tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3013197409500798632024-03-14T03:49:17.900-05:00The Momma FilesAprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-47972193141305575232014-05-14T11:57:00.001-05:002014-05-14T11:57:21.429-05:00Complete Honesty<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w59M9UW0cxo/U3OgItp3bwI/AAAAAAAAAOE/EWoE_UaLpX4/s1600/IMG_5536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-w59M9UW0cxo/U3OgItp3bwI/AAAAAAAAAOE/EWoE_UaLpX4/s1600/IMG_5536.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In the interest of being completely open and honest, I want to tell a story. About a year ago, I found myself in a slump. It was summertime, so the kids were out of school. I was a home with our five and two-year-old boys. I was experiencing worsening pre-menstrual syndrome. I'd stopped working out regularly, and I was drinking more than was healthy. I first noticed it when my youngest was about eighteen months old, and by the time he was two, I was almost debilitatingly depressed ten days out of the month. During that time, I'd get up every day and drag myself through my obligations, constantly fighting the urge to curl up in a ball and cry. I was depressed about nothing, and then everything I encountered throughout the day, from traffic to puppies, made me more depressed. I'd work really hard at being cheerful for the kids, but they knew, and their moodiness reflected my own. I remember trying to make dinner in the kitchen while the kids watched cartoons in the living room and sinking down to sit on the floor, hidden beneath the cabinets, my head in my hands, trying so hard not to lose it. "What the hell is wrong with me?" going through my head like a mantra. I tried to pull myself up by my bootstraps. I read books and articles and followed their advice. I started a new exercise program. I took vitamins and made sure I was drinking plenty of water and all that. Nothing really helped. I tried to cut back on my alcohol, but I couldn't seem to do it for more than a couple of days. Wine was my salvation at the end of the day, something to look forward to, something to get the stress to melt away and my brain to stop racing. Finally, I'd had enough. I was reticent to try medication, because I was supposed to be able to handle this on my own, I thought, but I was tired of being depressed half the time and having to work so hard not to scream at my children . School had started, I had more time to myself, I was exercising regularly again, and I still did not feel any better. I owed it to myself and my family to try medication. I knew it was hormonally driven, after all. It happened at the same time every month like clockwork. I made an appointment with the gynecologist, and before I went, my husband told me, "Don't just tell him you feel kinda down. Tell him what's really happening. Tell him it's affecting your happiness and your life." This was sage advice. He knows I have a habit of downplaying my feelings, so as not to seem melodramatic. </span></div><div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was uncomfortable telling my doctor what I considered personally sacred information, details of my emotions I'd taken months to admit to myself and my husband, but I steeled myself and said, "I get depressed to the point of wanting to cry all the time at the same time every month for the past year. It's affecting my life and my relationships, and I want to fix it." To my relief, he didn't act judgmental. He didn't suggest all the things I'd already tried, like adjusting my diet and exercise. He said matter-of-factly it sounded like PMDD (pre-menstrual dysphoric disorder) and wrote me a prescription for Zoloft. Feeling empowered, I had it filled right away and began taking it ten days before my period started. It made all the difference in the world. I didn't feel numb or over-the-top euphoric like I'd feared. I felt normal, which was wonderful. Suddenly, things seemed manageable. I'd still get down, but all the things I'd been trying over the last months to improve my mood actually began to work. I'd go outside to get some fresh air and actually feel better, which was amazing to me.</span></div><div style="orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">Not too many months after cycling on and off the medication, I began to get mentally antsy. I couldn't figure out why at first. Then, I realized I had extra energy to burn. For a long time, for ten days out of the month, I'd been draining my energy just getting through the day and keeping it together. Then, it would take me a few more days after that to dig myself out, emotionally. Now that I didn't have to work so hard to just get out of bed and not cry, I could focus on other things. I cut way back on my alcohol intake - what seemed like a huge sacrifice months earlier suddenly didn't even seem that difficult. I was tired of being hungover three days a week, and I wanted to be more productive and a better example for my kids. I started looking into fitness as a business. A friend had talked to me about it months earlier when I didn't think I could handle it, and now it seemed not just possible but exciting. Now I'm working on my business and writing more. I'm more patient with the kids, more in touch with my friends and family, and happier in general, because I feel productive. I still take Zoloft ten days out of the month, and it makes me a tad sleepy, but it's so much better than being in the hole I was in, I don't even care. In the end, I did pull myself up by my bootstraps. I made my life fuller, better, happier, but I needed a stepping stone to get there, and I had to be strong enough to admit I needed it. To close, I want you to know this has been hard to write, and it's going to be even harder when I click "publish post" and put the link on my Facebook page. It feels unnatural to me to share my deep personal insecurities with…well, with anyone. I decided to do it, though, because it's therapeutic for me, because one of my new goals is to be completely, whole-picture, honest about who I am, warts and all, and because I know there have got to be people out there experiencing something similar who might read this and take heart in knowing they're not alone.</span></span></div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-80544267870726354222014-04-02T20:48:00.004-05:002014-04-03T13:32:55.859-05:00He Who Walks on the Wrong Side of Someone Else's Fence Shouldn't Throw Stones and Eat Them TooGrowing up in the Dallas area, my childhood was filled with idioms and platitudes the adults around me rattled off in response to my mood, the weather, something I should be doing, or even a general state of being. I don't know whether or not it's a southern thing, but relatives, from my parents to distant great aunts, were fond of sayings such as, <i>a stitch in time saves nine</i>, or, <i>too many cooks spoil</i> <i>the broth</i>. Some I took to heart, like <i>Rome wasn't built in a day.</i> I was always impatient to make progress with a new skill. I wanted to be an ace at softball the minute I hit the field. Over time, I learned to relax and let expertise come in it's own time. Some I misinterpreted. When my grandmother said, <i>Many hands make little work</i>, I thought she was talking about little people with "mini" hands (dwarves? gnomes? garden-variety children??) building tiny buildings or washing mini dishes with itty-bitty sponges. While my grandmother was trying to motivate us all to pitch in and clean up after dinner, I was off in my own head imagining lilliputians dusting and vacuuming with infinitesimal tools. In my child brain it was irrelevant this interpretation didn't make sense in context. Some quips I simply did not get. Most of these were my dad's, like <i>let the hammer do the work</i>. What, does this thing have batteries you didn't tell me about? Why am I sitting here banging my heart out if this thing can do the work itself?? My most common reaction to the idioms of my younger years was an eye-rolling groan, followed by dramatic exasperation anyone could be so stupid as to say something like that, let alone believe it. Here are some of my favorites:<br />
<br />
<i>Anything worth doing is worth doing well. </i>- This one always garnered the biggest sigh from my teenage self, and while I've come around on some of them, I still to this day maintain somethings are worth doing, but only half-assed. Cleaning the house is a good example, as are most household chores, like doing the laundry when you manage to get it all the way to the dryer and then leave it there for a week and a half. There is absolutely nothing wrong with grabbing a clean towel out of the dryer when you need it, and it saves the trouble of folding it and putting it away.<br />
<br />
<i>The road to hell is paved with good intentions.</i> - This was one of my mom's. You can always tell, because her platitudes are always the darkest, with the worst take on humanity. Whenever I heard this one, I thought, "as if I didn't already feel bad enough about screwing up, now I'm going to hell as well." I do think she meant this in a life lesson-type way, as in, "take responsibility for your actions." Maybe I'd have taken it better if she'd stuck with something less gruesome like, <i>you made your bed,</i> <i>now lie in it</i>, or <i>learn from your mistakes</i>. Bottom line, though, I didn't really think I was going to hell, and I got her point, which was short and required no rambling lecture.<br />
<br />
<i>Everything happens for a reason.</i> This one's a little heavy, because it's an indicator, to some extent, of religious beliefs. I know some people really think when you step in gum on the way out to your car in the grocery store parking lot, there's a divine plan involving day-old pavement hubba bubba, but I don't. And for reasons I can't quite conjure, it has always irritated me when someone explains away some misfortune of mine by indicating it has some mysterious purpose. It feels like they're discounting my pain. I know that may be just my own chip on my shoulder, but it's there, and it won't budge.<br />
<br />
<i>You choose what kind of day to have</i>, makes me grit my teeth only slightly less than the one about how many muscles it takes to smile versus frown. No one wants to be in a bad mood or have a crappy day, but they happen. It's worthwhile to try to turn that around. I mean when life gives you lemons… and all that. BUT some days are unsalvageable. Sometimes no matter what I do, all the little things that go wrong get me down. Sometimes nothing goes wrong, but the chemicals in my brain and the hormones in my body won't allow happiness that day. So, whilst one can do one's level best to make it a great day, sometimes it's okay to throw in the towel, wallow in your bad mood, scream a little, stomp around and slam doors, cry and know tomorrow will probably be better.<br />
<br />
<i>Who said life was fair?</i> You may recognize this as one of my mom's downer gems. I have to admit, I actually don't hate this one. It was frustrating as a child to hear after having declared, "It's not fair!" but she made her point. Life is not fair. You don't get everything everyone else does anymore than they get everything you do. Life is what you make it, and really that's not even all that depressing if you think about it.<br />
<br />
<i>Keep calm and carry on</i>. Okay, it's not from my childhood, but I'm tired of reading it and seeing the myriad of variations that have popped up on t-shirts and bumper stickers. While I'm all for calm, and it's something I strive for in my life, this statement is kind of obvious. It's like saying, "When walking down the sidewalk, don't freak out and kill someone. Just keep walking." Also, it has a dull, <u>Brave New World</u> kind of feel to it. "Keep calm, plod on with your menial lot in life, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain." I'm probably reading way too much into it, but I'm overly-analytical by nature, and try as I may, I can't seem to overcome that particular trait.<br />
<br />
Here are a couple that are a laugh riot, not because of the expressions themselves but for grand, overly-complex misinterpretations:<br />
The phrase, <i>hair of the dog that bit you</i>, entered my vocabulary in my college years, for obvious reasons. My sister revealed one post-party morning (okay, it was noon) at a Denny's what she thought it meant. To paraphrase, it was something like this: "So you drank a lot the night before, right? And your hangover's so bad, you have to go down to Hades and get a hair from the dog, Cerberus, to make a potion to cure your headache." I laughed so hard, I spit lukewarm crappy coffee all over the table. I guess I'm not the only uber-analyser in the family. I'd still be laughing at her had I not discovered my own stupidly complicated mistaken interpretation.<br />
<i>Never look a gift horse in the mouth.</i> You may already know this, but said platitude refers to the practice of examining a horse's teeth to determine it's worth. The point is to instruct graciousness upon receiving a present instead of criticism. While I got the basic sentiment, I went the long way 'round to get there. I went back to the Trojan horse, thinking you wouldn't want to look it in the mouth, because all those Greeks would come out of it and get you. Maybe I was confusing it with, <i>beware of Greeks</i> <i>bearing gifts</i>. And what is it with my sister and I injecting unnecessary literary references into simple metaphors?<br />
<br />
What prompted this brief yet rambling essay is a mood I've been in lately. I've found recently platitudes of my past are rattling around in my head, and, with a mixture of horror and amusement, I'm realizing some of them are true. Most of them involve the word, "positive," and have wormed their way into corporate jargon over the past decade or two. Things like, <i>positive attitude changes everything. </i> Okay, so I still don't love that one, mostly because it's complete bullshit, along the lines of, <i>If you put your</i> <i>mind to it, you can do anything.</i> Really?? You think if I put my mind to it, being a thirty-eight-year-old mother of two, I could be an NFL linebacker in two years? Maybe I'm being too literal, but I come by it honestly. It's in my blood. <br />
