I wasn't planning on putting this on my blog, but my life as a mommy has been hijacked since yesterday morning, and I can't seem to get it back.
There was a terror attack in Jerusalem yesterday. Two men walked into a synagogue during prayers wielding a meat cleaver, knives, and guns. Four men were slaughtered. Twenty four orphans left on one street.
A young boy ran from the carnage. His father followed after him and became an easy target.
The crimson-stained prayer shawls and the blood splashed across the floor.
I can't.
One of the first fears that flashed through my mind was "How will I explain this to my kids?" I imagined Boo having nightmares, Bub refusing to let my husband leave his sight. How would my kids be able to cope?
Then a second image flashed into my mind. What about that child who ran away from his father, leaving him to the hatchet of a terrorist?
My mind blinks, and is blank.
I went through the motions yesterday. Gave my kids a snack. (Don't think about those other kids, half a world away.) Threw a load of laundry in the washing machine. (Those bloody prayer shawls!)
My kids wanted to play a game with me. Apparently I was the evil lion and they were the king, queen, and pet bear who were trying to defend the castle. I was roaring, defying their majesties. And then Bub cocked his fingers and made a shooting noise.
My heart shatters from the blow. My mind blinks furiously, trying to rid itself from the images.
I must do something. My husband walks through the door and my heart seizes once again. Why do I deserve this? What of those women whose husbands will never saunter in through the door again?
My husband went to synagogue this morning. I was juggling diapers, lunchbags, cereal boxes. An ordinary morning.
Wasn't yesterday?
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Why I Read "Little House on the Prairie" to My Sons
When my older sister Lara was eight years old, she loved the "Little House" books. In fact, she loved them so much, that she named her younger sister (me) after Laura's little sister, Carrie. Isn't it great to be named after the only character in the book that barely ever talks and has virtually no personality at all?
Thanks, Lar.
Anyway...Fast forward a couple dozen years until I was expecting my first child. Okay, I'll admit that part of my dream of raising children was snuggling up with them underneath a chenille blanket on the couch, preferably in front of a roaring fireplace, and reading them some of my childhood favorites. Pollyanna. Caddie Woodlawn. Ramona. And of course...the Little House books.
And then I had a boy.
Followed by another.
And another.
That's right -- three boys in a row. My dreams were dashed. I started tearing apart the library in search of any of my old favorites that were gender-neutral. The Redwall books? Too gory for my little guys. My Side of the Mountain? Too high-level, abstract. Still, I continued to take out some of my old faves, even checking out one of the Little House books on occasion. (After all, Mommies can't take out books from the grown-up sections very easily with three little ones in tow, can they?)
I don't remember why I first bit the bullet and started reading Little House in the Big Woods to my boys. I seem to remember I was at my wit's end that morning and needed something to entertain them with. After just a chapter, my boys were hooked. And so was I -- hooked on reading the whole series, chapter by chapter, to my kids. Here's why:
Thanks, Lar.
Anyway...Fast forward a couple dozen years until I was expecting my first child. Okay, I'll admit that part of my dream of raising children was snuggling up with them underneath a chenille blanket on the couch, preferably in front of a roaring fireplace, and reading them some of my childhood favorites. Pollyanna. Caddie Woodlawn. Ramona. And of course...the Little House books.
And then I had a boy.
Followed by another.
And another.
That's right -- three boys in a row. My dreams were dashed. I started tearing apart the library in search of any of my old favorites that were gender-neutral. The Redwall books? Too gory for my little guys. My Side of the Mountain? Too high-level, abstract. Still, I continued to take out some of my old faves, even checking out one of the Little House books on occasion. (After all, Mommies can't take out books from the grown-up sections very easily with three little ones in tow, can they?)
I don't remember why I first bit the bullet and started reading Little House in the Big Woods to my boys. I seem to remember I was at my wit's end that morning and needed something to entertain them with. After just a chapter, my boys were hooked. And so was I -- hooked on reading the whole series, chapter by chapter, to my kids. Here's why:
- The books are perfect for boys. All the parts that disgusted me as a kid -- the part where the used a pig's bladder as a ball to play catch with, the part where they disemboweled a bear and roasted the meat -- were prime "COOL!" moments for my boys.
- My then-five year old was shocked when we read about Laura's doll: a corncob wrapped in a piece of cloth. "That's her only toy," he kept on saying. "But Mommy, look at her face in the picture. She looks so happy!" And as we looked around our jam-packed playroom, we experienced a rare moment of appreciation for all that we have. And for the idea that "things" don't create happiness.
- Laura is mischievous, but not in the way that many main characters in today's books are. She's curious, she feels she's "bad" sometimes, but at the end of the day, she loves and respects her parents and wants to make them happy. Rare in today's children's books.
- The books paints a very real picture of siblings. Laura feels like Mary is always the good one, and she's both resentful and competitive because of it. For those of you who have read about my boys before, it's a feeling that they can both identify with.
