Since becoming a parent, two rituals have become very important to me; my morning coffee, and my evening cocktail.
I love the coffee for several reasons, chief among which is that it tastes so delicious. The caffeine is nice, but secondary; when I was pregnant with Sacha, I could not metabolize caffeine very well; one cup and I felt like a speed freak. So I switched to a half decaf blend, and have never bothered switching back. It is the ritual that is most sacred to me, and while I would notice a difference in the taste if I switched to decaf, the ritual would still sustain me. I love the silence in the house when I come downstairs, all the kids (hopefully) still asleep, and those few precious minutes alone; with my thoughts, the newspaper, my warm mug, before the chaos of the day begins.
And then there is the evening cocktail. Once you become a mother, and spend great amount of time alone with small children, it becomes clear why so many women were popping tranquilizers half a century ago, and why many mothers drink today.
Again, the ritual of my evening drink is sacred. I start my dinner preparation, pour myself a small glass of wine, or an apertivo, and start cooking. Just as my cup of coffee signifies the start of the day, the evening drink signals that the day is winding down.
So when I read Lisa Belkin's column, A Mother Gives Up the (Wine) Bottle this morning, it gave me pause.
It is about Stefanie Wilder-Taylor, a mother of 3 young daughters, and a blogger and author. Wilder-Taylor writes a blog on Mommytrackd.com called Make Mine a Double: A Tale of Twins and Tequila. Yesterday, she wrote an essay entitled My Sobering Secret in which she held the mirror up to herself, and publicly admitted she has a bit of a drinking problem, and that in late May, she stopped drinking.
Because my evening cocktail is so important to me, I have asked myself on many occasions; do I have a drinking problem? Most nights, I have something to drink while preparing dinner, and maybe a half a glass of wine with dinner. If I've had no wine with dinner, I will sometimes join David for a bit of wine (usually with a piece of chocolate) after the kids go to bed.
For me, the answer to whether or not I have a drinking problem is no, for several reasons. While I look forward to that evening drink, I do not need it, and do not feel deprived if I don't have it. I am none the worse for going without it.
The other reason is that I never drink to excess. Since I have had children, I can remember one occasion, when Sarah was a baby, when I got drunk, and was hungover. It was so unpleasant, I haven't done it since.
The other reason, for me, is that I am always aware of how my behavior, both conscious and unconscious, affects my children. We are extremely powerful, Godlike, in their eyes, and they are watching our every move. There are times when I think I've seen my children whip out their metaphorical notepads, making note of some important bit of evidence, for future reference.
I am not about to offer my children a drink, but I think that if they see me drinking, but not to excess, it will help them to learn, as they get older and begin to experiment with alcohol, that drinking responsibly is not a big deal. I am sure before they leave our nest, they will get good and drunk, and David and I will know it--I can't imagine that a hungover teenager is a very good actor--and we will have to have a TALK, and there will be CONSEQUENCES.
I don't think my either of my parents had a drinking problem, but I can remember many occasions when I knew my father was hungover. (My mother may have been drinking as well, but she was so depressed, it was hard to notice anything else.) But at some point, Mommy explaining that Daddy doesn't feel well this morning no longer rings true. From this, I extrapolated, that unless my mother had not been drinking, and drove home, my father had driven them home drunk. (I also recall, at one point, when I hope to god I was past the age of 21, my father giving me this advice: if you ever have to drive home after having had a bit too much to drink, put your hazards on, and go slowly and stay in the right lane.) This is not the kind of sage parenting advice I hope to pass on to my children.
My father was also a pot smoker, and by the time I was a young adolescent, before I could even conceive that I would ever do such a thing myself, I knew something weird was going on with him. Why did he leave the house for a drive, and come back shortly thereafter looking so odd, with a shit-eating grin on his face? I asked him directly about it, and after skirting the issue for several months, he eventually had a talk with me. I remember his exact words: "Every so often, just to relax, I like to go out and smoke a joint." I believe I was twelve or thirteen when we had this conversation. It was when the scales began to fall from my eyes, because while he may have believed he was doing me a service by being honest, this heart-to- heart did not endear him to me. Instead, I was filled with an uncomfortable, squirming feeling, which I now recognize as one of wild confusion because he was supposed to be an adult, the role model. Needless to say, any further advice he gave me about not doing drugs did not have much authority behind it.
