Wow, it really has been a long time. It has come to my attention recently that I've been remiss in updating my blog of late. I guess my excuse would be that first Mark, then my mom, then Paul had surgery, all within the space of less than two weeks. Almost three weeks have passed since Paul's surgery, and he's come through the whole experience marvelously. Seriously, we got so lucky.
But I digress. What I really wanted to write about today is my never-ending quest to find parenting strategies that will get me through the day-to-day frustrations I experience while raising my boys. I've gotten to this point so many times. Suddenly, I'll notice that the majority of my dealings with Ben end with me making some sharp comment, or I find myself nagging him all the time. I'll get done, well, lecturing Ben, and he'll dejectedly proclaim that "everything he does is wrong." That's certainly not the message I want to send. He's sad, I feel helpless. It's the same with Paul and Gus, just different problems.
I want to reach that parenting nirvana, that place where I can discipline my kids lovingly so we can all live in harmony. Yeah, that probably doesn't really exist, but I'd still like to get as close to it as possible. It just seems like there's this chasm that separates kids from adults. I remember being a kid and thinking adults have no idea how hard it is to be a kid. Now, as an adult, I think that kids have no idea how hard it is to be an adult. I empathize with Ben (and Paul and Gus), I really do. Somehow that just doesn't translate.
So I did what I always do when I feel stuck on a problem. I turned to books. My friend, who's a social worker who leads parenting workshops, told me I might want to check out the "Love and Logic" program. I rented the DVD from the library, and Mark and I sat down to watch it, ready to emerge better parents. The program's founders contend that the parenting world today is filled with "helicopter parents" who hover around their kids constantly and seek to solve all their problems. This, they say, leads kids to feel helpless, un-empowered, ultimately frustrated. Am I a little helicopterish? (Or is the correct term helicoptery?) I think that would be fair to say, though I certainly am uncomfortable being referred to as such.
The solution: give kids back their problems. First, they say, "hit them with a dose of empathy." The scenario they offer in the video is one of a child losing his coat, saying that someone "stole" it at school. (Read: the kid lost his coat and doesn't want to admit it's his fault.) So first you would say something like, "I'm so sorry that happened to you." Next, you would offer some suggestions, putting out stupid ones first, saving the best ones for last. "Some kids would just wear three shirts. Would that work for you?" "Some kids would take money out of their piggy bank and go to the thrift store and buy a new one. Would that work for you?" (That's the good suggestion, in case you didn't pick up on that.)
All of this was presented in an overly jokey way that tends to irritate me, but OK, I can see some really good suggestions here. I'm not saying that it would be style to proceed exactly as the presenters laid out, but maybe I could adapt it. However, I still wanted to expand my parenting repertoire, so I checked out the book, "How to Talk so Your Kids Will Listen and Listen so Your Kids Will Talk." In this book, the authors say that parents often fail to truly listen to their kids. We're prone to saying dismissive things, leaving kids to feel they've been disregarded. When a child presents a problem to you, try to pick up on what your child is feeling. ("You must be feeling really sad." "You must have been so angry.") Even offering sympathetic sounds like "oh" and "mmhmm" is great, they say. This book definitely sounded more like something I could do.
We've been using techniques from both approaches. Mark and I have been getting some strange responses from Ben, in particular. When we use the "some kids would ..." technique, Ben seems to be a little dubious. "Why are you guys talking so weird?" he's asked us. To be honest, often saying these things feels a little clunky and disingenuous. However, I, for one am going to keep at it. What I was doing before certainly wasn't working. My friend, the social worker, talks about keeping a parenting toolbox. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to put these in my parenting toolbox and hope that someday I'll assemble the perfect one that will lead me to parenting nirvana.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
He's testing my sanity - again
Who could I be talking about but my darling Gus? Almost from the day he was born, Gus has taken me to new places. Before Gus, I had thought parenting at times could be extremely challenging, but I soon learned I hadn't seen anything yet when my youngest boy became colicky at four weeks old. For sometimes three or four hours a night, Gus would howl inconsolably.
After the colic cleared, we had a few months' respite ... until Gus became mobile. A walker at 10 months old, Gus quickly became a climber. We have had to purchase every child-proofing contraption imaginable - locks of every kind - door knob, Lazy Susan, oven. We never needed these devices before Hurricane Gus.
When Gus turned 2, it seemed that things were improving a bit. Toys and activities could hold his interest for longer periods of time. He was still climbing, but less. Just when I was breathing a tiny sigh of relief, Gus devised new ways of torturing me. Here's a sampling of his latest tricks. He pushes toys over to the computer desk to give himself a boost so he can climb up and do a little victory dance on top of our desk. He loves to "help" me cook, so I can't so much as go to the bathroom without hearing the squeak of a chair being pushed over to the counter.
Gus's pièce de résistance, however, has been his discovery of the joys of taking off his diaper. "Go potty!" he'll exclaim. Naturally, I've set him on the toilet many times, and of course he never goes. When I tell people this, they tell me it's great, that he's showing potty-training readiness. At the risk of sounding like a completely unmotivated parent, I don't feel like potty-training him right now. I just want him to keep his diaper on! He can get a onesie open in no time flat, and he's been taking off his diaper a good dozen or more times a day. The worst part is that he's especially prone to doffing his diaper when it's filled with poop. I finally hit my limit and after lots of Googling discovered the Little Keeper Sleeper, escape-proof baby pajamas. The two pairs I ordered arrived yesterday. Hallelujah! He will be wearing his LKSs every day under his clothes. Let's hope they work, otherwise the you-know-what might just hit the fan.
After the colic cleared, we had a few months' respite ... until Gus became mobile. A walker at 10 months old, Gus quickly became a climber. We have had to purchase every child-proofing contraption imaginable - locks of every kind - door knob, Lazy Susan, oven. We never needed these devices before Hurricane Gus.
When Gus turned 2, it seemed that things were improving a bit. Toys and activities could hold his interest for longer periods of time. He was still climbing, but less. Just when I was breathing a tiny sigh of relief, Gus devised new ways of torturing me. Here's a sampling of his latest tricks. He pushes toys over to the computer desk to give himself a boost so he can climb up and do a little victory dance on top of our desk. He loves to "help" me cook, so I can't so much as go to the bathroom without hearing the squeak of a chair being pushed over to the counter.
Gus's pièce de résistance, however, has been his discovery of the joys of taking off his diaper. "Go potty!" he'll exclaim. Naturally, I've set him on the toilet many times, and of course he never goes. When I tell people this, they tell me it's great, that he's showing potty-training readiness. At the risk of sounding like a completely unmotivated parent, I don't feel like potty-training him right now. I just want him to keep his diaper on! He can get a onesie open in no time flat, and he's been taking off his diaper a good dozen or more times a day. The worst part is that he's especially prone to doffing his diaper when it's filled with poop. I finally hit my limit and after lots of Googling discovered the Little Keeper Sleeper, escape-proof baby pajamas. The two pairs I ordered arrived yesterday. Hallelujah! He will be wearing his LKSs every day under his clothes. Let's hope they work, otherwise the you-know-what might just hit the fan.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
So, you can't be good at everything
It was last spring that I saw that our church was in need of faith formation teachers. I know it's perpetually hard for them to find enough teachers, and though the idea of it made me more than a little nervous, I decided to volunteer. I had envisioned maybe teaching Ben's third-grade class. Or if not that, I would have liked to teach first- or second-graders, an age group that's not too jaded yet and, let's face it, not too old to resent having to come to religious ed after putting in a full day at school. So when I got the call from the director asking me to teach fourth grade, the kids were a little older than I wanted, but I could handle it, I thought. Little did I know.
When I went into this, I thought it would be pretty straightforward, that we would have very precise lesson plans made for us that would take us through the hour of teaching each night. However, when I arrived, I quickly realized I was mistaken. Other teachers began talking about how they had their classes singing and dancing, doing all kinds of fun activities they had devised. I most definitely am not the singing and dancing type. I began to think that maybe this endeavor was more than I had bargained for, not because it's unreasonable to ask that much of me as a teacher, just because I didn't feel up for that at this time in my life.
Then I saw my class list. My class had 12 kids and was growing. I had been hoping for something more in the realm of eight, or maybe 10. By the time the first night rolled around, I was getting a little worried, but I convinced myself that it was just a case of the jitters, and I would be fine. I had read through everything and felt reasonably prepared. I do get nervous talking in front of a group, but I had reasoned that these were kids, different from the angst I feel with public speaking to a group of peers.
When I arrived Wednesday night, my class had ballooned to 14, they had moved my class into a double room with two large tables, and they had added an aide for me. All of these factors made me nervous. I don't have a loud speaking voice, and now my meek voice would have to carry even farther. I was grateful for the addition of the aide, but somehow it also contributed to my anxiety. Now I would be performing in front of a peer too. What if I sounded like an idiot?
Class started out well enough. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, shared something fun we did over the summer. Then the lesson began, and the night began its descent into the abyss of awfulness. I had the class begin to go through our readings for the night. I'd read through them but hadn't thought of how dry they would seem to the kids, hadn't thought of ways to embellish and thoughtful questions to ask the kids. It was too late for me to come up with anything, as I was now completely flustered. So onward I plowed, droning on and on. "Maybe now is a good time to stop and go through the key words," my aide added helpfully. Duh, yes, of course it was, but darn if I had come up with any good ideas.
I haven't even gotten to the kids. One boy was a really nice kid who probably also has ADHD. He talked non-stop from the beginning of class to the end. "Everyone says I have a big mouth," he babbled. I had to agree. At one point, he took out a cell phone and began to try to play games on it. Really, parents? You let your child bring a cell phone? Another group of boys talked amongst themselves the entire time. Then there was a cute tomboy girl who Big Mouth accidentally called a boy. "Dude, that's a girl," another boy said. I guess the tomboy had every right at that point to be disaffected, and boy was she ever. She did not want to be there. All night, she scribbled furiously in her book. I looked down and noticed that she had written "R U Dead," next to a picture of Jesus. The kids were doing some writing and I went over to the tomboy and said, per the written question, "Imagine you are walking with Jesus, what is he saying to you?" I asked this question in a sunny voice that belied the mounting panic I was feeling. She wasn't buying it. "He doesn't even know me," she mumbled. This. Was. Not. Going. Well.
