I cancelled our cable TV yesterday. As you can imagine, I had to justify this decision to the cable TV minion on the other end of the phone.

“No, we have not decided to go with a different service. Yes, I want NO CABLE TV. Trying to cut expenses. No, I do not want your super -low, please-please-please stay with us rate (and why wasn’t I getting that anyway??). Look, there are a lot of reasons I don’t want cable!”

Yes, I lost my temper a bit at the end there. I mean, I understand it is their job to try to talk me out of this kind of decision, but at a certain point it is just NONE OF THEIR FREAKIN’ BUSINESS, know what I mean?

For years now, I’ve been whining about my kids watching too much TV, but what have I really done about it? Stomped around a bit? Unplugged it once or twice and shooed them outside, only to find them right back at it 20 minutes later? Enough.

Now I don’t have to constantly be on “ICarly” patrol (a forbidden show for the younger set), or tangle with the pre-teen about whether or not “House” is appropriate for a 12 year old (HELLO IT’S NOT). We’ll still have broadcast TV, eventually, but for at least a while, goodbye “Sportscenter”. Goodbye “Girls Next Door” and the nine million other trashy, lowest-common-denominator, ohmygodwhatisthiscountrycomingto CRAP programs that my husband finds with eerie precision. Goodbye Food Network and The History Channel (sniff).

We’ll see how it goes.

My youngest son started kindergarten today. Here he is with his sister Zoe, who started second grade.

Note total lack of sobbing, sniffling or sighing. We went for orientation yesterday, and he was quite literally skipping with joy for the entire quarter mile walk from our house to the school. “I can’t BELIEVE I finally go to school here!” he gushed, beaming up at me.

And today I dropped him off, and down the hall he went with his class, looking impossibly cute with his Darth Vader backpack and little chicken legs sticking out of his “jerseys” (Tobin’s term for athletic shorts). And I’ll freely admit that I didn’t shed a tear! Didn’t even have a misty moment, was in fact completely focused on what I was going to do for the next three BLISSFULLY KID FREE hours.

It must be true then - the youngest really does kind of get ripped off. Maybe. And maybe I’ve just become much more forward-focused, thinking more about what is coming than what has been. And definitely his joy in this transition is infectious - he has been longing for this for years, as most youngest children do.

I wanted to make the title of this post “Life Lessons Suck,” but I don’t really believe that. Not really. I know intellectually that they are necessary, that people who never face challenges or struggle do not have the chance to grow. Watching your child struggle through a really difficult Life Lesson - now THAT sucks.

My Cody discovered in this last week that college football is not for him, or rather, football at Ferris is not for him. All I can really say about that is: hazing. The details are not my story to tell, and whether or not Cody will ever be ready to tell it remains to be seen.

Cody plays football from the heart. He is an emotional player, and if you gain his loyalty, he will never, ever quit on you. He plays for the team, for the friendships, for the Friday night lights with family in the stands, for the glory of his Huskies and the company of his brothers-in-arms. He plays for honor. He is a dyed-in-the-wool romantic who plays with ferocious passion, but ONLY if you have earned his respect and his loyalty.

When we left Ferris on Tuesday, the team was heading to the field for their first full pads practice, and I looked over at him, to see if he was OK. His eyes were colder than I have ever seen them, colder than I ever thought they could be. He said, “That is not my team. They could NEVER be my team. People that act like that, that allow people to act like that, will NEVER have my respect, and I won’t play for people I don’t respect.”

I don’t know very much about what happened in the five days he was there. I know he was more miserable than I have ever seen him, and that he was sure almost from the beginning that he was never going to fit in. And God, I am grateful for that. I am grateful that he could not ever become what put that cold look in his eyes that last day. I am grateful that he loves the game for all the right reasons, and that he had the strength and wisdom to walk away when none of those reasons were there any more.

Sometimes, it takes more courage to quit than it does to continue. He will take grief for his decision. It is a small campus, and he has no intentions of avoiding the weight room, so conflict is inevitable. I know my son, and I know he has the strength of character to stand up for what he believes in, even when that means walking away from a sport he loves.

