Grace through cupcakes?

I never intended for two months to pass between blog posts. This is sort of silly and embarrassing. Despite my great hopes and ambitions of doing a DAILY blog to detail, with painstaking accuracy, the ups and downs of being a single mom five days a week, this simply didn't happen.

And, why not? Why not, in my copious amount of spare time, could I not find the wherewithal to pen an intellectual, thought-provoking treatise seven days a week?

The answer is two-fold:

1. I don't have copious amounts of spare time to write (and nor, for that matter, do my friends and family have copious amounts of time to read my blog posts).
2. Not a whole lot of interesting stuff happens in our household each and every day. The kids and I wake up, get dressed, gobble down some breakfast and, if we're lucky, we get to school with one or two minutes to spare. On Fridays, if we're feeling ambitious, we get donuts on the way to school.

 Feeling untrue to my inner blogger, I was feeling contrite for my lax attitude about the whole thing, when a few things came to pass during the past week.

Childhood, or Anarchy?

Let's just say that listening ears in the Hastings household have not been up at full volume lately. I count myself as part of the problem here, as I am sure I've been doing a lot of talking (and cajoling and scolding and huffing and puffing) but not a whole lot of listening. In turn, my sweeties have found either great pleasure or just great curiosity in testing their own selective listening skills all while also trying out new behaviors. Like, you know, fibbing. Or ignoring me. Suffice it to say that conversations that take place after the initiation of said behavior do not go well.

On Monday, Elizabeth proudly announced to me, as she was piling into the car when I picked them up from school, that she ate the apples I'd packed in her lunch. Note: getting her to eat fruits and veggies of any sort requires high levels of intensive diplomacy and negotiation.

"Really? That's great!"

A pause. Silence.

"Lizzie, did you eat your apples?"

Pause.

"Well," she began ... "I had one but the rest were kind of icky."

"So, you DIDN'T eat all of your apples?"

Pause.

"Elizabeth?"

"No," she whispered.

"So, that was a fib?"

"Yes," she said with a dramatic sigh.

Okay, so she got busted for that.

Later that evening, when it was well past 9:00, David came into my room and asked if he could either keep reading or play for a bit. "No, sweetie, it's past your bedtime. Time to tuck in."

"Okay," he said, and trotted off.

Thirty minutes passed and I peeked in on him. There he was, sitting on his bed, lights on in the room, playing Sudoku.

"David? Did I tell you to go to bed?"

"Yes," he said quietly, but not looking up from the puzzle he was working on.

"Did you?"

"No," he confessed, still looking at his book.

"WHY NOT?" I asked, getting a tad shrill.

"Because I wanted to do Sudoku."

After we'd established that he had, in fact, ignored me, it was confirmed that he, too, was busted.


And these incidents, while certainly not the end of the world, do make me wonder whether I'm giving priority to the right things. The kids go to a highly challenging school, where the work load ramps up with each grade. This year has been a doozy for David, and he's finding it hard to adjust to the fact that some subjects might just take a bit of work to master. Don't get me started on the poor kid's penmanship; he gets that from his parents. And yet, with all of this in mind, I feel a huge pang of guilt whenever we come home from school and see the neighborhood kids playing outside. David automatically rolls down his car window and calls out, "sorry, can't play. I have homework."

What kind of childhood is that, I ask you?

I don't think any of us have a great answer to that, because no balance between work and play is perfect. But the one thing I could indulge the kids in this week was to prepare dessert for a "birthday party" they were throwing for one of Elizabeth's baby dolls. On a whim, I made a batch of chocolate cupcakes for the kids to enjoy with their stuffed and plastic companions.

Ultimately, it was a win-win situation all around: the kids got celebrated play time, the baby doll got a birthday party, and I found Zen both through baking and seeing the beautiful smiles light up my kids' faces.

Words of comfort?

