We’re playing hide-and-seek today. But I’ll tell you where I’m hiding. I’m guest posting over at Momma Be Thy Name. Go on over and read what on earth heart attacks, leg cramps, and boobs have to do with playing hide-and-seek with my family. Really, do you have to ask? You guys should know me by now. Check out Momma Be Thy Name if you’ve never been. She’s a mom to one-year-old twins and a toddler. She’s smart and sassy. And hey, she’s having me over for a play date!
Tag Archives: Family
The Women Who Showed Me How to Mother
When I was a little girl, there were three things I wanted to be when I grew up: a teacher, a writer, and a mother. My choices hardly changed throughout my life. Those were always the choices I juggled. I chose a career that allowed me to write. I married a man who wanted kids. I have never taught in a classroom, but being a mom certainly qualifies one as being a teacher.
Hardly a day passes that I don’t think of at least one of the women in my life who has made a lasting impression on me and given me the skills I’ve needed to become the one thing I’m most proud of being: mom.
Here are the women who showed me how to do it.
My mom. When I was young and my sister was in school, I played dress-up in my mom’s closet, donning her wedge heels. I pretend-shopped in our kitchen and hid in the cabinets. My mom would take me out for lunch to a Chinese restaurant where I loved the fried rice. It was our thing. When I was sick, she stayed up with me and rocked me to sleep even though I was too big to fit on her lap. She nursed my weekly migraines. Even though I wasn’t the most gracious of teens, she still has bouts of empty nest syndrome. She has always loved me, a lot. She is the reason I stayed home with my kids.
My sister. It’s not that I doubted my sister would ever have kids or that she’d be a good mom. It’s just that when we were kids, she used to line up all of her dolls on her bed. Facedown. And she’d stand back with a belt and run up and whip them. We certainly weren’t punished this way. But I had to wonder if she’d be a bit of a disciplinarian when she had a family. Good news. She turned out OK. When my niece was born two years before I had kids, my sister filled me so full of knowledge about those early years. I laughed. I cried. If it weren’t for her, motherhood would have been a rude shock because she is the only person who gave me the truth about what would happen to my body after birth, clued me in that kids don’t really sleep through the night at three months, and made me realize that most of the time you want to pull your hair out but you love your kids anyway. She gave it to me straight.
Mother’s Day love from the kids.
My mother-in-law. I am lucky to have married a man with a wonderful, loving mother. She must be one of the most generous women I know. When her own mother became ill, she put her life on hold and moved several states away to cook meals, clean, and care for her aging parents. When it became clear they needed more care and they moved into a nursing home near her, she visited them almost every day. Knowing the tricky relationships mothers and daughters can have, this has always moved me. She showed me that mothers care for their loved ones no matter what went on in the past. Love has no bounds.
My friends. My husband and I have no family nearby. When I had my son, it was one of the loneliest times of my life. Having a baby who wants to be held all day and no friends to talk to was rough. I joined a moms’ group at a local hospital where I met moms with newborns who cried and screamed, moms who were tired and who wanted to talk. We formed a playgroup of 18 moms and we met every week. We went on field trips. We formed friendships. Now, nine years later, I still keep in touch with nearly half of them. All of my friends have helped me survive motherhood. They have become my second family. We moms take the kids and bike together, teach our kids to cook, hold crazy science experiments in our back yards, play in the creek or the lake, camp, or just hang out. Us moms talk about the challenges each new age brings. We laugh. We cry. We advise. In spite of our different parenting styles, we embrace one another and learn from each other. They inspire me.
I can honestly say I am a better mom because of all of these people. I think it really takes a village to raise a mom.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Filed under About Mom
The Time Cover: An Example of Why I Hate the Mommy Wars
The TIME cover. While it’s about Dr. Bill Sears and attachment parenting—extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, and wearing your baby around all day—the image and headline “Are You Mom Enough?” have fueled another fire in the Mommy Wars.
