Reign 'Em In, Lady

Excuse me while I steady myself on my high horse.

Okay, I’m ready.

I was at the doctor’s office on Wednesday (for the previously mentioned ear and sinus infection from which I am still suffering). While I waited to be called, I heard some children in the hallway. These weren’t normal, sweet toddler voices but rather loud, obnoxious, shrill shrieks pouring out of the mouths of three untamed girls whose ages I guessed to be 5, 3 and 18 months.

I’m a mom, so normally if I’m at a place where kids are loud (the playground, a party, a play date) I am not bothered. In fact, if my kids aren’t crying, I sometimes don’t even notice another child’s wails. But we were in a doctor’s office and I was sick, so the volume was even more intense and invasive. I watched as the young mom strutted into the room with her kids surrounding her. She didn’t return my weak smile and appeared to be completely oblivious to the ruckus her kids were making. Her arrogance was palpable as she spoke to the nurses and I knew I would have hated this woman if I met her at a party. (She’s what I refer to in previous posts as a “bitchy mom.”) She picked up a clipboard, took a seat and began to fill out her paperwork while her kids ran amok in the waiting area. The girls screamed, bickered and clubbed each other, and not once did this mother turn to them and say, “Girls, keep your voices down.” In fact, she said nothing to them the entire time I was in there. Mind you, I was not the only sick person in the room. At one point a young boy (who was probably only 18 months) tried to play with them. The girls were so rough with this little fellow (imagine, the girls bullied the boy!) he ran weeping to his mother. The boy’s mom was the antithesis of the girls’ mom. She quietly spoke to him and tried to help him. She kept looking at the other mom hoping to get her attention. The woman did not look her way.

I am personally surprised the woman was so oblivious because I was shooting daggers at her with my own eyes (she never looked at me, either). Her kids were so loud, rude and obnoxious I could not help but hate her. For one, I was really sick. And the last thing I wanted to hear was high-pitched, high-volume, whiny voices. Second, there is a time and a place to let kids be kids; the doctor’s office is not one of them. And third, the mom had three children and did not take responsibility for their actions. She did not teach them how to interact with each other, and did not teach them how to play nicely with others. The poor boy ended up crying on his mom’s lap and she stroked his head to comfort him. She tried to pick up a book to distract him, but you could tell he just wanted to play with the girls.

If I had been feeling better, I would have marched up to her and said, “I write a parenting blog and I just want to thank you for giving me material for what not to do as a parent.”

Instead, I sat, head hung low, wishing they would call my name quickly so I didn’t have to hear those voices any longer.

When the nurse finally called me in, I said, “Thank you. I wouldn’t have lasted another minute in there.”

She said, “Yeah, I heard. The other nurses were talking about those kids in there.”

Moms such as this bitchy one always amaze me. I can’t help but feel sorry for their children, too. Imagine growing up thinking your are the most important person on earth and that no rules or boundaries apply to you? I know friends who would say, “Well, maybe the mom has postpartum depression,” or “Maybe the mom is overwhelmed.” They may be right. But common sense is a factor here. No mom on earth can say she doesn’t know children should be quiet in a doctor’s office.

I think part of the reason I get so annoyed with these women is I think about the kind of people they are putting in the world: self-important rule breakers who will undoubtedly bully those around them. As parents shouldn’t we take pride in raising a generation better than our own? These folks are ruining it for those who try. Man, I just can’t stand them.

Okay, I’m done with my diatribe. Thanks for listening. And feel free to give me your own thoughts on this post.
Photo by Penny Bubar, courtesy of stock.xchng

Frenemies

The older I get, the more inclined I am to prune negative people from my life. I pluck those folks from my friend list swiftly because people with a bad attitude affect me greatly; they pull me down to the depths of misery and I don’t seem to put up much of a fight while they smother me in negativity. So in order to keep a happy outlook (and my sanity), I try to surround myself with like-minded folks who enjoy life and who are genuinely happy for others.

Which is why I decided I can no longer be friends with one of the moms I befriended.

As readers of this blog know, I was supposed to go to Los Angeles to visit friends and attend a reunion for my old company. I was really excited about this trip and could not stop talking about it. Then God had a good ol’ belly laugh and struck me with a high fever, ear infection and sinus infection. I was so ill I had to cancel my trip.

So what does my trip have to do with my ex-friend? On Monday she handed me an invitation to her daughter’s party. I glanced down and saw it was for tomorrow, Saturday, which meant she gave me five days notice. I realized when she handed it to me, however, the invitation was a blessing in disguise. My husband was supposed to be caring for the girls and he was already trying to figure out how he would manage their swimming lessons (he did not want to take them into the men’s locker room, and Aimee is too young to shower in the women's room by herself). This party is taking place at the same time as swimming, so I said, “Just take them there and blow off the lessons.” He was relieved.

I mentioned to my so-called friend that my husband would be the one to take my kids to the party. “Why?” she asked.

“I’m going to Los Angeles,” I said. “I have a reunion.”

“Oh,” she said, nodding. I could almost see the jealousy arise in her face. “You’re a free woman, aren’t you?”

Now, I’m not exactly sure how I was supposed to take that, so I asked her, “What do you mean?”

“Well, didn’t you just go on a trip by yourself?” she asked. Her envy was almost palpable.

I thought for a moment and said, “You mean last May? When I went to my friend’s fortieth birthday party?”

“Yeah,” she said.

I just nodded. I couldn't believe she was keeping tally.

Then she asked, “How’s the weather out there now?”

“I don’t know about the end of the week, but it has been pouring rain for a few days,” I said.

“Good,” she said, snidely.

Her comment sealed the deal for me. Good? Good? You wish someone – wait, your friend? – bad weather on their trip?

I got really defensive and decided to tell her how I was really feeling. “You know, I’m already nervous about boarding a plane without my children, so I could have used a little encouragement.”

She just smiled and said, “Well, why do you think I never go anywhere without them?”

I didn’t answer. I know the reason. It has nothing to do with leaving her kids. Her husband does not lift one finger around the house. He would never care for the kids alone. He works late, leaves early, and dictates everything she does and says. I know this because she tells me.

I mentioned my conversation to my husband and he tried to defend her. “No, she didn’t mean it that way,” he said. “She was joking.”

I started to argue and then said, “Listen, you don’t know her.” I explained how negative she is, how she complains about her husband, children and life constantly, and how I’ve never once heard her say, “Oh, that’s so great,” about someone else’s good fortune.

I am not a jealous person. When something good – a promotion, a raise, a bonus, anything – happens to a friend of mine, I am genuinely happy for them. And I expect my friends to feel the same for me. I want people to say, “Good for you!” I am too old to hang around people who wish me an ill fate, and I refuse to be a supportive friend to someone who won’t be the same in kind.

So, I’m ending my friendship with this person. It’s not going to be easy, because our children are good friends, but I will try to figure out a way for them to see each other without having to spend much time with her.

Letter of Thanks

When Lily was 18 months old I got the flu. Not just any flu, but a knock-down, drag-out killer flu that rendered me completely listless. But like most stay-at-home moms I know, I couldn’t call in sick. I had to take care of my child by myself. I was so ill, however, that at one point I totally passed out on the sofa and woke up a half an hour later, only to see Lily climbing on top of a chair in the living room. I panicked, called my husband and said, “You must come home now.”

In the job description of a SAHM there are no allotted sick days. We may have a few personal days, but those are few and far between. Most friends I know have family nearby, so when they got sick their parents (or in-laws) usually take their kids while they nurse themselves back to health. I have no family nearby, and therefore, unless I am on my deathbed, each time I get sick I have to manage taking cold medicine in between packing lunches and wiping bottoms.

Yesterday, however, an angel saved me. I woke with a fever of 102, chills and a massive ear and sinus infection. The kids were home due to a massive snow and ice storm that pounded our area. I felt so horrible I called my friend J in tears. “Go to the doctor,” she insisted. “And when you do, drop the girls off here. I will keep them all day and you can go home and rest.”

J and I actually met at the doctor’s office almost four years ago. Our kids took a liking to each other and we struck up a conversation. We enjoyed talking to each other so much we exchanged telephone numbers and became fast friends. The family practice we are part of is just a mile and a half from J’s house, so dropping the kids off was easy for me to do.

“Are you sure?” I asked. J has three boys of her own. I could not imagine adding two more kids to the mix, especially on a snow day where the weather was miserable. “Are you kidding me?” she said. “I wanted five kids. Bring them over!” (She’s not kidding, by the way. J loves children and wants at least four kids of her own.)

