The scene: Getting into the car to go to dinner, my mother-in-law (Nana), accidentally calls my dear husband by his father's name.
Lily, giggling: “Nana, why’d you call Daddy that?”
Nana: “Well, I, uh…”
Lily: “Because you’re not very good with names?”
ps: Apologies for the short posts. I have visitors and my bathroom shower has a hole in it, so I'm busy. Seriously.
Time: Monday, 4:30 p.m.
Place: Basement playroom.
Incident: Mom tells children they must clean up playroom.
One minute later: Aimee says to her sister, “Lily, don’t tell Mommy, but I don’t love her.”
Time: Saturday, 8:50 a.m.
Place: Living room.
Incident: Mom tells children they cannot watch television until they have cleaned up a massive mess in playroom.
One minute later: Aimee says to Lily, “Lily, do you like Mommy?”
Thanks to the kids this morning who decided that rather than play downstairs and let dear husband and me sleep later than 7 a.m. they would laugh and sing in their room. Loudly.
Thanks to the homeowners who lived in our house before us who thought their do-it-yourself skills were so special they didn’t need to hire a professional, and whose bad workmanship allowed water to seep in the back of our shower stall and ruin the wall. Thanks especially for the pricey bill it will take to repair it properly.
Thanks to my tiny town that is sometimes so provincial I can’t try a new recipe for Thanksgiving because the grocery stores (even the “fancy” ones) don’t stock one of the main ingredients.
Thanks to the lady at the bank who refused to listen to me when I explained a problem I was having and who insisted she was right – and then turned out to be wrong. Thanks especially for not apologizing when you discovered your error and realized I now had to make several phone calls to fix everything.
Okay, I’m done.
No, wait. I’m not.
I am thankful. I really am. I have written post upon post about how blessed my life is. But lately something is going on – Mercury in Retrograde? Black cloud over my head? – and I feel like I’m God’s punching bag more than usual. So I will end this grumpy post on a better note:
Thanks to you readers who give me something to do other than shuffle kids to school, make meals, help with homework and be a wife. Thanks to my family who loves me unconditionally even when I’m very cranky (which, it seems, is a lot lately). And thanks for my health, my life and my friends.
Hey, I really am one fortunate gal. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
We had another homework snafu last night.
Yesterday Lily brought home some work that had not been finished. I had seen the piece of paper the night before but only glanced at it because my mother-in-law is visiting and we were all talking when Lily showed it to me. “Did you look it over?” I asked her.
“Yep,” she said.
Silly me. I should have said, “Did you read every single word on the paper?” because, evidently, she did not. Instead she quickly scanned it, filled in the blanks but did not rewrite the sentences as was directed.
The hard part about having my husband home as well as guests in our house is our routine gets shoved into a corner. Usually I flip through her folder (which has past and present homework assignments) the moment she gets home. Last night, however, I didn’t do that until just about bedtime when I noticed the incomplete paper.
“Looks like you’re going to have to finish it now,” I said. It was 7:30 p.m., the time she is usually in bed.
“What?” she asked, tears beginning to form.
“Yep,” I said, handing her the paper. “Have a seat and finish.”
She wailed and moaned, and when she realized her theatrics weren’t going to get her anywhere, she sat down and began to work.
I was pissed off. So was my husband (though less so). I thought we had just gone through this with her. And she was showing progress and pride in her work. It could have been that she, too, was excited about her grandmother’s visit and therefore wanted to rush through her work. In fact, that probably is what happened. But either way, her attitude is getting annoying.
When I was explaining all of this to my MIL, she said, “Well, what are the consequences if she doesn’t do it?”
“She gets a mark in the book,” I said.
She suggested something that I understood – and in most cases would fully agree with. She said, “Well, maybe you should just let that happen.”
This time, my husband and I disagreed completely.
