laundry room where I also work full time because they are also active and fun and messy. They are smart so they are ALWAYS asking questions. They are capable so they want to learn how to ride a bike, tie shoes, roller skate, swim, play sports, read, etc. , which can be utterly exhausting and magnificently rewarding. They can speak and express themselves which can sometimes be REALLY INFURIATING and other times can melt my heart. And best of all, they are HERE, and I am HERE with them.

As parents, we worry about the millions of things that could happen to our children. I have been terrified by the very idea of facing any of the challenges these other mother's have faced. I am humbled by the incredibly admirable strength and grace with which they have faced these challenges. I am ashamed of all of my whining about having to answer to yet another "mommy" from yet another of my beautiful, healthy babies.

I am sorry.

I am blessed.

Christmas in hind sight.

It all began around 6:30 a.m. the morning after Thanksgiving with a black friday crazed elf (35 It year old grown man) singing Christmas carols while yanking me out of bed to begin our Christmas shopping. I'm as eager as anyone to jump into the Christmas season, but at this particular hour, as he ripped the warm covers off of me and dragged me out of bed and held me up and made me dance to his holiday cheer, all while I was still asleep, I put him at the top of my naughty list.

A cup of coffee and a few rounds of "It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas" later, my holiday spirit kicked in.

I have always loved the Christmas season. And now, having four little ones to share the magic and excitement with, it's almost more joy than I can bare. I am overwhelmed with the honor of carrying on the tradition of my late mother, even if that means I have to spend days rolling millions of little peanut butter balls that many of the people I plan to share them with can barely stand the sight of (myself included).

I do my best to explain the true meaning of Christmas to my children. I put out my mother's nativity scene and tell them the story of baby Jesus. I take them to Church and I pray that they pay attention. And while they seem to want to understand, I can tell they are distracted by yet another thing they just thought of for their Christmas list. Maybe next year.

And as some of my loved ones and our traditions have slipped away from me, I am devoted to creating new ones for my children to cherish and carry on. And in spite of my better judgment, I want one of those traditions to be utter amazement when they wake up on Christmas morning; I want to spoil them. Little Leo woke up to a present so awesome that he stood speechless for a moment and then stuttered in a little whisper, "it...it's just...what I wanted. It's...my favorite...thing. I can't believe it".

And for my retribution, I spend the next few weeks opening absurd packaging, some of which actually require a screwdriver just to open it, spend days trapped in an abyss of "some assembly required",spend several infuriating hours trying to transform Leo's Transformer that has 21 steps and I'm certain states somewhere in the ultra fine print "hahahaha good luck sucker", and spend the next year staring at toys that my children only played with once or twice before I start clearing them out for next Christmas. And it's still worth it.

I used to feel so bad for my mom and dad because Santa seemed to forget all about them. And now I am as shocked as anyone to learn that it actually is better to give than to receive.

Santa is awesome. But that naughty and nice list can be tricky. How does one threaten their child with the naughty list, knowing full well that Santa doesn't have the heart to disappoint a child on Christmas morning, even if, in all reality, said child should have made the "little asshole" list?

And how is a once sweet and innocent little 4 year old supposed to contain his excitement(hyperactivity) and joy (anxiety) at the thought of a jolly ol' man and his flying reindeer bringing him a sleigh full of anything he can possibly think of to put on his ever growing Christmas list? And when he cannot handle the pressure of the nice list or the angst of the naughty list and thus loses complete control of his behavior all together, how is mom supposed to look him in the eye and tell him Santa is watching, knowing that Santa is going to blow his mind no matter how demonic he acts, without losing all credibility as a parent?

So, needless to say, everyone made the nice list this year. And after Santa came with his haul, and mom and dad stood back to take it all in, we experienced our usual pangs of guilt at the sight of our overindulgence. But, in our defense, THERE IS NOTHING LIKE IT. There is nothing like creating a moment for your children that is so thrilling that it literally takes this ones breath away, and leaves that one speechless.

My amazing children have offered up some humbling perspective. As Madeline sat in awe at the pile of presents just waiting for her and her brothers and sisters, she said "I feel like we live in an orphanage with 50 orphans." Yes, our Christmas for our four children would have made 50 orphans very happy. Ouch.

And just yesterday, little Leo, who's behavior has been much improved since the pressures of Santa and naughty lists and little spying elves on shelves have eased, told me that he's still trying to stay on Santa's nice list, even though he does not want anymore presents, because he already got enough, "more than enough".

And of course, there are the babies, who were all together, unimpressed, and were their usual happy little selves, not because of the gifts, but regardless of them.

This was my greatest gift this year, my children and their grateful perspectives. They taught me a Christmas lesson. And in doing so, I have made it my New years resolution, or better yet, my mission as a parent and a fellow human being, to give back more, and to teach my children to do the same. We are blessed, and  I want them, and myself, to not only be thankful for our blessings, but to pay them forward.

