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Last night we had Laurell K. Hamilton over for dinner. Yes that Laurell Hamilton. The one who wrote dozens of best selling vampire novels. I’ve not read any of the novels in question, but I was very aware of their existence, and of the fact that there are people who wait in lines for hours to speak with her for 60 seconds at a book signing. I used my nervous energy to clean house. I also used it to sit the children down and explain that it isn’t appropriate to greet anyone who comes in the door with a flying hug.

Then when Howard arrived with Laurell and her husband Jonathan and their security liaison Charles, I realized that all my advance preparations were needless. The people who came through my door were not Laurell Hamilton and her entourage, they were just Laurell and Jonathan and Charles. I was instantly comfortable with them and realized that these were people who probably would be happy to be greeted with flying hugs from strange children. We had a delightful evening and talked far more about children and parenting than about business or writing. I wished they could have stayed longer. There were so many more stories to be shared, so much more laughter to have. Alas, Laurell is on a book tour and they only had the one evening free. Hopefully we’ll get to meet up again sometime.

Gleek got a balloon from the Halloween party. She was playing with it and it popped. I looked to her and she was sitting in stunned shock. I knew that tears were imminent, so I went to her. She looked at me “My balloon popped!” she declared, then came the flood of tears. I snuggled her into my lap. “I want another balloon right now!” she cried.

Normally, when a child cries “I want another balloon right now!” I hear “mommy go get another balloon for me right now!” I instantly react on the defensive with a torrent of words explaining how we can’t get another balloon at that very instant. This time I was not over tired or stressed. I was not frantically seeking ways to make sure that I did not gain any extra chores. This time my whole focus was on being there for Gleek. So I did not answer with a torrent of words. Instead I snuggled her a little closer. Gleek went on to lament that now her little stuffed dog could not fly. She threw the dog angrily across the room. She cried 30 seconds more. Then she picked up the balloon fragment and showed me how she had been scratching off the bats which were printed on the balloon. I listened and helped her stretch the fragment to show me. Then she noticed that there was white gooey stuff on the inside of the balloon. She began picking it off in fascination. And that was the end of the upset.

It could have gone so much differently. If I’d spilled my torrent about how we can’t have another balloon today, that would have fixated her attention on getting another balloon. I’d probably have spent 30 minutes or more arguing about buying another balloon. Instead I allowed her to express a desire to have another balloon and I made no attempt to suppress that desire. This time expressing the feeling was enough. The entire upset, from pop to happy play, lasted about 3 minutes.

An hour later Patches decided to draw pictures on his balloon. Pop. That was a very similar experience. We spent two minutes grieving for the balloon. Then one minute more finding something new to be happy about. Patches decided on his own that the next time he has a balloon, he’s not going to try to draw pictures on it.

So often I react to an incident like a popped balloon defensively. I immediately start to act and react trying to suppress the incoming upset. Ironically my reactions often create the upset I was trying to avoid.

I need to give my kids true sympathy more often. I need to give them sympathy that has no agenda, but is merely interested in understanding and sharing whatever experience they are having. I need to listen more to what they actually feel without telling them how they ought to feel. I need to listen to what they actually say rather than reacting to what I assume they mean.

An Anime Rogue, Master Chief from Halo, A ninja sorceress, and a ninja spider all trooped over the the church building for our annual Halloween party. The Anime Rogue turned twelve this year, so she was among those running the booths rather than running from booth to booth. She still managed to arrive back home with a pile of goodies though. Master Chief was delighted that he was identified correctly and that his armor got compliments. The ninja sorceress reveled in being able to run at top speed, play games, and eat far more treat food than is usually allowed. Her favorite game was eating a powdered donut on a string, no hands allowed. The ninja spider shed his spider suit and headband fairly early in the evening. After that he was just Patches who ran and played games. After each game he would come to me and show me the prize.

Howard spent the time following kids around and talking animatedly with friends and neighbors. I sat collapsed in my chair and spoke about three sentences to people other than Howard. I was exhausted from a long role playing session just prior to the party. Howard has far more experience and endurance at being social all day long. All those conventions have trained him well. Even though I did not really socialize, I had fun watching everything and listening to the conversations of others.

We left the party fairly early. The kids had had sufficient fun and treats, so they didn’t fight too hard about going home. They’d had a long day too. But mostly their long day involved watching far too many movies while mom and dad and friends played upstairs. Once home, I set the kitchen to rights and then embarked upon a normal bedtime. It was good for all of us to step back into routine. Although I doubt my reading of Harry Potter was as energetic as usual. It is hard to find that energy, when all you want to do is lay your head on the table and sleep.

I am exhausted, but it is the kind of exhausted that follows a really long, really enjoyable day.

People are not always who you think they are by glancing at them. I know a pair of women who have always impressed me. They always look beautiful. Their children are always dressed adorably. This in and of itself is enough to make me look on them with envy. I have so many days where Iget to bedtime and realize that I didn’t ever get around to brushing my hair. It is still in the ratty braid that I put in yesterday morning. As for the kids, the term “ragamuffin” frequently applies. So I watched with admiration these two beautiful mothers with their bevy of perfectly dressed children. But I did not begin to feel awe until I realized the depth of sacrifice that both of these women made to the care of their children.

