Best Of A Reluctant Mom

This post, entitled, The Need For Speed, originally ran on March 20, 2007:

At 4:30 p.m. on Sunday, my husband started making dinner. We have a deal; he makes dinner on the weekends and I make dinner during the week. I think this arrangement is fair and he does, too. Part of the agreement is that he doesn’t have to actually make dinner; he just has to plan it. Meaning, he can order in, we can go out, or he can make it. I just don’t want to be involved. I make three meals a day for our kids and I think he can handle two meals on Saturday and Sunday.

Back to Sunday afternoon. I glanced at my watch and saw he was preparing something involving sweet potatoes. Our kids usually eat between 5:30 p.m. and 6 p.m., so I assumed he allowed enough time to fix the meal. At 5:30 I walked through the kitchen and saw him whipping something up; his laptop computer was perched on the counter and open to some kind of recipe he had found online. The kids started to ask when dinner would be ready. Dear Husband grunted, and we left him alone.

At 6:30 p.m. – two hours after he began – he announced dinner was ready. We were all starving by then and I couldn’t wait to see what gourmet meal would be set before us on the table.

Wait for it…

I looked at our plates: we each had a breast of chicken (prep time: 10 minutes), some peas (5 minutes) and sweet potato fritters.

“Wait,” I asked. “Where’s the rest?” With all that time spent mixing, whipping and frying, I was expecting something mirroring a Thanksgiving feast.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

I took a deep breath and paused for a moment because I didn’t want to appear to be ungrateful. I am very happy with our pact and I didn’t want my husband to think I was criticizing him. But it took him two fricking hours to make this dinner? He had to be kidding.

“You realize you’ve been cooking for two hours, right?” I said, sitting down.

Thankfully, he laughed. “Yeah, I know. The fritters took forever.” (Um, an hour and forty-five minutes, to be exact). What’s worse, the fritters were greasy and unappetizing. So I stuffed myself with a pound of peas and as much chicken as I could stomach and just kept my mouth shut.

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with men? Why does it sometimes (read: most times) take a man 10 times longer than women to complete most tasks? Ask any married woman you know and she will quickly nod in agreement with what I just said. Men - there is, simply put, a need for speed.

Part of me used to think my husband’s slowness was passive aggression. Then I discovered he was in a very, very large club of husbands who did things at exactly the same tempo – glacial speed. How many times, ladie, have you said to your husband, “Could you please just give the kids a snack?” only to look at the clock 15 minutes later and find your children climbing the walls because they are so hungry? Then you look for your husband and discover he thought he should re-caulk around the bathtub before he fed them something. The male thought process (or lack thereof) is a complete mystery to me.

Most days I just ignore my turtle-paced spouse and repeat my favorite mantra: “My kids will be fine.” Other days, I do what needs to be done myself. And some days, I lose my temper and beg him (okay, yell at him) to get moving. Those are the worst days because, as if to taunt me, he goes even slower.

Best Of A Reluctant Mom

This post, entitled Emergencies And The Four-Year-Old Girl, originally ran on May 9, 2006

The police came to my door yesterday afternoon.
Apparently, in an effort to teach Lily, age 4, about emergencies and dialing 911, I accidentally called the police department for real. So when the officer came to my door, I sheepishly explained what I was trying to accomplish. The understanding cop smiled and said, "So, is everyone all right?"
"Yes. I'm so sorry," I said. I looked at Lily.
"Are we all right?" I asked her. She nodded. "See what happens when we call 911? The police come and make sure everything is all right." She nodded again, smiling.
"I'm so sorry," I said again to the cop.
"No problem."
What I wanted to tell the nice policeman was that everything was not all right. What is wrong with my daughter? Every time I try to explain something important to her, she just doesn't get it. This lesson went better than this attempt to teach her not to go with strangers, but it did not go well.
I spoke to Lily about emergencies and told her they may be a time when Mommy or her grandmother might fall down, and she would have to get help. "Let's pretend I'm hurt and can't get up," I said.
"Okay!"
I fell to the floor and lay there, not moving.
"Mommy!" said Lily. She was laughing. I didn't move.
"Mo-mmy!" she sang. "Get u-up!" I stayed still.
"Mommy!" she yelled. “Wake up!”
This isn't working, I thought.
"Lily, you're supposed to ask if I'm all right."
"Oh. Are you all right?" She smiled down at me, putting an arm on my shoulder.
"No!"
She pulled her arm away and stared at me.
I sighed. This was going to be harder than I thought. Aside from not knowing how to educate children, I also have zero patience.
"Listen, Lily. There might be a time when Mommy or someone else gets really hurt, or if there is a fire, and these are called an emergencies. When those things happen, you have to quickly go and get the telephone."
"Now?'
"Yes, now. Go and get it."
She ran to the guest room and brought me the cordless phone. (I noticed her nails needed trimming, so of course, I started thinking about cutting her nails and not concentrating on the task at hand.)
"Okay, now here's the deal. If ever there is a time when Mommy can't get up, or your grandmother or a babysitter, you should first ask them if they are all right.” I showed her the buttons on the phone. “If they can’t answer you, pick up the phone and dial 'talk,' then 9-1-1. Can you do that?”
She nodded enthusiastically.
"Okay, show me."
She pushed talk, then 9-1-1. I immediately hung up the phone. We did this a few times, and most times I hit the 'talk' button again before she dialed 911 so she wouldn't really get through.
Turns out that just dialing those numbers is all you really need to get a 911 operator. A signal was sent to the police department, and I received a call a few minutes later.
"Is this Mrs. D?”
“Yes?”
“Did you just dial 911?"
"Oh, no.” I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “Oh, I'm so sorry. I was trying to teach my daughter about emergencies and calling 911."
“How old is your daughter?”
“Four.”
"Okay, ma'am. But a squad car will be there in a few minutes. With every 911 call we have to send a car out."
"I'm so sorry."
"It's all right."
I was mortified.

