Something about today just feels good. For the first time in months, it's warm enough to have breakfast in the backyard. All the springtime flowers are blooming. A pleasant breeze carries the spicy-sweet scents of hyacinth and lilacs. The sun is hot already. My skin drinks it in, and even my bones feel warm. At 9 am, I've already turned on the hose for the boys to play in.
Nothing compares to the bubbling, innocent laughter of my children. In a rare moment of cooperation, they are sharing the hose. James is fiercely possessive, and teaching him to share (especially with his little brother) has been an immense challenge. Just now, though, he's forgotten that everything is HIS. Jacob presses the button on the sprayer of the hose, then gets frustrated that it won't stay on. James, ever so gently, puts a hand on his little brother's shoulder.
"It's ok, Jake. Lemme show you how it works."
James slowly presses the button that holds open the valve deliberately-- slowly so his brother can see. He coos softly to Jacob as he does it, explaining, "There you go. Just like that. Now it'll work, Jake."
"Tankoo!" Jacob replies, a glowing smile returning to his face.
I know this little moment won't last, so I drink it in, letting it fill my heart with joy. I say a little prayer that my boys will always remember to be so kind to each other. I know they will fight and make ME want to scream and cry, but I also know there are more of these tender moments to come. These snapshots of happiness make all the trials of motherhood worth it. They remind me why I chose to be a parent.
My children are happiness, wrapped in skin and bone and clothed in 3T board shorts. I hope I never forget it.
5.12.2010
5.10.2010
Without Fear
The year that my mother died was one of the hardest years of my life. So much changed in such a small amount of time that when I think back on it, much of what happened is fairly blurry. I was 16, and my biggest worries up until then were what I was doing with my boyfriend this weekend, or what I was going to wear to school the next day. The course of my life was suddenly and swiftly altered, and I felt fairly out of control. Things seemed to be happening around me without my permission. It was during this hectic year, however, that I first took a stand for myself, and made a bold move that I have never regretted.
For the first couple of months after my mother died, my family tried to go back to "normal," at least as normal as we possibly could be. Despite my family's pleas that I move to Washington to live with my grandmother, I stayed in our home in Michigan with my little brother and my stepdad. Things were tense, but bearable. My stepfather could be a very volatile person; for much of my life I had been very afraid of him. It was easy to send him in to a tirade, and the stress of our current situation did not help him at all.
To say I was frightened of my stepdad would be an understatement. I was terrified to be left in the same room alone with him. He had never physically hurt me, although I had seen the bruises he left on my sister. I was always scared that I was going to make him angry. For much of my life, I had relied on my mom and my big sister to "protect" me from his tirades--he would get angry for the smallest things, and his fury could last quite a long while. With my mom gone and my sister away at college, there was now no "buffer" to protect me from him. I lived every day in fear that I would make him angry, make him scream and call me horrible names and possibly hurt me.
One day, my sister was visiting my brother and I and she took us to the movies. We left a note for my stepfather telling him when we would return. Unfortunately, the movie we went to see was sold out, so we went to a later showing. We returned home half an hour later than we intended. My stepfather greeted us with a screaming match. How inconsiderate of us to be late! Why didn't we call? He couldn't believe how we could do this to him! As usual, my sister took the brunt of his anger--for every scream he threw at her, she yelled back, doing her best to keep his attention on herself and away from me and my little brother. She stormed out of the house, him following after, screaming at her. She asked me to come with her, but I said no. I couldn't imagine how angry that would make him, but I didn't want to find out. Instead, I sulked away and hid in my room. He stopped yelling after my sister left, and he also stopped speaking to me.
About a week later, after a week of silence from my stepdad, I came home from school just like any other day. By this point, I had stopped trying to speak to him, since the only response I got was a cold shoulder and silence. He was sitting in the living room, and I walked past and went to my bedroom, where I had been spending the majority of my time lately. A few minutes passed when my bedroom door burst open, and my stepdad stood there, his eyes bulging out of his head and his face bright red with fury.
"You come home and you don't even bother to say HELLO?" He roared at me.
I looked at him blankly, my heart starting to race. I had no idea how to respond, so I tried to be honest.
"You haven't spoken to me for a week. Why would I say hello to you?"
Unfortunately, this only managed to anger him further.
"You ungrateful bitch. You never even said sorry for being late on Sunday. It's like you don't even love me anymore..."
Typically, this kind of language from my stepdad, and the lengthy tirade that followed it, would do nothing but reduce me to tears. I would cry and curl up in a ball until he was done, and hope that he would calm down. But today was different. I'm still not sure why it was different--maybe because it was the first time I'd really faced him completely on my own. This day, I didn't stand down and wait for the storm to pass. This day, I decided to fight back.
I gave my stepfather a tirade of my own. I told him how terrified he had made me for the last 13 years of my life. I told him how there was never a day that I wasn't afraid to be left alone with him. And I told him he was right, that I had no love left in my heart, no patience left to deal with his tyranny.
My words took the wind out of my stepfather's sails. He left my room, still angry, but no longer screaming. I sat on my bed staring at the door, in shock. I wasn't certain what to do next, but something told me I didn't have much time to decide. I thought of going to him and apologizing, trying to make everything better. But I also knew if I did that, we would have to go through this same thing another day, for some different silly reason that made him angry. At that moment, I made one of the craziest decisions of my life. I decided to walk away.
