Winning The Strong Will Battle

A battle I often fight with my youngest daughter is held at mealtime. It’s not that I’m trying to get her to eat; it’s how I get her to eat. My demands aren’t outrageous, either: I just want her to eat without using her fingers and without playing with her food.

Is that so much to ask?

I remember going through something similar with Lily. Every time she used her fingers I would take her plate, set the timer for one minute and give the food back to her after the timer rang. This took only a couple of times and she never used her hands again. (My friend Lisa once told me raising kids is a lot like dog training. She is so right.)

Then came dear, sweet Aimee. Born with the middle finger extended, a stronger will and a keen desire to get a reaction, this child enjoys fighting back. The other night I took her plate away three times and each time she would scream, “I’m hungry! I’m hungry!” (Note to parents: when kids have this type of reaction you know you are getting to them and that what you are doing is working. They know food is important to parents and they also know a mother doesn't want her child going hungry. But Ladies and Gents, don't be fooled. Kids will eat when they are hungry, and when they test the boundaries they are usually full).

I replied, “Good. Then you will use your utensils when I give you your food back.” I waited until the timer rang and put her plate back on her placemat.

After the third time she used her fist to stuff some rice in her mouth, I thought, “This isn’t working.” I know Aimee is the type of child you cannot give a million chances to - just like with tickets, there cannot be a lot of threats, just immediate consequences. So I said, “Aimee, no more chances. Next time I see you do that, the meal is over.” She ate almost ever bite without using her fingers, but when I could tell she was full, she began testing me again.

“You may be excused,” I said, taking her plate. “Dinner is over.”

She began to yell, “I’m not done! I’m not done!” I knew she was furious because I didn’t let her get to me and, more importantly, because she couldn't control the situation.

I ignored her and cleared it. I then gave her a ticket for screaming at me.

At lunch the next day, she tried it again. This time, I told her she had one chance. She obliged for a while and then, same as the night before, took a piece of spaghetti in her hand while eyeing me and dropped it slowly into her mouth. I took her plate and said, “Meal’s over. You may be excused.” This time she did not argue.

“Okay,” she said, stepping down from her seat.

Sigh. This is going to be a lesson we will both have to work at to learn.

Photo by Asif Akbar, courtesy of stock.xchng

Here We Go Again.

Oh, boy. Looks like someone just earned a Ph.D. in moron.

I’m referring to a man who distributed a few hand-painted signs that are stirring up hate and anger in Florida. Apparently the pastor (that’s a religious leader, right?) of the Dove World Outreach Center in Gainesville, Florida, posted signs that read, simply: “Islam is of the devil.”

Oooh. Don’t you just get all warm and squishy inside when someone tells you who to hate?

Could somebody explain something to me? Christianity, from what I understand, is about loving thy neighbor, turning the other cheek and accepting thy brother, right? I just need clarification, because I don’t see anything “Christian” about those signs and the fact that the pastor put them up is really confusing to me.

I know the majority of Americans aren’t privy to these types of stories and because of that, I choose to write about them on this blog. I believe knowledge is power and with that knowledge you can change the word one step at a time.

Or at least I’m hopeful.

But, then I read more about how an advocate for the Council on American-Islamic Relations (CAIR) unsuccessfully met with the pastor. After a 25-minute dialogue, the pastor flatly refused to take any of the signs down and did not want to learn the truth about Islam or Muslims. (Click here, click here, click here, click here, and click here to read my other posts on related topics.)

“A lot of the things he was raising were not even about Islam. They were about countries with Muslim majorities,” said Ramzy Kiliç, the CAIR advocate. “Many Muslims come to America so they can practice Islam freely. I don't even consider Osama bin Laden a Muslim.” (News flash to readers: most Muslims do not believe Osama bin Laden is a Muslim.)

According to an article on Gainsville.com, Jones called the sign a "great act of love."

Wow. That’s love all right. Nothing like all that gorgeous, loving hatred in your heart to get you through the day, huh?

I believe in the First Amendment and I believe in America. I know hate speech must be protected because if not, we cannot protect any speech. But that doesn’t take away the fact that these signs incite hate, anger and violence against a majority of people who just want to live their lives the same way you do.

I’ll end with a poem by Martin Niemoller, a Lutheran pastor and head of the anti-Nazi Confessing Church. He was arrested for "malicious attacks against the state" and spent seven years in the Dachau and Sachsenhausen. In 1945 he was released by the Allies. I think his words say it all:

“In Germany, they first came for the Communists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. Then they came for the Jews, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. Then they came for the trade unionists, and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. Then they came for the Catholics and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Catholic. Then they came for me - and by that time there was nobody left to speak up.”

Sorry. So Sorry.

When I was a child I had to beg my mother for forgiveness. I’m talking drop to my knees, weep tears of remorse and apologize over and over for whatever error I had committed. “I’m sorry, Mom! I’m so sorry!” I used to cry, tears racing so fast out of my eyes I could barely see. My mother would sit in front of me, stone-faced, until she was satisfied with my bowing and scraping. Finally, she would say, “Well, you should be sorry.”

Meanwhile, my mother had the opposite problem: in my entire childhood I don’t think I have ever heard her say those two words or admit her guilt. No matter what the situation, in her mind she was always right. (She has since changed a great deal and even though she still has a hard time apologizing, she will do it if proven wrong. This is the outcome of our change in relationship dynamic. Thank goodness for small miracles.)

My mom’s inability to say she was sorry had a profound (and ill) effect on me. When I met my husband and we had an argument, I also remained tight-lipped, refusing to express remorse. “Why won’t you just say you’re sorry?” my husband would ask me. When I finally thought about what he had said, I realized just how wrong I was. Now the words, “I’m really sorry” tumble easily out of my mouth and I can freely admit when I am wrong. (Okay, sometimes the words don't come out so freely. I never said I was perfect.)

When I had my children, however, something wonderful happened. The Apology Fairy came to my house and dumped a generous portion of Sorry Dust over my head as I slept. As a result, I have absolutely no restraint when it comes to admitting guilt with either of my girls. “I’m so sorry,” I have said to each of them, many times. “That’s okay,” they will say back. We hug and all is better. There is no drama – we just move on.

Because I am able to request forgiveness my children do so easily as well – with me and with each other. Even if I’m extremely angry at something they have done, I always respond, “It’s okay,” or “I accept your apology” if they admit fault. They behave the same way with others and with me, freely doling out absolution where needed.

Considering my dysfunctional upbringing it’s no shock that apologies weren’t normal. My brother, when I expressed my dismay at something he had done, would say, “I’m sorry you feel…”

Um, yeah. That’s not quite the generous spirit I was hoping to find. (News flash: apologies don’t make others feel bad.)

I feel I’ve come a long way from the child who hated to say she was sorry (and, frankly, wouldn’t you have a hard time eating crow if you had to work super hard to do so and not get any reward in the end?). I never, ever want my children to feel they have to beg for mercy. To do so is both humiliating and demeaning. (Seriously. A simple apology wasn’t enough? Who acts that way?)

My husband will tell you I still have to work on my skills but he doesn’t realize where I began my journey. The fact that I can be regretful without feeling like I’m giving away a part of my soul is a huge step for me. I’m thrilled that I haven’t passed down that hateful tradition to my children and for that, I will be forever grateful (and not one bit sorry).

Photo by Sophie, courtesy of stock.xchng

Girl Friday

There are times when I feel like I’m the go-to gal for everyone in my path. My husband, who will be cooking in the kitchen, will hand me something to throw away as if I'm his assistant. Aimee will also hand me something to throw away (this happens at different times). Each time they do this, they are standing no less than two feet away from the garbage can, sometimes less. Stupidly, I accept the trash they are handing me and dutifully toss it in the bin. And then I think, “Wait. What just happened here?”

