I am not perfect. A perfect parent I am not and nor will I ever be. But I used to try to be perfect and mentally punched myself around when I didn’t measure up on the perfect stick. In my earlier mommy days, I proudly carried the inauspicious badge of perfection. I wanted to feel everything the right way and be all things to this fragile new life. At many times, I was everything. But I’ve now realized that my earnest attempts at being ideal created quite the quagmire.
Trying to live to a prescribed script left me destined to disappoint. I’ve experienced times when I was so angry with my kids that I had to remove myself from their presence. I never read about THAT in a parenting book. I have dust bunnies in my home. And my kids misbehave and throw two-hour tantrums. I too, on occasion, misbehave. Dinner isn’t already planned and smushed blueberries exist on my floor for many, many days. Naturally, I’ve experienced many life moments that have been the opposite—full of light and joy. But I believe that in order to fully appreciate these, life provides contrast with the other, darker moments.
So I’ve had it. My perfection quest (and all associated frustrations) have finally illuminated the way to imperfect bliss. Calm and acceptance have transformed the space its previous “perfect” tenant occupied. I evicted perfection. I stopped aspiring for flawlessness and started embracing limitations, stains and mistakes.
It has since dawned on me that real parenthood is much like real marriage. Contrary to my early, romantic and naïve views, marriage is not always fairytales and sunset departures, unless you’re Cinderella. My naiveté provided me with a Cinderella-take on parenthood, too. In this swooning tale, Cindy and Princey live a rosy life where bluebirds rock their children to sleep while they make sweet love in the enchanted forest. Amazingly, neither of them work but money is always forthcoming. Cindy still wears a size zero (one-hour after giving birth). The babies don’t poop or cry, throw-up or throw tantrums or throw trucks.
Although I used to aspire to some varied version of that life, I now reject it. The brightest spots of my life are illustrated through the smoky screen of mistakes, dirt and frustration. So now, instead of striving for the unattainable, I savor the reality of life as a real wife and mom, with real children (and a very real husband). Happily. I embrace my imperfections and discard my impossible perfection quest. And not too surprisingly, this delivers many days when my own muddled life, tumbled agonies, and soaring growth impart immeasurable joy. Hopefully, my imperfection grants my children the same reprieve, allowing life to be lived and experienced, not perfected.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
A Mother's Day
The day started with a lovely, ferocious thunderstorm. Dark and foreboding, it beckoned us to our rumpled beds. Fortunately for this mother, hubby took morning duty and I slept in cozy, rainy splendor until 7:45 am. (My requested wake-up time.)
My wake-up call arrived on padded feet, gently singing “Happy Mother’s Day” (to the tune of Happy Birthday). The lights remained off and I smelled yummniess—a hot cup o’ joe and a homemade egg, bacon, cheese sandwich. I lazily propped myself up and received hugs and kisses and squeezes. Then I read three tender, loving and beautiful cards. My heart lifted. I felt a bit like Mary Poppins with the love of my family lifting me up like a magic umbrella.
The loveliness continued with a morning-long snuggle in those warm, rumpled sheets. In between the snuggles, we did deal with some slight injuries and tears (from attempted backflips off of Mommy and Daddy's really high bed) and heart-felt screaming tantrums (from Henry when Abby accidentally sat in his self-proclaimed area of the bed). After crocodile tears dried, Henry serenaded us with a rousing, rockin’ version of “God Our Father”. Abby then suggested “The Star Spangled Banner”.
We all placed our hands on our hearts, and in molted, assorted keys, we all gloriously sang. And our imperfect, early morning voices, joined together in the moment and were, in fact, perfect.
My lyric response to my children today is this:
You anchor me.
You are my past and my future.
Your silky skin and the smell of your slightly sweaty head hypnotize me.
Your resilience, tenderness and intelligence continually amaze me.
Your love humbles me.
Thank you for still believing I hung the moon, even on the days when I’ve sent you with a one-way ticket to said moon.
On sad days, when you try to stop crying and your bottom lip quivers like a tectonic plate on a fault line, my heart quakes open. Your resolution to stop crying makes my own tears fall.
Life is imperfect—like me, like you—but it is stippled with sheer joy and punctuated by warm hearts and buoyant souls.
Because of you, I am a better person.
Because of you, I am a mommy.
Because of you, I am honored with the privilege of celebrating this rainy, wonderful, dark, singing, snuggling, crying, loving, rumpled, soulful day.
My wake-up call arrived on padded feet, gently singing “Happy Mother’s Day” (to the tune of Happy Birthday). The lights remained off and I smelled yummniess—a hot cup o’ joe and a homemade egg, bacon, cheese sandwich. I lazily propped myself up and received hugs and kisses and squeezes. Then I read three tender, loving and beautiful cards. My heart lifted. I felt a bit like Mary Poppins with the love of my family lifting me up like a magic umbrella.
The loveliness continued with a morning-long snuggle in those warm, rumpled sheets. In between the snuggles, we did deal with some slight injuries and tears (from attempted backflips off of Mommy and Daddy's really high bed) and heart-felt screaming tantrums (from Henry when Abby accidentally sat in his self-proclaimed area of the bed). After crocodile tears dried, Henry serenaded us with a rousing, rockin’ version of “God Our Father”. Abby then suggested “The Star Spangled Banner”.
We all placed our hands on our hearts, and in molted, assorted keys, we all gloriously sang. And our imperfect, early morning voices, joined together in the moment and were, in fact, perfect.
My lyric response to my children today is this:
You anchor me.
You are my past and my future.
Your silky skin and the smell of your slightly sweaty head hypnotize me.
Your resilience, tenderness and intelligence continually amaze me.
Your love humbles me.
Thank you for still believing I hung the moon, even on the days when I’ve sent you with a one-way ticket to said moon.
On sad days, when you try to stop crying and your bottom lip quivers like a tectonic plate on a fault line, my heart quakes open. Your resolution to stop crying makes my own tears fall.
Life is imperfect—like me, like you—but it is stippled with sheer joy and punctuated by warm hearts and buoyant souls.
Because of you, I am a better person.
Because of you, I am a mommy.
Because of you, I am honored with the privilege of celebrating this rainy, wonderful, dark, singing, snuggling, crying, loving, rumpled, soulful day.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Free Time
“Play is the way a child learns what no one can teach him. It is the way he explores and orients himself to the actual world of space and time, of things, structure and people. Play is a child’s work.” – L.K. Frank
I couldn’t agree more. At times I feel like a shoddy mother when I let my kids entertain themselves rather than playing with them, teaching them and being involved in each thing. But when I see the games, stories, structures and fantasies they create when left to their own devices, my amazement at their ingenuity erodes any guilt.
Naturally, organized activities, lessons, teachers and the like hold an important and critical spot in their lives. Just not EVERY spot in their lives.
I’m gonna round file the guilt and watch them prosper. Here’s to free time, filled with my children's work.
I couldn’t agree more. At times I feel like a shoddy mother when I let my kids entertain themselves rather than playing with them, teaching them and being involved in each thing. But when I see the games, stories, structures and fantasies they create when left to their own devices, my amazement at their ingenuity erodes any guilt.
Naturally, organized activities, lessons, teachers and the like hold an important and critical spot in their lives. Just not EVERY spot in their lives.
I’m gonna round file the guilt and watch them prosper. Here’s to free time, filled with my children's work.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Post Script
As the school year begins to dwindle, I’ve thought back to the start of this academic year. As those of you who’ve read my blog know, I struggled a bit (ok, a TON) when Abby started Kindergarten. I slowly and patiently prepared her, but forgot to prepare myself. Abby experienced not a moment of fear or apprehension—her confidence played the vibrant melody to my dissonant harmony.
I knew, even back then, that we’d (I’d) hit a stride during the school year despite my aching heart, gaping at the prospect of my baby heading to school each day. I was right—we found a great, rhythmic pace of learning, separation and growth, with daily regroupings to dissect the day. Abby’s joyful (albeit tired) embrace of school dragged me from my private doldrums into the role of joyful participant. Occasionally though, after I’d dropped Abby off at school, I’d linger and watch her disappear into the school building. Occasionally, my heart would break right open again (just as it did in August) and I’d wonder how we’d gotten to this point in her maturation. Now we’re a month away from summer break. The time, as they say, flies.
Henry will be three next month. He’s morphed from a chubby toddler to a young, bright, rambunctious boy. Abby is no longer a little girl. She’s stretched out, lost two teeth and her baby fat. I can see her ribs and knees. We’re reading science books with words like “courting” and “mating”.