I quickly packed everything that I could fit in a suitcase and my backpack. I had no idea where I was going to go, but I knew that it was the right time to leave. As I was walking out of my bedroom, my stepfather was walking back down the hall, starting to scream at me again. I gave him one last goodbye, as calmly as I could muster, and told him I wouldn't be back. I walked out my front door, dragging a suitcase behind me, and headed down the road.
Part of me said I should turn back, but most of me felt like this was the bravest decision I could have made. I walked down the road, not sure of what I would do next, but certain I had done what was right for me. Even though I was technically "running away," I felt like I was running toward a better future--one where I didn't have to be afraid all the time.
I left that house and I have never looked back. I stayed with friends until my sister and I could get an apartment together. I managed to finish my last two years of high school in relative normalcy. Although I still struggle with it, that fateful day I learned that I can stand up for myself. It was like fighting a battle with my arch nemesis and winning. I was free in more ways than one that day that I walked down a busy highway dragging a suitcase behind me. I was free to live my life without fear.
For the first couple of months after my mother died, my family tried to go back to "normal," at least as normal as we possibly could be. Despite my family's pleas that I move to Washington to live with my grandmother, I stayed in our home in Michigan with my little brother and my stepdad. Things were tense, but bearable. My stepfather could be a very volatile person; for much of my life I had been very afraid of him. It was easy to send him in to a tirade, and the stress of our current situation did not help him at all.
To say I was frightened of my stepdad would be an understatement. I was terrified to be left in the same room alone with him. He had never physically hurt me, although I had seen the bruises he left on my sister. I was always scared that I was going to make him angry. For much of my life, I had relied on my mom and my big sister to "protect" me from his tirades--he would get angry for the smallest things, and his fury could last quite a long while. With my mom gone and my sister away at college, there was now no "buffer" to protect me from him. I lived every day in fear that I would make him angry, make him scream and call me horrible names and possibly hurt me.
One day, my sister was visiting my brother and I and she took us to the movies. We left a note for my stepfather telling him when we would return. Unfortunately, the movie we went to see was sold out, so we went to a later showing. We returned home half an hour later than we intended. My stepfather greeted us with a screaming match. How inconsiderate of us to be late! Why didn't we call? He couldn't believe how we could do this to him! As usual, my sister took the brunt of his anger--for every scream he threw at her, she yelled back, doing her best to keep his attention on herself and away from me and my little brother. She stormed out of the house, him following after, screaming at her. She asked me to come with her, but I said no. I couldn't imagine how angry that would make him, but I didn't want to find out. Instead, I sulked away and hid in my room. He stopped yelling after my sister left, and he also stopped speaking to me.
About a week later, after a week of silence from my stepdad, I came home from school just like any other day. By this point, I had stopped trying to speak to him, since the only response I got was a cold shoulder and silence. He was sitting in the living room, and I walked past and went to my bedroom, where I had been spending the majority of my time lately. A few minutes passed when my bedroom door burst open, and my stepdad stood there, his eyes bulging out of his head and his face bright red with fury.
"You come home and you don't even bother to say HELLO?" He roared at me.
I looked at him blankly, my heart starting to race. I had no idea how to respond, so I tried to be honest.
"You haven't spoken to me for a week. Why would I say hello to you?"
Unfortunately, this only managed to anger him further.
"You ungrateful bitch. You never even said sorry for being late on Sunday. It's like you don't even love me anymore..."
Typically, this kind of language from my stepdad, and the lengthy tirade that followed it, would do nothing but reduce me to tears. I would cry and curl up in a ball until he was done, and hope that he would calm down. But today was different. I'm still not sure why it was different--maybe because it was the first time I'd really faced him completely on my own. This day, I didn't stand down and wait for the storm to pass. This day, I decided to fight back.
I gave my stepfather a tirade of my own. I told him how terrified he had made me for the last 13 years of my life. I told him how there was never a day that I wasn't afraid to be left alone with him. And I told him he was right, that I had no love left in my heart, no patience left to deal with his tyranny.
My words took the wind out of my stepfather's sails. He left my room, still angry, but no longer screaming. I sat on my bed staring at the door, in shock. I wasn't certain what to do next, but something told me I didn't have much time to decide. I thought of going to him and apologizing, trying to make everything better. But I also knew if I did that, we would have to go through this same thing another day, for some different silly reason that made him angry. At that moment, I made one of the craziest decisions of my life. I decided to walk away.
I quickly packed everything that I could fit in a suitcase and my backpack. I had no idea where I was going to go, but I knew that it was the right time to leave. As I was walking out of my bedroom, my stepfather was walking back down the hall, starting to scream at me again. I gave him one last goodbye, as calmly as I could muster, and told him I wouldn't be back. I walked out my front door, dragging a suitcase behind me, and headed down the road.
Part of me said I should turn back, but most of me felt like this was the bravest decision I could have made. I walked down the road, not sure of what I would do next, but certain I had done what was right for me. Even though I was technically "running away," I felt like I was running toward a better future--one where I didn't have to be afraid all the time.