Anyway, I digress. What's sprouting in my mind is a seed I recently gathered from online somewhere: <i>Surround yourself with positive people</i>, or something to that effect. This is the kind of saying I'd have scoffed at several years ago. Quotes like these that pop up on motivational posters are overly general and suggest the speaker is either a cheerleader or an aerobics instructor from the eighties - sugary sweet, overly peppy, and above all, fake and not to be trusted. I have never considered myself a positive person, because I have some bad days, you know? I am not the peppy, "Come on! You can do it! Work it! Feel the burn!" type. When I exercise, I feel strong. I breathe purposefully in and back out. I am focused. I am not talkative, and I am certainly not bubbly, but….I feel great. It turns out, I am actually a positive person. I'm just quieter about it than some. When I have a bad day, I try to fix it. If I can't fix it, I accept it, but I know things will get better. Why do I know this? I guess because things always have. It's always darkest before the dawn. Sometimes it's darkest before the tornado, but the tornado always passes and it gets light again. I realized just today that surrounding myself with positive people doesn't necessarily mean hanging out with people who routinely use four exclamation points at the ends of their sentences. It means sticking with those who lead their lives in a way I admire. It means having friends who love and support me no matter what kind of day I'm having. It means being with people who don't tell me what kind of day to have. It's unfortunate sayings like these have been so often reprinted, reposted and retweeted to the point they've become trite, no matter now deeply and honestly the original author may have discovered them within themselves.<br />
I found the following quote by Karl Marx today:<br />
<h1 class="quoteText" style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;">
<i>Surround yourself with people who make you happy. People who make you laugh, who help you when you’re in need. People who genuinely care. They are the ones worth keeping in your life. Everyone else is just passing through.</i></h1>
<div>
I read it and thought, "Yeah, that's about right." The key, though, is identifying those people, because sometimes they're not obvious, and sometimes we trust the wrong people. All in all, it's a good thing to keep in mind when deciding with whom you want to spend your time and energy. It's too long of a quote to make a poster, though, and no one would bother to read the whole thing on the back of your car or t-shirt. And just maybe folks, to quote one more trite phrase, that is a good thing.</div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-19422801029697369172014-01-27T20:57:00.000-06:002014-01-27T20:57:49.576-06:00My Grandmother - Sue White<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I was thinking about Sue the other day and also thinking how we often deify the dead - turning them into saints without fault. And though Sue had many outstanding qualities, she, like the rest of us, was not perfect. So, in wishing not to do her or the world a disservice, I decided I should remember not only what made her great, but also what made her humanly imperfect. </span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I remember being in her kitchen one day in my early twenties. It was winter, and I was wearing jeans and a pair of short, black boots I’d just bought. I loved those boots. I sat in a chair facing the armchair she sat in, and I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair as we chatted. She looked down at my boots and said, “My god, those are the ugliest things I’ve ever seen,” and gave a perfunctory chuckle. Then she moved onto whatever was next in her head, my ugly boots forgotten... forgotten by her but not by me. I was offended. How dare she say something like that! Can’t she just keep that stuff to herself? At the time, I angrily wondered if she thought she had the right to say things like that just because she was getting on in years and old people get to do whatever they like.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I hadn’t thought about this in years, but now I want to couple it with a seemingly unrelated story. Since Sue died, several people have earnestly mentioned to me how she always made them feel welcome and how talking with Sue about things always made them feel better. Then I realized something. There have been countless times in my life when I did not comfort a suffering friend, when I did not approach the new person at the party because I was afraid I’d say the wrong thing. Sue was never afraid to strike up a conversation, about the weather or your latest mental breakdown. No topic was taboo, and because of that, she sometimes offended, but also because of that, she often provided solace and comfort to people when no other dared. So as I thought about it, I realized for all the things I’ve learned from Sue - from how to make strawberry jam to how to be a good writer - the thing from her I most want to carry with me as I move through life is this: Never be afraid to say the wrong thing. Say something. Say anything, whether the person is in obvious pain or simply a little uncomfortable in unfamiliar company. And, if you, however well-intentioned, accidentally offend them, don't be too hard on yourself.</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I’m going to end with a quote, because Sue loved them. This one by Hunter S. Thompson describes in a broader sense the importance of daring to say the wrong thing. The first time I heard this quote, it was many years ago from Sue herself. This is one she both loved and lived. It’s another lesson I carry with me:</span></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming "Wow! What a Ride!</span></div>
<br />
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">-Hunter S. Thompson</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-90Q-E_X2_V0/UuccXUiVG2I/AAAAAAAAAMw/2AO9Zu8jx80/s1600/0075%232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-90Q-E_X2_V0/UuccXUiVG2I/AAAAAAAAAMw/2AO9Zu8jx80/s1600/0075%232.JPG" height="320" width="239" /></a></div>
<div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><br /></span></div>
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-53108998598881096402014-01-06T13:45:00.001-06:002014-01-06T13:45:51.871-06:00Farewell to Mrs. HowardI just came from dropping Jack off in his classroom for the first day after winter break. Normally, I don't go into the classroom with him, but today was different and not just because we've been on vacation for two weeks. Mrs. Peggy Howard, Jack's beloved kindergarten teacher, and her eighteen-year-old son, Cale, were killed in a car accident by a drunk driver. Mrs. Howard won't be returning to school or her family or anywhere else ever. Jason and I were still in shock when we told Jack the news just over a week ago. The only question Jack asked about it was, "When did it happen?" Then, he crawled in my lap and peppered me with anxious questions about what would happen in his classroom now. He wanted to know how the new teacher would know all the things Mrs. Howard did. We went on with our vacation after that, Jack distracted by fun with cousins and grandparents. We went to the funeral. I cried a little. Jack got antsy during the service, but Jason and I both thought it good he go for closure and understanding what happened to his teacher. This morning, in the dark early hours before school, Jack and I once again cuddled on the couch as he voiced his nervous concerns about the new state of affairs in his classroom. I reassured a little and listened a lot. After all, there is no great solution or fix for this terrible tragedy. Then, we went to school. Steiner Ranch Elementary has handled a horrible situation beautifully, from calling us personally to deliver the news to inviting parents into the classroom for the first day back. We parents listened to the counselor talk to the kids and met the interim teacher. She was experienced, warm, and reassuring. My initial concerns about the kid's continuing education dissipated. After all, one of the reasons we moved here is so our kids could attend Leander ISD schools, in the district where I once taught and have first-hand knowledge of it's quality. <br />
As I kissed Jack goodbye and left the classroom, I knew he'd be okay. His teacher is gone, but he has a wonderfully stable family and the committed staff of the elementary school to see him and his classmates through. I held back the tears, though, as I hurried through the cold morning to my car. Being in that classroom, Mrs. Howard's absence was palpable to me for the first time. Jack hasn't expressed missing her yet, only anxiety over the classroom. It may hit him later, in a couple days or weeks, but <i>I</i> miss her. I didn't spend nearly the amount of time at the school Jack does, but the little time I did spend, I was so impressed by Peggy Howard. Having taught elementary school myself, I struggled at times to maintain patience and calmness in the face of the chaos that is young children. Peggy was a beacon of patience and the epitome of calmness. I so admired her demeanor and her genuine, calm smile. I thought, if I ever go back to teaching, I'm going to think of her. I'm going to try to be more like her. It does take a special person to teach kindergarten. Many people don't last more than a few years there, but Peggy taught kindergarten for decades. She loved it, she loved the children, and it showed. I realized this morning, whatever and whenever Jack feels about her, <i>I</i> am going to miss her, as a teacher, a person, and someone I admired. After I got done being angry at the drunk driver and worrying about Jack, I was left with only sadness that the world is being deprived of a wonderful, contributing person like her. <br />
Peggy Howard will be so sorely missed by so many people, as was evidenced in the hundreds of people who attended her memorial service. I can't imagine her family's pain right now. I do hope, though, that it is some small comfort to know how many lives she touched. She lives on in her family and in all of the hundreds if not thousands of children she's made feel comfortable and loved on that very first day of kindergarten. Teachers like her are the reason kids learn to read and write and love going to school each day. She's the reason they feel safe there. She is the reason Jack and myself, both nervous about his starting public school, became so quickly comfortable there. I was not just happy, but relieved when I met her and knew she would be the one with whom my son would spend his formative kindergarten year. I know whomever the school chooses to permanently take over the classroom will be a well-qualified, loving person who leads our children to great kindergarten success. I will, however, always remember Peggy Howard as Jack's first teacher and an incredibly admirable person.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-9188596520256999022013-10-03T12:25:00.001-05:002013-10-03T12:25:00.187-05:00Where Am I Going with This?To those of you who don't know already, I am trying to write a novel. It's fiction, and that's about all I can say about it right now. Some days, I write in a frenzy. I can barely type fast enough to keep up with the scenes flowing from my brain. I get totally submerged in the fictitious world I've created, and feel weird and out of touch with reality when I finally surface hours later. Today is not one of those days. Today is one of the days where I sit and stare at the screen, type two sentences, delete one, get up for a cup of coffee, and do some more staring. Just now I was typing a scene, and it was like making stuff up out of thin air - hard. I know I'm really always making it up out of thin air, but sometimes it seems like if I sit still and think about the characters, the story practically writes itself. Today, the story is on vacation, off on a bender, taking a nap. It refuses to do any of the work itself and insists I pick up the slack. On days like today, writing is not fun, it is a chore, which is why I'm blogging instead. It's like when you sit down to study for a test and suddenly decide your whole apartment needs cleaning. What can I justify doing instead of sitting with Pages open in front of me, plunking out dialogue one painful word at a time, all the while with the sneaking suspicion everything I write today is going to be crap when I reread it later?.......<div>Well, now I'm doing the same thing with this post: staring at the screen wondering what comes next. Guess it's time to get back to not writing.</div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-1745710312090560902013-08-29T13:32:00.001-05:002013-08-29T13:32:45.123-05:00On the Fourth Day of Kindergarten...It is the fourth day of kindergarten, and my mental dust has finally settled on the logistics of the whole drop-off, pick-up thing. I've now turned my attention towards the aspect of Jack starting school that's a little more global. It is so disconcerting not to see him all day long for five days a week. I am enjoying my me time, don't get me wrong. I love having several hours a couple days a week when both kids are in school and I can be on my own. It's something I've missed lately. But for seven hours a day, I don't know at all what Jack is doing. Intellectually I know this is not bad. This is the natural first step towards Jack growing up. Kids get a little bit of independence at a time, until one day, they are truly ready to leave the nest. This is a good thing. This is the whole end goal of parenting - raising children to be independent responsible adults. That's what I believe in my rational thinking mind, but my heart is crying out, "nooooo! I don't want him to leave me!"<br />
I am happy when I see how comfortable Jack already is in elementary school. Today I walked him in through the parent pick-up door, instead of the front door so he could see where I'd pick him up in the car (for the first time) today. He walked in that building ahead of me, confidently lead me on a detour past his classroom so he could show me some art they had in the hallway, and then strolled right into the cafeteria as if he owned the place. That kid knows what he's doing, and he's come a long way from the toddler who hid behind my legs every time he encountered an unfamiliar, or sometimes even familiar, person. I am happy, and I am relieved, because I truly did not know how well he would take this transition to kindergarten. I am sad, though, because my first little boy is leaving me - not now, not next year, but this is the first step in the process. One day, he will pack up his car and head away from our house for his own adventures in the world, and even though he's only five now, I can see that day coming way sooner than I'd like.<br />
