Sunday, November 14, 2010

Chasing Coats

Somewhere between birth and Kindergarten, the struggle begins.

It's freezing outside and your little bundle of joy whom you swaddled from the womb to protect, refuses your direction to wear a coat.

Try as you might to reason, the refusal - at least in my experience - heightens when I pay attention to it.

According to NPR, "Bundling kids up satisfies a deep-seated parental impulse to protect.
And culturally, it's considered the right thing to do."

Try telling that to my two boys.
I have tried to see things from the little people's perspective. I think of  Ralphie in the Christmas Story who is so bundled up that when he falls he can't get up. But that's not my M.O. My plea is reasonable - Put on a fleece and go to school.

My impulse to protect is also rooted in being perceived as a good mother What will other people think if Patty sends her kids anywhere without a coat? BAD MOTHER. But experts say sometimes you have to let kids figure out that cold weather and a warm coat make good sense.

I checked in with national parenting coach Bill Corbett to capture some sanity.

"Getting your kids to wear their coat can be a challenge for a couple of reasons. For some children it is a power struggle because it is their way of exerting their sense of power and control. For others, it's not cool because the sign of a coat indicates submitting to the uncool parent and they don't want their peers to see them being influenced by their parents," he said.

Corbett said in some instances, it may be acceptable for a parent to avoid the power struggle and let the child leave for school without their coat and let the cold be the natural consequence of not having the coat.
" This might motivate the child to put on his coat," he said.
But then there are more questions.
What if the power or peer pressure is greater than the effects of the cold air? Or what if the parent is not willing to take the chances of having to pay for health care and losing time at work when their child comes down with a sickness?
There is an alternative.
"Give the child a choice between two jackets to wear. If the child refuses the choice, the parent could ask for the teacher's cooperation in telling the child that a coat must be worn to come to school on cold days," Corbett said. " Another option may be for the parent to play the "I'm not willing for you to leave the house without your coat" card."
Throwing down the latter gauntlet is handled like this:
"The adult reminds the child that putting on a coat at the parent's decision is called "cooperation." If the child refuses to cooperate, then the parent may have to remind the child that he or she may not get cooperation from the parent with activities or privileges that are not rights, such as going places, having friends over, and use of entertainment electronics in the house," Corbett said.

At my house we had a family meeting about coats.
The kids came up with the solution. They would take their cold weather gear in their backpacks to school. I could live with that because I knew when I was not there, they had the equipment they needed to be warm.

On the first day we saw a bit of snow, the boys put their coats in the backpacks. When we went into the chilly air and freezer like car, they both whined, "It's cold" and shivered.

What could you do about that? I asked.

I heard the zippers of their backpacks open.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Doing the best I can...Erica Jong gave me permission

Parenting is hard work.
Duh, you might say.
But in hindsight, did you ever really think about all the challenges you might face when you were picking out the layette?
The not knowing and living as it comes, is all part of the fun in raising a family. Yet, it is still scary.
The pressure to do everything well and by the societal book is daunting.
Someone always says, "Where was the mother?"
The judgement police or the real-life mommy mean girls in @nerdyapple's viral blog post about her 5 year old son dressing as Daphne from Scooby Doo, are always ready to pounce.
It can be hard to dismiss the head trash.
Erica Jong's essay in the Wall Street Journal today - Mothering Madness - kind of slapped me back to reality.
Like Jong, I too am  tired of looking at celebrity mom photos toting around their babies while jet setting when you know darn well their bazillion dollar pay checks, nurses, maids, drivers, cooks, tutors and whatever else not captured in the photo tell a very different story.
I don't need mothering tips from Giselle.
The simple words, "Do your best," that Jong used at the end of her essay let me breathe.
I have spent the last week having nightmares about 4th grade homework. I have what-iffed over insufficient flashcards, worried about Robin Hood in Spanish and stressed over whether the Spanish was Spain Spanish or Latin American. My dusty dictionary from college is Spain Spanish.
This dialect dilemma was only interrupted by repetitive thoughts to whisk my son to the barber when he does not want to go. He is growing his hair like Tom Brady. (Again, thanks Giselle.)
I stop obsessing about locks just in time to read the school newsletter that says, "Please be sure to read to your child every night"...(Because if you don't you are a the most unengaged, sorry excuse for a parent that ever lived!)
OK, the newsletter did not really say the last part, but the directive moved me to action and simultaneously consumed me with guilt.
 I read five books in a row to my kindergartner, including a BobThe Builder page turner, because I nearly forgot I had a second child having spent so much of my week in 4th grade.
So thanks for the smack Erica Jong.
I needed that.

