Over the past year, it has become clear that my middle son, C., is carrying around a family heirloom of sorts: anxiety. Anxiety runs on both sides of the family and is something that both Husband and I have faced, to varying degrees and frequency, in our lives, so this is not surprising at all, really.
It just kind of breaks my heart.
I have written before about how we have worried about C. He is a dear, sweet, tenderhearted child. He is the one who wants to please us, mediate, make people okay. His letter to Santa this year listed the toys he wanted Santa to bring his big brother, with just an afterthought mention of what he wanted for himself, and it was signed, "Your little friend, C." My heart nearly exploded out of my chest with a mixture of pride, love, and an aching, searing jolt of pain at his vulnerability.
In so many ways, he is the child I worry about the most. He is the closet introvert who hides his social anxiety with jokes and class clownery. He is the artist who thinks his drawing stinks, the 100-pound second grader who wears a size 10-12 in boys' clothes and still needs a Pull-Up at night. He is the one who treasures little things like baking cookies with me and absolutely must be read to every single night or he cannot fall asleep.
And he is the one with the anxiety.
At the beginning of the school year, C.'s well-intentioned teacher crowded us both a little with her concern for C., who did not seem to be engaged in class and outright admitted he didn't enjoy school. She was convinced he was depressed. Not depressed, I tried to explain to her. Anxious. She did not seem to understand, listing his class clown status and his outgoing nature and how smart he is. Yes, he is smart, I confirmed, and yes, he is outgoing, but it is a mask to hide his social anxiety in a class where he knew only one child at the beginning of the school year. He just needed time to settle in, I explained.
After some rough starts, he did, and he is doing better. But he still struggles. He blows up at me if I ask him to do something he should have done already. He gets nervous if he thinks we will be late to a practice or a game. He dwells and works himself up before he starts something new -- a team or a class -- in which he might not know anyone or have an anchor.
I know a little about anxiety, but I know more about how it has affected people in my family. I have a gut feeling that my little guy is going to be dealing with anxiety his whole life. Unlike his cocky, self-assured brothers, he doubts. He worries. He isn't sure. And I can't fix it. I can get him help -- we plan on eventually starting him with someone to receive some cognitive behavioral therapy to learn better coping mechanisms, and we are trying to find ways to support him otherwise. But my feeling is, this is part of who he is, and it might always be part of who he is.
More than anything, I want to tell him all the reasons he should be just as cocky as his brothers. He's tall. He's smart. He works hard. He loves. He's a fabulous little artist. He has an amazing imagination. People like him. He's a playground leader and he uses his powers for good. He brings people together and builds other people up. He's such a good little guy. He's going to be such a wonderful big guy someday. He deserves to believe and know how wonderful he really is. And I just wish I could fix that. I wish that was in my toolbox of Mommy Powers. But it's not, really. I can do my best, and I can tell him and show him and support him and love him and give him everything I've got. But it's no guarantee of anything.
And that makes me anxious.
Get OVER it already.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
This week, my wonderful friend Lisa Belkin published an article written by the very funny Dawn Meehan over at Lisa's new Huffington Post blog. I would give you the name of Lisa's new HuffPo blog, but... uh... it is kind of in name limbo after the NY Times took unkindly to her calling it a similar name to her old NY Times parenting blog. Helloooo... someone didn't learn all he or she needed to learn in Kindergarten, NY TIMES.
Anyway, Dawn's article is about, unbelievably, the ridiculously belabored question of who has it "harder" -- the Stay at Home Mom (as you know, a term I recently dropped from my vocabulary) or the Working Mom?
Dawn is a talented writer and she makes me laugh. But seriously? Are we STILL talking about this? It's so... depressing. As I said in my recent post, we are all MOMS. I mean, do we have to have a winner of the Who Has It Worst question? This parenting stuff is, hands down, the hardest thing I have ever done. And I am not even talking about the crazy amounts of laundry that have to be put away, the constant dirty dishes, the cleaning of the bathrooms, the existence of pee absolutely EVERYWHERE in my life (will my house ever not smell like pee?). I'm talking about the emotional difficulty of being responsible for another little human's existence, character development, physical health and well-being, education, and, you know, FUTURE. Every single mother, no matter what her circumstance, has this burden. Some take it more seriously than others; some don't have the capacity to give it as much mental and emotional weight as others. But we all have hormones and we all gave birth or accepted a child into our hearts somehow, and when we did -- boom. HARD. NOT EASY.