One of the defining moments of my adolescence came shortly after my family moved to New Jersey, from Staten Island. I was a sophomore in high school, not an easy time to move, and I was chronically depressed. (As were, I believe, my parents. But since they did not know this about themselves, how could they have recognized it in me? All they knew was that I was unhappy, and they were desperate to make me happy again.) I spent a weekend back in Staten Island with my old friends, where I proceeded, to literally drown my sorrows by gettiing rip roaring, puke-spewing drunk. I also happened to sleep at the home of some family friends, who saw me come home half-conscious, and alerted my parents.
Once I was home, my parents sat me down at the kitchen table for a talk. I don't remember exactly what was said, but I do remember when my father told me he knew I'd been drinking, that he slapped me across the face. I mustered all the self will I could summon to keep myself from crying at the blow. Certainly, I was shocked, and the punishment clearly did not seem to fit the crime. Discovering that your teenager has drank to excess is an unfortunate rite-of-passage, that in this day and age, parents must brace themselves for. But I do remember thinking very clearly, at that moment, about my father, "You fucking hypocrite."
Raising children is hard work, and lord knows it can drive you to drink. When I was a child, my parents were very unhappy people, and it is hard for unhappy people to raise happy children. My parents are divorced and remarried now, and I think they are both considerably happier, and my children are the beneficiaries of their happier, better-adjusted selves.
A key part of becoming an adult is realizing, slowly, over time, that your parents are not gods; they are imperfect, and all too human. I have my flaws; I could give you a long list of them right now, at the top of which is that I am very judgmental; can't you tell? I am sure I am giving my kids many, many reasons to put themselves on the couch someday. But our children learn by the example we set, and it is our sacred obligation to them to provide the very best example we can.
Life is hard and pain is inevitable, and uncomfortable. We will try to do anything possible we can to avoid it, to anesthetize that pain. Having children brings us face to face with the unresolved pains and conflicts of our childhood, whether we are aware of it or not. If we are blessed to be aware of it, we then have a choice as whether to confront that pain, or run from it screaming. But when we do not confront our pain head on, it comes to haunt us in other ways. Other ways which may, at some point, hurt our children, either directly, or indirectly, in the form of bad habits and negative qualities that we do not want them to inherit. So I have to hand it to Stefanie Wilder-Taylor for being brave enough to hold the mirror up to herself, confront her uncomfortable truth, publicly, and do something about it.
04 June 2009
03 June 2009
My amp goes to eleven
You may recall I went to Costco earlier this week. One of the things on my list was sunscreen; now that the Montclair Beach Club has opened, it is time to lay in a supply.
But when I arrived at the sunscreen display, I just couldn't do it. They were selling two brands, one with an SPF of 50, and the other, 70. WTF?
What has happened to 15 and 30?
The way I understand it, as a layperson (any dermatologists reading, correct me if I'm wrong), SPF, or sun protection factor, is a measure of the effectiveness of sunscreen. According to Wikipedia, the SPF refers to the amount of time a person with sunscreen applied can be exposed to sunlight before getting burned, relative to the time a person without sunscreen can be exposed. To give a concrete example, someone who would normally burn after 15 minutes in the sun can stay in the sun 15 times longer with the protection of SPF 15.
However, with regards to SPF, at a certain point, there are diminishing returns. An SPF of 50 only provides 1% to 2% more protection than an SPF 30. So higher does not necessarily mean better.
The other factor at work here is Vitamin D, which helps to maintain our organs, specifically the intestines and kidneys. Our skin naturally produces Vitamin D when it is exposed to the sun. The use of sunscreen interferes with the production of Vitamin D, and Vitamin D deficiency can lead to liver or kidney disorders, and can contribute the bone softening diseases such as rickets, and osteoporosis.
The bigger numbers are seductive, and surely, we want to do the best by our children. But there comes a point where manufacturers are preying on our insecurities; why would you go for SPF 30, when you can have the power of 70, 90, 110?
When I saw numbers ranging from SPF 50-70, I wondered if things may have gotten a little out of hand. This is a classic case of MY AMP GOES TO ELEVEN. Looked at another way, it is just one more manifestation of the American obsession with more is more, bigger is better. In Europe, sunscreen labels may legally only go up to 50; presently in the U.S., there are no comprehensive standards for sunscreen, which allows manufacturers to exploit are anxieties, and probably charge more for the privilege.
So as with all things, we must strike a balance. On the one hand, we do not want our children to get sunburns, which are painful in themselves, and over time, can contribute to melanomas. But we don't want to go so crazy with the sunscreen that we put them at risk for Vitamin D deficiency.
