After a good time here at Blogger, I've relocated my blog to WordPress. Come visit me there at
http://onemomsworld.wordpress.com/
Cheers!
Friday, June 20, 2008
Sunday, June 08, 2008
The Graduate
Saturday was a very big day, as Cooper proudly accepted his preschool diploma and bid his nursery days goodbye. The ceremony was very short (the director has a strict 38 minute deadline), but adorable, with the 30-plus graduates singing God Bless America and Saying Goodbye (which you may remember was made famous by The Muppets back in the '80s). Parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents and friends filled the cafetorium of St. Paul's school to near overflowing. (Well, not really. But there were an awful lot of us there to applaud our 5 year olds.)
Afterwards the kids had some playtime on the playground, and we brought home bagels and coffee for our celebration. All that by 10 a.m. Whew.
Yay, Cooper!
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Addiction, Recovery and the Appalachian Trail
The urge to smoke has been strong these past couple of days, maybe a week or so. I don't know why. The end of the school year stress? The terrible twos stress? The beautiful weather, where an evening smoke on the back porch chair seems relaxing and familiar?
Fortunately, fighting the urge doesn't take much effort. I've come too far, risked too much, to cave now. It's just funny that all of a sudden it's there. And smoking itself isn't something a nonsmoker would ever imagine someone craving so desperately. It's an ugly habit, smelly and dirty, nothing redeeming about it. Unless you've been addicted. Then you know the lure.
I do other things instead, things I've learned to do, as any recovering addict does. I am reminded daily by my dad, in his strange, new, weird and wonderful, family emails about the journey he's on, that we all are on in our lives. His messages are simple and not new, but always worth remembering.
You never stop quitting your addiction. You never stop moving or changing or learning new ways to live better. And if you think someone else has gotten it right, has finished the learning or the changing, look again. Some people believe that we never get it right in our lifetime, and that's why we are reborn time and again, to do it better and better and better.
It's like hiking the Appalachian Trail, maybe. One step follows the one before, but hiking the nearly 2,220 miles of national park takes a little time, a little effort. Almost 5 million footsteps, according to www.appalachiantrail.org. And once you get to the end, maybe you have do it again. Maybe you want to do it again.
But it takes some time. So as it's been noted before, by those far wiser than I, it is the journey, not the destination, that matters. Because, in the end, all those tiny steps add up to something truly magnificent.
Fortunately, fighting the urge doesn't take much effort. I've come too far, risked too much, to cave now. It's just funny that all of a sudden it's there. And smoking itself isn't something a nonsmoker would ever imagine someone craving so desperately. It's an ugly habit, smelly and dirty, nothing redeeming about it. Unless you've been addicted. Then you know the lure.
I do other things instead, things I've learned to do, as any recovering addict does. I am reminded daily by my dad, in his strange, new, weird and wonderful, family emails about the journey he's on, that we all are on in our lives. His messages are simple and not new, but always worth remembering.
You never stop quitting your addiction. You never stop moving or changing or learning new ways to live better. And if you think someone else has gotten it right, has finished the learning or the changing, look again. Some people believe that we never get it right in our lifetime, and that's why we are reborn time and again, to do it better and better and better.
It's like hiking the Appalachian Trail, maybe. One step follows the one before, but hiking the nearly 2,220 miles of national park takes a little time, a little effort. Almost 5 million footsteps, according to www.appalachiantrail.org. And once you get to the end, maybe you have do it again. Maybe you want to do it again.
But it takes some time. So as it's been noted before, by those far wiser than I, it is the journey, not the destination, that matters. Because, in the end, all those tiny steps add up to something truly magnificent.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Scent of A Child, Part 2
Yesterday I said my kids stunk. And they did, yesterday.
Today they are fantastic.
Big surprise. Isn't that how parenting, families, go?
Here's what happened. After a day filled with the usual ups (Ellie swam solo during her Parent and Tot class) and downs (Ellie redesigned a new slipcover with her safety scissors), it was outdoor cleanup time. While returning some child-sized rakes to the basement storage, I twisted my ankle. Badly. Visions of 911-badly.
It was so bad I was nauseated. I saw stars. I cried. No none was near me. Then Ellie, already grounded to the house for aforementioned scissors incident, snuck outside and found me helpless, writhing in the grass on the side of the house. She fetched Mitzi and Cooper with my dynamic duo, and I hobbled inside where our evening followed. Even Joanna came quietly.
Here's where my kids are fantastic. Like all good people, they stepped up. Mitzi helped with dinner, Cooper with cleanup, and they all helped at bathtime. They fetched frozen corn to soothe my ankle and the phone so I could check in with Ray about my injury. There was help finding Joanna's lost Baby (without which no sleep would come) and support when I attempted a shower. Ellie brushed her teeth without a fuss, Joanna kissed my knee to help the boo boo.
These are good kids. I know they are. Not only because they DID help me, but because the did stuff without my asking. So remind me of this, tomorrow, when the stink lines hover once more over someone's tantrum or sibling argument. When the chips are down, my little ones are there for family.
Not too shabby.
Today they are fantastic.
Big surprise. Isn't that how parenting, families, go?
Here's what happened. After a day filled with the usual ups (Ellie swam solo during her Parent and Tot class) and downs (Ellie redesigned a new slipcover with her safety scissors), it was outdoor cleanup time. While returning some child-sized rakes to the basement storage, I twisted my ankle. Badly. Visions of 911-badly.
It was so bad I was nauseated. I saw stars. I cried. No none was near me. Then Ellie, already grounded to the house for aforementioned scissors incident, snuck outside and found me helpless, writhing in the grass on the side of the house. She fetched Mitzi and Cooper with my dynamic duo, and I hobbled inside where our evening followed. Even Joanna came quietly.
Here's where my kids are fantastic. Like all good people, they stepped up. Mitzi helped with dinner, Cooper with cleanup, and they all helped at bathtime. They fetched frozen corn to soothe my ankle and the phone so I could check in with Ray about my injury. There was help finding Joanna's lost Baby (without which no sleep would come) and support when I attempted a shower. Ellie brushed her teeth without a fuss, Joanna kissed my knee to help the boo boo.
These are good kids. I know they are. Not only because they DID help me, but because the did stuff without my asking. So remind me of this, tomorrow, when the stink lines hover once more over someone's tantrum or sibling argument. When the chips are down, my little ones are there for family.
Not too shabby.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Scent of a Child
Forgive me for repeating myself. My kids stink.
Not literally, of course. At least I don't think so. I was so irritated with them I put them all to bed without bathing. Their stinkiness today is more of the Pig Pen type, with cartoon lines wavering in the air above their bodies, while below these currents their mouths spew attitude, negativity, and general poo-poo-ness.
Okay, the kids are true blessings, and I am grateful for each one of my babies. But today is one of those days I'd be more grateful if I had a nanny, a full-time job, a mom who lived within 20 miles. Someone with whom I could share all of my blessings!
Asleep, they are as all children are. Unmarred, flawless, perfect. Angelic, one might say. Awake, well, it's like the old joke about incontinence. It Depends.
So, here I am, blog in one hand, oatmeal/raisin/cranberry bar in the other (made in a tantrum I had after dinner when I sent them all upstairs to "clean", while I stewed over my KitchenAid mixer). Tasty, needs a little something more. Chocolate? No, it's sweet enough. Nuts?
We have plenty of those in our house. Some more pungent than others.
Today my beautiful wonderful kids stink. Tomorrow, who knows?
Not literally, of course. At least I don't think so. I was so irritated with them I put them all to bed without bathing. Their stinkiness today is more of the Pig Pen type, with cartoon lines wavering in the air above their bodies, while below these currents their mouths spew attitude, negativity, and general poo-poo-ness.
Okay, the kids are true blessings, and I am grateful for each one of my babies. But today is one of those days I'd be more grateful if I had a nanny, a full-time job, a mom who lived within 20 miles. Someone with whom I could share all of my blessings!
Asleep, they are as all children are. Unmarred, flawless, perfect. Angelic, one might say. Awake, well, it's like the old joke about incontinence. It Depends.
So, here I am, blog in one hand, oatmeal/raisin/cranberry bar in the other (made in a tantrum I had after dinner when I sent them all upstairs to "clean", while I stewed over my KitchenAid mixer). Tasty, needs a little something more. Chocolate? No, it's sweet enough. Nuts?
We have plenty of those in our house. Some more pungent than others.
Today my beautiful wonderful kids stink. Tomorrow, who knows?
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Nightmares
I had a terrible dream last night, the kind of dream that scares parents more than any other, and the dream that most of us have at one time or another. The dream came in the last sleep cycle of the morning, after my alarm had rung twice and I ignored it twice, settling back into the warmth of my husband for a few minutes before the day really began.
Four hours later I am still unsettled, the scratches of the nightmare's fingers still hot on my skin.
I tend to have very dramatic, vivid and strange Dali-esque dreams. I always have. I usually do not have the gentle kind, the sort where kind ghosts of long-gone family and friends visit to chat, or where hopeful images of future play out over green fields and under blue skies. Perhaps I am too much a pessimist, a worrier for those. I also do not usually remember my dreams. Given their nature, that's probably a good thing.
I am of the school who believes that dreams are our mind's way of unraveling the mysteries of our days, the worries, fears and hopes that tangle in our thoughts without attention during our busy waking lives. I'm not sure how much I believe in the symbolism of dreams -- if I'm swimming in a dream, does it have to be a metaphor for my personal struggles or fears?
I'm told that you can control your dreams, to use them to your advantage. If you have a problem you can't figure out, focus on it before sleep and an answer will come in your relaxed mind. Or focus on those happy positive thoughts and that will be the substance of your sleeping images. I'm usually too sleepy to attempt this, most nights falling asleep with my glasses still on, a book open on my chest. But maybe I'll try it again sometimes, anything to never have last night's terror again.