You cannot shoebox a mother into a label. I have a good friend who is not working outside the home, but she is staying home with not one but TWO special needs children under the age of five. Her youngest might never really walk. She might never potty train. She might not have a normal life span. Her oldest is allergic to so many things that she cannot go to anyone's house who has ever owned a pet. She cannot come in contact with certain foods. So this mother's life at home is very isolated and very emotionally difficult. Are you going to tell me that someone else has it "harder" because she works outside the home?
I have been working from home this past year, and it definitely sucked for me. I am not great at that kind of multitasking, not great at drawing lines between working and mothering when it is all happening in the same room at the same time. That's me. Someone else might thrive on it -- it might be her lifeline. I don't care who has it harder. We're individuals, and we have individual kids with unique needs and obstacles and circumstances. Moms are married, divorced, single. They have children with special needs. They themselves might have special needs. Maybe they have spouses with special needs. We live in a sucky economy with sucky consequences for many families. Parenting is HARD -- for the rich, for the poor, for the working outside the home moms, for the moms not working outside the home. PARENTING IS HARD. That's why there there is no solution to the "who has it harder?" question. The answer is, we all do -- at any given moment, in any given situation, at any given age.
I would be a happy lady if I never saw another woman try to assert who has it "harder." Every time that sentence comes out of another woman's mouth or from another woman's keyboard, it's like some mom out there loses her wings. When will we stop trying to put stars on our bellies and start banding together? We could do so much good if we stopped arguing this question and started arguing about why we need better family policies in the American workplace, better health care, better maternity leave, better support for ALL mothers out there. It takes all of us to make up the village that needs to raise our children. Let's acknowledge that and MOVE THE HELL ON.
Anyway, Dawn's article is about, unbelievably, the ridiculously belabored question of who has it "harder" -- the Stay at Home Mom (as you know, a term I recently dropped from my vocabulary) or the Working Mom?
Dawn is a talented writer and she makes me laugh. But seriously? Are we STILL talking about this? It's so... depressing. As I said in my recent post, we are all MOMS. I mean, do we have to have a winner of the Who Has It Worst question? This parenting stuff is, hands down, the hardest thing I have ever done. And I am not even talking about the crazy amounts of laundry that have to be put away, the constant dirty dishes, the cleaning of the bathrooms, the existence of pee absolutely EVERYWHERE in my life (will my house ever not smell like pee?). I'm talking about the emotional difficulty of being responsible for another little human's existence, character development, physical health and well-being, education, and, you know, FUTURE. Every single mother, no matter what her circumstance, has this burden. Some take it more seriously than others; some don't have the capacity to give it as much mental and emotional weight as others. But we all have hormones and we all gave birth or accepted a child into our hearts somehow, and when we did -- boom. HARD. NOT EASY.
You cannot shoebox a mother into a label. I have a good friend who is not working outside the home, but she is staying home with not one but TWO special needs children under the age of five. Her youngest might never really walk. She might never potty train. She might not have a normal life span. Her oldest is allergic to so many things that she cannot go to anyone's house who has ever owned a pet. She cannot come in contact with certain foods. So this mother's life at home is very isolated and very emotionally difficult. Are you going to tell me that someone else has it "harder" because she works outside the home?
I have been working from home this past year, and it definitely sucked for me. I am not great at that kind of multitasking, not great at drawing lines between working and mothering when it is all happening in the same room at the same time. That's me. Someone else might thrive on it -- it might be her lifeline. I don't care who has it harder. We're individuals, and we have individual kids with unique needs and obstacles and circumstances. Moms are married, divorced, single. They have children with special needs. They themselves might have special needs. Maybe they have spouses with special needs. We live in a sucky economy with sucky consequences for many families. Parenting is HARD -- for the rich, for the poor, for the working outside the home moms, for the moms not working outside the home. PARENTING IS HARD. That's why there there is no solution to the "who has it harder?" question. The answer is, we all do -- at any given moment, in any given situation, at any given age.
I would be a happy lady if I never saw another woman try to assert who has it "harder." Every time that sentence comes out of another woman's mouth or from another woman's keyboard, it's like some mom out there loses her wings. When will we stop trying to put stars on our bellies and start banding together? We could do so much good if we stopped arguing this question and started arguing about why we need better family policies in the American workplace, better health care, better maternity leave, better support for ALL mothers out there. It takes all of us to make up the village that needs to raise our children. Let's acknowledge that and MOVE THE HELL ON.
