Mama Grizzly (to quote a certain politician) had to be reigned in...otherwise there'd be a skinless waitress walking around. Hilltown Column is up today. Would LOVE comments. You'll find them after my bio on the page. Please share as a status if you find this week's column worthwhile.  Click the link below to be taken to the column! 
http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher

Solitary Confinement

This week I am working diligently on a query for an agent possibly interested in a book about motherhood. And so, it seems to be a great week to bring out an oldy but a goody. This post resonated with so many moms, and I got bombarded with comments both private and public. Ultimately, in a society of mothers, our problems that take place in our families are ours alone. This is a small slice of what takes place in my house and leaves me feeling helpless. Please read and feel free to comment. Have you ever felt a solitary figure in a sea of mothers and advice? I am with you. Read on!

Lately, I am a lonely mother. I know--even in a world with millions of moms and mom-blogs and mom-circles and mom magazines, even though my closest confidants are parents: I am a solitary figure with solitary problems living in a deep dark solitary vacuum. What about those social networks you ask? Well, amongst 143 friends on my Facebook page only 20 of them aren't parents. (Mostly my former students, others who have made conscious choices NOT to be moms and dads, and one priest.) I suppose I could turn to the remaining 123 friends for parenting companionship and mutual begrudging, but somehow it feels fruitless.

It's a funk I'm in, and I'm not talking about James Brown and George Clinton. I am talking about one heck of a "woe-is-me-black-cloud-over-my-head" funkadelic funk. I just get tired sometimes. I mean, this mother stuff...it is endless. I once read that women during the Salem Witch Trials would be subjected to something called "pressing" where rocks would be piled on the "witch's" chest one after the other until they confessed out of sheer panic of being crushed under their weight. I think my funk is due to a sort of emotional "pressing" where issue after issue has piled up crushing my mind. Trying to figure out solutions to all the problems that plague my children in various ways is exhausting. How to help one son find confidence and work to his potential, how to squelch one son's seemingly endless conceit, how to keep a son with stitches in tip top shape so he is able to keep up with the varsity cross country team that he has been asked to join, how to not throw one son over the South Glens Falls Bridge the next time he sasses...which will probably happen before I finish this next sentence... not to mention the constant refereeing that takes place every time the boys are in the same room together.

I know that every family has its own set of "stuff." I know I am not alone in that. But is there anyone else out there that just feels beaten every once in awhile from the never ending bag of do-do that seems to be thrown at us mothers constantly and consistently? Take last night for instance...

Aidan was at a party. His curfew is 11:30. But as 11:30 came and went, he didn't show. I texted him three times only for him to ignore them. I called his phone and the phone of the boy with whom he was supposed to get a ride, all to no avail. So at five after midnight, Aidan's step-father went to the house to get him. Ten minutes later as they arrived back at the house...all holy hell broke loose. Let me remind you it was 12:15 AM. But no matter. Aidan comes in to the house blustering about how unfair we are and how embarrassed he was. This blustering is done with Aidan's full voice which of course leads to his little brother waking up and coming out to see what all the fuss is. Once he realizes that his brother is in trouble, he begins to gloat openly. Saying things like, "Mom you won't be able to trust him anymore!" (Parroting a discussion that I had had earlier with Gannan who is the "great exaggerator.") He continues, "That is it! Right mom? No more parties for Aidan. That is what you'd do to me."

Aidan then becomes indignant and much louder at his brother's goading. I now have to deal with the curfew issue and the fighting issue. I send Gannan back to his room, where he waltzes down the hall singing "He's in truuuuubbbllle.. He's in truuuubbbllle" I turn to Aidan who now has slipped out of the kitchen and exits to his bedroom in the finished basement punctuating said move with a fierce slamming of the door. The slamming of the door (OF COURSE) wakes up the baby who begins to wail at the scary noise that jolted her out of her sound sleep. Predictably and understandably, my husband is livid at the commotion caused by my two boys who have now woken up his daughter. A commotion mind you that is still continuing. Gannan is taunting loudly from his bedroom. Aidan is blustering boisterously from his bedroom. Jeff is fuming in the living room. I am trying to sooth a ten month old who clearly would rather have her father-- indicated by a stiff back arch that keeps her as far away from me as humanly possible, the finger pointing to the closed door and the incessant "da da, da da, da da," that is coming from her quivering lips.