(I have girlfriends, by the way, with daughters who have started puberty. In hushed voices, they confide about the physical changes of their daughters’ bodies. Seeing those daughters, with their bra straps showing subtly under their shirts, makes me gasp for air. Bra straps lead to first kisses, commencement speeches, young marriages and round baby bumps.)
As my own children grow, I understand that we are simultaneously years and moments away from these milestones. I experience brief glimmers and pangs of an empty nest—I realize that I prime my children for departures, journeys and landmarks, but often do not extend the same courtesy to myself. Hubby and I encourage the kids to grow and hope they will let go. But we don’t prepare our minds and hearts for our own empty hands. I fear, however, that if I start prepping myself for their not-so imminent exits into the big world, I will loose the peace and joy of the current minute.
So, I try to cherish the lumps and the loveliness of each stage of their lives. This presents a true challenge (especially when I’m wrangling a wet, almost 40 pound, exhausted and screaming Henry out of the tub, or when I’m dealing with a sassy, tired Abby). But I continue to attempt to strike a balance between fully appreciating the gift of each moment AND realizing that it won’t last forever.
For now, I will treasure this minute as both kids sleep under our roof. I’ll enjoy the scent of their baby wash on my hands, fresh from bathing those sweet angels who will awake before the sun tomorrow.
I knew, even back then, that we’d (I’d) hit a stride during the school year despite my aching heart, gaping at the prospect of my baby heading to school each day. I was right—we found a great, rhythmic pace of learning, separation and growth, with daily regroupings to dissect the day. Abby’s joyful (albeit tired) embrace of school dragged me from my private doldrums into the role of joyful participant. Occasionally though, after I’d dropped Abby off at school, I’d linger and watch her disappear into the school building. Occasionally, my heart would break right open again (just as it did in August) and I’d wonder how we’d gotten to this point in her maturation. Now we’re a month away from summer break. The time, as they say, flies.
Henry will be three next month. He’s morphed from a chubby toddler to a young, bright, rambunctious boy. Abby is no longer a little girl. She’s stretched out, lost two teeth and her baby fat. I can see her ribs and knees. We’re reading science books with words like “courting” and “mating”.
(I have girlfriends, by the way, with daughters who have started puberty. In hushed voices, they confide about the physical changes of their daughters’ bodies. Seeing those daughters, with their bra straps showing subtly under their shirts, makes me gasp for air. Bra straps lead to first kisses, commencement speeches, young marriages and round baby bumps.)
As my own children grow, I understand that we are simultaneously years and moments away from these milestones. I experience brief glimmers and pangs of an empty nest—I realize that I prime my children for departures, journeys and landmarks, but often do not extend the same courtesy to myself. Hubby and I encourage the kids to grow and hope they will let go. But we don’t prepare our minds and hearts for our own empty hands. I fear, however, that if I start prepping myself for their not-so imminent exits into the big world, I will loose the peace and joy of the current minute.
So, I try to cherish the lumps and the loveliness of each stage of their lives. This presents a true challenge (especially when I’m wrangling a wet, almost 40 pound, exhausted and screaming Henry out of the tub, or when I’m dealing with a sassy, tired Abby). But I continue to attempt to strike a balance between fully appreciating the gift of each moment AND realizing that it won’t last forever.
For now, I will treasure this minute as both kids sleep under our roof. I’ll enjoy the scent of their baby wash on my hands, fresh from bathing those sweet angels who will awake before the sun tomorrow.
Friday, April 24, 2009
The Flip Side
When I lived in Chicago, I rode the L to work. (The “L” is an abbreviation for the Elevated Train—part of Chicago’s mass transit system.)
One evening I rode the train home from work and scored an outer aisle train seat. As is typical during Chicago rush hour, the train was packed. I noticed an elderly woman, maybe 70, standing, with no seat, and holding onto a hand rail. I made eye contact with her and mouthed across the crowded train, “Would you like my seat?”
She soundlessly replied, “Oh, yes please.”
As she slowly made the journey to my/her seat, I stood up. After I stood up, a little sever-year-old boy scurried through the crowded train and plunked himself into the seat I reserved for the elderly woman. As she neared, I squatted down to talk to him, “Sweetie, I am giving this seat to this woman.”
He stared at me. And stayed in the seat.
I tried again, and with a smile said, “Please get up and give that seat to this woman.”
He got up and scuttled through the north side commuters back to his mother.
The elderly woman graciously thanked me and got her seat.
What I got floored me.
The mother of the sever-year-old boy started yelling at me across the L, “What?!?! We paid just as much as you and her for our tickets and my son has just as much right to sit in that seat as y’all.” The little seven-year-old boy stood wide-eyed behind his mother, whose chest puffed out almost as much as her angry eyes. She was PISSED.
Oh boy.
I looked at her, pointed to the sign that read, “Priority Seating for Senior Citizens and Handicapped Riders”, and loudly said, “When I stood up to give my seat to this woman, your son came over and sat down. I asked him to stand up so this seventy-year-old woman could sit down.”
Although I don’t know for sure, I’m pretty sure what the little boy’s mother heard was, “You’re black and your son is black and you don’t matter as much as we white people do so you have a second class ticket and can stand up until Evanston for all I care.”
She glared at me. And yelled some more. Her friend glared at me. The other commuters observed with cautious eyes.
The black woman kept staring at me and as passengers started to get off the train, she migrated closer and closer to me. I started to question my vigilant efforts to give my priority seat to an old woman and began to worry about my safety. Eventually they stood just beside me, the black woman and her friend and their children. They nastily talked about me and angrily pointed at me. Eventually I’d had enough. I stared at her and her group and said, “Are you talking to me?”
Silence.
“Do you have something to say to me?”
Silence.
The next stop was Wellington which meant it was time for me to depart.
I exited the train on legs that weren’t suited to carry anyone. My knees felt like they’d had four stiff drinks. A man walked down the steps behind me and said, “You did the right thing.” Although his encouragement felt wonderful (I almost hugged him), I hoped he was right. This encounter etched itself into my memory; 14 years later, I can still feel my stomach pummeling as I tried to do the right thing while inadvertently insulting another woman.
To me, the situation was very clear; older people get priority seating. To her, well, I’ll have to guess. But my hunch is that my actions represented every bigoted white person she’d ever encountered. I kicked a black person out of a seat for a white person.
As each of us does, she brought a lifetime of experiences into that moment. To her, my actions clearly profiled my preference for white over black. I brought my own lifetime—based not on what is white, or black.
I wonder what the seven-year-old boy remembers, if anything, about that evening. He’d be 21 now. Does he carry a grudge? Is he cautious around white people? Has he had positive, endearing experiences with white people? Or does he hear them making bigoted jokes about aspirin?
I wish I could talk to them now.
One evening I rode the train home from work and scored an outer aisle train seat. As is typical during Chicago rush hour, the train was packed. I noticed an elderly woman, maybe 70, standing, with no seat, and holding onto a hand rail. I made eye contact with her and mouthed across the crowded train, “Would you like my seat?”
She soundlessly replied, “Oh, yes please.”
As she slowly made the journey to my/her seat, I stood up. After I stood up, a little sever-year-old boy scurried through the crowded train and plunked himself into the seat I reserved for the elderly woman. As she neared, I squatted down to talk to him, “Sweetie, I am giving this seat to this woman.”
He stared at me. And stayed in the seat.
I tried again, and with a smile said, “Please get up and give that seat to this woman.”
He got up and scuttled through the north side commuters back to his mother.
The elderly woman graciously thanked me and got her seat.
What I got floored me.
The mother of the sever-year-old boy started yelling at me across the L, “What?!?! We paid just as much as you and her for our tickets and my son has just as much right to sit in that seat as y’all.” The little seven-year-old boy stood wide-eyed behind his mother, whose chest puffed out almost as much as her angry eyes. She was PISSED.
Oh boy.
I looked at her, pointed to the sign that read, “Priority Seating for Senior Citizens and Handicapped Riders”, and loudly said, “When I stood up to give my seat to this woman, your son came over and sat down. I asked him to stand up so this seventy-year-old woman could sit down.”
Although I don’t know for sure, I’m pretty sure what the little boy’s mother heard was, “You’re black and your son is black and you don’t matter as much as we white people do so you have a second class ticket and can stand up until Evanston for all I care.”
She glared at me. And yelled some more. Her friend glared at me. The other commuters observed with cautious eyes.
