with a blindfold…

and maybe even one arm tied behind my back. But that would be showing off.

I am a flood, a tidal wave, an avalanche of efficiency. A force of nature. Unstoppable. Until a familiar voice floats up from the shadows beside me.

“Mommy, I am not afraid of the dark.”

“No, you’re not,” I reply briskly, still striding forward.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Of course!” My reply is automatic as is my full stop and arm extension. Never ever deny a child a chance to hold your hand. It’s in the Bible. Somewhere. I’m pretty sure of it. If it isn’t, it really should be. The Eleventh Commandment.

“Everybody knows I’m not afraid of the dark,” Sam asserts as his hand slips in mine.

“That’s right. They do,” I manage to reply without a quiver.

We stand quietly for one beat. Two.

“But, Mommy?”

“Yes, Sam.”

“It is awfully dark in here,” he tells me, staring pensively into the shadows.

Then suddenly he brightens, chirping, “But dat’s why we hold hands!”

I smile and squeeze his hand a little tighter feeling the hard knot that’s been lodged in my solar plexus untangle, then disappear. Exactly, Sam. That’s precisely when we most need a hand to hold. But sometimes us grown ups forget how to ask.

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“No thank you, Sammy love. Mommy just needs to finish up dinner really quickly and then we can eat. Why don’t you go play with your brothers?”

Sammy traces the grout between the kitchen tiles with his big toe, while his shoulders and trunk twist back and forth — a study in perpetual motion. “Nah…I not leave you by youself,” he avers. “I got to take care of you.”

Focused only on making it to the end of at least one task today, I soldier on, “But Sammy, Mommy likes being alone. It doesn’t scare me at all.”

All motion stops as he looks up at me, eyes brimming with concern. “No Mommy,” he explains. “When you by yourself, then you be lost. And that’s not good. I’ll stay here with you and keep you safe.”

The last word is delivered with a confident nod of his little, dark head. And I find myself nodding back, forgetting completely why I’d ever objected in the first place.

I finish cooking my dinner stepping over and around the my tiny guardian angel. He helps wipe the table and make sure his brothers come when they’re called. Soon he’s regaling us all with stories that begin “When I was a baby…” and seldom end without an encounter with a dinosaur or a pirate ship. The day passes into night and suddenly I’m alone.

As I sit here in the quiet that descends after bedtime is finally final, I realize I did feel quite a bit safer and maybe just a bit less lost with that little body nearby. And I find myself wishing I could bottle up even the smallest hint of Sam to share with the world. I have to think it would be a better place for it.

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It’s not hard to figure out why I’m feeling so maudlin. This morning Jack had some minor surgery — nothing serious — just adenoid removal and ear tube placement to allow his eustachian tubes to clear and help get his hearing back to normal. He sat on the gurney, swathed from head to toe in warm blankets, coloring a picture of a dinosaur, and laughing at the effects of the happy juice they give prior to surgery. His dad grew an extra head, and I wound up with a double nose and teeth like a rabbit. We laughed along with him and did everything we could to keep him at ease up until the very moment they wheeled him through the doors where we couldn’t follow. Then I realized I probably needed medication as much as he did.

The wait wasn’t long, and everything went well. Soon he was back with us sleeping off a draught of pain medication. As I watched him resting there, so small beneath his mountain of warming blankets, I felt a rush of love so strong it hurt. Tears pricked my eyes as I offered silent thanks that none of the rare complications of surgery had found their way to our door.

And for the next half hour, I studied his face…memorizing details in this quiet moment, since so much of our life seems such a blur of activity. I was inordinately pleased to find the patches of light blond hair just above his temples were still evident. Why that mattered, I couldn’t say. Perhaps I just needed to find something that hadn’t changed drastically in these last five years.

I heaved a shaky sigh and confessed my weak and wobbly state to my husband, who promptly admitted feeling the same way. Together we reminisced about the miracle baby we remembered and the precious little boy that baby had become. And then, our sleeping beauty awakened, anxious to go home and particularly adamant that Fudgecicles be purchased as soon as possible.

He’s resting again, his dad and I taking turns snuggling him close and making sure he’s comfortable. As I study his profile and try to count the faint freckles that dust his nose, I wonder at the visual difficulties you develop with motherhood. Like a double exposure, the baby is overlaid with the boy. I think I understand why it’s natural for children to pull away from their parents as they mature. How difficult it must be to relate as an adult to someone who still sees you in a diaper, grinning toothlessly at your beloved stuffed hippo.

But for today, Popo and I still reign supreme. And for at least a little while longer, I still have my baby.

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Fortunately, I do believe that what we do today is significant not only in the here and now, but also in the distant future. And so it really is important that I do the right thing. It matters whether or not I discover which button to push with each child. How to motivate this one to a greater generosity of spirit, this one to better decision making, and instill in them all the social skills and graces necessary for them to one day navigate unassisted from the point of waking to the blessed relief of sleep.

