A Reluctant Mom

I'm Over Here!

2010-05-08T11:19:00.000-04:00

A RELUCTANT MOM FOLLOWERS: I've started a new blog! Please visit me at Stuff My Kids Tell Me. See you there!

Be A Contributor!

2010-03-10T21:23:00.004-05:00

Come on. Admit it. You have something to tell me, don't you? It could have happened to you today, or maybe it was last year. Either way, I want to hear about it. If you have a tale you want to tell, write me at areluctantmom@yahoo.com or tellmetales@yahoo.com. All topics are welcome and will be published (either anonymously or with a byline) on Talk To Me.

Go on - tell me a story.

The End

2010-03-03T14:29:00.004-05:00

I think Neil Young said it best when he coined the phrase "It's better to burn out than to fade away." Therefore, I have decided to put A Reluctant Mom to bed for good. I thank you, kind readers, for keeping me company, offering advice and providing some comfort these past four years. I have enjoyed the journey and learned a great deal. I hope you have, too.

If you want to get in touch, please write to me at areluctantmom@yahoo.com. (And feel free to tell me how much you miss my blog and wish I never left.)

Peace.

Farewell, Fish

2010-03-01T19:58:00.004-05:00

We said a few kind words, but to her they sounded like drivel.

We hugged her tightly, but our gestures felt empty.

We held her hand, but to do so appeared insulting.

We held a funeral, but she wanted it back. Alive.

Her pet fish had died and nothing we did or said could make her forget her loss.

“We could always share a fish,” her big sister suggested, meaning the remaining of the two fish we had as pets. “I don’t mind at all if we do.”

The tears continued to fall.

She was too young to remember when our dog died, and I honestly thought she wouldn’t bat an eye at her fish’s passing. After all, she barely looked at the creature, let alone fed it (I wrote this post about how I took care of those fish, begrudgingly, and continued to earn the moniker given to me by my dear husband years ago: Dr. Petvorkian.)

This death, however, was devastating to her. She cried for a solid hour and insisted on sitting on my lap the entire time while she wailed. I stroked her hair, kissed her cheeks, and just let her mourn. I don’t know if she was milking the attention or not; I only know she was hurting and I wanted to help her through it.

It's really hard to talk to young kids about death, but thankfully I had written this post about it and was able to use what I had learned to help her through her grieving. If this is a timely subject for you, too, click here to learn more.

Best Of A Reluctant Mom

2010-02-28T10:29:00.003-05:00

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

2010-02-27T09:14:00.007-05:00

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

2010-02-26T09:28:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-25T08:09:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-23T13:42:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-22T09:09:00.002-05:00

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!

2010-02-20T08:26:00.008-05:00

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

2010-02-19T10:39:00.005-05:00

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

2010-02-17T19:37:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-16T16:15:00.006-05:00

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

2010-02-15T09:00:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-13T09:18:00.004-05:00

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

2010-02-11T10:32:00.002-05:00

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

2010-02-10T14:38:00.003-05:00

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

Storm Talker

2010-02-09T09:20:00.005-05:00

I’ve lived in New Jersey for six years now. In that time the local forecasters told us to expect rain and we saw sun. They worried us about blizzards and we got flurries. On the rare occasion they actually are correct in their prediction, and a storm actually makes its way to our neck of the woods, the meteorologists behave as if we should stock up on food for several weeks and take refuge in our bomb shelters.

Dude. It’s a little snow.

We are expecting one of those big snowfalls tonight and I am reminded of one of my favorite stories about impending bad weather. My husband and I were living in Manhattan at the time. New York City rarely gets a huge dumping of snow, and even when it does, the streets are cleared quicker than the papers are delivered. The only time I ever saw a store close was during a blackout, and those don’t happen in the winter (as far as I know). But one winter after Lily was born my father-in-law called my husband and asked what we had done to prepare for the Nor’easter headed our way.

“Um, nothing,” my husband answered.

“Didn’t you get groceries?” my father-in-law asked.

“Nope,” my husband replied.

“What are you going to do if the store is closed?” my FIL demanded to know.

“Probably walk down the street and see if that one’s open,” dear husband replied.

“Well, what if that one’s closed?”

“Guess I’ll have to walk across the street and check that one out,” my husband said. “Dad, there’s a store on every corner in Manhattan. I think we’ll be okay.”

Frustrated, my FIL called out to his wife: “They’ve got their heads in the sand, Linda!”

Hope those of you affected by the snowstorm are stocked up and ready to take shelter if necessary. You'll put my father-in-law's mind at ease if you do.

Photo by Bill Silvermintz, courtesy of stock.xchng

Bugged

2010-02-08T08:05:00.004-05:00

She laid out her pajamas, a change of clothes and her toiletries, and carefully packed each item into her cinch sack. She tucked her pillow into it. She didn’t want any of her friends to see her blanket, so she shoved it down into the sleeping bag to hide it. (She had read about doing this in her American Girl book on Feelings.) She grabbed a few books in case she woke up earlier than the other girls.

“I’m ready,” she said, beaming. She gave me a thumb’s up. “I’m ready to go to the sleepover.”

My big girl, I thought to myself. I’m so proud of her.

I would have been even more excited but I was feeling a little queasy. When the phone rang at 8:30 p.m. that evening and the birthday girl’s mom was on the other end, I had an even worse feeling. I heard my husband answer her.

“Oh, no,” he said to her. “Oh, man. Is she okay? No. No, I will be right over.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“She threw up,” he said.

“Oh, no,” I said.

She had only been at the party for three hours.

I worried this would happen but thought Lily was in the clear. Aimee got the stomach flu on Thursday. To protect Lily I made her sleep in the guest room for the next two nights. “Stay away from your sister,” I said. “You don’t want to get this, too.”

My instructions were hard for both of them to follow. When they are at home the two of them are practically inseparable. When Aimee found out Lily was going to a sleepover she asked if she could sleep in her own sleeping bag that night too. (On the floor of our room, of course.) Lily stayed away from her sister and whenever she touched anything of Aimee’s she ran and squirted a glob of hand sanitizer into her palms. She seemed perfectly fine when my husband dropped her off at the party.

After Lily got home and told me what happened I called the birthday girl’s mom (who has become a friend of mine) and apologized profusely. “I would never have sent her if I had any idea she was going to be sick,” I said. “I am so sorry and I hope no one there gets sick, too.”

My friend was gracious and wonderful. She actually got teary when she told me how Lily, who was devastated when she realized she had to leave the party, broke down and cried and simultaneously apologized to her. “She is so innocent,” my friend said to me. “She felt so bad for throwing up.”

I felt just as bad. I’m the kind of mom who keeps my kids home an extra day so they don’t infect anyone at school. Like I said, I would never, ever have sent her to the party if I thought she might be sick. But this illness came on quickly without warning. Even when Aimee got it she was happy and fine that day. She even ate as voraciously as usual. Just before bed she announced, “My tummy feels weird.” Half an hour later she vomited.

I got to know firsthand just how powerful this illness could be. Right after my husband left to pick her up I got the first wave of nausea. “Oh, crud,” I thought to myself. “My turn.” For three hours I ran to the bathroom every 10 minutes. I hadn’t felt this way since pregnancy. This nausea, however, was much, much worse. The stomach flu is an evil beast.

Lily didn’t seem to have it as badly as I did, but I made her sleep bed with me that night and told my husband to sleep in hers so he wouldn’t get ill, too. She was so exhausted I had to hold her up so she could get sick. She barely woke up and I had to use all my might to lift her weak body. I cared for her the entire night long while also trying to nurse myself back to health. I hope none of you ever have to care for your sick kid while you are sick, too. It totally sucked.

And I did it all for nothing, it turns out. Yesterday my husband got the bug, too.

Damn you, stomach flu. Damn you to hell.

Photo by Kriss Szkurlatowski, courtesy of stock.xchng

Flaming No-No

2010-02-06T09:32:00.004-05:00

So here’s my question for today: whose bright idea (no pun intended) was it to give candles as a gift?

I honestly cringe any time someone gives me a candle. I know – any gift should be appreciated because the person thought about me. But, seriously? A candle? How much thought was actually put into the act of buying one? And where, pray tell, am I supposed to put it once I get it? I have been given baby blue candles (that color isn't present in any room in my house), candles in mason jars (again, where does that contraption go?), and candles made of beeswax (inventive and cool, but still).

Not that I don’t like candles; I actually do. But I like them on certain occasions – dinner parties, holiday festivities or birthdays. Considering there are only a handful of those events in an entire year, candles in my house don’t get much use.

Which brings me to the other problem I have with these wax figurines: they are just massive dust collectors. Have you ever tried to clean off a candle? It's close to impossible. The fuzz clings to those things as if it were glued on. Unless you spark the flame daily they just sit there on a counter, a desk or a shelf, poking fun at you for using them so sparingly.

"Come on," someone once said to me. "They're so romantic." I dare you to find me one man out there who insists on a room full of lighted candles to get him in the mood.

"Oh, but they smell so nice," I hear people say. Really? I have almost no sense of smell (click here to read more on that), and cannot tell just how pungent they really are. Plus, any time I burn those types my husband comes home and demands, “Oh, my God! What is that smell?”

Apparently he’s not a big fan, either.

I know there are lots of folks out there who enjoy a bubble bath with lighted candles around the tub. But I like baths about as much as I like massages at the nail salon.

Truth be told, candles just scare me. I have heard story upon story about how someone put a lighted candle near an open window. A light breeze then blew the drapes near the flame, sparked a fire and burned down the house.

No thank you.

Photo by Sabina Graczyk, courtesy of stock.xchng

Hello, Rock? Meet Hard Place.

2010-02-05T13:09:00.005-05:00

I’ve written before about why I don’t want my children watching movies that are too mature for them. (To read how my own parents ruined me for life, click here, and to read my other judgmental rants on this subject click here and click here.) When I decided to parent differently than many other folks in my community, I didn’t realize I’d eventually have to alter what I wanted for my children just so they could fit in with their friends.

