Coming oh so close to the 24 week mark. Basically, I start rounding up to the next week the day after I achieve the previous week. I hate counting in months. It's all inaccurate anyways and it doesn't have the same amount of constant gratification. Counting the weeks, however, will make for some awkward moments, because most people ask you (if they dare) "How many months are you?" And then if you are like me, and don't keep track, and you answer, "Almost 24 weeks" you will sound stupid. Then you will sound even more stupid if the person presses the issue and says "So....how many months is that?" and you have to fumble around and say, "Uhhhh...um....what is that...like....6? Months? Right?"
Now that it is supremely obvious there is a bun in the oven (I think. I hope) being out in public has become v. interesting. If I am out with just Dominic, I get lots of, "Ohhh, having your second? Are you hoping for a girl?" So I will mention, "No, this is the third....and we already have a girl....so...I guess...doesn't matter what this kid is?" And that is when a few people have looked confused. Because I have broken the two-child, boy and girl paradigm. They look at me and I can tell they are thinking...."Just what ARE you doing...." I don't have enough kids yet to start garnering any rude comments like I know many large families are sometimes subject to. Right now I just feel like a mild curiosity.
Then there are the times when I am out with both my children, and I'm sporting the belly, and the kids are acting like total lunatics. I feel certain that people are looking at me and thinking, "Look at that woman and her wild children. And look at that...she's having another one!"
I felt for a long time I had to be the poster child for getting married young and starting a family but I realize that for one thing, I'm just not that important, and for another....it's ok for the crazy to show. This is real life. Sometimes having a family is like this
But then sometimes, it's more like this
real dads read Little House in The Big Woods
I used to think I was just living for the quiet, peaceful moments, but talking about Dominic walking up to a table of VerySeriousBusinessMen at Chipotle and showing them his animal tattoos is so much more interesting than waxing poetically about whatever cute thing he said. Turns out the crazy stuff makes a much more interesting story...good thing because we have lots of crazy around here.
Sorry about the unofficial blogging vacay. The longer I was away, the more I felt pressure to write something extremely insightful/witty/profound/etc and so the more I put it off and then the more the pressure mounted. And now all I've got is a (bad) post about Valentime's Day.
You might be wondering if during my bloggy break I forgot how to proof-read but I promise I did not. Though Gianna *can* make a proper /n/ sound, when it's in a word, especially in the ending position, she tends to say /m/ instead. So "phone" becomes "foam" and "Valentine's" becomes "Valentime's." And though we should probably not encourage this, it's just really cute and now "foam" for "phone" is so much a part of our family lexicon that even Dominic thinks that is the right way to say it.
Anyways. I realized that Valentime's Day is tomorrow. And I thought to myself, "S***." Because that means I have to go through the whole show of getting cards for Gianna to give her classmates, and oversee the writing of names and decorating of stickers and counting and re-counting to be sure we have left no staff member/teacher/child behind. Which inevitably happens despite my efforts. Then there's the fact that it's not enough anymore to give a card, there has to be candy and small gift bags and puppies.
Part of me wants to eschew this custom created by the industrial-military complex (sorry. I listen to a lot of NPR and I really, really like it when people call in ranting and they use the phrase "industrial-military complex" like it means something) and buy the crappiest Valentimes possible. But my sweet 4 year old has not yet achieved the same level of forced un-coolness/feigned distaste for this national greeting card holiday. And let's be honest. I like Valentime's Day. I like to confiscate all the candy ("This is very bad for your body") and then consume it secretly myself. With each passing year this deception becomes harder and harder to execute...luckily, I have Dominic to dupe for a few years still.
So, what is a too-cool for Valentime's Day mama to do? How to show my worldliness while also not looking like the lame parent who just plain forgot to do anything? I shall do what comes most naturally, and that is to take the path of least work for me. I buy a stack of cards. A couple packs of stickers. I give Gianna the list of names and a pen and let 'er rip. As long as the amount of cards is the same as the amount of people needing cards at the end, I don't care what they look like. They let the kids deliver the cards anyways, so I figure Gianna will remember that she really wanted to Claire to have the robot-wearing-a-tutu-card, and just handle it. This lazy approach allows me to maintain my laid-back parent image (see? I am letting her find her own way/take this as a self-directed learning experience/hovering? no sir not me) while still projecting the image of a conscientious parent who cares about school functions and the psyche of their small daughter whose current, most ardent desire in life is to pass out princess Valentime's cards.
I know you are all amazed at the depth of my thoughts. Stick with me, I'll show you how it's done.
Hormones are serious business. Especially when they hold you captive. Take Sunday, for instance.
