Called

"Mom!" "Mooooom...." "Mom?" "Mamamamamamama." "Momeeeeeee!" "MOM!"

Someday soon, I'm going to keep a tally of how many times a day I hear my name. It's played on repeat from sun up to sundown, with mini-breaks scattered through naps (when they sleep) and late night hours (again, when they sleep). It's called, whispered, screamed, giggled, yelled, cried, offered. Little voices stalk me in the bathroom, in the laundry room, in my dreams. My name floats out the window, echoes in the hall, chases me down the stairs.

Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom.....

I waited and waited and waited for my little babes to first say my name. Delighted in their mastery of it. Swooned at the sound of it in their sweet baby voices. I'm Mom! They said Mom! 

Now, of course, they say Mom all of the time. I'm like the Cher of our house - no other names needed.

I've always loved names.

I love seeing them printed on an invitation, emblazoned across a jersey, stretched across a school supply, perched in my inbox.

I love them for their concreteness, their way of capturing all of the millions of things that make up a person and putting it all down to set syllables and sounds. I love them for their abstraction, their infinite inability to be absolutely defined.

I love them for the magical, intricate way they own us - and we learn to own them.

When it came time to name our children, I luxuriated in the challenge of playing with words, of crafting just the right title for these stories waiting to be born. Strong, classic, meaningful - yet mutable enough to mold to our children's will. We had a heck of a time deciding but found names that seem to fit our kiddos as they grow. We had even more fun naming our pets. (Don't know what that says about us, but we seem to yell the dog's name more than the kids', so at least we picked one we like!)

When I first started teaching, I was startled at the loss of my first name. I wasn't Megan. I was Ms. or Coach. All I heard were those titles, which often felt too advanced, too mature for my stage in life. In that shift, the importance fell to my last name, which I grew to love, as it celebrated who I belonged to.

When I got married, the loss of my last name hit me hard. Now I was Mrs. (which ages you at least 10 years in a high schooler's mind) with a new last name. I loved my husband and was excited to build our life together but I struggled with the loss of my identity. It didn't sound like me, it didn't feel like me. I took some comfort in making my maiden name my middle name, purposefully signing all three names each chance I had. It took some time, but eventually, the more stories I lived with my new name, the more I eased into it.

Nine years later, I'm home. Our last name is our children's last name and I've traded Megan and Mrs. for Mom. Even Jeff calls me Mom, a habit we've fallen into with the kids that sticks even when they're not around.

It too is a name that I had to grow into, one that initially felt odd to my ears, head, and heart - kind of like playing dress up in someone else's clothes. It wasn't one I was born with but rather one I (quite literally) gave birth to. While Megan was a gift from my mom and dad, Mom was bestowed on me by my kids.

In beautifully complicated ways I both own and am owned by all of my names. They are whom I'm called to be.

I love the sound of my name in all of its variations - it's just nice to sometimes not hear it. Thank goodness the dog can't talk...

Oh, my!

My son squirmed, screaming, sweaty, and tear-streaked in my arms outside a local shop. He was infuriated that I had interrupted his train play for our next errand and was hell-bent on letting his feelings be heard.

Truth be told, if he were my first, I would have been reduced to tears and massive shushing attempts. For better or worse, as my third, he met only with secure, stubborn arms,  a hissed, "Let's go!!!" to his slow-exiting sisters, and a set, if flushed, face. It was not my finest moment in parenting, but it would, as I had learned, pass.

"Oh, my!"

A wide-eyed woman approached our storefront perch, seemingly alarmed by my son's fit. In my kinder recollection, she helped me by distracting my son from his fury, a seasoned mom empathizing with my red-faced moment.  At the time, her words felt like judgment. I was torn between hurling him at her and sinking into the pavement. I stared at her - hard - grabbed my daughters and marched to the car.

As I settled into the safety of my minivan interior, my brood silenced by my glare, I paused. What had just happened?

My son's outburst was not unexpected. He's two, not very verbal, and bad at transitions. I had anticipated the situation, exited quickly so as to minimize the impact on shoppers, and clearly signaled to all kids involved the impending sequence of events. He was loud and I was frustrated, but the moment was in my control.

Until another mom entered the picture and my confidence fell apart.

Was it her? Was it me? What is it about parenting in public that can be so debilitating?

Admittedly, I have never welcomed being openly vulnerable, nor have I been especially receptive to feedback of any kind. And yet being a mom of three independent-yet-born-of-me-and-raised-in-my-home souls has ripped off all of my protective layers and yes-I've-got-it-together facade. I shouldn't matter in this equation of human raising - my kids do. And yet...

Parenting strips me to my rawest core. And I'm not always brave enough to stand so exposed to the world.

There is no one I appreciate more than the parent in Target who smiles sheepishly at me while one of my three yells his or her head off. I want to hug the mom who doesn't blink when my child is especially whiny at the grocery store. I could high five the dad who wordlessly hands my son his thrown toy car with a wink in my direction and squeeze the grandma who smiles at me while I struggle by with an obnoxious puppy, loud stroller, swerving training wheels-rider, and independent two-wheeling kindergartner in tow, all in an attempt to "get some fresh air and enjoy time together." These are my people. Their gracious, humor-filled empathy is a gift.