Here’s the thing: I am all for natural consequences. In fact, I strongly believe in them and try to enforce that in my house. However, when it comes to school, the consequences are not always effective enough. What if she gets a mark in the book and thinks, “That’s it? Well, who cares? It’s just a stupid mark in the book.” Then what happens? Does she then lose her drive to finish? Does her entire attitude about school change?
“The idea of a consequence is sometimes far more scary than the actual consequence,” my husband said. “She just said to me she doesn’t want to be embarrassed. If she gets to school and isn’t embarrassed she may feel she has gotten away with something.”
I couldn’t have agreed more.
So we waited and she finally finished. As I was tucking her into bed she said, “I’m really sorry I broke my promise.”
“I accept your apology,” I said. “And I’m glad you understand that breaking a promise is wrong.”
I explained that I was more upset because I view school as the most important factor in her life. “There are no choices when it comes to school,” I said. “You must do the work. Period.”
This morning I asked her if she had learned anything about last night’s episode.
“Don’t break a promise,” she said.
“Well, that’s a good lesson, but there is a more important one,” I said.
“And read all the directions,” she said.
“Ah, you’ve found it!” I said, kissing her.
We’ll see.
Photo by Ivan Petrov, courtesy of stock.xchng
When Lily was a baby she, like most infants I know, would practice her motor skills until she perfected them. For example, she would try to clap by slapping her hands against each other until finally she was able to give a round of applause.
Aimee (and this should come as no surprise) was a totally different creature. Whenever I put my hands together and said, “Yay!” she would just stare at me, hands at her side. Then, one day, at 10 months of age, I said, “Hooray!” and she held up both her hands and clapped perfectly.
She has been that way ever since.
She didn’t really talk much until she was 18 months old (the kid had the nerve to call me “Dada” until that age as well). Then one day, she just spoke in full sentences. And just about 10 days ago – about a week after her fifth birthday – I noticed she was saying a lot of words with the letter “r” in them. I realized she was trying to show off how well she could say them. Of course, I didn’t mention how well she could pronounce the letter, nor did I mention that by saying the letter so well she happened to drop the “o” sound (I figure it will come when she can get the sound down to a science). Instead, I just let her talk (which, as you know, she does a lot). I knew she would be upset if I mentioned her success and also didn’t want to draw attention to her previous flaw. (Click here to read my post on speech delay and what parents can do to recognize warning signs.)
Speech experts say the letter ‘r’ does not arise fully in some children until age 6 or 7, so I decided not to worry about Aimee until that age. But a friend of mine, whose child had the same problem, took her daughter to a speech pathologist and within a few lessons her diction was perfected.
Lily has a friend who is 7 whose speech is definitely marred. I asked the girl’s mom what the school had recommended and she told me they wouldn’t do anything about helping the girl until after age 8 (which I found odd, but didn’t question since this was not my kid). I didn’t want Aimee to speak like a baby by the time she was in kindergarten so I called my friend whose daughter attended speech therapy and asked for the name and number.
Just as I was about to dial the phone to make an appointment, I noticed Aimee saying her r’s.
I like being proactive. If something is wrong with my child I want to do everything I can to fix that problem (if the situation has a remedy, that is). But sometimes parents need to take a step back and breathe for a moment. If I had rushed and taken Aimee to the speech therapist she may have been more reticent to talk (although that may have been a good thing for Miss Chatterbox) and perhaps would have been self-conscious about her speech from now on.
This time, I’m glad I waited.
Photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski, courtesy of stock.xchng
I enjoy reading parenting magazines and sometimes get some great tips and ideas from them. But this morning I read an article that had me laughing out loud it was so absurd in its guidance.
The health section of Parents magazine had a short article entitled “Walk This Way” and cautioned parents to keep a better eye on kids while they are out and about. It gave a few pointers (which already makes me giggle – what, I can’t figure these things out for myself? I needed to be told to hold my toddler’s hand when crossing the street or walking in a parking lot?), and explained that children “aren’t good at judging a car’s speed or distance…” (Okay, I didn’t know that part.)