The black woman kept staring at me and as passengers started to get off the train, she migrated closer and closer to me. I started to question my vigilant efforts to give my priority seat to an old woman and began to worry about my safety. Eventually they stood just beside me, the black woman and her friend and their children. They nastily talked about me and angrily pointed at me. Eventually I’d had enough. I stared at her and her group and said, “Are you talking to me?”
Silence.
“Do you have something to say to me?”
Silence.
The next stop was Wellington which meant it was time for me to depart.
I exited the train on legs that weren’t suited to carry anyone. My knees felt like they’d had four stiff drinks. A man walked down the steps behind me and said, “You did the right thing.” Although his encouragement felt wonderful (I almost hugged him), I hoped he was right. This encounter etched itself into my memory; 14 years later, I can still feel my stomach pummeling as I tried to do the right thing while inadvertently insulting another woman.
To me, the situation was very clear; older people get priority seating. To her, well, I’ll have to guess. But my hunch is that my actions represented every bigoted white person she’d ever encountered. I kicked a black person out of a seat for a white person.
As each of us does, she brought a lifetime of experiences into that moment. To her, my actions clearly profiled my preference for white over black. I brought my own lifetime—based not on what is white, or black.
I wonder what the seven-year-old boy remembers, if anything, about that evening. He’d be 21 now. Does he carry a grudge? Is he cautious around white people? Has he had positive, endearing experiences with white people? Or does he hear them making bigoted jokes about aspirin?
I wish I could talk to them now.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Jokes Are Supposed to be Funny
A good friend relayed a story today and I haven't been able to shake it. The premise is familiar. Before I hop on my soap box, I’ll give the details.
My friend is black. He works at a facility where 95% (if not 99%) of the members are white. He entered this job holding disdain and uncertainty about white people. Over the course of his work tenure, his feelings changed and his perspective altered. White people were not awful. In fact, they were no longer an entity, they were various individuals.
Today when I saw him, he was flat. He seemed tired, maybe sad. He told me that last week, while he was at work, he heard a friend of his repeatedly tell a joke. (I hate to repeat the joke for fear that its bigoted threads will weave into someone else’s psyche, but I must.) The joke goes like this:
Joke teller: “Did you hear that Obama is going to raise taxes on aspirin by 40%?”
Unsuspecting joke receiver: “No. Why?”
Joke teller: “Because it’s white and it works.”
(I wonder how many years this joke has been in circulation, the only change being the Democratic president de jour. My pal noted the inherent irony that the joke is being told while our country’s first black president holds office.)
The first time the joke was told, my friend wasn’t supposed to hear it.
The second time he heard the same joke, told to a different group, he was merely miffed.
The third time he heard the joke, he became furious. Yes, he was sick of the constant recanting of the joke. But what really got him was the way his white friends, upon hearing the punch line, reacted.
They smiled and laughed. And they agreed with the philosophy behind the joke, proven by their “cosigning”—discussing the joke and their agreement with the premise. They jumped on the racist bandwagon and did donuts around their black friend.
Through their actions, these white people confirmed that they believed that black people are lazy. And that white people do all the “heavy lifting” in our society. In the process they crushed the spirit and hope of my friend.
I haven’t stopped thinking about this. After my pal relayed his story, I, too, was crushed. Mad. Heavy. I felt like crying.
I tried to make sense of this mess. This ignorant bigotry is learned—it’s not inherent. Generations pass it down to the next unsuspecting generation. From infancy through adulthood, through subtleties, stereotypes and stigmas, racism continues. It flourishes because we allow it to do so.
Then I started thinking about our kids. We can teach our children the right way. Abby plays daily with children of many different ethnicities. It is glorious. Naturally, she notes the physical differences between her and her friends. But that is where the comparison ends. She does not place one child over another because of their hair, their eyes or the color of their skin.
As her mother, I wonder how to nurture her open, accepting soul. How do I preserve her tolerance and protect her and her generation from the insidious racism that can still warp the educated minds of our society? Abby and Henry perceive everything and absorb the slightest nuance. They take hubby's and my cues--we are always teaching and they are always learning. They will grow up knowing that jokes masquerading as racism are not funny.
My friend and I are fortunate. We talk. We discuss all of the taboo subjects—race, religion, homosexuality, stem-cell research and politics—with openness. Many times we don’t agree—but that’s the point. We keep on talking.
So I’m going to talk with my kids. And I hope that the conversation never ends. As for the bigoted aspirin "joke", I hope it dies a slow, painful, non-medicated death.
“It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate.”
- James Arthur Baldwin
My friend is black. He works at a facility where 95% (if not 99%) of the members are white. He entered this job holding disdain and uncertainty about white people. Over the course of his work tenure, his feelings changed and his perspective altered. White people were not awful. In fact, they were no longer an entity, they were various individuals.
Today when I saw him, he was flat. He seemed tired, maybe sad. He told me that last week, while he was at work, he heard a friend of his repeatedly tell a joke. (I hate to repeat the joke for fear that its bigoted threads will weave into someone else’s psyche, but I must.) The joke goes like this:
Joke teller: “Did you hear that Obama is going to raise taxes on aspirin by 40%?”
Unsuspecting joke receiver: “No. Why?”
Joke teller: “Because it’s white and it works.”
(I wonder how many years this joke has been in circulation, the only change being the Democratic president de jour. My pal noted the inherent irony that the joke is being told while our country’s first black president holds office.)
The first time the joke was told, my friend wasn’t supposed to hear it.
The second time he heard the same joke, told to a different group, he was merely miffed.
The third time he heard the joke, he became furious. Yes, he was sick of the constant recanting of the joke. But what really got him was the way his white friends, upon hearing the punch line, reacted.
They smiled and laughed. And they agreed with the philosophy behind the joke, proven by their “cosigning”—discussing the joke and their agreement with the premise. They jumped on the racist bandwagon and did donuts around their black friend.
Through their actions, these white people confirmed that they believed that black people are lazy. And that white people do all the “heavy lifting” in our society. In the process they crushed the spirit and hope of my friend.
I haven’t stopped thinking about this. After my pal relayed his story, I, too, was crushed. Mad. Heavy. I felt like crying.
I tried to make sense of this mess. This ignorant bigotry is learned—it’s not inherent. Generations pass it down to the next unsuspecting generation. From infancy through adulthood, through subtleties, stereotypes and stigmas, racism continues. It flourishes because we allow it to do so.
Then I started thinking about our kids. We can teach our children the right way. Abby plays daily with children of many different ethnicities. It is glorious. Naturally, she notes the physical differences between her and her friends. But that is where the comparison ends. She does not place one child over another because of their hair, their eyes or the color of their skin.
As her mother, I wonder how to nurture her open, accepting soul. How do I preserve her tolerance and protect her and her generation from the insidious racism that can still warp the educated minds of our society? Abby and Henry perceive everything and absorb the slightest nuance. They take hubby's and my cues--we are always teaching and they are always learning. They will grow up knowing that jokes masquerading as racism are not funny.
My friend and I are fortunate. We talk. We discuss all of the taboo subjects—race, religion, homosexuality, stem-cell research and politics—with openness. Many times we don’t agree—but that’s the point. We keep on talking.
So I’m going to talk with my kids. And I hope that the conversation never ends. As for the bigoted aspirin "joke", I hope it dies a slow, painful, non-medicated death.
“It demands great spiritual resilience not to hate the hater whose foot is on your neck, and an even greater miracle of perception and charity not to teach your child to hate.”
- James Arthur Baldwin
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
The Gum Standard
At 5:30 this morning, I awoke to,
“Mommmmmyyyy!”
I bolted up in bed.
“What?!?!?” I responded to some small child I couldn’t yet see.
“I wan a piece a gum.”
Henry. Henry loves gum. He’s obsessed with it. He’s not yet three and can hold a piece of gum under his tongue while drinking a full glass of milk. Our biggest tantrums have crystallized over gum. He loves green gum (spearmint), purple gum (bubble gum), blue gum (peppermint) and yellow gum (Zebra striped). I’ve learned that I yield the most authority when I bargain with a piece of gum.
“Henry. If you go to sleep peacefully tonight, you may have a piece of gum in the morning!”
“You’ve listened so well, sweet boy, here’s a piece of gum.”
“If you don’t stop RIGHT NOW I’m taking away your gum.”
“If you continue that behavior you will have no gum for the REST OF THE DAY.”
Do I wish I could guide and control my son with a firm tone and a very hairy eyeball?
Yup.
Can I?
Nope.
So I barter cautiously, with meticulous attention to detail as Henry’s gum standards are both stringent and volatile.
Move over gold. I’m buying stock in Wrigley.
“Mommmmmyyyy!”
I bolted up in bed.
