Erika

Hilary's Story

I just found this on my computer. It was apparently written on December 1 at 1:35:45pm. I vaguely recall Andy hanging out with Hilary in my office one Sunday, and this was clearly the result. I think the last lines are very telling, though I'm not exactly sure of what:

I want this story to be about a little girl who is running to a far away place.

Who is the little girl?

Her name is Jessica. She is six years old. She has red hair. She has blue eyes. She lives in Villanova. Her mother is Sarah. Her father is Sam. Both Sarah and Sam are doctors. Sarah is a gynecologist. Sam is the team doctor for the Philadelphia Phillies. Jessica has two siblings - her twin brother Corey, 6 and Justin 5. Corey has brown hair and blue eyes. He is very tall for his age. Justin has blond hair and blue eyes.

Why is Jessica running? Is she running away from something or is she running to something?

She is running away from a mean guy. He wants to steal all of her books. She is running to get help. She is trying to find her mommy or her daddy to stop the mean guy from stealing all of her books. Her mommy and daddy are in their room. Mommy is going to the bathroom. Daddy is fixing something.

The Propaganda Mill

Erika's friend, Jamie, desperately wants a dog. So, she and Erika spent many hours of their Sunday night sleepover holed up in Erika's room with paper, markers, and various other supplies churning out projects designed to convince Jamie's parents they should get her a puppy: an illustrated booklet on small, cute breeds of dogs; a dog diorama, and my favorite, the informative poster featured here, "Good Facts About Dogs."

Jamie and Erika's arguments included the following, alongside appropriate pictures:

*Dog saveing a prsons life

*Minnie dog in pocetbook

*A lisining dog in a obeedieince class

*A dog in a animal sheter is cheep

*Dog getting redey to fall asleep for the rest of there lifetime because nobody got them from the shelter

I couldn't believe it when I read that last one. Talk about the hard sell!! I didn't even think Erika knew what happened to unclaimed pets at animal shelters - she told me later that Jamie clued her in.

Unfortunately, Jamie's dad will never see the poster, because Jamie's mom (who came to pick her up while I was out with Jonah) decided that it wasn't fair for Jamie to take home all the art projects (even though that was the intention, kind of like Air Force pilots blanketing villages with pro-American pamphlets during the Vietnam War), so she insisted Jamie leave half here.

I couldn't help remembering the campaign I waged, when I was about 10, to convince my mom not to spay our cat Misty. Instead of a poster, however, I wrote a poem. Shockingly, I still remember it: "I don't want coats or hats, or gloves or mittens. All I want is for Misty to have kittens."

That didn't work either.

Aggressive Girls and Sensitive Boys

When Amy found out the twins' teacher this year was going to be Bracha, a stern but loving grandmotherly type, I asked my friend Tricia what to expect, since her daughter Avery had Bracha the year prior.

"She likes aggressive girls," Tricia told me, "and sensitive boys."

Which basically sums up Aaron and Gretchen. It's gotten to the point where Gretchen now reprimands Aaron for excessive whining or neediness.

This theme definitely seems to run through our household.

Last week, Rhea was picking up the kids to drive to preschool, and while Declan was getting into the car, Sophia stage-whispered to him, "Go tell Hilary you don't like her!" Declan, the dutiful soldier, complied. When I reprimanded him for being mean to Hilary, he looked up at me in all earnestness and said, "But Sophia told me to say it!" Needless to say, I didn't let him off the hook.

But I do worry about Declan, as a sensitive boy. Don't get me wrong, he's often the agressor, but in the end it's always Declan who comes crying to me, crying that Ronan kicked him (even if Declan kicked Ronan first) or that Erika was mean to him (ditto). And despite the trouble they seem to get him into, Declan cannot stay away from the aggressive girls.

Declan's BFF at school has long been Brooke; they've been in the same class at school and camp since before they were two. I asked him the other day if Brooke was still his best friend. He smiled shyly.

"She told me she's my girlfriend," he said.

Part of me worries how Declan will fare as the sensitive guy as he continues to befriend and eventually date (gulp!) aggressive women.

But at least he'll have company from Aaron and Gretchen.

(That's Declan and Sophia in the photo above at our New Year's Eve party last year. I expect I'll see similar photos in years to come: Declan looking silly, with a girl looking not very amused.)

Childhood, Redux

Erika and I are reading Judy Blume's Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing together. And it's pretty amazing, considering it was published over 30 years ago, how well that book has held up. It's still hilarious and poignant and incredibly relevant - despite the introduction of the internet and cell phones and Wii, I guess being nine years old isn't that different now than it was back in 1976.

So I get why the true gems of my childhood (and some from my parents' childhoods, as well) are still popular with kids today - Dr. Seuss and E.B. White, Star Wars and Monopoly. I think that "Why was 6 afraid of 7? Because 7 8 9," is a classic joke, perfect for kids just starting to learn about the creative uses of language, and I agree that, "I'm rubber, you're glue," is so catchy and condescending it will probably be around until the end of time.

But I'll tell you what I just don't get: nanny, nanny, poo, poo.

What is so freakin' special about that meaningless insult that it should survive from generation to generation?

Maybe I should ask Aaron, Gretchen and Ronan. They use it every day - when they jump into the coveted middle carseat, or get an extra segment of clementine, or commandeer one of the 14 doll strollers we own.

Honestly, I don't think they really need a reason.

Maybe nanny, nanny, poo, poo is onomatopoetic on some primitive level, embodying glee and superiority and plain old button pushing more perfectly than a more articulate taunt ever could.

Or maybe, "I'm rubber, you're glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you, but I have a net that catches all the good words," is a little too much to expect from someone who can't yet handle the intricacies of "Frosty the Noseman."

What I want to know is, given that I've been hearing it my entire life, given its enduring and prominent position in our cultural lexicon, why is nanny, nanny poo poo still so excruciatingly irritating - not just to the kids, but to me?

Now I Get It

Now I understand why crazy people like my sister have so many kids. They're just so friggin' amazing. Sure, they have their ups and downs, and they don't always act (or dress) exactly like you'd expect (or hope), but each child is unique and so, well, amazing.

