It is hard to comprehend, as you cradle your newborn in your arms, how much this child will annoy and anger you someday. This is the flip side of love; the ones we adore the most are also the ones most skilled at driving us crazy, sometimes in equal measure.
Spanking has been out for some time, but now, the tide is turning against yelling at our children. I take this with mixed emotions, as yelling is an inevitable, and necessary part of the job.
In my better moments, my study of mindfulness practices pay dividends. I was talking with a friend about meditation recently, and quipped that one of the greatest benefits I have derived from my yoga practice is to yell at my children with far greater precision. What I meant is that I've become better at catching myself on the verge of an explosion, and deciding how to engage. Recently, I've used a trick I learned from Elena Brower, of lowering my chin to my chest, which changes the pattern of your heartbeat, and I've found it really works. As a result, when I do yell, I am more likely to be in control my anger rather than allowing it to control me.
In my lesser moments though, I've resorted to stomping, gritting my teeth, growling, and wrist squeezing. Once, when Sarah was small, I took a page from my cat, and hissed at her. It was not my proudest moment, but it got her attention.
I learned a good trick for anger management from Sarah. She was about three, and we were beginning to teach her to identify her emotions, and express anger verbally rather than physically. In true sanctimonious parent fashion, "Use your words," was a constant refrain. One day when she was angry about something, she clenched her fists and scrunched her face, and shouted, "I WANT TO HIT!"
We were so proud.
So sometimes when I'm close to losing it, I'll say, "I am really angry right now, so angry that I want to spank you."
What do you do to manage your temper?
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
22 October 2009
19 October 2009
Fighting words
My children have all been great dumpers and tossers of things. The basic recipe goes something like: upend one tin of blocks, add a generous amount of Legos, and a smattering of cars. Using your hands, mix well until ingredients are incorporated, and then repeat vigorously, until items are spread to the far corners of the house.
Sacha is by far, my most talented child in this respect, and I am waiting patiently for him to outgrow this phase.
In the meantime, because Iam a control freak have a low threshold for chaos, I spend a good amount of time sorting and returning things to their rightful places. This kind of routine busing of the house is so automatic to me that I do it unthinkingly, and without complaint.
The thing I cannot abide, however, is the flinging. Sacha walks in, sees pillows and blankets neatly arranged on the upholstery, and then methodically tosses everything to the floor. He stops to assess his work, and moves on to the den to do it again.
It is how my house goes, in under sixty seconds, from this:
to this:
It would be one thing if this happened in the course of play – say, making a fort – but the flinging appears to be an exercise in itself. More often than not, once the flinging is done, so is Sacha. His work is so deliberate that it is hard for me not to take it personally. It's as if he is certain that my insistence on placing pillows on the furniture is wrongheaded, and if he rearranges things often enough, eventually I will come to agree.
Or so I thought, until I walked in to the living room last weekend to find Sacha wrestling with a brown pillow, shouting, “YOU'RE GOING DOWN PILLOW, YOU'RE GOING DOWN!”
This gave me a different perspective. In hindsight, we often realize our tendency to personalize things that have nothing to do with us. I thought the flinging was about me, but now, I saw that it was the pillows, not me, that are Sacha's nemesis.
I'd like to say that this insight gave me new found tolerance for Sacha's idiosyncrisy, but that would be a baldfaced lie. It's still extremely annoying.
Sacha is by far, my most talented child in this respect, and I am waiting patiently for him to outgrow this phase.
In the meantime, because I
The thing I cannot abide, however, is the flinging. Sacha walks in, sees pillows and blankets neatly arranged on the upholstery, and then methodically tosses everything to the floor. He stops to assess his work, and moves on to the den to do it again.
It is how my house goes, in under sixty seconds, from this:
to this:
It would be one thing if this happened in the course of play – say, making a fort – but the flinging appears to be an exercise in itself. More often than not, once the flinging is done, so is Sacha. His work is so deliberate that it is hard for me not to take it personally. It's as if he is certain that my insistence on placing pillows on the furniture is wrongheaded, and if he rearranges things often enough, eventually I will come to agree.
Or so I thought, until I walked in to the living room last weekend to find Sacha wrestling with a brown pillow, shouting, “YOU'RE GOING DOWN PILLOW, YOU'RE GOING DOWN!”
This gave me a different perspective. In hindsight, we often realize our tendency to personalize things that have nothing to do with us. I thought the flinging was about me, but now, I saw that it was the pillows, not me, that are Sacha's nemesis.
I'd like to say that this insight gave me new found tolerance for Sacha's idiosyncrisy, but that would be a baldfaced lie. It's still extremely annoying.
12 October 2009
Playing God
Dear Thomas and Amanda Stansel,
I am sorry you had such difficulty conceiving children. I can only imagine what heartache that would bring, as I was fortunate enough to conceive my children effortlessly with no intervention. I know this is a blessing.
It is understandable that you would turn to a fertility specialist in order to realize your dreams of parenthood. Modern medicine has made many things possible that would have been inconceivable a few generations ago. The desire for children is a powerful, biological force, and in a perfect world, everyone who wanted to have children would conceive them effortlessly. Perhaps you were thrilled that your dreams of a large family were going to come true when your doctor informed you that intrauterine insemination was successful, and you were carrying not one, but six, embryos.
You lost my empathy when I learned that you disregarded your doctor's advice to selectively reduce the number of embryos to help increase your chances for a healthy outcome, and decided to play some very large odds, by bringing six babies into the world. I understand that in keeping with your religious convictions, you consider the notion of selective reduction to be tantamount to abortion, something which, as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you could not abide. I am glad you consulted not only with a reduction specialist, but with church elders, to help you arrive at what must have no doubt been a difficult decision to forge ahead with your pregnancy.
It must have been harrowing to deliver your sextuplets fourteen weeks early, and I imagine you were despondent to learn that they had a 60 to 65 percent chance of survival, and a one-hundred percent chance of problems. Your babies were born so early that hospital protocol dictated that no medical care be given unless specifically requested by the parents.
And this is where your logic falls apart, and you made what turned out to be a literally fatal error, when you decided that despite all evidence to the contrary, you would ignore medical statistics, because "God doesn't work in statistics."?
Do you not see that you were playing God all along? That perhaps your difficulty conceiving was God's way of telling you that it was not his plan for you to conceive biological offspring. Perhaps he had something else in mind for you, which, while not what you intended, may have led you to a rich, fulfilling life.
Was it worth it to lose three of your six newborns to gruesome deaths resulting from complications associated with a high-risk pregnancy, and premature birth? Was becoming a parent so important to you that you will treasure the privilege of knowing that one of your newborns died when blood seeped into his lungs via an open heart valve, while another developed an infection in the trachea that inflated his lungs so much that they crowded out his heart? Are you glad to be making daily trips to the neonatal intensive care unit to visit your three remaining infants, one of whom is experiencing kidney failure, and is hovering on the precipice of death?
In life, everyone suffers, and all parents will make their children miserable, hopefully unwittingly, and for as brief a period as possible. Can you live with the fact that you have played such an active role as the architects of your children's suffering? Is it lost on you that had you made the decision to selectively reduce at the beginning of the pregnancy, you might now be the parents of healthy twins, or triplets? At this point, your best outcome is two children with lifelong developmental and neurological issues. Is all the suffering you have selfishly unleashed because you could not see any further than your desire for biological offspring worth it?
I am sorry you had such difficulty conceiving children. I can only imagine what heartache that would bring, as I was fortunate enough to conceive my children effortlessly with no intervention. I know this is a blessing.
It is understandable that you would turn to a fertility specialist in order to realize your dreams of parenthood. Modern medicine has made many things possible that would have been inconceivable a few generations ago. The desire for children is a powerful, biological force, and in a perfect world, everyone who wanted to have children would conceive them effortlessly. Perhaps you were thrilled that your dreams of a large family were going to come true when your doctor informed you that intrauterine insemination was successful, and you were carrying not one, but six, embryos.
You lost my empathy when I learned that you disregarded your doctor's advice to selectively reduce the number of embryos to help increase your chances for a healthy outcome, and decided to play some very large odds, by bringing six babies into the world. I understand that in keeping with your religious convictions, you consider the notion of selective reduction to be tantamount to abortion, something which, as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you could not abide. I am glad you consulted not only with a reduction specialist, but with church elders, to help you arrive at what must have no doubt been a difficult decision to forge ahead with your pregnancy.
It must have been harrowing to deliver your sextuplets fourteen weeks early, and I imagine you were despondent to learn that they had a 60 to 65 percent chance of survival, and a one-hundred percent chance of problems. Your babies were born so early that hospital protocol dictated that no medical care be given unless specifically requested by the parents.
And this is where your logic falls apart, and you made what turned out to be a literally fatal error, when you decided that despite all evidence to the contrary, you would ignore medical statistics, because "God doesn't work in statistics."?
Do you not see that you were playing God all along? That perhaps your difficulty conceiving was God's way of telling you that it was not his plan for you to conceive biological offspring. Perhaps he had something else in mind for you, which, while not what you intended, may have led you to a rich, fulfilling life.
Was it worth it to lose three of your six newborns to gruesome deaths resulting from complications associated with a high-risk pregnancy, and premature birth? Was becoming a parent so important to you that you will treasure the privilege of knowing that one of your newborns died when blood seeped into his lungs via an open heart valve, while another developed an infection in the trachea that inflated his lungs so much that they crowded out his heart? Are you glad to be making daily trips to the neonatal intensive care unit to visit your three remaining infants, one of whom is experiencing kidney failure, and is hovering on the precipice of death?
In life, everyone suffers, and all parents will make their children miserable, hopefully unwittingly, and for as brief a period as possible. Can you live with the fact that you have played such an active role as the architects of your children's suffering? Is it lost on you that had you made the decision to selectively reduce at the beginning of the pregnancy, you might now be the parents of healthy twins, or triplets? At this point, your best outcome is two children with lifelong developmental and neurological issues. Is all the suffering you have selfishly unleashed because you could not see any further than your desire for biological offspring worth it?
29 September 2009
I don't know
Every parent will tell you that getting one's children to take no for an answer is one of the more frustrating parts of this job. Equally exasperating, but less talked about, is the acceptance of I don't know.
I think this has something to do with the perception of parental omnipotence, which is something I'd like to preserve for as long as possible. On the other hand, I don't want to lie to my children, because lacking the ability to think quickly on my feet, I am a lousy liar, but also because I want to preserve the sacred bond of trust my children place in me.
This dilemma leads to many conversations like this one I had with Sarah over the weekend.
"When is Sean's birthday?" she asked.
"I don't know." I replied.
"Is it April 10?"
"I know it's near your birthday, but I'm not certain exactly when it is."
"Is it April 5?"
"Sarah, when I tell you I don't know when it is, it's not because I'm hiding anything from you. It's because I truly don't know the answer to your question. Why don't we just ask him the next time we see him?"
"Do you think it's at the end of the month?"
This type of thing could go on for a while, and sometimes it does. For me, it captures perfectly the nature of this job, and perhaps, of life itself. Namely, the ability to be adorable, comic and exasperating in equal measures, while simultaneously, utterly defying logic.
I think this has something to do with the perception of parental omnipotence, which is something I'd like to preserve for as long as possible. On the other hand, I don't want to lie to my children, because lacking the ability to think quickly on my feet, I am a lousy liar, but also because I want to preserve the sacred bond of trust my children place in me.
This dilemma leads to many conversations like this one I had with Sarah over the weekend.
"When is Sean's birthday?" she asked.
"I don't know." I replied.
"Is it April 10?"