I hate the Mommy Wars. This is the reason I never played well with girls. I can’t stand the cattiness of it all. I try not to get involved. But the headline did strike a chord with me. Women are moved to judge by such things. It pushes buttons. It infuriates. It should only educate.
I do have a take on nursing, the mommy war over it, and why it needs to end. Every woman and child has a different experience, a different need. While I look at that TIME cover and can’t imagine that life for me, who am I to say anything about that mother? She is doing what she believes is good for her child and herself. The reason I can’t imagine that life for me? Nursing is not for everyone. I wasn’t able to nurse my firstborn and could barely do so with my second. And being judged for that wasn’t much fun.
My experience with nursing my first-born was hell. When the lactation consultants at the hospital tried to help us, they got things going for a few minutes and then my son would fuss. We went through this dozens of times with countless nurses. I was tired. My baby was hungry. I was a new, worried mother of a newborn who after 36 hours had had only drops of nourishment.
Every time I tried to nurse him, I changed positions, techniques, said prayers, cursed, relaxed, tensed up, cried a little, and wanted to freaking scream. I mashed the call button for help, but I knew the nurses wouldn’t be going home with me. I had to do it myself.
They realized my son’s frenulum, that long connecting tissue under the tongue, was too tight and he simply couldn’t nurse. They said it could stretch in time. They offered to cut it. My husband and I said no. They started bringing in all kinds of contraptions for me to try. A pump to get my milk flowing. I felt and looked like a cow and after all of my effort, I didn’t have an ounce of milk.
The nurses hooked me up to some tubing so I could finger-feed my son with my breast milk. I felt like someone’s science fair project and my son was still only getting drops of milk. He continued to fuss.
All the while, the lactation consultants kept telling me not to give him formula. It would be detrimental to my milk supply and to him ever latching on. I did as I was told, but my heart was quietly breaking. None of it felt right. I felt like my son was starving and I was sitting by watching.
By the middle of our last night in the hospital, another feeding just wasn’t happening. I knew what I wanted to do, but I was hesitant. The nurses had made me feel incapable. They were set on me not sabotaging nursing. My heart was more set on providing for my son. In the day and a half since he’d been born, we hadn’t had one tender moment of feeding and closeness. It had only involved strangers, contraptions, and too many opinions. I felt like we hadn’t bonded.
The nurse on our night shift was an older woman, and I asked for her honest opinion. She said she would give him a bottle. Relief washed over me and for the first time, I fed my son in peace. And I have never once regretted it.
I continued pumping at home but I never had enough milk. Nursing was not for us. And I have never felt guilty about it.
That was the first tough decision I made as a mother. It hasn’t been the last. So yes, I am mom enough. Because I don’t listen to anyone else. I don’t care what others are doing. I listen to my gut. That’s what makes me a mom.
http://lightbox.time.com/2012/05/10/parenting/#1
Filed under About Mom
My Funny Things File
When my kids started talking, I diligently kept a list of the words they said and the date they said them. I proudly added new ones to their baby books even though it sounded like mumbo-jumbo to anyone outside our home. To us new parents, the words meant we were finally on that road to real communication with our children. Instead of cries and shrieks, our son could say, “Ah-noo,” and we knew he meant football. He had his own language, but we cracked the code and bought into the cuteness.
Our daughter could say, “upsididdy down” and we knew what direction she meant. If she asked for “lemonlade,” by golly, shouldn’t she have some?
As the kids got older though, real words replaced the cuteness. But some funny stuff started to come out of their mouths. In my busy day of folding laundry, wiping rears, and trying to steal a nap, I didn’t have the time to write down whole conversations in the kids’ baby books. In the moment, I began quickly typing up the funny stuff my kids said and hence, a funny list was born. I still keep this list on my computer and add to it when I overhear a hysterical conversation or my kids make me choke on my Sun Chips. And from time to time, my husband and I still read it when we need a laugh.