I think it was the group of kids who were actually trying to be engaged for whom I felt most badly. I could hardly even pay attention to them. I've always respected teachers, and now I do more than ever. How do they do it day after day with all those needs and personalities? I couldn't manage for one measly hour, one night, with HALF the number of kids most teachers have to teach.
The night careened to its horrible end. I am not exaggerating when I say I did a woefully bad job. I was ready to beg out of this commitment. Lucky for me, the director of faith formation is kind and helpful, and she wanted to help me find a solution. So now the class has been split into two. I think I've come up with some ideas that will make me more comfortable with teaching my smaller group. But if you're inclined to do so, offer up some prayers for me to be a good teacher. God knows I need them.
When I went into this, I thought it would be pretty straightforward, that we would have very precise lesson plans made for us that would take us through the hour of teaching each night. However, when I arrived, I quickly realized I was mistaken. Other teachers began talking about how they had their classes singing and dancing, doing all kinds of fun activities they had devised. I most definitely am not the singing and dancing type. I began to think that maybe this endeavor was more than I had bargained for, not because it's unreasonable to ask that much of me as a teacher, just because I didn't feel up for that at this time in my life.
Then I saw my class list. My class had 12 kids and was growing. I had been hoping for something more in the realm of eight, or maybe 10. By the time the first night rolled around, I was getting a little worried, but I convinced myself that it was just a case of the jitters, and I would be fine. I had read through everything and felt reasonably prepared. I do get nervous talking in front of a group, but I had reasoned that these were kids, different from the angst I feel with public speaking to a group of peers.
When I arrived Wednesday night, my class had ballooned to 14, they had moved my class into a double room with two large tables, and they had added an aide for me. All of these factors made me nervous. I don't have a loud speaking voice, and now my meek voice would have to carry even farther. I was grateful for the addition of the aide, but somehow it also contributed to my anxiety. Now I would be performing in front of a peer too. What if I sounded like an idiot?
Class started out well enough. We went around the room and introduced ourselves, shared something fun we did over the summer. Then the lesson began, and the night began its descent into the abyss of awfulness. I had the class begin to go through our readings for the night. I'd read through them but hadn't thought of how dry they would seem to the kids, hadn't thought of ways to embellish and thoughtful questions to ask the kids. It was too late for me to come up with anything, as I was now completely flustered. So onward I plowed, droning on and on. "Maybe now is a good time to stop and go through the key words," my aide added helpfully. Duh, yes, of course it was, but darn if I had come up with any good ideas.
I haven't even gotten to the kids. One boy was a really nice kid who probably also has ADHD. He talked non-stop from the beginning of class to the end. "Everyone says I have a big mouth," he babbled. I had to agree. At one point, he took out a cell phone and began to try to play games on it. Really, parents? You let your child bring a cell phone? Another group of boys talked amongst themselves the entire time. Then there was a cute tomboy girl who Big Mouth accidentally called a boy. "Dude, that's a girl," another boy said. I guess the tomboy had every right at that point to be disaffected, and boy was she ever. She did not want to be there. All night, she scribbled furiously in her book. I looked down and noticed that she had written "R U Dead," next to a picture of Jesus. The kids were doing some writing and I went over to the tomboy and said, per the written question, "Imagine you are walking with Jesus, what is he saying to you?" I asked this question in a sunny voice that belied the mounting panic I was feeling. She wasn't buying it. "He doesn't even know me," she mumbled. This. Was. Not. Going. Well.
I think it was the group of kids who were actually trying to be engaged for whom I felt most badly. I could hardly even pay attention to them. I've always respected teachers, and now I do more than ever. How do they do it day after day with all those needs and personalities? I couldn't manage for one measly hour, one night, with HALF the number of kids most teachers have to teach.
The night careened to its horrible end. I am not exaggerating when I say I did a woefully bad job. I was ready to beg out of this commitment. Lucky for me, the director of faith formation is kind and helpful, and she wanted to help me find a solution. So now the class has been split into two. I think I've come up with some ideas that will make me more comfortable with teaching my smaller group. But if you're inclined to do so, offer up some prayers for me to be a good teacher. God knows I need them.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Yeah, you could say I worry a little
So this is my boy. If you were in third grade, you totally would want to be his friend, right? He's so cute and really nice, too. Since the school year has begun, Ben making friends has been a bit of an obsession for me. Over the summer, I was able to mostly suppress my angst about the transition Ben soon would face. But as soon as Sept. 1 hit, my worry was back in full force.
Here's my thinking: I was confident Ben would be fine with the academics of third grade, so if I could just ensure that he made a friend or two in his new class, things would be golden and I could move on to finding my next thing to worry about. The first days of school didn't seem to be going so well. Ben would come home from school grouchy as all get out. When I would ask him what he did at recess, he would say, "Nothing, just walked around." Every day after school, I would pepper him with the same litany of questions: "Did you play with anyone at recess"? "Who did you sit with at lunch"? I wouldn't have blamed him if he had finally snapped at me: "Mom, would you shut up with that already!"
Now, I don't feel like Ben needs a whole passel of friends. My expectations are realistic - God knows, I was never popular in school. Even one good friend would be enough to satisfy me. Just as I was beginning to fear that Ben would be condemned to a life of solitude at school, of forever wandering the playground alone, things began to change. On Wednesday, he got a call from a classmate, Brodie. On Thursday and Friday, he talked on the phone with his friend, Gabby. Yesterday, for more than an hour, he and Gabby played Webkinz while chatting on the phone. I'm sure some day soon, I'll be harping on Ben to get off the phone already. But when I do, I'll do it with a secret smile.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Celebrating 10
Mark and I were but 23 when we tied the knot 10 years ago. Like my uncle, who called me "the child bride," you might be tempted to comment on young we were, especially for today's standards. However, if you know Mark, you probably also know why I was able to marry him with the utmost confidence. A more decent, kind, loving mate I could not have found, and I feel so lucky that we found each other.
Of course, hitting this milestone has gotten me reflecting. We sure have managed to cram a lot into 10 years. We've celebrated the greatest joys, three to be exact. We've gone through some hard times and heartache, too, and I've come to the conclusion that all marrieds reach eventually - that marriage is hard work. I can say with certainty, though, that there's no one I'd rather take this journey with. Mark is such a good man, that it makes me want to work at our relationship all the harder. He makes it all worth it.
I've never been big on poetry, but in one of my high school English classes, we read this poem that I did love. (Well, I fell in love with it after my teacher decoded it for us - like I said, I'm no poet.) It's called Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town by E.E. Cummings. I gave Mark a copy on our wedding day.
So here it is:
anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men (both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes
Women and men (both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain
After 10 years, I still love Mark "more by more" and his any will always be all to me.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Do I have to give them up?
I don't think I'll ever get used to how quickly time passes. Another summer gone in a flash. Ben heads back to school tomorrow morning, and my feelings are decidedly mixed. Mostly, I'm sad. I don't want to turn him over quite yet. I like having him around, even though these days he spends much more time interacting with Paulie than me. I knew that with an almost-2-year-old on my hands this summer, the season wouldn't be lazy and care-free, that trips to the pool and beach would be tricky. Predictably, quality time with the boys outside was even harder to come by than I thought it would be. Thanks to the often-steamy weather and the fact that my older two boys are more inclined to play inside than out, we didn't spend a lot of time outdoors running through sprinklers and riding bikes. (At least Ben and Paul didn't - Gus made sure to drag me outside often whether I liked it or not.)
Ben and Paulie spent a lot of time this summer in the bathroom racing cars. That's right, in the bathroom. I'm not sure exactly what appeal the bathroom held, but they seemed happy, didn't fight and stayed busy for an hour or two at a time, so I didn't question it. In fact, it warms my heart to have Ben and Paulie coming up with their own fun adventures. It reminds me of the stories my dad used to tell about playing teddy bears with his older brother, Paul. When Ben wasn't playing with Paul, he spent the bulk of his time reading - Encyclopedia Brown, all the Narnia books, Geronimo Stilton. Basically whatever he could get his hands on. These past two weeks, he's been holing himself up in the basement listening for hours a day as Jim Dale regales him with the tales of Harry Potter.
Two weeks after Ben starts, Paulie will begin his final year of preschool before heading off to kindergarten next year. It is unreal to me that Paulie has just one year left before starting school. I know it's a whole year, but I also know from experience how quickly it will pass. The preschool we have chosen is a co-op, so I will help teach Paulie's class once a month. I hope it will be the ideal situation for my middle to child to finally overcome his separation anxiety.
Heavy as my heart is at the thought of relinquishing two of my kids to the education system, I know it's time. I've noticed a spike in bickering and boredom. I'm certain that once again Ben is ready to tackle math, science, social studies and reading, and Paulie will love his preschool art projects. And I'm sure that soon I will come to appreciate the structure that having the kids in school affords. No doubt about it, though, I will miss them very much.
Ben and Paulie spent a lot of time this summer in the bathroom racing cars. That's right, in the bathroom. I'm not sure exactly what appeal the bathroom held, but they seemed happy, didn't fight and stayed busy for an hour or two at a time, so I didn't question it. In fact, it warms my heart to have Ben and Paulie coming up with their own fun adventures. It reminds me of the stories my dad used to tell about playing teddy bears with his older brother, Paul. When Ben wasn't playing with Paul, he spent the bulk of his time reading - Encyclopedia Brown, all the Narnia books, Geronimo Stilton. Basically whatever he could get his hands on. These past two weeks, he's been holing himself up in the basement listening for hours a day as Jim Dale regales him with the tales of Harry Potter.
Two weeks after Ben starts, Paulie will begin his final year of preschool before heading off to kindergarten next year. It is unreal to me that Paulie has just one year left before starting school. I know it's a whole year, but I also know from experience how quickly it will pass. The preschool we have chosen is a co-op, so I will help teach Paulie's class once a month. I hope it will be the ideal situation for my middle to child to finally overcome his separation anxiety.
Heavy as my heart is at the thought of relinquishing two of my kids to the education system, I know it's time. I've noticed a spike in bickering and boredom. I'm certain that once again Ben is ready to tackle math, science, social studies and reading, and Paulie will love his preschool art projects. And I'm sure that soon I will come to appreciate the structure that having the kids in school affords. No doubt about it, though, I will miss them very much.
