I hate politics. I teach Social Studies, and I really do want my students to have interesting discussions about relevant current topics, but when seventh graders start talking politics, I'm done. It's too depressing to hear twelve and thirteen-year-olds, who most likely lack the maturity to formulate their own political beliefs, make bold declarations, repeating with absolute conviction what they read on Facebook or heard at the dinner table. If you're going to argue about politics, I tell them, check your sources. Make sure you have credible information. Don't believe everything you hear.
I hate politics because it is a source of division and anger; I seek cohesion and avoid conflict. I hate politics because so many people are so fanatical about it, whereas my nature is to find the kernel of truth and reason on both sides of an issue rather than to claim categorically that my side is "right". Most of all, I hate it because it has turned me cynical. Who can feel good about showing up at the polls to vote for what they see as the lesser of two evils? There's something terribly wrong with the position in which the current political system has placed moderate voters like me.
But what does any of this have to do with parenting?
As a mother, I think frequently about the type of world I want my daughters to inhabit, the types of experiences I want them to have, the type of people I want them to be. Since becoming a parent, my politics have changed. What I want for my children doesn't fit onto one side of a political T-chart.
I hope they will be compassionate and without judgment toward others who need assistance with food, shelter, or employment. I hope that they will tread softly on our earth and seek ways to protect it. As Christians, I hope that they will show kindness and acceptance to all people. I hope that they will spend their money responsibly, never taking on debt that they will have to struggle to repay. I pray that, whoever my precious girls become, their country will continue to protect their pursuit of happiness.
I am trying my hardest to teach my children to listen more than they talk and value compromise over being "right". I want them to know that changing their position on an issue is not a sign of weakness, provided that their change of heart is genuine and based on careful examination of different points of view. I want them to speak up in the face of injustice, even if it makes them unpopular. In short, I want them to be the kind of people who I could vote for with a little bit of idealism in my heart that maybe, just maybe, the future really is going to be brighter.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Monday, August 11, 2014
Where Have All the Supermoms Gone?
When it comes to being a mom, the loving and being there for my kids is definitely the easiest part of the deal. It's all the other stuff, the "extracurriculars", if you will, that make me feel like I suck.
I grew up in a generation when moms were superheroes. At least mine was. She sewed Halloween costumes and torn pants, made ridiculously good (but not at all good for you) meat loaf and apple pie. She volunteered to be class parent and leader of the Girl Scout troop. She would French braid my hair, even though I complained the entire time about how much it hurt. My mom made homemade play dough and served my friends and I Kool-Aid and popsicles as we lounged on the lawn next to our bicycles. In my house, the cookie jar was always full. Breakfast was almost always a sit-down meal, and cooked to order. She worked the evening shift at the hospital, but when my sisters and I got home after school there was almost always a note with some important detail she needed to impart to us, Love MOM.
Then there's my husband's mom, special ed teacher, gardener, expert quilter and scrapbooker, crafter extraordinaire, queen of the casserole, home decorator for all holidays. If I need a pair of pants hemmed I take them to her house. There is very little this woman cannot do.
And then there's me.
Sewing skills: Maybe a button. Maybe.
Cooking skills: I can follow the recipe on the side of the Barilla lasagna box. Baking generally leaves me disappointed and close to tears. I have recently decided that making my own whipped cream is about as fancy as I will ever get, and I think I only do it to give myself a confidence boost- at least something is homemade!
Volunteering: I'll leave that to the moms who don't work full-time, thank you very much.
Crafting: Rare.
Hair Braiding: Every time I try, Maggie rips it out screaming, "It's not good!" So that doesn't help my self-esteem.
Home Decorating: My home is "decorated" with random items strewn throughout the house. Currently my bedroom is "decorated" with singing animals, bath toys, a battery-operated guitar shaped like a dog, and a handful of cotton balls.
I want to be a multi-talented, old-timey mom - and I hope the two fantastic women I've mentioned don't take that term personally. It would be awesome if I could throw my daughter a birthday party that looked like it came straight out of Pinterest, or if I didn't have to troll the picked-over aisles of every store in town for an Elsa Halloween costume, or if I could have an edible dinner on the table each evening when my husband gets home from work. I'm sure, if I could do those things, I would feel very accomplished- and probably even more exhausted and overwhelmed than I already am.
Matt and I grew up with moms that made it look effortless, which gave moms of my generation the unrealistic impression that it should be. So you know what I have to say about your mouthwatering recipes, your sewing machines, and your cute holiday decor? You can keep them… for about fifteen or twenty years, until I have enough time to become a super-woman too. Then you can send them on along my way.