This is what I was thinking about a lot of the day yesterday. Then Jack came home from school, and he was elated to find out I'm volunteering in his classroom once a week. He also asked me to come eat lunch with him some day at school. This morning, he sat in my lap and told me he was sad we couldn't have Jack and Momma day anymore because of school. I reassured him we would find Jack and Momma time somewhere in our busy week, no question. So, he's on his way to growing up, right on schedule, and some day he will be gone, but he's not quite done with Momma yet, and I am so very glad.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-44518529630276513602013-08-26T13:49:00.001-05:002013-08-26T13:49:21.182-05:00Kindergarten and LogisticsToday is the first day of kindergarten. I dropped Jack off at school. We were later than I wanted to be and got there at 7:40, instead of 7:35, like we were supposed to to meet the other kindergarteners in the cafeteria, so Jack and I walked to his classroom ourselves. He was light and happy all the way there, until it was time for me to leave. He hugged me tight and didn't seem to want to let go. He did, though, and as I left, he had that serious, slightly worried look he gets. I waved and smiled. I left the building and walked back down the hill to my car. I drove home, I walked in the house, where Gage and Jason were waiting, and I burst into tears. <br />
Jason went to work, and I got a hold of myself, but the rest of the morning, I was on edge. My mind was going a mile a minute with questions. What happens tomorrow when they won't let me walk him to the classroom? Should I drop him off in the car or walk him into the cafeteria where we've been told the kids will wait until their teacher takes them to the classroom? How am I going to pick him up? Will Gage walk fast enough with me? Do I take the stroller? What if Jack gets nervous because he's not sure how it works? Where do I park? How's it going to work when we start car pooling next week? Oh, yeah, I need to buy booster seat for that...My mind is going in all different directions.<br />
Then I realized what was upsetting me. Yes, I was worried about Jack, but really I know he'll be okay. I'm pretty sure he'll enjoy kindergarten after he gets used to it and knows the routine. Yes, I feel a sadness at my first baby going off to big bad, stay-all-day everyday public school. Yes, I'm going to miss him. But what really had me all fit to be tied was not knowing the logistics. Mmm, I wonder where Jack gets his attachment to routine? We had a great little schedule with preschool three days a week. We all knew how that worked, but this is something brand new, and despite having taught elementary school in this very district, I feel like I don't have a clue how best to do things like drop off and pick up, and that seriously stresses me out.<br />
Yes, I went to kinder camp with Jack, and yes I listened, but during that time, I got a call from the preschool saying Gage was acting weird, and since he'd fallen and hit his head pretty badly that day before school, I was concerned. So I spend a good deal of kindergarten orientation either out in the hall on the phone or sitting in the meeting distracted by my worries about Gage. I'm sure this contributes to my feeling of being not at all prepared.<br />
I know this feeling will pass. We will get used to elementary school just like we got used to preschool, but for some reason knowing this does not get me to relax right now. I am a planner, and it puts me out of sorts when I feel like I can't totally plan ahead for something. We really just need to go to school for a couple of weeks, try a couple of different transportation/parking options and figure out what's best, but I don't like that. I want to know what's best RIGHT NOW!<br />
Anyway, this rant really doesn't have a point. I just needed to vent my frustration, and now I feel better...well a little better. Thanks for reading.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-13327512316249895642013-08-12T21:11:00.002-05:002013-08-12T21:11:26.528-05:00Advice OverloadI just read a parenting article that made me feel like a failure as a mom. I know I'm not a failure, but many times, when I read articles about how I should not rush my kids, stop and smell the roses, nurture their artistic side, take them on amazing vacations, teach them math facts, be sensitive to all their many emotions, listen, don't yell, be authoritative, and on and on, I feel overwhelmed. It's not that I don't think most of theses things are pieces of good parenting. It's that I am human. I am a real woman with a personality, and it is flawed. I don't like yelling at my kids. I don't do it often, but every now and then, the mommy bomb goes off because I just cannot take it anymore. The thing about reading parenting articles is, it makes me uber-analytical about my own parenting. I start worrying that I've permanently scarred my kids because I am an imperfect parent. I know this is not the intent of the articles. They are meant to be helpful, and I wish I could just take them as possibly useful little nuggets of information without obsessing over whether or not I measure up to them for days on end. <br />
I did come up with a thought recently, though, while on vacation without the kids - just about the only time I am capable of original thought. I am not one hundred percent responsible for the adults my kids will become. Maybe some of you are thinking, "well, duh," but it was nothing short of epiphany for me. There are their own genetics, which come from Jason and me, but are hardly within our control. There will be school, friends, teachers, jobs, random circumstance. It's not all on us as parents. When I think about it, the one thing I could do to improve my parenting would be to freaking relax a bit. When Jack was born, I was a ball of stress. I was so afraid something would go wrong or I would somehow mess him up. With Gage I was better, but there's still that whisper saying, "You've been doing it wrong," almost every time I read an article with parenting advice in it. I don't know why I'm convinced article writers know how I should be raising my children necessarily. I mean, they're my kids, right? I know them, and I even have an actual degree in child development and family relations, so I should basically know what I'm doing, even if I'm not perfect. Sometimes, I actually think if I knew less about child rearing, I'd be happier. Ignorance is bliss, right? So since I can't manage to take parenting advice from the experts lightly, I think I'll stop reading the articles. It's just like when I was fourteen and stopped reading <i>Seventeen </i>magazine, because leafing through it and seeing all the stick-skinny models made me feel bad about myself. Don't get me wrong; all the information available to parents these days can be great. It can give you ideas about how to solve problems with your kids, and it can make you realize you're not the only one experiencing something. I just wish there were a few more articles out there telling us parents, it's okay if you're not perfect. Your kids are not going to grow up to be serial killers because you yelled at them one time for dumping a whole box of Cheerios on the floor. They may be serial killers, but it won't be because you yelled at them. Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-89705130308377397062013-05-13T13:44:00.002-05:002013-05-13T13:44:33.427-05:00Concerts Through the YearsJason and I went to see The Killers in concert Friday night, while the kids were with my parents. I had a blast. The Killers put on a great show. They sounded perfect and included some neat tricks, like fire work-type pyrotechnics and masses of confetti falling from the ceiling. I found myself standing with Jason, a little more than halfway to the front of the arena floor. Here, the people were thick, but not pressed up against each other, as they would be closer to the stage. I jumped, danced, clapped, sang and really really enjoyed myself. It occurred to me I was actually having more fun than I had at most of the concerts I went to pre-children, when I sometimes attended a music venue just because my friends wanted to go. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of stand-out concerts I'll never forget. One was seeing Pearl Jam at South Park Meadows, back in '95, when it was just a big, open field and not the massive shopping center it is today. I had just turned twenty years old and started my junior year at UT. It was September, and if you know Austin, Texas, you know it was still hotter than hell. My friends and I all got separated. I pushed my way to the front, where I contentedly mooned over the band, despite the bodies pressed up against me so hard I had trouble breathing, the blistering heat, and the doc martened crowd surfers who periodically kicked me in the head. I obsessively loved every moment of that concert, and when Pearl Jam made their final exit from the stage and the crowd receded, I stood there, staring at the stage with the goofy grin on my face I'd worn all day, sweaty and tired and unable to believe it was over. Then, there was The Toadies at Austin City Limits Festival, circa 2002. Again it was, September, this time right around my twenty-seventh (?) birthday. I started the Toadies portion of the show up front with friends, and ended it up front by myself, as the crowd got to be too much for everyone else. I was so close, I could see the sweaty pores on Todd Lewis' face. It was a fabulous set, complete with all my favorites. I hollered the words to Tyler and Possum Kingdom along with the band and the rest of the crowd. Then, when it was over, I dragged my spent body away from the stage, dirty, sweaty, missing an anklet, and entirely happy.<br />
Most of the concerts of my youth weren't like that, though. There was, for instance, the Lollapallooza sometime in my early twenties, where we spent all day outside in the blistering heat (What is it with outdoor music festivals in the heat of the summer??) anticipating the headliners, Sound Garden and Metallica. While I was a fan of both bands, by the time Sound Garden took the stage, I'd been standing in a crowd of sweaty bodies pressed against each other for hours. It seemed everyone around me was over six feet tall, and cut me off from any breeze as effectively as a dense forest. I tried to be cool and tough and stick it out, but not too far into the set, I began to feel faint and see little stars at the edge of my vision. Then I started feeling a little sick to my stomach, and there is nothing tough or cool about barfing all over your fellow concert-goers. I was also unnerved by the idea of passing out in that crowd, as my ass had already been fondled several times while completely conscious. So I stood on tiptoe, stretched my arm up above my head, and waved my hand at a security guard in the front isle. I hollered, "I need out!" The guard reached in, grabbed my wrist and pulled, as the mass of sweaty humanity pushed (None of them wanted to be vomited on, either) and I was free. I walked to the outside, circled around back, got some water, and watched the rest of the show from the back. I was so tired by that point, I was relieved when Metallica finished up and it was time to go home. There were a lot of other concerts. Many when I went just because it was the cool thing to do, but I was secretly counting the songs until we could emerge from the throngs and get back in the car where it was quiet, and I could sit down.<br />
So why did I enjoy The Killers so much, even though I am ten years older and supposedly lacking twenty-something energy levels? I mean, I like The Killers, but I don't worship them (or any band anymore, for that matter) like I did Pearl Jam or The Toadies. Well, for one, I hadn't spent all day drinking Miller Lite in the Texas sun prior to the headliner coming onstage. For two, I actually have more energy now, since my eating habits have improved, and I am no longer perpetually anemic. But I think the primary reason is this: I spent ninety percent of my time in my twenties doing whatever the hell I wanted to do. Going to a music venue where I could do just that wasn't novel, especially since I went to lots of concerts. Now, things are different. I can count the number of concerts I've been to since becoming a mom five years ago on one hand. I spend ninety percent of my time concerned with the happiness and welfare of the kiddos, always on alert for someone who needs a nap, a snack, a potty, or a hug. And it is not only novel but absolutely freaking wonderful to be able to stand in the middle of a crowd at The Killers and jump up and down like an idiot or just stand still, if that's what I want to do, without having to be concerned about long it's been since Gage has been to the bathroom or how many hours it's been since Jack has eaten. I love my kiddos so much sometimes I feel I could just eat them up, and I love that I spend so much time with them. One thing I'm starting to realize, though, is they also enhance the time I spend without them.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-76096953160390142962013-04-12T13:38:00.001-05:002013-04-12T13:38:12.792-05:00Soap Operas and Bon-Bons<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">Recently, I read an article about how women, who have taken time off from paying work to raise children, should "lean into" their careers, meaning, they shouldn't feel guilty using child care or letting their children play on their own a bit while Mom tends to her payin' gig. There were a ton of comments on the article, a lot of praise and sympathetic voices, but also a lot of angry women who felt the article denigrated the stay-at-home mom. There were several self-righteous declarations stating how deciding to stay home with children was the best thing the commenter ever did, yadda, yadda, yadda. I read all eighty comments and came away with this: wow, do we parents ever feel guilty, no matter what our choices are. If we work, we worry we're neglecting our children and not being the parents we should. If we stay home, we worry we aren't using our intellectual talents or we are lazy, bon-bon eating soap opera addicts.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