Monday, August 23, 2010
I gave it a tri
When I joined the team, Matt had told me that the swim would be 1,000 meters. I felt comfortable with that distance. The longest event when I participated on the swim team in high school was 500 meters. Twice that distance - I could do that. Soon after, I learned that the race actually was a mile. Three times longer? I began to lose my nerve. After all, I hadn't swam seriously in 16 years. I didn't want to let my team down, however, so I decided I would give it a try. Anyway, way back in December, it somehow seemed like Aug. 22 was a very, very long time away.
I came up with a plan to start my training in April. Two mornings a week, I arose at 5:30 a.m and headed to the Y to swim laps. I've always loved to swim, enjoying exercising in the cool water, watching the tiny bubbles fly off my hands as I plunged them into the water. As I began to swim, I was pleased to find out that it still came quite naturally to me. Fairly easily, I was able to make it through the workouts in my book.
As spring turned to summer, my anxiety began to grow. In June, we made a trip to Madison so I could practice lake swimming with my sister-in-law, Emily. We arrived at Lake Wingra on a Saturday morning to find weeds up to my chest and very choppy water. Nonetheless, I plunged in. "Let's just swim a few yards," Emily said. We did, and when we stopped, she told me to look up. Emily pointed out that rather than swimming in a straight line, I had swam in a circle. That was my introduction to the need to spot, lifting my head every few strokes so I could look at a fixed point and swim straight. I knew that swimming in open water would be a far cry from the relatively sterile environment of lap swimming in a pool, but I hadn't even thought about this dimension. Another thing to worry about! Emily assuaged my fear, assuring me that the race lake would be much less weedy and much calmer.
That Aug. 22 that seemed like it might never arrive quickly came upon me. The morning we arrived at the race was beautiful, nonetheless I was filled with anxiety bordering on panic. We signed in and picked up our packet. I have to say, as the volunteer marked our team number on my arms and legs, I felt pretty cool, maybe even a little bad-ass. I sized up the course. I would need to swim two laps. Matt and Emily both were doing the entire triathlon - a mile swim, a 40K bike and a 10K run. Nervously, I went over with them again and again what I would need to do. I was certain that I would make a technical error and sink my team or that I would become paralyzed with fear and need to drop out of the race. My heart pounded as I took my place in the water. Just as my angst was peaking, there was Matt, who was in the same wave as me. His reassuring words and kind smile were enough to get me through.
The race began and I was off. As soon as I had the first length of the race completed, I felt great and confident. I could do this. Nothing I had worried about - that it would be scary to swim in open water, that spotting would be difficult - came to fruition. All in all, the experience was exhilarating. It was unbelievably gratifying to have months of work culminate in this.
I didn't feel fatigued as I swam, but by the time I was sprinting out of the water to hand off the recording band to Steve, I was tired. "I'm going to puke," I told him as I made the hand-off. I didn't, of course. After that, I was able to sit back and enjoy. It was fascinating watching the competitors as they transitioned from one event to the next. I'm in awe of people who do the whole thing, especially my brother- and sister-in-law. Matt was a year ahead of Mark and me in high school, and I have always known him to be a preternaturally kind and decent person. Emily is a paragon of awesomeness. She is a tremendous, elite athlete, but she is ever humble and always supportive.
And then there's Mark. I felt so proud and emotional as I watched him come in strong to finish the race. I also felt a little sad that the experience was already over. I can see how people become addicted to competing. Me, I'll never be a serious competitor. But you'd better believe that come next triathlon season, I'll be ready to swim again. After the race, Steve asked how long it would take for the markings on our arms and legs to fade. I secretly wished that they would stay as long as possible, because for me, they are a mark of accomplishment.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
The dog days
As I was sitting outside one recent day, sweat dripping down my forehead and soaking my shirt, the revelation hit me all at once: I don't like summer all that much. I realize that living in Wisconsin, where overall we have precious little hot weather, this statement may seem blasphemous, so let me explain. It's really this part of summer, the dog days, that I don't enjoy.
This summer, in particular, has been chalk-full of all the things I hate about the season. For the past month, we have been locked in this terrible pattern of sweltering weather, followed by storms, followed by more sweltering weather. All of this a breeding ground for mosquitoes and frizzy hair. After all this rain we've had, I keep forgetting that our favorite parks, too, will be waterlogged and arrive to find sopping-wet slides and small lakes in the sandboxes.
I simply cannot abide these days in which it's so hot or, more to the point, humid, that it's extremely uncomfortable to be outside for more than an hour. Yes, I could go inside, but there's a little someone here who would spend the entire day outside if he could (and rightly so, that's where all kids should be in the summer, no?). Guess who usually wins this battle? Inside - there's another one of my gripes. I find it so jarring the contrast between the hot, sticky outdoor air and the refrigerated feeling of stepping into an air-conditioned space. I hate all those excessively cooled restaurants, stores and movie theaters so common in summertime.
I guess it comes down to me and my perpetual state of always wanting what I don't have. In February, I sit and dream of days like today when I can just open the backdoor and let the boys out to play. So today I'm dreaming of sunny, mild days. Mid-70s, no rain. Is that too much to ask?
This summer, in particular, has been chalk-full of all the things I hate about the season. For the past month, we have been locked in this terrible pattern of sweltering weather, followed by storms, followed by more sweltering weather. All of this a breeding ground for mosquitoes and frizzy hair. After all this rain we've had, I keep forgetting that our favorite parks, too, will be waterlogged and arrive to find sopping-wet slides and small lakes in the sandboxes.
I simply cannot abide these days in which it's so hot or, more to the point, humid, that it's extremely uncomfortable to be outside for more than an hour. Yes, I could go inside, but there's a little someone here who would spend the entire day outside if he could (and rightly so, that's where all kids should be in the summer, no?). Guess who usually wins this battle? Inside - there's another one of my gripes. I find it so jarring the contrast between the hot, sticky outdoor air and the refrigerated feeling of stepping into an air-conditioned space. I hate all those excessively cooled restaurants, stores and movie theaters so common in summertime.
I guess it comes down to me and my perpetual state of always wanting what I don't have. In February, I sit and dream of days like today when I can just open the backdoor and let the boys out to play. So today I'm dreaming of sunny, mild days. Mid-70s, no rain. Is that too much to ask?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A love-hate relationship?
As I was preparing for another glorious day with my three darling children yesterday, a promo for a story on the Today Show caught my attention. They were doing a feature about a cover story entitled, "I love my children. I hate my life," which recently appeared in New York Magazine. Wow. Provocative. I quickly hit the DVR button and tuned in later.
Studies show, the story said, that many people become decidedly unhappier when they become parents. Furthermore, in a survey among moms, the majority ranked activities like napping, preparing food and housework as more pleasurable than childcare. Boy, do I get that. After tending to the boys' needs eight or nine hours a day, believe me, I'd rather do almost anything.
While I think saying that I "hate my life" is many shades too extreme to describe the way I feel day to day, I do understand where the writer is going with the story. As the psychologist in the piece pointed out, many people end up unhappy with parenting because of unrealistic expectations. Been there. Before Ben was born, I thought, sure I can give up a little sleep, no big deal. There was no way I could have prepared myself for the actual degree of sleep deprivation and the way it would feel. I was a 25-year-old first-time mom, and it felt utterly overwhelming.
Likewise, I had unrealistic expectations about being a stay-at-home mom. It was what I had always wanted to do in life. I pictured leading my kids in structured activities: crafts, story time, fun outings. Reality quickly set in on that one and soon I settled into the realization: holy crap, how am I going to fill a whole day every day? Staying at home with three kids often means trying to meet three diverse sets of needs all at once. This one needs more structured play, this one needs less. This one wants to spend every minute outside, these two would rather be inside. It's an almost non-stop barrage of requests and demands, most often not delivered in a sweet, polite tone of voice. It's a battle against boredom, theirs, and yes, I'll admit it, sometimes mine too. It's watching your house turn to a disorganized mess before your very eyes. Craft time is me keeping vigil over Gus to keep him from biting off crayon tips or eating Play-Doh. Sitting down for story time? Not so easy. As for the outings, it seems like someone is always unhappy. My youngest doesn't want to be in his stroller. My older two whine about not wanting to walk.
So that's the hard part. Lest I sound really miserable and ungrateful, let me say that with time has come acceptance that this simply is my life right now. My expectations are reasonable - most days. I see it as putting in my time right now for the benefits of later, when my kids are older and a little more independent. Yes, most moments of the day feel like pure work, but then there are sweet moments too, like nap time. So in conclusion, I've decided that I love my life. But maybe for my sake, just don't ask me at, say, 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Studies show, the story said, that many people become decidedly unhappier when they become parents. Furthermore, in a survey among moms, the majority ranked activities like napping, preparing food and housework as more pleasurable than childcare. Boy, do I get that. After tending to the boys' needs eight or nine hours a day, believe me, I'd rather do almost anything.
While I think saying that I "hate my life" is many shades too extreme to describe the way I feel day to day, I do understand where the writer is going with the story. As the psychologist in the piece pointed out, many people end up unhappy with parenting because of unrealistic expectations. Been there. Before Ben was born, I thought, sure I can give up a little sleep, no big deal. There was no way I could have prepared myself for the actual degree of sleep deprivation and the way it would feel. I was a 25-year-old first-time mom, and it felt utterly overwhelming.
Likewise, I had unrealistic expectations about being a stay-at-home mom. It was what I had always wanted to do in life. I pictured leading my kids in structured activities: crafts, story time, fun outings. Reality quickly set in on that one and soon I settled into the realization: holy crap, how am I going to fill a whole day every day? Staying at home with three kids often means trying to meet three diverse sets of needs all at once. This one needs more structured play, this one needs less. This one wants to spend every minute outside, these two would rather be inside. It's an almost non-stop barrage of requests and demands, most often not delivered in a sweet, polite tone of voice. It's a battle against boredom, theirs, and yes, I'll admit it, sometimes mine too. It's watching your house turn to a disorganized mess before your very eyes. Craft time is me keeping vigil over Gus to keep him from biting off crayon tips or eating Play-Doh. Sitting down for story time? Not so easy. As for the outings, it seems like someone is always unhappy. My youngest doesn't want to be in his stroller. My older two whine about not wanting to walk.