About last night, using the dream interpretation approach. My primary job, as I see it, is to keep my family safe and healthy and whole as each one grows more into who he or she will become. I think I felt a bit of a failure yesterday in the safety department. In the hustle and fun of our early-start holiday, I forgot to put sunscreen on my fair-skinned family until just before lunch, after we'd already been outside for a few hours. Most of us got a bit sunburned, which I didn't notice until after baths late that evening. Perhaps my dream had to do with that. My family got hurt. I failed to keep my family safe.
I woke up crying because of the awful images in that early morning nightmare. All morning I have been touching my family, rubbing a back, smoothing hair, kissing sleep-warmed cheeks, reassuring myself of their solidity. As I finish typing, the smallest arms in our house are cradling my neck from behind, their owner raining my ears with kisses, in her effort to draw me away from the computer. Who could resist this reality? I will wrap up.
A dream is just a dream. Today, even as the forecast calls for thundershowers, we are all slathered in sunscreen. Just to be safe.
Four hours later I am still unsettled, the scratches of the nightmare's fingers still hot on my skin.
I tend to have very dramatic, vivid and strange Dali-esque dreams. I always have. I usually do not have the gentle kind, the sort where kind ghosts of long-gone family and friends visit to chat, or where hopeful images of future play out over green fields and under blue skies. Perhaps I am too much a pessimist, a worrier for those. I also do not usually remember my dreams. Given their nature, that's probably a good thing.
I am of the school who believes that dreams are our mind's way of unraveling the mysteries of our days, the worries, fears and hopes that tangle in our thoughts without attention during our busy waking lives. I'm not sure how much I believe in the symbolism of dreams -- if I'm swimming in a dream, does it have to be a metaphor for my personal struggles or fears?
I'm told that you can control your dreams, to use them to your advantage. If you have a problem you can't figure out, focus on it before sleep and an answer will come in your relaxed mind. Or focus on those happy positive thoughts and that will be the substance of your sleeping images. I'm usually too sleepy to attempt this, most nights falling asleep with my glasses still on, a book open on my chest. But maybe I'll try it again sometimes, anything to never have last night's terror again.
About last night, using the dream interpretation approach. My primary job, as I see it, is to keep my family safe and healthy and whole as each one grows more into who he or she will become. I think I felt a bit of a failure yesterday in the safety department. In the hustle and fun of our early-start holiday, I forgot to put sunscreen on my fair-skinned family until just before lunch, after we'd already been outside for a few hours. Most of us got a bit sunburned, which I didn't notice until after baths late that evening. Perhaps my dream had to do with that. My family got hurt. I failed to keep my family safe.
I woke up crying because of the awful images in that early morning nightmare. All morning I have been touching my family, rubbing a back, smoothing hair, kissing sleep-warmed cheeks, reassuring myself of their solidity. As I finish typing, the smallest arms in our house are cradling my neck from behind, their owner raining my ears with kisses, in her effort to draw me away from the computer. Who could resist this reality? I will wrap up.
A dream is just a dream. Today, even as the forecast calls for thundershowers, we are all slathered in sunscreen. Just to be safe.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Memorial Day
What a long weekend it was! A birthday party for the cousins up north joyfully claimed our whole Saturday. I was in bed all day Sunday, nursing an icky cold. Today we played outside all day while Ray finished some yard work. Then we enjoyed a cookout with neighbors way past all the kids' bedtime.
The weather was beautiful, food was delicious, friends and family were filled with love and laughter (a few tantrums notwithstanding). A near-perfect holiday weekend.
I hope that we all took a few minutes to remember the reason for this day off of work. I am not a vocal patriot, but I love my country. While I disagree with some of the decision makers, and the battles we wage in this world, I am in constant awe of those who choose to make a career out of defending what we have here.
So, thanks to you all. Because of you, we all sleep better each night, whether we know it or not, whether we say it or not. You deserve more than one day a year of national gratitude and recognition. Thank you.
The weather was beautiful, food was delicious, friends and family were filled with love and laughter (a few tantrums notwithstanding). A near-perfect holiday weekend.
I hope that we all took a few minutes to remember the reason for this day off of work. I am not a vocal patriot, but I love my country. While I disagree with some of the decision makers, and the battles we wage in this world, I am in constant awe of those who choose to make a career out of defending what we have here.
So, thanks to you all. Because of you, we all sleep better each night, whether we know it or not, whether we say it or not. You deserve more than one day a year of national gratitude and recognition. Thank you.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Slow Thursday Afternoon
Today is a wonderful slow day.
It didn't start that way. I was up at dawn to have some coffee before Mitzi and Ellie sprang out of bed. A quick shower (and my weekly pre-swimming lesson leg shaving), then off to battle thirty minutes of rush hour traffic to get to the eye doctor. A visit to confirm my contact lens prescription, back home again to pick up Ray (to drop at the train)and the youngest three kids. We zip down the highway to the YMCA. Late for class, we circle the parking lot for a decent space -- rock star parking, not B-list, Cooper chants. Check non-swimmers into playroom for babysitting. Race to Ellie's Parent and Tot swim class in time to sing "The Grand Old Duke of York" and "Wheels on the Bus". Reverse the process in order to race home to meet Mitzi's kindergarten bus.
That was about 3 hours of my Thursday.
After lunch was ingested and Joanna was settled for her nap, I turned on the television for the other three dervishes. I settled down on the couch.
I read a book. One with complex sentences and no pictures.
I dozed.
Outside, the rain sprinkled our new bushes, coating the sheets still tied to the playset, yesterday's tent-making project.
I have no guilt. The kids are watching t.v. Dinner tonight is brainless, soy burgers, buttery egg noodles, salad. Ray is out for a business dinner, not that he'd mind the menu.
Aahh.
Here's what I could have done: the dishes, the laundry, sort my kitchen junk box (the place where all the junk gets piled), clean the office, purge old files, edit the books in progress. I could've read the paper, surfed the Web, finished very very overdue thank you notes. The kids and I could've started a project with anything from our overflowing craft bin or made a pirate ship or baked cookies or read 74 picture books.
I read, I dozed. The kids overdosed on cartoons I watched as a child (The Flinstones, The Pink Panther), dizzy with excitement and not enough blinking.
It felt great.
Tonight I'll do my yoga, get the chores done, maybe start a project.
Maybe not.
It didn't start that way. I was up at dawn to have some coffee before Mitzi and Ellie sprang out of bed. A quick shower (and my weekly pre-swimming lesson leg shaving), then off to battle thirty minutes of rush hour traffic to get to the eye doctor. A visit to confirm my contact lens prescription, back home again to pick up Ray (to drop at the train)and the youngest three kids. We zip down the highway to the YMCA. Late for class, we circle the parking lot for a decent space -- rock star parking, not B-list, Cooper chants. Check non-swimmers into playroom for babysitting. Race to Ellie's Parent and Tot swim class in time to sing "The Grand Old Duke of York" and "Wheels on the Bus". Reverse the process in order to race home to meet Mitzi's kindergarten bus.
That was about 3 hours of my Thursday.
After lunch was ingested and Joanna was settled for her nap, I turned on the television for the other three dervishes. I settled down on the couch.
I read a book. One with complex sentences and no pictures.
I dozed.
Outside, the rain sprinkled our new bushes, coating the sheets still tied to the playset, yesterday's tent-making project.
I have no guilt. The kids are watching t.v. Dinner tonight is brainless, soy burgers, buttery egg noodles, salad. Ray is out for a business dinner, not that he'd mind the menu.
Aahh.
Here's what I could have done: the dishes, the laundry, sort my kitchen junk box (the place where all the junk gets piled), clean the office, purge old files, edit the books in progress. I could've read the paper, surfed the Web, finished very very overdue thank you notes. The kids and I could've started a project with anything from our overflowing craft bin or made a pirate ship or baked cookies or read 74 picture books.
I read, I dozed. The kids overdosed on cartoons I watched as a child (The Flinstones, The Pink Panther), dizzy with excitement and not enough blinking.
It felt great.
Tonight I'll do my yoga, get the chores done, maybe start a project.
Maybe not.
Monday, May 19, 2008
A Sad Kindergarten Lesson
A Mom friend was over last week with her youngest child, Ellie's first playdate. While the three year olds played near each other (A-plus to my sister, who knows this is called "parallel play"), we Moms sat in the kitchen, talking the way Moms do.
This Mom is a nice woman, probably the first Mom friend I made after moving here. We have a similar family structure, which has made it fun for the kids too, some of whom have in the past or are now attending preschool together. I like her because she is kind, down to earth, funny, and unashamedly imperfect as a parent.
We Moms shared coffee while the girls shared the Munchkins our guests brought. Talking above the girls' heads, my friend told me of her conference with daughter number one's kindergarten teacher. In the course of the discussion, Mom and teacher chatted about daughter number two, who is soon to follow in elementary school. Chat, chat, blah, blah.
Until the teacher -- presumably an experienced woman with many years at her current post -- let this gem go:
"Oh, you're a Preschool X family. Yes, well, that's not really a preschool, it's more of a playschool." She went on to point out how graduates of the Preschool X program were not as prepared for the academic rigors of kindergarten as were the graduates of other town preschools.
Huh?
We are also a Preschool X family, so naturally I took umbrage at the slight. Our school is staffed by experienced, warm, nurturing and compassionate professionals who spent a lot of time -- gasp! -- letting our children be children. The kids there play a lot, outside as much as they can. And in the course of their time at Preschool X, students master skills like color, shape, letter and number recognition; rudimentary handwriting skills; reading readiness. All of which is necessary for success in today's demanding coursework in kindergarten.
And in life, if this teacher were to believed.
I've heard that some other preschools in my little town -- more prestigious, perhaps, fancier -- have a long history of grooming the best of the best for a successful life. Some parents who place their kids in these schools are the type that have planned for Harvard since before their children were conceived. I'm sure that many parents are not like that. I won't lump them all together and judge. But apparently this teacher believes the hype.