My Cody Brennan, I am prouder of you today than I was a week ago. You are a person of honor and integrity, and I am deeply proud to be your Mom. Remember, life is full of things that don’t work out the way you planned - they only become failures when you don’t grow from them. You didn’t fail. You grew. I love you with all my heart.

I was reading a blip in one of the jillions of magazines I get, and a celebrity mentioned the character description of a part she recently undertook: “the best mom you could ever have.”

This makes me impatient, because I think it feeds into a damaging and dangerous perception we (women? people? Americans?) seem to have that there is one perfect way to parent, one perfect way to be a mother. My Katie will be 20 this coming September, and I can tell you one sure thing about mothering after two decades: Kids. Are. All. Different. In myriad and subtle ways, ways that make even the basics of mothering (feeding, clothing, bathing, sleeping) a challenge to deliver for any given kid. There are no rules, no formulas. You have to FIGURE IT OUT. For every single blessed one of them.

It gets dicey when you have more than one child, which many of us do, because what worked with kid number one may very likely be a disaster with kid number two or three, but might work fine for four… and so on. With my youngest child, my little Tobin, I learned that I did not have any more idea of why he was crying that I did with my first, fourteen years earlier. But I DID know that he wasn’t going to die from crying, and that sooner or later I would figure it out. I was calmer. Not better. Not perfect. Calmer.

I am a good mom. I do my best, every day, to get good food into them at regular intervals, to keep them clean and well-rested, and to make sure they get dirty and out of breath and curious about the world around them. That is the easy stuff, really.

I also try, every day, to be what they need me to be emotionally. Cheerleader. Drill sergeant. Coach. Coddler. A port in the storm. A shove off the cliff. It changes, every day, for every one of my five kids. And this more than any other aspect of mothering just plain wears me out. I fail. Every day. I misread a kid, or get distracted and impatient or just plain angry, and say something I shouldn’t in a way that I shouldn’t . Every day.

“I don’t have TIME for finesse!!” I mentally scream, “JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!!” I am stretched on a mental rack, pulled between what I have to do (work, laundry, dishes, work, cleaning, cooking, work, work, work) and what I have to do (mothering with love and patience).

If you’re hoping for some pat answer at the end of this post, you’re doomed to disappointment. That is kind of the point. There are no pat answers. I don’t have  little bit of wisdom you can tape to your monitor that will guide you through, because your path is different from mine, and requires different skills to navigate.

The closest I can come, I guess, is to say that we each have to discover our own path through the morass of motherhood. Expect to get wet.

I’ve been thinking about courage, and how it requires something unique from each and every one of us. The shape of our courage is as unique as the shape of what we fear.

“Um, yeah?” you’re thinking, “Thank you for that REALLY OBVIOUS OBSERVATION.”

The reason I am thinking about this is that my oldest son, who has been living large here in my blog because it has been such a year of firsts and lasts for him, just went to orientation for college yesterday. This is a kid that does not like to order pizza, who dreads the unexpected in a social exchange, and yet he went, and he made it through. This is a kid who plays football and lacrosse with absolutely ruthless abandon, who rides dirt bikes as if he never knew fear. And he freaks himself out on a regular basis with things that go bump in the night, and really hates to talk to people he does not know.

I get that kid right down to his gigantic hobbit-like toes. I passed on the shape of my fear, and the good that comes of this is that I completely, totally understand when he can go from riding at the edge of disaster for hours on bike with enough juice to launch him into orbit, but then be unable to ask the gas station attendant where the bathroom is. He is not SHY. Oh, it is impossible to explain. I only understand so well because I live it.