This is the part of the list I’m willing to share:
1. My husband asked my son, age 4, “What do you want to know about girls?”
My son didn’t miss this opportunity. He lifted his arms to his chest and shouted, “BOOBIES!”
2. My son, 4, to my daughter, 2: “Hey, say this: I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America….” He told her the whole thing and then said, “If you can say that, I will play with you forever.”
My daughter’s response: “Weeble wobble.”
Weeble wobble, an answer for anything. (Photo credit: m kasahara)
3. My son, 4, from the backseat: “Mommy, can penises undo seatbelts?”
4. Playing hide-and-seek with my son and his Spider-Man toys, I asked him who was counting. He answered, “I said Venom was, but you didn’t listen.” Ouch.
5. I had only been out of the room a minute. When I returned, my son, 5, had a red line all the way around his mouth like a clown. I asked him what he did to his face. He said, “I wanted a beard.” I told him I was going to have to scrub it off and that I would take his markers away if he did it again. He said, “How many?”
“All of them,” I said.
He thought about it and said, “I’m going to hide them before you do that.”
6. After my son, almost 6, was super bad one day, my husband had a little talk with him. My son said, “I’ll be good till Christmas and after my birthday, then I’ll be bad again.”
7. My husband left for work one day with a box of granola bars. My daughter, 4, said, “Are you the snack bringer?”
8. My daughter had a friend over one day and the kids were eating a snack. The little girl exclaimed, “I’m going to marry a very nice man one day.” Without missing a beat, my son said, “I hope it’s not me.”
9. After crawling in bed with me one morning, my daughter, 4, asked, “Momma?”
“What?” I moaned, on my back still half asleep.
“Where did you boobies go?”
That woke me up fast.
10. Overheard while the kids were roughhousing…
My son, 6: “Ow! You’re smooshing my pee-nus!”
My daughter, 4: “Now you’re a girl.”
Without this list, I would have forgotten most of these moments. And though it’s not a fancy baby book, those lines of typed words bring more smiles than the date of a first tooth.
What funny things have your kids said?
Filed under Everyday Life
Reader Difficulties—Please Stand By
I know some of my subscribers aren’t getting my posts through the WordPress reader and I have been posting regularly. I don’t know how many people this affects. If you are having trouble, I don’t know if it may help to unfollow and then follow me again, but make sure you are logged in to WordPress if you do so. As far as I know, everyone is still getting emails of my posts, right? Let me know if you’re having trouble or if you continue to have trouble. I’m trying to work with WordPress to get it cleared up.
And if anyone has any tips or has been through this, please let me know. I know WordPress has been experiencing issues with its reader, but I switched names at the same time. I’m now mominthemuddle.com. So far I don’t have many answers.
Thanks!
Filed under Can't Get a Break
Fancy Nancy: An Author Reading I Couldn’t Miss
When I learned Jane O’Connor, author of the Fancy Nancy picture books, planned a book reading at our local bookstore, I was ecstatic, elated, overjoyed. For those of you not familiar with her books, that’s a fancy way of saying I was pretty excited and you can bet I planned to be there.
But my daughter had a soccer game at the same time and she didn’t want to miss it. Her grandfather could see her play for once. That was special. I was heartbroken, deflated, forlorn. Pretty much, I was bummed.
I have loved Fancy Nancy since the first time I read it to her, choking over the last lines about love and its simplicity between mother and child. And one hundred times later, I still do.
Of all of the books that my daughter will one day outgrow, none of the Fancy Nancy picture books will ever be parted with. Tucked within the pages lay too many memories of our heads on her pillow, laughing at Nancy’s dramatics, aching over her schoolgirl troubles, and relating all too well to a little girl who in so many ways is just like the little girl lying beside me and also the little girl I once was.