If you are new to this blog, I'll explain. My eldest, who is almost 8, sometimes gets asked over to watch movies at a friend’s house. Whenever she gets this kind of invitation I head to my favorite movie Web site, KidsInMind.com and read up on whether the film’s content is appropriate. Each movie is rated based on how much sex, violence and profanity are present. Sometimes the themes seem worse than they really are; meaning, there may be a lot of profanity but the words and gestures themselves are not that offensive. If a character says words like “stupid,” “jerk,” “idiot,” etc., I don’t really care because those are things I can control in my own house (i.e., if I hear my children using that language I can say, “Those words are not allowed in this house.” Or I can commend them for using them properly.). However, if there are teenagers making out in the movie (and I’m not there to have a conversation about sex at the time), I have no control over what my kid will do with that information. And considering the principal of our early childhood school once bemoaned that kindergarten-aged girls chased the boys around trying to kiss them after watching Hannah Montana, I know I’m not far off from worrying my own kid might try to join in the fun.

So today’s decision is this: Lily is attending a birthday party tomorrow (the sleepover) and the mom kindly e-mailed me to ask if any of the films her daughter wanted to see were appropriate. I looked them up and only one seemed the least offensive to me, but all were rated PG. “She doesn’t want to see any of the G-rated movies at the store,” the mom said.

I wrote back and gave her my opinion but as I did so I knew I would probably be branded “that mom."

Here’s what pisses me off about being labeled “that mom.” I’m not a helicopter parent. I teach my girls to be independent. I don’t hover around them when they have friends over (Are you kidding me? I can finally get some alone time when they have a play date!), and I don’t stand in the driveway and watch them while they play outside. I allow them to make their own choices even if they’re wrong (so I can laugh, and laugh and laugh – just kidding). I talk openly about sex education and drug use. So, in my mind, I am far from being “that mom.”

But I also parent by experience. Meaning, I know what affected me greatly as a child (Um, hello – watching R-rated films at age 7?). It’s not that I don’t think my girls should ever see those films; I just want them to see them when they are mature enough to process the information and also so we can discuss them.

Is that so wrong?

I know I can’t completely control what happens outside my home but I wish I weren’t faced with having to always make these choices, either. I wish other parents would understand when I say, “That subject is too mature for my child.” I don’t care if they think their child is old enough to watch Hannah Montana. I personally think my child – who still loves to play with stuffed animals, American Girl dolls and Barbie dolls – is young. Which is just fine by me. She will grow up soon enough.

So tell me readers – should I just give up? Should I decline all the invitations? Post a comment and tell me how you feel.

Photo courtesy of stock.xchng

Don't Wake Up!

2010-02-04T14:07:00.006-05:00

I overheard a woman complaining the other day about how her 2-year-old daughter still won’t sleep through the night. Several of her friends responded in kind about how their kids (various ages) also woke up in the middle of the night. My neighbor has told me for years how her now 6-year-old daughter crawls into her bed every early morning around 4:30 a.m. or 5 a.m. A woman I know bemoans that her 12-year-old is still not a very good sleeper.

When I hear the stories I have to fight the urge to wag my finger and jump up on a soapbox. Today, however, I’m not holding back; I'm going to hop up on it. Here goes: why do parents make their lives so much more difficult than they have to?

I ask this question because there are some aspects of parenting we simply cannot control. We can’t navigate how kids will feel, we can’t determine which friends they will pick and we cannot manipulate their every move. If parents want to complain about those problems I'm more than happy to agree with them. Sleep, however, is a factor we absolutely can manage. In fact, if we are doing our jobs right as parents, we should control our children's sleep. By doing so, the parent not only helps the child develop healthy habits (and, in turn, assists them with learning and behavior), but also the parent gets a good night’s sleep.

And if there is one thing out there that I love more than anything (yes, anything), it’s a good night’s sleep.

People, it’s not hard work to get a child – at any age – to sleep. Okay, I take that back. It is hard work. Parents who allow their heartstrings to dictate how they will parent don’t realize they are not doing themselves (or their kids) any good. Sometimes simple logic needs to come and get the job done.

So here goes:

If you teach a child to sleep:

The child will grow and develop properly.

The child will learn better.

Well-rested kids are overall healthier kids.

Well-rested Moms and Dads are happier, too.

If you don’t teach a child to sleep:

Restless or inconsistent night sleep can result in behavior that mirrors ADHD and other behavioral problems.

Children who don’t sleep well have less energy and, therefore, are more susceptible to childhood obesity. (Click here to read more on that.)

Kids who are tired have a hard time following directions. They also have a harder time learning and difficulty concentrating.

Boys and girls who don’t get enough rest may not grow well and are at an increased risk of getting sick.

Don’t just take my word for it: read more on this topic by clicking here, here and here. (This Web site even helps teach you how to help your child get more sleep, as does this one.)

So if you are one of those moms or dads who prefers to offer excuses rather than take the reigns, do everyone a favor and let your child get the rest he or she desperately needs. (If you need more help on this check out one of my favorite sleep books, Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Dr. Marc Weissbluth. Most libraries carry this helpful periodical or you can order it on Amazon.com.)

POST SCRIPT: I wrote this post a few years on how to get some sleep. This method worked for me and every mother I know who tried it. So if you have a newborn or about to have another baby (or your first), click here and read what helped my second baby sleep through the night right away. (Make sure to click on the amendment at the bottom because I made a mistake in stating timing on the first post.) Oh, and by the way, I also had an experience with a horrible sleeper. Lily, my practice child, woke every two hours at night until almost 9 months when I finally decided to take the reigns and make that child sleep. Today she is an incredible sleeper. Signed, Reluctant but Thankful Mom.

Photo by Karthik S, courtesy of stock.xchng

When, People, When?

2010-02-02T09:45:00.004-05:00

Several years ago my husband and I went to visit my friend Wendy and her husband in California. This was long before we had kids, but they had a young baby girl named Julia. We all went out to eat at a diner and when we finished, my husband glanced on the floor under Julia’s chair and proclaimed, “Wow. There’s sure a lot of shrapnel under there.” He meant, of course, the piles of food a baby normally drops while eating.

What my dear husband did not realize at the time was how much - in just a few years - our own house would be inundated with shrapnel.

Our once-lovely hardwood floors are completely overrun with crumbs and food particles. And we’re both really sick of dealing with it all. My eldest daughter is going to be 8 years old in a few weeks. Eight. Years. Old. Why, pray tell, do I still find huge globs of yogurt on her placemat, scraps on her chair and other particles of food surrounding her place? (And don't get me started about the stains on her clothing or how she cannot seem to wipe her face.) Aimee’s seat is even worse, but at 5 years old, I sort of expect her to be a little less neat.

Maybe that’s my problem: I expect a mess to be made. Well, whatever the case, it has to end. Now.

Yes, I have them clean up their place. Guess what? They do so happily. Aimee, still enrolled in a Montessori school, is used to the clean-up drill. At school they have a dust pan and little broom, and when they spill they are asked to clean up their messes. So at home, using the same kind of broom and pan is status quo. Lily, who hasn’t been in the Montessori classroom for a few years, is just as happy to comply when I tell her to clean it.

I don’t know how good your kids’ skills are, but my kids suck at sweeping. They get most of the bits into the pan but each time I have to stand there and say, “Don’t forget that. And that one over there. And the piece of banana on the floor. And the grape.”

Seriously?

When will this endless stream of food stop from landing on my floors, chairs and tables? When will my children eat like human beings? Shouldn’t Lily be eating properly at age 8?

(Insert guttural scream here.)

Photo by Jeremy Doorten, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Carrot

2010-02-01T15:41:00.006-05:00

Dirty little secret number two: I love when something my kids suggest comes back to bite them in the ass.

Three weeks ago Aimee asked me if we could have a movie night. This was a huge request because I keep the television off in the house Monday through Friday.

“We can do it on Friday since we don’t have any school on Saturday,” she said.

I knew what she was doing. In her devious 5-year-old mind she was thinking, “Mom’s such an idiot. If she agrees to this we’ll be able to watch television for three days instead of two.”

What she didn’t realize is I was thinking something equally deceptive: “This is finally the carrot I can dangle in front of her.”

So I agreed.

But, I told her, there would be a catch. At the time Aimee was behaving atrociously. I’m talking record-breaking bad behavior. No, seriously; hitting, spitting, kicking, door-wrecking egregious 5-year-old behavior. I kept with the ticket method (click here if you’re new to the blog and need more background) and there wasn't a day that went by she didn't lose at least three out of the four (if not all) tickets by bedtime. Saying I was exhausted is just plain wrong: I had completely reached the end of my parenting rope.

Enter movie night.

“Aimee,” I said, “I definitely want to do this. I want you to be a part of it, too.” I told her she had to go an entire week without losing all of her tickets. “If you can do that, you can join us for movie night.”

I could practically see her weighing the pros and cons in her head. “Okay, Mommy,” she said. “I’ll behave.”

Uh-huh. Sing me a new song, kid, I said to myself.

Well, go figure. That entire first week she would catch herself when she misbehaved. If she lost one or two tickets, she would immediately turn her behavior around. She would ask, “Can I still watch the movie?” and I would respond, “I will not answer that question until Friday evening.”

Guess what? For the past three weeks all three of us we have enjoyed movie night (dear husband can’t make it home in time, poor guy, so he misses out).

I don’t know if she just needed a goal to focus on or if she reached a developmental milestone, but movie night has had a major impact. Just today she started the day behaving badly. By 2 p.m. she lost three out of four tickets. “You know me,” I said to her. “I won’t change my mind about this. Movie night means you need to go the entire week without losing all of your tickets.”

