Look at my book I wrote! See my byline?! I am actually smart—it says so right there!

It’s an indulgent fantasy since most of my life is better than I imagined—Greg and my boys for example. There aren’t daydreams enough to equal the love I feel for them. And yet.

There are times that I’ve called Toby a big fat crybaby, or I’m annoyed at Greg for loving our cat more than I do, or I’m just feeling especially carnal for no immediate reason, and all I can do is compare myself to the nearest friend who seems to be doing things better. The friend is always sweeter, more genuine, more humble, more spiritual, more motherly, more likeable, more loved. When I resent her, I feel even worse about myself for being the villainous wretch in the fairy tale whom everyone despises.

If I were an alcoholic I would slosh down glass after glass of red wine to drown out my jealousy and disappointment. Since I’m not, I eat spoonfuls of Nutella right out of the jar and post something pithy on twitter to steal a few handfuls of admiration.

In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott describes the literary life: “As a writer, one will have over the years many experiences that stimulate and nourish the spirit. These will be quiet and deep inside, however, unaccompanied by thunder and tremulous angels.” That statement could be written a thousand different ways. “As a mother…”  “As a runner…” “As a human…”  

Why aren’t the quietly nourishing experiences enough? Certain corners of my soul are satisfied without pomp. Like when I run, I set one foot in front of the other, one mile at a time, day after day. I don’t care that I will never be Paula Radcliffe, because I’m running to hear my own heart beat, and the effort is its own reward. Other parts of me are more vulnerable, less sure of their own intrinsic worth. They need to be stoked and coddled and assured. If I’m being honest, that really bothers me.

On my desk is a picture of four Indian children from a balwadi in Mumbai. When I feel especially introspective, I look them in the eye and ask them, “What do you need from me?” My pulse stops when they speak because I know it is God. Love us, they say. And that’s all.

They don’t need my importance. They don’t need my self-esteem. They don’t need my trophies. Neither do my friends, my husband, or my own children. The more perfect I am, the less I am useful to them. My fragile self takes their place in my heart.

Someone sent me a beautiful prayer yesterday, written by Father Larry Hein, mentor to Brennen Manning:

May all your expectations be frustrated, may all your plans be thwarted, may all your desires be withered into nothingness, if it proves necessary for you to experience the powerlessness and poverty of a child and sing and dance in the love of God who is Father, Son and Spirit.

That is my hope—yield to the things that rub the shine off my penny, because those are the very things making me great. I’m not seven anymore, so I don’t have to think like I did then. I can put my head down, one patch of road at a time, and run past my insecurity to the place where nothing remains. No trophies. No thunder. No tremulous angels.

And then there’s room enough for love.

And he is so grouchy. His preschool teacher mentioned this in the most sensitive manner. “Is Charlie, okay? He seems a little… out of it,” she said very helpfully, very “it’s probably an ear infection and out of your control” -ishly. I appreciated her grace, but really, what can you say when your son’s crankiness is noteworthy among other two-year-olds?

I made an appointment with Charlie’s doctor, hoping he wouldn’t prescribe The Strong-Willed Child and a spanking spoon (Oh parenting shame). Instead, we took home a clean bill of health and a bottle of my new BFF, melatonin.

It wasn’t easy to dispense melatonin to Charlie’s skinny little self. He could only have half an adult dose, which is .1 milliliters. My brain locks up over anything metric, so I dabbed a weensy drop on my finger and stuck it in his mouth. He didn’t cry or spit it out, but he didn’t drop into an instant coma, either. He was still talking when I closed the door. Over the next few minutes he lost his gusto and drooped into beautiful silence. Eureka!

It’s been five days and I am a happy mama. Glory to melatonin, herb of the heavens.*

*If you have any more suggestions, bring it on. If the melatonin quits working, I am fresh out of ideas.

Like when Toby and Charlie stand in the church parking lot watching a train go by.  The wheels shriek wildly down the rails carrying a bazillion tons of metal.  “Be careful!” I say as if the train might suddenly derail, mysteriously roll across the highway, strangely bounce upon their fragile, tiny selves.  You are overreacting, I think, but I pull them back a little anyway.

