It's the week of Christmas, we are picking up our new puppy tonight, and I am struggling. I will write more when I can properly sit down (What is the point of school half days? WHAT IS THE POINT? I ask you!), but until then, this is how I feel this week: lonely and hard to love. I am desperately trying to make Christmas work for me, work for all of us, but right now, I'm feeling more Grinch and less Cindy Lou Who. I hope you all are faring better. Here's a re-post from earlier this fall that encapsulates me right now:
It's also me that tells the children they have to stop playing the Wii to get ready for (fill in the blank) school, for dinner, for swim practice, for bed. It's me that tells them that no, we made a commitment to the (fill in the blank) swim team, the violin teacher, the chess coach, and we need to show up for practice. It's me that signs off on homework, that tells Firstborn to re-write the words he wrote incorrectly, that sends them back to brush their teeth again because the first time they literally only did it for two seconds. It is me that cleans up the potty training messes and insists on a new pair of underwear. No wonder they hate me. No one wants to be this person, the Fun Sponge.
And yes, I know they don't really hate me. But why shouldn't they? Some days, I just want to say, I give up. Do what you want to do. When I was 27 years old and wanted to be a mother, I had no idea what I was committing to. My biggest issues were what to make myself for lunch and if I could fit into my skinny jeans. Now, it feels like my life is just filled to the brim with chores -- mine or others' that I must make them do. I don't want to be a taskmaster, but I am not really sure how to do this without being one.
I have this nagging feeling that I am doing this thing all wrong. That if I was more (fill in the blank) zen, more patient, more laid back, more something, this would be going a lot better. My kids would want to hang out with me more. My kids would be happier. My husband would want to hang out with me more. My husband would be happier. The truth is, I do my very best never to look in a mirror these days because I have no idea who I am anymore and I am afraid I will see it. I've built up all these defenses and walls and tried to zone out because I am just trying to get through this marathon -- no, this IRONMAN -- and I am not parenting with purpose or strategy anymore and I am not being a good participant in my marriage. The cracks are beginning to show.
If I was my kid or my spouse, I am not sure I would love me. I'm not sure who is left to love.
This was always going to be a rough week, and I am trying to remember that and focus forward, knowing that in a month, this will just be how it always was. I hope. I am not one to wallow, and we can't stand still on this treadmill anyway. It will get better. But I would be lying if I didn't say that in this moment, this is all really a lot and I have no idea where I am going with all of it. I am wondering if other women feel the same uncertainty, the same self doubt, the same wonder at how we got here?
Following up on "When opinionated old men attack":
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Hello from the bottom of a mound of flour, sugar, and ground ginger! I am elbow-deep in Christmas cookies and wrapping paper, thrown off track by a croupy three-year-old and a six-year-old with a case of the crazies (I am assuming -- hoping, even -- that his new, screamy, defiant disposition is a result of a lack of adequate exercise due to stitches recovery. Stay tuned.).
I wanted to thank everyone for the comments on my last post. I was a little hesitant to post it because of the religious stuff, for lack of a better word.
I agree with several of you that this incident was not so much about religion as about a pushy, well-intentioned, buttinski type of man. In many ways, he was no different than the woman at the grocery store check-out handing out Mommy Drive-Bys (rude, unsolicited commentary on your parenting from someone who knows you not at all) to the frazzled mommies trying to grab the missing dinner ingredient with strung-out, witching-hour-crazed children in tow. Like most other unsolicited advice, this man's was unwelcome and irrelevant.
But I do believe that what transpired at the violin lesson wasn't completely NOT about religion, either. It just wasn't about any of our religions or our definitions of our religions. It had to do with how this man interprets the Bible and God and how he applies it to life and child-rearing. But I certainly don't equate it with other Christians or even other Baptists. Religions and religious people, as we all well know by now, come in every single shade and texture. His grated on me and you, it seems.
In the end, I wanted to let you know how I handled C.'s anxiety about the issue. I called for help. I have a friend who happens to be a child therapist. I talked to her, and I found her take interesting. She advised me to stop splitting hairs with C. on what words and intent the man actually had, because C. made it clear to me how HE heard it and how it landed on him. She suggested that, instead, I tell C., "That man was wrong to say what he did to you. He tried to threaten and scare you into behaving well, and that was not a good choice." She said to emphasize that like children, adults can make bad decisions too, and that his was a bad decision.