David, Elizabeth and I had the delicious pleasure of having Glen with us and, for the most part, all to ourselves for two glorious weeks in December and the first week of January. Glen and I spent wonderful hours together assembling Christmas morning on Christmas Eve, and we watched the kids' sheer joy in finding the treasures left for them under the Christmas tree. We drove to the Bay area, and spent time with the other Hastings cousins, visited Glen at the Facebook campus, and stayed warm and cozy in our small little apartment. We returned to the south land right before New Years, and David and Elizabeth spent several lazy days with nothing better to do but stay in their pajamas, play with their new toys, and bask in the glow of being with Daddy.

Of course, Glen had to return to his normal schedule in the Bay area sooner or later, and the kids and I took Glen to the airport on January 6. And David has pretty much not been the same ever since.

Sunday evenings are always difficult for David, given that's when he has to say "so long" to Glen for the week. But it's been harder this time. It's difficult to console an inconsolable child. David is so very young and very small, and I know it's difficult for him to process many of the facts that remain: 1) Daddy's job is a good one that he truly enjoys; 2) our commute schedule will not last forever, but it must last for a while yet; and 3) David needs some very real coping skills.

Elizabeth? She's easy. And she's noticed David's struggles of late, as well. When she sees him cry on Sunday evenings, Elizabeth puts on her game face, and puts her arm around her big brother. She even went so far as to say, "David! I am just trying to be a big sister to you!" after one of her affectionate overtures was sort of rebuffed by her very sad brother. It's amazing to hear a five-year-old girl say to her big brother, "there there, David. It's going to be okay."

Of course Elizabeth misses her daddy when he's gone, but it's clear that she and Glen have a very different bond than the one shared by David and Glen. David and Glen are soul brothers. They share a love of football, basketball, Lego and ... well, more Lego. The two days they spent together over the winter break building David's new Lego Death Star were nothing short of magical for all parties involved. And when Glen departs, he takes a little piece of David's heart with him.

It's no secret that David has inherited the uptight, anxious components of his personality from his mother. That's clear as day. For the most part, Glen is mellow, and I'm the worrier. Of course these roles shift from time to time, but it's safe to say that I'm the appointed hand-wringer in the family. I always have been.

And when I see David behave and act in a manner that reminds me of my own childhood anxieties, it's difficult to watch. Case in point: after a bout of "chirping" smoke detectors (whose batteries needed replacing) in the middle of the night a couple of months ago, David became terrified that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground. Flashback to when I was 9 years old: my grandfather purchased smoke detectors for our home in Corona (because, back in 1979, smoke detectors were the newest thing), and I was convinced that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground.

At the same time, after a while the repeated cries of "I MISS DADDY" get a little old, particularly when they keep a nine-year-old boy up at night, and then make him terribly groggy and cranky in the morning. And Glen and I agree that we're torn between several different ways to approach this: 1) seek therapy for the little guy; 2) console and comfort as best as we can; 3) tell him that, at some point, he'll need to get a grip. I hesitate to emphasize any of the three exclusively, but a balanced combination of the three might be in order.

The first Sunday Glen returned to the Bay area, I was snuggling with David as I tucked him in to bed. We chatted about how a son and daddy have a special bond, and one that is different than that between a girl and her daddy, or even a girl and her mommy. I explained to David that bonds are special, good, and important, and are real reasons why Daddy being up north tugs at his heartstrings so much.

As I kissed his soft hair and continued to wipe his tears, he confided in me the following thought: "Sometimes, Mommy, I think it would be easier for me if you were the one who left each week, and not Daddy. No offense."

I assured him that no offense was taken at all. I told him, "I am so glad you feel comfortable and safe enough to tell me that. It's all good."

Indeed, if Glen and I are creating and maintaining a home where David and Elizabeth feel completely safe to speak the truth, then we are doing something right. David doesn't need to know that, after we finally said goodnight, I returned to my bedroom, gutted.