So that's the hard part. Lest I sound really miserable and ungrateful, let me say that with time has come acceptance that this simply is my life right now. My expectations are reasonable - most days. I see it as putting in my time right now for the benefits of later, when my kids are older and a little more independent. Yes, most moments of the day feel like pure work, but then there are sweet moments too, like nap time. So in conclusion, I've decided that I love my life. But maybe for my sake, just don't ask me at, say, 4:30 p.m. on a Tuesday.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
The inevitable pet request
I figured this time would come eventually, the time when one of my kids would start asking us for a pet. Karma seems to ensure that I get what's coming to me in most parenting issues. I am, after all, the girl who decided she wanted a puppy or kitten of her very own for her 13th birthday and launched a month-long campaign of writing begging letters to my parents. For the record, I didn't get my wish but instead received a telephone for my room and a stuffed animal, much to my furor. Wisely played, Mom and Dad. Yes, I did get over it sooner than later.
That brings me to now, when my middle child has his heart set on a pet. Ben and Paulie prepared birthday lists yesterday. Good thing, since their birthdays are three and five months away, respectively. At the top of Paulie's list: a pet turtle. The kid loves turtles. I suppose it doesn't help that the boys know that my parents did cave sometime in my teenage years and let me have, yes, a pet turtle. A pet turtle that I took care of very, very spottily. Yes, I fed it and all, but let's just say its cage was not so clean. Ben and Paul seem to accept the fact that because of allergies we will never have cats or dogs, that I am vehemently opposed to harboring rodents of any kinds, and that my bird phobia will keep fowls out of our house. However, I think Paul thinks he might be able to sway us on the turtle.
Here's the thing, though: turtles live for a long time. I'm pretty sure I don't want to make that kind of commitment to a reptile. And fish, the one pet I would consider, don't live long at all. Do I really want to explain mortality to my 4-year-old? The plan is to stay strong and keep saying no to an animal invasion. Wish me luck in turning down those big, pleading eyes. Do you think an ant farm would satisfy him? No? I didn't either ...
That brings me to now, when my middle child has his heart set on a pet. Ben and Paulie prepared birthday lists yesterday. Good thing, since their birthdays are three and five months away, respectively. At the top of Paulie's list: a pet turtle. The kid loves turtles. I suppose it doesn't help that the boys know that my parents did cave sometime in my teenage years and let me have, yes, a pet turtle. A pet turtle that I took care of very, very spottily. Yes, I fed it and all, but let's just say its cage was not so clean. Ben and Paul seem to accept the fact that because of allergies we will never have cats or dogs, that I am vehemently opposed to harboring rodents of any kinds, and that my bird phobia will keep fowls out of our house. However, I think Paul thinks he might be able to sway us on the turtle.
Here's the thing, though: turtles live for a long time. I'm pretty sure I don't want to make that kind of commitment to a reptile. And fish, the one pet I would consider, don't live long at all. Do I really want to explain mortality to my 4-year-old? The plan is to stay strong and keep saying no to an animal invasion. Wish me luck in turning down those big, pleading eyes. Do you think an ant farm would satisfy him? No? I didn't either ...
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Can't we meet somewhere in the middle?
I find it endlessly fascinating that all my boys could turn out so differently from one another. Take Paulie and Gus. As I have written about extensively, Paulie has huge separation anxiety. This, I've discovered, extends beyond just leaving me to go to school or what have you. When I brought him to swimming lessons the other day, he asked me ad nauseum where I would be sitting while he was swimming. Clearly he simply would not be comfortable until he had me firmly pinned down. Once he saw me perched in my spot, he waved happily and was fine. A few weeks back my mom and I took all three boys to a large park. Paulie stayed right on my heels the entire time. If I dare say this about my darling boy, he sometimes carries his need to be close to me to the point of annoyance. At the library one day, while he was looking at movies, I wandered to a spot, where I could still see him, to look at something else. He, however, could not see me and immediately launched into a full-on panic, crying hysterically.
On the other hand, we have Gus. I've written, also extensively, about Gus's risk-taking and reckless behavior. I think it's fair to say he's the polar opposite of Paulie in this way. If you could have spied on me at Ben's kickball game yesterday, here's what you would have seen: Gus running away from me at any opportunity, me running after him and Paulie hot on my trail. Scenes like this play out anywhere we go together.
One rainy Friday a few weeks ago, I took Paulie and Gus to the children's museum. It was incredibly crowded, filled not only with parents and kids seeking a rainy day activity but also many school field trips. The boys and I were playing when I turned my head for a second and saw Gus run off. I even saw the direction in which he ran, but he's unbelievably fast. For what must be the longest 90 seconds of my life, I could not find him. I ran from place to place, panic mounting, Paulie running after me. The children's museum is a big place, on two stories. What if he'd gotten down the stairs, someone had taken him? Furthermore I knew that the longer he was missing, the farther he could get from me, that it could be incredibly difficult to spot him in the sea of people. Finally I found him, happy as can be, playing in the water area. He was not at all concerned, I might add, that his mother was nowhere in sight. When I found him, I was dizzy with relief. Another reminder that I cannot let him out of my sight, even for a second.
So Paulie and Gus, here's what I propose: Paulie, you give Gus a little of your fear; Gus, you give Paulie a little of your confidence. Do this, and you'll make your mother a much happier and saner person.
On the other hand, we have Gus. I've written, also extensively, about Gus's risk-taking and reckless behavior. I think it's fair to say he's the polar opposite of Paulie in this way. If you could have spied on me at Ben's kickball game yesterday, here's what you would have seen: Gus running away from me at any opportunity, me running after him and Paulie hot on my trail. Scenes like this play out anywhere we go together.
One rainy Friday a few weeks ago, I took Paulie and Gus to the children's museum. It was incredibly crowded, filled not only with parents and kids seeking a rainy day activity but also many school field trips. The boys and I were playing when I turned my head for a second and saw Gus run off. I even saw the direction in which he ran, but he's unbelievably fast. For what must be the longest 90 seconds of my life, I could not find him. I ran from place to place, panic mounting, Paulie running after me. The children's museum is a big place, on two stories. What if he'd gotten down the stairs, someone had taken him? Furthermore I knew that the longer he was missing, the farther he could get from me, that it could be incredibly difficult to spot him in the sea of people. Finally I found him, happy as can be, playing in the water area. He was not at all concerned, I might add, that his mother was nowhere in sight. When I found him, I was dizzy with relief. Another reminder that I cannot let him out of my sight, even for a second.
So Paulie and Gus, here's what I propose: Paulie, you give Gus a little of your fear; Gus, you give Paulie a little of your confidence. Do this, and you'll make your mother a much happier and saner person.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
This is getting surreal
I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and frankly it blows my mind that I have a son old enough to be going into third grade. Maybe it's an uncomfortable reminder about how swiftly time really does pass. After all, I can remember pretty clearly when I was Ben's age, and it doesn't seem so very long ago.
My life right now seems about as hectic and physically demanding as it ever will be (due in large part to my youngest progeny). As a result, I often find myself wishing that my kids were older, that I could vault past this really difficult part. Yet I know, I know that someday I'll look back and wish that I could return to this "simpler," happy time when my kids were young and their demands were relatively easy to meet. Isn't that just how life works?
I'm forever on a quest to find serenity in my life and to focus more on the joy. I've read a lot about the benefits of mindfulness, you know, living in the moment, avoiding letting your thoughts wander all over the place. I gotta say, that's not something that comes naturally to me, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm going to try in this moment when Ben is on the cusp of a huge transition. He's part little boy, part big boy. Already he's beginning to bristle under my attempts to rustle his hair or hold his hand. And Paulie, who's off to preschool in the fall and then onto kindergarten. He still loves to snuggle and is prone to seeking attention in that middle child sort of way. And of course, Gus, who keeps me literally running after him most of the time. At the same time, he's the most joyful child. When he sees me after time apart, he gets the hugest smile on his face, launches himself into my arms, and says, "Mama!" as if in complete ecstasy at seeing me again. All of these moments of where my kids are just exactly right now are fleeting, and I want to hold onto them.
As a complete, random aside, I wanted to share something that Ben's friend, Olivia, from first grade wrote for the class's "First Grade Memories" book. Ben and Olivia play on the swings each day at recess. I thought it was beautiful and eloquent, and of course it made me cry. "I will always remember the time I went on the swings with Ben. I knew I had someone to play with every day. I knew Ben was a good friend. We talked about our lives. I really like the swings."
My life right now seems about as hectic and physically demanding as it ever will be (due in large part to my youngest progeny). As a result, I often find myself wishing that my kids were older, that I could vault past this really difficult part. Yet I know, I know that someday I'll look back and wish that I could return to this "simpler," happy time when my kids were young and their demands were relatively easy to meet. Isn't that just how life works?
I'm forever on a quest to find serenity in my life and to focus more on the joy. I've read a lot about the benefits of mindfulness, you know, living in the moment, avoiding letting your thoughts wander all over the place. I gotta say, that's not something that comes naturally to me, but I'm going to keep trying. I'm going to try in this moment when Ben is on the cusp of a huge transition. He's part little boy, part big boy. Already he's beginning to bristle under my attempts to rustle his hair or hold his hand. And Paulie, who's off to preschool in the fall and then onto kindergarten. He still loves to snuggle and is prone to seeking attention in that middle child sort of way. And of course, Gus, who keeps me literally running after him most of the time. At the same time, he's the most joyful child. When he sees me after time apart, he gets the hugest smile on his face, launches himself into my arms, and says, "Mama!" as if in complete ecstasy at seeing me again. All of these moments of where my kids are just exactly right now are fleeting, and I want to hold onto them.
As a complete, random aside, I wanted to share something that Ben's friend, Olivia, from first grade wrote for the class's "First Grade Memories" book. Ben and Olivia play on the swings each day at recess. I thought it was beautiful and eloquent, and of course it made me cry. "I will always remember the time I went on the swings with Ben. I knew I had someone to play with every day. I knew Ben was a good friend. We talked about our lives. I really like the swings."
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The kid's gonna be alright
After much thought, debate and worry, we have made the decision to have Ben skip second grade and go to third next year. We could not have asked for better support from Ben's school. The principal and team of teachers who helped us gave us excellent insight and advice throughout.
