This motherhood thing has been somewhat, um, challenging lately. I've got a gum-smacking, miniskirt-wearing, eye-rolling pre-teen chatterbox who thinks I'm the world's worst mom because I won't buy her a cell phone. I've got a selective-hearing, persistent, precocious Kindergartner who thinks she should be allowed the same freedoms (but not the same responsibilities) as her older sister. And I've got a husband who says things like, "Ask your mother," or "What should I feed them for a snack?" or "What does Mommy usually do in this situation?" Or, my personal favorite, "I'll think about it" when what he really means is, "No way in hell!" because he doesn't want to be the bad guy.
So guess who gets to be the the bad guy and actually make the decisions?
Moms make literally thousands of decisions over the course of a typical day. Thousands. Some are easy, like no, you can't eat pixie stix for breakfast. Here's a bowl of oatmeal instead. Some are trickier, like what to do about a baby on nap strike or a mean girl on the playground or a gossipy neighbor you just can't stand. Sometimes I'm on a roll, handing out verdicts like a veteran judge, doling out punishments and juice boxes like a pro. Other days, I struggle with simple things, thinking, "What, am I new at this? Why can't I get it together?" But over the years, I've found that the easy decisions, the easy days, do not test me, do not make me a better mom. It's the hard days, the hard choices, the tough times, that define us as parents.
Think about it: The easy days, the days where everything goes right, no one gets sick or hurt or upset, the days where I have it all together, don't make me a better mom, a better person. The easy days are, for lack of a better word, too EASY to be interesting. If everything is going right, we aren't challenged to rise to the occasion. But on those OTHER days, the days when I'm thinking, "Is it bedtime yet? How early can I reasonably tuck them in? And what time does Happy Hour start??" I find myself being more resourceful, more creative, more EVERYTHING than usual. On those days when I'm thinking, "Man, this is SO NOT what I signed up for, SO NOT what I imagined motherhood to be!" - well, those are the days that make me a better mom. Those are the days that end with me thinking, "I got through this; I can get through anything!"
Case in point: When my girls were 2 and 4, I spent three weeks visiting my family in Los Angeles. My husband flew back a couple of weeks earlier than I did, but I'd flown with both kids on my own many times. So I was undaunted by the prospect of changing planes in Dallas/Fort Worth with two kids, a double stroller, two car seats, and three carry-ons. No sweat. Piece of cake.
Of course, nothing went smoothly. Our flight out of DFW was cancelled, and the only other option would take us into Reagan/National in DC, and then to our final destination, Pittsburgh, around midnight. I only had 20 minutes to reach the gate, which meant that I literally ran through crowded terminals like in that old OJ commercial, jumping over bags, pushing a double stroller filled with 90 lbs. of kid and two car seats strapped on top, singing silly songs to keep my kids entertained, much to the amusement of other travelers. Arriving in DC, I found that, due to airport renovations, they couldn't bring my gate-checked stroller to me - so I had to drag sleepy kids, car seats, and bags to the check-in counter just to get my stroller. Then, because I'd been re-routed to a different carrier and had no bags to check, the computer program selected me for secondary security screening - and no one could override the all-powerful computer. Swabbing my stroller for explosive residue, x-raying my diaper bag, patting down my toddlers, dismantling my car seats - of course, I missed my next flight. By this time, no one had eaten dinner and everyone was exhausted. My flip flop strap broke, so I was hobbling around, people staring, looking like an idiot - but again, that may have been due to my singing in an attempt to convince my kids that this was all just a grand adventure. I was booked on a later flight, a puddle jumper (in whose seats neither of my car seats would fit, so more gate-checking) that arrived in Pittsburgh at 2:00 AM.
And that's when I remembered that when my husband had flown home two weeks earlier, he'd driven my car home from the airport. And he was now - get this - in DC on a business trip.
So, because I'm a mom and we do what we have to do, I smiled at my kids, collected my car seats and stroller, claimed my bags, and rented a car. Completely loaded down and with no one to help me, I got my kids and my crap settled into the rented minivan in the middle of the night. I made the 2-1/2 hour drive home safely. It remains, to this day, one of the toughest days of my parenting career - but I wouldn't change one single aspect of it now. I dug deep, and I learned that I can handle just about anything life throws at me.
