Through Cracks In The Pavement: March 2011

Wednesday, March 30, 2011

If A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words....

Lillian Marie Sombar, Age 13

We haven't had portraits taken of our children, professionally, in a long time. Most parents with multiple children will tell you that there is nothing more arduous than trying to get a bunch of squirrely kids to smile all at once, or at least sit still. Then there are the coordinating outfits and waiting for the pictures to be ready. Next there is the inevitable disappointment when, out of two hundred shots, only one really rocks your world, and even then you are probably just exhausted and missing the fact that your son has a booger and the photographer didn't crop the picture correctly.

Seth Paul Sombar, Age 3

Liam Michael Cleveland Sombar, Age 10

My children behaved in a miraculous fashion, as if Christ himself was taking the pictures. Though, Seth, my three year-old, did see fit to strike up a conversation, out loud, with himself, using just the word "booba" (vulva), over and over again. The college age photographer, having no idea what my son was talking about, said "booba? what's a booba? I don't know dude....Okay, say booba!!!" f-l-a-s-h. Tom and I just stared at one another, silently wondering how we ended up here, then fell over laughing.

Benjamin Thomas Sombar, Age 8

Things were so much easier when you just plopped your babies on a blanket, then bought every darn picture, because,...well,...you were in love...with your gene pool. Today everyone had to play the peanut gallery when it was time to choose which poses to purchase. There was no shortage of boasting about how good they thought they looked. "Oh, yeah, I totally look hot there, mommy. Buy that one." (quote from child who will go unnamed).

So, if a picture is worth a thousand words, here are my FOUR THOUSAND WORDS. Enjoy!

2 comments

Tuesday, March 29, 2011

The Hard Work Ethic

...Spend yourself on the work before you, well assured that the right performance of this hour's duties will be the best preparation for the hours and ages that will follow it.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

Since its inception in January of 2011, I have been participating in a
monthly, live, story-telling event, for adults, here in Pittsburgh. During my first performance, I told of my sons' paper route, and the circus-like drama of learning the ropes, on a dark and very cold, snowy, winter night the week before. Afterwards, and since, I have been asked, repeatedly, by a fellow story-teller, who was born and raised in a different culture than ours, why I feel the need for my children to have jobs (as if I am breaking child labor laws). The answer is always the same and simple: because they want to work (human beings are wired to perform manual labor...my youngest child would do it all for free) and I want them to become self-sufficient human beings who do not feel entitled because they are (fill the the blank here) ______ (white, middle-class in an upper middle-class neighborhood, educated.....). My parents, along with my husband's parents, raised us both with staunch work ethics, as they had also been raised. Speaking for myself, I "worked" from the time I was very young, doing extra chores, ironing my father's police uniform, hemming my mother's clothes, babysitting, working retails, office jobs,etc., in order to earn money to save, as well as purchase items that I wanted.

When Tom and I bought our home here, in Mt. Lebanon, Pennsylvania, almost six years ago, we both were elated- we felt we had finally "made it" - being able to provide our children with a single family home in a family-oriented neighborhood, which offered the feeling of safety, well-funded public schools with enthusiastic teachers/support personnel, and a close knit community with a large majority of at-home mothers (crucial to relieve me of the isolation of our former residence). For me, it was the first time in my life where I had any of the aforementioned opportunities. I felt blessed beyond measure. But, as someone who has walked on both sides of the fence, lower-income-higher income living, I can tell you that an enormous misconception exists, amongst many of the more affluent in our country, that children who are provided with everything are happier than those who must work to afford them. While, as a child, I may have preferred the lifestyle of my fantasies, the reality is that a great majority of my wisdom and intelligence was directly derived from my experiences, both in the paid and unpaid workforce. From my perspective, many young people growing up in this neighborhood, where we live, are robbed of the opportunities of the "real world" by spending all of their spare time playing sports and participating in leisure activities. On so many occasions, when we (and many of our friends) have wanted a babysitter, all of the adolescents, whom we solicited, nearby, were too busy skiing or going out with friends, to be available, and frankly, didn't have the motivation to work because they didn't need the money.

I read this article today, which, unfortunately, is poorly written, but expresses a similar sentiment.

So, yes, all four of my children, ages 13 down to 3, have jobs to earn money, every week. Whether by delivering newspapers, raking leaves, shoveling snow, selling lemonade and brownies, or babysitting, my kids are learning the simple but profound lesson that hard work is a part of life, and should not be avoided. Hard work is to be relished, as a means to endurance, self-respect, and the experience necessary to be a well-rounded individual, young or old.

0 comments

Monday, March 28, 2011

The Smallest of Steps

"The central struggle of parenthood is to let our hopes for our children outweigh our fears." (Ellen Goodman)

My three year-old son, Seth, has several ambiguous diagnoses, and has since he was about twenty months old. He doesn't meet milestones when he "should," and for that, he has received two years of therapy from various specialists, and now attends a preschool for children with special needs.