Sunday, September 19, 2010

The wandering lost good feeling

I often say being a mom is wonderful and exasperating. Today was heavy on the exasperation.
This is not a complaint per se. It is just an observation at how on so many levels you can almost lose your mind in less than 24 hours without any real organic mental illness.
Today battle lines were drawn all over the house.
It felt so very ineffective to say the following and not shriek it: "Please don't throw my watch into the tub with your brother.Please put your pajamas on.Put away your mighty beans.Please don't throw your Popsicle stick on the floor."
OH MY GOD THAT IS SO STUPID MOM.
I don't want to.
I don't have to.
I AM NOT GOING TO DO IT... I DON'T CARE. (Imagine a five-year-old saying this with a sarcastic head roll motion.)
For the most part I don't fight back. Although the five-year-old with the sass-cat head roll has pushed me to the brink.Walk a way, I think.
The storm clouds pass and for a minute, in this schizophrenic Sunday night world, everyone plays happily until we have to announce bed time.
I tell them I am going to read  my childhood fave, "The Little Brute Family," a story of a family that was fresh and never said please and thank you. The brother and sister pinched and kicked each other until one day when the baby found a wandering, lost good feeling in a daisy field. The family kept the feeling and changed their name to Nice.
It was just the happy and cooperative ending I was longing for.
There is school tomorrow, after all.
No one caught my subliminal hint.
I don't wanna go to bed!
C'mon...It's not 8 O'CLOCK!
There is five more minutes.
I have to go to the bathroom.
I want the light on.
I want some water.
I don't want to sleep by myself.
OH MY GOD MOM, they say.
Oh my God, indeed!

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Love lessons derived from an audio book...a good listen

I just finished listening to Randy Pausch's "The Last Lecture."
I am late to the table on it, I know. But Pausch's story to his children was a book I wanted to read and kept putting off...  so I took it in on my Ipod...while on the treadmill, my son's football practice, or running around the track.
Sometimes good reading comes from good audio. And Pausch's story left me breathless with mood swings. I laughed out loud and tried to suppress many sobs into a whimpers.
Pausch's walk through life, his love for his wife, his children and the way he didn't care about his dented car or to wait for a manager to fix a receipt, are telling examples of a life lived in the moment.
There are so many lessons from the Last Lecture that I am not sure which to single out.
Pausch's memory of his parents letting him paint his room with huge math equations and chess pieces sticks out for me. His parents let him create. It was important to him and they cautiously and supportively stood aside. His mom even showed the room off after he left home. And Pausch never forgot the subtle nod of permission and confidence  his parents gave him 38 years later.
I want to give my kids permission to create and follow through on ideas, be they design visions or anything else. I try hard to let go when the boys want to do something that might impinge my adult sensibilities.
I don't rearrange the ornaments at Christmas anymore. I let them put the ornaments in places that speak to them. This can be difficult if you grew up with the mantra..."Big ornaments on bottom, little ones on top," like I did. But I got over it.
I let the boys decorate the wall of their playroom totally in stickers because....Well, why the hell not?  It's their space and it's not like I do any entertaining among the match box cars and Bionicles.
And for the last two nights in a row, we let them sleep in the upstairs alcove on the floor with their flashlights because they thought it would be cool.
Who am I to judge this in-house adventure?
I just hope one day they remember their mom was alright.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Life support from Twitter