- We've already read through Little House in the Big Woods, Farmer Boy, Little House on the Prairie, and half of On the Banks of Plum Creek. Laura and Mary are finally going to school. The boys are excited for them. Yes, actually excited for them.
Friday, September 19, 2014
When Kids Take Over Your Life
Sometimes I feel so selfish.
Not selfish because I care about myself more than about the people around me. Mothers have no room to be that sort of selfish. After all, a mother who tries to treat herself to the last cookie in the jar knows that someone else's little eyes will find that cookie and someone else's little teeth will gobble it up before the mother even realizes that she's given it away. No, I'm not that kind of selfish. Impossible.
I'm selfish because while I think I'm being selfless, I concentrate so hard on my family, or more specifically, on my kids, that there seems to be no time for those other people out there who care so much about me, who give so much to me, and who always seem to play second fiddle to my offspring.
My mom, for one.
Today, my mother went grocery shopping for me, clothes shopping for me, babysitting for me, and even smoothie-making for me (and the kids). She loves me. Beyond what a normal mom does, she gives to me. And gives and gives. Selflessly.
And I thought today, as I think on so many days, that when I grow up I want to be just like my mom. (No, I'm not grown up yet. You're not grown up until you're the same age as your mother. I'm not there yet.)
But when I do get there, I want to treat my adult kids with the same selflessness. Making them feel that they're truly worthwhile, because after all, why else would I give them so much of my time and energy? I'll no longer be bound by society to give to my children. According to the world around us, empty nests are a signal that a selfish period has begun, that it's time to focus on yourself now that there aren't any snotty noses to wipe, any curfews to set, any PTA meetings to attend. And yet, some empty nesters, like my mother, ignore society's call to lie on a pool chair in the sunshine drinking iced lemonade. Instead, (at least when they're in town,) they continue to pour their own time and efforts into making their grown children feel loved.
But right now? Somehow as a mother, it's easy to become so focused on dealing with Boo's tonsils, Bub's tantrums, or Turtle's new school, that the rest of the world fades from sight. After all, keeping in touch with people takes TIME. Something that any self-respecting mom is unwilling to donate to anyone but the hubby and kids. And sometimes just the kids.
Which is a shame.
I've thought about doing something for my mother, my sister, my friend, the people in my life who care about me and show me that they do, even as I get swept away in the ocean that is conscious parenting. But the waves are so strong that months later I look back and realize that I never did race onto the shore, flinging my loved ones into the air and shouting their name for all to hear. Selfish. Self-centered. Kid-centered? How awful.
I often think about what my mother was like when she was at my stage of life. Raising three kids, around the same ages as mine. Did she keep in touch with her brother as much as she wanted to? Have time and mindspace to celebrate her friends' birthdays with the same flair that she did before she was married? Dedicate time to the community, to elderly neighbors who lived around her, to her kids' schools? Or did all that just come afterwards? As the youngest child by four years, I remember my mother when things were more settled, I assume. When the wails of infants and the bombs of toddlerhood were a memory, and when most of us kids were more independent and less demanding. But what were things like during those tumultuous years?
Part of me hopes that she was like me. That her kids took over her life, that she struggled to remember birthdays, anniversaries...or didn't struggle anymore, because she just gave up. That she dedicated herself to us to such a degree that everyone else faded into the background.
I hope she did. Not because I have any doubt as to her dedication to us -- I definitely don't. But because if she fell into the whirlpool of motherhood and emerged unscathed, then there's hope for the rest of us. For me.
Not selfish because I care about myself more than about the people around me. Mothers have no room to be that sort of selfish. After all, a mother who tries to treat herself to the last cookie in the jar knows that someone else's little eyes will find that cookie and someone else's little teeth will gobble it up before the mother even realizes that she's given it away. No, I'm not that kind of selfish. Impossible.
I'm selfish because while I think I'm being selfless, I concentrate so hard on my family, or more specifically, on my kids, that there seems to be no time for those other people out there who care so much about me, who give so much to me, and who always seem to play second fiddle to my offspring.
My mom, for one.
Today, my mother went grocery shopping for me, clothes shopping for me, babysitting for me, and even smoothie-making for me (and the kids). She loves me. Beyond what a normal mom does, she gives to me. And gives and gives. Selflessly.
And I thought today, as I think on so many days, that when I grow up I want to be just like my mom. (No, I'm not grown up yet. You're not grown up until you're the same age as your mother. I'm not there yet.)
But when I do get there, I want to treat my adult kids with the same selflessness. Making them feel that they're truly worthwhile, because after all, why else would I give them so much of my time and energy? I'll no longer be bound by society to give to my children. According to the world around us, empty nests are a signal that a selfish period has begun, that it's time to focus on yourself now that there aren't any snotty noses to wipe, any curfews to set, any PTA meetings to attend. And yet, some empty nesters, like my mother, ignore society's call to lie on a pool chair in the sunshine drinking iced lemonade. Instead, (at least when they're in town,) they continue to pour their own time and efforts into making their grown children feel loved.
