I'm putting up the white flag. I surrender!
I am a mixture of crazy today, December 31, 2008. On the one hand, I am enjoying beyond words the ability to stay in pajamas all day if I am so inclined, and I am taking full advantage. Yay, pajamas! Yay, unbrushed hair! We have been puttering around the house, trying to pick up the pieces of our belongings since the Christmas Toy Bomb went off last week. Tiny Lego heads and ship parts, little Bakugan balls, random puzzle detritus, various and sundry Batcave accessories litter every room of our small, one-story house. I'm still digging flour out of every nook and cranny of my kitchen, and the kids have at least three Christmas cut-out cookies a day and I eat handfuls of Hershey's caramel kisses in an effort to rid the house of the evil white demon, sugar.
And now, after approximately 11 days at home with my kids with only a few escapes to the outside world, I AM LOSING MY MIND. My kids fight, wrestle, break things faster than I can yell, "Go to your room! Do not bite your brother! Treat your toys well and take care of your things! Stop yelling!" Of course, it's not their faults: they have been housebound for the most part, playing with cousins and running around quite a bit, but still mostly housebound. They have cabin fever. I cannot bear to go outside with them and acknowledge that it has been in the 80s all week (though refreshingly cooler today, thank you GOD). They have been living on PB&J and sugar cookies -- what else could I expect? But it remains: I am going crazy, and I am desperate for Monday.
Tomorrow I am off the sauce, aka Hershey's kisses, and I am in training for my first foray into bridesmaidhood since my 20s. I have until May 9 to get my act together. And I truly think I am ready. I want my groove back. It's lost somewhere in the house, probably sandwiched between some herbal nipple cream and Old Navy yoga pants and the Star Wars Lego ship pieces. I am dreading my training, because it will likely mean an end to my mainlining of Coke Zero, my beloved. But it needs to be done. We all have to make sacrifices, I guess.
I'm excited about 2009. I am excited about Barack Obama. I am excited to see my middle child turn five years old. I'm excited for Friday Night Lights to return to NBC. It's going to be a good year if I can just live through the next several days and make it to Monday morning, for which I will be sad and pissed to get dressed before 8 AM but oh so happy to deliver my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed offspring to their unsuspecting teachers.
We truly do not pay teachers enough.
A confession
Sunday, December 28, 2008
I have to lift something off my chest. Although the major reason for my radio silence has been the (overwhelming, chaotic, frenzied) holiday and the fact that I had one sick baby (head cold that apparently also makes him a grumpy-ass mess) and a slew of family in town, I have another reason for avoiding the "create post" button: I've been nursing a heavy heart.
My friend Lisa Belkin writes a blog about parenting on the New York Times website called "The Motherlode." Lisa is a veteran writer and mother to two teenage boys, and she impressively and prolifically posts about all sorts of relevant and topical parenting issues with empathy and thoughtfulness.
But some of the commenters on her blog are not so empathetic or thoughtful. Over the past week, a mother posted asking for advice about unexpectedly flying with two very small children by herself from New York to Seattle to see her parents for Christmas. Over five hundred people left comments. Many of them were helpful, with clever or insightful suggestions. Having done such a trip myself once, though only from Philadelphia to Orlando, I felt her pain. It's not something one chooses to do on a whim, for fun.
As I read through the comments, my feelings ranged from camaraderie to empathy to anger to defensiveness to dismay. Though many were helpful, many were not. Several suggested she not take the trip at all out of sympathy for how hard the trip would be on all of them; others stated she was selfish for even thinking of doing such a thing, citing the stress on the children but even more emphatically predicting stress on her fellow passengers. One point in particular was debated: where she could change diapers. The mother would have been traveling for at least five hours with a six-month-old and a 22-month-old, so hypothetically, both children could need a diaper change. While some suggested she could just change diapers at her seat, others proclaimed the thought abhorrent and chided her for potentially going that route, claiming it selfish, unsanitary, and I believe blasphemous.
A lot of statements about parents were thrown about -- they are egocentric, selfish, rude, thoughtless, morally ambiguous, and consumerist, in the eyes of many of the commenters. Who are these commenters, anyway? Not parents, I assume. Reading and *commenting on* a blog about parenting. Interesting.
At first, reading some of the comments, I was incensed. Several people said small children should not fly, period. Unless the grandparents are at death's door, there is no reason to fly with children. Furthermore, one commenter said this is why people should only have one child. Also, this is just a symptom of our selfish, egocentric society that we don't live near our parents. Well, if you choose to move away from your parents (or they from you), then you are choosing not to see them, so don't inflict your kids on innocent people in airplanes. End of discussion.
My anger subsided, though, and I was just left feeling really, really sad. Dismayed. Sad. The post was made on December 23rd, a day when I would hope that many would be full of holiday spirit, whether it be thanks to Hanukkah or Christmas or just the end of the year. I would hope there would have been more gentle words in those comments. They were just so edged with tension and resentment and dislike for children and mothers, and it has sat with me and made me just feel heavy for days now.
I know there are rude parents. I have encountered some doozies myself. I know kids can be painful to travel with or be around or see out in public. I know my kids have kicked airplane seats (despite my best efforts) or had diarrhea or cried during an airplane holding pattern (that made me want to cry as well). I know that children are not always pleasant and that parents are not always perfect or even anywhere close. But this attitude, this perception of children as a public nuisance that truly shouldn't be seen NOR heard? It just hurts my heart. How have we come to this?
I take my children out in public. We eat at restaurants, we fly on airplanes (and pay through the nose for it, thanks), we stay at hotels, we go into stores. I have breastfed in public. A lot. Not because I think it is fun or because I am making a statement, but because I have been desperate or at wit's end (often sleep deprived to boot) or just incapable of figuring out another way to manage the outing. I don't want to foist my children on the general public -- lord knows I try to avoid confrontation at all. But sometimes it is unavoidable, and I do believe my children have to actually go out into the world sometimes in order to know how to behave in it.