Reluctantly (but entirely grateful), I did as instructed. I made an appointment for 11:15 a.m. and dropped the girls off beforehand. J fed them lunch, a snack and even a delicious dinner (and made enough for my husband and me to eat at home, which almost made me cry when she handed over the platter of food). I was able to go back to bed after the doctor diagnosed me with a horrible infection. I slept the rest of the afternoon. When I woke up, I felt a thousand times better.

Had J not offered to take my kids I know I would not have felt as good as I did.

This post is a thank you letter to J, my savior. Although typing a few words will never convey how truly thankful I am or how much I appreciated what she did, I will do so nonetheless. I am so lucky to have a friend like J in my life here - someone who knows when I really needed help and who doesn’t hesitate to offer. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you, sister.

Photo by Dominik Gwarek, courtesy of stock.xchng

Sick

I woke up today with a fever, chills and sinus infection. I'm supposed to fly out tomorrow to visit friends in California. I have a doctor's appointment at 11 a.m. to find out if going on the plane is a crazy idea (I personally think it is). Until then, please pray that whatever keeps me safest is what transpires.

Watching The Wheels

I now know what a hamster on a wheel must feel like.

For the past four years (if you make the connection, you will realize those are the years Aimee has been in my life), I feel like I am constantly going over the same rules, the same consequences and the same frustration.

No wonder my head is spinning lately.

I am one of those people who focuses on the light at the end of the tunnel. In this case, however, the light is so faint, I can barely see it. I know my girls will eventually outgrow the testing and the temper tantrums. I know they will eventually outgrow the screaming and yelling. I know they will eventually stop wanting all my attention. The problem is, when all those things come true, they will finally be the kids I want to hang out with. But by that point, they probably won’t want to have anything to do with me.

Life can really suck sometimes.

So I try. I try to live in the moment. I try to tell myself, “Enjoy them now. They won’t be this cute or this innocent ever again.” But it’s hard when you are tired, when you have several schedules to juggle and on top of everything else, you have a smart 4-year-old who tests your every move.

I was never very good at taking tests, by the way.

Photo by Sarah Dawn Nichols, courtesy of stock.xchng

Number Game

When Lily was a newborn I had a pediatrician who didn’t focus on percentages and scales. Well, maybe he did, but he didn’t let the parents know about it. He believed that information was mainly for the doctor, and he used it to decide whether there was something wrong with the baby. He thought those statistics wreaked havoc on new parents because they compared those heights and pounds to their friends' children and inevitably got nervous and panicky.

The percentage scale is a funny thing. Some people I know use it to brag, others to joke. “Oh, he’s off the charts,” they’ll say, as if the numbers mean he has just won a gold medal. Or, “She’s such a string bean. She’s only in the tenth percentile.”

I remember when Lily was a few weeks old. Some of the other new moms I met were convinced I was not feeding her enough. She was a quick eater. She would nurse on my breast for five minutes – no more, no less – and in that time I knew she sucked down enough breast milk to help her grow (these were my breasts, after all. I could see how full they got). But she was a scrawny baby and all my other friends had these cute little chunky monkeys. So when she pulled off my breast after nursing they would say, “Burp her and put her back on,” (as if I never tried that). Hey, good idea, I'd say. Just to appease them, I would do what they asked in front of them. Lily would turn her head every which way to avoid that huge nipple headed her way. “Believe me now?” I would say. They just shook their heads. I’m sure they were wondering if they should call child protective services on me.

At age 1, Lily shot up like a spring. I can’t tell you if she changed percentages because I have no idea what her percentages were. I know now because our new pediatrician tells me. She’s something like 95 for height and 50-75 for weight. What does that mean to me? Absolutely nothing. I just know she outgrows her clothes faster than I can budget for them and she has gone through more shoes than Imelda Marcos. I personally think her growth is very expensive.

Whenever I hear people use those scales as if it meant their child was preternaturally gifted, I can’t help but laugh. I mean, how does growth have anything to do with being a parent? I crack up when people brag about how huge their kids are, too. As if those few inches and pounds give them a leg-up in the world or somehow makes them better than other children. Children grow as they are meant to. Just as kids eat when they are hungry and sleep when they are tired, they grow accordingly. Of course, if parents don’t provide the proper nourishment and sleep schedules, the kids growth may suffer a bit. But overall, the charts are just there to indicate if something is wrong.

I do know a time when percentages helped a friend of mine, however. She had a baby and he had terrible acid reflux. He lost weight, could not hold down most feedings and she voiced her concern to her doctor. The boy’s pediatrician, who also cared for her older son, treated my friend like a hysterical new mother (this boy was her second child). She noticed he dropped on the percentage scale dramatically and finally demanded he get the attention he needed. Because she used her intuition and didn’t listen to the doctor when he patted her arm and told her to calm down, the boy was seen by a specialist who rushed him into surgery. Turns out he needed a corrective procedure to close the flap on his esophagus because it was not closing on its own and was causing the acid reflux. Without that surgery the boy could have died. He wasn't getting the nutrients he needed.

So yes, the scales are important, when used to monitor a child. If your child suddenly drops on the charts, alert your family physician. If he or she stays on course, rest easy. But if you see me, keep the figures to yourself. (Unless you are joking about it, at which point I'll joke with you.)

Click here to learn more about growth charts.

Photo by Svilen Mushkatov, courtesy of stock.xchng

R-E-S-P-E-C-T!

I sometimes hear kids talk to their mothers and fathers so badly it is everything I can do not to jump in front of them and straighten those kids out. Of course, I’m sitting on a High Horse named Hypocrite because my own daughters (especially Aimee) speak to me so freshly, with such an attitude, that I, am often at a loss of how to handle it.

I say “at a loss” not because I don’t know what to do, but because what I do doesn’t always work. With Lily, all it takes is a stern, “Excuse me? When you’re ready to speak to me properly I’ll be happy to listen.” I turn away and ignore her. She immediately changes her tone and says what she wants to say in a polite manner. Aimee, on the other hand, will cross her arms, frown and yell – yell, I tell you – “Sorry!”

Um, okay, that sounds remorseful.

I say the same thing to both of them. Yet every day (yes, daily), Aimee yells at me (Lily not so much).

Man, am I sick of being a verbal punching bag.

What I don’t understand is this: how many times do kids need to test the waters? I never waiver on this point, even if they are tired, sick or just plain cranky. I say, “I know you are tired but you may not speak to me like that.” Or, “I understand you’re sick but I still expect you to speak nicely to me.”

Does it work? Considering I got yelled at three times in five minutes, I would say no.

So if you ever see me, jaw agape, staring at a child in public who is yelling at their parents, remind me that mine, too, do the same thing. I'll hop down off Hypocrisy and join the real world.
Photo by Cecile Graat, courtesy of stock.xchng

Listen To Me, Kid

The note to the left is what I had Lily do after school yesterday.

Thankfully I had all day to think about what had happened yesterday morning. Was I angry that she was yelling or was I angry that she woke me up? I decided it was a much bigger issue. Lily has not been listening to me lately. I will tell her to do something and she will nod and say, “Okay, Mom,” but then she will go about her business as if we never made an agreement.

I spoke to a therapist about this once and she said, “Is she really defying you, or is it that she is just a normal six-year-old child who gets sidetracked easily?” Hearing the situation put in those terms allowed me to stop getting so angry and, instead, become more empathetic.

However, sometimes it feels like she is just saying yes to appease me but still does whatever the hell she wants to do.

So when she got off the bus, I greeted her as I normally do, with a smile and a hug. I asked her how her day was and then I said, “Go and do the things you’re supposed to do. Wash your hands, get a snack and come and sit at the table.” She did as she was told but already started to get weepy. She knew she was in trouble.

When I saw her with the tears in her eyes, I said, “If you need a moment to stop crying, go upstairs and let me know when you can talk about this with me.”

“I don’t need a moment,” she said, wiping her face. “I’m ready now.”

I explained we were a family unit, a team. I told her we each had to do our own jobs in order for the family to work. “If my job is to make dinner and I don’t, what happens?” I asked.

“We’ll be hungry,” she said.

“Right. And if my job is to keep you safe and I decide I just don’t want to that day, what could happen?”

“We could get hurt.”

I also stressed how important it was that we hold up our agreements. “What if I was volunteering at your school one day and I decided I didn’t want to take a shower or do my hair. And I decided to wear old, stinky clothing. Would you be happy?”

She shook her head.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I wouldn’t like that.”

“And what if I said I would look good but then didn’t feel like going through all the work to look presentable?”

She stared at me. She knew where this was headed.

