“dear mom and dad, I will see you in five days...”

It was written on a huge piece of poster board in my son's beautifully neat, eight-year-old handwriting. Awkwardly stuck in the grungy hotel public toilet, the bottom of the note was wet with toilet water. It read, “Dear Mom and Dad, I will see you in 5 days. Love, Tristan”

That was when I woke up.

Wrapped in my bed covers, dripping with sweat, my eyes wide open, I was still in the nightmare. I still saw my frolicking boys in the grassy hotel courtyard, running and playing with dozens of other kids. I remembered the wooden benches dotting the landscape and the old couple, unusually pale, sitting and watching the children run to and fro. I did not like them. I did not know why.

I remember, in my dream, calling out to my sons to come closer. To not stray so far. They headed in my direction and I happily went back to a conversation I was having. When I glanced back moments later, the boys were gone. So was the elderly couple. Their bench was empty.

Then I notice Blake running up to me, winded. His face is pinched with worry. When I ask him where Tristan is, he says that they took him to their room. “Who took him?” I ask. “The old people,”
he responds, knowing this sounds odd some how. “Where are they?” I ask, my voice pleading for an answer, a tight grip on his shoulders. “I don't know,” is his only reply.

I was awake and free from this dreadful dream, and I still wanted to vomit. I could hear my heart beating as if it was the background bass pumped at a rock concert. In my dream, Blake found Tristan's note, pointing it out to me in the bathroom stall, tears of confusion in his eyes. “They were nice though Mom...they were nice to us.”

Motherhood is just so tough. One minute we are getting strange looks because we allow our children to play by themselves in our front lawn and the next minute we are accused of being “helicopter parents” because we refuse to let them out of sight at the park. Most of us teach our children to respect adults and respond when an elder speaks to them, but we follow that lesson with preaching to them about stranger safety and trusting no one.

I awoke from my nightmare mid morning on a Tuesday. I was not feeling well that autumn day, and after dropping the kids off at school I had crawled back into bed. I had taken them to school that morning on our golf cart. We live in a community where there are ninety miles of cart paths bisecting our neighborhoods, shopping centers and recreational spaces. I pulled into the golf cart parking area next to the school, kissed them all good-bye and proceeded to watch them walk the last 200 feet into the building. An acquaintance walked up to me with a question, however, and I never got to actually see my children walk through the front doors. I was bothered by that.

A young man named Kyron Horman was dropped off at school one morning in Portland, Oregon in 2010. He was never seen again. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Missing-Kyron-Horman/125336750831264 He was only seven years old and he is still missing, almost two years later. I viscerally felt the loss of my son, even after waking from my nightmare, and decided to immediately call our elementary school to confirm that Tristan made it to his classroom that day. Of course, much to my relief, he had. They all had.

We live in a very safe community where crime is low and police presence is high. Our neighbors are watchful and alert, friendly and helpful. If my children ride their bikes to school, it is because I am riding alongside them. They know to always have a buddy and to not talk to strangers unless I am present. Even still, there are two registered sex offenders within a half mile of our home. And on any given day there are countless unmarked vans driven by legitimate contractors or local handymen that drive past our neighborhood. I am watchful for the illegitimate ones, but also wary of being too afraid.

What is a mother to do? I teach them. I try to teach them to be conscientious of their surroundings. My daughter is only six and she is far more observant and alert to her environment than my boys are. Eight-year-old boys, by definition, are oblivious. I'm finding common sense to be something difficult to teach them and on some days I concede that only time will help them grow in this way.

Participate. I try to participate in their playtime, whether in our yard or at the park. I push them on the swings, play a game of tag, join them for chalk art on the driveway, or silently tuck myself away on a nearby bench if they want time alone or with a friend.

Pray? Yes, I do pray. I wish I prayed more, though. I pray most when I am scared and I hate feeling scared. I have also taught my children to pray. Should they ever find themselves in a difficult situation and feel there is nobody nearby to help them, I find comfort thinking that they might talk to God in those moments.