“What?!?!?” I responded to some small child I couldn’t yet see.
“I wan a piece a gum.”
Henry. Henry loves gum. He’s obsessed with it. He’s not yet three and can hold a piece of gum under his tongue while drinking a full glass of milk. Our biggest tantrums have crystallized over gum. He loves green gum (spearmint), purple gum (bubble gum), blue gum (peppermint) and yellow gum (Zebra striped). I’ve learned that I yield the most authority when I bargain with a piece of gum.
“Henry. If you go to sleep peacefully tonight, you may have a piece of gum in the morning!”
“You’ve listened so well, sweet boy, here’s a piece of gum.”
“If you don’t stop RIGHT NOW I’m taking away your gum.”
“If you continue that behavior you will have no gum for the REST OF THE DAY.”
Do I wish I could guide and control my son with a firm tone and a very hairy eyeball?
Yup.
Can I?
Nope.
So I barter cautiously, with meticulous attention to detail as Henry’s gum standards are both stringent and volatile.
Move over gold. I’m buying stock in Wrigley.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sweet Bits
After Henry woke up from his nap today, I dutifully removed his diaper and helped him put his underwear and pants back on.
We went downstairs to rejoin Abby, who patiently awaited my return to our game of concentration. (Side bar: Abby always GENUINELY beats me at concentration. I actually beat her today and she said, “Congratulations on winning, Mommy. Nice job.” Wow. This is one of those moments I want to etch into my brain forever (her great sportsmanship, by the way, not my big win.))
Henry asked for his soy milk. As I got his milk, I watched him repeatedly grab his crotch. Since I’m the mother of a boy, seeing this is not a novelty; he seemed, however, to be doing it more than the usual once-per-minute. And he added an interesting lurch and leg jiggle to his repertoire.
I asked him if he needed to go to the potty.
“No. My penus huwrts, Mommy.”
Ut-oh.
So I pulled up his shirt and intended to pull his pants down to investigate. But I didn’t need to look any further because I was greeted by the head of Henry's penis which was stuck in the elastic of underwear AND his pants.
“Oh, Henry.”
I gently released all his bits and pieces and put them back where they belong. When I finished, Henry looked me square in the eye and said,
“Mommy, you huwrt my penus.”
“I’m so, so, so sorry, sweet boy”, I replied.
“Mommy, I don’t want you to evwer do dat again.”
My stomach hurt from making him hurt—even though I have no idea what it feels like to own a penis, I know from hubby that any foul play really wreaks havoc on a poor guy’s parts. My solemn promise to Henry is that I will try really, really hard to never, ever, ever hurt his sweet bits again.
ps--Another aside. One of my good pals refers to a male's anatomy as "twig and berries". I cannot believe that I never once used her fabulous expression in this posting. A different title then could've been, "How I almost broke Henry's twig."
We went downstairs to rejoin Abby, who patiently awaited my return to our game of concentration. (Side bar: Abby always GENUINELY beats me at concentration. I actually beat her today and she said, “Congratulations on winning, Mommy. Nice job.” Wow. This is one of those moments I want to etch into my brain forever (her great sportsmanship, by the way, not my big win.))
Henry asked for his soy milk. As I got his milk, I watched him repeatedly grab his crotch. Since I’m the mother of a boy, seeing this is not a novelty; he seemed, however, to be doing it more than the usual once-per-minute. And he added an interesting lurch and leg jiggle to his repertoire.
I asked him if he needed to go to the potty.
“No. My penus huwrts, Mommy.”
Ut-oh.
So I pulled up his shirt and intended to pull his pants down to investigate. But I didn’t need to look any further because I was greeted by the head of Henry's penis which was stuck in the elastic of underwear AND his pants.
“Oh, Henry.”
I gently released all his bits and pieces and put them back where they belong. When I finished, Henry looked me square in the eye and said,
“Mommy, you huwrt my penus.”
“I’m so, so, so sorry, sweet boy”, I replied.
“Mommy, I don’t want you to evwer do dat again.”
My stomach hurt from making him hurt—even though I have no idea what it feels like to own a penis, I know from hubby that any foul play really wreaks havoc on a poor guy’s parts. My solemn promise to Henry is that I will try really, really hard to never, ever, ever hurt his sweet bits again.
ps--Another aside. One of my good pals refers to a male's anatomy as "twig and berries". I cannot believe that I never once used her fabulous expression in this posting. A different title then could've been, "How I almost broke Henry's twig."
Monday, March 23, 2009
Questions and More
My mom always says that when kids act the worst they need the most. I try to remember this tidbit these days as I watch Abby and Henry tail spin in the hormones, emotion and passion that are the lives of a five (almost six) year old and a two (almost three) year old.
Sometimes, they’re just doing their jobs. Five-year-old girls are, at times, sassy, emotional firecrackers. Two-year-old boys do, at times, act as if the devil has taken residence in their behinds. The fervor and territorial prowess I’ve seen rendered over whose turn it is to hold the year-old broken piece of some long-ago-discarded toy is quite incredible.
Abby can break down over what I see as the smallest nuance. Yesterday, for example, she started crying because I cut her toast the wrong way. Sometimes, she’ll tail spin into oblivion because I got her brother out of the bathtub first. Others, she will say through quivering lips that she just needs an extra long goodnight.
Henry is at what I hope is the pinnacle of the terrible twos. A good day is one where a tantrum only lasts 15 minutes. The sobs I hear when we’re out of “yellow gum” (sugar-free, Zebra Striped) might make a passerby think that I’m pulling Henry’s toe nails out with coal-hot pliers. As I watch him convulse and buck because I won’t let him have a fifth glass of soy milk, or because I didn’t answer the “are-we-having-a-bath-tonight?” question correctly, I wonder. Am I raising a boy or breaking a horse?
In the height of the emotional spiral de jour, I try to ask myself: what does this child need? Are they crying because they’re exhausted? Do they need a bit more mommy? They, at their worst, need my attention, love and patience. (What I need at their worst is an entirely different blog, but it involves glasses of a dry, full-bodied Cabernet, dark chocolate and a Grandma’s house.) Once I have cultivated more patience, I focus on determining what they need and how to best support them. How I deliver this parental support is as varied (and random) as their moods. Predictably, there is no easy answer. Many times, there is no answer.
Just as predictably, that unanswered question raises others. How do I manage to raise well-adjusted, humble, good-manned, confident, intelligent children without crushing their independent, beautiful spirits? How do I balance their perceived needs (which are very real to them) with their other needs? How do I remain calm and sane in a house of tantrum and emotion? How do I grant them a happy childhood, but not a spoiled one?
So I sit, with my many questions, on the fulcrum of tranquility and lunacy. Luckily, asking questions usually yields some answers, even if they aren’t the answers for which I think I’m searching. Today’s answer is simple: I am just like my kids, and they are just like me. What they need and what I need are very much the same. Some days, at 36 (almost 37), I want to kick, scream and punch the bed because things don’t go my way. Sometimes I need a kind word and a hug. Others, I could cry (and do) because someone hurts my feelings. And on others, I just want my Mommy.
I let that answer settle over me. And tomorrow I’ll ask again,
“What does this child need?”
Sometimes, they’re just doing their jobs. Five-year-old girls are, at times, sassy, emotional firecrackers. Two-year-old boys do, at times, act as if the devil has taken residence in their behinds. The fervor and territorial prowess I’ve seen rendered over whose turn it is to hold the year-old broken piece of some long-ago-discarded toy is quite incredible.
Abby can break down over what I see as the smallest nuance. Yesterday, for example, she started crying because I cut her toast the wrong way. Sometimes, she’ll tail spin into oblivion because I got her brother out of the bathtub first. Others, she will say through quivering lips that she just needs an extra long goodnight.
Henry is at what I hope is the pinnacle of the terrible twos. A good day is one where a tantrum only lasts 15 minutes. The sobs I hear when we’re out of “yellow gum” (sugar-free, Zebra Striped) might make a passerby think that I’m pulling Henry’s toe nails out with coal-hot pliers. As I watch him convulse and buck because I won’t let him have a fifth glass of soy milk, or because I didn’t answer the “are-we-having-a-bath-tonight?” question correctly, I wonder. Am I raising a boy or breaking a horse?
In the height of the emotional spiral de jour, I try to ask myself: what does this child need? Are they crying because they’re exhausted? Do they need a bit more mommy? They, at their worst, need my attention, love and patience. (What I need at their worst is an entirely different blog, but it involves glasses of a dry, full-bodied Cabernet, dark chocolate and a Grandma’s house.) Once I have cultivated more patience, I focus on determining what they need and how to best support them. How I deliver this parental support is as varied (and random) as their moods. Predictably, there is no easy answer. Many times, there is no answer.