I grew up in a generation when moms were superheroes. At least mine was. She sewed Halloween costumes and torn pants, made ridiculously good (but not at all good for you) meat loaf and apple pie. She volunteered to be class parent and leader of the Girl Scout troop. She would French braid my hair, even though I complained the entire time about how much it hurt. My mom made homemade play dough and served my friends and I Kool-Aid and popsicles as we lounged on the lawn next to our bicycles. In my house, the cookie jar was always full. Breakfast was almost always a sit-down meal, and cooked to order. She worked the evening shift at the hospital, but when my sisters and I got home after school there was almost always a note with some important detail she needed to impart to us, Love MOM.
Then there's my husband's mom, special ed teacher, gardener, expert quilter and scrapbooker, crafter extraordinaire, queen of the casserole, home decorator for all holidays. If I need a pair of pants hemmed I take them to her house. There is very little this woman cannot do.
And then there's me.
Sewing skills: Maybe a button. Maybe.
Cooking skills: I can follow the recipe on the side of the Barilla lasagna box. Baking generally leaves me disappointed and close to tears. I have recently decided that making my own whipped cream is about as fancy as I will ever get, and I think I only do it to give myself a confidence boost- at least something is homemade!
Volunteering: I'll leave that to the moms who don't work full-time, thank you very much.
Crafting: Rare.
Hair Braiding: Every time I try, Maggie rips it out screaming, "It's not good!" So that doesn't help my self-esteem.
Home Decorating: My home is "decorated" with random items strewn throughout the house. Currently my bedroom is "decorated" with singing animals, bath toys, a battery-operated guitar shaped like a dog, and a handful of cotton balls.
I want to be a multi-talented, old-timey mom - and I hope the two fantastic women I've mentioned don't take that term personally. It would be awesome if I could throw my daughter a birthday party that looked like it came straight out of Pinterest, or if I didn't have to troll the picked-over aisles of every store in town for an Elsa Halloween costume, or if I could have an edible dinner on the table each evening when my husband gets home from work. I'm sure, if I could do those things, I would feel very accomplished- and probably even more exhausted and overwhelmed than I already am.
Matt and I grew up with moms that made it look effortless, which gave moms of my generation the unrealistic impression that it should be. So you know what I have to say about your mouthwatering recipes, your sewing machines, and your cute holiday decor? You can keep them… for about fifteen or twenty years, until I have enough time to become a super-woman too. Then you can send them on along my way.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
The Ones Who Kept Me Warm
I often wonder if everyone suffers from nostalgia to the same degree that I do.
I don't know what it is about me and the past. For some reason I have a difficult time letting go of people, places, periods of my life. I don't like to admit that certain friendships or experiences are over. "Over" just seems so final.
With every transition in my life - from my childhood in upstate New York to Trinity College in Connecticut to my post-graduate life in St. Louis, and finally to Anderson, South Carolina - I left behind people that I had at one point laughed with, confided in, leaned on. High school teammates. College roommates. Colleagues. It wasn't necessarily anyone's fault that we eventually lost touch, and let's face it, who really has room in their life for EVERY person they have ever cared about? It isn't realistic. In fact, it's kind of insane.
The thing is, my memories, though they may be slightly rose-colored by nostalgia, are attached to people, and I hate feeling as if they lose some of their joy because the co-stars of those memories are no longer in my life. Memorizing the security code to one of the fraternity houses so we could let ourselves into their kitchen after-hours. Workshopping poems while eating apples from our professor's orchard. Living in a communist-era dormitory in Prague and learning how to navigate the language, the city, the culture. Singing karaoke. A lot of karaoke. (Because Lord knows it's no fun to sing "I Would Do Anything for Love" alone.) Teaching on a team in which every other member was old enough to be my parent but none too old to be my friend.
Back in 2006 I was teaching part-time at John Burroughs, an independent school in St. Louis. One of the amazing things about this school was that it included a wilderness campus in the Ozarks, used for team-building as well as for science classes. As a first-year teacher I was sent away on the 7th-grade orientation trip and assigned a small group of 7th-graders to take out on "Solo". Students were placed at intervals along a trail in the woods, and they would wait, by themselves (hence the name), for night to fall. After four hours or so in the freezing Ozark night a teacher would collect them and march them to the lodge to be rewarded for their bravery with hot chocolate and a fire. This was a rite of passage at Burroughs, an opportunity for the initiate class to face their fears and, hopefully, find some time to reflect and meditate.