A couple of years ago, my lovely and sometimes ridiculous husband managed to lose all three of our kids in a Walmart. Upon reflection, I wonder who was really lost. The three kids all in a line grasping each others hands while searching out a mother with a stroller to ask for help? Or the anxious, perspiring man seeking out a store employee to put out a code red? His heart skipped a beat that afternoon. It might have been because he realized that somehow, some way, he was going to have to tell me he had lost them, even for that briefest of time.

Letting our children out into the world is hard. I truly feel like a mother bird, knowing I have to push them out of the nest but praying hard that they are strong enough and smart enough to fly. My adrenal system seems to be in overdrive with all of the wondering, worrying and prevention measures I have in place. It can be exhausting. Dreams like this one do not help.

And yet, at the end of the day, I really only wish for my kids to trust this world and the multitude of beautiful people in it. There are so many wonderfully bighearted men and women walking our streets who are watching out for my children even when I cannot. Trust in them, I want to teach them. Trust in God. And always know that you can trust in me.

you are mad

I am breathing slowly and deeply, searching within myself for the strength to keep calm. I am praying for the wherewithal to defuse the situation in front of me, while hoping to maintain my unruffled countenance. I have summoned the strength before, but I am grossly outnumbered today. You are all mad. All three of you.

I had envisioned this Monday morning going differently than it did, though I have no good reason to have done so. Every Monday morning is a bit challenging in our home, and I suspect that the vast majority of the human population feels the same way. There are alarm clocks beeping before the sun is even up, lunch bags to unearth from the bottom recesses of our backpacks for refilling, and shoes to drudge up from the closets or from under the couch. Or maybe your shoes are out on the porch. Or in the yard. It seems that the shoe bucket that I purchased to hold them never seems to actually contain my children's shoes. But that is another story.

On a typical school morning, while the kids are having their breakfast, I pack their lunches while listening to my three lovely children discuss life, love and the logistics for the day. They talk of which library book they are going to look for at school, or what game they might play on the playground, and with whom. Brooklynn might blush while speaking of Charlie, and Blake will have a bit of a glow around him because he is wearing his guitar shirt. Tristan is already planning what he wants to do after school, planting the elephant ear in the garden is on the top of his list. Occasionally they will bicker over a particular cereal box that they all want to read with their breakfast. A cereal box is equivalent to their morning paper. They do not want to share. All in all, however, our mornings are fairly pleasant.

Coming off of a very busy weekend where bedtimes were late and sunshine and fun were plentiful, the three of them are not well rested and therefore unusually ornery today. Tristan is mad because he had plans of scavenging favorite toys from the attic for redistribution into his room – to be done before school. I nixed that idea, in favor of actually getting to school on time.

Blake is mad because I asked him to finish his bowl of Cheerios. He was a little overzealous with his serving size, something that happens so often that I now charge him fifty cents each time he dumps a bowl of cereal down the drain. His piggy bank is getting short on quarters. Brooklynn is mad because one of the boys looked at her wrong. Wrong meaning: too long, not long enough, with a condescending air maybe, or with a I-can't-believe-what-a-dork-you-are feeling to it. She is mad, and the neighbors can hear her informing us of the situation.

So today I am less Martha Stewart Mom and more Bomb Squad Guy. If I cannot defuse the situation before we leave for school, inevitably the five minute drive to school will result in detonation, with our various body parts and fragile limbic systems in shambles. So I'm breathing. Slowly and deeply.

Now...I've been reading up on this. I found a dusty old book on my shelves, recommended to me years ago by a close friend, entitled How To Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk. At the time she suggested it to me, my twins were five and generally in love with each other. They adored their baby sister and thought the sun rose and set with me, their mother. Sibling rivalry was primarily limited to things like fussing over who got the biggest muffin, the cookie with the most chocolate chips, or which lucky boy got to be the first in the bathtub.

When I paged through the book back then, I was generally horrified by the way in which some of the children were talking to their parents. I could not believe the manner in which the children fought with each other and the abject disrespectful behavior depicted within its pages. I thought, “Finally, a parenting book that I do not need. My children are lovely, I do not even know what sibling rivalry is.” So I shelved the book, and there it stayed for over three years.