The decision-making process was tough for me. My honest inclination had been to have Ben proceed to second grade. It certainly would have been the safe choice, and the safe choice usually is the one I go with. I grappled with lots of what-ifs. What if: leaving his first-grade friends behind makes him really sad, he finds third grade too challenging, it all turns out terribly and Ben ends up hating us and we ruin his whole life? Yeah, I can be a little melodramatic. Of course, there were just as many what-ifs about having him stay on his current path. Obviously I didn't have a crystal ball to allow me to look into the future and get answers to all my what-ifs. However, when I looked at the situation with a clear head, I knew that odds were that Ben would do fine either way. Finally, I (and Mark, of course) decided: why not give him the chance? What if it turns out great?
At our final meeting with school staff, the principal imparted a last bit of wisdom: whatever you decide, don't play the what-if game, just get behind your decision and be confident in it. Clearly Mr. Dahm doesn't know me very well if he thinks I can avoid that game. Nevertheless, it's good advice, and I'm trying to follow it.
When we broke the news to Ben, he responded with a positive sounding, "OK." I suppose that's the best I could hope for. We are, after all, asking him to make a pretty big change. Now that we have made the decision, Ben has been doing some transitioning to get used to his new classmates. That included going to watch the all-city track meet with the second-graders, a privilege the first-graders don't get. I had the opportunity to go along. I sat a couple rows behind and watched my boy. He sat next to a girl from his math class. They bent their heads close and talked and giggled. When the class lined up to walk back to school, Ben fit right in. Sometimes I watch him and he seems so grown up it takes my breath away. I knew it watching Ben then. The kid's gonna be alright.
The decision-making process was tough for me. My honest inclination had been to have Ben proceed to second grade. It certainly would have been the safe choice, and the safe choice usually is the one I go with. I grappled with lots of what-ifs. What if: leaving his first-grade friends behind makes him really sad, he finds third grade too challenging, it all turns out terribly and Ben ends up hating us and we ruin his whole life? Yeah, I can be a little melodramatic. Of course, there were just as many what-ifs about having him stay on his current path. Obviously I didn't have a crystal ball to allow me to look into the future and get answers to all my what-ifs. However, when I looked at the situation with a clear head, I knew that odds were that Ben would do fine either way. Finally, I (and Mark, of course) decided: why not give him the chance? What if it turns out great?
At our final meeting with school staff, the principal imparted a last bit of wisdom: whatever you decide, don't play the what-if game, just get behind your decision and be confident in it. Clearly Mr. Dahm doesn't know me very well if he thinks I can avoid that game. Nevertheless, it's good advice, and I'm trying to follow it.
When we broke the news to Ben, he responded with a positive sounding, "OK." I suppose that's the best I could hope for. We are, after all, asking him to make a pretty big change. Now that we have made the decision, Ben has been doing some transitioning to get used to his new classmates. That included going to watch the all-city track meet with the second-graders, a privilege the first-graders don't get. I had the opportunity to go along. I sat a couple rows behind and watched my boy. He sat next to a girl from his math class. They bent their heads close and talked and giggled. When the class lined up to walk back to school, Ben fit right in. Sometimes I watch him and he seems so grown up it takes my breath away. I knew it watching Ben then. The kid's gonna be alright.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Never thought I'd be the early bird
For as long as I can remember, I have loved sleep. I lived for lingering in bed a few extra hours on the weekend, not that I got to do that too often after having kids. That all changed when I began to have occasional bouts with insomnia two months ago. One random night, I lay in bed not able to sleep, more and more worried about the next day as the hours ticked past. Not a big deal, right? Surely you can survive a sleepless night or two? Leave it to me and my anxious mind to turn it into a big deal. Turns out self-fulfilling prophecy is real. I worried and worried about sleeplessness becoming a pattern, and lo and behold it did. There's nothing like lying in bed fretting about falling asleep to stop you from doing just that.
My little problem became a big deal (at least in my neurotic mind) for a few weeks. At least one or two nights a week, I would wake up wide awake after maybe an hour of sleep. I'd lie there tossing and turning, shooting daggers at Mark for being able to sleep so easily when I was struggling so much. I had read that you aren't supposed to lie awake frustrated in bed, so I would get up and stalk through the house like a prowler, looking for some activity that would tire me out or bore me to sleep. Inevitably, the entire time I was up, I would feel agitated about not sleeping, again, not a sleep-promoting feeling. It was beginning to take a toll. Some nights I might only net about four hours of sleep, and I would be drowsy and crabby by 10 a.m. the next day.
I did what most people do when faced with a problem: searched the internet for a solution. I learned a lot. Insomnia affects women more than men (poor women, we get everything). Keeping a sleep schedule is important - going to sleep and waking up at roughly the same time every day. And I learned that I definitely didn't want to take sleeping pills or herbal remedies, as they don't work long-term. I needed a sustainable solution.
Finally I came across an article in Good Housekeeping suggesting a website called CBT (cognitive behavior therapy) for Insomnia. A renowned sleep expert created the program, available for purchase for the low, low price of $29.95. I was in. For my money, I got a program to follow, and each week I was to submit a sleep diary. I would then receive interactive sleep tips and sleep schedule recommendations from the doctor. I'm happy to say that the "positive self talk" and "sleep-promoting ideas" that I was supposed to hold in my head worked for me. I was beginning to have better nights.
Then I received my first sleep schedule from the doctor, and I balked. He wanted me to go to bed no earlier than 10:30 p.m. and wake up at 6 a.m. I didn't want to stay up until 10:30. I'm usually dead on my feet by 9 p.m. And waking up at 6 a.m.? On a Saturday? I got over it and decided I would try to follow it. I did my best but deviated some. As I submitted more diaries, the recommendations changed, and I found schedules that worked better for me. That brings me to now, when I'm aiming to go to sleep no earlier than 9:30 p.m. and up by 5:30 a.m., an hour that not so long ago I would have found depressingly early.
The amazing thing is that I've grown to actually like the early rising. It gives me a little kid-free time, and some mornings I even haul it over to the Y first thing to swim laps. So I'm no longer getting the eight or nine hours of sleep I used to crave. Most days it's more like seven and a half, but I'll take it. Being a parent is all about adapting, so I was well-prepared to do it yet again.
My little problem became a big deal (at least in my neurotic mind) for a few weeks. At least one or two nights a week, I would wake up wide awake after maybe an hour of sleep. I'd lie there tossing and turning, shooting daggers at Mark for being able to sleep so easily when I was struggling so much. I had read that you aren't supposed to lie awake frustrated in bed, so I would get up and stalk through the house like a prowler, looking for some activity that would tire me out or bore me to sleep. Inevitably, the entire time I was up, I would feel agitated about not sleeping, again, not a sleep-promoting feeling. It was beginning to take a toll. Some nights I might only net about four hours of sleep, and I would be drowsy and crabby by 10 a.m. the next day.
I did what most people do when faced with a problem: searched the internet for a solution. I learned a lot. Insomnia affects women more than men (poor women, we get everything). Keeping a sleep schedule is important - going to sleep and waking up at roughly the same time every day. And I learned that I definitely didn't want to take sleeping pills or herbal remedies, as they don't work long-term. I needed a sustainable solution.
Finally I came across an article in Good Housekeeping suggesting a website called CBT (cognitive behavior therapy) for Insomnia. A renowned sleep expert created the program, available for purchase for the low, low price of $29.95. I was in. For my money, I got a program to follow, and each week I was to submit a sleep diary. I would then receive interactive sleep tips and sleep schedule recommendations from the doctor. I'm happy to say that the "positive self talk" and "sleep-promoting ideas" that I was supposed to hold in my head worked for me. I was beginning to have better nights.
Then I received my first sleep schedule from the doctor, and I balked. He wanted me to go to bed no earlier than 10:30 p.m. and wake up at 6 a.m. I didn't want to stay up until 10:30. I'm usually dead on my feet by 9 p.m. And waking up at 6 a.m.? On a Saturday? I got over it and decided I would try to follow it. I did my best but deviated some. As I submitted more diaries, the recommendations changed, and I found schedules that worked better for me. That brings me to now, when I'm aiming to go to sleep no earlier than 9:30 p.m. and up by 5:30 a.m., an hour that not so long ago I would have found depressingly early.
The amazing thing is that I've grown to actually like the early rising. It gives me a little kid-free time, and some mornings I even haul it over to the Y first thing to swim laps. So I'm no longer getting the eight or nine hours of sleep I used to crave. Most days it's more like seven and a half, but I'll take it. Being a parent is all about adapting, so I was well-prepared to do it yet again.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Fostering friendship
This phrasing surely will make me sound old and parental, but in my day, friendships came easily. You would find kids your age in your neighborhood, and by default, you simply hung out with them. They were your friends. When I was Ben's age, my brothers and I spent every day after school and all summer playing with friends. Ben, on the other hand, was spending almost all of his free time with me and his brothers. I don't know if it's just my family, or if things have changed, but making friends doesn't seem so easy anymore. It seems like rather than kids just approaching one another and asking to play, moms and dads set up play dates.
Yes, I'm shy and Ben's shy. It doesn't come naturally for me to say to the neighbor mom, "Hey, let's get the kids together to play!" And Ben approaching the kids across the street to see if he could have in on their outdoor game? That wasn't happening. It was getting to the point that I was starting to worry. Ben never asked to have kids from his class over to the house. I had encouraged Ben many times to see if the boy and two girls across the street wanted to play, knowing full well that he would never do it.
Finally, two weeks ago when the weather was nice, I saw Ben staring longingly at the kids playing in their driveway. I could tell that he so badly wanted to play with them. I decided then that I would have to facilitate the friendship, but before I could do it, my husband stepped in and invited the kids to come play with Ben and Paul. Much to my delight, I looked out the window one afternoon to find my boys playing baseball with Ben, Sophie and Lilly. That was all it took. Ben no longer is afraid to approach the neighbor kids, and he and his brother often spend many hours across the street or at our house playing with their friends. Now if only someone could facilitate some mom friendships for me ...
Yes, I'm shy and Ben's shy. It doesn't come naturally for me to say to the neighbor mom, "Hey, let's get the kids together to play!" And Ben approaching the kids across the street to see if he could have in on their outdoor game? That wasn't happening. It was getting to the point that I was starting to worry. Ben never asked to have kids from his class over to the house. I had encouraged Ben many times to see if the boy and two girls across the street wanted to play, knowing full well that he would never do it.
