Manic Monday

One of my first bosses, who is now a close friend, dubbed me “Pollyanna” after knowing me for just a few days. Even in the workplace at the beginning of my so-called career, my unfailing optimism and extreme idealism couldn’t be missed. Indeed, it is these very qualities that allow me to pop out of bed each morning, genuinely happy to face the day ahead and the challenges it entails.


Each day most certainly contatins its own challenges – some big, some small. Liam might miss the bus or we might run out of milk or there may be three or four kids with raging fevers as I scramble to make myself presentable and get to work on time. As I’ve mentioned before, most days are good days and thankfully most of our challenges are small. But sometimes, even our small challenges add up to something bigger than I can gracefully manage; in those moments, the Pollyanna in me disappears. She is replaced Cruella deVille or the Wicked Witch of the West or some other such character with a dark disposition and menacing laugh. Last night this dark alter-ego appeared and I have to say, I think I dislike her as much as my husband and kids do.


Yesterday was the most Monday of Mondays. Everyone was tired and loathe to get out of bed, suffering as we were from switching the clocks over the weekend and waiting for our bodies to adjust. Work was, well, work. A lot of work! The day passed swiftly by and before I knew it, my tired, cranky bod was on its way home and fielding a call from Des who was going to be an hour late. The expletive I muttered under my breath wasn’t missed and it’s a wonder that the poor guy got on the train and decided to come home at all!

As I turned onto our block, pondering the mayhem and dinner preparation that awaited me (and just me!), I was almost run down by five tykes on trikes and bikes all of whom, as it turns out, belonged to me and none of whom were eager to go inside to accompany me while I started dinner. That was Battle #1. Simply getting them all inside was a Herculean effort with a resulting deafening roar of dismay and disagreement. With my head pounding, I did the only thing I could think of to quiet the masses – I offered them a snack. This kept them busy for about approximately three minutes while I popped the salmon and potatoes (prepped before I left for work!) into the oven.


With the snack gone and dinner cooking, the chorus of whining and wailing began. “I’m tired. I’m hungry. Can I have a banana? When’s dinner? Can we watch TV? Mac Mac bit me! I have to pee! Kevin’s taking his pants off! I don’t want salmon! Can we have more Goldfish? I’m STARVING! Declan threw a block at me! Where’s my baby stroller? Can I have another snack?!” And so it went. And so I texted Des “This is a NIGHTMARE. When will you be home?!”


That’s when the smoke started to come out of the oven, one of the kids fell off the counter barstool and I literally started to scream like a banshee. I just lost it. I was tired, they were tired. They were screaming, I was screaming. Dinner was burning, the table wasn’t set, the dishwasher needed to be unloaded and the groceries that had been delivered cluttered the counter. It wasn’t pretty. Des walked in shortly thereafter to a smoky scene that resembled a warzone. It was me against them and I’m pretty sure they were winning. Somehow, we salvaged dinner and by the time the sun came up this morning, I had almost found Pollyanna again. She’s still reeling a bit from her alter-ego’s violent outburst but firmly believes that today will be a better day. And tomorrow will probably be even better. Phew. She’s back!

Pint Sized Police

With last week's arrival of Lent and the challenge of finding something to “give up” for  forty days, I am reminded once again that our children thrive in their role as self-appointed pint-sized police. We have an usually large task force at work here in the Lyons Den – a team of five who are constantly on the prowl, eager to catch someone in a forbidden act and then promptly rat them out to the prevailing parental unit which, for better or worse, happens to include a legitimate local judge.

Our pee-wee patrol alternates between committing and reporting on numerous petty crimes. The two-year old triplets are eloquent in the language of accusation – “he bit me!”, “he hit me!”, and perhaps most unfortuantely "he PEED on the floor!" are part of a daily refrain which is often followed by stern self-administered sentencing: “NO Declan!”, “Time OUT Mac Mac!”, “Bad boy KooKoo!”

The “bad boy” expletive is puzzling to us since we do our best not to actually tell our kids that they are "bad". Because, of course, they’re not. They’re just kids. While I’ve certainly slipped up and dropped an F-bomb now and again, I honestly don’t think I ever called one of them a “Bad Boy”. As it turns out, I didn’t; their Big Sister has.  It appears that Ciara has taken on a Lieutenant role of sorts and I'm told that she lets that “Bad Boy” fly routinely while we’re at work. She was outed by her Big Brother, who assumes the Captain role in their pee-wee patrol unit.  This all helps to explain why one night when I strongly suggested the triplets finish their dinner, I was verbally assaulted by three two-year tyrants screaming “Bad Boy Mama! Mama BAD BOY!!!!!!”