Just as predictably, that unanswered question raises others. How do I manage to raise well-adjusted, humble, good-manned, confident, intelligent children without crushing their independent, beautiful spirits? How do I balance their perceived needs (which are very real to them) with their other needs? How do I remain calm and sane in a house of tantrum and emotion? How do I grant them a happy childhood, but not a spoiled one?
So I sit, with my many questions, on the fulcrum of tranquility and lunacy. Luckily, asking questions usually yields some answers, even if they aren’t the answers for which I think I’m searching. Today’s answer is simple: I am just like my kids, and they are just like me. What they need and what I need are very much the same. Some days, at 36 (almost 37), I want to kick, scream and punch the bed because things don’t go my way. Sometimes I need a kind word and a hug. Others, I could cry (and do) because someone hurts my feelings. And on others, I just want my Mommy.
I let that answer settle over me. And tomorrow I’ll ask again,
“What does this child need?”
Thursday, March 19, 2009
The White Crib (sorta like The Red Violin, only shorter)
Henry is now in a big boy bed. Well, he’s in a blow-up bed on the floor, which is his first step out of his baby bed and into big-boy land. I expeditiously took apart the crib today, hoping to get “one last thing” knocked out before I left to get the kids from school. As I took the first piece out of his room, I suddenly stopped mid-stride.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” I thought. And the flood began.
I remember going to Omaha to pick out baby furniture for the nursery when I was pregnant with Abby. (Very round all-over pregnant.) I recall waddling through furniture aisles in my flip flops, worn because no shoe made fit over my swollen, Pillsbury-Dough-Boy feet. I remember wondering what furniture to get, what the right mattress was for this new sweet little life, envisioning the blissful moments standing at the changing table (pregnancy hormones were definitely at work here), imagining feeding my new baby in the comfy rocker. I remember dutifully looking at the spacing between the crib slats and I remember not being able to imagine the life inside of me ever sleeping in that huge, cavernous space.
I remember Abby sleeping in this crib for the first time, in her bouncy seat. Yes, in her bouncy seat in her crib. And I can still hear the thud which shook the house the first time she climbed (ok, fell) out of the crib, exactly two and half years later.
I remember being pregnant with Henry and strategically hiding the white crib and making Abby’s big girl room really exciting so she wouldn’t feel slighted when her baby brother began sleeping in her crib, still slightly warm from her past slumbers.
I remember writing on this very blog about the night Henry slept in the white crib for the first time at four months old. I remember the pain and emotion that filled my heart that evening, my baby boy sleeping so far away from me, the giver of life.
I held the pieces of the dismantled white crib in my hands and not unlike Abby’s first lost baby tooth, I slid my hands over the dents (teething) and dried tears. I smirked at the blue lines Henry artistically added when his mother was smart enough to leave a blue Sharpie within reach of his sleeping post.
Now, I had all the dismantled pieces in the hallway.
No more children of mine will ever sleep in this white crib. One single, fat tear traveled down my cheek. It’s over. No more. I think this was one of the most final, most pointed and defining moments, the “sign-on-the-dotted-line” finality that yes, I’m done having children. (You may reasonably point out that giving away all the baby clothes, or hubby’s “schnip schnip” may have provided more finality, but no, it was the breaking down of the white crib.)
I should get a tshirt that reads:
“once a baby factory, now closed. all facilities still viable. currently, however, being used solely as a hormone factory. now negligibly valuable, yet not obsolete. no more babies shooting down this production line.”
No more babies.
And then, my wonderful, stippled memories of golden reproduction days were shattered by an impressive hour-long tantrum from Henry who decided he absolutely does not like the meal that two weeks ago he loved. And with a one-two punch, Abby finally reached the melting point from lack of sleep and the rigors of being an incredibly kind, thoughtful Kindergartener.
Perhaps a better t-shirt would be:
“well-rested, proud mother of two. able to leave house with just a purse.”
Hubby wisely said to me, when we finally decided we wouldn’t have any more children,
“Honey, one of the children does have to be the last.”
Yes, I know. Especially tonight as I sit surrounded by discarded, strewn white and blue striped crib parts, ready to make their way into some other lucky family’s life. I know.
Farewell, white crib. Thanks for all the memories.
“Oh. My. Gosh.” I thought. And the flood began.
I remember going to Omaha to pick out baby furniture for the nursery when I was pregnant with Abby. (Very round all-over pregnant.) I recall waddling through furniture aisles in my flip flops, worn because no shoe made fit over my swollen, Pillsbury-Dough-Boy feet. I remember wondering what furniture to get, what the right mattress was for this new sweet little life, envisioning the blissful moments standing at the changing table (pregnancy hormones were definitely at work here), imagining feeding my new baby in the comfy rocker. I remember dutifully looking at the spacing between the crib slats and I remember not being able to imagine the life inside of me ever sleeping in that huge, cavernous space.
I remember Abby sleeping in this crib for the first time, in her bouncy seat. Yes, in her bouncy seat in her crib. And I can still hear the thud which shook the house the first time she climbed (ok, fell) out of the crib, exactly two and half years later.
I remember being pregnant with Henry and strategically hiding the white crib and making Abby’s big girl room really exciting so she wouldn’t feel slighted when her baby brother began sleeping in her crib, still slightly warm from her past slumbers.
I remember writing on this very blog about the night Henry slept in the white crib for the first time at four months old. I remember the pain and emotion that filled my heart that evening, my baby boy sleeping so far away from me, the giver of life.
I held the pieces of the dismantled white crib in my hands and not unlike Abby’s first lost baby tooth, I slid my hands over the dents (teething) and dried tears. I smirked at the blue lines Henry artistically added when his mother was smart enough to leave a blue Sharpie within reach of his sleeping post.
Now, I had all the dismantled pieces in the hallway.
No more children of mine will ever sleep in this white crib. One single, fat tear traveled down my cheek. It’s over. No more. I think this was one of the most final, most pointed and defining moments, the “sign-on-the-dotted-line” finality that yes, I’m done having children. (You may reasonably point out that giving away all the baby clothes, or hubby’s “schnip schnip” may have provided more finality, but no, it was the breaking down of the white crib.)
I should get a tshirt that reads:
“once a baby factory, now closed. all facilities still viable. currently, however, being used solely as a hormone factory. now negligibly valuable, yet not obsolete. no more babies shooting down this production line.”
No more babies.
And then, my wonderful, stippled memories of golden reproduction days were shattered by an impressive hour-long tantrum from Henry who decided he absolutely does not like the meal that two weeks ago he loved. And with a one-two punch, Abby finally reached the melting point from lack of sleep and the rigors of being an incredibly kind, thoughtful Kindergartener.
Perhaps a better t-shirt would be:
“well-rested, proud mother of two. able to leave house with just a purse.”
Hubby wisely said to me, when we finally decided we wouldn’t have any more children,
“Honey, one of the children does have to be the last.”
Yes, I know. Especially tonight as I sit surrounded by discarded, strewn white and blue striped crib parts, ready to make their way into some other lucky family’s life. I know.
Farewell, white crib. Thanks for all the memories.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Clutter Counter
I hate clutter. I despise little things hanging out in their random spots. Many times I’ve tripped over toys on my way to the stove from the sink. I’ve been known to aggressively kick and chuck toys into the play area. I’ve threatened to donate any shoes not properly put away to the Goodwill. When I was little, a fun play date included organizing my friend’s bedroom. Clutter physically pains my perfectionist pursuit.
Two small children breed clutter. Abby and Henry are each a complex cornucopia of clutter, from sunrise to nightfall. Backpacks, naked dolls, homework, shoes, school reminders, wet clothes, sippy cups, happy meal toys, snack bowls, rocks, underwear, treasures, hair bows, trucks and trains. And little tiny snippets of paper freshly cut by round-tipped safety scissors.
Hubby contributes admirably to my clutter conundrum. A clean, freshly sanitized counter is his blank palette. The Wall Street Journals set at a diagonal here, a lap top and phone charger there. Grocery store bags on the counter. Look! It’s an abstract, 3D, impressionistic display. Wait, there’s an empty slate over here—a.k.a. the kitchen table—with backpacks, mail and furnace filters, oh my!