I feel this kind of thing happens to me all the time; I will be ordered to do something by someone when they are perfectly capable of doing it themselves. And yet, I blindly oblige. My friend Natalie, who kindly wanted to get e-mails of my blog, asked me to sign her up. “I don’t know how to do it,” she explained. Okay, fine (it ain’t rocket science, Nat!). So I signed her up. But when I started being threatened with a bill by the original e-mail subscriber, I switched to another, free-of-charge company.

“Hey, I’m not getting your blog in my inbox anymore,” Natalie complained to me one day. I explained that I had to change services. “Well why didn’t you add my e-mail, beotch?” she joked.

Beotch?

I know she was kidding, but I am starting to get a bit annoyed with how I'm being perceived. What, has everyone lost their ability to take things a step further? My husband will often times step over something the kids have left on the floor and say, “What is that? Can you pick it up?” Um, because you lost all feeling in your hands and can no longer perform the pincer grasp?

Most times my daughters forget something and will inevitably ask, “Mom, can you get it for me?” (No. The answer is no. Get it your own damn self.)

I am feeling put-upon and getting really sick of it. Where’s all the love for Mom, huh? My guess is it stopped about two feet from where it was supposed to go.

Photo by ehsan namavar, courtesy of stock.xhchng

Baby Steps

“Mom, can we ask Alex to come over?” Aimee asked me last weekend.

My husband and I were working tirelessly outside, trying to get some work done on our yard. We have been gardening, mulching and excavating a section of our backyard for a year now, turning an area that was once full of weeds and spindly trees into a play area for the girls. We have made fabulous headway (well, my husband has more than I have) but the transformation requires a ton of labor and will take a long time to finish. Because we had spent the entire day before at a nearby farm picking peaches, riding the ponies, feeding the animals and playing, we made it clear to the kids that this was a day for Mom and Dad to spend in the yard.

Alex, the boy Aimee mentioned, is our neighbor who lives across the street. He’s 3 and a half and the girls really enjoy playing with him. “Sure,” I said. “Go ahead and ask him.”

Alex’s parents, with whom we are friendly, were outside working as well. I saw Aimee yell across to his mother and ask if he could come over. I then saw her cross the street with him and walk over. “Is it okay?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“I asked the girls if it was all right with you if he came over,” she said.

I could tell she was wondering if she needed to stay and watch him, so I said, “Listen, any time the kids are outside playing Alex is more than welcome to come and join them. You do not need to check with me. It’s always all right.”

I explained that as a kid I used to roam free and play in my neighbor’s yards, never once asking permission to play with the kids. “Me, too,” she said.

“And I want that for my girls, too,” I said. She smiled and said, “Great. But are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. But just know I won’t always be out here with them, so if you’re comfortable with that, great.”

I can tell my girls feel good about just asking a friend to come over. It must feel so confining to always Later that afternoon I said, “Hey, if you want to walk down to Kristen’s house and ask if she and her sister want to come over, go ahead.”

They both looked at me. They had never walked down the street alone before, but today I was going to let them. (Note: we do not have sidewalks in our town except on routes to the school, so most side streets are just roads and yards. Otherwise walking would be much easier.)

“Really?” Lily asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Go ahead. But just make sure you stay together, walk on the grass and come back the same way you go.”

I watched them cross the street and let them walk without watching them. Kristen lives five houses away. I went to the back of the house to continue working and immediately felt a massive bout of worry. What if one of them ran into the street? What if a man in a car driving by saw them and grabbed them?

I knew my fears were irrational but this is what society has done to mothers: put the fear of kidnapping and potential harm to our kids into our brains. I tried to remember what I had read on the Free Range Kids site about how safe our communities really are, and breathed a sigh of relief. “They are only five houses away,” I told myself. "They will be fine." When I saw them coming up the road 10 minutes later, I was so happy I trusted myself. And them. Their faces were beaming, even though their friends were not home and they came back alone. I could tell the little excursion gave them some confidence and a boost to their self-esteem.

Baby steps, I told myself. I’m taking baby steps to allow them the freedom and independence they deserve. And when I get there, my kids will be fine. I know they will.

Photo by Shannon Pifko, courtesy of stock.xchng

Success (Ticket Method So Far)

A friend wrote and asked me how the ticket method was working for me. (Click here and click here to read more on that subject.) I started it a couple of months ago and so far it’s been working really well (I’m knocking wood, rubbing Buddha’s belly and crossing my fingers as I type, which isn’t easy, trust me).

This method is fantastic for the strong-willed, hard-to-break child. Those of you who have such kids know who you are. (Do you have an ‘I won’t let this toddler beat me down’ attitude, mixed with an uncompromising feeling of despair and hopelessness? Yep, you’ve got one of those kids.)

For those who want to try this method at home (and trust me, you do), I suggest the following strategy: first of all, take several deep breaths and tell yourself you are going to kick some toddler (or school-age) ass. Second, if you don’t have a clipboard or something like it in the kitchen, get one (we have a blackboard so it’s easy to magnetically tack up the tickets in plain view for the kids to see how they are doing). Third, decide how badly behaved your child is and cut as many tickets as you think he or she would be able to beat. (I cut out strips of paper and put Aimee’s name on some and Lily’s on the other.) For example, when Aimee was at her peak of toddler bitchiness, I started with 10 tickets per day. She, therefore, had 10 chances to test her luck with me. Each time she violated a rule (screamed at me, hit me, threw something at me, didn’t listen, etc. – sheesh, what a nightmare I endured, by the way) I took a ticket and placed it on the board.

The key to this method working, folks, is this: there are no second chances, no threats. You cannot say, “If you do that again I’m taking a ticket.” (I admit I’ve slipped a few times and always regretted it.) Instead, you must take the ticket immediately and say, “That’s a ticket. You lost one ticket because you hit me and we don’t hit.” Make the explanation short and sweet, no lectures. Also, make the end result attainable. You want your child to succeed. If he or she is really badly behaved and loses all tickets you must follow through with the consequence. (In our house, if you lose all your tickets for the day you are sent to bed half an hour earlier with no books. When this happens your children will be very upset and will swear on your grave they’ll behave, but when they do, do not balk. Instead, kiss them quietly and say, “Tomorrow is a new day to show me what you’ve just promised.” In the three months since I started tickets Aimee has had to go to bed early about five times and Lily only once. Each day after they lost all their tickets I see stellar behavior. I kid you not. This is how I know the ticket method works.)

After a week or so of doing the ticket method, cut the amount of tickets you give each child in half. I give Aimee five tickets a day now and Lily only has two. (I feel older kids need fewer chances because they should be used to the rules by now.)

If anyone has any questions or thoughts, feel free to e-mail me at areluctantmom@yahoo.com or post a comment right here.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Arrgh!

This is how my morning began:

Laughter. Giggling. More laughter. I looked at the clock: 7:04 a.m. My kids were playing in their room, a silly game they made up called, “Baby Screams.” It involves their two baby dolls and has something to do with the fact that the baby is never happy.

Hmm. Sounds really familiar. Except I’d call that pastime, “Four-year-old Screams.”

Aimee has been in a foul mood lately. She wakes up happy enough but will quickly become angry and upset at the slightest imperfection. Today it was because a magnet she made at gymnastics camp didn’t stick to the refrigerator. She began to cry and yell at me to fix it. I was preparing their lunchboxes for camp at the time and glanced at the clock. It was 7:44 a.m.

“Aimee, I haven’t even been up for an hour,” I said. “I haven’t even had my coffee. And you are screaming at me, which is putting me in a really bad mood.”

I sent her to her room and told her to calm herself down. “When you feel you can talk to me nicely and politely, you may come down,” I said.

I think Aimee’s interpretation of “nicely and politely” differs greatly from mine.

“Mom! I can’t find my shorts!” she screamed from the top of the stairs.

I rubbed my temples. I took several deep breaths. It’s now 8:01 a.m.

This is going to be a long day.

Photo by denz zani, courtesy of stock.xchng

Psst!