Then there’s the big kids – they don’t let anyone – including me and Des, get away with anything. We were driving home from Costco last week and they overheard me talking to a friend about our Saturday night plans, saying something like “oh, I’d love see a stupid, mindless movie for a change – especially since the last thing I saw was Black Swan!” I was immediately interrupted by the petite police in the back of the minivan, “MOM! You said STUPID! STUPID is a BAD word MOM! What’s stupid anyway? Why did you say that? I’m telling Dad.” Oh geez, I thought, here we go… it starts by telling Dad that I said "stupid" and then quickly escalates to the fact that I was talking while driving, might have rolled through a stop sign and somehow spent almost $600 at Costco! It’s all fair game to my four foot and under platoon.

 Knowing as I do that I can’t get away with much, I really struggle with what to give up for Lent. I am under the contant scrutiny of five sets of eyeballs (six, if you count my husband the Judge!) who are just waiting for me to screw up… waiting for me to sneak that potato chip or cookie I’ve tried to give up in the past, waiting for my shrill outburst when I’ve promised to try harder to keep my cool. So, what’s a gal to do?! Giving up wine is out of the question, I’ve tried that and failed miserably and just couldn’t stand my own kids urging me to “just say no.”


So, as I write this, I haven’t committed to giving anything up; my pint-sized police have perhaps put the fear of God in me because I just can’t stand to fail in front of them. Or maybe it's that being called “bad boy mama” is quickly losing its charm. In any case, if you have any suggestions for something I can give up (or take on) between now and Easter, please let me know -- and, should you have your own pee-wee police at home, consider yourself warned! 

Lessons from a first grade field trip

Last Friday, I had the good fortune to accompany Liam's first grade glass on a field trip to Lyndhurst (http://lyndhurst.wordpress.com/), a stunning Gothic Revival mansion overlooking the Hudson River -- a place that I've walked by, run by and driven by countless times but never set foot in. The trip and tour were understandably geared toward a six-year old mentality. While I would have loved to learn more about the amazing architectural details, original artwork and Tiffany glass, I instead came away with a better understanding of life today versus the way it was roughly a hundred years ago.


As a Mom, I can clearly see that many things are easier now than they were then – take for instance laundry and vacuuming. While our kids may put us through the wringer, at least we have washing machines to tackle our soiled wears. And, while vacuuming may not be my favorite chore, it sure beats moving the furniture, rolling up the rugs, taking them outside and beating the crap out of them… although, come to think of it, that sounds like a pretty good way to work out your frustrations!

Playdates as we know them today didn’t exist. If Junior wanted to do some socializing, you had to send a letter, await a reply, summons your horse and carriage and pack your overnight bag because the odds were good you’d be staying awhile. Now, while this does have some alluring qualities, it’s certainly a lot simpler to call, email, text or, as one vocal little lady put it “just go downstairs! I live in an apartment building and can always find a playdate!”

As for the kids, well, they seemed pretty content to live here in 2011 rather than way back when. Beyond the obvious challenge with playdates, they were visibly disturbed to learn that children at the table could only speak when spoken to -- can you imagine?! Dinnertime without the common complaints I’ve become accustomed to --  most of which start or end with “I don’t LIKE it!” I think maybe these pioneer parents were on to something…

Then there were the clothes and toys. You should have seen these kids faces when they saw the bathing costumes (which, frankly, I think would truly flatter my figure right about now!) and heard that the “comfy” clothes they were all sporting were off-limits… it was petticoats for the girls and pressed shirts for the boys… something that’s all the more impressive when you consider what it took to iron pre-electricity! As for entertainment, those poor kids had no video games, no TV, no DVDs -- as one feisty fella put it “they had NOTHING!”

I would beg to differ. One of my lessons learned was that they actually had quite a lot. They had the freedom to be kids. To roam the property. To let their imaginations run wild as their little bodies followed. They respected their elders, minded their manners and from what I can tell, usually ate their string beans without whining. Perhaps I’m a little old-fashioned (or maybe a lot?) but, I think there’s some good to be had in embracing the wisdom of generations past. And for that, I am grateful to have joined the first grade trip to Lyndhurst. Liam, on the other hand, may not be so glad – especially since I now have some new ammunition to remind him that kids have indeed survived without a DS or iPad of their own. Come to to think of it, Liam may not invite me on any future trips… although, I suppose he won’t have the opportunity to unless I invite him to speak first!

