At first, I was like, OH my god, this is going to be the best summer ev-er!  We’ll go swimming and do crafts and do science experiments and read and go exploring and see free movies and do Science Sundays at the Children’s Museum and maybe camping and a weekend trip.  This is going to rock!

And then Monday as I was grocery shopping, I looked down at Aidan and realized that the next Monday I’ll be grocery shopping with three boys.  Trying to control three boys in the grocery store.  I remembered going to Target a few days before with the boys and thought I was going to have to abandon them.  And then I remembered last year when I spent all summer in parent-detention, stuck sitting at the table, waiting for the boys to finish their workbooks.  Some days it took 6 hours to do 2 pages in the workbook.  I was like shoot me; shoot me now.

Then I had a panic attack.  A small one.  That lasted 5 minutes.

For the last several days, I’ve been swinging between excitement and despair.

I have plans.  Like no video games if the workbooks aren’t done, but I’m might be missing the loop-hole.  Evan and Sean have to read every day, which Evan will enjoy.  Sean has to do fine motor skill activities every day, and I have a whole bunch of stickers to reward him with.  A friend suggested the boys and I make a plan for the summer so the boys know what to expect.  I’ve learned to find all kinds of free or cheap things to do.  I feel like I need to make a lesson plan for the summer.  Maybe I should.  Then I would have more practice on writing them.  Then again that is possibly insane.  Extremely rigid.  Probably not good for my codependency.

Somehow I will figure this out.

But tomorrow.  Tomorrow.  We’ll celebrate the first day of summer in style.  Out for breakfast.  Walking at the mall to try it out.  Sign up for the summer reading program at the library.  Ice cream lunch.  Making tie-dye shirts.  Swimming.  Fish tacos.  It’s going to be awesome.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Aidan: Snack, Mommy?

Me: You had a snack.

Aidan: Bread, Mommy?

Me: No, we don’t need to go to the bakery.

Aidan: Prezzle, Mommy?

We just passed a bakery that was known for pretzels.

Me: Not today, Aidan.

Aidan: Sushi, Mommy?

As we passed a sushi joint.

Me: Nope.  Not today.

Aidan: Lunch, Mommy?

Me: It’s still early morning, sweetheart.  Lunch is a while away.

We were approached a traffic light.

Aidan: Stay green!  Stay green!  Stay green!  Stay green!

Oh God, what am I teaching my son?  I better check my road rage.  And hard.

We sailed through the green light.

Aidan: YEA!!!

In case you’re wondering, he repeated this with every light.  That’s a lot of traffic lights.

Then we arrived at the district.

Aidan: Mommy!  We go up the snake?!

He pointed to the spiral staircase.

As it happens, we did have to go up the spiral staircase.  When we left the office, he was excited to leave.

Aidan: Mommy!  We go down the snake?!

Me: Yes!  Hold on to the rail.

When we got down to the bottom floor, Aidan looked at me.

Aidan: Mommy!  We go up the snake?!

Me: No, it’s time to go.

Aidan: NO!!!

He tried to run up the stairs, but I scooped him up and threw him over my shoulder.

Aidan: Not a sack of potatas!  Mommy!  I not!  A sack of potatas!

So I put him on my hip and kissed him.

Me: No, you’re not.  You’re my Aidan.  And I love you.

Aidan hugged me tight.

Aidan: I love you!

Well, not really.

(Ok, so I was out two years ago by some crazy ex-employee of the ex.  But no one goes looking at that thread on some crazy “report” site.  That’s not really what I’m talking about.)

It’s the boys and their names.  You type in their names, and the blog comes up on the first page.  You type in their names and Arizona or blog, and the blog comes up first page.  So if you know me and that I wrote a blog and you know my boys’ names, it is stumbling easy to find the blog.

I’m not sure how I feel about this.

When I first started the blog, I did some research on other blogs and what they did for their children’s names.  Then I did a search on Evan and Sean.  It was a popular combination of boys names.  But when you add Aidan, well, you get a more unique combination.  No one has three children any more or are graced with three boys.

This only comes up because I’m a pretty private person online.  (Except I used my real name and photo on Pinterest)  My Facebook is pretty locked-down tight.  I didn’t use my real name to set this up or the Twitter account.  I’m annoyed how easily it is to get my address online.  The only things I want to come up online is any writing with my name on it.  Ok, it’s also cool that I’m still up for a panel discussion I did years ago at my alma mater.  (And Pinterest.  Not sure how I feel about that.)