Molly is really (I promise I won't say amazing again) great right now, she's just the perfect baby. She's beautiful and smiles all the time and is so good, and I can't help but wonder, what would the next one be like?

(Don't worry, it ain't gonna happen. It can't. Physically impossible. Let's just leave it at that.)

I know, it's the height of vanity: Look what I can make! Let's make some more! But what is parenthood if not vanity? We produce kids that resemble us, then fuss over how cute they are. Then we try to raise them in our own image. Of course, we don't always succeed. But we try.

Happy Birthday Ronan!

Has it really been three years? Actually, it feels like Ronan has been in my life forever. I simply cannot imagine life without him. Sure, I'd probably get a lot more sleep, but I wouldn't be nearly as happy.

You might recall my ups and downs with Ronan over the years; sometimes he's a real terror ("a typical redhead," our old babysitter Kylie once said), sometimes a real sweetie. Nowadays, he's a bit of both. But I must admit, all my expectations of him have gone flying out the window.

Ronan, my little fireball, can now sit for 30 minutes working on a puzzle. He'll cozy up on a the couch with a book and look intently at the pages, all by himself. He'll sit and draw peacefully and quietly. We used to think Declan was the intellect, Ronan the jock. Now I'm not so sure. (Well, I'm sure Declan's no jock.)

Of course, Ronan will also steal Aaron's special bear, sneak an entire pack of gum and stuff it in his mouth while hiding under my desk, tackle his brother when he's not looking, and rip up a picture because, well, just because.

But all that will end today, right? The Terrible Twos are over, and good Ronan is here to stay...

...though that may be a little boring. I'll settle for pretty good right now.

The Real, Live Frosty The Noseman

I don't like snow.

I don't like the beach much, either. In fact, I don't enjoy many of the things my kids love, like kicking a ball around, or squeezing play-do between my fingers, or ice skating.

I do think of myself as a fun person - it's just that my conception of fun is a lot different from theirs. That's not much consolation, however, when I imagine my children sitting around and talking about me when they're teenagers. It seems very unlikely the conversation will unfold this way:

Erika: Wow, how amazing was Mom's ability to sit and read by the fire for hours when we were kids!

Hilary: Yeah! And she could slow-play a flopped set better than Phil Hellmuth!

Aaron: Me, I just loved to watch her on the tennis court. She was the absolute definition of intermediate!

Gretchen: That's nothing compared to how she could appreciate a fine meal! I remember her making a reservation at Talula's Table a whole year in advance! I mean, what's more fun than a restaurant with just one table you have to reserve a year ahead of time, and just pray to God you're still married to the same guy and still friends with the same friends you made the reservation with!!

And so on and so forth.

Which is why I occasionally guilt myself into doing things like taking my kids out, at dusk, during the biggest snowfall we've had in the last two years, and building a snowman.

I have to admit, it wasn't bad. The kids were thrilled, and even Ronan, Aaron and Gretchen were trying to help, by which I mean they were grabbing mittenfulls of snow that crumbled in their fists as they stumbled through the six inches of snow, which pretty much came up to their waists.

When the snowman was done (and yes, he had a carrot nose, oreo eyes and a hat - we were freakin' ALL OVER IT), we held hands and danced in a circle, singing "Frosty the Snowman," which is Aaron's favorite song from his new favorite movie, which he - to everyone's extreme amusement, even his twin's - calls "Frosty the Noseman."

The best part? After dinner, when the whole family was in the kitchen, Ronan came up to me and said, "Remember we build the snowman? With you?" while his mother, who had remained inside, nice and warm in front of the computer, looked on forlornly.

A-ha! For one day, at least, I was the fun one.

No More Kisses, Dammit!

My kids are too smart for me.

It took them all about five minutes to figure out that, while I have no problem turning off the lights and closing the door on distressing cries of, "One more story!" and, "I want a song!" and, "I need water!" I am immediately overcome by, "Can I have another kiss?"

Me: "Of course you can have another kiss, my sweet baby, you can ALWAYS have another kiss, mnum, mnum, mnum, mnum, mnum . . ."

And I wonder why my kids aren't asleep until after 9pm.

Hilary has become especially adept at working the kiss angle. We have a rule at dinner that the kids need to sit until all their siblings and cousins have finished, but Hilary has a tendency to wander. Sometimes, I'll look up from my plate and see her standing right at my shoulder.

Me: "Hilary, sit down! You know you have to wait for everyone to finish before you're excused."

Hilary: "But I love you, Mom. I just want to give you a big kiss" (imagine expectant five-year-old, tilting her puckered face upwards for a smooch).

It seems so heartless to say, "No kisses!" But after almost a decade of working with behavior experts who have helped us in our quest to manage Jonah's behavior, I've learned the importance of not reinforcing undesirable behavior. So, when it's clear that my children are stalling, when it's obvious I'm being manipulated, I'm going to put my foot down: "You can have all the kisses you want . . . later."

That Mom

Today, I was That Mom.

You know: That Mom. The one who lets her two-year-old twins run laps through Starbucks, shrieking with laughter and chasing each other down the stairs and up the handicap-access ramp, just because it gives her a few minutes to enjoy her coffee.

(My friend was there, too, with her two-year-old son, who also joined the chase, so I guess it's more accurate to say we were Those Moms.)

After Starbucks, we proceeded to the library, where I was That Mom who let her twins tackle her during story time, then That Mom that had to bum wipes off her friend because she forgot to stock her diaper bag, then That Mom that had to wipe her son's runny nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt because she didn't have any tissues either.

Pretty impressive, how many failures I accumulated in one morning, isn't it?

My friend - who only had three wipes herself, so I'm not sure why she was feeling so superior - pointed out that you'd think, after five kids, I'd have the routine down by now: diapers? check; wipes? check; spare clothes? check; baggies of healthy snacks to distract moody toddlers while on line at the grocery store? check, check, check.

But the truth is, I could have a dozen more kids, and I'd still never be that organized.

Still, that doesn't really excuse the Starbucks rampage, and I apologize to any denizens of Chestnut Hill whose quiet morning was disrupted by the stampede.

But I'm not going to beat myself up too much about it. I suspect, deep in my heart, that most moms become That Mom, every once in a while.