Gianna wanted me to read to her. No problemo. She wanted me to read the library book she brought home from school; Dumbo. Excellent literature. I am pretty much morally opposed to books that were written based on movies, particularly Disney movies, but who am I to ruin a 4 year old's day? So we settled in to read Dumbo.
Do you remember the plot? Mrs. Jumbo gets a baby (finally) and discovers her baby has giant-sized ears. All the other elephants laugh at her baby, and then some boys from town are pulling on Dumbo's ears and laughing and then Mrs. Jumbo goes straight up postal and attacks the boys so they separate her from her baby and lock her up.
Not going to lie. I was crying.
Could be the ear thing. Touchy subject just a teensy teensy bit. Because I have to see my daughter get pointed at in the grocery store, and hear whispers...."What's on her head??? Why are her ears like that? What are those??"
Could be the mother-baby separation....gut wrenching. 60 years ago it was common for Deaf children to be sent to residential schools as young as four years old. The thought of Gianna and I being separated gives me a major stomach ache. Babies belong with their mamas.
Could be the hormones. I prefer to blame them, because when I read the story again, the next day, I was able to make it through with dry eyes.
I'll admit, though, that this goofy book brought out a good discussion between Gianna and I and about how to deal with the differences of other people with charity. Sometimes she's the one staring at another person who looks or acts different....and I can begin to teach her this most important of Christian virtues. "You are looking at that man and wondering about his legs. He has special legs, like you have special ears! Everyone has stuff, remember? Sometimes we can see it, and sometimes we can't. So we always try to treat everyone with love."
I know that when a kid is whispering to their parent about Gianna's ears, that parent probably wants to be swallowed up by the earth. It's embarrassing to walk your kid through this sort of social grace. Charity is a difficult concept to explain to a small child.
As the mother of a child with special needs, my personal preference is to encourage your child to ask his or her questions directly to the peer they are wondering about. Teach them to do this in a respectful and honest way. I'll never be hurt by watching a sincere child asking Gianna, "I was wondering about your ears! Can you tell me about them?"
I imagine not all parents of kids with differing abilities feel this way...maybe they are sick of questions. Maybe they have had a particularly difficult day. This, too, is a valuable lesson to our children to give others the benefit of the doubt.
When we encourage our kids to be charitable and to seek understanding rather than rest in fear of the different or the unknown, we help to create a world where all are loved uniquely as children of God.
You know that joke where the one girl asks the other girl about the green streak in her hair and she goes, "It's natural," and wipes her snot-covered hand up into her hair? I love that joke.
Annnyways. Naturally, the best place to store a half-eaten cream cheese toddler bagel is on top of the trash can.
I know you're wondering if I let him keep eating this atrocity after it's run-in with the trash, and so I'll tell you. Yep. I did. And I didn't even try to convince him to re-locate his food. I let him continue to put it on the trash.
Naturally, the best place for dry-aged shredded cheddar is inside the drawer of the train table
And naturally, we'll continue to use this travel mug even after it has been chucked onto the tile floor by the toddler one too many times.
I get it all the time. People ask me "How do you do it?" and I always like to say, while my house is trashed and the kids are running amok and I still haven't showered, "It's natural."
As I've mentioned, I'm disorganized and late all the time, especially regarding Gianna's schooling. I like to hide my shortcomings by cultivating a reputation as the laid-back parent. The non-helicopter, anti-tiger-momparent.
I studiously forget to have Gianna complete the optional pre-school homework. And when I do remember to have her do it, I don't check it. I read her the directions and let her rip. The whole enterprise is almost always doomed to fail because the homework often requires certain colors of crayons and I can't ever find more than 2 broken, soggy crayons, inevitably in the wrong colors. I can write off this sort of abandonment as teaching the kids to be resourceful and to take ownership of their school work. Prime example: the share bag incident.
The share bag comes home each week with a theme. The first week it was 'something from your kitchen.' Very nice. The next week, it was 'something from your bathroom.' We were running late that morning and I told Gianna to grab something for her share bag and get thee post haste to the car because we ARE LATE OK? Ok. She did, and as per my role as the free range/lazy/disorganized parent, I didn't pre-check the share bag. Until we got to school. I peeked in as we trucked to the door and almost died. Of laughter.
Nestled in the share bag was her tooth brush, my tooth brush, a calculator (why?), and about 20 sanitary napkins. Brad was assisting with the drop-off that morning and he was understandably horrified. There followed a quick consultation:
"Are we...do we let her go in with those?"
"Uh. Yes. Yes. We do. That is what she picked. We must....go forward. We are laid-back."
"We are nuts is what we are."
Probably. But when you've worked as hard as I have to not work hard and make it look like a conscious, careful statement about philosophical parenting beliefs regarding the cultivation of a child's autonomy, you have to follow through. Pads and all.