"I know it's near your birthday, but I'm not certain exactly when it is."
"Is it April 5?"
"Sarah, when I tell you I don't know when it is, it's not because I'm hiding anything from you. It's because I truly don't know the answer to your question. Why don't we just ask him the next time we see him?"
"Do you think it's at the end of the month?"
This type of thing could go on for a while, and sometimes it does. For me, it captures perfectly the nature of this job, and perhaps, of life itself. Namely, the ability to be adorable, comic and exasperating in equal measures, while simultaneously, utterly defying logic.
13 September 2009
Post #105, in which I discover that I am a hypocrite
We made a deal with Sarah that when she had $1000 in her savings account, we would allow her to withdraw money and purchase something significant, subject to parental approval. She reached her goal last spring, and immediately asked for an iPhone.
Vetoed!
After being shot down so quickly, she deliberated for a long time. Eventually, she circled back to square one, figuring that if she could not have an iPhone, why not ask for the next best thing; the ne plus ultra of iPodery, THE TOUCH.
To her great surprise, we said yes.
Since that day in late August, she has been on a mission to fill her 8GB.
The first insult came when we invited her to peruse our iTunes library, and of the thousands of songs that she has happily listened to for most of her life, she chose two.
"What about Stars, I asked, or the Magnetic Fields?"
"No."
"How about Bjork or Mates of State?"
"No."
"Palomar?"
"Nah."
"Sleater Kinney?"
"No thanks."
"Rufus Wainwright?"
"I downloaded Hallelujah." she replied. "Sorry, you just don't have any cool teen music."
Let's put aside for a moment that my daughter is ten, not thirteen. In one fell swoop, a decade of my daughter's musical education was dismissed, and I aged about a decade in both of our eyes.
And now, the floodgates are now open to the best and the worst of pop music, which leaves me looking forward to the heart to heart we will have any day now, when Sarah asks me, what a disco stick is.
Until now, we have tried to limit our kids' exposure to the full breadth of popular culture. I do not want my children to be naive, but to maintain their innocence for as long as possible. Lord knows I love a good curse word, and call me a prude, but I could not help but squirm this summer as I watched the 10 and under set dancing and chanting Shush, girl, shut your lips, do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.
You can rationalize by saying it goes over their head, but that does not give children due credit. Nothing gets past a smart child. I was listening to Push Push in the Bush when I was in fifth grade, and I knew exactly what it was about. That doesn't mean I should have been listening to it.
And so, with me now comfortably ensconced on my high horse, I came to find myself this week in the car with Sacha, listening to Humbug, the Arctic Monkeys new record. I have been listening to this more or less constantly since it was released a few weeks ago. I love this band with a passion bordering on teenage, but I try to keep myself under control as befits a woman of my age.
You know how you can sometimes listen to a song many times before you hear the lyrics? Well, I was listening to the first track, My Propeller:
when it dawned on me that the PROPELLER IS A PENIS. To wit: My propeller won't spin and I can't get it started on my own, when are you arriving? And that's just the chorus.
In retrospect, it seems so obvious.
Now, I can rationalize that the Arctic Monkeys are artistically superior to Lady Gaga, or 3OH!3. They are embarrassingly good for such a young band. Their lyrics are clever, not crass; part of the reason why I love them so is that never have I heard a bunch of lads be so articulate about how the male species is led around by their dicks. And if I am to be completely honest, although he is roughly half my age and I think he's let his hair grow a bit too long as of late, I wouldn't mind at all having a spin of Alex Turner's propeller.
So, I've come to realize my hypocrisy. Call it a disco stick or a propeller, but when you come right down to it, dick is a dick is a dick.
Vetoed!
After being shot down so quickly, she deliberated for a long time. Eventually, she circled back to square one, figuring that if she could not have an iPhone, why not ask for the next best thing; the ne plus ultra of iPodery, THE TOUCH.
To her great surprise, we said yes.
Since that day in late August, she has been on a mission to fill her 8GB.
The first insult came when we invited her to peruse our iTunes library, and of the thousands of songs that she has happily listened to for most of her life, she chose two.
"What about Stars, I asked, or the Magnetic Fields?"
"No."
"How about Bjork or Mates of State?"
"No."
"Palomar?"
"Nah."
"Sleater Kinney?"
"No thanks."
"Rufus Wainwright?"
"I downloaded Hallelujah." she replied. "Sorry, you just don't have any cool teen music."
Let's put aside for a moment that my daughter is ten, not thirteen. In one fell swoop, a decade of my daughter's musical education was dismissed, and I aged about a decade in both of our eyes.
And now, the floodgates are now open to the best and the worst of pop music, which leaves me looking forward to the heart to heart we will have any day now, when Sarah asks me, what a disco stick is.
Until now, we have tried to limit our kids' exposure to the full breadth of popular culture. I do not want my children to be naive, but to maintain their innocence for as long as possible. Lord knows I love a good curse word, and call me a prude, but I could not help but squirm this summer as I watched the 10 and under set dancing and chanting Shush, girl, shut your lips, do the Helen Keller and talk with your hips.
You can rationalize by saying it goes over their head, but that does not give children due credit. Nothing gets past a smart child. I was listening to Push Push in the Bush when I was in fifth grade, and I knew exactly what it was about. That doesn't mean I should have been listening to it.
And so, with me now comfortably ensconced on my high horse, I came to find myself this week in the car with Sacha, listening to Humbug, the Arctic Monkeys new record. I have been listening to this more or less constantly since it was released a few weeks ago. I love this band with a passion bordering on teenage, but I try to keep myself under control as befits a woman of my age.
You know how you can sometimes listen to a song many times before you hear the lyrics? Well, I was listening to the first track, My Propeller:
when it dawned on me that the PROPELLER IS A PENIS. To wit: My propeller won't spin and I can't get it started on my own, when are you arriving? And that's just the chorus.
In retrospect, it seems so obvious.
Now, I can rationalize that the Arctic Monkeys are artistically superior to Lady Gaga, or 3OH!3. They are embarrassingly good for such a young band. Their lyrics are clever, not crass; part of the reason why I love them so is that never have I heard a bunch of lads be so articulate about how the male species is led around by their dicks. And if I am to be completely honest, although he is roughly half my age and I think he's let his hair grow a bit too long as of late, I wouldn't mind at all having a spin of Alex Turner's propeller.
So, I've come to realize my hypocrisy. Call it a disco stick or a propeller, but when you come right down to it, dick is a dick is a dick.
04 August 2009
Seven
Today you are seven years old, Gabriel, and not a day goes by where you don't nearly bring me to my knees with your sweetness. In honor of your birthday, here is a list of just seven of the things I love about you:
1. We named you for an angel, and every day you live up to your name.
2. You wake up singing.
3. Recently, we got confirmation of something we already knew: you are very, very smart. But more importantly, you are wise beyond your years, and you work very hard.
4. You often think of others before thinking of yourself.
5. Your big brown eyes.
6. Your sweet cleft chin, which makes you especially handsome.
7. You need to work on your poker face.
Your present has not yet arrived in the mail, but if you check your email, you will find out what it is. In the mean time, because today is your day, we will spend it as you like, doing the things you love to do best.
1. We named you for an angel, and every day you live up to your name.
2. You wake up singing.
3. Recently, we got confirmation of something we already knew: you are very, very smart. But more importantly, you are wise beyond your years, and you work very hard.
4. You often think of others before thinking of yourself.
5. Your big brown eyes.
6. Your sweet cleft chin, which makes you especially handsome.
7. You need to work on your poker face.
Your present has not yet arrived in the mail, but if you check your email, you will find out what it is. In the mean time, because today is your day, we will spend it as you like, doing the things you love to do best.
23 July 2009
Her balls are so big she doesn't even know she has them
Tonight Sarah went to a swim meet in the rain. I brought the boys home early, as a friend agreed to watch Sarah. When the meet ended, she called to tell us she was on her way home.
"Hi Mom," she said. "I did really well; I got first place in freestyle."
"Great!" I replied.
"I'm leaving in a minute; could you please run me a hot bath for when I get home?"
I did not answer, because I thought it would be unkind to ask what madam cared to drink this evening, so I could have it ready upon her arrival, and, would she also like her towel warmed?
I like to think the service is excellent here, but this was a bridge too far.
When she got home not five minutes later, the first thing she said was, "Is my bath ready?"
"No."
"But I'm really cold, and I asked you to run it for me!"
I thought about laying out the distinctions between a house and a hotel, but instead, I laughed, and suggested that perhaps her energies would be better utilized if she drew herself a bath.
I often marvel at how effortlessly bossy my daughter is; it is my fondest wish that this will serve her well one day, when she is running the world.
"Hi Mom," she said. "I did really well; I got first place in freestyle."
"Great!" I replied.
"I'm leaving in a minute; could you please run me a hot bath for when I get home?"
I did not answer, because I thought it would be unkind to ask what madam cared to drink this evening, so I could have it ready upon her arrival, and, would she also like her towel warmed?
I like to think the service is excellent here, but this was a bridge too far.
When she got home not five minutes later, the first thing she said was, "Is my bath ready?"
"No."
"But I'm really cold, and I asked you to run it for me!"
I thought about laying out the distinctions between a house and a hotel, but instead, I laughed, and suggested that perhaps her energies would be better utilized if she drew herself a bath.
I often marvel at how effortlessly bossy my daughter is; it is my fondest wish that this will serve her well one day, when she is running the world.
19 July 2009
A weaker woman would have caved by now
In the past week, I have been verbally abused, bitten, and hit. One night, as I was getting him washed up for bed, Sacha adopted the telltale male stance, and let loose a stream of urine on my bathroom floor, mere steps from the toilet. It was so deliberate that any doubt I may have had that he perhaps he wasn't yet capable of controlling evacuation was erased. I could practically hear him thinking, “Fuck you, Mama.”
To cap it off, on Friday when arrived to I pick him up from camp, he more or less ran screaming from me.
“Sacha, Mom's here!” called a counselor cheerfully.
Sacha turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
“Come on, Sacha, Mom's waiting for you!”
Sacha feigned great interest in the sandbox.
She sent someone to retrieve him, and that is when he dug his heels into the mulch, and had to be dragged in my direction. He was so resistant that the counselor had to pick him up and carry him to me, and when placed by my side, he turned on his heel and ran back to the playground.
I take it as a sign of faith in me that camp did not alert DYFS.
A weaker woman would have called the whole thing off by now.
Although I regret that we are locked in an epic power struggle, there is no turning back. In retrospect, on the subject of toilet training my most stubborn beast, there may have been no way of avoiding this. I have dangled many positive incentives, from candy to prizes to privileges, but he cares not a whit for any of them. At this point we have the pole wedged so far up our ass that we cannot take a step in any direction.
So while Sacha may not like me very much right now, I know that he loves me, and at this point in his life, love is preferable.
I have seen a few signs of softening on his part; after a week and a half strike, he finally decided to enjoy himself in the baby pool, and when he is in the mood, he not only pees on the potty, he asks for his Skittle when he's done.
In the mean time, I am contemplating outsourcing the whole affair, and have begun composing my classified ad: Seeking strong willed individual to toilet train adorable stubborn bastard. Must have proven record of success, the patience of a saint, and ample sense of humor. Generous compensation, and all the Skittles you desire.
To cap it off, on Friday when arrived to I pick him up from camp, he more or less ran screaming from me.
“Sacha, Mom's here!” called a counselor cheerfully.
Sacha turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction.
“Come on, Sacha, Mom's waiting for you!”
Sacha feigned great interest in the sandbox.