But right now? Somehow as a mother, it's easy to become so focused on dealing with Boo's tonsils, Bub's tantrums, or Turtle's new school, that the rest of the world fades from sight. After all, keeping in touch with people takes TIME. Something that any self-respecting mom is unwilling to donate to anyone but the hubby and kids. And sometimes just the kids.
Which is a shame.
I've thought about doing something for my mother, my sister, my friend, the people in my life who care about me and show me that they do, even as I get swept away in the ocean that is conscious parenting. But the waves are so strong that months later I look back and realize that I never did race onto the shore, flinging my loved ones into the air and shouting their name for all to hear. Selfish. Self-centered. Kid-centered? How awful.
I often think about what my mother was like when she was at my stage of life. Raising three kids, around the same ages as mine. Did she keep in touch with her brother as much as she wanted to? Have time and mindspace to celebrate her friends' birthdays with the same flair that she did before she was married? Dedicate time to the community, to elderly neighbors who lived around her, to her kids' schools? Or did all that just come afterwards? As the youngest child by four years, I remember my mother when things were more settled, I assume. When the wails of infants and the bombs of toddlerhood were a memory, and when most of us kids were more independent and less demanding. But what were things like during those tumultuous years?
Part of me hopes that she was like me. That her kids took over her life, that she struggled to remember birthdays, anniversaries...or didn't struggle anymore, because she just gave up. That she dedicated herself to us to such a degree that everyone else faded into the background.
I hope she did. Not because I have any doubt as to her dedication to us -- I definitely don't. But because if she fell into the whirlpool of motherhood and emerged unscathed, then there's hope for the rest of us. For me.
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
WAHMs: The Best of Both Worlds?
I'm a WAHM. Been one since my oldest son was born. After all, WAHMs have the best of both worlds.
Right? Well, let's examine the other mommying options out there:
SAHMs
Well, Stay-At-Home Moms have it easy. After all, they're home all day long, so they can run errands whenever they want, make dinner whenever they want, do chores whenever they want, and still have time leftover for resting. They get to be home with their kids. They get to take their kids to parks, the library, Mommy and Me groups, or anywhere that a stroller can take them. They don't have to worry about crazy deadlines, babysitters' sick days, or oppressive bosses.
And yet, SAHMs have it hard. They're with their (youngest) kids 24/7, which means that when their kids are going through a rough stage -- colic, tantrums, dumping out every container in the house -- they never get a break from it. They can never even sit down, let alone rest, even when the kids are sleeping; have you ever seen a house that's been overrun by an overtired toddler for an entire day?
And then there's the icing on the cake: the guilt. Guilt that they're not doing something more "productive" with their lives. Guilt that they spend the whole day at home and yet can't seem to get dinner on the table or the Rice Krispies off the floor (nor can they pay for takeout or cleaning help since after all, staying home means making sacrifices). Guilt that they have what everyone reminds them is the luxury of staying home with their kids, and yet they can't fully appreciate it between the exploding diapers and the pots scattered around their kitchen floor and the never-ending whining and wailing. Guilt that maybe they're not doing, well, what they're really supposed to be doing, that it's somehow gotten lost in the chaos.
Working Moms
As for working moms, they definitely have it easy. They deal with their kids for a little while in the morning and a little while at night, but get a nice long break in the middle. They get to interact with people who speak in full sentences and have complex, thought-provoking conversations that go beyond the contents of a diaper. Society looks at them as successful, as the "woman who has it all." They often get to sit at a desk in a nice, air conditioned office for hours every day, doing nothing more physically exhausting than moving their fingers on the computer keys. They get to live their dreams, play to their passions. Oh, and best of all, they get half an hour every day to sit and each lunch. On their own. In silence.
And yet, working moms have it hard. They're constantly juggling daycare schedules that don't seem to mesh with their office hours. There's no time to make dinner, because by the time they come home, it's already dinnertime. Banks, doctor's offices, and other places of interest haven't seemed to realize that if they work nine to five, it means that other people who work nine to five can't take advantage of their services without ditching their jobs. When they're with their kids, they're always trying to squeeze too much into too little time. "Quality time" seems ephemeral, "quantity time" impossible.
And as with the SAHMs, there's the guilt. The guilt that they weren't there to see their child's first step. The guilt that they are somehow choosing their own desires and needs over their children's. The guilt that they feel when they realize that their daycare providers and playgroup leaders will never be able to love their kids as much as they do.
WAHMs
As I said, I'm a work-at-home mom. Which means I have the best of both worlds.