Resolutions for 2012:
Saturday, December 31, 2011
1. I will find a regular, adult, capable-of-staying-overnight sitter for my children. This will likely involve calling the local nanny agency and interviewing nannies and paying through the nose to find someone who won't end up on Dateline NBC. However, in the past year, it has become extremely apparent that my parents, who live two miles away, are not viable answers for even emergency childcare situations. I don't trust their judgment, their interest, or (most importantly) their health. I do have a regular sitter, but she has a family and a regular job, and I need a back-up. This will alleviate a lot of anxiety for me and allow me to envision future weekend trips for my anniversaries (we haven't even gone out to dinner the past two years!).
2. I'm going to get up the energy to make more food at home. This pregnancy has knocked me out. I have never before barfed until eighteen weeks. I am still taking Zofran to alleviate some debilitating nausea. But my children are going to be supersized if I don't get a handle on the situation (let's not even mention me). I do not enjoy cooking at all. I'm not particularly good at it, and then when I do it, at least one half of the residents of my household are unhappy with what I have made or chosen. It's demoralizing. But we are all going to have to suck it up before we all have to suck it in!
3. I WILL get this house in order. It might kill me. But women have died for lesser causes.
4. I will NOT allow anyone to convince me to volunteer in a classroom next school year. I love my children, but the weekly gigs absolutely kill my momentum at home. I'll be available to pinch hit or do special projects, but a regular assignment is just too much.
5. I will start one of two sure-fire million dollar ideas: either embark on an actual effective system for organizing and storing Legos (We put men on the moon, people. We can't do better than the current offerings?) and especially Lego *sets* or start my own PURELY RECREATIONAL sports league for children in my area. No pros, semi-pros, or children with biceps allowed. No fathers (or mothers) allowed to coach. Customers would pay more for third party coaches, but they would get less politics and Daddyball and ridiculousness. Families would have to sign contracts stating they are happy for their children to play, that winning *and losing* are part of playing sports, that every child should be able to get to play infield or quarterback. When they are ready for more competition, they are free to leave -- there are plenty of places to find that.I'm going to be rich, people. And my kids might actually be able to just play a game instead of having to worry that their uniforms might not get dirty all season.
6. Write more, obviously.
There are more, like getting my middle child out of nighttime pull-ups, but I will leave it at that. That's enough for now.
Happy and productive 2012, everyone!
2. I'm going to get up the energy to make more food at home. This pregnancy has knocked me out. I have never before barfed until eighteen weeks. I am still taking Zofran to alleviate some debilitating nausea. But my children are going to be supersized if I don't get a handle on the situation (let's not even mention me). I do not enjoy cooking at all. I'm not particularly good at it, and then when I do it, at least one half of the residents of my household are unhappy with what I have made or chosen. It's demoralizing. But we are all going to have to suck it up before we all have to suck it in!
3. I WILL get this house in order. It might kill me. But women have died for lesser causes.
4. I will NOT allow anyone to convince me to volunteer in a classroom next school year. I love my children, but the weekly gigs absolutely kill my momentum at home. I'll be available to pinch hit or do special projects, but a regular assignment is just too much.
5. I will start one of two sure-fire million dollar ideas: either embark on an actual effective system for organizing and storing Legos (We put men on the moon, people. We can't do better than the current offerings?) and especially Lego *sets* or start my own PURELY RECREATIONAL sports league for children in my area. No pros, semi-pros, or children with biceps allowed. No fathers (or mothers) allowed to coach. Customers would pay more for third party coaches, but they would get less politics and Daddyball and ridiculousness. Families would have to sign contracts stating they are happy for their children to play, that winning *and losing* are part of playing sports, that every child should be able to get to play infield or quarterback. When they are ready for more competition, they are free to leave -- there are plenty of places to find that.I'm going to be rich, people. And my kids might actually be able to just play a game instead of having to worry that their uniforms might not get dirty all season.
6. Write more, obviously.
There are more, like getting my middle child out of nighttime pull-ups, but I will leave it at that. That's enough for now.
Happy and productive 2012, everyone!
Panic at the disco
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
It's over. Christmas 2011, that is. All in all, it was an unlikely success, despite the Head Cold That Ate Cleveland (for me), various other assorted ailments for the little people, and the usual family shenanigans. I hope you and yours had fabulous holidays of the Hanukkah or Christmas (or Kwanzaa, Eid, Diwali... ) flavors. I, for one, am just incredibly grateful for the break in the regular programming!
But now, it's over. The decorations need to come down and, I hope, stored with some amount of organization or thought to aid in next year's effort. The kitchen needs to be restored, I hope better than I found it. But most of all...
My house is a total disaster.