“The thing is, Lily, we don’t just do things because we feel like doing them. We have to think of how what we do will affect other people. On the day I volunteer, I may not want to take a shower or look nice, but I know that would embarrass you, so I do what I’m supposed to do. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

I then asked her if she wanted to talk about any feelings she had. “Mom, I was just so worried I’d miss school,” she said. “I didn’t want to miss it.”

I understood, I told her. “I’m not angry about that anymore. I am angry that you screamed and yelled so loudly you woke me up, but I do understand why you were concerned,” I said. “I forgive you.”

We spoke a bit more about how important trust is, and then I said, “And now I want you to write ‘I will listen to my parents’ ten times on a piece of paper.”

“Ten times?” she asked. “That’s a lot!”

“Yep,” I said. I handed her the paper and pencil. She got writer’s cramp at number eight. “This hurts, Mom,” she said.

I nodded. “If you need to take a break, go ahead. But finish.”

She did. When she handed me the paper I asked her, “What did you learn today?”

“That it’s important to listen to my mom and dad,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because we are a family and if we don’t do our jobs, our family won’t work.”

Good enough.

(Click here to read an interesting - and relevant - article about 6 to 8 years olds.)

Punishment done by Lily, age 6

Do Not Disturb

This is how I went to bed last night:

Just as my husband and I were about to crawl into bed, I heard, “Mommy!” and a loud wail. I rushed into Aimee’s room. “I threw up all over my bed!” she said.

I scooped her up and rushed her to the bathroom. She didn’t look “covered” in anything. My husband dealt with her while I grabbed a flashlight and inspected the damage. Barely a drop was on her bed. Instead, my good little girl tossed her cookies in a trashcan we left next to her bed just in case she got the stomach flu, too. (Boy, am I glad we did that. We did this for Lily and she, too, never got anything on her bed.)

I knew it was going to be a long night. “You better sleep downstairs,” I said to my husband. He grabbed his pillow and beat a hasty path to the guest room. Lucky man.

From 10:30 p.m. until about 2 a.m. I slept (well, “lay” is more precise) next to Aimee in my bed as she got sick three more times. I got up and wrote a note for Lily telling her not to wake us up because we were up all night and needed our rest.

This is how I woke up this morning:

I heard Lily, wailing loudly and speaking angrily because she saw my note and wanted to go to school. She was so noisy I heard her through a closed door, through a white-noise machine and all the way upstairs (she was downstairs).

Thoughts no mother should have ran amok in my head.

I went downstairs and said, “What on earth is going on?” She continued to wail.

I was livid. I had written her a note to let us sleep and instead she screams and yells and wakes me up.

“I want to go to school!” she said.

Meet my first child. She is responsible, a good student and someone who has anxiety about missing anything academic. In some respects having a child like this is a blessing because I don’t need to enforce how important education is. But when it comes to using her brain about other matters, she seems to be unable to use any other track.

I hadn’t planned on letting her go to school because I wasn’t sure she was better. But yesterday she was fever-free and even had an appetite. She also played with her sister a lot. So in hindsight, I’m sure she was fine.

I don’t care. I’m tired, and I’m upset she didn’t listen to my instructions.

“I was up all night,” I said to her. “I did not get much sleep at all. And I asked you not to wake us up.”

She stood there, arms crossed, tears in her eyes. There was no remorse, so apology.

I am at a loss. How do I handle this child? I used the whole, “How would you feel if?” technique, and she admitted she would be sad and upset. But again she said, “I want to go to school.”

Point taken. So I told her to make her sandwich while I cut up veggies and fruit. We packed the lunch and she got ready for the bus. I explained to her that I loved her but that I did not like her behavior. “When I tell you to do something, Lily, I expect you to listen.”

She just stared at me.

My husband tells me I need to chill out. “She’s just sowing her oats, figuring out how to be independent,” he says. That may be true. I want her to be independent. But I also want her to know when it’s all right to make her own decisions and when she needs to follow the rules. (My rules, that is.)

If any of you have some good advice, let me know. I’m going to go and take a nap now.

Belly Blues

My husband and I are very annoyed. Two nights ago we were in a neighboring town having dinner with the kids. A few minutes after we finished eating, Lily said to me, “Mom, my tummy hurts.” I asked her – three times – if she felt like she was going to throw up. “No!” she said each time I asked. Her answers became more defiant and angry each time. We paid the bill and walked to the car. I knew she was tired because the night before we went to my friend J's house and stayed up very late. She paused on the way to the car and sat on a bench. “Are you okay, honey?” I asked. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

“No,” she said. “I’m just tired.”

We got to the car. She put one foot inside and, voila! She threw up all over the seat. It was 7 degrees outside, I think.

Sometimes having a strong-willed child can be a good thing. This time, it was not. I know, she’s just a kid, you are thinking. (My friend J already tried to convince me of that.) The thing is, she has been incredibly defiant lately. For instance, the night before, when we got them into bed at 10:30 p.m. (three hours past their bedtime), I instructed both my kids to sleep in. “But what about ballet?” Lily asked.

“Your class doesn’t begin until eleven,” I reminded her. “You can sleep as long as you like.”

“What about Aimee?” she asked. Aimee's class was at 9 a.m.

“Don’t worry about Aimee. And do not wake her up, got it?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.

So what did she do? At 7:50 a.m. she woke Aimee up, saying, “Aimee, wake up! It’s almost eight o’clock. Wake up or you’ll miss ballet!”

I wanted to throttle her when I found out. I made her pick from the consequence bag instead. If there is one thing I cannot stand it’s when one of my children wakes the other. Not just for obvious reasons but also because I am the one who pays for their bad mood and tiredness.

Back to the car incident.

We rushed Lily to the side of a building and said, “If you are going to be sick again, do it here.” This time, she listened. Sort of. She stood erect and threw up all over her coat. (Seriously? Did I drop her on her head as a baby?) “I feel better,” she announced. I had to laugh. Her statement was so ridiculous. Because meanwhile, we were knee deep in vomit.

My husband could not handle the crisis. It was freezing, we had nothing with us to clean up the mess (save for an old blanket, a few tissues and a coloring book that we had in the back) and when our resources ran out he declared, “Everybody, back in the car!”

“No!” said Aimee. “It smells disgusting!” She began to cry. My husband forced her into her car seat and she started to gag, several times. I started laughing again (I often get the giggles in a crisis, which helps calm my nerves but doesn’t make my husband feel very good.) Aimee held a mitten over her mouth the entire ride home. She wouldn't even speak to my husband she was so angry.

When we got home, I cleaned the kids off and got them to bed while my dear husband washed and cleaned the car in the below freezing temperatures.

Did I mention we are planning on trading in this car for a new one?

Say, "Aaaaah!"

My neighbor came up to me the other day with a friend of hers and said, “This is Rochelle. Her daughter is getting her tonsils out and I told her Aimee did it last year. Do you mind talking to her about it?”

I was happy to do so. When Aimee was 3 years old, I had hers taken out. At the time, she weighed 28 pounds. There were babies I knew who weighed more than she did. She had a lot of energy and when she was younger, she was a really good eater. But there were a few things about her that concerned me. For one, she gulped down her food, barely taking the time to chew it (turns out she couldn’t breathe when her mouth was full). Second, she snored like a drunken frat boy. Third, she was always saying, “I’m tired,” even though she got a seemingly good night’s sleep (the right amount for her age) as well as a nap. Fourth, her tonsils were the size of golf balls. You may think I’m exaggerating, but one of them actually touched her uvula. And, of course, there was her height and weight, which were significantly smaller than her way-above-average sister.

I mentioned my concerns to my pediatrician. She looked at Aimee, held Aimee’s chin in her hands and said, “Open up, sweetie.” After a quick examination, she said, “Yep, she has some large tonsils all right. But does she get sick a lot?”

“No,” I said.

“Does she get many ear infections?”

“Again, no,” I said.

“How does she sleep?” she asked.

“Fine,” I said. Then I thought more about it. “Well, actually, she’s an incredibly light sleeper. And I do notice she snores so loudly she has even woken me on occasion, and I’m in the next room. And our doors are closed!”

“Hmm,” she said.

There are four pediatricians in the family practice and I like them all. I mentioned my concern to three of them and one said to me, “Do you really want her to go under general anesthesia for something she will probably outgrow?” I thought about what he said for a while but my maternal instinct made me investigate further.

Another said to me, “Check her breathing at night. If you notice she stops for a few seconds and starts again, then she has sleep apnea, and that is very dangerous.”