I'm with my kids all day, and yet I am pursuing my passions. I don't have to deal with sick babysitters or conflicting daycare schedules, and yet no one expects me to have the house of a SAHM, because after all, I'm working! When my older kids are sick, I don't need to take off work. I get to sit in my nice, air conditioned house and work, even with a sink full of dishes, because I'm running on deadline -- but I don't have to commute. I get to lounge around in flats and slinky skirts while emailing and calling people in suits and ties. I even have an excuse to crash on the couch at night with my computer. What could be better?
But then again, I also have the worst of both worlds. Both SAHMs and working moms can do their chores at night. WAHMs like me usually get their best work done at night, after the kids are asleep. So when do chores get done? When the kids are up and around and begging me for attention. SAHMs have naptime to relax and get things done around the house; I work while my kids nap. Working moms have set hours to meet their deadlines; mine can be cut short by a baby's scream from his crib.
And as for the guilt? Well, I get double the guilt. The guilt that even though I'm with my kids all day, I have so much to do that I can't focus on them. The feeling that maybe I'm doing this for selfish reasons, that it would be better for them to be at a playgroup with a fun morah, instead of a mommy who's trying to do fifty things at once. Oh, and if I do succeed in getting something done? There's the guilt that I should have been working instead. And if I've been working, there's the guilt that I should have gotten things done around the house.
What's incredible to me is the fact that I probably think about the advantages and disadvantages of being a WAHM every day. Constantly evaluating, constantly wondering whether I have it harder or easier than other mommies out there. If I decide I have it harder, I berate myself for not feeling others' hardships enough. If I feel I have it easier, I immediately make excuses to explain to myself why it's really not true, why my life really is harder, as if doing so will absolve me of the guilt I feel for having such an easy life.
From talking to other moms, I get the impression that I'm not the only one who is sensitive to this. Why do we spend so much time comparing our lives to other moms? Why do we feel the need to prove to ourselves that we have it harder than they do?
And it's not just whether we work that lends itself to this issue. When I think I'm having a hard day, I think of how much harder it would be if I had a newborn right now. When I've had a newborn, I've thought of how much harder it would be to have twins. Why do I do this? According to my own twisted logic, if someone else has it harder than me, I'm not allowed to complain. Which makes things, ironically, worse.
And when I have an easy day, I try to excuse it by thinking of the people out there who have things easier than I do. Empty nesters, exploring the world. Moms with just one kid, an easygoing one, who is in school all day. As if having an easy day is a crime, and I have to prove myself innocent.
Am I the only one who does this? How do you cure yourself of this need to constantly compare yourself to others, of playing the "easier-harder" game?
*Note: These are stereotypes. Yes, some SAHMs have a ton of money and a maid and no kids at home, and some working moms hate their jobs but have no choice, work part time, are on their feet all day, or are married to a SAHD. Please see past this detail.
Right? Well, let's examine the other mommying options out there:
SAHMs
Well, Stay-At-Home Moms have it easy. After all, they're home all day long, so they can run errands whenever they want, make dinner whenever they want, do chores whenever they want, and still have time leftover for resting. They get to be home with their kids. They get to take their kids to parks, the library, Mommy and Me groups, or anywhere that a stroller can take them. They don't have to worry about crazy deadlines, babysitters' sick days, or oppressive bosses.
And yet, SAHMs have it hard. They're with their (youngest) kids 24/7, which means that when their kids are going through a rough stage -- colic, tantrums, dumping out every container in the house -- they never get a break from it. They can never even sit down, let alone rest, even when the kids are sleeping; have you ever seen a house that's been overrun by an overtired toddler for an entire day?
And then there's the icing on the cake: the guilt. Guilt that they're not doing something more "productive" with their lives. Guilt that they spend the whole day at home and yet can't seem to get dinner on the table or the Rice Krispies off the floor (nor can they pay for takeout or cleaning help since after all, staying home means making sacrifices). Guilt that they have what everyone reminds them is the luxury of staying home with their kids, and yet they can't fully appreciate it between the exploding diapers and the pots scattered around their kitchen floor and the never-ending whining and wailing. Guilt that maybe they're not doing, well, what they're really supposed to be doing, that it's somehow gotten lost in the chaos.
Working Moms
As for working moms, they definitely have it easy. They deal with their kids for a little while in the morning and a little while at night, but get a nice long break in the middle. They get to interact with people who speak in full sentences and have complex, thought-provoking conversations that go beyond the contents of a diaper. Society looks at them as successful, as the "woman who has it all." They often get to sit at a desk in a nice, air conditioned office for hours every day, doing nothing more physically exhausting than moving their fingers on the computer keys. They get to live their dreams, play to their passions. Oh, and best of all, they get half an hour every day to sit and each lunch. On their own. In silence.
And yet, working moms have it hard. They're constantly juggling daycare schedules that don't seem to mesh with their office hours. There's no time to make dinner, because by the time they come home, it's already dinnertime. Banks, doctor's offices, and other places of interest haven't seemed to realize that if they work nine to five, it means that other people who work nine to five can't take advantage of their services without ditching their jobs. When they're with their kids, they're always trying to squeeze too much into too little time. "Quality time" seems ephemeral, "quantity time" impossible.