Now, my kids are pretty bright, so far. They have learned some stuff, at school and at home. With five weeks left in the school year, Mitzi is an independent reader. Coop seems to be on the right track. I haven't been worried about their elementary school success, even though it's a far cry from the schooling I remember.
When Mitzi started preschool, I was shocked at how it had changed since I attended the Jewish Community Center Nursery School back in the '70s. Back then, preschool was for finding out that other kids existed and you have to share. That you have to wipe your own tush, and that Mommy doesn't come everywhere with you. That was pretty much it. As a Catholic kid at a Jewish school I also got to learn about other kids' religion, which I found extremely cool. I think if we found out about letters and numbers we were ahead of the game. Kindergarten was some of the same, with more learning, I guess. I don't think anyone learned to read until first grade. Kindergarten was about playing, sharing, taking turns, making friends, having fights, resolving conflicts, more practice at wiping our own tushes. I remember lots and lots artwork and stage performances, pretend play and a lot of outdoor activities.
Kindergarten is just not like that now. The world demands it. Today we ask our six year olds to be miniature adults who are ready to surf the Internet with wisdom and safety, who can read well enough to navigate meaningless standardized testing so that they are not Left Behind. There is no room for play in kindergarten -- Mitzi gets a gym class once every second six-day cycle. Music is squeezed in once every six days. She does not have an art class at all, a passion she is trying to hang on to despite its under appreciation by her teachers. (See me later for my rambling discourse on the shameful sidelining of the arts, the representing facet of lost civilizations first explored by generations who follow.) The faculty at our elementary school joins parents in bemoaning the sad curriculum choices that have to be made because of state and federal education demands. I am comforted that no self-respecting teacher approves of what's happened.
But it is what it is.
When looking for a new home, Ray and I picked this town primarily for the outstanding school system, and will have to play by the rules. I accept that. With many years ahead of us, I recognize that ups and downs, successes and failures will be a part of our family experience, as it has been for families throughout the ages no matter what their zip codes. And I know it's a new world, with different expectations and demands. I get it.
But I don't want my kids to have to grow up too soon. I don't think I'm condemning them to second-class citizenry by being happier to hear about adventures on the preschool playground instead of high-frequency words memorized in a silent classroom.
That's why I like Preschool X. They celebrate my children's childhood. Maybe it's all that relaxing and having fun that gives my kids space to learn their letters, numbers, all that is required of them. I don't know. But it works for us. Turning down placement at other schools was the smartest thing we did.
And as far as that flip kindergarten teacher teacher goes, shame on her. I can only hope that she is the only one of her kind in our schools.
Sadly, I expect she is not.
This Mom is a nice woman, probably the first Mom friend I made after moving here. We have a similar family structure, which has made it fun for the kids too, some of whom have in the past or are now attending preschool together. I like her because she is kind, down to earth, funny, and unashamedly imperfect as a parent.
We Moms shared coffee while the girls shared the Munchkins our guests brought. Talking above the girls' heads, my friend told me of her conference with daughter number one's kindergarten teacher. In the course of the discussion, Mom and teacher chatted about daughter number two, who is soon to follow in elementary school. Chat, chat, blah, blah.
Until the teacher -- presumably an experienced woman with many years at her current post -- let this gem go:
"Oh, you're a Preschool X family. Yes, well, that's not really a preschool, it's more of a playschool." She went on to point out how graduates of the Preschool X program were not as prepared for the academic rigors of kindergarten as were the graduates of other town preschools.
Huh?
We are also a Preschool X family, so naturally I took umbrage at the slight. Our school is staffed by experienced, warm, nurturing and compassionate professionals who spent a lot of time -- gasp! -- letting our children be children. The kids there play a lot, outside as much as they can. And in the course of their time at Preschool X, students master skills like color, shape, letter and number recognition; rudimentary handwriting skills; reading readiness. All of which is necessary for success in today's demanding coursework in kindergarten.
And in life, if this teacher were to believed.
I've heard that some other preschools in my little town -- more prestigious, perhaps, fancier -- have a long history of grooming the best of the best for a successful life. Some parents who place their kids in these schools are the type that have planned for Harvard since before their children were conceived. I'm sure that many parents are not like that. I won't lump them all together and judge. But apparently this teacher believes the hype.
Now, my kids are pretty bright, so far. They have learned some stuff, at school and at home. With five weeks left in the school year, Mitzi is an independent reader. Coop seems to be on the right track. I haven't been worried about their elementary school success, even though it's a far cry from the schooling I remember.
When Mitzi started preschool, I was shocked at how it had changed since I attended the Jewish Community Center Nursery School back in the '70s. Back then, preschool was for finding out that other kids existed and you have to share. That you have to wipe your own tush, and that Mommy doesn't come everywhere with you. That was pretty much it. As a Catholic kid at a Jewish school I also got to learn about other kids' religion, which I found extremely cool. I think if we found out about letters and numbers we were ahead of the game. Kindergarten was some of the same, with more learning, I guess. I don't think anyone learned to read until first grade. Kindergarten was about playing, sharing, taking turns, making friends, having fights, resolving conflicts, more practice at wiping our own tushes. I remember lots and lots artwork and stage performances, pretend play and a lot of outdoor activities.
Kindergarten is just not like that now. The world demands it. Today we ask our six year olds to be miniature adults who are ready to surf the Internet with wisdom and safety, who can read well enough to navigate meaningless standardized testing so that they are not Left Behind. There is no room for play in kindergarten -- Mitzi gets a gym class once every second six-day cycle. Music is squeezed in once every six days. She does not have an art class at all, a passion she is trying to hang on to despite its under appreciation by her teachers. (See me later for my rambling discourse on the shameful sidelining of the arts, the representing facet of lost civilizations first explored by generations who follow.) The faculty at our elementary school joins parents in bemoaning the sad curriculum choices that have to be made because of state and federal education demands. I am comforted that no self-respecting teacher approves of what's happened.
But it is what it is.
When looking for a new home, Ray and I picked this town primarily for the outstanding school system, and will have to play by the rules. I accept that. With many years ahead of us, I recognize that ups and downs, successes and failures will be a part of our family experience, as it has been for families throughout the ages no matter what their zip codes. And I know it's a new world, with different expectations and demands. I get it.
But I don't want my kids to have to grow up too soon. I don't think I'm condemning them to second-class citizenry by being happier to hear about adventures on the preschool playground instead of high-frequency words memorized in a silent classroom.
That's why I like Preschool X. They celebrate my children's childhood. Maybe it's all that relaxing and having fun that gives my kids space to learn their letters, numbers, all that is required of them. I don't know. But it works for us. Turning down placement at other schools was the smartest thing we did.
And as far as that flip kindergarten teacher teacher goes, shame on her. I can only hope that she is the only one of her kind in our schools.
Sadly, I expect she is not.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Food, Glorious Food
I don't fight with my kids about food any more. I used to, until pretty recently. Back then, I'd get upset that no one but Cooper would try anything new, that everything had to be dipped in ketchup, that cucumbers and frozen corn were the only vegetables palatable to the girls. I stuck to a pretty boring routine of cooking what they'd eat (pasta and corn, pasta and cucumbers, pasta and chicken nuggets, pasta and ketchup). Ray and I ate a lot of frozen food or leftovers from the few adult-friendly meals I threw together.
This year, it all changed.
At some point, I decided I was getting shafted. I like food. I like to eat (with guilt, to be sure, but I like to eat good food, whatever the calorie count). Why did I have to suffer just because my kids were, well, kids?
Plus, dinner time was agonizing for us all. I'd cajole, threaten, beg, bribe -- whatever it took to get a "decent" meal into the quartet. I planned meals that they could help cook. The love to cook, but preparing it didn't change their opinion that new food is bad food. My anxiety increased as the control I never had slipped through my fingers.
Clearly things had to change. I didn't want to cook two meals every day (as easygoing as Ray is about getting fed, I sensed he was getting restless at yet another night of frozen pizza). I wanted my kids to eat well and enthusiastically -- that is, to be culinary explorers.
Okay, I watch a lot of Top Chef.
But I also needed to ease up on my need to control. Here are things you can't ever do for your kids -- poop, sleep and eat. My stress was never going to change that truth.
So I started cooking for the family. Like it or lump it. Don't like it today, you'll like it tomorrow.
At first, some kids ate a frighteningly small amount. I worried about slow starvation, vitamin deficiencies, loss of teeth and hair. But eventually, over many painful months of holding my breath and throwing an embarrassing amount of picked-over food away, night after night of biting my tongue and/or counting to ten to relieve the frustration threatening to boil over, the strangest thing happened. Just as my mom said they would, just like I did when I was little, my fussy kids started eating what I cooked.
They didn't eat everything all at once. They still don't. But every dinner they each taste something new, sometimes liking it, sometimes lumping it. One meal, for all of us, a meal we all could eat and enjoy. Healthy meals (usually) with vegetables, whole grains and a little something sweet.
Tonight I jumped off the bridge and cooked fish. I'm relatively new to fish, as a cook, and have never tried to serve it to the kids. God forbid. I mean, for these guys, pork is a stretch. But I stumbled onto a nice recipe for tilapia, which I successfully made for Ray and I one night. Tilapia is such a mild fish I had to test it on the kids. No, I didn't tell them it was fish. Mitzi kept calling it chicken. But she ate it. So did Coop. Joanna had two servings. Sadly, Ellie ate none of it. She's a tough one. She also knew it was fish, after this exchange with me earlier today:
"Mommy, what's for dinner?"
"Tilapia."
"What's that?"
"Fish."
"We can't have fish tonight. We didn't go fishing!"
I do try to serve at least one thing they each like -- a pasta, a rice, raw peppers and tomatoes -- and accept that I can't make everyone happy all the time.
Thus, my greatest flaw revealed, exposed in my kitchen, but true everywhere else I live. No, Jennifer, you cannot please everyone all the time. Get over yourself and stop trying, whether it's feeding your kids or participating in the town discussion about all-day kindergarten. Some people will not like me or what I say or do.