Then the a few helpful hints were given. The very first one cautioned parents to walk children under 10 across the street.
Huh?
Okay, full disclosure: it does say “except in limited situations such as watching him cross a residential street.” But still. Lily is 7 and crosses three streets by herself on the way to school. Yes, a crossing guard is there for the major street (which she does not cross) but the small side streets are the ones she navigates. I have taught her how to look both ways and watched her do it – she is great at it. Could she make a mistake one day? Maybe. (I’m crossing my fingers she doesn’t.) But teaching her early to do this has boosted her self-esteem and allowed her to grow.
The other piece of advice that stopped me was this one: “Don’t let your kids play in an alley, a driveway or an unfenced front yard.”
Guilty, your honor.
Not only do my kids play on our driveway every single day, they also play in our unfenced front, side and backyard. Should I just keep them inside instead?
Please.
I write this because I sometimes think parenting magazines preach to the dimwitted. We are moms, not morons. Although we could use some sound counsel at times and we do make mistakes, I think we can determine whether a situation is safe enough for our children without consulting a periodical. I also want to caution parents to not take things at face value. If the advice seems absurd, it probably is.
Photo by Miguel Ugalde, courtesy of stock.xchng
You need to know the history. You have to understand what happened before you judge me. But at 7:30 a.m. this morning – on Saturday, the so-called day of rest – I was woken by the sound of my children singing. And rather than have the normal reaction that most parents would have (such as my husband did, when he said, “Aw, isn’t that sweet?”), I got angry. In my sleep-deprived state of mind, instead of saying, “Hey, guys, could you keep it down?” I opened the door, peeked my head out and croaked something unthinkable: “Shut! Up!”
I admit my choice of words was bad; rude, even. I know I could have been more appropriate when admonishing them for having a good time (Seriously? What kind of horrible mom was I at that moment?) But I was tired (and still am). My husband and I had been out in the city with our close friends and didn’t get home until way after 2 a.m. By the time we paid the sitter a small fortune and got ready for bed, it was almost 3 a.m. And since my husband falls asleep the minute his head hits the pillow and I don’t, I may have fallen asleep somewhere around 3:30 a.m.
Which means by the time my children decided to audition for the next American Idol, I had had less than four hours of sleep.
My girls (to whom I have explained that Saturday is the one day dear husband and I would appreciate being able to sleep in) knew I would be upset when I finally came downstairs. I wasn’t really mad, though (I was too exhausted to be angry). So when I eventually peeled myself out of bed this morning, and when I saw the note above waiting for me as I walked in the kitchen to make my coffee, I was overcome with a much better emotion: love. (Aimee copied Lily’s note and drew a similar version.) It says, to clarify: "Sorry I woke you up on a Saturday. Love, your secret daughter. Guess who I am?"
“Sorry, Mom,” they said solemnly.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Thanks for the note, guys.”
“You’re welcome,” they said.
Good kids. Bad Mommy.
Is it wrong for a mom to call her kids assholes? Because that’s how I felt about them last night: that they were assholes.
I know I’m not supposed to say such awful things about my children. I know I’m supposed to look at them the way my dear husband does: with loving, unconditionally accepting eyes. His vision is so flawed he actually thinks they are hilarious when they throw a fit or talk back. (They aren’t.)
Of course, it’s easy for him to be so tolerant. He’s only with them on weekends. During the week, I am the lone parent.
As a result, they have become jerks.
I know. It’s wrong. I should really stop calling them names. But what else do you call kids who refuse to listen even when you’ve remained steadfast in your position? What else do you call little tykes who misbehave in public and loudly proclaim, “You’re the worst Mommy!” after you’ve spent the day taking them to school, playing with them for an hour, feeding them, and also driving them to their events? What would you call a child who, while you were on the phone, decided to jump up and down on the living room furniture when you have made it CRYSTAL-effing-CLEAR that such activity is verboten?
I would call them assholes.