She sent someone to retrieve him, and that is when he dug his heels into the mulch, and had to be dragged in my direction. He was so resistant that the counselor had to pick him up and carry him to me, and when placed by my side, he turned on his heel and ran back to the playground.
I take it as a sign of faith in me that camp did not alert DYFS.
A weaker woman would have called the whole thing off by now.
Although I regret that we are locked in an epic power struggle, there is no turning back. In retrospect, on the subject of toilet training my most stubborn beast, there may have been no way of avoiding this. I have dangled many positive incentives, from candy to prizes to privileges, but he cares not a whit for any of them. At this point we have the pole wedged so far up our ass that we cannot take a step in any direction.
So while Sacha may not like me very much right now, I know that he loves me, and at this point in his life, love is preferable.
I have seen a few signs of softening on his part; after a week and a half strike, he finally decided to enjoy himself in the baby pool, and when he is in the mood, he not only pees on the potty, he asks for his Skittle when he's done.
In the mean time, I am contemplating outsourcing the whole affair, and have begun composing my classified ad: Seeking strong willed individual to toilet train adorable stubborn bastard. Must have proven record of success, the patience of a saint, and ample sense of humor. Generous compensation, and all the Skittles you desire.
29 June 2009
TEEVEE
My children have all had a few annoying habits in common, corresponding with specific developmental stages.
First, was shoe flinging, which they all did as young walkers. Whenever they were seated in a stroller or car seat, they immediately proceeded to kick their shoes off. After you spend five minutes wrestling your baby's limp feet into, and then tying the laces of their first pair of shoes, only to find on arriving at your destination that said shoes are nowhere to be found, you get a little annoyed.
On more than one occasion when he was a baby, Sacha flung off a shoe while we were out for a walk, except I did not discover this until we were home. With one shoe. (Retracing our steps didn't help.) And so, I let him go barefoot in the winter. THAT REALLY TAUGHT HIM A LESSON.
Then, there is sock stuffing, which all three are still guilty of. Whenever I do a thorough house clean-up, I find socks hidden in every imaginable crevice; under couch cushions, behind radiators, under rugs, in the dishwasher (really; that's Sacha, I'm sure). They are all so reliable about this that it is a wonder I keep buying them socks, rather than sweep the premises when they tell me they need new ones. Sometimes a trip to Target is quicker than an archaeological excavation.
But the most annoying habit is the carping to watch television AS SOON AS WE GET IN THE CAR FOR A RETURN VOYAGE. This is a toddler habit which Sarah and Gabriel have aged out of, but Sacha is still in his prime. When the key turns in the ignition, Sacha brightly asks, “Can we watch TV?” I don't have a television in the car, so he is referring to the one in our den, which, when he asks, IS MILES AWAY.
That I refuse to answer this question in the affirmative does nothing to deter Sacha. So, we now have a well-worn conversational loop.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?” Sacha asks as I pull out of the parking space.
“Do you see a TV here?” I respond. I try to handle many discipline issues via the Socratic Method.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?”
“Please don't ask me about TV until we are home.”
“Can I watch TEEEVEEEE?”
This is followed by the sound of me banging my head against the windshield.
Today, on our way home from the pool, it began as soon as Sacha was buckled in his car seat.
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth to repeat my line, and Sarah chimed in: “Sacha, do we have a TV in the car?”
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth. Again, I was beaten to the punch.
By round three, I no longer bothered trying to speak. I gave Sarah the keys, and let her drive home.
First, was shoe flinging, which they all did as young walkers. Whenever they were seated in a stroller or car seat, they immediately proceeded to kick their shoes off. After you spend five minutes wrestling your baby's limp feet into, and then tying the laces of their first pair of shoes, only to find on arriving at your destination that said shoes are nowhere to be found, you get a little annoyed.
On more than one occasion when he was a baby, Sacha flung off a shoe while we were out for a walk, except I did not discover this until we were home. With one shoe. (Retracing our steps didn't help.) And so, I let him go barefoot in the winter. THAT REALLY TAUGHT HIM A LESSON.
Then, there is sock stuffing, which all three are still guilty of. Whenever I do a thorough house clean-up, I find socks hidden in every imaginable crevice; under couch cushions, behind radiators, under rugs, in the dishwasher (really; that's Sacha, I'm sure). They are all so reliable about this that it is a wonder I keep buying them socks, rather than sweep the premises when they tell me they need new ones. Sometimes a trip to Target is quicker than an archaeological excavation.
But the most annoying habit is the carping to watch television AS SOON AS WE GET IN THE CAR FOR A RETURN VOYAGE. This is a toddler habit which Sarah and Gabriel have aged out of, but Sacha is still in his prime. When the key turns in the ignition, Sacha brightly asks, “Can we watch TV?” I don't have a television in the car, so he is referring to the one in our den, which, when he asks, IS MILES AWAY.
That I refuse to answer this question in the affirmative does nothing to deter Sacha. So, we now have a well-worn conversational loop.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?” Sacha asks as I pull out of the parking space.
“Do you see a TV here?” I respond. I try to handle many discipline issues via the Socratic Method.
“Can I watch TEEVEE?”
“Please don't ask me about TV until we are home.”
“Can I watch TEEEVEEEE?”
This is followed by the sound of me banging my head against the windshield.
Today, on our way home from the pool, it began as soon as Sacha was buckled in his car seat.
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth to repeat my line, and Sarah chimed in: “Sacha, do we have a TV in the car?”
“Can I watch TV?”
I opened my mouth. Again, I was beaten to the punch.
By round three, I no longer bothered trying to speak. I gave Sarah the keys, and let her drive home.
27 June 2009
Good enough mother
I am still working my way through Ayelet Waldman's book Bad Mother: A Chronicle of Maternal Crimes, Minor Calamities, and Occasional Moments of Grace, and yesterday I came across Insult and Injury on Judith Warner's Domestic Disturbances blog.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
Both deal with the Mommy Police, the judgmental strangers that can't help but offer unsolicited advice or criticism on a mother's parenting, and are the bane of many mother's existence.
I have written here before about my dismay over the ridiculous expectations high achieving women expect of themselves, and others, where mothering is concerned. It upsets me when I hear women like Waldman, or my friends, who are clearly not bad mothers, refer to themselves as such, even in jest.
It is partly the fault of living in a society where far more is expected of mothers than of fathers to be considered competent parents. But just as there comes a point in one's life where you can no longer blame you parents for your own failings, we cannot lay blame for this solely on external forces beyond our control. As mothers, we are also responsible for buying into this.
No one should feel obligated to be a perfect mother. Perfection is an unrealistic, and unattainable goal, and if this is where you set the bar for yourself, you will never measure up.
What we should strive for is to be is a good enough mother, and a decent parent. Mistakes will be made, and often. I know mothers whom I think are too controlling, some a bit lax. Some I think should take a firmer hand in disciplining, while others need to lighten up. I know mothers with substance abuse problems, others who run anxious, and far too many who are unduly hard on themselves. I am sure my friends find faults in my mothering. Yet even with our many flaws, most of the mothers I know seem to strike the right balance; I would not call any of us a bad mother.
We are all imperfect mothers, which is as it should be.
If you can't let go of your desire for perfection for yourself, at least try to do so for your children's sake. The more you build yourself up in your children's eyes, the farther your descent will be on your inevitable fall from grace. If you think you need to serve on PTA committees, volunteer at your local soup kitchen, provide stimulating activities for your kid's entertainment because you are worried about them watching too much television, keep a well stocked craft closet for rainy days, provide freshly cut fruit or home-baked items for every charity bake sale at your children's school, work a full-time job outside of the home, all while keeping up with basic household management and the care of your family, you are headed for a nervous breakdown.
This job is really, really hard. Mothers need to help one another out, rather than spend undue energy taking each other down. To those that seek to judge you, give them an insincere smile and a silent “Fuck you,” and hold your head up high as you take your children by the hand and walk away.
24 June 2009
Generation gap
Becoming a parent, and getting older in general, entails a willingness to eat a lot of crow.
When Sarah was an infant, I remember making a trip to the mall with my mother, and being appalled watching another mother casually converse with someone, while her baby wailed in the stroller. Once we were out of earshot, I turned to my mother and said, "Well, she's not very attentive to her baby."
Flash forward three years, and there I am with my back turned to Gabriel, my newest wailing baby, jiggling my stroller and chatting.
I issued a silent apology to that mother whom I was so quick to judge.
So I am more careful about things I say I will never do, because of the potential for embarrassing myself. Nonetheless, an exchange I had with my mother last night made me laugh.
I mentioned that I'd taken Sacha to the doctor because he'd developed, not one, but two distinctly different rashes, on his face and leg, and was uncharacteristically sedate.
"The rash on his face is probably impetigo," I said, "which I just learned sometimes accompanies staph or strep infections."
My mother stopped me: "Oh; well, I may not come tomorrow then. We're getting ready for our trip, and I don't want to risk exposing us to anything at this point."
"When are you leaving?" I asked.
"July 26."
The incubation period for strep infections is 2-5 days, which, by my calculations, puts my mother well outside the danger zone for a late July excursion.
So when I am a grandmother, and say something similar to my children, let the record show that I did not say I would never say something like this.
When Sarah was an infant, I remember making a trip to the mall with my mother, and being appalled watching another mother casually converse with someone, while her baby wailed in the stroller. Once we were out of earshot, I turned to my mother and said, "Well, she's not very attentive to her baby."
Flash forward three years, and there I am with my back turned to Gabriel, my newest wailing baby, jiggling my stroller and chatting.
I issued a silent apology to that mother whom I was so quick to judge.
So I am more careful about things I say I will never do, because of the potential for embarrassing myself. Nonetheless, an exchange I had with my mother last night made me laugh.
I mentioned that I'd taken Sacha to the doctor because he'd developed, not one, but two distinctly different rashes, on his face and leg, and was uncharacteristically sedate.
"The rash on his face is probably impetigo," I said, "which I just learned sometimes accompanies staph or strep infections."
My mother stopped me: "Oh; well, I may not come tomorrow then. We're getting ready for our trip, and I don't want to risk exposing us to anything at this point."
"When are you leaving?" I asked.
"July 26."
The incubation period for strep infections is 2-5 days, which, by my calculations, puts my mother well outside the danger zone for a late July excursion.
So when I am a grandmother, and say something similar to my children, let the record show that I did not say I would never say something like this.
22 June 2009
Full contact snuggling
Yesterday morning, David was lying on the couch in the den while the boys watched TV. I watched Sacha climb on top of him, as David executed a skillful maneuver to protect his groin. It is a move he has perfected by now, as he has to utilize it often.
"I should have gotten you a cup for Father's Day," I said, to which David replied,"Sacha is just nature's way of saying, 'I am your last child.'"
Snuggling with Sacha is an extreme sport. It starts off nice enough, when he comes into our bed after waking, smelling of sleep and little boy. For a few minutes he lies between us, nuzzling and sighing contentedly.
Foolish parents, we fall for this every time! Isn't this lovely; isn't he delicious? How nice to have this quiet time to transition from sleep to wakefulness!
But soon enough, Sacha gets restless, and what was so sweet a minute ago quickly morphs into something more dangerous.
It begins with a few elbow jabs, at which point we instinctively turn our backs in protection. But now, Sacha's movement has been restricted, so he turns himself 180 degrees, to cleave the space between us, and more effectively use his arms and legs. I have to admire his efficiency as he simultaneously claws one of us while kicking the other. Insulted that we have turned away, he then climbs over one of us — usually David; this is the down-side of being the favored parent! — to make his way back into his arms.
