I have moments where I feel like a terrible mother. Yelling at my kids when I'm grumpy, forgetting field trip permission slips, drifting off while one of them is relaying the details of a story that they care deeply about, etc. All of those instances, plus a hundred or so more, make me slip into the "they'd be so much better without me" uniform, which, I assume, most of us mommies have loitering somewhere in the basements of our souls.

I also have moments where I think that I'm doing pretty good at this job. I had such a feeling this evening, when I set up our weekly "spelling store." Every Thursday night, in order to prepare for the traditional Friday spelling tests (we all suffered through those, didn't we?), I haul out some treasures that I've picked up during the week, and call each child, one at a time, into my "shop". They bring me their lists (or in Lily's case, who no longer has spelling, she brings me her notes for whatever exam she has coming up in the near future; Seth, who now demands to take part, gets questions like "what color is our dog Bob?"), and after reciting the words, are doled out points to spend on my inventory. The maximum points earned is twenty, with each kids' list weighted according to the number of words given them by the teacher (for example, Liam has 20 spelling words, so each word = 1 point; Benjamin only has 5 words, so each of his words = 4 points).

I'm not big on bribes. I swore such a thing would not exist in my parenting (prior to actually giving birth, of course). I'm also not one to stress academic perfection-the Sombars know that they are expected to do their best, while also knowing that this "best" is subjective, according to where they happen to be developmentally and with respect to their age (public schools' rules and expectations are not necessarily my rules and expectations, and I keep them separate at home- as long as due respect is given while they are in the care of their teachers). However, I find that I have a couple of little people in this house who get lazy about wanting to read or spell new words, and I have very little tolerance for this. I also know that if I don't build something creative into my parenting routine on Thursdays, I will not remember to help them study consistently. So, around my dining room table, tonight, I set out bags of microwave popcorn, erasers, packs of bendaroos, sticks of gum, Hershey's kisses, and a few clearance items (the remaining five hot tamales and two pieces of Dentyne Ice), all at different point levels. They add and subtract their own winnings in order to make their purchases, learning, as a result, to budget and spend wisely (dare I be so dramatic here).

Test scores have improved dramatically amongst my offspring (well, the ones in need of extra motivation), and overall, so has my belief in myself. Due to my own struggles with routine and structure, whenever I find that I'm able to bring consistency to an area of my parenting, where there might otherwise be chaos, I always feel better. Not to mention, experiencing joy with the beings that I've brought into this world is the best, even when those humans rush at me like crackheads to a street dealer, bargaining and finagling their way through my stash.

I have posted over the years that I organize menus in my head according to the day of the week, otherwise I find the task of feeding a family of six, three times a day, extremely overwhelming (if not impossible). Tomorrow is "muffin monday". Normally, I would be whipping up the ever-popular "pumpkin muffins a la sombar", but much to my dismay, there was a disaster with the pumpkin crop so the shelves of canned pumpkin are E-M-P-T-Y!!! As a substitute, tonight I was busying myself with my favorite carrot cake recipe. Believe me, people, this is THE BEST carrot cake there is, no bakery can touch it. I've made it about a hundred times in the last seven years, and will always have one or two folks (be they the more uncooth in the group), licking their plates. I even had a friend's daughter demand it for her seventh birthday (kids have the most critical pallets)!

There were a number of minor emergencies with this baking feat- namely trying to shed seven carrots in my wonderful Cuisinart (a most excellent gift from my mother-in-law Rose), which I'm am sadly out of practice in operating. If you've never used a food processor, and you are used to the more manual way of doing things, your first several experiences with the machine will make you feel completely brain-dead. Then, of course, we were short on eggs, and though I live in a neighborhood of divine citizens who would give me a dozen eggs if I so requested, I decided that at 8:45, the bedtime witching hour, I would spare them the interruption. Thus, my batch will have half of the required amount.

With fingers crossed, tomorrow morning my babies' tummies shall be nourished with some extra beta carotene in cupcake form.

For all of you readers who love to bake, and have about 30-40 mins. to spare in your day, here is the recipe (courtesy of the magazine Cook's Illustrated, Number 61, April 2003):

2 1/2 cups of all-purpose flour
1 1/4 tsp. baking powder
1 tsp. baking soda
1 1/4 tsp. ground cinnamon
1/2 tsp. ground nutmeg
1/8 tsp. ground cloves
1/2 tsp. salt
1 lb. (6 to 7 medium) carrots (around 3 cups once grated)
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 1/2 cups vegetable oil

Heat oven to 350 degrees. Spray 13 X 9 inch baking pan with cooking spray.
Whisk together flour, bkg pwder. bkg. soda, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and salt in large bowl; set aside
In Food Processor fitted with large shredding disk, shred carrots- transfer to bowl and set aside
Process granulated and brown sugars and eggs until frothy. Add oil thru feed tube in steady stream- process until mixture is light in color.
Scrape mixture into medium bowl
Stir in carrots and dry ingredients
Bake 35-40 mins.