Trust yourself, and use common sense. If you are going for a short walk with your tender-skinned infant, put a hat on their fair head, and raise your stroller's hood, but let them soak up a little Vitamin D. If you are spending a day of prolonged outdoor exposure, at the beach, the pool, or sporting events, slather on the sunscreen, and repeat often.
But remember, the fact that the amp went to eleven was supposed to be a joke.
But when I arrived at the sunscreen display, I just couldn't do it. They were selling two brands, one with an SPF of 50, and the other, 70. WTF?
What has happened to 15 and 30?
The way I understand it, as a layperson (any dermatologists reading, correct me if I'm wrong), SPF, or sun protection factor, is a measure of the effectiveness of sunscreen. According to Wikipedia, the SPF refers to the amount of time a person with sunscreen applied can be exposed to sunlight before getting burned, relative to the time a person without sunscreen can be exposed. To give a concrete example, someone who would normally burn after 15 minutes in the sun can stay in the sun 15 times longer with the protection of SPF 15.
However, with regards to SPF, at a certain point, there are diminishing returns. An SPF of 50 only provides 1% to 2% more protection than an SPF 30. So higher does not necessarily mean better.
The other factor at work here is Vitamin D, which helps to maintain our organs, specifically the intestines and kidneys. Our skin naturally produces Vitamin D when it is exposed to the sun. The use of sunscreen interferes with the production of Vitamin D, and Vitamin D deficiency can lead to liver or kidney disorders, and can contribute the bone softening diseases such as rickets, and osteoporosis.
The bigger numbers are seductive, and surely, we want to do the best by our children. But there comes a point where manufacturers are preying on our insecurities; why would you go for SPF 30, when you can have the power of 70, 90, 110?
When I saw numbers ranging from SPF 50-70, I wondered if things may have gotten a little out of hand. This is a classic case of MY AMP GOES TO ELEVEN. Looked at another way, it is just one more manifestation of the American obsession with more is more, bigger is better. In Europe, sunscreen labels may legally only go up to 50; presently in the U.S., there are no comprehensive standards for sunscreen, which allows manufacturers to exploit are anxieties, and probably charge more for the privilege.
So as with all things, we must strike a balance. On the one hand, we do not want our children to get sunburns, which are painful in themselves, and over time, can contribute to melanomas. But we don't want to go so crazy with the sunscreen that we put them at risk for Vitamin D deficiency.
Trust yourself, and use common sense. If you are going for a short walk with your tender-skinned infant, put a hat on their fair head, and raise your stroller's hood, but let them soak up a little Vitamin D. If you are spending a day of prolonged outdoor exposure, at the beach, the pool, or sporting events, slather on the sunscreen, and repeat often.
But remember, the fact that the amp went to eleven was supposed to be a joke.
02 June 2009
It takes two
The need for siblings to fight is as primal as their love for one another; they are hard wired for both. As Sarah explained to me recently, "Mom, Gabriel and I love each other very much, but we're just at that stage where we don't get along that well."
Siblings are rivals for their parents' affections, always trying to best each other in our eyes. While sibling rivalry is a fact of life, so is the fact that it takes two to fight.
Most of the time I can't be bothered to pay attention to what my children are fighting about. The particulars are generally unimportant; I just need to put a stop to it (otherwise known as, get them to shut the fuck up.) But it is easy to take the bait when negotiating these conflicts, in other words, to forget that both parties are usually at fault.
Recently, Sarah and Gabriel were fighting about something or another. Sarah had pushed Gabriel on the stairs, and I was about to yell at her for doing something so dangerous, when I realized that Gabriel, in true little brother fashion, had likely provoked her. If I had reamed Sarah out, it would have been a major score for Gabriel, and believe me, our kids are keeping track of these things.
So I stopped myself, and in my best STERN MOMMY VOICE told them that I suspected they both had a hand in this, and they needed to work it out. As I walked away, this is what I heard:
Gabriel said, "I'm sorry that I teased you, Sarah."
Sarah then explained to her brother, "Gabriel, I'm sorry I pushed you on the stairs. I need to work on my anger management."
Siblings are rivals for their parents' affections, always trying to best each other in our eyes. While sibling rivalry is a fact of life, so is the fact that it takes two to fight.
Most of the time I can't be bothered to pay attention to what my children are fighting about. The particulars are generally unimportant; I just need to put a stop to it (otherwise known as, get them to shut the fuck up.) But it is easy to take the bait when negotiating these conflicts, in other words, to forget that both parties are usually at fault.