Our Irish Heritage: reflections and traditions

Though the winter has been long, it's hard to believe that March is here, thus beginning a holiday season of a different sort here in the Lyons Den. As February turned to March, my husband Des and I found that our monthly calendar synch was full of many more festivities than usual... there's theBrehon Law Society Dinner, Irelend-US Council Luncheon, Friendly Sons dinner (it has always struck me that these "friendly" sons are not so friendly after all -- if they were, I would think on occasion a "daughter" or two might be invited to partake in the fun!), and seemingly countless evenings where he "has to" meet someone "for just a pint."

March is a month of merriment that builds up to St. Patrick's Day and maintains a lively tone for the days and weeks after. It's a month where we all feel especially proud to be Irish and inspired to reflect upon our hertiage. My Mom was an O'Brien and my maiden name was O'Connor. I always loved having that "O" as part of my name. When we went to church on Sunday, our parish was full of O'Connors -- most of whom I was related to. What distinguished us from the others was the weekly greeting from our priest "Ah! It's the five Ks!" he would say as my dad Kevin, mom Katie, sister Kristin, brother Kevin and I shuffled in. Irish in name, looks and spirit, St. Patrick's Day at our house meant corned beef and cabbage and house full of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins who seemed to be even more jolly than usual on March 17th.


Des is always proud to boast that his Dad was a "Cork man" and played hurling with the legendary Christie Ring. This husband of mine is addicted to Irish tea (although I've always thought it ironic he prefers Barry's to Lyons), adores a well poured pint of Guinness, looks dashing in his ages-old Irish knit sweater and can make an astonishingly good Irish Soda Bread.


As we raise our little Lyons Cubs (regrettably, Des turned down my suggestion to change his name to O'Lyons and I have to say, I really miss my "O" -- especially in the month of March!), we've started a few traditions of our own -- one of which was a highlight of this past weekend: the annual family outing to Rory Dolan's (http://www.rorydolans.com/) -- a legendary spot on the Yonkers/Bronx border that has a festive crowd, great music and does indeed pour the perfect pint.


Additionally, rather than scowl when they see us coming with our five tots six and under, they welcome us with open arms, oohing and aahing over Liam, Ciara, Kevin, Declan and Cormac. I suppose that's one of things that I'm most proud of in this season when "Proud to be Irish" buttons prevail; I am proud to come from a culture that always welcomes people with open arms and if there is just one tradition, one value that I pass on to our little brood, I hope this is it... in March and every other month of the year!

Mom's Night In

Last Saturday, Des had a long overdue night out with the guys... which, of course, left me home "alone" with our five little Cubs.  All things considered, I get out a fair bit  -- work dinners, book club and the occasional Girls Night Out satisfy my need for a break from the constant action in the Lyons Den.  This time it was his turn.  But things were NOT looking good at the beginning of my Mom's Night In.

I was bleeding (due to improper knife technique while making dinner), Liam was sporting a new black & blue egg on his head (due to a wooden block thrown at close proximity by Ciara), Ciara was pouting (due to the time-out she was in thanks to the aforementioned grievance) and the triplets were howling in their highchairs (due to a lack of nap, distaste for dinner or both).  As Des sauntered out the door, I had to muffle the primal scream inside that said "TAKE ME WITH YOU!"  I had to remember that this was his night out, my night in.

I'm quite pleased to report that it actually turned into quite a nice night.  The bleeding, pouting, and howling were relatively short-lived and all seemed well as five little Cubs took a bath, five little Cubs put on their PJs and five little Cubs snuggled into our bed for story time followed by a new episode of the Backyardigans -- my favorite of all the kid shows, so much so that I've been known to remark "but really, the music and choregraphy are great!"  Geez, whatever happened to my so-called life?  The answer, it seems, is not much.

By 8:30, they were all tucked into their cribs and beds while I pondered what might come next.  Hubby's gone, kids are asleep, now what?  A bubble bath? Good book?  Glass of wine?  I'm more prone to tackle "2010: the year in pictures" or "2011: regain control of our spending!"  -- both active items on my "to-do" list.  But, I refrained from these expected or obligatory options and instead did just this:

I heated up a Trader Joe's Mac & Cheese (quite tasty, I'd recommend it!), got a glass of apple cider (I'd had my daily quota of wine at a Christening earlier in the day), grabbed the pile of junk mail that grew over the week and got into bed with the remote control. With my better half out for the night, I was able to easily skip over FoxNews and anything sports related.  I loitered a bit on some reality shows and sitcom reruns until I found what I was looking for:  When Harry Met Sally.  A good reminder of how lucky I am to have found the guy to grow old with -- even if he won't eat mac & cheese in bed while watching cheesy 80s movies.  I think, after all, that's best left for a Mom's night in.  And, in case you don't have one of those on the horizon, well, here's the last few minutes -- the happy ending.  Because every Mom's night in deserves a happy ending.