Sigh. I know, I know. Sometimes I just can't help wanting them to.
Mitzi, my toughest food critic, said that, while it wasn't her favorite, she'd eat this meal again (see below). That, my friends, is a rave review.
Not that rave reviews, ahem, matter. Not to this well-adjusted Mommy.
Tilapia with Balsamic-Butter Reduction
Brown Rice Pilaf
Steamed Vegetable Medley
Cherry Tomato and Fresh Mozzerella Salad
Applesauce and Fresh Ripe Pears
Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Cookies
2% Milk
-or-
Pino Grigio
This year, it all changed.
At some point, I decided I was getting shafted. I like food. I like to eat (with guilt, to be sure, but I like to eat good food, whatever the calorie count). Why did I have to suffer just because my kids were, well, kids?
Plus, dinner time was agonizing for us all. I'd cajole, threaten, beg, bribe -- whatever it took to get a "decent" meal into the quartet. I planned meals that they could help cook. The love to cook, but preparing it didn't change their opinion that new food is bad food. My anxiety increased as the control I never had slipped through my fingers.
Clearly things had to change. I didn't want to cook two meals every day (as easygoing as Ray is about getting fed, I sensed he was getting restless at yet another night of frozen pizza). I wanted my kids to eat well and enthusiastically -- that is, to be culinary explorers.
Okay, I watch a lot of Top Chef.
But I also needed to ease up on my need to control. Here are things you can't ever do for your kids -- poop, sleep and eat. My stress was never going to change that truth.
So I started cooking for the family. Like it or lump it. Don't like it today, you'll like it tomorrow.
At first, some kids ate a frighteningly small amount. I worried about slow starvation, vitamin deficiencies, loss of teeth and hair. But eventually, over many painful months of holding my breath and throwing an embarrassing amount of picked-over food away, night after night of biting my tongue and/or counting to ten to relieve the frustration threatening to boil over, the strangest thing happened. Just as my mom said they would, just like I did when I was little, my fussy kids started eating what I cooked.
They didn't eat everything all at once. They still don't. But every dinner they each taste something new, sometimes liking it, sometimes lumping it. One meal, for all of us, a meal we all could eat and enjoy. Healthy meals (usually) with vegetables, whole grains and a little something sweet.
Tonight I jumped off the bridge and cooked fish. I'm relatively new to fish, as a cook, and have never tried to serve it to the kids. God forbid. I mean, for these guys, pork is a stretch. But I stumbled onto a nice recipe for tilapia, which I successfully made for Ray and I one night. Tilapia is such a mild fish I had to test it on the kids. No, I didn't tell them it was fish. Mitzi kept calling it chicken. But she ate it. So did Coop. Joanna had two servings. Sadly, Ellie ate none of it. She's a tough one. She also knew it was fish, after this exchange with me earlier today:
"Mommy, what's for dinner?"
"Tilapia."
"What's that?"
"Fish."
"We can't have fish tonight. We didn't go fishing!"
I do try to serve at least one thing they each like -- a pasta, a rice, raw peppers and tomatoes -- and accept that I can't make everyone happy all the time.
Thus, my greatest flaw revealed, exposed in my kitchen, but true everywhere else I live. No, Jennifer, you cannot please everyone all the time. Get over yourself and stop trying, whether it's feeding your kids or participating in the town discussion about all-day kindergarten. Some people will not like me or what I say or do.
Sigh. I know, I know. Sometimes I just can't help wanting them to.
Mitzi, my toughest food critic, said that, while it wasn't her favorite, she'd eat this meal again (see below). That, my friends, is a rave review.
Not that rave reviews, ahem, matter. Not to this well-adjusted Mommy.
Tonight's Menu:
Tilapia with Balsamic-Butter Reduction
Brown Rice Pilaf
Steamed Vegetable Medley
Cherry Tomato and Fresh Mozzerella Salad
Applesauce and Fresh Ripe Pears
Chocolate-Chocolate Chip Cookies
2% Milk
-or-
Pino Grigio
Thursday, May 08, 2008
These Are the Days
I wish I had something new to add these days. We are happy spring his here. We are happy to spend 7 hours a day outside rather than inside, sniping at one another. Tee ball and soccer seasons have begun. Gardens are planted, tilled, contemplated. Seven weeks remain until summer vacation.
Many thoughts swirl in my mind these days. I hope to put pen to paper, so to speak, someday soon, to work out some sticky thoughts. My version of a Pensieve, I suppose. Where I put the thoughts that clog my brain, where to examine them for patterns, insight. Until then, I look around me in surprise, wonder.
It's all good.
Many thoughts swirl in my mind these days. I hope to put pen to paper, so to speak, someday soon, to work out some sticky thoughts. My version of a Pensieve, I suppose. Where I put the thoughts that clog my brain, where to examine them for patterns, insight. Until then, I look around me in surprise, wonder.
It's all good.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Mean Mommy
I am a Mean Mommy.
Ask my kids. They'll tell you. Even Joanna, who, at two years old, doesn't really know what "mean" is, even Jojo can hear and repeat what the big kids say. "Poo, poo Mommmy", which in toddler-speak, means, "Mommy, you stink."
"Mommy, you are mean."
I'm sort of over it, most of the time. I didn't have kids to win popularity contests (although I will admit to the addicting and incomparable feeling of pure adoration from a baby's eyes. and how when that fades, it's heartbreaking). I know my kids love me. Lately, though, they don't always like me.
Today, for instance. In the 4,784th Clash of the Clean, I told the kids to tidy up, because the cleaners would be coming in the morning (my guilt on hiring a cleaning service, please see future blog entry, "How I've Failed as a Housewife").
In three hours, little got done, despite my bribes, cajoles, threats. After they all went to bed, and I downed a glass of cabernet, I had two choices:
1) pack all toys in boxes and hide boxes in attic
2) clean it all up myself
What did I choose? Well, after that glass of wine, option #1 seemed like a lot of effort. I'd have to find the packing tape gun, for one thing. And the stairs, two flights, a whole lot of climbing. What I did was tidy up some stuff, bag up some other stuff to hide. After all, if it's too much to clean up, it's too much to have. So I tell them, and sometimes, it's what they believe.
But the kids know me to be a closet sucker. They and I all know that I will return to Cooper his bag of Star Wars Legoes and Mitzi will reclaim her itty-bitty Barbie accessories -- all of which I rescued from Teresa's vacuum cleaner, with no thanks -- and next time we won't struggle so much to put it away. Because they will remember that tonight, after a day of Mean, I was Nice. And, really, my kids are good, they do their best, and deserve a second chance.
Everyone went to bed early tonight, a consequence of their day of poor listening, faulty toy cleaning, general naughty behavior, and my inability to diplomatically deal with the quartet. Six-forty-five, all tucked in. No regrets for me.
I have been, and will continue to be, a Mean Mommy. But tonight, this supposedly Mean Mommy rules a quiet and somewhat tidy house. And for these 185 minutes of peace and sanity, I'm okay with the label of Mean, not Nice. Tomorrow is another day. And if not tomorrow, some day down the road.
After all, I really like my mom now. And if my adolescent memory serves me correctly, she was the quintessential Mean Mommy.
Just ask my siblings if you don't believe me.
Ask my kids. They'll tell you. Even Joanna, who, at two years old, doesn't really know what "mean" is, even Jojo can hear and repeat what the big kids say. "Poo, poo Mommmy", which in toddler-speak, means, "Mommy, you stink."
"Mommy, you are mean."
I'm sort of over it, most of the time. I didn't have kids to win popularity contests (although I will admit to the addicting and incomparable feeling of pure adoration from a baby's eyes. and how when that fades, it's heartbreaking). I know my kids love me. Lately, though, they don't always like me.
Today, for instance. In the 4,784th Clash of the Clean, I told the kids to tidy up, because the cleaners would be coming in the morning (my guilt on hiring a cleaning service, please see future blog entry, "How I've Failed as a Housewife").
In three hours, little got done, despite my bribes, cajoles, threats. After they all went to bed, and I downed a glass of cabernet, I had two choices:
1) pack all toys in boxes and hide boxes in attic
2) clean it all up myself
What did I choose? Well, after that glass of wine, option #1 seemed like a lot of effort. I'd have to find the packing tape gun, for one thing. And the stairs, two flights, a whole lot of climbing. What I did was tidy up some stuff, bag up some other stuff to hide. After all, if it's too much to clean up, it's too much to have. So I tell them, and sometimes, it's what they believe.
But the kids know me to be a closet sucker. They and I all know that I will return to Cooper his bag of Star Wars Legoes and Mitzi will reclaim her itty-bitty Barbie accessories -- all of which I rescued from Teresa's vacuum cleaner, with no thanks -- and next time we won't struggle so much to put it away. Because they will remember that tonight, after a day of Mean, I was Nice. And, really, my kids are good, they do their best, and deserve a second chance.
Everyone went to bed early tonight, a consequence of their day of poor listening, faulty toy cleaning, general naughty behavior, and my inability to diplomatically deal with the quartet. Six-forty-five, all tucked in. No regrets for me.
I have been, and will continue to be, a Mean Mommy. But tonight, this supposedly Mean Mommy rules a quiet and somewhat tidy house. And for these 185 minutes of peace and sanity, I'm okay with the label of Mean, not Nice. Tomorrow is another day. And if not tomorrow, some day down the road.
After all, I really like my mom now. And if my adolescent memory serves me correctly, she was the quintessential Mean Mommy.
Just ask my siblings if you don't believe me.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Going West
Denial. Not just a river in Egypt.
Okay, the oldest joke in the world. But I've been swimming in denial for a few months now, and am just feeling ready to talk about it, because it's really going to happen.
Michelle is really leaving.
Michelle is my little sister, the baby of the family. (She hates to be called that, but to me, oftentimes, that's what she is.) At the same time, for most of my life she's been my best friend, strongest supporter, fiercest defender, disher of tough love. She has an amazingly gentle heart and incredibly strong shoulders. I hope I've been somewhat the same for her.