I know that part of my panic is hormone, nesting related. I'm 21 weeks today, and suddenly, now that 2012 is this weekend, May seems a lot closer. Part of my panic is the fact that I spent yesterday at the home of my ultra-organized, completely anal brother and sister-in-law, where every single thing has a place and a home, they know exactly where that home is, and five minutes after gifts were opened, it was as if we had never been there. My brother's children automatically wash their hands before and after they eat, take showers of their own volition, and inspect glasses before they drink out of them. My children are staunch supporters of the five-second rule and have to be threatened to brush their teeth or observe daily hygiene.
But it is more than that. Our house is a disaster. I'm an organized person trapped underneath four completely anti-organization individuals, a dog, and two aged cats. We have too many clothes (hand-me-downs are overrated for the sheer amount of sorting and storing they require!), too many toys, too much paper, too much carpet (see: dog and two aged cats). Too. Much. Stuff. And I want it all gone, and I have no idea where to begin.
I wish we could go away for a weekend, come back, and find that some magic fairy (preferably Nate Berkus) had emptied my house of all the extra stuff, stripped the carpet and left hardwood or laminate floors -- I'm not picky, and painted the walls different colors. Oh, and finished the laundry.
For now, I am making 2012 the Year of the To-Do List. And I am hoping that once the fog of this neverending head cold lifts, I have some awesome second and third trimester energy surges to plow me through the mess.
But now, it's over. The decorations need to come down and, I hope, stored with some amount of organization or thought to aid in next year's effort. The kitchen needs to be restored, I hope better than I found it. But most of all...
My house is a total disaster.
I know that part of my panic is hormone, nesting related. I'm 21 weeks today, and suddenly, now that 2012 is this weekend, May seems a lot closer. Part of my panic is the fact that I spent yesterday at the home of my ultra-organized, completely anal brother and sister-in-law, where every single thing has a place and a home, they know exactly where that home is, and five minutes after gifts were opened, it was as if we had never been there. My brother's children automatically wash their hands before and after they eat, take showers of their own volition, and inspect glasses before they drink out of them. My children are staunch supporters of the five-second rule and have to be threatened to brush their teeth or observe daily hygiene.
But it is more than that. Our house is a disaster. I'm an organized person trapped underneath four completely anti-organization individuals, a dog, and two aged cats. We have too many clothes (hand-me-downs are overrated for the sheer amount of sorting and storing they require!), too many toys, too much paper, too much carpet (see: dog and two aged cats). Too. Much. Stuff. And I want it all gone, and I have no idea where to begin.
I wish we could go away for a weekend, come back, and find that some magic fairy (preferably Nate Berkus) had emptied my house of all the extra stuff, stripped the carpet and left hardwood or laminate floors -- I'm not picky, and painted the walls different colors. Oh, and finished the laundry.
For now, I am making 2012 the Year of the To-Do List. And I am hoping that once the fog of this neverending head cold lifts, I have some awesome second and third trimester energy surges to plow me through the mess.
My kids are not (always) assholes
Monday, December 19, 2011
During my hiatus from the blog, I attended my fifteenth college reunion. As I have written many times before, I love my alma mater fiercely, and I adore my friends and classmates that I met there. I mean, for the most part. Ninety-nine percent of them.
While I was at my reunion this year, I was struck by how many people approached me and told me they read my Facebook status updates all the time. As I admitted below, I am not a natural Twitterhead, but I am a Facebooker. With friends spread out around the country and sometimes the world, it really keeps me in touch with tons of people I would otherwise lose in my life and it also keeps me in the loop locally with my mom friends and organizations, so I find it insanely useful. But see, the classmates approaching me at the reunion, with few exceptions, don't actually post on Facebook much if at all, yet they read all of my posts. Which left me feeling a little weird. Naked, I guess. I guess I usually assume that if people don't post on Facebook, they don't read Facebook either. Ding-dong wrong, apparently.
I bumped into one friend late one night at the reunion. She had obviously been partaking of some adult beverages, as is her prerogative. After we hugged, the first thing she said to me was, "Wow! So your kids are, like, assholes, huh?"
I was taken a bit aback. I mean, I post snippets on Facebook about my kids -- who give me plenty of fodder for Facebook status updates, as you might imagine. I try to mix in positive updates along with the sarcastic, the weary, or the downright done kind. I mean, my kids are kids. Sometimes they are sweet, sometimes they surprise me, and sometimes, yes, they are assholes. But they are kids. Kids can be assholes. I'm not one to sugarcoat my kids. I will tell you when they are amazing, when they are brilliant, when they are heartbreakingly kind and generous, and when they are douchebags. I am sure they would prepare the same reports about me if given social media accounts. We're all human beings, and we're all assholes sometimes.