Fashion Sense and Sensibility

When Declan first started getting particular about what he wore last year, I pretended that I minded having to buy him a whole new wardrobe of plain long-sleeved shirts and button downs, but secretly I was thrilled that my son was so fashion forward. Shirts with giant pandas on them are for babies, I thought to myself, and smiled proudly when Declan went off to school each morning, hipster that he was.

Note that I said "was."

Declan is still as fashion conscious as ever, but now he insists on wearing all his shirts tucked in, his pants hiked up to his nipples. The button down shirts on which we conscientiously taught him to roll up the sleeves are now buttoned tight at neck and wrist. He wants to wear a tie.

Who is this kid? Where does this come from? I didn't really care where he got his fashion know-how before, since I found it so gosh darn cute, but now I'm getting worried. Who is teaching my son to dress this way and why won't he stop?

As a measure of precaution, I've moved his clothes into my room and keep them under lock and key, doling out the necessities each morning. When Declan objects to the outfit I have painstakingly put together, Matty holds him down while I force him into it. (It's kind of like dressing a Build-a-Bear.) He'll get used to it.

Okay, I don't do that. But don't think I'm not tempted. I try to gently encourage him to dress in the manner that I prefer (Declan, rugby shirts aren't really supposed to be tucked in so tight), but he always makes the final call. And every day after he gets dressed, he poses for himself in the mirror, does a little dance, and asks me, "Do I look handsome?"

No, I think to myself. You look like Urkel.

"Yes," I say to him. "You always look handsome to me."

TB or not TB? That is the Question

When our mother quit smoking around Thanksgiving, just a few weeks after her yearly chest x-ray, we suspected the worst (though of course Mom denied it). And when I got back from Ireland a couple of weeks ago, those fears were confirmed: a small malignancy was found on her lung. After 53 years of smoking, this was hardly a surprise. But it was a surprise when doctors removed the upper left lobe of her lung and discovered that she didn't have cancer after all, but rather a "smoldering infection."

Since her surgery just over a week ago, my mother's condition has changed on a daily basis. Last Wednesday they thought it might be tuberculosis. So we all panicked and thought about the TB epidemic that Mom had brought to our neighborhood. Friday they were pretty certain she didn't have TB. So we stopped worrying about Aaron's nagging cough. Saturday she had it again. And now? Probably not.

Mom's still in the hospital, so I'm here in Florida trying to keep her occupied. She should be home later today or tomorrow, and Amy will come down tomorrow so we can both help her out at home. Whether or not Mom has tuberculosis, she did have her chest cracked open and still needs time to recover.

When I first saw Mom in the hospital, I couldn't help but picture myself in her place, my own kids coming to see me. "Did it seem like just yesterday that I was 4?" I asked her, and she smiled and nodded. Everyone always tells me it goes by so fast, one minute they're toddlers and the next they're getting married. Soon, it will seem, instead of getting the call that Molly won't take a bottle, I'll be getting the call that Molly's going into labor.

That scares me a bit, thinking that before I know it, my kids will be helping to care for me rather than the other way around. That Declan and Ronan and Molly will have to carefully coordinate their schedules as Amy and I have done, to come care for me as I recuperate from something. And that in the blink of an eye, I may not be able to care for my kids as I have for so long.

But what encourages me, what keeps me going, is that when I cannot rush to Ronan's side when he breaks his leg in a skiing accident, or when Molly has her appendix out, or when the TB Declan contracted when he was 4 becomes active, when I cannot be there, someone else can. With our combined 8 kids spread across the nation as adults and parents, there will always be someone there to help you when you're down.

And isn't that why we're doing this? To give our kids the support we all so desperately need, to insure that they never, ever have to be alone if they don't want to?

Milestones

(Spoiler alert: if you don't know how Marley and Me ends, and don't want to know, then read no further!)

I couldn't tell you the first time any of my kids smiled, rolled over, or took their first steps. But today is a day I will always remember. I came into Erika's room to kiss her goodnight, and she showed me that she had finished reading her edited-for-young-people version of Marley and Me. I told her that yes, we could go see the movie, as I had promised her, and I tucked her in and turned off the light. Then she broke into tears: "It was so sad when Marley died at the end," she sobbed.

It was the first time a book made Erika cry.

That's a big step, when you learn that not all books have happy endings. Most of them do, when you're in second grade. They're happy stories about girls and their horses, and girls and their puppies, and girls lucky enough to have puppies AND horses (at least, these are the books Erika tends to bring home from the library).

I was just excited for Erika to discover the intense emotional relationships you can form with certain books. I've been a passionate reader my whole life, so for some reason I just assumed my kids would also be big readers. And although Hilary does recluse herself in her room with a book on a fairly regular basis, Erika's reading has mostly been at my urging. She's a good reader, and she likes books well enough, but she'd usually rather hook Gretchen and Declan up to a cardboard box and play dog sled team. Because, let's face it, one disadvantage (if you want to call it that) of living in such a big, chaotic household is that there are so many kids around to play with, the environment isn't that conducive to more introspective, solitary activities like reading.

I hope this is just the beginning for Erika. Because, although I can't even remember most of the books I read last year, I remember in great detail those books that moved me as a child: The Secret Garden and A Little Princess. The Shoes series by Noel Streatfeild. Judy Blume. The Black Cauldron. Maybe, when she's grown, Erika will feel the same way about Marley and Me - that it was the start of a lifelong love affair with reading.

Happy New Year!

Whew!!! We made it! Christmas vacation is now officially over.

When I was a kid, I had no idea how much most parents dreaded Christmas vacation. Now, I know. It's one thing, I suppose, if you have two well behaved children who are in elementary school or older, and you can all get on a plane and fly to Vail - or even better, someplace warm, like Turks and Caicos (both places where families I know traveled over the break), but when you have an autistic child and two-year-old twins, there's very little incentive to take the show on the road. Which means entertaining the gang at home for two weeks. Two cold, rainy, icy weeks - so icy, in fact, that Andy had to deliberately crash our minivan into a post to keep us from careening down the ice slide that was our driveway on Christmas Eve Day.