My children are not gremlins. They are not animals. No one is allergic to them, and they have only defecated in public a handful of times (and only because they are faster than I am). They aren't malicious or out to ruin anyone's day. But they are people too -- short people, often loud people, sometimes unreasonable people. That separates them from adults how, exactly? After all, I have been on plenty of airplanes on which adults acted disruptively. On one flight, a drunk woman lit a cigarette in her seat and then proceeded to stand while we landed because she refused to sit down. Another woman, also drunk, threw up all over her row and her rowmates several times during a flight. And if we are talking about hygiene on airplanes, then many adults have a few lessons to learn and should wear diapers on planes as well.
I have been in stores and restaurants in which adults threw tantrums, raised their voices, or acted inappropriately. Some of the worst behavior I have seen at Disney World has been from adults, not (oversugared, overstimulated, sleep deprived) children.
The mean-spirited blog comments really brought me down. I don't know why it affected me so much. Maybe because it was so apparent how judgmental a lot of people are, how intolerant our society is, how *mean* we can all be sometimes. As the Black-Eyed Peas would say, where is the love, people? Isn't the world tough enough without despising little children and their desperate parents? Why can't we all give each other a little bit of a leash? When you see a parent out in the world with small children, you have no idea what is going on in that parent's life. None. How about a little grace?
Many of the commenters were right: it is surprising how kind strangers can be in a situation like the one that mother was about to throw herself into, and I do hope it worked out for her. It's also surprising how much ill will could be generated by having children. I am sorry, I just don't get it.
My friend Lisa Belkin writes a blog about parenting on the New York Times website called "The Motherlode." Lisa is a veteran writer and mother to two teenage boys, and she impressively and prolifically posts about all sorts of relevant and topical parenting issues with empathy and thoughtfulness.
But some of the commenters on her blog are not so empathetic or thoughtful. Over the past week, a mother posted asking for advice about unexpectedly flying with two very small children by herself from New York to Seattle to see her parents for Christmas. Over five hundred people left comments. Many of them were helpful, with clever or insightful suggestions. Having done such a trip myself once, though only from Philadelphia to Orlando, I felt her pain. It's not something one chooses to do on a whim, for fun.
As I read through the comments, my feelings ranged from camaraderie to empathy to anger to defensiveness to dismay. Though many were helpful, many were not. Several suggested she not take the trip at all out of sympathy for how hard the trip would be on all of them; others stated she was selfish for even thinking of doing such a thing, citing the stress on the children but even more emphatically predicting stress on her fellow passengers. One point in particular was debated: where she could change diapers. The mother would have been traveling for at least five hours with a six-month-old and a 22-month-old, so hypothetically, both children could need a diaper change. While some suggested she could just change diapers at her seat, others proclaimed the thought abhorrent and chided her for potentially going that route, claiming it selfish, unsanitary, and I believe blasphemous.
A lot of statements about parents were thrown about -- they are egocentric, selfish, rude, thoughtless, morally ambiguous, and consumerist, in the eyes of many of the commenters. Who are these commenters, anyway? Not parents, I assume. Reading and *commenting on* a blog about parenting. Interesting.
At first, reading some of the comments, I was incensed. Several people said small children should not fly, period. Unless the grandparents are at death's door, there is no reason to fly with children. Furthermore, one commenter said this is why people should only have one child. Also, this is just a symptom of our selfish, egocentric society that we don't live near our parents. Well, if you choose to move away from your parents (or they from you), then you are choosing not to see them, so don't inflict your kids on innocent people in airplanes. End of discussion.
My anger subsided, though, and I was just left feeling really, really sad. Dismayed. Sad. The post was made on December 23rd, a day when I would hope that many would be full of holiday spirit, whether it be thanks to Hanukkah or Christmas or just the end of the year. I would hope there would have been more gentle words in those comments. They were just so edged with tension and resentment and dislike for children and mothers, and it has sat with me and made me just feel heavy for days now.
I know there are rude parents. I have encountered some doozies myself. I know kids can be painful to travel with or be around or see out in public. I know my kids have kicked airplane seats (despite my best efforts) or had diarrhea or cried during an airplane holding pattern (that made me want to cry as well). I know that children are not always pleasant and that parents are not always perfect or even anywhere close. But this attitude, this perception of children as a public nuisance that truly shouldn't be seen NOR heard? It just hurts my heart. How have we come to this?
I take my children out in public. We eat at restaurants, we fly on airplanes (and pay through the nose for it, thanks), we stay at hotels, we go into stores. I have breastfed in public. A lot. Not because I think it is fun or because I am making a statement, but because I have been desperate or at wit's end (often sleep deprived to boot) or just incapable of figuring out another way to manage the outing. I don't want to foist my children on the general public -- lord knows I try to avoid confrontation at all. But sometimes it is unavoidable, and I do believe my children have to actually go out into the world sometimes in order to know how to behave in it.
My children are not gremlins. They are not animals. No one is allergic to them, and they have only defecated in public a handful of times (and only because they are faster than I am). They aren't malicious or out to ruin anyone's day. But they are people too -- short people, often loud people, sometimes unreasonable people. That separates them from adults how, exactly? After all, I have been on plenty of airplanes on which adults acted disruptively. On one flight, a drunk woman lit a cigarette in her seat and then proceeded to stand while we landed because she refused to sit down. Another woman, also drunk, threw up all over her row and her rowmates several times during a flight. And if we are talking about hygiene on airplanes, then many adults have a few lessons to learn and should wear diapers on planes as well.
I have been in stores and restaurants in which adults threw tantrums, raised their voices, or acted inappropriately. Some of the worst behavior I have seen at Disney World has been from adults, not (oversugared, overstimulated, sleep deprived) children.
The mean-spirited blog comments really brought me down. I don't know why it affected me so much. Maybe because it was so apparent how judgmental a lot of people are, how intolerant our society is, how *mean* we can all be sometimes. As the Black-Eyed Peas would say, where is the love, people? Isn't the world tough enough without despising little children and their desperate parents? Why can't we all give each other a little bit of a leash? When you see a parent out in the world with small children, you have no idea what is going on in that parent's life. None. How about a little grace?