But in that instant, I realized that all my friend -- a rock star doctor who travels the world -- knows about my kids are what she reads on my Facebook status updates. And all she had taken from that is that my kids are assholes. I stood there sort of in stunned silence as she went on: "I didn't really want to have kids, but your Facebook updates have totally confirmed it for me," she laughed. "No thanks!"
Luckily, she was tipsy enough that I was able to navigate away from her gracefully, but I felt shamed. It made me doubt what I write about my kids both on Facebook and here. Just for the record, my kids are not (always) assholes. My kids are kids. I love them more than anything on the face of the planet. I marvel at how freaking hard they are sometimes. I berate myself for not being good enough to them or for them. I think they are awesome.
Some locals were surprised when I showed up pregnant this fall. A few voiced that they were befuddled as to why I would have another kid when the ones I have are such a handful. They are an awesome handful. They do kick my butt all the time. ALL the time. But they are the best things in the world, too. I love my little kid gang. And I think they make each other better. One more is going to be fun. Hard as hell, but fun.
So before we move on, I just wanted to clear that up. It's been bugging me since June. And that childless rock star friend? She has since, with her husband, added two puppies to her household. I look at the (many, many) pictures on her Facebook status updates and chuckle to myself. Because puppies? Can be so much bigger assholes than kids!
While I was at my reunion this year, I was struck by how many people approached me and told me they read my Facebook status updates all the time. As I admitted below, I am not a natural Twitterhead, but I am a Facebooker. With friends spread out around the country and sometimes the world, it really keeps me in touch with tons of people I would otherwise lose in my life and it also keeps me in the loop locally with my mom friends and organizations, so I find it insanely useful. But see, the classmates approaching me at the reunion, with few exceptions, don't actually post on Facebook much if at all, yet they read all of my posts. Which left me feeling a little weird. Naked, I guess. I guess I usually assume that if people don't post on Facebook, they don't read Facebook either. Ding-dong wrong, apparently.
I bumped into one friend late one night at the reunion. She had obviously been partaking of some adult beverages, as is her prerogative. After we hugged, the first thing she said to me was, "Wow! So your kids are, like, assholes, huh?"
I was taken a bit aback. I mean, I post snippets on Facebook about my kids -- who give me plenty of fodder for Facebook status updates, as you might imagine. I try to mix in positive updates along with the sarcastic, the weary, or the downright done kind. I mean, my kids are kids. Sometimes they are sweet, sometimes they surprise me, and sometimes, yes, they are assholes. But they are kids. Kids can be assholes. I'm not one to sugarcoat my kids. I will tell you when they are amazing, when they are brilliant, when they are heartbreakingly kind and generous, and when they are douchebags. I am sure they would prepare the same reports about me if given social media accounts. We're all human beings, and we're all assholes sometimes.
But in that instant, I realized that all my friend -- a rock star doctor who travels the world -- knows about my kids are what she reads on my Facebook status updates. And all she had taken from that is that my kids are assholes. I stood there sort of in stunned silence as she went on: "I didn't really want to have kids, but your Facebook updates have totally confirmed it for me," she laughed. "No thanks!"
Luckily, she was tipsy enough that I was able to navigate away from her gracefully, but I felt shamed. It made me doubt what I write about my kids both on Facebook and here. Just for the record, my kids are not (always) assholes. My kids are kids. I love them more than anything on the face of the planet. I marvel at how freaking hard they are sometimes. I berate myself for not being good enough to them or for them. I think they are awesome.
Some locals were surprised when I showed up pregnant this fall. A few voiced that they were befuddled as to why I would have another kid when the ones I have are such a handful. They are an awesome handful. They do kick my butt all the time. ALL the time. But they are the best things in the world, too. I love my little kid gang. And I think they make each other better. One more is going to be fun. Hard as hell, but fun.
So before we move on, I just wanted to clear that up. It's been bugging me since June. And that childless rock star friend? She has since, with her husband, added two puppies to her household. I look at the (many, many) pictures on her Facebook status updates and chuckle to myself. Because puppies? Can be so much bigger assholes than kids!
Catching up
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Husband says it is insanely boring when I write posts about why I have not been posting. So I am going to let him be the voice of my (former? long-lost?) readers and just sum it up in one sentence: too.much.life. You can relate.
The truth is, I have struggled a lot since attending BlogHer in 2010. I haven't really known where I fit in this blogging world. I felt a need to jump in, to join the fray, to tweet and market and write elsewhere and... you know, it's just not me. It's just not. I am not interested in sponsored posts, not interested in tweeting (I do love the Facebook, though, and I read OTHERS' tweets), not interested in trying to get a book deal. This little space has been mine for four years now, and I guess that's just what I need it to be. A little space.