Just spoke to the body shop, by the way. Apparently, the car requires 40 hours of labor to fix, and will be out of commission for a good two weeks. 40 hours! I feel like I could build a car from scratch in that amount of time.

Well, maybe I couldn't. But I feel confident that other, more capable people could.

That was a definite low point in the break. But there were many good parts also. Andy was off for almost the entire vacation, which was a huge help and enabled us to take some fun trips, like our outing to Hershey Park's Winter Wonderland, which we make every year. We usually try to pick a day with warmish temperatures, in the 40-50 degree range, but this year we had to go on a cold, drizzly night. Although I wasn't thrilled at the prospect, it worked out great, because there were no lines for the rides. We also took Jonah, Erika and Hilary to the Poconos to go dog sledding. I was so excited to give Erika a chance to do that, because she's been obsessed with sled dogs for years now. I thought Jonah would love it also, because he typically likes speed and cold, but he was having a difficult time that day, and was agitated and upset most of the tour. Which was too bad, because it really was a thrill. Arctic Paws is the only dog sledding tour (so they claim) that lets you be the musher, so Erika, Hilary, Andy and I all got to stand on the back of the sled and control the brake.

Then there was our annual New Year's Eve party, which expanded from four families last year to nine this year. Our theme this year was balls - get it, a New Year's Eve "Ball"? Everyone brought food shaped like a ball - which might not sound that appetizing at first, but which actually yielded awesome falafel, lamb balls, shrimp balls, cheese balls, rum balls and peanut butter balls. It's always a happy way to start off the year, with the kids bouncing around, absolutely inflamed with sugar, camraderie, and the excitement of staying up past midnight - which Ronan did no problem, although Jonah and the twins conked out.

I know most people go into the new year with high hopes, but last year really was a tough one for us - with Jonah in the hospital for the bulk of it, and Andy so unhappy at work as the finance industry was just crushed - so we definitely could use some good news. Here's hoping that 2009 is a great year for everyone!!!

Spoiled American

Never before have I felt as spoiled as I do now, sitting in my father-in-law's house on Sherkin Island off the coast of West Cork. This small island (population: 100) is a short ferry ride from Baltimore (the original Baltimore, in Ireland) but is a completely different galaxy to Villanova, Pennsylvania.

To be fair, island living is simply different than mainland living. There are no garbage trucks to collect waste. There's no gas station, no Home Depot, no store at all as a matter of fact, unless you count the few necessitites like milk and bread sold out of the pub. So of course certain allowances must be made. But Matty's father takes it to a whole other level.

Take the trash (please!). There's a plate for the birds and a plate for the compost. Paper goes into one bin to be recycled; plastic is washed out carefully and placed in another bin. I've been coming here for 10 years and it's only this visit that I can actually remember what to do with everything; in the past I would simply hand my plate and/or trash to Matty to dispose of.

Matty's father is a recycler, through and through, and not just in the commercial sense. Last night he literally took Declan's Hanukkah present out of his hands so her could carefully remove the wrapping paper to save for another gift. Declan was too flabbergasted to protest. (Granda knew better than to try this with Ronan. He might have lost a finger.)

Everything in the house is turned off and unplugged when not in use. Matt Sr. doesn't even use the dryer, though it's been plugged in for our benefit (his clothes are laid out to freeze, er, dry on the bushes). Hot water doesn't actually come out of any of the faucets; there's a special box heating system for the shower. The oven is tiny and the fridge resembles the one from my dorm room in college.

Don't even get me started on the heat (or lack thereof). I can't tell you how many times we've been visiting some family member for a few hours, shivering in our flimsy American clothes, when our host will suddenly catch herself and say, "Oh, should I turn on the heat?" Turn it on? It's the end of December! Of course you should turn it on!

Worst of all, there's no such thing as Tivo here. Every time I turn on the TV Declan asks me to start the show at the beginning, and whenever there are commercials the boys point and stare as if the box is about to explode.

Okay, that's not really the worst of it. But it does make me realize how spoiled the boys, and I, have become.

Don't get me wrong. I don't actually have a lot of techie toys at home--our DVD player cost about $30, our television is shockingly thick-screened, and I have an Ipod shuffle only because Amy bought me one on the occasion of Molly's birth. But our lives do revolve around the technology we use: we're on and off the computer at home all day, keeping up on news both pressing and frivolous, trying to work, etc. Here the Internet connection is shockinly slow, so surfing the Web becomes more like a rough dog paddle. And at night, there's nothing I like at home more than collapsing into bed and watching the previous night's The Daily Show. Without commercials.

I'd like to say that being here will make me a more careful consumer, will make me appreciate all the luxuries I take for granted in my day to day life. But I'm sure I'll be blithely dumping unsorted trash before I've been home a week. And though Matty swears he'll never complain again about Andy keeping the heat so low in the house, I'm sure we'll start inching it up once Andy heads to NYC for the week.

The truth is, I am a spoiled American. At least for most of the year. For two weeks, I can be a careful-living islander.

But just for two weeks.

Independence Day

I always thought the reasons I enjoy communal living so much were due to the more positive aspects of my character: namely, my flexibility, calmness and generosity.

Now, having spent last week with Keri, Matty and crew in Ireland and Andy in New York City (where he now lives during the week), I'm beginning to suspect my affinity for our living arrangement has much more to do with what I've recently accepted as a staggering degree of helplessness.

Case in point: the heat stopped working. I thought the heat was only working poorly, which isn't that uncommon with a furnace that for all I know may be as old as our house, which was built in 1924. But when Andy came home from NYC on Thursday night, he confirmed that, although the pilot light was on, the water was at room temperature.

????????????????????

Me (huddled in front of the fireplace, from which I had refused to move all day): Should I call Oliver [our heating/cooling company] to come out for an emergency call?

Andy: Nah, I'll figure it out.

It took Andy two expeditions to the basement to discover that a circuit had blown, and with one flick of the finger we were back in business.

It never would have occurred to me to check the circuits. If, say, the Apocalypse had come before Andy came home and suddenly there was no Andy and no Oliver and it was up to me to fix the heating - well, all of us would have spent the winter huddled in front of the fireplace. Which - given the incredibly minor degree of difficulty involved in this particular repair - is pretty depressing.