As group leader I could choose whether I wanted to return to camp, checking on my students periodically, or conceal myself in the woods nearby, just in case anyone had a major panic attack. I chose the latter, partly because I wanted to see for myself what these kids were experiencing. I couldn't imagine being asked to do this at the age of twelve, but as an adult I could see the value in taking on such a challenge. I, too, would go solo.
The dark was bad. The cold was worse. Every so often I checked my watch, sure that it would be time to take the kids back to the lodge, but time didn't pass the same way in the woods as it did in civilization. So, to survive my own Solo, I made up a game. I would think about people I cared about, some of whom were currently in my life, some with whom I had already lost contact, and they would keep me warm. The friend I worked with at the pizzeria who cooked me his own creations during our shift because I needed "to put some meat on my bones." The guy in college who I thought might be a love interest but ended up just being really, really nice. I visited him in his hometown once and we ate chicken patties with his dad while watching Jeopardy, then I drove back home without him ever trying anything. I thought about friends who would talk me through my problems until the sun came up. I thought about my sisters, who both went to Boston College and made sure, when I visited, to tell every guy we encountered how old I was: "This is my sister. She's sixteen."
It sounds weird, I know- fuzzy memory bubbles radiating light and heat - but I swear to God it worked. I wasn't shivering anymore; my fingers and toes weren't going numb. These past friends and acquaintances, many of whom would probably have never guessed they made the list, kept the cold at bay.
I would name all of them if I wasn't a coward. It's just that I don't want to be that weird girl (strange that I still can't bring myself to write "woman") who somebody knew five, ten, fifteen years ago who randomly gets in touch and says, "You know what? You mattered to me, even if it was in some tiny, mundane way." I don't want to be someone who tries too hard to rekindle friendships that fizzled out long ago. I don't want to look desperate, overcome by nostalgia, caught up in a past that no longer exists.
I guess the next best thing is to start now, to let there be no question - in my work relationships, my friendships, my family, my marriage - when somebody is making a difference in my life, making it better. Maybe if I take care of that business in the present, I'll no longer need nostalgia.
So, on that note, if you are reading this, if you have supported this little passion of mine, thank you for being supportive. Thank you for helping me stay warm. You matter. Thank you.
I don't know what it is about me and the past. For some reason I have a difficult time letting go of people, places, periods of my life. I don't like to admit that certain friendships or experiences are over. "Over" just seems so final.
With every transition in my life - from my childhood in upstate New York to Trinity College in Connecticut to my post-graduate life in St. Louis, and finally to Anderson, South Carolina - I left behind people that I had at one point laughed with, confided in, leaned on. High school teammates. College roommates. Colleagues. It wasn't necessarily anyone's fault that we eventually lost touch, and let's face it, who really has room in their life for EVERY person they have ever cared about? It isn't realistic. In fact, it's kind of insane.
The thing is, my memories, though they may be slightly rose-colored by nostalgia, are attached to people, and I hate feeling as if they lose some of their joy because the co-stars of those memories are no longer in my life. Memorizing the security code to one of the fraternity houses so we could let ourselves into their kitchen after-hours. Workshopping poems while eating apples from our professor's orchard. Living in a communist-era dormitory in Prague and learning how to navigate the language, the city, the culture. Singing karaoke. A lot of karaoke. (Because Lord knows it's no fun to sing "I Would Do Anything for Love" alone.) Teaching on a team in which every other member was old enough to be my parent but none too old to be my friend.
Back in 2006 I was teaching part-time at John Burroughs, an independent school in St. Louis. One of the amazing things about this school was that it included a wilderness campus in the Ozarks, used for team-building as well as for science classes. As a first-year teacher I was sent away on the 7th-grade orientation trip and assigned a small group of 7th-graders to take out on "Solo". Students were placed at intervals along a trail in the woods, and they would wait, by themselves (hence the name), for night to fall. After four hours or so in the freezing Ozark night a teacher would collect them and march them to the lodge to be rewarded for their bravery with hot chocolate and a fire. This was a rite of passage at Burroughs, an opportunity for the initiate class to face their fears and, hopefully, find some time to reflect and meditate.
As group leader I could choose whether I wanted to return to camp, checking on my students periodically, or conceal myself in the woods nearby, just in case anyone had a major panic attack. I chose the latter, partly because I wanted to see for myself what these kids were experiencing. I couldn't imagine being asked to do this at the age of twelve, but as an adult I could see the value in taking on such a challenge. I, too, would go solo.