I only think about my privacy because I had a stalker in my past (and we all pray he stays in my past) and that one day I’ll be teaching high schoolers.  Tech-savvy high schoolers.  My only hope is that they are so self-absorbed in their own worlds that they never think to research into my life.

Also I plan never to say anything negative about them in a public forum, so if I’m recorded, I’m not in trouble.  I mean that’s just common sense.

But the question is how far do I go to reveal my life.  How much can I be an open book when I know just possibly someone I know might fine the blog and look threw it, learning things that I didn’t want said person to know.  But then I did make a public blog.

That question came to mind when I realized I’m holding a lot of secrets, and the ones that hurt the most are not even mine.  I realized those secrets aren’t my burden.  I’m not the one who has to be ashamed.  So I decided I’m not going to keep them.  It’s not like I plan on running around screaming them, but I’m not going to protect them any more.  If the conversation ever turns to those secrets, I’ll tell the truth.  Every time I do that I will be true to myself and take another step towards healing.

So there.  I’m easily to find under this name with the right information, and I, like every other person on the planet, has secrets.  Somehow I have to figure out how much of my mask and armor do I take off to be in this space.

1. He’s created his own world.  The Nine-Nine world.  It’s an amazing place with Nine-Nine Dragons and Nine-Nine Sharks.  And the biggest, meanest, most evil in the Nine-Nine Emperor Dragon.  Of course, it’s a world of bad guys.  But I think of it like bad guys with souls.  Or rather I’m hoping they are misunderstood creatures framed in the villain role.

2. Yes, he’s still obsessed with villains.  Hoping to start loosening that obsession, we showed him Pirates of the Caribbean.  Jack Sparrow is a like a villain and like a good guy.  Nope, Sean liked Captain Barbossa.  As a skeleton.

3. His favorite colors are red and black.  Because those are bad guy colors.

4. His favorite movies are still Star Wars movies and cartoons.  His favorite books are anything Star Wars.  His favorite toys are anything Star Wars.  As well as the Imaginatrix castles and knights and ninjas and dragons.  We could build a town with a small army.

5. Don’t let the bad-guy obsession fool you.  Sean is a sweetheart.  He wears his heart on his sleeve.  He’s sweet and caring.  He’s gentle and kind.  His teachers have all fallen in love with him.  Sean could never be a villain.

6. He’s also top in his class for math.  He is one of the most knowledgeable kids.  He reads.  Not that he has shown me, but he does it in class.

7. But his fine motor skills are woefully behind because he’s ambidextrous.  He’s going to have a hard time next year if I don’t get him help this summer.  He’s too bright to be held back, but his fine motor skills are very weak.

8. Sean is bright enough to learn that the fun activities we’ve been doing for the last two months are work in disguise.  Work for his fine motor skills.  Great.  Just great.  Now I have to find more crafts and activities for him to do for 20 minutes every day.

9. He’s growing out of needing a blankie for bedtime.  He loves it dearly but half the time forgets to bring it to bed.  My heart is breaking.

10. He does try to bring his big Angry Bird pig to bed.  Because he loves the pigs because they’re bad guys.  And he has a smaller one, but he gave it to Aidan because he loved it and wants to be like Sean.  So Sean sleeps in his bed with a big piggy and Evan.

Happy birthday, my little dude.  Please stop growing so fast.

And if you want to read his birth story, it’s here.

2. My house should be declared a natural disaster.  With the end of school and all the running around and the three tornadoes.

3. Mom, I know technically it’s true, but please refrain from calling the ex my husband.  Unless it comes after ex- or late-.

4. As for the ex, you’re only requirement for Mother’s Day is to buy a gift for the boys to give me because you’re teaching them to honor the day for their mother and future mothers of their children.  Barring that, the least you could’ve done was stay away so I could’ve called a friend and bitched about you.

5. Aidan has had a few insomnia attacks this week.  I owe my sanity to that playlist.  Though it reminds me of Semisonic’s “Singing in my Sleep.”

6. I’m scrambling to do all I can to help Sean with his fine motor skills.  Next stop the dollar store for supplies.  But first, he did twenty minutes of mazes, nearly finished the book.  The book that was going to last all summer.  Supposedly.  Oh well.