Next week she's leaving the East to embark on a journey West, to the land of big skies, of wide open spaces, where she'll work on a ranch for six months, leaving behind the fast-paced world of corporate America, Blackberries, deadlines and cafeterias (but thankfully not her blog, email or cell phone, come on now.) This position been a dream of hers for years now. The move is a courageous, joyous one, not lightly made or softly planned.
I couldn't be more thrilled for her. Really. And since we live so far apart now, it's not like we're ending our weekly lunches or daily workouts together. Live the dream. It's not about me. Go for it. All that stuff. I know there's nothing to be upset about.
But there's something sad about the change. What if she won't be able to chat on the phone 95 times a day like we do now? Or email at the drop of a hat? What if the kids want to call her and leave a song message on her voice mail?
She says it's only for six months. "Imagine I'm going to college," she says. "The time will fly by."
Sure. But when she went to college I was gone too, and we were too young to be sad at goodbyes.
The kids, particularly Mitzi, grow teary at the thought of Shelley far away. In comforting them, I remind myself of things:
Look at your auntie. She is brave. She is taking a chance to fulfill a dream, risking a comfortable and certain present for an unknown future. And, kids, make sure you ask her how alive it makes her feel to do that. Ask her if colors seem brighter, the wind a little sweeter.
And always remember, my babies, I might think to say, remember that the unexamined life is not worth living. You only get one go-around. Make it count.
No matter where you go, you can always come home.
Michelle, you too.
Okay, the oldest joke in the world. But I've been swimming in denial for a few months now, and am just feeling ready to talk about it, because it's really going to happen.
Michelle is really leaving.
Michelle is my little sister, the baby of the family. (She hates to be called that, but to me, oftentimes, that's what she is.) At the same time, for most of my life she's been my best friend, strongest supporter, fiercest defender, disher of tough love. She has an amazingly gentle heart and incredibly strong shoulders. I hope I've been somewhat the same for her.
Next week she's leaving the East to embark on a journey West, to the land of big skies, of wide open spaces, where she'll work on a ranch for six months, leaving behind the fast-paced world of corporate America, Blackberries, deadlines and cafeterias (but thankfully not her blog, email or cell phone, come on now.) This position been a dream of hers for years now. The move is a courageous, joyous one, not lightly made or softly planned.
I couldn't be more thrilled for her. Really. And since we live so far apart now, it's not like we're ending our weekly lunches or daily workouts together. Live the dream. It's not about me. Go for it. All that stuff. I know there's nothing to be upset about.
But there's something sad about the change. What if she won't be able to chat on the phone 95 times a day like we do now? Or email at the drop of a hat? What if the kids want to call her and leave a song message on her voice mail?
She says it's only for six months. "Imagine I'm going to college," she says. "The time will fly by."
Sure. But when she went to college I was gone too, and we were too young to be sad at goodbyes.
The kids, particularly Mitzi, grow teary at the thought of Shelley far away. In comforting them, I remind myself of things:
Look at your auntie. She is brave. She is taking a chance to fulfill a dream, risking a comfortable and certain present for an unknown future. And, kids, make sure you ask her how alive it makes her feel to do that. Ask her if colors seem brighter, the wind a little sweeter.
And always remember, my babies, I might think to say, remember that the unexamined life is not worth living. You only get one go-around. Make it count.
No matter where you go, you can always come home.
Michelle, you too.
Friday, April 04, 2008
Tips from Parenting Magazine
In their April issue, Parenting magazine offered these bits of information about kids' health. I found each one so interesting, I had to post them:
Honey may reduce your child's nighttime cough. Good news, since, alas, no meds are recommended for the under six age group. Give 1/2 tsp. for kids 1 to 5; for those 6 and up, 1 tsp. Don't put in tea as this could dilute its effect.
Achoo Syndrome affects about 10 to 25 percent of the population. That's when bright light causes a person to sneeze. Experts have no explanation. Funny, I thought it was just me!
Shopping carts are germier than public toilets. I will no longer silently mock those smart moms who have those soft inserts to put over the basket where baby sits. You ARE better than I.
You can use breast milk on a minor cut, since milk has natural antibiotics that fight infection. Dab some on, air dry the cut, bandage it up. Apparantly the stuff is also good for baby acne, diaper rash, cradle cap and mild eczema. Who knew.
For more super-intelligent advice, check out www.parenting.com.
Honey may reduce your child's nighttime cough. Good news, since, alas, no meds are recommended for the under six age group. Give 1/2 tsp. for kids 1 to 5; for those 6 and up, 1 tsp. Don't put in tea as this could dilute its effect.
Achoo Syndrome affects about 10 to 25 percent of the population. That's when bright light causes a person to sneeze. Experts have no explanation. Funny, I thought it was just me!
Shopping carts are germier than public toilets. I will no longer silently mock those smart moms who have those soft inserts to put over the basket where baby sits. You ARE better than I.
You can use breast milk on a minor cut, since milk has natural antibiotics that fight infection. Dab some on, air dry the cut, bandage it up. Apparantly the stuff is also good for baby acne, diaper rash, cradle cap and mild eczema. Who knew.
For more super-intelligent advice, check out www.parenting.com.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Hooray, Cooper!
Here's another reason to brag. Cooper received his trophy for reading 1,000 books!
The ceremony takes place at the elementary school morning meeting, so he got up in front of the entire student body, faculty, parents and other visitors. He shook the principal's hand and even smiled a little. The fact that he did this at only five years old is incredible. We are all very proud of our bookworm!
Friday, March 21, 2008
Movie Review
In what I think was a very impressive act of bravery, Ray and I took all four kids to see Horton Hears a Who this afternoon. We even shared popcorn and lemonade amongst the six of us. And the review?
The movie was very cute. It was a likable interpretation of Dr. Seuss, as opposed to the bizarre and somewhat frightening versions of The Grinch and The Cat in the Hat. Jim Carrey and Steve Carrell both delivered, predictably, strong comedic interpretations of Horton and the Mayor of Whoville. As usual, jokes for grownups peppered the script. It was quite a stretch, as far as plot, but I guess it's not easy turning a 20 page picture book into an 83-minute feature film.
My children loved it, especially Mitzi and Cooper, who were more able to follow the plot and slapstick than were the little girls. Ellie kept to her seat very well overall, and seemed to understand most of the action and dialogue. Joanna wandered between Ray and I, on either end of our group, and eventually fell asleep on Ray's lap. From a not-quite-two-year-old, that is perfect behavior.
I don't want to reveal how long it's been since Ray and I have been to the movies (my last film was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), but we were appalled at how much the matinee cost for us. Ouch.
So, thumbs up from our house. Our first movie outing as a family. Victory!
The movie was very cute. It was a likable interpretation of Dr. Seuss, as opposed to the bizarre and somewhat frightening versions of The Grinch and The Cat in the Hat. Jim Carrey and Steve Carrell both delivered, predictably, strong comedic interpretations of Horton and the Mayor of Whoville. As usual, jokes for grownups peppered the script. It was quite a stretch, as far as plot, but I guess it's not easy turning a 20 page picture book into an 83-minute feature film.
My children loved it, especially Mitzi and Cooper, who were more able to follow the plot and slapstick than were the little girls. Ellie kept to her seat very well overall, and seemed to understand most of the action and dialogue. Joanna wandered between Ray and I, on either end of our group, and eventually fell asleep on Ray's lap. From a not-quite-two-year-old, that is perfect behavior.
I don't want to reveal how long it's been since Ray and I have been to the movies (my last film was Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), but we were appalled at how much the matinee cost for us. Ouch.
So, thumbs up from our house. Our first movie outing as a family. Victory!
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Solitude
Everyone else in the house is asleep. Well, Ray, the latest victim of our house-wide cold epidemic, might be awake due to his fitful coughing. But it's quiet. Other than the taps I make on the keyboard, the only sound I only hear is the distant rumbling of our dishwasher, and the occasional cough or sneeze from one recovering child or another.
It is silent, the heartbeat kind. I don't feel alone, or lonely. What I feel is energy in the peace of solitude.
I love being awake, active, while the rest of the house slumbers. Early or late, I like the stillness, the possibility of peace. Unfortunately, now that I'm not smoking, I don't find myself up early or up late as much as before. I don't know if it was the need for nicotine that roused me by six each morning, or just the habit that got me going, but these days I linger in bed until Ray reminds me that he actually has to go to work so I have to get up, please. It's the same at the other end. I no longer need to stay awake for that last smoke, so I can get to bed and read before another vain attempt at 8 hours of rest.
But on nights like tonight, I remember what I also loved about early rising, late retiring. It's the peace. The sense that all is right, while the kids are asleep, my husband dozes in our bed while listening to the news or ESPN. Uninterrupted, I can write or indulge in a full hour of yoga or answer emails or watch ridiculous mind-sucking television of my choosing (VH-1's 80s countdowns and the Lifetime Channel come to mind). I can have a cup of coffee or tea and watch the news, flip through catalogues. Being alone in a houseful of people is one fine feeling.
It's ironic that if I had this quiet all the time I would feel oppressed, depressed. Often I long for this ear-numbing stillness. Seventeen times during each chaotic day I fantasize about being by myself for days on end, with a white-sand beach endless before me, a stack of books and a week of sunny skies, a fantasy of being left alone, for god's sake.
And yet, as I confided to my CVS pharmacist this evening, when it is quiet, when the kids are out with Ray or it's late or I'm actually out in the world, on my own, I feel restless. It's disquieting. I am not myself. I feel like I left a limb behind. I eventually shake the feeling, during the course of my Me Time, but the truth is, early rising, late retiring, the solitude of my quiet house, is often all I need to balance my spirit. I don't have to leave my parenting behind to find peace.
So I can't escape my Momminess. But a beach vacation is on the top of my to-do list. Some day. Until then I'll have to pay more attention to my alarm clock when it faithfully buzzes at six a.m., and hope that my life continues to be more alluring than nicotine.