Second case in point: our neighbor left us a voice mail a couple of days ago, informing us that he and his family were heading out of town for the holidays, but he had connected the snowplow attachment to his pickup truck and left the keys inside, since snow was in the forecast (we live at the top of a big hill, with a quarter-mile driveway that actually belongs to the neighbors, and they typically maintain it). I believe Andy and Matty both know how to work the snowplow, but I've only driven our little tractor snowplow, and feel supremely anxious at the prospect that our ability to leave our house next week might depend on my ability to figure it out on my own.

Our friend Polk said, "There's probably just a lever to move it up and down. You can do it."

Which I've come to understand is a very male attitude. My thoughts were, "What if I damage it? What if I scrape up the driveway? What if I wait until there's too much snow and crash the truck? And so on and so forth.

I've always considered myself an independent person. I've lived alone, and I enjoyed living alone, but that was when I was in graduate school and only had to maintain a little one-bedroom apartment. Now, I look around my house - at the wireless network, the entertainment system, the heating system, the hot water heater, the plumbing, all of it - and all I think is, I couldn't fix that.

Which brings me back to why I like living communally - chances are, the more people around, the more likely it is that one of them will know how to fix whatever happens to break.

But, since it's unlikely the kids will set up such enormous households for themselves when they get older, I feel I should be more proactive - especially with the girls. Whenever Andy or Matty sets to tinker with some failing system, I should just follow them. Maybe then all the females in our household might end up more like my friend Lauren, who knows how to fix lots of things, especially technological things. And I know it will be more of an effort for me to learn, because I have no natural interest in technology, whereas she always has, but I suspect it will be worth it in the end. Because I can't stand the image of myself as Scarlett O'Hara, fluttering my hands and waiting for some man to save me.

Make New Friends, But Keep the Old...

Our houseguests are gone. Mostly. We had to kick them out of their room when Jonah came home and a few dozen relatives descended for Thanksgiving. Now they just come here to eat and do laundry, since their house has habitable bedrooms but no working kitchen or laundry. It was great having Patrick, Rhea, Jazzy, and Sophia here, and not just because Patrick did the dishes and Rhea made kimchee fried rice for us.

As expected, Jazzy and Erika spent all their time together, in the room they shared at home and in the class they shared at school. What I wasn't expecting was that Declan and Sophia would become such fast friends. The two of them were thick as thieves, disappearing for hours on end to play elaborate games of make-believe or stare at picture books in Declan's room.

Unfortunately, Declan spent so much time with Sophia, he never had time for Hilary. Though Hilary didn't seem to mind--she seems to most enjoy playing or reading by herself in her room--I was sad that the two cousins weren't spending more time together. Now that Sophia is ensconced in her own room a few blocks away (where, I should add, she woke up the first night wailing that she was, "so lonely!"), Declan and Hilary are back to being best buds. This past weekend Matty took Declan and Hilary to the Please Touch Museum, and last week we took Hilary with us to the zoo.


It's been interesting to see the path of Declan and Hilary's relationship, and I'm happy to see we've just about come full circle. When we first moved here almost 3 years ago (gulp!), 18-month-old Declan and almost-3-year-old Hilary were inseparable. But after a while, they fought more than they laughed, and soon they rarely played together at all. Now that they're 4 and 5, they seem to have found their rhythm. Of course they still fight, like any brother and sister. But now it's the exception rather than the rule.

Next year, Hilary will go on to elementary school and Declan will stay at preschool, and I wonder how their relationship will continue to change. Will the two grades that will separate them drive them further apart? Or will they see so little of each other during the school day they'll seek each others company at home at night?

I can't wait to find out.

Holding Down The Fort

In case I needed another reason to be happy Keri and Matty live with us, Andy resigned last week from the job he held for the past 17 years to join the wildly successful venture his two best friends are running . . . in New York City.

Which means that, from Monday to Thursday, he'll be staying in New York.

You might think this means I'll cherish the adult company Keri and Matty provide even more, as well as their cooking, driving, cleaning, and conflict resolution skills - all of which means I'm not captaining this chaotic vessel on my own. And that's true. But what I'm really so very glad about, more than anything else, is that they're here at night.

People generally perceive me as a pretty laid back person. And I really don't worry much about things like, where I'll sleep the 10 extra people coming in for Thanksgiving, or whether my house is spotless when guests arrive, or whether the pressure in my tires is low. But I have been known to worry about completely improbable scenarios, such as how I would get all my kids out in the event of a fire. Or what I would do if a homicidal maniac broke into the house.

A historically-minded person once told me that the layout of my house - in which many of the bedrooms are connected by interior doors - became popular after the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby, so parents could lock the hallway doors to their children's rooms and still be able to move between rooms to check on them.

Thanks a lot, whoever that was. Now there's something else to lie awake at night thinking about.

But I don't lie awake at night. Because with Keri and Matty here, I feel safe. If there were a fire, I wouldn't have to get all the kids out myself. And if there were an intruder, he'd have to fight off all three of us (with all our mad skillz).

So, Andy, if you're concerned about how I'll get on while you're gone, don't worry. I'll miss you, but we'll be fine.

Thanksgiving

Two weeks later, I can finally write about Thanksgiving weekend without feeling exhausted. Our first visitors arrived the Tuesday prior and left the Monday following. In between, eight of our cousins passed through the house, and one night 13 kids sat down to dinner (pizza, of course; I'm not crazy enough to actually cook dinner for 13 children). It was a wonderfully hectic weekend filled with family and friends, ending on Sunday with a bris hosted for our friend Lauren, who welcomed Henry Eliot to her family.

I was a bit worried about how Declan would fare over the weekend. All the visiting cousins were older--between 8 and 11 years of age--and, save one, female. As I've written before, Declan keeps one foot with the younger kids and one foot with the older ones. I had no doubt that with all the big cousins around, Declan would prefer to hang with the older crowd; but would they want to hang out with him?


I needn't have worried. Though 8-year-old Justin, the lone male cousin over the age of 4, didn't always get on well with all the girls, Declan proved to be a popular kid. I guess I underestimated the cute factor. Girls love cute little kids. Both Declan and Ronan fell in love with their cousins, especially Megan and Brooke, who live in Ohio. We're hoping we can make a trip out there in the spring so the kids can see each other again.