Before nap, when I sat beside Charlie on the bed, he rubbed at his legs as if some invisible agent were eating at his bones.  “Boo boo,” he said whiningly and I kissed his shins, mentally sprinting past growing pains or itchy pants and aiming straight for cancer.  Later when Toby scratched his legs too, I realized it was just bug bites from the yard.  Of course…

Yesterday I tried to get some stuff done.  Every few minutes Toby would poke me with some irrelevant question about tornados or train tracks.  Over and over Charlie opened and slammed his bedroom door, running in and out with extreme cheerfulness yelling, “Night, night!” and “Good morning!”  They fought over the blue steam engine, a crinkled CD insert, cheese sticks.  Sometimes they drive me crazy.  I hope I don’t take them for granted.

That is how I make the best of things like loss or uncertainty. What better gift could I offer a grieving father? I scoop Charlie up and press his cheek against my chest, feel his runny nose wet the collar of my shirt.  I am so grateful that this noisy, strong-willed boy is mine, even just for today.  A beautiful muse, indeed.

Mothers of adult children always say the same thing,  “It goes by so fast…” I hear this in the church lobby as I lollop to the donut table, my children dangling from my calves like enormous leeches.  I know it goes by fast. I know. But I’m still lulled by each day’s averageness, dolloping ketchup and sorting toys as if that will be my forever.   

This morning, autumn was tangible.  Breezy air wisped through the house while we went about our business in freshly unpacked sweatshirts.  It has already been a year since we folded our fleece hoodies into an empty diaper box for the summer.   It doesn’t seem possible.

I remember trick-or-treating last fall with Charlie in the stroller, pushing him from door to door behind his brother.  The stroller! I mean, isn’t it sitting in the garage corner behind a bunch of stuff we actually use?  One day I strapped Charlie in the seat for the last time, an unceremonious end of an era.  How did I not know?

Tonight, I sat down beside Charlie before he went to sleep.  I rubbed his cheeks while we sang Happy Birthday to his lamp, the wall, his stuffed bee.  Sometimes I rush these moments, impatient for my own time.  I wish I didn’t.

These years really are fleeting– my gosh, it is Toby’s fifth fall.  Next year he will be in school, making friends and finding independence.  I hope I gave him all I could while I had him to myself. 

Outside the front window, our Bradford pear blooms and withers and blooms again, measuring that metaphysical something that I can’t quite understand.  Maybe I don’t want to.

When it got too hot I actually crawled in the pool myself. It was really grassy, you know, after Toby and Charlie had climbed in and out all afternoon. I grabbed the strainer from the sandbox and lazily skimmed the water. It felt good to cool off, but also kind of lame sitting there in an inflatable pool spooning out debris.

“What are you doing?” Toby said.

“I’m just cleaning off the yucky grass.”

“Why is the grass yucky? It isn’t yucky on the ground.”

He didn’t have to be so rational about it. I don’t know why it’s so yucky. It’s so yucky because I would rather be floating on a raft in a big people pool with a nice vacuum thingy cleaning it for me.

I like to think I’m above the discontent raging through America like typhoid, but I’m not. I peer out of Eden, looking for that one thing that isn’t mine, completely missing the giant mountain of wonderful I’m already standing on.

My two little boys are fresh and sweaty with life, laughing wildly under the bright blue skies of summer. How on earth could this be any better?

Which brings me to why I’m writing this post. Well, first it’s my birthday and the hubs mercifully gave me my laptop and car keys in trade for the children (I love that man). Time to myself is just logistics, however, because I have a deeper motive. My “cause,” my inspiration, my muses, are blooming like fresh summer roses and I don’t want to forget a single moment.

See, I’m crying here. Even through these days of interminable sameness, there is a violent need to hold on. First, is the growing. Growing documented daily by Toby in astonished hand-to-forehead comparisons. “Everyone!” he shouted this morning outside The Snooty Pig. “I am taller than this bench!”

“You are!” I said tearfully, plopping equal parts joy and grief in my motherhood repository. The doorknob! The fire hydrant! Mommy’s bed! He checks them off like a to-do list of vertical ascent.