Lily came home the other day and tossed her backpack on the table. I leafed through her homework the way I do every afternoon and stopped when I came upon something I hadn’t seen before. Two of her assignments from the previous day were only half finished. Her teacher had written, “Please complete by tomorrow.”
“What’s this?” I asked, holding the paper up.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, glancing away.
“No,” I said calmly, “it’s something. Tell me what’s going on.”
She shrugged. “Mrs. S said I could just finish it by tomorrow,” she said. She didn’t look at me when she spoke.
Several weeks ago I had e-mailed Lily’s teacher and asked if I should be doing homework with her. I asked because when I did I thought I was giving Lily an easy way out. She would quickly finish and I would examine her results, asking her to fix the ones that were wrong. I wondered how doing so was helping her. (Click here to read my post on that subject.) My instincts were right and her teacher asked me not to go over the homework so she would have a better assessment of Lily’s strengths and weaknesses.
Up until now this system has worked fine. I always ask Lily if she completed her work and she always said, “Yes.” For some reason, she got lazy.
When I saw the incomplete homework I explained to Lily how disappointed I was. “If you try your hardest and fail, that’s totally fine with me,” I said. “But not trying and failing? That is never acceptable.”
I also made it clear that homework is not a choice, it’s a must. I expressed my surprise and said, “This isn’t the Lily I know. The Lily I know is dedicated and finishes what she started.”
She began to cry (this child was born with a wrist to her forehead and “Woe is me” tattooed invisibly on her brow). I ignored the tears and said, “Why didn’t you finish the work?”
She shrugged. “Are you mad at me, Mom?” she asked.
I paused for a moment, trying to figure out my answer. Was I angry? Not really. Was I surprised? Definitely.
“I’m confused,” I said to her. “I know you are a good student and I feel this work doesn’t show your best effort.”
Tears fell down her cheeks and she nodded. I asked her to go and wash up, have a snack and do her homework.
That night she showed me that she had finished her work. I saw that one she needed to complete was still not 100 percent done. “Are you sure you have done everything?” I asked.
She looked at the paper and said, “Yeah.”
I eyed her. “Really?” I asked.
“Well, maybe not,” she said, taking the paper from me.
This is the hard part about growing up with a strong-willed child, especially one that is different from her equally, if not more-so, strong-willed sister. I cannot tell if her defiance is to test me or if it’s because she just doesn’t want to do the work.
“Maybe it’s too hard for her,” my husband said.
“No, that’s not it,” I said. “If anything, it’s too easy for her.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem,” he said.
I shrugged. “Who knows?” I asked. “I’m at a loss here.”
Luckily I called my therapist and made an appointment (I see her every few months or so for a mental tune-up).
“Some kids will just try to see what they can get away with,” she said to me. She must have seen the look of horror on my face because she added, “And that is no indication of what kind of child he or she will turn out to be.”
Before bed on the night Lily didn’t finish her homework I spoke to her about it again. I didn't go into detail but let her know how I felt. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be sorry," I said. "Be better. The only person you are hurting when you don't finish is yourself."
The next day she came home with three new assignments. On one page I saw she had written, “Turn over!” I didn’t say anything about her handwritten note and went to do some work. That night she sat quietly and completed her assignments. “Look, Mommy,” she said, holding up the paper. “I wrote ‘turn over’ on here so I wouldn’t forget to do the other side.”
I smiled and said, “What a good idea! Did it work?”
“Yep,” she said. “See?” She held up the paper to show me she had done both sides.
“Good for you,” I said. “You must be proud.”
“I am,” she said.
Mission accomplished.
Photo by Vince Petaccio, courtesy of stock.xchng
How can you wear your underwear backwards – all day long?
How can you walk around with chocolate syrup and other pieces of food stuck on your face for hours and not notice?
How can you not feel that snot hanging in your nose?
How can you go to the bathroom and not wipe yourself, but also insist on wearing new pajamas each night because it would “be gross” to wear them twice? (Seriously. How?)