It's very important to provide children with diverse, multicultural experiences. Doing so will lead to greater brain development, empathy, wealth, and fame. That's why, when I heard the Madeira Kroger was giving away $10 to the first 300 people at it's grand re-opening, I knew we had to be there.
We don't actually live in Madeira. We're in the next town over-ish, and you had to get there at 7 am, which is a very difficult time to be out and dressed and still sane. But $10 is $10 and the kids need to learn that sacrifice is a part of life, so we went. Plus multiculturalism. Whatever.
We could have made it on time, too, except that when I got out to the car, I realized I needed to put Dominic's car seat back in. Brad says that installing car seats with me is a like having a religious experience, but I have to say I wasn't feeling particularly religious wrestling with an enormous Britax Boulevard and worrying neurotically that Dominic would somehow figure out how to put the car in gear, step on the gas, and drive us into the (closed) garage.
We missed the $10 by about 10 people, but the flagging spirits of my children lifted when they discovered they could have a free cookie for breakfast accompanied by free entertainment in the form of Kroger employees dancing en mass to the Cupid Shuffle in front of the cash registers. Outside, we watched the Madeira High School Marching Band, complete with color guard, play lots of music while a man dressed like a Kroger bag waltzed around the parking lot.
Before we get into the nitty-gritty, first watch this instructional video on how to deal with rowdy children in a place where they are supposed to be quiet.
Thus far in his short life, Dominic has managed to disrupt a baptism, two weddings, and an ordination. I didn't go to the funeral. I'm not stupid, just crazy.
At the most recent wedding, he kept shouting, inexplicably, "Nooooooooo! Noooooooooooo! NOOOOOO!" I don't know why. I wasn't even doing anything to him. He was just sitting there, on my lap, making a scene.
From the time one of our babies hits about five months until they get to be about 2 years, Brad or I spend a lot of time at the back of the church. Our church doesn't exactly have a cry room, it's more of a very large entry way, but it has doors to close off the riff-Raff. We have the riff-Raff and it makes a lot of noise. Because when we take a kid out, we take them out. I don't like to let them run around and think it's a good time to be had at the back, so I hold them bodily. Sometimes, there's screaming. And sweating, always sweating. Eventually, they learn that it's better to sit respectfully in Mass than to get taken to the back. It's just that this method takes awhile to catch on. Like, about a year.
Mass, or any church service, or really any place where your small child has to be quiet and still can be stressful. This is not rocket science. Small children are naturally not quiet and still. Other people, who are either grouchy or who have forgotten what it's like to have small children, shoot dirty looks at us because our kid is being a little too cheerful, or a little bit squally. These are the people that follow you with narrowed eyes as you make your way swiftly down the aisle carrying a toddler with windmill-like arms and the impressive volume of a fire truck.
I have to admit that many a Sunday has found me pacing back and forth at the back of the church, smiling grimly and sweating profusely along with all the other parents, and thinking, "Why do we torture ourselves thus? Why bother? This is not the way to sanity! Who cares about holiness, what I need right now is 10 minutes in a padded room, alone. What am I doing here?"
And it is that question that brings me to the point. I bring my children to Mass because, like Peter says during the Transfiguration, "Lord, it is good that we are here." It may not be good-I'm-having-such-a-swell-time good, but a higher good. It is the good of receiving God's grace, communing with the saints and the angels all present at the altar for the Holy Sacrifice.
I've heard it argued that Mass should be set aside, holy, quiet, something distinctly other than the rush of our daily lives. And to an extent, I agree. I love me some stained glass, incense, and actual, beautiful music. At the same time, we all bring our messy selves to get cleaned up, and some of us have messiness that gets really, really loud. The Mass reflects our lives back to us and reminds us that behind the common things in life, the bread and the wine, the diaper blow outs and the sleepless nights, lurks the possibility for the divine.
I gotta say, personally I like a little rowdy at Mass. I like to hear the muffled screeches, coos, babbles, and first words that are the Church militant. For one thing, other people's kids being loud take the pressure off me and my brood, and for another....these are the children we promised to welcome openly during our wedding vows. These are the children with which the Church instructs us to be generous. These are the souls entrusted in our care. I think it would be goofy for any Christian church to frown upon small children within their premises, "Let the little children come to me" and all that, but it would be really, really ridiculous in a Catholic church, whose theology states that the primary end of marriage is the procreation and education of children.
I'm certain that when the Apostles watched Jesus struggle to carry the cross to Calvary the whole thing was a little more than they bargained for. The sight of the man whom they had come to believe was the long-awaited Messiah naked, sweaty, bloody, and filthy had to have been incredibly humbling. But I think in that same way, after the Resurrection, the joy the Apostles must have experienced was also previously unimaginable.