I needed time to come to the conclusion that it is okay, that I am no less a writer or a member of this blogging world, if I am just the writer of this blog, somewhat anonymous and completely small-time. I read a lot of others' blog posts, but I comment very rarely only because I am usually on Flipbook and it is a total pain in the rear. Am I still worth reading? Well, you'll have to decide.
In the meantime:
1. I'm pregnant. Yes! Seriously! I'm halfway done, actually. I know, how could I keep it off the Interwebz for so very long with my huge mouth? I will tell you the truth: I don't really love when my favorite bloggers conceive and then their blogs become all about pregnancy and butterflies and roses and whatnot. I didn't know how to present this and also say, dude, this blog is NOT going to be all about my pregnancy. But here it is. A few common answers to common questions...
-- Yes, this was planned. We have debated for years, and if you have been reading here, you know it has been bouncing around in my brain. We finally decided to go for it.
-- No, I'm not "going for a girl." I'm not a huge gambler, especially when odds are not in my favor. I would love to have a daughter; I think that is well known. But I also think four boys would be pretty darn special too. When I was pregnant with B., I was desperate to know what his gender was. Like, manic. But this pregnancy, I am oddly at peace. I don't care. I know that sounds ridiculous given everything I have written, but I think I have finally come to the realization that what will be will be, and I am not in charge, and no matter what, it's okay. Which is good, since, you know, what will be WILL be, I am NOT in charge, and no matter what, it IS okay. Ha. Maybe I am growing up.
-- Yes, this is IT. I am crazy, but not THAT kind of crazy. And yes, for sure. Husband and I do know how to prevent these things. Ten years of baby-making and a now advanced maternal age are enough. I'm tired and I have a lot of heartburn and I'm old. This is it. The end. All she wrote. Shop's closed. And... scene.
2. I have made a decision. I will no longer call myself a Stay at Home Mother. I cannot claim this idea -- I read it on Twitter. Another mother made the statement. I can't remember her Twitter handle, which is probably like the worst breach of conduct ever, but... at least I'm honest? Anyway, as she said, we are ALL mothers. We don't call dads "Work Outside the Home Dads." I'm over the labels. I am a Mother. Period. I also now like to fancy myself a Writer. So I am a Writer and I am a Mother, but I am not a Stay at Home Mother who writes. Just in case you were looking to give me business cards for Christmas or whatever. I don't know why, but this decision to reject that label has really affected me the past few days.
3. I have been writing for pay. Or, at least, assembling writing. I completed two first drafts of books between April and October, and it kicked. my. butt. I kind of hated the struggle to balance my kids and my employer. My hat is off to the better multitaskers than I am... I sucked at it.
4. I miss my people. I'm feeling very disconnected from my kindred spirits right now, for whatever reason. Suburbia is getting to me. I am feeling smothered and yet lonely all at the same time. Does that even make sense?
5. I want to write. For ME. So I am pledging to myself that I will write more and more frequently. I am not sure I will ever be a daily blogger, but I can try. It's good for my soul.
I've missed my space. It's good to be back. The adventure continues!
The truth is, I have struggled a lot since attending BlogHer in 2010. I haven't really known where I fit in this blogging world. I felt a need to jump in, to join the fray, to tweet and market and write elsewhere and... you know, it's just not me. It's just not. I am not interested in sponsored posts, not interested in tweeting (I do love the Facebook, though, and I read OTHERS' tweets), not interested in trying to get a book deal. This little space has been mine for four years now, and I guess that's just what I need it to be. A little space.
I needed time to come to the conclusion that it is okay, that I am no less a writer or a member of this blogging world, if I am just the writer of this blog, somewhat anonymous and completely small-time. I read a lot of others' blog posts, but I comment very rarely only because I am usually on Flipbook and it is a total pain in the rear. Am I still worth reading? Well, you'll have to decide.
In the meantime:
1. I'm pregnant. Yes! Seriously! I'm halfway done, actually. I know, how could I keep it off the Interwebz for so very long with my huge mouth? I will tell you the truth: I don't really love when my favorite bloggers conceive and then their blogs become all about pregnancy and butterflies and roses and whatnot. I didn't know how to present this and also say, dude, this blog is NOT going to be all about my pregnancy. But here it is. A few common answers to common questions...
-- Yes, this was planned. We have debated for years, and if you have been reading here, you know it has been bouncing around in my brain. We finally decided to go for it.