I love the books because my daughter can play in pink cowboy boots and a tutu while hunting for bugs or riding her bike. She loves dress-up as much as she loves Star Wars. Her scraped knees and purple bruises accent her accessories: wrists full of mismatched bracelets, striped leg warmers, and don’t forget those high-heel shoes.
So when the opportunity came to hear the author of these books speak, I was tickled pink. Her writing makes me laugh, smile, and choke back tears. And it will always make me think of my daughter and some quiet times together.
When Jane O’Connor revealed who inspired the character of Fancy Nancy, I had a feeling I knew. Not her kids, she had sons. Not her grandchildren, she doesn’t have any yet. It was her. She showed a picture of a daintily dressed young Jane with a bandage on her knee and said her legs always displayed cuts and bruises. It’s no wonder she knows Fancy Nancy so well.
Jane O’Connor displays a childhood photo, her inspiration for Fancy Nancy.
I stood alone in a packed crowd and watched with all the giddy admiration of a starry-eyed six-year-old. I waited patiently in line for an hour for Jane O’Connor to sign my daughter’s books, which she quickly signed in bright pink marker.
When my daughter said she was going to her soccer game, it was OK. I knew seeing Jane O’Connor’s book reading meant more to me. For my six-year-old, it didn’t matter. Mom brings the books to life at night.
For me, Jane O’Connor is the woman responsible. She brings to life the memories, the connection between character, my little girl, and my own childhood.
To her I say thank you. And there just isn’t a better way to say that.
My 30 seconds with Jane O’Connor. The photographer really could have waited for her to look up. But there we are!
Filed under About Mom
The Joys of Motherhood, Even for a Bird
It’s an exciting time for a momma bird. Naked, needy hatchlings have emerged from speckled eggs kept warm in a nest of weeds and twigs. Suddenly, bellies need to be filled and bird parents stay busy feeding multiple babies. Only fresh worms and insects will do.
I wonder if momma bird is blessed with sleepers, but at 5 a.m. when I hear the chirp of birds everywhere, I know.
Parenthood is a whirlwind of constant feedings and early mornings for these birds. Before they know it, they’ll need to give those babies a nudge out of the nest to take flight and that nest will be empty.
Several years ago, my kids and I witnessed a brood of birds leaving their nest. My then four-year-old son watched in wonder as six fledglings perched on our neighbor’s tree branch and awkwardly plummeted to the grass below. They looked like fuzzy brown pom-poms scattered on the lawn, hopping about and chirping like children who’d just been let outside for recess. One by one, they tested their wings, flying a little farther each time. We watched as each bird flew around the tree, up to its branches, and within the safety of the yard.
Lives are about to change. (Photo credit: msSeason)
We quietly watched them for an hour until it was time for dinner. But one bird still hadn’t figured out how to work its wings. It still hopped around the yard, not knowing how to fly while its chittering siblings flew around each other and explored the great big world. My daughter was only a year old and would have put the jumping pom-poms in her mouth if she could. But my son began to worry for the bird. I think he would have stayed there all night to make sure that bird learned to fly and made it back to its tree.
We went in to eat dinner. I didn’t know what would happen to the bird and decided my son couldn’t worry about it anymore. But he did. He hardly ate and sat through our meal near tears. Afterward, we checked on the bird and didn’t find it. They were all gone. I told him they all found their wings and they were okay; sometimes it takes some birds longer to learn. Maybe he could relate.
Momma bird’s work, though in far less time than us humans, still required lots of effort: keeping the eggs safe and warm, the many feedings, keeping the babies safe from predators—and making sure her offspring all got out of the nest when they were supposed to.
My son still talks about that little bird. Every spring. I wonder if he still hopes it made it to safety, or maybe he just remembers how cool it was seeing nature in action. Regardless, it made an impact on his young life. In time, he’ll leave my nest and I have to give him a push, show him how to fly, and hope he’s safe.
There are many differences between a momma bird and me. But the biggest of all? When momma bird’s nest is empty, she gets to do it all over again.