My life as a married woman with children is a little less organized, a little messier, a little crazier, a little dirtier and ultimately way more joyful than I ever anticipated. Here, in my domestic Church, real people struggle with real sins, with real challenges and triumphs. If every Mass is a little Calvary, then I think we should not be surprised when it, too, gets a little messier, and a whole lot more miraculous, than we'd ever expected.
This article is all over Facebook today, and when I read it, I just thought.....Oh, the irony.
Our culture says that we can use sex to sell any.thing, that sex can be front and center in movies, that everyone should be having lots of sex, out of marriage, and if you AREN'T having lots of sex with lots of people, you know that deep down, you want to, but you are being cruelly repressed. Or something. But with all this sex going on, you better not be having any babies!!!!!!!! Especially lots of babies! Don't you know what causes that??? Take your pill, ladies, for some fun side effects, and possibly even raise your risk for breast cancer. But for heaven's sake, don't have babies. If you have babies in any circumstance we deem unfit, we will make bizarre shows about you and put it on MTV. But by all means, have more sex!
Then, our culture says, when you DO have babies, just have two, 'kay? Your boy and your girl. And it's apparently perfectly acceptable to spend upwards of $30,000 on IVF for these babies, or do any other number of strange things, like get a sperm donor or have someone else carry your kid, or selectively abort them if they are not meeting your genetic criteria. And then after you've jumped through all these hoops, we'll tell you, straight-faced, that you cannot, under any circumstances, bring them out in public.
Newsflash to our culture: I am a married woman. When my husband and I engage in the marital embrace, sometimes I get pregnant. And what a blessing that is; there are some people who struggle with infertility. It is normal for sex to bring about babies. It's ok. You can believe that we all have souls and that God planned for each and every life to be here, or you can go straight-up biology-style and recognize that to continue our species, we need babies, who become kids, who then become adults. Either way you slice it, babies and small children are an inevitable part of human life.
I generally bring my kids everywhere with me. I use my common sense. I tend not to take my children places when I know they are tired, or ready for bed, or unusually hungry. When the situation disintegrates, we get the heck out of there. Frankly, I've seen adults throw worse temper tantrums than my kids ever have. Sometimes, kids are noisy. They are, after all, children who are still in the process of learning to be adults. If I never bring them out in public, how will they learn to behave?
I get that sometimes, you want peace and quiet. That's why occasionally, we get a relative to watch the kids, and we go somewhere all.by.ourselves. And it's heavenly. And by the end, we miss our little crew, and we're ready for more chaos. It's an interesting thing, that we live in a time where people want to bring their froo-froo dogs in little bags on airlines, but small children need not apply.
I vote that we welcome MORE kids into public life. I vote that parents use common sense when deciding when and where they venture out with their posse in tow, and teach their children how to behave in the community. I vote that those people who do not have children, or whose children have grown, use some understanding and some patience while our children are growing up. Last I checked, children are people, too. Sometimes, they are grouchy, and loud, and they get irrationally angry. And sometimes they laugh, and play, and infuse joy and wonder into the world around us.
Seems to me, a little more patience and understanding for the struggles of others would go a lot farther than the fake-value of tolerance so revered in our culture today. Seems to me that in order to practice patience we need....situations where we must be patient. Having babies can challenge a couple to become less selfish and more self-less, having babies out in the world could encourage all of us in the same way, and how can that be a bad thing? When I look around and see all the problems in this world, the sweet, messy faces of children are not one of them.
I've spent a lot of time agonizing since I've become a mother. Sip of champagne at your best friend's wedding or not? Epidural or not? St. Brunhilda's School for Spectacular Children Who Learn to Read at 6 Months? Should I buy the food with agave nectar or organic sugar? What the hell is agave nectar? Should I have listened to classical music when I was pregnant? Less yelling, more patience? Cochlear implants??? Suzuki method for violin to enhance math skills or unstructured percussion ? Play outside unsupervised, when?? Horrified that Dominic liked the Gentleman Jack I used on his gums when he was teething, or proud?
Have no fear. If you adopt my main rules for parental decision making, you will find (some) peace, fulfillment, personal fame, and wealth. Maybe not those last few, but definitely the first one. The really good news is, I only have two rules. That's all the space my brain has at the moment.
The first rule is the "I can sleep at night" test. If that sip of champagne is going to keep you up all night worrying about fetal alcohol syndrome, then don't drink it. If making every last morsel of food from scratch to avoid giving your kids foods that contain additives and chemicals and refined sugar lets you sleep at night, then by all means....keep on keepin' on.