Best Of A Reluctant Mom

Today's post, entitled Kids Suck Sometimes, ran on May 11, 2006

Last night I made two juicy steaks, mashed potatoes, asparagus and corn on the cob for dinner. A well-rounded meal, don’t you think? My kids didn’t eat one bite. Not one. Well, Aimee didn’t eat one bite. She kept shaking her head and saying, “No!” (or, more like “naw,” because she can’t quite say “no” yet). I think Lily had two bites. Seriously. I sat there, enjoying my meal, and thought, you two kids just suck. I slaved away, prepared a nice meal and basically got the middle finger from not one, but two children.

What pissed me off is that both kids have eaten everything I served last night before. And usually, if they don’t want to eat meat (which happens often), I know they will at least eat the mashed potatoes or corn on the cob, and always the asparagus. But they didn’t last night. And no, they aren’t sick, and no, they weren’t too tired. They just get that way sometimes. But I refused to let it get to me. I sat, enjoyed my meal and thought, “This too shall pass.”

My friend Harriet has a son, Peter, who eats almost anything. I remember once Harriet, Peter, a few other friends and I all went out to dinner (this was long before I had children). Peter was the only child at the table and the restaurant was not kid-friendly. Meaning, there were no kids’ meals, no chicken fingers, nothing that most children prefer to eat.

Harriet eyed the menu, looked at Peter and said, “Peter, do you want the Mahi-Mahi or the octopus?”
Peter thought for a moment and said, “Mahi-Mahi.”
“Broccoli or asparagus?’ she asked.
“Broccoli,” he said.

We all stared at Harriet in amazement.

“Okay, Harriet, what’s your secret?” I asked her.

She just shrugged and said, “When your kids are ready for solid food, start them on vegetables. In fact, only give them vegetables for a long, long time.”

“Why just vegetables?” I asked.

“Because fruit is sweet. And all children love sweet foods, especially fruit. Plus, some veggies are sweet, such as carrots and sweet potatoes. Anyway, this way you get their palate accustomed to a variety of tastes.”

She also recommended making the baby food myself, but I didn’t because I couldn’t get it together. I bought baby food instead, which turned out to be fine.

The result of Harriet’s advice was having a child who ate everything. Seriously. Lily ate Indian and Thai curries, Japanese food, pasta, pretty much anything I put in front of her. I remember other moms at the playgroups looking at me like, “You’re feeding your baby chili?” But she ate it, and did so eagerly.

The same theory applied to feeding yogurt. I couldn't bear the thought of giving my kids sugary yogurt, so I just gave them plain yogurt. One book I read said, "You baby doesn't know yogurt yet, so feeding her plain yogurt will allow her to eat it without all the additives and preservatives." Lily ate this food, too, with gusto.

Then she turned two and a half. All of a sudden, Lily got an opinion. At three she got even more picky, and now at four, she’s even more so. But I still feed her all those foods, and even if she doesn’t eat them all, I ask her to try them. I tell her if she doesn’t like it, she doesn’t have to eat it, but she has to try. Then, it’s her choice if she wants to eat or not. But she and Aimee know whatever Mom makes is all they get. There are no kids’ menus in my house, and there are no second meals.