At this point we must assume a defensive fetal crouch to protect ourselves from the blows reining down.
Sacha uses full contact snuggling as the platform for some fairly imaginative play. One recent morning he began to paw at my chest. I swatted him away, but he kept coming back, repeating “Elevator going up!” This was extremely irritating, and I had no idea what he was talking about. I gave David my WTF look, and he explained: buttons.
MY SON WAS USING MY BREASTS TO CALL AN IMAGINARY ELEVATOR. I hope he learns greater finesse before he starts dating, as I don't imagine many women would enjoy his type of foreplay.
Yesterday morning, soon after he had to initiate groin protection, David lay on the couch with his knees bent. Sacha began to use his head as a battering ram, trying to pry David's shins open, all the while saying "I'm a credit card." David and I looked at each other; here was just one more example of the ways in which our youngest is insane. But eventually, understanding began to dawn; Sacha was role playing, and had cast David as the swipe reader.
It does a mother proud; when it comes to loving, Sacha is not only sadistic, but clever! The Marquis de Sade could have learned a few things from his play book.
"I should have gotten you a cup for Father's Day," I said, to which David replied,"Sacha is just nature's way of saying, 'I am your last child.'"
Snuggling with Sacha is an extreme sport. It starts off nice enough, when he comes into our bed after waking, smelling of sleep and little boy. For a few minutes he lies between us, nuzzling and sighing contentedly.
Foolish parents, we fall for this every time! Isn't this lovely; isn't he delicious? How nice to have this quiet time to transition from sleep to wakefulness!
But soon enough, Sacha gets restless, and what was so sweet a minute ago quickly morphs into something more dangerous.
It begins with a few elbow jabs, at which point we instinctively turn our backs in protection. But now, Sacha's movement has been restricted, so he turns himself 180 degrees, to cleave the space between us, and more effectively use his arms and legs. I have to admire his efficiency as he simultaneously claws one of us while kicking the other. Insulted that we have turned away, he then climbs over one of us — usually David; this is the down-side of being the favored parent! — to make his way back into his arms.
At this point we must assume a defensive fetal crouch to protect ourselves from the blows reining down.
Sacha uses full contact snuggling as the platform for some fairly imaginative play. One recent morning he began to paw at my chest. I swatted him away, but he kept coming back, repeating “Elevator going up!” This was extremely irritating, and I had no idea what he was talking about. I gave David my WTF look, and he explained: buttons.
MY SON WAS USING MY BREASTS TO CALL AN IMAGINARY ELEVATOR. I hope he learns greater finesse before he starts dating, as I don't imagine many women would enjoy his type of foreplay.
Yesterday morning, soon after he had to initiate groin protection, David lay on the couch with his knees bent. Sacha began to use his head as a battering ram, trying to pry David's shins open, all the while saying "I'm a credit card." David and I looked at each other; here was just one more example of the ways in which our youngest is insane. But eventually, understanding began to dawn; Sacha was role playing, and had cast David as the swipe reader.
It does a mother proud; when it comes to loving, Sacha is not only sadistic, but clever! The Marquis de Sade could have learned a few things from his play book.
18 June 2009
On nudity
It's possible that there was a stripper somewhere in our family lineage, because our kids sure love to streak.
Perhaps David and I set the bar for this, as we have always both slept in our altogether, even before we knew one another. (I hope this does not cross the line into TMI?) But at this point in time, with three children, we're discrete about this, and keep bedclothes immediately at hand for any middle of the night emergencies, and the occasional noctural bed visitations.
Sarah is at an age where she has developed some modesty, but my boys are still going full force.
If I put the television on for Sacha, I am no longer surprised when I check on him to find he has TAKEN IT ALL OFF.
Adorable yes, but problematic.
First, he is not toilet trained, and thus armed with a LOADED WEAPON (technically, two). Second, as much as I love to see my kids naked, it is part of my job as their parent to socialize them, and as we do not run a nudist colony, that means that we put our clothes on in the morning, and keep them on until it is time for bed.
Sacha's other main offense is that he loves to remove his clothing after we have put him to bed. I have always been in the habit of checking on the kids before I go up to bed. (What mother doesn't do this? I do not understand how fathers can be perfectly comfortable retiring for the evening before a)gazing upon their beautiful sleeping children in awe, and b)being reassured that they are still breathing. But maybe it's one of those Men are from Mars divides.)
In Sacha's case, this pre-bed check is also necessary as he is NEVER WEARING EXACTLY WHAT WE PUT HIM TO SLEEP IN. Sometimes he takes off his pants, sometimes his shirt, sometimes both, until he is down to his onesie.
And then, some nights, he takes it all off, including his sheet. On those nights, it's also highly likely that he's peed in the crib, necessitating not only a change of clothes, but a change of bedding. Being his mother is truly exhausting.
Gabriel also enjoys sleeping in the buff. When he was younger, he wanted to sleep naked so badly that it provided an incentive for him to toilet train. He has two modes of dress for bed; feetie pajamas in the winter (which he calls his babies), and once the weather has warmed, nothing at all. So dedicated is he to the art of naked sleeping that although he falls asleep reading on the couch a few nights a week, when David carries him up to bed, he rouses himself sufficiently to slough off his underwear off.
One recent evening as the kids were getting ready for bed, Gabriel teased Sarah, giggling, "Ha- ha, I can see your underwear." This sort of conversation between siblings would be nothing to write home about, were it not for the fact that HE WAS STARK NAKED WHEN HE SAID IT.
Today, I was the subject to Gabriel's tittering. I recently made my first foray into old-ladydom with a sexy compression thigh-high for my left leg, proscribed to me by a vascular surgeon to soothe my aching varicose veins. (As I roll it on, I imagine that I am a flapper; it helps me feel more sophisticated, and less old.)
Sarah and I spent a wet day in New York City today, and by the time we got home, we were both soaked. I went upstairs to change, but my spare stocking—don't you also think stocking is sexier than compression hose?—was on the first floor. I ran downstairs in my underwear, pants in hand, so I could put it on. Gabriel was absorbed in a book, but not so much that he couldn't stop for a moment to tease me. He giggled and said, "Mama, I can see your underwear!"
This, coming from a kid who would spend most of his time naked. So I replied, "Hello, pot, may I introduce you to my friend kettle?"
And then I reclaimed what was left of my dignity, grabbed my stocking, and slunk out of the room.
Perhaps David and I set the bar for this, as we have always both slept in our altogether, even before we knew one another. (I hope this does not cross the line into TMI?) But at this point in time, with three children, we're discrete about this, and keep bedclothes immediately at hand for any middle of the night emergencies, and the occasional noctural bed visitations.
Sarah is at an age where she has developed some modesty, but my boys are still going full force.
If I put the television on for Sacha, I am no longer surprised when I check on him to find he has TAKEN IT ALL OFF.
Adorable yes, but problematic.
First, he is not toilet trained, and thus armed with a LOADED WEAPON (technically, two). Second, as much as I love to see my kids naked, it is part of my job as their parent to socialize them, and as we do not run a nudist colony, that means that we put our clothes on in the morning, and keep them on until it is time for bed.
Sacha's other main offense is that he loves to remove his clothing after we have put him to bed. I have always been in the habit of checking on the kids before I go up to bed. (What mother doesn't do this? I do not understand how fathers can be perfectly comfortable retiring for the evening before a)gazing upon their beautiful sleeping children in awe, and b)being reassured that they are still breathing. But maybe it's one of those Men are from Mars divides.)
In Sacha's case, this pre-bed check is also necessary as he is NEVER WEARING EXACTLY WHAT WE PUT HIM TO SLEEP IN. Sometimes he takes off his pants, sometimes his shirt, sometimes both, until he is down to his onesie.
And then, some nights, he takes it all off, including his sheet. On those nights, it's also highly likely that he's peed in the crib, necessitating not only a change of clothes, but a change of bedding. Being his mother is truly exhausting.
Gabriel also enjoys sleeping in the buff. When he was younger, he wanted to sleep naked so badly that it provided an incentive for him to toilet train. He has two modes of dress for bed; feetie pajamas in the winter (which he calls his babies), and once the weather has warmed, nothing at all. So dedicated is he to the art of naked sleeping that although he falls asleep reading on the couch a few nights a week, when David carries him up to bed, he rouses himself sufficiently to slough off his underwear off.
One recent evening as the kids were getting ready for bed, Gabriel teased Sarah, giggling, "Ha- ha, I can see your underwear." This sort of conversation between siblings would be nothing to write home about, were it not for the fact that HE WAS STARK NAKED WHEN HE SAID IT.
Today, I was the subject to Gabriel's tittering. I recently made my first foray into old-ladydom with a sexy compression thigh-high for my left leg, proscribed to me by a vascular surgeon to soothe my aching varicose veins. (As I roll it on, I imagine that I am a flapper; it helps me feel more sophisticated, and less old.)
Sarah and I spent a wet day in New York City today, and by the time we got home, we were both soaked. I went upstairs to change, but my spare stocking—don't you also think stocking is sexier than compression hose?—was on the first floor. I ran downstairs in my underwear, pants in hand, so I could put it on. Gabriel was absorbed in a book, but not so much that he couldn't stop for a moment to tease me. He giggled and said, "Mama, I can see your underwear!"
This, coming from a kid who would spend most of his time naked. So I replied, "Hello, pot, may I introduce you to my friend kettle?"
And then I reclaimed what was left of my dignity, grabbed my stocking, and slunk out of the room.
17 June 2009
An open letter to MeMe Roth
Here is an interesting item from Monday's New York Times.
It is about a MeMe Roth, Manhattan mother of two, and her battle against the New York City schools to combat obesity. She is passionate about this issue, and even runs a group, the National Action Against Obesity, dedicated to combating the epidemic of obesity in this country.
An admirable cause, no?
After reading about her, in this case, I would have to say, no. It is undeniable true that we live in a chubby nation, and there is much evidence that certain health problems are linked to obesity.
However, MeMe Roth is an unfortunate example of what happens when passion for a cause turns into an unhealthy obsession. Ms. Roth is admittedly happy with the quality of lunches served in her children's school. What sets her off is not junk food served at lunch, but all the extracurricular snacks, so to speak, that are the trappings of childhood: the cupcakes and donuts brought in for class celebration of birthdays.
Ms. Roth's children are instructed to place any foods served at school that could be considered unhealthy in a Tupperwear container, which I'm assuming she provides, and her children must carry in their backpacks, along with their binders and folders.
Lets leave aside for a moment the great lengths Ms. Roth is going to to control her children's behavior when she is not around to supervise.
Her daughter must have been subject to great confusion recently when her teacher handed out juice pops for snack. According to the article, "The teacher told Ms. Roth’s daughter to eat it or lose it, and according to the child pointed out that she had seen the young girl eating the corn chips served with school lunch — did that not count as junk food?"
This episode motivated Ms. Roth to send an angry e-mail to school officials, "Which, in turn, prompted administrators to pull her daughter out of class to discuss the juice pop incident, which only further infuriated Ms. Roth, who said her daughter felt as if she’d been ambushed."
It gets better.
"Helene Moffatt, a school safety official, [said] that if [the Roths] considered the regular dissemination of junk food a threat to their children’s health and safety — and indeed, they do — they should request a health and safety transfer, something that generally follows threats of violence. That transfer request, they were told, would also require filing a complaint with the police."
To which Ms. Roth's husband, Ben, replied, “What would that conversation even sound like? ‘We know you guys are dealing with stabbings and shootings, but stop everything: We have a cupcake situation’ ?”