The dark was bad. The cold was worse. Every so often I checked my watch, sure that it would be time to take the kids back to the lodge, but time didn't pass the same way in the woods as it did in civilization. So, to survive my own Solo, I made up a game. I would think about people I cared about, some of whom were currently in my life, some with whom I had already lost contact, and they would keep me warm. The friend I worked with at the pizzeria who cooked me his own creations during our shift because I needed "to put some meat on my bones." The guy in college who I thought might be a love interest but ended up just being really, really nice. I visited him in his hometown once and we ate chicken patties with his dad while watching Jeopardy, then I drove back home without him ever trying anything. I thought about friends who would talk me through my problems until the sun came up. I thought about my sisters, who both went to Boston College and made sure, when I visited, to tell every guy we encountered how old I was: "This is my sister. She's sixteen."
It sounds weird, I know- fuzzy memory bubbles radiating light and heat - but I swear to God it worked. I wasn't shivering anymore; my fingers and toes weren't going numb. These past friends and acquaintances, many of whom would probably have never guessed they made the list, kept the cold at bay.
I would name all of them if I wasn't a coward. It's just that I don't want to be that weird girl (strange that I still can't bring myself to write "woman") who somebody knew five, ten, fifteen years ago who randomly gets in touch and says, "You know what? You mattered to me, even if it was in some tiny, mundane way." I don't want to be someone who tries too hard to rekindle friendships that fizzled out long ago. I don't want to look desperate, overcome by nostalgia, caught up in a past that no longer exists.
I guess the next best thing is to start now, to let there be no question - in my work relationships, my friendships, my family, my marriage - when somebody is making a difference in my life, making it better. Maybe if I take care of that business in the present, I'll no longer need nostalgia.
So, on that note, if you are reading this, if you have supported this little passion of mine, thank you for being supportive. Thank you for helping me stay warm. You matter. Thank you.
Sunday, July 6, 2014
A Distress Call from a Mommy Hostage
Is it just me, or is being a parent eerily similar to being stalked?
Seriously, think about it. The loss of privacy is staggering: in my own home, there is no guarantee that I will be able to use the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, or sleep without some tiny person barging in and either a) interrogating me about what is taking place, b) attempting to join me, or c) inexplicably crying. There are people pulling my dirty laundry out of my hamper. Wearing my underwear around their necks. Going through my garbage. It's enough to make a person paranoid.
I'm reminded of a conversation I had with an old friend several years ago. We were catching up on each other's lives, and he had recently moved in with his girlfriend. "How's that going?" I asked. "It's okay," he replied. Then, after a pause, he continued. "It's just that… she's always there, you know?" Needless to say, the relationship did not last.
Obviously breaking up with my kids is not an option, nor is reporting their repeated violations of my privacy to the authorities, but I have to admit, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I'm being held hostage in my own home by two people whose greatest weapons are their lung capacity and their superhuman ability to resist my will. Most days I feel like I work my butt off trying to create a scenario in which I will have two minutes to myself. (Oh, and remember how I used to want to stay at home? That notion is more hilarious to me with every passing summer day.)
Here's the other thing about having no privacy: My children are watching and learning during every second that we spend together. My three-and-a-half-year-old retains EVERYTHING. Anything I do or say may be repeated to friends, teachers, or other acquaintances, and most likely taken completely out of context. No moment of the day is off the table, from putting on my makeup in the morning ("What's this?" "Mascara." "Why you wear it?" "To make my eyelashes darker." "Why?" "Because I just like them that way!") to every ounce of food or drink I choose to ingest. I find myself sneaking candy to hide it from her rather than deal with explaining why mommy can have half a bag of gummy bears when I wouldn't think of letting her do the same thing. And if she walks in on me during my attempt, I invariably end up giving her a couple because I look and feel so guilty.
I try to put a positive spin on it by telling myself that my kids' omnipresence makes me more accountable as a person and a parent. I think, a day will come when they will be independent and won't want to follow their mom around like ravenous puppy dogs, and when that day comes I'll miss that feeling of being constantly needed, of having children hanging from my clothes and threatening to pants me every time I'm wearing a garment without a button or drawstring. Or I simply cheer myself up with the notion of waiting ten years and getting revenge, because after a decade of learning how to sneak away from them, I am going to be a boss at sneaking up and embarrassing the crap out of them.