The second rule is harder. It's the letting-go rule. The one that forces you to admit that at the end of the day, you are not in control. This rule says, "there are no guarantees in life." Perfect behavior during pregnancy does not guarantee you the "perfect" baby. Thank goodness! If it did, I wouldn't have my G with her special ears, and I wouldn't trade that in for the world. This rule may be harder, but it's the one that sanctifies. With this rule, we must say that we will do our best as parents but realize that our children are people who will make mistakes. To a certain extent, personalities and circumstances are beyond our control.
One might argue that if it's all a crap-chute, why bother trying so hard? Ah, but then we circle back to the first rule, the one that says we need to be able to sleep at night. You can drive yourself crazy over-doing things, but you can also go nuts from under-doing it as well, constantly questioning yourself late at night...."Should I have done more? Different? The same?" Maintaining mental peace encourages you to drive right down the middle, doing your best, loving your kids for who they are, teaching them to make good decisions, and then leaving it up to God. Because He's really the one in charge anyways.
actually, I've been in charge of this thing for awhile now
Despite my lack of frequent showering and propensity for wearing the same yoga pants for four days (and, truth be told, nights) in a row, I can clean up pretty nicely. I like to shop for clothes; I wear a little make-up almost daily, and shoes. Yes to shoes.
Being a young, one-income family on a budget has helped lessen my vanity to a certain extent, but now I have a new problem. The daughter factor.
It starts off innocently enough, when one has a girl-child it’s ever so much fun to dress her up, and then of course exclaim over how a-freaking-dorable she is.
Try and tell me she's not so cute you are dying right now. Just try.
It’s almost frightening how sponge-like my daughter’s ability to assess “pretty” is. The morning of her “Winter Program” I had shaved my legs, fixed my hair, and actually gotten dressed-cute shoes, jewelry, skirt-the works. As I hustled Gianna out to the car, she rapturously proclaimed, “My mama so pretty!” Screwing the lateness, I stopped in my tracks and felt my eyes well up. Ah, sweet, sweet motherhood! A few mornings later, we were having a tussle over clothing- I wanted pants, she wanted a Christmas party dress. As my daughter sat on the floor, a puddle of crinoline and salty tears, she wailed, “But maaaaaa-maaaa….I wanna be so pretty!!!!!!!”
For the second time in the span of a week, I felt my eyes well up, but for a different reason. What trash have I been teaching my daughter??? Since when was being pretty the most important thing? When did I forget that I wanted to teach and model virtue and inner beauty? The beauty of being joyful and charitable to others? The truth that a woman has inner strength, that she has the capability to change the world around her by her very nature? How to convince her that party dress or no, she is lovely because she is a daughter of the King? A unique soul, never having a existed before, the only G on the planet? Crap. This parenting thing is tricky business.
The culture we live in doesn’t help. A woman’s body is used to sell everything from tires to the latest action movie. Standing in the check-out aisle almost every magazine cover promises tips on how to be pretty, which will make your man happy and then possibly you will be happy, too. Taking a cursory glance at the messages sent to little girls, over and over, all I see is, “You are a consumer, so be pretty, that way, later, you will want to be consumed.” No thanks. Not my daughter.
Daily, I engage in what I am coming to see will be a life-long battle.
When we spend special time together, I try to not always make it be about going shopping.I try to encourage her to get a little dirty and scrape her knees up. I don’t want her to think that relating to other girls must always include buying things. As she gets older, I want to read her stories about girls who were adventurous and faithful, resourceful and feminine in a way that respects their humanity as creatures of God.
When she tells me, “Mama, I am so pretty!” I try to remember to say, “You like how you look today!” so that maybe she will remember that SHE is her only evaluator, that her worth comes not from what other people tell her, but from herself. When she asks me if I like her outfit choice, I try to remember to describe what I see (“You picked the shirt with the dog on it, and plaid shorts! You look ready to play!”) and not jump to the limiting phrase of “You’re so beautiful!” But it’s so, so hard. For one thing, she’s ridiculously cute. And for another, this language is foreign to me, because I grew up in this culture, too.
Pregnancy, birth, and breastfeeding have helped to alter my flawed body image because now I look at the hips I used to hate and think, “These hips gave birth to babies; big, beautiful, healthy babies.” But I am still wounded; I still struggle to remember that my superficial image should be second to the quality of my character. As I struggle to teach my daughter the importance of her soul and the true beauty of holiness, I see that I am teaching myself, too.
So today I bring you a semi-serious post in which I give you parenting advice. I have two small, sometimes well-behaved, other times obnoxious children and I have read a lot of books. These are my credentials. Let us begin.