But wait, there's more!
It turns out, the Roth's have a history of hostile outbursts where obesity is concerned. They used to live in Millburn, NJ, where "after Ms. Roth waged war on the bagels and Pringles meal served to kids at lunch, received e-mail from one member of the P.T.A. that said, “Please, consider moving.”
I guess the Roths considered this sound advice, because they decamped to New York City.
While the Roths still lived in New Jersey, in meetings to discuss the problem of junk food, according to Diane Brady, the principal at the Roth children's school in Millburn, Ms. Roth, “threw candy onto the table and cursed.” It was not the first time, she added, that Ms. Roth had “displayed this hostile behavior.”
"The police were called to a YMCA in 2007 when [Roth] absconded with the sprinkles and syrups on a table where members were being served ice cream. That was Ms. Roth who called Santa Claus fat on television that Christmas, and she has a continuing campaign against the humble Girl Scout cookies, on the premise that no community activity should promote unhealthy eating.
And now, probably to their surprise and ire, the Roths have found themselves in a similar situation, yet again. This is the point where a reasonable person might notice a pattern of behavior, and take the opportunity to look within, and ask, am I, in any way, contributing to this situation? Anyone, that is, except for the most narcissistic, for whom things are either all about them, or about everyone else but them.
But not MeMe Roth; she is to junk food what PETA is to animal rights; militant to an extreme.
The Roths, in their devotion to the admirable cause of fighting obesity, seem genuinely blindsided by their irrationality, and the potential damage they could be causing to their own children.
I imagine that the Roths are serving up consistently healthy fare at home — nothing but soy spelt vegan fair trade brownies for them at snack time! — and that no one in the family has a weight problem. (The New York Times piece makes note of the fact that Ms. Roth is trim.) And, so, this is really a story about a control freak who lacks enough trust in her own abilities to raise her children well that she must impose her rigid rules on everyone with whom her children come into contact.
For better and for worse, junk food is an integral part of childhood in America, and, I would venture to say, in most wealthy, industrialized countries. One of the pleasures of childhood is that sometimes, you get to gorge yourself on crap. Hopefully not everyday, but on special occasions.
But MeMe Roth is hell bent on imposing her psychosis on her children. I empathize with the conflict and confusion Ms. Roth's poor children must experience every day, when they must SAY NO TO CANDY for fear of invoking their mother's wrath.
And I would not be surprised in the least if as teenagers, her children develop eating disorders. But I bet MeMe Roth would be. She will cry, "How could this happen to me (not her children); I've been so careful, I've tried so hard to teach them well!"
I hope that this never happens, but if that unfortunate day were to come, and I were to meet Ms. Roth at that date in the future, I would say to her, "Look in the mirror."
But in the meantime, she should consider homeschooling; how else could she possibly be assured that every morsel that enters her children's mouths will be 100% nourishing?
It is about a MeMe Roth, Manhattan mother of two, and her battle against the New York City schools to combat obesity. She is passionate about this issue, and even runs a group, the National Action Against Obesity, dedicated to combating the epidemic of obesity in this country.
An admirable cause, no?
After reading about her, in this case, I would have to say, no. It is undeniable true that we live in a chubby nation, and there is much evidence that certain health problems are linked to obesity.
However, MeMe Roth is an unfortunate example of what happens when passion for a cause turns into an unhealthy obsession. Ms. Roth is admittedly happy with the quality of lunches served in her children's school. What sets her off is not junk food served at lunch, but all the extracurricular snacks, so to speak, that are the trappings of childhood: the cupcakes and donuts brought in for class celebration of birthdays.
Ms. Roth's children are instructed to place any foods served at school that could be considered unhealthy in a Tupperwear container, which I'm assuming she provides, and her children must carry in their backpacks, along with their binders and folders.
Lets leave aside for a moment the great lengths Ms. Roth is going to to control her children's behavior when she is not around to supervise.
Her daughter must have been subject to great confusion recently when her teacher handed out juice pops for snack. According to the article, "The teacher told Ms. Roth’s daughter to eat it or lose it, and according to the child pointed out that she had seen the young girl eating the corn chips served with school lunch — did that not count as junk food?"
This episode motivated Ms. Roth to send an angry e-mail to school officials, "Which, in turn, prompted administrators to pull her daughter out of class to discuss the juice pop incident, which only further infuriated Ms. Roth, who said her daughter felt as if she’d been ambushed."
It gets better.
"Helene Moffatt, a school safety official, [said] that if [the Roths] considered the regular dissemination of junk food a threat to their children’s health and safety — and indeed, they do — they should request a health and safety transfer, something that generally follows threats of violence. That transfer request, they were told, would also require filing a complaint with the police."
To which Ms. Roth's husband, Ben, replied, “What would that conversation even sound like? ‘We know you guys are dealing with stabbings and shootings, but stop everything: We have a cupcake situation’ ?”
But wait, there's more!
It turns out, the Roth's have a history of hostile outbursts where obesity is concerned. They used to live in Millburn, NJ, where "after Ms. Roth waged war on the bagels and Pringles meal served to kids at lunch, received e-mail from one member of the P.T.A. that said, “Please, consider moving.”
I guess the Roths considered this sound advice, because they decamped to New York City.
While the Roths still lived in New Jersey, in meetings to discuss the problem of junk food, according to Diane Brady, the principal at the Roth children's school in Millburn, Ms. Roth, “threw candy onto the table and cursed.” It was not the first time, she added, that Ms. Roth had “displayed this hostile behavior.”
"The police were called to a YMCA in 2007 when [Roth] absconded with the sprinkles and syrups on a table where members were being served ice cream. That was Ms. Roth who called Santa Claus fat on television that Christmas, and she has a continuing campaign against the humble Girl Scout cookies, on the premise that no community activity should promote unhealthy eating.
And now, probably to their surprise and ire, the Roths have found themselves in a similar situation, yet again. This is the point where a reasonable person might notice a pattern of behavior, and take the opportunity to look within, and ask, am I, in any way, contributing to this situation? Anyone, that is, except for the most narcissistic, for whom things are either all about them, or about everyone else but them.
But not MeMe Roth; she is to junk food what PETA is to animal rights; militant to an extreme.
The Roths, in their devotion to the admirable cause of fighting obesity, seem genuinely blindsided by their irrationality, and the potential damage they could be causing to their own children.
I imagine that the Roths are serving up consistently healthy fare at home — nothing but soy spelt vegan fair trade brownies for them at snack time! — and that no one in the family has a weight problem. (The New York Times piece makes note of the fact that Ms. Roth is trim.) And, so, this is really a story about a control freak who lacks enough trust in her own abilities to raise her children well that she must impose her rigid rules on everyone with whom her children come into contact.
For better and for worse, junk food is an integral part of childhood in America, and, I would venture to say, in most wealthy, industrialized countries. One of the pleasures of childhood is that sometimes, you get to gorge yourself on crap. Hopefully not everyday, but on special occasions.
But MeMe Roth is hell bent on imposing her psychosis on her children. I empathize with the conflict and confusion Ms. Roth's poor children must experience every day, when they must SAY NO TO CANDY for fear of invoking their mother's wrath.
And I would not be surprised in the least if as teenagers, her children develop eating disorders. But I bet MeMe Roth would be. She will cry, "How could this happen to me (not her children); I've been so careful, I've tried so hard to teach them well!"
I hope that this never happens, but if that unfortunate day were to come, and I were to meet Ms. Roth at that date in the future, I would say to her, "Look in the mirror."
But in the meantime, she should consider homeschooling; how else could she possibly be assured that every morsel that enters her children's mouths will be 100% nourishing?
15 June 2009
Parental rant: responsibiity
Warning, warning; high horse alert!
There is a particular conversation I frequently overhear between parents and children.
At school pick-up: "James, please get off that icy patch; Ms. Stein (the principal) says you're not allowed over there."
Or, "Olivia; Elaine (the pool manager) won't like it if she sees you drinking water from the pool."
What is going on here? Parents, not principals, or any other adults in a position of authority, are in charge of our children. We made these kids, and like it or not, they are our responsibility. We are the final arbiters of what they are and are not allowed to do.
Are parents so intimidated by their children that they cannot simply say, "Get off the ice right now, James," or "Olivia, don't drink from the pool"? Why do we have so much trouble working up the gumption to discipline our own children?
As relationships, and lifestyles have become more casual, there has been a shift in the way we relate to other people, including our children. There is much that is nice about a more relaxed way of life—casual dress at work, eat-in kitchens, more common ground between generations. But the down side is that boundaries can get blurry, and traditional hierarchies become harder to maintain. Your boss may be a great person whose company you enjoy tremendously, you are still his subordinate.
Remember during the 2004 election campaign, when there was much talk about how George Bush would be a great guy to have a beer with? He may have been a hell of a lot of fun to get drunk with (back in the day, when he still tied one on), but it didn't exactly qualify him for the job. He was, in effect, our country's parent, and he did a pretty shitty job running the place. While I'd love to have a drink with Barack Obama (not very likely), it is not one of the qualities I look for in an elected official. I don't need to like the man at the top; I just need to trust and respect him. We're living in tough times, and I may not agree with every decision President Obama makes, but the last eight years left me so shell-shocked that every day since he took office, when I look at the newspaper, I am relieved to have a grown-up back in charge.
The same goes with our kids. It becomes easy to lose sight of the fact that our children are not our peers, but our charges. I am their mother, not their friend. They don't need me to be their friend; that's what their peers are for. While there can be aspects of friendship to our relationship, and I hope that when they are grown, and there is more separation between us, they can see me as something of a friend, now is not the time for that. Now is the time for boundaries. They give our kids something to rub up against. It is our job to set them, and theirs to test them.
I like to think of my household as a benign dictatorship. I aim for an authoritative, not authoritarian state; more Singapore than North Korea. We may open select items up to the populace for a vote, but this is by no means a democracy. The results would be disastrous. With your children, more often than not, the better policy is don't ask, tell.
We become so desperate for our kids to like us that we forget that they love us. Just as you began to bond with your children soon after they were born, so are they bonded to you. It is biologically determined.
Because by default your have your children's love, parents need not be afraid to scold, discipline, or when the situation calls for it, rip your kids a new one. Sometimes you have to be tough or forceful, and you may not win a popularity contest, but you will earn your children's respect if you treat them fairly, and with dignity, and are unafraid to assert your authority. We do not help our children by trying too hard to curry favor with them; it may make us feel better about ourselves, but it does them no service.
Nobody knows when they sign up for this job how hard it is going to be, and how often you'll find yourself feeling conflicted, and making it up as you go along. But if you reveal too many of the chinks in your armor; your children will be happy to exploit them. Don't let your kids take advantage of you; when their safety is on the line, you need them to heel, and quickly.
And although we all hated it when we were kids, one of the great satisfactions of parenthood is that sometimes, "because I said so" is the only explanation necessary.
There is a particular conversation I frequently overhear between parents and children.
At school pick-up: "James, please get off that icy patch; Ms. Stein (the principal) says you're not allowed over there."
Or, "Olivia; Elaine (the pool manager) won't like it if she sees you drinking water from the pool."
What is going on here? Parents, not principals, or any other adults in a position of authority, are in charge of our children. We made these kids, and like it or not, they are our responsibility. We are the final arbiters of what they are and are not allowed to do.
Are parents so intimidated by their children that they cannot simply say, "Get off the ice right now, James," or "Olivia, don't drink from the pool"? Why do we have so much trouble working up the gumption to discipline our own children?