When I was a girl, I would wake in the middle of the night, frozen with terror. I would be absolutely, completely certain that my bed was surrounded by king cobras - at least six - all raised and hooded, swaying in the faint light from the window, waiting. For me to move, to breathe, for my heart to beat… I would lay there, trembling and sweating, heart thundering, for God knows how long… I think I would eventually just kind of pass out from fear. This happened MANY TIMES. This STILL happens to me, in the dead of night, but usually my terror takes a different shape. That thump downstairs is some psycho, come to kill us all in our beds. That rustle in the woods at the cabin is a mountain lion, or a psycho of the Baldwin variety, come to kill us all in our sleeping bags.

I am not a fearful person, and neither is Cody. We just both have these imaginations that leap from dormant to full-blown Stephen King instantaneously, and in excruciating detail. Gotta be a market for that kind of thing.

Today is Saturday. My alarm went off at 6:45 a.m., and after that I:

Went for a four mile run with Tiffany.
Drank a glass of water.
Went to the grocery store.
Brought all the groceries in the house and put them away.
Fed the kids.
Persuaded the kids to get dressed and brush their teeth.
Started a load of laundry.
Watered by perennials.
Fed the dog.
Argued with my husband on the phone.
Fixed my breakfast, then ate it while cleaning out email.
Got in the shower, dressed, make-up.
Switched out my laundry.
Made all the beds.
Called a friend to make sure I had a cell number to give Lex, as mine is up north.
Mowed the front yard.
Started digging out a bush in the front yard.
Fixed lunch.
Fed the kids lunch, packed for soccer.
Got the kids out the door to soccer.
Made it to the field, cheered!
Collected money for trophies and coaches gift.
Passed out fliers.
Placated hot and cranky five year old.
Did NOT yell too much “helpful advice” at totally-not-into-soccer-today 7 year old.
Did the tunnel, cheered!
Packed up, left field, stopped for ice cream for strep throat girl.
Got home.
Switched out laundry, took care of stuff from soccer.
Prepped dinner.
Finished wrestling bush out of front yard.
Nursed numerous scratches from said bush.
Took little ones to pool, and home again (”We are only staying ONE HOUR and I mean it!”)
Took last load from dryer upstairs. Will fold later.
Got little ones dressed.
Fed them a snack.
Took care of stuff from pool.
Fed the dog.
Fixed dinner.
Browbeat children into eating dinner.
Measured two pairs of pants for hemming.
Cleared dinner, washed dishes.
Browbeat children into showers.
Balanced checkbook.
Put in movie for babies, browbeat tween into shower.
Hemmed two pairs pants.
Fed the cat.
Put babies to bed.
Scrubbed tub.
Ironed two shirts.
Mixed a drink….
And it is all just too depressing to keep going! I still have three loads of wash to fold, and pics to send to my sister….

Damn. I. Am. Tired.

I bet if you googled this topic, you would find thousands - maybe millions - of blog entries written by mothers, some semi-hysterical, detailing the “Things I’ve Had to Do that I CANNOT BELIEVE I Had to Do.” Most would involve bodily fluids of some kind, though not always from our children.

In my house, if it involves something someone emitted from either end, it is not only My Responsibility, it is usually also MY FAULT.

The dog got into something and lost all bowel control in the middle of the night? Mom!! She was thoughtful enough - good girl! -  to hit the easiest spot in the house to clean up, though - the linoleum floor of the upstairs bathroom. That particular out-of-control-bowels episode lasted for days, and the low point came when I was forced to brandish a pair of scissors and really big bucket of soapy water to deal with the… residue. Roxie is mostly golden retriever, meaning she has “bloomers”, which are extremely thick, fluffy areas of fur on her nether regions. Long haired dog + diarrhea = EWWW.

And the cat. The cat. I am new to cat ownership. WHO KNEW cats throw up ALL THE TIME?? Not only hairballs, which blend right in on our hardwood floors and are really, really disgusting to find with your bare feet after they have had a chance to cool. Oh, no - she also horks up her dinner on a semi-regular basis, for reasons which remain a mystery. My husband has a preternatural talent for stepping in cat puke, after which he never fails to reminds me with completely out-of-proportion venom that it was MY IDEA TO GET A CAT.