Finally, two weeks ago when the weather was nice, I saw Ben staring longingly at the kids playing in their driveway. I could tell that he so badly wanted to play with them. I decided then that I would have to facilitate the friendship, but before I could do it, my husband stepped in and invited the kids to come play with Ben and Paul. Much to my delight, I looked out the window one afternoon to find my boys playing baseball with Ben, Sophie and Lilly. That was all it took. Ben no longer is afraid to approach the neighbor kids, and he and his brother often spend many hours across the street or at our house playing with their friends. Now if only someone could facilitate some mom friendships for me ...
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
To skip or not to skip
Allow me to begin with a disclaimer. I find parents who brag about their kids' intellect completely irritating. Junior scored a 32 on his ACTs? Jen got straight A's on her report card again? Don't crow about it to me. I think sharing in the delight of that achievement is best saved for a conversation between spouses or maybe, at the farthest reaches, proud grandparents. If you ask me, sharing specifics about your children's academic achievements with anyone and everyone who will listen is in poor taste.
That sense of annoyance I've had with those prideful parents in the past combined with my fear of sounding boastful about my own kids has made it hard for me to talk with anyone about Ben's abilities. But here I go, and I hope I don't come off as the insufferable sort of parent. The kid is smart. Scary smart. Looking back, I suppose we saw it first when he was about 3. Soon after Ben's third birthday, we thought he might like to try his hand at playing games. He took to it immediately, staying focused, learning the rules, always wanting to learn new, more challenging games.
When he hit 4, he began to read, just taught himself to read, really. Like all parents, Mark and I had read to him, and I had worked with him a little on phonics, but for the most part, he just picked it up on his own. When he was 5, we had gotten Chinese takeout one night. On the back of the fortune cookie slip, he read off his list of lucky numbers and then said he wanted to figure out his "big lucky number." He added the list of five two digit-numbers in his head and announced the answer. I whipped out the calculator to check his work, and sure enough, he was right. (I must say as someone who's completely math deficient, it's his arithmetic abilities that mystify me the most.) I suppose what is there really to brag about? Ben was born brainy, just as one might be born with green eyes or curly hair.
When kindergarten came around, Ben's teachers simply adapted. The wonderful Ms. Lawson gave him special reading assignments and tried to challenge him. Ben was never unhappy or complained about being bored. From a maturity standpoint, he was very much on par with his peers.
We have gotten lucky again in first grade, with Ben ending up in the hands of a great teacher who's always stepped up to meet his needs. He has been going to a second-grade classroom for math, and twice a week he gets pulled with a second-grade group for time with a gifted-talented teacher.
The idea had occurred to me that sometime someone might suggest Ben skip a grade. Honestly, I have always been very resistant to the idea. I was surprised, then, at conferences a few weeks ago when my husband asked his teacher the question: how long is it practical for Ben to keep getting pulled out of his grade-level activities? At what point does it make more sense for him to move to a higher grade?
Thinking about what to do these last few weeks often has left me feeling overwhelmed and emotional. It's a huge decision. It's his future. Mark's right. There are a lot of reasons skipping second grade could be a good idea. Already there are logistical issues this year with pulling Ben out, and those will only continue. Plus, as Mark pointed out, if we're ever going to do it, we should do it sooner than later. We talked to the gifted-talented specialist last week to get her insights. She thinks having him make the jump could be beneficial. Ben's got an early birthday. If he'd been born just 35 days earlier, he would, theoretically, be a second-grader now.
I guess I'm thinking about it like a mother. Having Ben skip a grade would mean losing a year with him at home, an idea that fills me with sadness. He would never go to high school with Paul. In fact, he'd be in fourth grade by the time Paul gets to kindergarten. Then there's a never-ending list of possible social and emotional issues. Would he get teased? He's on the smallish side (sorry, Ben!), and that could be a problem for sports. He'd hit milestones later than his peers. And on and on.
We've decided to meet with a team of teachers and the principal closer to the end of the school year. This decision won't come easy for us. All I can say for now is to be continued ...
That sense of annoyance I've had with those prideful parents in the past combined with my fear of sounding boastful about my own kids has made it hard for me to talk with anyone about Ben's abilities. But here I go, and I hope I don't come off as the insufferable sort of parent. The kid is smart. Scary smart. Looking back, I suppose we saw it first when he was about 3. Soon after Ben's third birthday, we thought he might like to try his hand at playing games. He took to it immediately, staying focused, learning the rules, always wanting to learn new, more challenging games.
When he hit 4, he began to read, just taught himself to read, really. Like all parents, Mark and I had read to him, and I had worked with him a little on phonics, but for the most part, he just picked it up on his own. When he was 5, we had gotten Chinese takeout one night. On the back of the fortune cookie slip, he read off his list of lucky numbers and then said he wanted to figure out his "big lucky number." He added the list of five two digit-numbers in his head and announced the answer. I whipped out the calculator to check his work, and sure enough, he was right. (I must say as someone who's completely math deficient, it's his arithmetic abilities that mystify me the most.) I suppose what is there really to brag about? Ben was born brainy, just as one might be born with green eyes or curly hair.
When kindergarten came around, Ben's teachers simply adapted. The wonderful Ms. Lawson gave him special reading assignments and tried to challenge him. Ben was never unhappy or complained about being bored. From a maturity standpoint, he was very much on par with his peers.
We have gotten lucky again in first grade, with Ben ending up in the hands of a great teacher who's always stepped up to meet his needs. He has been going to a second-grade classroom for math, and twice a week he gets pulled with a second-grade group for time with a gifted-talented teacher.
The idea had occurred to me that sometime someone might suggest Ben skip a grade. Honestly, I have always been very resistant to the idea. I was surprised, then, at conferences a few weeks ago when my husband asked his teacher the question: how long is it practical for Ben to keep getting pulled out of his grade-level activities? At what point does it make more sense for him to move to a higher grade?
Thinking about what to do these last few weeks often has left me feeling overwhelmed and emotional. It's a huge decision. It's his future. Mark's right. There are a lot of reasons skipping second grade could be a good idea. Already there are logistical issues this year with pulling Ben out, and those will only continue. Plus, as Mark pointed out, if we're ever going to do it, we should do it sooner than later. We talked to the gifted-talented specialist last week to get her insights. She thinks having him make the jump could be beneficial. Ben's got an early birthday. If he'd been born just 35 days earlier, he would, theoretically, be a second-grader now.
I guess I'm thinking about it like a mother. Having Ben skip a grade would mean losing a year with him at home, an idea that fills me with sadness. He would never go to high school with Paul. In fact, he'd be in fourth grade by the time Paul gets to kindergarten. Then there's a never-ending list of possible social and emotional issues. Would he get teased? He's on the smallish side (sorry, Ben!), and that could be a problem for sports. He'd hit milestones later than his peers. And on and on.
We've decided to meet with a team of teachers and the principal closer to the end of the school year. This decision won't come easy for us. All I can say for now is to be continued ...
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Copycat!
Growing up, one of the worst offenses in the Ceman household was copying a sibling. The punishment for copycatting in the first degree? Wrath, and a lot of it. The worst kind of copying involved food. Say, for example, I fixed myself an after-school snack of potato chips with French onion dip. If Mike thought that looked pretty tasty and made himself the same, I would immediately become filled with intense petty rage. "You're a copycat!" I would hurl at him with a level of scorn and vitriol that a typical, non-10-year-old person normally would reserve for, say, perpetrators of genocide.
Twenty-some years later, I hear that same level of contempt in Ben's voice when Paul copies him. Last night, I asked Ben and Paul if they wanted a hot dog or hamburger for supper. Paul: "What are you going to have, Ben?" Ben: "A hot dog." Paul: "I'll have a hot dog." Ben: "You're copying me! Next time I'm going to lie so you can't have what I'm having!" It's funny to observe this as an adult. Though I would no longer feel that stab of irritation if one of my brothers saw me eat my ice cream and decided they would like to put chocolate chips on top of theirs too, I somehow can recall the intensity of annoyance it caused back then. So, yeah, I can sympathize with Ben a little bit. More than anything, though, I can see the situation for what it really is. In Paul's eyes, Ben is the alpha and the omega of cool. Of course, I don't expect Ben to understand that, not for many years. For now, imitation is the sincerest form of annoyance.
Twenty-some years later, I hear that same level of contempt in Ben's voice when Paul copies him. Last night, I asked Ben and Paul if they wanted a hot dog or hamburger for supper. Paul: "What are you going to have, Ben?" Ben: "A hot dog." Paul: "I'll have a hot dog." Ben: "You're copying me! Next time I'm going to lie so you can't have what I'm having!" It's funny to observe this as an adult. Though I would no longer feel that stab of irritation if one of my brothers saw me eat my ice cream and decided they would like to put chocolate chips on top of theirs too, I somehow can recall the intensity of annoyance it caused back then. So, yeah, I can sympathize with Ben a little bit. More than anything, though, I can see the situation for what it really is. In Paul's eyes, Ben is the alpha and the omega of cool. Of course, I don't expect Ben to understand that, not for many years. For now, imitation is the sincerest form of annoyance.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Getting used to my new ride will take some time
We got the news from the mechanic last week: our minivan needed several costly repairs. That, along with the fact that our old girl was nine years old and inching toward the 100,000-mile mark, helped us make the decision. It was time for a new van. Mark and I spent the afternoon Saturday looking at Toyota Siennas. Boy was I glad to have Mark there. I hate to be a female cliche, but I would not be good at purchasing a vehicle. When we zeroed in one we liked, to my amusement, the salesman actually said, "What would it take to have you drive home in this today?" Well-played, sir. Mark haggled while I sat there placidly, and finally they reached a deal.
We picked up our new (used) van on Monday. It's a pale blue Sienna and probably the nicest car I've ever driven. The biggest bonus: one of the side doors has the power sliding feature. When I'd first heard of these, I thought, come on, who really needs that? Now that I have three kids, I see: me. It's a beautiful thing.