I’m being stalked. Okay, I am being hyperbolic as usual, but I am convinced someone is tracking me. Of course, I have no solid proof because I cannot read Korean. Or maybe it’s Chinese. Japanese, perhaps? I’m not sure. But someone has posted a comment on my blog every single day for two weeks – on several different posts – and each day I delete those comments. I erase them because – and I’m just clarifying – I cannot read Chinese characters. (Or Korean. Or Japanese.) So how can I allow something to be printed on my blog if I can't understand what is being said?

I get a kick out of this person because, damn, he or she is very persistent. Each morning I will open my e-mail and discover there are at least five comments made on different posts that need moderating. Each day I select the comments, hit ‘delete’ and move on.

Seriously?

So, dear person in Asia (if that's where you are), if you can, in fact, read English and want to post a comment that I can, well, read, feel free. Until then, you’ll remain silent (at least in my language).

LISTEN!

Lily, my eldest, is driving me absolutely insane lately, which is a nice change of pace from having to wear the psychological straight jacket while suffering at the hands of Aimee. I cannot tell if Lily is just a 7-year-old or if there is something functionally wrong with her, but she absolutely does not listen to words when they come out of someone’s mouth. Well, let me modify that statement: she does not listen to the words when they come out of my mouth.

Here's what's bugging me lately: We joined the summer reading club at the library and each day a child reads, he or she is asked to cross off a symbol on a checklist. For example, there will be seven starfish in a box, symbolizing the seven days of that week. So every day, she and Aimee dutifully put an X on the starfish and when seven in a row are crossed out, we all head over to the library to get new books. The librarian hands the girls a small prize for doing the reading (usually stickers or a kazoo or something) and they are happy with their accomplishment (er, well, they care more about the prizes, but who cares at this point?).

At the same time we joined the reading club we also filled out a form for TD Bank. It asked young readers to write down 10 books the child has read (if the child was too young to read he or she could be read to) and when you turned in the slip the bank deposited $10 into an existing account (or you could open one up with the money). We did this the first week and I explained – numerous times – that we would not be getting another $10 for our reading.

For some reason, the number 10 has stuck with Lily and she thinks each time we go to the library she only has to read 10 books at home. I have said to her – again, a million times – the number of books she reads now is not important. What is important is that she reads one book (or half of one, if it’s a long chapter book) a day during quiet time.

Yet yesterday she came downstairs early from quiet time and announced she didn’t have to read. “Why not?” I asked.

“Because I already finished ten books,” she said.

I let out a long, deep sigh. I then thought about the number of times I spoke about this topic and felt the blood rush to my face and my pulse quicken.

“So what?” I said.

“So, I don’t have to read,” she said.

Faster pulse, anger swooshing about, blood beginning to boil… “In with anger, out with love,” I said to myself, taking long, deep breaths.

I kid you not – I had the exact same conversation with her the day before. She mentioned reading the 10 books and I said, “Lily, the number of books does not matter anymore. What does matter is that you read every day.” I asked her to tell me what she heard – in her own words, because asking a child to repeat verbatim doesn’t seem to work – and she said, “I just have to read every day.”

“Okay, good,” I said. “Now you understand.”

So when we were right back on the literary rollercoaster I began to really lose my patience. Rather than go completely ballistic (which I wanted to do) I said, “Go get the paper the library gave you.”

She got it and handed it to me. “No,” I said. “You read it. Tell me what it says to do.”

She held up the paper. “Read every day for fifteen minutes or more. Color or cross out one picture for each day you read. Each numbered picture group equals one week of reading,” she said.

I asked her to put down the paper. “Tell me what you just read without looking at it,” I said.

She stared at me. “What do you need to do?” I asked.

“Read for fifteen minutes,” she said.

“When?” I asked.

“Every day,” she said.

“Tell me again.”

“I need to read for fifteen minutes every day,” she said.

“Okay. So you understand, right?” I asked.

She nodded.

If I hear the number 10 regarding books one more time I am absolutely convinced my head will pop off.

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

Lofty Expectations

In an impromptu move on Saturday night I hired a sitter I had never met to care for our kids.

My husband and I have not had a night out together since May, when my mother-in-law watched the kids for an evening. I have been hearing fabulous things about the movie The Hangover and wanted to see it (Note: this was the funniest movie I have ever seen, so if you haven't seen it, go. Now. Right now. I mean now.). So I asked my usual babysitter, a 14-year-old named Paige who lives down the street and who the girls adore, but she and her family have a house at the Jersey Shore (yes, I hate her a bit for it) and she is unavailable on the weekends.

“Do you know anyone who could watch them?” I asked her.

“Sure, I’ll ask my friends and get back to you,” she said.

In a series of text messages (why won’t kids just pick up the phone for Pete’s sake?) we worked out an arrangement.

“My friend Jenn can babysit for you,” she wrote.

“Great!” I wrote back. “Is she good with kids? Meaning, is she comfortable putting them to bed, reading and brushing their teeth?”

“Lol! Yes!” she texted.

So I typed, “Sign her up!”

Jenn arrived at 6:45 p.m. and was smiling, cute and sweet. The kids were excited to meet her and were giggling when she rang the doorbell. I explained the routine and she nodded dutifully, saying she understood and would do everything I asked. We kissed the kids good-bye and beat a hasty path out the door.

I don’t know many stay-at-home moms who would leave their kids with a total stranger. In fact, when I mentioned what I did to one woman she said, “Wow, my kids would never stay with someone they didn’t know.”

I thought about this as my husband and I gleefully drove to the movie theater. What I realize is how many moms and dads make it so much harder on themselves than they need to. They are reluctant to do anything for themselves if it means their kids might get upset. And, rather than expect the kids to just go with the flow, they often anticipate the opposite. (Which of course puts the vicious cycle into place.)

It’s true my kids are easily adaptable. But I really believe it isn’t just luck they are so flexible. I don’t have any hesitation in my voice when I announce a new babysitter is coming. (My kids have had at least 10 different sitters over the years.) I don’t sound anxious when I tell them I am going out. Instead, I say, “Kids, I’m leaving. Paige is going to take care of you and I’ll be back at five o’clock. See you then!”

My dear hubby and I are able to have a nice time out without worry. Not once have we come home and heard the kids were crying and upset (yes, I’m knocking wood right now because, hey, why test my luck?). If the sitter came at night, I will ask the girls the next morning, “So, how did you like X?” and almost always they will say, “Good!” or “She was funny!” Usually I meet the girls I am going to hire beforehand (and I try to find girls who actively seek a babysitting job because that means they love kids), but this time I didn’t have time to do so. I trusted Paige, and I knew she would find me someone who would be great.

God, I love being right.

Photo by Mateusz Stachowski, courtesy of stock.xchng

Pushing Kids Ahead

I mentioned in an earlier post that I entered school early for my age. My husband, who skipped a grade, was also very young for his class. And to this day both our mothers say it was the biggest mistake they ever made.

Most moms and dads I know think the cut off for kindergarten should be regulated across the country. I totally agree. Here in New Jersey a child must be 5 years old before October 1st of the school year in order to enter kindergarten. (Aimee, whose birthday is in November, now must wait another year after turning 5 before entering the early childhood school.) In most states a child must be 5 before October 16th (how’s that for a completely random date?), and some insist a child reach age 5 before September 1. (Click here to read more about entrance age requirements by state.) So that means if you live in New Jersey but move to another state, your child may be either much older or much younger than his or her class at the new school.

How incredibly stupid is our education system regarding a simple question of age?

I can say this from experience: academically, I may have been ready to enter kindergarten. “You were sharp,” my mom said to me. “You knew what all the coins were and how much each one was, you knew your numbers and your alphabet. You knew a lot. They said you were ready.”

What they didn’t know, however, was how fidgety I was. I could not sit still in class because socially, I was very immature. I preferred to play with my friends and chat rather than learn about numbers and letters. I got into trouble constantly in elementary school and was shunned by the teachers. Some even put me in a chair by myself so I wouldn’t disrupt the others. (That was a self-esteem booster.)

