Shannon Lowe is a Southern mom of four kids, which means her kids may sometimes misbehave, but at least they'll do it with charming accents. She writes at Rocks In My Dryer, is a contributing editor at BlogHer, and she does some occasional freelance writing (mostly so she can say she's using her English degree). In her rare bit of spare time, she enjoys starting (but seldom finishing) craft projects.
Recently, my friend Bianca (a mother of four like me) said something that gave me a good chuckle: “It seems that half my life is spent dealing with food -- planning for it, shopping for it, fixing it and cleaning up after it.”
I laughed. And then I stopped laughing. Because, wow, she’s right.
In fact, I think the only thing she left off her insightful statement was the other big one: budgeting for it.
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I’m a freelance writer who works from home. For many years I viewed working at home as the ultimate ideal situation for a busy mom, the perfect way to roll together some family time and some professional goals.
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At my sons’ elementary school, there is a themed art contest underway. Students are given a theme (this year it’s “Beauty Is…”), and can they product any piece of art, literature, music, photography, etc. to fit creatively with the theme.
At dinner the other night, we discussed what their possible entries might be. “So boys,” I asked them, “tell me what you think is beautiful.”
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My four-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Corrie, has an imaginary friend named Katie Mexico. Katie lives in our house, joined occasionally by her brother Mel Mexico (he tends to be in and out -- a vagabond imaginary friend, if you will). Katie may be simply a figment of my daughter’s charming imagination, but she is also wearing me out.
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Some days I rue the fact that I’m raising children in the digital age, with a seemingly endless range of cyber-dangers looming on the horizon. It overwhelms me, sometimes, and I’d like to herd them into a remote cave where they can only encounter well-mannered unicorns and butterflies who do not have Internet access. It’s a nice dream.
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When I was a teenager, my dad was strict. He was, I would’ve told you back then, unreasonable, over-protective and stubborn, and I would’ve rolled my eyes to illustrate my point. (Seeing as how those same eyes were thickly be-decked with Clairol Electric Blue Mascara, my moral authority should have been taken with a grain of salt.)
He almost never raised his voice. He was gentle and respectful, but he made himself clear:
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Late last night we pulled into our driveway after a 3,600-mile drive to the West Coast in a mini-van which, remarkably, seemed to grow smaller the longer we drove. (I’m kidding. It was a great trip, and our four kids were real sports about the long drive. Still, the van is smaller.)
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Yes, it’s true. I managed to exist for nearly 37 years without ever visiting a major water park. It just somehow kept slipping off my radar screen. My growing-up years were spent in a small rural town where our idea of sophisticated aquatic recreation involved a rope swing and a creek. As an adult, having all these babies in rapid succession led me to deduce the following:
Four young children + only two parents + large crowds + deep water + tall ladders = not a good idea. Read Full Post
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