I’d like to say I don’t contribute to the clutter. Come on, I’m the one eternally shelving everyone else’s crap. However, my explicit desire and burning need to be, well, perfectly prepared for “the unexpected” leads me to carry suitcase-sized purses. Filled with, you guessed it, clutter (and crap). 4 lip glosses, 2 chapsticks, pen, paper, band-aids, 5 lipsticks, wallet (with every receipt from the past three months), hand sanitizer, phone, Blackberry, 2 lip liners, Tylenol, notebook and Neosporin. Bobby pins, a paper calendar and lotion. And rubber bands. And an extra change of clothes for Henry. Gum.
Not only is my purse pot-calling-the-kettle-blacking me out of the clutter closet, I’m going to need extensive chiropractic hours to recoup my back from hauling this cluttery load.
Therefore, I choose to surrender. I see the children’s clutter as a blueprint of their creative synapses. My purple yoga mat, which is never properly put away, transforms many dreary afternoons into a mystical land of magic carpet rides. It has also transformed both Abby and Henry into big, purple burritos. Instead of physically shuddering when, upon arrival, my husband drops his worldly belongings on the counter, I will embrace the reasons behind his actions. For his stuff dropping (and clutter creation) frees his arms to singly hug and tickle our children as they joyfully dance at his feet.
Ultimately, I choose the people and embrace their essential random bits and pieces. If I successfully counter the clutter chaos, I’m provided with sacred glimpses into who my family is and how their brains work. I don’t always love it, but I inhale, allowing the clutter-filled cornucopia that is my life to joyfully unfurl.
Two small children breed clutter. Abby and Henry are each a complex cornucopia of clutter, from sunrise to nightfall. Backpacks, naked dolls, homework, shoes, school reminders, wet clothes, sippy cups, happy meal toys, snack bowls, rocks, underwear, treasures, hair bows, trucks and trains. And little tiny snippets of paper freshly cut by round-tipped safety scissors.
Hubby contributes admirably to my clutter conundrum. A clean, freshly sanitized counter is his blank palette. The Wall Street Journals set at a diagonal here, a lap top and phone charger there. Grocery store bags on the counter. Look! It’s an abstract, 3D, impressionistic display. Wait, there’s an empty slate over here—a.k.a. the kitchen table—with backpacks, mail and furnace filters, oh my!
I’d like to say I don’t contribute to the clutter. Come on, I’m the one eternally shelving everyone else’s crap. However, my explicit desire and burning need to be, well, perfectly prepared for “the unexpected” leads me to carry suitcase-sized purses. Filled with, you guessed it, clutter (and crap). 4 lip glosses, 2 chapsticks, pen, paper, band-aids, 5 lipsticks, wallet (with every receipt from the past three months), hand sanitizer, phone, Blackberry, 2 lip liners, Tylenol, notebook and Neosporin. Bobby pins, a paper calendar and lotion. And rubber bands. And an extra change of clothes for Henry. Gum.
Not only is my purse pot-calling-the-kettle-blacking me out of the clutter closet, I’m going to need extensive chiropractic hours to recoup my back from hauling this cluttery load.
Therefore, I choose to surrender. I see the children’s clutter as a blueprint of their creative synapses. My purple yoga mat, which is never properly put away, transforms many dreary afternoons into a mystical land of magic carpet rides. It has also transformed both Abby and Henry into big, purple burritos. Instead of physically shuddering when, upon arrival, my husband drops his worldly belongings on the counter, I will embrace the reasons behind his actions. For his stuff dropping (and clutter creation) frees his arms to singly hug and tickle our children as they joyfully dance at his feet.
Ultimately, I choose the people and embrace their essential random bits and pieces. If I successfully counter the clutter chaos, I’m provided with sacred glimpses into who my family is and how their brains work. I don’t always love it, but I inhale, allowing the clutter-filled cornucopia that is my life to joyfully unfurl.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
The Tooth Fairy's Raise
Last night, the tooth fairy visited our house. Abby lost her first tooth yesterday. “Lost” is a funny word choice, because hubby actually “yanked” it out of her little mouth. He pulled the tooth expertly. I am forever grateful that he was home to do the honors. And Abby, who has been known to bawl when she almost stubs her toe, handled the tooth yanking gracefully.
As you might expect, she proudly displayed the hole in her mouth to anyone who would bother to look. She made chewing gum molds of the new hole. She pulled water into her mouth through the hole and pushed it back out again. She reveled in her new mark of maturation.
Abby was equally excited about the pending arrival of the tooth fairy. She told us that the tooth fairy would wake her up and give her $5 for her tooth.
“Fiver dollars?!?!?” I said. “No, sweetie, she won’t wake you up and she won’t bring $5. But she will bring you something special.”
“Ok, whatever, she’ll bring me something and I’m so excited!!!!”
(Whew. Because if she wasn’t, I was prepared to explain to Abby how the recession affects everyone, even the tooth fairy.)
Night fell. Abby strategically placed her tooth pillow under her big pillow in a spot she was sure the tooth fairy would have no trouble finding. After my darling big girl was soundly asleep, I donned my wings and swooshed into her room. I carefully removed the pillow. I secured the tooth. I slipped a crisp dollar in its place. Mission complete.
I returned to our bedroom with the tooth. At this point, I looked at hubby, who was intensely surfing the web, and held up the yanked tooth.
“We created this tooth.” I said to him.
He rolled his eyes at me.
“Seriously. You and I created it. It’s amazing. It’s a miracle.”
He responded with rapid typing. I guess this physicality is a mom thing—I grew the baby, therefore I grew the gums which sprouted the tooth which now sits in my hand.
The tooth fairy delivered more than just a dollar to Abby. She delivered a moment for reflection to me. I examined the tooth—this talisman of her babyhood. I thought of all the food (and skin) it did its part to bite into. I sentimentally recalled when that little white tooth first peaked through her swollen red gums. I will tell you that I caressed that tooth. Lovingly. The smooth sides and the sharp corners. I noted that Abby had done a nice job with her brushing because the tooth was shiny and clean.
The tooth fairy delivered a reminder that our first born is growing—quickly—and that we must appreciate what was. And look forward to what is coming. Today, adult teeth. Next week, driver’s license. At that moment, I felt cheap for paying only a dollar for the spent baby tooth that sat in my hand. Maybe the tooth fairy has earned herself a raise.
As you might expect, she proudly displayed the hole in her mouth to anyone who would bother to look. She made chewing gum molds of the new hole. She pulled water into her mouth through the hole and pushed it back out again. She reveled in her new mark of maturation.
Abby was equally excited about the pending arrival of the tooth fairy. She told us that the tooth fairy would wake her up and give her $5 for her tooth.
“Fiver dollars?!?!?” I said. “No, sweetie, she won’t wake you up and she won’t bring $5. But she will bring you something special.”
“Ok, whatever, she’ll bring me something and I’m so excited!!!!”
(Whew. Because if she wasn’t, I was prepared to explain to Abby how the recession affects everyone, even the tooth fairy.)
Night fell. Abby strategically placed her tooth pillow under her big pillow in a spot she was sure the tooth fairy would have no trouble finding. After my darling big girl was soundly asleep, I donned my wings and swooshed into her room. I carefully removed the pillow. I secured the tooth. I slipped a crisp dollar in its place. Mission complete.
I returned to our bedroom with the tooth. At this point, I looked at hubby, who was intensely surfing the web, and held up the yanked tooth.
“We created this tooth.” I said to him.
He rolled his eyes at me.
“Seriously. You and I created it. It’s amazing. It’s a miracle.”
He responded with rapid typing. I guess this physicality is a mom thing—I grew the baby, therefore I grew the gums which sprouted the tooth which now sits in my hand.
The tooth fairy delivered more than just a dollar to Abby. She delivered a moment for reflection to me. I examined the tooth—this talisman of her babyhood. I thought of all the food (and skin) it did its part to bite into. I sentimentally recalled when that little white tooth first peaked through her swollen red gums. I will tell you that I caressed that tooth. Lovingly. The smooth sides and the sharp corners. I noted that Abby had done a nice job with her brushing because the tooth was shiny and clean.
The tooth fairy delivered a reminder that our first born is growing—quickly—and that we must appreciate what was. And look forward to what is coming. Today, adult teeth. Next week, driver’s license. At that moment, I felt cheap for paying only a dollar for the spent baby tooth that sat in my hand. Maybe the tooth fairy has earned herself a raise.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Chipotle
We’re in Indianapolis for a dear friend’s wedding; hubby arrived about 2 hours before me. His pal picked him up from the airport first, and then they tooled around town. When I arrived, I thought we were going down to Greencastle to get GCB (garlic cheese burger for those of you out of the loop) but learned that the famed Marvin’s restaurant was closed. So I announce to hubby and pal that I’m ravenous.