The whole weekend made me realize how lucky we are to have all the kids living together. I wish Megan and Brooke lived closer, so Declan and Ronan could spend more time with them, and so I could get to know them as well as I have gotten to know Jonah, Erika, Hilary, Aaron, and Gretchen. The thought of Ronan and Aaron only seeing each other a few times a year, instead of being the constant companions they are now, makes me sad.

As warm and fuzzy as I felt about seeing all the kids together, I'm sure it was nothing compared to how my great aunt Rose felt. Aunt Rose lost Uncle Bob, her husband of more than 70 years, last June, and this was her first visit up North since then. She couldn't stop telling us how happy she was, how she would remember this weekend forever.


I'll remember it too, because I'm sure it won't be long until Declan tires of being an adorable playmate and decides it would be more fun to tie Brooke's bra to the balcony railing or steal Megan's diary and post excerpts on the Internet.

Hopefully, the adorable playmate thing will work for a few more years.

Thanksgiving: The Menu

So what do you feed 30 people for Thanksgiving dinner? Here's what we served:

Smoked Turkey (above, perched in Patrick's Big Green Egg)
Roast Turkey
Grilled Leg of Lamb
Chestnut Stuffing
Mashed Potatoes
Candied Sweet Potatoes
Brussels Sprouts with Turkey Bacon
Glazed Carrots
Challah

And for dessert...
Gingerbread Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Frosting
Bourbon Pecan Pie
Maple Walnut Baklava
Pumpkin Pie
Aunt Rose's Mandel Bread
Barbara's Brownies and Peanut Butter Cookies
Andy's Homemade Vanilla Ice Cream

Jonah's Home!!!!

After ten months and fourteen days, we finally brought Jonah back from Kennedy Krieger yesterday.

We admitted a child who was plagued by constant chemical surges in his brain that made him agitated, aggressive and sad. When he was discharged, Jonah's disruptive behaviors in academic settings had decreased by 99.7%. His rates had dropped so low that his psychiatrist determined there was no need to try adding a new medication, as was the plan the last time I posted an update.

As you can imagine, it was a very emotional day. Not quite as emotional as the day we dropped him off, but pretty close. I cried, Jonah's aides cried. We videotaped fond messages from everyone on his team and snapped pictures of him being hugged by his speech pathologist, his behavior therapists, his psychologist, and his aides.

It's hard sometimes to figure out what Jonah's thinking, but I'd say he was pretty happy. He wasn't thrilled that we had moved his room while he was gone, but once we showed him all the markers in his cabinet, he adjusted fairly quickly. Today, he started his new school, and we started re-adjusting to life with Jonah. And it will take some adjusting, even though we're all, down to the two-year-olds, absolutely thrilled to have him back. This morning, for example, was pretty frenetic. You wouldn't think getting eight kids up and ready for the day would be that much more work than seven, but it is. Especially when you have to make sure that eighth kid eats his medicine-infused peanut butter sandwich and doesn't take advantage of his new freedom to fall back into old habits, like writing on the walls.

But, if there's one thing I've learned as the parents of a child with a disability, you can adjust to anything. I adjusted when my beautiful baby grew into a toddler, then a boy, who would come after me every day in a blind, unreachable rage: biting, punching, scratching, grabbing, then five minutes later crawl into my lap for a hug as if nothing had ever happened. I adjusted when he stopped eating anything but pretzels and peanut butter and had to spend a month as an outpatient at CHOP's feeding clinic, where I watched therapists force feed him, after which I was taught to force feed him myself. I adjusted when my nine-year-old son went to live in a hospital two hours away, and now I get to adjust to having him back. I think, now, there is nothing that could happen to me that would simply stop me in my tracks.

And I don't mean to suggest there's anything special about me. I think, for the most part, people cope. Period. That's why it always bugs me when some well-meaning acquaintance says something like, "I don't know how you do it. I could never handle it." I think most parents in my position feel similarly: none of us thought we could do it, but we did it. We do it. And if you had to do it, you would too. I'll never forget something Andy said once, about seven years ago. Jonah hadn't been diagnosed yet, but the writing was on the wall, and one day while we were riding in the car, Andy said, "It would be okay if we had a special needs child." This was Andy talking, super over-achieving Andy, who had already decided that all our kids (3 out of 5 of which hadn't even been born yet) were going to go to Penn and become investment bankers. But what he was really saying was, "I love Jonah. Nothing can change that."

But, hopefully, all that bad adjusting is behind us, and we can look forward to more good adjusting: adjusting to a child who's finally thriving in school, who can carry on a conversation, who plays with his siblings. Jonah's teachers had always said that once his behaviors were resolved, there was no ceiling on what he can accomplish. Now, after a seven-year-struggle, we're so excited to find out how high he can go.

Marathon Day

The Philadelphia Marathon is today. And I woke up at 5:00 in the morning, just like many marathoners, whose anticipation, excitement and anxiety kept them from sleeping.

Which would make sense if I were running today. But I'm not.

I trained for the Marathon. I logged training runs of 15 and 17 miles. But I kept putting off registering - I was pretty sure I was going to run, fairly certain I would be ready, but what was the harm in waiting? After all, I had run the Broad Street Run (10 miles) and the Philadelphia Distance Run (a half-marathon) this year, and both times I had signed up at the Expo the day before. That way, I could check out the conditions - after all, I wasn't one of those running nuts who would slush through 13 miles in a downpour.

Then, about three weeks ago, Keri told me that she had heard from a friend that the Philly Marathon was closed. They weren't accepting any new registrants.

I couldn't believe it, but it was true. Apparently, there are a lot more people in town who can run 26.2 miles than I had ever assumed. So, no marathon for me.

It serves me right. I've noticed this tendency in myself before - to have an idea, a plan, but not to commit to it fully. I always like to leave myself a back door. I could very easily have had a tubal ligation when the twins were delivered by C-section, for example, but I chose not to. I mean, five kids is more than enough by anyone's standards, and I honestly have no desire to have any more (and would probably have a heart attack if I somehow found myself pregnant, like what happened to Keri) - but I guess what it comes down to is that I don't trust myself not to change my mind.