I could say I work outside of raising children, but that would be, while not entirely false, a bit misleading. My father and I have a business we run out of my parents' house, which requires, at most three hours of my attention per week, and I take the kids with me. For all practical purposes, I am a SAHM. I have a ton of respect for parents with full or part-time paying jobs. That is a lot to juggle. I don't think they are any worse parents than I. In fact, some parents who have paying gigs are way better at spending quality time with their kiddos than overwrought ones who stay home all day. That being said, I'm going to address the stay-at-home parent guilt, because that is what I am most familiar with. </div>
<div>
One of the comments I read on the aforementioned article pointed out that some stay-at-home parents work really hard at making sure their job is really hard, like ridiculously over-the-top hard. They run themselves ragged to play dates and soccer practices and mom and tot swim classes, because they have a need to prove to themselves they work just as hard, if not harder than their spouses or friends with paying jobs. I know because I used to be kind of like this. I felt guilty if I had a relaxing couple of hours with the kids, where I just watched them play in the back yard while I drank coffee and did my own thing. We should be off learning Spanish, or how to knit, or climbing on colorful objects at some indoor play-place, while a teenage employee blows bubbles and talks in a loud, over-the-top, syrupy sweet voice! I'd feel like my choice to stay home was somehow the lazy choice because I wasn't, at the moment, schlepping my kids all over town to organized activities, exhausting myself.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> That's kind of messed up. The reason I wanted to stay home was because I love hanging out with kids. I love watching them play and learn and grow, and not because I love strapping kids into car seats and listening to "Wheels on the Bus," on repeat, as I drive all over town. And I didn't choose to stay home necessarily because I thought it would be better for them than being in child care. I chose it because that's what I wanted to do. That's what I knew would make me happy, so I feel very lucky to be able to do what I want. It doesn't feel like sacrifice....well, not most of the time. Sometimes, though, having a glass of wine in the afternoon on the driveway with my neighbor while our kids play, more or less on their own, running between our two yards, I feel a twinge of guilt, like I should not be enjoying myself this much. This staying home with kids stuff is supposed to be thankless, grueling work, with no respite! But how ridiculous is it that I can't relax before nine PM without guilt? I have a job. That job is raising my kids, with whom I stay home (or at the park, or at a friend's house, or at the grocery store) all day. I love my job - not one hundred percent of the time - but all in all it's a pretty sweet deal, and how lucky am I to be doing what I love. I am not going to feel guilty for being content anymore. It's the best thing I ever did....yadda, yadda yadda.</span></div>
</span>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-14687963774255471122013-02-20T13:21:00.002-06:002013-02-20T13:21:29.070-06:00Getting the Poison Out<br /><div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
Yesterday, I lost my shit. And by "lost my shit" I mean I threw a toddler-style tantrum, complete with screaming, kicking the wall and throwing things. What, you might ask, prompted this break with mature adult behavior at six forty-five in the evening? Hot Wheels - little metal cars, strewn about the play room, that Gage absolutely refused to pick up. My reaction may seem a bit extreme, and I am the first to admit it was, but to know what put me in the state of mind to become so unhinged by tiny cars and my own tiny, little person, we have to backtrack a bit. </div>
<div>
I started the day yesterday at a disadvantage. I woke up tired and irritable due to PMS. This does not excuse poor behavior, but any woman thus afflicted, can understand it makes not ripping everyone's heads off a colossal exercise in restraint. We had to be out the door by <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors="true">nine o'clock</a> for me to get the kids over to my parents' house, so my dad could watch them while I went for my annual exam at the gynecologist (yee-haw, what fun). I was having the house cleaned while we were gone, so in addition to the normal struggle of getting everyone dressed, fed, pottied and out the door, I was trying to get everything picked up. (I am not suggesting you feel sorry for me because I hired someone to clean my house.) I did, I thought, a remarkable job of not yelling at anyone during this process, but by the time I had all of us, including the dog, in the van and was backing down the driveway at precisely nine, I felt like I'd already expended my daily allotment of energy. </div>
<div>
I dropped off the kids, went to my appointment (again, yee-haw) and returned just before Gage's nap. I put Gage down for a nap, went upstairs and did some work for Dad's and my engineering business we run out of their house. As soon as Gage woke up, we gathered the amazing amount of crap we take to my parents' for a mere three-hour visit, and stuffed everyone back in the van to head to Jack's soccer class. At the class, I spent my time trying to watch Jack practice and keep Gage from flooding the place with the water fountain at the same time. We went by Randall's on the way home to pick up one thing I needed to make dinner, and I decided to (gasp!) leave the kids in the car. I got sausage, paid, and was back at the van in under four minutes. No one stole the kids, which doesn't surprise me, because what nut job wants a five-year-old and a two-year-old they are not biologically beholden to take care of??</div>
<div>
Back at home, we walked in to the smell of pinesol, which made me smile. A clean house makes Momma happy, even when she knows it will only last five minutes. Then, I discovered the cleaning crew had broken a ceramic handprint ornament the kids had done for Christmas, ate the cookies I was saving for dessert, and rearranged the pillows on Jack's bed. (Okay, that last one was only a big deal because Jack was extremely upset about it.) I took deep breaths, and left Jack in his room to scream and, "get the poison out," as Jason says. When Jack was calm, we went downstairs, where the kids watched Mickey Mouse, while I made dinner. Dinner was uneventful, except for the kids not eating what I cooked. Apparently, black beans and rice with turkey sausage is a very suspicious dish and not be trusted.</div>
<div>
After dinner, I was emptying the dish washer while the kids played surprisingly nicely together in the playroom. I thought, "I made it. It was a really busy day, I was in a bad mood, but I did all right."</div>
<div>
Then I walked into the playroom to help the kids clean up before bath and it happened:</div>
<div>
Me: Let's pick up all these cars.</div>
<div>
Jack: Gage dumped them out.</div>
<div>
Me: Gage, come help clean up.</div>
<div>
Gage: (Ignores me while engrossed in a plastic bracelet.)</div>
<div>
Me: Come on, Gage, clean up, clean up...(I sing the clean up song to no avail.)</div>
<div>
I pick Gage up, carry him to the cars.</div>
<div>
Me: Toss the cars in the basket, Gage! Two points! (I try to make a game out of it.)</div>
<div>
Gage: giggle, giggle, giggle (still not cleaning up)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In hindsight, I should've just let it go. I know I need to be consistent with the clean-up thing, but I knew I didn't have the patience, and I should've just closed the playroom door, gone upstairs with the kids, and forgotten it. But I didn't. I stood up, gave a primal scream at the top of my lungs, threw the basket on the tile floor, and kicked the wall with my bare foot. I guess Jack wasn't the only one who needed to get the poison out. At this point, both kids started crying, and I immediately felt awful. Great example there, Mom. Way to show the kids how to control their tempers. Now you've scared them. Jack was sobbing, Gage was crying, "Mama, Mama, Mama!" I sat down on the floor with my head in my hands, and that's when Jason walked in. " Welcome home to the asylum, honey!!"</div>
<div>
Both kids came over and sat in my lap, and we hugged for a while until everyone felt a little better. I said I was sorry for losing my temper and that I would do better next time. Then, Gage got up, picked up one of the Hot Wheels and went over and dropped it in the basket. Then, he looked at me with a questioning expression and said, "eh?" Interpretation: Is this what you got so worked up about?</div>
<div>
Jason gave the kids their bath that night, while I laid on our bed and cried. It was something I needed to do. It was cathartic, and afterwards, I felt much better. I could hear Jason laughing with the kids in the tub, and I was so very grateful to have him, to know that he could be patient with them when I couldn't. Jack and Gage and I cuddled, read books, and reconnected before Jason put them to bed, and that made me feel better, too. After that, I had a bath, drank some wine, watched some tv, and went to bed, And this morning, I felt renewed - ready to take on the day, and the kids. I even had a few new ideas about how to get Gage to do things like clean up and get dressed that would help it be less frustrating for all of us. This story doesn't really have a moral or a point, except to say, some days are hard and sometimes I'm not going to handle the hard things well, because I am imperfect, but that's all right, because I am lucky. I have forgiving children and a husband to share the burdens of life and child rearing with. Plus, he intuitively knows when to bring home wine. Thanks, guys.</div>
</span></div>
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-73894316132309477652013-02-18T20:56:00.001-06:002013-02-18T20:56:28.612-06:00The Five-Year Itch<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
Lately, when I sit still, I feel antsy. Whether it's while the kids are playing and for once not in need of my immediate intervention or by myself while Gage naps and Jack is at school, I have this sense there's something I should be doing - something I'm forgetting or something my conscious brain is deliberately ignoring. Like today: here I sat on my driveway on a gorgeous afternoon, watching Jack shoot baskets, while Jason and Gage played inside. We'd had a busy day, and I was tired, my allergies were in full swing, but I still had that itch - there was something that needed doing. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> I know what it is. It's time to write, like seriously write, like more than a few lines of blog-style venting and ranting. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969);"> This fall, Jack will be in full-time kindergarten and Gage will start 2-days-a-week preschool. The kids are getting a little older, and I'm finally finding myself with some spare time on my hands here and there when I'm not too exhausted to even think. I hear part of my mind whispering to me,"Write! You need to write!" Then, another part of my mind comes up with an excuse not to. It's very similar to rationalizations not to exercise. (I should go run...but I'm tired, I'm hungry, I need to pay bills, it looks like rain...) Part of it, I guess, is that I'm a little lazy. As much as I enjoy writing and feel rewarded by it, it is work, and it can be frustrating. More of it, though, is that I am reticent or even afraid to go leaping off into that abyss. What if I start writing a book, and I can't finish it? What if I don't have what it takes to sit in front of my computer for the hours, daily it would take to complete it? What if I do finish it, and it sucks? What if I can't get it published? I know I sound like McFly in Back to the Future (I just don't think I could handle that kind of rejection.)</span></div>
<div>
Of course, I know the answers to all this. If I never try, I'll never know if I could've done it. I'll always wonder. But still it's hard to actually do it, when I can tidy up the kitchen, fold laundry, order things on amazon, poke around on Facebook, or find a million other excuses not to sit down at my desk. It's like deciding to clean my whole apartment in college before I could sit down to study for an exam.</div>
<div>
In the end, when I think about it, I know I'll do it. I have to do it, or I'll drive myself crazy with mental self-nagging. At least, I'll try to do it. I'll take my own advice, often given to Jack about new foods, activities or friends - you'll never know if you don't try. That kid is so like me sometimes it scary. So pretty soon, I promise, I'm going to start suffering and write that symphony... er, book.*</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
* This is a reference to Singing in the Rain, which my sister and I watched over and over to the point of obsession when we were kids.</div>
</span>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-77326590334723302522013-02-04T13:50:00.000-06:002013-02-04T14:01:23.974-06:00My Kids Aren't CuteYears ago, when Jack was my only child and about thirteen months old, in
the context of a play date, a friend of mine asked of me and another
mom, while the three of us were serenely watching our toddlers play,
"So when do they stop being cute?" The other mom said with surprise,
"Oh! Never!" My flip response was, "I guess around four or so." While
I don't think she asked the question with any real seriousness, it
stuck with me, and I think of it periodically as I watch my
children learn and grow. Jack is now closing in on
five and will go to kindergarten in the fall, and I can say, I think he
is no longer cute. This isn't really as insulting as it sounds. You
see, Gage is almost two. He has this cute little voice. He likes to
sing songs in his own personal language, which is super cute, and when
he dances in his jumping, swaying toddler way, he is so stinking cute, I
could eat him up. (Incidentally, I never understood why cute kids drum
up feelings of cannibalism in adults until I had my own kids.) The way
Gage squats down to examine bugs and rocks and acorns is endearingly
cute, and when he waves and says, "Bye-eee," to people, they always
respond with, "Aw, he is soooo cute!" I remember it was that way with
Jack when he was two, but now his comments and affectations inspire
different feelings in me. I don't remember the last time I told Jack,
"You are so cute!" But I am often in awe of his analytical ability.