Recently, Sarah and Gabriel were fighting about something or another. Sarah had pushed Gabriel on the stairs, and I was about to yell at her for doing something so dangerous, when I realized that Gabriel, in true little brother fashion, had likely provoked her. If I had reamed Sarah out, it would have been a major score for Gabriel, and believe me, our kids are keeping track of these things.
So I stopped myself, and in my best STERN MOMMY VOICE told them that I suspected they both had a hand in this, and they needed to work it out. As I walked away, this is what I heard:
Gabriel said, "I'm sorry that I teased you, Sarah."
Sarah then explained to her brother, "Gabriel, I'm sorry I pushed you on the stairs. I need to work on my anger management."
01 June 2009
I...like...Costco
Ten years into suburban living, I'm just going to come right out and say it. I like Costco!
For many people, suburban, and even urban now, the big box store is an inescapable part of life. Unless you are extremely wealthy, or extremely stupid, or perhaps both, everyone is looking for a good deal, especially in these troubled times. And that is where Costco comes in.
When we first moved back to New Jersey, my in-laws gave us a membership as a housewarming present. I avoided it like the plague, sending David whenever possible. It seemed so overwhelming; so cavernous, and intimidating! They sell so many unrelated things! I could get lost in there, in the netherworld between the dry goods and the best sellers and batteries, and no one would ever find me.
But as the years have gone by, and our the size of our family has increased, it seemed selfish of me to save the trip to Costco for the weekends, when David was available. The ability to run errands such as this is part of the reason why I chose to stay home with the kids.
So a year or so ago, I began to brave Costco on my own, and...it wasn't so bad. I've found it is one of those instances where looks can be deceiving. I don't think I will ever relish the thought of going, but I no longer dread it.
I do not do the bulk of my shopping there, not by a long shot. A lot of what I buy there is non-food items: diapers, wipes, vitamins, contact lenses, batteries, etc. Their trash bags are good, and a box of them will last about a year.
They are forward-thinking in their merchandise; you can get many organic items, and I noticed today that they now have their own brand of environmentally friendly laundry detergent, and dishwasher detergent. The next time I run out, I will try them.
I don't go in for the pre-packaged foods; I'm sure some of it is good, but I enjoy cooking too much. Plus, with some items, the quantities are so large that I don't think we would have the storage space, let alone get through things before they went stale. True, I could lay in a supply of oregano to last a decade, but would I really want to use it for that long?
I have tried their meat and their fish, and was not impressed. The price may be right, but to my taste, the flavor is just not there. But for certain items, the quality is excellent, and a very good buy. I get Parmigiano Reggiano there, as well as organic milk, and eggs.
But what I am most impressed with is how well it is run. Even when I have to wait on line to pay, and it looks I'm going to be there a while, it moves quickly.
Most importantly, the staff are really, really nice. They seem to enjoy working there, which means they are being treated nicely from on-high. I remember reading, during the ill-fated John Kerry Presidential bid, that Costco gives to Democratic causes, which made me more inclined to like them; knowing where Wal-mart spends their philanthropic dollars, when there was an idiot in the White House, did not encourage me to shop there. But Costco gives to causes I believe in; perhaps this has something to do with the pleasant environment?
Today, when I was waiting on line to pay, there was a slight delay because the cashiers were helping the person in front of me look for her baby's binkie!
When it was my turn, the woman working the line showed me a picture of Sergio—the cashier at the next register—in his youth. He was considerably slimmer then. I said, diplomatically, his face looks the same. And the cashier replied, bluntly, but empathetically, "Yes, but look at his body. You don't have to be shy. He needs to take better care of himself. We keep trying to tell him he needs to watch what he eats, and get some exercise." Then, she added, ruefully, "He doesn't listen to us."
It's true that you can get lost in there, and the temptation towards impulse purchases is high. (David and I joke, when one of us is going, "Oh, I'll get diapers, floss, Cheerios...and a flat-screen tv...and, a hot tub.") But if you can stay focused—I look at it as a meditative exercise; stick to your list, get what you came for—you can get good items, for good prices, while shopping in an atmosphere where the staff are kind, happy to help you, and genuinely seem to enjoy each other's company.
And did I mention they sell wine? And that they are the top wine retailer in the country?
For many people, suburban, and even urban now, the big box store is an inescapable part of life. Unless you are extremely wealthy, or extremely stupid, or perhaps both, everyone is looking for a good deal, especially in these troubled times. And that is where Costco comes in.
