I know this girl...

I know this girl. 

 

She is four-parts sweetness and sass, confidence and concern. 

 

This girl I know loves to dance. Sometimes it’s in tune with those around her; often it’s to a rhythm that only she can hear. And I, in my perpetual count-following timed-step, am in awe of her ability to completely sidewind the expected and leap. 

 

She is a defender of the meek. She cannot stomach injustice and will make it known when the scales have tipped too far one way or the other. She is a fierce friend and, although she bickers daily with her brother, she will make you bleed if you cross him. 

 

She is a giver, a constant maker of gifts, which she bestows on her loved ones with a genuine wish to make them happy, to see them smile. She can make a keepsake out of anything: a drawing, a dried flower, a Doritos wrapper. 

 

For Christmas, she asked Santa for wood. Literally, just the word “wood” written in endearing third-grade scrawl above “tiny baby chicks” and a basket for them to live in. So far, she has made several boxes, a game like bowling with bumpers, and a two-story mansion for her gerbil.

 

Animals flock to her. Some say it’s because she’s small and unthreatening. I think it’s because they can sense a kinship. There is a part of her that will always be wild. 

 

She’s funny in a way that kids often aren’t, with a keen awareness of the world’s oddities and asymmetries and how to use them to make you laugh. 

 

When she grows up she wants to be an Engineer/Astronaut/Chef/Teacher – not individually, but a collective role in which she designs the space craft, mans it, prepares excellent dehydrated fare, and teaches others how to do the same. To boldly go where no O’Neal has gone before. If there is one of us who can, it’s her.

 

She can find a friend anywhere. The ball field, the beach, in line at the dry cleaners. She has zero hesitation about going up to another child and asking them to play. It’s a confidence that I envy, a welcoming spirit that I adore.

 

She loves her dad the best, and that’s okay. I’ve known this for many years. She told me on one occasion that I’m just a half behind. A half what, I don’t know. I never asked. Because there’s something about a girl and her daddy that I don’t want to disturb. She loves to join him at the go-kart track, to help him work on cars and use power tools, to grill alongside him, to let him teach her about baseball and to critique her brother’s swings with him.

 

Yet there are moments when she shoos the boys away so that we can have time for “just us girls.” Time to watch funny TikToks or look at cute puppy pictures or play with makeup and crazy hairstyles. And in those moments, I want to wrap her up and keep her eight forever. But she’s nine today, and then she’ll be ten and twenty, and before I know it she’ll be grown, and all of her pieces will meld together into an amazing, wonderful whole. I can’t wait to see who she’ll become; I could also wait forever. 

 

But for now, she’s eight plus three-sixty-five, a little girl in a princess dress who made us all complete. 

Hand me a Corona...no, not that one!!!

So my mother suggested that I write a diary (old people speak for a blog) about our Corona Virus experience. And at first, I was like, yeah, I don’t have time for that, but then I realized that if I sat at the computer for a half hour, the kids would think I was “working” and leave me alone. Mothers – they really never stop teaching us.

Fair warning though – my mind is a disorganized, off-schedule lump right now, so, say it with me: you get what you get and you don’t throw…insults. Or virus parties – don’t do that shit either. 

So far, our COVID quarantine has been fairly chill. The kids are learning new things: that their mom’s math, which was never shiny and sharp, is now rusty and dull, forever ruining my credibility; that the same mom will destroy their souls in dodgeball; and that their farmstead is filled with all kinds of gross and neat and also gross biology (including a grove of empty glass beer bottles – which made them question whether this was originally my family’s land as opposed to their dad’s, but first of all, newbies, my kind use cans…).

And I’ve learned something about myself….that I never, ever, ever, and never want to full-time homeschool my children. If you do, that is awesome! You have some Mother Teresa style patience and strength that I will never have. But these loin creatures of mine talk, all. day. long. And if I’m honest, it’s 99% just garbage stuff, like “I had a dream last night that I put my hand down and squished Merry the gerbil – what would that look like?” or “There’s this Fortnite meme…” Sweet Jesus no. 