I was reading some blogging tips on Twitter that basically told me my blog was on life support because I do not post enough.
And that if I only write about myself, the content is snooze worthy.
Hmmm.
It got me thinking.
Why do I blog? Tweet? FB? or attempt social media dances at all?
I get eyeball rolls from more than a few friends and/or family members about the immediacy of my FB posts when I am on vacation or another location, say, climbing a tree. And sometimes I do -  like  Peggy Orenstein aptly points out in her article, "I Tweet therefore I am.' - need to be present and tweetless in some moments. It's not all about the stage. I get it.
But my social media enthusiasm is not about navel gazing. This realm feeds the newspaper reporter side of me. I still crave news and information despite my industry departure three years ago. I have accepted that this is an ingrained feature whether you leave journalism altogether or find another media niche outside the fifth estate.
My boys- while not necessarily newsworthy to you - are my biggest beat that I have had the pleasure of covering. So I write about them when the muse strikes. They make my world sing. And if no one reads, it's Ok. An author friend once told me if you are only writing to be published, you won't be. I write because I love it and if someone laughs along the way that's good too.
And Twitter?
Signing in to tweet every day is like a virtual newsroom. It's a cool fix of information at your fingertips.
But what's even more interesting is that leaving journalism, has helped me discover a whole world of news covering opportunties, writers and content lovers that I had heard existed before, but never checked out.
Since ramping up my Twittering, I've learned much and run across so many very cool blogs that I would never have had the pleasure of knowing about if I didn't start to investigate.

Here's quick snapshot.

LovethatMax - http://www.lovethatmax.blogspot.com/
This is an awesome, award-winning blog written by Max's mom Ellen Seidman about "bringing up a kid with special needs who kicks butt." She is also an editor. And she put together blog postings from mom around the world who had children with special needs and detailed their different experiences. (There is something about those Scandinavian countries that get so many things right.)

Or Adriana Gardella http://nyti.ms/9G
who blogs for the New York Times with "She Owns It.' This space catalogs real life stories that capture "ambitious, hard-working and inspiring women — innovators who are passionate about their businesses and, in many cases, striving to change the world."

And then there are mommy bloggers like Jennifer James, who in my estimation, has created an amazing space for moms of all interests in blogging. She is founder of the Mom Bloggers Club http://www.mombloggersclub.com/.
Since I have been connected, I've discovered events that I was previously ignorant to, like #Blogher10 going on in NYC - a conference and networking opportunity for women. From the tweets it sounds amazing and empowering. There are also other mommy bloggers to be connected to like Tomica Bonner, a writer and mom of 7 who shares frank truths on various subjects here and others to follow on Twitter like @herbadmother and @crazyadventures. And if mommy blogging is not for you, there are business savvy and all around inspirers like @bizshrink, @scjoson, @85broads and more.
The good news for me and for you is there is more like it to be found, even if you do it in moderation.
Let me know what you've found out there.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Pot Luck

How did it get to be July 23?
Wasn't it just July 4?
This all-a -blur feeling is indicative of my failure to live mindfully and relish the present moment.
Like when I am driving and thinking about what I have to do next and miss the exit. Sadly, when I was still working at the newspaper, I drove into work with F fast asleep in his car seat. Luckily the boys don't let me miss a beat now.
D bellows from the backseat if I make a 'wrong' turn on the way to preschool.
"Why are we going this way? THIS IS NOT THE WAY!'
I should do yoga. But I don't because I need to consistently fit in strength training which I cannot seem to do. I already have to get up at 5:30 a.m. to run for "the Love of Abraham Lincoln!" (Just Quoting Toy story 2 here as it is on in the other room.)
Thank God I  am off this week. Maybe I will finish reading a book.
But this downtime has me thinking too.
I just realized I have spent the last 26 years on a diet! This Debbie-downer thought came courtesy of Health Magazine where I read you can eat carbs now to lose weight.
Sweet Jesus.
I don't know what to think anymore.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Boy Books and Bad Gas