Many of the commenters were right: it is surprising how kind strangers can be in a situation like the one that mother was about to throw herself into, and I do hope it worked out for her. It's also surprising how much ill will could be generated by having children. I am sorry, I just don't get it.
Pardon the interruption...
I am buried under mounds of discarded wrapping paper, Legos, Bakugan balls, building blocks, and a giant triceratops. I will return as soon as possible from the murky depths!
Motherhood Ethics Question Du Jour:
Thursday, December 18, 2008
If the baby walks through a puddle of cat vomit only minutes after he wakes up and is dressed in the morning, and you are exhausted, somewhat ill, and barely dressed your own self, do you change him into pants NOT laced with cat vomit? Or do you just look the other way?
I looked the other way.
I looked the other way.
A Day in the Life of a Middle Brother
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
C. woke up this morning at gosh knows what time and immediately woke up his bigger brother with whom he shares a room. For at least an hour, they played in the family room while their parents tried to pretend they didn't have to get out of bed. Firstborn hogged the computer games (as usual) and C. played around him, cheered him on, and called out "helpful" suggestions while Firstborn ignored him. In between games, they wrestled. C. is physically bigger and stronger than his brother, but Firstborn is more wily and easily takes C. down. Crying ensued.
Mama and Daddy finally get up and Mama kicks the boys off the computer. C. wails, as he does every morning, that he "hasn't had his turn yet!" Of course not. Firstborn never gives C. a turn in the absence of parental threats. Mama asks C. to take off his overnight diaper and then helps him put on his school clothes. C. is embarrassed about having to wear an overnight diaper at the ripe old age of 4.75, but he is even more embarrassed about peeing all over his bed, so he has an uneasy alliance with the overnight diapers for the time being. Firstborn teases from the sofa where he eats a frozen waffle, and Mama reminds Firstborn that he wore an overnight diaper himself well into Kindergarten. Waffles are thrown. Yelling and harumphing ensue.
On the way to school, C. and Firstborn have detailed discussions while they play superhero. "Pwetend that Spider-Man and Batman are fwiends, okay? Okaaaay?" C. proposes to his brother. Firstborn tolerates this story point this time, but he usually wants to call the shots, and he is ALWAYS the star.
Mama drops Firstborn off at school, then heads to the grocery store, where she needs to pick up supplies for her cookie exchange. C. is excited to ride in the cart side by side with his baby brother. They both have steering wheels. As Mama drives the cart into the store, they spin the wheels and "vroom!" and giggle conspiratorially. As they walk down the Christmas aisles, Baby B. and C. ogle the candy in awe. "Chocolate Santa Clauses!" C. murmurs with delight. The world is his candy jar.
Once the groceries are purchased, C. and Baby B. are both awarded balloons by the cashier. C. immediately loses his and it pops on the ceiling, falling in shreds around the cart. "Oooops," he says, smiling a little at the ruckus. He receives another one and this time wears it around his wrist. He and the baby merrily hit each other with their respective balloons as they are fastened back into the car by Mama.
Mama drops C. off at preschool, Baby B. waving goodbye to him angrily because he wants to go to school with C. too and play with the myriad toys and art supplies. C. unloads his lunchbox and his folder and finds his place at a low, long table where he starts painting the cut-out of a gingerbread man with brown paint.
When Mama returns to fetch C., he is sweaty from the playground and excited about a mini candy cane. When they return home, he is thrilled to have time to play on Mama's computer without his older brother breathing down his neck. He orders Mama to please let him play on "Cartoon Neckwork Dot Com" and zones in on the screen. He swats at the baby brother desperately trying to crawl up on the chair with him.
An hour passes, and it is time to retrieve Firstborn from school. Everyone tumbles back into the car, seatbelts fastened, and Mama lets the boys watch Toy Story 2 for the long wait in the school pick-up line. The door opens and Firstborn falls into the car, full of his own news and reports of the day, presenting a packet of hot cocoa mix his class made and regaling C. with tales about art projects and playground finds. C. tells some stories too... totally made-up stories to embellish his day at school. Firstborn calls him on it. Griping, sniping, and yelling ensue.
Back at home, Firstborn demands his own time on the computer. C. hovers nearby, waiting for another turn, keeping a watchful eye on his brother's progress. While his mama bakes cookies, C. finds her stack of special nutcracker stamps on her computer desk and decides to decorate the entire house with these special Christmas "stickers." When Mama emerges from the kitchen, the coffee table has enough postage to be shipped to China, and nutcrackers grace every door in the house and all the furniture. Mama is not happy with C. At. All.
At dinner, C. scarfs down his pasta and his apples, discarding the skin, and sneaks a juice box Mama tries to reserve for school lunches. He sits back on the bench, knees up i the air, and shoots the breeze with Firstborn, who picks at his food daintily, while the baby alternately shovels food into his mouth and hurls it on the ground. After dinner is a rousing bath hour with both brothers in their small tub, including a bubble bathed standoff between the Joker and a Power Ranger.
Mama leaves for her cookie exchange, and C. manages to finagle many cookie dough truffles out of Daddy before demanding two books at bedtime, "The Cow Who Clucked" and a touch and feel farm book, and then it is time for lights out. It's been a long day of juggling being the put-upon, feisty younger brother of a know-it-all six-year-old and the sometimes playmate of a one-year-old, with time spent amongst his peers in between. It's a wonder C. doesn't have something of an identity crisis with all the roles he plays in a day. It's a big job, being a four year old middle brother. He's up to the task.
Mama and Daddy finally get up and Mama kicks the boys off the computer. C. wails, as he does every morning, that he "hasn't had his turn yet!" Of course not. Firstborn never gives C. a turn in the absence of parental threats. Mama asks C. to take off his overnight diaper and then helps him put on his school clothes. C. is embarrassed about having to wear an overnight diaper at the ripe old age of 4.75, but he is even more embarrassed about peeing all over his bed, so he has an uneasy alliance with the overnight diapers for the time being. Firstborn teases from the sofa where he eats a frozen waffle, and Mama reminds Firstborn that he wore an overnight diaper himself well into Kindergarten. Waffles are thrown. Yelling and harumphing ensue.