I left that house and I have never looked back. I stayed with friends until my sister and I could get an apartment together. I managed to finish my last two years of high school in relative normalcy. Although I still struggle with it, that fateful day I learned that I can stand up for myself. It was like fighting a battle with my arch nemesis and winning. I was free in more ways than one that day that I walked down a busy highway dragging a suitcase behind me. I was free to live my life without fear.
5.06.2010
Educating the people the world needs most
Back in the day when I was in college at Gonzaga, the university started a new ad campaign. For an entire semester, there were stickers, buttons, and posters all over campus that read "WHY GONZAGA?" It was so prolific that it became a campus joke--"WHY GONZAGA? Because the cafeteria food is awesome!" "WHY GONZAGA? Because I can ALWAYS find a parking spot on campus!" We were all ready to find out what the punchline was by the time their "big reveal" happened--a gigantic pep rally where they finally announced their answer to the question:
"Why Gonzaga? Because we're educating the people the world needs most."
At the time, I thought it was at best a grandiose overstatement of the importance of the university. Lately, though, that tagline has been going through my head quite a bit--but not because I've been pining over my alma mater.
A few weeks ago, as I was pulling out my hair trying to pay the bills, my mind started to wander (as it often does during bill-paying). I started worrying about the future--about the fact that by the time my children are in school, I will have been out of the workforce for 6 years, which will leave me with no resume and depleted Social Security funds. As I was brooding, I went from worried to angry, beginning to question why these should even be concerns in the first place. I'm not changing the world directly right now, but I do believe that I'm doing one of the world's most important--and severely underrated--jobs.
I started searching for more information about this and found this book, which I am very anxious to read. The more I researched and read, the more fired up I got. Lately, I've been daydreaming about writing an extensive research paper on stay-at-home parents and envisioning a stay-at-home rights movement while doing the dishes. And this brings me back to that great slogan once coined by Gonzaga that keeps running through my head.
Higher education is undoubtedly important, and it certainly produces many of the specialists that the world "needs" to run. But I keep thinking how sorely this slogan misses the mark in my current situation. It actually highlights the lack of respect for child-rearing quite starkly now in my mind. Yes, universities are responsible for giving their students the specialized knowledge they need to pursue a career, but I think when it comes down to it, much of an adult's essential education is learned much earlier. It is from our parents that we learn our values and morals--that's where we start to develop our sense of what is important and what WE think the world "needs." So I've been imagining that Gonzaga's ad slogan could be much better used like this:
WHY PARENTS? Because we're educating the people the world needs most.
It's my new personal motivational slogan. I keep reminding myself of it every time I start to get stressed or when I feel like I'm not really doing anything of value being at home with the kids. I think that our society could do with a little reminding of exactly how important the task of parenting is. People give it lip service, especially around holidays like Mother's Day and Father's Day, but the proof is in the pudding, and my bowl is empty. No one is in the least bit interested in giving parents the time they need to raise their children, because it isn't (directly) economically viable. And whether you are blessed with the opportunity to stay at home with your children or if you are working full time, our first and most important job right now is to be parents to our children.
I'm not saying everyone should quit their jobs and stay at home with their children, but I AM proposing that it should be a more realistic option for a greater majority of our society. I can remind myself all I want that I am "educating the people the world needs most," but how many other people see it that way? And how many people think I'm just watching soap operas and eating bonbons?
Ok, I think I'm done here on my soapbox for now. I fear this post was a little more scattered than I intended, but I really needed to get this off my chest. And the next time you're knee-deep in dirty diapers and laundry, just remind yourself that "you're educating people the world needs most." Maybe it'll help.
"Why Gonzaga? Because we're educating the people the world needs most."
At the time, I thought it was at best a grandiose overstatement of the importance of the university. Lately, though, that tagline has been going through my head quite a bit--but not because I've been pining over my alma mater.
A few weeks ago, as I was pulling out my hair trying to pay the bills, my mind started to wander (as it often does during bill-paying). I started worrying about the future--about the fact that by the time my children are in school, I will have been out of the workforce for 6 years, which will leave me with no resume and depleted Social Security funds. As I was brooding, I went from worried to angry, beginning to question why these should even be concerns in the first place. I'm not changing the world directly right now, but I do believe that I'm doing one of the world's most important--and severely underrated--jobs.
I started searching for more information about this and found this book, which I am very anxious to read. The more I researched and read, the more fired up I got. Lately, I've been daydreaming about writing an extensive research paper on stay-at-home parents and envisioning a stay-at-home rights movement while doing the dishes. And this brings me back to that great slogan once coined by Gonzaga that keeps running through my head.
Higher education is undoubtedly important, and it certainly produces many of the specialists that the world "needs" to run. But I keep thinking how sorely this slogan misses the mark in my current situation. It actually highlights the lack of respect for child-rearing quite starkly now in my mind. Yes, universities are responsible for giving their students the specialized knowledge they need to pursue a career, but I think when it comes down to it, much of an adult's essential education is learned much earlier. It is from our parents that we learn our values and morals--that's where we start to develop our sense of what is important and what WE think the world "needs." So I've been imagining that Gonzaga's ad slogan could be much better used like this:
WHY PARENTS? Because we're educating the people the world needs most.