Filed under About Mom
What’s the Best Parenting Style?
The other day, a friend relayed a story about children she knew who were dropped off alone to play somewhere. It made her uncomfortable. The kids weren’t on their best behavior. And when she left, she felt it was all too easy for someone to run off with them. She wondered whether I would let my nine-year-old do that.
Um, no. Too many what-ifs go through my head.
Though I don’t think what the parents did was wrong, it just isn’t for me yet and I don’t think my son is quite mature enough to handle situations that could come up. I’ve read a lot about parenting styles lately: the hovering helicopter type, the strict tiger mother and wolf dad, the soft panda father, the hippo who makes her child comply, the pushover wishbone who wishes for better behavior, or those who raise children with freedom to roam. Who says any style is the right one?
To me parents are all of those things. At least, we should be. We’re strict when our children refuse to do their homework because they need good grades to get into college. We’re tough when they won’t eat a balanced meal because they need to grow up big and strong. We’re soft when they have a hard time tying their shoes because we see their fingers fumbling and their panic rising, and we know they’ll get it. We’re pushovers when it comes to just one more bedtime story because we simply love it too. We make our children comply with stupid rules like cleaning their rooms because we can’t stand the mess, when they really could just close their door. We give our kids freedom when they need it. And we hover a little too much sometimes because if the unthinkable happened on our watch, we would never forgive ourselves.
About four years ago when Lenore Skenazy let her then 9-year-old son ride the subway alone, she experienced a backlash after writing about it for The New York Sun. Her son found his way home safely and was super excited about his little adventure. She said she quickly became America’s Worst Mom. Her blog and book, Free-Range Kids, talk about giving kids freedom and us being less overprotective parents.
My son just turned nine. In the past year, we have fought and fought and fought some more. What have I learned? My son needed more freedom. I was hovering. A third-grader doesn’t want to be babied. He can do it himself so let him. When I figured that out, when he told me, for the most part the yelling and the struggle stopped. He certainly didn’t need to ride the subway alone, but he just needed to know that I trusted him, that I know he is capable. He needed self-esteem and confidence. And simple things like pouring from a full gallon of milk at breakfast and cleaning up the mess if he spilled gave him what he needed.
He plays outside by himself. He does homework alone. He can make lunch himself. I taught him how to cook a simple meal on his own. He picked up a wrench and took the seat off his bike. He learned to use a pocketknife by whittling a bar of soap. Next up will be getting the stains out of his pants because he just won’t stop rolling in the dirt every day like a giddy pig. We try to let him do what he can on his own. In the process, we show him respect.
However, there are rules I will not bend, times I hover more than ever, and I don’t apologize for it or hide it. I still think it’s good, conscientious parenting and I tell my kids why.
I still need to know where my children are and whom they play with. If I don’t know the parents, they can’t play at their house. At age nine I still screen what my son watches and reads. I still watch him when he rides his bike in the street. I don’t trust drivers who may be texting or on the phone, and I’ve seen my kids pull out of the driveway too many times without looking. And when my kids play in the front yard, you can bet I’m often checking out the window. They don’t have to know they’re being watched but at least it gives me peace of mind.
This means I’m not going to drop my kids off somewhere and let them play, not where I can’t see them. I don’t need to stand within arm’s reach. They can run and play, and I’ll sit and read. But an adult needs to look after them. And the truth is, my mother wouldn’t have done it either when I was 9. I simply think third grade is too young, but it’s a starting point.
When my son recently mentioned staying home for a few minutes to wait for his dad while I left for a meeting, I was OK with that. Turns out we didn’t need to, but to me that’s our first step—in the comfort of our home.
He’s young and going places alone by foot, bike, and car will happen soon enough. And for now, my kids can benefit from a parenting style that includes a little bit of everything.