Which is a shame, because I can't help but feel my life would improve enormously if I could throw myself into projects with reckless abandon. Instead of working in dribs and drabs on the novel revision that my agent has been waiting on for the better part of the last two years, what if I had stayed up all hours of the night, or gotten up at 4:30 in the morning on the days Andy went to work early? What if I hadn't spent so much time surfing the net or playing games on the computer or even blogging for Strollerderby (which I just recently gave up, recognizing it as the time-sucker it was, instead of the paying, identity-affirming, writing gig I liked to think of it as)? What if I had been able to eat healthily on a consistent basis, instead of constantly undermining myself by eating four bowls of Andy's homemade oreo ice cream? What if I had set aside the time every night to help Erika with her math and help Hilary practice her reading? Maybe by now, Hilary would be able to read to herself instead of just being able to read out loud - a mysterious gap in her skills I can't really explain.

On the one hand, I understand that kind of intensity is not really part of my personality, and in fact runs counter to the laid-back, flexible attitude that keeps me sane amidst all the chaos of my life right now.

But on the other hand, there's no reason I can't turn up the heat a little bit. So, there's my New Year's resolution, a month early: sustained commitment. My buzz words for 2009.

Decalin

I'll always wonder what Declan would be like if he had grown up as the oldest child of three, rather than the middle child of eight, as he is here. Older children are generally higher achievers than their younger siblings and, from my experience, tend to have much stronger personalities. Younger kids tend to be pleasers, as I can attest.

But every time I lament the Declan I'll never know, something happens that makes me realize the benefit of having older siblings around to look up to. (No, Erika and Hilary teaching Declan to dress up in princess dresses was not such a benefit.) And right now, it's homework.

Declan is obsessed with homework. He sees Erika, Hilary, and Jazzy doing it each day after school and so desperately wants to be a big kid like them. So I printed out some worksheets and have him practice his letters in a spiral bound notebook. He does his homework each day like the older girls and beams with pride when he learns a new letter. He's getting better and better at writing his name, though yesterday he wrote "Decalin" at the top of his worksheet. That actually impressed me, because that's how some of his friends say his name and it means Declan might actually be sounding out the letters in his name rather than just copying.

Would Declan be so driven to learn if he didn't have his older cousins to mimic? I don't know. Perhaps he'll tire of the homework when he's actually required to complete it, as Erika has. But until then, I'll enjoy the huge smile on his face when I congratulate him on the proper execution of a "C" (it's harder than you think) or a careful printing of his name, all the letters in the right order ("I ran out of room," he says, when I question why he sometimes puts the "N" in front of the "D").

One Big Happy Family

Being part of a huge blended family means that people tend to only see you that way: one big family of 12. Sometimes it feels like we've lost our identity as a nuclear family of five (or seven, in Amy's case). And while it's wonderful to be part of such a warm and loving group, its not ultimately what defines us.

Because of our branding as "that crazy Lutz/Fisher/Murphy family," no one ever invites us anywhere. I think many people assume that inviting one of us means inviting all of us, though of course we don't feel that way. There have been times that Amy and her brood have gone to parties or dinners at friends' homes that we haven't been invited to, and this coming Friday, in fact, Matty and I and the kids are having dinner at the home of one of Ronan's friends. But these outings are few and far between. We're much more likely to host our friends at our house.

It makes sense; there are a lot of us and we have a big house, so inviting another family over doesn't really put us out. And I realize that most people would feel slightly claustrophobic inviting four more adults and eight kids into their home.

But I hope our friends know that though we live as one big happy family, we're really two separate families that try to maintain our single family relationships. We try to schedule individual family outings on Sundays, and sometimes even leave all the kids with a sitter so two separate couples can go out with two separate sets of friends.

We've tried hard to instill in our kids the distinction between sibling and cousin, parent and aunt/uncle, and it seems to be working, as we've written about here . Now if only we could get everyone else to see the same distinction.

We Want to Live in Your House: A Guest Post from Rhea

Everyone thought we were crazy. You really want to live with two other families???

Well, yeah. We have nowhere else to go! It was just perfect. Close to our new house, same teacher, class and bus for Jazzy and Erika, two chefs. Why not? Patrick and I are good sports. We can do this. It should only be for a few weeks.

Well, it has now been over two months and it looks as though it will be just a few weeks more. All in all, things have been good. Here are some of my deep thoughts, reflections and comments about communal living.

“Who the f--- is crying now??? It’s f’in’ 7am on a Saturday!!!”

Everyone (even Marina) is a little bit scared of Gretchen. (And you thought Imelda had a temper and a shoe fetish.)

We only get to watch TV on a 3” screen and only political shit since Matty has a coronary if we change the channel. The BIG TV is reserved for Eagles games and they won’t show us how to use it.

What the…? Where’s RoNo??? He is just the sweetest thing….

“Is Amy dressed to go out in public?”

“Molly spit up on me again.”

Hilary is a very WHYs child.

Iwanbeer actually means “I want my bear.” So should I not have given Aaron a beer? I put it in a sippy cup…

Thai hairdo’s are no-do’s. But the food is delish.

Andy can buy ANYTHING in bulk.

Erika totally gets her money’s worth from drama class.

Naked boy! is always followed by another Naked boy! and then another Naked Boy! and then a Naked Girl!

“Must we eat steak, again?”

Depo makes babies who have very sweet demeanors.

ALL men have the same sense of humor and only ONE topic of humor.

It takes a village to buy a boat.

“Someone’s crying.”

And those a just a few thoughts off the top o’ me head.

Two Angels, a Mouse, a Pirate, a Ladybug, Rapunzel, Tinkerbell, a Grey Furry Baby, and Robin Hood Walk Into a Bar...

Update on the Uber-Commune

I got an email from my friend Sarah last week, expressing mild shock that after more than two months, our mutual friends Patrick and Rhea and their daughters were still living with us, and everyone was still happy with the arrangement. Which reminded me that I hadn't posted any updates on that situation since Patrick and Rhea moved in.