She dropped her head and said, “Sorry, Mommy. I’m going to change my behavior right now.”

And she did.

Illustration courtesy of stock.xchng

Here And Now

2010-01-30T10:05:00.005-05:00

If there is one thing I do consistently as a parent it’s forget.

My life is marked by a series of hand-held, chalkboard and pin-up calendars, all filled with the week’s appointments and to-do lists. Without them my children and I would never attend a lesson, a play date or a doctor’s appointment. Ever since I became a mom and lost most of my brain cells, I find remembering is the most challenging task I have yet to master.

In a recent session with my therapist (seriously – how awesome is therapy?) I realized I had forgotten something crucial that no person should ever fail to remember: I had forgotten to enjoy the moment.

I am forever looking in the past or in the future forward. I glance back on my life and think about the things I would have done differently if given the chance today. I ponder about the things I should have done. I think about how I was raised and what I wish my parents had done. Then I imagine my own children and I wish their development and growth would rush to get to the next stage. When I am frustrated I focus on the light at the end of the tunnel – not the journey I am experiencing right now. I have been silently saying, “Hurry up!” in the hopes that the bad behavior, the potty training, the ability to talk, the ability to be independent – all of it would just hurry up and get here.

I forget to enjoy the ride.

I also realized there is nothing wrong with looking back or looking ahead, as long as I’m doing those things for the right reasons. Is there a lesson I could learn from my own childhood? What have I gathered from my experience working as a young adult? What should I change about myself today that could help me prepare for the future?

I believe allowing myself to remain in the past or future without enjoying the moment is one of the worst things I could do to myself. My children, although sometimes vexing and demanding, are often times a joy to be around. They will never be this age again. When I want to be around them chances are they won’t really want to hang around me. (Is life bitterly cruel or what?) My husband and I are in a great phase. Shouldn't I appreciate how special it is right now?

So I have decided to stop forgetting and start remembering that each day is a gift I was given. There may never be a tomorrow as I envision it and if that happens, at least I can say, “I took pleasure in what was given to me.”

Photo by Michal Zacharzewski, courtesy of stock.xchng

What Honor?

2010-01-29T08:08:00.005-05:00

Here’s how she handled it: she lied to my face.

We had a Brownie outing last weekend and we took the girls to a nearby Planetarium. (Click here to read the first part of this story.) During the intermission I noticed many of the girls in Lily’s troop had different badges. I decided to approach the whole “thanks for leaving my kid out” subject by instead pointing out the different badges and asking why each girl’s vest looked so different.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Aren’t they all participating in the same activities?”

“Well, it depends,” the leader said. “Was your daughter at all the activities?”

She pointed to a one badge and asked if Lily was at that meeting. I knew she wasn't because we were out of town for it.

“No, she wasn’t there for that one,” I said.

Then the leader admitted she and her daughter often go through the Girl Scout badge book and earn some of the badges on their own. “The book is only ten dollars,” she said. “You and Lily could earn a few together, too.”

Right. Because, who wouldn't live for earning badges in their free time?

“But isn’t the whole point that the girls at this age earn the badges together to feel a part of a team?” I asked her. “I mean, it isn’t a competition, is it?”

“No,” she said. “And no again.” She said it was up to the girls if they wanted to earn extra badges on their own.

As if all 7-year-olds are aware enough to know they can earn badges (or even care, for that matter). I know this has never been told to the troops or the moms, for that matter.

Finally I had had enough. “Okay, but has there ever been an instance where some of the girls earned a badge together without the rest of the troop?” I asked.

“Nope,” she said.

I wanted to scream, “Liar! Liar!” Instead, I bit my tongue.

I spoke to a friend of mine whose daughter is also in the troop. Her daughter also participated in the Mother of God badge. I explained my position. “I think what she did was really divisive,” I said. “If the whole point of being in a troop is to teach teamwork, as well as tolerance and understanding, how is earning a separate, selective badge beneficial?”

My friend understood my point completely. She said the troop leader was not malicious but, rather, was very religious and wanted her daughter to earn the badge. She just figured other Catholic moms would want the same for their kids. “In other words,” I said, “she didn’t think about the rest of the girls and how they would feel.”

My friend told me she wanted to talk to the troop leader about the incident. “No, don’t,” I said. “There isn’t anything that can be done. I don’t want a religious badge. I just want the girls to not feel singled out. Plus, I don't like that she lied to me.”

She begged me to let her talk to the woman. I finally conceded. “If you think it will help,” I said. “But don’t make me out to be ‘that mom,’ okay?”

“I promise,” she said.

To be continued…

Photo by Pam Roth, courtesy of stock.xchng

My Nightmare

2010-01-28T15:02:00.008-05:00

I wasn’t ready for this to happen so soon. I thought I had at least a couple of years before I’d be faced with making such an uncomfortable decision. When I stop and think about it, I shouldn’t be so scared; I went through the same rite of passage as a kid and came out unscathed, happy even. But last week when Lily got invited to a friend’s house for a birthday party, the invitation had one word on it that made me panic: sleepover.

Ay, yi, yi.

My child is not even 8 years old. It’s no accident she has never once slept at someone’s house without me. My husband and I are protective of her safety (I'm perhaps too overprotective in this regard). How, I told myself, can we keep her safe if she is somewhere else for an overnight period?

Let me back up for a minute. I know why I feel the way I do – my dad had the exact same reservations when I was a child. He worried I would fall prey to a friend’s older sibling or parent who may not have my best interest at heart. He was scared I’d be put in a position that could hurt me. In short, he feared I’d be abused.

And when you know the statistics, his concerns were not that far off the mark. Of children who are molested, two-thirds are abused by someone they know. (Click here to read a post on this subject and click here to read an article on it).

Do I think every man out there is a child molester? No. Am I generally sure that most families are like ours? Yes. To me this is not like allowing my child to walk to school. Taking a path in public with lots of other eyes upon her to me is much safer than sleeping in a room in someone’s home. Yes, I know I’m being hypersensitive. I just wanted her to be older – say, in middle school – before she started spending the night with her friends.

I thought I could find a common ground on this party. I asked the birthday girl's mother if Lily could attend the party until it was time for bed and then I would pick her up. She said no problem. But when I mentioned the idea to Lily, she got very upset. All at once I found myself in my 10-year-old body trying to explain to my parents why I should be able to sleep at my friend Jenny’s house. Jenny, too, had a slumber party and my parents did not want me to go. I was crestfallen. The same words that I said to my parents came tumbling out of Lily’s mouth: “They’ll make fun of me if I leave,” she said, crying. “They’ll ask me why I’m not sleeping over. I’ll be the only one.”

So I e-mailed my husband and told him what happened. “Let her spend the night,” he wrote. “She’ll be fine.”

I sometimes forget about how we are raising this child. We speak openly and often about every subject under the sun. We allow her certain freedoms so she will grow up to be independent, which she has done nicely (albeit a bit too quickly for my liking). We give her small jobs and she has become incredibly responsible. My husband is right – she will be perfectly fine.

“Besides,” my husband said, “if anything goes wrong we’ll just have their kid over and do the same thing to her.” (He’s funny, that one.)

So, how do you feel about sleepovers? Please vote in the poll (upper right-hand of this blog) and post a comment with your answer.

Photo by Mark Anthony, courtesy of stock.xchng

All Things At Once

2010-01-27T13:26:00.005-05:00

Working moms, stay-at-home moms, new moms, mothers to daughters: have I got a book recommendation for you.

I just read All Things At Once by television journalist Mika Brzezinski and if ever there was a voice for the modern-day woman, Brzezinski is it. The book immediately draws you in with a horrifying narrative about her child that would devastate any mother. She describes the time when her four-month-old baby stopped moving from the neck down – all due to a fall down a flight of steps she caused by walking with the baby in her arms while battling intense exhaustion.

Ladies, we have all been there. We have all experienced that indescribable fatigue brought on by sleepless nights and unimaginable schedules. There is nothing like the kind of tired one feels after having a baby, let alone two children. Brzezinski's depiction of how she ran mostly on fumes for years will no doubt resonate with any mom who reads this book.

What I loved most about All Things At Once was its message: you can have it all, but achieving that goal requires something different from what we women born in the 1960s and 1970s were told. She cautions young women to make marriage and children a priority, something I (or any of my feminist friends) was never told as a young woman. Growing up I was always instructed to strive for a career and to put marriage and children on hold. Ms. Brzezinski had the foresight to know if she put off those important parts of life she would have been making an egregious error (one that many women I know now regret). I wish I had read this book as a young woman, and I hope my children read it when they are old enough to start thinking about their career paths. I know many women today who could have benefited from Ms. Brzezinski’s advice.

All Things At Once is both a cautionary tale and an inspirational memoir. Brzezinski discusses the need for women to be true to themselves by listening to their inner voice. She unveils her extraordinary life as the daughter of the former national security advisor, Zbigniew Brzezinski, and how being a child born to a powerful father and a determined mother allowed her to focus on her dreams of becoming the woman she is today – a mother, a journalist and a wife, all things at once. Her own mother, an artist who put her career on hold while her father led them to Washington, became a role model when she eventually declared to Brzezinski’s dad, “You’ve had your turn. Now it’s mine.” (I love a woman who stands up for herself!)

All Things At Once is also a fabulous guidebook for working moms out there. Women who may be making crucial career choices will undoubtedly find this book helpful in determining which workforce plan will be best for them. Even I, a stay-at-home mom who hopes to embark on a career again, found this book nothing short of encouraging and motivating.

This book is an easy read, which is great for moms with tight schedules. Brzezinski tells impressive anecdotes that captivate the reader that are surprising (her play dates with Amy Carter, former President Jimmy Carter’s daughter, for example), eye-opening (she got fired from a network job in order to realize what would truly make her happy) and truthful ( “Oh my goodness,” she admits, “it’s hard work, being a full-time, stay-at-home mom!”).