It's my new personal motivational slogan. I keep reminding myself of it every time I start to get stressed or when I feel like I'm not really doing anything of value being at home with the kids. I think that our society could do with a little reminding of exactly how important the task of parenting is. People give it lip service, especially around holidays like Mother's Day and Father's Day, but the proof is in the pudding, and my bowl is empty. No one is in the least bit interested in giving parents the time they need to raise their children, because it isn't (directly) economically viable. And whether you are blessed with the opportunity to stay at home with your children or if you are working full time, our first and most important job right now is to be parents to our children.
I'm not saying everyone should quit their jobs and stay at home with their children, but I AM proposing that it should be a more realistic option for a greater majority of our society. I can remind myself all I want that I am "educating the people the world needs most," but how many other people see it that way? And how many people think I'm just watching soap operas and eating bonbons?
Ok, I think I'm done here on my soapbox for now. I fear this post was a little more scattered than I intended, but I really needed to get this off my chest. And the next time you're knee-deep in dirty diapers and laundry, just remind yourself that "you're educating people the world needs most." Maybe it'll help.
5.02.2010
Dear 22 Month Old,
Hi, Sweetie. Sweetie?
(snapping fingers and rolling eyes)
SWEETIE! Ok. Now that I have your attention. Ahem.
Hi, Sweetie. Erm...honey...don't climb that. Mommy REALLY doesn't want to take a trip to the hospital today, I haven't even paid the bill from our last visit yet. Don't make me get out of this chair. Don't you do it!
(smack on the floor and inconsolable wailing)
Grrr...Didn't I tell you NOT to do that? I know you understand me! Why don't you listen. Oh, stop, you're fine. Alright, one hug, but really I don't think you deserve it. That was totally preventable.
(wiping copious amounts of snot from shoulder)
Ok. Now. ARE. YOU. LISTENING.
Sweet, beautiful, energetic little baby boy--
It's probably time to stop calling you "baby." You are, after all, very nearly two. But I just wanted to write you this little note to remind you: You're not two yet! I've got two months left, precious, and I'd really like to enjoy them. I'm getting sick of having to apologetically announce to shocked onlookers in stores and restaurants, "He's two," when it's not even true yet! Couldn't you give me just a *little* more time? My bruises haven't all quite healed since your brother turned two. I demand at least a one-week notice before "The Terrible Twos" commence.
Don't look at me with that blank stare. You know what I'm talking about. No? How about last week at the playground, when I TOLD you not to hang off the top of the big toy, and then you did it on purpose (I KNOW it was on purpose, damnit) and when you fell you screamed at me like it was my fault? Since when does warning someone that they're going to get hurt constitute liability when it actually happens? It's not like I'm psychic or have kinetic powers that I used to push you off the toy (because if I did, life would be a lot more exciting for both of us).
Still not impressed? Still don't think you've been behaving badly? Hmm...ok. What about Friday when we were at the restaurant? You spent the entire time trying to wriggle out of your seat, and when you finally succeeded, you screamed, "NO, MOMMY! NO LIKE MOMMY!" and ran away screaming. Just because everyone in the restaurant laughed does NOT make it funny. Just so you know, I was ready to crawl in a corner and die. And if that happened, who would feed you? I'd like to remind you that Daddy does NOT know how to cook.
Alright, I can see you're still not getting the picture here. So let's go over one more example. This morning, when you woke me up at 5 am? I asked you not to put your hands in the fishbowl. I asked more times that I should have because I was tired and annoyed at being awake that early. And when I finally just yelled, "NO!" to get your attention and make you stop, what did you do? YOU BIT ME.
That last one alone is enough proof for me. You are cute, cuddly, and very sweet. Please, please, PLEASE stay that way just a little bit longer. I've ordered full body armor to protect myself and it takes two weeks to deliver. Can we at least wait that long?
Love you, Sweetie. Now stop jumping on the couch and eat your breakfast.
Love, Mommy
(snapping fingers and rolling eyes)
SWEETIE! Ok. Now that I have your attention. Ahem.
Hi, Sweetie. Erm...honey...don't climb that. Mommy REALLY doesn't want to take a trip to the hospital today, I haven't even paid the bill from our last visit yet. Don't make me get out of this chair. Don't you do it!
(smack on the floor and inconsolable wailing)
Grrr...Didn't I tell you NOT to do that? I know you understand me! Why don't you listen. Oh, stop, you're fine. Alright, one hug, but really I don't think you deserve it. That was totally preventable.
(wiping copious amounts of snot from shoulder)
Ok. Now. ARE. YOU. LISTENING.
Sweet, beautiful, energetic little baby boy--
It's probably time to stop calling you "baby." You are, after all, very nearly two. But I just wanted to write you this little note to remind you: You're not two yet! I've got two months left, precious, and I'd really like to enjoy them. I'm getting sick of having to apologetically announce to shocked onlookers in stores and restaurants, "He's two," when it's not even true yet! Couldn't you give me just a *little* more time? My bruises haven't all quite healed since your brother turned two. I demand at least a one-week notice before "The Terrible Twos" commence.