On the way to school, C. and Firstborn have detailed discussions while they play superhero. "Pwetend that Spider-Man and Batman are fwiends, okay? Okaaaay?" C. proposes to his brother. Firstborn tolerates this story point this time, but he usually wants to call the shots, and he is ALWAYS the star.
Mama drops Firstborn off at school, then heads to the grocery store, where she needs to pick up supplies for her cookie exchange. C. is excited to ride in the cart side by side with his baby brother. They both have steering wheels. As Mama drives the cart into the store, they spin the wheels and "vroom!" and giggle conspiratorially. As they walk down the Christmas aisles, Baby B. and C. ogle the candy in awe. "Chocolate Santa Clauses!" C. murmurs with delight. The world is his candy jar.
Once the groceries are purchased, C. and Baby B. are both awarded balloons by the cashier. C. immediately loses his and it pops on the ceiling, falling in shreds around the cart. "Oooops," he says, smiling a little at the ruckus. He receives another one and this time wears it around his wrist. He and the baby merrily hit each other with their respective balloons as they are fastened back into the car by Mama.
Mama drops C. off at preschool, Baby B. waving goodbye to him angrily because he wants to go to school with C. too and play with the myriad toys and art supplies. C. unloads his lunchbox and his folder and finds his place at a low, long table where he starts painting the cut-out of a gingerbread man with brown paint.
When Mama returns to fetch C., he is sweaty from the playground and excited about a mini candy cane. When they return home, he is thrilled to have time to play on Mama's computer without his older brother breathing down his neck. He orders Mama to please let him play on "Cartoon Neckwork Dot Com" and zones in on the screen. He swats at the baby brother desperately trying to crawl up on the chair with him.
An hour passes, and it is time to retrieve Firstborn from school. Everyone tumbles back into the car, seatbelts fastened, and Mama lets the boys watch Toy Story 2 for the long wait in the school pick-up line. The door opens and Firstborn falls into the car, full of his own news and reports of the day, presenting a packet of hot cocoa mix his class made and regaling C. with tales about art projects and playground finds. C. tells some stories too... totally made-up stories to embellish his day at school. Firstborn calls him on it. Griping, sniping, and yelling ensue.
Back at home, Firstborn demands his own time on the computer. C. hovers nearby, waiting for another turn, keeping a watchful eye on his brother's progress. While his mama bakes cookies, C. finds her stack of special nutcracker stamps on her computer desk and decides to decorate the entire house with these special Christmas "stickers." When Mama emerges from the kitchen, the coffee table has enough postage to be shipped to China, and nutcrackers grace every door in the house and all the furniture. Mama is not happy with C. At. All.
At dinner, C. scarfs down his pasta and his apples, discarding the skin, and sneaks a juice box Mama tries to reserve for school lunches. He sits back on the bench, knees up i the air, and shoots the breeze with Firstborn, who picks at his food daintily, while the baby alternately shovels food into his mouth and hurls it on the ground. After dinner is a rousing bath hour with both brothers in their small tub, including a bubble bathed standoff between the Joker and a Power Ranger.
Mama leaves for her cookie exchange, and C. manages to finagle many cookie dough truffles out of Daddy before demanding two books at bedtime, "The Cow Who Clucked" and a touch and feel farm book, and then it is time for lights out. It's been a long day of juggling being the put-upon, feisty younger brother of a know-it-all six-year-old and the sometimes playmate of a one-year-old, with time spent amongst his peers in between. It's a wonder C. doesn't have something of an identity crisis with all the roles he plays in a day. It's a big job, being a four year old middle brother. He's up to the task.
Baking season begins!
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I don't like to cook and I'm not so good at it, having only started to learn in the past year. I also don't iron, don't knit, don't sew. I am sort of a failure in the domestic arts. But baking I can do. As they say, necessity is the mother of invention; for me, baked goods are a necessity! The fruits of my labor are not always the prettiest things you have ever seen, but they usually taste good.
In preparation for a cookie exchange on Wednesday night, I started honing my craft today. I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, sugar gems with icing, cookie dough truffles, and chocolate chip cookies. Tomorrow I tackle gingersnaps, peanut butter blossoms (aka "those cookies with the Hershey's kisses in the middle!") and Rolo cookies. I promised Firstborn I would make the Pioneer Woman's roll-out cookies too so that he can "paint" cookies again this year.
With the radio playing Christmas music and cookies in the oven, I actually feel like a full-blown mom. It's so weird and yet so comforting.
In preparation for a cookie exchange on Wednesday night, I started honing my craft today. I made peanut butter chocolate chip cookies, sugar gems with icing, cookie dough truffles, and chocolate chip cookies. Tomorrow I tackle gingersnaps, peanut butter blossoms (aka "those cookies with the Hershey's kisses in the middle!") and Rolo cookies. I promised Firstborn I would make the Pioneer Woman's roll-out cookies too so that he can "paint" cookies again this year.
With the radio playing Christmas music and cookies in the oven, I actually feel like a full-blown mom. It's so weird and yet so comforting.
Don't let me forget this image:
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Baby B., all 16 months of him, clothed in a velour romper or a fleece footed pajama with Santas on his tummy, running through the house as fast as he can in search of his big brothers or maybe his Dada, carrying a well-loved copy of "The Monster at the End of This Book, Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover" or "What Will Fat Cat Sit On?" or "The Sweet Smells of Christmas." He runs faster than he can really handle, and he has to swing his bum and legs around in that way only toddlers can just to keep his balance. The back of his head, still bearing his sweet, soft, wispy baby hair, melts my heart, and his little face, so determined, so purposeful, so attuned to the house and everything in it, is my favorite thing right now. He is my snuggly, sometimes sniffly, little cuddle buddy and I am already sad for the days when he won't pitter or patter so much as thud and sprint. My sweet little baby boy -- there could not be anything sweeter.