Ms. Brzezinski’s inspirational journey will no doubt resonate with most working moms out there. She describes the unyielding guilt from not being able to constantly and successfully juggle work, children and a marriage, but yet she somehow manages to find a way that was acceptable to all members of the family.

The bottom line: being a mom, a wife and a career gal means being true to yourself, even if that means taking a step back to move forward.

Cover photo by Brian Nice, jacket design by Brian Chojnowski

New Blog

2010-01-26T08:54:00.002-05:00

Growing up my friends would hear me say the same four words over and over again: "Tell me a story." There was nothing I enjoyed more than hearing about the funny, heartwarming or scary events in other people's lives. Everyone, I thought, has a few great stories to tell.

I was reminded of my habit the other night when I watched a 60 Minutes special on the late television pioneer Don Hewitt. He masterminded the show and his mantra was the same as mine: tell me a story.

So I decided to launch another blog, Talk To Me, in the hopes that people would share tales from their lives. Did they travel to a remote land and fall in love? Did they meet their idol only to have him or her treat them badly? Did they commit a crime and get away with it?

If you have a memory you think others would enjoy, please e-mail me at tellmetales@yahoo.com. And please tell your friends - like I said, everyone has a story to tell.

In the meantime, check out Talk To Me and feel free to post comments.

Then and Now

2010-01-25T13:21:00.006-05:00

It took a while, but I finally get it.

When songs come on the radio that I used to love as a teenager they make sense to me now. Not because I couldn’t appreciate the melody or the tune when I first heard them, but because the lyrics are ultimately relevant to my life today. Take, for instance, the song “Once In A Lifetime” by the Talking Heads. I adored that song as a young adult but merely because I thought it was fun to dance to. Today, when I hear the lyrics, I think, “Oh, my God. I’ve become what David Byrne has been warning me about all these years.”

I don't know if I should be scared or thrilled.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with the song (and really, if you’re not, you should be), it’s is about growing up and finding yourself a few years down the line in a life you never imagined. You are living abroad, or you are married living in a house or you’re broke and down on your luck. No matter where you find yourself, the question is the same: “Well, how did I get here?”

Exactly, Mr. Byrne. How on earth did I get here?

Twenty years ago I was living a rock and roll dream working for a red-hot record company in Los Angeles. I was young, broke and happy. I had an amazing group of friends and I went out almost every night. I rubbed elbows with famous folks (not that they gave a rat’s ass about me, but still) and I went to a million parties. I lived paycheck to paycheck. I traveled the globe and increased my debt. I lived in two different countries other than my homeland. I embarked on a career I thought I would be in forever. I was insouciant.

Again, how did I get here?

Today I am a stay-at-home mother. I have two children who bring me joy and test my patience. I live in the New Jersey suburbs and maintain a modest home. I have a few close friends but see them infrequently. I go out at night maybe once or twice a month. I attend only a handful of parties a year. I live among many people who do not share my political beliefs. I'm still happy, but my contentment is measured differently.

Seriously, people. Just how did I get here?

Once In A Lifetime

And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack

And you may find yourself in another part of the world

And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful

wife

And you may ask yourself, "Well...How did I get here?"

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself

How do I work this?

And you may ask yourself

Where is that large automobile?

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful house!

And you may tell yourself

This is not my beautiful wife!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Water dissolving...and water removing

There is water at the bottom of the ocean

Carry the water at the bottom of the ocean

Remove the water at the bottom of the ocean!

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

And you may ask yourself

What is that beautiful house?

And you may ask yourself

Where does that highway go?

And you may ask yourself

Am I right?...Am I wrong?

And you may tell yourself

MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/in the silent water

Under the rocks and stones/there is water underground.

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Into the blue again/after the money's gone

Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground.

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Same as it ever was...Same as it ever was...

Photo by Elke Rohn, courtesy of stock.xchng

Empathetic? I'm Trying

2010-01-24T09:56:00.004-05:00

When the tears fall, I can’t think of one nice thought.

Normally, when a child cries, a mother feels empathy and compassion. Well, most mothers do. I, however, feel annoyed. Because the tears I see usually are not born of sadness or hurt feelings but, rather, are a result of frustration and anger at something completely idiotic.

Example:

Lily comes home from school, eats a snack and does her homework. She’s a typical first child in the sense that she is a perfectionist and hates to be wrong. A few weeks ago she showed me a sentence she wrote. The instructions were: Tell me a sentence about your birthday. She wrote: My birthday has lots of presents.

Hmmm.

“That’s a good try," I said, "but let’s think about that for a moment. Does your birthday have lots of presents?”

She stared at me blankly. Her brow was furrowed and a frown replaced her normally dimpled smile.

“Or do you get lots of presents on your birthday?” I asked.

“I get lots of presents on my birthday,” she said.

“Do you see the difference?” I asked. I explained how the birthday was not the recipient of the presents, but, rather, she was.

She nodded and began to cry. She didn’t want to do the sentence over and said, “I don’t like getting things wrong!”

So imagine her delight when I found two more errors on her homework. (As a side note, I normally don’t go over her homework but happened to see the mistakes. Usually I just make sure she finishes her homework and I let her teacher discuss the errors with her at school. I do this at the request of her teacher, by the way, who told me she preferred to see the mistakes so she could assess Lily's strengths and weaknesses.)

“Agh!” Lily said. She threw up her arms and said again, “I don’t like getting things wrong!”

“I know,” I said calmly. “It’s frustrating to have to do things over again. But that’s how we learn.”

She walked away, her shoulders hunched. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

I am so tired of the weeping (and the drama) in my house. Good thing I gave birth to girls (both of whom came out with a wrist to their forehead and “Woe is me” stamped on their cheeks).

Aimee throws such severe tantrums I actually stop and stare at her in disbelief. She stomps her feet, gets destructive and – viola! – the howling begins.

I admit am I in a glass house on this one. As a child I cried constantly. (Who am I kidding? I cry as an adult!) I, too, would get upset and frustrated and immediately the waterworks would begin. My brother would make fun of me, my parents would announce their disgust and annoyance and I would feel even worse. Crying was (and is) the one release I could not control. (I will get back to this in a minute.)

As a mother I don’t show my annoyance at my children the way my family did. In fact, I am a thousand times more empathetic than they were. I try not to make a big deal about it but inside all I can think is, “Really? You’re crying about this?” I usually walk away because I know if I stay I might just laugh out loud. (Which is just what every crying child wants to see - a heartless mother.)

One of my favorite parenting books (which I should definitely pick up and read again for a refresher course), Children The Challenge, addresses children who cry incessantly. It illustrates the story of a child named Isobel who cried a lot as a toddler and continued to bawl well into elementary school. Her parents and siblings called her crybaby (sound familiar?) and she would use the tears to get attention. (Note to parents: any attention is good attention to a child, even if they are being punished.) The author, Rudolf Dreikurs, says parents should allow the child her right to cry but not make anything of it. For example, “I know you bumped your elbow and it hurts. When you’re ready to join us let us know.” The parent validates the child’s feelings but makes it clear there will be no reward for crying. “As soon as Isobel sees that crying isn’t going to produce results, she may decide to change her behavior. The same procedure should be followed every time she cries – casual acceptance of her right to cry together with a statement that she may join the rest of the family when she is ready.”

Parents are advised that they must pay attention to the child when he or she is happy and cooperative to reinforce the positive behavior. The author cautions parents from calling kids names because children will eventually learn to live up to those names. If parents call a child a crybaby, liar, tattletale or scatterbrain, they see him as his label - and so will the child. Rather, parents should view their kids are good children who misbehave at times. The point: it’s the behavior that can be labeled, not the child.

All that advice is good stuff. Clearly, however, Mr. Dreikurs did not have two thespians as children. I agree with his assessment that calling children names is detrimental and only leads to worse behavior, and I also agree that making a big deal out of crying will only bring more tears.

I just want to know when it will stop.

Photo by Neil Gould, courtesy of stock.xchng

Not Fit For Reality

2010-01-22T08:55:00.005-05:00

I admit it: I watch American Idol. Well, I watch the auditions more than the actual performances. And when I do, I always imagine I’m the parent of one of the competitors. So when one of them succeeds and is awarded a golden ticket to Hollywood Week, I blubber like a 3-year-old sitting in a time out. I envision it is my daughter up there, pouring out her heart and soul to win a chance to live her dream. I’m nervous when she sings, and I’m panicked when the judges are about to give their answer. So when the person auditioning hears the word “yes” four times, I am beside myself with glee.

And then a horrifying reality washes over me: I am never going to make it through my children’s young adulthood.

Oh, my God. How difficult must it be to watch your child get his or her heart broken if they fail? How painful would it be if your child really kind of sucked – and you knew she was embarrassingly awful? Oh, and what’s worse: you wanted to support her so you told her, “You can do it!” and watched her fall on her untalented little face?

I just don’t think I could survive all that.

I know. This isn’t about me. This is about my kid. I decided long before I had children I would support them, no matter which career they choose. Lily tells me she wants to be an actress, and Aimee says she wants to be a singer. (Seriously? Kill me now.) I’m sure they will change their minds 10 times over when they get older (fingers crossed) but if not, I will support them and wish them well.

I just may not be anywhere near them when they try.

Image by Jasper Greek Golangco, courtesy of stock.xchng

Apologies

2010-01-19T15:07:00.003-05:00

Lily has reached the age where she has become empathetic. Experts say children are not developmentally capable of empathy until age 8 or 9 (Lily will be 8 next month), but parents are encouraged to help teach children how to relate to others by saying, "Wasn't Mrs. X kind to give you her last cookie?" or "Isn't your sister thoughtful to let you share her favorite toy?" (To read more on teaching empathy, click here.)

The note to the left is Lily's latest written apology, of which I have received quite a few. It says, "Dear Mom and Ai [short for Aimee]: I am sorry for breaking the rules and sitting on Aimee. Love, Lily."