Don't look at me with that blank stare. You know what I'm talking about. No? How about last week at the playground, when I TOLD you not to hang off the top of the big toy, and then you did it on purpose (I KNOW it was on purpose, damnit) and when you fell you screamed at me like it was my fault? Since when does warning someone that they're going to get hurt constitute liability when it actually happens? It's not like I'm psychic or have kinetic powers that I used to push you off the toy (because if I did, life would be a lot more exciting for both of us).
Still not impressed? Still don't think you've been behaving badly? Hmm...ok. What about Friday when we were at the restaurant? You spent the entire time trying to wriggle out of your seat, and when you finally succeeded, you screamed, "NO, MOMMY! NO LIKE MOMMY!" and ran away screaming. Just because everyone in the restaurant laughed does NOT make it funny. Just so you know, I was ready to crawl in a corner and die. And if that happened, who would feed you? I'd like to remind you that Daddy does NOT know how to cook.
Alright, I can see you're still not getting the picture here. So let's go over one more example. This morning, when you woke me up at 5 am? I asked you not to put your hands in the fishbowl. I asked more times that I should have because I was tired and annoyed at being awake that early. And when I finally just yelled, "NO!" to get your attention and make you stop, what did you do? YOU BIT ME.
That last one alone is enough proof for me. You are cute, cuddly, and very sweet. Please, please, PLEASE stay that way just a little bit longer. I've ordered full body armor to protect myself and it takes two weeks to deliver. Can we at least wait that long?
Love you, Sweetie. Now stop jumping on the couch and eat your breakfast.
Love, Mommy
4.27.2010
C is for Cookie...that's good enough for me
I was so excited the first time I made cookies with my boys. I had visions of them calmly stirring the batter, sneaking a taste when they thought I wasn't looking. I imagined them happily watching me measure out the ingredients as I explained what each thing was as I added it to the bowl. I knew it was going to be fun, and I couldn't wait to enjoy the experience with them.
Things started out well. It was so cute watching them rush for the stools in the kitchen, pulling them as close to the mixing bowl as they could get--so close that I barely had elbow room. Equally adorable was when each of them then rushed to the utensils to pick out their very own spatulas to help stir with. And that's about where the calm and cuteness of the experience wore off.
Ever-curious Jacob opened the canister of salt and poured about half on to the counter before I got it out of his hands. Stubborn James refused to let his brother--or me--touch the mixing bowl without his permission. There was baking soda, salt, and flour in equal amounts on the floor and in the bowl.
Not only was my kitchen now a total wreck, my patience was starting to wear thin, and I just wanted the damn cookies DONE. I'd gone from excited and happy about the whole experience, to wanting to pull out all my hair in a matter of minutes. What was I THINKING, letting a one- and three-year-old help me bake?
In lieu of screaming like a banshee and banishing my children from the kitchen, I walked away from the situation and sat down in the office with my husband. "What's the matter?" He asked tentatively, pretending to not notice the flour splotches all over my face and in my hair. If there hadn't been steam rising from the top of my head, he might have laughed, but God bless him he held his tongue.
"The kids are making me crazy!! All I wanted to do was make some freaking cookies and now the kitchen's a mess and I don't know if we even measured anything right...." I let out a 2-minute tirade with some less-than-clean language, and by the time he stopped me I was close to tears.
"Babe...why did you want to make cookies with the kids?"
"I thought it would be fun. I wanted to show them how to do it."
"Take a look in the kitchen."
I huffed and crossed my arms, but still I stuck my head out the office door and looked in to my cookie-coated kitchen. There were my two boys, covered with even more flour than I was, pretending to measure and stir and laughing together. They were having fun.
The cookie-baking experience had not been anything like I hoped for, but I'd still accomplished my goal. I had shown my boys something new, and they loved it. The only thing standing in the way of ME having fun, too, was that I was stuck with a fantasy that didn't match my reality.
There are so many instances of parenting that end up turning out nothing like we've planned. It can be difficult to overcome the disappointment sometimes, but seeing the bigger picture can often help ease the anxiety. Having someone point it out can often help, too (thanks, Hubby). I often end up learning lessons from my children when I set out to teach them something new.
We've since baked cookies more times than I can count, and although I have to admit I sometimes still get a little tense, it really does warm my heart to see them race for the stools, spatulas in hand, ready to make cookies--and probably a really fun mess--with me.
Things started out well. It was so cute watching them rush for the stools in the kitchen, pulling them as close to the mixing bowl as they could get--so close that I barely had elbow room. Equally adorable was when each of them then rushed to the utensils to pick out their very own spatulas to help stir with. And that's about where the calm and cuteness of the experience wore off.
Ever-curious Jacob opened the canister of salt and poured about half on to the counter before I got it out of his hands. Stubborn James refused to let his brother--or me--touch the mixing bowl without his permission. There was baking soda, salt, and flour in equal amounts on the floor and in the bowl.
Not only was my kitchen now a total wreck, my patience was starting to wear thin, and I just wanted the damn cookies DONE. I'd gone from excited and happy about the whole experience, to wanting to pull out all my hair in a matter of minutes. What was I THINKING, letting a one- and three-year-old help me bake?