Links:
http://www.parenting.com/blogs/show-and-tell/shawn-bean/whats-your-parenting-style
http://www.npr.org/2011/12/14/143659027/and-you-thought-the-tiger-mother-was-tough
Filed under About Mom
A Mom’s Victory: I Survived “The Talk”
It’s been a long time coming, something I’ve put off, danced around, hemmed and hawed at, and frankly didn’t know how to approach: the talk. You know the one, the birds and the bees. The uncomfortable, sweaty-palmed, God-please-let-this-end talk.
My son has flirted with the topic for probably a year while I’ve done nothing but dodge it. It’s not that I haven’t planned on having that talk. He just always catches me off guard. Driving home from school is not a good time for me to start talking about body parts and what goes where. It didn’t help when his younger sister began asking questions about our pregnant neighbor.
“What I don’t understand is how did the baby get in her tummy?” she’d wonder. It was all I could do to keep our van from veering off the road. Why did they never ask their dad these questions while he was in the midst of trying to have a normal afternoon?
The thing was, I needed to wrap my mind around what I was going to say to my son. I had to mentally prepare. I couldn’t blabber on. I had to breathe. This required rehearsal, thorough thought, simple explanation. I couldn’t get too scientific or explain too much. I had to be prepared for questions because I knew he wouldn’t be afraid to ask. This was a delicate operation. I never felt ready when the topic came up, but I knew I had to approach it. He came to me, not my husband, so I felt I had to be ready to answer him the next time he had uncomfortable questions.
My own experiences around the same age included a boy passing the S encyclopedia around the class and pointing out the passage about sex. After a minute of reading and comprehending, I merely replied, “EW!” Later I overheard more details while I pretended to be asleep at my sister’s sleepover. I pieced things together. My parents never sat me down. They gave me a pamphlet about puberty. My older sister would never answer my questions. When I felt like the only kid who didn’t know things later on, I was embarrassed. I decided not to do that to my kids. But that hasn’t made having the talk any easier.
I knew my son knew the logistics. He gave enough hints. And I planned to bring it up. We talk about a lot of things. But last night he beat me to it. He gave me the talk. He schooled me in what third-grade boys think sex is. I sat, mortified, shocked, disbelieving, and a bit humored at the whole scene—unfortunately there were demonstrations, though certainly nowhere near correct.
But I was proud of myself. I remained calm. I wasn’t nervous. I set him straight about a few things even though he giggled through a lot of it. I used all the correct names like I was supposed to, and I told him the plain and simple truth. It was easy and fairly painless. My preparation had paid off.
Then he asked, “Did you and Daddy do that?”
“Uh…”
I totally wasn’t prepared for that.
Filed under About Mom
Not the Sound of Music
While I initially feared the sound of a dying cat clawing its way up a blackboard, I was relieved at the sound of a more tolerable low, moaning whistle. My son brought home a soprano recorder from school last week. He needs to learn songs as part of a music grade.
Knowing my son, he will diligently practice. Already I’ve heard the choppy notes of “Hot Cross Buns” early in the morning, after school, and before his bedtime stories, but I have to give my son credit for making the effort without any prompting from me.
"Hot cross buns, hot cross buns. One a penny..."
I fear the reason is because anytime my kids get a whistle, kazoo, or flutophone, I firmly instruct them not to blow that thing in the house or anywhere within earshot of me. The sound pierces my ears, and it doesn’t take long for a headache to sink in when my kid’s musical attempt sounds like a torture device stuck on repeat. For years I have confiscated these things at any sign of abuse, meaning one shrill note too many, and stored them high atop our refrigerator with other illegal toys. Having a noisemaker with permission from school means my son can basically huff and puff on it whenever he pleases, all in the name of pass or fail. It’s like they’ve given him their blessing to taunt me.
Well thank you, school system. Thank you for bursts of unhinged melody, constant squeaks, and boring repetition. Two more years of this, I might add.
The bright side? It could have been drums.
Filed under Boy Stories
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