But I have to at least pretend to listen because what if in the middle of Suttie’s scene-by-scene comparison of the Beetlejuice and Hamilton musicals, he slips in that his friend smokes meth and sells illegal parrots? I can’t let him be exposed to parrot smuggling at age 11 because I put on AirPods to listen to this week’s true crime podcast. Can I? But like can I, you think? 

Basically, I need someone who works for the NSA and is used to listening to the gibberish of a thousand callers just to pick out that one tidbit about tax fraud. That’s the level of desensitization it’s going to take to make it through Suttie talking about what he and his friends did on Minecraft to blow up somebody else’s house and then make a bigger house, but it wasn’t a house, it just looked like a house but it was more like a house/fort but with no bathrooms and a lava moat and when they finished they put up a flag that said, “I like turtles.” I’m not even fucking kidding you right now. 

So if you know of anyone in the market to listen to a 7 and 11 year old talk about life and current events and the shape of dog poop and why their sibling isn't doing something right, give them my number. As you can tell, I’m willing to pay them in large bills or blood. 

Is the Bug Juice half wine? No? Pass.

You know what I love? Donuts. But I also love summer camps. You know, the kind where you drop your kids off and sign a bunch of papers that says you won’t sue the camp when they lose a toe during the nature walk. Yep, those are my jam.

And I feel that love no more so than today, when both wild-ass, whining angels are here slamming doors on each other and using their best selective hearing. All. Damn. Day. This week they’ve got Little Gym camp and baseball camp and swim lessons, but we’re in a black hole of open play today and that was a serious misstep.

I know some people are thinking, they are away from you in school all year. Shouldn’t you want to spend the summer with them, teaching them, guiding them, playing hide and seek with them (the kind where you actually try to find them)? But some people don’t have kids, so some people need to shut the eff up. And if you do and want to spend every waking minute with them in these hot summer months, by all means. I’ll even put up an inspirational poster of you saying, “We hold their hands for just a while but hold their hearts forever.” It’ll be all we have to remember you by come August.

Now it goes without saying that I love these babies fiercely, but they can be straight-up stupid. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve said, “Quit being ignorant!” already this summer, I’d be able to afford another camp. In fact, I’ve got a few open dates in July if you hear of anything with long hours. (Heads up, Chinese Gymnastics team, the Olympics are coming and I hear you just take those kids. One day climbing up the rice-papered walls, the next miles and miles away in a militant training facility. FYI, Molly’s tiny with a big head. She’s like a Weeble; she don’t fall down.)

In all seriousness, they are getting to go to camps that they actually enjoy, like Minecraft camp, Frozen Princess camp, Tear Up Somebody Else’s Nerves on a Balance Beam camp.  I’m not dropping them off at Labor Ready, saying “Suttie, today is drywall camp! Here, wear this mask.”

Yes, they are blessed with the opportunity to explore their different interests this summer. It’s a blessing that I don’t take lightly. It was hard earned…by their father. I literally wipe the same table all day, so I contribute like zero dollars to this experience. But because of his efforts, all three of us are blessed.

In fact, this Friday, I’ve managed to set up the holy grail of summer camps: both kids at the same camp, at the same time. And don’t even try to make plans with me for then. I’m booked. I’m going to drive the long way so that I can listen to my songs on the radio, window shop for stuff that I only half want and can’t afford, pay for an overpriced coffee, and walk through the “Classics” section of a bookstore feeling superior that I’ve read some of them (even if I don’t remember the plot lines) before I buy a book really meant for thirteen year olds. And God help me if the “Hot” sign is on.

I know this boy...

I know this boy. 

He has an amazing world expanding in his mind. He loves legos and worries about the election; he likes sports and dotes on his “secret” girlfriend, Natalie. 

He’s a rule follower and a people pleaser. He tries his best, I mean, his very best, to do you proud. You, who are his parent or his family or his friend, his coach, his teacher or his role model in a way that you never even realized. 

He wants to sing and dance. Not in any professional way, but if he hears a song, even in moments when he knows he can’t, he desperately wants to join in the music. He sings Queen at the top of his lungs. He absolutely butchers Nirvana. And Lord help you if the Whip and Nae Nae comes on.

There are days when he looks like me. And the next day, he looks like his dad. And he acts like his dad. And then he does something that makes us realize that he’s better than both of us combined, and we smile knowingly at one another. Yep, this is the one that won’t need bail.