I did as I was told and watched her. Sure enough, she would stop breathing and take a whopping breath after a few seconds. I realized I needed to take control. “I want you to give me the name of an ear, nose and throat specialist,” I demanded. “This has gone on long enough.”

One look at Aimee’s tonsils and the ENT I called said, “Those have got to come out. Look at her – she’s tiny. There’s a failure to thrive. She needs to have her tonsils and adenoids removed.”

“When?”

“Next week. Speak to the nurse about the preparation,” he said.

Did I like the idea of my kid going under the knife? Not one bit. But has the decision been a good one? You bet. In fact, I believe it is the best (and scariest) decision I have made so far. Since last April, when she had the tonsils and adenoids removed, she has grown six inches and gained six pounds. All that in just eight months! Newborns and babies are supposed to grow and gain at that kind of speed, but a child this age is not. Which proves to me that she was indeed failing to thrive. She sleeps so soundly now (and without a peep) that sometimes I put my hand on her heart to make sure she’s still alive. She is a deep sleeper now, and only at naptime and bedtime do I hear the words, “I’m tired.” Her appetite is ferocious and even though she’s still a string bean, she now has muscle and definition in her limbs. She looks very, very healthy now.

So do I recommend getting the surgery? Absolutely. But I definitely know removing the tonsils is not for every child. If your child exhibits any of the signs I mentioned about Aimee, make the decision for yourself and don’t just rely on your pediatrician’s advice. (Click here to read more on tonsils and tonsillectomies.)

If you are thinking about having your child's tonsils removed, feel free to e-mail me at areluctantmom@yahoo.com. I'll be happy to tell you my experience before, during and after the surgery.

Photo by Julia Freeman-Woolpert, courtesy of stock.xchng

Single Mom Syndrome

When my husband and I got married, everyone commented on how nice it was that we were both journalists. “You must really understand each other,” they said.

Uh-huh.

One would think I would be really understanding when my husband got stuck at work for a big story. I mean, I was a reporter and writer, I knew how much time and effort it took to get a story done. And in general, I am sympathetic to his schedule. But when I had my first child, and she was colicky and cried for hours at a time, and I nursed her throughout the night and barely got a moment to take a shower, let’s just say I was less than supportive.

Okay, I was really pissed off.

My husband happened to get a job covering a beat that was explosive at the time Lily was born. So he was out the door by 6 a.m. and often not back home until 10 p.m. or later. So, for the entire week, I would be a single mom. (Man, do I have a huge amount of respect for single moms, by the way. I bow down deeply to them with tons of humility.) I remember once when Lily was eight weeks old and had been crying for probably the third hour in a row. I picked up the phone, dialed his work number, and when my husband answered I just held the receiver to her screeching wail. “Get home,” I demanded. “Now.” I hung up.

He didn’t like it when I did that.

(That night, when he got home and she was still crying, he held her for a while and then said to me, “Oh, my God. How do you still like her?” His ever-present wit surfaced again when, on a weekend one day, she pulled another wailing stint. He looked over at me and dryly quipped, “So… when does she become a joy?”)

My husband usually calls to tell me when he’s coming home. There is a 5:40 p.m. train, a 6:15 p.m. train and a 6:30 p.m. train. He thinks all three are “early” trains. What he fails to understand is this: coming home at 7:00 p.m. (which is when he would walk in the door if he took the first train) is somewhat early (although when the kids were younger, it wasn’t). At that point he can still take over the bedtime routine. My kids now take a shower themselves (Lily helps Aimee), so at least I’m done doing that, but they still need help brushing their teeth and someone needs to read them a bedtime story (or more). So coming home at 7:30 p.m. or 8:00 p.m. (which is when the 6:15 p.m. and 6:30 p.m. train get in), is the same as coming home at midnight. As I said to him once, “If you can get on the 5:40 p.m. train, great. If not, don’t bother to call. It won’t make a difference.”

Looking back, I realize how bad we both had it. He was new to the company and I was new to motherhood. He could not control the outcome of the news in the same way I could not control our newborn. Thankfully I also realized I was angry at our situation, not at him. I hated being the single mom for five days in a row, and he was growing tired of his grueling schedule.

Here we are, almost seven years later, and although some things have changed, one has not: my status during the week. His schedule is still demanding (however, his hours are slightly shorter) and instead of one child we now have two. Our lives are better overall (the kids are growing and becoming more independent) but I still feel like a single mom from Monday through Friday. I have gotten used to being on my own because I realize I cannot change the situation, but there are days when doing everything for the children becomes extremely taxing.

I know in time things will get even easier. I look forward to those days because I know once they do, my resentment will subside and relief will take its place.

I can't wait.

Photo by Zurien Onn, courtesy of stock.xchng

Too Nice

I met a mom at Aimee’s school who is really nice. A bit too nice, unfortunately. I know that sounds so strange, but hear me out. She has invited me over to her house for lunch twice, and both times she made delicious but very labor-intensive meals. What’s wrong with that, you may ask? There is no way I can return the favor.

Lunch is my least favorite meal of the day. In fact, if I could stay full from breakfast to dinner, I would be thrilled. Since I cook almost every night for dinner, I don’t like thinking about what to make for lunch. I’m not a big sandwich person; I can only have soup every so often. And salads? Well, salads are good but they require a lot of preparation. No thanks.

The idea of inviting someone over and making a nice meal is about as appealing as plucking my bikini area with pair of pliers. Besides, the middle of the day is when I really look forward to a break. Aimee has quiet time, Lily is still at school and I enjoy a little time to myself. I read a book, talk to a friend or watch some mindless television. I don’t want more than that. And with this person, lunch turns into play time, and play time turns into a long, sometimes forced, conversation.

And although I somewhat enjoy this woman’s company, I don’t think we have a lot in common. For one, she has a full-time nanny. Before you judge, here’s why: she’s on maternity leave and will return to work in a couple of weeks. In order for the nanny to be available after her leave ended, she needed to keep her on the entire time. (I think she enjoys the liberty of having help at her leisure, too. Hey, who wouldn’t?) So when I go there, the nanny is always hovering around. I don't know whether to include her in the conversation (which is hard, since her English is minor) or ignore her (which makes me feel like an ass). Yet another reason I feel very uncomfortable.

I have met moms like this one and overall, I can’t be friends with them. The stress of keeping up is too high. I want my life to be less complicated, not more, and having a friend who prepares fancy meals for lunch is too much for me.

I know some of you might think, “You’re not obliged to return the favor. Just be her friend.” Easy enough for you to say. I wasn’t raised that way. My mom drilled into my head something I can’t get out: when people invite you to their home you need to do the same. “It’s just polite,” she insisted. And since I’m such a sheep-like rule follower I’d have to invite her over and do something as fantastic as she did.

Instead, I took her out to lunch. My guilt was slightly assuaged, but the whole time I was watching her for signs of disapproval. Did she like her food? Was she wishing we were at my house instead?

Of course she was probably perfectly happy, but I still felt strange about it. I felt inadequate. And frankly, who needs to feel that way with a friend?

She has tried to invite me over again for lunch but I have since declined. Instead, I opt for the occasional play date because dishing out snacks is easy. Those I have plenty of.

Notice me!

I notice everything. Being observant is not a trait I’m proud of, because I think it stems from my mom having such a critical eye on me. So when I look at the average person, I see tufts of hair in men’s ears (and fantasize about plucking them), a blackhead on the side of the jaw (and picture myself extracting it) and a bra strap peeking out of a blouse (it’s everything I can do not to tuck it back in).

My attention to detail drives me absolutely crazy.

Because I am so obsessed with these small, ordinary flaws, I am constantly picking on my poor husband. If he has a pimple I point it out; if he has an errant hair I pluck it. He is constantly swatting my hand away from his head, saying, “Please. Just stop it.”

I wish I could, but I can’t. I am possessed.

So one would think I’d be as meticulous about my own appearance as I am about others. Nope. For one, I can barely see myself that closely. Now that I’m in my 40s I have to wear glasses, so noticing any imperfections on my own body is hard to do. So I stupidly rely on my husband, which is a really bad idea. For one, he doesn’t notice. Anything. I got a haircut, had highlights put in and he did not say a word until I mentioned my day with the hairdresser. “You did?” he said eyeing me up and down after my confession. “Huh.”

My eldest daughter, Lily, is an unreliable source as well. She lives life with her head in the clouds. She will walk around all day with a huge smear of peanut butter mashed upon her cheek. Her hair will be in her face, her skirt will be sideways and still she is none the wiser. When I see her like this I am forced to take deep breaths so I don’t say something awful like, “Wipe your face, for God’s sake, can’t you see what a mess you are?”