Leo vs. Santa

Two years ago, I was able to use Santa Claus and his magical powers to potty train Leo. I told him that Santa doesn't bring toys to almost 3 year old boys who poop in their pants. Sure, looking back at it now, it seems a bit drastic. But it worked, instantly.

So, for three months now, I have been reminding Leo, OFTEN, that he better watch out, he better not shout, cry, pout etc. because Santa Claus is coming blah, blah, blah. But he just can't help himself. He's just a spastic little four year old with more energy than he knows what to do with and no matter how hard he tries, sometimes it is "just too hard to be good". Like when everything does NOT go HIS way ALL THE TIME! That is NOT FAIR! Or when he is expected to SHARE his toys. That too is SO NOT FAIR! Or when I wrestle him into a shirt that he DOES NOT LIKE! NOT FAIR!

He's a typical little four year old. There is no logical explanation to combat his illogical rationale. I remember this with Madeline when she was this age, but she didn't have the stick-to-it-iveness that he has. She was a fast learner. One time, when my father was with us, she and I were having a small disagreement about something. We went back and forth for a bit and I finally simply reminded her that I will always win these arguments because I'm MOM. My father loved that line and he's always asking me if I'm still winning all the arguments. I am. But with four kids now, there is A LOT of arsenal on their side. And the four year old is their secret weapon. He is the indestructible one, the one who is immune to all of my secret weapons, even Santa.

So this year, I've brought in back up-the Elf of the Shelf. I figured maybe little mister smarty pants has convinced himself that there is no way Santa can see him all the time if he can't see Santa. So I thought, perhaps if we had a sneaky, creepy little elf spying on us and staring at us every second of the day with a sinister little grin on his face, who's job it is to report back to Santa every night, Leo might once again be scared straight. Hardly.

I like to see Leo sweating it out a little. I see him flashing our little elf his "what exactly did you tell Santa last night" glare and his "please help me get on the good list" eyes. "I know I've been naughty, but look how sweet I am right now with my big blue eyes. Can't you pull some strings for me? Put in a good word for me? Please."

And I always know when he his fretting about the naughty list. Suddenly I'll hear a sweet little voice-

Leo: "mommy?"

Me: "Yes"

Leo: "I love you."

Me: "Oooh, thank you. I love you too."

Leo: "Do you think Santa heard me say that? Do you think I'm on the good list now?"

Let's be honest. Little Leo is going to have a great Christmas, because, bottom line, he's a special, sweet, wonderful little boy who is just, a little boy. Santa has faith in Leo. Santa knows that Leo is going to snap out of this "giant pain in the ass" phase and grow into the caring, kind, helpful, thoughtful, fun little boy we all know he is in spite of himself. Santa could never break Little Leo's heart on Christmas morning. Santa...is a sucker.

Return to Church

I've started going to church. I went back to the church I was raised in. The one my mother devoted so much of her life to. The one I resented all those years, because it was violating my weekends. The one that I turned my back on the moment I turned 18 and had the choice. And the one that I delivered my mother's eulogy in, and had not been in since.

I was so torn about going back there. I couldn't imagine worshiping in any other church. But I was nervous to go back to the place where I had last seen and said a final goodbye to my mother. Granted she was in a closed casket, but through the powers of my grief induced x-ray vision, I could see her, beautiful, and resting in peace.

The first time I went, I was welcomed by so many people confirming how very happy my mother would be to see us there. I think our being there filled a void for my mother's church family, just as they did for me. One woman sitting behind me asked me if it was strange or comfortable to be back there. I said "it is strangely comfortable." That it was. I felt a noticeable absence without my mother sitting next to me in our usual seat (which I was so relieved to find seemingly reserved just for my return). And I even missed her embarrassing tummy growling at the most inappropriate moments that always gave us the very embarrassing and inappropriate giggles. But...she was there. I could feel her, so glowingly happy and proud to see me there by my own choice, with my own children. And I sat with a lump in my throat and tear brimmed eyes the entire time.

But I don't go just to make mom happy (although that makes me happy). And I don't go just because it is the one place I can go where NO ONE is aloud to speak to me for ONE WHOLE HOUR, other than God (although that makes me VERY happy!).

I go to God's house because it gives me a peace and calm and solitude that I rarely get in my own home which is bursting at the seams with children and their boisterousness. I pray for an ounce of this peace in my home...this week.

I go because I am blessed with a house full of healthy, happy, boisterous children. I pray for that to last...forever.

I go because I am exhausted and perhaps a tad resentful from slaving away at my thankless job as a stay-at-home mom all week. I pray for one thank you...this week.

I go to thank God for blessing me with the amazing man who loves me and works hard to provide for our family so that I may stay home and raise our children. I pray for the strength to be worthy of this task and to remain loveable to him...this week.