The first mom is a mother of four girls, one from a prior marriage, three from the current marriage. The mother, the husband, and the three little girls are all blonde. The older daughter is brunette. This oldest daughter is also shy and awkward. She has a troubled relationship with her biological father. In many ways this oldest daughter feels like an outsider. So the mother dyed her hair brown. I first noticed the change at church when this mother was sitting near her dark haired daughter. I happen to know that the mother does not like having brown hair, but she continues to do so because it gives her oldest daughter a sense of belonging. Suddenly there is physical evidence that the daughter really does belong. It is a quiet gift that the mother gives to the daughter every day.

The second mother has three children. She loves being able to stay at home with them. She considers all children to be wonderful miracles. She believes this so strongly that she’s had three kids despite the fact that she has a medical condition which renders her completely unable to eat for the first four months of pregnancy. For the last pregnancy, she was on an IV drip and a feeding tube. After that she was on bed rest because of a placental tear. She described all of this with a very cheerful tone. Her whole attitude said that while the experience had been miserable, it had also been worth it. Three months so sick she couldn’t even speak, and she’s considering doing it again one more time. I admire her courage and devotion to raising a family. I admire her ability to come through medical hell and still be cheerful about it.

Neither of these mothers will get recognition for their bravery and devotion. There are hundreds of thousands more like them. People who quietly act to follow their convictions. People who reach out to make the world better for those around them. Everywhere I look, I see such people. I see the mothers in the PTA who give hours and hours each week to run school programs. I see neighbors who bring dinner to each other. I see children who do extra chores to be nice to their parents. All of this is out there if we only look for it.

Naps work much better when you don’t have a 4-year-old boy pretending to be a ninja using your sleeping body as terrain.

Last night at 3 am, Kiki woke up after a nightmare. She couldn’t get back to sleep because she kept hearing noises that sounded scary. After about 30 minutes she abandoned her 12-year-old pride and called out for me. I talked to her about the dream. We discussed how it is hard to shed such a dream and how when we feel afraid, our minds try to create reasons for the fear. Kiki is prone to dramatic reactions. She really has grown amazingly capable at reigning herself in, but it is a struggle for her. Sometimes it is a struggle for me. I could tell that she was not going to go back to sleep if I left her in the room by herself. Left alone in the dark, she was just as likely to work herself into a frenzy of fear.

This was when I had one of my brilliant parenting moments. In order to respond to Kiki, I’d had to extricate myself from Patches who had crawled into bed with me. I thought about how much better I sleep when I’m not crowded by a preschooler. I thought about how when Howard is away on a trip, having a child in bed with me makes me less afraid and more able to sleep. It makes no logical sense. The child is not going to protect me. The opposite in fact, but having someone there makes me feel safer.

I scooped Patches out of my bed and tucked him into bed with Kiki. This worked wonderfully since neither of them wanted to be alone with the night. They snuggled up together and both fell right asleep. I crawled back into my bed and slept as well. Yay for happy solutions!

My boys have a huge closet. This closet is full of shelves, more shelves than two boys need. I appropriated the topmost shelf, which they can’t reach anyway, for my craft storage. This is all well and good, except that my boys floor has been a disaster for weeks and yesterday I had to get into the craft supplies. The sound of toys crunching under my boots was the last straw. I stalked out of the room and returned with plastic bags.

I try to honor the property rights of my children. But there are limits. When their stuff no longer fits onto the shelves something has to go. I started by collecting a bag of outgrown shoes. Then I collected a bag of garbage. Then I collected three stacks of books. Then I collected a bag of toys that never get used, but get thrown onto the floor because they’re on top of toys that do get used. Once I’d hauled all of that out of the room, I could see where to begin. There was much sorting to be done.

One of the key problems in the boy’s room is that Link is a keeper. He needs reasons to get rid of things. I am not a keeper. I have to have reasons to keep things. Time after time I would hold up an object trying to negotiate. He never uses it, it is just in the way. Link would get wide-eyed and insist that this construction paper house was truly important. I had spread these treasures out on the floor so that we could see them clearly. I really wanted to be able to scoop the whole mess into the trash, but I didn’t. Instead I took a moment and looked again with Link’s eyes. The objects were all transformed into things with massive play potential. True he didn’t play with them much, but he might play with them. They might be the essential component to an as yet uncreated game.

We compromised. I got a file box and told Link it was his keepsake box. He charmingly transformed this into “Keep Safe box.” That was the label we put on the side. Then we put in the box all of the things that Link does not use, but that he is not ready to get rid of. The box will keep them safe and they will not be cluttering his room. The box went under the bed. Six months or a year from now, we’ll haul it out and Link will find new joy in his forgotten treasures. By then he’ll have acquired new treasures that he wants to keep safe. At that point he’ll have to make some decisions, because he is only allowed to have one “keep safe” box and the box is completely full. If he has more things to keep safe, he’ll have to decide what needs to go. It shouldn’t be too hard because that empty egg carton he put in there takes up a lot of space.

Now the boy’s room is clean. I can reach the craft supplies. More important, the boys can find the toys they like to use, because those toys are no longer buried under the detritus of games past.