I know other moms who are fine with making two meals for dinner. I barely have enough time to make one meal, let alone two. Plus, I don’t want my kids thinking the world revolves around them. The foods I serve are often fresh, healthful and nutritious. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t indulge them once and a while and serve chicken nuggets or grilled cheese. But even those foods are not the typical kinds. I make grilled cheese with provolone instead of American cheese, and I use Smart Balance spread instead of butter. The chicken nuggets I serve are Bell & Evans chicken breasts. They are organic, have no preservatives or hormones and are antibiotic-free. They are breaded but not cooked, so I bake them in the oven. So even when my kids think they are getting a kid-friendly meal, I know better.

Experts tell you to not pay a lot of attention to a child when he or she is eating because if you focus on their eating too much and get stressed out if they don’t eat, the child picks up on your reaction and refuses to eat even more. Plus, children eat when they are hungry. I find this advice to be totally true, yet I can’t help but get frustrated, especially after a scene like last night. Yet both my kids went to bed and slept perfectly fine. This morning, they ate like lions after a hunt.

I guess the experts are right. I just wish the experts would come over and have dinner with me on a night like last night.

The Best Of A Reluctant Mom

Folks, I've hit a creative wall. I started this blog anonymously because it gave me the freedom to write what I wanted, but I couldn't remain unknown for long. The lack of anonymity has stifled my thoughts and curbed what I sometimes really wanted to say. This mental block came at a bad time, too, because I just found out I have a heckler (and what I love is this person hates me enough to read more than one post!), which tells me I have finally made it in the blogging world.

So I've decided to reprint some posts I thought were either helpful or informative - The Best Of A Reluctant Mom, if you will. Loyal readers may feel the need to leave me (I understand completely) and new readers may not. Either way, I thank you for your devotion and wish you all well. I may write again, but have not made that decision yet.

Today's post was originally printed on December 11, 2007, entitled The Secret, Parenting Style.

I’m scared to admit this, but I think I found the book that can answer my questions about parenting, marriage and life in general. I mentioned this book, “Easy To Love, Hard To Discipline” by Becky A. Bailey, Ph.D., in a previous post and now that I have it and have been reading it, I want to sing its praises. Loudly.

We all suffer from the teachings we were given as children. No matter how many times you tell yourself, “I will never do what my parents did,” inevitably you may find yourself saying, “Because I said so!” or “Shut up!” We only know what we have been taught.

I don’t like the parenting my parents did. I love my parents, and I am very lucky to have had such a generous and giving mom and dad, but they did not know how to handle a strong-willed, testing child like me. Rather than take the time to teach, they broke my spirit (albeit unintentionally). I do not blame them and in fact, when I see Aimee’s behavior, I think, “No wonder they spanked the life out of me.” Although I do not spank my kids, I dream of doing so. Often.

The wish to harm my kids is the reason I have found this book so enlightening. Every other parenting book I have read tells me to avoid doing X, avoid doing Y, if you’re doing Z no wonder your kids are bad, blah, blah, blah. I found myself getting angry at the books for telling me what I was doing wrong without giving me better direction. I want to learn what to do right without focusing on my bad behavior. Wait! Could that be the answer to positive discipline with kids, too? You bet it is. Focusing on the positive and teaching a child when they are misbehaving so they will learn for life.

I haven’t finished the book yet but I what I have read gives me solace and hope. It is a tutorial that offers real-life examples and allows you to make mistakes without beating yourself up. We are human, after all, and we are supposed to make mistakes. More importantly, this book illustrates how to stay focused on the positive, and reminds you that what you pay attention to you get more of. For instance, if you say to a child, “Don’t hit your sister!” or “Don’t jump on the sofa!” the child only hears what you are focusing on (i.e. hitting the sister or touching the lamp). Instead, say, “Keep your hands to yourself” or, “If you want to jump you must do it outside.” Do you see the difference? Saying “don’t” means nothing to a child. I have read this theory in parenting books time and again but I needed more information. This book gives me the instructions, which I find so refreshingly helpful. Instead of, “Stop fidgeting,” I say, “Sit properly.” Instead of “Stop doing this” I say, “Do this.” When you are used to saying “Stop” and “Don’t,” this behavioral change requires some practice. A lot, in fact.