It is silent, the heartbeat kind. I don't feel alone, or lonely. What I feel is energy in the peace of solitude.
I love being awake, active, while the rest of the house slumbers. Early or late, I like the stillness, the possibility of peace. Unfortunately, now that I'm not smoking, I don't find myself up early or up late as much as before. I don't know if it was the need for nicotine that roused me by six each morning, or just the habit that got me going, but these days I linger in bed until Ray reminds me that he actually has to go to work so I have to get up, please. It's the same at the other end. I no longer need to stay awake for that last smoke, so I can get to bed and read before another vain attempt at 8 hours of rest.
But on nights like tonight, I remember what I also loved about early rising, late retiring. It's the peace. The sense that all is right, while the kids are asleep, my husband dozes in our bed while listening to the news or ESPN. Uninterrupted, I can write or indulge in a full hour of yoga or answer emails or watch ridiculous mind-sucking television of my choosing (VH-1's 80s countdowns and the Lifetime Channel come to mind). I can have a cup of coffee or tea and watch the news, flip through catalogues. Being alone in a houseful of people is one fine feeling.
It's ironic that if I had this quiet all the time I would feel oppressed, depressed. Often I long for this ear-numbing stillness. Seventeen times during each chaotic day I fantasize about being by myself for days on end, with a white-sand beach endless before me, a stack of books and a week of sunny skies, a fantasy of being left alone, for god's sake.
And yet, as I confided to my CVS pharmacist this evening, when it is quiet, when the kids are out with Ray or it's late or I'm actually out in the world, on my own, I feel restless. It's disquieting. I am not myself. I feel like I left a limb behind. I eventually shake the feeling, during the course of my Me Time, but the truth is, early rising, late retiring, the solitude of my quiet house, is often all I need to balance my spirit. I don't have to leave my parenting behind to find peace.
So I can't escape my Momminess. But a beach vacation is on the top of my to-do list. Some day. Until then I'll have to pay more attention to my alarm clock when it faithfully buzzes at six a.m., and hope that my life continues to be more alluring than nicotine.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Hooray!!
Let me take a moment to brag about my oldest's latest accomplishment! Mitzi and Cooper have both been participating in the elementary school's "1000 Book Club" program. It challenges preschoolers and kindergarteners to read -- or listen to -- one thousand books before first grade, the number of books one must hear in order to read independently. The program lets the kids borrow bags with 10 books in each, one bag at a time, until they finish the program. The kids are awarded prizes along the way for 25, 50, 75 and 100 bags.
Today, Mitzi officially finished, and received the final prize, this wonderful trophy. One thousand books. In just over one year. And she is just six years old. I'm very swollen with pride!
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Riding the Wind
The rain stopped mid-morning. Winds picked up, but mild temperatures remained. The three girls and I explored our yard, as if it were new terrain, a magnifying glass clutched in each of our hands. We spied a ladybug (though she sadly expired before Mitzi could capture her for further observation). Small green shoots are rising from the ground where I planted bulbs last fall. Though I can't remember what they are (crocuses, daffodils, tulips, among others, I seem to recall), seeing them heartened me, thrilled the girls. Spring is on the way. The trio chased each other, arms outstretched, palms up, smiles wide, circling the lawn, riding the heavy gusts of wind. In my mind's eyes, my little girls could rise, fly, coast to the horizon where anything is possible.
We spent a lot of time outside today, breathing, noticing changes within as well as without. Joanna can now climb the big-kid ladder of the swing set; Ellie maneuvered the monkey bars as easily as her brother does. Today, I'm reminded of the truth of time's passage. I'm sure we'll see at least one more storm before this winter finishes with us, but today I saw the future, in more ways than one. And I liked what I saw.
We spent a lot of time outside today, breathing, noticing changes within as well as without. Joanna can now climb the big-kid ladder of the swing set; Ellie maneuvered the monkey bars as easily as her brother does. Today, I'm reminded of the truth of time's passage. I'm sure we'll see at least one more storm before this winter finishes with us, but today I saw the future, in more ways than one. And I liked what I saw.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Like the Weather
Today all the snow in my yard melted. I am extremely grateful. This past winter of snow and freezing temperatures, staying indoors with my four rambunctious, wonderful, frustrating, loud, energetic, crazy kids has really tested my mothering skills. Stretched my sanity, my ability to cope. If spring doesn't arrive soon I may have to take a self-imposed exile to a Caribbean island for a few months. The doctors suggest yoga, sleep, relaxation for my stress. I suggest a glass of wine and a bubble ba†h.
Spring is around the corner, I remind myself (just look at the calendar). But here in New England, all bets are off until May. In May, tulips and daffodils will have opened, and the likelihood of more snow will have passed. April, as T.S. Eliot reminded us, is the cruelest month, especially up here. March is another story, especially early March, where we are.
Temperatures today in the mid-50s. Breathing outside felt great. But I am a stoic New Englander. I am still hunkered down. And grateful we bought that small, dangerous, one-child-at-a-time trampoline for the basement. Great for energy-busting. Bad for Mommy's worry-o-meter.
Tomorrow is another day of cool rain. I hope the saturated soil can make room for additional liquid or my basement may be in jeopardy. But if the temperatures stay mild, maybe I'll let the kids play outside anyway, regardless of the rain. Mental health is more important than cleanliness. After all, mud washes off.
And winter never lasts forever. It just seems that way, sometimes.
Spring is around the corner, I remind myself (just look at the calendar). But here in New England, all bets are off until May. In May, tulips and daffodils will have opened, and the likelihood of more snow will have passed. April, as T.S. Eliot reminded us, is the cruelest month, especially up here. March is another story, especially early March, where we are.
Temperatures today in the mid-50s. Breathing outside felt great. But I am a stoic New Englander. I am still hunkered down. And grateful we bought that small, dangerous, one-child-at-a-time trampoline for the basement. Great for energy-busting. Bad for Mommy's worry-o-meter.
Tomorrow is another day of cool rain. I hope the saturated soil can make room for additional liquid or my basement may be in jeopardy. But if the temperatures stay mild, maybe I'll let the kids play outside anyway, regardless of the rain. Mental health is more important than cleanliness. After all, mud washes off.
And winter never lasts forever. It just seems that way, sometimes.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Time Well Spent
I don't remember doing a whole lot when I was little. I mean, growing up, we four siblings hung out with each other, we hung out with kids in our neighborhood, we went to school. In the summer we had our house in New Hampshire and a whole different world of fun and activity, but that wasn't until I was well into elementary school.
What did we do? I can't remember, but I know it was mostly fun and I don't remember feeling deprived.
Have times changed that much? Do kids today need more than we did in the 70s?
Having four kids of my own, I already feel stressed and somewhat pressured to not only find fun stuff for them to be involved in, but also to make sure that activity time is equal per kid. All four take swimming lessons (equality, check!). One does soccer; another will start tee ball this spring. I feel guilty, and hunt for a dance class for number three. (Number four is still young enough that I don't feel bad for her lack of involvement. But I feel guilty for confessing that.) A dance class will right the scales.
Seriously. I'm that crazy. I'd really like to see Ellie do something by herself for once. But I can't bear to add another have-to to our schedule.
I'm already exhausted shuttling to and fro, scheduling and paying, outfitting and encouraging. And, compared to a lot of families, we hardly do anything. Mostly we just hang out at home or in the backyard (playground in nice weather), and enjoy each other, possibly a neighbor or two. A lot like my childhood, I remind myself, and that was just perfect for me.
So, I breathe. Maybe Ellie will have to wait for that ballet class, at least until summer (as Auntie Shelley suggested), when things are less hectic. Then I can focus on her, let her shine a little. It's not easy being number three of four (as I can attest, but that's a therapy session for another day). Giving her a chance to shine, having some alone time with her, that's what's important, why I'd like her to take ballet. Plus, she loves to dance. I can't imagine a few months will change that.
Parenting is never equal. Someone is up, another is down, one is getting more, while others are not. The sooner I accept that, the less crazy I will be. Breathe.
Today, following a heavy snowfall, the kids and I reworked the snow fort they built with Daddy over the weekend. We slid down our tiny hill on inflatable swim rings and plastic place mats. We repaired the snowman, and even had a snowball fight. We did it together, and it was all free, unscheduled, and unlimited.
And I'll bet that it's what will stay with them until they, like me, are parents, pushing forty. Not soccer or dance, but an impossibly bright blue-skied snow day with their siblings and their mom.
It's what I will remember.
What did we do? I can't remember, but I know it was mostly fun and I don't remember feeling deprived.
Have times changed that much? Do kids today need more than we did in the 70s?
Having four kids of my own, I already feel stressed and somewhat pressured to not only find fun stuff for them to be involved in, but also to make sure that activity time is equal per kid. All four take swimming lessons (equality, check!). One does soccer; another will start tee ball this spring. I feel guilty, and hunt for a dance class for number three. (Number four is still young enough that I don't feel bad for her lack of involvement. But I feel guilty for confessing that.) A dance class will right the scales.
Seriously. I'm that crazy. I'd really like to see Ellie do something by herself for once. But I can't bear to add another have-to to our schedule.
I'm already exhausted shuttling to and fro, scheduling and paying, outfitting and encouraging. And, compared to a lot of families, we hardly do anything. Mostly we just hang out at home or in the backyard (playground in nice weather), and enjoy each other, possibly a neighbor or two. A lot like my childhood, I remind myself, and that was just perfect for me.
So, I breathe. Maybe Ellie will have to wait for that ballet class, at least until summer (as Auntie Shelley suggested), when things are less hectic. Then I can focus on her, let her shine a little. It's not easy being number three of four (as I can attest, but that's a therapy session for another day). Giving her a chance to shine, having some alone time with her, that's what's important, why I'd like her to take ballet. Plus, she loves to dance. I can't imagine a few months will change that.
Parenting is never equal. Someone is up, another is down, one is getting more, while others are not. The sooner I accept that, the less crazy I will be. Breathe.