I notice our pal drinking a soda from a Chipotle cup. “Mmmmmmmm. Chipotle. Come to mama.”, my stomach says. I agree. But then it dawns on me that they rudely went to Chipotle without me! Without even as much as a half-cold chicken-black bean-heavy-on-the-pico de gallo-please-green Tabasco-laden burrito. With a side of chips.
When I inquire, pal tells me that it’s cup from much earlier today. I inspect the said cup and inquire as to why the cup still has condensation on its sides. And why does it still have ice in it if its so stinkin (I really thought F’in here, but I’m keeping it clean for the kids) old.
My Spidey sense kicks in. “You bastards went to Chipotle without me!!!!!”
"No, no, no, no, no, no and no", I’m told. It’s an old cup from way earlier today, etc. I let it drop.
(I must interject here and explain that I love Chipotle and there are no Chipotles in Little Rock. So whenever we go out of town, one of my first considerations is do they have a Chipotle, how far will I be from Chipotle and how quickly can I get there. Dunkin Donuts and Jamba Juice are also on this short list.)
So I ask them if we might go to Chip-po-po. I learn that it’s too far, way too far away, not on the way, out of way, blah blah blah so I’ll have to settle for a fast food joint. I acquiesce, and eat a Burger King hamburger, a ketchup-mustard-heavy pickle-please hamburger.
Then, last night, at a pre-wedding party, I hear my husband recant the day’s events to another friend and he tells her that they ate at Chipotle.
I turn, in slow motion, like a bad-80s TV special effect, to hubby. “You ate at Chipotle!” I yell.
Oops.
I hear, “I didn’t bring you one because I didn’t know if you’d just eaten and we can go tomorrow” and more blah blah blah.
So, this morning, I’m lying awake, up at 5 am Central time, and I’m thinking through the fun of the night before. And I remember hubby's Chipotle oops.
I got so mad that I almost woke my husband up and confronted him about the Chipotle lie. I almost shook him awake, after he had one of the longest weeks of his professional life, when we’re out of town without kids, to jump down his throat about lying to me about putting Chipotle down his throat and not bringing me any for my throat. It was a lie-inconsideration combo.
I decided to let him sleep. Sleep on, unsuspecting hubby. You’ll have your moment in the Tabasco-laden hot-seat.
I notice our pal drinking a soda from a Chipotle cup. “Mmmmmmmm. Chipotle. Come to mama.”, my stomach says. I agree. But then it dawns on me that they rudely went to Chipotle without me! Without even as much as a half-cold chicken-black bean-heavy-on-the-pico de gallo-please-green Tabasco-laden burrito. With a side of chips.
When I inquire, pal tells me that it’s cup from much earlier today. I inspect the said cup and inquire as to why the cup still has condensation on its sides. And why does it still have ice in it if its so stinkin (I really thought F’in here, but I’m keeping it clean for the kids) old.
My Spidey sense kicks in. “You bastards went to Chipotle without me!!!!!”
"No, no, no, no, no, no and no", I’m told. It’s an old cup from way earlier today, etc. I let it drop.
(I must interject here and explain that I love Chipotle and there are no Chipotles in Little Rock. So whenever we go out of town, one of my first considerations is do they have a Chipotle, how far will I be from Chipotle and how quickly can I get there. Dunkin Donuts and Jamba Juice are also on this short list.)
So I ask them if we might go to Chip-po-po. I learn that it’s too far, way too far away, not on the way, out of way, blah blah blah so I’ll have to settle for a fast food joint. I acquiesce, and eat a Burger King hamburger, a ketchup-mustard-heavy pickle-please hamburger.
Then, last night, at a pre-wedding party, I hear my husband recant the day’s events to another friend and he tells her that they ate at Chipotle.
I turn, in slow motion, like a bad-80s TV special effect, to hubby. “You ate at Chipotle!” I yell.
Oops.
I hear, “I didn’t bring you one because I didn’t know if you’d just eaten and we can go tomorrow” and more blah blah blah.
So, this morning, I’m lying awake, up at 5 am Central time, and I’m thinking through the fun of the night before. And I remember hubby's Chipotle oops.
I got so mad that I almost woke my husband up and confronted him about the Chipotle lie. I almost shook him awake, after he had one of the longest weeks of his professional life, when we’re out of town without kids, to jump down his throat about lying to me about putting Chipotle down his throat and not bringing me any for my throat. It was a lie-inconsideration combo.
I decided to let him sleep. Sleep on, unsuspecting hubby. You’ll have your moment in the Tabasco-laden hot-seat.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Yesterday Sucked
Yesterday sucked. I am generally a positive, glass half-full, mind-over-matter person. But yesterday, well, it blew. But it didn’t blow chunks, and that’s the best thing I can say about yesterday—no one threw up on me or my bed. I know that in several years, I’ll lament the times I wished these days away; when Henry starts Kindergarten, I’ll reminiscence wistfully about the toddler years. (If I have any doubt, all I need to do is reread my blog entries about Abby’s first days of Kindergarten.) But yesterday, well, it sucked.
Abby has been practicing some new skills she’s picked up from her school friends. One talent she’s floating is the “I’m-the-final-authority” skill. The other, equally charming trait is lying, masquerading as very long jokes. This manifested itself in a battle of wills:
“My teacher told me to hang upside down on the back of the couch. Really.”
“Abby,” I postured, “are you sure that you’re telling me the truth?”
“Yup. Mrs. LaGory told us to do this.”
“Abby. Come on. Please tell me the truth.”
“She did she did she did she really, really, really, really, really, really, did.”
“So,” I countered, “I’ll email her (thank you technology) and ask her why she recommended this odd behavior.”
“No, mommy, don’t ask her. But she did tell us to. Really.”
I eagerly sauntered to my Blackberry to shoot off a trump email to Mrs. LaGory.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” screamed Abby.
A long discussion (the fifth of many) ensued regarding jokes, lying and the truth.
The fun continued (does it ever stop?) with day six of sick Henry. The combination of the plague, potty-training and full-blown two-year-old tantrums rendered me numb. Normally, at this point, I’d enlighten with some illustrative examples. Instead, I will say that I have never, EVER wanted to smack a child as much as I wanted to smack Henry yesterday. (Ok, maybe that urge has been there before…) I had a can of whoop-ass with his name ALL over it. And things haven’t really improved. This morning, when I took a screaming Henry into the bathroom at his preschool, I wearily looked at his teachers and asked them if the bar was open yet. Luckily, they have a sense of humor.
Many times over the last 36 hours I’ve waged guesses as to who has been raising these children. Their behavior couldn’t possibly be any reflection of me or my parenting. Could it? I mean, I gratefully take credit for the wondrous things they do. But the icky, tiring, embarrassing, sassy, loud, tempering, trying and rude stuff? Nope, not me.
Am I really so shallow?
Yesterday, I was. Shallow as the day was long.
Abby has been practicing some new skills she’s picked up from her school friends. One talent she’s floating is the “I’m-the-final-authority” skill. The other, equally charming trait is lying, masquerading as very long jokes. This manifested itself in a battle of wills:
“My teacher told me to hang upside down on the back of the couch. Really.”
“Abby,” I postured, “are you sure that you’re telling me the truth?”
“Yup. Mrs. LaGory told us to do this.”
“Abby. Come on. Please tell me the truth.”
“She did she did she did she really, really, really, really, really, really, did.”
“So,” I countered, “I’ll email her (thank you technology) and ask her why she recommended this odd behavior.”
“No, mommy, don’t ask her. But she did tell us to. Really.”
I eagerly sauntered to my Blackberry to shoot off a trump email to Mrs. LaGory.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” screamed Abby.
A long discussion (the fifth of many) ensued regarding jokes, lying and the truth.
The fun continued (does it ever stop?) with day six of sick Henry. The combination of the plague, potty-training and full-blown two-year-old tantrums rendered me numb. Normally, at this point, I’d enlighten with some illustrative examples. Instead, I will say that I have never, EVER wanted to smack a child as much as I wanted to smack Henry yesterday. (Ok, maybe that urge has been there before…) I had a can of whoop-ass with his name ALL over it. And things haven’t really improved. This morning, when I took a screaming Henry into the bathroom at his preschool, I wearily looked at his teachers and asked them if the bar was open yet. Luckily, they have a sense of humor.
Many times over the last 36 hours I’ve waged guesses as to who has been raising these children. Their behavior couldn’t possibly be any reflection of me or my parenting. Could it? I mean, I gratefully take credit for the wondrous things they do. But the icky, tiring, embarrassing, sassy, loud, tempering, trying and rude stuff? Nope, not me.