The first year of your child's life is very simple. Your job is basically to keep them alive. To do this, you feed them and help them go to sleep and change their diapers and mainly try to figure out how to integrate their existence into your own. While this can be an exhausting endeavor, the truly hard part of the job does not begin until your child reaches the age of about a year. It is at this time when you think, "I am an excellent parent. I have kept this child alive and happy for a full year," and then your child whacks another child, or steals something from them, or starts chucking things about. And you realize, "Oh crap. Now I must begin to actually discipline this child. Now I must begin the job of raising them to be a decent human being. This will be harder than just keeping them alive."
As I said, I've read a lot of books. I've even watched Super Nanny a few times. And I quickly observed in my little Gianna a tendency to do exactly that which I explicitly told her not to do. "Don't touch that!!!!" inevitably resulted in her looking at me, and fully, knowingly, touching the forbidden object. I swear she was thinking, "Oh this? This thing here that I am touching? You don't want me to touch this?? I will touch it now!" I know it's not just my kid, because I have consulted other parents on this one, and their kids to do it, too. When I realized the time had come to figure out our discipline plans, all I knew was that I wanted to find a way to communicate with our children that was respectful of their humanity and that invited charity into our home.
I have since read everything published by Adele Faber and Elaine Mazlish and if you've spent any time with me at all, you know I like to quote them a lot. I'm sorry if it's annoying, but when you discover something wonderful, like if The Gap is having a 50% clearance sale, you HAVE to tell everyone about it. So, occasionally, on this blog, I would like to share with you some of the skills I attempt to put into practice.
The skill for improved communication we shall focus on today is called "giving information" or "describing the problem." Children often view a command as a challenge, which can explain why "Don't touch that!" often results in the child doing just that. In the same way, children hear a threat and are often interested to see if you will make good on that threat. "If you don't stop that, we'll leave the store and go home!" The child thinks, "Really? Let's see about that." I’m sure if every parent always and everywhere followed through on these threats they might be meaningful to a child, but let’s be honest, follow through doesn’t always happen, and a lot of the time it’s because I don’t want to go home, or turn the car around, or leave the party, or not go to the zoo.
Instead of commanding, give information:
“Chairs are for sitting.” Instead of, “Sit down!”
Or
“Grandma’s glass clown is not for playing! It could break! Here is your train, this IS for playing!” instead of “Don’t touch that!”
Try describing the problem:
“You want to run, but the problem is that the sign says, “No running!” We need to use our walking feet,” instead of, “Stop running this instant!”
Instead of threatening, try replacing “If/then” with “As soon as..”
“If you don’t brush your teeth right now, then you won’t get to read a story before bed!” try, “As soon as you brush your teeth, I’ll know you’re ready to read a story.”
I view discipline as the process of teaching children how to make themselves the locus of their control. I want my children to choose to do what is right because it is right, not because they are afraid of punishment or because “I said so.” I don’t believe in the idea of teaching a child a lesson “once and for all.” For one thing, I don’t think children learn that way. And for another, this is not the way that God parents us. Time after time I am in the confessional, ‘fessing up to the same old boring sins. If I, as an adult, have trouble learning “once and for all,” how can I expect it from my children? God is merciful with me, a sinner, letting me experience natural consequences to my actions while always encouraging me to improve, to grow in holiness and charity. It is my goal to discipline my children in the same manner.
There you are. I know you’ve all been dying to know some of my secrets to having such lovely children. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go describe the problem of a box of pasta being emptied all over the kitchen floor.
Look at me, being parented to perfection!
I'll have you know that bowls are, in fact, for throwing.
The moment you first hear a swear word leave your child's darling mouth is nothing short of electrifying. There they are, wolfing down contraband goldfish and cheerfully playing with their dolls, and they drop the "S" bomb. It sounds so strange, hearing such a word leave the mouth of an innocent babe.
Your next thoughts are not really thoughts, but desperate questions; "Will she say this word again in front of other people? Will they judge me?"
I can answer these burning questions quite easily. To the first, she will indeed repeat the forbidden word in front of others in a situation so humbling and awkward it will seem as though it was a calculated act on the part of the child. To the second question, Absolutely. You will be judged. The kid heard it somewhere, and it was either from you, or some awful T.V program you allowed your kid to watch. BAM. Judged.
It happened to be in our case that Brad uttered the offending word while we were recklessly driving through downtown Louisville (lost! and late!) on the way to see our nephew, who was about to become also our Godson, receive the sacrament of Baptism. After thoroughly berating my husband, because of course *I* have never modeled anything but perfection for our children, I began wondering. Will she say it again?? And when?? And then a terrifying thought occurred to me. What if she repeats it at school?