So, I guess the Boogey Man is Real

For us, Friday morning started out with absolutely bucolic splendor. The skies were crystal blue, accented by puffy, white, post-rain clouds. The delicious chill in the air finally heralded December-appropriate temperatures. The kids and I left the house just a bit early, with time to spare to stop by our favorite doughnut store to get some before-school treats.

Little did I know ... heck, little did anyone of us know ... that such special moments with my little ones would, without warning, suddenly seem so remarkably special.

Like most people, I cannot begin to wrap my head around the concept of 20 small children being gunned down in what should have been the safe confines of their classroom at school. I do not know these children, their families, or their brave and heroic teachers who did all that they could to shield their charges from flying bullets and sheer, unadulterated terror. I cannot begin to fathom the bone-crushing pain that these families are enduring, as their children are sent to heaven. I am gutted by the notion that, for these families, Christmas, Hanukkah, and the New Year will simply never be happy holidays again.

My work day at HMC was, I admit, pretty much a wash once I began to learn of the slaughter that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School, about 2,816 miles away from my home. Of course, I thought instantly of David and Elizabeth, and their friends, and their friends' families, and the wonderful teachers and staff at Foothill Country Day School. At one point, I looked at my clock, saw that it was 11:45 a.m., and decided that would be a perfect time to drop everything, go over to the school, find the kids, and hug them.

I pulled into the school's parking lot about 10 minutes later, and found Elizabeth and her class, enjoying a post-lunch activity with their wonderful athletics coach. Miss B (the coach) saw me in the doorway, and when I pantomimed the motion of  "hug," she knew instantly why I was there. Obviously, Miss B and others were aware of the national tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. She said, "Elizabeth! Your mommy is here!" Elizabeth looked excitedly at the doors, saw me, and said, "MOMMY!" And she ran to me. We shared a quick embrace, I planted a kiss on her silky blond hair, and she went merrily back to her friends to complete the day's lessons.

I paused just for a moment, breathless with the notion that 20 families in Newtown, CT, would never again hear the beautiful sound of their child calling their name, feeling the warmth of their child's hug, or even see the quizzical look in their child's eyes, asking, "what the heck are you doing here?"

Then, it was time to find David. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after 12 noon. His class would be starting their lunch break now. Sure enough, I saw David and his classmates leaving their classroom, happily skipping to the lunch line to pick up their hot lunch for the Day. "Hi, Mrs. Hastings!" a chorus of happy voices sang out as I started walking toward them. "Hi, Mommy!" said my little man.

I gave him a quick squeeze, asked for permission to kiss him in front of his friends, and let him go about his day.

The kids usually leave school at 5:00 on Fridays so that they can take part in an after-school chess class. I decided that pulling them out early would not solve anything, so I went back to work and followed CNN the rest of the day.

At 5:00 I was at the school, in my car and waiting for my little ones to come out to the pick-up area. They bounded into the car. And then I told them what happened in Newtown.

I was stunned and, quite frankly, proud of David's first question: "The gunman is dead, right?" he said, with a swagger in his voice that matched my vitriol for the &*$%#@ who pulled the trigger in Sandy Hook.

"Yes, buddy, the guy is dead."

And then Elizabeth asked the $64,000 question for which there is no answer: "Why would he do that?"

We went about our evening, running a few errands to get ready for the cookie party we were having at the house the next afternoon. We stopped by Costco for a quick slice of pizza (for Elizabeth and me), and as we were browsing around, Elizabeth spotted a toy she's coveted for quite some time: a Pillow Pets Dream Lights plush toy.

"Mommy! They have Dream Lights!" she called out, and promptly began reciting the song played in the commercial that is forever streamed on the Nickelodeon channel.

"Mommy! Can we get this? It will help me not be afraid of any monsters in my room," she said.

A quick pause, and then I asked her, "which one would you like?" absolutely speechless with the profundity of her statement. Were it only as simple as having a soothing light in a dark, dark world to ensure that the Boogey Man will forever stay the hell away from my babies.