As relationships, and lifestyles have become more casual, there has been a shift in the way we relate to other people, including our children. There is much that is nice about a more relaxed way of life—casual dress at work, eat-in kitchens, more common ground between generations. But the down side is that boundaries can get blurry, and traditional hierarchies become harder to maintain. Your boss may be a great person whose company you enjoy tremendously, you are still his subordinate.
Remember during the 2004 election campaign, when there was much talk about how George Bush would be a great guy to have a beer with? He may have been a hell of a lot of fun to get drunk with (back in the day, when he still tied one on), but it didn't exactly qualify him for the job. He was, in effect, our country's parent, and he did a pretty shitty job running the place. While I'd love to have a drink with Barack Obama (not very likely), it is not one of the qualities I look for in an elected official. I don't need to like the man at the top; I just need to trust and respect him. We're living in tough times, and I may not agree with every decision President Obama makes, but the last eight years left me so shell-shocked that every day since he took office, when I look at the newspaper, I am relieved to have a grown-up back in charge.
The same goes with our kids. It becomes easy to lose sight of the fact that our children are not our peers, but our charges. I am their mother, not their friend. They don't need me to be their friend; that's what their peers are for. While there can be aspects of friendship to our relationship, and I hope that when they are grown, and there is more separation between us, they can see me as something of a friend, now is not the time for that. Now is the time for boundaries. They give our kids something to rub up against. It is our job to set them, and theirs to test them.
I like to think of my household as a benign dictatorship. I aim for an authoritative, not authoritarian state; more Singapore than North Korea. We may open select items up to the populace for a vote, but this is by no means a democracy. The results would be disastrous. With your children, more often than not, the better policy is don't ask, tell.
We become so desperate for our kids to like us that we forget that they love us. Just as you began to bond with your children soon after they were born, so are they bonded to you. It is biologically determined.
Because by default your have your children's love, parents need not be afraid to scold, discipline, or when the situation calls for it, rip your kids a new one. Sometimes you have to be tough or forceful, and you may not win a popularity contest, but you will earn your children's respect if you treat them fairly, and with dignity, and are unafraid to assert your authority. We do not help our children by trying too hard to curry favor with them; it may make us feel better about ourselves, but it does them no service.
Nobody knows when they sign up for this job how hard it is going to be, and how often you'll find yourself feeling conflicted, and making it up as you go along. But if you reveal too many of the chinks in your armor; your children will be happy to exploit them. Don't let your kids take advantage of you; when their safety is on the line, you need them to heel, and quickly.
And although we all hated it when we were kids, one of the great satisfactions of parenthood is that sometimes, "because I said so" is the only explanation necessary.
14 June 2009
Cool Hand Luke
Have I told you about my youngest son Sacha, the most ball-bustingest child I have had to pleasure to spawn?
When Sacha was 3 days old, he had a brush with death. He was hypothermic, and had to be rushed to the NICU, where he resided for 16 days. Every parent knows that many aspects of one's temperament are clear from birth. Sacha loves to fight, and I am sure it helped to save his life. While it is my fondest wish that this quality will continue to serve him well throughout his life, it often makes mine a living hell.
I thought that Sarah was strong-willed; and then, I met Sacha.
The rules of parenting are much like dog training, and our children are attached to us by an invisible leash. Of all my children, Sacha is the one most willing to pull it to the breaking point. As a result, I am forced to yank his choke collar so frequently that his neck is in a state of constant irritation.
At about age 2 1/2, he began the charming habit of moaning "Ow, ow, you're hurting me!" whenever he was subjected to some routine act of bodily maintenance, like diapering, bathing, or god forbid, massaging his flesh with lotion after bathing. At first, I was concerned that perhaps my touch was too firm, and it was bothering him. So I lightened up. This proved to be a good experiment, because it did absolutely nothing to mitigate the complaining, and as such, served as an important reminder that my son is full of shit.
I am frequently relieved that he resembles me, because the way he carries on when he is forced to do something he does not want to—like leave the playground, hold my hand when crossing the street, or sit in the shopping cart (there is no way I want this child roaming freely in a public place!)—he kicks and screams and resists so fiercely that I fear someone will call the authorities to report a child abduction.
His destructive force is awesome to behold. Many items that have made it safely through my two older children have crumbled in his small hands. He destroys board books, and takes apart vehicles with unparalleled skill and efficiency. When it serves his mission, and hand strength is insufficient, he resorts to biting, which he does with impressive precision. His jaw can sever the wheels from matchbox cars. It is not uncommon, when I am vacuuming, to come across a stray foot, or head from a small plastic action figure. We have a collection Star Wars figures that were my brother's childhood toys; Sarah and Gabriel played with them happily and they remained unscathed. Sacha uses them as teething toys; Darth Vader quivers at his approach.
His tantrums are so fierce that I have seen him levitate with anger. I have yet to understand what motivates this child, other than the sheer delight of the fight. When I put him on the bottom step for a time-out, he will quickly calm himself down, until I come back to retrieve him, at which point, he starts up again, and so on the step he remains. Up and down, up and down he goes. One day this week, this went on for forty-five minutes.
Today, in a fit of anger he knocked over the contents of the recycling bins. David brought him in the house and placed him on the step. When David came to get him, and told Sacha that they were going outside clean up the mess. Sacha replied, "No."
And so he got another few minutes in solitary. When it became clear that this approach was not working, David dragged him, kicking and screaming to the yard to clean up, where Sacha staged another protest. Eventually, David got him to comply by handing him the trash, one item at at a time. (As a result, he also lost his television privileges for the day; ouch!) By the time the ordeal was over, Sacha had worn himself out so completely that he voluntarily climbed into his crib for a rest. This is unprecedented behavior for a child WHO GAVE UP NAPPING A YEAR AGO. For such a little thing, he has very large balls.
He may be a force of nature, but he is also incredibly funny, charismatic and sweet. Every day when I retrieve from preschool, once he is buckled in his car seat, he says to me, in his deep gravelly voice (think Tom Waits before puberty), "Thanks for picking me up, Mom."
He has a band of second graders with whom he pals around when I pick Sarah and Gabriel up from school. The funniest thing about their relationship is that it appears to be mutual. Although Sacha is so much smaller, he seems to be more than just their mascot; the big boys look forward to seeing him as much as he does them. Sacha is the is the bantam-weight champion of the elementary school playground. He greets his friends by punching them in the stomach, and then they run off to play tackle football, or whatever it is boys to do hurt one another in the name of having fun.
He is the child that broke us, the wild stallion that refuses to be tamed. David often says he may be the one who brings back corporal punishment. We have fantasized about military preschool. And while it is true that he drives me crazy on an hourly basis, he is wicked cute, rushes into my arms with such force that he nearly knocks me over after we have been apart for a while, and is very free with kisses and I love yous.
And do you know what his first word was?
Mama.
Cross my heart and hope to die, he said Mama before Dada, no, bottle, bear, or blankie. How many children have done that?
When Sacha was 3 days old, he had a brush with death. He was hypothermic, and had to be rushed to the NICU, where he resided for 16 days. Every parent knows that many aspects of one's temperament are clear from birth. Sacha loves to fight, and I am sure it helped to save his life. While it is my fondest wish that this quality will continue to serve him well throughout his life, it often makes mine a living hell.
I thought that Sarah was strong-willed; and then, I met Sacha.
The rules of parenting are much like dog training, and our children are attached to us by an invisible leash. Of all my children, Sacha is the one most willing to pull it to the breaking point. As a result, I am forced to yank his choke collar so frequently that his neck is in a state of constant irritation.
At about age 2 1/2, he began the charming habit of moaning "Ow, ow, you're hurting me!" whenever he was subjected to some routine act of bodily maintenance, like diapering, bathing, or god forbid, massaging his flesh with lotion after bathing. At first, I was concerned that perhaps my touch was too firm, and it was bothering him. So I lightened up. This proved to be a good experiment, because it did absolutely nothing to mitigate the complaining, and as such, served as an important reminder that my son is full of shit.
I am frequently relieved that he resembles me, because the way he carries on when he is forced to do something he does not want to—like leave the playground, hold my hand when crossing the street, or sit in the shopping cart (there is no way I want this child roaming freely in a public place!)—he kicks and screams and resists so fiercely that I fear someone will call the authorities to report a child abduction.
His destructive force is awesome to behold. Many items that have made it safely through my two older children have crumbled in his small hands. He destroys board books, and takes apart vehicles with unparalleled skill and efficiency. When it serves his mission, and hand strength is insufficient, he resorts to biting, which he does with impressive precision. His jaw can sever the wheels from matchbox cars. It is not uncommon, when I am vacuuming, to come across a stray foot, or head from a small plastic action figure. We have a collection Star Wars figures that were my brother's childhood toys; Sarah and Gabriel played with them happily and they remained unscathed. Sacha uses them as teething toys; Darth Vader quivers at his approach.
His tantrums are so fierce that I have seen him levitate with anger. I have yet to understand what motivates this child, other than the sheer delight of the fight. When I put him on the bottom step for a time-out, he will quickly calm himself down, until I come back to retrieve him, at which point, he starts up again, and so on the step he remains. Up and down, up and down he goes. One day this week, this went on for forty-five minutes.
Today, in a fit of anger he knocked over the contents of the recycling bins. David brought him in the house and placed him on the step. When David came to get him, and told Sacha that they were going outside clean up the mess. Sacha replied, "No."
And so he got another few minutes in solitary. When it became clear that this approach was not working, David dragged him, kicking and screaming to the yard to clean up, where Sacha staged another protest. Eventually, David got him to comply by handing him the trash, one item at at a time. (As a result, he also lost his television privileges for the day; ouch!) By the time the ordeal was over, Sacha had worn himself out so completely that he voluntarily climbed into his crib for a rest. This is unprecedented behavior for a child WHO GAVE UP NAPPING A YEAR AGO. For such a little thing, he has very large balls.
He may be a force of nature, but he is also incredibly funny, charismatic and sweet. Every day when I retrieve from preschool, once he is buckled in his car seat, he says to me, in his deep gravelly voice (think Tom Waits before puberty), "Thanks for picking me up, Mom."
He has a band of second graders with whom he pals around when I pick Sarah and Gabriel up from school. The funniest thing about their relationship is that it appears to be mutual. Although Sacha is so much smaller, he seems to be more than just their mascot; the big boys look forward to seeing him as much as he does them. Sacha is the is the bantam-weight champion of the elementary school playground. He greets his friends by punching them in the stomach, and then they run off to play tackle football, or whatever it is boys to do hurt one another in the name of having fun.
He is the child that broke us, the wild stallion that refuses to be tamed. David often says he may be the one who brings back corporal punishment. We have fantasized about military preschool. And while it is true that he drives me crazy on an hourly basis, he is wicked cute, rushes into my arms with such force that he nearly knocks me over after we have been apart for a while, and is very free with kisses and I love yous.
And do you know what his first word was?
Mama.
Cross my heart and hope to die, he said Mama before Dada, no, bottle, bear, or blankie. How many children have done that?
11 June 2009
Guilt-free mothering
I am in the midst of reading Ayelet Waldman's book, Bad Mother, and then today, I stumbled upon this piece on Lisa Belkin's Motherlode blog, entitled "What Mothers Are Unhappy About". It is a guest blog by Jen Singer of MommaSaid.net, which references an economic study, The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness, and a recent New York Times op-ed piece entitled Liberated and Unhappy, by Ross Douthat, the newest addition to the Times' Opinion page.
I won't pretend that I have read the study, or that I ever will, because I would be lying to you. But I did read the column, and Douthat's piece with great interest. Perhaps I am late to the pity party, because I am just beginning to understand the extent to which mothers subject themselves to guilt regarding their mothering skills. I find this sad beyond belief.