And as with the SAHMs, there's the guilt. The guilt that they weren't there to see their child's first step. The guilt that they are somehow choosing their own desires and needs over their children's. The guilt that they feel when they realize that their daycare providers and playgroup leaders will never be able to love their kids as much as they do.
WAHMs
As I said, I'm a work-at-home mom. Which means I have the best of both worlds.
I'm with my kids all day, and yet I am pursuing my passions. I don't have to deal with sick babysitters or conflicting daycare schedules, and yet no one expects me to have the house of a SAHM, because after all, I'm working! When my older kids are sick, I don't need to take off work. I get to sit in my nice, air conditioned house and work, even with a sink full of dishes, because I'm running on deadline -- but I don't have to commute. I get to lounge around in flats and slinky skirts while emailing and calling people in suits and ties. I even have an excuse to crash on the couch at night with my computer. What could be better?
But then again, I also have the worst of both worlds. Both SAHMs and working moms can do their chores at night. WAHMs like me usually get their best work done at night, after the kids are asleep. So when do chores get done? When the kids are up and around and begging me for attention. SAHMs have naptime to relax and get things done around the house; I work while my kids nap. Working moms have set hours to meet their deadlines; mine can be cut short by a baby's scream from his crib.
And as for the guilt? Well, I get double the guilt. The guilt that even though I'm with my kids all day, I have so much to do that I can't focus on them. The feeling that maybe I'm doing this for selfish reasons, that it would be better for them to be at a playgroup with a fun morah, instead of a mommy who's trying to do fifty things at once. Oh, and if I do succeed in getting something done? There's the guilt that I should have been working instead. And if I've been working, there's the guilt that I should have gotten things done around the house.
What's incredible to me is the fact that I probably think about the advantages and disadvantages of being a WAHM every day. Constantly evaluating, constantly wondering whether I have it harder or easier than other mommies out there. If I decide I have it harder, I berate myself for not feeling others' hardships enough. If I feel I have it easier, I immediately make excuses to explain to myself why it's really not true, why my life really is harder, as if doing so will absolve me of the guilt I feel for having such an easy life.
From talking to other moms, I get the impression that I'm not the only one who is sensitive to this. Why do we spend so much time comparing our lives to other moms? Why do we feel the need to prove to ourselves that we have it harder than they do?
And it's not just whether we work that lends itself to this issue. When I think I'm having a hard day, I think of how much harder it would be if I had a newborn right now. When I've had a newborn, I've thought of how much harder it would be to have twins. Why do I do this? According to my own twisted logic, if someone else has it harder than me, I'm not allowed to complain. Which makes things, ironically, worse.
And when I have an easy day, I try to excuse it by thinking of the people out there who have things easier than I do. Empty nesters, exploring the world. Moms with just one kid, an easygoing one, who is in school all day. As if having an easy day is a crime, and I have to prove myself innocent.
Am I the only one who does this? How do you cure yourself of this need to constantly compare yourself to others, of playing the "easier-harder" game?
*Note: These are stereotypes. Yes, some SAHMs have a ton of money and a maid and no kids at home, and some working moms hate their jobs but have no choice, work part time, are on their feet all day, or are married to a SAHD. Please see past this detail.
Monday, September 8, 2014
What a Sick Day Looks Like When You're a Mommy
When you were a kid, a sick day meant lying on the couch in the den watching reruns and eating chicken soup, buttered toast, and tea with plenty of honey. It meant being waited on hand and foot. It meant napping throughout the day, downing shot glasses full of cold medicine, sleeping in, missing school, and watching an anvil fall on Wile E Coyote's head over and over again.
Now? Now a sick day means dragging yourself out of bed in the morning at 6 am, as usual, to the tune of your two year old screaming "Mommy! I up! Want OUT!"
It means turning up your kids' sound machines to maximum volume at night so that they won't wake up from your hacking cough.
It means trying to explain to your four year old why mommies need to rest when they're sick. Even though kids only get more hyper and energetic when they're sick. Time to teach him about Murphy's Law, I guess.
It means covering your mouth and struggling to keep the cough from exploding out the whole night so that your baby, who sleeps right next to you, won't wake up and cry. It means nursing constantly throughout the night because you weren't successful -- and somehow blaming yourself that you weren't.
It means trying to convince your two year old that you can't hold his hand on the way in to school because you just blew your nose again. It means saying "Mommy's hands are germy" over and over again to the incessant question "WHY?"
It means making yourself some chemical-laden instant noodle soup because who has time to actually make soup anyway?
It means lying on the basement floor and letting three kids use you as a racetrack for their Matchbox cars. And feeling proud of yourself for providing them with entertainment.
It means juggling a baby in one hand, a toddler in the other, and a cup of hot tea on the counter getting cold because you just don't have a hand to pick it up in.