But changing yourself is exactly the point of this book (and one the other books only touch upon). Without disciplining yourself how can you expect your kids to be well behaved? Dr. Bailey gives a great example of a woman who walked for three days to see Mahatma Gandhi. When she finally met with him in person she asked for help regarding her son. “All he does is eat sugar all day. Nothing else. Will you help me?” Gandhi told the woman to go home and return in a week with her son. She went home and returned a week later with the boy. Gandhi recognized the woman and looked at the boy. “Stop eating sugar!” he said to the boy. The woman was furious. “I just walked for three days each way to hear you say something to my son that I could have said to him myself?” He said, “It took me a week to stop eating sugar myself. I could not tell him to do something that I myself was still doing.”

Get the idea? You can’t scream at the busboy or lose it in traffic and expect your kids to sit quietly and behave. They learn by watching you.

I tried to use one of the tools I learned this past weekend. Aimee was testing and fighting my husband and me at every stop. I decided to pick up the book and read it voraciously. Here’s how well it taught me: Last night Aimee stood at the top of the stairs and refused to get into her pajamas. “No!” she yelled. “No! No! No!” (Even after having two kids I still get stumped when a child yells, "No!") Rather than engage Aimee (as I sometimes used to do) I walked away, took a huge deep breath and then went back to her. “Aimee, I can hear you. I know you don’t want to get into your pajamas. I need you to get dressed because we as a family are a team, and when you do your part, you help the whole family.” She responded, “No!” I said, “Fine. You don’t have to get dressed. But I can only do my part if you do yours.” I walked away. She stood at the stairs for a few minutes and then said, “Mommy, I decided to behave!” She ran in her room and got dressed and came down to show me. “Aimee, I am so pleased you decided to listen and join the team. Are you proud of yourself?” She beamed with pride. “Good. You should be.” The night went flawlessly after that.

Reading "Easy To Love, Hard To Discipline" reminds me how easy it is to become our parents. “Why are these dishes not done? Do I have to remind you a thousand times to do something? What’s wrong with you?” Did you ever hear any of that as a child? Rather than being shamed, wouldn’t it be nice to hear, “Jane, it’s your week to do the dishes. Please go do them now.” No blame, no anger, just direction. So much easier and so much less energy expended.

I hope you will all get this book because I think the lessons involved can be used for every day life as well. For instance, if you are in a dead-end job and you always think, “I wish my boss wouldn’t bother me” or “I wish I didn’t have this job,” you are focusing on the negative. If, instead, you say to yourself, “I want a better job” or “I want to work for a more humane company,” reaching those goals will be your focus. Same goes for weight-loss. If you say, “I will stop eating junk food” or “I need to stop being so sedentary,” you will never lose weight. If you say, “I need to eat healthfully and exercise more,” the attention is positive. You get the idea.

(Just now I said to the girls: “Time to get ready for quiet time!” Aimee yelled out, “No, Mommy, no!” I said, “Come on, team, let’s go brush our teeth and get ready.” Pause. “Okay, Mommy, here we come!” God I love this book.)

Potty Talk

Even though my children are long past potty training, one question has always pestered me regarding their hygiene: should they sit or squat when using a public toilet?

I’ve admitted I’m a misophobe, so it should come as no surprise to loyal readers that I find sitting my bottom down on a public toilet about as appealing as licking the floor of one. I used to think the germs would jump up and infect me, so I hovered until I was done and cleaned up any mess. (Ladies who do not clean up after yourselves should read this post.)

Then I had kids. Not just kids, but girls. Girls who were too small to hover. Who had no concept of just how nasty a public bathroom could be. Who drove me absolutely mad when they touched anything and everything in the stall, and allowed their princess panties to linger on the filthy floor below them as they finished their business. I used to cringe when I had to place them on the seat. I’d lay down as many pieces of toilet paper as possible to “protect” their tiny tushies, but those pieces often fell by the wayside and there sat my babies, flesh to porcelain.

I want to hurl just thinking about it.

So today I decided to find out just how bad it is to actually sit down on a public toilet seat. And guess what? My fears were completely unfounded.

“Even if you sit on a toilet seat right after someone with a sexually transmitted disease has, it’s practically impossible to get infected, says Phillip Tierno, Ph.D., author of The Secret Life of Germs. Urine itself is sterile, so you're just as safe drying a wet seat with tissue as you are sitting on a paper liner. (Click here to read more on this subject.)

But the seat has to be the dirtiest place in the bathroom, right?

Wrong.

“Usually, actually the floor is the dirtiest,” according to Dr. Charles Gerba, co-author of author of The Germ Freak's Guide to Outwitting Colds and Flu. (Click here to read more on his findings.)