I was reading an Associated Press article in the Washington Post that boys lag far behind girls in reading and that books about farts may level the playing field.
That sounds about right.
And yet - as a former girl - there is something that makes me feel oddly squeamish about that analysis.
I chickened out about putting fart in the title of this post. What would my Twitter friends think?
But that's the point. This isn't about me. It's about the boys.
There's plenty of evidence in my house that the publishing industry is on to something.
Just this morning, my eldest who was home from camp with a sore throat, yelled from the couch.
"Hey mom! Wanna see me make my leg fart?" (Envision the armpit fart behind he knee.)
My youngest constantly walks through the house saying, "I passed gas" in response to unrelated questions like, "How are  you?"
Before the Post article revelation, my boys were living the dream. Their favorite bed time stories were "Walter the Farting Dog" and "Dr. Dog"
 Walter's bad gas foiled a burglary and Dr. Dog's grandfather patient had so much gas his house exploded.
So I have accepted that we are not a "Make Way for Ducklings" house and I stopped taking offense when they and their father make fun of my favorite girl book, "The Lonely Doll." And I will treasure the quiet time I recently instituted to cultivate good reading habits even when the book cracked is not my first choice but theirs.
As best selling author James Patterson said in the AP article: "I think it can turn around for a lot of kids. Parents have to take the responsibility seriously. Schools need to be more practical, meaning they need to understand that reading lists are tremendously important but you have to put books on it that the kids are going to respond to," he said. "Reading is such a necessary thing to take you through life."
And farts, after all, are a natural part of life.
So why not read about them?

Monday, July 19, 2010

Carving out me time at dawn

The 5:30 a.m. jogs are working.
Today was the first chaos free Monday morning in weeks.
Breakfast got made. Camp bags were packed and bug spray went on without fuss.
As much as I loathe getting up, once I am on my way I appreciate the way the morning quiet clears my mind...the way it lines up the to-do list in my head.
I get perspective when I can quicken my pace to dodge sprinklers and gauge my speed by the whereabouts of  dog lady who walks her two, small yapping pups around the block each morning.
This is good.
Best of  all, I'm not stressing about how to work in exercise or feeling guilty about doing it when I get home from work.
I can feel present when I walk in the door.
And I say yes without a qualifier when I hear, "Mommy, can you come sit down with me?"
Yep, this feels right.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

The husband who saved pajama day and other fine stories

I am in need of organization. And that's no joke.
I feel like a manic squirrel.
Sleep, get up and run, get the breakfast, get dressed, drop off at camp, drop off preschool, check the blackberry, get to work and then, Go!
I thought I could alleviate my mania by getting up every other day to run at 5:30 a.m.
Turns out a morning run won't solve the fact that #1 can't find socks because I didn't fold the laundry given I had to go to bed too early so I could run and #2 doesn't want to wear striped underwear.
Some people have an easier time letting these things go. I was never blessed with that skill.
I hold on. I obsess.
Pajama Day at preschool almost threw me over the edge.
Imagine the horror. The only jammies left in the drawer were long sleeve flannels. It was going to be 92 and humid.
 I run downstairs. No short set in the dryer.
Time is ticking.
I have less than 30 minutes to dry my hair, get the kids breakfast and get out the door.
Mayday, Mayday!
I call my husband.
Like a slightly annoyed knight in shining armor who has no preference for matching sleepwear whatsoever, he offers to run to Target to get the PJ short set while I take #1 to camp.
I love this guy!
He must love me too.
This follow-up success pic came to me at work.