My husband and I had a rare and wonderful date tonight- we drove to Squirrel Hill for some curry at our favorite Thai Restaurant. As it was not yet sundown, there were quite a few Orthodox Jews walking the sidewalks with their children. I find their customs fascinating, though I know very little of their origin (more information can be found here). Other than coveting the idea of wearing a wig (no bad hair days, people), I mostly think I am attracted to the rhythm and structure of their days, according to the Torah and Jewish Law.

Growing up in a protestant church, some of the beauty of staunchly held religious tradition was lost for me, I think. Though I understand the reasoning behind creating a relationship with Christ that is more personal than mere repetition of others' words and ideas, liberating ourselves from ancient spiritual practice removes pieces of Christianity that are sacred. For instance, most places of worship in the Protestant world either focus simply on the empty cross or no cross at all, rather emphasizing the importance of the resurrection and intimacy with God. I think, though, that being mindful of the Crucifixion and all that it means for us who believe is crucial to appreciating the sacrifice that Jesus made on our behalf. Some of my favorite times of deep meditation have been exploring cathedrals and absorbing the wonder that is partnered in their outward expression of faith.

Kirsten Petermann, on her blog "Lattes & Rainy Days" has written a series on her conversion to Catholicism from Evangelical Christianity, that I find incredibly intriguing. Wander with her for a moment-or a few days. Definitely worth reflecting on her journey.

Tonight, two of my four children were performing in their school's annual Arts Night-you remember those days, don't you? Standing on the stage, trying not to scratch inappropriate places, while you sang, slightly off-key, a variety of Patriotic melodies that made all of the parents in the audience believe, if for just one moment, that their otherwise wacky children might actually turn out normal some day.

The first graders started the show- Benjamin Sombar, the boy in the back row with a bad case of ants in the pants. Many times during the set it appeared that my son, with dimples the size of Texas, might actually do a nose dive onto the girls directly below him (and, given the love notes I find in his take-home folder, that may have been an exciting outcome). Ben is apparently unaware that certain songs require a more serious demeanor, however. Take, for instance, "My Country Tis Of Thee", featuring the somewhat morose reminder of the "land where our fathers died." It was as if Sponge Bob had made an appearance and my kid was the only one who noticed.

I, of course, in true annoying-mother fashion, did my usual whooping and hollering at the end of the set, causing my middle-school daughter, seated uncomfortably close to me, to attempt the impossible feat of pretending I did not exist.

Liam and his third grade posse followed at some point. While I believe my first-born son to be strikingly handsome, I couldn't help but notice how the girls on either side of him had put an unusual distance between their bodies and his. You may wonder why this would be....such a cutie-petooty....it's no mystery to me, friends....HIS FEET STINK. They stink!!!! They are nothing short of absolute humiliation- a total sensory nightmare- announcing to the whole universe (or the entire population of Mt. Lebanon, Pennsylvania) that The Sombar Family has apparently stopped bathing. I had a boyfriend in college who smelled just like Liam. And we all thought it was because he drank too much and didn't do his laundry on a regular basis. Now, I realize it was because the guy never wore socks with his dock-siders. And no matter how many times I threaten to beat the living tar out of my nine year-old, at least once a week I find him in sneakers (the expensive kind), and bare feet. Tonight I pondered stepping up to the mike to apologize to the audience for his odor. Instead, I whooped and hollered even louder, figuring embarrassment would be the worst punishment ever. It was. He just shook his head and walked back to his seat, eyes never leaving the ground.

All in all, despite thinking that most elementary aged beings, while forced into awkward displays of excitement over folks songs, are totally adorable, the show was a sleeper. Not due to any lack of spirit on the part of the music teachers or the kids, mind you, but because the parents in this town are like white folks in a black church. Completely absent of any evidence of soul whatsoever. Really, people, when forty children bother to memorize and bellow out the words to "This Land Is Your Land" and "Rockin' Robin", the least you could do is SWAY, for Pete's sake. No movement whatsoever- like deer in headlights, they all sit there with their dazed smiles and video cameras, while I, the freak in the bunch, am clapping and snapping and singing right along. Lily would prefer the boring Caucasian congregants to her obviously demented mother, but personally, I think the adults around here need to down a few shots or pass the pipe before the next school concert. We could get really radical and start a mosh pit near the stage. Then Benjamin might have a chance, should he suddenly fall over, head first.