I am glad to say that by and large, I do not suffer from this guilt anymore. A few years ago, my book group read Judith Warner's Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, and I skipped that month. I did not feel much anxiety about being a mother at that point in my life, so I had no interest in reading it. Now, I would like to revisit that book, because I enjoy Warner's writing in general, and I'd like to gain a better understanding of what is motivating all this gut-churning angst.
I think a lot of mothers, especially new mothers, spend a good amount of time berating themselves as they adjust to the major life shift and their new responsibilities. And because many women have tendencies toward perfectionism, this berating of one's mothering skills becomes a bad habit that is hard to break.
I did experience my share of guilt early in my mothering career. The key years for me were when Sarah was a baby, also known as the time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I remember feeling so overwhelmed and stressed out by the job that I spent a lot of time worrying, beating myself up, and whining to my therapist about what a bad job I was doing raising my child. She gave me much sound advice on the subject—she was full of such wisdom; if anyone wants her number, contact me offline!—but there are a few things in particular that I really took to heart.
I would obsess about some perceived mistake I'd made in the rearing of my child, and cry that I was so very afraid that I was going to fuck her up, like my parents fucked me up, which was after all, the reason I hadchecked myself in for outpatient treatment gone into therapy. She responded, "You will not fuck her up like your parents did. You will fuck her up in your own way."
I found this very sensible, and freeing advice. I will fuck my children up, but I will do it MY WAY!
Mistakes in child rearing will be made; as in any other part of life, they are unavoidable. But most mistakes are also correctable. Everyone has had the experience while eating out where your waitperson messes up your order, or spills something on your table, or even worse, you. If your waitperson handles their mistake with aplomb—apologizing sincerely, taking money off the bill, bringing you a dessert gratis—do you not give them an even bigger tip?
So for me, the issue became not would I make a mistake, but what would I do about it when I did. As a new mother, I used to get very worried when I yelled at my children; my parents yelled a lot; at the kids, at each other, at the dry-cleaners, and I was so afraid, that if I too, yelled at my children, I WAS REPEATING THEIR MISTAKES.
That is, until I realized a mother, you will lose your temper with your children. That in and of itself does not make you a bad mother. If you lose your temper for good reason, you do not need to apologize. If, on the other hand, you explode at your children because you are tired, or PMS-ing, or are generally having a bad day, you have just had yourself a temper tantrum, and you owe your children an apology.
Own up to your mistakes soon as possible, and make amends. It is only when you let your stubbornness get the best of you that you run into trouble.
Perhaps the most important piece of advice on mothering that my therapist gave me came deep in the mire of postpartum depression, when I was sleep-deprived and extremely hungry all the time, because I was nursing, and spent so much time caring for this baby that I did not make time to eat. It was a truly vicious circle.
My therapist reminded me that there is a reason why, when you are on a plane, in the event of an emergency you are instructed to put your own respirator on before assisting your children. If I was hungry, it would be alright to let my baby cry in order to feed myself. She assured me that if Sarah had to wait a few minutes before nursing, she would not starve. Once I inured myself to the sounds of my wailing infant, I could eat a sandwich, if not in peace, at least confident that when I was sated, I would attend to her.
A mother needs to feed herself in order to serve her children. This is not only literally, but metaphorically true. If as a mother, you give all of yourself over to your children in selfless service, there will not be much of you to share with your children.
It is very easy to lose sight of this, especially in the early years, when you are responsible for all your children's needs. If you have the luxury of a stable marriage, and decent living conditions, I believe it is imperative as a mother to find something besides child-rearing that you love to do, and then, to make time to do it. If you love your job and can't stand the thought of spending your days at home with your children, then find the best child care that you can, and go to work. If you are home with your kids, and enjoy volunteer work, whether for your PTA, Junior League, your church or synagogue, do it. But if this does not bring you great satisfaction, you need not feel guilty about it. Cultivate your hobbies, and if you don't have one, make the time to discover something you might find interesting.
Do not do everything for the sake of your children; if it doesn't serve you, it will not serve them. Your children's mental health and stability are very much tied to your own. If you remember to feed yourself body and soul, you will be a happier, better-adjusted person, more interesting and well-rounded, and, as an added bonus, your children will be the beneficiaries.
I won't pretend that I have read the study, or that I ever will, because I would be lying to you. But I did read the column, and Douthat's piece with great interest. Perhaps I am late to the pity party, because I am just beginning to understand the extent to which mothers subject themselves to guilt regarding their mothering skills. I find this sad beyond belief.
I am glad to say that by and large, I do not suffer from this guilt anymore. A few years ago, my book group read Judith Warner's Perfect Madness: Motherhood in the Age of Anxiety, and I skipped that month. I did not feel much anxiety about being a mother at that point in my life, so I had no interest in reading it. Now, I would like to revisit that book, because I enjoy Warner's writing in general, and I'd like to gain a better understanding of what is motivating all this gut-churning angst.
I think a lot of mothers, especially new mothers, spend a good amount of time berating themselves as they adjust to the major life shift and their new responsibilities. And because many women have tendencies toward perfectionism, this berating of one's mothering skills becomes a bad habit that is hard to break.
I did experience my share of guilt early in my mothering career. The key years for me were when Sarah was a baby, also known as the time when I had no idea what the hell I was doing. I remember feeling so overwhelmed and stressed out by the job that I spent a lot of time worrying, beating myself up, and whining to my therapist about what a bad job I was doing raising my child. She gave me much sound advice on the subject—she was full of such wisdom; if anyone wants her number, contact me offline!—but there are a few things in particular that I really took to heart.
I would obsess about some perceived mistake I'd made in the rearing of my child, and cry that I was so very afraid that I was going to fuck her up, like my parents fucked me up, which was after all, the reason I had
I found this very sensible, and freeing advice. I will fuck my children up, but I will do it MY WAY!
Mistakes in child rearing will be made; as in any other part of life, they are unavoidable. But most mistakes are also correctable. Everyone has had the experience while eating out where your waitperson messes up your order, or spills something on your table, or even worse, you. If your waitperson handles their mistake with aplomb—apologizing sincerely, taking money off the bill, bringing you a dessert gratis—do you not give them an even bigger tip?
So for me, the issue became not would I make a mistake, but what would I do about it when I did. As a new mother, I used to get very worried when I yelled at my children; my parents yelled a lot; at the kids, at each other, at the dry-cleaners, and I was so afraid, that if I too, yelled at my children, I WAS REPEATING THEIR MISTAKES.
That is, until I realized a mother, you will lose your temper with your children. That in and of itself does not make you a bad mother. If you lose your temper for good reason, you do not need to apologize. If, on the other hand, you explode at your children because you are tired, or PMS-ing, or are generally having a bad day, you have just had yourself a temper tantrum, and you owe your children an apology.
Own up to your mistakes soon as possible, and make amends. It is only when you let your stubbornness get the best of you that you run into trouble.
Perhaps the most important piece of advice on mothering that my therapist gave me came deep in the mire of postpartum depression, when I was sleep-deprived and extremely hungry all the time, because I was nursing, and spent so much time caring for this baby that I did not make time to eat. It was a truly vicious circle.
My therapist reminded me that there is a reason why, when you are on a plane, in the event of an emergency you are instructed to put your own respirator on before assisting your children. If I was hungry, it would be alright to let my baby cry in order to feed myself. She assured me that if Sarah had to wait a few minutes before nursing, she would not starve. Once I inured myself to the sounds of my wailing infant, I could eat a sandwich, if not in peace, at least confident that when I was sated, I would attend to her.
A mother needs to feed herself in order to serve her children. This is not only literally, but metaphorically true. If as a mother, you give all of yourself over to your children in selfless service, there will not be much of you to share with your children.
It is very easy to lose sight of this, especially in the early years, when you are responsible for all your children's needs. If you have the luxury of a stable marriage, and decent living conditions, I believe it is imperative as a mother to find something besides child-rearing that you love to do, and then, to make time to do it. If you love your job and can't stand the thought of spending your days at home with your children, then find the best child care that you can, and go to work. If you are home with your kids, and enjoy volunteer work, whether for your PTA, Junior League, your church or synagogue, do it. But if this does not bring you great satisfaction, you need not feel guilty about it. Cultivate your hobbies, and if you don't have one, make the time to discover something you might find interesting.
Do not do everything for the sake of your children; if it doesn't serve you, it will not serve them. Your children's mental health and stability are very much tied to your own. If you remember to feed yourself body and soul, you will be a happier, better-adjusted person, more interesting and well-rounded, and, as an added bonus, your children will be the beneficiaries.
10 June 2009
Skirt chaser
If you are the parent of a boy, you have no doubt noticed that they spend a good deal of time with their hands in their pants.
When I was pregnant with Sacha, at my 20-week sonogram, after the technician finished, the doctor came in to take a look at the contents of my belly. As he moved the paddle around, he said, "Now, I don't know if you want to know the sex of this child, and even if you did, I couldn't say for certain at this moment, but based on where the hands are, I'd say you are carrying a boy."
"Really? It starts this early?" David and I asked, incredulously.
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "It seems to be biologically determined; even in utero, boys love to play with themselves."
Second to exploring their own genitalia, my sons, as toddlers, seemed to try their darndest to explore mine. Their mission was two-fold. First there is the noble quest to re-enter the birth canal, head first. (An impossible mission, but these intrepid explorers are undeterred!) Then, there is the time spent batting their hands away from my vajango. This seems especially alluring in warm weather, when my wardrobe turns primarily to skirts and dresses. (Husbands, of young children, this is in part why your wives are sometimes not in the mood; while you are earning the bacon, we are subject to heavy petting.)
Gabriel thankfully, is well past this stage, but Sacha, at three, is in his prime. I think it has something to do with the nexus between height (right about the pubis), Y chromosome and utter lack of socialization.
One warm day recently, I was at Whole Foods with my kids. As we wandered through the cheeses Sacha alternated between reaching for my hand and up my skirt. At one point, he wandered slightly far afield of me. I heard a woman call out, "Ooh," and looked up to find another mother gently batting my son's hands away from her skirt.
"I'm so sorry!" I said, mortified by Sacha's transgression.
It was a good thing she had a sense of humor, and a child around the same age; she took it in stride, and we laughed: boys!
But now, I can't wait until Sacha starts dating, because I look forward to regaling his paramours with tales of his earliest sexual escapades. I will mortify him, and his dates, by telling the story of the time he tried to finger fuck someone else's mother in the supermarket.
That ought to keep them abstinent for a while.
When I was pregnant with Sacha, at my 20-week sonogram, after the technician finished, the doctor came in to take a look at the contents of my belly. As he moved the paddle around, he said, "Now, I don't know if you want to know the sex of this child, and even if you did, I couldn't say for certain at this moment, but based on where the hands are, I'd say you are carrying a boy."
"Really? It starts this early?" David and I asked, incredulously.
"Yes," the doctor nodded, "It seems to be biologically determined; even in utero, boys love to play with themselves."
Second to exploring their own genitalia, my sons, as toddlers, seemed to try their darndest to explore mine. Their mission was two-fold. First there is the noble quest to re-enter the birth canal, head first. (An impossible mission, but these intrepid explorers are undeterred!) Then, there is the time spent batting their hands away from my vajango. This seems especially alluring in warm weather, when my wardrobe turns primarily to skirts and dresses. (Husbands, of young children, this is in part why your wives are sometimes not in the mood; while you are earning the bacon, we are subject to heavy petting.)