It’s daunting, to put it mildly. Especially when I really, truly have no idea what I’m doing.

With three out of four of my children, I can indulge in a bit of back-patting. Smiling my modest Mona Lisa smile in the face of praise from teachers, caregivers and friends. “Well, we do try,” I say, casting my eyes down. Then meekly adding, “But really so much is simply how he came into this world.” Cue the self-deprecating grin, aaaaaand…scene. Honestly, I’m very good at modesty when I think about it hard enough.

But with the fourth, I’m at a loss. The struggle is constant with the rewards fleeting — often erased mere moments after they’ve been achieved by yet another glaring failure. It’s all a phase, we tell ourselves. He’ll grow out of it, and then we’ll find ourselves laughing over all this. We experiment with a few awkward titters. A brittle giggle cracks and breaks into an embarrassed cough.

And still we soldier on. Because leading a child from boyhood to manhood is a privilege, a sacred honor, and (most of the time) a joy. Nonetheless, I think I may begin collecting door stops, cinder blocks and cross-ties. Because once we do get these boulders to the top of that hill, I’ll be damned if they get a chance to roll back down again.

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Today, I was Mystery Reader at Jack’s school. Remember when I said I couldn’t figure out what to read? Well I finally gave in and went with one of our favorites Room on the Broom which technically might qualify as more of a Halloween pick than a Thanksgiving tale, but I don’t care. I loved it. The kids loved it. And I’m told that I’m the only parent who the kids ever begged to “Read it again!” Which, of course, I gladly did with even more gusto.

It’s a gift. Everyone has to have a certain arsenal of “Mad Skillz”. Unfortunately, none of mine seem to fit snugly on a resume. C’est la vie. I’m still sitting here, basking in the glow of my own awesomeness, while all my insecurities are away on a temporary leave of absence. I wonder what it would take to get those bastards to STAY gone?

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When Jason arrived home from work, we quickly washed our hands, put bowls in front of boys, and settled down to eat as a family.

“Celery Chicken!” Jason said with a an extra smile in my direction. We both know it’s a perennial favorite of his, so I try to remember to keep it in rotation.

“Nothing like bland comfort food at the end of a cold day, hmm?” I reply absently, picking over my own bowl, still not quite sure if I’m ready for even the blandest of fare.

“Can I have seconds?” Jack asks as he passes his bowl to me, narrowly missing the noses of at least two brothers in the process.

“Well!” I gush proudly, “Looks like this may be someone else’s favorite, too, dad.”

“Good job, Buddy! You really tore that up didn’t you?”

“Yup!” Jack said beaming. “Looks like I was the first one to get it down.”

Jason snorts and I suddenly come down with a fit of the giggles. Apparently, Nigella, Emeril, Ina and all the rest can sleep easy in their beds tonight.

*If you have pre-schoolers ready to start learning to read, may I strongly recommend the Leapfrog Tag Reader be added to your Christmas List.

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Stepping out of the shower, dripping wet and belting Etta James’ “The Rock” at the top of my lungs, I was met by a belligerent Sam demanding I put his shoes on for him. Now if ever there’s a time when I’m not at my best, it’s when I’m naked and cold, with my wet hair dripping icicles down my back. Plus, I hadn’t even made it to the second repeat of the chorus. Irritating.

“Sam, get out! Right now, mister!” I said in my most authoritative tone (this is sometimes mistaken for yelling, but I assure you, I am capable of quite a significant number of decibels beyond this one).

Sam countered with a whining protest. I sallied back with more authoritative tones. And the end result was me — still arrested mid-song, still naked, still dripping icicles — faced with a hysterical Sam who insisted he wasn’t going anywhere without his shoes.

I took a deep breath, cast my eyes heavenward … and caught God snickering. How do I know that? Well, I’m told he made me in his image which must mean his sense of humor is just as twisted as mine. I arranged my towel a bit more strategically and set about the mammoth task of talking Sam out of his tree. We discussed how mommy needs her private time. We talked about what a big boy Sam is and how he’ll get a smiley face if he gets himself ready for school. And, of course, we touched on how very sorry mommy was for yelling (Sam had trouble grasping the whole “authoritative tone” angle) and how she would try hard not to do it again. Finally, after much tears and snorting, he agreed to leave mama to finish her business while he waited in the living room with his brothers. You know, the two that are perfectly capable of putting on their own shoes. The ones Sam actually helped teach to put on their shoes, but I digress.

I toweled off, threw on my mom uniform –leggings, huge denim shirt, ballet flats — dried my hair at lightening speed and went to try and make amends. Sam looked up at me and said, with just a trace of leftover tears, “My shoes were just being so bad to me today, mom!”

“Rotten shoes!” I concurred as I helped him wiggle first one foot and then the other into his little brown tennis shoes. He even pitched in at the last and helped press the velcro down.