7. Evan was so excited by watermelon season.  He kissed the watermelon.

8. We played Speed Golf this weekend.  It’s like golf but in miniature!  And fast.  Hit twice and put it in the hole.  Unless you have Aidan’s help like I did.  I played the best golf game of my life.  When I take up golf, I am making Aidan my caddy.

9. I ordered a few things online.  I got them already.  YEA!  Except one of the shirts is all wrong.  And two of the prints were mis-ordered.  BOO!

10. Class is over!  For the summer!  I should have time to write!  And read other blogs!  (I miss them.)  Except it’s summer for the boys, which is great, except for all the forcing them to do workbooks and read and clean up.  And I have my teaching test in just over a month.  And mediation in a few weeks.  And my history teaching test in the beginning of September.  I’m no longer excited.

The 5:

I can tell how much happier I am when I do them all.  And how there’s an empty hole when I don’t do most of them.  I hope the summer will give me more time to do it all.

(Excuse me, while I go keep my children from killing each other.)

My Mom: Your boys like messing with each other.  A lot.

Me: (shrugged) Most siblings do.

My Mom: You kids didn’t.

A montage of childhood antics flashed before my eyes.  The Face crying when the swing knocked him in the back of the head.  The Friendly Giant dropping and breaking my piggy bank as I wrestled The Face.  Turning and seeing The Friendly Giant with a clump of my hair in his hands.  Wrestling for hours over the damn remote.  Arguing over the green glass.  Fighting over the green glass.  Holding a finger just an inch away from the other person. Swearing I would break that finger if it wasn’t removed.  Walking into my room to find the Great Beheading Barbie Massacre of ’89.  Swearing unholy revenge on behalf of those Barbies and Skippers.  Trying to make the others talk during the Quiet Game.  Trying to mime that my brothers were cheating on the Quiet Game.  Complaining about being near each other in the car.  “His leg is touching mine!”  “Her hair is touching me!”  “He’s over the line on my side!”   The lecture we all received about how wrong it was to punch or kick someone in the groin; and our mother telling us she wanted grandchildren one day.  Breaking into a clean-underwear fight during our chore of folding the underwear.  (Much like a snowball fight but with underwear)  The Face asking if I wanted to see time fly as he threw my glow-in-the-dark watch across the room.  Learning that heads bounce off dry wall.  Telling the Friendly Giant if he didn’t get in the pool and play with us the vulture would get him.  Ferocious fights during Shark games or Water Polo.  Screaming s/he is cheating!  Never finishing a game of Monopoly because someone always stole from the bank and we end up throwing pieces and money at each other.  Fighting over video games.  Tons of cut-downs.  Tons of name calling.  Tons of pulling faces.  Tons of tattling.  Tons of pushing, hitting, kicking, shoving, scratching, and pulling hair.

Me: Yeah, we did.

My Mom:  You’re obviously misremembering.

Me: One of us is.

Saturday we all gathered to have dinner in honor of my brother’s 29th birthday.  I looked over mid-meal to Aidan who sat next to me.  My little vegetarian (weird for a meat-eating family, right?) was digging into the casserole.  It was almost gone.  I made eye contact with my mom and, in a discreet manner, pointed to Aidan.

My mom: I know.  I’ve been watching him eat.  I can’t believe me.

Me: I know, right?  (giggle)  No one tell him there’s M-E-A-T in it.

Aidan: I eat the chicken!

Oh God. 

Please Lord, in Your infinite mercy, let that be a fluke.

Me: (sound normal; don’t panic; it was a fluke; it was a fluke.)  Is it good?

Aidan: WAY!  I like chicken!  I eat chicken now!

We’ll see next time I give your chicken strips.

Woman: You had L?!  How exciting!  I’m friends with L.  We were drama teachers together.  I just was at a different school.

Me: F was great.  A wonderful teacher.  I’m sorry she retired before my senior year.  I would’ve loved to had her that last year.

Woman: I’ll have to tell L I ran into you.  She’ll be happy to know all about you and what you’ve done.

Me: I’m sure she doesn’t remember me.

Woman: We remember our favorites.  Those special kids that stick out.

Me: Well, I’m sure that’s true.  But F was a teacher for so long, and I had only 3 years.

Woman: Oh, she’ll remember you.  You said you owned the Shop?  Then she’ll remember you.

Me: (laughed uncomfortably) Well, give her my best.  She was a wonderful teacher.  Even if she doesn’t remember me.