Have a great Tuesday.

Letter by Lily, age 7

MLK Day

2010-01-18T08:23:00.003-05:00

Fifty-five years ago Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was elected was elected president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization formed to provide new leadership for the newly growing civil rights movement. He based his ideals on his Christian background but formed the organization’s operational techniques from Mahatma Gandhi.

For a man to embrace non-violent techniques in a country where violence was constantly used against him was not only brave but insightful. Aggression only begets more aggression, and MLK knew he could find a better way to solve problems.

Today, our world could use a lot more Martin Luther Kings (and Gandhis, for that matter). Many leaders have lost sight of what is truly important in our world: treating others with respect and equality regardless of race, creed, color or gender; solving issues without the use of weapons; making peace and not war; and giving our children a better world in which to live.

I look back and wonder if the dreams once held by Dr. King will ever truly come true: “I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.’”

Please click here to read Dr. King’s speech in full. I think everyone could benefit from his vision, especially today.

Photo by michelle kwajafa, courtesy of stock.xchng

What A Girl Wants

2010-01-17T11:16:00.004-05:00

For someone who enjoys being pampered I certainly have a lot of demands. Take, for example, a trip to the nail salon. If the place in question employs men, the kind proprietor better not even think of sitting me down in front of one of those dudes. I just don’t like a man doing my nails. Oh, it’s not that I haven’t given the experience a try. I have. My few attempts at the man-performed nail buffing are exactly why I feel so strongly about having a woman give me a pedicure. For one, if a guy is going to rub up and down my legs like that he had damn well better buy me a drink first. Second, the whole situation is just creepy, okay? I don’t know if I should make eye contact, avoid his gaze completely or pretend it’s absolutely normal that a stranger is molesting my gams. Plus – and here’s the real reason – so far no man has ever done as good of a job as a woman in this particular area. Sorry, fellas, but in this department (and probably others) women know what women want.

And let’s talk about the nail salon “massage” itself: I don’t want one.

When I admit this out loud, I hear gasps from other patrons. “What?” they say when they overhear me tell the manicurist. “How could you not want a massage? That’s my favorite part!”

Don’t get me wrong. I looove me a good massage. I just don't like the half-assed ones they pretend to give you at the nail salon. Take the last one I had: a bored employee robotically took the lotion from the jar, haphazardly applied the cream to my legs and began to quickly smooth it up and down. She ended the procedure with a bunch of banging and hitting meant to mirror some kind of Oriental reflexology method but in reality, it was more like smacking the person who dared ask for something relaxing. I personally think there was nothing soothing about it. (In fact, it kind of hurt, dammit.)

Plus, who has the time for all that silliness? My legs are thrown in the air and twisted, I have to hold onto the chair arms for dear life while I'm being manipulated and I am forced to smile through the pain (of which there is way too much for a supposedly calming experience). I want to be in a chair, made pretty and have my nails dry in less than an hour. A five-minute beating just prolongs the outcome.

Speaking of the chair, whose idea was it to insert hard metal balls manipulated by a remote into the backs of those recliners? Those moving Barcaloungers are so painful they could be used to interrogate terrorists! If you think I don't like the fake human one, I like being jabbed in the backside even less. Sheesh.

Yes, I know I’m the anomaly. But now that I’m in my 40s I can make my demands and not give a rat’s patootie what others think. Now that’s what I call relaxing.

Photo by Alex Bramwell, courtesy of stock.xchng

Dirty Little Secret

2010-01-15T09:07:00.003-05:00

I have a secret. It’s kind of big, so whatever you do, shut your pie hole and don’t tell my dear husband. But every once in a while, when he calls and reminds me he’ll be out late that night, I don’t get upset.

“Have fun,” I say.

What I really mean is, “Yippee!”

Don’t get me wrong; I love my husband. I enjoy spending time with him. I like when he comes home so we can chat about our days and snuggle on the sofa. But every once in a while I want some “me” time. And by “me” time I mean several hours alone when I can watch horribly mindless, awful television.

Is that so wrong?

So when he calls and tells me the news, I send the girls to an early bedtime (“But it’s only seven o’clock, Mommy!” they cry. “Too bad, kids, it’s Mommy’s night in!” I say with a smile and tuck them in bed.) I scroll through the shows I’ve taped on the DVR, grab a few high-calorie snacks and plop my happy ass on the sofa.

Bliss.

Go on, tell me your dirty secret. I promise I won’t poke fun at you (much).

Photo by Bartlomiej Stroinski, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Jump

2010-01-14T15:26:00.005-05:00

Our school uses a reading system called “baskets.” For those of you unfamiliar with this method, each grade school classroom has a series of books grouped together in terms of reading level. Children take home books in their designated baskets to read each evening as homework.

Longtime readers of this blog might recall my eldest, Lily, who is now 7, had an exceptionally keen interest in reading at a very early age. No, I don’t think she’s a genius and I’m pretty sure she’s nowhere near gifted, but there is one thing of which I am absolutely sure: she really loved to read.

Or so I thought.

Let me give you a little more background on my kid. She was writing three-letter words on her drawings when she was 3 years old (Mom, Dad, cat, dog, etc.). By the time she was 4 she could read – not perfectly, but she could finish BOB books without much effort. (If you have a young child who likes to read, I highly recommend this series. Both my kids loved them.) By kindergarten I thought Lily would blossom and impress the teacher with her skill. She didn’t. She did well, but she didn’t seem to want to pick up War and Peace anytime soon. By first grade there were a few other students whose reading level made hers appear mediocre at best. I never said anything about her level because one of the moms I know, whose child had the same first grade teacher as Lily, said to me, “Mrs. R [the teacher] moves kids up to a new basket level incredibly slowly.”

Slowly, okay. But this slowly?

“I don’t get it,” I finally asked her second grade teacher at the beginning of the year. “This is a child was both reading and comprehending at an early age. Why is she in such a low level basket?”

“She’s not,” the teacher said to me. “She reads at the second grade level, which is just right for her age.”

“Yes, I realize that,” I said. “But that’s my point. She has been reading – a lot – for almost four years. She finishes all the books on her summer reading list. Shouldn’t she be more advanced?”

The teacher explained the reasons behind Lily’s basket placement. Apparently when the reading specialists assess the children they do not allow for even one mistake. If a child skips a word, adds a letter to a word (making the word 'dog' into ‘dogs’ for example) or doesn’t understand a paragraph, the child is kept at the same level.

“Do the kids know that when you test them?” I asked.

She paused for a moment and said, “No.”

I thought about this for a while. At home the kids are asked to read out loud for at least 15 minutes. I noticed Lily would get lazy and skip a word or add a letter to a word.

Before I continue, there is something you need to know about Lily before you shake your heads and say, “Oh, so that’s why she wasn’t ahead.” Because you’d be wrong if you said that. Lily is a strong-willed child. She likes to test me in a very different way from Aimee. When she read to me and skipped words or added letters, I would get annoyed and I would say, “If you don’t want to read properly, I won’t listen.” She would then pitch a fit, and I would get up and say, “Let me know when you’re ready to read properly.”

Here’s something else you need to know: Lily loves a challenge. As soon as I got up she would promise to read properly and would do so. Until the next night. I did everything I could to not make her reading into a battle. I simply said, “Reading is an important part of your schoolwork. If you don’t want to take it seriously, I won’t waste my time. We can just mark it down that you didn’t do your work and you can explain that to Mrs. S.”

If there is one thing Lily hates to do it’s disappoint her teacher. So Lily began to read – every night – perfectly. Each book sounded far too easy for her. I remembered the teacher sent home a note saying books should be effortless, but this effortless? I didn’t think so.

So finally I said something to Lily that I knew would have an impact on my competitive child. I found out that her good friend, who is not an exceptional reader, had just been moved into Lily’s basket. “Lily, you have been reading for almost four years and she has been reading for two,” I said to her. “There is no way you two should be in the same basket.”

Lily just sat quietly and didn’t answer. I could see she was trying to figure out what I had meant. While she was thinking, I told her what the teacher had said to me about making just one mistake during the assessment. “When they test you, you must read clearly and thoughtfully. Take your time and do not skip ahead.”

She must have thought long and hard about what I said (miracles do happen!) because she was assessed yesterday and has jumped seven basket levels. Um, excuse me? Seven baskets?

Does that make any sense to you at all?

I’m both delighted and annoyed. I finally feel she is being given books to read that are appropriate for her skill level. But why was she kept in such a low basket for so long?

This whole experience has been a good lesson for me. I realize I need to go with my gut about my children’s education. I also need to speak up more when I think my child is not getting the attention she needs. When she was assessed at the beginning of the year I should have spoken to the teacher about it more. I should have explained my feelings. But I didn't. I won't make that mistake again.

Photo by sanja gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng

Figuring Friends Out

2010-01-12T11:31:00.006-05:00

For years I convinced myself that my children could not make friends with nice, normal children even if I promised them a lifetime of toys and trips to Hershey Park to do so. No matter how many well-behaved, polite and kind-hearted kids there were in their classroom (or in our neighborhood), they would immediately gravitate toward the evil, black-hearted child who could easily stand in for the boy in The Omen.

Whenever I would think about their horrible friendships I would calm myself down by telling myself that I, too, made some really crappy pals in my life. And because of those relationships, I was able to discover what I wanted out of life and what I would accept as proper treatment.

I also reminded myself that my parents, who were quite strict and didn’t like a lot of the girls I knew, either, never forbade me from being buddies with those kids. (If they had I probably would have rebelled.) So, with my own children, I bit my tongue.

Sometimes (or, I should say, most times) when you as a parent let go and allow your children to make their own decisions (while gently guiding them in the right direction), a beautiful thing can happen. One of my children – who will be 8 years old in February – developed and matured and figured things out for herself.