Sometimes I take my puppy's paws in my fingers and stroke them, quietly observing how he we both relax at this kind of nurturing. It is a simple happy. I feel that way around a short list of people in my life. Where I can be in their presence and feel totally at peace.

There is a woman in Old Town, Alexandria (Virginia) named Yvette Stickell. If you ever run into her, you should know that you've just been graced by one exceptional human being. I told her that today, and she seemed surprised- she's one of those women that has no clue how amazing she is, every minute of every day. She was my neighbor some years back. She and her husband rescued our former block from its remaining crack house and proceeded to become good friends of ours. Life has changed quite a bit since then, in ways that neither one of us could ever have imagined. We would not have chosen these destinies. Our stories would have been prettier, with nice clean margins and no swear words.

Yvette has managed to carve a life out of shards of broken dreams and gut punches, where the rest of us may have just called it quits. In my book, that gives her clout beyond the arguments any med schools or pharmaceutical reps might proffer. So, when she suggested, the other day, that she work with me, long distance, on some stress relief, I quickly shut up and just listened. There were pieces of heaven in her voice as she guided me through deep breathing, and I immediately thought that if this lady were to ask me to summit Everest, in order to feel better, I'd be on my way to Tibet right now.

Today I am grateful for simple happys. And for not having to climb thousands of feet into the air, on rocky, icy terrain, risking life and limb with an oxygen mask attached to my frost bitten nose. I think I've got enough on my plate as it is.

I was digging through my 9 year-old's backpack this afternoon, when I came upon an unfinished Mother's Day card he had made for me at school. It was one of those pieces where he had to fill in a bunch of information about me- my favorite food, what I like to drink, my job, etc. While most of what he wrote was totally hilarious, I found myself a little disturbed by the fact that he had no answer for "what does your mother do for fun." Perhaps he thought there were so many things that he couldn't really narrow it down to just one, or maybe it is because he doesn't see me having much fun. In truth, I think I may not do an awful lot of anything for pleasure these days. I read- but it is almost always to garner information about some dysfunction or some parenting skill I'm lacking or how to lose one hundred pounds in five minutes without even trying. I see friends, which is life-saving, but usually I've got a kid hanging off of me or pulling my hair or whining. I garden but I'm mostly picking weeds that are causing some sort of OCD reaction that must be immediately rectified.

Tom told me yesterday, as he continues to read through my ADHD materials, that a common thread is to "do what you love and enjoy." He urged me to get a hobby, though I vehemently denied that this was a problem for me. Quite honestly, however,I think he might be right this time.

Fun? Hmmmmmmm...My children love playing kickball in the backyard. Anyone up for a game?

Tonight, as Seth and I were praying- "Dear Jesus, Thank you for our house, our van, my sister and brothers..." in barge Liam and Benjamin with this lovely poem: "Ooh ooh, oh, Barney got shot by G.I. Joe (and immediately my blood pressure soared to the max and I began silently hoping that they weren't about to say anything politically incorrect or more ghastly inappropriate), they went to the doctor and the doctor said- BARNEY IS DEAD." Then Benjamin proceeded to try to convince me that he was actually being more considerate than normal, because he whispered this awful tale, so as not to emotionally traumitize his two year-old brother.

That's it for tonight, people. Welcome to the world of boys.

I'm not a big fan of the "Hallmark" holidays- they tend to cause more stress than they are worth, in my opinion. I try to downplay them around here and urge my family to resist the big formalities and just hang out with me instead. So,this morning I permitted myself to lay in bed and read (fiction, for a change) for several hours, took the puppy out more times than I'd like to recount, soothed hurt feelings and banged up noggins (as usual), cleaned the third bathroom (I could not wait for the hubby to get around to it), vacuumed, surveyed my backyard which had been lovingly mowed by Lily and marginally picked-up by the rest of my brood. We played the game of "Life" together, while Seth resisted his nap and screamed his head off (then climbed out of his crib and joined us- buck naked). We took Bob, our very large 6mo. old puppy, to the dog park, where he was put in his place by an assertive diva of a Husky, for about 40 mins ('til his tongue could no longer stay put inside his mouth and he just laid down and sighed).
We all got ice cream cones from Bruesters (including a doggie sundae for Bob), came home and had sandwiches for dinner. Lily serenaded me on her saxophone- all 106 measures of some Irish jig, while Bob attempted to jump onto the dining room table, Seth hollered "poop!" a thousand times, Ben played dangerously with a rubber band, Liam talked endlessly of the meal he'd made himself (I don't do the short-order cook thing, so if he won't eat what I fix, he must make a substitution himself), and Tom appeared to be fading into the "exhausted father blackhole." I then firmly instituted the 7:30 bedtime for all humans under my roof and kissed them all, leaving them to all of their usual nighttime mischieviousness.