A new record:
I do believe that this week I accomplished the amazing yet somewhat mortifying feat of going four days without brushing my hair. I did shower and wash it sometime in there, but I didn't brush it afterwards. I'm pretty awesome, yes?
Christmas List
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Dear Santa,
This Christmas, I am a mama of very modest needs. Okay, scratch that. I am definitely a mama of very modest MEANS, though. I would appreciate any help you can give me in fulfilling the following wishes:
1. Please give Baby B. the ability to be left with a babysitter or gym childcare of his choice without bursting into tears, throwing himself on the floor, and keening like a dying animal. He scares the neighbors. If he doesn't acquiesce to staying with childcare soon I am never going to get out of my fat pants.
2. Please give me one extra room in my house. I love my little house. It's cluttered and it is not as big as we are going to need in the coming years, what with three gargantuan boys coming through, but I do love it. I just need ONE more room. Preferably a bonus-type room with a great big closet and lots of windows. Thank you. * This might entail also making more property magically appear in our back yard. See what you can do.*
3. Please make all the baby plates in the house weigh 5 pounds each so that nobody has the strength to casually lift them and hurl them on the (expensive, impractical) hardwood floor in the kitchen. I am so sick of picking up food particles from the outer corners of the room, only to have my work undone at the next meal.
4. When you are here on Christmas Eve, feel free to take the TVs in the family and play rooms with you as well as the Wii. Give them to some children who won't beg, cajole, scream, threaten, negotiate to death, or otherwise harangue their mothers into letting them watch and/or play with them. Good luck finding those kids.
5. Please drop me a line about when I could manage to drag my children out into the heat to have their picture taken with a mall Santa. In 2006 I stood in line, newly pregnant, for two hours with starving 4 year old and a 2 year olds and I am still traumatized by the experience. Last year was much better, but I guess once bitten, twice shy. I am afraid to approach the mall at this date.
6. Please let it be cold enough on Christmas for us to wear long pants so I don't have to shave my legs.
7. Please let the teachers take pity on me and not send home huge grocery bags full of assorted Christmas crafts that the children have been making the entire month of December. I can handle school crafts in small doses, but when they arrive in my hands in huge bags I never get around to properly enjoying or displaying them. They end up sitting in those grocery bags in the guest bedroom until a guest comes, and then they end up sitting in the closet until next year when they get new friends.
8. Please make me lose any appetite for baked goods so I can get through the month and still be able to fit into my fat pants in January. I can't bear the thought of fat fat pants.
9. Please make the baby's diarrhea go away. He has had some form of it for three weeks now. Two tubes of Desitin and a tub of Aquaphor and a box of probiotics and a box of baking soda later, I am at wit's end. I dread the call, "MAMAAAAAAA! Baby B. has a STINKY DIDEY!!!!!" that comes hourly.
10. Most importantly, please take care of my friends and their babies of all ages. I am hoping that 2009 bears less challenges and more happiness. I have hope and faith and love, and I don't need much else when all is said and done. Spread it around.
This Christmas, I am a mama of very modest needs. Okay, scratch that. I am definitely a mama of very modest MEANS, though. I would appreciate any help you can give me in fulfilling the following wishes:
1. Please give Baby B. the ability to be left with a babysitter or gym childcare of his choice without bursting into tears, throwing himself on the floor, and keening like a dying animal. He scares the neighbors. If he doesn't acquiesce to staying with childcare soon I am never going to get out of my fat pants.
2. Please give me one extra room in my house. I love my little house. It's cluttered and it is not as big as we are going to need in the coming years, what with three gargantuan boys coming through, but I do love it. I just need ONE more room. Preferably a bonus-type room with a great big closet and lots of windows. Thank you. * This might entail also making more property magically appear in our back yard. See what you can do.*
3. Please make all the baby plates in the house weigh 5 pounds each so that nobody has the strength to casually lift them and hurl them on the (expensive, impractical) hardwood floor in the kitchen. I am so sick of picking up food particles from the outer corners of the room, only to have my work undone at the next meal.
4. When you are here on Christmas Eve, feel free to take the TVs in the family and play rooms with you as well as the Wii. Give them to some children who won't beg, cajole, scream, threaten, negotiate to death, or otherwise harangue their mothers into letting them watch and/or play with them. Good luck finding those kids.
5. Please drop me a line about when I could manage to drag my children out into the heat to have their picture taken with a mall Santa. In 2006 I stood in line, newly pregnant, for two hours with starving 4 year old and a 2 year olds and I am still traumatized by the experience. Last year was much better, but I guess once bitten, twice shy. I am afraid to approach the mall at this date.
6. Please let it be cold enough on Christmas for us to wear long pants so I don't have to shave my legs.
7. Please let the teachers take pity on me and not send home huge grocery bags full of assorted Christmas crafts that the children have been making the entire month of December. I can handle school crafts in small doses, but when they arrive in my hands in huge bags I never get around to properly enjoying or displaying them. They end up sitting in those grocery bags in the guest bedroom until a guest comes, and then they end up sitting in the closet until next year when they get new friends.
8. Please make me lose any appetite for baked goods so I can get through the month and still be able to fit into my fat pants in January. I can't bear the thought of fat fat pants.
9. Please make the baby's diarrhea go away. He has had some form of it for three weeks now. Two tubes of Desitin and a tub of Aquaphor and a box of probiotics and a box of baking soda later, I am at wit's end. I dread the call, "MAMAAAAAAA! Baby B. has a STINKY DIDEY!!!!!" that comes hourly.
10. Most importantly, please take care of my friends and their babies of all ages. I am hoping that 2009 bears less challenges and more happiness. I have hope and faith and love, and I don't need much else when all is said and done. Spread it around.
Son of an English major.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
In the older two's bedroom last night, as I am dressing them in jammies post-bath:
C., four years old, spots a Lego creation on the floor, apparently in different form than when he left it.
"Firstborn! What did you do to my Lego figure?!"
Firstborn glances over casually. "Oh, I refashioned it," he replies.
C., four years old, spots a Lego creation on the floor, apparently in different form than when he left it.