Her father, after trying to compose himself, finally comes into the baby's bedroom. She instantly stops the heavy heaving crying she has been doing with me and...do I dare say it???? Well...she smiles...sigh. I leave daddy and daddy's girl to go back to the sanctuary of my bedroom-beaten and battered, angry and anxious, resentful and rageful. An hour later (that's 1:30 AM for those of you keeping a tally on the time) I am still feeling all of these things that come in the form of a mish-mashed rounded heavy ball in the pit of my stomach. If I could categorize the chunks that make up the spherical agony-it would be self-wallowing and jealousy due to the fact that Ila really and truly prefers her dad to me and an absolute fiery fury directed at the boys
who in their need to be contrary and ornery forget that their anger and contentiousness causes chaos and misery to innocent bystanders like a ten month old sleeping baby.

Around 2 AM desperately needing to sleep, I walked to the kitchen for a glass of milk hoping it would bring on the needed zzzzzzz's. I am incredulous at the quiet. Husband sound asleep on the couch in the living room. Ila tucked away in the corner of her crib. Aidan's basement teen palace dark and silent. Gannan's long legs hanging off the side of his bed in sleepy angles. Only me awake with my thoughts, awake with my anger and frustration. A solitary mother bathed in the light of the refrigerator.

VOTE FOR MUDDLED MOTHERS!!!!!!!!

Hey Everyone!  Just a quick note to share with you the good news!  Muddled Mother has been nominated for Best All Around Blog for Parents.com's contest.  I am so excited about this!  Please help promote the blog by voting and sharing the link on your social media websites!  You can vote by clicking on the Parents button above this post.  If you aren't a registered member of the mag, then you'll have to do that first.  I know that is a pain, but please find time in your busy day to vote.  Spread the word!

Thanks so much for your loyal readership Mudders!

*Hugs*
Logan

New Hilltownfamilies.org Column up Today.

I hadn't seen my son, Gannan, in over 5 weeks.  He had refused.  His year of rebellion still holding strong.  So it was a very big surprise when he called me up one day last week and asked if I'd take him to his brother's play.  Read about how I handled this first meeting by clicking the link below:

http://hilltownfamilies.wordpr​ess.com/category/logan-fisher/

I Fantasize While---Mothering! (What did you Naughty People Think I Was Going to Say???)

The other day I ran into an old friend.  As we caught up, he and I lamented about the hardships of parenting as many parents do when they get together.  I told him tales of my year.  "Woe is me."  I bemoaned.  He told me tales of his year.  "Woe is me." he bemoaned.  "It's just a stage."  he said sympathetically trying to soothe me.  "At least he's happy."  I said sympathetically trying to soothe him.  Each of us knowing that words, although kind, would never be able to alleviate the pain that we both had experienced on account of and for our children over the past few months.

Then, suddenly and resolutely, my friend leaned forward and said, "You are going to think that I am such a wimp.  But I am going to tell you this story anyway."  I nodded indicating my readiness to listen.  To protect his identity (as I didn't get permission to share the story) I will modify the scene he described, but tell you enough so that I can use it as the basis of this post.  In a nutshell, when his children were young he built something for them with his own two hands.  While building, he imagined all kinds of scenes of how the object would be used and treasured by his children.  Alas, his children are now grown and no longer in need of the object, so a few months ago this father disassembled and discarded it.  As he was telling this story he revealed that he wept as he took the childhood treasure apart.  He wept, wept for the years gone by, wept for the end of an era, but also wept because some of those fantasies about his children that he built up in his mind as readily as he had constructed the childhood object, were now destroyed and in pieces as was the entity that he had just disassembled. 

My eyes welled up as he recalled the moment, and the fact that he was a wimp was the farthest thing from my mind. Not a wimp.  No.  Nowhere near wimpy.  He was a parent, as I am and so I understood.  I understood.  From the instant we meet our children in that stark hospital bed, we dream.  We fantasize.  We create lives for them, only the best.  We imagine our children successful, happy, healthy, wealthy.  We dream of the milestones; graduations, off to college, travel, incredible careers, engagements to wonderful partners, grand weddings, grandchildren....blissful fantastic lives (in that order preferably!) We have almost two decades to ponder over these fantasies, to make them bigger, more detailed, more life-like.  So it is no surprise when these illusions (or DElusions) don't happen in the exact manner that we hoped for, or worse not in ANY manner that we imagined, it feels like a loss.  Hey, we've dreamed these same dreams over and over for days and months and years on end.  It stands to reason that we may need some time to adjust.