How can you wipe your crusty boogers all over our house and think that’s okay?
How can you be 7 years old and still leave crumbs all around you when you eat?
How can you wear a bright orange tie-dye shirt with rainbow-striped pants and think that’s a hot-looking outfit?
How can you always want to be fancy?
How can you have this incredibly thick, gorgeous hair and insist on wearing it only in a ponytail or a bun?
How can you make friends with the meanest girls and not realize when they are acting like total jerks?
How can you be so effing lazy sometimes?
How can you wake up in a great mood every morning?
How can you wake up in a bad mood most mornings?
How can you ask so many questions?
How can you both be so different yet love each other so much?
How can you want even more stuffed animals, dolls, figures and other stupid toys that I cannot understand?
How can you still be testing me when I have remained steadfast your entire life?
How can you still be waking up at 6:30 a.m.?
How did I luck out and get two funny, kind-hearted, smart and beautiful girls?
This post is dedicated to Bad Mommy Moments who is moving on to bigger and better things (congrats again, CK!).
Please feel free to add your own list of how's by posting a comment.
One of the hardest parts I find about being a mom is the lack of empathy I get from my children. When I had my surgery they understood I wasn’t feeling well but after a day or two they wondered why I wouldn’t get off my lazy ass and fix them something to eat. As soon as I was up and around, they acted out (Aimee tried to punch me on my wounded breast) and I found myself saying, “Guys, I’m hurt! I have a really big owie!”
Their response? “Oh.”
I saw the future and wondered if I’d be like Jeffrey Dahmer’s mom, shaking my head and saying, “I tried. I tried to teach them to be empathetic. They just wouldn’t listen.”
But then, two times in the past month, Lily surprised me.
“Mom,” she said to me one morning at breakfast, “the book ‘The Berenstain Bears Lose A Friend’ makes me cry.”
“It does?” I asked. “Why?”
She glanced down and shook her head. “I don’t want to tell you,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked. “You can tell me anything.”
“No,” she said. She looked up and her eyes were moist. “I don’t want to cry.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you can show it to me later.”
She nodded. Later that night she brought me the book to read. “Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m not going to cry.”
I read her the story. In it, Sister Bear has a goldfish that she loves and cares for. But one day the goldfish dies. The crafty parents try to hoodwink their child by buying another goldfish but Sister Bear figures it out and gets really upset.
(Side note: I need to say something here. Have you ever read The Berenstain Bears? Their kids are named Brother Bear and Sister Bear. What, the author couldn’t think of better names?)
I read the story and Lily began to weep when she saw the dead fish floating on the top of the bowl.
“Are you upset because you’re worried about Red?” I asked, meaning the Betta Fish she has that refuses to die.
She nodded. Mind you, she has not looked at Red in months and almost never asks about him.
I asked what she thought about the parents lying to their child. “They didn’t want her to be upset,” she said.
I explained that even if a person is worried about how someone would react they should never lie. “I would have been even more upset if someone lied to me,” I said. “Just like Sister Bear was.
A few weeks later Lily tried to tell me about another book she read. This time she could barely get the words out she was so upset. The story in question? "Curious George Takes A Job."
In between choking back tears she told me how the story made her upset because George falls and breaks his leg. She begins to cry so hard she has to come to me for a hug.
“Do you want to see it?” she asks.
“Sure,” I said gently.
She picks up the book and turns to the offending page. George is sitting down. His leg is broken. Tears are streaming down his face.
“Aw, he's crying,” I said. I look up. Lily is bawling.
I grab her and hug and kiss her. “Lily, you have a very kind heart,” I said. “Please don’t ever change. It’s your best quality.”
I told this story to my friend Deborah who said, “That is so sweet.” Then she added, “You know, so often my kids drive me crazy. So when moments like that happen, I try to hold onto them for a long time because those are the moments that make being a parent so awesome.”