Seriously, think about it. The loss of privacy is staggering: in my own home, there is no guarantee that I will be able to use the bathroom, take a shower, get dressed, or sleep without some tiny person barging in and either a) interrogating me about what is taking place, b) attempting to join me, or c) inexplicably crying. There are people pulling my dirty laundry out of my hamper. Wearing my underwear around their necks. Going through my garbage. It's enough to make a person paranoid.
I'm reminded of a conversation I had with an old friend several years ago. We were catching up on each other's lives, and he had recently moved in with his girlfriend. "How's that going?" I asked. "It's okay," he replied. Then, after a pause, he continued. "It's just that… she's always there, you know?" Needless to say, the relationship did not last.
Obviously breaking up with my kids is not an option, nor is reporting their repeated violations of my privacy to the authorities, but I have to admit, nothing makes me grumpier than feeling like I'm being held hostage in my own home by two people whose greatest weapons are their lung capacity and their superhuman ability to resist my will. Most days I feel like I work my butt off trying to create a scenario in which I will have two minutes to myself. (Oh, and remember how I used to want to stay at home? That notion is more hilarious to me with every passing summer day.)
Here's the other thing about having no privacy: My children are watching and learning during every second that we spend together. My three-and-a-half-year-old retains EVERYTHING. Anything I do or say may be repeated to friends, teachers, or other acquaintances, and most likely taken completely out of context. No moment of the day is off the table, from putting on my makeup in the morning ("What's this?" "Mascara." "Why you wear it?" "To make my eyelashes darker." "Why?" "Because I just like them that way!") to every ounce of food or drink I choose to ingest. I find myself sneaking candy to hide it from her rather than deal with explaining why mommy can have half a bag of gummy bears when I wouldn't think of letting her do the same thing. And if she walks in on me during my attempt, I invariably end up giving her a couple because I look and feel so guilty.
I try to put a positive spin on it by telling myself that my kids' omnipresence makes me more accountable as a person and a parent. I think, a day will come when they will be independent and won't want to follow their mom around like ravenous puppy dogs, and when that day comes I'll miss that feeling of being constantly needed, of having children hanging from my clothes and threatening to pants me every time I'm wearing a garment without a button or drawstring. Or I simply cheer myself up with the notion of waiting ten years and getting revenge, because after a decade of learning how to sneak away from them, I am going to be a boss at sneaking up and embarrassing the crap out of them.
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Who Will You Be? (A Parent's Guessing Game)
When my daughter Maggie was only three or four months old, my husband and I decided that "sassy" was an apt adjective to describe her personality. She didn't smile easily, viewing all grown-ups other than her parents with unconcealed suspicion. And I know it sounds strange, but even as a baby she seemed to have a sense of humor, carefully watching those around her, picking up on what we thought was funny and then performing with an almost deadpan expression to see what our reactions would be. She wasn't sweet or cuddly; she didn't like bows and dresses. She wanted to sit on the couch with a pile of books and take in every page, or spend an hour working on a puzzle that children two or three years older would have found difficult. She was (and is) our smart, sassy little girl.
Within weeks of Cecilia's birth we could already distinguish differences in temperament. When Ceci woke at night she didn't cry, but would lay cooing in her crib until I went in to feed her. "She's such an easy baby," I marveled. Where Maggie had glowered at or quietly observed well-meaning strangers, Ceci grinned at them. She was such an agreeable child that we soon realized we could use her mood as a tool for diagnosing illness. If Ceci wasn't happy, off to the doctor we went to get treated for an ear infection or some other ailment. It seemed like sickness was the only thing that could wipe the angelic smile from her face, and often she smiled right through it.
These comparisons between my daughters went on for some time: one smart and sassy, one sweet and easy. I had summed up my children in just a couple of words each - how efficient!
On the eve of her first birthday, though, Ceci is refusing to stay true to the image I have created for her. There is more fussing, more complaining, more throwing of food and drink as she decides that she has preferences and a will of her own. Maggie, meanwhile, has become an open and friendly little girl. She makes friends on the playground and shows her "cowgirl boots" to everyone we pass in the grocery store. These developments remind me that as hard as I try, my children will not allow me to define them.
Let me, however, make something very clear. I do not wish to dictate who my children will one day become. There are parents out there who decide when their child is very small, "She will be a doctor," or "He will be a football player," but I assure you, that isn't me. They could be rodeo clowns or spokesmodels or professional hula hoopers as long as they are happy (and making a living). No, the reason why I constantly attempt to encapsulate who they are and what they're about is because I'm dying to know more about these incredible little humans who have been gifted to my care.