Slacker Mom Says...sometimes, parenthood is tough. Sometimes, we think, "This is not what I signed up for!" Some days, we have to dig deep, really really deep, into the well of creativity, patience, self-reliance - and we find that indeed we can handle more than we thought we could. We have to think of tough times as a test that helps us fine tune our parenting skills, a test that challenges us to be better parents, better people. It helps us grow as mothers. We learn that we can. We CAN. We're moms. We CAN - and we DO.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
"Italian Time" and Motherhood
As a young teacher, on a ten-month salary schedule, I always needed a summer job. You know, so I could pay the rent, buy shoes, have drinking money, that kind of thing. One summer, I was hired to teach English for an international educational foundation that did a sort of glorified summer camp for European teens whose parents wanted to travel and not be bothered with their obnoxious (and stinky) offspring. (I say stinky because, man, these kids reeked. We actually had to tell them that American teens shower daily. Your average teenager is smelly enough without adding in soccer games in 80 degree weather. P. U.) Most of our students came from wealthy French and Italian families. The kids spent the morning in English classes; afternoons were spent at various shopping and site-seeing destinations. American teachers and European chaperones lived in the dorms with the students, taught classes, and planned and supervised the outings. (Yeah, it sounds fun; really it was just ten weeks of utter exhaustion. But I made some lifelong friends, probably due to the Helsinki Syndrome-like conditions we worked under.)
One of many things I learned during four summers teaching rich, smart-ass European kids was how to swear and talk dirty in 14 different languages. But another useful thing I learned was that the concept of time is somewhat, um, fluid in Italy. "We're leaving in five minutes" meant anything from 5, 10, 50 minutes to them. If we said, "The bus leaves at 9:00," then we expected the kids to show up about 8:45, get on the bus, and leave AT 9:00. Reasonable, right? Wrong. They'd start showing up about 9:30, 9:45, we'd start yelling, then we'd have to find their Italian chaperones (in the cafeteria, complaining about American coffee), and we'd finally leave campus around noon. OK, I may be exaggerating, but only a very little bit. It was very frustrating the first few times. But we got used to it pretty fast, and we learned to beat them at their own game: We started giving them fake departure times. If we wanted to leave at 9:00, we'd tell them to get on the bus at 8:00. Sneaky, but it worked.
Another thing I realized about Europeans was that their concept of "hurry up" is NOTHING like ours. We walk faster, talk faster, eat faster, shop faster, play faster; EVERYTHING is faster here. I was always saying, "Let's GO! Hurry UP!" to my students. They took forever to eat lunch, pick out a Swatch Watch (don't ask, it was the 90s), do that scarf-around-the-neck thing that only European women can pull off. It drove me crazy. When I finally quit that summer job, I thought I was forever free of "Italian time."
And then I had kids.
There is NOTHING in the world that will prepare you for how long it takes a toddler to walk to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Every single crack in the concrete, bug on a leaf, stray piece of mulch, blade of grass, twig, or ladybug must be examined with the intensity of a scientist in the field. What used to take me 2 minutes now takes 25. And there is no way to know beforehand how long it will take a five-year-old to put away 16 blocks and 2 stuffed bears. Trust me, it can take 5 minutes or 2 1/2 hours. You just never know.
When I had my first baby, I had no idea what children would do to my timing. Where it used to take me 10 minutes to get to the mall (grab purse, get in car, go), it now took me 45 minutes. Get the diaper bag, strap the baby into the car seat, adjust her straps, struggle through the garage door without banging the car seat into the cars, snap the car seat into the base, put the stroller in the trunk, and adjust the baby mirror 18 different times so I could see her (sleeping, unmoving) face in my mirror. Then, when I arrived, I had to unload the stroller, unload the diaper bag, adjust the seat and seatbelts properly...and oh, yeah, get the baby out of the car and into the stroller.
Once, when my oldest was about 5 weeks old, I had a particularly bad morning. I just wanted to go to the grocery store, like a normal person. But every time I picked my daughter up, she spit up on me. I don't mean a nice little Gerber baby dribble. I mean like Mount St. Helens erupting down my back. I'd put her down, change my clothes, clean the wall and the floor, pick her up - and then she'd have a diaper blowout. So I'd clean her up, clean myself up, pick her back up - and she'd spit up again. This went on for, no joke, about 40 minutes. And then she needed to eat, which took another 45 minutes (a firstborn, obviously - the second kid could drain me in ten minutes flat). Finally, I was out of clothes, she was out of ammunition, and I was in tears.