I am as guilty of this as any parent.  For my certifiable genius, I dreamed of an Ivy League education, of discovering a cure for cancer, of contributing to world peace.  For my world-class athlete with the infectious smile, I dreamed of the Olympics, of endorsements, of world records and a successful commentator career. And yet neither child has chosen the road I dreamed for them to take--neither child.  For child number one, learning is a bore and if it isn't easy...forget it!  For child number two, competition is too stressful, therefore he doesn't participate in a sport at all.   For both I dreamed that they'd be the ultimate gentlemen carrying bags, opening doors, clearing tables without asking and just oozing respect for the opposite sex--not because it's cool to be romantic, not because chivalry isn't dead, but because respect for those you love is most important.  And well...let's just say, they haven't arrived at that realization yet.

What parents forget sometimes is that those children of ours are living, breathing, and thinking.  They aren't made of clay molded and shaped in the exact model we imagined.  They have their own dreams and desires.  They'll choose their own paths, their own styles, their own ways of living...even if it doesn't fit with what we dreamed and desired for them.  Therefore I am convinced that it'd be less traumatic and jarring for us if we decided to not be so specific in the fantasies we have about our children.  Instead, we'd be less let down if we dreamed simpler dreams for and of them.  And so, on this leg of my motherhood journey, I will try to remind myself that instead of imagining that Ila grows up to be a multi-lingual ambassador for world peace, a trusted advisor to the Dalai Lama, or the next Kristin Chenowith (look her up,) I will try to dream that in the future she finds happiness, contentedness, and a pure satisfaction with who she has grown up to be. 

 

A Muddled Mother Moment---#1

So Mudders there are times during the day that things happen to me and I think to myself  "Only my fellow Mudders would get this."  Today's moment was just one of those times.  And so, in response to my great need to tell this story to those who would understand and wince along with me in my deepest humiliation and pain, I decided to start a new feature on the Muddled Mother website.  This feature we are going to call "Muddled Moments."  Today will be installment number one.

So I hurt my back two days after school was out.  It was pretty bad as far as back problems go and  reluctantly I dragged my carcass to a chiropractor.  Much to my surprise and delight, let's just say that the moment I entered the office, I almost felt lucky to have back pain.  No, it wasn't the free lollipops on the counter or the fresh muzak pumping from the speakers.  It wasn't the air conditioning or the cheery receptionists behind the counter.  Nope, what made my first and subsequent appointments worthwhile was that Dr. Talldarkandhandsome would be working on me.  (Hey, I know.  I am married.  But ladies...is there ANYONE of us who is dead??  We notice.  I mean...come on.  WE notice.  Yes...I am talking to YOU!)  Anyhoo...I thought to myself..."If I am going to have to endure this back pain..I might as well have a dreamy chiropractor to swoon over"

Today, (and if utter humiliation makes you squeamish....run.  Run NOW! )  I had a late appointment.  Earlier I went to lunch with friends to a nice establishment.  I dressed for the occasion.  I put on my crisp cotton white skirt with blue flowers.  The shirt that I typically wear with it is a plain blue silk top with capped sleeves.  But it was a hot day, and silk and heat don't mix.  At least not with me.  On hot days, when I wear that top it always ends up getting sweat stains on the back or right along the bra line.  I am always painfully embarrassed when that happens and so I often wear my flesh colored granny girdle panties to soak up the sweat and keep it off my silk shirt.  Mudders, you know the ones I am talking about, the ones where the waist band settles right underneath your bust line.  The high-waisted spandex Spanx that gives your bum a lift and successfully tucks in all that stretched out gut-fat mommies get after having three or more children.  Yes....THOSE flesh colored granny girdle panties!  I know what you are thinking.  "Why doesn't she use powder or wear a tank to prevent sweat for soaking through her shirt?"  And I tried those things--Really!  I did.  But due to a certain medication I take for my heart, I tend to get REALLY sweaty especially on humid days.  And so, in order to wear that smart looking blue silk shirt, I had to resort to wearing the flesh colored granny girdle panties which tends to be a tad bit thicker and more absorbent than a tank and MUCH more effective than powder.  And...All right.  All right....those flesh colored granny girdle panties give me a freshly liposuctioned look as well...I'll admit it.  I just might wear them for THAT reason as well!

So, I've seen Dr. Talldarkandhandome several times.  Each time his routine has been the same.  Lay on my stomach-adjust.  Lay on my sides-adjust.  Lay on my back-adjust.  Finally, I sit in a and chair receive electrode therapy on my tight shoulder muscles.  Very simple.  Very predictable.  No need to disrobe like other doctors' offices.  Harmless.  Therefore right before my appointment this afternoon, when I had a fleeting thought that I should remove the flesh colored granny girdle panties that went up to my ample bust line laying flat underneath my bra, I reassured myself that the routine would continue...no disrobing or even a mere pulling up of a shirt had taken place and therefore...I. Was. Safe.

