Tag Archives: Parenting

May 11, 2012 · 2:09 pm

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

http://www.scarymommy.com/


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May 8, 2012 · 9:09 pm

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 Wobbles

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?

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May 8, 2012 · 10:24 am

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!

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May 6, 2012 · 2:50 pm

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 with a childhood photo

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!

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May 4, 2012 · 11:06 am

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.

Bird nest

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.

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May 2, 2012 · 9:11 am

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

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April 27, 2012 · 10:30 am

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.

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April 23, 2012 · 7:55 am

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.

My son playing a recorder

"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.

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April 20, 2012 · 2:24 pm

How Our Family Is Saving a Tree

So we don’t know when it will happen or the specific tree and we’re not chaining ourselves to it, but four years ago my family made a decision that will eventually save a tree.

A few years ago, it bothered me that our family of four made a big impact on the environment—in a bad way. We produced a lot of unnecessary trash. I needed to change our habits at home to help the environment, teach our kids responsibility for the Earth and its life, and surprisingly cut costs.

What we did is nothing you haven’t heard of, but the outcome surprised me, the transition was easy, and we’ve never looked back.

1. Switch to cloth napkins. In one day during meals and snacks alone, we were using about 20 paper napkins. That’s 140 napkins a week, 560 a month, and 6,720 a year. Sometimes the napkins were barely used, it’s just that no one could remember who wiped their mouth on the corner.

Instead of sets, I use a mix of napkins I made in different fabrics so each child will remember their napkin for the day. (This was important when the kids were younger.) I used fabric remnants to put them together. I don’t have tons of extra laundry to do. The napkins don’t stain. And I buy maybe two packs of paper napkins a year instead of one a month.

These cloth napkins have held up to lots of gooey hands and messy mouths during four years of use.

The National Resources Defense Council says, “If every household in the United States replaced just one package of virgin fiber napkins (250 count) with 100 percent recycled ones, we could save 1 million trees.” Imagine if more people started using cloth napkins or replaced more than one package.

2. Use cloth towels instead of paper towels. To dry produce or clean up spills and messes, I use bar towels. I probably use eight rolls of paper towels a year, reserving them only for meat juices and really icky stuff. This switch to cloth doesn’t really add to my laundry pile either.

3. Use reusable water bottles. I almost never used bottled water, but I think it’s important to say this. Those plastic water bottles do so much damage to the environment. They harm animals. They fill up landfills. Your great-great-grandchildren will probably be around when those bottles are still sitting in landfills, leaching chemicals. We use reusable stainless steel water bottles and refill them with tap water.

4. Reuse your shopping bags. One of the best purchases I have made is reusable shopping bags. They hold an unbelievable amount of stuff and I can still lift it all. Plastic grocery bags kill marine animals that think they are food, and those bags won’t degrade in your lifetime.

5. Keep recyclables for crafting.I keep a designated bin for recyclables and non-recyclables in my kids’ craft area. Imagination can transform cardboard, caps, lids, mesh produce bags, Styrofoam trays, and greeting cards into a treehouse for toy people, robots, sculpture, or whatever else my kids and I think up. Give trash a new life.

Who says you can't make something cute out of junk?

6. Pack a trash-free lunch. We pack lunches and snacks in reusable BPA-free containers instead of plastic baggies. (I sometimes still use these bags for freezing meat, but I buy and use a lot less than I used to.) Washing dishes is better on the environment than throwing away trash.

I think about how much trash we save in a year and how much we have saved since we started this: more than 26,000 napkins in four years. That doesn’t take into account the plastic baggies we haven’t used, paper towels, or all of the paper we have been recycling.

Though it’s impossible to know just how many napkins can be made from one tree because of the use of wood pulp and recycled content, I know we’re making an impact and we’re going to save that tree. And I know we can make a dent in the landfills however small.

You learn something new every day:

http://www.wireandtwine.com/green/50/

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April 17, 2012 · 10:23 am

Somewhat Strange and Tasty Collections I Didn’t Know We Had

My son collects things. He accumulates armies of knobby creatures that he makes scream and knock each other down. He’s obsessed with Legos. If he gets one set, he wants the entire line to complete his collection. He collects erasers. Just the plain ones that sit on top of a pencil. He lines them up, makes patterns with them, battles them, who knows. During his Cars the movie era, I can’t tell you how many times we patrolled the toy aisle searching for the elusive Tex Dinoco.

Now he collects names. Names of Harry Potter characters he reads that he scrawls in third-grade penmanship on lined paper, two columns, three pages front and back, and still going strong. Names of multihued tropical fish he reads about, likes, and dreams of one day owning as pets. Names of planets and their moons. Names of baseball teams and football players.

I have long wondered whether his quirky obsessions are normal, what it means for his future, and where on earth it came from. I can be a bit of a pack rat. My husband is a borderline box hoarder. But for years I’ve had no clues as to where his collecting insanity came from.

Then, as I tried to tame my overgrown pile of torn-out recipes the other day, it hit me like a swarm of cookbooks.

It’s no secret to anyone who knows me that I like food. And I particularly like the challenge of finding a recipe to match whatever food I’ve recently inhaled and become infatuated with. Consequently, I’m a bit of a recipe hog. One could say I collect recipes.

Want to see my collection?

This vintage box holds my prized recipes that I use almost every day.

Look, there's room to grow!

These are recipes I want to try.

This doesn't begin to show my stack of recipes. Man, there's some good stuff in there.

And these.

Hmm. Forgot about these.

And I still need to go through these magazines to tear out the recipes I want to try because I know I will…or won’t…but just in case.

Some light reading.

I’ve been clipping recipes since around ninth grade. While my friends flipped through Seventeen and YM taking quizzes about kissing and fashion, I pored over Good Housekeeping and Martha Stewart, learning about cake frosting and chicken potpies. It certainly explains a lot about my awkward teen dating years.

Before kids, I used to try three or four new recipes a week. My husband and I like variety, tiring of the same old casseroles and quinoa salad week after week. Then came two kids who like my cooking but not adventure. They prefer comfort foods, the same old thing every week. But it’s OK. It seems there’s plenty in my collection for everyone. Just don’t ask me where anything is.

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