That's it - I'm curious. I can't wait to see if Maggie's love of music will bring her into theater. It isn't a stretch to imagine her singing and dancing her heart out in front of a large audience. Will her love of books lead to academic excellence, or will she be one of those readers whose head is in the clouds all day long? Will she be an athlete? A dancer? A martial artist? And at what point do I have to step in and take a role in steering her toward some of these possibilities?
(Clearly all of these questions apply for Cecilia as well, but since her interests at this point are confined to playing with Tupperware, tipping over her dog's water bowl, and repeatedly putting on necklaces and taking them off, I don't have as much to go on.)
Each time I learned I was pregnant, my husband and I decided not to find out the gender of the baby. "There are so few surprises in life," was the line we used to explain our reasoning. To be honest, those two moments when the doctor announced, "It's a girl!" are probably going to be the least surprising moments of our daughters lives. Every day I get to know them better, but I will never know everything there is to know about them. Some surprises will be welcome, others, I'm sure, less so. But as eager as I am to see what the future holds for my children, I wouldn't get into a time machine for a glimpse of what's to come. Not for a million dollars, though I'd be tempted. Because it's the process that's important, and I want to be there when it all unfolds. A lifetime of revelation- what's not to love about that?
Within weeks of Cecilia's birth we could already distinguish differences in temperament. When Ceci woke at night she didn't cry, but would lay cooing in her crib until I went in to feed her. "She's such an easy baby," I marveled. Where Maggie had glowered at or quietly observed well-meaning strangers, Ceci grinned at them. She was such an agreeable child that we soon realized we could use her mood as a tool for diagnosing illness. If Ceci wasn't happy, off to the doctor we went to get treated for an ear infection or some other ailment. It seemed like sickness was the only thing that could wipe the angelic smile from her face, and often she smiled right through it.
These comparisons between my daughters went on for some time: one smart and sassy, one sweet and easy. I had summed up my children in just a couple of words each - how efficient!
On the eve of her first birthday, though, Ceci is refusing to stay true to the image I have created for her. There is more fussing, more complaining, more throwing of food and drink as she decides that she has preferences and a will of her own. Maggie, meanwhile, has become an open and friendly little girl. She makes friends on the playground and shows her "cowgirl boots" to everyone we pass in the grocery store. These developments remind me that as hard as I try, my children will not allow me to define them.
Let me, however, make something very clear. I do not wish to dictate who my children will one day become. There are parents out there who decide when their child is very small, "She will be a doctor," or "He will be a football player," but I assure you, that isn't me. They could be rodeo clowns or spokesmodels or professional hula hoopers as long as they are happy (and making a living). No, the reason why I constantly attempt to encapsulate who they are and what they're about is because I'm dying to know more about these incredible little humans who have been gifted to my care.
That's it - I'm curious. I can't wait to see if Maggie's love of music will bring her into theater. It isn't a stretch to imagine her singing and dancing her heart out in front of a large audience. Will her love of books lead to academic excellence, or will she be one of those readers whose head is in the clouds all day long? Will she be an athlete? A dancer? A martial artist? And at what point do I have to step in and take a role in steering her toward some of these possibilities?
(Clearly all of these questions apply for Cecilia as well, but since her interests at this point are confined to playing with Tupperware, tipping over her dog's water bowl, and repeatedly putting on necklaces and taking them off, I don't have as much to go on.)
Each time I learned I was pregnant, my husband and I decided not to find out the gender of the baby. "There are so few surprises in life," was the line we used to explain our reasoning. To be honest, those two moments when the doctor announced, "It's a girl!" are probably going to be the least surprising moments of our daughters lives. Every day I get to know them better, but I will never know everything there is to know about them. Some surprises will be welcome, others, I'm sure, less so. But as eager as I am to see what the future holds for my children, I wouldn't get into a time machine for a glimpse of what's to come. Not for a million dollars, though I'd be tempted. Because it's the process that's important, and I want to be there when it all unfolds. A lifetime of revelation- what's not to love about that?
 |
| My girls, my mysteries. Who will these kiddos be? |
Thursday, June 26, 2014
A Day Without Water
Last night a pipe at the local water system plant burst, causing our household and much of Anderson to be without water for about fourteen hours.Luckily we had plenty of bottled water and a couple of gallons of distilled water on hand, so I wasn't terribly worried about it. The powers that be would eventually get the water running and life would return to normal. The water shortage really only affected us from the time I woke up around 7:30 until noon, when our taps finally began to work again. We remain under a boil water advisory, but that isn't nearly as alarming as not being able to flush the toilet. However, during the course of the morning I thought multiple times about the implications of this incident.