Apparently, there are germs all over the stall, especially on the sanitary napkin disposal, the handles and the sink area. But according to most experts, washing your hands well with soap and water is enough to combat those germs.

And guess what? All those years of squatting may have actually hurt me rather than protect me. “Problem is since the position isn't really relaxing, your bladder may not empty completely. The residual urine can breed bacteria, leading to a urinary-tract infection. The habit can also cause incontinence later in life.”

Oops.

So, ladies out there who are germ freaks just like I am, sit down and relax. Just make sure to wash your hands well afterward.

(For yet another article on the "eww" factor of public toilet seats, click here.)

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Games Without Frontiers

The setting: living room floor.

The game: Battleship, meant for players age 7 and older.

The teams: Mom, age 43, and Lily, age 8, versus Dad, 41, and Aimee, age 5.

Mom: “Aimee, you start.”

Aimee eyeing the screen: “G-4.”

Lily, finding coordinates: “Aw! You hit our battleship!”

Aimee: “Yay!”

Mom: “Our turn. Lily, go!”

Lily: “A-3.”

Dad: “Did she hit us or miss us?”

Aimee: “Miss!”

Dad: “Wait…” He has Aimee count the numbers again.

Aimee: “Oh. Hit.”

Lily: “Which one?”

Aimee, picking up a ship: “This one.”

Dad: “You don’t need to pick it up, Aim. Just tell them which one.”

Aimee: “Oh. Which is it?”

Dad: “Submarine.”

Aimee, echoing Dad: “Submarine.”

Dad: “Okay. If we got a hit on G-4, where should we go next?”

Aimee: “J-10!”

Dad: “Wait. What?”

Aimee: “J-10!”

Lily: “Okay. J-10 it is. Missed!”

Dad, rolling his eyes. “Aimee. If we got a hit at G, why would you pick J?”

Aimee giggles and shrugs her shoulders.

The game continues. It’s Dad and Aimee’s turn again.

Dad: “Okay. Let’s try this again.” He points out where they got a hit and tries to show Aimee her options.

Lily: “Are you ready? Come on! Pick!”

Aimee: “H-8!”

Dad: “What? H-8?!”

Aimee: “Yep.”

Mom, howling with laughter. “Let her pick. Lily, hit or miss?”

Lily, finding coordinates. She groans. “Hit.”

Dad: “What? Hit?”

Aimee: “Yay!”

Lesson: just let kids play the damn game, even if they aren’t developmentally ready to understand the concept. In time, they may just sink your battleship.

Photo by Margan Zajdowicz, courtesy of stock.xchng

Happy Birthday, Lily!

Birthday banner displayed in full view: check.

Gifts & cards found on table upon waking: check.

Presents torn open and examined: check.

Birthday cake baked with love: check.

Goodie bags packed and ready to go: check.

Party scheduled at bowling alley: check.

Pizza, snacks and beverages ordered: check.

Nine excited girls invited: check.

An 8-year-old smiling ear-to-ear: you betcha.

Happy birthday, Lily.

Card lovingly made for Lily by her sister, Aimee, age 5.

Soul Food

Yesterday I fed my soul.

Wednesday, however, was not a good day. I had a long session at my therapist’s office and spoke openly about how lonely I had been feeling. That night I admitted to my husband how much I was missing my father (who died 13 years ago) and how I wished I were able to make more friends with women in my town. The grief I experienced when my dad passed away was unlike any other, and it was one I wasn’t eager to see again in my lifetime. At that time I also longed for close friends who would support and encourage me. The similarity of how I felt then compared to how I feel now was unnerving and upsetting.

I felt like I was back in time, dipping my toe into that same unhealthy pool of misery. Only this time, rather than jump in, I am doing everything I can to pull myself away from it.

“I hate feeling this way,” I said to my husband through tears. “This isn’t where I want to be.”

“I know,” he said. “I know.”

“I’m not a victim,” I said. “And I can’t stand when people play the victim.”

He nodded.

“I won’t let this feeling beat me,” I said. “I will win.”

He smiled. “I know, baby,” he said. “I know you will.”

He suggested I get out and do something. Volunteer, take a class, just do something that would start my social wheels in motion. I promised I would begin.

So yesterday morning I got up and put on a new attitude. I took a Pilates class and afterward drove to a gathering some of the moms at Lily’s school were having. These two women were in charge of a fundraiser and needed help wrapping the donated baskets. Last week I got the e-mail asking parents who were available to help out and I decided I would just show up.

Sometimes the best intentions are actually met with even better reactions.