My parents were furious with me. They spanked me, punished me and had meetings with my teachers. Of course now that I am a parent I know exactly why I didn’t behave. I had no solid boundaries, no consequences (spanking only teaches a child how to be violent, folks) and I did not have the proper attention. Rather than take the time to find out why I was misbehaving, my parents took my trouble making personally. (I also watched a ton of television, which I strongly believe contributed to my attention deficit disorder. Click here to read just how detrimental television can be for a child.)

And, frankly, I was just too young to go to school when I did.

This is a debate that has been hotly contested for years. What I hear from most teachers is academically most children - whether they entered early or late - catch up to each other academically by the third grade. They can all read, write and practice math questions.

But can they sit still?

My neighbors have a son who is 3 and a half years old. His birthday is the first week of October so he, like Aimee, will have to wait a full year after he turns 5 before attending kindergarten. His parents are angry about the situation and said to me, “Why should we have to wait another year when he can do the work?” I tried to explain the logic and assure them that if he waits, he will probably do better than if he went early. “Yeah, but he's going to be totally bored!” they said.

A few minutes later his mother was trying to get his attention. She called his name several times and he didn’t answer. Finally she sternly said his name and he looked up at her. Frustrated, she said to me, “His daycare teachers say he never listens. They say he is always in a time out because of it.”

Bingo.

Here’s what I know: Lily entered kindergarten at age 5 and a half. She was already reading at a first grade level when she started. Yet she absolutely loved school. She still does. Even though she knew her alphabet and the sounds each letter made, her penmanship was lacking and she enjoyed learning how to properly make those strokes with the pencil (she could write beforehand but sloppily). My point is this: no child knows absolutely everything. Your child may be a genius, but if he or she is, the school will quickly recognize it. There is a boy in Lily’s class who is a year younger and reads at a much higher level than she does. He was pushed ahead and is doing quite well. But he is the exception, not the rule.

For more information on whether to push your child ahead, click here, click here, click here, and click here.

Photo by Guillermo Ossa, courtesy of stock.xchng

Freeing Negative Thinking

There should be a witty, you’re-such-an-idiot type of saying for the word ‘intention’ the way there is for ‘assumption.’

Yesterday I started the day out with good intentions. I promised to take my girls to a nearby festival (it was the last day) but when I spoke to a few people in town, they strongly warned me not to go. “It’s going to be a madhouse,” the postman said to me. “I would steer clear.”

“Take your kids next year, during the week,” suggested a person standing in line with me. “Trust me, it’s going to be insane. Don’t go.”

I may be stubborn and opinionated but I’m not a complete moron. I took their advice. To soften the blow when I broke the news to my girls, I decided to pick up some ice cream, waffle bowls and syrup on the way to get my kids from camp. (For the record: I don't usually bribe my kids to avoid tantrums. In fact, I usually meet fits of anger head on. But on this day I thought it would be fun for us to share an afternoon together. Plus, hey, who doesn't like ice cream?)

“Kids, I have good news and bad news,” I said.

“Give us the good news first,” Lily said.

“Well, no, I’m going to give you the bad news first,” I said. I told them we weren’t going and explained why. I also said mostly adults were going to be there, which was true. They took the cancellation really well and then said, “Okay, what’s the good news?”

I told them about the make-your-own sundaes we would make. “Yay!” they said in unison. I also told them we would do a craft together because a week ago I saw a paint your own tea set in Home Goods and got it for a lazy afternoon. “Yay!” they said again.

The sundae part went smoothly, but the craft, er, not so much. It began well enough, with each of us taking a piece of porcelain to create a masterpiece. But Lily, when her paintbrush kept making large, sweeping strokes instead of thin, purposeful ones, she began to get frustrated. “You make the best flowers,” she said. “Mine are awful.”

“No they’re not, Lily,” said Aimee. “They’re so pretty!”

Lily frowned and wiped her plate clean. She began again. I also made a few mistakes with mine and laughed about it to lighten the mood. But Lily was getting upset and frustrated. She wiped the plate a few more times.

She continued down a negative path and then got angry. Soon, Aimee joined in. We ended the craft in tears and anger.

I was upset because I don’t always get down and dirty with the girls and I planned a nice afternoon for us to enjoy together. I was upset because my words – I told her we are never perfect and we can’t be brilliant at every single task we undertake – were not working against her self-deprecation. I was also bothered because rather than step into her shoes I took everything personally, which no mother should do. So I sent the girls upstairs and found a book I got a few months ago entitled “Freeing Your Child From Negative Thinking,” by Tamar Chansky, Ph.D. (who also is the founder and director of the Children's Center for OCD and Anxiety, and has this Web site devoted to helping parents who have anxious and negative-thinking children.)

In early childhood many children will toy with negative thinking (“I’m the worst!” or “I can’t do anything right!”) but what I learned from this book is it’s our job as parents to steer them away from this downward spiral. It’s a long read, and I didn’t have time to finish it before I spoke with them, but I did find some good points to help me.

I walked upstairs and found both girls sitting on their beds. I decided to start by empathizing and validating how Lily felt, which the book recommends. “You were really frustrated down there,” I said to Lily. She nodded, tears slowly streaming down her face. “And you wanted me to listen but I got upset instead, right?” She nodded some more. “I am really sorry,” I said. I showed her the book and said, “I worried about the way you were speaking about yourself so I picked up this book which I hope will help us deal with this together.”

I found a problem solving model and asked some of the questions it had, such as: What happened here? What’s upsetting you the most? When did you start to feel upset? What were you hoping would happen? (There are more but for brevity I’ll just name a few.) “I was upset because I wanted to make a flower but it kept getting messed up,” she said. “And I was worried that you and Aimee would finish and I would be left alone.”

“Oh,” I said. “So what do you think you could have said instead of getting so upset?”

She shrugged, still crying softly. “How about, ‘Mom, will you please wait for me until I’m finished?’” I asked her.

She nodded. “Honey, I would never leave you if you wanted me to stay,” I said. “But I’m not a mind reader. I need you to use your words and tell me what you’re really thinking.”

I asked her if she got upset because what she envisioned in her head wasn’t what her hands were making on the teacup. She nodded. I laughed and said, “Guess what? Me too! The image I had in my head looked nothing like what I did on the teapot.”

I apologized for getting upset and both girls apologized as well. (Aimee just got rude at the end of the session because she was hungry, which is why she said she was sorry.) We all hugged and kissed and I was happy I had picked up the book to help me out.

If you notice your child is anxious, thinks negatively or is a worrier, I highly recommend getting this book. It helps analyze why children become negative, how we can help retrain their brains to think positively and how to deal with situations such as the one I described above. (Before it gets out of hand, of course!)

Book cover photo courtesy of Tamar Chansky, Ph.D.

Unique Rating

Growing up I considered myself to be sort of cool (clearly I was delusional, but that’s a topic for another post). I was the only girl I knew in high school who could recite the lyrics to the album Quadrophenia by heart, I hung out with several different groups of kids (I preferred not to be tied to one clique) and, when I went to college, I partied with the best of them.

So how the hell did I become such a straight-laced, uptight mother?

Two words fully answer that question: my parents. Readers of this blog know I was raised with a wishy-washy mom and dad who spanked me one day and allowed me ridiculous freedom the next. I had no solid boundaries and no consistency (the one topic on which they remained completely intractable was boys).

What you may not know is how egregious my parent’s judgment was at times. Let me give you a little taste. When I was 9 years old, my parents took my brother, who was 12, and me to a drive-in movie. Mind you, the nightly showing featured R-rated films (did you catch my age? I said I was 9), but my parents’ logic was that we would “fall asleep in the back of the station wagon” while they enjoyed the show. What were the movies that night, you ask? Well, it was a double feature, the first being Mandigo, a story about a slave owner whose wife makes her move on the hot, young African-American slave, and the second was The Longest Yard. (I’ll pause while you contain your simultaneous laughter and horror.) Both movies had incredibly inappropriate content for a child my age (as if the R rating alone wasn’t an indication). Even my brother was too young for those racy or scary scenes. I remember peeking over my mom’s shoulder and witnessing sexual content unbelievably shocking for my little eyes in Mandigo, and when The Longest Yard came on, I saw a horrifyingly violent clip of a man burning to death. (The images were so outrageous I remember them clearly to this day, 33 years later. Don't get me started about how I felt when they did a remake of The Longest Yard a few years ago.)