When we first moved back to New Jersey, my in-laws gave us a membership as a housewarming present. I avoided it like the plague, sending David whenever possible. It seemed so overwhelming; so cavernous, and intimidating! They sell so many unrelated things! I could get lost in there, in the netherworld between the dry goods and the best sellers and batteries, and no one would ever find me.
But as the years have gone by, and our the size of our family has increased, it seemed selfish of me to save the trip to Costco for the weekends, when David was available. The ability to run errands such as this is part of the reason why I chose to stay home with the kids.
So a year or so ago, I began to brave Costco on my own, and...it wasn't so bad. I've found it is one of those instances where looks can be deceiving. I don't think I will ever relish the thought of going, but I no longer dread it.
I do not do the bulk of my shopping there, not by a long shot. A lot of what I buy there is non-food items: diapers, wipes, vitamins, contact lenses, batteries, etc. Their trash bags are good, and a box of them will last about a year.
They are forward-thinking in their merchandise; you can get many organic items, and I noticed today that they now have their own brand of environmentally friendly laundry detergent, and dishwasher detergent. The next time I run out, I will try them.
I don't go in for the pre-packaged foods; I'm sure some of it is good, but I enjoy cooking too much. Plus, with some items, the quantities are so large that I don't think we would have the storage space, let alone get through things before they went stale. True, I could lay in a supply of oregano to last a decade, but would I really want to use it for that long?
I have tried their meat and their fish, and was not impressed. The price may be right, but to my taste, the flavor is just not there. But for certain items, the quality is excellent, and a very good buy. I get Parmigiano Reggiano there, as well as organic milk, and eggs.
But what I am most impressed with is how well it is run. Even when I have to wait on line to pay, and it looks I'm going to be there a while, it moves quickly.
Most importantly, the staff are really, really nice. They seem to enjoy working there, which means they are being treated nicely from on-high. I remember reading, during the ill-fated John Kerry Presidential bid, that Costco gives to Democratic causes, which made me more inclined to like them; knowing where Wal-mart spends their philanthropic dollars, when there was an idiot in the White House, did not encourage me to shop there. But Costco gives to causes I believe in; perhaps this has something to do with the pleasant environment?
Today, when I was waiting on line to pay, there was a slight delay because the cashiers were helping the person in front of me look for her baby's binkie!
When it was my turn, the woman working the line showed me a picture of Sergio—the cashier at the next register—in his youth. He was considerably slimmer then. I said, diplomatically, his face looks the same. And the cashier replied, bluntly, but empathetically, "Yes, but look at his body. You don't have to be shy. He needs to take better care of himself. We keep trying to tell him he needs to watch what he eats, and get some exercise." Then, she added, ruefully, "He doesn't listen to us."
It's true that you can get lost in there, and the temptation towards impulse purchases is high. (David and I joke, when one of us is going, "Oh, I'll get diapers, floss, Cheerios...and a flat-screen tv...and, a hot tub.") But if you can stay focused—I look at it as a meditative exercise; stick to your list, get what you came for—you can get good items, for good prices, while shopping in an atmosphere where the staff are kind, happy to help you, and genuinely seem to enjoy each other's company.
And did I mention they sell wine? And that they are the top wine retailer in the country?
31 May 2009
Pelvic Thrust
Sacha, my youngest child, is a slip of a thing--he is 3-1/2, and just hit 30 pounds a month ago--but he is mightily strong for, as my grandfather would have said, such a skinny malinx.
He is also one of the most willful forces of nature I have yet to encounter, and I know from strong-willed children. Sacha is the child who has famously yelled at David or myself, on more than one occasion, GIVE ME BACK MY POOP! because was morally offended that we've had the temerity to clean his soiled bottom when he was not in the mood for this.
Like all children of this age, he will sometimes resist being buckled into his car seat. And like all reasonable mothers, I consider this a non-negotiable item. So I occasionally have to resort to groin stabilization in order to accomplish this task. Usually my hand will suffice, but one day this week, he was particularly spoiling for a fight, and was bucking so mightily that I had to use my knee (gently, I promise!) to stabilize him while buckling.
As I once again marveled at how this small child can muster so much strength, I couldn't help but muse that his admirable pelvic thrusting abilities will hopefully, one day, make some woman, (or man) extremely happy.
He is also one of the most willful forces of nature I have yet to encounter, and I know from strong-willed children. Sacha is the child who has famously yelled at David or myself, on more than one occasion, GIVE ME BACK MY POOP! because was morally offended that we've had the temerity to clean his soiled bottom when he was not in the mood for this.