I go because only God could make sense of all of this.

I go because I don't have to explain myself to God. I don't have to whine and vent and complain for him to understand. I don't have to say a word. And yet he answers me:

"I know it's hard, giving everything you've got, every second of every day, and feeling like it's not enough. I know it seems impossible to handle all that you have taken on. I know that you want only the very best for the people you love so very much. I know that you sometimes feel neglected while you are struggling to love and care for everyone else. I know that sometimes, you just miss and need your mother. TRUST ME, I know that unconditional love can be very trying."

"I know that this world scares you sometimes. I But stay focused on your children, and I will stay focused on mine. TRUST ME, it scares me too sometimes."

"I know that you are under the spell of good intentions. Everything you do is for the good of your family. Even those screaming fits you have and instantly regret are only because you are momentarily convinced that repeating yourself LOUDLY and scaring the hell out of your children may have a better outcome than the first 50 times when you asked calmly and nicely. I get angry too sometimes. It's ok. TRUST ME, I know all about unruly children."

"I know that you are still the patient person you wish to be. But I also know that you are the mother of four, and you are only human. TRUST ME, I know that human beings are not perfect."

"I know that when you say 'Lord help me' a million times a day, it's because you genuinely need a heavenly hand, and not a sarcastic plea for pity.

"I know that when you ask one of your children 'WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD ARE YOU DOING?!' you know that even I may not have the answer to that."

"I know that you do not need to hear 'thank you' to know that they are thankful for you. TRUST ME, I know all about seemingly ungrateful children."

"TRUST ME, I know this parenting thing is hard sometimes. You are doing well. You are loving and you are loved. You are blessed and you are thankful. You are here today, and I am with you, always. And you've made your mother very happy. TRUST ME."

"Go now, in peace (at least for the moment)."

It's amazing what you can hear when there is no one around to ask you for some juice every 15 seconds. And somehow, I feel a little less crazy and overwhelmed, at least for the next few days, until we meet again.

Amen.

Children at play...baby on board...kids crossing...BEWARE OF CHILDREN!

I often wonder just how crazy I look to my neighbors when I dare to take all four kids outside to "play". Last week, I finally got Madeline riding a two wheeler. I've tried the previous two summers, but I was (WAS!) always pregnant and a pregnant woman running behind and holding up a teetering child on a bike is not effective...and just plain ridiculous. But something clicked the other day, and now she is a two wheelin' bike rider.

And now Leo MUST be a two wheelin' bike rider too. So I ventured out just before nap time with all of them, including a tired and cranky, but stubborn and insistent 4 year old who would half-assed attempt to coast down the hill trying to strike a balance, but no way in hell was he dragging that "dumb bike" back up the hill to try again. But he WAS going to DO IT AGAIN(!) so would I "PLEASE JUST BRING THE DUMB BIKE BACK UP THE HILL!" for him? With that kind of enthusiasm and those good manners, of course i will.

And while I'm carrying his bike, I'll continue to intercept the out of control 22 month old on the battery powered, 5 mile an hour tractor as he is sort of getting the hang of it and screaming at me to BACK OFF so he can do it himself (loosely translated), even as he keeps driving off into the forest and then screaming in frustration until I rescue him. And then I will go peel Madeline off the pavement and break up the fight between her and her bike which she now "HATES!" and she "HATES BIKE RIDING TOO! IT'S HORRIBLE!" and she will "NEVER DO IT AGAIN!" because she is "THE WORST BIKE RIDER EVER!" And as I pour on the "ya gotta get back on the bike, honey. Falling is a part of learning. But you gotta get back on!" inspirational speech, I can hear the FORD F-150 slowly coming down our quiet, dead end, family friendly street. And by the time I turn around, the truck and my toddler on a toy tractor are now playing chicken in the middle of the road. Fortunately, my stone faced, unflinching kid is winning, or at least my neighbor has been kind enough to stop his vehicle, give me a patient wave, wait for me to drop the two bikes I'm towing, dust of my daughter, scan the road for Leo who is sitting in our driveway and being NO HELP AT ALL, and a baby in a stroller (who has been no where near the the road and resting contentedly under a shady tree with a rattle and a smile, but just in case she too lost control of her vehicle...), and drag toddler and tractor to safety.

I realize this entire experience sounds a bit out of control and riddled with anxiety, but it was great fun. And rest assured, anyone who turns down my street while we are in the middle of it could not possibly miss my family and our convoy of vehicles, bicycles and strollers up ahead. In fact, it is quite possible that my kind neighbor began to yield when he surely heard the whining and bike bashing and felt the the earth shaking stubborn, frustrated foot stomping from miles away.

Baby Ginger's face, in the midst of all this cautious chaos, summed it up perfectly...with a silent smirk and laughing eyes "These people are crazy and this woman is in way over her head but I'm so happy to be here."