Charlie too is sprouting with rosy-cheeked zeal. Every day he compiles a new stream of babble into an articulate sentence. A sentence! Sometimes my expectations are so behind I almost miss it. His sparkling brown eyes flicker intensely as he repeats “Wha Poby Dooeen?” in a consecutive stream until I smack my hand to my temple and get it.

“What is Toby doing? Of course! Let’s go find out!” I take his dimpled little hand into mine and we yell “Poby! Poby, where are you?” until we hear Toby laughing behind the curtains.

Some afternoons I sit down during their rest with my good intentions, ready to clink out another piece of my cyber memoir. Charlie opens his door and hollers “hello?” down the hall infinity times. Toby bursts from his room for a mid-nap poop. I just shrug my shoulders and sigh. There is nothing lost in a house full of life, this house, with two warm babies tucked under my arms, leaning on my chest as I stroke their beautiful heads.

God is so good to me.

Take barfing for example. To this day Toby is the only toddler I have ever seen be personally delivered to his parents in the middle of church service by a gagging, vomit-covered child-care volunteer. If there were a barf Olympics I would enter Toby and tearfully cheer from the bleachers as he projectiled further than anyone in history. “That’s my boy!” I would say and then I would reminisce about long nights spent on the couch holding towels under his chin and how worthwhile it was now that he was on the podium singing our National Anthem.

Last week we were outside for all of thirty minutes, wherein the absolute first mosquito hatchlings of summer congregated on Toby’s shins for a celebration feast. It wasn’t like I didn’t know to hose the boys off in deet before subjecting them to the insect Hades of our backyard, but I hadn’t checked my entomological calendar for the precise mosquito life cycle. One moment I’m dreamily sipping my Chai latte in Spring’s sheltering arms, the next I’m digging through our medicine cabinet for the *AfterBite* cream and *Benadryl* because Toby’s legs are swelling to the size of Redwood trunks.

I know what you are thinking. Lots of kids are allergic to insect bites and blah blah blah, but I kid you not, none of them (except B.A.D.) ever produced such hideous, colossal boils as what sprouted from my son’s innocent flesh. Boils with eco-systems and lunar phases and fast food franchises. Part of me was a little excited to share this anomaly via Internet photo, and for that I apologize. In my defense, if your own child were capable of a grotesque reaction you would find the urge to shock your FB friends irresistible too.

Today I added “bloody noses” to my long list of *WebMD* queries. While my adoration and gratefulness for *WebMD* runs deeper than most consider prudent, there are times when I cannot convey the appropriate severity. “Bloody noses” are what happen when your brother throws a wooden train across the room, or when you go skiing in Breckenridge, or when you pick. Searching “Sudden failure of entire vascular regions while sitting quietly in Children’s Worship” did not produce any valuable results.

What can you do? After four years of research I have learned there is usually nothing to worry about, and that just about anything is a symptom of cancer.

Anything except emetephobia. That is just a perk of mothering two uniquely gifted individuals.

Just when you accepted either a) your chromosomal superiority or b) your (look out…) remarkable parenting skills, your second child springs from the womb yelling “no” and laughing while you try to snuggle his limp-bodied, kicking self into some semblance of the Willow Tree carving on the dresser.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you tell him, “I guess you didn’t know that breaking all the glass votive holders was dangerous. That yelling ‘Cookie!’ the entire time we ate out (though you were, in fact, holding a cookie) was irritating. That shrieking ‘Down! Down!’ as I carried you from preschool every day was embarrassing. It should look like this: you kneeling beside my heart-shaped, featureless face while I tenderly stroke your wooden cheek. Yes, that’s it! Isn’t that what you meant to do?”

Then your second child locks eyes with you and smiles very dimply and peachy while reaching one toe into the street just a touch, just a little weensy bit. “Charlie!” you say, “No sir! Go to the naughty spot!” You wave your arms and squinch your eyebrows so the neighbors see you are not permissive or negligent or incompetent, though you yourself aren’t really sure.

You scrutinize your care, your attentiveness, your goodness while he sits in time-out. You look at his tiny bean-of-a-self enduring this formality with the remorse of an artichoke. What am I doing wrong?