-- No, I'm not "going for a girl." I'm not a huge gambler, especially when odds are not in my favor. I would love to have a daughter; I think that is well known. But I also think four boys would be pretty darn special too. When I was pregnant with B., I was desperate to know what his gender was. Like, manic. But this pregnancy, I am oddly at peace. I don't care. I know that sounds ridiculous given everything I have written, but I think I have finally come to the realization that what will be will be, and I am not in charge, and no matter what, it's okay. Which is good, since, you know, what will be WILL be, I am NOT in charge, and no matter what, it IS okay. Ha. Maybe I am growing up.
-- Yes, this is IT. I am crazy, but not THAT kind of crazy. And yes, for sure. Husband and I do know how to prevent these things. Ten years of baby-making and a now advanced maternal age are enough. I'm tired and I have a lot of heartburn and I'm old. This is it. The end. All she wrote. Shop's closed. And... scene.
2. I have made a decision. I will no longer call myself a Stay at Home Mother. I cannot claim this idea -- I read it on Twitter. Another mother made the statement. I can't remember her Twitter handle, which is probably like the worst breach of conduct ever, but... at least I'm honest? Anyway, as she said, we are ALL mothers. We don't call dads "Work Outside the Home Dads." I'm over the labels. I am a Mother. Period. I also now like to fancy myself a Writer. So I am a Writer and I am a Mother, but I am not a Stay at Home Mother who writes. Just in case you were looking to give me business cards for Christmas or whatever. I don't know why, but this decision to reject that label has really affected me the past few days.
3. I have been writing for pay. Or, at least, assembling writing. I completed two first drafts of books between April and October, and it kicked. my. butt. I kind of hated the struggle to balance my kids and my employer. My hat is off to the better multitaskers than I am... I sucked at it.
4. I miss my people. I'm feeling very disconnected from my kindred spirits right now, for whatever reason. Suburbia is getting to me. I am feeling smothered and yet lonely all at the same time. Does that even make sense?
5. I want to write. For ME. So I am pledging to myself that I will write more and more frequently. I am not sure I will ever be a daily blogger, but I can try. It's good for my soul.
I've missed my space. It's good to be back. The adventure continues!
I just want them to be happy.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The school year started and I was caught in the undertow. Between a part-time job writing (from which I am happily taking a break!) for pay, my school volunteer commitments, and my children, I have been just treading water for a long time now. But the main thing keeping me overwhelmed: that elusive goal of happy children.
I'm not even sure if "happy children" is a goal I can attain. What do happy children look like? Are they okay with going to bed a little earlier than they hoped? Are they pleased to go to school every morning and happy campers at the end of the school day? Do they acquiesce to homework management without resistance?
If so, my children are NOT happy. But if "happy children" can be grumpy, grouchy, moaning kids, say, 50-60 percent of the time and happy or at least content the remainder of their days? I have at least a shot.
Before this school year began, I will admit I was feeling a little cocky. My kids scored the reputed "very desirable" teachers. I was feeling on my A game. And then, as it usually happens, everything really got underway and the cracks in my system started showing up.
Firstborn is happy in class. His teacher is attuned to him, impressed by him (maybe a little TOO much), and he has friends in his room. He defines school as a happy place. But after a year of struggle, I finally let him drop violin and swimming in favor of a fall season of baseball.
Firstborn LOVES baseball. But baseball doesn't always love Firstborn. And the league we have played in before and now is very competitive and very much Daddyball: political and hotheaded. When sitting in the stands, watching the men huff around the field with their chests puffed out and their middle -aged butts stuffed into uniform pants, I often hear Springsteen songs in my head.
This season, Firstborn aged up into kid-pitch (because third and fourth graders' arms are so ready to pitch seven-inning games) and finds himself among eight, nine, and ten-year-old Athletes. This is basically the pros compared to what he has been doing. Needless to say, he's been in left outfield, kicking the grass. But even more, his coaches have been instructing him not to even swing at the ball, because he has a better chance getting on base if he walks than if he tries to hit.
So we have been struggling with how much to intercede, how much to let it ride, how much to let him figure out for himself that he's not going to play infield or be a star -- maybe ever again. The kids he plays with now have, like, muscles. And Firstborn, despite his armpit hair and increasing need for deodorant, is still gangly and sorting out his limbs. After his first game, in which his coaches sat him out two innings and he hit nothing, he came home and cried, and my heart broke off into eight thousand pieces, but somehow we have survived. I'm beginning to see that disappointment might be not only an inevitable part of the next phase of his childhood, but a necessary one. And I am fortifying myself.