I don't have more nice photos to accompany this play-by-play because the battery was dead in my camera (Tom captured the dog's tongue pose via his phone). I couldn't get anyone, including the dog, to sit still anyway, so it is just as well.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone out there who has done the hard work of parenting and still has the energy to log on and read this blog.

THE SECRET WORLD"Women with ADD often live in a secret world. Some people call it passing for normal. I call it being locked in a (messy) closet. Whatever the cute expressions, the painful reality is that many women with ADD have moved away from relationships or at least have kept a part of themselves locked away from other people, usually without even realizing it. Often their lives have taken on a secret tone, as if the way they live is in some way shameful. The feeling of secrecy and shame wipes out the possibility of enjoying or appreciating all their other abilities and qualities. Their inner world is a place that outsiders couldn't fathom, where the simplest activities -getting dressed, planning the day, or running a simple errand, are extremely difficult and frustrating. The cumulative effect of these daily experiences makes them feel like outsiders, separate from the world in some important ways- spending one's days not living life but instead coping with this silent thief of time and dreams." Sari Solden, MS, MFCC Women With Attention Deficit Disorder

This morning I got up just in time to throw on my jogging suit, a hat, grab the dog, the leash, the treats, my purse, and the keys to my van and head into the city for Bob's weekly obedience training. I'd lost the keys twice on my way out the door, so frustration had already set in. Once at the class, I realized I'd forgotten the necessary clicker, so I had to borrow one. Bob was his usual self- cute but extremely difficult to manage, so after the hour was over I was sweating and ready to leave. My goal for the afternoon had been to scour and scrub all three of our bathrooms, as they had taken on the revolting smell of a men's urinal, and I was beginning to avoid them to a ridiculous degree. At first I was taking charge like a pro, on my hands and knees, singing along with the hip hop CD on my stereo and blocking out the smells and the hair and everything else that makes this task especially unpleasant for me. Two bathrooms into my routine, however, I landed flat on my back, on my bed, sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I could just find the words to make my husband understand why I suddenly was paralyzed and unable to work any longer.

To most of you, whom I am assuming are not ADD or ADHD, the mere thought of becoming hysterical over cleaning the lavatory may seem absurd. Perhaps you are wondering if I'm lazy or completely incompetent. Believe you me, I've spent years consumed by those very thoughts, perplexed, though, by my ability to function at abnormally high levels with other, far more demanding, intellectual or extraordinarily creative tasks.

In 2005, shortly after moving here, to the South Hills of Pittsburgh, I saw a psychiatrist who performed a plethora of diagnostic inventories and determined, without a doubt, that I had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, and that any depressive symptoms I was exhibiting at the time were caused by the ADHD, not a separate clinical malady. The label made sense to me but, knowing nothing about the disorder, I filed the results of that appointment away in the "so what" part of my brain and got on with life. In the four years since that diagnosis, I have faced crises that have been, in a nutshell, death-defying, and shocking to my very core. Coming out of those days, and still struggling to cope, I have had to go back to the ADHD and begin assessing my life through different lenses.

Though I have mentioned ADHD before, here, I have only scratched the surface of the knowledge that I have gained and continue to use in order to more deeply understand how I experience my daily life. For the last several months, I have spent nearly every minute of my "free time", reading, in effort to achieve a since of peace and, more importantly, feel like less of a failure at my job as a wife and mother, and as a woman. Coupled with some excruciatingly stressful changes in our current reality, accepting that my brain is wired different from the "norm" has caused me a tremendous amount of grief. With stimulant medicine, designed to help people with ADD focus and complete tasks more successfully, I have had moments of triumph where the mundane acts of cleaning, straightening, organizing, cooking meals, and sticking to a routine, have the for first time ever been less exhausting and somewhat possible. However, medication alone is not effective at erasing the obstacles of coping with day to day mishaps and the inevitable flubs of mothering multiple children, with varying needs and levels of functioning and independence. ADHD is a chronic condition which requires different strategies to conquer what most people would describe as the simplest of tasks. It also demands an incredible amount of determination and patience with oneself, and a letting go of the idea that I will ever be in my "ideal world."