Then we were off, apparently none the worse for wear. And as usual, Sam was the last one into the school coming back twice for extra hugs and kisses, then blowing me countless handfuls of kisses from the steps and shouting, “Bye!! Have a great day!!” until he disappeared down the hallway.

Sometimes I have my act together for almost a full day. Sometimes it only holds steady for a few hours or minutes. But always, always, I’m thankful for the role I landed in this amazing production with this incredible cast.

Now, if I could just get a running supply of M&Ms and Mountain Dew in my trailer….

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Here we see two of our Spider Friends, Tom and Sam, putting on their base layer. I will probably never be forgiven for this picture.

And here we see Spider Friend Will’s feelings about his base layer,

…his spider costume,

…and his spider hat.

Honestly, this is what Will thought of 2006, 2007 and much of 2008. But things did eventually get better. We managed one good pic of everyone, but if you look closely you’ll notice the sparkle of fresh tears in each of the Spider Friends’ eyes.

Here we are at our finest Halloween hour, The Year of the Big Bad Wolf and the Three Little Pigs. I think this will always stand out as the ultimate in themed costumes for all four boys. Can’t you just hear Tom saying, “You a pink piggy, Sammy!”

In 2009, Spiderman had grown into this cocky little Fire Chief.

And where’s a fire chief without his band of firemen? Here’s Sam almost ready to go.

Will, complete with fire truck props in the background. You have to appreciate the level of commitment there.

And then there’s Tom, doing…well, only Tom knows for sure.

And this brings us to 2010 — The Year Where Everyone Picks Their Own Costume. Sam and Will are Wolverine and Thomas the Tank Engine respectively. And both have indulged heavily in Mommy’s Vampire Punch — somehow it just tastes better on Halloween than it does every other day of the year (when we call it Fruit Punch).

Tom is Captain America and Jack is a Ghostbuster. And of course, both of them are very scary.

The best part was Tom’s commitment to character. He corrected all and sundry who made the mistake of calling him Tom by pointing to his chest and saying with just the right hint of disdain, “That’s Captain America!”

No wait! Maybe the best part was Jack’s getting a kiss on the cheek from the cutest girl in his kindergarten class. “She loves me,” he informed me. “And I think she likes me, too!”

Or was the best part Will’s permanent Vampire Punch mustache that outlasted his bath and is still holding on this evening?

No, the best part was Sam placidly kicking back on the hay munching candy as Will and Tom scurried from house to house collecting handouts. “Don’t you want to trick or treat anymore, Sam?” I asked.

“No,” he replied around a mouthful of chocolate. “My Will gonna get me canny. I just riding.”

Nice.

I’m with you Sam. Just along for the ride.

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Will: Mom! Knock-Knock!

Me: Who’s there?

Will: Banana.

Me: Banana who?

“BANANA PANTS!” Will, Sam and Tom scream in perfect unison, then collapse, laughing hysterically. Even I have to snicker through my morning fog — because three happy faces are irresistable. We repeat the scenario roughly 18 times just to be sure we’ve wrung every possible bit of hilarity from our little skit, and I race here to write everything down before I forget. It’s not every day such a comedic gem falls in your lap.

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I didn’t think so. I’m here to admit that sometimes I yell. I’ve lobbed dishes across my kitchen (alright, one small, plastic bowl — but it still felt pretty epic). I exercise when I think about it, and eat chocolate when I don’t. I throw away poopy underwear just because I don’t feel like washing it out. I make a great show of appreciation, then immediately discard school art projects rather than scrapbooking them. I “lose” toys with annoying sounds. And I don’t read the label on the cheap, frozen pizza because I. Don’t. Want. To. Know.

This is who I am. But apparently, I’m supposed to be a size 4 supermodel, on a macrobiotic, organic, vegan diet (from which countless kid friendly snacks can be made) who is putting the finishing touches on her book deal while teaching her children Chinese. Oh…with a clean house and no backlog of dirty laundry. Easy, right?

Of course not. It’s all a joke. None of us make it to this level of awesomeness. Most of the time we don’t even come close. And you know what? It’s o.k.

Check that. It’s not just o.k., it’s normal. And we need to share with each other just how normal it is to not have it all together all the time. It’s not a competition. No one’s going to get the Mommy Oscar or walk the red carpet (unless you’ve made the mistake of allowing fruit punch in the living room).

Instead, we need to be a better source of support for our fellow strugglers — those of us doing the best we can with what we’ve got and just hoping it’s something close to good enough in the end. I guarantee we’d drink less and pop fewer pills trying to force our brains, bodies and children into some imaginary mold guaranteed to pop out the perfect family.

So celebrate your successes. Share your failures so someone might learn from them and be spared the same disappointment. And above all, let’s try not to judge ourselves or each other so harshly. Sometimes “good enough” can be downright great.

*For those of you dying to say “Martha Stewart”, I’d just like to remind you of a) her estranged family and b) Federal Prison. But I will admit those napkin holders she make from old luggage tags were, indeed, ass-kicking.

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