In case you haven't been paying attention, here's our current head count: 3 moms, 3 dads, 9 kids, 2 kid helpers. When Jonah comes home at the end of the month, that will make an even 10 kids.

And I have to say, I love it. I think I was just meant to live on a commune. I love that my children are always occupied - Erika and Jazzy (Patrick and Rhea's older daughter) are in the same class at school, share a room, and are rarely apart; Sophia (their younger daughter) has formed a sweet bond with Gretchen. I love having even more smart, interesting adults around with totally different skill sets than mine - Patrick, who's an architect, has helped us immensely with the townhouse we're in the process of buying down in Atlantic City, and Rhea makes a completely addictive kimchee fried rice.

And of course, it's no small benefit to have more people around to share the chores: packing lunches, doing dishes, driving to school. I can honestly say that it's less work for me personally having Patrick and Rhea here.

What they think about the whole thing, I'm not sure. They haven't fled screaming to their shell of a house, choosing to live without a kitchen or working bathroom rather than stay here, so I guess it's not too terrible! Look for a guest post from them soon.

Politically Incorrect

We're all fairly political. Not that we all agree—Matty is just left of center, while Andy is just Libertarian—but we always have the news on in the kitchen, where we tend to hang out in the early evening as Matty or I prepare dinner. So it's not surprising that most of the kids in the house know that there is an election going on, and those above the age of 4 can even identify the candidates. (Declan, however, misidentified the gentlemen on a recent Newsweek cover as Barack Obama and John McCain (it was actually Joe Biden), but who can blame him? Old white-haired guys all look the same to a 4-year-old.)

Erika, recently asked Andy a question about Obama, and Andy replied, "Barack Obama wants to steal our money."

Matty was appalled. "Andy, you can't say that," he urged.

"Okay," Andy replied. "John McCain also wants to steal our money."

Needless to say, this did little to calm Matty, who, rather than say something he might regret, scooped up the boys and retreated to our bedroom. Where, I should point out, Declan asked plaintively, "Why does Barack Obama want to steal our money?" I lied, "Uncle Andy was just joking."

Matty wasn't mad about the affront on Obama, but rather the overly simplistic and completely inaccurate characterization of both candidates. Kids are literal. They know what stealing is. People who steal go to jail. Collecting taxes isn't stealing.

Later, I heard him telling Erika that Obama and McCain were two different candidates with different positions on many issues and that some people liked Obama and some people liked McCain, just like some people like McDonald's and some people like Burger King.

Clearly, we want our kids to share our values and beliefs. And I sympathize with Andy, the lone Republican-leaning Libertarian in our liberal-leaning household. But painting our politicians as criminals is not the way to do it. Painting them as fast food franchises is a much better option.

I'm not being glib; a 7-year-old child has no concept of real politics. But she does know that Chicken McNuggets are better than Chicken Tenders, but that Wendy's burgers are far superior to McDonald's. In other words, she knows that there are some great things about each fast food outlet, but none of them is perfect.

As parents, all we can do is present our kids with the facts as they can understand them, and know that as they get older, they will make their own decisions and form their own opinions. Maybe they'll agree with us. Maybe they won't.

A few days later, Erika told me at breakfast that she didn't support Obama because he wanted to take her money. I started to correct her but she interrupted me, "I know what it is, it's called taxes." But what does a 7-year-old know of taxes? All she knows is that if she can't keep her money, that's one less Webkinz she can have.

Amy thought we should keep the TV news off in the kitchen when the kids were around, at least until the election is over, but I think that misses the point. Now is the perfect time to start exposing our kids to politics, in any way they can understand. And if that means a few more visits to Wendy's, that's fine with me. (It's much better than McDonald's, anyway.)

The Ghosts of Halloweens Past

Sid and Nancy, 2005

Bee-ing There

I like to think that I would do anything to protect my children, that I would sacrifice myself and my well-being to prevent any harm from befalling Declan, Ronan, and now Molly. I like to think that.

But I'm wrong.

Since Declan was born, there have been two instances where I feel that I have completely and utterly failed him as a parent. The first was more than three years ago, in Ireland. I was carrying him down some stone steps, lost my footing, and fell the last three steps to the concrete floor. I landed hard, with bruised knees and ego.

And I dropped Declan.

He was fine, a bit scared, and cried for a few minutes. But I was horrified. Here, when my son needed me most, I failed. My instinct should not have been to put out my hands to break my fall, it should have been to wrap my hands around my baby and hold him tight.

Then, last year, I was in the kitchen with Declan, Matty, and Andy, when there was a small explosion on the stovetop.

Did I throw myself on top of Declan to protect him from what turned out to be an exploding gas lighter, or dive to push him out of the way? No.

I ducked behind the sink.

I think that is in these moments, when pure instinct takes over and we cannot obsess or analyze how exactly to react, it is then when we see our true nature. And my true nature is clearly trying to tell me something.

I have my moments. When Declan was a newborn, some horrid creepy crawly thing darted into his carseat (with him in it), and I didn't run screaming in the opposite direction or call Matty and insist he come home from work straightaway. I calmly scooped out the bug and then washed my hands 17 times.

This past weekend, we took the kids to a birthday party at Linvilla Orchards, a favorite spot for pick-your-own fruit. Last year we picked apples on a particularly hot September day, and Declan got stung repeatedly on his wrist by a very angry wasp. Since then, we have picked peaches and blueberries, and even tiny plums, but each time Declan announced that he would not go apple picking.

The day of the party was very sunny and brisk, a bit cold for bees, I would think, but once the pizza and cake were served, so were the bees. They were everywhere, crawling into cups of lemonade, hovering over pizza crusts and resting hungrily on cake crumbs. Declan was literally shrieking with terror.

Now I must confess, I am terrified of bees and wasps. Not allergic, just really, really scared. Years ago, when I lived in Florida, I had to call a friend to let me into my house because there was a beehive over the door and I simply couldn't walk under it (she let me in the back door). So I know where Declan's coming from. And I can't say I was too happy at this party either.

But I didn't let Declan know any of that. I stood with him among the bees and stayed calm. And though my instinct was to scoop him up and hide in the car, I stayed strong.

If I can handle bees, I can handle anything. I hope.