Her insouciance is refreshing, but I just cannot trust her to tell me if I have to wax my upper lip.

Imagine my delight when, at age 2, my younger daughter Aimee proved herself to be the Little Gumshoe I always wanted around. One evening while the kids were sleeping I went to the store and bought some shampoo for the girls. I put it above the tub, next to the other bath products. The next morning, Aimee walked into the bathroom and the first thing she said was, “Did you get some new shampoo, Mommy?”

I was shocked. She didn’t know I went to the store. She didn’t know I needed to get some shampoo. And yet, right away, she spotted the difference on the shelf.

Thank you, God.

Today as I was doing her hair, she said, “Mommy, you have something red on your nose.”

“I do?” I asked.

“Yes, there,” she said, pointing.

I looked in the mirror and, sure enough, there was a tiny dot of blood on it. I must have scratched it earlier and didn’t notice.

“Thanks, honey,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling.

Getting older is scary for me, because with age comes all sorts of blemishes and stray hairs on one’s face and other places. I don’t want people to look at me and think, “Geez, lady, get it together, will ya?” I want someone who will kindly tell me when I have something up my nose, a stain on my clothes or, more importantly, tell me it’s time to start plucking.

I realize I sound completely vain and, more to the point, obsessed with beauty in others. I swear, I’m not. What I am, however, is totally anal retentive and controlling. I like my t’s crossed and my i’s dotted. I’m a hot mess, but I’m working on those horrible characteristics.

Until then, if you see me, please tell me if there is something amiss. I will love you forever.

Photo by Paul Barker, courtesy of stock.xchng

Kid Fears, Adult Learns

My husband and I took our kids out to dinner last night. We decided to go to an Asian-fusion restaurant that featured a Hibachi grill. For the past two years, my kids have been deathly afraid of the “fire,” as they call it. The flames, they claimed, scared them to death. But three days ago, Aimee announced, “Mommy, I’m not scared of the fire anymore.”

“Me, neither,” said Lily, not wanting to be one-upped by her little sister.

“You aren’t?” I said.

“Nope,” they said.

“Great. Then let’s go have Hibachi this weekend.”

“Yay!”

So last night we did. The girls sat bravely at the table surrounding the searing hot grill. Lily, however, started behaving really badly, which is uncharacteristic of her. Of the two girls, Lily is the one who sits down, eats her food and behaves very maturely. She has done this since she was a baby, and never once did I worry about taking her out to eat. This night, however, acted like a surly teenager. “I don’t want this,” she said. “I want teriyaki chicken!”

She folded her arms and spoke rudely to my husband and me. She was so impolite other people looked at us and I started to get embarrassed. I pulled her from the table and took her outside. “Your behavior is unacceptable,” I said. “The way you are speaking to Daddy and me is rude and I won’t allow it. I want you to go back in, sit down and speak nicely. If you cannot do that, we are leaving,” I said. I stared at her a few seconds and said, “Are you ready to behave?”

She nodded and we walked back to the table. I spoke to my husband in Arabic and said, “You need to back me up on this. Tell her she may not speak that way to you.” Thankfully, he agreed and said, “Lily, we are at a restaurant. If you want to talk to your mom or me, speak nicely.” She just nodded.

When the chef arrived at a neighboring table, Aimee started to get uncomfortable. When he poured the oil on the grill and set the fire ablaze, she jumped off her chair and hid under the table. “Mommy, Mommy! I’m scared, I’m scared!” she said.

I calmly took her and said, “Aimee, I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.” Lily, meanwhile, ducked her head under my husband’s arm. She, however, kept one eye on the fire.

I pulled Aimee up and said, “Come sit on my lap. I’ll protect you.”

The fire was put out almost immediately and I explained what was going on. Finally, Aimee uncovered her face and looked over. “See?” I said. “It’s all over.”

Her little body relaxed and soon our appetizers were being served. She jumped back into her chair and ate happily. Then, our chef showed up. I said, “Aimee, Daddy and I would never take you to a place where you could get hurt. Stay with me and you’ll be fine.”

This time she didn’t seem as scared, but she did hop back on my lap and say, “Mommy, you cover my ears and I’ll cover my eyes, okay? Tell me when it’s over.”

Lily, this time, watched carefully. “It’s funny,” she said, laughing nervously.

My husband looked over at me and said, “Now I get it.”

“What?” I asked.

“She was nervous. She was scared of the fire and that’s why she was behaving badly.”

He was right. They were also very hungry. Scared and hungry is a potentially disastrous combination, even with adults. No wonder she was so rude to us.

I leaned over and said, “Is that why? Is that why you were so upset?”

“Yeah,” she said softly.

“It’s okay,” I said. “I understand. And I really like the way you’re behaving now.”

The rest of the evening went smoothly. Aimee also quickly got over her fear and when the next table’s chef showed up, she didn’t even balk. “Look at you, you’re so brave!” I said to Aimee.

“Aren’t I brave?” Lily asked, eyes downward. She was frowning. I felt bad for not recognizing her.

“Yes, you are,” I said, stroking her arm.

“You didn’t tell me I was brave,” she said. She wouldn’t look at me.

I laughed and said, “Because you weren’t the one who jumped down and hid under the table!”

We both shared a laugh. “But,” I said, “I should have said you were brave, because you are. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. I kissed her. I am so lucky she has a good heart.

I often forget to give kudos to Lily when they are due. Being the bigger kid, I just assume she understands. But she is not even 7 years old, and I should remember to give her the attention she needs as well.

Photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski, courtesy of stock.xchng

Pride

As an Egyptian-American living in the post-9/11 United States, I have uneasy feelings about parenting my girls in a society that is largely anti-Arab. I have touched upon this in previous posts (click here to read one) but recently I had a debate with my husband about it. Lily, who is in first grade, was the Giant of the Week at school, which meant the children in her class got to know a little bit about her every day. On Friday, I was asked to read a story to the children, as well as show a talent. I thought it would be fun to write the kids’ names in Arabic and show them how I did it (frankly, I don’t have much talent to speak of other than that). Lily agreed. When Lily’s teacher found out, she expressed her delight as well. “The kids will love it,” she said to me.

Before I heard back from the teacher, I mentioned what I was going to do to my husband. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he said.

“Why?” I asked. I knew where this conversation was headed. I had entertained the exact same thoughts he was mulling over at this moment.

“Well, do we really want to call attention to the fact that she is different?” he said. By “different,” he meant half-Egyptian, as well as Muslim. (My husband, I have mentioned, is a Midwestern WASP. Although he grew up in Tehran, Iran, from age 3 to age 9, and although he lived in Cairo, Egypt, for six years, he still looks and acts 100 percent American to the average man on the street.)

I was overcome by emotion and immediately got tears in my eyes. Moments after the terrorists struck the World Trade Center (I was pregnant with Lily at the time), I knew my life as a Muslim and as an Arab-American would change drastically. Here was my worst fear staring at me in the face: my children would be singled out just because they happened to be my kids.

I wiped my face, blew my nose and said, “You know what? We need to teach our kids to be proud of whom they are. Just because a few morons ruined my culture and religious background doesn’t mean we are part of that group.”

“I know. I feel terrible even thinking these thoughts,” he said. “I just…”

“I know,” I said. “I had the same thoughts. I don’t want other kids to make fun of her for being different or weird, either.”

I explained how I also thought the kids were too young to think being Arab-American or Muslim was strange or uncool. “If they get to know her as their peer, and then discover they like her first, it won’t matter,” I said, perhaps naively.

My dear husband, ever the protector, said, “I just don’t want to give them ammunition to make fun of her later.”

When the teacher called the next day and said she was looking forward to my visit, her words allayed my fears. I told my husband what she said.

“Cool,” he said.

So on Friday, I went in. I had prepared the cards in advance (the ones Aimee accidentally drenched with water on the Bad Mommy day) and printed out several copies of the Arabic alphabet. When I began my presentation, the kids were rapt. I showed them the index cards with their names in English and Arabic and read how different some of the names sounded in Arabic compared to English. The kids loved it! Lily’s teacher was fascinated as well.

“Could you maybe give a demonstration?” she asked, pulling the dry erase board toward me.

“Sure,” I said. They asked me to write a sentence and I showed them how and what I would write. Then I wrote my name and showed them how different it looked in Arabic. I did the same with the numbers.

“Wow!” a few of them said. They giggled a lot. Especially when a name sounded different in Arabic. “Lily, for example, is Leelee in Arabic,” I said. “And David is Daoud.” They thought that was a riot.