He grabs his wiggly feet and sings, “He ha da Whole worl in His han!” and “biddy biddy beebees, in his han!” until you realize the answer is nothing. What is flawed is the statue itself, because as moving as it seems, it isn’t as delightful, as marvelous, as perfect as this stubborn, extraordinary soul.

God don’t let me change him!

“Is it a paper cut?” I ask because I forgot my go-go-gadget magnifier for microbooboo locating. “Mo-o-o-omm-y-y” he opens his mouth into such a wide cry that his lips barely reconnect for the m’s. “I think your gonna make it buddy,” I say. Greg returns to his screwdriverish super-project while I rinse Toby’s finger in the kitchen sink.

Our underconcern makes him anxious– as if some day he will puncture an artery or catch on fire and his parents might keep on weed-eating or browning turkey meat while he bleeds to death on the kitchen tile.

This is the part of four that baffles me. At two, I knew I could scoop him up and hold him for just a skinned knee. It felt so right reassuring him, letting him cry it out however long he wanted. Now I waffle between coddling and indifference, searching for a proper balance that won’t land him in therapy twenty years from now.

Even more perplexing is his simultaneous need for manhood. One minute he wants gauze wrapped around an indiscernible wound, and the next he is following his dad up the ladder with a real screwdriver in his fist. I furiously dig through his plastic tool set for a safer toy replica wondering who to blame for his inconsistency, him or me?!

What I want is to have him both ways. I want him to be tough, independent, capable and I also want him to need me. I let him go with a wary unclenching of hands, then give him whiplash yanking his little self right back. Independence requires something of both of us that still feels foreign. I know I should lead and encourage him, but that requires a hint of risk, of danger that I’m too afraid to allow. The nurturing part is so much easier.

I think this will be my battle always. Like in the book “Love You Forever” when the old mother crawls through her grown son’s apartment window and rocks him while he sleeps. Everything about that page is disturbing and muddled. You want to yell through the watercolor “Cut the cord, lady!” But when you sit on the bed next to a pair of chubby, bare feet you can’t very well cast blame. It’ll take everything you have to keep your own feet from clambering up behind her.

I hate it when I get like this. When I have so many things to do, so many unrelated, taskly things, that I stumble around completely zombified, unable to finish even one of them.

Why do I need peanut butter? When I press my fingers to my temples I imagine my brain’s secretary fumbling for the file amid a cluttered, coffee-smelling office. You are hideously inept I say as she stares back guiltily.

We don’t have time to fight because Toby’s shoes were mysteriously summoned to Jesus, again. I send Greg outside to dig in the outdoor trash bin. “We should just buy new,” he mumbles.

“Sometimes it’s the principle!” I yell because more than anything I want to know how shoes can vanish inexplicably.

I step over Charlie who is now driving a train on the bedroom floor. “Charlie? Where are Toby’s shoes?” I ask hopefully when I notice poop falling out the back of his diaper. For the love!!!

I whisk him to the bathroom for a strip and rinse, trying to decide exactly why I’m gagging. Is it his poop-smeared back or the rope of green snot sliding down his upper lip? I sacrifice a whole bar of soap to the cause as I scrub the offending orifices. Now bleaching the bath-tub is following peanut butter through my frontal lobe like a tourist asking for directions. Except that peanut butter answers in confused French and it’s obvious that NO ONE KNOWS WHAT’S GOING ON IN THERE!

Are there mothers somewhere darning fluffy-toed socks while their good-smelling offspring sort the recycling and eat beets? Children in some dry, remote corner of Arizona who never have sinusitis or crusty eye goo? How did I end up here, raising shoeless, allergy-ridden vegetable-haters, searching for poo in my carpet?

God why is this ridiculous exercise in anarchy part of it all? Why am I LOSING MY MIND?

I finally get them to bed and it is quiet. Instead of reading, or watching Grey’s Anatomy, here I am clinking out the whole dirty mess of it for posterity. God, is it this? This now, sitting down to capture the wild confusion of our day? I roll each moment in my palm like a precious stone and it doesn’t seem exasperating anymore. It reminds me of how much I love this life, these children of mine, for whom I give all of my sanity. For whom it is an honor.