I will point out, however, that HE is the one who helped us determine that our new kitty was lactose intolerant, when we got her a year ago. Lactose intolerant kitty + bowl of milk = diahrrea… Long haired kitty + diahrrea = EEEWWW!

In a perfect bit of irony, I just returned to my keyboard after going on a mission to get a soccer ball out of my flower bed. On the return trip, I almost stepped on the carcass of a little mole that looks to have been dead long enough to get kind of juicy…. And unless I want a horrifying segue into another Gross Moments entry entitled “Who the Hell Washed What the Hell in this Sink?!”, I better go dispose of the remains before one of my kids decides to prepare it for proper burial.

In years past, I have spent most of the Mother’s Day weekend in a very bad place, emotionally. My older children and husband have needed some… constructive criticism, shall we say?

Like, “A card would be nice.”

Or, “If I say I don’t want to do the dishes on Mother’s Day, that does NOT mean I want to do them all the following Monday morning.”

Or, “All I REALLY WANT SERIOUSLY if for all of you to clean out the cesspool on wheels that I drive.”

This year, in spite of the fact that we hosted a sleep-over for 12 year old girls on Saturday night, was one of my best Mother’s Days ever.

Part of it was this little guy:

Zoe made him for me, and he is the perfect paperweight for my desk. And though it is hard to tell from the picture, he is VERY EARNEST.

And I have a clean truck! Mike will not tell me what he found under the seats, or why those guys from HazMat were here, but for the first time in longer than I will publicly admit, my truck is CLEAN. Amazing how that makes a 1997 Suburban feel so much more luxurious! I love that truck.

And my mother-in-law, who I sincerely loved with all my heart BEFORE this, left me a beautiful basket of pink petunias and another annual I just can’t remember the name of right now as a surprise on my front porch. I smile every time I look at it! I LOVE flowers. Well, and shrubs, vines, grasses, trees… pretty much if it grows, I like it, with the exception of dandelions and poison ivy.

And the biggest thing, I think, is that I just decided to be happy this year. I did not fall for the saccharin hype, and I had realistic expectations. I knew I had to work, and that I would wind up cooking, and that sooner or later I’d have my hands in dishwater. And so goes the life of a mother, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I have to take a deep breath and run like crazy on Fridays, and that has always been so. No matter how I try to keep the day sane, it gets away from me week after week, spinning down into a whirlwind of over-commitments and dropped balls plinking at my feet.

Today I volunteered for a couple of hours at Amberly Elementary’sfund raiser, the Tiger Trek. This a new event at Amberly (and I would know - I’ve had a kid at Amberly almost constantly since 1997). In a nutshell, the kids all do a walk/run-a-thon, and solicit pledges from friends and family for either a lump sum or per lap amount. In my vast experience with school fundraisers, this is a clear winner - I don’t have to buy things I don’t really want, and it promotes fitness, and involves very little overhead for the school.

Because I worked this morning, I was compelled to ditch my regular Friday afternoon gig in computer lab, and that gives me twinges of mommy-guilt. But not too many - Mommy is best off with her butt in the chair right now, typing away madly.

As I write this, my oldest son and his best buddies are in the air, somewhere over Nebraska. Here they are at the football banquet last fall (thank you so much for the picture, Cheri!). All biases aside, they are all some of the finest young men I have been privledged to know.

I am nervous as a cat when any of my loved ones fly, but this is the first time Cody has flown without one of his parents, and of course that makes it even MORE dangerous… because we would certainly be able to scoop him up and keep him safe if something went wrong…

OK, so the days of scooping that boy up are long, long past. Another milestone, another step away from my sheltering arms. Oh, he would cringe if he ever read that! I’ve been sending fervent prayers winging after them all morning, and will do so even after they land, I’m sure. They will be snowboarding in Colorado, and God willing they will have the time of their lives, and good memories to laugh about as they grow old together.

So, Lord? Watch out for my boys - Josh, and Jacob, and Corey, and Alex, and Cody Brennan. Keep them safe for me until they are back under my watch.