I'm always thinking how smart and coordinated and emotionally empathetic
he is, and I tell him these things. He's become so much more complex
and competent than cute. We have whole, real conversations about things
that make him curious - actual give and take conversations, instead of
an endless stream of his asking, "Why?" The other day, I came across a
video I took of Jack holding Gage in his lap on our couch when Gage was
just three weeks old. Jack was three. As he talked in his little
three-year-old voice, I smiled and thought, "How cute!" That's when I
realized Jack has now, to a large degree, grown out of "cute." It made
me both proud of the big kid he's become and a little wistful and sad
that he's lost that simplicity of toddlerhood. It also reminded me to
cherish the moments of Gage's cuteness, because it will be gone all too soon.<br />
As I look forward to the fall, when Gage will start preschool and Jack will make the big move to kindergarten in public school, I remember how scared I used to be when I thought of my little Jack going off to big, public school. I worried he was too sensitive and sweet and that big, bad kindergarten would eat him alive. Now when I think about it, I'm still a little apprehensive. I'm still concerned someone will be mean to him, or he won't feel comfortable asking the teacher for help when he needs it. But, as my cute little Jack has turned into a competent, problem-solving, resilient kid, in my heart, I know he'll be okay. I know that, even if everyone isn't always nice as pie to him, he can handle it. I know that, even if he doesn't know where the bathroom is, he'll ask. And I know that, even if he feels sad, frustrated, angry or even a little lonely from time to time at school, he'll be all right. I know that, despite any obstacles or hardships, Jack will make it through school, and not only will he be okay, but he'll be stronger for having overcome the challenges along the way. This is why it is good he is no longer just cute, because cute only gets you so far in life. The rest of it - finding real happiness and satisfaction - takes intelligence, fortitude, introspection and a sense of humor. All of which is so much more than cute.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-83024326599179127512013-01-04T12:17:00.000-06:002013-12-07T21:05:41.392-06:00The Big SHOULD<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">Every year, my mom and I go to Austin City Limits Festival. It's a great conglomeration of bands and musicians from far and wide and right here in Austin. We get to see some great music by bands we've never heard of, and we get to jump up and down excitedly to some old favorites. Mostly, it's like a vacation. We spend three days wandering around hearing great music, eating local food, drinking and relaxing. When the kids came along, this escape became even more important to me - three child-free days where I can tell off-color stories, curse, drink a little too much and do what I want to do. This past year, though, I felt a little guilty disappearing from my children all day for three days in a row. They love music, and ACL has a kids area with kids music and activities, not to mention the giant sand pit with accompanying buckets and shovels. Why not take them on Sunday? I see lots of people taking their kids, and it would be good for them, culturally. I SHOULD take them. They get in free, after all, so what's to lose?</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">
</span>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">So, on Sunday morning I plowed through my hangover from ACL revelry the day before to get the kids ready to go. I wrestled the double jogging stroller into the back of the minivan. I packed snacks, water, sunscreen, sand toys and beloved blankies and drover over to my parents'. My dad dropped us off - Mom, me, the kids and assorted "necessary items" by the bridge where we spent several minutes packing everything into the stroller to walk to the festival. We walked to the fest and hit up the kiddie area. Jack said the music was too loud and sat with his hands over his ears looking unhappy. Newly potty-trained Gage began holding his crotch and grunting, signifying the need to pee, so I rushed him to the portapotty, where we waited in line for five long minutes, me pleading with him to hold it. He did and we made it out of the potty alive, after Gage had touched every disgusting germ-infested inch of the place. We found Mom and Jack and decided to get something to eat. Mom and I shared a beer, and Jack and Gage, happier than they'd been all morning, shared cheese sticks and ice cream. Then, Gage fell asleep in the stroller, and we headed over to a tent with a giant screen playing whatever NFL game was on that Sunday. I parked Gage in a quiet corner, and Jack happily sat in Mom's lap watching football. This was relaxing, but totally something we could be doing at home. </span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;">
<div>
Forty-five minutes later Gage woke up cranky from a too-short nap, and Mom and I threw in the towel. We looked at each other, and didn't even need to say it: Let's go home. So we did. We schlepped the monster stroller back to her parked car, crammed it in the back and headed back to their place. We were both exhausted.</div>
<div>
On the way home, I had an internal conversation: </div>
<div>
Me #1: Hmmm, that was not as much fun as I had hoped.</div>
<div>
Me #2: You know Jack doesn't like loud noises or crowds, and you know Gage has to go to the toilet all the time and doesn't nap that well in public. What did you expect?</div>
<div>
Me #1: I know, but everyone else takes their kids and seems to have a good time, and I thought it would be good for them, culturally, you know?</div>
<div>
Me#2: Okay, A: How do you know everyone else is having a good time with their kids at a crowded, loud music festival, and B: Even if they are, it doesn't mean you have put everyone in your family through the hassle, just so you can prove something to yourself. You don't have to cram in all the culture before they're five years old, for Christ sake!</div>
<div>
Me#1: You're right. *sigh* I know.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So next year, I will not put any of us through taking the kids to ACL. I will go and enjoy it myself, and leave the kids home with Jason or my dad, where they can run around, play games and be the kids they know how to be. I may not take them year after next, either. And if they never go to ACL fest with me, I'm sure I'm still a good mom, because this isn't the first thing I've dragged them to to prove to myself I'm exposing my children to a variety of experiences, or to reassure myself we are doing enough things "as a family." So my goal now is to let go of the SHOULD. Things work a lot better when I have a hare-brained idea like, " Let's take the kids to a wedding that starts forty-five minutes before their bedtime so they can meet my old friends!" if I take a mental step back and actually envision how said event will go (whining and melting down out of tiredness, first on the kids' part, then on mine, while we don't really get to visit with any of the friends). We will have plenty of time to do things like that when they get older and can handle it better. They will have much more fun hanging out and playing with Jason's parents, whom they adore, and Jason and I will have an infinitely better time focusing on "adult time" for the evening. And, even when I see children my kids' ages at the wedding, dancing and playing and having a good time, I will not regret leaving mine at home. Those dancing kids are not my kids. Maybe those kids don't turn into gremlins when awake past eight o'clock, or maybe they do, and their parents just don't mind too much. It doesn't matter, as long as we've made the best choice for our family, because "quality family time," isn't really quality if everyone's miserable. Better go out for the evening, relax and rejuvenate so we can spend quality family time at home the next morning, riding bikes, raking leaves, play games and doing things that do work for us at this point in our young children's lives. Because life is too short to make myself miserable with the SHOULD.</div>
</span>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-80096491072903178632012-10-05T14:09:00.000-05:002012-10-05T14:09:00.288-05:00"Why My House Is So Dirty" or "Multitasking is the Devil"For years, or maybe my whole life, I've heard multitasking is a good thing. We women excel at it; it's in our DNA. It is right and good that we drink our coffee, make breakfast for a toddler and look for a preschooler's shoes all while on the phone with the cable company (who will be out to fix the cable sometime between noon and next Tuesday.) Why not pay bills online while making dinner and mentally formulating my next blog? It's just an efficient use of time.<br />
Well, lately I've noticed an irritable streak in me. I am snappy with the kids at times I can't even blame it on PMS. What's wrong with me? I tell myself. "You're not perfect. No one expects you to be sweetness and light all the time. It's inhuman." Be that as it may, I realized railing at Jack for leaving his shoes in the middle of the floor when I'd ask him to pick them up three time already wasn't really venting for me. If anything, it made me feel worse. So, I started an informal study of myself to see when I was most irritable, trying to figure what the triggers were. Here's what I found: I am pissy in the morning. I do not like being talked to early in the AM, especially if it's not even light yet and I haven't had any coffee. I certainly am not up for a detailed account of the making of hand print ghosts in preschool the day before. (How does he wake up thinking about these things??) This is not really fixable. All I can do is get coffee as soon as possible, sit on the playroom floor and expect very little of myself until the caffeine kicks in.<br />
Secondly, I noticed I am most irritable when I am multitasking. I am more likely to get snappy when both kids are around. And, at 5:00, when everyone is tired and whiny and I'm trying to make dinner, it's the perfect multitasking storm for me to blow up over some tiny infraction, like Jack putting all the forks under the napkins instead of on them while he sets the table (He thinks this is really funny.) Okay, so how do I fix it? Well, I decided, I just need to do less stuff at one time. These are the changes I've made:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>I finally caved and decided the kids could watch cartoons while I make dinner, instead of trying to integrate their help into the dinner-making process as all the parenting mags suggest. Everyone is happier this way.</li>
<li>I do not clean. Instead of running around tidying up the kitchen after a meal, I pile all the dirty dishes in the sink and leave them for later... or for Jason, which is even better.</li>
<li>When something is irritating me (usually some innocuous thing Jack is doing like, taking his sweet-ass time picking out clothes in the morning or Gage banging pots on the tile floor), I focus on something else. I leave the room if possible and go brush my teeth or text my sister, whatever.</li>
<li>I remind myself over and over again I'm not responsible to fix every real or imagined problem my children have. It is okay for them to be upset and cry sometimes. It is not only okay but good for them to work things out themselves.</li>
<li>If I have a hectic day planned, i.e., first to the grocery store, then to a play date, then to the grandparents' house, then play date part two, I ask myself if I can truly handle all that on this day. I say to myself, "Because if you are going to get all frazzled and pissy, you need to cancel some of that shit. It's not worth it."</li>
<li>I try to remember to be present in the moment. This one is hard for me, because I am a pathological planner. But, when we are at the park, I remind myself to make eye contact with my kiddos, really see them, really enjoy them, instead of letting my mind go off planning some future event. Even if we are just in the car or at the grocery store, I try to find things to enjoy about it - sing silly songs with the kids or whatever. That's not to say we don't still have those times I am driving white-knuckled and teeth-gritting whilst screaming and whining ensues in the back seat. See numbers 3 and 4 for this scenario. </li>
</ol>
I've been telling myself for a long time it's okay not to be the perfect mom. It's okay if I lose my cool occasionally. I just want to save it for the big infractions and not socks on the floor. Most of all, I want to increase my own happiness and contentment, and when I am patient and relaxed with my kids, I am happiest and they are too. On top of all this, I tell myself not to analyze every statement I make to my kids, worrying what impact it will have on their impressionable psyches. I am a great freaking mom, and despite that, my kids will, without a doubt, someday think, "wow, that was fucked up," about something I do or say to them. Why fight it? Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-54734889598382880872012-08-13T20:50:00.000-05:002012-08-13T20:50:05.406-05:00Go Outside and Play!<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.09375); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px;"><div>
I've just been reading a bunch of articles, posts, responses, etcetera on line about whether or not kids should be allowed to play outside unsupervised. There are a LOT of people who think its an outrage and even neglectful to do so. What drives me nuts is, in all that I read, nowhere is a discussion of circumstances. How old are said kids? How responsible are they? Are they playing next to a busy street where gunfire abounds? Do their parents check on them every once in a while? Can they go in the house if they need to?</div>
<div>
There seems to be a whole lot of paranoia out there about abduction. One mom actually said she was wouldn't let her kids play in the fenced-in BACKyard alone, because sexual predators might be observing her kids' play schedule and planning to snatch them. Really?</div>
<div>
I know child abduction happens. It is every parent's worst nightmare. But how often does it really happen? Hardly ever, actually. And it is responsible to teach children how to deal with a stranger who asks them to get in a car or tries to force or coerce them into it. My tag line with Jack is, "Don't go off with strangers," or with anyone actually, without telling me. We've also had the conversation that, if someone tries to force him to go with them, he's to kick and scream and fight like hell. That being said, I don't anticipate he'll actually need any of that advice. If I thought there were a good chance he would, we'd move.</div>
<div>
My current outside play policy is this: Jack is four and a half. He can play outside in the backyard by himself as long as he wants. He usually comes running in screaming at the top of his lungs ten minutes after I've gone in because of a wasp, though. Only recently, I've allowed him to play in the front yard by himself, as long as I am downstairs and can check on him frequently, and with the reminder that he stay in our yard. I think it makes him nervous after too long, though, because he's never out there for more than ten or fifteen minutes. Gage is, of course, not allowed outside by himself, as he is eighteen months old and has a fondness for picking up bugs, even wasps, and I wouldn't put it past him to taste one, either.</div>
<div>
That being said, if another parents didn't allow their four year old outside by him/herself, I'd respect that. Jack is a cautious kid. He's not going to run into the street or forget he's not supposed to leave the yard. He also not going to stay out there very long without me. In this particular situation, his cautious, sometimes fearful nature can actually be a virtue. Every child is different and is ready to handle responsibilities at different times. I think it's vital we let kids have some independence so they can grow up feeling competent and confident in their abilities, and also that we trust other parents to know their own kids and what they can handle. So my question to you is this (yes, I really want an answer via comment): Do you let your kids play in the front yard unsupervised? And/or at what age do you think you'd let them, if ever? What do you think of other parents who let their kids play outside unsupervised?</div>