Today, following a heavy snowfall, the kids and I reworked the snow fort they built with Daddy over the weekend. We slid down our tiny hill on inflatable swim rings and plastic place mats. We repaired the snowman, and even had a snowball fight. We did it together, and it was all free, unscheduled, and unlimited.
And I'll bet that it's what will stay with them until they, like me, are parents, pushing forty. Not soccer or dance, but an impossibly bright blue-skied snow day with their siblings and their mom.
It's what I will remember.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Enlightenment
We seem to be living in a greener, more enlightened world. Or at least, in a world that wants to be greener and more enlightened.
I used to be earthy, crunchy. I did yoga daily, hiked, and took long walks. I held memberships in the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Federation. Sadly, as my life unfolded, these passions got lost in a small-city shuffle after I moved to Boston. Getting married and having kids somehow overshadowed my guitar-strumming, mantra-muttering self. I guess I wasn't someone who could readily reconcile those identities, though plenty of fine women do. All right, I was also a little bit lazy.
But this past year taught me a little bit about staying true to who you are, as well as spending some time on enlightenment. Well, if not enlightenment, then spending some time on clearing a little mind clutter, stepping outside of yourself to the bigger world. Doing this may mitigate some of the daily stresses we all feel, or so I'm told.
Lately I've revisited yoga and meditation and some old, familiar writers like Natalie Goldberg, who in her search for her writing self stumbled across her true self -- through writing practice and Zen Buddhism, Natalie embarked on a lifelong journey we all must face at one time or another. Or something like that. "Be here now," wrote Ram Dass in his book of the same title. (My cousin Marcello gave me this book about 15 years ago, when we were both exploring the same world. Alas, it was lost in a basement flood a few years ago.) The message is, of course, to be mindful of the moment, do what you're doing. Make a peanut butter sandwich without focusing on the bills to be paid or what you need at the pharmacy.
I've been trying. It flies against every modern thought of multi-tasking, the fuel on which we contemporary moms thrive. Once upon a time, moms were applauded for their ability to talk on the phone, help with math homework, cook dinner, fold laundry, and look beautiful, all at once. These days, while multi-tasking is a necessary evil of parenting, I have been striving for a more peaceful, Zen approach to my daily duties.
For instance, today, while changing Joanna's diaper, I think only of the tush, the rash, the cream. I actively ignore the sound from the living room, the smack of hand slapping on arm, as Ellie defends her toy from her brother's grasp.
I sigh, apply cream. The cream is white on red rash, I think. Yelling erupts from adjacent room. Be here now, I whisper, aligning diaper with rear end. Something heavy lands with a thump nearby; lack of cries indicate object is inanimate, not human. I fasten diaper, put legs in pants. The sound of sobs, soft and sniffly, waft to my ears, hallmark of a fight ebbing. I stand Joanna up and give her a kiss, send her on her way.
Natalie Goldberg's teacher Katagiri Roshi, in response to her description of an overwhelming emotion she was having, told her, "Pay no attention to that. Continue to feel your breath, bow, drink tea."
Having finished the task before me, I pay no attention to the noise from the other room, which has resolved itself quite well without me. With an almost undetectable bow, I head to the kitchen and turn on the stove to boil water for a cup of tea.
Of course, as students we often fail. Not all days am I able to watch my breath, meditate, and allow the chaos of parenting to flow around me. On many days, I sit on the couch after tucking the children in their beds, a glass of red wine by my side. Recently, I stood by the counter and mindfully swallow bite after delicious bite of the chocolate birthday cake we had for Cooper last Saturday.
I haven't decided which way is better. But whatever way, I hope that I can be present in my life, the moments that flow too quickly. Breathe, drink tea. Be grateful and bow.
I used to be earthy, crunchy. I did yoga daily, hiked, and took long walks. I held memberships in the Sierra Club and the World Wildlife Federation. Sadly, as my life unfolded, these passions got lost in a small-city shuffle after I moved to Boston. Getting married and having kids somehow overshadowed my guitar-strumming, mantra-muttering self. I guess I wasn't someone who could readily reconcile those identities, though plenty of fine women do. All right, I was also a little bit lazy.
But this past year taught me a little bit about staying true to who you are, as well as spending some time on enlightenment. Well, if not enlightenment, then spending some time on clearing a little mind clutter, stepping outside of yourself to the bigger world. Doing this may mitigate some of the daily stresses we all feel, or so I'm told.
Lately I've revisited yoga and meditation and some old, familiar writers like Natalie Goldberg, who in her search for her writing self stumbled across her true self -- through writing practice and Zen Buddhism, Natalie embarked on a lifelong journey we all must face at one time or another. Or something like that. "Be here now," wrote Ram Dass in his book of the same title. (My cousin Marcello gave me this book about 15 years ago, when we were both exploring the same world. Alas, it was lost in a basement flood a few years ago.) The message is, of course, to be mindful of the moment, do what you're doing. Make a peanut butter sandwich without focusing on the bills to be paid or what you need at the pharmacy.
I've been trying. It flies against every modern thought of multi-tasking, the fuel on which we contemporary moms thrive. Once upon a time, moms were applauded for their ability to talk on the phone, help with math homework, cook dinner, fold laundry, and look beautiful, all at once. These days, while multi-tasking is a necessary evil of parenting, I have been striving for a more peaceful, Zen approach to my daily duties.
For instance, today, while changing Joanna's diaper, I think only of the tush, the rash, the cream. I actively ignore the sound from the living room, the smack of hand slapping on arm, as Ellie defends her toy from her brother's grasp.
I sigh, apply cream. The cream is white on red rash, I think. Yelling erupts from adjacent room. Be here now, I whisper, aligning diaper with rear end. Something heavy lands with a thump nearby; lack of cries indicate object is inanimate, not human. I fasten diaper, put legs in pants. The sound of sobs, soft and sniffly, waft to my ears, hallmark of a fight ebbing. I stand Joanna up and give her a kiss, send her on her way.
Natalie Goldberg's teacher Katagiri Roshi, in response to her description of an overwhelming emotion she was having, told her, "Pay no attention to that. Continue to feel your breath, bow, drink tea."
Having finished the task before me, I pay no attention to the noise from the other room, which has resolved itself quite well without me. With an almost undetectable bow, I head to the kitchen and turn on the stove to boil water for a cup of tea.
Of course, as students we often fail. Not all days am I able to watch my breath, meditate, and allow the chaos of parenting to flow around me. On many days, I sit on the couch after tucking the children in their beds, a glass of red wine by my side. Recently, I stood by the counter and mindfully swallow bite after delicious bite of the chocolate birthday cake we had for Cooper last Saturday.
I haven't decided which way is better. But whatever way, I hope that I can be present in my life, the moments that flow too quickly. Breathe, drink tea. Be grateful and bow.
Monday, February 04, 2008
The Scariest Milestone
For most of her young six years, Mitzi has hit almost all of her milestones early. Talking, walking, SAT vocabulary. long division. She was always a little on the precocious side. But I'm not sure if age six is early or on time for her latest milestone. I just know that, for me, it was the most scary.
I don't remember all the details (although I suppose I should, shame on me). Maybe I've blocked them out. I think she and Cooper and I (and maybe Joanna and Ellie too?) were scrolling through the digital photos, and in one I was (shockingly enough) pregnant. I said to someone (who can keep track of them all?), "There you are in Mommy's tummy!".
To which Mitzi inquires, "But how does the baby get in the mommy's tummy in the first place?"
I almost burst into laughter. Here it was! What I'd been dreading ever since she started elementary school! (Well, that and her discovery about Santa Claus.) THE QUESTION! Of course, I had never thought of what my answer would be.
Luckily, Cooper interrupted us. "Mommy, can you print me a Star Wars picture to color?" I did, quickly, and Mitzi asked for one too, and we never got back to her query.
Whew. I've thought about it, and have practiced my answer. I have practiced not talking too much (which I usually do)and using exact terms to define and identify if necessary (which is sort of icky and embarrassing for me).
But Lord do I hope it doesn't come up again any time soon. I may break, and lie. Far easier. And that will be a lot of years of therapy, for her.
"Mommy, how does the baby get there?"
"Well, when a man and a woman really love, or like a whole lot, each other, in a special way. I mean, they are usually married, but sometimes they're not, but they really should be, although it could be okay if they're not. Well, they kiss and stuff, and don't you want to go work on a project? Let's get out the paint! And glue! And glitter! No, wait! Let's go to Build-A-Bear!"
On second thought, maybe it's me who needs the therapy.
I don't remember all the details (although I suppose I should, shame on me). Maybe I've blocked them out. I think she and Cooper and I (and maybe Joanna and Ellie too?) were scrolling through the digital photos, and in one I was (shockingly enough) pregnant. I said to someone (who can keep track of them all?), "There you are in Mommy's tummy!".
To which Mitzi inquires, "But how does the baby get in the mommy's tummy in the first place?"
I almost burst into laughter. Here it was! What I'd been dreading ever since she started elementary school! (Well, that and her discovery about Santa Claus.) THE QUESTION! Of course, I had never thought of what my answer would be.
Luckily, Cooper interrupted us. "Mommy, can you print me a Star Wars picture to color?" I did, quickly, and Mitzi asked for one too, and we never got back to her query.
Whew. I've thought about it, and have practiced my answer. I have practiced not talking too much (which I usually do)and using exact terms to define and identify if necessary (which is sort of icky and embarrassing for me).
But Lord do I hope it doesn't come up again any time soon. I may break, and lie. Far easier. And that will be a lot of years of therapy, for her.
"Mommy, how does the baby get there?"
"Well, when a man and a woman really love, or like a whole lot, each other, in a special way. I mean, they are usually married, but sometimes they're not, but they really should be, although it could be okay if they're not. Well, they kiss and stuff, and don't you want to go work on a project? Let's get out the paint! And glue! And glitter! No, wait! Let's go to Build-A-Bear!"