Kid time. It's even worse than Italian time. At least with my students, I found a way around it. With my kids, no matter how much time I give them, they need more. They take more. "Five more minutes" means absolutely nothing to a child. Try to rush them, and they slow down even more. It's maddening. If I need them to just put on their shoes and get in the car, I can pretty much count on the fact that at least one of them will choose that exact moment to poop, need a band-aid, or have to tell me a very long story about a caterpillar on the playground last week that was missing a leg. (WTF???)
Just tonight, after story time, my Kindergartner said she had to go potty. I sat on her bed while she went in to bathroom, fuming about how long it was taking her. How hard is it to just go in, do your thing, wash up and come out? But she had songs to sing, soap to splat, water to play in, earrings to admire, a nightlight that needed to be flicked off and on approximately 84 times, and, of course, she had to check her look in the mirror, "to see if my French braids made my hair all springy and crazy." It took forever. And all I could think about was all the crap I still had to do downstairs before I could finally relax and watch "Modern Family" on my DVR.
But then I realized something important: Kids are kids. No timetables, no mental to-do lists, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. It's always summer vacation. They can live in the moment without worrying about all the little crap that we worry about. Did it really matter that she sang her songs, stared in the mirror, took a few extra minutes in the bathroom? She was happy, singing, giggling, enjoying life. I wish I had that much fun peeing.
When we're at the zoo, my kids can gaze for an hour at the sea lions. They'll stare at the monkeys forever, watching them groom each other and swing around, giggling and pointing. The lion cubs could keep their interest all morning; comparisons to Nala and Simba are nonstop. But my husband and I find ourselves glancing at our watches, hurrying them along, saying things like, "Don't you want to have time to see the meerkats? the ponies? the turtles?" All the while, they are content to just watch, observe, enjoy, without worrying about anything at all. That's childhood. Why take that away from them? Why rush and hurry them unnecessarily? We're at the zoo for THEM, after all, so why not just stand there and let them take whatever time they need?
Slacker Mom Says...don't fight kid time. It will not end well. When it really matters, when it's work or school or an appointment, that's one thing. Build some extra time into the schedule, be silly, give them a fake leaving time, do what you have to do. As a teacher, I had songs we'd sing to mark the transition to the next activity. They had to be done by the time the song ended, and they usually were. But sometimes we need to just stop and think: Does it really matter if it takes a few extra minutes? I am constantly rushing my kids through every little thing. I might get them to do it faster, but at what price? I'm yelling, they're crying, and we're all stressed, all so it can be finished a few minutes early? Not worth it. In a very short time, my precious girls will be grown and gone, and I'll have all the time in the world to watch whatever I want on TV. Shoot, I won't even have to DVR it, because no one will be here to interrupt me when it's on the first time. How sad will that be?
One of many things I learned during four summers teaching rich, smart-ass European kids was how to swear and talk dirty in 14 different languages. But another useful thing I learned was that the concept of time is somewhat, um, fluid in Italy. "We're leaving in five minutes" meant anything from 5, 10, 50 minutes to them. If we said, "The bus leaves at 9:00," then we expected the kids to show up about 8:45, get on the bus, and leave AT 9:00. Reasonable, right? Wrong. They'd start showing up about 9:30, 9:45, we'd start yelling, then we'd have to find their Italian chaperones (in the cafeteria, complaining about American coffee), and we'd finally leave campus around noon. OK, I may be exaggerating, but only a very little bit. It was very frustrating the first few times. But we got used to it pretty fast, and we learned to beat them at their own game: We started giving them fake departure times. If we wanted to leave at 9:00, we'd tell them to get on the bus at 8:00. Sneaky, but it worked.
Another thing I realized about Europeans was that their concept of "hurry up" is NOTHING like ours. We walk faster, talk faster, eat faster, shop faster, play faster; EVERYTHING is faster here. I was always saying, "Let's GO! Hurry UP!" to my students. They took forever to eat lunch, pick out a Swatch Watch (don't ask, it was the 90s), do that scarf-around-the-neck thing that only European women can pull off. It drove me crazy. When I finally quit that summer job, I thought I was forever free of "Italian time."
And then I had kids.