And by now, I am sure you can imagine Mudders that I wasn't safe.  I wasn't safe at all.  Not today.  Not ever again.  Nope.  Today, after I sauntered in with my crisp cotton white skirt and my blue silk shirt.  Today, after I smiled at Dr. Talldarkandhandsome while casually pulling my Jackie O sunglasses up to pull my tousled  hair back.  Today after, laying down on my stomach gracefully feeling oh-so-full-of-myself...Dr. Talldarkandhandsome, before I even knew what was happening, began to lift the bottom of my shirt up saying, "I'd like to do the electrode therapy on the base of your back."  I immediately panicked...I couldn't let him see my flesh colored granny girdle panti---too late.  "What the heck is going on here?"  Dr. Talldarkandhandsome exclaimed.  His hands fumbled around my back...trying to find an end to the "tank" that I must have had tucked into my crisp cotton white and blue flowered skirt.  "It's not a tank."  I said weakly.  "I'll help you."  Then I reached up and pulled at the waist that was lodged under my bra.  He pulled on it a bit and rolled the substantial amount of flesh colored spandex down..pulling and jarring so that he could place the electrode at the base of my back.  A warm surge of embarrassment washed over my entire body-head to toe.  "Oh.  I see."  was all that Dr. Talldarkandhandsome could utter, and then he quietly closed the door.

Dear Mudders, I could have crawled inside a hole inside a hole inside a hole and THAT wouldn't have been far enough.  I was purple.  I was mortified.  I was absolutely abashed.  Doing mental headslap after headslap after mental headslap.  Mudders, I don't let my husband see me in those flesh colored granny girdle panties...and yet...and yet...this beguiling Dr. Talldarkandhandsome had now seen my flesh colored secret and I-could-have-died-wished-I-died-hoped-I-die right there in his office before he returned.

On the drive home, I called one of my besties and fellow Muddled Mother to describe in detail the disgraceful tale. True to her nature (after all she has heard MANY "Logan Stories,") she laughed and soothed in a way that only a thirty year friend can.   How to redeem myself I pondered with her. Was there any possible way?  And dear Mudders, we found a solution.  Tomorrow I am taking myself to our local Victoria's Secret to buy myself a red thong...one that can peak out over my jeans or shorts or whatever I wear to the next appointment.  Yes...a red thong...I wonder how that will look with my mommy-gut?  

Getting Baby to Sleep OR A Play By Play Analysis of a Mother's Technique As Told By Jim Nantz (Golf Announcer Extraordinaire)

*Whispered*

We're here in the bedroom of one Logan Fisher as she attempts to get her distraught 21 month old asleep.  Currently the toddler is not buying into the regular routine of singing and rocking.  Let's take a look at how Logan handles this setback.  Ahhh, it is the ol' warm milk routine I think.  Yes yes, we can see Logan sling Ila onto her hip and walk the long hall to the kitchen.  She is shushing and cooing and saying all the right things.  Listen.

"Shhhhh Ila.  It's ok.  Everyone is sleeping.  Daddy is sleeping.  Aidan is sleeping.   Elmo is sleeping.  You can have a drink and then Ila is going to go to sleep." 

Well folks, that diatribe seemed to work a bit, because the toddler has reduced her wailing to a slight whimper.  Logan's walking back to her bedroom now.  She sits in her rocking chair.  Her strategy seems to be to combine the regular routine, singing and rocking, with the warm milk.  Keep an eye out to see if this pays off.  

She's seems to be a rocking expert.  But when you've played in this arena for as long as Logan has we must consider her a pro.  That expertise seems to be paying  off.  As you can see, the toddler's eyes are drooping, pacifier is slipping out of her slacked jaw, a tad bit of drool is slipping from the corner of her mouth.  Yes, Ila's telltale twitches seems to be a sign that Logan has succeeded in getting her daughter to sleep.  


But anyone who has competed in this sport, anyone who has played this game knows that GETTING the toddler to sleep is just the first step.  What comes next is nearly impossible even for the most seasoned veteran; standing up, walking AND placing a toddler in her crib WITHOUT waking her up.  Let's see if Fisher is up to the task. 

She shifts her weight to tilt the rocker forward.  Her stance is wide as she uses every muscle in her legs to stand in order to keep her torso completely still so as to not jostle her daughter.  Uh oh, the baby is stirring.  Logan quickly places her hand upon the toddler's head and begins a rhythmic "shhhh shhhh sh. shhhh shhhhh sh."  It worked.  Ila's eyes are still closed.  It seems as if Logan dodged a bullet. 