I couldn’t agree more.
I always wondered when my girls would become more empathetic and I now know it is a cognitive development that happens around 8 or 9 years of age (Lily will be 8 years old in February.) By constantly reinforcing this behavior (i.e., saying to them, "Wasn't that kind of Johnny to give you his last cookie?"), children will develop a keen sense of empathy when their minds mature.
To learn more about teaching your child empathy, click here, click here and click here.
Photo by Christa Richer, courtesy of stock.xchng
Imagine having parents who grew up in another country. Picture having a mom and dad with accents so pronounced you sometimes had to explain to your friends what they had just said (and being mortified while you did that). Envision asking when it was all right to go on a date and hearing a silence so deafening you had to leave the room.
Can you see yourself in that life? Then you’d know what it was like to be me.
Being the child of immigrants – worse, immigrants with a minority religion and culture – was really tough on me growing up. They did their best to raise me as an American but the Egyptian in them always seeped through.
And I was completely embarrassed by it.
Thankfully the United States today is a much bigger melting pot than it was 40 years ago. I am not the only one whose parents immigrated here (and have friends my age who are immigrants). I am no longer horrified by my mom and dad’s ethnicity and, in fact, am proud of who I am and where my family originated. (Egypt? Who could be embarrassed by all that history? The Pyramids? The Sphinx? Hieroglyphics? Mummies? The list goes on and on.)
However, I am still torn between two cultures. Let’s take dating, for instance. I was never allowed to date. I was told I could go out with groups of boys and girls (which I did) but was not allowed to go one-on-one with a boy to a movie or to a party. My parents were fearful; they didn’t want me to become sexually active and rather than sit down and talk about it they either ignored my developing body or got upset when a boy called our house. I had no boundaries and I had no idea how to navigate through puberty. (That was fun.)
According to this article from The Wall Street Journal, it is a miracle I met and married a good man. According to the story, parents should get involved in their kids’ budding romances early in order for them to make wise choices later on. To paraphrase, parents should be a sounding board and offer advice when necessary without being judgmental (that’s the key – keep your pie hole shut while the kid is talking). Read the article – the basis for talking to your kids about puppy love is really a solid basis for parenting in general. (Click here to read it in its entirety.)
My problem is I don’t believe teenagers should have boyfriends or girlfriends. I know that may sound insane after all I went through with my own parents, but hear me out. What age is appropriate? Twelve? Fourteen? Sixteen? Kids that age are really young. They should not be tying themselves to one person. If I had married the person I met in high school I would have been divorced a year later. Hell, if I married the guy I dated when I was 21 I would have also been divorced a year later. I changed so much in my 20s I needed that time alone to figure out who I was and what I wanted in my life. I dated, but never seriously. And that’s what I think people should do. I think no one should have one boyfriend or one girlfriend until they are ready to settle down. (Click here, click here, click here, click here, click here, click here and click here to read previous posts on talking to your kids about sex and sexual education.)
Teenagers are not ready to settle down.
Consider this: I have three friends who are currently single (all in their 40s). All three are what I refer to as serial monogamists. They have had either a boyfriend or girlfriend their whole lives (not the same one – they date these people for years at a time). They wasted a lot of time with people they knew they weren’t going to marry because it was either convenient to have a significant other or because they were scared to be alone. As a result they never went out and found the person who should have been their partner.
So what am I going to do when my kids want to start dating? (Or, rather, what are my husband and I going to do?)
I’m going to take the advice offered by the article and talk to my kids early and often. I’m going to explain how I feel about dating and sex. I’ll tell them about my experiences and those of my friends and hope by doing so they will make good choices.
I can only hope.
Photo by Stephen Tainton, courtesy of stock.xchng
They weren’t always like this. Really. They were big, perky, sparkling even. No, seriously. They were!
Now? They’re droopy. Old. Marked by time and events.