So during my depths of despair today, because I couldn't handle the sensory overload of cleaning without the equipment I needed, clean rags (our dryer is broken and we haven't been able to do laundry in a week), and the ability to distract my mind from the things littering the tile floors, my husband gently but firmly shook me out of my spiral downward, announced that he'd started reading one of my ADHD books, and for the first time in 15 years, was beginning to understand the woman whom he loves but has mystified him in times such as these. He demanded that I stop trying to accomplish tasks which I was clearly not capable of at this time, and added that we needed to sit down tonight and divide up our household jobs based on the strengths that we each possess. This was a triumph for me, because I knew that though he doesn't struggle with the same issues that I do, he had begun to see the world from my side of the fence and I felt validated and relieved.

I will continue to add to this topic because, while some readers may find this less than entertaining, I know that others of you may be able to grasp just what you need to make changes in your own lives, or to simply know that you are not alone in your fight to live a "normal" existence.

So Tom will clean my third bathroom this weekend and I will read to my children and nurture them in ways that only their mother has the gift to do. I will fold and put away laundry (from Tom's trip to the laundromat this afternoon), I will make outfits for the boys for the week, vacuum the floors, give life lessons to any or all of my four offspring, ponder and take charge of interventions for my kids who desperately need them right now, among many other jobs that I am able currently able to master.

I do believe that the hope on my horizon is possible through more and more consumption of information on the way I am wired. Here is a short list of some of the materials I am currently sifting through and finding helpful, if not remarkably life altering and inspiring:

*Women With Attention Deficit Disorder by Sari Solden
*Driven From Distraction by John J. Ratey, M.D., and Ned Hallowell, M.D.
*Driven To Distraction by John J. Raey, M.D., and Ned Hallowell, M.D.
*You Mean I'm Not Lazy, Stupid, or Crazy by Peggy Ramundo and Kate Kelly

Today was the Third Grade Wax Museum at my kids' elementary school. Liam chose to portray Andy Warhol, several months ago, and we've been learning about the infamous Pittsburgh native ever since. Perhaps the most fascinating piece of information is that Andy's canvas "Eight Elvises" sold for $100 million dollars, a benchmark price matched only by Jackson Pollack, Pablo Picasso, Gustav Klimt, and William de Kooning.

Last week we drove, as a family, to visit Mr. Warhol's grave, just a couple of miles from our home here in Mt. Lebanon, PA. We'd passed the humble cemetery a million times over the last four years and never had a clue he was buried there. Liam paid homage to him by wearing pieces of his costume and writing him a short letter, which he laid on his tombstone.




As Liam walked on stage this afternoon, I felt a surge of pride and immense joy, that my son, who has made amazing strides this year, academically, had the courage to so boldly represent such a charismatic yet extraordinary figure in the history of pop-culture. For several years, I have struggled to watch as my son fought against his dyspraxia to achieve success in both reading and spelling. While he has miles to go, and still requires the assistance of special education teachers, Liam soared today, with the confidence of a "normal" nine year old boy.


I kissed and hugged him alot, in public (apparently Andy Warhol adored his mother, so I thought this an appropriate gesture) and he didn't complain as much as usual. Quite a few of his friends and a couple of the neighborhood kids were in the museum as well. They all rocked but I couldn't take my eyes off my son. I love him so much.

I have learned, in the last few years, not to take for granted, the mere act of survival. Sometimes I feel like each 24 hour period that I continue to run the race, I am a winner. What some would consider the most ordinary of accomplishments, I regard as triumphs. Today I didn't cry or feel like crawling in a hole. Today I bothered to take care of myself. Today I caught glimpses of love from people I think are beautiful and without whom I would be truly lost. Today I smiled and laughed and let go of the things in my life, right now, that I cannot control. Today I held each one of my babies, for all the moments they would allow, and I smelled their hair and tried to capture the essence of their being to hold deep in my soul. Today I thanked my husband for helping me to see another option. Today I made some really amazing people laugh. Today I heard the voices of my parents, and felt their best intentions for their only child. Today I liked all of me- and was thankful for all of the zany experiences that shape the way I look at my world. Today was a good day.