Today my twins are eight, my daughter is six (going on twelve), and today I need the book. In fact, I could have used it yesterday. And if I'm going to survive my mid-thirties without a prescription for an anxiety drug, I need the book tomorrow as well.

So I am going to put the authors Adele Faber's and Elaine Mazlish's methods to the test. Another deep breath, and here we go.

“You are mad, Brooklynn.” I say with a calm, reassuring voice. I am giving legitimacy to her emotions.

“Yes!” she scowls, complete with fists clenched and chin tucked low.

“Hmm... “, I reply.

This is when she is supposed to relax. This is the moment when she is theoretically supposed to be appreciative that I hear her distress and that I accept it as a valid emotion. It is okay to be mad, and I accept her feelings on the matter. This is not what happens, however.

Brooklynn decides, instead, to swing her little blue and yellow flowery lunch bag in a helicopter propeller motion, unintentionally slamming the bag into Blake's shoulder. The bomb timer is blinking red now and beeping louder than ever.

“Wait Blake, calm down. You are mad. You don't know why she hit you,” reasons their now freakishly panicked mother.

“Yeah! I didn't do anything!” replies Blake with a look of shock and outright rage.

I am supposed to give another, “hmm...” however, hmm'ing seems inappropriate here somehow. Hmm'ing uses up what little bit of precious time I have left before the bomb blows and I suspect it might sound like I'm placing judgment by minimizing the assault with what is essentially a hum. So, trying to think for myself what the next step should be, the instructions in the book getting fuzzier by the moment, I completely blow it.

“Brooklynn, what did you do that for?!?” comes flying out of my mouth.

Que the bomb exploding.

-------

Short fuses.

I have one, my son Blake definitely has one. I suspect my daughter is simply experiencing a late period of temper tantrums. She was perfectly delightful when she was two-years-old, so maybe she is just making up for lost time and trying her temper out on a temporary basis. I can only hope.

When Blake is having an unusually hard day and is especially fiery, he has been known to follow up a punch at this brother with a loud pronouncement, “I'm sorry, Tristan! You know I have anger issues!” Though I have explained countless times that his “anger issues” are not an excuse for getting physical, he sincerely feels out of control at times and can gain perspective by examining his actions with the left side of his brain.

I reflect on my own fiery reactions frequently enough, and find some solace in recognizing and owning my own weaknesses. Acknowledging a weakness is the first step in overcoming it, after all. I do not throw punches, but I have been known to throw things when I am mad. A kitchen spatula, a book, a pillow. There is a small, perfectly round hole in the drywall of our dining room, from a time when I threw a pencil so hard that it hit the wall like a dart and stuck there. I left the hole there to remind me to keep my cool next time. I know others who swear like a sailor when they get mad, and still others who bottle it all up and lose it on their unsuspecting husbands.

------

My father came and spent a couple of months with us recently, to celebrate his retirement and his new ability to spend more time with family. For so many reasons, it was a wonderful visit. One reason in particular, however, was his perspective on the dynamics of our five-person family unit. Yes, we have sibling rivalry now. Yes, Brooklynn has a melt down at least three nights out of the week, usually at the dinner table. Yes, Brandon has been known to shake the walls with his vocal demand, “Go to your room, Brooke!” Yes, I have been known to scream at my boys while in our mini-van simply because I could not take the loud bickering coming from the backseat any longer.

Later, sitting with my father on the porch or at the kitchen table, reflecting on my feelings of defeat and shame at our behavior, he set my mind easy. Clearly he was not the most proud of me in these moments, but he was accepting of me all the same. He said it was normal. He said that if there was never any drama, we would be abnormal. He said that I have taught my children to have a strong voice, to think for themselves, and to stand up for what they believe in. It will serve them well later in life, but will in all likelihood mean a few fist fights between my boys and tears from my daughter now and then.