Listen, you. It’s partially your fault. You had to love me unconditionally. You had to be an amazing father. And then, dammit, you had to die. And I couldn’t turn them off. The pain was great, but they wouldn’t stop. The tears flowed endlessly. I rubbed and rubbed and didn’t care about the outcome. I was grief-stricken.
For two years.
And you two. Oh, don’t look so innocent. You think you didn’t have something to do with this? You kept me awake for ages. When you finally did sleep I, of course, couldn’t.
Oh, really? You think you can stand there looking so smug? You think you’re without fault? Think again, buddy. You snore, you chomp. Hell, you can practically whistle "Ode To Joy" through your nose. The midnight concerto means only one thing for me: interrupted and restless sleep.
So I suffered - or, rather, they suffered. And rebelled.
They stopped being able to read. I had to start wearing glasses. Oh, and not just any spectacles. I was prescribed “progressive” lenses, which is the modern-day term for “bifocals.” Seriously? Why not give me a walker, too?
My eyes, people. My eyes! (What? You thought I meant something else at first, didn't you? Shame!) My eyes are puffy in the morning (and often throughout the day), and they tell people I’m older than I would like. Middle-aged, even. Could there be a less sexy term?
I've tried the creams, the potions, the false promises made to me by the cosmetic industry. Lies, I tell you. All lies. My eyes continue to taunt me, telling me they won't go down without a fight.
“Just get them fixed,” my mom said to me. This is classic mom advice. She sees a problem and, no matter the cost or repercussions, she fixes it.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
Why not, indeed. I’m not really in favor of plastic surgery (unless it’s medically necessary) and just don’t understand why women aren’t allowed to mature gracefully these days. It's 2009, for Pete's sake. When will the older woman with wrinkles and a post-baby belly be the norm? Plus, there are a lot of thing I can do with the $5,000 a surgery like that would cost. I would rather travel or buy something great for the house. New eyes? I just can’t see it.
I may change my mind one day, though, because eyes (or, rather, the dark circles and bags underneath) are pissing me off. And I stupidly married a guy who is two years younger than I am, and whose genes must have made a Dorian Gray type-deal with the devil because he still looks really youthful to me.
He pisses me off, too.
Doctor, my eyes have seen the years
And the slow parade of fears
Without crying;
Now I want to understand.
I have done all that I could
To see the evil and the good
Without hiding;
You must help me if you can . . .
Doctor, my eyes—
Tell me what is wrong!
Was I unwise
To leave them open for so long?
'Cause I have wandered through this world
And, as each moment has unfurled,
I've been waiting
To awaken from these dreams.
People go just where they will;
I never noticed them until
I got this feeling
That it's later than it seems . . .
Doctor, my eyes—
Tell me what you see.
I hear their cries . . .
Just say if it's too late for me.
Doctor, my eyes
Cannot see the sky—
Is this the price for having learned how not to cry?
"Doctor My Eyes," written and performed by Jackson Browne (click on link to see video).
I don’t know what I was expecting but this is certainly not it.
I didn’t think I would stay at home and raise (read: battle) two very strong-willed girls. I didn’t think I wouldn’t have a successful career. I didn’t think I would live in a homogeneous town where I was the minority. I didn't think most people I knew would be so involved in their own lives they didn’t always notice when others needed them.
I just didn’t think.
Not thinking has always been a huge problem for me. Because I don't consider the outcome, I've gotten into loads of trouble. (Just ask my husband – he will happily give you a list of my mishaps throughout our marriage.) My mom constantly berated me as a child to, “Think! Think before you do things!” (I say those exact words to Lily, by the way, and now understand just how frustrated my mom was with me. Damn. I hate karma.)
I didn’t want to think, though.
Thinking things through is scary. If I really wondered what it would be like to travel alone when I was younger I wouldn’t have met some fantastic friends from foreign lands or been treated to some of the world’s most incredible landmarks or its gorgeous beaches. If I really imagined what it would be like to have kids I might never have had them. (And let’s not even discuss pregnancy. If I had considered I would be nauseated for nine months with each pregnancy, no way would I have gotten knocked up.) If I believed my social life would take a massive nosedive in my mid-30s, again, I might have chosen a different path. If I assumed the most often I would see my good friends was once or twice a year … well, you get the idea.