He sees the good. Really, truly sees it. If you don’t see it in yourself, he’ll find it for you. He’ll let you know. Because he would never want you to be sad. 

He loves his sister. He fights with his sister. His sister often wins. But it’s because he lets her.

He prays for you. You may not know it, but he does. He’s got a list of people and causes and illnesses that he cycles through as he prays. And to make sure he covers you in case he hasn’t in a specific way, he asks God to watch over everyone, everywhere because this boy I know cares about everyone. everywhere. No hyperbole needed. 

He can be so funny. And so utterly obnoxious. I’m secretly afraid that he wants his own YouTube channel. 

He loves sports. He’s okay at them. He tries very hard. Jesus be with him if he has to outrun a bear.

School is his jam. It’s where he thrives. He’ll probably be a nerd but in the best way. He’ll be able to keep up a nice conversation throughout dinner and pay for it.

This boy kicked me in the ribs for 5 long months. And when he was born, he changed my entire world. He made it harder and more exhausting and scarier and more colorful and hopeful and simply more in every way.

He’ll turn seven tomorrow. I’ve been holding onto the misguided belief that six is still a baby. But seven. There’s no denying it. He’s a boy. 

And I know this boy. He’s my absolute favorite boy.

But Am I Doing Enough?

As a parent, I sometimes experience a near-crippling fear that I’m not doing enough for my children. It’s a nagging worry that creeps into the pit of my stomach and coats my insides with a heavy blanket of dread. And it’s always worse in the summer, when I know that their progress, or at least the maintenance of their current milestones, falls squarely on my shoulders—no teachers, no school support, just me and two sets of wide, expectant eyes.

This evening, we tried for the 10 millionth and 475 thousandth time to teach Suttie to ride his bike without training wheels. It did not go well. There was lots of crying, lots of under-the-breath swearing, and lots of falling. And that was just his dad (ba-dum-tssst).

The whole experience made me realize that this is going to take a lot of time and a lot of practice. But where does that time come from? Last night, we spent nearly an hour signing him up for a program meant to keep up his math progress over the summer…and then there’s sight words…and reading…and science camps…and swim lessons…and baseball…and basketball…and time to just wander around the house looking for something to deconstruct because he’s 6 and that’s an essential part of your childhood: taking things apart and feverishly putting them back together before your parents realize what you’re doing.

And I know what you’re thinking: you shouldn’t worry about this when he’s only 6. He has his whole life to learn this stuff. And you’re right. Except that right now, this moment is part of that whole life, and the longer that I let him sit staring at an iPad, the longer I delay the important lessons that he needs to learn early:

• That you will fall off the bike, that it will hurt but you won’t be hurt, that you must get back on.
• That the things in life most worth doing are the things that are often the hardest to do.
• That your growth is at once physical and intellectual; cultivate them both.

And it’s not that I’m trying to overbook him, although I can easily see how it happens. When your child has diverse interests, you want him or her to be able to explore all of those; to live a fulfilled, happy life…even at 6. We’ve had to say no to karate, soccer, Minecraft camp, and a thousand others, and it wounds me a little each time I have to deny him an experience, but I also know that there are only so many hours in the day, that our time as a family will suffer if we are constantly on the go.

Suttie might pose more of a challenge than the average bear. The intellectual stuff comes naturally to him. He’s a lego genius, great at math, reading well, and self-composed. I shouldn’t ask for more. But he likes baseball and basketball, and he’s scared he’ll be the only first grader who can’t ride his bike. The physical stuff just doesn’t come as easily for him. He’s still growing into his body, which is in a state of serious change as he sheds his considerable baby weight and tries to gain coordination. He’s timid about trying things that he fears will hurt him, and like his poor, stream-of-consciousness blogging mother, he’s a worrier extraordinaire with a penchant for an “I’ll do it when I know how” line of thinking. These are the trials that take time; the areas where practice and hard work pays off in small steps. I can see his frustration, and again I ask, am I doing enough?