Mainly I realized how bitchy a lot of my posts would sound to someone outside of America. I'm complaining about how my daughter only wants to wear two of the twenty-five dresses in her closet, and how I'm just not as "fun" as I used to be, and how my house is too messy. Really? When there are moms and dads out there trying to parent without running water? And probably without disposable diapers? If my children didn't have this basic necessity my life would be a million times more inconvenient than I think it is now, and I wouldn't mind a bit; who worries about inconvenience when they are focused on keeping their family alive?
How much I take for granted. After less than five hours of catching myself in the process of trying to wash a dish or rinse off my toothbrush (and spending a portion of those hours swimming in my full pool), I am shamed and humbled. Being a mom is hard no matter what culture you're in, but we live in a country where, for the majority of people, the most important element of life on earth flows freely at the twist of a faucet. At least we've got that much covered- everything else is just details.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
The Stupidest Struggle Ever: How I Stooped to My Child's Level
Today I spanked my child for the first time.
Now, I know that there are two distinct camps when it comes to spanking, and there's not a whole lot of middle ground. There are those who believe that spanking teaches children a definitive lesson about their behavior - don't do it again or here's what will happen - and there are those who see spanking as hypocritical and confusing, particularly when using it to reinforce a point about children exhibiting aggressive behavior toward others. While I have always belonged to the second group, my three-year-old has brought me to the verge of spanking more than once.
Those who are merely acquainted with Maggie in social settings express doubt when I tell them what a you-know-what she can be. In public she is generally a darling, acting shy at first but eventually dazzling onlookers with her adorable giggle and unusual perceptiveness. But in our home, especially when we are out of our typical school year routine, she is an expert button-pusher. (Quick aside: Not that I'm big into astrology, but October 7th, her birthday, is listed in this birthday book I have as the Day of Defiance. It's proven accurate even from the time she was about eighteen months old, when she was told that if she put her feet on the dinner table she would be removed and the meal would be over. She quickly figured out what to do when she didn't feel like sitting at the table anymore…)
Anyway, I thought our day was starting out pretty well. The kids slept in until 7:30. I managed to feed them breakfast quickly enough to usher everybody into the car and head to the gym so I could enjoy a yoga class. We came home and they played outside while I weeded the mulch beds. So far, so good. I had planned to take them to meet up with some friends at the small water park at the Y after nap time, but lo and behold, neither child was really in the mood for a nap. Despite my better judgment, I forged ahead. Quoting my neighbor, who had suggested going to Waterworks, "The thought of them hanging inside the rest of the day was giving me hives." I packed everything we would need, got the baby in her swimsuit, and focused on getting Maggie ready to go. If only it were that easy.
The struggle began over something completely idiotic. For about the past year, getting Maggie dressed has been the least favorite part of my day. The child has literally 25 dresses hanging in her closet, and while she has probably worn each of them at least once, it chafes me that she wants to wear the same stupid two every single day. It doesn't matter if someone she loves bought her an outfit or sewed it for her themselves, she cannot be convinced to wear something that she doesn't want to wear. As I have stated before, I am a woman of principle. I do not believe in wastefulness, and I have a problem with the fact that time and money have been spent on giving her things that she refuses to use. As a result, every day I attempt to steer her away from those same two dresses and try to get her to wear something she doesn't usually wear. This is the way it normally ends: she may agree to try something on, but after about five seconds she starts clawing at it, claiming that some very specific thing is wrong with it: it's too tight, too big, not long enough, she doesn't like the buttons or the way it feels. Then she goes completely boneless and basically can't function like a human being again until I remove the offending garment.
I understand that my ideals about clothing use are far beyond the ability of a three-year-old to grasp, yet I can't stop trying. So, today, in the midst of getting her changed into her bathing suit to go to the Y, I grabbed a tank top and skirt from her drawers and stared to toss them into the bag so she would have something dry to wear when she was done swimming. My precious child snatched them from my hand and threw them across the room, screaming, "No! Not those ones! I'm going to choose them!"
This was one of those pivotal moments when I could have changed course and avoided a fiasco, but no, I had to stand on principle. "Maggie," I said, "You may NOT grab things out of my hand. I am going to put these back in the bag, and if you take them out again, we will not go to the water park." You can guess what happened next. Out came the skirt and shirt, and I, the reasonable adult, responded. "Okay then. We're not going." I had to do it. I had made the threat, and there was no backpedaling. Either I was a woman of my word or I wasn't.