In fact, I have loved everything about the new van. Except for one thing. One of my least favorite things in the world is looking like an idiot in front of other people. The people in question here are the nice ladies who help the kids out of the car at Ben's school. The van has some new features that are taking me a while to learn. My fear of looking stupid and my desire to get Ben out of the car quickly so as not to clog the drop-off lane has led to some major performance anxiety for me. As soon as you begin to drive, the van automatically locks and stays locked until you put it in park. I'm not used to that, so when I dropped Ben off the first day, it took a lot of fumbling in order to unlock the van.
So, yeah, it's taken me a couple days to remember all the steps I need to follow to get my son freed from the van. Yesterday, after trying to open the locked door yet again, one of the drop-off ladies told me, a little peevishly, "You've got to remember to put it in gear first!" Today I was determined to do it right. I pulled up to the same lady. I reminded myself that I must put the car in park in order to unlock the doors. I was ready. I reached for the gear shift - in the place where it was in the old van. And turned on the windshield wipers. I frantically reached for the gear shift and put it in park. I couldn't even make eye contact with the woman. Today she must have felt sorry for me. "Don't you just love getting a new vehicle - all this new stuff to figure out?" she said. Indeed.
We picked up our new (used) van on Monday. It's a pale blue Sienna and probably the nicest car I've ever driven. The biggest bonus: one of the side doors has the power sliding feature. When I'd first heard of these, I thought, come on, who really needs that? Now that I have three kids, I see: me. It's a beautiful thing.
In fact, I have loved everything about the new van. Except for one thing. One of my least favorite things in the world is looking like an idiot in front of other people. The people in question here are the nice ladies who help the kids out of the car at Ben's school. The van has some new features that are taking me a while to learn. My fear of looking stupid and my desire to get Ben out of the car quickly so as not to clog the drop-off lane has led to some major performance anxiety for me. As soon as you begin to drive, the van automatically locks and stays locked until you put it in park. I'm not used to that, so when I dropped Ben off the first day, it took a lot of fumbling in order to unlock the van.
So, yeah, it's taken me a couple days to remember all the steps I need to follow to get my son freed from the van. Yesterday, after trying to open the locked door yet again, one of the drop-off ladies told me, a little peevishly, "You've got to remember to put it in gear first!" Today I was determined to do it right. I pulled up to the same lady. I reminded myself that I must put the car in park in order to unlock the doors. I was ready. I reached for the gear shift - in the place where it was in the old van. And turned on the windshield wipers. I frantically reached for the gear shift and put it in park. I couldn't even make eye contact with the woman. Today she must have felt sorry for me. "Don't you just love getting a new vehicle - all this new stuff to figure out?" she said. Indeed.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Off we go like a herd of worms
That was the saying a certain celebrity said his mom always used when his family was going on any outing, I read recently. I think it sums up perfectly the pace at which my family moves, too. I remember being stunned at how long it took to get out the door when Ben was a newborn. Change diaper, nurse, poop, change diaper, check diaper bag, get Ben in car seat ... Sometimes it took easily 45 minutes to make it into the car.
I'm no longer parenting any newborns, but things haven't improved much. Of course, now I have three younguns to try to herd out the door. And it doesn't help that kids are natural dawdlers. You would think that by now I would have getting Ben to school down to a science, but no. I never know what particular challenge I'll face on any given morning: having to ask Ben three or four times to start putting on his snow pants, boots and jacket; Gus taking off the socks I just put on and having to search for them; remembering at the last minute that I haven't yet signed Ben's reading sheet. At least one day each week is bound to find me hollering at the boys and panicking that we're going to be late.
The other day I decided I would let Paul and Gus play outside. It took 20 minutes to make it outside. 20 minutes. I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for one of Gus's boots. This was the second time in two weeks a boot had gone missing. This time I found it; the last I didn't and had to resort to putting Gus in shoes instead. That didn't work so well. The fact that it's winter certainly doesn't help matters, but no matter the time of year, it's always something. Think slathering three squirmy boys with sunscreen before we can play outside in the summer.
I don't hold out much hope that things will improve within the next, say, five to 10 years. I will just have to do my best to pad our departures with plenty of extra time, travelling with my little herd of worms.
I'm no longer parenting any newborns, but things haven't improved much. Of course, now I have three younguns to try to herd out the door. And it doesn't help that kids are natural dawdlers. You would think that by now I would have getting Ben to school down to a science, but no. I never know what particular challenge I'll face on any given morning: having to ask Ben three or four times to start putting on his snow pants, boots and jacket; Gus taking off the socks I just put on and having to search for them; remembering at the last minute that I haven't yet signed Ben's reading sheet. At least one day each week is bound to find me hollering at the boys and panicking that we're going to be late.
The other day I decided I would let Paul and Gus play outside. It took 20 minutes to make it outside. 20 minutes. I spent an inordinate amount of time looking for one of Gus's boots. This was the second time in two weeks a boot had gone missing. This time I found it; the last I didn't and had to resort to putting Gus in shoes instead. That didn't work so well. The fact that it's winter certainly doesn't help matters, but no matter the time of year, it's always something. Think slathering three squirmy boys with sunscreen before we can play outside in the summer.
I don't hold out much hope that things will improve within the next, say, five to 10 years. I will just have to do my best to pad our departures with plenty of extra time, travelling with my little herd of worms.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Punishing them, punishing me
Here's one of my dirty little parenting secrets. One of many. I hate to mete out punishments to my kids, especially ones that punish me too. (Maybe another dirty secret is that I use the word "punishment." I think enlightened folk are supposed to call it "discipline," but I digress.) Here's the scene. Last Tuesday night, I had all three kids in Ben and Paul's room reading bedtime stories. Mark was at parish council that night, and my patience tank had only fumes left in it. Gus has been experimenting with slapping. Sitting in bed, Gus reached over and slapped Ben's face. Without even thinking about it, Ben slapped him back, giggling. Thinking that Ben had made an impulsive, bad decision, I admonished him and explained that it's important for Gus to understand that slapping is not OK or funny.
By this point, I was annoyed but ready to let it go. Then Paul started to laugh hysterically. "Stop," I warned, "or you will lose TV tomorrow." The laughing continued. "OK, you've lost TV," I said. Here's what I'm thinking: Crap, I'm going to pay for that. During Gus's nap tomorrow, the quality of my quiet time will take a nosedive. "Yes," I say, not prepared to completely punish myself, "you've lost one TV show." More hysterical laughing. "OK, you've lost all TV." Then Paul reaches over and slaps Gus. It's all just hilarious to him. By now I'm furious. "OK, you've lost TV and treats for tomorrow." And scene.
The next day, of course Paul asked for treats and his TV time. Yes, the quality of my precious quiet time was diminished with Paul's whimpering pleas for me to lift the ban, but in the end it wasn't as bad as I'd envisioned. I just hope that next time he decides to be naughty, he will remember this and choose to stop. For his sake. And especially mine, and that's the ugly truth.
By this point, I was annoyed but ready to let it go. Then Paul started to laugh hysterically. "Stop," I warned, "or you will lose TV tomorrow." The laughing continued. "OK, you've lost TV," I said. Here's what I'm thinking: Crap, I'm going to pay for that. During Gus's nap tomorrow, the quality of my quiet time will take a nosedive. "Yes," I say, not prepared to completely punish myself, "you've lost one TV show." More hysterical laughing. "OK, you've lost all TV." Then Paul reaches over and slaps Gus. It's all just hilarious to him. By now I'm furious. "OK, you've lost TV and treats for tomorrow." And scene.
The next day, of course Paul asked for treats and his TV time. Yes, the quality of my precious quiet time was diminished with Paul's whimpering pleas for me to lift the ban, but in the end it wasn't as bad as I'd envisioned. I just hope that next time he decides to be naughty, he will remember this and choose to stop. For his sake. And especially mine, and that's the ugly truth.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Perseverance
Usually, I like to wrap things up in a nice, sunny way. Even when I write my blogs, I typically tack on some kind of and-everything-worked-out-in-the-end finale. I guess this optimism is a bit of a survival mechanism. It's helpful to me to view my life through these retrospective rose-colored glasses.
And then there are those times that defy even the sunniest of optimism. Paul had been on hiatus from preschool for the past two months. During those months, he would ask me sporadically whether it was time to start school yet. I would tell him, no, it would be a while yet, and he would be utterly blissful.
Finally, the time for him to return to Tiny Tots had arrived. I had anticipated that it would take him some time to readjust. But when the day was upon us, it soon became clear that this would be no minor regression. At bedtime the night before, he already was doing some serious fretting. The morning he was to start, he awoke in tears. He followed me around, literally, the entire time leading up to our departure, pleading with me to let him stay home. Giant tears flowed from his big eyes. When I finally dropped him off, it was as bad as it could be. He didn't just cry, he clung to me, desperate, hysterical. I peeled him off, gave a quick hug and kiss goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat. Ten in the morning and already I felt emotionally spent. "How was it?" I asked when I picked him up. "Fun," he said.
But did I believe that the next drop-off would be any easier? Not by a long shot. True to my prediction, this morning, his second day of Tiny Tots, was no easier than the first. More tears, more begging me to grant him a reprieve. Tired of his antics, my reactions to him swung between anger and sympathy. I was doing some begging of my own: "Paul, stop this, please!" If anything, today's drop-off was worse than the first. He threw his arms around my waist and howled. A full-out tantrum. There I stood trying to stay on balance while holding Gus, feeling completely humiliated that my son was terrifying the other kids and taking one teacher's complete attention while 19 other children played. This was very bad indeed. Again, I said goodbye and pried Paul off me, making quickly for the door and avoiding eye contact with the other parents.
So here I sit with no cheery ending to apply to this story. Will it get easier? Probably somewhat. If it's like last session, Paul never will completely warm to it. Sometimes the only answer is to muddle through.
And then there are those times that defy even the sunniest of optimism. Paul had been on hiatus from preschool for the past two months. During those months, he would ask me sporadically whether it was time to start school yet. I would tell him, no, it would be a while yet, and he would be utterly blissful.
Finally, the time for him to return to Tiny Tots had arrived. I had anticipated that it would take him some time to readjust. But when the day was upon us, it soon became clear that this would be no minor regression. At bedtime the night before, he already was doing some serious fretting. The morning he was to start, he awoke in tears. He followed me around, literally, the entire time leading up to our departure, pleading with me to let him stay home. Giant tears flowed from his big eyes. When I finally dropped him off, it was as bad as it could be. He didn't just cry, he clung to me, desperate, hysterical. I peeled him off, gave a quick hug and kiss goodbye, and beat a hasty retreat. Ten in the morning and already I felt emotionally spent. "How was it?" I asked when I picked him up. "Fun," he said.