I love my children fiercely, and am intensely humbled by the honor and challenge of being their mother. I am struck daily, hourly, each second by the immense responsibility of being their first teacher. I can and will be a warrior for them - I just can't fight other parents on that quest.

I know that much of the judgment I sense from the world beyond my home actually comes from voices within; I'm working at turning down their volume. But beyond that, perhaps, as partners on this parenting journey, we can make a special attempt to connect. Friendly faces, generous laughter, and safe zones of acceptance and patience help us all.

The spotlight glare of a child's tantrum is so unforgiving. Let's help each other find the safety in the shadows of the stage and offer enthusiastic applause, no matter what our parenting performance looks like on a given day out there in the world.

It doesn't take much to say "Oh my!" to distract a little one from his frustration and then offer a warm smile to his mom. It just might be the right band-aid for her raw, exposed heart.

So many hats...

So many hats...not enough hands

Wish Before Bed

I just want to do right by my kids.

Good Night, House

I love the nightly ritual of putting the house to bed.

I turn off all of the lights, leaving little glows beaming down from the microwave and fireplace. I click off the fish tank light (who would have thought we would have fish? Have to say: Anna and Elsa are some kick ass fish) and pad my way in barefeet to check the lock on the front door. The dishwasher and dryer hum in the darkness behind me. I stare out into the street, looking for the moon.

Tiptoeing up the stairs, I listen for sounds of stirring. A TV chatters behind our half-closed bedroom door. A thud of feet against crib mattress comes from Will.

In Claire's room, I find a sprawled, sweaty heap of child. Tucking crooked legs back under covers, stashing books on the night stand, smoothing hair behind little ears, I lean down to kiss her forehead. I'm met with mumbled gibberish and a shift to the cool side of the pillow. Good night, sweet girl.

I almost laugh out loud at the snoring in Jenna's room. A round little bottom points to the ceiling, clad in tonight's selection of princess dresses. Oh, my Jenna. I cover her up with her blanket, repositioning Hop and baba for middle-of-the-night-cuddles. Shutting her door, I pause at the brightly lit bathroom and switch on the night light, hoping against hope that tonight, Claire will sleep the entire way through without noticing the switch.

In Will's room, I pause at the sight of the big boy in a baby crib. Six months have disappeared before our eyes. In a life of so much pink and purple, I am still in awe of this world of blue. Even in sleep he's all boy. He shifts, always ticklish, under his mom's light touch. See you at 2am, little man. Unless you want to sleep like a champ...

From the doorway of our own room, I watch my sleeping husband - my partner in all of this. He'll say in the morning he tried to wait up for me, but we both know he fell asleep when his head hit the pillow. Sometimes we laugh that we still feel, after all of this time, like we're playing house. How did this sleeping brood become our tribe? Who did we trick into letting us be responsible?

I pause in the hallway, momentarily connected to all of my people. All that's missing now is the click clack of dog nails on the floorboards - though I swear I still feel Rocky. Yes, all we need are dog sounds - and maybe those of another little baby, sharing a room with his brother. (Just don't tell Dad I said that. He's focused only on a four-legged addition to said tribe).

For all of the hub bub beauty of the day, my favorite time is at the end.

When I can put our house to bed and
fall asleep to the rhythm of its rooms.

Everyday Rainbows

In the crabby-quiet of post-care-pick-up, I pulled into the gas station to fill up the minivan. As the door dinged open, Claire piped from the back, "Can we get a car wash?"

"Sure!" I offered, welcoming the spark of interest in her cold-fatigued eyes and celebrating - irrationally - the 10 cent discount on gas.

As we pulled up to the wash, Jenna voiced her protest, "Don't want to go car wash! I scared," only to be met with Claire's maternal, "Don't be scared, Jenna. Just hug Hop."

"Okay, Care," Jenna murmured around the baba we tell the world is only for bedtime, hugging her bunny blanket close.

"Mom, I've got Moo too. And I bet Will will like it. I'll make sure he's not scared," Claire promised from her backseat perch.

Squeals accompanied the green light and the whir of machinery.

"What's that noise?"
"What's that smell?"
"Ooh! There's the rainbows!"
"Mom! It's a car dryer - just like a hair dryer!"
"Will likes it! He likes it, Mom!"
"Can we do a car wash tomorrow?"

I smiled in the rearview mirror at my chirpy passengers. My little people were coming back to me.

"Mom! We made our own rainbows!" Claire cheered, accompanied by echoey-Jenna's "'bow, Mommy!"

"We did, didn't we?" I said, negotiating my way into traffic. We did, didn't we?

Everyday rainbows. They're there, even when I'm not looking.

Thank goodness my kids usually are.

Feeding the Boy in the Pink Bumpo Seat

In Will's eyes, I'm hilarious.

Stream-carrots-out-the-side-of-his-mouth-kind-of-funny.

His deep little boy chortles, shaking Jabba-the-Hut-like chin folds, drown out the day.

Smiling into his sparkling blue eyes, I lose myself.

I'm head over heels in love with a boy.

A boy who thinks his mom is hilarious.