Sunday, July 11, 2010

The Insane Summer School at Home Mandate

The summer reading list came from my son's school Friday - July 9. He is supposed read 10 books - one which is at least 300 pages - by the time he returns to school at the end of August. At the same time I get the list, I get a letter that he could benefit from reading help and, by the way, sign-ups for reading camp are Monday.
Come again?
After two parent conferences and no hint of any reading issues from anyone, I am a little baffled.
You would think school leaders would offer more notice to parents. But I think because my oldest is a well-behaved and a good student in general he falls through the cracks. No worries. We will pick up the slack because we can. But it is nonetheless maddening.
And this brings me to my second soapbox point.
Ten books?
 Really?
Does summer break resonate with anyone? I am not advocating slacking off by playing video games or sitting in front of the TV for hours, but why in third grade do you have to be on mission to Dartmouth? Why not choose one or two really good, educational books like "Johnny Tremain" and write a couple of paragraphs on the plot?
I don't remember this pressure as a child. Even my five-year-old is going through stacks of advanced sight words at pre-school.
I have to wonder whether - if by following this prescription - I am fostering a love of  learning or making it a chore that will cause burnout by the time high school rolls around.
My husband came home from a youth football coaching clinic yesterday and said the league commissioner said something important to the football dads. The man's son is being recruited by top colleges. He told the dads that not one of the recruiters asked how his kid did in third grade. Pee wee, he said, is all about learning skills and having fun.
Why can't the same thing apply to early academics?

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Learning to speak "boy"

Seems I need to learn how to speak, "boy."
I am sometimes startled at how my way of communicating with my sons can sometimes be so totally ineffective.
I don't want to get all Mars Vs. Venus here, but, case in point: I noticed my eldest was odd man out with some kids at the beach. He had been playing in a group and then he was suddenly by himself.
Everything OK? I ask.
Yeah. I just want to be by myself.
My mom antennae goes up.
Later, I overhear he does not like one of the older boys playing.
So what's going on? I ask.
Nothing. I just don't like him a little.
Why?
I don't know.
I can sense he wants me to back off and I do thankfully resist the urge to shine a bright light in his face and interrogate him into the night. But now I have my own head trash to deal with - Why won't he confide in me?? (Insert plaintive wail here.)
I tell my husband I think the big boy may have said something to our son.
He looks at me with a big "So?" stuck to his expression.
The next day in the car my husband says: So why don't you like so and so?
The answer comes at once.
"He called me a butt-off."
My son said he just walked away. His other friends said nothing.
Later I asked him why he couldn't tell me what he had told his dad so effortlessly?
You ask too many questions, he said.
This is true of course. But it is linked in my need for detail not in a need to badger. I loathe one word answers. I need words that can help me understand.
"It can be a little annoying, mom."
And so it goes.
My husband likes to tell me women speak 5,000 words more a day than a man. I don't know if this is true but I do know I have questions that need answers beyond yes and no and sometimes they happen to come into my head at midnight.
A friend once told me to be patient if you want to learn what is going on with your kids...do less talking and more listening. So, I have. It feels worthwhile and uncomfortable at the same time.
But my boys are ready to assist me.
My son wants me to hand over my Flip camera so he and his dad can give me video lessons on how to speak boy. My husband will star as me.
 My youngest chimes in that speaking boy is easy.
You just wave and say, hi in a very low voice that sounds a little like cookie monster.
But then a line is drawn in the sand.
"Mom, you can't ask me more than five questions a day."
That's a little much, I say. I am not willing to accept a question quota.
So we come to a mutual agreement.
Too many questions will get me the time-out sign.
I can live with that.
We fist bump instead of shake.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Ice cream, some cheese pizza, and clean air

Wisdom can come at any age and its lessons can smack you in the head when you least expect it. 

I did not anticipate uncovering such understanding in a pre-school yearbook. But there it was. The messages from a gaggle of five-year-olds seem worth repeating. They made me smile, even hopeful at a time when my adult mind is often hijacked by the 24-hour news cycle of oil and violence here and abroad.

Here's what the boys and girls in D's class said when asked what they wished for the world.
  • For everyone to love their family like I love mine.
  • For everyone to have a Barbie Doll
  • For everyone to have enough food
  • For everyone to be nice to each other
  • I wish everyone could have a large cheese pizza
  • I wish everyone smiled all the time
  • That the world would take care of the weeds
  • That the world would be happy
  • That everyone would get along
  • That the world would be filled with flowers
  • That the world would be strong and healthy
  • That everyone could have ice cream
  • That the world has clean air
  • That there is no littering
  • That we all be healthy and grow
  • That my friends and I will be friends forever
  • That everybody will turn out awesome
  • That everyone could have a big jungle gym
  • For everyone to have a good life
Sounds like a plan.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Pomp and circumstance on the preschool circuit