In lieu of screaming like a banshee and banishing my children from the kitchen, I walked away from the situation and sat down in the office with my husband. "What's the matter?" He asked tentatively, pretending to not notice the flour splotches all over my face and in my hair. If there hadn't been steam rising from the top of my head, he might have laughed, but God bless him he held his tongue.
"The kids are making me crazy!! All I wanted to do was make some freaking cookies and now the kitchen's a mess and I don't know if we even measured anything right...." I let out a 2-minute tirade with some less-than-clean language, and by the time he stopped me I was close to tears.
"Babe...why did you want to make cookies with the kids?"
"I thought it would be fun. I wanted to show them how to do it."
"Take a look in the kitchen."
I huffed and crossed my arms, but still I stuck my head out the office door and looked in to my cookie-coated kitchen. There were my two boys, covered with even more flour than I was, pretending to measure and stir and laughing together. They were having fun.
The cookie-baking experience had not been anything like I hoped for, but I'd still accomplished my goal. I had shown my boys something new, and they loved it. The only thing standing in the way of ME having fun, too, was that I was stuck with a fantasy that didn't match my reality.
There are so many instances of parenting that end up turning out nothing like we've planned. It can be difficult to overcome the disappointment sometimes, but seeing the bigger picture can often help ease the anxiety. Having someone point it out can often help, too (thanks, Hubby). I often end up learning lessons from my children when I set out to teach them something new.
We've since baked cookies more times than I can count, and although I have to admit I sometimes still get a little tense, it really does warm my heart to see them race for the stools, spatulas in hand, ready to make cookies--and probably a really fun mess--with me.
4.26.2010
Whoever has the best child gets a cookie.
I love my children. Like most doting parents, I think that my kids are the best kids in the world. They're always the cutest, always the best behaved, and man, are they ever smart! I, however, am not delusional. I know this is normal and that all parents (well, all decent parents) feel this way about their children.
I also have a confession to make: in addition to believing my kids are the best, I am also occasionally guilty of judging the behavior of other children. Usually, the judgment is aimed at their parents: "He's three and they seriously haven't taught him how to say please and thank you?" or "Wow, I can't believe her mom let her get away with that." In private, my husband and I have often proudly compared our little angels to our friends' children, pointing out all the things that make our kids great. I'd wager a guess that even though we all care about each other, our friends have made the same comparisons about our kids.
I honestly don't see that much of a problem with this; I think it's a pretty natural phenomenon. It makes total sense to me that parents would be absolutely in love with their kids--in love enough to not notice the flaws that other people see. There is a problem, however, when parents bring their not-so-nice comparisons out in the open, turning a playdate in to a competition to see whose kids are "better."
Last week, our family went out to dinner with the family of my brother-in-law's fiancee. It just so happens that her parents (her dad and stepmom) have a son who is only 2 months younger than our oldest son. I thought, well, that will be kind of cool, they can keep each other company. What I didn't expect was that this would be the OLYMPICS of child-comparison competitions.
The jabs started out subtle. My son pointed at a red balloon and said, "Mommy, I want that pink ballon!"
"Hot pink, huh," she snickered, "And he doesn't even have any sisters at home! Besides, that balloon isn't pink. What color is that balloon, Johnny?" she asked her son.
"It's red, Mommy!" Johnny cheerfully replied.
"Very good, Johnny. James, what color is that other balloon?" she asked my son, pointing at a blue balloon.
"Green!" My son replied, just as cheerfully.
"No, it's blue, Mommy!" interjected Johnny.
This same conversation continued until Johnny had correctly and without hesitation named the colors of all the balloons in the restaurant. My son, bless his heart, tried to name the colors with little success. It's something we've been working on; he knows them but he often confuses them (and I'm not concerned about it because he always confuses the same names of colors with each other, which makes me believe he understands the concept, he just hasn't memorized the color names yet).
After this amazing display of Johnny's color-naming skills, his Mommy explained--her chest puffed up with pride--how Johnny would be moving in to the 4-year-old class at preschool even though he just turned three. See, he's in a very prestigious preschool...he had to apply to get in and everything!
"Can James even say his ABC's yet? Didn't you say he was older than Johhny? Oh, really? That's too bad. Johnny, say the ABC's for us! Oh, and he can write his name. Write your name, Johnny! Oh, and why don't you show them how you can dance, Johnny?"
This friendly banter continued for some time, as we waited for our food to be brought. There was no doubt that Johnny's Mommy was attempting to prove how AMAZING her son was, and she was not shy about pointing out where she felt my son was lacking. By the time our food came, I was fuming, although I was doing my best to stay civil for the sake of my brother-in-law and his fiancee.
I don't understand the need to prove that your child is the best. In my mind, it's enough that I know how great my children are, and although I might be proud enough to mention something awesome that they can do, I've never compared my sons' accomplishments directly to the inadequacies of my friends' children--well, at least not to their parents' face. In a perfect world, we wouldn't be comparing our children at all, but in the real world we can at LEAST keep our opinions to ourselves.
Just as I was getting ready to shove a hot buttered roll in Johnny's Mommy's mouth just to shut her up for a while, however, my son took care of the problem all by himself. Dinner was done and the boys had both just received a nice bowl of chocolate ice cream. Perfect, smart, ABC-singing Johnny dove right in--face first. No attempt at using a spoon, he just stuck his face in the bowl and started eating like an animal. My dull, non-color-knowing little James turned up his nose, and with all the patience he could muster, pronounced, "Oh, Johnny! Don't do that it's RUDE! We use a SPOON to eat ice cream!"