Am I really so shallow?
Yesterday, I was. Shallow as the day was long.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Check
Henry woke up at 11:30 pm crying for Mommy. I went to him and found a red-cheeked, fevery boy. Take temperature? Check. Clean diaper? Check. Give Motrin? Check. Jammies off? Check. (Henry likes to be naked, especially when feverish.) He wanted to sleep with Mama, so off to the big bed we went.
An hour later I awoke to the sounds of choking. Luckily, I brought the sick bucket with us. Sick sick sick. Then some more. Clean sheets? Check. Clean child? Check. Prayer of gratitude for sick buckets? Check. Helicopter? Negative.
From the dark I heard, “Mommy, I wan my hewicockter.”
I zigged back to Henry’s room, procured his hewicockter and zagged back. Favorite toy? Check. No more vomit? Check. Happy child? Check.
Wide awake mama? Double check.
An hour later I awoke to the sounds of choking. Luckily, I brought the sick bucket with us. Sick sick sick. Then some more. Clean sheets? Check. Clean child? Check. Prayer of gratitude for sick buckets? Check. Helicopter? Negative.
From the dark I heard, “Mommy, I wan my hewicockter.”
I zigged back to Henry’s room, procured his hewicockter and zagged back. Favorite toy? Check. No more vomit? Check. Happy child? Check.
Wide awake mama? Double check.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Frosting
I glanced into the kitchen the other day and saw Abby reaching up to the kitchen counter. Since I recently hid the step stool from her brother (who uses the stool to reach the butter and then eat it), I wondered what she was standing on to reach the counter.
When I got to the kitchen, I was shocked to see that she wasn’t standing on anything, except her feet, which were firmly rooted to the floor. She wasn’t even tippy-toeing. She was just standing there, lifting the top off of the cake plate, licking frosting off of her finger.
The moment made me feel like a visiting relative rather than a day-in-day-out parent. The “Oh my how you’ve grown” and “I remember you when you were this high…” thoughts danced through my head while simultaneously piercing my heart. I looked at my baby girl and surprisingly found a Kindergartener. She’s no longer a baby—she’s a stretched out, dish-clearing, about-to-tooth-loosing, go-into-school-by-herselfing, “whatever”-momming, I’m-going-to-read-a-chapter-by-myselfing big, big girl.
Wasn’t she just pushing the step stool through the kitchen to reach the goodies?
At times, I look at Abby and struggle to remember her as a baby, tiny and sleeping in my arms. At others, I vacillate between who she was, who she is and who she will become, all her memories twisting a fabulous tale. At others, I’m struck by the oldness of her. Luckily the present slaps me around every once in a while and brings me to now. So I can live in the present with my daughter. And so I can get to the frosting before she eats it all.
When I got to the kitchen, I was shocked to see that she wasn’t standing on anything, except her feet, which were firmly rooted to the floor. She wasn’t even tippy-toeing. She was just standing there, lifting the top off of the cake plate, licking frosting off of her finger.
The moment made me feel like a visiting relative rather than a day-in-day-out parent. The “Oh my how you’ve grown” and “I remember you when you were this high…” thoughts danced through my head while simultaneously piercing my heart. I looked at my baby girl and surprisingly found a Kindergartener. She’s no longer a baby—she’s a stretched out, dish-clearing, about-to-tooth-loosing, go-into-school-by-herselfing, “whatever”-momming, I’m-going-to-read-a-chapter-by-myselfing big, big girl.
Wasn’t she just pushing the step stool through the kitchen to reach the goodies?
At times, I look at Abby and struggle to remember her as a baby, tiny and sleeping in my arms. At others, I vacillate between who she was, who she is and who she will become, all her memories twisting a fabulous tale. At others, I’m struck by the oldness of her. Luckily the present slaps me around every once in a while and brings me to now. So I can live in the present with my daughter. And so I can get to the frosting before she eats it all.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tasty Salad
Just a note here--in an effort to be healthier (read: be able to fit into my pants because of the large vats of cookie dough consumed), I'm now ordering salads at McDonald's. (For those that know me, you also know that even though I'm eating a salad, I'm still stealing my kids' french fries from the Happy Meal Bag.) The Southwest Grilled Chicken Salad is really quite good--complete with a lime wedge to shake up the flavor a bit.
A Little Boy
The other day, I was at a restaurant and a little boy passed me. He was probably five and he wore a Cubs baseball hat, which was the first thing that caught my attention--Go Cubbies!. Something about him, though, further captured my interest and tugged at my heart. I smiled at him.
He turned his head and smiled back.
This little boy offered a futuristic glace at my now two-year-old Henry. In this instant, my mind flooded with thoughts of my young, sweet boy. This poignant smile exchange unearthed an onslaught of memories—and possible future moments. Will Henry smile warmly at motherly women in restaurants? Will he respect his lineage and cheer for the Cubs? What subjects will captivate him in school? Which friends will he endear to him? Will he always like broccoli? How will his heart break for the first time? Who will heal it?
When he is 22 years old, I know that his childhood will seem just like that—an instant. As if we were carabineered to a zip line, coursing through the years.
I am so in love with my son—with his personality, with his past and with his future possibilities. His round, inquisitive face enables him to pick up my soul and tuck it into his pocket, where I can travel safely through this life with him. With this, I surrender to the guttural, maternal love I am so lucky to experience.
Thank you, Henry. I love you.
xoxo
He turned his head and smiled back.
This little boy offered a futuristic glace at my now two-year-old Henry. In this instant, my mind flooded with thoughts of my young, sweet boy. This poignant smile exchange unearthed an onslaught of memories—and possible future moments. Will Henry smile warmly at motherly women in restaurants? Will he respect his lineage and cheer for the Cubs? What subjects will captivate him in school? Which friends will he endear to him? Will he always like broccoli? How will his heart break for the first time? Who will heal it?
When he is 22 years old, I know that his childhood will seem just like that—an instant. As if we were carabineered to a zip line, coursing through the years.
I am so in love with my son—with his personality, with his past and with his future possibilities. His round, inquisitive face enables him to pick up my soul and tuck it into his pocket, where I can travel safely through this life with him. With this, I surrender to the guttural, maternal love I am so lucky to experience.
Thank you, Henry. I love you.
xoxo
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Vote
During the recent presidential campaign, we talked a lot about politics at home. A LOT. Abby knew that John McCain was the Republican candidate; she knew that Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama duked it out in the Democratic primaries. She knows that Mr. Obama is the 44th President of the United States. She knows that he is the first African American President of our country.
Interestingly, this morning, Abby asked why John McCain wasn’t our new president. I told her that he didn’t receive enough votes to become president.
She paused and considered this information. And asked,
“Mommy, what’s a vote?”
Interestingly, this morning, Abby asked why John McCain wasn’t our new president. I told her that he didn’t receive enough votes to become president.
She paused and considered this information. And asked,
“Mommy, what’s a vote?”
Monday, January 19, 2009
He Dreamed a Dream
This morning, Hubby and I talked with the kiddos about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When I asked Abby if she knew who MLK was, she said yes; she saw a picture of him in her classroom. I asked her if she knew why we celebrate his life. She answered that he helped the “brown” children and the “peach” children go to the same school.
We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.
We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.
After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,
“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”
Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.
I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.
Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.
Thank you, Dr. King.
(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)
We discussed the many gross inequities in our country’s history and how Dr. King’s goal was to have people judged “not…by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”.
We watched moments of his powerful, goose-bump giving 1963 speech, “I Have a Dream.” We talked about the significance of the inauguration of our country’s first African American president, Barack Obama.
After we wrapped our impromptu history lesson, I asked Abby what she now knew about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She answered,
“He dreamed a dream that everyone would be safe.”
Oh, a child’s perspective. Simultaneously innocent and wise.
I often reflect on the history of our country. Living in Little Rock, where one of the most notable Civil Rights moments occurred, I often take note of the currents. For instance, I could’ve done cartwheels when we first visited Abby’s new Kindergarten class and saw all the beautiful, diverse faces sitting around that room. My heart still skips each time I visit her classroom and see so many different faces smiling at me.
Dr. King also dreamed that, “one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.”
Well, Dr. King, we’re not in Alabama, but just a little west, here in Arkansas. I see those children holding hands daily. The little “brown” boys and girls, the little “peach” boys and girls, the little Hispanic boys and girls, the little Asian boys and girls…they all hold hands.
Thank you, Dr. King.
(And thank you, Abby, for getting it.)
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