I worried about some of the girls Lily preferred because they were bossy, had bad manners and looked at me with a smug look on their faces that made me want to smack them into obedience. One such girl really rubbed me the wrong way, and when I met her father, I got even more creeped out. (If I ever see him on America's Most Wanted I will not be surprised.) Yet Lily really liked this girl. A few months ago, however, Lily came home upset because the girl was mean to her. I decided to take the opportunity to teach Lily about friendship. I had done this before when she was bullied (click here to read more on that) but she was younger and didn’t understand the full extent of what I was trying to tell her.

“Lily, I can’t tell you who to be friends with,” I said. “But I can tell you what a good friend is.”

I told her friends make you feel good about yourself most of the time. I told her friends support you and help you make the right decisions. I told her friends defend you when someone wrongs you.

“Does she do any of those things?” I asked.

Lily shook her head. She began to cry.

I hugged her and asked what we could do to figure this out. She asked if I could call the girl’s mom and make the girl be nice to her. As much as I wanted to throttle the child and give the mom an earful, I told Lily I couldn’t do that.

“I worry that by doing that it will make things worse,” I said. “Besides, have you spoken to her about how you feel?”

Lily said she hadn’t.

“Then how will she know if you are upset?” I asked. “No one can read minds. If you don’t say how you feel, you can’t expect people to treat you differently.”

Cut to a few months later. I asked Lily if she was still friends with the girl. Lily shook her head.

“Oh,” I said, trying to contain my excitement. “Why not?”

“Um,” she said, tilting her head. “She isn’t very nice to me so I don’t really like to play with her.”

Viola! She figured it out.

I then asked who she considered to be her friends at school. Most of the girls she mentioned were the kids I wished she would hang out with. I didn't say anything to her (what kid wants their mom to approve of everything in their lives?) but instead just smiled and told her I was happy she found people with whom she could feel good about herself. After all, those are the kind of folks with whom we should always want to be.

Photo by sanja gjenero, courtesy of stock.xchng

Who, Me?

2010-01-11T09:20:00.005-05:00

Sometimes, just for the heck of it, I like to see what’s out there in cyberspace. I click the link at the top of this blog page marked ‘Next blog’ and see where the Internet will take me.

Blogger, you’ve got some splainin’ to do.

Last week Blogger, the organization that publishes my A Reluctant Mom, apparently organized the domain names a bit and lumped my little blog in with a bunch of other family blogs.

A bunch of other Christian family blogs.

Now, I have nothing against Christians (considering 70 percent of my current friends are Christian, 25 percent are Jewish and 5 percent are Muslim), and I'm all for hanging out with other faiths. In fact, I finally feel like I’m a part of the team! But, Dear Blogger, how did my random little blog about raising strong-willed kids, cultivating relationships, and other random musings make you think I was a pious born again? (I did mention I was secular more than a few times, right?)

I wondered if the reason I was put in that category had something to do with the subject matter on my blog for the day. So I decided to experiment. I clicked on a post I wrote about sex (and nothing about God and religion). This time, Blogger made sense. Sort of. I was grouped with other mom blogs. But how, pray tell, am I like this woman (please read her “about me” section to know what I mean)?

Blogger? Are you out there?

Today, something even stranger happened. A Reluctant Mom was caught up in an incessant loop of three other blogs. Just three. One is written by a stay-at-home dad, one is written a woman who waxes incessantly about nothing (er, um, maybe I am like her) and one… well, I have no idea who or what that blog is. It kind of scared me.

I feel like I’m in grade school again and that I’m being pigeonholed into something I’m not.

Do me a favor, dear readers: click on the "Next blog" button, tell me where you land and post a comment. I'd like to know the company I keep.

Image by Sigurd Decroos, courtesy of stock.xchng

The Chase

2010-01-09T08:17:00.004-05:00

I bet if you ask most single men out there whether or not they like the thrill of the chase when it comes to women, the answer would be a resounding, “Yes.” Ask any single woman if they want to be wooed by a man, and the answer also will probably be “yes.”

So why is it that most men, once married, think they have to stop sweeping a gal off her feet?

I once said something to my dear husband about how romantic he was when we were dating me. “You were so sweet,” I said. “You brought me flowers, you gave me thoughtful and meaningful gifts. We would spend hours talking to each other and making each other laugh. You looked at me like I was the only woman in the world. What happened?”

“I got you,” he said.

Oh.

But here’s a tiny, little secret, fellas: even married women still want to be romanced, ravished and made to feel like they are the sexiest woman alive. We may be moms, we may drive cars that no single gal would ride in, and we may skip a shower once in a while, but dammit, we don’t like it one bit and we want you to help us forget the humdrum lives we sometimes lead.

Sure, the playing field has changed. That means the rules of the game are different, too. Wash, dry and put away all the dishes without being told? (Oooh, baby.) Tell me to take the day off while you hang out with the kids? (Man, it’s getting hot in here.) Sit down with me, hold my hand, talk to me and listen as I go on and on about my boring day? (You are looking fine tonight, honey.)

Get my point?

And let's talk about jewelry for a second. After my wedding band was slipped on my finger I didn't see another piece of jewelry for a long, long time. One year I finally asked my spouse why. It was early in our marriage, we had just had a baby and we were pretty broke at the time.

“I didn’t think we could afford it,” he said.

“Um, what kind of jewelry are you looking at?” I asked him.

“I dunno,” he said. “Expensive stuff.”

“Dude, I’m not Elizabeth Taylor,” I said. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if it’s the blue diamond. I just like a little something; a necklace, earrings, a bracelet. None of which have to be gold or diamonds.”

“Oh.”

Imagine that – I spoke and he listened. Just like I tell my children all the time, “People are not mind-readers. If you want something, you have to say it.”

The next holiday I woke up to find a little box on the table wrapped in plain paper and a lovely card beside it. He had discovered an talented artist, Chan Luu (who, after he bought me several of her items, was featured in December 2009's edition of Oprah's O magazine), and gave me one of her unique and special bracelets.

Yay!

Male readers, don’t misread this into thinking a sparkly gift is all it takes to get women in the sack. I still meant what I said about paying attention to us and, once in a while, dating us. It keeps the marriage fresh and keeps everyone very, very happy.

Ladies, have I missed anything? Please comment if I have.

Photo by Allie Hylton, courtesy of stock.xchng

Not Very Alert

2010-01-08T08:48:00.003-05:00

When my cell phone rang, I didn’t understand the call. It came from the superintendent’s office, and I assumed they wanted me to be a substitute. I was confused at first because they never call me on my cell to sub; they always call me at home.

“Hello?” I said. Then I listened. A recorded voice began to speak. My heart began to pound. My hands began to shake. I didn’t wait for the rest of the message to finish. I threw down the phone.

“Aimee, stay here. I’m going to get Lily,” I said. I couldn’t wait for Aimee to put on her shoes and coat. I could barely get myself ready in time. I sprinted out the door and ran to the corner. I didn’t see her.

“Please, God, please God,” I said to myself. I scanned the sidewalk looking for her face.

He heard me. I saw her and breathed. “Thank you,” I whispered.

Two days ago, in our town, a man tried to abduct a fifth grade student. The girl ignored the man’s attempt to lure her into his 1993 gold Saturn and within a few minutes her parents arrived to pick her up. This event took place 24 hours before we got the call; before anyone knew his or her child might not be safe that day. To make matters worse, the same man tried again to kidnap a child yesterday at the same elementary school (not my child’s but the one a mile away). This time the police were waiting. He was caught and arrested for questioning.

I am angry for so many, many reasons. I’m furious because we were not alerted sooner. Had I known I never would have let my daughter walk home yesterday (it was the first warm day in weeks so I let her get some sunshine and exercise).

What upsets me more, however, what was I found out when at Lily’s piano lessons. A woman from a neighboring town (not in our district but her town borders ours) said their school district sends out alerts about any and all abduction attempts in their town and all nearby towns. “There were at least ten last year in the town next to us,” she said. The town she mentioned is one of the safest hamlets in New Jersey. “We heard about the incident in your town yesterday.”

What? Yesterday?

She and another woman began to stare at me because the steam coming out of my ears and my head twisting around in fury concerned them. How is it that she and all the parents in her district heard about the potential danger before I did?

Thankfully another Scorpio friend and I (say what you will about Scorpios but we will fight to the end for what is right) decided the school's error was egregious enough to warrant a terse e-mail. She sent one, and I did as well. Then I forwarded it to every mom and dad in town asking them to do the same (a few jumped at the chance; the rest ignored my plea). My friend Angela said what I had written was polite yet stern (a feat that is rare for me, people). I asked the superintendent and principal to come up with a better plan and to implement the same plan the woman’s town had in alerting citizens of all possible dangers to our children.

But here’s why I’m really angry. Remember this mom who wouldn’t let her child walk with mine because she's a Nervous Nelly who thinks a child molester lurks around every corner? (Click here to read that story.) Well, she won. She will now thumb her nose at me whenever I suggest my child do something independent. And now we're going to have to carpool together.

God, I hate when helicopter parents have a victory. Nothing pisses me off more. I still believe our country is still safe. I still believe our children gain self-confidence and self-esteem when they are allowed to do things on their own. We would all be a lot safer if our justice system kept these monsters behind bars for good instead of letting them out after a few years. All experts agree on one thing when it comes to sexual predators: they cannot be rehabilitated.

But they let this guy out anyway.

I am enraged that our safe little community has been tarnished by someone who never should have been on the streets in the first place. According to police reports, the 36-year-old man had recently been released last April after serving five years in jail for kidnapping, eluding and false public alarm. He lived two towns over from us.

Resolute

2010-01-07T07:56:00.003-05:00

I’m not one for making New Year’s resolutions. Each January 1 I am thankful for a fresh beginning. On January 2, however, I am reminded of a day shook me to my core and launched me into a deep depression when I was 30 years old. On that day my father died, and with him went the only person in my family who truly understood me. (Click here to read more on that.)