I know I was memorable to some teachers.  Just not to F.  I was memorable to some high school teachers.  Like my chem/swim coach (for the first two years of high school).  I bugged him at least once a week for three years with some random science question or another.  When I presented my project on using the names of 20 elements of the periodic table (“Because I know not all of you will go into fields where you need this.  Just do something with the names.”), he claimed I was the most energetic presenter he’s ever had.  (I did a radio show with characters, settings, props, and even ads with the element names.)  Or my second year Spanish teacher.  I was horrible in Spanish.  I cheated on the tests.  I would be in the middle of my essay when I would want a word we didn’t know yet, would panic and then slowly open my dictionary.  I’m sure I wasn’t smooth, and I’m sure just reading my essay gave me away.  But my teacher would compliment me on my writing and my doodles and encouraged me to come back, even after I graduated his class, to show him my latest writing or art work.

And let’s not forget the college professors I endeared myself to.  Like my favorite English professor, my intellectual crush, with whom I could dissect works of literature with or talk of classic cars.  I wanted to name one of the boys after him, but I think, even after all those years, the sighing of his name put it on the Absolutely-Not-Over-My-Dead-Body list.  Like my mentor, who said he could never forget this blonde freshman in the back corner sit on her desk on the first, and every, day to see over the big football player.  And then to have her slide over the tables to sit inside the corner of the circle of tables to take his Revelations class because it was the last seat left.  Like the Father, who graded my papers like a real editor and made me lead mass more times than I would want.  Many more times.  When he finally called me “mi hija,” I nearly danced in joy.  That didn’t stop me from arguing with him the uselessness of Shakespeare or critiquing his class by giving him a list of works that would work better in the class.  As a side note, a friend just mentioned how he nearly lost it in class when Father asked us each what book we had just finished reading, and I answered the Kama Sutra.  “He’s a priest!  Not just any priest!  Your priest!  You’re co-leader of the Catholic group!”  Your point?  I was being honest.  (Father took it in stride and went on to tell us the similarities between Hinduism and Christianity.)

So, I know I’m memorable.  I know I’ve been the favorite.  But I just wasn’t F’s favorite.

Even though freshman year I became the youngest student to get certified to do lights and sound.  But my best friend certified a month later and had a better schedule to work nights.  Even though I was the youngest student she allowed to TA.  But one of my friends joined me half way through the semester.  Even though her favorite senior girls adored me and begged her to let me sleep in their room during the New York trip.  But a junior girl dropped out, and the teacher wanted us all to have beds.  Even though my best friend was quiet, shy little nerd, F called me my best friend’s shadow.  My best friend was thrilled.  Really?  Me?  Second fiddle?  To a quiet, shy, conservative bookworm?  I’m loud, outrageous, crazy, um, bookworm-nerd.  Ok, so I was, am, a nerd.  But I’ve always been loud and crazy.  Energetic and – Just say, by the time I was in high school, I wasn’t a follower any more.  I was no one’s shadow.

I didn’t really come into my own until my senior year.  I took control of everything back stage.  Unofficially.  I ran the Shop.  I was consulted on light and sound design.  Any one with any question (about costumes, props, sets, colors, tools, whatever) knew to come to me.  My reputation had been built over the years that I knew everything.  I was The Boss.  I was the Shop Master.  I was that-little-bi-excuse-me-boys-did-you-have-something-to-say-to-me-but-before-you-do-do-you-remember-that-other-reputation-I-have-which-may-possibly-be-why-I-wear-boots-and-why-the-football-boys-give-way-to-me.  Yeah, I thought not.  Scurry along then.

If F remembers me, and I seriously doubt it, it would be because of what happened the last month of school of my junior year.  Every year advanced drama did a talent show, which allowed everyone to perform and do something different or that they wanted to.  Lots of monologues and singing.  Magic tricks and pantomiming.  Stand-up.  It was a lot of fun.  My junior year I wrote a one-act play and convinced some of my friends to do it.  I convinced my best friend to do lights and sound.  I argued one friend into the lead because he would be perfect.

But first I had to let F read it to make sure it was appropriate.

F: Fae.  You wrote this?

Me: Yes.

F: Is it based on a true story?