When I told my friend J about our little family outing, she laughed and said, “Have you ever asked your mom about that night?”

“No,” I said, still laughing myself at the absurdity of what I saw. “She would either deny it or say she didn’t know any better.”

As a mother, I do know better, which is why I am the kind of parent I am now. I am one of the rare few who doesn’t allow her 4-year-old and 7-year-old to watch Hannah Montana or High School Musical (What? I'm supposed to trust that company just because it's Disney? Uh-uh. Disney killed off Bambi's mother and releases movies in which women are constantly rescued by a knight in shining armor. Clearly it exercises judgment akin to my parent's). Although those are G-rated shows and movies, I personally feel the content is too mature for my girls right now (as I said in a previous post why should my elementary school-age daughter see 16-year-olds make out?). That said, I am also completely open with them about sex, and have even had “the talk” with them on a few occasions (click here, click here, and click here to read those posts.) I just want them to experience things when their minds are able to comprehend what they see, and I don’t want the horrible images of something inappropriate to scar them as they did me.

My reluctance to let them see movies ahead of their age has recently become an issue for me. A friend of Lily’s invited her over to a movie night for her birthday. I e-mailed the mom and asked which movie would be shown. “We haven’t decided yet,” she said. “Any ideas?”

I wrote back and politely explained my position. I also said I didn’t want my situation to influence their decision since it was their daughter’s birthday and it should be her choice. “We’ll probably just show something G-rated,” she said. I sighed when I read and felt like a massive loser for having to explain that even G ratings weren’t good enough. I wanted to know the content. “I’ll nail down a choice and let you know,” she said.

I hate feeling like this kind of mom – the one who appears to be too strict and is a party pooper. I apologized to the mom if I was making it difficult for her but I bet she was rolling her eyes at my concern (as I do when I think people are being overly sensitive). I know High School Musical is a far cry from Mandigo, and I also know a quick kiss on the lips is nothing like what I saw that night in the drive-in. Nonetheless, these are my children and I want to raise them the way I want, regardless of peer pressure or how I look in the community. If it means my kids don’t run around trying to kiss boys in second grade, all the better.

Thoughts? Feel free to post a comment or vote in the latest poll.
Photo by Ayhan YILDIZ, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Good Kind Of Missing

“So, are you having a good summer?” I asked Lily yesterday. We had one of those rare afternoons when it was just the two of us. Aimee was at a friend’s house and we had the day to ourselves to chat and hang out. I love those moments because she is completely unguarded and fun to talk to.

“Yes,” she said. “But I miss school.”

I was totally shocked by her response. “You do?” I asked. “What do you miss about it?”

“I miss learning,” she said.

I could have smothered this kid with all my love at that moment.

When I was a child I couldn’t wait for school to end. I was the youngest in my class (I skipped ahead, a decision my mother says she regrets to this day) and even though I was academically ready for elementary school, I was socially unprepared. I fidgeted in my seat, talked in class constantly and always got into trouble. I eventually matured enough for this behavior to stop, but because I got off to a rocky start, the only time I got excited for school was on the first day (and that was because I’d see my friends again). (Note: check back soon for a post on the pros and cons of moving kids ahead in school later.)

Thankfully I got Lily’s summer reading list early and each day at quiet time I ask her to read one of the books on the list. Some are quite long (several chapters) and when quiet time is over I ask her to tell me all about what she read. I ask her if she liked the book or not and what parts she enjoyed. She may not be learning the same way she does in school, but at least she is engaging her brain a bit each day.

Later I asked Aimee if she missed school, too. “A little,” she said. “But I’m enjoying summer.”

Now that's a kid after my own heart.

Photo by Willi Heidelbach, courtesy of stock.xchng

Clean Up Or Leave?

When my children were very young and play dates required moms to stay with their kids, I never asked guests to clean up when it was time to leave. “Don’t worry about it,” I’d say as the moms made an effort to put things away. “If I’m at your house and I realize I need to go and don’t have time to help clean, I don’t want to feel guilty about leaving a mess.”

I still feel that way. I also feel that by the time the guests are supposed to leave (including my kids and me), cleaning up means having to stay a lot longer and, frankly, at that point I just want them to get out so I can either cook dinner or finish what needs to be done. Besides, I usually have my children clean up the toys because, hello, I’m not the one pulling the books off the shelves or playing with puzzles. If they choose to make the mess, they get to clean it up.

“But Mom,” Aimee once protested, “I didn’t make this mess. My friend did.” I thought for a moment and said, “Then you should have asked her to clean it up when she was finished.” She looked at me and frowned.

I know I was asking a lot. What 4-year-old do you know that will ask a friend to clean up his or her mess? But my point was – and still is – this: messes made by kids are not mine to fix. I don’t feel I need to be the one to clean up. At the same time, I don't want the moms to do the work, either.

The problem is I know I’m standing alone on this point. I have been to several people’s homes and heard the moms say, “Everyone clean up before you go.” I’m totally fine with that order, as long as I’m not trying to get out the door at that very moment. In fact, I don’t mind having my children clean up what they mess in other people’s homes. “But Mom,” Lily said once to me, “they never clean up at our house.”

“True,” I said. “But that’s not my problem. If you feel it’s unfair, ask them to clean up next time they are over.”

There is another side to Lily’s point, however. We know kids who come over and act as if our house is a free-for-all zone. They will go into our playroom (which has been recently tidied by Lily and Aimee) and pull every costume out of the toy box, every game out of the cabinet and every pretend kitchen appliance and make-believe foodstuff out of the drawers. I wouldn’t mind if they put them away when they are finished using them all, but these kids just drop them where they were standing when they see something else they want to play with. As a result the area looks like Fallujah and my kids are left with a massive task at the end of the day. The reason these kids behave this way is because their moms do all the work for them at home, so they do not realize the extent of their actions. I once asked one of the moms if we should put away the toys before we left and she said, “Oh, no. I do it all at night when the girls are in bed.”

Oh, boy.

I think my girls should say something if someone wreaks havoc in our basement. I also feel they should be responsible in other people’s homes. I don’t mind if a mom asks my kids to tidy up before we go, but I’d love her even more if she just let us go when the play time was over.

I realize I’m touching upon a point that may be contested by many, so I am putting up a poll. Do you think it’s the parent’s job to clean up or the kids? Should all guests clean up before they leave? Vote and let me know.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Um, Hello?

In the past few months I have seen the following: a woman, 9 months pregnant, driving in a two-seater convertible with her 5-year-old daughter in the front seat; and another mom, who is 3 months pregnant, in a four-seat convertible, also driving with her 7-year-old daughter in the front seat (she could have easily fit in back). Both had the top down and were cruising around town with smiles on their faces. Oh, both of the children had booster seats, so, phew, you can wipe your brow on that point. But how can these moms not know it’s against the law in some states to drive with children younger than 13 years old in the front seat? (New Jersey’s law requires children ages 7 and under and weighing less than 80 pounds to use an appropriate child safety seat or booster seat in the back seat.) Better yet – how do they not know it’s horribly dangerous to do that? (Click here to read more on car safety, including airbag dangers, and click here to read child booster laws by state.) According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, "Children age 12 and under are safest when properly buckled in the back seat of a motor vehicle." (Click here to download information on highway safety from the NHTSA.)

On the way back from our recent trip I watched Lily, who is very tall for her age and gets uneasy in her booster, fidget to get comfortable. She was trying to sleep and I could tell if she didn’t have to sit perched on that tiny apparatus she would have been much more relaxed.