</span>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-74327622733916846022012-08-09T15:24:00.001-05:002012-08-09T15:24:26.265-05:00"To Be Early Is To Be On Time...""To be early is to be on time, to be on time is to be late, and to be late is to be sorry, dead, toast." That was the motto of my high school marching band, drilled into every incoming sophomore's brain during summer practice. I actually added the "dead, toast" part my senior year, for emphasis. (And because, as a senior, I was quite full of myself.) This motto spoke to my inner core from the beginning. It is how I was raised and how I have always lived my life. When I was a kid, sometimes we'd go to my dad's parents' house for an afternoon family gathering of swimming and eating hotdogs. It sounds relaxing, but it always began with my dad sitting in the car in the garage, honking and yelling, "Let's go, let's go!" You see, when Dad said we were leaving at 2:30, he meant we should be backing out of the driveway at 2:29, and not a minute later. Why we had to be so exactly on time for an afternoon of swimming, I don't know. No, I do know. My dad, raised by his parents, had timeliness ingrained in him. He couldn't help but get agitated when he perceived we might be less than on time. So, by the time I reached high school, the "To early is to be on time..." adage was in fact already old news with me.<br />
My genetic timeliness worked to my advantage, for many situations. I was always early for interviews, on time to work and punctual with bills and paperwork. The reasoning behind it is this: when someone is waiting on you to arrive, it is respectful of them and their time to be on time. It did lead to a lot of frustration with others, however. My high school friends had absolutely no concept of time. And while I wouldn't go so far as to get angry at someone for being late to simply hang out over at my house, I did experience a degree of irritation with some of them who thought, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," was a suitable E.T.A., when they still had to shower, eat dinner, and drive twenty minutes over to my house. I would reason with them exasperatedly that their "fifteen minutes" wasn't just a poor estimate, it was ridiculous, since the travel time was more than that. Mostly, I'd just get a shrug and a "whatever" in response.<br />
Now that I have kids, my phobia of being late has necessarily waned, though I am still the most on time person I know. When I think about what time to leave the house with the kids, I factor in surprise poopy diapers, surprise messy snacks and surprise traffic. Regardless, I am early less often now and, even on rare occasion, late - even Little Miss Prepared can be caught totally unawares by a child under five. It has taken a lot of pointed effort to let go of my, "I HAVE TO BE ON TIME!" mentality. I really have to work hard not to act like a shrieking harpy as we gather all our crap to leave the house. ("Where are your shoes??" "Didn't you JUST go potty??" "GET IN THE CAR!!!") I can feel myself tensing up when I experience totally unexpected
traffic delays. I take a deep breath, get my shoulders out of my ears,
and repeat my new mantra, "It's out of my control. 'Might as well
relax." Nine times out of ten, I get there on time anyway, just not as
early as I thought I would. I have, in the past, felt really stupid/crappy/irrational when I have hounded the kids mercilessly to get them in the car with exclamations of, "We are going to be late!!" as if it's a cardinal sin... and we get there early - oops. Okay, so I'm my father's child.<br />
Where am I going with all this time nonsense? Basically, I realize I get myself all worked up worrying about being late, when I am nowhere close to being late. Many times, it's for something where it's not even that important to be exactly on time. I am working on letting it go, relaxing about that which I cannot control and not getting so annoyed with everyone else for being late, because, as I said before, often it's not even that important. Therefore, I promise to be more relaxed about tardiness, if the rest of you will work on being on time for a goddamned change every once in a while. Just kidding... maybe.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-56422954960403139112012-08-08T14:14:00.001-05:002012-08-08T14:17:53.298-05:00Declaration of Independence by a Four-Year-OldJack has always been my little momma's boy. He has been glued to my side since the day he was born. At play dates when he was a toddler, he'd sit in my lap instead of wreaking havoc with the other kids. He was the kid who would only let Momma make his breakfast, kiss his boo-boo, brush his teeth, or read him his bedtime story. At the grocery store, people would smile and wave at him with his cute, sticky-up hair, and he'd scowl at them and bury his head in my jeans. As you might imagine, his first foray into preschool was traumatic for both of us. This milestone is what prompted his sobbing quote, now famous at our house: "Just wanna stay with Momma all a time!" It succinctly summed up his whole mentality about life.<br />
Throughout the earliest years, I gently encouraged him to be more independent - to leave my lap, to explore new surroundings and play mates. Sometimes, in exasperation, my prodding was not so gentle: "Go play with your friends! Momma wants to have a cup of coffee and talk to the adults!" Neither approach was very successful. Jack remained hidden in my skirts in any unfamiliar (and depending on his mercurial mood, sometimes familiar) social situation. I was not worried about his development. After all, I was shy as a kid, but I did feel a bit smothered by him at times, which is part of what caused me to enroll him in preschool at age two-and-a-half. The other part was, I was pregnant with his brother.<br />
Now, at age four-and-a-half, Jack has become more independent. He still loves being with Momma and is occasionally somber when dropped off at school, but he always has an excited smile on his face when I pick him up and is full of stories about his day. I can now go to another room of the house without, moments later, hearing a blood-curdling shriek of, "MOMMA, WHERE ARE YOUUUUU?" Yes, Jack has a flair for the dramatic.<br />
So the other day, we are up the street at a kid-friendly coffee house in our neighborhood. We had never been there before. While I was waiting in line to order, holding a struggling Gage football-style, I suddenly looked around and could not find Jack. I did not panic, because he is a cautious kid and would never run off, but I was surprised he'd left my side in an entirely unfamiliar setting. I soon discovered he'd been lured away by the Fisher Price toys in the corner on a small shelf. I then ordered coffee, drank it and visited with the other moms we'd come there to meet - no big deal.<br />
Later on the way home, we passed a tow truck on our street. The driver was loading a car onto the bed, and Jack wanted to stay and watch. As we were already pressing it to get home for Gage's nap, I said no. Then Jack asked, "Can I just stay here by myself?" Mind you, this is way at the other end of our street from our house. I wouldn't have been able to see him from the front yard. I froze. I did not want to discourage his independence or make him fearful, (the kid is scared of lots of stuff) but I wasn't comfortable with it. In the end, I talked him into going home with us, and he was happy to see the tow truck drive past our house as I parked the stroller in the garage.<br />
I thought about this incident a lot later that day: What was I scared of - that he'd run into the street and get run over? No, he is a super cautious kid, and even if he did, the odds of getting hit by a car on our sleepy, residential street are almost nil. Was I scared someone would kidnap him, like maybe the tow truck guy? Well, maybe a little, even though the odds of that are much less than getting hit by a car on our street. The bottom line was, it just made me uncomfortable. I realized while I've been working to get Jack to be more independent, now that he's becoming so, I have to get used to it. I admitted to myself, it was somewhat comforting to be in a store and feel his little hand holding my skirt, knowing he was right there and would not run off. Even knowing Jack and his careful nature, I was unsettled in the coffee house when I could not immediately see him. Now, I'm not saying I should have let him stay and watch the tow truck. Sometimes the instinct of "I'm just not comfortable with it," is worth heeding, but I do need to get used to not directly supervising him in public. He is a responsible kid, and the reward for being such is a degree of freedom. I do not need to undermine his self-esteem by unintentionally sending the message he can't be trusted on his own. This letting go I have to do is scary, but I do have to do it. This is the goal of parenting: letting go a little at a time so when they move out of the house they know how to handle themselves. I don't want my kids to be like some of the people I knew who went nuts and got into serious trouble after high school, because their parents had been very sheltering (helicopter-y, if you will) and they simply did not know at all how to regulate themselves. The bottom line we parents have to face is this: the risk of letting them out into the world a little at a time when they're younger pales in comparison to the risk if we don't.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-11659056623275531562012-06-04T13:22:00.002-05:002012-06-05T13:33:49.771-05:00Why I don't hate Facebook anymoreI have been resistant to the idea of joining Facebook for a long time. For one, I was busy with two little kids. For two, I wasn't particularly interested in reconnecting with high school classmates I hadn't seen in fifteen years. I also didn't like the idea of random people poking through photos of my kids or snippets of my daily life. It seemed a little creepy. I didn't really understand why some people are so persistent about staying connected with people from the past with whom they no longer have anything in common, save having gone to the same high school. It seemed, well, lame. However, as time goes on and more of my friends and family plan events or share pictures and information via Facebook, I have increasingly been left out of the loop. So about a month ago, I caved and set up an account. I cautiously friended a few close friends and family and was instantly rewarded with posts from them on my wall, most to the effect of, "Yea, you're finally on Facebook!" "Okay," I thought,"this isn't so bad," as I discovered privacy controls and set everything so only my approved friends could see my stuff. I discovered Facebook as a really easy way to share photos and funny stories about the kids, and I began to enjoy keeping up with others better than I had in years. I found out about my aunt's new boat the day she got it, and I knew when my cousin's kids got strep throat. I felt more connected to people than I had in a long time. Jason made fun of me, but I knew about the heinous turf burn his sister got on her leg for sliding into second base wearing shorts before he did, so there (envision me sticking my tongue out here). I was happily hooked on the world's most prolific social media site.... Until I tagged my sister in a photo of my mom's birthday party. I tagged her, innocently wanting to be sure she saw the picture. I did not, however, anticipate that HER friends would see the photo on her wall, realize then that I was on Facebook, and then friend me, send me messages, and post old high school photos of me on their own pages. You see, my sister, it turns out, is Facebook friends with a number of people we grew up with, including my high school boyfriend. I must admit, the onslaught of communication from past friends and acquaintances somewhat freaked me out. After mulling it over for a day or two, though, I decided to accept most of those friend requests. While it may initially have been a little unsettling to realize people I haven't laid eyes on in fifteen years were looking at pictures of my mom's birthday party at my house last weekend, what's the real harm? I know, I know - stalkers. But I put the risk of being stalked as a non-celebrity up there with being struck by lightning or winning the lottery. Besides, isn't it sort of narcissistic of me to think there are people out there chomping at the bit to be my stalker? But I digress... I feel I'm at a point in my life when everything has come together and is working harmoniously. It started with Jason. Being with him, observing how he handles himself, has given me the strength and insight to be my whole, real self and to love that self, even with its flaws. We have two wonderful little boys - something I've wanted for a long time. We live in a peaceful neighborhood near parks and trails and the lake. I have discovered yoga, which has improved my fitness, both mind and body, tremendously. My dad and I own a business together which gives me a sense of purpose and allows me to set my own hours. I feel like I've achieved a good degree of balance in life. So maybe I needed to be here, at this point in my life, before I was ready to reconnect with my past. Now that I feel more secure in who I am than ever before, whomever I was or whatever I did in the past is no longer a threat to undermine my self- confidence. After thinking it over, I decided I might actually enjoy a few virtual chats with old pals. Now that I'm feeling such satisfaction in my life, I've been thinking about my life's lack of continuity - how it seems much of what happened when I was young happened to someone else. I've changed so much over the years, I don't at all feel like the naive girl with long blond hair and braces that I was in high school. I examine old photos of her and feel very little connection. Even though the messages I've now exchanged with a few long-lost high school buddies have been brief and superficial, they've given me a line to my past reminding me it was real. That innocent girl (who does not know what the hell she is doing, though she thinks she does, by the way) is still a part of me. It's given me a feeling of continuity from then to now. So, in summary, my life is now complete....because of Facebook??Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-79325695954037533232012-04-26T14:02:00.003-05:002012-04-26T14:03:34.395-05:00The BalanceFor a long time now, it's felt like my life is one big game of catch-up. With little kids, after getting everyone fed, clothed, napped, pottied, diapered and entertained, at the end of the day, I had no brain space or energy left for anything else. I lost track of friends, especially ones that didn't have children, and therefore did not fit into our play date-oriented schedule. I abandoned interests I previously pursued avidly. I gave away most of my african violets - with real babies to take care of, the plants became just another task needing doing. My mountain bike collected dust as it hung in the garage, just like the pile of books on my nightstand. And my pre-paid, fifteen class yoga pass hung on my key chain unused for months. I would see these things in passing - the bike, the books, the yoga pass - and frown. I'd wonder if I ever would get back to doing the things I loved. Would I, in fact, ever get back to writing, or would this blog sit on the internet, gathering metaphorical cyber-dust? I was afraid I'd been away from these things for too long and that, by the time I had the time to get back to them, I'd have somehow lost the inclination - that I would no longer know how to enjoy my previously loved hobbies after spending so much time and energy with the little people.<br />