Gabriel thankfully, is well past this stage, but Sacha, at three, is in his prime. I think it has something to do with the nexus between height (right about the pubis), Y chromosome and utter lack of socialization.
One warm day recently, I was at Whole Foods with my kids. As we wandered through the cheeses Sacha alternated between reaching for my hand and up my skirt. At one point, he wandered slightly far afield of me. I heard a woman call out, "Ooh," and looked up to find another mother gently batting my son's hands away from her skirt.
"I'm so sorry!" I said, mortified by Sacha's transgression.
It was a good thing she had a sense of humor, and a child around the same age; she took it in stride, and we laughed: boys!
But now, I can't wait until Sacha starts dating, because I look forward to regaling his paramours with tales of his earliest sexual escapades. I will mortify him, and his dates, by telling the story of the time he tried to finger fuck someone else's mother in the supermarket.
That ought to keep them abstinent for a while.
09 June 2009
My potty mouth
I love a good curse word, either spoken, or written. It feels so satisfying rolling off the tongue, and sometimes, an obscenity is exactly the right descriptor. Shit and fuck are my favorites, but asshole comes in handily as well. (You know I am an intellectual because I when I curse, I say fucking, instead of fuckin'.)
When I hurt myself, like stub a toe, orhit my ulnar nerve bang my funny bone, I cannot help but emit a string of expletives, as in "Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!" or "Shit, shit, shit, SHIT!"
When Sarah was about two, and engaged in some game of her own making, David and I heard her muttering the very same to herself. David looked at me, as we heard my voice coming out of our small child's mouth, and the implication was clear. For the sake of our children, I had to curb my tongue.
In the intervening years, I have gotten much, much better about watching what I say. Now, when I stub my toe, I try to just breathe through the pain (pranayama; it works!).
But as I have cleaned up my mouth around the children, Sarah, at least, has been doing her damnedest to unlock the secrets of swearing. In my experience, this is a right of passage that begins in about second grade. Just as playground games get passed through the generations, without you ever explicitly teaching them to your children, friends begin to compare notes, at recess, and on play dates, with the determined goal of pooling their collective wisdom to compile the Complete Oxford Companion to Swearing for Children. (As is so often the case, older siblings are key players in the acquisition of such knowledge.)
I remember when Sarah first made me aware of this, one night as we were snuggling before bedtime. "Mom," she confessed, "I know the s-word."
"Really?"
"Yes. Can I say it to you?"
"Okay."
"It's...shoot."
Sarah is in fourth grade now, and her knowledge is considerably more accurate. In fact, I have it on good authority that she has been cursing with abandon amongst her friends at recess. I kept this knowledge under my hat for a while, but it came up in conversation at dinner one night last week, and Sarah freely admitted that yes, she is cursing up a storm!
What can I say; she is her mother's daughter.
This morning, as were hurrying out the door, things got a bit harried. I noticed that while Gabriel had put on a raincoat, he was wearing leather sandals. I told him to change his shoes; while he's outgrown his rain boots, he just got a new pair of Keen sandals which were more suitable for the rain.
He moaned, and fussed and generally gave me a hard time. His sartorial choices are something that can really push my buttons. When he needs new clothes, I let him come with me to pick things out, and then, once the new items are settled in his drawers, he will continue to wear the same two old shirts in constant rotation.
So it is with these his new Keens, which, true to form, HE HAS PROCEEDED NOT TO WEAR. And it was raining, and we were late for school, and I was frustrated. So I said, "Gabriel, I am tired of this bullshit. Put the Keens on, or you will not play any Wii for the rest of the week."
Normally, one of my kids would have called me out. Perhaps it was the threat of losing Wii, but Gabriel just nodded, changed his shoes, and off to school we went.
Or maybe, sometimes, a good curse word, really is just the right thing.
When I hurt myself, like stub a toe, or
When Sarah was about two, and engaged in some game of her own making, David and I heard her muttering the very same to herself. David looked at me, as we heard my voice coming out of our small child's mouth, and the implication was clear. For the sake of our children, I had to curb my tongue.
In the intervening years, I have gotten much, much better about watching what I say. Now, when I stub my toe, I try to just breathe through the pain (pranayama; it works!).
But as I have cleaned up my mouth around the children, Sarah, at least, has been doing her damnedest to unlock the secrets of swearing. In my experience, this is a right of passage that begins in about second grade. Just as playground games get passed through the generations, without you ever explicitly teaching them to your children, friends begin to compare notes, at recess, and on play dates, with the determined goal of pooling their collective wisdom to compile the Complete Oxford Companion to Swearing for Children. (As is so often the case, older siblings are key players in the acquisition of such knowledge.)
I remember when Sarah first made me aware of this, one night as we were snuggling before bedtime. "Mom," she confessed, "I know the s-word."
"Really?"
"Yes. Can I say it to you?"
"Okay."
"It's...shoot."
Sarah is in fourth grade now, and her knowledge is considerably more accurate. In fact, I have it on good authority that she has been cursing with abandon amongst her friends at recess. I kept this knowledge under my hat for a while, but it came up in conversation at dinner one night last week, and Sarah freely admitted that yes, she is cursing up a storm!
What can I say; she is her mother's daughter.
This morning, as were hurrying out the door, things got a bit harried. I noticed that while Gabriel had put on a raincoat, he was wearing leather sandals. I told him to change his shoes; while he's outgrown his rain boots, he just got a new pair of Keen sandals which were more suitable for the rain.
He moaned, and fussed and generally gave me a hard time. His sartorial choices are something that can really push my buttons. When he needs new clothes, I let him come with me to pick things out, and then, once the new items are settled in his drawers, he will continue to wear the same two old shirts in constant rotation.
So it is with these his new Keens, which, true to form, HE HAS PROCEEDED NOT TO WEAR. And it was raining, and we were late for school, and I was frustrated. So I said, "Gabriel, I am tired of this bullshit. Put the Keens on, or you will not play any Wii for the rest of the week."
Normally, one of my kids would have called me out. Perhaps it was the threat of losing Wii, but Gabriel just nodded, changed his shoes, and off to school we went.
Or maybe, sometimes, a good curse word, really is just the right thing.
08 June 2009
Mommy Junior
One of the first conversations David and I had regarding child-rearing after Sarah was born was that we agreed we wanted to raise a strong-willed girl.
To say that Sarah is strong-willed is something of an understatement. She is extremely articulate, has no trouble speaking her mind, and is an ace negotiator. She is very good at getting what she wants. I do not mean to imply that she is spoiled, because she is not. It's more that she is great at staying on message, and her follow-up skills are unparalleled. David calls her the best project manager he has ever worked for.
As her mother, I am very proud to see these qualities, as I know they will serve her well throughout her lifetime. Often, these qualities serve me very well. She is old enough to help me out a bit with household management, and caring for her brothers, and she thrives on this increased responsibility.
David packs our kids lunches in the morning before he leaves for work, leaving the finishing touches--desserts and cold packs--to me. This year, Sarah has taken this task on herself, which I love, because for reasons I don't understand, I loathe packing lunches.
She can, and will gladly change Sacha's diaper (I don't make her do the poopy ones), and dress him in the morning. I don't even need to lay out clothes for him anymore; as long as she knows the weather, she is more than capable of getting him ready.
At dinner time, I have seen her unbidden, clap her hands twice, call, "Boys, dinner!" And they come running!
Her responsible nature is also very useful at the pool, as I can task her with watching Sacha, and go to the bathroom by myself. This ability to pee in private, even if it is still only an occasional occurrence, is a milestone in a mother's life!
But all this self-confidence and competence also comes with a price. She is so effortlessly authoritative, that I have, on occasion, found myself almost answering to her. Last week when I picked the kids up from school, I needed to move my car. After my kids were gathered, I told Sarah I was going to move the car, and she needed to watch Sacha on the playground for a few minutes. As I began to walk away, she stopped me to ask why I needed to move the car, and I began to answer her, before I remembered, WAIT A MINUTE; I AM THE MOTHER. I DON'T NEED TO GIVE YOU AN EXPLANATION! So I stopped myself mid-sentence, said,"Just go watch your brother!" and turned on my heel.
This weekend, I was running errands with Sarah and Sacha, and we were walking downhill, Sarah several feet in front of Sacha and me. She stopped, called, "Sacha, come!" at which point he let go of my hand, and started to run down the hill to catch up with her. I get a little crazy about small children running downhill. Like Cassandra, I foresee the nasty spill, the scrapes and bruises, the split chin. I wanted Sacha walking slowly down the hill, holding my hand. So I raised my voice: "Sarah: Mommy check! Is there a mother in charge here?" "Yes," she agreed. "Good," I said, "Now please remember this, or I will not even consider the possibility of you having a sleepover for the next month."
I am not sure how much her competence has to do with our excellent parenting skills (unlikely), and how much of it is her natural temperament (highly likely), but, as I am learning over time, be careful what you wish for, as it will sometimes come to bite you on the ass.
To say that Sarah is strong-willed is something of an understatement. She is extremely articulate, has no trouble speaking her mind, and is an ace negotiator. She is very good at getting what she wants. I do not mean to imply that she is spoiled, because she is not. It's more that she is great at staying on message, and her follow-up skills are unparalleled. David calls her the best project manager he has ever worked for.
As her mother, I am very proud to see these qualities, as I know they will serve her well throughout her lifetime. Often, these qualities serve me very well. She is old enough to help me out a bit with household management, and caring for her brothers, and she thrives on this increased responsibility.
David packs our kids lunches in the morning before he leaves for work, leaving the finishing touches--desserts and cold packs--to me. This year, Sarah has taken this task on herself, which I love, because for reasons I don't understand, I loathe packing lunches.
She can, and will gladly change Sacha's diaper (I don't make her do the poopy ones), and dress him in the morning. I don't even need to lay out clothes for him anymore; as long as she knows the weather, she is more than capable of getting him ready.
At dinner time, I have seen her unbidden, clap her hands twice, call, "Boys, dinner!" And they come running!
Her responsible nature is also very useful at the pool, as I can task her with watching Sacha, and go to the bathroom by myself. This ability to pee in private, even if it is still only an occasional occurrence, is a milestone in a mother's life!
But all this self-confidence and competence also comes with a price. She is so effortlessly authoritative, that I have, on occasion, found myself almost answering to her. Last week when I picked the kids up from school, I needed to move my car. After my kids were gathered, I told Sarah I was going to move the car, and she needed to watch Sacha on the playground for a few minutes. As I began to walk away, she stopped me to ask why I needed to move the car, and I began to answer her, before I remembered, WAIT A MINUTE; I AM THE MOTHER. I DON'T NEED TO GIVE YOU AN EXPLANATION! So I stopped myself mid-sentence, said,"Just go watch your brother!" and turned on my heel.
This weekend, I was running errands with Sarah and Sacha, and we were walking downhill, Sarah several feet in front of Sacha and me. She stopped, called, "Sacha, come!" at which point he let go of my hand, and started to run down the hill to catch up with her. I get a little crazy about small children running downhill. Like Cassandra, I foresee the nasty spill, the scrapes and bruises, the split chin. I wanted Sacha walking slowly down the hill, holding my hand. So I raised my voice: "Sarah: Mommy check! Is there a mother in charge here?" "Yes," she agreed. "Good," I said, "Now please remember this, or I will not even consider the possibility of you having a sleepover for the next month."
I am not sure how much her competence has to do with our excellent parenting skills (unlikely), and how much of it is her natural temperament (highly likely), but, as I am learning over time, be careful what you wish for, as it will sometimes come to bite you on the ass.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
