Author: littleyellownotepad

It was the perfect arrangement. I needed to buy 2 new car seats, and the kids wanted to pool their Chanukah gelt to buy the coolest sets of Lego. We all wanted to go to Target. What a great plan!

So we hopped into the car, me and my second in command – my daughter – and my 5 little boys. My oldest was out with my husband.

I entered Target and noticed mistake number one. Don’t ever go to Target in mid December, unless you absolutely have to. Every register, every aisle, and every inch of store was filled to max capacity.

But not wanting to disappoint the kids, I made a quick decision that it wasn’t a big deal and off we went. We divided into two teams; half went to the Lego aisle, the other half (the two that fit in the cart) joined me and my daughter in the car seat search.

After some quick deliberating, I hoisted box #1 into the cart…but that took away the two year olds spot. Out he went and in went box #2…but the top seat needed to be folded, so out went the one year old. With the baby in one arm and my daughter firmly holding my 2 year old’s hand, I managed to navigate the shopping cart, which I couldn’t see over the top of, customer service where they so kindly agreed to watch it for me while I finished shopping.

We got a new cart, got the kiddies settled, and headed to the Lego aisle.

Decisions, decisions. These were big life decisions.

As we negotiated and discussed which Lego set was truly the best one and appropriate for our home, this little sweet big eyed girl with glasses passed with her very obviously stressed mom.

“Mom, look how many kids they have!!” I heard her whisper loudly, as only kids know how. The look of complete mortification on her mother’s face was pretty comical, as she continued to look straight ahead as if she didn’t notice us.

I wanted to ease her tension, but with 6 little people talking to me all at once and the mom refusing to make eye contact I couldn’t really say anything to her.

What did I want to tell her? I was just going to ease her fears and tell her don’t worry, it’s not contagious. And this was on purpose.

As we continued to narrow down the decisions, little-girl-with-big-eyes apparently snuck away from her mom and came back to peek again, remarking loudly, “Wow, there’s so many!”

Her poor mortified mom. It’s ok, mortified mom. This is why we love kids. Because they’re not scared to say what they’re thinking!

It was time to head to the register, and I admit I had no plan.

No plan how I was going to push a cart that I couldn’t see over and a cart that had two little guys in it. And my helpers were not interested in helping, and the truth is, they weren’t really fit for the job.

They couldn’t see over the cart either, and I figured I’d knock down less things than they would, so I better steer that one.

And a cart with two little guys…pushing 60+ pounds is a bit much for them.

But we got this far, I wasn’t going to give up.

And after all, one of the car seats were on sale, I needed to buy it today!

We made it to the register, swiping the sides of only three racks.

We checked out and I thankfully had the great idea to ask if someone could help me out to the car. What do you know, it was a service they offered!

We got to the car, which the kids were very excited to point out to this nice Target employee – “Yes, that’s our van! The one with the dent on the side that Mommy….”

I tried to talk over their description of every scratch and mark on the van, chatting with my fellow cart-pusher as if I was taking a stroll in the park.

We reached our destination and I opened the trunk…forgetting that it was not empty.

I tried not to show what I was thinking, which was How in the world is this going to fit, what was I thinking?

Holding my pride in check, we pushed and pulled and squeezed and maneuvered…and got the trunk door closed. I couldn’t see out the back window and the front passenger was a car seat box, but it was doable.

We did it! Although it wasn’t simple, our mission was accomplished.

And when you’re doing things with your kids, now that’s something to be proud of.

I knew becoming a mom would mean giving up lots of little luxuries about life as I knew it.

I knew having many kids would mean giving up even more.

A good night’s sleep, reading a complete book, the biggest piece of cake, a clean piece of paper.

All these things I knew and was prepared for.

Clean floors, clean car, counter tops that aren’t sticky; it’s all just part of the deal and boy is it worth it.

But I’ve recently added a new item to the  list of things to give up when having kids; something that I’m not so sure I had realized.

Having kids means giving up the luxury of completing a train of thought. To think something through from beginning to end, without interruption.

It’s the strangest thing. I just noticed that I have not posted a blog post in over two months. But here’s the thing; I’ve written at least 20 posts since then!

And that’s when it clicked.

I started to write 20 something posts…about trips to Walmart, 10 hour road trips, mismatched socks and kids leaving their shoes at home….and they are all still in the drafts folder of my brain; no, they never even made it to the keyboard. Because having kids does that to you.

It happens like this. I have a great idea, I feel the energy flowing, I’m ready to take it on….and then someone is calling from the bathroom to be wiped or something of the like and all is pushed into the drafts folder in the recesses of my brain.

I come back to reality a couple hours later and have time to pick up the thought. But by then, I can’t remember what it was to begin with.