I didn't look at it that way, because I know that the man had good intentions. But my friend is right: he was basically using a threat to scare C. into submission, no matter what his intent. I don't want C. to equate God with threats. As a few of you pointed out, that's not the way we generally want children to relate to God or religion. So I focused on letting C. know that the man was the one in the wrong here, that he had gotten this wrong. He had not meant to scare him, but he did, and he chose poor words.
C. seemed to take this in and accept it. We haven't had more anxiety about death. And though my children have discussed death and seen animals die, I think that we all struggle with the concept and the actual thought of ourselves dying -- I even struggle with it at my age -- and I also believe C. had taken the man's words to imply an immediacy to death that scared him. He seems to have recovered.
In any case, there were good reminders and lessons here. I love Christmas and all the festivities leading up to it, but I also find this a delicate time of year. Christmas can be the popular girl that marginalizes the less festooned winter holidays of other religions. This gave me pause to remember how it feels to be bossed around or to have someone else's opinion shoved in my face or to have my children assaulted by someone else's "stuff." Hey, 'tis the season.
Check back in, because coming next week will be a new family member here in Crazytown: a puppy. You don't want to miss that. And if you go that way, you can start praying for me now.
I wanted to thank everyone for the comments on my last post. I was a little hesitant to post it because of the religious stuff, for lack of a better word.
I agree with several of you that this incident was not so much about religion as about a pushy, well-intentioned, buttinski type of man. In many ways, he was no different than the woman at the grocery store check-out handing out Mommy Drive-Bys (rude, unsolicited commentary on your parenting from someone who knows you not at all) to the frazzled mommies trying to grab the missing dinner ingredient with strung-out, witching-hour-crazed children in tow. Like most other unsolicited advice, this man's was unwelcome and irrelevant.
But I do believe that what transpired at the violin lesson wasn't completely NOT about religion, either. It just wasn't about any of our religions or our definitions of our religions. It had to do with how this man interprets the Bible and God and how he applies it to life and child-rearing. But I certainly don't equate it with other Christians or even other Baptists. Religions and religious people, as we all well know by now, come in every single shade and texture. His grated on me and you, it seems.
In the end, I wanted to let you know how I handled C.'s anxiety about the issue. I called for help. I have a friend who happens to be a child therapist. I talked to her, and I found her take interesting. She advised me to stop splitting hairs with C. on what words and intent the man actually had, because C. made it clear to me how HE heard it and how it landed on him. She suggested that, instead, I tell C., "That man was wrong to say what he did to you. He tried to threaten and scare you into behaving well, and that was not a good choice." She said to emphasize that like children, adults can make bad decisions too, and that his was a bad decision.
I didn't look at it that way, because I know that the man had good intentions. But my friend is right: he was basically using a threat to scare C. into submission, no matter what his intent. I don't want C. to equate God with threats. As a few of you pointed out, that's not the way we generally want children to relate to God or religion. So I focused on letting C. know that the man was the one in the wrong here, that he had gotten this wrong. He had not meant to scare him, but he did, and he chose poor words.
C. seemed to take this in and accept it. We haven't had more anxiety about death. And though my children have discussed death and seen animals die, I think that we all struggle with the concept and the actual thought of ourselves dying -- I even struggle with it at my age -- and I also believe C. had taken the man's words to imply an immediacy to death that scared him. He seems to have recovered.
In any case, there were good reminders and lessons here. I love Christmas and all the festivities leading up to it, but I also find this a delicate time of year. Christmas can be the popular girl that marginalizes the less festooned winter holidays of other religions. This gave me pause to remember how it feels to be bossed around or to have someone else's opinion shoved in my face or to have my children assaulted by someone else's "stuff." Hey, 'tis the season.
Check back in, because coming next week will be a new family member here in Crazytown: a puppy. You don't want to miss that. And if you go that way, you can start praying for me now.
When religion attacks
Thursday, December 9, 2010
The title is facetious, of course. I respect religion and the religious, but today... today it did me wrong.
My son takes violin lessons from the wife of a Baptist pastor. We trek to their home, which is also their church, once a week for lessons. She is a kind woman, and she is patient and tolerant and a good teacher. She also prays for us when we have our (many) ER visits, and I appreciate all the help I can get. But I have always been a little bit skittish about the fact that she is very, very religious and we are very, very not.
I have been afraid to be found out.
Today, I waited in the van with the other two for Firstborn to finish his lesson, and the pastor walked out into the yard. We exchanged niceties, but then he approached the van and started talking about how crazy the Christmas season is and how it has become nothing short of profane with its focus on Santa and toys and commercialism. Well enough. I agree with him.