I didn't laugh, but I wanted to. It made me feel a lot better about the whole situation, and it also made me realize something. We all know there's only so many hours in a day, and thus there's only so many things you have time to teach to your children. We pick and choose the lessons we teach our kids, mainly based on our own preferences and values. For me, early childhood is a blessing for my children because no one is forcing them to learn anything--they're learning by playing and enjoying the world before life suddenly gets "structured" when they hit grade school...but I expect them to mind their p's and q's in the meantime. For Johnny's Mommy, having a smart, "advanced" child who can sing his ABC's while tapdancing is at the top of the list, with manners being somewhere around...nonexistent. These are the parenting choices we have made, and therefore the things we're proud about are different. No one's child is the "best," we've all got great kids, and they all excel in different areas in life--most likely the areas of life that we've shown them are important to us.
Johnny's Mommy could certainly use a chill pill when it comes to her expressions of pride, but at the end of the day, I think we all win as long as we're trying our hardest. Just try not to knock my kid down on your way to the winner's circle. There's enough cookies for all of us.
I also have a confession to make: in addition to believing my kids are the best, I am also occasionally guilty of judging the behavior of other children. Usually, the judgment is aimed at their parents: "He's three and they seriously haven't taught him how to say please and thank you?" or "Wow, I can't believe her mom let her get away with that." In private, my husband and I have often proudly compared our little angels to our friends' children, pointing out all the things that make our kids great. I'd wager a guess that even though we all care about each other, our friends have made the same comparisons about our kids.
I honestly don't see that much of a problem with this; I think it's a pretty natural phenomenon. It makes total sense to me that parents would be absolutely in love with their kids--in love enough to not notice the flaws that other people see. There is a problem, however, when parents bring their not-so-nice comparisons out in the open, turning a playdate in to a competition to see whose kids are "better."
Last week, our family went out to dinner with the family of my brother-in-law's fiancee. It just so happens that her parents (her dad and stepmom) have a son who is only 2 months younger than our oldest son. I thought, well, that will be kind of cool, they can keep each other company. What I didn't expect was that this would be the OLYMPICS of child-comparison competitions.
The jabs started out subtle. My son pointed at a red balloon and said, "Mommy, I want that pink ballon!"
"Hot pink, huh," she snickered, "And he doesn't even have any sisters at home! Besides, that balloon isn't pink. What color is that balloon, Johnny?" she asked her son.
"It's red, Mommy!" Johnny cheerfully replied.
"Very good, Johnny. James, what color is that other balloon?" she asked my son, pointing at a blue balloon.
"Green!" My son replied, just as cheerfully.
"No, it's blue, Mommy!" interjected Johnny.
This same conversation continued until Johnny had correctly and without hesitation named the colors of all the balloons in the restaurant. My son, bless his heart, tried to name the colors with little success. It's something we've been working on; he knows them but he often confuses them (and I'm not concerned about it because he always confuses the same names of colors with each other, which makes me believe he understands the concept, he just hasn't memorized the color names yet).
After this amazing display of Johnny's color-naming skills, his Mommy explained--her chest puffed up with pride--how Johnny would be moving in to the 4-year-old class at preschool even though he just turned three. See, he's in a very prestigious preschool...he had to apply to get in and everything!
"Can James even say his ABC's yet? Didn't you say he was older than Johhny? Oh, really? That's too bad. Johnny, say the ABC's for us! Oh, and he can write his name. Write your name, Johnny! Oh, and why don't you show them how you can dance, Johnny?"
This friendly banter continued for some time, as we waited for our food to be brought. There was no doubt that Johnny's Mommy was attempting to prove how AMAZING her son was, and she was not shy about pointing out where she felt my son was lacking. By the time our food came, I was fuming, although I was doing my best to stay civil for the sake of my brother-in-law and his fiancee.
I don't understand the need to prove that your child is the best. In my mind, it's enough that I know how great my children are, and although I might be proud enough to mention something awesome that they can do, I've never compared my sons' accomplishments directly to the inadequacies of my friends' children--well, at least not to their parents' face. In a perfect world, we wouldn't be comparing our children at all, but in the real world we can at LEAST keep our opinions to ourselves.
Just as I was getting ready to shove a hot buttered roll in Johnny's Mommy's mouth just to shut her up for a while, however, my son took care of the problem all by himself. Dinner was done and the boys had both just received a nice bowl of chocolate ice cream. Perfect, smart, ABC-singing Johnny dove right in--face first. No attempt at using a spoon, he just stuck his face in the bowl and started eating like an animal. My dull, non-color-knowing little James turned up his nose, and with all the patience he could muster, pronounced, "Oh, Johnny! Don't do that it's RUDE! We use a SPOON to eat ice cream!"