Gap time

Wow, where did eight weeks go? Not that the handful of people who follow my blog have been waiting with bated breath for a new posting, but, seriously. I've been slacking.

It has been almost two months since my last blog post, and it is probably a good thing that, in terms of single parenthood (during the weekdays), there is nothing new to report.

Now, I will say that the last week and a half was a delicious exception, because Glen was home. He insisted on being back down in Southern California for Halloween, not only to see the kids in their adorable costumes, but also to partake of our wonderful neighbor's Eight-Alarm chili that we share together every Halloween night. Then, just a few days after that, he had meetings in Palm Springs for Harvey Mudd College, more events for their alumni board on November 7, and then we both had the annual fundraiser for the kids' school on November 9.


Suffice it to say that when Glen packed up his trusty old truck on Sunday afternoon and hit the road for the Bay area, the house was notably emptier after having relished 11 days of daddy and hubby time.

We're coming upon the two year mark of Glen joining Facebook, and of me embarking upon this weekday single parenthood adventure. If you'd asked me two years ago how long this arrangement would last, I would have answered, "one and a half years, tops." Now, here we are, and neither Glen nor I see any change in our arrangements in the near future.

But definitely one thing that I have hugely benefited from in Glen being gone most days of the week is a true and pure appreciation for all that Glen is and all that he gives to our family. The life of the household just hums just a little better when he's home. Everyone is just a bit more mellow and relaxed (at least, I think we are). When he's gone, he is very missed, but when he comes home, we are so grateful.

Next week, we are spoiled again for another marathon of Glen/Daddy time, as we're traveling to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and his family to take in a Steeler's game, and to also visit friends in Ohio. Then it's back to LAX on Thanksgiving Day and up to Monterey, where we'll spend three more blissfully unstructured days with my dear friend from college.

I have it pretty good.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!

Musings

I ask myself, over and over again, why it is that I find myself watching hideously terrible scenes in movies where little kids are hurt or, worse yet, killed.

So it was the case yesterday that, prompted by a philosophical and moral question posted on a Facebook group page that I follow, that I came to watch the scene in the movie Sophie's Choice where Sophie makes her fateful "choice." There, on the small YouTube screen on my computer, I watched with terror as the Nazi guard hauled away Sophie's little girl, Eva, to her horrible, horrible fate.

What the hell was I thinking? What mom can watch that and not envision her child's face on those of the child actors? And why do I do this to myself?

Of course, being the research hound that I am, I had to do some investigation about how that scene was made: who was the little girl playing the role of Eva? Where was the scene filmed? How did the cast and crew treat the children? Was she really, really frightened or just a really good actress at the age of, say, 4 or 5? A bit of sleuthing revealed that the young girl, now a grown woman, never acted again as that scene terrified her, but that she had a good relationship with Meryl Streep and, when filming that scene, she was scared of being taken away from Ms. Streep. She is now alive and well and literally living in Paris as a successful Vice President of an international insurance firm. Her Facebook page shows a photo of a resplendent bride, next to her groom, at a gorgeous chapel somewhere in Europe. She is on LinkedIn with one of my friends from high school, too. Who knew?

At this point, I did my best to refocus my thoughts on David and Elizabeth. It was Wednesday, the day I leave work a bit early to pick up the kids from school and go home. Boy, was I glad to see them! I hugged them a little tighter, gazed at them a little longer, and kissed them a few extra times. Heck, I even let David stay up late and catch the first two episodes of The New Normal on my iPad.

But, even today, this morning, I am still sick to my stomach. And, yet, I wonder if this is a symptom of something deeper.