"Firstborn! What did you do to my Lego figure?!"
Firstborn glances over casually. "Oh, I refashioned it," he replies.
Transcend
Lindsey, a classmate of mine from college, posted the following video and essay at her own blog, A Design So Vast. Thank you, Lindsey. I am particularly thankful this week for my own little army of women in my life that do hold me up and help me transcend both the little and the big things every single day. Men are lovely and little boys and baby boys are delicious and wonderful, but women? Women are my PEEPS. They are my seatbelt and my airbag. They are so worth it.
This video is worth it too. Seriously. Take the time.
This video is worth it too. Seriously. Take the time.
Book rec from the 16-month-old:
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Whenever he is not desperately trying to dip his hands in the toilets, abscond with the plungers, or eat the dishwashing detergent capsules, Baby B. is demanding we read to him. His favorite, favorite book of the moment is by Jan Thomas:
What Will Fat Cat Sit On?
It's an adorable, short book and I must have picked it up at a Scholastic Book Fair or sale. Lots of fun to read with funny voices.
What Will Fat Cat Sit On?
It's an adorable, short book and I must have picked it up at a Scholastic Book Fair or sale. Lots of fun to read with funny voices.
Unpopular
This week, I had my first opportunity to see my writing in a public forum -- a really big, really public public forum. It was a huge moment for me. I have never taken a creative writing class because I didn't think I could take the requisite critiques, you see. I don't have a thick skin when it comes to my writing. Back when I would work with writers, I would advise people like me to get over themselves; it's part of the deal to be criticized and analyzed when you write for the public. But myself? Yeah, well, I have work to do in that area.
So I took the leap and submitted a post actually from my blog. It was sort of like diving into the deep end of the ocean after a lifetime of being the best swimmer in a kiddie pool. The response from my friends was very supportive. The response from strangers? Not so much. And for the first time in my life, I saw my name being used by total strangers in a national forum, bandied about as the strangers discussed not only my writing, but my personal values and worth as a mother. Is there any bigger nightmare, anything more vulnerable to a mother, than having people who have nothing invested in her as a person debate the merits of her PARENTING?
For years, I have read (and loved) Heather Armstrong, aka Dooce. I have read her myriad posts over the years about the horrific things that commenters and readers say to her; most recently, strangers have been writing that she shouldn't be allowed to have more children in the wake of the news of her second pregnancy. I kind of always laughed and shrugged off the comments, though, because I believed that someone like her probably didn't really care what a bunch of rude people said about her. Now I think I really get it.
For as much as I do believe that most commenters on national forums are probably entering with their own baggage, unable to read pieces objectively or unwilling to give the writer any credit or leeway, when someone implies that you personally do not love your children, should not be allowed to have children, or that you are damaging the children you have, well, there is no really good way to shrug that off altogether. I suppose I have been living in a bubble of sorts, because it didn't hit me until now how barbaric it is that people think they can speak to ANYONE in that manner, and yet with the shield of the anonymous Internet, it is possible to tear down fellow mothers and parents with a certain amount of glee and abandon and not really suffer any consequences whatsoever. It's a hit and run, and it feels like it.
There's no good way for me to defend myself, and I stand behind what I wrote anyway. But I definitely feel like I have been told to shut up and go back to my home, that my voice is not wanted or welcomed, and that mothers should never speak of anything potentially ugly or unpretty about motherhood. We're supposed to be grateful for our fertility (and I am) and be quiet about it. Unfortunately, I'm just not that simple. I wish some days that I was.
Luckily, I am pretty confident that I am, in fact, a good mother, and that my children, in fact, are benefitting from having me as a mother and know that they are loved. I'm not willing to tell my children that love, life, and human beings are simple and that feelings are not complicated. I'm not willing to silence myself and give my children a mother that simply gives up because she is unpopular or voices a less than perfect emotion. I want them to know that emotions and feelings are not good or bad, and that it is what we do with them that matters. If we work through them, learn from them, and let them try an connect us to others, that is a good thing. If we take them, let them fester, and then do things like tear down perfect strangers in a national forum? That's a bad thing.
Lord knows I am not a perfect mother, and I don't need any anonymous commenter to tell me that. But I am a human mother, doing my very best, making mistakes, enjoying small victories, and above all else, my children never want for love. They are confident, happy little people. And as much as the past several days have made me want to run and jump into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend that none of this ever happened, I have decided to be a role model for my children, acknowledge and take responsibility for my words, and forge ahead. I am putting on my big girl underwear and I am moving forward.
I have already decided that the next parenting topics I tackle in a public arena will be safer subjects, like circumcision, abortion, and maybe extended breastfeeding in public, right after I address vaccines. Should be fun.
So I took the leap and submitted a post actually from my blog. It was sort of like diving into the deep end of the ocean after a lifetime of being the best swimmer in a kiddie pool. The response from my friends was very supportive. The response from strangers? Not so much. And for the first time in my life, I saw my name being used by total strangers in a national forum, bandied about as the strangers discussed not only my writing, but my personal values and worth as a mother. Is there any bigger nightmare, anything more vulnerable to a mother, than having people who have nothing invested in her as a person debate the merits of her PARENTING?
For years, I have read (and loved) Heather Armstrong, aka Dooce. I have read her myriad posts over the years about the horrific things that commenters and readers say to her; most recently, strangers have been writing that she shouldn't be allowed to have more children in the wake of the news of her second pregnancy. I kind of always laughed and shrugged off the comments, though, because I believed that someone like her probably didn't really care what a bunch of rude people said about her. Now I think I really get it.
For as much as I do believe that most commenters on national forums are probably entering with their own baggage, unable to read pieces objectively or unwilling to give the writer any credit or leeway, when someone implies that you personally do not love your children, should not be allowed to have children, or that you are damaging the children you have, well, there is no really good way to shrug that off altogether. I suppose I have been living in a bubble of sorts, because it didn't hit me until now how barbaric it is that people think they can speak to ANYONE in that manner, and yet with the shield of the anonymous Internet, it is possible to tear down fellow mothers and parents with a certain amount of glee and abandon and not really suffer any consequences whatsoever. It's a hit and run, and it feels like it.