I didn't laugh, but I wanted to. It made me feel a lot better about the whole situation, and it also made me realize something. We all know there's only so many hours in a day, and thus there's only so many things you have time to teach to your children. We pick and choose the lessons we teach our kids, mainly based on our own preferences and values. For me, early childhood is a blessing for my children because no one is forcing them to learn anything--they're learning by playing and enjoying the world before life suddenly gets "structured" when they hit grade school...but I expect them to mind their p's and q's in the meantime. For Johnny's Mommy, having a smart, "advanced" child who can sing his ABC's while tapdancing is at the top of the list, with manners being somewhere around...nonexistent. These are the parenting choices we have made, and therefore the things we're proud about are different. No one's child is the "best," we've all got great kids, and they all excel in different areas in life--most likely the areas of life that we've shown them are important to us.
Johnny's Mommy could certainly use a chill pill when it comes to her expressions of pride, but at the end of the day, I think we all win as long as we're trying our hardest. Just try not to knock my kid down on your way to the winner's circle. There's enough cookies for all of us.
4.23.2010
My Girl Loves to Party All the Time
The last few weeks, we have spent more time being social than we've probably been in the last year. Birthday parties, nights out on the town, random visits to family in the middle of the week...lately, it feels like I'm away from home more than I'm here.
Typically, even after one such event I would be stressed out and ready to lay in bed for a week to recover. Ok...maybe not *that* bad, but social situations have never really been my thing. I was the girl standing alone in a corner at parties and dances. Sure, I had friends, and I loved hanging out with them, but for some reason more than five people in a room at once tended to render me mute and socially useless.
On Sunday, we had gone to a birthday party for one of friends' sons. There were over 30 guests...and only about 14 were adults. I knew all of the adults, at least from meeting them at similar functions over the last few years. But (and this isn't an excuse, but really my train of thought) it was REALLY hot in the house, my boys were outside playing, and there was not really any place to sit without displacing a mother holding a baby. So, I said some hasty hello's and smiled as I booked straight through the house to the backyard. I came in a few times to try and "hang out," since all the ladies were in the house but, really, it was just so damned uncomfortable in there. I went outside and played with the kids. Somehow 20-some children all under the age of ten are way easier to handle than standing in a hot room with 5 adult females and their babies.
Yesterday, while having dinner with some friends that were also at that party, I got a not-so-subtle suggestion that I work on my social awkwardness. I guess it was a wake-up call because I never thought that my problem was so obvious. My friend just casually mentioned that "maybe" I should "try" to come out on ladies' night to get better acquainted with all of the women in my social circle. Then, perhaps, "you won't feel so awkward at birthdays and baby showers and stuff." It was an attempt at subtlety, but this friend doesn't really have a subtle bone in her body, so there it was, like a slap in the face. The unspoken part was, "everyone noticed you ran from us like a deer in headlights, and we're all a little concerned."
The really sad part about the whole situation is I had been looking forward to that party all week. I was actually excited to get out and hang out with friends. I was especially excited because all of those women are mothers, and it is sooo easy to find something to talk about when other people are parents, too. I felt mentally prepared to interact with other adults and maybe even have fun. But, oh, how terribly I failed.
I suppose it's just something I'll have to keep working on. Perhaps I really will go to ladies' night next week and practice my social skills a bit. Or maybe I'll just crawl back under my rock and pray that we don't get any more party invitations for a while.
Typically, even after one such event I would be stressed out and ready to lay in bed for a week to recover. Ok...maybe not *that* bad, but social situations have never really been my thing. I was the girl standing alone in a corner at parties and dances. Sure, I had friends, and I loved hanging out with them, but for some reason more than five people in a room at once tended to render me mute and socially useless.
On Sunday, we had gone to a birthday party for one of friends' sons. There were over 30 guests...and only about 14 were adults. I knew all of the adults, at least from meeting them at similar functions over the last few years. But (and this isn't an excuse, but really my train of thought) it was REALLY hot in the house, my boys were outside playing, and there was not really any place to sit without displacing a mother holding a baby. So, I said some hasty hello's and smiled as I booked straight through the house to the backyard. I came in a few times to try and "hang out," since all the ladies were in the house but, really, it was just so damned uncomfortable in there. I went outside and played with the kids. Somehow 20-some children all under the age of ten are way easier to handle than standing in a hot room with 5 adult females and their babies.
Yesterday, while having dinner with some friends that were also at that party, I got a not-so-subtle suggestion that I work on my social awkwardness. I guess it was a wake-up call because I never thought that my problem was so obvious. My friend just casually mentioned that "maybe" I should "try" to come out on ladies' night to get better acquainted with all of the women in my social circle. Then, perhaps, "you won't feel so awkward at birthdays and baby showers and stuff." It was an attempt at subtlety, but this friend doesn't really have a subtle bone in her body, so there it was, like a slap in the face. The unspoken part was, "everyone noticed you ran from us like a deer in headlights, and we're all a little concerned."
The really sad part about the whole situation is I had been looking forward to that party all week. I was actually excited to get out and hang out with friends. I was especially excited because all of those women are mothers, and it is sooo easy to find something to talk about when other people are parents, too. I felt mentally prepared to interact with other adults and maybe even have fun. But, oh, how terribly I failed.
I suppose it's just something I'll have to keep working on. Perhaps I really will go to ladies' night next week and practice my social skills a bit. Or maybe I'll just crawl back under my rock and pray that we don't get any more party invitations for a while.
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