Part of the anxiety of sending your child to school is wondering what it is that they do there all day, and what is it that the teachers are saying about your family. Does your kid look slovenly? Is your kid incredibly obnoxious, unbeknownst to you? Is it the talk of the school that you possess a tragic inability to arrive on time? And now that you have a swearing child, will the teachers be saying things to each other like, "Wow. Gianna's family huh. They must really be swearin' it up at home."
I tried to explain to Gianna, "We don't use that word, it's not a very nice word..." but she saw through me. As I explained she stared at me and I could see she was thinking, "Uh. Yeah. Pretty sure we do. Pretty sure I heard Daddy use it this morning." The talk was getting me nowhere. I had to do something else, something more drastic, to ensure that we stayed on the "good parent list" at school.
So. I opted for the preemptive disclosure. It's a ballsy move and involves a little bit of humility, but ultimately can make you look like parent of the year, which is what we're going for here. Pay attention, and you, too, can use this method whenever you desire to engender respect and awe from your child's teacher, whether or not you actually deserve it.
When we got to school the following Monday morning, I quietly and apologetically told the entire story to the teacher, adding humorous anecdotes and bits of human interest to lure her into a place of sympathy. Then I said, "So, I just wanted to you be aware that Gianna did repeat the swear word and she may repeat it here at school, but that we are fully aware of it, and are taking appropriate measures to handle it."
The preemptive disclosure produces a two-pronged effect. Firstly, it makes you, the parent, look at once conscientious and self-deprecating. Secondly, it lends your parenting a certain air of involvement in your child's life, regardless how much time you spend a-wastin on the Internet, that is guaranteed to win the hearts and minds of your kid's teachers and place you squarely back on the "good parent list." Easy game.
For as long as I can remember there was a standard-issue wall hanging in my parent’s kitchen that read, “If Mama ain’t happy, nobody’s happy.” It’s the kind of thing you can only find in a place with “bazaar” in the title.
As a kid, I used to study my mother and puzzle over that statement. What did it mean? My mom worked three 12’s a week as an ICU nurse, volunteered at our elementary school, and bused us to numerous after school activities, not to mention the cooking and cleaning and homework-assisting. She was forever scheduling and coordinating as our busy lives swirled around her. I was fascinated by the assertion that if SHE wasn’t happy, no one was happy. Was it true? And indeed…when I paid attention, it was. Not only was it a downer if the Madre wasn’t cracking embarrassing jokes, but nothing was quite as fun when she wasn’t around. I’m a grown up now (or so I’ve tricked people into thinking) and still…when I am visiting my parent’s house, if my mom isn’t there for dinner, it’s just not as fun. I’ve discussed this phenomenon with my siblings and we are in agreement. Everything is better when mom is around.
Mothering is hard work. Ask any mama. It’s a lot of bodily fluids and sleepless nights and endless permission slips to keep track of and worry. Always the worrying. And to add to it that you alone are responsible for your family’s happiness? Must I always be cheerful, lest my crankiness, or annoyance, or frustration, inhibit my family from being joyful? Is that even possible? For a long time after Gianna was born, I struggled to figure out how to be a mother, and a wife, and still be….me. Should my marital status totally define me? Should my status as a primipara define me? Who was I? So much about me had changed, was there anything that had stayed the same?
I’m not sure when I realized that no; the proverb in my mother’s kitchen didn’t mean I always had to be the smiling love slave to everyone else. Rather, that simple statement acknowledged a power that is unique to us mothers: the power to set the attitude within our homes. It’s the power to serve gracefully and to call our families into service as well, to give of ourselves and be an example of sacrifice and charity for our children. Ah, but if only we always used our powers for good. Who has that kind of energy? I wondered. And where can I get some?
When Gianna started taking a weekly ballet class, another buddy of mine said, “We should do that. We should go back to ballet.” So, after nine years out of the studio, I bought myself a pair of shoes, tights and a leotard….and went to an adult ballet class. For ninety glorious minutes I thought of nothing else but plies and tendus and when I left I felt….refreshed. Oh, I had my pitifully out of shape derriere handed to me but…I was back in the game, baby. I was ready to change diapers and slap on band-aids and read the same book over and over again.
Every mama needs a ballet class. A time to go running. A place to do yoga. A girl’s night out. A spa day. A drive around the block in a quiet car where she can listen to whatever music she wants. The chance to luxuriate in bed for an extra 30 minutes on a Saturday morning. An hour of quiet adoration before Our Lord. It’s hard to find these moments, for two main reasons. For one, we’re the mamas and we get all guilty if we take time to ourselves. For another, it’s hard to admit we can’t do this on our own steam. However, we must find the time, cuz if we ain’t happy….nobody’s happy.
Why, I'd love to read you Strega Nona for the 10th time today!