Here's the thing: I love my children dearly. I'd wanted to be a mother for years before I had them. I have a degree in child development, and I find children and the way their minds work fascinating. I sometimes sit in rapt attention, watching Jack talk to himself as he builds a wall with blocks or observing Gage as he repeatedly dumps sidewalk chalk from one container to another. The way they solve problems, explore their surroundings and begin to make sense of their worlds is amazing to me. BUT, the other thing is this: children are not the only thing that fascinates me, and even my own brilliant, creative, lovable children can get tiresome every now and then. Sometimes I need a break from cars and blocks and chicken nuggets and constant noise. I missed my other interests. I wanted to explore the trails in our neighborhood on my bike. I longed to buy the plants I saw thriving in the garden center to see what I could do with them. I needed (yes, needed) to have friends I interacted with on an adult level. I had writing ideas overflowing the cup of my mind, but those ideas were often lost, as I had no time to write them down before I forgot them.<br />
Now, with Jack being four and Gage fourteen months, I am getting to a point where I can at least begin thinking about other things, like adult friends, vacations, and interests I had pre-children. My life feels like it is very slowly beginning to swing back into balance. I know my life will still be mostly about my kids for years to come, but as they get older, I seem to have more mental energy to make plans with friends. I can water plants and pull weeds while they play in the sand box. I'm also able to share some of my interests with them, like when Jack and I planted seeds to grow carrots and peppers last weekend. Jason and I actually managed a mountain bike ride a couple of weeks ago while my parents kept the kids, and it turns out you really don't forget how to ride a bike. This all goes back to my belief that one person's happiness and contentedness with life does not exist in a vacuum. Now that I am able to do more of the things that make me who I am, I am happier. I feel more peaceful. I have more energy to do nice things for my family, and we are more harmonious as a family. Because, in short, as I have written before, "If Momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-78834399892646635752011-10-14T14:04:00.000-05:002011-10-14T14:04:02.147-05:00Shenanigans of the USPSI have just had the most ridiculous experience with the United States Postal Service. I am inclined to rant and rave here about gross incompetence, rudeness and mountains of inefficiency, but instead, I'll just tell the story. It speaks for itself:<br />
We have been living in our new house now almost a week.. The previous owner left us a mail key but not the number for the mailbox. I emailed the seller's realtor for the information, but unsurprisingly, he did not respond. He has been a pinnacle of unresponsiveness throughout the entire house-buying process. It's a miracle we ever completed the transaction, but I digress...<br />
So as I approached a bank of mailboxes near the park intent on simply trying the key until I found the right box, I was dismayed to find there were literally hundreds of boxes. Even if I wanted to stay there for hours looking for the right box, there was no way Mr. Impatient One and Mr. Impatient Two (a.k.a., Jack and Gage) would put up with that. I was even more dismayed when I found there were two more banks with just as many boxes that could very well be ours. So, on the advice of our realtor, I packed the kids into the car this morning, grabbed my HUD-1 form (proof that we bought the house) and headed over to our local post office to get the number for our mailbox. When I got there, I parked, changed a poopy diaper in the parking lot and discovered upon approaching the counter, I'd accidentally brought the HUD-1 form from the sale of our old house instead of the purchase of our new one. The postal worker behind the desk was unfazed, however. She is apparently not that into security. She was happy to give me the address for our mailbox bank and even the section number. She could not, however, according to her, give me the exact number, because only the mail carriers have that information and they'd already left to deliver mail for the day. It made absolutely no sense to me that the information wouldn't be stored somewhere at the post office, but I thanked her, strapped the kids in the car and headed back to our neighborhood, figuring with the numbers narrowed down, maybe I could just try the key in each box in the section.<br />
When I got to the mailbox bank, I was thrilled to see our mail carrier there. I hustled the kids out of the car, stuffed Gage in the sling and grabbed Jack by the hand. I hurried up to the lady sorting mail and said,"hi, we just moved in. Could you tell me the number of our box? She asked for the address, which I gave her. She said,"oh, that's the bank over there," pointing about 50 yards away. Seeing a carrier sorting mail at that bank as well, I thanked her and hustled us over, as he seemed about to leave. Out of breath, I repeated my request for a box number for the third time that day (still very politely, I might add.) He replied in a very aggressive, irritated tone,"I can't just give that information out. I don't know who you are. You could be anyone. You need to go to the post office for that." Gritting my teeth, I briefly recounted my post office experience to him. He said,"Well, I don't know why they wouldn't give it to you. They do have it."I asked if he'd give me the box number if I showed him the HUD-1 form. He looked at me quizzically, but did not admit he didn't know what a HUD-1 form was. He said he'd give me the number with picture id and something showing my name and the new address. He said he'd be there for twenty more minutes, and just as I was about to hustle off to try to go home and get the right form and get back in time, he asked,"wait, what's the address?" When I repeated it, he said," Oh that's on her side," pointing back at the woman I'd talked to first. I exasperatedly told him she'd said it was on his side, and he responded with an oh so helpful, "well, it's not." I clamored off back towards the first set of boxes with a sigh and a loud,"this is absurd!"<br />
When I got back to the first mail carrier's set of boxes and told her what the other one had said, she said,"oh, did you say 'Cowden?' I'm so sorry; that IS mine!" Right after she said this, Gage, in the fastest baby move I've ever seen, grabbed the piece of paper out of my hand with the info on the general location of our box and crammed it into his mouth, entirely obliterating all writing.<br />
Luckily, despite our mail carrier's flakiness, she was willing to tell me which box was mine without any identification (so much for security.) She pointed me to the right box and... my key wouldn't work. "F-ing figures," I thought. Feeling thoroughly beaten, I asked her if I showed her my driver's license, would she please give me my stack of mail, and I'd figure out the key some other time. "No problem," she said, and handed me a banded stack of mail without my showing her anything to prove my identity. I glanced at it. It was for the Patels down the street from us. "Uh, this isn't mine," I said. She looked at it,"Oh! Sorry. What house number did you say again?". I repeated it... AGAIN. It turned out she had told me the wrong box to start with. In the end, I got my key fitted in the right box and collected our mail. It only took me just shy of two hours. By the time we rolled into our driveway with the mail, Jack was bored, Gage was fussy, tired and hungry and I had a gargantuan headache.<br />
Looking back, I met two nice yet incompetent postal workers today and one marginally competent one who was unnecessarily rude. I wish I'd said something to the rude guy like,"Now that you've told me everything you can't do, how about telling what you CAN do?" or "Is your tone that rude all the time or is it just today?". But I didn't, because I never think of the good stuff to say at the time and because I hadn't set out to be witty or put anyone in their place. I just wanted my goddamned mail. Due to this experience and several others I've had lately with the postal service (lost mail, lost packages, etc) I will gladly pay more to use UPS or Fedex whenever possible. In fact, if the private sector were allowed to deliver letters, I'd pay double to have mine delivered by UPS, Fedex, Lonestar Overnight or a damned camel - anything but the United States Postal Service.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-56957089442710023402011-09-01T15:53:00.000-05:002011-09-01T15:53:36.523-05:00Moving OutSo, after talking about it for over a year, we have finally decided to move to Steiner Ranch from our cozy little neighborhood in south Austin. As much as we love this area and our house, Jason is getting sick of commuting an hour each way, and I'd like him home in time to help with the whole dinner, bath, bedtime routine. That, in addition to a better school district for our children, finally got us motivated. So, we contacted our realtor and started a long "to-do" list of things we've been meaning to do to the house for a long time. Two weeks and a lot of elbow grease later, we were ready to list. The house was sparkly clean and thoroughly de-cluttered, with nary a sagging gate or cracked light fixture to be seen. Photos were taken, a sign went up in our yard, and we waited. We worried we had listed too late in the season and would not be able to sell, but after eighteen days on the market we had an offer. We are currently under contract with our house and have found a beautiful house in Steiner Ranch for which we are under negotiation. Now we have to move...shit.<br />
When I first began to think about moving, I was overwhelmed. My brain raced with the process: First fix the house up, then sell it, then find a new one. How do we coordinate moving out and moving in? Can we close on them both at the same time? Will we need to stay with my parents in the interim? What about a new preschool for Jack? Will he adjust well to moving? In order to keep from exploding, I forced myself to only think about one step at a time, so I started with, "Fix up the house," and moved on from there. The downfall of this system is, now that we are actually to the part where we box stuff up and start taking in out of the house... well, I had kind of sort of forgotten about that part. And, as we have started packing things and moving them to my parents' house for temporary storage, I'm realizing how much stuff we use on a regular basis. There's a ton of stuff I can't pack until the last minute because we use it every day - the dishes, pots and pans, bottle warmer, kids' toys, clothes, towels, toiletries...But I can't pack it ALL at the last minute. <br />
And, of course, there's nothing like moving to make you realize how much you don't need - stuff you kept "just in case" that you're simply not willing to pack and move. I had a cabinet full of nondescript cheap glass vases that I recycled instead of packing. I am also in the process of giving away all the baby stuff Gage doesn't use anymore. Some of it I feel some emotional attachment to, but not enough to pack and move it if I don't have to. There are some fairly silly things I can't let go of, though, like all my files and posters I made when I taught school. I may or may not go back to teaching some day, but regardless, I can't let it go. I worked so hard making, collecting and organizing it for years, and it was so valuable to me when I taught. So, even if it's heavy and bulky and annoying, I'm takin' it.<br />
I know most of my postings have a point or a moral or some sort of cohesive theme giving them merit. This one is more of an inane rambling about selling the house and packing up all our crap, but since I feel more like a pack mule than a philosopher these days, I guess it's reflective of my life now. we all need themes and cohesive endings though, so the point of this one is...<br />
Moving sucks, but we do it anyway.<br />
<br />
Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-76642235816092490972011-06-29T12:15:00.000-05:002011-06-29T12:15:29.214-05:00Feminism in a New MilleniumRight now, I'm reading a book that's a departure from my normal fiction/fantasy fare - <u>The Girl I Left Behind</u>, by Judith Nies. The book is about Nies's life, both her personal and her political one as one of the few women working on Capitol Hill in the sixties as something other than a secretary. While the book tells her personal story, it is also a vehicle to describe what the world was like in a time of great change and turmoil during a myriad of movements: civil rights, anti-war and women's rights. Reading this book makes me realize that I take a lot of things for granted. The crap that women had to put up with as recently as the 1960's was absurd - separate entrances for ladies at various facilities that Nies visited during her political career, not being able to wear pants in public and having to endure what would today be considered gross sexual harassment in the workplace, not to mention being paid less than men for doing the same work and being categorically excluded from certain professions. One of the points Nies makes periodically throughout the book is that the changes that took place during the sixties and seventies that allow women today to enjoy equal opportunities did not "just happen," as it often was portrayed in the media. There were many women who fought long, hard uphill battles to achieve those changes.<br />
So.... I feel a little guilty. I feel like I have it easy. I've always felt I could be whatever I wanted - a doctor, a lawyer, an engineer, a chef. Not that I had a mind to be any of those things, but I knew I wouldn't be excluded from them for being a woman. Women of the sixties and seventies fought political battles and even went to jail sometimes to liberate us from the mindset that women are only good at cooking, cleaning, child rearing and other house-wifey type things. So what have I gone and become? - a stay-at-home mom. I doubt the women's rights activists of yore would be impressed with my two-kids-and-a-minivan lifestyle. I spend a lot of time doing laundry, cooking dinner, shuttling my three-year-old to preschool and feeding the baby. All in all, my days are not generally that intellectually stimulating. Maybe I should be off full-filling my potential. I should be more politically involved (except I hate politics.) I should be writing for a newspaper or magazine or something (except that I don't want to spend that kind of time away from my kids at this point.) I should be....<br />
Wait, hold on a minute, wasn't the heart of the women's rights movement about women having the same opportunities as men? Wasn't it really about a woman's right to chose her own path and her right to be respected for her intellect? When I take a closer look at my life, I realize that I am the quintessential liberated woman. I am an updated version for 2011. I chose to stay home with my kids because I wanted to. I help my dad run our engineering business, and I have not once run into anyone who thought a woman couldn't run a business. I write a blog, because I know I'm a good writer. I know I have some contemplative things to say, and I'm married to a man who supports that idea. I don't feel defined by the housework I do or the dinner I cook. This is good, because I don't actually do that much housework, and I'm a mediocre cook at best. Yes, "Mom" defines a lot of my persona these days, and I'm okay with that. It's a big job, and as a liberated woman, I am up to the task. And, even though sometimes I have to remind myself that wife and mother are not all of who I am. I am a writer, a runner, a business owner. I have my own set of valuable skills I can contribute to society and they are only limited by my ability, not by someone else's view of my gender.<br />