And then their is C., my middle child teddy bear. He was assigned to the "nurturing, sensitive teacher," but that has turned out to be something of a curse. She is certainly sensitive -- sensitive to the fact that C. is not at all engaged in her classroom and that he doesn't like school. C., unlike Firstborn, finds school a drag. He does have friends, and he works hard at that. But the worksheets and the smartboards completely bore him. After two conferences already this year in which his teachers wondered if he is a "gifted underachiever," depressed, an enigma... you name it, I am coming to the conclusion that his teacher has a need to be liked and given attention (by her students) that C. is not giving her, and C. might not thrive in a typical public school classroom. Stay tuned. In the meantime, I don't think he's particularly happy at school, but putting him in a karate class is one of the best things I have done for him lately. It's a work in progress.
The littlest guy just struggles with not wanting to go to school at all. He talks my head off, he wants to hang around the house, and he doesn't want to have to behave himself. Details. He is, overall, happy at the moment. I'll take it.
This parenting thing, it never. gets. easier. It does get different, but it never lets me coast. I don't want to coddle my children, I don't want to spoil my children, I don't want to over-analyze my children. I just want happy children. Could someone please hand over the instruction booklet?
I'm not even sure if "happy children" is a goal I can attain. What do happy children look like? Are they okay with going to bed a little earlier than they hoped? Are they pleased to go to school every morning and happy campers at the end of the school day? Do they acquiesce to homework management without resistance?
If so, my children are NOT happy. But if "happy children" can be grumpy, grouchy, moaning kids, say, 50-60 percent of the time and happy or at least content the remainder of their days? I have at least a shot.
Before this school year began, I will admit I was feeling a little cocky. My kids scored the reputed "very desirable" teachers. I was feeling on my A game. And then, as it usually happens, everything really got underway and the cracks in my system started showing up.
Firstborn is happy in class. His teacher is attuned to him, impressed by him (maybe a little TOO much), and he has friends in his room. He defines school as a happy place. But after a year of struggle, I finally let him drop violin and swimming in favor of a fall season of baseball.
Firstborn LOVES baseball. But baseball doesn't always love Firstborn. And the league we have played in before and now is very competitive and very much Daddyball: political and hotheaded. When sitting in the stands, watching the men huff around the field with their chests puffed out and their middle -aged butts stuffed into uniform pants, I often hear Springsteen songs in my head.
This season, Firstborn aged up into kid-pitch (because third and fourth graders' arms are so ready to pitch seven-inning games) and finds himself among eight, nine, and ten-year-old Athletes. This is basically the pros compared to what he has been doing. Needless to say, he's been in left outfield, kicking the grass. But even more, his coaches have been instructing him not to even swing at the ball, because he has a better chance getting on base if he walks than if he tries to hit.
So we have been struggling with how much to intercede, how much to let it ride, how much to let him figure out for himself that he's not going to play infield or be a star -- maybe ever again. The kids he plays with now have, like, muscles. And Firstborn, despite his armpit hair and increasing need for deodorant, is still gangly and sorting out his limbs. After his first game, in which his coaches sat him out two innings and he hit nothing, he came home and cried, and my heart broke off into eight thousand pieces, but somehow we have survived. I'm beginning to see that disappointment might be not only an inevitable part of the next phase of his childhood, but a necessary one. And I am fortifying myself.
And then their is C., my middle child teddy bear. He was assigned to the "nurturing, sensitive teacher," but that has turned out to be something of a curse. She is certainly sensitive -- sensitive to the fact that C. is not at all engaged in her classroom and that he doesn't like school. C., unlike Firstborn, finds school a drag. He does have friends, and he works hard at that. But the worksheets and the smartboards completely bore him. After two conferences already this year in which his teachers wondered if he is a "gifted underachiever," depressed, an enigma... you name it, I am coming to the conclusion that his teacher has a need to be liked and given attention (by her students) that C. is not giving her, and C. might not thrive in a typical public school classroom. Stay tuned. In the meantime, I don't think he's particularly happy at school, but putting him in a karate class is one of the best things I have done for him lately. It's a work in progress.
The littlest guy just struggles with not wanting to go to school at all. He talks my head off, he wants to hang around the house, and he doesn't want to have to behave himself. Details. He is, overall, happy at the moment. I'll take it.
This parenting thing, it never. gets. easier. It does get different, but it never lets me coast. I don't want to coddle my children, I don't want to spoil my children, I don't want to over-analyze my children. I just want happy children. Could someone please hand over the instruction booklet?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)