Like many moms, Ms. Fisher uses the "purposeful walk" method to carry her daughter back to her room.  Her steps are deliberate but smooth.  The rhythmic shushing beats in time with her steps.  They are almost to the finish line.  All that is left is the tricky release of the toddler into her crib.   After taking a deep breath, Logan bends her waist over the side of the crib.  She stands on her toes so that she is able to lower the baby right to the mattress without a thump or bump or jiggle.  Here's where it gets tricky.  Logan must get her arm out from under the baby without the toddler noticing that the warmth and safety of her mother has suddenly disappeared. 

Ah...what a MOVE!  With her left hand, Logan presses Ila's stuffed lamb to her chest to replicate the pressure of being in her mother's arms all while slowly moving her right arm out from under the child.  First her elbow is visible, now her forearm.  Here comes her wrist and fingers.  Yes!  She's done it! The toddler is safely and contentedly in her crib.  Finally, we see a smile of triumph on Logan's face as she turns and.....OH NO!  The dreaded loose and creaky floor board!  How could she have forgotten?  Logan puts her head down.  Her fists clench at her side.  She holds her breath and waits.  The baby stirs.  Yes, she is rolling over now.   Her head pops up....and here comes the wailing!  Score one for the toddler.  

Dejected, Logan sits on the floor next to the crib.  She reaches in and absentmindedly pats her daughter's back.  She looks exhausted, defeated, discouraged.    I have a feeling that she'll be sitting in this position for awhile.  Not much to see here folks.  I'm afraid that the rest of the broadcast would be quite boring, but luckily thanks to "bloggervision science" we have the capability for the first time ever to be able to hear a mother's thoughts, actually read her mind.  I dare say this ought to be entertaining.  Let's listen in. 

"Thank God we put this bean bag in Ila's room.  At least I can lean against it while I try to get her back to sleep.  I wonder if I just lay down on it and keep my hand on her back  that will be enough for her stay calm.   Just move slowly Logan.  No sudden loud noises. Ahhhhh...sweet victory.   Why is it that I am sitting in this room while everyone else is sleeping?  After all I am the one who has to get up in the morning.  Is it irrational of me to feel pissed that my hubby gets to sleep soundly while I sit on this floor trying to get HIS daughter to sleep?  Ok ok....OUR daughter.  But hey...if I am up he should be.  What is that saying...if mama ain't happy....well you know the rest.  I know.  I know.  These are really pissy thoughts.  It's just that I am in desperate need of sleep.  

Speaking of sleeping, let's see if my little one has finally fallen into a deep enough sleep that I can try to escape.  I'll just slowly remove my hand.  Slowly....slowly lifting.  Sh!#!!  Crying again.  Good lord will I ever get to sleep?  Ok...I'll try the shushing again.  Awwww.  She really is so cute.  How can I resist that sweet little voice saying 'mommy' the way she just did.  It really is an amazing feeling being needed as much as she seems to need me.   Now Logan...don't get sucked in by her cuteness.  She needs to learn to sleep on her own.  Awwww but one night of me putting her to sleep won't hurt her.........Or will it?  Am I setting her up for failure by being in here tonight?  What if I am setting a precedence and she now thinks that mommy shushing her to sleep on the floor next to her crib is the only way she'll sleep.  Do I really want to do this nightly.  I mean the bean bag is good for a short time but, my a$$ is killing me right now.  I don't know how anyone could sleep on a floor.   Give me a four star bedroom and high count linens any day.  Okay, I am getting loopy.  It is time for her to sleep on her own." 


(Jim Nantz whispering again.)  Ehem....quite the busy mind that Fisher has....let's watch as she tries once again to make her final move and leave her toddler's room.  Rolling adeptly to avoid the squeaky floor board, Logan gets to her knees while continuously shushing.  She's on her feet now and backing out of the room at a turtle's pace.  Her shushing gets quieter as she gets closer to the door.  With her hand on the knob, she stops the shushing all together.  This is the moment of truth.  Will Ila stay asleep or will she immediately wake due to the sudden silence.  Silently craning her neck, Logan watches her toddler.  Her eyes squeezed, eyebrows raised, mouth pursed, her face oozing hope and need.  She remains in this stance for ten seconds, twenty seconds.  


Ah yes, relief!!   Logan's shoulders lower.  Her hand turns the knob.  She tiptoes through the doorway to the hallway of freedom. Triumph was a hard fight tonight.   Rolling her neck, she pumps her fist into the air, bows to an imaginary audience and heads to bed for a well deserved sleep.