My little guy is graduating from preschool tomorrow. They even have mortar boards.
 I wonder if I would be less emotional if the pre-k graduates could just slip into summer and then into Kindergarten without any fanfare?
I had been noticing change was coming for me. His hand has felt bigger and less pudgy when clasped inside of mine. He seems taller in his 5Ts.
I had to start thinking about whether or not I should carry him when he would ask me on one of those extra groggy mornings. I never minded, really. But the weight of his 40 pound frame was getting more difficult to hoist and carry in high heels.
My baby is growing up. But he is not grown yet.
I remind myself of this often.
I've decided to to live in the moment for him and me.
 If I can still pick him up, I will.
 If he needs to crawl into bed with me after a bad dream, he can.
I am not going to say no, you're too big for that.
Judge me if you must.
When he tells he wants to be a big boy and let go of my hand, I will let him, begrudgingly, and never say a word.
I'll be close by. Always.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Do real moms eat ice cream?

I had an Olive-from-Little Miss Sunshine moment the other day.
We were in Friendly and it was time for the "Who wants ice cream?" question.
I always dread it. Not because I do not love the treat, but because I am perpetually losing 10 pounds and a Weight Watchers life-time slacker.
The ice cream offer almost always feels like someone throwing down a gauntlet.
My son is on to me.
In raising my boys, I have tried my hardest to keep the fat talk to a minimal and the healthy body image messages to a maximum even though such positive thoughts seem to rarely make the top ten station in my brain. (Yeah, I am neurotic. What's it to you?)
"Mom why don't you ever get ice cream with us? Is it because you are on the points? (WW calorie counting for those unfamiliar)" My son asks me.
I don't give the real answer. I so don't want my boys to grow up and date diet-obsessed women even though I suppose I am one.
Sometimes I don't want ice cream, I say while visions of forbidden chocolate with peanut butter sauce on a spoon heading toward my mouth danced through my head.
My husband: "Mommy just tries to eat healthy." Then he orders the  forbidden chocolate with caramel sauce.
Thanks honey...
The boys order make-your-own sundaes.
Our waitress pauses and looks at me.
No ice cream for you? We have fat-free, she says with a little too much glee.
C'mon Mom, my oldest says like a  dare.
I blink and go with the frozen yogurt, sugar free hot fudge and splurge on the whip cream.
Better choice?
Maybe.
Still feels like a cop out.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Big Fat Poop-head Flag - a preschool tale

The call from D's teacher came while I was at my desk.
The number blazing across caller ID induced a flutter of panic.
Oh no...he's got a 102 fever, vomit, accident, (insert favorite nightmare scenario here.)
His teacher tells me there is no emergency.
Phew.
Then she drops the bomb.
D has said some very bad things to a teacher at school. I've talked to him and he said he heard those words from his brother.
Oh my God... what did he say?
He called the substitute a "big, fat, poop-head flag."
The sub was incredulous and hurt by this, the teacher tells me.
I try to uncover what preceded the name calling. My friend and child educator, Bill Corbett, likes to ask what was going on before the behavior erupted.
My sleuthing determined he was being yelled at for dilly dallying in the bathroom. It didn't excuse the name calling, but things were coming into focus.
I had learned from Bill that when a child behaves in this way they are feeling hurt so they lash out to hurt someone else.
It's a human and imperfect response when you can't developmentally express your feelings.
In my head, I think snarky thoughts like, "Shouldn't the sub know this?"
On the ride home D tells me from the back seat that his "heart is breaking."
You're not in trouble, I say. But we need to be kind. We don't call people names.
His response surprises me:
Mommy I don't want to leave (his teacher) and my school . I will never see her again when I "gaduate" and go to Kindergarten.
He is wailing in his booster seat.
At home, I scoop him in my arms.
A-ha
The big, fat, poop-head flag makes sense.

Monday, May 17, 2010

The bud of confidence

I heard from one of my all time favorite teachers today. It was a random FB hookup.
The funny thing is, even after all these years, the impression she left with me remains.