There's no good way for me to defend myself, and I stand behind what I wrote anyway. But I definitely feel like I have been told to shut up and go back to my home, that my voice is not wanted or welcomed, and that mothers should never speak of anything potentially ugly or unpretty about motherhood. We're supposed to be grateful for our fertility (and I am) and be quiet about it. Unfortunately, I'm just not that simple. I wish some days that I was.
Luckily, I am pretty confident that I am, in fact, a good mother, and that my children, in fact, are benefitting from having me as a mother and know that they are loved. I'm not willing to tell my children that love, life, and human beings are simple and that feelings are not complicated. I'm not willing to silence myself and give my children a mother that simply gives up because she is unpopular or voices a less than perfect emotion. I want them to know that emotions and feelings are not good or bad, and that it is what we do with them that matters. If we work through them, learn from them, and let them try an connect us to others, that is a good thing. If we take them, let them fester, and then do things like tear down perfect strangers in a national forum? That's a bad thing.
Lord knows I am not a perfect mother, and I don't need any anonymous commenter to tell me that. But I am a human mother, doing my very best, making mistakes, enjoying small victories, and above all else, my children never want for love. They are confident, happy little people. And as much as the past several days have made me want to run and jump into my bed, pull the covers over my head, and pretend that none of this ever happened, I have decided to be a role model for my children, acknowledge and take responsibility for my words, and forge ahead. I am putting on my big girl underwear and I am moving forward.
I have already decided that the next parenting topics I tackle in a public arena will be safer subjects, like circumcision, abortion, and maybe extended breastfeeding in public, right after I address vaccines. Should be fun.
Flash of brilliance!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
So, I have this ongoing problem with my middle son. He still, at the age of 4.5, needs to wear a pull-up to bed at night. He would like to graduate to underwear, but his little bladder just isn't ready yet, and this mama ain't getting up on a regular basis to change pee-soaked sheets in the middle of the night.
Unfortunately, I often have that honor in the mornings instead. Despite his very adequate big-boy pull-ups, C. pretty much soaks his jammies and his bed every night anyway due to the small issue of his sometimes unconscious affinity for holding his penis.
Over the past six years and change of mothering boys, I have come to be utterly astonished that we women of the United States of America have allowed the sorts of creatures I am raising to grow up and not only lead the USA, but the Free World. They can't pee into the potty without hitting various other parts of the bathroom as well. They are genetically incapable of throwing their clothes into the laundry basket -- the closest they can get is just *beside* the basket. Their multi-tasking capabilities suck. And they hold their penises. Like, a lot. How does that work at a state dinner?
So my otherwise wonderful child wakes up every morning and kind of stinks, because when he holds his penis all night, the pee inevitably shoots up and out of the pull-up, soaking his jammies and eventually his sheets. It is kind of amazing.
I have been searching for a solution for months now. He's a large kid for his age (about 48 inches tall and 57 pounds. Yes, I said 57). Children's clothing manufacturers, it seems, deem it unnecessary or unpopular for such a large child to wear one-piece pajamas. I combed the internet looking for such an animal, and the closest I could find was a quite pricey union union suit from the Vermont Country Store, and I was iffy on the size. [ETA: Several people have now alerted me to the fact that Target is at this moment carrying larger-sized fleece footie pajamas. Thank you. These were not around this summer when I was scouring, but i will be sure to look for them on my next foray to Target.]
Lately I was coming to the end of my rope on this odiferous aspect of my daily routine and had nearly decided I couldn't take it anymore and was going to start buying two piece pajamas and having them altered. Then, last week, I happened upon the news that Halo Sleepsacks are now making models of sleepsacks for walkers and big kids. I have been stressing out about the baby sleeping this winter in a crib with no blanket (he refuses to have ANYTHING in his crib with him), so I decided to buy him one of these new-fangled contraptions, which is basically a sleepsack with leg sleeves so the baby can stand up or walk in them.
And then I saw the big kid models. They are available up to a size 4T-5T and 50 pounds! And so, impulsively, I ordered two of them. I figured it was worth a shot to see if I could stuff C.'s body into one of these suckers, thus eliminating his access to the rogue body part.
The sleepsacks arrived this week and lo and behold, a miracle has visited upon the house. C. fits into the sleepsack with room to spare and actually likes it. When he wears it he can't reach any danger zones, and all is right with the world.
Don't you love it when things work out?
Unfortunately, I often have that honor in the mornings instead. Despite his very adequate big-boy pull-ups, C. pretty much soaks his jammies and his bed every night anyway due to the small issue of his sometimes unconscious affinity for holding his penis.
Over the past six years and change of mothering boys, I have come to be utterly astonished that we women of the United States of America have allowed the sorts of creatures I am raising to grow up and not only lead the USA, but the Free World. They can't pee into the potty without hitting various other parts of the bathroom as well. They are genetically incapable of throwing their clothes into the laundry basket -- the closest they can get is just *beside* the basket. Their multi-tasking capabilities suck. And they hold their penises. Like, a lot. How does that work at a state dinner?
So my otherwise wonderful child wakes up every morning and kind of stinks, because when he holds his penis all night, the pee inevitably shoots up and out of the pull-up, soaking his jammies and eventually his sheets. It is kind of amazing.
I have been searching for a solution for months now. He's a large kid for his age (about 48 inches tall and 57 pounds. Yes, I said 57). Children's clothing manufacturers, it seems, deem it unnecessary or unpopular for such a large child to wear one-piece pajamas. I combed the internet looking for such an animal, and the closest I could find was a quite pricey union union suit from the Vermont Country Store, and I was iffy on the size. [ETA: Several people have now alerted me to the fact that Target is at this moment carrying larger-sized fleece footie pajamas. Thank you. These were not around this summer when I was scouring, but i will be sure to look for them on my next foray to Target.]