This year, however, I’ve decided to change my focus. I’ve decided to make this decade the Era of Peace; peace within myself and peace within my family. I began by reaching out to my brother (with whom I have been estranged for more than a year) and because I did so with an open heart, he responded in kind. (Amazing how that happens – it’s the law of attraction at its best. What you give, you definitely get.)

With peace comes forgiveness. I am working hard on trying to forgive those who have hurt me in the past. This sounds so simple yet it is incredibly difficult for me to do. While my mom was here, I discovered why. One day Aimee began to misbehave. She continued on her oppositional path all day long, with periods of remorse in between. Each time I asked her to apologize to my mom, my mother did what she did to me in the past: she didn’t accept. Instead she made Aimee feel worse for apologizing (a tactic I was used to my entire life). After the third time she did this I became so enraged I said, “Mom, in this house we accept apologies and move on.”

“Well, how many times is she going to say she’s sorry and keep doing what she’s doing?” she asked me.

“As many times as it takes to learn,” I said. “She’s five.”

I realized at that point why I have such a hard time apologizing. The weird part is I have no problem apologizing to my own kids. (Apologizing to my husband is harder, but I do it.) Sometimes, however, when my children apologize to me, I feel the instinct to make them suffer and have to stuff that emotion down my throat and say instead, “I accept your apology,” or “It’s okay.”

I really hate myself when I feel that way.

(I do, sometimes, explain that saying sorry means changing one's behavior. Some kids think that by apologizing they can just continue with what they are doing without consequence. Even so, I still accept her words of remorse.)

So you can probably understand why, after I sent a note of apology to my brother, I became nauseated and shaky. Every time I checked my e-mail I got butterflies. Then I saw his response and immediately felt a wave of relief. It was extremely difficult for me to write what I did, especially because I feel I, too, am owed an apology but was willing to let that go to achieve harmony between us. I succeeded.

Photo by Sigurd Decroos, courtesy of stock.xchng

New Doctor

2010-01-06T09:01:00.004-05:00

Okay, seriously?

Aimee had her five-year well visit yesterday at our new pediatrician’s office. We left our family practice after six years because of inadequate service. The doctors were really nice and attentive, but the staff was inexperienced, cold and often times, nasty. What's worse, they made mistakes that could have been dangerous.

I never realized how bad we had it until yesterday. We made our appointment for 11:15 a.m. At the old office, we would have been seen around 11:40 a.m. and waited another 15 minutes in the room. This time we were seen at 11:20 a.m. The nurse said to Aimee, “Okay, we’re going to check your eyes.”

People, my children have never had their eyes checked by our pediatrician.

She gave Aimee a routine exam and said, “Great! Time to check your hearing.”

Huh?

I realized my eldest, Lily, had never been given an eye or hearing test at a well visit, either. I mentioned this to the nurse and said Lily would be having a well visit in February. “Will you do that then?”

“We do it every well visit after age four,” she said to me.

Now my ears were ringing. From anger, that is.

How can it be that routine eye and ear exams were not performed at the other doctor’s office? (My friend J, who still goes to our old doctor, says her kids have had eye exams at well visits. Just another reason to be angered by their horribly inconsistent service.)

At this point I was thanking myself for making the move to a new pediatrician. When the doctor came in and examined Aimee, we spoke about her behavior. I mentioned how well behaved she was outside the home but expressed my concern about her flip-outs at home.

“Actually, I’m relieved to hear she acts out a little,” she said. “It would be more disconcerting if she obeyed every rule. I would wonder why she didn’t feel the need to let off a little steam.”

She said she thought I needed to pick my battles more (um, no kidding) and that I should try and redirect more often, too. I knew exactly what she meant by that because during Aimee’s last tantrum I distracted her by saying something about her blanket. She immediately stopped crying and screaming and spoke politely. Then she apologized.

“I’d give it a little time,” she said. “She doesn’t yet have the coping skills to deal with her frustration. She also probably feels really bad about her behavior.” I said she was probably right; Aimee has been apologizing a lot lately and telling me she feels bad.

So, I’m going to wait. And hope. And work on myself.

Then came the moment Aimee dreaded most: booster shots. “I’m scared, Mommy,” she said.

“I know,” I said. “It can be scary. But it’s just a little pinch and it’s all over.” (I don't agree with parents who lie about shots. I always cringe when I hear a mom say, "It won't hurt a bit!" because I think, "How will your child ever believe you if you lie to them about something painful?")

I showed Aimee how to relax her arm in a way it wouldn’t hurt. Then the nurse came in.

If you don’t believe in God, believe in angels. Because I met one that day.

This woman was all smiles and positive energy. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” she said, taking charge. “Mom, you’re going to hop up on the examining table and Aimee, you’re going to sit on her hip.”

I did as I was told. “I’m scared!” Aimee said, starting to get upset.

The nurse took control. “Aimee, listen. Here’s what I want you to say: ‘Ow, ooch, ouchie, ow. Ow, ooch, ouchie, ow.’ Can you say that over and over again?”

Aimee did as she was told and the nurse said, “Now here’s something a little cold, that doesn’t hurt right?”

Aimee nodded.

“Keeping saying it!” the nurse said.

Aimee continued. She said it over and over, with me repeating along with her. “All done!” she said.

Aimee’s eyes widened. She didn’t feel a thing.

“You’re amazing,” I said to her. “You’re a rock star.”

She smiled at me and said, “Kids don’t feel it when they’re concentrating.” She handed me something I hadn’t seen since I lived in Manhattan – information sheets on the vaccines. It listed possible reactions, reasons to get the shot and danger signs if the child had an allergic reaction.

Like I said, she’s an angel.

Photo by Dominik Gwarek, courtesy of stock.xchng

Luck of the Draw

2010-01-05T09:27:00.003-05:00

I’ve made a mistake.

I thought if I raised my children with unconditional love, support, consistency and boundaries they would grow up to be future presidents, doctors and peace makers. The reality, however, is that a person can do everything “right” when rearing kids and still have a child who grows up and chooses the wrong path. Think about it: how many families do you know where one child is brilliant and an accomplished member of society and the other is a slacker who can barely hold a job? The parents raised them similarly yet one child excelled and the other, well, didn’t.

As a self-diagnosed control freak, the idea that life will dictate the circumstances of my children’s path is scary and upsetting. Why bother? I ask myself. Why put in the hours, the sweat and the effort if all my work is only possibly effective?

I spoke about this particular issue at length with my therapist. I expressed my frustration with Aimee and asked why she continued to push and test me when I have been so steadfast in my parenting. I’m far from perfect but if there is anything I pride myself on it’s consistency with my girls. Nonetheless Aimee is the child she is. As one woman I know once said to me, “The kids haven’t read the parenting books.” Meaning, no matter what you think you can do, a child’s personality is what it is.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t continue doing what you do,” my therapist said to me. “Chances are your children will grow up to do well and be delightful.”

I thought about this for a while. As a child, I had a lot of friends who were really bad influences. I was attracted to them because they had absentee parents who let them do whatever they wanted and allowed them the freedom to get into trouble. I, on the other hand, had strict parents who would make me suffer greatly if I misbehaved. But one thing my parents never did – even when they knew the reality – was to tell me I couldn’t be friends with someone. And trust me, there were kids I never should have befriended. My mom and dad (dad, mostly) just kept reinforcing our family values and traditions at home, and because I respected their advice I made my own choices to dump those kids. Or, I remained friends but didn’t succumb to peer pressure. Until my parents moved me mid-high school to a different state, I hung out with all walks of life and never once felt weird or like an outcast for following my own path. (Note to parents: don’t ever move your children to a different state and school in the middle of their high school years. They will be pissed.)

I don’t like not knowing the future. I don’t like being out of control. The feeling causes me a lot of anxiety and I worry about the forces I never faced as a child (the Internet, texting and other technology) affecting my girls.

This is when I stop and take a long, deep breath.

Because no matter what I think, no matter how much I worry, all my emotions will not have an effect on reality. I can only hope and focus on the positive. I also need to stay in the moment and enjoy my kids for the delightful beings they are today.

Photo by Adam Ciesielski, courtesy of stock.xchng

Is She Crazy?

2010-01-04T12:58:00.005-05:00

My husband is worried about Aimee. Even my mom – who used to cackle and mention something about finally seeing karma happen when I told her about Aimee’s antics – said to me after spending two weeks in our home and witnessing Aimee’s bad tantrums, “I’ve never seen a child like that.” (I personally think my mom just suffers from a fuzzy memory, but whatever.)

My husband began to do some research on mood disorders (he was convinced she had childhood bipolar disorder, but after a long look at the symptoms we both decided she didn’t) and finally I said, “I’ll ask my therapist about her.”

So, this morning, I did just that. My therapist, who works mainly with adults and isn't certified in dealing with children, said: “If you have an emotionally charged child, her ups and downs will appear more intense.” In other words, Aimee could just express herself more vividly because she was a passionate child. She offered to give me the number of a colleague who specializes in childhood behaviors but said, "I think you should go with your gut on this one." She also said I should mention Aimee's mood swings to the pediatrician.

So, at tomorrow’s well visit with the pediatrician, I'll ask. We are seeing a new doctor who doesn’t know Aimee’s history, which may be a good thing. The part that tells me Aimee isn’t suffering from a behavioral issue is this: she is perfectly behaved at school and is a good listener. Her friend’s parents all tell me Aimee is their favorite play date because she is polite and plays nicely with their children and their children’s siblings. In fact, Aimee is well behaved for just about everyone else except her mother.

God, I'm lucky.