But did I believe that the next drop-off would be any easier? Not by a long shot. True to my prediction, this morning, his second day of Tiny Tots, was no easier than the first. More tears, more begging me to grant him a reprieve. Tired of his antics, my reactions to him swung between anger and sympathy. I was doing some begging of my own: "Paul, stop this, please!" If anything, today's drop-off was worse than the first. He threw his arms around my waist and howled. A full-out tantrum. There I stood trying to stay on balance while holding Gus, feeling completely humiliated that my son was terrifying the other kids and taking one teacher's complete attention while 19 other children played. This was very bad indeed. Again, I said goodbye and pried Paul off me, making quickly for the door and avoiding eye contact with the other parents.
So here I sit with no cheery ending to apply to this story. Will it get easier? Probably somewhat. If it's like last session, Paul never will completely warm to it. Sometimes the only answer is to muddle through.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
A bad case of January
With all due respect to T.S. Eliot, I think he was wrong. January definitely is the cruelest month. Could this month feel any longer? It's true that after the, ahem, challenging holiday season we had, I was more than ready to bid it farewell and to welcome a new year. But now I'm feeling the winter doldrums in a major way. That all-too-familiar cooped-up feeling has taken over my days. It's cold. It's dark. My days and weeks seem to stretch on endlessly.
January has brought out my sourest moods. Everything seems worse than it is. January has made Gus's normal toddler highs and lows look to me like I have a little Jekyll/Hyde on my hands. Paul's whining feels like it's reaching epic proportions. I feel like I may scream if I have to break up one more fight between my eldest two boys. I've been a stay-at-home mom for four years now. I know this - January through March - is the most challenging time of the year. January makes me feel like I'm just slogging through life. Every little place we go takes extra time and planning - all that winter gear. Filthy, salt-covered cars wiping up against clean coats. Dry, chapped hands. Sickness, sickness, sickness. OK, I'm done.
Now, I know that this will pass. I look back on, say, last January, and it feels like it was just yesterday. I also know that these difficult times make the more pleasant times, like the first taste of spring, all the sweeter. So I will focus on that and try not to be such a grump.
January has brought out my sourest moods. Everything seems worse than it is. January has made Gus's normal toddler highs and lows look to me like I have a little Jekyll/Hyde on my hands. Paul's whining feels like it's reaching epic proportions. I feel like I may scream if I have to break up one more fight between my eldest two boys. I've been a stay-at-home mom for four years now. I know this - January through March - is the most challenging time of the year. January makes me feel like I'm just slogging through life. Every little place we go takes extra time and planning - all that winter gear. Filthy, salt-covered cars wiping up against clean coats. Dry, chapped hands. Sickness, sickness, sickness. OK, I'm done.
Now, I know that this will pass. I look back on, say, last January, and it feels like it was just yesterday. I also know that these difficult times make the more pleasant times, like the first taste of spring, all the sweeter. So I will focus on that and try not to be such a grump.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Goodbye, Kate from Wisconsin
Charlotte, Natalie, Jillian, Maureen. These were just some of the names I considered for the daughter I would have some day. I love the name Kate. Maybe I would name my girl Kathryn Rose and call her Kate.
One day last spring, we were at Memorial Park in Appleton. I was playing with one of the boys when an adorable little girl about 4 years old approached. "Hello, my name is Kate, and I'm from Wisconsin," she said, adorably, of course. This little incident resonated with me. Briefly, irrationally, I thought maybe it was a sign that we should try one more time for a girl.
Yeah, at times I've been a little obsessed with the idea of having a daughter. I compulsively watch the gender patterns of other people's families. Maybe we could be like so-and-so - they had two boys and then a girl, I thought before Gus. Or maybe if we went for it again, we could be like my cousin and her husband - three boys and finally a girl, I'll think. Maybe.
Who knows what the fates would give us. I know that in reality, when it comes to a baby's sex, it's most likely a 50-50 shake, but that's not really the point. The point is what you do with what you get. I have three beautiful, healthy, creative, smart boys. I have been blessed richly. Yes, when I see someone else's little girl in her tights and Mary Janes, sometimes I still get jealous, and maybe that never will change. But when I think about, really think about, all I have, I am filled to the brim with a sense of well-being. I'm happy with where I am, with my trio of boys.
We saw Garrison Keillor last winter. He had this line that I thought was great. I won't be able to repeat it as eloquently as Mr. Keillor, but I'll try. He said in life you can wish and wish and wish for something and then suddenly one day you realize that what you want is exactly what you have. And so it is. Goodbye, Kate from Wisconsin.
One day last spring, we were at Memorial Park in Appleton. I was playing with one of the boys when an adorable little girl about 4 years old approached. "Hello, my name is Kate, and I'm from Wisconsin," she said, adorably, of course. This little incident resonated with me. Briefly, irrationally, I thought maybe it was a sign that we should try one more time for a girl.
Yeah, at times I've been a little obsessed with the idea of having a daughter. I compulsively watch the gender patterns of other people's families. Maybe we could be like so-and-so - they had two boys and then a girl, I thought before Gus. Or maybe if we went for it again, we could be like my cousin and her husband - three boys and finally a girl, I'll think. Maybe.
Who knows what the fates would give us. I know that in reality, when it comes to a baby's sex, it's most likely a 50-50 shake, but that's not really the point. The point is what you do with what you get. I have three beautiful, healthy, creative, smart boys. I have been blessed richly. Yes, when I see someone else's little girl in her tights and Mary Janes, sometimes I still get jealous, and maybe that never will change. But when I think about, really think about, all I have, I am filled to the brim with a sense of well-being. I'm happy with where I am, with my trio of boys.
We saw Garrison Keillor last winter. He had this line that I thought was great. I won't be able to repeat it as eloquently as Mr. Keillor, but I'll try. He said in life you can wish and wish and wish for something and then suddenly one day you realize that what you want is exactly what you have. And so it is. Goodbye, Kate from Wisconsin.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
The Christmas curse
You would think that after three Christmases of Ben getting sick for the big day, I would have just expected it this year. Further, you might argue that when in the middle of church on Christmas Eve Ben decided that he needed to lie down on the pew and then, looking ashen, left with his Grandpa Ceman to get a drink of water, I really should have known something bad was about to happen. But no, I chose to be an optimist. Or willfully ignorant, one or the other. "Wait!" I should have screamed. "Skip the bubbler! Get him to a bathroom, quick!" But no, I just sat there. And needless to say, Ben puked in the hallway. At church. On Christmas Eve.
It hardly seemed real, the possibility that Ben could get sick yet again. When Ben, and then the rest of us, got H1N1 in the fall, I told myself, "OK, at least we're getting this over with now, so maybe we won't get sick at Christmas again." How naive. Awful as this bit of bad luck was, the illness passed quickly, and Ben was feeling quite a bit better by Christmas night. Things were looking good. No one else had fallen ill. Again, naive. Paul got sick two nights later, appearing in our room, not comprehending the situation, asking why Ben had thrown up in his bed. The next day, we had to make a call about bringing him to Mark's parents' for the Thiel family gathering the following day. We ended up deciding to bring him for a couple hours, which would prove to be a terrible decision. Nearly everyone there fell ill within a few days.
Soon it was time to make another decision. We were to leave for a three-day trip to Chicago. Mark, Gus and I had yet to get sick. We were feeling fine, and Paul was on the mend. Besides, we had an anniversary dinner planned for my parents' 40th, and we were loathe to cancel. Again, bad decision. Gus got sick our first evening there. The poor boy didn't know what was happening to him. He was terrified and scarcely slept that night. Worse, Mark soon got sick, and hours later it caught up to me. That night, I can say, was the most hellish of my life. Running through the possible worst-case scenarios in our minds, this one, somehow, had escaped us.
Yes, this Christmas was not the kind they sing about in idyllic carols. In fact, truth be told, it was heavy on stress and anxiety and a little light on merriment, at least for me. And yet, looking back, I feel lucky. When we needed help, our families were there to help us, gladly. The day Mark and I were recovering in Chicago, my dad held Gus all day while he and Mark and I caught up on sleep. My mom and Aunt Sue took Ben and Paul to the Museum of Science and Industry and spoiled them rotten. And, yes, nearly everyone with us in Chicago got sick eventually, too. They helped us knowing they probably would. Now that's a gift.
It hardly seemed real, the possibility that Ben could get sick yet again. When Ben, and then the rest of us, got H1N1 in the fall, I told myself, "OK, at least we're getting this over with now, so maybe we won't get sick at Christmas again." How naive. Awful as this bit of bad luck was, the illness passed quickly, and Ben was feeling quite a bit better by Christmas night. Things were looking good. No one else had fallen ill. Again, naive. Paul got sick two nights later, appearing in our room, not comprehending the situation, asking why Ben had thrown up in his bed. The next day, we had to make a call about bringing him to Mark's parents' for the Thiel family gathering the following day. We ended up deciding to bring him for a couple hours, which would prove to be a terrible decision. Nearly everyone there fell ill within a few days.
Soon it was time to make another decision. We were to leave for a three-day trip to Chicago. Mark, Gus and I had yet to get sick. We were feeling fine, and Paul was on the mend. Besides, we had an anniversary dinner planned for my parents' 40th, and we were loathe to cancel. Again, bad decision. Gus got sick our first evening there. The poor boy didn't know what was happening to him. He was terrified and scarcely slept that night. Worse, Mark soon got sick, and hours later it caught up to me. That night, I can say, was the most hellish of my life. Running through the possible worst-case scenarios in our minds, this one, somehow, had escaped us.
Yes, this Christmas was not the kind they sing about in idyllic carols. In fact, truth be told, it was heavy on stress and anxiety and a little light on merriment, at least for me. And yet, looking back, I feel lucky. When we needed help, our families were there to help us, gladly. The day Mark and I were recovering in Chicago, my dad held Gus all day while he and Mark and I caught up on sleep. My mom and Aunt Sue took Ben and Paul to the Museum of Science and Industry and spoiled them rotten. And, yes, nearly everyone with us in Chicago got sick eventually, too. They helped us knowing they probably would. Now that's a gift.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)