When the presentation was over, the kids thanked me and I left feeling elated. I am so happy I didn’t balk when my husband expressed his concerns (concerns I admittedly had myself). I’m also glad I didn’t shy away from a potentially disastrous situation.

I later asked Lily if she enjoyed having me in the class.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “It was fun.”

“Did the kids like it?” I asked.

“Yes, they thought it was funny,” she said.

Funny is good. Considering how the morning could have gone, I will definitely take funny.

Photo by Dani Simmonds, courtesy of stock.xchng

Kindness

The other morning I woke up and found my door open as well as the door to the bathroom. A few minutes later I saw Aimee peeking her little head in. “I need to go potty,” she said. “I had an accident.”

I knew this would happen. I made dinner late the night before and we didn’t sit down to eat until almost seven o’clock at night. Aimee slurped down a big cup of milk, and even though she went to the bathroom before bed, I had a feeling she would not be able to make it through the night. I stupidly ignored my maternal instinct because previously, when Aimee had a full bladder, she would just wake up, go to the bathroom and go back to bed. This time, however, she must have been deep in sleep.

“It’s okay, though,” she said. “I used a wipe on my nightgown and changed my underwear.”

I looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?” I asked. Then it dawned on me. “Did you just now have an accident, or did you have one in the middle of the night?”

“In the middle of the night,” she said. She showed me to her room, pointed to the corner of her bed and said, “I slept here where there is no pee-pee and went back to sleep. I barely had any covers,” she said, frowning.

Little sweetheart. I bent down and kissed her. “Did you see me sleeping and not want to wake me up?” I asked. She nodded. “I knew you were tired,” she said.

Finally. Some empathy! I thanked her profusely, pulled off her sheets and bed covers and took them downstairs.

“Next time, if this happens, change your nightgown, too,” I said. And if your covers are wet, you can crawl into Lily’s bed as long as you don’t wake her up.” I thought about telling her to sleep with me, but decided that would set a bad precedent. Hey, the kid gets me. Why mess that up?

“Okay, Mommy,” she said.

“I really appreciate you letting me sleep,” I said. “That was very considerate of you.”

“I know you get crabby when you don’t get enough,” she said.

Uh-oh.

Photo by Sam Veres, courtesy of stock.xchng

A Bad Week

“Bad Mother, table for one?”

That would be me, head hung low, stepping up to answer the call. Man, I was a bad mom this week. Not just bad, but hypocritical, loud, rude and the kind of mom I would stare at, mouth agape, if I ever saw her on the street. Honestly, I have no idea what ghastly creature entered my body, but she has seriously got to go.

I finally kicked that witch to the curb last night, thankfully. But here’s what happened before I did:

First, allow me to preface this story by saying I really need to exercise. I am not someone who is overly concerned with weight or my fat intake (considering I ate seven – yes, seven – chocolate chip cookies yesterday, you can take me at my word). However, I need exercise to control my stress level. When my father died, I sunk into such a major depression that the only way I could rid myself of grief was to work out daily. I have since cut back to a few days a week, but I need those days to keep me calm.

And until this morning, I had not worked out in two weeks. So, geez, was I crabby.

On Tuesday, Aimee stayed home from school because she said her throat hurt. I assumed she would soon get a fever, so I kept her with me and had to cancel my workout. (She ended up being just fine, thank you very much, and her temperature never got above 99 degrees.) A day home with Aimee is unlike a day home with the average 4-year-old. For one, she does not stop talking. Ever. She will ask every single question that pops into her head, even if she knows the answer. And considering my mood was already verging on the border of surly, I had about as much patience for her as a senior citizen who has always hated kids.

Tuesday evening, Lily threw a fit because I told Aimee to take a shower first. She got so upset and disrespectful I said, “Time to pick from the consequence bag.”

(Jenny, if you’re reading this, God bless you for that idea.)

“No! No! No!” she said. “I hate the consequence bag!”

I walked her calmly to the kitchen where we keep the bags and held it out for her to pick. She reluctantly selected one, took a peek and said, “No! I hate this one! I’m throwing it away!”

I thought for sure it she picked “no t.v. for one day” because she regards that loss as the most serious consequence of all. Instead, it said “10 minutes on your bed.” Generally, when she picks that, she willingly goes up to her room and enjoys a bit of solace. Not this time.

She tried to rip the paper up, but I gave her a look that said, “Do it and you just may lose your fingers.” She handed me the paper and stomped up the steps, wailing the entire way to her room.

I won’t bore you all with the details but let’s just say things went from bad to worse. Both girls had tantrums (yes, plural), no one listened to me, and I ended up screaming at them. A lot. They went to bed upset and I went downstairs feeling like a jerk.

Oh, but if only the story ended there.

Yesterday the kids had a school opening delay thanks to a massive storm of freezing rain. So once again, my workout got canceled. (At some point after hearing the news that I could not exercise, the seven cookies entered my mouth.) The kids both went to school but by the afternoon, I was already tired and even more grumpy (think the 7,000 calorie snack had something to do with it?). To add more stress to my already tapped body, we are in the middle of refinancing our house. I also need to add that Lily has just not been listening to me. I cannot tell if she is outright ignoring me or just such a distracted 6-year-old she forgets what she is told. Nonetheless, having to repeat myself more than once is dancing on my last nerve.

So last night after Lily finished her homework I sat down and began a task we had to complete for school. Lily is the "Giant of the Week" at school, which means the class gets to learn a little bit about her every day. On Friday I'm supposed to go to the class, read a book and show them a skill or talent. I suggested writing the kids’ names in Arabic. The teacher - and Lily - both loved the idea, so last night we sat down writing the names together. While doing so, the girls got feisty, started jumping around and spilled an entire cup of water on the pile of cards I had just written. The water also drenched Lily’s homework, which should have been put away.

I lost my effing mind.

I started screaming. I yelled so loudly I lost my voice. I could see the fear on their faces and yet I could not control myself. I saw images of my own parents' twisted, scary faces when they were angry with me flash through my mind and even thought, “Stop it! You’re behaving like a lunatic,” but the rage consumed me. I sent them both away while I cleaned up and calmed down.

Thank God I did that because I was able to regain my composure and have a heart-to-heart talk with each of them separately. I apologized for yelling and said I was wrong. They both accepted my apology, and by dinner all was well. But while I made dinner I left to get something in the other room and saw the note above. It says (edited for clarity, as some of it got cut off in the scan): “To Mom. I am not your daughter anymore. Love, Lily. Grrrr!”

I started laughing softly to myself. "Good for her," I thought.

After dinner I said to Lily, “I got your note.”

“What note?” she asked.

“The one about not being my daughter,” I said.

“Oh," she said, bowing her head. "I was just mad."

“I know. But I just want you to know something. I love you dearly and to me, you will always be my daughter, even if you don’t want to be. So if you decide you want to come back and be my daughter, I will always accept you.”

“I know,” she said. “I want to be your daughter.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I love you very much and would be very sad without you.”

All's well that ends well.

Letter by Lily, age 6 and three-quarters.

Losing Touch

Have you ever lost touch with a friend and wondered, several years later, why that ever happened? I had a good friend named Ann who I have been trying to find for years. We both attended Salzburg College in Salzburg, Austria, for a semester while in college. She and I were really close and when the semester ended, she came to visit me in California (where I was living at the time) and I went to visit her in Maryland (at her family home). After that, we didn’t see each other again.

I have since pondered our losing touch. Did I insult her? Did I make her family angry? I have no idea. I thought we had a great time together. Thanks to the invention of Facebook I have reconnected with a mutual friend who has said he would try and find her (their families live in the same town). I got tired of waiting and went to her college Web site in the hopes of finding an e-mail. Eureka! I found one and sent her an e-mail two days ago. So far, she has not responded.

My attempt to find Ann reminded me of someone I reconnected with on Facebook. The woman, Jessica, sent me a message and said, “I have an awkward question. Whatever happened to our friendship? I remember we worked together and then all of a sudden, we weren’t friends anymore. Did I do something to offend you?”

Her question left me dumbfounded. I have no idea what happened. In fact, I barely remember anything, it was so long ago. I was in my early 20s, went out quite a bit and probably killed off the brain cells I needed to remember those days. I wrote her back and said, “Honestly, I have no idea. Whatever happened couldn’t have been that bad because I have no recollection. Bye-gones, baby!”

I can only imagine the e-mail address I had for Ann is old, or maybe I did do something so awful she still, after all these years, cannot forgive me (but wouldn’t I know?). I would like to know, because I would like the opportunity to either explain myself or apologize.