She, or her belief in me, was the spark I needed to start seeing myself in a different light and listen to my gut instead of the high school mellowdrama that continuously buzzed in my ear.

I couldn't always hear that voice or heed it over the years, but even as I would drown myself out, the whisper that I was capable of more than I gave myself credit for remained.

My teacher taught the feared English class. And true to form, she was no softy.  I was 17 and a little perplexed that I somehow ended it up in a room full of the perceived smart kids. She didn't seem to notice.

We covered everything from the Red Badge of Courage to Shakespeare. I even wrote a research paper on Karen Silkwood.  I loved it.

My crowning glory was acing the Shakespeare test and getting the highest grade in the class.
My teacher gave me the highest  accolade - public recognition that bore a byproduct of confidence I had not known before.

I hope my boys will know this kind of teacher - the kind who pushes and encourages you to achieve more even while others say you don't have it in you.

She shaped my life. And it's a good one.

Monday, May 10, 2010

The Frugal Housewife and other stories

I went back in time for Mother's Day.
We loaded up the boys in the car and headed back to the 1830's in Old Sturbridge Village.
I was so excited. I had not been to this living museum since I was a girl and loved Laura Ingalls Wilder or, more specifically, Melissa Gilbert. It's safe to say I wanted to be "half pint."
So while the boys were in the tin shop, I was sitting in the Parsonage listening to Lydia Childs offer up the child rearing advice of the day from her book, "The Mother's Book."
 The book was not as well known as her "Frugal Housewife" tome that dispensed offerings like: use earwax to cure chapped lips. But then again, it had to be tough to follow those tips.
Lydia, or rather the woman who played her, told a group of  us that, as mothers, we must never yell.
"The first rule, and the most important of all in education, is, that a mother govern her own feelings, and keep her heart and conscience pure."
Lydia goes on to say that you cannot be pure if you raise your voice at your children or otherwise let your own "vexations" affect your little cherub.
I find myself nodding along with the fake Lydia.
 I don't want to yell.
Tell me what to do do...Mrs. Childs.
Pray.
That's it?
I started to think there were no new solutions or much difference for mothers over time.
But then Lydia reminded me time changes everything.
She said if you could not get through to your child about their misbehavior, you must tie them to a chair "gently" about the arms and legs with  "string."
So maybe that's where the advice went awry for me and knocked me back to the present.
Still the book's dedication is timeless.
"To American Mothers on whose intelligence and discretion the safety and prosperity of  our republic so much depend."
No wonder we need our own day.

Saturday, May 8, 2010

The day before Mother's day

There was a bad dream last night.
He came into my room before dawn and hugged me.
Then he told me the plot and guilt set in like some suffocating vapor cloud.
It was the usual chased by monster dream with a knife-in-the heart-twist. The monster was me and I was trying to get him.
The standard, silent, mental tailspin: oh-my-god-what- is- wrong-with- my kid-what did-I-do-can-I-do-I-am-a bad-mother-repertoire ensued. It's a  tic that happens now and again and it is heavily rooted in the "Please God don't let me screw up my kids" prayer I often utter during difficult times when I think I have no business in this role.
I know dreams can be unresolved feelings or things rolling around in your brain that are not literal but represent something else.
I went out last night with some friends. My departure was an up and downstairs flurry. I got home from work, went for a run, showered, gave quick kisses and left for dinner.
He was watching TV and playing dinosaurs. At 8, he barely jumps up for the kiss and this kills me. But I say nothing.
I guess subconsciously it was bothering him too.
"Were you upset that mommy went out last night?"
I was just a little bummed.
"Sometimes if you tell people how you are feeling, you won't have bad dream like that. And we can talk about it," I say.
I give him a hug. And he puts his head on my chest.
Can I turn on the TV now?
And just like that he's moved on.
But not me.
I am on the couch writing this and thinking I should never go out again.
Happy Mother's Day.

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

Talk Before Radio

My Dyl is a bit like Chris Matthews on our daily commute.