Like all children of this age, he will sometimes resist being buckled into his car seat. And like all reasonable mothers, I consider this a non-negotiable item. So I occasionally have to resort to groin stabilization in order to accomplish this task. Usually my hand will suffice, but one day this week, he was particularly spoiling for a fight, and was bucking so mightily that I had to use my knee (gently, I promise!) to stabilize him while buckling.
As I once again marveled at how this small child can muster so much strength, I couldn't help but muse that his admirable pelvic thrusting abilities will hopefully, one day, make some woman, (or man) extremely happy.
30 May 2009
De-attachment parenting
In this week's New York Times Magazine, Lisa Belkin suggests that the age of over-parenting may be coming to a close.
Hallelujah!
I've never been much of a subscriber to this philosophy. Even as a first-time mother, when I knew nothing, I thought those Baby Einstein video tapes (DVDs now, I guess), were bullshit. They may be entertaining to a baby, but so is their own foot, or a box of tissues.
When Sarah was a baby, I experienced my share of guilt if I did some cleaning, or god-forbid, sat on the couch and read while she happily amused herself, with books, or blocks, or that box of tissues. (I've always thought that a version of the tissue box, which a child could empty, and then you could neatly refold and reload, would make a great baby toy. That, and dust cloth clothing, for crawlers. Can you imagine how much time you could save dust mopping?)
But as a new mother, I was worried. Was I a bad mother? Was I not engaging with my child enough?
I discussed this at great length with my therapist during the first year of Sarah's life, and eventually, she (my therapist, not Sarah) asked me some simple questions. Or, more likely, I was finally able to hear the questions she'd been asking me for the better part of a year.
"Does Sarah seem happy, when she's doing these things?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"When she is upset, or needs something, does she let you know?"
"Yes," again.
"And do you listen to her then, and attend to her needs?"
"Well, actually, yes, I do!"
Her point was, if you are a good listener, and trust yourself, your children will make clear what they need from you. Since I got this through my sometimes thick head, I have tried to listen to my children as best I can. It is true that I've gotten better at this as I've had more kids and become a more experienced mother (poor first child, the guinea pig), to let my children guide me in terms of what they want, and need.
My wise therapist also once said to me something along the lines of, "A broken arm heals faster than a broken heart." This is not to say I would knowingly put my children in harm's way. But once they have the ability, it is better, for instance, even though it is hard, to hang back a bit at the playground, and allow your child to stumble, and perhaps even fall, rather than hold their hand every step of the way. Trust your children to make some of their own mistakes, and hopefully, to learn from them. I believe over-parenting is an unfortunate corollary of well meaning parents who do not trust their own instincts, and try to make up for this by lavishing too much fill-in-the-blank:--love, toys, activities, unnecessary advice--upon their children.
The same is true for over-scheduling, the evil twin of over-parenting. As my children have gotten older, I've shied more and more away from over-scheduling, for reasons of logistics, finances and plain selfishness. What I really think children should do after school is play. On my ideal afternoon, my kids spend a good amount of time after school running around on the playground. Then, we come home, have a snack, and they do their homework. Then, into the backyard to play, with friends, their siblings, or both.
I try to limit my children to one activity per child. I have three children, and it is not my idea of a fun to shuttle my kids around from activity to activity day after day. Even trying to stick to this formula of one activity per child, there is still a fair amount of shuttling involved; it is an unavoidable part of the job I signed up for.
Nor can I afford to pay for each of them to take an unlimited combination of dance, gymnastics, music, theater, swimming, martial arts, rocket building, soccer, Mandarin...the list could go on indefinitely, and get more and more specialized, I'm sure.
From an early age, Sarah had a keen interest, and talent for swimming, so this has been her activity. It didn't happen the same way for Gabriel, who studies karate, which I fought against for a while, because I didn't want to do any more shuttling. But based on some sensory integration issues, which were affecting his confidence and self-esteem, combined with a lack of interest in sports, and David's respect for the martial arts, we enrolled him in karate, which he truly enjoys, and which does much to reinforce the things we try to impart to our children, about citizenship, respect, patience, and community.
I will admit that sticking to one activity per child is a challenge. There is Hebrew School, and speech therapy for Gabriel, and there go 2 afternoons a week right there. Plus, as they have gotten older, my children have become interested in taking up musical instruments. So Sarah (and I) study guitar, and Gabriel, who has always seemed to have an affinity for music, is hankering for piano lessons, something we will try to make happen in the fall.
Sacha, as the youngest child, gets nothing yet. And I do not feel guilty about this.