My father reassured me that my boys are like any other boys. A quick, short scuffle, and the argument is over. This is how boys fix things, he explained. Since the beginning of time, apparently. I was not raised with brothers so the physical nature in which they will sometimes fight is something I do not have any experience with. He had three brothers growing up, and can assure me that everything about my two boys is normal. That is not to say that I need to condone this behavior on a daily basis, but I do need to realize that they have too little estrogen coursing in their blood to expect them to sit down and talk out their differences each time.

He said that he can remember growing up and hearing my grandmother yelling, saying she had had enough and was going to leave if things did not change. My grandmother is going to be ninety years old next year and she is the sweetest, toughest old broad you will ever meet. Her heart is made of gold, but her core is made of steel. She's a lover and a fighter. So am I.

------

There are moments when I dream fondly of a quieter household. One with less drama and strife. When my little ones leave home for college, I will have that and will probably find life to be too quiet. Too easy. I will miss their loud boisterous ways, their idle chatter at the kitchen table, and Blake's cereal money. Our lives are not defined by a few angry moments. We have far more daily interactions that are positive, lovely and sweet, than those mentioned above. Times when we are united as a family, unconditionally loving and ecstatically pleased with each other. They will remember those. I will remember those.

When I pick them up today after school, they will not remember having been mad. Of if they do, they will not remember why. They have already picked themselves up, turned course, and moved on. As I must. I will gather the things we need to plant the elephant ear bulb today, set out Blake's guitar, and open up the attic to retrieve a few old toys. A new box of markers set out for Brooklynn, and she will be all smiles. We'll spend a wonderful afternoon together, enjoying each others company. And tomorrow morning, inevitably, we will realize that somehow, inexplicably, we have lost our shoes again.

and the dinosaurs lived happily ever after

She said it with a pronounced tilt of her cute, little four-year-old head, her eyes sparkling bright with an imagination that I, myself, have never had.

“And the dinosaurs lived happily ever after,” her face revealing a heavenly satisfaction, as if everything was right in the world.

This was two years ago, and Brooklynn had just finished sharing with me her most recent storytelling creation. It is a skill that she most likely gets from my genetic line, one sister over. Her Aunt RaChelle is a Children's Professional Storyteller http://www.misslicorice.com/ having the ability to build storyboard worlds out of thin air. An alligator being taught a moral lesson by a beaver is regular day-to-day stuff for her, and Brooklynn has an imagination that is much the same.

My daughter's creative tendencies are quite a fun thing to behold, really. I commonly find Brooklynn whispering to her dolls or stuffed animals in such a way that clearly suggests her bedroom world is alive and vibrant. The stuffed kitten has an ailment, and the baby doll needs some orange juice. Tinker Bell may have moved into a tea pot in the kitchen, while the pink penguin needs a band-aid.

If I happen to unwittingly walk into her room during these quiet play sessions, she immediately freezes. Tucking her chin down, almost to her chest, she gives me an almost flirty look that clearly tells me that she loves me, but leave. Rarely will she share her little imaginative bedroom adventures with me, I am simply not invited. She seldom shares her stories, either. So when she does, I listen. Very carefully.

Upon hearing the happy finale to her story, I felt a deep and endless love for her. Brooklynn has a way of lighting up the room with her tiny dimple, just at the corner of her mouth. Her brothers' faces were lit with wonder at her, too. They simply could not believe how delightful there sister was and what a wonderful story!

Ironically, of course, the ugly truth is that dinosaurs did not make out so well. In fact, the natural world revolted against them by either blowing them up with a meteor or freezing their cold-blooded feet right where they stood, like stalagmites of rigor mortis. Brooklynn knows all about the dinosaurs being extinct, she simply does not agree with nature's decision to abolish them from the earth. If it were up to her, all animals would be welcome to share our lawns, our oceans, our forests and our rivers. Frogs would be welcome to cohabit with us in our bathrooms, lady bugs would be welcome in the far recesses of our ceilings. Worms would not die in our Dixie cups and fish would always be caught and released.