One thing I have learned over the past several years is, every person is deeper and more complex than they appear on the surface. You cannot make assumptions about a person's character based on what they do for a living or some little snippet of their life you happen to witness. Most of all, you can't make that assumption about yourself. So even though on the surface, I may fit the stereotypical definition of a soccer mom, I am about as liberated as they come. I know this because I have made choices without feeling limited, and I am truly happy in the path I have chosen.Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-66386428650127491602011-04-16T14:32:00.000-05:002011-04-16T14:32:49.669-05:00Life with TwoIn the beginning there was life.... And a sick three-year-old, a sick husband, a throwing up peeing in the house dog, and not enough breast milk for the newborn. This, in a nutshell, is how the first week of Gage's life went at our house.<br />
It started off well enough. Gage was born on a Thursday, we took him home on Friday, and Jason's parents stayed with us through the weekend. Those first few days were blissful. Gage and I practiced nursing, Jason and Jack spent time together, and my mother-in-law did the dishes. Then came Sunday. I haven come to realize in the seven short weeks we've been the parents of two, things can go from perfectly calm to mayhem in the blink of an eye. Sunday afternoon, Jason's parents left. Sunday evening, we discovered Jack was running a fever. Sunday night, Gage fussed for hours straight in the middle of the night because he could not get enough milk. By Monday morning, we'd gone from blissful to a wreck. <br />
Our plan had been to, with Jason off work, spend that first week getting to know and enjoy our new family dynamic. It instead turned into a moment-by-moment fight for the survival of our sanity. I nursed, pumped and bottle-fed Gage. Jason took care of Jack, who had a whopper of a virus, complete with 103-degree fever and vomiting. Our dog, Zoe, who was lucky I was still remembering to feed her, decided to show her displeasure at being completely ignored by peeing all over the guest room bedding where Jason and Jack had been sleeping to keep the germs away from the baby. Jason discovered this one evening while he was transferring a sobbing Jack to the guest room after he'd thrown up all over his own bed. With so much going awry, Jason didn't even get mad. He sighed and accepted it as a matter of course, as he tossed the stinky dog pee bedding downstairs and went on a hunt through the house for more queen-sized sheets. I would have helped, but I was tethered to the breast pump for the tenth time that day.<br />
As the week went on, things went from better to bad to worse. Zoe threw up all over the carpet upstairs. Apparently, due to our lack of communication with each other, she had been getting double-fed a lot. Jason came down with Jack's virus, and Jack continued to run a high fever. I told myself over and over that this could not last forever and we would get through it. Aside from a crying spell over my inability to make milk, I stayed pretty calm, considering. I attribute a lot of it to the fact that I got to sleep alone with only Gage in our big king-size bed, so I was getting a good eight or nine hours of sleep each night. Jason, on the other hand, was sleeping with a coughing, fidgeting, sick Jack who has the habit of sticking his feet down your underwear when you sleep next to him. By the end of the week, Jason was sick, seriously sleep deprived and definitely not okay. One morning (Thursday, Friday, I have no idea) he hit his breaking point and could no longer rationally deal with Jack's incessant coughing and whining. This is when we switched kids. I laid with Jack in his bed, stroked his hair and told him stories. Jason sat in the rocker and fed Gage, relieved at the relative quiet of a newborn. Friday morning, I called the pediatrician and got Jack an appointment. Jason took him in later that day, and it turned out that besides the raging virus, Jack had his first-ever ear infection.<br />
Jason took several more days off work than he intended, due to his own illness. My parents came over and helped, which was an absolute life saver. And we made it through. It was the longest week of our lives, but we came out the other side, and things have gotten better since. We are adjusting to life with two kids after surviving what felt like a bizarre fraternity hell week. That first week wasn't at all what we'd expected or hoped for, but if we got through that, the rest of it should be a walk in the park...right??Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-301319740950079863.post-5632306443402326002011-03-09T11:58:00.000-06:002011-03-09T11:58:12.589-06:00Gage's Birth Story<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) }
</style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-ansi-language:#0400;
mso-fareast-language:#0400;
mso-bidi-language:#0400;}
</style> <![endif]--> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-tlnAW_SG78o/TXe_Ym7qNMI/AAAAAAAAAHw/LLRFrcHH7RA/s1600/IMG_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/-tlnAW_SG78o/TXe_Ym7qNMI/AAAAAAAAAHw/LLRFrcHH7RA/s200/IMG_0465.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Gage was due Monday, February 21<sup>st</sup>.<span> </span>We all eagerly anticipated the date… which came and went with little fanfare.<span> </span>Tuesday morning, I was still pregnant.<span> </span>I had everything on my “to do” list done and then some.<span> </span>I had been enjoying the relative quiet before the storm of life with a new baby – relaxing, playing with Jack, etcetera – but now I was starting to get impatient and so were Jason and Jack.<span> </span>I was very uncomfortable with back aches, sciatica, and extreme fatigue.<span> </span>I was tired of feeling so tired all the time.<span> </span>Every time I’d call Jason at work, he’d answer with anticipation in his voice only to be disappointed when I was only asking what time he’d be home.<span> </span>Jack asked every day, hands on hips, “when is that baby gonna come out?” <span> </span>I had several instances where I began to have contractions and got excited only for them to stop after two or three.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Then, I awoke at 2:45AM on Thursday the 24<sup>th</sup> with a dull cramp in my abdomen.<span> </span>As I lie there awake in the dark next to slumbering Jack and Jason, the cramp began a gentle crescendo into a real contraction.<span> </span>“Hmm, curious,” I thought, not getting too worked up as this had happened before.<span> </span>Then I had another contraction ten minutes later and then another.<span> </span>I decided to get out of bed and walk around.<span> </span>I paced the bathroom floor slowly and then did some stretches on the floor.<span> </span>The contractions continued, very bearable at around ten minutes apart.<span> </span>I decided this was most likely the real deal, so I went downstairs and had peanut butter toast and milk, knowing I’d not have anything else for hours.<span> </span>I went back upstairs, got out a pad of paper and started recording the contractions.<span> </span>I sat on the couch and waited.<span> </span>They were irregular, varying from three to twelve minutes apart and lasting around a minute each.<span> </span>I went to Jack’s room, got out his “big brother” t-shirt and set it on top of his dresser, certain he would need it later that day.<span> </span>Around 3:45AM, I went to the bathroom and noticed a small amount of bleeding.<span> </span>I washed my face, brushed my teeth, recorded some more contractions, and then at 5:00AM, when I noticed more blood and the contractions were stronger, I woke Jason up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I shook him gently and whispered, “Hey, we’re going to have a baby today.”<span> </span>He woke with a start. “What?!<span> </span>Why?”<span> </span>he asked, alarmed but still in a sleep haze.<span> </span>“I’m having contractions,” I said, “Come see my notes.”<span> </span>Jason jumped out of bed and hustled to the bathroom, turning on the shower on the way.<span> </span>He was all of a sudden going a mile a minute:<span> </span>“Why didn’t you wake me up??”<span> </span>(my reply:<span> </span>“I did, just now”)<span> </span>He went on, “Did you call your parents?<span> </span>Did you call the doctor?<span> </span>How far apart are they?”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I called my parents.<span> </span>Mom was already up, getting ready for work.<span> </span>I said, “Mom, we need you to come over.”<span> </span>She knew what was up, so all she said was, “Okay, be there soon.”<span> </span>I could hear her yelling at my dad before she hung up, “Pat!<span> </span>We gotta go!”<span> </span>I called the doctor.<span> </span>My ob was not on call that early AM, but his partner sounded like a calm, nice guy.<span> </span>After a few questions, he said, “yeah, you probably want to head on in to the hospital.”<span> </span>By 5:30AM, Mom and Dad were at our house, Jack was still asleep in our bed, and Jason and I were ready to go.<span> </span>We’d had the hospital bag packed and in the van for weeks.<span> </span>My contractions were still varying from three to ten minutes apart but were getting stronger.<span> </span>Jason was in a big hurry to get to the hospital, all the stories of dads delivering their own children on the side of the highway flashing through his mind.<span> </span>I was calm, convinced based on the way I felt, we still had plenty of time.<span> </span>As we pulled out of our driveway in the van, I started, “Jason…”<span> </span>“What?” he said, “drive fast?”<span> </span>“No,” I replied, “Don’t drive too fast and get pulled over.<span> </span>I don’t have time for that shit.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We easily made our way to the hospital – no traffic at that early hour.<span> </span>When Jason dropped me off at the entrance, according to him, there was an injured convict in shackles getting out of a white van who walked in right next to me.<span> </span>I didn’t notice.<span> </span>I was clutching my pillow, keeping a keen eye out for the elevators to the second floor maternity ward.<span> </span>They remodeled the hospital after we had Jack there, so I actually had to pause at a sign to find the elevators.<span> </span>A country-esque dude saw me looking at the sign and asked, “Whatcha lookin for, darling?”<span> </span>My one word reply, “elevators.”<span> </span>I was trying to get to a bed before I had another contraction.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">When I got to the second floor, they checked me in quickly and a nurse took me to an LDR room.<span> </span>I got dressed in the typical, open down the back, ass hanging out hospital gown.<span> </span>Just as I was situating myself on the bed at 5:50AM, my water broke in the best example of good timing ever.<span> </span>Jason showed up about five minutes later, to my relief, and I informed the nurse that I’d decided on the way to the hospital, I wanted an epidural… as soon as possible, if not sooner.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">My labor nurse’s name was Kathy.<span> </span>She was down-to-earth, relaxed, friendly and funny – perfect.<span> </span>There was also a nursing student present.<span> </span>I don’t remember her name, but she was enjoyable company as well.<span> </span>When the anesthesiologist came in, much to my relief, I gave him a second look.<span> </span>He was hunched over, around seventy and had a lazy eye.<span> </span>I told myself not to be judgmental.<span> </span>As I curled over on the side of the bed with Kathy standing in front of me holding me, he inserted the epidural, and I felt a zap! down the left side of my body.<span> </span>I flinched – not what they want you to do while placing a needle in your spine – but everything was okay after that.<span> </span>I lay back down and was comfortable within minutes.<span> </span>I was so comfortable, I almost fell asleep while the nursing student placed my catheter, despite the fact that she and her instructor had several tries at it before it was correct.<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">With the epidural in place, Jason and I were both able to doze a little bit.<span> </span>I don’t think either one of us actually went to sleep, though.<span> </span>We were too excited.<span> </span>As the hours went on, I started feeling the contractions again.<span> </span>I could feel them in the right side of my back as well.<span> </span>My left side felt pretty numb.<span> </span>They were only uncomfortable, though, not excruciating.<span> </span>Dr. Sweeney, another partner of my ob, was on call that day, and she popped in and out, checking my dilation and effacement periodically.<span> </span>Somewhere in there, Jason’s parents arrived at the hospital from League City, and mine showed up with Jack.<span> </span>Finally, it was time to push.<span> </span>As the staff gathered equipment and Dr. Sweeney got into place, I started to feel really nauseated and just managed to mutter, “I’m gonna throw up,” in time for Jason to get a trash can to me.<span> </span>At that point, I retched and mostly dry heaved as my stomach was all but empty.<span> </span>I felt better afterward, though.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So around 12:30PM the legs went up, Dr S. gave me the final instructions on how to push and listen to Jason’s and the nurse’s counting, and we gave it a go.<span> </span>I pushed much harder than I remember having to push with Jack.<span> </span>After several pushes, the baby crowned, and Dr. S. said with emphasis, “This one’s definitely bigger than your first.”<span> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal">We (Jason, me, doctors and nurses) had all done a lot of speculation as to the sex and weight of the impending baby.<span> </span>My guess for weight was seven and a half pounds.<span> </span>Jason guessed eight.<span> </span>Kathy calculated, based on my last ultrasound measurements, the baby should weigh around nine pounds, which couldn’t be right, could it??<span> </span>When Jason looked and saw the how big the baby’s head was, he got worried about the baby’s exit strategy.<span> </span>Several (I have no idea how many) pushes and a second-degree episiotomy later, the head came out.<span> </span>Jason unabashedly snapped pictures of my crotch.<span> </span>After the fact, I kind of like those pictures, but no one else is going to see them!<span> </span>Then, Dr. S. called in extra staff to help, concerned the shoulders were going to have trouble exiting.<span> </span>They came out pretty smoothly, though to the nurses’ calls of, “it’s a boy!”<span> </span>Dr. Sweeney said as she held Gage in her hands, “Feels like nine pounds, one ounce.”<span> </span>She’s pretty good – the scale read “9 lbs, 1.7 oz.”<span> </span>They lay Gage on my belly.<span> </span>I was amazed that there really had been a baby in there.<span> </span>This was the little man who’d been rolling and kicking in there all this time, and now he was out.<span> </span>He was real.<span> </span>Tears came to my eyes as I held him.<span> </span>Jason cut the cord, and they did the whole, weigh, measure, footprints, APGAR whathaveyou routine.<span> </span>Gage Patrick Garner was born at 1:14PM on Thursday, February 24<sup>th</sup>, 2011.<span> </span>We had another healthy baby boy.<span> </span>My heart could have exploded with joy.<span> </span>A short while later, Jason, Jack, Gage and I were all in the LDR room alone, everyone huddled around the bed, Gage in my arms.<span> </span>Jack pointed to each of us and counted, “one, two, three, four.<span> </span>Now our family is four!” he grinned.<span> </span>Jason and I grinned at Jack and at each other, our happiness so succinctly expressed by a three-year-old. </div>Aprilhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03121579695348070517noreply@blogger.com1