It means sneezing, blowing your nose, Purelling your hands, putting away a bag of groceries, sneezing, Purelling again, putting away another bag of groceries, blowing your nose, Purelling again, and then sneezing all over the third bag of groceries that are supposed to go into your kids' lunches tomorrow.
It means refusing to take cold medicine because you're nursing, pregnant, or so used to being nursing or pregnant that you don't even think of it as an option.
It means falling into bed at the end of the day and worrying more about your six year old's bad day in school than about your own pounding headache.
It means finding strength within yourself that you didn't know you had. Finding selflessness where you thought there was selfishness. Finding love and compassion where you were sure there was only self-centeredness and fatigue. Putting your kids first, even if all you want to do is dive bomb onto the couch and pull a pillow over your face.
It means being a mom. No matter what.
Now? Now a sick day means dragging yourself out of bed in the morning at 6 am, as usual, to the tune of your two year old screaming "Mommy! I up! Want OUT!"
It means turning up your kids' sound machines to maximum volume at night so that they won't wake up from your hacking cough.
It means trying to explain to your four year old why mommies need to rest when they're sick. Even though kids only get more hyper and energetic when they're sick. Time to teach him about Murphy's Law, I guess.
It means covering your mouth and struggling to keep the cough from exploding out the whole night so that your baby, who sleeps right next to you, won't wake up and cry. It means nursing constantly throughout the night because you weren't successful -- and somehow blaming yourself that you weren't.
It means trying to convince your two year old that you can't hold his hand on the way in to school because you just blew your nose again. It means saying "Mommy's hands are germy" over and over again to the incessant question "WHY?"
It means making yourself some chemical-laden instant noodle soup because who has time to actually make soup anyway?
It means lying on the basement floor and letting three kids use you as a racetrack for their Matchbox cars. And feeling proud of yourself for providing them with entertainment.
It means juggling a baby in one hand, a toddler in the other, and a cup of hot tea on the counter getting cold because you just don't have a hand to pick it up in.
It means sneezing, blowing your nose, Purelling your hands, putting away a bag of groceries, sneezing, Purelling again, putting away another bag of groceries, blowing your nose, Purelling again, and then sneezing all over the third bag of groceries that are supposed to go into your kids' lunches tomorrow.
It means refusing to take cold medicine because you're nursing, pregnant, or so used to being nursing or pregnant that you don't even think of it as an option.
It means falling into bed at the end of the day and worrying more about your six year old's bad day in school than about your own pounding headache.
It means finding strength within yourself that you didn't know you had. Finding selflessness where you thought there was selfishness. Finding love and compassion where you were sure there was only self-centeredness and fatigue. Putting your kids first, even if all you want to do is dive bomb onto the couch and pull a pillow over your face.
It means being a mom. No matter what.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Sibling Rivalry: How to Make Them One Big Happy Family
Sibling rivalry. If you'd asked me a few years ago to write an essay on the topic, I could have easily written about how all kids will fight sometimes, about how parents should stop interfering with their fights, and about how boys will sometimes get physical with each other. I would probably also have thrown in a few pieces of advice to parents about how to minimize sibling rivalry. You know, not comparing children, not encouraging siblings to compete against each other, doing activities with kids that make them feel like they're a team.
In theory, I knew everything there was to know about sibling rivalry. Kind of like parents-to-be know everything there is to know about parenting.
Fast forward a few years. There are days when I feel like the boys can't go five seconds between fights. Days when I'm sure that if I don't interfere in this fight -- and this one -- and, oh boy! this one -- someone is going to end up in the emergency room. Days where I wonder what would happen if I'd lock them all in a soundproof room together and walk away. Could they possibly fight any more than they already do?
In an attempt to solve this problem, here are the techniques I've used:
I'd love to hear from other mommies who have been in this boat. Please don't reply if your kids are angels who play together all day while you meditate on the couch. Thanks.
In theory, I knew everything there was to know about sibling rivalry. Kind of like parents-to-be know everything there is to know about parenting.
Fast forward a few years. There are days when I feel like the boys can't go five seconds between fights. Days when I'm sure that if I don't interfere in this fight -- and this one -- and, oh boy! this one -- someone is going to end up in the emergency room. Days where I wonder what would happen if I'd lock them all in a soundproof room together and walk away. Could they possibly fight any more than they already do?
In an attempt to solve this problem, here are the techniques I've used:
- Let them work it out by themselves. I've tried this many times. In its latest reincarnation, the technique lasted about four seconds -- until Bub slammed Boo's head into the wall. Felt so guilty.
- Show them how it feels. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've tried this. When Boo (my four year old) insisted on tickling Turtle (my two year old) over and over again, even though he said stop, I was livid. I've always made a point of stopping myself from continuing any tickling or roughhousing the first second that a kid asks for it, and we've talked about that a lot. So I told Boo that I wanted him to understand why Turtle was so upset, and I tickled him for a few minutes. He hates tickling. He seemed to get the message, but I definitely felt guilty.