The problem was, C. was not in a good mood. He was tired from school and, let's face it, he's not so good at the whole self control thing. So he interrupted us a few times, whining about wanting me to fix the video playing on the minivan DVD system. I tried my best to fix it while not being rude to the pastor.
I want to pause for a moment and say that yes, my kids struggle with their behavior. We have a lot of toys. I am working on it. Constantly. I am working on balancing what I require for my sanity sometimes (entertainment for the younger two while the older takes a violin lesson), what I give my children, and their behavior. I do realize that when I tell a story like this one, it has to include the Happy Hour half-price grape slushes from Sonic that has become our weekly ritual and treat, the movie playing in our car, and the fact that my child interrupts adults, and the result is not an idyllic picture. But I am working on it.
The pastor, however, tried to help me work on it. Unfortunately, he chose to address my son directly, without my consent, and he used language and resource material unfamiliar to him.
After explaining to me quickly that he believes that children misbehave because God is not involved in their discipline enough, he peered around me and said to C., "Young man, do you want to live a long time?"
C. froze in his seat, his lips pursed around his slushie straw. His eyes grew big and he tried to look away.
"Young man, I said do you want to live a long time? Do you want to live a long life?"
"Answer him," I urged, hoping to end this as soon as humanly possible.
C. turned his eyes toward the man and nodded his head slowly.
"God says that if you want to live a long life, you must obey your parents," the pastor said. He went on to quote two Bible verses to C., explaining he would live longer if he listened to us more. I watched C. the entire time, and I saw his eyes fill up with tears, but he held it together.
Nothing the man said was really out of line or outrageous. I hadn't asked for parenting help, but he was trying to do his best. He proceeded to tell me how much he loved children and hey, why don't we come to church sometimes? The kids love his hand puppet "Squeaker" and he talks justlikethis in a high voice and spreads the word of God to the kids and Oh, do they love that! I nodded and smiled and thanked him for the invitation and tried desperately to end the conversation because I knew what was happening just behind me in the backseat. But the pastor wasn't done. I then was able to hear the entire story of the day he was saved and how he had been an alcoholic from the age of four until he was 19 and his twin brother convinced him to go to church. It was a sad, and then happy, story, but I could feel the squirming in the backseat the entire time and I was terrified that C. might do something to earn another Bible verse from the pastor.
As soon as the pastor walked away, tossing over his shoulder one last time to me that see, all C. needs is some God in his discipline! I rolled up the window.
Immediately, C. burst into tears. Gasping, huffing, hot rolling tears. Tsunami tears. Wailing tears.
"I'm going to die?" He gasped to me, his eyes wet and red. "That man said I am going to die!"
Awesome.
"That's not what he said," I hedged. "He said that you would be safer if you listened to me more. What he meant was that you need to obey your parents. And you do." Just that morning, I had told the kids I quit and that Christmas was canceled, if that gives you any idea of how our day had been so far.
"But he said I am not going to live! He said God said so!" C. cried, "He said I am going to die because I didn't listen to you!"
"He never even used the word 'die,' C. That is not what he meant," I continued. But I really didn't know what to do or say. Hearing a man of authority use language and phrasing, complete with references to Bible verses and chapters, had not only confused C., but absolutely terrified him.
When we came home, C. locked himself in the bathroom. I could hear him crying and talking about dying and how he would miss Christmas. For the rest of the evening, no matter how much we tried to explain, C. had random outbursts of "I don't want to die."
And of course, it did nothing to make him listen to me more. Not even in the short term.
I wish I knew how to handle those situations better. Our children attended Christian preschools and an Episcopalian school until this year, so they have had some experience with religion and chapel services. But their religion teachers had never talked in such terms of living and dying and they had not employed God in discipline. The well-meaning pastor had interjected himself into my space and into my parenting without knowing us at all, and he unintentionally scared the wits out of my six-year-old. I am not sure how I could have avoided it, even now.
Nothing says"Happy Holidays!" and "Merry Christmas" like the chance to explain to your six-year-old that the pastor didn't mean you are going to die because you were rude to your mother. Now I get to figure out a way to explain to Firstborn's violin teacher why we won't be coming to that church dinner her husband invited us to -- because my children are scared of him.
My son takes violin lessons from the wife of a Baptist pastor. We trek to their home, which is also their church, once a week for lessons. She is a kind woman, and she is patient and tolerant and a good teacher. She also prays for us when we have our (many) ER visits, and I appreciate all the help I can get. But I have always been a little bit skittish about the fact that she is very, very religious and we are very, very not.
I have been afraid to be found out.