I spent the entire morning chatting, laughing and talking with the other women who had dropped by to help as well. Some I had already met, others I was introduced to for the first time but everyone was fun to be around. When it was noon and I had to pick up Aimee from school, the woman hosting the event said, “Come back. We’re ordering pizza and Aimee is more than welcome to join us.”

So I did. Aimee was a star (she helped me wrap baskets and enjoyed listening to the grown-ups chit-chat) and I got some quality socializing time in. We began to discuss spring break and I mentioned a country we were thinking about visiting. One of the moms said, “Oh, you should talk to Cindy. She’s been there.”

You know how people say there are no coincidences in life, only fate? Well, decide for yourself.

I called Cindy and we chatted for half an hour. It turns out she and I have a lot in common: we both enjoy traveling, we both lived in the Middle East and we both have young children in the same town. I was thrilled to find another person to whom I could relate. As a bonus to our phone meeting, she invited me to a Mom’s Night Out at a local bar next week, which I plan on attending.

In one fell swoop I beat the Misery Monster, folks. In fact, I kicked its ass.

Photo by Sanja Gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng

Medicine Recall

In the midst of cold and flu season I somehow missed a massive recall regarding most of the good stuff I keep in my medicine cabinet. My guess is that other moms and dads out there missed it, too. So I’m posting it here, just in case I’m right. (Who am I kidding? Of course I’m right.)

According to KidsHealth.org, “approximately 54 million packages of 27 over-the-counter remedies manufactured by Johnson & Johnson were voluntarily recalled in the Americas, the United Arab Emirates (UAE), and Fiji by Johnson & Johnson's McNeil Consumer Healthcare Products in consultation with the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) because of an unusual moldy, musty, or mildew-like odor found in certain lots of the products.”

The recall includes Children’s Motrin, Children’s Tylenol, St. Joseph’s aspirin and several other commonly used pain relievers.

To read more about which products are on the list and what to look for, click here and to find out more, click here.

Undressed

My kids have been dressing themselves for years. Aimee, the stronger-willed of the two, has insisted not only in dressing herself but choosing which outfit she would wear for the day. (Thus began the Dresses Only era, which lasted four very long years.) Most days she put on her clothes properly, but some days I would look at her and say, “You’re shirt is on backwards.”

Depending on the way she felt, she would either fix it or shrug and walk away.

This morning she put on a shirt that had a cute photo of a tiger on the back. We got the T-shirt at the Cape May Zoo (which, if any of you are ever in the area, you must visit) and she loves it. Today I noticed she wore the shirt with the tiger’s photo in the front.

“Mommy,” she announced, “I know this is on backwards but I like the tiger and want to wear it in the front.”

“Fine with me,” I said.

After school today she said something that alarmed me. She pointed to her shirt and said, “Mom, Mrs. S made me turn my shirt around.”

I was surprised by what she just said because the Montessori method is all about allowing children do things by themselves. Parents (and, especially, teachers) are encouraged to sit on their hands if necessary and allow the child to make mistakes until they figure it out on their own. Children at Aimee’s school come dressed in all sorts of styles: shorts with pants on underneath, backwards shirts, and multi-colored outfits. Only once have I seen a teacher comment on a child's clothing and it was out of concern that the child would be uncomfortable (pants zipper in the back instead of the front, etc.).

“She what?” I asked. She told me again what the teacher (who has only been with the school since September) had done.

“Did she take you into the bathroom?” I asked.

“No, she made me do it in the classroom.”

“Could everyone see?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Did she touch you?” I asked.

“No, she just pulled at the shirt and turned it around,” she said.

I was furious. If anyone's going to crush my kid's spirit, it's not going to be her.

Then I asked, “Did you tell her you wanted to wear it that way?”

“No,” she said.

“Did you tell her I said it was all right for you to wear it like that?” I asked.

“No.”

I told Aimee she needed to use her words. “How will anyone know how you feel unless you tell them?” I said.

I then told her was I disappointed in the teacher’s decision and made the call to the school. I voiced my concern, which thankfully was well received. Then was told, “But Aimee needs to use her words, too.”

Um, yeah, I thought, I know. But you are the teachers and she is 5 years old.

Tomorrow I will voice my concern again but this time I'll say it to the teacher in question. There is no reason for her to make my child fix her shirt, especially in a class full of kids.

Photo by Billy Alexander, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Third Child

To those of you who think I’ll mourn the day that I didn’t give birth to a son, I have one thing to say: you’re wrong. Because I do have a boy; he just isn’t my flesh and blood. I began to raise this fellow at a relatively young age. And let me tell you something that every woman out there secretly knows: men rarely, if ever, grow up.