“Do you remember when you were little and you went on a road trip?” I asked my husband, laughing at my memory. “I used to lay down on the floor in between the front and back seats and try to take a nap there. Can you imagine?”

“Yeah, I remember doing that,” he said. “It wasn’t very comfortable.”

“True,” I said. I thought for a moment. “I also remember sitting in my dad’s lap as he drove, pretending to drive the car myself,” I said, laughing even harder. “I sat in the front seat all the time,” I added. “I never wore seat belts, either. How am I even alive?”

He laughed and said, “Oh, me, too. I always sat in the front seat. And never with seat belts.”

“I also remember laying in the back of our station wagon,” I said. “That was awesome.”

It was awesome. I easily slept while my parents made the long drive to wherever we were going. But times have changed (welcome safety patrol!), there are many more cars on the road and some people drive so dangerously (especially in New Jersey, which for years was ranked the number one worst driver state in the nation) that I could not imagine allowing my kids to ride without seatbelts or car seats.

I looked back on our children as we drove. Lily eventually fell asleep (Aimee was passed out before we left the parking lot) and I breathed a sigh of relief.

But right now I cannot get those women out of my head. I get upset because I know that, God forbid, if anything happened to their children and they discovered their kids would have been a thousand times safer in the back they would never forgive themselves.

I’m a little upset with myself as well, because I should have said something. But this marks the fine line we mothers walk; we run the risk of sounding judgmental and rude if we point out something another parent is doing wrong. For this reason most of us remain silent when we should probably speak up.

Photo by Filip Andersson, courtesy of stock.xchng

Luck Be A Lady

Every year it becomes apparent that I have come a very long way in terms of being a parent. We just got back from a quick, two-day trip to Hershey Park in Hershey, Pennsylvania (yes, that’s the land where Hershey’s chocolate is made, for those of you unfamiliar with the treat’s creamy beginnings). We made plans knowing we would be pushing our young children’s limits but decided we would hedge our bets. First, we decided to stay only one night (because the hotel was quite expensive), and second, we knew we’d have very little down time to relax and almost no routine. Care to gamble as to how most children would behave under those circumstances?

Well, if you bet on the side of kids being absolutely out of control, I’m thrilled to be able to take your money. To my absolute delight (and, frankly, to my surprise) my girls were shockingly amazing. We woke up early on Thursday morning, got ready, packed up our car and drove two and a half hours across the border to Pennsylvania. On the road the kids did not complain once and were excited about our vacation. The weather was gorgeous, and even when I forgot to look at the map and missed our exit (hey, I never said I was perfect), we found a direct route that turned out to be a better alternative to the directions we found online.

We spent the day at the beautiful gardens and then took a quick trip to the Hershey Museum. We ate fresh Hershey’s kisses (these are so absolutely creamy and melt-in-your-mouth delicious that once you have them you will wish you could always get them direct from the factory), a ton of other treats and went back to the hotel where the kids swam in the pool for a while. Then we decided to eat dinner off the Hershey Lodge premises and took another gamble on a new restaurant perched on a golf course. Again, good fortune was with us and we ate a fantastic, affordable meal served to us by an incredibly child-friendly wait staff (Seriously - what are the chances?). It was past 8 o’clock when we finally received our food (about two hours later than our normal dinner time at home), and it was closer to 9 p.m. when we finished up. Yet our children (and our friend’s kids, who were also with us) behaved incredibly. (The refreshing cocktail I had while waiting may have helped my mood as well.)

We drove back to Hershey Lodge and all went straight to sleep at 9:30 p.m. (yes, we were that exhausted). As much as I adore my kids, I am not able to sleep well with them in the room right next to me (which is why we usually rent homes when we go away – doing so is a cheaper and much more enjoyable alternative to hotel living, if you ask me). As a result, it was the absolute worst night’s sleep I have ever had (the overstuffed and unyielding pillows and loud air-conditioner also contributed to my inability to drift off), and when I compared notes with my friend J and her family, they also had a horrible night of tossing and turning. Yet we all got up early with smiles on our faces, ate breakfast and headed out to Hershey Park, the amusement part of the town. (As a side note: when I checked out that morning the woman behind the counter said, "How was your stay?" and I said, "Honestly? It was the worst night's sleep of my life." She smiled and said, "Oh, really?" End of story. So much for customer service.)

The weather was cloudy and cool in the morning (and gorgeous later on), but I preferred that to scorching heat because it made standing in line more bearable. Even though we all barely slept we were all high on the excitement and newness of the place. Hershey Park, for those who have never been, is manageable and awesome. There are rides for every age and lots to see and do (without being overbearing). There is also a massive water park (my least favorite, as I’m not a fan of walking around in my bathing suit unless there is a vast beach and I especially do not like being wet for hours at a time). The best part about the park for me, however, was seeing the difference in my children, especially Aimee. They were both keen to go on all the rides, even the scary upside down rollercoaster (again, their wimpy mom was much more frightened than they were) and when one person wanted to go on one ride and the other didn’t, we either split up or amended our plans easily to accommodate everyone. They were constantly happy and energetic (except when their blood sugar ran low). We made sure to eat when everyone was hungry (and thankfully the park offered healthy food as part of the menu items) and even though we did not leave the place until 9 p.m., there was not one meltdown or embarrassing episode.

I have to say, I was shocked we have come this far. I looked at my husband at one point and said, “We have finally arrived.” He smiled and said, “I know.” I said, “Just think what it will be like next year.”

To cap off the trip my dear husband drove us home through three massive traffic jams. The girls promptly fell asleep in the car, and under my spouse’s urging I, too, passed out. I woke up just as we were pulling off the exit to our home. “You go on to bed,” my husband said after we carried the girls to their room. “I’ll unpack the car.” My hero.

To those of you who still have small kids, I’m here to say it will happen. You will wake up one day and say, “Oh, my God. We’re here.”

Photo by Galeria fotografii , Projekty Logo , Grafika, courtesy of stock.xchng

If You Believe...

My daughters are becoming fascinated with the idea of going to church, which is odd, considering their parents are secular Muslims.

“Mom, why don’t we go to church?” Lily asked me the other day.

“We don’t go to church because we’re not Christians,” I said.

“What’s a Christian?” she asked.

Hmm. “Well, a Christian is someone who believes Jesus is the son of God,” I said.

“Who’s Jesus?” Aimee asked.

This was going to be more complicated than I expected.

“That depends on who you ask,” I said.

“Who else goes to doesn’t go to church?” Lily asked.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Your friend Tamar doesn’t go to church, because she’s Jewish.”

“And my friend Julie doesn’t go to church, either, because she’s Jewish,” Lily said.

“And my friend Dana!” Aimee said. “She’s Jewish!”

“Yep,” I said.

“And we don’t go to church because we’re Jewish,” Aimee said.

Lily and I began to laugh. “No,” Lily said.

“Oh, yeah,” Aimee said. “Wait. What are we?”

We started laughing again. That is a good question. We are a tolerant, secular family who happens to have every religion in our inner circle of relations. How do I explain that to my kids at this age?

“Mom, my friends say I have to go to church,” Lily said.

“Why?” I asked.

Lily shrugged. “They just said I had to,” she said. “Julianna said to me, ‘Lily, you don’t go to church? But they have Tic Tacs!”

I laughed and said, “Honey, you can get Tic Tacs right here at home. Besides, that isn’t the reason people go to church.”

“Then why do they?” she asked.

“To feel a part of a community,” I said. “They want to be with other people who share their beliefs.”

“Oh,” she said. "But they tell me I have to go."

I remember being a child growing up in a largely white, Christian neighborhood as well. I also had a friend named Julie, but she was an Evangelical Christian who one time called me over for a play date, showed me a video she had on the Rapture and told me I was going to burn in Hell for not taking Jesus into my heart. I ran home crying the entire way. (Side note: although Muslims believe in Jesus and consider him both a prophet and the Messiah, they do not believe he is the son of God.)