If you have never been a parent to a child with a "label," you have no idea the fear that can hold captive a mother or father, when they must head, blindly, into the horizon, having faith that whatever circumstances they are presented with, they and their children will have the strength to persevere. There is a grieving that takes place, for parents, when their kids don't fit the criteria that the world, or themselves, define as "normal" or "thriving" or "healthy" or "good" or "successful" or "able"....And I'm not talking about wanting perfect children- just beings who have a chance in life.

Last fall, this worry and this grief overcame me and I lost my ability to stare my fears in the face and move forward. All I could see that lay ahead for us, as a family, was pain, and failure...defeat...sorrow...such sorrow. And, to be honest, though I've grown stronger since then, and stabilized some, there are still hours that I spend, paralyzed with anxiety, that my children will suffer....and sometimes the hyper-vigilance begins- where I cannot focus on anything but figuring them out or getting them better or getting some answers. Several weeks ago, I was struck, while reading an unrelated book, one night, that maybe my three year-old was retarded. There were some milestones he was still not even close to and I could not understand why, compared to his peers, and to his siblings at that age, he couldn't do things and wasn't even showing signs of wanting to do them. So, in a rather obsessive manner, I begged a friend that night for her opinion, then my son's teachers the next day, followed by a doctor. In the end, it is believed, that while he has global developmental delays, his cognitive abilities are in the average range.

Yesterday evening, while getting Seth ready for his bath, I leaned over to take off his clothes and he stopped me, yelling "no mommy- I do it!" And for the first time in his life he reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. Chills enveloped every particle of my being and to this minute I am smiling and near tears knowing how much I have wanted him to achieve this. This smallest of steps amounts to so much joy for me as a mother, and for my son, who was so proud of himself- we both just stood there, in the bathroom, clapping and hugging each other.

0 comments

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Alone Time

photo courtesy of Donna Morton, my fabulous photographer cousin

I am an only child. Despite the fact that I consider this a hardship that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, I do believe that I garnered many skills from having to spend so much time, alone, with my thoughts, growing up. A lot of my creativity comes from hours spent frolicking about my apartment complex, in Hyattsville, Maryland, where I spent the majority of my youth, engaged in conversations with imaginary friends, and roll playing, with myself, all sorts of dramatic scenarios (surviving plane crashes, rescuing the hostages from the embassy in Iran...). When I lay with my children, at night, and they ask me to tell them a story about when I was growing up, my mind nearly always goes back to the mulberry tree, on Nicholson Street, that I would climb with my best friend, then alone, when she was gone. I would pass many an hour, up in those branches, eating the berries, and enjoying the silence, and my thoughts.

Research, just released, suggests that there are many benefits, both intellectually, and psychologically, for healthy alone time. In our Western culture, where children are constantly kept busy, being shuffled from one organized activity to the next, we would do well to ponder all that we are robbing them of, when they are never alone. You can read the article, from the Boston Globe, that sparked my thoughts on this topic, here.

I think I could use some alone time right about now. Seth spent half the night, laying next to me, in bed, holding my hair (which he does for comfort), then I was awakened by my overly gleeful eight year-old son, Benjamin, at 6am, who wanted to know if we had any spare Chuck E. Cheese coins, laying around, that he could take to a birthday party that he is going to today. Now, as I'm writing this, all four of my kids are singing, at the top of their lungs, "Crazy In Love" by Jay Z, as they stomp around the house like wild animals.

Yes, some alone time, in a mulberry tree, would be good.

0 comments

Saturday, March 26, 2011

RODRICK RULES- The Five Funniest Things About Today

#5: Liam playing his first lacrosse scrimmage of the season and running like the wind in the wrong direction toward his own team's goal....you have to laugh about that....he's only 10. Unfortunately, I missed this guffaw because I was busy doing #4.

#4: Seth going to his first birthday party today for one of his preschool friends. All the kids lined up to play pin the number on Thomas (Tank Engine). When it was Seth's turn, he stood there with his thumb in his mouth, very chagrined, nose all scrunched up, and yelled "I NOT PAYING DAT BAME MOMMY!" He looked up at me, and I knew he was thinking "why would I want to humiliate myself in front of all these people, with a blind-fold over my eyes, in this crowded room, trying to put a sticker on a train? who invented this dumb game? you people are crazy."

#3: Liam and Ben being lead up the basement stairs, into our kitchen, by their father, to receive their punishment for cursing at one another: Tabasco sauce on the tongue. Lily nearly cried from the guilt of having tattled on them....but was assuaged when both boys came bounding back downstairs to announce that they liked the Tabasco. Ben thought it tasted like the Buffalo wings he had last night and Liam thought it tasted like salsa, his favorite condiment. Are you kidding me? Next time I will apply the sauce, and perhaps mistakenly pour it down their throats.