Every parent marvels over the growth of their children. "He's just getting so big!" They exclaim. And, "I can't believe it, I feel like just yesterday she was a newborn!" This morning, as I watched Gianna dress herself for school and Dominic fed himself Gianna's left over oatmeal, I couldn't help thinking to myself for the millionth time, "Who are these big children? And when did they get here? Where are my babies?"
A few months ago I read Sheldon Vanauken's A Severe Mercy on the recommendation of Maureen over at Little Stay at Home Momma. In it, the author shares correspondence with C.S Lewis during his conversion to Christianity. One of my favorite letters from Lewis regards his logical proof that there is some other, higher place for which we are all intended. He says,
"We are so little reconciled to time that we are even astonished at it. “How he’s grown!” we exclaim, “How time flies!” as though the universal form of our experience were again and again a novelty. It is as strange as if a fish were repeatedly surprised at the wetness of water. And that would be strange indeed; unless of course the fish were destined to become, one day, a land animal."
Of course, that higher place where there will be no time as we know it now, is heaven. How wonderful that in the swiftly growing bodies and minds of our children we are reminded that we are just visitors here; that we are working for the Kingdom. In moments of sadness or nostalgia over our no-longer-a-baby babies, may we remember that we are destined to become, one day, inhabitants of Heaven.
About a week after my son was born on my bathroom floor, my mother and I packed up the kiddos for our first trip to the family doctor. I’d never met him face-to-face…a slightly awkward phone conversation where delayed vaccines and the safety of homebirth was discussed was about the only interaction I’d had with the guy. Through a series of well-timed events I had found myself living in a new city and state, gigantically pregnant, and in need of a new family doctor. He came highly recommended by our new friends as a good, Catholic man who obeyed the Church’s teachings and didn’t prescribe contraceptives.
As we rushed about taking the then 2.5 year old Gianna to the potty and grabbing extra pairs of underwear and wipes and burp clothes and bags of Annie’s Organic Cheddar Bunnies I told my mother, “I just hope this guy doesn’t think we’re totally crazy. I mean…we kind of are, but mostly we know what we’re doing…..generally I’ve got it together. I have to make a good impression! I need to off-set our weirdness with my organizational skills, my charm, my sheer grit and common sense…”
I should have known I was quickly heading toward disaster---I was feeling far, far too confident and in control for things to continue to go smoothly. As my mother steered my sticker-laden Volvo wagon through the slushy streets I kept up a non-stop cheerleading session regarding my mothering skills…. “I am SO prepared for this appointment! I have ALL our paperwork…..all the charts from the birth, all the paperwork proving that I already did the metabolic screens, he can’t NOT love us! Even though we’re weird and we birth at home….look how prepared I am!”
When we arrived at the office (and only 5 minutes late!) we were ushered into an exam room where I boasted about my potent breast milk (“He gained 10 ounces in 4 days!”) and thrust all the papers at the nurse. She perused them without comment until she arrived at the narrow strip of paper that proved I had already sent Dominic’s blood in to be tested for all the metabolic diseases.
“What is this?” She queried. Oh, I’d school her…. “I had the metabolic testing done at 4 days. It’s been sent to the lab, that is the proof! I don’t even need that copy, you can keep it!!”
The doctor arrived and promptly exclaimed over my darling children. He, too, riffled through the stack of papers before pausing over the metabolic screen receipt.
“Um….what is this?”
“Oh! That is the proof that I already did the metabolic screen! I had it done at four days, I had someone come to the house…..you can keep that paper….I don’t even need it….he gained 10 ounces in four days…I managed to fold some laundry this morning…” When I get nervous I babble. Especially when the person I am talking to just sits there…..silently….staring…..until finally…
“Yes, well….This …looks…like a speeding ticket.”
I teach my kids that we don’t just take things from people, but you can believe I took that paper back…snatched it, as it were. Then I did what any good, organized wife does.
I blamed it on my husband.
“Oh that’s not mine! It’s my husband’s! I’m not sure…where the metabolic screen is….the two papers look shockingly alike…..”
At that point, I had to give up my dream of appearing like the perfect mom I am not and just be myself. My mother was laughing, Doms was nursing in that newborn-milk-spraying-everywhere kind of way, and Gianna was methodically licking all the tongue depressors. Now was the time to sum things up and make a quick getaway.
I was trying to make a good impression, but here I am. This is me. Mostly, I’m late a lot, I’m constantly getting myself into ridiculous situations, and I really like to laugh. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I figure if I just make it look good, the outward signs of grace will transfer internally, clean my kitchen, get me out the door on time, and make my home the kind of place where there will be saints…or at least, the absence of parole officers.