The harsh realities of the Circle of Life, to include a large snapping turtle eating her pet duck and our family dog viciously snatching and shaking her chickens, are always met first with a loud shriek of despair, tears streaming down her pretty little cheeks, and later a steely resolution to change that. I suspect that even as she matures into a beautiful young lady, she will never fully accept the inevitable harshness of these food chain realities. In fact, dogs should not be bred to hunt, and turtles should not have to eat!

The softness of her heart and fierceness of her conviction is partly what makes her so endlessly endearing. You can imagine, however, two years later at the still tender age of six, how she handled watching the classic movie Old Yeller. Hunting deer seemed needlessly cruel to her and the sick cow did not need to be put down. Obviously, we did not allow her to see the end of the movie. Her heart was already in a fragile place. As far as she knows, Old Yeller lived forever with Travis on that happy little farm.

I admit to having some of the same soft-hearted tendencies toward the planet and its animals. We live on a small hobby farm, having had horses, chickens, ducks, cats, dogs, hamsters, frogs, lizards, fish, hermit crabs, lady bugs, and roly poly bugs in residence here at one time or another. A friend of mine jokes about buying me those car decals with each and every species represented, simply because she thinks it's hilarious. And crazy. I am pretty sure that she thinks I am a little bit crazy, too.

Let me explain why I have all of the these animals in my life, though. Although they create more physical work on a daily basis, they make simple demands of me. I have to feed them, exercise them and talk to them. That is pretty much it. Not a lot of drama.

Animals do not wake up on the wrong side of the bed, they will not yell, talk back, push or shove each other. They do not name call, steal each other's toys or complain about having to go on an errand to the grocery store. And our animals are always excited to see me. The best of them are soft, cuddly and always open to having a quiet moment together. On the front steps, in the barn, on the couch, my gentle touch is not shunned, my lap is always welcomed. They need me and enjoy my company.

My children need me too, I know. But kids, especially as they grow a little, also need to be let free some. The grip we have on them, the strength of our loving hold needs to be a bit less with every passing year. I am finding that my children now need the freedom to run more and cuddle less. The demands of elementary school have taught them more independence than I remember having or needing at their age. They want to be trusted to go out into the world, or just the backyard, and to come back at will.

My children are still young. The boys are only eight, Brooklynn is now six. Although they still mostly enjoy my company, they also like having their own responsibilities and love to be gifted with alone time. We may play a game of Battleship together on the porch, discuss their favorite part of their day at school, do some homework, practice guitar, but it is all interspersed with time that is theirs. Time when they disappear outside to unearth some neat tool from the garage, examine their newly planted sunflowers in the garden, or find a kitty to talk to.

When the sun has gone down and they are tucked into their beds, covers pulled up tight to their chins, they morph back into their younger selves and need me a little more again.

“Mama, will you rub my cheek?” Tristan asks.

“Mama, will you sing us a song?” begs Blake.

Brooklynn still crawls into my bed at bedtime. She likes to be surrounded by the smell of her mommy and daddy, and the familiar scene of our things. The kids need me in that hour, and it feels good. The following day, however, my children are desiring privacy and autonomy again. This is when I head outside to the animals. I joke with my husband about having a barn full of animals when our children are grown and our nest is empty. It will allow me to feed my nurturing soul, while honoring the inherent space my children will need.

Today is a beautiful spring day in Georgia. I have seen no less than a dozen cardinals in our trees, our new horse Daisy Girl is grazing peacefully in the pasture. Brooklynn is sprawled out on the front lawn, her head resting on a tuft of tall grass. Her legs are crisscrossed over each other, bare feet slowly tapping a beat only she can hear. She is surrounded by her three cats. They are playing around her, softly meowing and purring.

Never mind that they will catch a mole or a small bird today, and play with it until it is too exhausted to care any longer. Never mind that it will be a nice snack for our three pretty kitties. The only thing that Brooklynn knows is that they need her. They look for her when it is mealtime, and they sense she will craft them a new toy today. They know her touch is soft, her smile is golden. They know they will live happily ever after in her care.