My dear husband still has a lot of child left in him. He sees the humor in most situations, is able to be silly with our children and doesn’t take life too seriously. Usually his insouciance is infectious and enjoyable to be around.

But not when I’m trying to be a parent.

Yesterday while at a museum he spotted these tall, concrete dividers lining the sidewalk. They were put there to protect the building from wayward drivers who might decide to storm the area with their cars. My husband, however, saw them as a perfect obstacle course from which he could spring, one to the other. (Mind you, it was totally icy and snowy so one slip would have been catastrophic.) He is more than six feet tall, so he could quickly skip across them without difficulty. I, a seasoned mother, however, watched in horror because I knew what would happen next. I glanced behind me and, sure enough, my concerns unfolded in technicolor. Our two young girls decided to play follow the leader. On the ledges. Only their little legs could not make the jump the same way their dad’s did.

“You’re a genius,” I said to my husband, who shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

He watched as they struggled to do what he had just done. “No, don’t do that,” he said to them.

Really?

“Dude, you can’t do something right in front of them and then tell them not to do it,” I said. “You either have to show restraint yourself or explain why it’s okay to do this when you’re forty-one and not when you’re five.”

As we debated dear husband’s brilliant move, my girls continued to try and vault themselves over the totally dangerous structures. Aimee fell but thankfully didn’t get hurt. Lily gave up when she slipped on the ice.

“Have fun at the emergency room,” I said waving behind me.

The Void

My whole life I wanted a sister. I imagined if I had a sister I would have a tried and true partner – a confidant with whom I could discuss our parents, our emotions, growing pains and girl problems. Instead I had a brother. We argued, our goals in life were vastly different, and he constantly judged and ridiculed me. There is no way we would ever be partners.

I have been searching for that sister my entire life.

I was thankful to at least have a dad who would sit and listen to me when I needed him. But for 13 years he has been gone and the void he left is now growing larger. When I was in my late 20s and moved to Cairo, I met up with my female cousins. At last, I thought. I have female relatives who would share my interests.

Wrong.

Our cultural differences were so vast there was no way we would find a sisterly connection. I realized my search would have to continue.

When I became pregnant and had a baby girl, I prayed she would eventually have a sister. When my second daughter was born I was so thankful I cried. I understand I cannot be their sister – I need to be their mother – but I do see the life I wanted to have through them. They are exactly what I imagined sisters to be: loving, laughing and intense. They play, they crack each other up and they collaborate to deceive my husband and me. I actually like when they do that – it shows me they are bonding together even more.

Because I so longed for a sister I often pinned expectations to others who could not (or, rather, didn’t want to) meet them. Every time I met a girl (or, now, a woman) with whom I could connect, I assumed she felt the same desire to be my replacement sister. Many of these women already had siblings to whom they were close (no wonder they were so attractive to me) and didn’t have the need for another one. But I did. And I didn’t understand why they wouldn’t be there for me the way a sister should be.

Um, hello – maybe it’s because they weren’t my sisters.

I also realize asking someone to be a sister is a huge demand. That means allowing them completely into your life, no holds barred. Wow. Come to think of it, that’s a tall order. All it takes is one big argument to realize you are not kin, you are just kindred spirits.

So I’ve decided to end my search and focus on my life as it is now. I have a great family and friends. Perhaps I do have all I really need.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

The Break Up

I watched my husband the other night as he checked his Blackberry for the millionth time in five minutes. I don’t get mad when he does that; he has to. He’s a journalist. He needs to know if there is an important story happening at all times. But when something comes up and we can’t hold a conversation, I am left feeling a little empty.

“Sorry, babe,” he says. He kisses me. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“It’s okay,” I lie, kissing him back.

Each time this happens I think back to when we were living in Cairo, Egypt. He was working really long hours back then, too. He was the head of a financial business magazine and basically ran the entire publication from beginning to end. I was at a low point in my career and we had been living abroad for five years by then. My father had recently died, most of my close friends had moved away and I was feeling exceptionally lonely.

“I’m moving back to the States at the beginning of the year,” I announced to him one night. It was early October when I made my declaration. “I want you to join me, but if not, I’m going anyway and you can come when you’re ready.”

“Huh?” he said. He knew I was unhappy but he didn’t realize how unhappy. He loved Egypt and had no intention of leaving any time soon. I, however, ended my affair long ago with Om el Donia (which is Cairo's nickname, meaning, in Arabic, Mother of the World).