Maybe, however, she just felt the friendship ran its course. Sometimes that happens. I often counsel friends who are at that point with someone they know. I say, “Look, as we get older, we recognize there are friends who are there for you no matter the situation, there are friends who are just there for you to have a good time, and there are friends with whom you keep the friendship because you have a history. You just have to tailor your expectations and interactions with those people accordingly. If you can’t do that, then cut the cord and move on.”

Because I came from such a small family, and because I have always wanted a sister, I used to view the close friends I made as relatives. By doing so, I got hurt. A lot. Many of those friends were not able to give me the same love and affection in return (they probably got enough at home). As I’ve grown, I have changed the way I make friends and I’m much more selective. But I have held onto those women who added to my life experience and whose friendship provides laughter, love and encouragement.

Ann was one of those women, which I think is why I’m sad we are not in touch. I hope to find her one day, but if not, my guess is the universe has other plans for me.

Landscape photo of Salzburg, Austria, courtesy of stock.xchng

Momma's Boys

Has anyone seen the show Momma’s Boys? I almost don’t even want to write about it because I don’t want to give it any more attention than it might already have. This show, and other reality programs where women are brought together in clusters to catfight over a man (or two), makes me want to take my television and toss it out the window.

So, naturally, when I feel that strongly against something I am also magnetically drawn to it. I had to watch it a couple of times to see just how bad it really is.

And man, is it bad.

For those of you unfamiliar with Momma’s Boys, it features three bachelors who are incredibly attached to their mothers. These women (the moms, that is) are so controlling of their sons they want to have a say in the women they choose. So, to mix things up (and get ratings, no doubt) the moms move into the mansion where all the blushing wannabe brides are living.

As with any reality show of this genre, half the women have very colorful pasts. One is the Penthouse Pet of the Year but she comes across as the sweet girl-next-door; several others have posed in the nude on the Internet and in Playboy; and one has had so much plastic surgery and gone on so many shopping sprees she is more than $125,000 in debt. She is in her early 20s.

The most distasteful part about this show is one of the moms. She admitted she only wanted her son to pick a white woman. “Not a black, not a Muslim, no Jewish girls - I can't stand them - no Asian girls, just a white girl.” She makes derogatory and racist comments on every show.

Are you read for this mother’s ethnicity? She’s Iraqi-American and Catholic. Way to turn the other cheek, sweetheart.

Women – wait, make that people – such as this woman make my blood boil. She witnessed her son kissing a gorgeous African-American woman and went ballistic. “I can’t believe my son is kissing a black,” she said. “I didn’t raise him to do that.”

To do what, exactly? Have good taste? After that horrific statement she had the nerve to go and sit with two black women and say, “I’m not racist. Am I? I love you guys. But… I don’t know.” She kissed the girls and told them she loved them, but her actions were totally implausible. The woman would kill herself if one of them were her daughter-in-law.

I am horrified that someone in modern-day America – especially someone whose family has undoubtedly been the object of prejudice and hatred – could have such animosity for a person entirely based on the color of their skin. I know, I know, I’m being naïve. I just thought, especially after the country voted an African-American into office as the 44th president of the United States (by a landslide, nonetheless), that Americans have finally turned a corner.

Boy, was I wrong.

I say this with all honesty: I do not care if my kids fall in love with someone from another race. Considering they are from mixed ethnicities themselves, I would be a hypocrite to dictate those kind of boundaries. The only requirement I ask of my girls is that they find someone who is educated because I am a snob about one thing and that’s schooling. Call me what you will, but education is one point I have a hard time budging on. Then again, if she meets Bill Gates’ son and he’s a genius who invents something spectacular but dropped out of college, I may change my mind.

Until then, I stand my ground.

Photo by Kati Garner, courtesy of stock.xchng

Negligent

The other day my family and I were shopping at an art supply store. My husband noticed a young girl wandering the aisles by herself. “Hey,” he said softly to her. “Are you okay?”

I looked up and saw her face. “You go help her, I’ll stay here with the kids,” he said.

I get nervous in these situations because I want to help kids who have lost their parents yet I don’t want them to trust strangers. My husband admitted the same feeling, saying, “As a man, I feel weird walking up to a child who is alone. I don’t want anyone to think I’m doing something wrong.”

I went to the girl, who was visibly frightened and said, “Are you looking for your Mommy?”

She cowered and started walking quickly up and down the aisle, whimpering as she looked around. I said, “Let’s find someone to help you. What’s your name?”

“Lucy,” she said. I looked around, hoping her parent would come racing around the corner and find her. I spotted an employee and said, “This little girl is lost. Can you help us find her mom?

The man – a boy, really, because he couldn’t have been more than 17 years old – just stared at me and did nothing. I ignored him and just started calling out, “Lucy’s mom! Lucy’s mom! Where are you?”

Finally the girl turned and sprinted toward the front of the store toward a man who was clearly her father. “Daddy!” she said.

“What’s up, honey?” he said. “I was just over there. Were you looking for me?”

“She was very scared and lost,” I said. The whole incident took at least five minutes. He didn’t thank me, he just laughed and scooped her up and continued to shop.

I told my husband what had happened and he said, “Figures. Her dad lost her.”

I started laughing and said, “Exactly!”

The idea of a father being negligent is one that I have heard tossed around among moms since I first had Lily. The main complaint at play dates when we were all new mothers was how dads just didn't pay enough attention to what the children were doing and how worried the moms were that bad things would happen when the kids were in the father's care. I wasn't nearly as nervous as those women, but I did understand their pain. I am controlling by nature, but being a mom has mellowed me incredibly. Part of the process of loosening my grip has been allowing my husband to parent our kids the way he sees fit (as long as we're on the same page, of course). I often have holes bitten into my tongue because I don't want to micromanage him. But unlike some dads out there, my husband is even more protective of our kids than I am. He is the one who doesn't want our daughter to cross the street and walk to a friend's house (who is three doors down) without me. He is the one who doesn't want her to stand alone - directly across the street - at the bus stop for fear that someone will snatch her. (I allow her to do both, but I keep an eye on her while she does.)

“The exact same thing happened at the store the other day," my husband said. "I saw a kid crying and looking lost and finally she found her dad who was oblivious."

Several aspects of this story upset me. First, the obvious reason. If my husband wasn’t a nice guy, this girl would have wandered the store alone looking for her father and some deviant could have taken her away. Second, I was appalled that the employees didn’t act swiftly when told a girl was locked. I know in some stores they implement a strict lockdown when a child is reported missing. They bolt the doors and search the entire store until the child is found. Third, and more upsetting, was this man’s face when he found her. He looked at her like, “What’s the big deal? I’m shopping here, you know.” The girl could not have been more than 3 years or 4 years old.

I don’t live in constant fear that someone is going to steal my kids (although I have entertained that fear often, especially when to a busy place), but I am very aware where my kids are at all times. I don’t let my girls play hide-and-seek in stores because, I tell them, my job is to keep them safe and I can’t do that if I can’t see them.

John Walsh, the man whose 6-year-old was kidnapped and murdered, and who began America’s Most Wanted as a result of that incident, recently discovered who killed his son (a violent sex offender who had been in jail for several years). The boy had been shopping at Sears with his mom and said to his mom that he was going to a different aisle to look for something. She never saw her son again.

The overabundance of information has made us a paranoid nation, and these incidents are probably rare. But can you imagine being a parent whose child gets kidnapped? I hope I am never someone who suffers that pain.

I have no idea what age is the right age to let our children have some freedom in a store. I went to the American Girl store in Manhattan and saw a mom tell her two girls, age 8 and 10, they could look around but had to stay together. Are kids that age trustworthy enough to listen to their moms? What if one of them gets sidetracked and inadvertently moves to another part of the store?

I don’t want to be one of those moms who has to keep a tight leash on her kids. I want my children to feel they can make choices and I also want them to learn how to handle themselves in the world. Before we went to the city I did stop and say, “Kids, we are going to a very busy store. If you get lost, I want you to go up to another mother and tell her you are looking for your mom. Make sure the woman has kids with her. Got it?”

They nodded. “Tell me in your own words what I just said,” I said. They repeated to me what they should do if they got lost. I give them this lecture every time we go to a busy store, an amusement park or someone I fear we might get separated.

If your husband is one who keeps a very loose eye on your kids, print out this blog post for him. I'm sure he, like any other parent out there, would never forgive himself if he lose his child.