And poor, sweet, intractable Molly. I’m afraid she’s going to have to learn her shapes through stolen moments at Suttie’s activities: “See the bases form a diamond. Di-a-mond…This 4x2 lego makes a rectangle.” Yes, two children make it exponentially harder, doubling the amount of guilt that is generated by that silently asked question that hangs stale in the air, “Am I doing enough?” She starts preschool in the fall, and I often wonder, is she ready? Will she be behind because she’s been with me to this point? Am I failing her now by writing a blog post instead of setting up some station for her to count macaroni and sort pinto beans? Probably.

I feel like this dilemma is one that parents are constantly facing, over and over again throughout their children’s youths. If you’re there, you are certainly not alone. And I suspect the answer to that unwelcome question is a lot of yes and a little no. You could always do more, but the question suddenly morphs into its sister wife: “Should we?”

I have no succinct way to end this post, no wise-beyond-my-years solution to creating the perfect mix of purposeful growth and childhood frivolity. But I find comfort in the knowledge that we’re trying. Even when we’re failing, we’re trying. And I hope that the kids see that and know that we think they’re worth the investment.

But I'm Afraid of Mice: An O'Neal Disney Odyssey

Well, we did it. We joined the ranks of Superbowl winners, selfie-stick wielders, and the entire Asian continent and spent a week at Disneyworld. And now, only one of our kids can go to college.

Originally, my plan was to set up cardboard cutouts of Mickey in the yard, take pictures when the kids were still too dumb to remember anything, and years later say, “See, we did go to Disneyworld! What? Yeah, we took the shed with us.” But we waited too late, and now Suttie is almost able to tell the difference between the cardboard characters and the real ones.

Now, it’s not that we’re anti-Disney, as the kids’ playroom and DVD shelf will attest, but before we had kids, Sutton and I were purposeful world travelers. When we dropped that kind of money on a trip, we got to see the Acropolis or the Roman Coliseum or some weird French dude making out with a street lamp. So the idea of sacrificing Molly’s bail money (cause let’s face it, that’s where it was going) for a saunter down Mickey’s Main Street U.S.A. wasn’t the most appealing. There would be crowds, afternoon storms, the height of merchandising, plus our kids would be there. So in the days before the trip, Sutton and I had tempered our expectations to a mere wish for survival, which, for the first two days of our journey, I wasn’t sure would be granted.

First, everyone was freaking tired. We had to leave the house by 5 am to catch a 7 am flight out of Huntsville, so by the time we got to Orlando, all four of us were short-tempered, and Molly tried to get on a bus for SeaWorld. Once we got to our resort, we felt better, ready to change clothes and hit the magic. But O’Neal luck had other plans. You see, somewhere back in time, an O’Neal ancestor committed a Stanley Yelnats level of dumbassery and cursed the rest of us with constant inconvenience.  The bad luck is never dire; it’s just annoying.

So, when we stepped up to the check-in desk, it was only natural that we’d be the “special family” selected for a suite at a different resort. Now, being natural skeptics, Sutton and I weighed this option heavily, and I even went as far as directly asking the concierge if our “special” status was the result of our room not being ready, but he assured us (and the kids) that this suite would be amazing, themed from the Cars movie, and at a resort that was totally kid-centric. It would make their trip, y’all. And Suttie bought into it hook, line, and sinker while his dad and I exchanged sideways glances. It didn’t help that while we were standing there, hearing the full used car spiel, I received a text confirming that our room was indeed not ready. But we decided to have a little faith and, after making it clear to the concierge that we would be back for our original room if we weren’t 100% satisfied, we hopped in a taxi to the new resort.  

But upon opening the door to our “spectacular” suite, I turned to Sutton who hadn’t even made it into the room yet and said, “Nope.” The room was themed after the Cozy Cone Motel in the Cars movie, and it held up to that motel authenticity. The carpets were orange, the lamps were made of plastic traffic cones, the kids no longer had a bed but a fold out couch and the room overall was smaller than the one we’d booked. So there we were, in a crazy-looking room at a resort that was a lower value than the one we’d paid for on a trip that I’d planned for a year and been up since 4 am to go on, and I’m not gonna lie, I cried. Not a full boo-hoo cry, but a “I want to hit someone” cry (women reading this will know the difference).