On second thought, maybe it's me who needs the therapy.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Ladybug, ladybug
We knew about the ladybugs before we moved into this house just over 2 years ago. While some work was being done, Ray would see them (alive or not) in the attic or the upstairs bathroom, and chalked it up to the doors being open so much. After we moved in we still saw them frequently, but, hey. They were ladybugs, not cockroaches. No big deal. We saw a lot of them last summer when our linden tree was infested with aphids. Ladybugs love to dine on aphids and other plant-eating insects. Great for your garden. We had a regular feast going on out back for the ladies (though not much in the way of a garden). In the still-warm days of October, these spotted insects would swarm around the house, like something out of a horror movie. I don't really know why. It was a little creepy and I refused to let the kids outside to play on those days. In all, of all creatures to visit your house, a cuddly ladybug isn't so bad.
Of course, you'd rather not keep them.
Ray has an endearing habit of releasing certain bugs back into the wild when he finds them in the house (moths and ladybugs, yes; bees and flies, no). He does this gently, faithfully. I am of the cynical opinion that he's simply releasing them to become a meal for a bird, spider or bat, and they'd be better off in my bathroom. But he is an eternal optimist. The average ladybug only lives about six weeks, not so long. It's enough for Ray though, who always wants everyone to have a fighting chance.
Now that it's winter, I am very sad for the ladybugs I find in the house. I don't think we have much for them to feed on inside, but whenever I spy a little lady on my bathroom curtain or bedroom wall, I leave her alone. It's too cold to cast her outside, though I know my house condemns her to an end a lot sooner than a few weeks. Alas, if one of the kids sees her, the poor creature is likely to be pinched to death by an over-eager preschooler. But I like to think many of them live to see another day.
Spring is just around the corner, and this year I may just have a garden for my little ladybugs. If they survive, they surely deserve it. Maybe I am a romantic, after all.
Remember that Sesame Street song "Ladybug Picnic"? Check it out on YouTube (where else?)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xr8vUTm64h0
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
On Another Note
While I'm drafting a post, I'm also cooking some of my mother's Christmas manicotti and her holiday meat gravy. If you have never eaten this, you are missing out on something otherworldly. The manicotti, light, perfection; the meat gravy, bursting with sausage, pepperoni, spare ribs, plain meat (whatever that is), sublime. I think if I can learn to make this (after years of assisting, you'd think I could by now), my family would be complete.
Judgment
Ray said he read my blog and was happy to see that he'd be getting kissed more. I guess the last year was sort of rough on him too. For everything, honey, thanks.
A mom friend from Connecticut with whom I had not spoken for a little while also read this blog recently and contacted me. (Okay, the link from my Facebook profile definitely increased traffic.) We enjoyed reconnecting, catching up on family lives, kids' growth, and that sort of thing.
One thing struck me, though. She confessed that she too had been a smoker -- for all the time we'd known one another. "I tried to hide it from you!" she said. She was sure I'd judge her as a mom. After all, other than feeding your kid cocaine, what crime could be worse than SMOKING?? She was happy to say she'd also quit and that it was still hard. (You said it!)
It's an awful fear we moms live in, the judgment we expect from other moms. Whether the issue is breastfeeding, potty training, or TV watching, you can be sure that most of us wonder how our choices are viewed by the rest of the ladies on the playground.
Or maybe it's just me. I will be the first to admit I have issues in this department. I have too many times made decisions based on what I thought others would think or do. These days, I gussy up the house for moms dropping of playdate pals; I temper opinions on sensitive issues expressed to new mom friends -- see breastfeeding mentioned above; I want to be liked.
I guess there's nothing wrong with that. At the same time, I know I'd do better to follow the advice I give to Mitzi and Cooper almost every day, the same words my mom uttered to me: Just be yourself.
It's hard for us insecure moms. I committed a lot of heinous Mommy Crimes...I tried to breastfeed but frankly didn't care for it and when some of the kids gave it up long, long before one year (hey, most barely made it past four months), I was glad. Glad! La Leche members cringe in unison! I smoked for a long time, even after I became a Mom. DSS get over here! Sometimes I yell at my kids. Sometimes I let them watch a lot of television. Sometimes we eat chicken nuggets and go to bed without having baths.
Sometimes everyone stays in pajamas until dinnertime. If we get dressed at all.
I am not perfect. You know that. And one day, I'll embrace that imperfection. Until then, don't judge me too harshly. We are all doing the best we can.
And to my mom friend, if you fall off the nonsmokers' wagon, don't worry. I'll be the first to help you back up, if you need me to -- but I will never judge you.
A mom friend from Connecticut with whom I had not spoken for a little while also read this blog recently and contacted me. (Okay, the link from my Facebook profile definitely increased traffic.) We enjoyed reconnecting, catching up on family lives, kids' growth, and that sort of thing.
One thing struck me, though. She confessed that she too had been a smoker -- for all the time we'd known one another. "I tried to hide it from you!" she said. She was sure I'd judge her as a mom. After all, other than feeding your kid cocaine, what crime could be worse than SMOKING?? She was happy to say she'd also quit and that it was still hard. (You said it!)
It's an awful fear we moms live in, the judgment we expect from other moms. Whether the issue is breastfeeding, potty training, or TV watching, you can be sure that most of us wonder how our choices are viewed by the rest of the ladies on the playground.
Or maybe it's just me. I will be the first to admit I have issues in this department. I have too many times made decisions based on what I thought others would think or do. These days, I gussy up the house for moms dropping of playdate pals; I temper opinions on sensitive issues expressed to new mom friends -- see breastfeeding mentioned above; I want to be liked.
I guess there's nothing wrong with that. At the same time, I know I'd do better to follow the advice I give to Mitzi and Cooper almost every day, the same words my mom uttered to me: Just be yourself.
It's hard for us insecure moms. I committed a lot of heinous Mommy Crimes...I tried to breastfeed but frankly didn't care for it and when some of the kids gave it up long, long before one year (hey, most barely made it past four months), I was glad. Glad! La Leche members cringe in unison! I smoked for a long time, even after I became a Mom. DSS get over here! Sometimes I yell at my kids. Sometimes I let them watch a lot of television. Sometimes we eat chicken nuggets and go to bed without having baths.
Sometimes everyone stays in pajamas until dinnertime. If we get dressed at all.
I am not perfect. You know that. And one day, I'll embrace that imperfection. Until then, don't judge me too harshly. We are all doing the best we can.
And to my mom friend, if you fall off the nonsmokers' wagon, don't worry. I'll be the first to help you back up, if you need me to -- but I will never judge you.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
New Year's Resolutions
Well, I had good intentions with this blog. But some stuff happened in 2007 and I didn't manage to get a single thought written.
I found the lump in my left breast the week before Christmas 2006, and rang in the new year waiting to see the doctor and agonizing over my discovery. In the six months that followed, I had a mammogram and a series of ultrasounds. Eventually in June 2007 a biopsy was performed, and the good news finally came. Benign tissue. One bullet dodged.
A month later I caught a cold. I got a sore throat and thought I felt a lump when I swallowed. Another three months, a trip to a specialist, a CT scan, and two "nodules" were discovered, one on my epiglottis and one on my thyroid. Surgery was scheduled for the beginning of October, and once again, good news followed. Bengin tissue. Bullet number two, dodged. A biopsy on the thyroid nodule had the same result. Number three.
You can't ask for better gifts than that.
So, I figured after getting luckly three times, it was time to shape up my act. During the throat issues, I quit smoking (again) but have managed to stay clean since the end of August 2007. As so many do, I made a few resolutions for 2008, mostly the usual ones.
Eat better -- more vegetables and more fruit. Mostly I save the good stuff for the kids and eat carbs.
Exercise -- More yoga (even bought a DVD for the kids to do with me); Ray and I bought a treadmill.
Get organized -- an uncluttered environment leads to uncluttered mind.
But here's the thing. Every one of the doctors I saw last year told me point-blank that I was too stressed, and most of my health issues (lumps notwithstanding) were directly related to that stress. So, here are my bigger resolutions:
Laugh every day.
Get to bed earlier.
Kiss my husband as much as possible.
Tell people how I feel.
Focus more on the accomplishments and less on the mess the kids make on the journey.
Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat as often as necessary.
Three passes last year, three misses, three gifts. It is a new year and I hope to make it the best yet.
I found the lump in my left breast the week before Christmas 2006, and rang in the new year waiting to see the doctor and agonizing over my discovery. In the six months that followed, I had a mammogram and a series of ultrasounds. Eventually in June 2007 a biopsy was performed, and the good news finally came. Benign tissue. One bullet dodged.
A month later I caught a cold. I got a sore throat and thought I felt a lump when I swallowed. Another three months, a trip to a specialist, a CT scan, and two "nodules" were discovered, one on my epiglottis and one on my thyroid. Surgery was scheduled for the beginning of October, and once again, good news followed. Bengin tissue. Bullet number two, dodged. A biopsy on the thyroid nodule had the same result. Number three.
You can't ask for better gifts than that.
So, I figured after getting luckly three times, it was time to shape up my act. During the throat issues, I quit smoking (again) but have managed to stay clean since the end of August 2007. As so many do, I made a few resolutions for 2008, mostly the usual ones.
Eat better -- more vegetables and more fruit. Mostly I save the good stuff for the kids and eat carbs.
Exercise -- More yoga (even bought a DVD for the kids to do with me); Ray and I bought a treadmill.
Get organized -- an uncluttered environment leads to uncluttered mind.
But here's the thing. Every one of the doctors I saw last year told me point-blank that I was too stressed, and most of my health issues (lumps notwithstanding) were directly related to that stress. So, here are my bigger resolutions:
Laugh every day.
Get to bed earlier.
Kiss my husband as much as possible.
Tell people how I feel.
Focus more on the accomplishments and less on the mess the kids make on the journey.
Breathe in, breathe out. Repeat as often as necessary.
Three passes last year, three misses, three gifts. It is a new year and I hope to make it the best yet.
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