Today, I waited in the van with the other two for Firstborn to finish his lesson, and the pastor walked out into the yard. We exchanged niceties, but then he approached the van and started talking about how crazy the Christmas season is and how it has become nothing short of profane with its focus on Santa and toys and commercialism. Well enough. I agree with him.
The problem was, C. was not in a good mood. He was tired from school and, let's face it, he's not so good at the whole self control thing. So he interrupted us a few times, whining about wanting me to fix the video playing on the minivan DVD system. I tried my best to fix it while not being rude to the pastor.
I want to pause for a moment and say that yes, my kids struggle with their behavior. We have a lot of toys. I am working on it. Constantly. I am working on balancing what I require for my sanity sometimes (entertainment for the younger two while the older takes a violin lesson), what I give my children, and their behavior. I do realize that when I tell a story like this one, it has to include the Happy Hour half-price grape slushes from Sonic that has become our weekly ritual and treat, the movie playing in our car, and the fact that my child interrupts adults, and the result is not an idyllic picture. But I am working on it.
The pastor, however, tried to help me work on it. Unfortunately, he chose to address my son directly, without my consent, and he used language and resource material unfamiliar to him.
After explaining to me quickly that he believes that children misbehave because God is not involved in their discipline enough, he peered around me and said to C., "Young man, do you want to live a long time?"
C. froze in his seat, his lips pursed around his slushie straw. His eyes grew big and he tried to look away.
"Young man, I said do you want to live a long time? Do you want to live a long life?"
"Answer him," I urged, hoping to end this as soon as humanly possible.
C. turned his eyes toward the man and nodded his head slowly.
"God says that if you want to live a long life, you must obey your parents," the pastor said. He went on to quote two Bible verses to C., explaining he would live longer if he listened to us more. I watched C. the entire time, and I saw his eyes fill up with tears, but he held it together.
Nothing the man said was really out of line or outrageous. I hadn't asked for parenting help, but he was trying to do his best. He proceeded to tell me how much he loved children and hey, why don't we come to church sometimes? The kids love his hand puppet "Squeaker" and he talks justlikethis in a high voice and spreads the word of God to the kids and Oh, do they love that! I nodded and smiled and thanked him for the invitation and tried desperately to end the conversation because I knew what was happening just behind me in the backseat. But the pastor wasn't done. I then was able to hear the entire story of the day he was saved and how he had been an alcoholic from the age of four until he was 19 and his twin brother convinced him to go to church. It was a sad, and then happy, story, but I could feel the squirming in the backseat the entire time and I was terrified that C. might do something to earn another Bible verse from the pastor.
As soon as the pastor walked away, tossing over his shoulder one last time to me that see, all C. needs is some God in his discipline! I rolled up the window.
Immediately, C. burst into tears. Gasping, huffing, hot rolling tears. Tsunami tears. Wailing tears.
"I'm going to die?" He gasped to me, his eyes wet and red. "That man said I am going to die!"
Awesome.
"That's not what he said," I hedged. "He said that you would be safer if you listened to me more. What he meant was that you need to obey your parents. And you do." Just that morning, I had told the kids I quit and that Christmas was canceled, if that gives you any idea of how our day had been so far.
"But he said I am not going to live! He said God said so!" C. cried, "He said I am going to die because I didn't listen to you!"
"He never even used the word 'die,' C. That is not what he meant," I continued. But I really didn't know what to do or say. Hearing a man of authority use language and phrasing, complete with references to Bible verses and chapters, had not only confused C., but absolutely terrified him.
When we came home, C. locked himself in the bathroom. I could hear him crying and talking about dying and how he would miss Christmas. For the rest of the evening, no matter how much we tried to explain, C. had random outbursts of "I don't want to die."
And of course, it did nothing to make him listen to me more. Not even in the short term.
I wish I knew how to handle those situations better. Our children attended Christian preschools and an Episcopalian school until this year, so they have had some experience with religion and chapel services. But their religion teachers had never talked in such terms of living and dying and they had not employed God in discipline. The well-meaning pastor had interjected himself into my space and into my parenting without knowing us at all, and he unintentionally scared the wits out of my six-year-old. I am not sure how I could have avoided it, even now.
Nothing says"Happy Holidays!" and "Merry Christmas" like the chance to explain to your six-year-old that the pastor didn't mean you are going to die because you were rude to your mother. Now I get to figure out a way to explain to Firstborn's violin teacher why we won't be coming to that church dinner her husband invited us to -- because my children are scared of him.