Lately I was coming to the end of my rope on this odiferous aspect of my daily routine and had nearly decided I couldn't take it anymore and was going to start buying two piece pajamas and having them altered. Then, last week, I happened upon the news that Halo Sleepsacks are now making models of sleepsacks for walkers and big kids. I have been stressing out about the baby sleeping this winter in a crib with no blanket (he refuses to have ANYTHING in his crib with him), so I decided to buy him one of these new-fangled contraptions, which is basically a sleepsack with leg sleeves so the baby can stand up or walk in them.
And then I saw the big kid models. They are available up to a size 4T-5T and 50 pounds! And so, impulsively, I ordered two of them. I figured it was worth a shot to see if I could stuff C.'s body into one of these suckers, thus eliminating his access to the rogue body part.
The sleepsacks arrived this week and lo and behold, a miracle has visited upon the house. C. fits into the sleepsack with room to spare and actually likes it. When he wears it he can't reach any danger zones, and all is right with the world.
Don't you love it when things work out?
For Thomas
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
There is a baby fighting very hard in a NICU in New Jersey right now who desperately needs all the thoughts he can muster on his behalf. Please, if you pray, pray for Baby Thomas. Even if you aren't the praying kind, wish and hope and pray to the universe for the gift of Thomas in the world.
You never know.
This morning I was waiting in line at preschool to drop my four-year-old off at his class when I saw a woman in the line across the hall just drop her basket. That's a Southern term for "lose it." She was behind a friend of mine, and my friend turned to say something to the other mother, and the mother's whole face just crumpled up and she burst into tears. My friend reached out to her and asked if she was okay, and clearly she wasn't, but she couldn't compose herself enough to explain. In the hallway, the bustle of drop-off sort of moved into slow-motion as the other moms standing nearby realized: one of our own is not okay.
She leaned against the wall, her hand over her eyes, and she wept. I didn't know what to do -- I don't really know her at all -- so I left her to the mothers who did know her. But my heart went out to her, because as my friend said later as we walked to the parking lot, "We all have those days, you know?"
And I do know. There were several days when Firstborn was four and struggling in his Pre-K class that I just sat in my car and bawled like a baby. Day after day, I try to hold it together, just like we all do. I try to remember to get the backpacks together with the right lunch in the right bag, to finish the Christmas pageant costume on time, to have drinkable yogurt in stock for the baby in the morning and childcare lined up so I can fulfill my volunteer duties at school for the week. I try to make a healthy dinner for everyone, to do the "good mom" things like bake cookies (even if they are break and bake), to have the tiny toys in the Advent calendar before, you know, December is halfway over. I don't want to miss bill deadlines, I want to buy enough Christmas presents but not so much that the kids will be spoiled or we will be poor, to keep up with my friends and their lives, to spend time with each child and to dress so that i don't look like I have completely given up on myself.
And at the same time, I have friends with babies in the NICU, my own baby has diarrhea, and it's the holidays, with all the cheer and all the melancholy nostalgia of those we have lost and those we miss included.
This morning reminded me -- you never know what other people are going through. You never know what the mom in the hallway at preschool is wading through in her own life while she holds it together. We do all have "those days" when we just drop our baskets and allow ourselves to cry Uncle. You can only hope that when you do, there will be someone there to put a hand on your shoulder and to help you pick up the pieces.
She leaned against the wall, her hand over her eyes, and she wept. I didn't know what to do -- I don't really know her at all -- so I left her to the mothers who did know her. But my heart went out to her, because as my friend said later as we walked to the parking lot, "We all have those days, you know?"
And I do know. There were several days when Firstborn was four and struggling in his Pre-K class that I just sat in my car and bawled like a baby. Day after day, I try to hold it together, just like we all do. I try to remember to get the backpacks together with the right lunch in the right bag, to finish the Christmas pageant costume on time, to have drinkable yogurt in stock for the baby in the morning and childcare lined up so I can fulfill my volunteer duties at school for the week. I try to make a healthy dinner for everyone, to do the "good mom" things like bake cookies (even if they are break and bake), to have the tiny toys in the Advent calendar before, you know, December is halfway over. I don't want to miss bill deadlines, I want to buy enough Christmas presents but not so much that the kids will be spoiled or we will be poor, to keep up with my friends and their lives, to spend time with each child and to dress so that i don't look like I have completely given up on myself.
And at the same time, I have friends with babies in the NICU, my own baby has diarrhea, and it's the holidays, with all the cheer and all the melancholy nostalgia of those we have lost and those we miss included.
This morning reminded me -- you never know what other people are going through. You never know what the mom in the hallway at preschool is wading through in her own life while she holds it together. We do all have "those days" when we just drop our baskets and allow ourselves to cry Uncle. You can only hope that when you do, there will be someone there to put a hand on your shoulder and to help you pick up the pieces.
The horror, the horror
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
I ran across this news story today and I think my heart broken open in two pieces and might never fit back the same way again.
I will not soon forget the anguish on that child's face. It's NOT RIGHT. Children are not supposed to suffer that way. They are not supposed to see their parents die, to be soaked in their blood, to be orphaned at the age of two. It's not right.
It's not right that his young parents had already experienced so much heartache, bearing two children with Tay-Sachs disease. They must have been so thrilled when little Moshe was born and he was healthy.
I'm so grateful for my life. I'm so grateful for my children's lives. I don't want to forget how lucky we are. I just wish my reminders didn't come in such horrifying, gut-wrenching packages.
Be careful out there today, and remember how delicate the balance is in the world. Hug your children.
I will not soon forget the anguish on that child's face. It's NOT RIGHT. Children are not supposed to suffer that way. They are not supposed to see their parents die, to be soaked in their blood, to be orphaned at the age of two. It's not right.
It's not right that his young parents had already experienced so much heartache, bearing two children with Tay-Sachs disease. They must have been so thrilled when little Moshe was born and he was healthy.
I'm so grateful for my life. I'm so grateful for my children's lives. I don't want to forget how lucky we are. I just wish my reminders didn't come in such horrifying, gut-wrenching packages.
Be careful out there today, and remember how delicate the balance is in the world. Hug your children.
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