Groundhog Day

This time of year is always hard for me. January feels like the longest month ever, so even though February still is part of the doldrums of winter, I'm eager to flip the calendar to a new month. Around Feb. 2 each year, I also love to watch the movie Groundhog Day. Of course it makes me laugh, but more than that, it's utterly relatable, I love its message, and it puts me in just the right mood to face the rest of the cold winter that lies ahead.

In the beginning of the movie after the confusion wears off and the caustic and self-centered Phil Connors realizes that he's doomed to keep reliving Groundhog Day, his first instinct is to live it up a little bit. He has some flings, he steals some money. The novelty of that soon wears off, and Phil winds up depressed. No one can understand the hell he's living, and he offs himself in many and varied ways - all to no avail. He always wakes up to the sound of Sonny and Cher at 6 a.m. on Groundhog Day in the same insipid B&B. Finally, Phil decides he will become a better man. If he's stuck repeating the same day ad infinitum, he wants to make something more of his life. I'm a sucker for redemption, and this part of the movie always gets me.

Even if you're not Phil Connors and living the same day over and over again, winter in Wisconsin can make anyone feel that they are. Invariably, when winter has really only just begun, I'm already feeling cooped up, ready to go out of my mind if I'm stuck inside one more day. After my dose of Groundhog, however, I'm trying to remind myself that I'm really not stuck. Undeniably during this time of year, it's more challenging to overcome inertia, but I have options. I may not take this winter and learn to play piano and carve Andie MacDowell's likeness in ice a la Phil Connors, but I can take the boys sledding, take a walk, make some popcorn and hot chocolate and watch a movie with my family.

At the end of the movie, Phil offers what will be his final commentary on Groundhog Day: "When Chekhov saw the long winter, he saw a winter bleak and dark and bereft of hope. Yet we know that winter is just another step in the cycle of life. But standing here among the people of Punxsutawney and basking in the warmth of their hearths and hearts, I couldn't imagine a better fate than a long and lustrous winter."

I may never feel that warmly toward winter, but since I'm stuck in it, I want to try to make the best of it and recognize its beauty.

I've been hitting the (parenting) books

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.