Like I said, I didn’t think.
I’m reflecting on things now, though. And all that pondering is bumming me out. I’m sad that I am not around those friends who make me laugh a lot. I’m upset a lot of moms I know are so involved in their own families they forget to notice others (I know I'm guilty of this sometimes, so pick your jaw up off the ground.) I’m unhappy that in order to be the mom my kids deserve and to also have a life outside the home I have to wait two more godforsaken years until Aimee is in school full time.
Sheesh. No wonder I never use my head.
Before you start dialing the suicide hotline for me, allow me to show you what all this brain activity has also done for me.
I didn’t realize having kids would be so incredibly fulfilling and, often times, fun. I didn’t know I would constantly marvel at how lucky I am to have what I have. I didn’t consider I would marry a great guy who keeps me laughing even after all these years. I didn’t dream I would enjoy my 40s (at all).
See? All that thinking paid off, too.
I presume my life is going to get better. I really do. I understand my kids will get older, I will have more freedom and I will make more friends along the way. I believe there will be a lot to get me upset, too, but I’m just not going to concentrate on those things. (You just read what happens when I do that, didn’t you?)
Illustration courtesy of stock.xchng
It’s cold and flu season, which means only one thing in my house: I’m stuck at home with sick children (and will be for at least a couple of weeks out of the year). Right now both girls are ill, but there are times when I’m really lucky and they get sick on different occasions. That means I get to stay in the house for weeks at a time (sometimes back-to-back) and slowly lose every ounce of joy from my body. (Ah, motherhood.)
Usually I can handle having them at home, but most times (such as yesterday and the day before) I am very thankful I don’t own a handgun.
Why Having A Sick Child At Home Isn’t So Bad:
1. Naps. Long ones. Even when they’ve given them up.
2. Guiltless television. I may turn off the TV from Monday through Friday when they are well, but when they’re sick it’s on much more than the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends (The AAP states kids should watch no more than two hours a day. Uh-oh.)
3. Thoughtless food. Hey, if all they can stomach is applesauce and rice, why should I slave over a hot stove and fix three nutritious and healthful meals every day?
4. Not having to set my alarm in the morning. (Bliss, until number 7 in the second section happens.)
5. Not having to make lunch at 7 a.m.
6. Not having to shower every day or look pretty (which, let’s face it, is a process, people).
7. I get to snuggle my girls whenever I want, and that includes my 7-year-old who usually disses me whenever I ask for a hug.
8. Ridiculously early bedtime. (What? They’re tired!)
9. I can watch my favorite shows any time I want (because, you see, they are watching theirs.)
10. I don’t have to keep a schedule or rush to get the kids to their lessons. In fact, I don’t have to go anywhere at all.
Why Having A Sick Child At Home Kinda Sucks:
1. Crabby, nasty, mean kids. This is where not owning a firearm comes in handy.
2. Middle of the night or early morning wake-up calls. Because Mommy can think oh-so clearly at 3 a.m.
3. I look like crap and I’m not the one who’s sick.
4. My hands. They are raw and chapped from washing them so much. So much for my dream of being a hand model.
5. My figure. It’s getting soft and lumpy from no exercise (going up and down the steps to watch daytime television doesn’t seem to help, either).
6. My husband. He forgets I’m home with sick kids and thinks I still want to get jiggy with it. (Clearly he doesn’t notice number 5.)
7. Ridiculously early wake-up times (see number 8 above for the answer to why this happens.)
8. I’m home All. Day. Long. With. Two. Kids.
9. Daytime television is mind-numbing. After a week of it I can barely speak without using words such as "delightful" and "sweet."
10. Vomit. Enough said.