Ahh, the joys of motherhood!

The things we start but don’t get to finish.

Like the marker on the banister on the steps heading upstairs.

How many times have I grabbed a Clorox wipe and marched in that direction, determined to finally complete the task of washing it all off, only to be called off by something much more important and urgent before I even reached my destination. Someone fell. Someone broke someone’s something. Issues that were far more pressing and in need of my attention. Things that deserve my time more than the banister does!

And that’s where all my blog posts are. In that place in my mind of unfinished thoughts and projects and tasks, that got pushed off the list because there are little people who need me.

The 76 emails in my drafts folder on my phone…how many times I started to type, and a spill or a cry called me away.

How many Facebook posts I started and never got to hit the POST button.

Sure, sometimes it’s frustrating, sometimes it’s annoying and sometimes it’s maddening!

But I will not fight it; I will embrace this discovery of incomplete train of thoughts with patience and humor.

It’s certainly worth the trade in.

BUT I am determined to figure out how to sneak a complete thought every now and then – because I do plan to keep posting. I’m not giving this one up.

And, as soon as I figure out the secret how to get it done; don’t worry, I will most certainly share it with you.

It’s the favorite time of year for little boys. Water, fish, sand and if you’re lucky, mud too. It just doesn’t get better!

It’s Tashlich.

And feeling so experienced in the boys, mud, water and sand area, I reminded my kids to wear their Crocs to Tashlich. Most of them followed directions and I let it be. How dirty can they get anyway, maybe I was just being paranoid…

Arriving at Tashlich only 4 minutes after my boys, I’m greeted by muddy feet and wet pants.

And that’s when I see my oldest. In the mud.

“I lost my shoe, I need to find it!” he hollers.

We are at the pond. The pond that has been shrinking all year due to the lack of rain. And what is left in place of where lots of the pond used to be is thick, heavy mud. The type that when you walk across it, your shoes gets stuck. Which is apparently what happened.

I see the crowd gathering at the gazebo, just a few hundred feet away. I see my son, caked in mud till his elbows and up till his knees in his (new) dress pants.

I tell him to get out of the mud.

I tell him his shoes were lost and it’s too late to save them.

I tell him it is more important to get out NOW than to find his shoes.

He waves back and reassures me that he would find his shoes.

I tell him to get out of the mud.

He tells me he will find his shoes.

I breathe deeply and count to ten slowly.

I need to think quickly.

And then I tell myself what I tell my kids when they are in crisis mode:

You have a few options.

I could scream at him to get out.

I could threaten him.

I could take away all computer time for the next 18 years.

I could take away his camera indefinitely.

But as I slowly get to ten, I know none of those would work. He is not coming out.

He is going to find his shoes. With all the kids watching him, that was more important to him than 18 years of computer time.

I needed an alternative plan.

Think about him, not about yourself!

The crowd is nearing the pond, ready to recite the tashlich prayer.

I look at the approaching people.

I look at my son, covered in mud.

And there I stood, with just a minute to leave with a grace.

Breathe, count to 10 again.

“Alright, I hope you find your shoes. You sure are determined.”

I turned to face the crowd, watching as they register what they were seeing.

Yes, the rabbi’s son, in his dress clothes, is knee deep in mud.

My son. My oldest son.

The looks of amusement, horror, disgust and entertainment are pretty apparent.

He will have to figure out how to save his pride, but I had to figure out how to save mine.

Because after all, if anyone is judging my child, why then, they are ultimately judging me.

And so I say the only thing I can think of, the thought that I would be thinking if it was someone else’s child…

“Whose kid is that?! Where are the parents?? Which irresponsible mom lets their 10 year old get knee deep in thick, gooky mud in their dress clothes!?”

The ice was broken; now they are all on my team! We laugh together.

And my son, holding his pride, emerges from the mud, waving his mud soaked non-recognizable shoe with a look of triumph.

I bite my tongue hard to hold back any reprimanding because I realize it’s not necessary. Mud has it’s own natural consequence.

Mustering up whatever dignity he can find, he tells me in his most grown up way that he is going to go home and hose himself down in the backyard so he doesn’t bring any mud into the house. I enthusiastically agree it’s a good idea.

I’m squirmy at the sight. I’m not a mud person. And deep inside, I’m still mortified. But that’s not my son’s problem. I will not take that out on him.

I’m also just a teensy bit proud of his determination. And his courage to face the crowd. I remind myself that these traits will do him well as an adult…

He strides off, with all the little boys watching him in awe and with the greatest respect while the moms are cringing.

And I sigh in relief. 

True, I didn’t win. He got his way.

But sometimes winning is figuring out how to lose gracefully.