I've realized over the past few weeks that this long-distance, commuter marriage deal has made me very tired. No, I'm in it for the long haul and for as long as we need to do this, and I've got Glen's back on this. But, I'm not going to sugar-coat it: it's difficult, and made more difficult by the fact that I signed up to be a volunteer for, like, EVERYTHING this year. I'm the president of the kids' school's parent organization, I'm on the Board of Trustees for my high school, I'm the leader for David's Cub Scout Den, and I've signed on to lead a Daisy Girl Scout troop for Elizabeth (who desperately wants to be a Scout like her big brother). Oh, and I have one more year as president of my high school's alumni association. And maintaining work-life balance has become more difficult as I try, as hard as I can, to please and be accountable to my co-workers. And I write this knowing that, in about 10 minutes, I need to step out and take my constipated, 14-year old cat to the vet. Again.

I rationalize that, with the exception of my work with my high school, pretty much everything I've committed myself to is for David and Elizabeth. All of this is scheduled between gymnastics on the weekend, drum lessons, tennis lessons, Cotillions (which starts tonight), and David's heavier homework load this year.

All the while, I gripe yet try very, very hard to remind myself that I am so lucky to have these commitments, challenges and responsibilities. I have David and Elizabeth. Consider the photos above: these are two of the most self-starting kids I've seen ... especially when it comes to doing their homework.

But, this is hard. This is really, really hard. And watching depressing movies doesn't help in the least. I can't wait for next Tuesday's new episode of my new favorite sitcom.

Lessons in economics ... and humility

I'll be the first to admit that Glen and I provide David and Elizabeth with a pretty comfortable lifestyle. We work very hard in order to do so, and we are delighted that we've seen success in our professional lives that has enabled us to keep our family in "the black."

I also realize that David and Elizabeth are still quite young, and have not yet mastered the concept of just how lucky they are, and how good they have it. This reminder smacked me in the head this morning.

Because I work full-time, we have to find summertime opportunities for the kids to enjoy during the weekdays. This week (and the next two), David is enrolled in the excellent summer day camp program through the Claremont Unified School District. Today, they have a field trip to Newport Dunes.

I'll spare you the details of all of the items he had to pack in his small backpack in order to be ready for wading through the tide pools, lounging on the sand and basking in the sun. But, suffice it to say, spending cash was in order.

Last night, David and I agreed that $10 would be sufficient to see him through the day. Unlike his mother, he's not the type to spend his money on frivolous things at a cheesy gift shop, so I was not at all concerned that he'd blow the whole wad. I slightly patted  myself on the back for remembering to slip a $10 bill into his backpack before I went to bed last night.

This morning, as we were preparing to head downstairs for breakfast, I pointed out to him the specific location of the said $10 bill. He looked at it, looked at me, and sighed dramatically.

"What's wrong?" I asked him. "It's right here, all ready to go."

"Well, I ..." he began, and hesitated. "I ... um ... I really wanted it in two $5 bills."

Excuse me?

"OH! I see!" I replied. "This is not good enough for you? Really?" And then launched into a mini lecture about how, for many families in our community, $10 is a whole hell of a lot of money.

Out came the $10 from his backpack; I tucked it into my back pocket and invited David to think for a few long, hard minutes, about the selfish tone he invoked.

I went downstairs to get breakfast going, fuming all the way. And it occurred to me. The kid really, REALLY does not need $10, and he certainly did not prove himself deserving of it this morning. While I don't want to make my children feel absolutely guilty for every treat they receive, nor do I want to inflict doom and gloom on them at every turn, I do want them to grow into people who have a genuine appreciation for the value of a dollar, and how precious money is to so many families out there who cannot even afford to put dinner on the table every night.

When David came downstairs, I continued our chat.

"I have two things to inform you of," I began. "One, you're getting $5, not $10."

"Second, you will be having the breakfast they serve at school today, so that you can have a sense of what it's like for the little kids who are on the free lunch program every day of the school year ... the kids who don't have the luxury of saying, 'I don't like this! I don't want to eat it!'"

"Oh, you'll have whatever they are serving for lunch tomorrow and Friday, too."

Dead silence.

"I don't understand what I did wrong," he said, downcast.