My gut tells me Aimee will be just fine in a year (or two). Without sounding like one of those moms who thinks she only gives birth to geniuses, allow me to say this: Aimee is a bright kid. And kids who are sharp (and strong-willed) need stricter boundaries and more consistency. I give her both, but she pushes and screams and tries desperately to get her way. Usually I ignore her tantrums (and send her to her room). That tactic generally works. Some days I have had just enough and have to walk away because the fantasy of beating my child becomes more than I can bear. (Click here to read more on strong-willed children; Aimee fits the description to a T.)

The question I ask myself is, will I be okay in a year or two? I don’t know how much more of this constant battling I can handle. I feel I have a teenager already and she’s only 5 years old. Thankfully I am seeing slight but definite improvements. Last night she was defiant and fresh-mouthed with me so she lost all her tickets. (Click here to read more on the ticket method.) “Is that my last ticket?” she asked, knowing it was and what it meant to lose them all (early bedtime and no books).

“Yep,” I said, nonchalantly.

“No, Mommy!” she said. “Give me a chance! Give me another chance!”

Anyone who has a strong-willed child knows the worst thing a parent can do is give the child another chance. They ask for another opportunity because they want to see if you’ll keep the boundaries in place. They want to win, but as a parent you need to say, “I’ll be happy to give you another chance tomorrow. But today you are going to bed early with no books.” (Which I said.)

“No! No!” she screamed. She began to scream so loud I started to laugh. (Also not a good thing to do when a child is having a tantrum, but come on.)

“You can have your tantrum upstairs,” I said. “Go on.”

She went upstairs and screamed a little more, but this time she did something remarkable. She got her blanket and calmed down very quickly. I tell myself she did this because I showed no emotion. I was matter-of-fact in my speech and didn’t bat an eye when she screamed at the top of her lungs. (I mean, geez. After two kids and seven years of tantrums, I should be used to them by now, right?)

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” she said to me. “I’m really sorry for screaming.”

“I accept your apology,” I said. “But Aimee, I’m not the one who loses. When you speak badly to me and misbehave, I’m not the one who suffers.”

She looked at me and nodded. I kissed her head and said, “I’m proud of you for changing your behavior so quickly. That must have been hard. Good job, Aim.”

She smiled. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Me, too.”

Does she have a mood disorder? I doubt it. Something tells me that a child who is aware of her mistakes doesn’t, but I’m not a mental health professional. I’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, feel free to send all the luck and patience my way. I need it.

Photo by Zana Rimkiene, courtesy of stock.xchng

On My Honor

2010-01-02T08:38:00.006-05:00

I need your advice. But before you can give me your opinion, take a moment to walk in my shoes. My eldest is a member of a Girl Scout troop. She happens to love being a Brownie, despite the fact that I think her group is made of kids from the Land of Misfit Children.

The troop leader is a woman who lives for the Girl Scouts. She has been involved with the group since she was a young girl and continues to be very active. She also happens to be extremely religious and I discovered that she asked the other Catholic girls in the troop to earn a special Mother of God badge. They secretly met on two different occasions and earned a merit on their own. Mind you, my kids attend a public school, not a Catholic one.

When I heard about the clandestine meeting I was furious. For one, why was she bringing religion into a secular activity? Second, why was she being so divisive by allowing only Catholic kids to earn a badge? My eldest will definitely notice she does not have that award and will ask why she couldn’t earn one. What should I say when she asks me about it?

This is when I want you to pretend you are me for a moment. You are American. You are born and raised here. But you happen to belong to a minority faith. Now, imagine I’m the troop leader. Imagine I took a few select girls and earned an Islamic badge. Have your feelings changed?

I wanted to confront the leader but my husband stopped me. “Do you really want to be the pain in the ass mom?” he asked. “Do you want people to look at you and say, ‘Ugh. Here comes that annoying Muslim woman again,’?”

“This is a matter of principle,” I said. “It’s wrong to bring religion into what should be a fun social activity. Especially one that is supposed to be about diversity, understanding and tolerance.”

He agreed with me but said he worried I would be hurting Lily by making such a big deal. I worry about that, too.

So, readers, what would you do? Would you just let this slide, or would you express your dismay? Leave a comment and let me know.

Photo by Marek Waldhans, courtesy of stock.xchng

You Know You're Getting Old When:

2009-12-31T08:17:00.003-05:00

- You used to soar down the block in your sports car and now you’re the one who rushes out and yells at drivers who whiz by. After all, there are kids in this neighborhood, you know.

- You used to enjoy counting down the seconds to a New Year; now you count sheep two hours before the New Year.

- In fact, you haven’t seen midnight in a long, long time.

- You get excited about discounts. Any discount.

- You think about throwing out your daughter’s ripped jeans because they look unkempt.

- You think guys with long hair look so 80s.

- You marvel at kids today.

- You wake up naturally. And it’s still dark outside.

- Your 7-year-old has to show you how to work a piece of equipment.

- Your cell phone weighs more than an ounce.

- Texting seems hard and stupid. Why not make a call?

- You watch a snowstorm and worry about how much your back will hurt after shoveling the driveway.

- Pilates feels like a good workout.

- Your rock idols look more and more like senior citizens.

- You attend a concert and prefer to sit down the whole time.

- People ask you what time your party starts. You say, “Eight-thirty.” They respond, “Oh. That late?”

- Going out to dinner and a movie might take too long, so you decide to do one or the other.

- You haven’t seen a 3 in front of your age in years.

Please add to the list by posting a comment.

Signs Your Kid Hears You

2009-12-29T08:54:00.002-05:00

10 Signs Your Children Really Hear What You Say:

You overhear her say to her little sister, “That was really uncool.”
You ask her to do something – twice – and she says, “Dude, I said I’d do it.”
You say, “What did you do at school?” and she answers, “I have no clue.”
She tells her little sister, “I’m going to count to three. One, two…”
She admires herself in the mirror, takes a pair of kid scissors and trims her eyebrows, leaving a gaping hole.
She comes upstairs after playing dress-up and is wearing a massive amount of frosty blue eye shadow. When you see her, she asks, “Is it too much? I don’t want to look like a clown.”
You try to discuss the importance of hygiene. She shushes you and says, “People will hear. Please be quiet.”
She apologizes for screaming at you and says, “I know that wasn’t nice.” (Gee, you think?)
She asks about someone’s pregnancy and then says, “Did they put a penis into a vagina?”
She tells her friend, “Those are the rules of this house.”

Idiots

2009-12-26T11:20:00.002-05:00

Oh, dear.

Whenever I hear about a misguided idiot such as the Nigerian who boarded a plane and decided to become a terrorist yesterday, my initial thought is, “Please don’t be a Muslim.”

My mom, who is visiting, heard the news and said, “He’s Nigerian? Well, thank God he’s not an Arab.”

This is the type of conversation that takes place in our home whenever terrorism rears its ugly head: we stupidly offer thanks if the murder is not a Muslim or a Middle Easterner.

I don’t think other Americans talk the way we do at times like this. I’m sure when Americans hear the news their first thought is, “Thank God no one got hurt.” (We think that, too, by the way.) Or, perhaps, “Typical. Another Muslim terrorist.” (Again, we think that, too.)

We also see a different picture in our home. We see how the act of a few idiots will affect our children’s lives. We see how a couple of unethical and immoral jerks have convinced a few moronic sheep to follow them to ruin our culture and belief. We also see the worst: we see ourselves being slowly alienated from our country and community.

And we hate it.

Any time someone decides to take my family’s religion and deface it I will post on this blog. I do this because I always hear other Americans say, “Why don’t the moderate Muslims speak out?”

We do. To prove my point, here’s what other moderate Muslims have published (but I am sure media outlets have not released): Click here and click here to read more.

As a side note - and just to show we aren't all idiots - Arab Americans have been living in the United States for decades (centuries, even) but most of you probably didn't even know how many famous folks were actually Arab American. For a list of who's who, please click here. You'll be very surprised to know some American celebrities are actually Arab American. (Danny and Marlo Thomas, Casey Kasem, Paula Abdul, Doug Flutie, Ralph Nader, Paul Anka and Jamie Farr to name a few.)

Merry Christmas

2009-12-25T13:38:00.000-05:00

Wishing you health, happiness and all the toys your heart desires this Christmas.

New Vision

2009-12-24T09:04:00.004-05:00

My mom is visiting us for the holidays and her presence here has forced me to see my kids in an entirely different light. Aimee, who, lately, has been a huge source of frustration for my husband and me, has been transformed into a little genius with a grand sense of humor. My mom thinks Aimee’s diminutive voice, her inquisitive mind and her abundant energy are all markers of high intelligence and obvious talent.

“I’ve never seen a five-year-old child like her,” my mom said. Those are lofty words coming from a grandmother of five, Aimee being the youngest. “Look how she analyzes a situation and asks questions.”

I smiled and didn’t say anything. To me, Aimee’s incessant queries dance on my last nerve by the end of each day.

“She wants to know everything,” my mom said. “It’s amazing how her mind works.”

She actually thinks it’s a good thing Aimee is so curious.

To my mom, Lily is a kind-hearted, quiet child who is content and independent. “Look how organized she is,” my mom said.

Again, I just smiled. To me, Lily has her head in the clouds and can focus only on one thing at a time.

“When I ask to help her she always tells me she can do it herself,” my mom said. “That’s fantastic.”

Uh-huh.

Now I know why God made grandparents. The frustration children provide their parents dissolves quickly into a heap of sweetness, brilliance and wonder. Their often-agitating manner becomes adorable. Their tantrums become hilarious.

I'm thankful for the fresh outlook. As a stay-at-home mom, my vision gets clouded by the day-to-day routine. I just wonder if she'll feel this way about them at the end of her trip.

Stay tuned.

Photo by Alaina Cherup, courtesy of stock.xchng

Relapse

2009-12-21T11:42:00.002-05:00

Folks, I'm still trying to beat this cold. Thought I was better but I'm really not. When I am up to writing again, I'll publish another post.

Happy holidays.