His line of questioning is often sudden and thud like. I am usually woefully unprepared and insufficiently caffeinated. I suspect he knows this. He raises his voice an octave, bellowing from his booster seat to test whether I am paying attention.

And then the conversation shifts life the wind, leaving me searching for a thread of connection where there is none. It's just what's on a five-year-old's mind...unfiltered.

This was Tuesday's talk:

Mommy turn down the radio. I want to ask you something.
Why did you cry when grandpa Danny died?
Why did he die?
What's a disease
Where did grandpa Danny work?
Why is it so long  till my birthday ?
Are you getting me a present?
Why does my party have to be in the Winter? ( I secretly want to hold a summer party for him so he can have a bounce house. He doesn't know it.)
Can I get wrestling guys for my birthday?
No, no, no. Wait.
Can I get two wrestling guys and a matchbox?
Remind me, I say.
Anything else?
No. That's it.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Smooth Operators

Bed time can be bonkers at my house. Depending on how it goes, 8 p.m. can induce a sigh of relaxation or a tear of frustration. There is just no way to know.
But I can always count on various excuses.
I have a stomach ache.
My back really hurts. The latter is thrown out in a sympathetic unison, a sort of homage to their dad's ocassionally sore lumbar region.
Well, what do you think you can do about that? I ask.
They both request heating pads.
Did I give birth to Walter Mathau and Jack Lemon?
Another frequent ailment is the headache. But in this house, it's pronounced Head'ick and can sound a little like haddock.
Fishy.
Tonight, I was nearly reeled in by a couple of  well placed lines that would have made me swoon if I didn't know better.
It went like this:
Mom, what are you doing?
D, why aren't you in bed?
You didn't give me a hug.
I stare.
Daddy didn't give me a hug?
I stare again.
But Mo-o--o-m, I just want to say that I LOVE you.
Love you too.
But mom, you're pretty. You look beautiful.
I almost wanted to fall for it. But the sight of my piled up pony-tail and ratty plaid pajamas in a nearby mirror told another story.
Good night, Cassanova.
Nice try.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Skittles before the half

It wasn't what one would normally call a proud moment.
My coltish 8 year-old, after motioning to his coach for permission to cross the basketball court to his father, arrived nearly breathless.
"Dad, can I have some money for Skittles?"
Silence hung.
I did not want to  peek at what would no doubt be my husband's stern expression.
"I am not willing to discuss Skittles with you now. You need to get back to your team."
"But..."
"Now."
I watched my boy, his face reddening, half jog back to the bank of folding chairs standing in for a team bench.
He had no idea asking for Skittles in the middle of a game was a bad move.
Two weeks ago he didn't even know what a lay-up was.
Yet judging by the rabid discourse of some of the fans and coaches at this 8/9 year-old Catholic Youth Organization game, my son's candy question would have been an abomination if it were overheard by the masses.
As I watched him sulk and slump in his chair, his long legs splayed out in front of him,  I felt a rush of joy and pride over his sporting ignorance.
My guy was clueless, but he was still a child who felt he had the freedom to be one.
He was not the boy running up and down the court looking for approval on the sidelines or stamping his feet because another boy stole the ball. He wasn't hogging the shots because he simply hasn't figured out the win-at-all-cost attitude many of  the parents and coaches foster instead of teaching the game fundmentals and the beauty of teamwork.
Notably absent from this game was the sideline cheering on of teamates with the exception of basket here or there. No assistamt coach from either side looked to engage the bench of second stringers who would have been riveted by some play-by-play schooling and attention.
Instead, the kids were served a caucaphony soup of yelling and ref bashing from adults near and far.
BE TOUGH!
WHAT ARE YOU DOING???
FIND YOUR MAN...COME ON!
OPEN YOUR EYES REF!
I like to win as much as the next spectator, but there is something sad about grown men waving their hands like lunatics and harrumphing loudly when a child double dribbles, misses a basket once or every time they get the ball.
This is not the NBA. It's not even middle school.
My son's team lost by three.
But after the game, he got his Skittles.
"Good game," I said.
"Yeah..You want some?" he asked, handing me a fist full.