There is NOTHING in the world that will prepare you for how long it takes a toddler to walk to the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Every single crack in the concrete, bug on a leaf, stray piece of mulch, blade of grass, twig, or ladybug must be examined with the intensity of a scientist in the field. What used to take me 2 minutes now takes 25. And there is no way to know beforehand how long it will take a five-year-old to put away 16 blocks and 2 stuffed bears. Trust me, it can take 5 minutes or 2 1/2 hours. You just never know.
When I had my first baby, I had no idea what children would do to my timing. Where it used to take me 10 minutes to get to the mall (grab purse, get in car, go), it now took me 45 minutes. Get the diaper bag, strap the baby into the car seat, adjust her straps, struggle through the garage door without banging the car seat into the cars, snap the car seat into the base, put the stroller in the trunk, and adjust the baby mirror 18 different times so I could see her (sleeping, unmoving) face in my mirror. Then, when I arrived, I had to unload the stroller, unload the diaper bag, adjust the seat and seatbelts properly...and oh, yeah, get the baby out of the car and into the stroller.
Once, when my oldest was about 5 weeks old, I had a particularly bad morning. I just wanted to go to the grocery store, like a normal person. But every time I picked my daughter up, she spit up on me. I don't mean a nice little Gerber baby dribble. I mean like Mount St. Helens erupting down my back. I'd put her down, change my clothes, clean the wall and the floor, pick her up - and then she'd have a diaper blowout. So I'd clean her up, clean myself up, pick her back up - and she'd spit up again. This went on for, no joke, about 40 minutes. And then she needed to eat, which took another 45 minutes (a firstborn, obviously - the second kid could drain me in ten minutes flat). Finally, I was out of clothes, she was out of ammunition, and I was in tears.
Kid time. It's even worse than Italian time. At least with my students, I found a way around it. With my kids, no matter how much time I give them, they need more. They take more. "Five more minutes" means absolutely nothing to a child. Try to rush them, and they slow down even more. It's maddening. If I need them to just put on their shoes and get in the car, I can pretty much count on the fact that at least one of them will choose that exact moment to poop, need a band-aid, or have to tell me a very long story about a caterpillar on the playground last week that was missing a leg. (WTF???)
Just tonight, after story time, my Kindergartner said she had to go potty. I sat on her bed while she went in to bathroom, fuming about how long it was taking her. How hard is it to just go in, do your thing, wash up and come out? But she had songs to sing, soap to splat, water to play in, earrings to admire, a nightlight that needed to be flicked off and on approximately 84 times, and, of course, she had to check her look in the mirror, "to see if my French braids made my hair all springy and crazy." It took forever. And all I could think about was all the crap I still had to do downstairs before I could finally relax and watch "Modern Family" on my DVR.
But then I realized something important: Kids are kids. No timetables, no mental to-do lists, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. It's always summer vacation. They can live in the moment without worrying about all the little crap that we worry about. Did it really matter that she sang her songs, stared in the mirror, took a few extra minutes in the bathroom? She was happy, singing, giggling, enjoying life. I wish I had that much fun peeing.
When we're at the zoo, my kids can gaze for an hour at the sea lions. They'll stare at the monkeys forever, watching them groom each other and swing around, giggling and pointing. The lion cubs could keep their interest all morning; comparisons to Nala and Simba are nonstop. But my husband and I find ourselves glancing at our watches, hurrying them along, saying things like, "Don't you want to have time to see the meerkats? the ponies? the turtles?" All the while, they are content to just watch, observe, enjoy, without worrying about anything at all. That's childhood. Why take that away from them? Why rush and hurry them unnecessarily? We're at the zoo for THEM, after all, so why not just stand there and let them take whatever time they need?
Slacker Mom Says...don't fight kid time. It will not end well. When it really matters, when it's work or school or an appointment, that's one thing. Build some extra time into the schedule, be silly, give them a fake leaving time, do what you have to do. As a teacher, I had songs we'd sing to mark the transition to the next activity. They had to be done by the time the song ended, and they usually were. But sometimes we need to just stop and think: Does it really matter if it takes a few extra minutes? I am constantly rushing my kids through every little thing. I might get them to do it faster, but at what price? I'm yelling, they're crying, and we're all stressed, all so it can be finished a few minutes early? Not worth it. In a very short time, my precious girls will be grown and gone, and I'll have all the time in the world to watch whatever I want on TV. Shoot, I won't even have to DVR it, because no one will be here to interrupt me when it's on the first time. How sad will that be?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Grocery Shopping is Not "Me" Time (Unless You're Tina Fey)
With my kids in school all day, you'd think I'd have plenty of time to myself. I mean, come on: seven hours a day of kid-free time should mean plenty of "me time", right? The occasional manicure or pedicure (or both!), lunch with the girls, browsing the bookstore, coffee with a neighbor, enough workouts to achieve the body of a trophy wife.