"David, here's the thing. $10 is a lot of money for so many people. For you to reply to me that the $10 I was sending you to Newport Dunes with was not 'good enough' or not broken down into the small bills you prefer is nothing short of selfish. Does that make sense?"

Long pause.

"Yes."

Now, I didn't explain to him that breakfast and lunch served at day camp were already paid for, available to all kids, and just part of the enrollment package.

Meantime, Elizabeth sat back and watched, enjoying the show and wondering whether she should call a bookie.

Off we drove to school. When I dropped him off in the Multipurpose Room at Mountain View Elementary, I pointed out the refrigerator holding the milk, and breakfast options (graham crackers, muffins and granola bars) on the table. "There's your choices, buddy."

Then, he realized he left his sack lunch that I'd prepared for his field trip in the car. I trotted back to the Honda, and when I returned to him, he was happily munching on a chocolate chip muffin and sipping chocolate milk. Huge smile on his face.

"Chocolate chip!" he declared. "It's good."

I hugged him tightly and planted a firm smooch on the top of his head, and wished him a fun, safe and wonderful day.

I heaved a heavy sigh when Elizabeth and I got back in the car, and as we drove to her day care center, I could only hope that David both understood how much I genuinely want both him and his sister to have compassion and humility, but also to be able to make mistakes, learn from their errors, and not worry about being kids.

The Gift of An Ordinary Day (with credit to Katrina Kenison)

As I am want to do when perusing on Facebook, I clicked on an URL which led to one of gazillion videos posted for everyone's viewing pleasure. The title of the video, "The Gift of an Ordinary Day," did not really hit at my heart strings immediately, but ... wow. This hit home.

While I have not read her memoir, Family Circle magazine noted in its review that it is, in fact, "eloquent. . .a reminder that life's seemingly mundane moments are often where we find beauty, grace, and transformation." This video captured Mrs. Kenison reading from her book, whereby she reflects not only on how quickly her sons have grown, but how they have transformed. She simultaneously celebrates and laments their evolution, noting that she is proud of the young men they have become, and would give anything to relive the days when they were small.

I plan to buy this book for my iPad.

As I watched David and Elizabeth today, playing with abandon and tremendous glee with their cousins who, although really based in Newark, CA, currently live in Zug, Switzerland, I paused several times to try, with all my might, to take in the moment and just be in it. I tried to banish from my mind the reality that, in just a few years, David and Elizabeth may be two completely different people who not only will have different interests but will want to have nothing to do with me, let alone be seen with me in the same room. Now, I am hopeful that this will ultimately not be the case, given that both Glen and I really enjoyed being with our parents throughout our childhood and teenage years. Those were years that, for both of us, had relatively little drama.

But, back to today. There they were, diving merrily into a pool of cold (well, cold by my standards) water, stuffing their little faces with chips, cookies, and all matter of assorted treats, with nary a care in the world. And, when I take a moment to reflect in the beauty and glory of such simplicity, I find myself once again feeling torn: guilty for not relishing these moments more often, grateful for the gift that the present moment has given to us, and anguished that this moment, and many others like it, will be over far too soon.

Mrs. Kenison's words, as reflected in her video that went viral several weeks ago, really touched me. While I can't guarantee that I will perfect the art of living in the moment, cherishing my kids' smallness, I am aware of the fact that we only get one shot at this thing called life and that, while we're here, we may as well indulge in those things that make us happy, make us smile, and make us feel content.

Such moments, at least for me, come when David and Elizabeth willingly curl up next to me and our dog, Lager, on the couch at home and watch different shows on HGTV or Food TV. Current favorites include "Love it or List It," and "Cupcake Wars." In fact, after their first viewing of "Cupcake Wars," David and Elizabeth were quickly interested in recreating the baking bedlam in our own kitchen. Ultimately, I was a lot more engaged in the process than they were, but it brought the three of us together in a shared adventure. Even the simplest pleasure of watching cupcakes magically bake and rise in the oven can be a great reminder of the happiness, wonder, and innocence of childhood.