I knew it wasn't going to go over well, but I couldn't have predicted that my naked banshee of a daughter would pick up her (rather heavy) piggy bank and throw it at me, narrowly missing her baby sister's head. I mean, that kid put some muscle behind it. And with her naked bottom right there, I couldn't help myself. If anything warranted a spanking, this was it. One quick pop and down to time-out she went.
You know, I wish there were a moral to this story. Did the spanking make me feel better? Not really. Am I going to do it again? I don't plan on it. If there is anything to be gleaned from this experience, it's that arguing with a three-year-old is pretty much the most unreasonable thing an adult can do. (But of course, I'm going to do it again - you know, being a woman of principle and everything.)
Now, I know that there are two distinct camps when it comes to spanking, and there's not a whole lot of middle ground. There are those who believe that spanking teaches children a definitive lesson about their behavior - don't do it again or here's what will happen - and there are those who see spanking as hypocritical and confusing, particularly when using it to reinforce a point about children exhibiting aggressive behavior toward others. While I have always belonged to the second group, my three-year-old has brought me to the verge of spanking more than once.
Those who are merely acquainted with Maggie in social settings express doubt when I tell them what a you-know-what she can be. In public she is generally a darling, acting shy at first but eventually dazzling onlookers with her adorable giggle and unusual perceptiveness. But in our home, especially when we are out of our typical school year routine, she is an expert button-pusher. (Quick aside: Not that I'm big into astrology, but October 7th, her birthday, is listed in this birthday book I have as the Day of Defiance. It's proven accurate even from the time she was about eighteen months old, when she was told that if she put her feet on the dinner table she would be removed and the meal would be over. She quickly figured out what to do when she didn't feel like sitting at the table anymore…)
Anyway, I thought our day was starting out pretty well. The kids slept in until 7:30. I managed to feed them breakfast quickly enough to usher everybody into the car and head to the gym so I could enjoy a yoga class. We came home and they played outside while I weeded the mulch beds. So far, so good. I had planned to take them to meet up with some friends at the small water park at the Y after nap time, but lo and behold, neither child was really in the mood for a nap. Despite my better judgment, I forged ahead. Quoting my neighbor, who had suggested going to Waterworks, "The thought of them hanging inside the rest of the day was giving me hives." I packed everything we would need, got the baby in her swimsuit, and focused on getting Maggie ready to go. If only it were that easy.
The struggle began over something completely idiotic. For about the past year, getting Maggie dressed has been the least favorite part of my day. The child has literally 25 dresses hanging in her closet, and while she has probably worn each of them at least once, it chafes me that she wants to wear the same stupid two every single day. It doesn't matter if someone she loves bought her an outfit or sewed it for her themselves, she cannot be convinced to wear something that she doesn't want to wear. As I have stated before, I am a woman of principle. I do not believe in wastefulness, and I have a problem with the fact that time and money have been spent on giving her things that she refuses to use. As a result, every day I attempt to steer her away from those same two dresses and try to get her to wear something she doesn't usually wear. This is the way it normally ends: she may agree to try something on, but after about five seconds she starts clawing at it, claiming that some very specific thing is wrong with it: it's too tight, too big, not long enough, she doesn't like the buttons or the way it feels. Then she goes completely boneless and basically can't function like a human being again until I remove the offending garment.
I understand that my ideals about clothing use are far beyond the ability of a three-year-old to grasp, yet I can't stop trying. So, today, in the midst of getting her changed into her bathing suit to go to the Y, I grabbed a tank top and skirt from her drawers and stared to toss them into the bag so she would have something dry to wear when she was done swimming. My precious child snatched them from my hand and threw them across the room, screaming, "No! Not those ones! I'm going to choose them!"
 |
| An hour later she was eating cookies and kissing on her sister. Jekyll and Hyde much? |
I knew it wasn't going to go over well, but I couldn't have predicted that my naked banshee of a daughter would pick up her (rather heavy) piggy bank and throw it at me, narrowly missing her baby sister's head. I mean, that kid put some muscle behind it. And with her naked bottom right there, I couldn't help myself. If anything warranted a spanking, this was it. One quick pop and down to time-out she went.
You know, I wish there were a moral to this story. Did the spanking make me feel better? Not really. Am I going to do it again? I don't plan on it. If there is anything to be gleaned from this experience, it's that arguing with a three-year-old is pretty much the most unreasonable thing an adult can do. (But of course, I'm going to do it again - you know, being a woman of principle and everything.)
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