Photo by Keith Richalds, courtesy of stock.xchng

Eighteen Is Sixteen Too Many

Is it just me or is anyone else bothered by the Duggar family having their 18th baby? Or that they "can't wait to have more"? (Click here to read more about this family.)

Here’s the thing: even though I only wanted two kids, I totally understand the desire to have a big family. I see friends who come from big families and I watch in awe as they attend large family gatherings. Coming from a family of four, where the only living relatives are a continent away, and now having a situation where the two of us are not even speaking, I can see how having more than two children would be a good idea.

But 18? To me, that isn't just crazy, it's irresponsible.

Okay, before you jump down my throat and tell me it’s the parents’ right to choose how many kids they want, blah, blah, blah, allow me to give my perspective. For one, there are so many kids who need a home (and do not have parents to raise them), so why not raise those children? Second, our planet is suffering. We waste so much, and adding so many kids to the population is not exactly green. Third, I can barely pay attention to two kids; how on earth are those parents able to spend quality time with each son or daughter? They cannot. In fact, they admitted the kids do a lot of the raising and helping around the house. They are robbing those kids of a normal childhood. How many of you at a very young age changed diapers, fed babies and did a million chores?

I do think it’s a great idea to have kids contribute to the household. In fact, studies indicate having children help around the house builds confidence and self-esteem. But making kids parent their siblings is just wrong. For one, it does not establish a sibling bond, but more likely a parent-child bond that will foster jealously, resentment and anger. Just ask my father-in-law, whose parents made him dole out the punishment for his younger brother. Those two can barely be in the same room together now.

I wish parents would just parent, and kids would be allowed to be just kids.

Photo by John Nyberg, courtesy of stock.xchng

Bad Moves

A few days ago my afternoon looked as if it was going to be a good one. Aimee’s friend’s mom asked if Aimee could come over for a play date, and I had already arranged for a play date for Lily, so I had an hour and a half all to myself.

I told Linda, the mom who lives down the street (and whose parenting drives me insane) that I would be back to pick Lily up shortly after 5 p.m. At 5:07 p.m. I rang the doorbell. Aimee was with me and she said, “Mommy, ring it again. It’s taking them a long time.”

She was right. We had to ring the bell a couple of times before she finally came to the door. “Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know if you could hear us.”

“Oh, we were in the back room,” she said. I walked back into the house and saw the girls in front of the television set.

“Oh, they’re watching television?” I said, my dismay brewing.

“No, they’re playing a video game,” she said. “I turned it on for them at five o’clock.”

I was completely annoyed at this point. For one, Lily was only there an hour and a half - did they really need to play a video game? Second, I would have liked her to call and ask if it was all right if they play a video game because I would have said no. Third, she turned on the game only a few minutes before my arrival, which meant I had to sit and wait for half an hour for the game to finish. I know I could have interrupted and just told Lily it was time to go, but Aimee asked if she could have a turn and they swiftly handed over the remote. As soon as the game ended I announced it was time to leave.

On the way home, Lily said, “Mom, I really want a Wii,” Lily said to me. “I really, really want one.”

“It sounds like you really want one,” I said.

“Can I get one? Please? Please?” she asked.

I looked at her and said, “Lily, a Wii is a very expensive game. Kathy's grandmother gave it to the whole family for Christmas.”

“So can I get one, too?” she asked.

This is the point in parenting where I wish there was an expert’s voice in my ear telling me exactly what to say. Instead, I just ignored her, which was probably not the best solution. “Go and wash your hands while I get dinner on the table,” I said.

Later she asked me again for the game. “Can’t you ask Anna?” she asked, using the name we call my mom (it means grandma in Arabic).

This is where I got really pissed off. My mom came here at Thanksgiving and was overly generous with my girls. When she took them to Target one day and bought them two gifts of their choice, I had to prod them into thanking her. “Thanks, Anna,” they both said with the enthusiasm of a sloth.

“Um, excuse me,” I said to them. “Can I ask you a question?”

They looked up at me. “If you did something really nice for someone, and they responded the way you two just did, how do you think you would feel?” I asked. “In case you’re confused, let me illustrate.”

I showed them the difference between saying, “Thanks,” and “Hey, thanks so much! That was very thoughtful of you!”

They giggled and then I said. “Let’s try that again.”

They thanked my mom again, with only slightly more vigor. I rolled my eyes.

I don’t know if their attitude is because they are too young to understand or if it’s because my children are so ridiculously jaded, but either way I was mortified. I don’t understand how they cannot be more appreciative. When someone gives me a gift I am truly thankful. I don’t care if it’s a $10 gift card or a $200 iPhone. I am just thrilled they thought of me.

So what is the problem with my dumb kids?

Lily asked me again if we could ask my mom for the Wii. “No,” I said. “I will not ask her for such an expensive present. If you really want a Wii, save your money. You can buy one yourself.” (Here's the rub: if I asked my mom for that she would have given it to my girls. That's why I am keeping mum.)

Of course, at the rate of $3.00 a week, it may take a bit longer than she expects to get the money (about 83 weeks). But that is the point of giving an allowance. To teach my kids how long it takes to earn money to buy things. I can only hope the lesson hits home.
Photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski, courtesy of stock.xchng

In Memoriam

For many years today was a very difficult day for me. On January 2, 1997, my father passed away. I was exceptionally close to my father and always felt he was the only ally I had in my family. My mom and my brother were very similar (still are, despite the falling out they had) and my dad and I were similar. So when he died, I felt completely and utterly alone.

Thank God for therapy. And maturity.

I have since grown much closer to my mom. My dad’s passing simply made it easier for me to get to know her. Until he died she always seemed too interested in her own life to care about mine. But with a lot of reflection and thought, I realized she was my ally on a lot of issues as well. For one, she stood by my side when I met an American man who was nothing like the spouse she or my dad envisioned for their daughter. “If you are happy, and you think he will make you happy, then I give you my blessings,” she said unconditionally. (She even argued in my defense when my dad protested our union. He died 10 months before we got married.) I don’t know many moms who would have said that to their children, especially since she had much loftier plans for me than I did.

I admire my mom for a lot of the things she did when I was growing up. I marvel at how she let me, at age 19, go to Austria for a semester of college and then travel around Europe unsupervised with my friends. I think about how protective I feel about my own kids and can’t imagine how she allowed me to do that. I used to never feel she was supportive of my choices, but now I see I was wrong. A few months after I gave birth to Lily she gave me a piece that was priceless (when I bemoaned that I might not get to find a career I loved): “I started my career at age forty, honey. If I can do it, I know you can, too.” Knowing how successful she became in such a short time has given me courage to one day go back to work and start a new career. I’ll be older than 40, but I will have the confidence of someone with cheerleading team beside them.

I miss my dad a lot, but as I’ve mentioned before, when horrible things happen to me there is always a silver lining. My father’s death gave me the gift of my mother’s life. Although I wish he was around to see my daughters (I am sure he would have loved them deeply), I feel his presence and know he is up there smiling down on us, saying, “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not missing a thing.”

Photo by Dan Shirley, courtesy of stock.xchng

Happy New Year!

My friend Melinda called me yesterday and asked what I was doing for New Year’s Eve. I laughed – hard – because I don’t think I have celebrated New Year’s Eve since the millennium.

“Yes, we have,” my husband corrected me when I told him what I said to her. “We went out when we first moved to New York.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay, so since 2000 then.”

New Year’s Eve, to me, is one of those holidays that is just too much pressure. Before I got married I would dress up and attend a lame party in the hopes of meeting someone cute and fun only to go home deflated and curse the night. There is nothing more insulting than celebrating a new year and having no one to share it with.

I remember the millennium celebration because of its remarkable moment in history (the 21st century) and because my husband and I flew to London to meet up with some friends. We all had an incredible time. (Our friends came from France and brought caseloads of champagne and fresh oysters – they mentioned something about the two culinary delights being a French tradition of ringing in the New Year.) Now that we have kids, however, the idea of staying up past midnight, getting more than tipsy and nursing a brutal hangover the next day is about as appealing and standing naked in Central Park with bells hanging from my nipples.

I’m just not that into it.

I am excited about the prospect of a new year, however. Last year happened to be a very taxing and trying year for my family and me. There were many medical scares, a falling out with my brother and several sessions at a therapist’s office to help me deal with all that drama.

This is the first year in a long, long time where I feel good about the future. My children are getting older, which means they are becoming more self-sufficient. My self-reflection and adjustment of thinking has helped me realize that life really is too short for all that nonsense.

Happy New Year, everybody. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a good one.

Photo by Billy Alexander, courtesy of stock.xchng