I believe in the value of indolence. It is okay for children to be bored sometimes, to putter about, and figure out how to entertain themselves. Let them find their own passions, rather than have me force some upon them. I am their mother, not their cruise director. Over-parenting,and over-scheduling deny children this opportunity, and make me worry if the ability to amuse oneself, an invaluable skill that will pay dividends throughout one's life, is becoming a lost art.
Hallelujah!
I've never been much of a subscriber to this philosophy. Even as a first-time mother, when I knew nothing, I thought those Baby Einstein video tapes (DVDs now, I guess), were bullshit. They may be entertaining to a baby, but so is their own foot, or a box of tissues.
When Sarah was a baby, I experienced my share of guilt if I did some cleaning, or god-forbid, sat on the couch and read while she happily amused herself, with books, or blocks, or that box of tissues. (I've always thought that a version of the tissue box, which a child could empty, and then you could neatly refold and reload, would make a great baby toy. That, and dust cloth clothing, for crawlers. Can you imagine how much time you could save dust mopping?)
But as a new mother, I was worried. Was I a bad mother? Was I not engaging with my child enough?
I discussed this at great length with my therapist during the first year of Sarah's life, and eventually, she (my therapist, not Sarah) asked me some simple questions. Or, more likely, I was finally able to hear the questions she'd been asking me for the better part of a year.
"Does Sarah seem happy, when she's doing these things?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered.
"When she is upset, or needs something, does she let you know?"
"Yes," again.
"And do you listen to her then, and attend to her needs?"
"Well, actually, yes, I do!"
Her point was, if you are a good listener, and trust yourself, your children will make clear what they need from you. Since I got this through my sometimes thick head, I have tried to listen to my children as best I can. It is true that I've gotten better at this as I've had more kids and become a more experienced mother (poor first child, the guinea pig), to let my children guide me in terms of what they want, and need.
My wise therapist also once said to me something along the lines of, "A broken arm heals faster than a broken heart." This is not to say I would knowingly put my children in harm's way. But once they have the ability, it is better, for instance, even though it is hard, to hang back a bit at the playground, and allow your child to stumble, and perhaps even fall, rather than hold their hand every step of the way. Trust your children to make some of their own mistakes, and hopefully, to learn from them. I believe over-parenting is an unfortunate corollary of well meaning parents who do not trust their own instincts, and try to make up for this by lavishing too much fill-in-the-blank:--love, toys, activities, unnecessary advice--upon their children.
The same is true for over-scheduling, the evil twin of over-parenting. As my children have gotten older, I've shied more and more away from over-scheduling, for reasons of logistics, finances and plain selfishness. What I really think children should do after school is play. On my ideal afternoon, my kids spend a good amount of time after school running around on the playground. Then, we come home, have a snack, and they do their homework. Then, into the backyard to play, with friends, their siblings, or both.
I try to limit my children to one activity per child. I have three children, and it is not my idea of a fun to shuttle my kids around from activity to activity day after day. Even trying to stick to this formula of one activity per child, there is still a fair amount of shuttling involved; it is an unavoidable part of the job I signed up for.
Nor can I afford to pay for each of them to take an unlimited combination of dance, gymnastics, music, theater, swimming, martial arts, rocket building, soccer, Mandarin...the list could go on indefinitely, and get more and more specialized, I'm sure.
From an early age, Sarah had a keen interest, and talent for swimming, so this has been her activity. It didn't happen the same way for Gabriel, who studies karate, which I fought against for a while, because I didn't want to do any more shuttling. But based on some sensory integration issues, which were affecting his confidence and self-esteem, combined with a lack of interest in sports, and David's respect for the martial arts, we enrolled him in karate, which he truly enjoys, and which does much to reinforce the things we try to impart to our children, about citizenship, respect, patience, and community.
I will admit that sticking to one activity per child is a challenge. There is Hebrew School, and speech therapy for Gabriel, and there go 2 afternoons a week right there. Plus, as they have gotten older, my children have become interested in taking up musical instruments. So Sarah (and I) study guitar, and Gabriel, who has always seemed to have an affinity for music, is hankering for piano lessons, something we will try to make happen in the fall.
Sacha, as the youngest child, gets nothing yet. And I do not feel guilty about this.