“How?” he asked. “We don’t have jobs there.”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I just cannot live here any longer.”

I told him I needed to be near people who knew me. I missed my friends in California and wanted to be around people who understood me. He knew the friends I made in my late teens and 20s have always been like family to me. Being around them warmed my soul and made me happy. I craved their good vibes and positive energy.

He saw the desperation in my eyes. He hugged me and said we would work on this together. In February of the following year, we moved – together – to a city neither of us knew well or had ever lived in. It wasn't what I had hoped for but at least I was in my home country. I had only one close friend in the city, but at the time, that was enough for me. I needed at least one person to talk to who knew my history and didn’t judge me.

Ten years later I find myself in that same lonely pit. I still miss my friends in California. I am nowhere near people who know me well. The friends I made since I have been here have gotten much more involved in their own lives. I’ve become disappointed with what I assumed friendships meant and realize my expectations may be too high for people to meet. I don’t have a lot in common with the folks around me. As I sometimes sensed in Cairo, I feel completely misunderstood.

This time, however, I can’t just pick up and move. My husband has a job he loves and my kids are in schools they adore. I know I can’t leave but I need to find a solution. Soon.

My therapist says I should take the time to find a job I will enjoy because she knows, at heart, I love to work. She’s right. Perhaps feeding that part of my soul will help ease the other. But cannot feasibly go to work full time until Aimee is in first grade, which is in two and a half years.

The light at the end of my tunnel is terribly dim. I hope it gets brighter quickly.

Snow Day

The snow this morning was already about 10 inches high when I woke up. I ate breakfast, got dressed and told my girls (who were still in their pajamas, happy to have a day off from school) that I was going to shovel the driveway. The snow was thick and heavy, not powdery and light as it had been over the weekend.

Of course it was.

When my husband is home to help me it snows big, soft flakes. When I’m home alone, freezing rain and snow pummel me while I struggle. The work is back-breaking.

I set the shovel on the driveway and made my way to the bottom of our 50-foot driveway (yes, it’s at least that long). Funny, the long driveway was a draw when we first bought the house because it was a safe place for my then-toddler and her baby sister to ride their bikes and scooters. Today, I wasn’t feeling the love. Today, I think I cursed that driveway.

I glanced down the street and saw two elderly men trying to shovel their driveways. I thought about a comment one of my neighbors once wrote on this blog. I had been complaining about my neighbors and she said I should help others in need rather than always think of myself. “Darn you, MLK,” I said to myself. “Why do you have to be right?”

I swung the shovel over my shoulder and walked down to the street. I stopped at my neighbor’s house first and asked if he needed help. “Are you serious?” he asked, laughing. He glanced at my still full driveway.

“Yeah,” I said. “Can I help you shovel?”

“No, I have a snow blower,” he said.

“Oh, okay,” I said. I continued to the house where a very old man was working hard. “Can I help you?” I asked.

“No, no,” he said. I knew he was being polite. I ignored him and started shoveling.

“I can’t believe how heavy this snow is,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “I just wanted to find the paper.”

“Oh, I bet it’s not here yet,” I said.

“No, it is. I saw them deliver it,” he said.

A few strokes later and I saw the yellow wrapper. “Found it!” I said.

“Thanks!” he said.

Just as we were about to finish his neighbor, who also had a snow blower next to him, came over to help.

“Okay, I’ll see you later,” I said.

He waved good-bye.

I went back to my driveway and continued. My back and legs began to ache. I stopped to take a break and saw all three men go into their homes. I started to laugh. I decided not to be upset and instead told myself: “You don’t do good deeds so others will return the favor. You do good deeds because it’s the right thing to do.”

I decided to be thankful I was able to get a little exercise that day and finished the job. Then I realized I had another task still at hand – the sidewalk. We don’t have many in our town, but on the routes to school there are sidewalks and those whose properties border them are responsible for clearing the entire walkway.

I was so exhausted I wanted to cry.

I walked up the street and got to the driveway. There, staring me in the face was my good deed come back to smile upon me. The neighbor behind us, whose walk I have shoveled a few times, had cleared the entire way with his snow blower. “Thank you,” I said out loud. “Thank you so much.” (I called them the second I got in the house and thanked them profusely.)

I wish this story were over. But four hours later it appears as if I have done absolutely nothing outside. Several inches (perhaps a foot?) of snow have fallen since, and it’s coming down in huge amounts still.

I may have to beg someone to help me this time.

Photo by Sas Skkalich, courtesy of stock.xchng