Not for long, and not forever.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
I read this post at Ask Moxie recently and smiled wryly. Oh, have I been there. I have SO been there, lost in the haze of newborn and infant days, wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into and daydreaming about running away from home, preferably to a sidewalk cafe in Europe.
I didn't comment on Moxie's post, because I was pretty sure mine was not the answer that mother needs to hear: it doesn't get easier, it just gets different. During each phase, just when you think you cannot bear anymore, it will change. Nothing is for all that long, and nothing is forever.
Though my days as a new mother were somewhat dark and hazy, mottled with extreme sleep deprivation and the unfettered frustration of colic, they almost seem sweet to me now. Because now that loud, screamy baby is so long and lanky that it is hard to snuggle with him. Now he doesn't always tell me when he wants to scream. Now the days are numbered when he wants to be seen in public with me. I don't have the stressors of his babyhood, but I also don't get to spend the majority of his day with him anymore. I miss him.
Today I picked up my baby today from his preschool and we drove to the big kids' school to pick them up. I carried him to the school gate, and he wrapped his little legs around me and threw his arms around my neck and laid his head on my shoulder and I thought, "not for much longer." Not forever. He's already 40 pounds now, and soon it will be hard for me to pick him up at all. It's beyond that point for me with my six-year-old C., who is close to 80 pounds now. My eight-year-old is lighter but just too gangly. So B. is my only child I can carry now, and not for much longer. Not forever.
It's almost cruel to have stepping stone sons that remind me daily of what comes next. Firstborn doesn't need a lot of tucking in anymore, and he reads himself his bedtime stories. He runs off to sleepovers with nary a backwards glance. He'll hold my hand sometimes, but not at school. And not, I am sure, for much longer. Not forever.
Soon C. will follow his lead, and finally my Baby B. So, while I can, I will carry B., and hug him closely, and cherish every moment of that little head on my shoulder, of that little body that crawls under the covers next to me in the early dawn hours and burrows into my armpit, of those little feet in footed pajamas.
Today, as I was trying to compile our annual photo calendar for grandparent gifts, I found a picture of B. from not even that long ago. He was in his baby stance, standing in a diaper, sucking his middle two fingers. I realized that I didn't even notice when he stopped sucking on those fingers -- a habit he had since infancy. It was one of my favorite things, the way he sucked those fingers. I didn't even notice when it went away.
I wanted to tell that mother, Not for long, and not forever. But she'll find out soon enough.
I didn't comment on Moxie's post, because I was pretty sure mine was not the answer that mother needs to hear: it doesn't get easier, it just gets different. During each phase, just when you think you cannot bear anymore, it will change. Nothing is for all that long, and nothing is forever.
Though my days as a new mother were somewhat dark and hazy, mottled with extreme sleep deprivation and the unfettered frustration of colic, they almost seem sweet to me now. Because now that loud, screamy baby is so long and lanky that it is hard to snuggle with him. Now he doesn't always tell me when he wants to scream. Now the days are numbered when he wants to be seen in public with me. I don't have the stressors of his babyhood, but I also don't get to spend the majority of his day with him anymore. I miss him.
Today I picked up my baby today from his preschool and we drove to the big kids' school to pick them up. I carried him to the school gate, and he wrapped his little legs around me and threw his arms around my neck and laid his head on my shoulder and I thought, "not for much longer." Not forever. He's already 40 pounds now, and soon it will be hard for me to pick him up at all. It's beyond that point for me with my six-year-old C., who is close to 80 pounds now. My eight-year-old is lighter but just too gangly. So B. is my only child I can carry now, and not for much longer. Not forever.
It's almost cruel to have stepping stone sons that remind me daily of what comes next. Firstborn doesn't need a lot of tucking in anymore, and he reads himself his bedtime stories. He runs off to sleepovers with nary a backwards glance. He'll hold my hand sometimes, but not at school. And not, I am sure, for much longer. Not forever.
Soon C. will follow his lead, and finally my Baby B. So, while I can, I will carry B., and hug him closely, and cherish every moment of that little head on my shoulder, of that little body that crawls under the covers next to me in the early dawn hours and burrows into my armpit, of those little feet in footed pajamas.
Today, as I was trying to compile our annual photo calendar for grandparent gifts, I found a picture of B. from not even that long ago. He was in his baby stance, standing in a diaper, sucking his middle two fingers. I realized that I didn't even notice when he stopped sucking on those fingers -- a habit he had since infancy. It was one of my favorite things, the way he sucked those fingers. I didn't even notice when it went away.
I wanted to tell that mother, Not for long, and not forever. But she'll find out soon enough.
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