I believe in the value of indolence. It is okay for children to be bored sometimes, to putter about, and figure out how to entertain themselves. Let them find their own passions, rather than have me force some upon them. I am their mother, not their cruise director. Over-parenting,and over-scheduling deny children this opportunity, and make me worry if the ability to amuse oneself, an invaluable skill that will pay dividends throughout one's life, is becoming a lost art.
slinging hash: citron presse
I tend to use a lot of lemon zest in my cooking, often in recipes where lemon juice is not called for. This leaves me with a lot of denuded lemons in my refrigerator.
I try not to waste them, so I squeeze the juice into a glass of water, or put a cut up lemon in the dishwasher, which I read once, somewhere, helps keep the inside of the machine clean. I haven't done any scientific analysis to check the results, but it makes a kind of sense given lemon's cleansing properties, and it makes me feel virtuous, and thrifty.
But sometimes I can't keep up with the naked lemons, and I wind up with a bit of a backlog.
So at this time of the year, I turn to the citron presse. Citron presse is a sophisticated name for what is essentially, DIY lemonade, or lemon soda. I have read this is very popular in French cafes, but having never been to France (sniff), I cannot say firsthand.
I can't really give you a recipe, but more of a method, which is really more my style anyway; I am too much of a winger in the kitchen (too organic, to use yoga-nerd speak) to follow recipes precisely.
What you do is squeeze the juice of two lemons into a glass; I use an old fashioned glass. Then add granulated sugar, or simple syrup, to taste. I don't usually measure, but I'd say it amounts to between 2 and 2-1/2 tablespoons of sweetener. Start with a smaller amount, taste, and add more if needed.
Granulated sugar is nice because it never fully dissolves, giving you the pleasing crunch of sugar crystals. But just as often, I use simple syrup, which I tend to have on hand for cocktails. You can buy this in a bottle, if cooking is not your thing, but honestly, you would be ripped off because it couldn't be simpler to make (hence, the name, I guess). Mix equal amounts of sugar and water, bring to a boil, lower the heat and allow to cook until the sugar dissolves completely, which won't take long at all. (Even if you let it cook a little longer than you anticipated, it will still be fine. It's very hard to mess up.) Let it cool, and store in a glass jar in your refrigerator. It keeps forever, which is great pay-off for so little work.
Fill the rest of the glass with water (and ice, if you like; I don't), or, my personal favorite, seltzer or fizzy water. Stir, and drink.
This works equally well with lime juice, which, I think, would make it, a citron vert presse. But my French is terrible (read: non-existent), so don't quote me on that.
Besides, I've no idea if the French make such distinctions regarding this beverage. If you've been there, let me know.
I try not to waste them, so I squeeze the juice into a glass of water, or put a cut up lemon in the dishwasher, which I read once, somewhere, helps keep the inside of the machine clean. I haven't done any scientific analysis to check the results, but it makes a kind of sense given lemon's cleansing properties, and it makes me feel virtuous, and thrifty.
But sometimes I can't keep up with the naked lemons, and I wind up with a bit of a backlog.
So at this time of the year, I turn to the citron presse. Citron presse is a sophisticated name for what is essentially, DIY lemonade, or lemon soda. I have read this is very popular in French cafes, but having never been to France (sniff), I cannot say firsthand.
I can't really give you a recipe, but more of a method, which is really more my style anyway; I am too much of a winger in the kitchen (too organic, to use yoga-nerd speak) to follow recipes precisely.
What you do is squeeze the juice of two lemons into a glass; I use an old fashioned glass. Then add granulated sugar, or simple syrup, to taste. I don't usually measure, but I'd say it amounts to between 2 and 2-1/2 tablespoons of sweetener. Start with a smaller amount, taste, and add more if needed.
Granulated sugar is nice because it never fully dissolves, giving you the pleasing crunch of sugar crystals. But just as often, I use simple syrup, which I tend to have on hand for cocktails. You can buy this in a bottle, if cooking is not your thing, but honestly, you would be ripped off because it couldn't be simpler to make (hence, the name, I guess). Mix equal amounts of sugar and water, bring to a boil, lower the heat and allow to cook until the sugar dissolves completely, which won't take long at all. (Even if you let it cook a little longer than you anticipated, it will still be fine. It's very hard to mess up.) Let it cool, and store in a glass jar in your refrigerator. It keeps forever, which is great pay-off for so little work.
Fill the rest of the glass with water (and ice, if you like; I don't), or, my personal favorite, seltzer or fizzy water. Stir, and drink.
This works equally well with lime juice, which, I think, would make it, a citron vert presse. But my French is terrible (read: non-existent), so don't quote me on that.
Besides, I've no idea if the French make such distinctions regarding this beverage. If you've been there, let me know.
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