Me: Well, it’s possibly a ghost story.  Or the main character has delirium tremens and is hallucinating.  He’s not a good man.  He ordered that massacre.  Does history know who was behind it?  No.  But that was a real town.  The Cathars were a real people that the Catholic Church decided to silence during the Inquisition.

F: And you researched this?

Me: Yes.  For two years.  You know I went to Catholic school.  When I got out, I was desperate to know what they didn’t tell us.  The Inquisition was a two-sentence paragraph in our religion class.

F: I see.  Fae, you have some real talent.  You should consider writing more.  Go ahead with it.  Who are your actors?

I told her.

F: You might have trouble with your lead.  He doesn’t work hard on things he doesn’t care about.

Me: I figured his ego would demand him to do it.

She laughed.

The last day of school, she gave her final awards ceremony of awards that she designed.

“To Fae: Our Playwright”

It came with pens and a thick note book.

F: Fae, keep writing.  It’s what you do best.

2. What’s more annoying than having a paper due?  Having your child’s report due.  It’s tedious, boring, annoying, frustrating like before, but add in, you have to yell, nag, and sit there with nothing to do but yell and nag to get anything done.

3. Evan is in the second grade, and his report had to be 7 paragraphs.  Handwritten.  With a reference page.  Plus a neat and creative, handwritten poster.  On Louisiana.  It’s done.  Thank God.

4. The Mother’s Day craft was a FAIL.  And another FAIL.  And then when I figured something out and spent way too much money on craft supplies in case of more fails, I had to find time to have the kids do it and I to finish it.  And then I forgot I had no more envelopes.  Sorry MIL.

5. I need to find an occupational therapist for Sean.  That was supposed to be done two months ago.  Apparently, I left the ball in the wrong court.

6. Sean had a melt down because we weren’t throwing his birthday party on his birthday.  I’m raising a brat.  Then I learned he thought we weren’t celebrating his birthday at all, and he would have to wait several days for a celebration.  Oh, that’s much different.  I’m raising a kindergartener about to turn 6.

7. I left my room in jeans and a bra to make sure everyone was following the morning routine.  Aidan demanded that I get a shirt on and then went into my room to get me one.  He actually pulled one out of the drawer and handed it to me.  I’m raising a prude or one of the fashion police.

8. I went dress shopping with my mom.  She was on her best behavior.  I have two new dresses.  We went to the fabric store and bought patterns and fabric.  She commented on my style choices.  She’s slightly on the Western trend.  And I’m vintage ’50′s-’60′s.

9. So lately I’ve been lost in my head, playing with storylines and characters.  My work is being pushed back, and my sleep is being neglected.  I had this problem in high school, not college, which is weird be- OH!  I was writing in college and getting all that stuff out of my head.  So I’m working on a story.  My work is being pushed back less.  Sort of.

10. Today I finally made perfect strawberry jam.  I wish I knew what I did differently.

The 5. I had two days when I hit all five.  So that’s better.  I did a lot more crafts this week and more writing.  Reading blogs and eating apples is still lagging.  But at least I have a checklist hanging somewhere that I see it first thing.  Yea.

I wanted real rules.  I wanted something I could use.  I wanted something that would reflect my parenting philosophy. I wanted rules I could stand by and insist on.

When you can’t find what you want, then it’s time to make it.

Our Family Rules.

First I had to figure out what kind of morals I wanted my boys to have, what kind of men did I want them to be.  I needed simple rules, just a few.  I settled on two.  Respect Others.  Respect Things.  But I perceived a lot of loop holes in there, so I decided I had to clarify my point.  I wrote how to follow those rules. 

When I wrote my rules, I wrote them in the negative.  (No hitting; no name calling.)  Then I remembered how people react better to positives, so I rewrote the whole thing.  At the time, it was “House Rules,” and my mom pointed out that I wanted those rules to apply outside the house.  The rules became “Family Rules.”  Once I was done with that, I passed it around to people whose opinion I trusted to get feedback.  I finally mapped out the rules on Word.

Since I was too cheap to buy two different types of stencils, I printed out the main two rules and the title and then covered the back with chalk so I could trace the words, leaving a chalk outline to follow.  Everything worked well, but it took a while.  I like how it came out.

After much debate, I ended up hanging the rules above the time out chair.  Whenever the boys misbehaved, I would ask them if the action fit the rules.  Are you being respectful?  Was that kind?  Were you understanding?  Did you put up your toys?

I’m not sure if this will work, but I figured it was worth a shot.