- Sit down and talk to them about it. In theory, I ascribe to the positive parenting methods espoused by Dr. Laura Markham, among others. They're mostly about talk, talk, talk (and play, and hug, and cry). Been doing this for a while. While it's worked for other behaviors, it hasn't made a dent in the level of sibling rivalry that's been going on. At this point, Bub groans and says, "You're not going to make me talk about it, are you?"
- Give consequences. We've tried a few of these, and none of them have seemed to make a difference. Here they are:
- If you hurt someone, whatever you wanted goes to them. In other words, if Bub shoves Boo because he wants a piece of Lego, Bub is no longer allowed to play with the Lego and Boo gets whatever Lego he wants.
- If you do something and someone says no, you stop. If you don't stop, you need to leave the room because you're not playing nicely with them.
- If you don't like something someone does, you calmly ask them to stop. If you scream at the slightest provocation, Mommy will ignore your screaming. (Obviously this does not apply to physical harm, and if they come to me crying, I'm happy to give them a hug and would never ignore the honest-to-goodness crying. The screaming, though, was obviously an attempt to get Mommy's attention and get a sibling in trouble.)
- Time outs. Ha. You've got to be kidding.
- Videotape them. And then play it back to them to let them know how ridiculous they sound. Or to teach them social skills. Like, "See? That's five times in five minutes that you said something nasty to your brother. Would you want to be friends with someone who treated you like that? What were you thinking???" Okay, I haven't done this yet. Am seriously considering it.
- Put them in two different rooms. While I do put them in solitary confinement when it gets horrible, purely in order to retain some level of sanity and allow them to calm themselves down, somehow I think that CPS would get on my back if I tried it all day. Every day. Oh well.
I'd love to hear from other mommies who have been in this boat. Please don't reply if your kids are angels who play together all day while you meditate on the couch. Thanks.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
What to Do With a Gifted Child
My oldest son, who we'll call Bub, was verbal at a very young age. Before his second birthday, he could identify several letters and their sounds, talk in paragraphs, and name several different vehicle models based on looking at them. And that was just a drop in the bucket.
Down the block, my friend had a son the same age as mine. He was a pint-sized mathematical genius. At two, he was playing math games, doing basic addition and subtraction, and playing with numbers all day long.
But when I saw that Bub was gearing up to learn how to read at the ripe old age of two, I took a step back. As an early reader myself, I had grappled with the boredom that comes along with knowing things before your classmates. In elementary school, I would complain about school, ignore my homework, and even misbehave out of sheer boredom. I didn't want that for my son.
And so, I held back. While my neighbor continued to feed her child's desire for numbers, I starved my son's desire for words. No reading games, phonics flashcards, or even sounding out words on cereal boxes in our house. Instead, I fed his intellect with library books about outer space and conversations about the circulatory system. I brought him to the Wool and Sheep Festival and taught him about spinning and weaving wool. As much as I could, I focused on filling his intense hunger for knowledge with ideas that would not be the bread and butter of his elementary school years.
And so, I managed to stave off his reading progress and viewed myself as successful.
My neighbor, on the other hand, viewed me as a failure of a mother. After all, if my son showed an interest, I should encourage him. Take it and run with it. By the age of four, her son could add two- and three- digit numbers in his head. He played Monopoly for fun ("Sixty dollars a house, and I want three houses, so here's a hundred and eighty dollars").
And slowly it became obvious that my neighbor's son couldn't relate to the other kids his age. He would spend recess time rolling a ball back and forth. Indoor playtime writing numbers on a whiteboard. And my son? He decided he wanted to be a scientist when he grows up.
There I was, a successful mom. I had wrenched my son from the jaws of anti-social boredom and turned him into a budding professional. Oh, he was five years old. Self-righteous I was.
Suddenly, his teacher started telling me that Bub was spacing out, refusing to read the little books she assigned to them, and saying "I don't know" whenever he was asked a question. She was sure that Bub had a comprehension problem, and that he didn't know how to read. News to me, since he was reading Dr. Seuss books at home and having complex conversations about books I read aloud to him. Sure, he's not reading chapter books yet like my sister and I were at his age, but he's well on his way there.
Bub's take on the subject? He told me that school was boring because they were sounding out these little words all the time. He wished they would learn something interesting, like astronomy or marine biology. (Yes, those are currently his two loves.)
Bub started his first day of first grade yesterday, and I wonder. Should I have helped him read earlier? Would that have helped him adapt better? Or are gifted kids destined to boredom and/or social isolation in a mainstream school without a GT program?
What do you think?
Down the block, my friend had a son the same age as mine. He was a pint-sized mathematical genius. At two, he was playing math games, doing basic addition and subtraction, and playing with numbers all day long.
But when I saw that Bub was gearing up to learn how to read at the ripe old age of two, I took a step back. As an early reader myself, I had grappled with the boredom that comes along with knowing things before your classmates. In elementary school, I would complain about school, ignore my homework, and even misbehave out of sheer boredom. I didn't want that for my son.