I had another friend, Jan, whose parents were conservative Christians. She invited me to a weekend retreat and when I asked my parents if I could go, they shrugged their shoulders and said, “Sure.” I discovered later it was a religious outing to convert the nonbelievers and I was cornered several times by peers and counselors about taking Jesus as my savior. At the time I was a firm believer in my own religion. To everyone’s disappointment, I never relented.

Both of those experiences are fresh in my memory because, as a child, they upset me greatly. (Thankfully I have enough Christian friends to know not everyone thinks it's their goal to convert me.) I don’t know if Lily or Aimee will have similar experiences, but I want to prepare them if they do. I don’t want someone force feeding them belief and yet I also want to teach them to be tolerant and accepting of everyone. So I said, “Girls, people will always tell you what you should believe and what you shouldn’t believe. But it's not their right. You are the only one who can decide for yourself.”

Another memory I have from my childhood is the popularity of cults. Charles Manson put the fear of God into most parents and Jim Jones upset my father so much he talked about that horrible man for weeks. Cults are still prevalent, so I, too, worry about my kids being led astray. But I also want them to be freethinkers who can decide (when they are old enough) for themselves. I just don’t want anyone doing that for them.

Photo by Salva Barbera, courtesy of stock.xchng

First Comes Love...

“Let me ask you something,” I said to two friends at the pool yesterday. “Which should come first: your marriage or your children?”

The two women looked at each other and smiled. “Oh, gee,” one said. “That’s a tough one.”

“Yeah,” the other nodded. The both thought for several seconds.

I was surprised by their reaction. To me, the answer is obvious: a marriage should come before anything else. That silly song from our childhood - “First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby in the baby carriage” – could easily be the rule of life (unless you’re not interested in the baby, in which case, marriage should still come before anything else). But the women I asked were having a hard time coming up with an appropriate response.

“Well,” one said, “Since the kids will be leaving the house one day, I guess my marriage should come first.” She paused and said, “But I have a hard time doing that just because the kids are so demanding.”

“Exactly,” the other one said.

These are two women who I would consider to be in happy marriages. When I see them out with their spouses they are always in good spirits and affectionate with each other. They do a lot as a family and even encourage other families to get together. They also make time to be together as couples.

I understand the desire as a mother to put our children first. Once that first child is born, we are so consumed by love for this creature we cannot imagine sharing our affection with anyone else (another good reason to have more than one child!). But think of it this way: your spouse gets a pet. And he or she falls so madly in love with that pet they can barely muster up the energy to talk to you or pay attention to you. Soon everything you do or say must revolve around this pet and you are often shut out, both emotionally and physically.

Hey, wait a second…

I never really thought about my marriage when I had kids until I read about it in a parenting book. I came across this subject often, in fact. Although parenting and relationship experts may differ on many points, they all say couples should put marriage first.

As one expert said, “Putting your marriage first insures that your needs are being met. When you are on an airplane, the airline attendants always tell you to put the oxygen mask on yourself before putting it on your children, so that you are stable enough to help them. It is the same way with marriage. By keeping your marriage strong, you keep yourself strong and much better able to care for your children.”

I know one woman who insists on putting her two children before anything. As a result, her marriage is falling apart (she and her husband have not shared a bed in years), her children speak badly to their father, and the kids are becoming spoiled rotten. When confronted by her mother-in-law, the woman balked. “She actually suggested I should focus on my marriage!” the woman told me. “I mean, shouldn’t your kids come first?”

I said, “No, actually. I think marriage should come first.” She never spoke to me about it again.

“It takes great courage to put your marriage first,” Elisa Morgan, president of Mothers of Preschoolers Inc. in Denver, Colorado, and coauthor of How Children Change a Marriage said in this article. “Because it runs contrary to everything we are taught about being a good parent.”

Image by Kriss Szkurlatowski, courtesy of stock.xchng

Really? I Need To Ask?

This is usually the way I operate: when kids are invited over to my house, whether it’s in the morning or in the afternoon, I am usually prepared to feed them at least once. Meaning, I put out a bowl of food (or several, depending on the time of day and how many kids there are) and let the children know there are snacks for the taking. If they eat them, great. If not, no big deal.

There is nothing scientific about my method, yet considering what I have experienced lately one would think I was freakish for feeding kids at that time of day.

Last week we went to a friend’s house for a play date. I asked what time she wanted us to come over and she said, “Any time after Aimee’s nap is fine with me.” I suggested 2:30 p.m. and she agreed.

We’ll get to her in a minute.

As with most kids, my girls get very peckish in the afternoon, and asking them to wait several hours between lunch and dinner without food is out of the question. So generally, around 3:30 p.m. (give or take) I feed them a healthy but filling snack. This usually includes some fruit, some crackers or cheese, and possibly a treat (a cookie or lollipop, or in the summer months a frozen fruit pop). Because I like to foster independence, I usually keep a cupboard filled with their favorite munchies and tell them to help themselves. (I do enough meal making, thank you very much, so they can do some of their own. Sheesh.)

If they have friends over, I tell my girls to show them the bootie of edibles and everyone selects something they like. Again, my method is not based on anything fancy. I just know this one, simple parenting fact: hungry children make for terrible playmates.

What I don’t understand is how other moms (and dads) do not realize the importance of keeping kids well fed during the day. I don’t mean stuff them full or serve them seven-course meals. I just mean glancing at their watch and thinking, “Hmm. It’s been four hours since my kids have eaten. They have been running around, playing non-stop. I bet they must be hungry.”

Rocket science? No. But a fact lost on many parents? You betcha.

Let’s get back to the day at my friend’s house. We arrived around 2:45 p.m. I did offer my girls a snack before we left but both of them declined; they weren’t hungry yet. (And just like you can’t force a child to sleep, you also can’t force them to eat.) So, we arrived and the kids all played nicely together, running around like crazy, for an hour. But at 3:45 p.m., Aimee came up to me. “I’m hungry,” she said.

Now, if this were my home and a child said this to her mom (or even to me), I would hop up and say, “Good idea! Let’s get some snacks together and everyone can take a rest for a second.” But this was not my house, and my friend, who heard Aimee, said, “Um, I can get something for her.” But her tone was more like, “But please don’t make me do that.”

I didn’t know what to do. This friend lives a few towns over so I didn’t make the trek to leave after an hour. Finally my friend cut up a piece of fruit and gave it to Aimee and the girl she was playing with to share. I winced, because Aimee has the metabolism of a hummingbird and I knew she’d be back soon again to ask for something more to eat. Sure enough, I was right. “Go out to our car and get something from there,” I said.

Again, my friend weakly offered to get something but never got off the couch to follow through. Aimee found a fruit roll-up inside the car and munched on that. But after another 15 minutes, she came back. At this point I decided to leave because I wasn’t going to beg this woman to throw some goldfish in a bowl and I certainly wasn’t going to let my kids go hungry. So, we said good-bye and left.

This was not the only incident of its kind. Some of you might remember this post when Lily said she was hungry at a friend's house. In fact, two other play dates in the past week had similar outcomes. One time I dropped my girls off at a friend's house with a plate of cookies to thank the mom for having them. I found out later the cookies and an ice pop were the only things they were given in three hours. At another, I also brought a bunch of snacks. Those items were chowed by all the kids because nothing else was served.

People, tell me if I’m wrong (or just plain crazy) to think other moms should provide snacks if they invite my children over for the afternoon. Tell me if I need to pack my own snacks for them, because I'll gladly do so. I won’t change my own ways; when kids come to my house they will always be fed, even if they have to ask me first (hey, I’m not perfect; sometimes even I don’t realize I need to put the snacks out). If it means the kids prefer to come over and play here, fine by me. (Please vote in the poll on the upper right-hand side. Thanks!)

Photo by Ron Asshur, courtesy of stock.xchng

Happy Birthday, America!