But this is where Sutton shines: in opportunities for being a charming hard ass (I promise, it’s a skill). So within minutes, we boarded a taxi back to our original resort, where my husband demanded extra fast passes and meal credits and also forced the hospitality manager to admit that she had overbooked the hotel, all while wearing his patented “this is going to happen” smile. I know it well. It’s the same look he had when he first asked me out, when he proposed, and when I tried to bail on our weekly viewing of Ax Men. I honestly felt bad for her.

After all was said and done, we were treated with kid gloves, satisfied with the outcome, and finally on our way to the Magic Kingdom…where the kids rode two rides and fell asleep in the stroller before the Electric Parade.

On to Day 2, which we spent at Hollywood Studios. I blame the difficulties of this day on fatigue. Our entire family loves to sleep. We thrive on it, we depend on it, we are worthless without it. My six year old still takes naps, as do his parents on most weekends. So waking up early, staying up late, and removing naps from the equation was a HUGE adjustment. During the course of this day, Molly broke down a total of five-hundred-and-seventy-six times, including right before the Frozen sing along where she threw herself on the floor, kicking and screaming and making the poor Spanish family in front of us feel completely uncomfortable. Thank God for “Let It Go” or we wouldn’t have made it out of there.

Suttie was no angel either. His tiredness manifests as whines, so all day he was hungry, hot, itchy, bothered by Molly, looked at by Molly, breathed on by Molly, and generally uncomfortable. If his dad and I weren’t numb from schlepping the double stroller and three (yes, three) backpacks all day, we might have cared. Oh and make sure you ask him how he liked the Tower of Terror. He will tell you it was terror-ble because he’s little and still relies on puns for humor.

He insisted on riding it and was fine through most of the line until we entered a room showing a Twilight Zone-themed clip about ghosts in the tower. When I saw him cover his ears, I knew we were in trouble. And he kept those bad boys covered through the rest of the line, down into the “basement” where we waited to load an elevator. And waited, and waited, until they figured out that our elevator was broken (O’Neal luck, guys), so we moved in line for a different elevator, where Suttie cried and cried and cried until the entire free-falling experience was over, after which I thought, “Oh good, that’s done. He made it through.” But when we met back up with his dad and sister, he decided that he wanted to go again so that Sutton could go; in fact, he insisted on it. And this time, he cried through the whole line, from start to finish. I have to give it to him. He’s the only kid I know that will cry and cover his ears out of fear for a full twenty minutes and not give a damn about what anyone around him thinks. But they lived to tell the tale, and if you do choose to ask him about it, be ready to hear that tale in its full HD glory because the boy does not skimp on a single detail.

Yes, the first two days were a bit harrowing, but suddenly, Disney enthusiasts might call it “magically,” our trip turned around. We adjusted to the sleep deficit, we started to appreciate the grandeur of the parks, and the kids’ attitudes improved (for the most part, I mean Suttie still trended toward whiny and Molly threw fruit snacks at passersby, but it wasn’t anything outside the norm). We rode rides, we ate food, we saw characters, we ate more food. And most importantly, Molly got to meet ALL of the Disney princesses.

If you know anything about my daughter, you know that, apart from being, what are we calling it these days? spirited? Well, apart from that, she is also a certified princess of non-royal blood. The girl lives and breathes tiaras and dresses and ordering people around. So meeting Cinderella and her fellow elite was the highpoint of Molly’s life, today and always. When she would step up to hug these make-up laden locals, you could see that she was among her people (and by that, I mean young girls fighting off gropey grandpas while making minimum wage in Florida).

I could describe the rest of the week in detail—the shows, the parades, Sutton getting violently sick on Mission:Space—but I don’t really feel like it and I’ve got backed up episodes of Hart of Dixie to muddle through.

Suffice to say, we ended up having a wonderful trip. In fact, several times, Sutton and I would look deeply at each other, smile, and say, “This place would be a lot of fun if the kids weren’t here.” But they were there, and when they look back on their childhood, they can say, “Man, Mom and Dad screwed us up bad…but they did take us to Disney.”

********************

Special thanks to my sister-in-law Amanda Rochowiak, who allowed me to pick her brain for months in preparation for our trip and who pointed me in the direction of the spiked Dole whips.