And so, I held back. While my neighbor continued to feed her child's desire for numbers, I starved my son's desire for words. No reading games, phonics flashcards, or even sounding out words on cereal boxes in our house. Instead, I fed his intellect with library books about outer space and conversations about the circulatory system. I brought him to the Wool and Sheep Festival and taught him about spinning and weaving wool. As much as I could, I focused on filling his intense hunger for knowledge with ideas that would not be the bread and butter of his elementary school years.
And so, I managed to stave off his reading progress and viewed myself as successful.
My neighbor, on the other hand, viewed me as a failure of a mother. After all, if my son showed an interest, I should encourage him. Take it and run with it. By the age of four, her son could add two- and three- digit numbers in his head. He played Monopoly for fun ("Sixty dollars a house, and I want three houses, so here's a hundred and eighty dollars").
And slowly it became obvious that my neighbor's son couldn't relate to the other kids his age. He would spend recess time rolling a ball back and forth. Indoor playtime writing numbers on a whiteboard. And my son? He decided he wanted to be a scientist when he grows up.
There I was, a successful mom. I had wrenched my son from the jaws of anti-social boredom and turned him into a budding professional. Oh, he was five years old. Self-righteous I was.
Suddenly, his teacher started telling me that Bub was spacing out, refusing to read the little books she assigned to them, and saying "I don't know" whenever he was asked a question. She was sure that Bub had a comprehension problem, and that he didn't know how to read. News to me, since he was reading Dr. Seuss books at home and having complex conversations about books I read aloud to him. Sure, he's not reading chapter books yet like my sister and I were at his age, but he's well on his way there.
Bub's take on the subject? He told me that school was boring because they were sounding out these little words all the time. He wished they would learn something interesting, like astronomy or marine biology. (Yes, those are currently his two loves.)
Bub started his first day of first grade yesterday, and I wonder. Should I have helped him read earlier? Would that have helped him adapt better? Or are gifted kids destined to boredom and/or social isolation in a mainstream school without a GT program?
What do you think?
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Welcome to the Blog
I recently saw this great Pinterest quote:
In Our Home...
We do second chances.
We do grace.
We do mistakes.
We do real.
We do I'm sorrys.
We do funny.
We do loud really well.
We do hugs.
We do family.
We do love.
Yeah, it's sappy, I guess. True? I hope so.
I want my home to be a place where mistakes are okay, where messing up just means finding a better way to do it the next time. I struggle as a parent. Sure, I've read all the parenting books out there. Taken parenting classes. Interviewed dozens of parenting experts, researchers, and everything in between. After all, I write about parenting and education. And in some ways, I feel so fortunate that I've been able to learn about parenting from others.
But what's most important, I think, is to learn about parenting from myself.
I make mistakes. I make them every day. And it's easy to tumble into the pit of frustration and decide that it was "just a mistake" and "I can't believe I messed up," and leave it at that. But if I do that, I'm shortchanging myself.
If I yell at my son for making roaring noises at his brother, I've made a mistake. But if I ignore the anger that I felt and view myself as a "mean mommy," I've ignored a great opportunity for growth too.
I hope to use this blog to catch those mistakes as they come up, learn from them, and help other moms out there learn from them as well.
Welcome to my Parenting By Mistake journey. Do you feel like you also view yourself as a "mean mommy" instead of learning from your mistakes? Let's create a community of moms who are willing to flip the meaning of "mistake" into something we're willing to learn from.
In Our Home...
We do second chances.
We do grace.
We do mistakes.
We do real.
We do I'm sorrys.
We do funny.
We do loud really well.
We do hugs.
We do family.
We do love.
Yeah, it's sappy, I guess. True? I hope so.
I want my home to be a place where mistakes are okay, where messing up just means finding a better way to do it the next time. I struggle as a parent. Sure, I've read all the parenting books out there. Taken parenting classes. Interviewed dozens of parenting experts, researchers, and everything in between. After all, I write about parenting and education. And in some ways, I feel so fortunate that I've been able to learn about parenting from others.
But what's most important, I think, is to learn about parenting from myself.
I make mistakes. I make them every day. And it's easy to tumble into the pit of frustration and decide that it was "just a mistake" and "I can't believe I messed up," and leave it at that. But if I do that, I'm shortchanging myself.
If I yell at my son for making roaring noises at his brother, I've made a mistake. But if I ignore the anger that I felt and view myself as a "mean mommy," I've ignored a great opportunity for growth too.
I hope to use this blog to catch those mistakes as they come up, learn from them, and help other moms out there learn from them as well.
Welcome to my Parenting By Mistake journey. Do you feel like you also view yourself as a "mean mommy" instead of learning from your mistakes? Let's create a community of moms who are willing to flip the meaning of "mistake" into something we're willing to learn from.
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