It just ain't gonna happen today, people. I'm going to enjoy a second day of leisurely fun with my family and friends, so please check back tomorrow for another witty, inspiring post (okay, okay - maybe just another somewhat interesting or possibly relevant post).

Happy 4th of July!


Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Wipe Your Face. Please.

I sat down to eat with my two girls the other night and found myself embroiled in an internal battle I fight often. I usually serve them first (because they eat much more slowly than I) and then I join them a few minutes later. I was really hungry that night so I dove into my plate and savored my meal. After several bites I took a breath and began the usual mealtime chat. I glanced over at Lily and felt the Critical Monster rise up from my belly and jump into my head. “You see it, don’t you?” it asked me. “Right there in her nostril. It’s disgusting. Say something.”

My eldest daughter does not give a rat’s behind about her appearance. Well, that’s not entirely true. She happens to care greatly about her hair and also selects her outfits with care, but when it comes to boogers clinging to her nose or food smeared on her face, she behaves as if she has no arms or hands to wipe those things away.

And her lack of interest is driving me crazy.

Considering I grew up with a disapproving mother I am slightly sensitive to being critical of my own children. But, come on. Do I have to always look at massive lump of green snot hanging from her nose just so I don’t hurt her feelings?

I realize I can address the situation without shaming or embarrassing her. (In “Easy to Love, Difficult to Discipline,” Dr. Becky Bailey suggests saying what you see without judgment. For example, “Lily, wipe your face. There is chocolate on it.”) But do I have to say it every day for years on end? Seriously. I don’t understand why a 7-year-old child is not capable of feeling something drip from her nose and doesn’t think to herself, “Huh. That might look kind of gross. I should blow my nose.” I mean, can she really not feel when her face is a mess?

I shoved the Critical Monster back down inside me and said, “Lily, go blow your nose.” I then said, “You’re a big girl. You don’t need me to tell you to do that.” She rolled her eyes at me.

Oh, yeah? I thought.

“Listen, one day you are going to care. People do not like to look at big boogers hanging from other people’s noses. So blow your nose when you feel something coming out of it.”

I still cannot believe I have to tell her to do that.

There is always a battle with strong-willed children. They know when something drives you insane and manipulate a situation they know they will win. I know I should just ignore the messy face, but I seriously lose my appetite when she comes to the table the way she did that night. I also know I should just say matter-of-factly, “Go wash your face.” It’s simple and to the point. I just want to know when I will have to stop saying it.

Photo by Roy Mattappallil, courtesy of stock.xchng

Eff That!

I have the mouth of a sailor. I didn’t always, but when I worked in the music industry, my boss tossed curse words and inappropriate language around so often I became immune to it – and, what’s worse, I adopted that habit myself. I also happened to grow up with a father who thought the word “goddamn” was to be used as an adverb, so naturally I also took kindly to the blasphemous saying.

When I became a mother I curbed my bad language (a little), but it wasn’t until Lily, who was 2 and extremely excited, ran around the beach one day yelling, “Goddammit!” that I realized I had to stop altogether. (My husband, who witnessed Lily’s outburst, has yet to curtail his swearing. But, he assures me that he’s “trying.” Um-hmm.)

The other day J and I were discussing a book her eldest son was reading and she said she didn’t like that it had words such as “hate” and “stupid” in it. Her comment is one I have heard a lot the past several years. Moms I know generally cannot stand when kids use harsh words, even if they are words we as adults use frequently and without thought. She said she heard one of her sons say to his brothers, “Guys! You have to clean up all this crap!” I laughed and said, “Well, at least he used the word correctly.” “Yes, but it sounds bad coming from a seven-year-old child’s mouth,” she said. Personally, I don’t have a huge problem with bad language. I don’t want my kids dropping the “G” bomb, but if they said, “This jump rope is so stupid!” I don’t feel the need to get upset. It very well might be a stupid jump rope.

My friend Wendy is one mom who could not care less about profanity. At one of her nephew’s milestone events he gave a speech and said, “And I’d like to thank Aunt Wendy for letting me swear in her house.” Wendy beamed with pride as her mother shot her the evil eye. “Oh, whatever,” Wendy said to her disapproving mother.

I don’t like to be the “do as I say not as I do” kind of parent and I feel we should lead by example. But how I do say, “What a moron!” and then say, “Oh, gee, you can’t say that”? I try to explain to my girls there are some words that are grown-up words and if kids say them they look bad, but the concept is lost on them. They will hear swear words throughout their lives, and no doubt they will hear them from their peers as early as elementary school. Considering all the other things my kids could do wrong, I’m just not as upset about hearing a few off-color words. If it’s between that and teenage pregnancy, for instance, I'll take cursing.

So tell me – how do you feel about kids using profanity? Please post a comment and be sure to vote in the poll on the upper right-hand of this blog.

Photo by Yamamoto Ortiz, courtesy of stock.xchng

I Need A Plan

“I’m having a really good summer so far,” J said to me yesterday. I reminded her it hasn’t even been a week since school let out, but she said was feeling good about the time off anyway.

I wasn’t as thrilled about the past week as J and I couldn't understand why. Life has been pretty good, and the kids have been relatively well behaved as well. We have had a few fun, leisurely days at the pool, yesterday we went with J and her kids to a park and zoo for the day, and we have several fun little trips planned ahead. Last weekend, however, I became upset and unhappy. I had the same feeling I once had when I lived abroad: I felt I was floating without a place to land. It’s an uneasy sensation, one that I attributed to being an expatriate without a home to really call my own.

I have a home now, so what’s the problem?

I have mentioned my dear husband’s preference for wanting to relax on the weekends. He spends most Saturday mornings the same way: he gets up and makes pancakes for the girls (this is only time they get a hot meal in the morning, by the way, because I refuse to make breakfast other than cereal or oatmeal anymore. They are capable of making their own breakfast and, hello, I make lunch and dinner five days a week, so cut me a break, will ya?). Then he reads the paper and works on the crossword. If I left him alone, he would do this all day (in between making cups of coffee and hanging out in the yard). I, on the other hand, want to go for a bike ride, see some sites or just explore other towns and cities.

I blame wanderlust for my wanting to get out but last weekend it really hit me: what I crave is a plan. I like to look at the calendar and know see a list for the day. On days when the calendar is empty, I feel lost. Weekends also cause me stress because the time ticks at me like a void needing to be filled. Most people look forward to two days off but I get heart palpitations when I think of Saturday. I often have a to-do list a mile long, but much of what I want to accomplish interferes with my desire to enjoy myself.

And now I completely understand my children’s need to have a routine as well.

So I had a long chat with my spouse last weekend and asked him to talk with me about the weekend in advance. “I need to know what we are going to do,” I said. “I realize you need to relax, but I can’t relax when I don’t have a schedule.”

Remember that home I mentioned that made me feel so secure? Well, it has another side to it. We live in a house that is more than 100 years old. “Oh, how charming,” my friends have said to me. Charming, yes. I would more accurately describe it as the albatross around my neck. Old homes require tons of maintenance. The harsh winters have wreaked havoc on the cement steps so we need to fix the cracks. Carpenter bees have drilled holes into parts of the trim, so we have to plug those up. Our deck hasn’t been power washed in ages (or stained for that matter). And our half-acre of land? The weeds have taken over and engulfed the yard like a Venus fly trap with its prey.

Oh, and the aforementioned list? It's only part of our maintenance.

My husband would happily devote the weekends to caring for our home and I also agree we need to pay attention to some of the more pressing needs. But our kids can’t stay in the yard all day and the pressure to get them out and about hangs over us as we try to work. If we keep them home on the weekends I then feel forced to take them places – on my own – during the week. Again, my heart begins to beat rapidly and I feel stressed out even more.

Let me say it again: I need a plan.

Thankfully, my husband understood my dilemma and we have agreed to organize our weekends in advance. I feel better knowing our schedule and he feels better when his wife isn’t a raving lunatic.

Photo by Lynne Lancaster, courtesy of stock.xchng