#2: Lily standing in the middle of the parking lot of the mall, this evening, crying uncontrollably, screaming at her father "....BUT DADDY, BEN SHOULD NOT EVEN BE HERE BECAUSE HE GOT TWO STRIKES AND WE VOTED TODAY, AT THE FAMILY MEETING, THAT TWO STRIKES MEANT A PERSON COULD NOT PARTICIPATE IN MOVIE NIGHT AND I KNOW HE GOT MORE THAN TWO STRIKES....HE HAD ONE BEFORE HE EVEN LEFT THE MEETING....sniffle sniffle...sob...YOU ALWAYS DO THIS, DADDY....YOU LET HIM GET AWAY WITH EVERYTHING!!!! My husband just stood there, quizzically, wondering where things went so wrong and how he ended up having to parent a hormonal teenage girl.

#1: Taking the kids to see "Rodrick Rules" from the Diary of A Wimpy Kid series. In keeping with the potty humor of the movie, I spread the rumor down the row of us that my 10 year old had peed his pants, after he spilled Sprite on his lap, during the second half. Lily, my 13 year old ever-so-gullible daughter, nearly laughed herself silly then demanded that she be allowed to walk to the car separately, so as not to be associated with her brother, whom she believed was soaked in urine. All the way home, Lily heckled and prodded Liam about his "accident",then became guilt-ridden and apologized profusely to him, thinking she'd hurt his feelings. Then I told her the truth and she yelled "WHAT? I FELT BAD FOR HIM FOR NOTHING? HE DIDN'T PEE HIS PANTS REALLY? I SAID SORRY TO HIM LIKE TWELVE TIMES!!! MOTHER!!!!"

0 comments

Wednesday, March 2, 2011

It All Started With A Vacuum

I love to vacuum. It relaxes me- the rhythm, the cadence of moving back and forth with the whirring of a machine which envelopes all of our daily dirt with one fell swoop. For others I know with ADD, this is quite common- the love for this particular chore- most likely because there is a clear beginning and end to the task and requires only that you plug in the vacuum and move. There is no organization that needs to be done, which might then distract you into another tedious task, leaving you with hundreds of unfinished projects, and chaos.

My precious vacuum suddenly stopped working three weeks ago, and I nearly fell into a very deep depression. We are partial to Dysons and they are, well, not cheap. And frankly, for this reason, my vacuum being out of commission is one of my worst nightmares. I put up with sweeping my tile and hard wood floors, which I do anyway, before vacuuming, but the dirt and crumbs embedded in the carpet in our basement were about to bring on psychosis, so I called a friend and pleaded that she take me to Costco to get another Dyson- I was done.

I was lucky to find one remaining Dyson, a floor model, and carried it out of there with a huge sigh of relief. On our way home, my friend's husband called to invite my family to dinner, so Tom packed up all the kids and met me at their house. Ten minutes later, drama encircled me, as Liam stumbled into the kitchen, his face swallowed up by buckets of blood.....the boys had been playing in the basement, filming a "stunt movie" (this is where you say "uh, that sounds like a bad idea, Judy"), and a stunt went awry, puncturing a hole in Liams right cheek, right into his mouth.

My friend drove swiftly to the Children's Hospital Emergency Room, where we knew he needed to go, because of potential scarring, wanting a pediatric plastic surgeon to consult about his injury. After about three hours in the waiting room, we were taken back where a doctor confirmed that his sutures would need a plastic surgeon, due to the severity of the wound.

Surprising myself, since I am normally squeamish of gross medical procedures, I remained in the room for the surgery and got to watch, very closely, a lot of blood and guts and needles and more blood. The surgeon pulled out a salivary gland for inspection, then showed the exposed layer of muscle inside the cut. I was almost daring myself to overcome this idea that I could never behold such a thing. I also didn't want to leave my son, though I was given that option. A hospital is frightening enough, choosing to leave him in a room that was cold and full of strange doctors and nurses with needles and bright lights, seemed abusive.

We arrived home about 2:30am. I was so grateful that my friend had chaperoned the ordeal- there is nothing worse than sitting in an emergency room for hours- I dread this to my core- and it has happened four times this year. FOUR TIMES. Twice, I have had wonderful friends by my side and it has made an enormous difference. Liam was probably mortified, but my friend and I passed the time by joking and laughing and seeing how crazy we are. At one point Tom called to see if I had the car keys, even though I didn't drive our vehicle. I did. Then my friend's husband called to see if she had his truck keys. She did. Both sets. So 8 kids and two husbands were stranded at one home together,with my new vacuum, late at night, searching for an extra key to any vehicle. You have to laugh about that.

Long story shorter, we were admitted to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning on Monday, after an exhausting eight hours in the ER, Sunday night, and have been here ever since, a second operation to attempt to drain an infection that quickly took over his face, performed yesterday afternoon.

Liam is getting better. His mood is normal- completely laid back and unfazed by anything. The nurses laugh because they have nearly been begging him to take pain killers but he refuses- says he's good. Even when he has appeared to be a close relative to the elephant man, due to swelling....

Harry Potter legos have kept him occupied.....we are sucker parents for sick kids....the hospital is beyond amazing, newly opened just a year ago, such a nurturing and beautiful environment for kids.

We are hoping to be home by Friday.....at which time I will feverishly VACUUM!