You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?
No, I can count on one hand how many lunch dates I've had this school year. (Kindergarten cafeteria duty doesn't count.) I haven't had a mani/pedi since last Mother's Day. No one comes over for coffee because we're all already on our third cup by the time we wake our kids up for school. And that trophy wife thing? Well, that all depends on your definition, I guess. If you're looking for someone who's obviously popped out (and nursed) a few kids, desperately needs to see her hairdresser, and has tee shirts older than her kids, then yeah, I'm your woman.
Truth be told, these days it's all I can do to make the house passably presentable, get some food in the fridge, spend a little time on my treadmill, and do some laundry before it's time to pick up the kids from school. And we all know what the after school hours are like (lessons, practices, projects, homework, playtime, dinner/ bath/ bed, and those damn reading logs). I have four hours between pick up and bedtime, and I make the most of it.
Ask the average husband, and he has no idea what we do all day. Why would he? Sure, on some level, he gets that there's cleaning, errands, volunteering, laundry, kid-related stuff to do - but in a superficial way, much like I understand that binary code is somehow important to the inner workings of my computer, but I really don't get how it all works. And I don't have to. Someone else figured it all out for me, and now the thing just does what it does without my having to think about it. I think husbands are often like that: they don't really want to know the mundane details of our days. They just want to know that everything is running smoothly, efficiently, like my computer. I turn it on, it works, end of story. They come home; house/kids/chores have been taken care of; end of story.
So why do we feel the need to justify our time? And who, exactly, is asking us to? Is it really our husbands? When they ask, "Did you have time to (wash my socks/ buy dog food/pick up my dry cleaning/get eight 8 x 12 foam sheets in various pastel colors for the Indian Princess bottle rocket craft that I need at 6:00 tonight but I just told you about right now)?" are they making a statement about what we do all day, or just asking a question? When they ask, "So, what did you do today?" are they passing judgement or merely making conversation? Let me tell you, I'm fairly certain that my husband has zero interest in hearing how it took me 90 minutes, 4 washes, and a LOT of OxyClean to remove the fruit juice stain from my Kindergartner's favorite blue horse shirt that she wore last week on the field trip (and which only cost $8, less than I spent on detergent and water to get it clean, but hey, whatever). And while he can appreciate the adorable additions to the playroom decor, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want the play-by-play, just the highlights - like SportsCenter, but without the annoying theme music.
Or do we do it to ourselves? And if so, why do we feel the need to remind ourselves how busy we are, how much work it is to run a home and care for our kids and meet our obligations to our communities? Every mom, working or at-home, knows exactly how much time and effort it takes to be all things to all people at all times. No one actually asks me to justify my time - except for me. I have a constant conversation playing in my head that reads like a train schedule, down to the minute, what I've done, what I need to do, how much time has elapsed, how much time is left. It's mentally exhausting. It's ridiculous. And it's completely unnecessary.
(Once, when my kids were both toddlers, I actually kept a running timetable of my day. For an entire week, I wrote down every single thing I did, every single minute of every single day and night. I then made my husband read it, so that he would finally, truly understand why I was so tired all the time. He got to noon on the first day, looked at me and said, "I'm exhausted just READING this!" Exactly.)
So where does the "me" time fit in? Wherever the heck you can find it! My friend Coley eats lunch - alone - at 10:00, just to have some time to herself before preschool pick up. For Nina, it's an afternoon run - the kids have to keep up and no one is allowed to talk to her. My sister has no problem grabbing the remote from her preschooler and saying, "Mommy's shows now!" Even Superwoman Tina Fey finds time for herself: She grabs a fountain drink and wanders around Target, alone. Shoot, if she can do it, anyone can do it! For me, it's a phone call to my friend Michelle while we drink our morning coffee, right after her kids catch their bus. A few minutes of kid-free, chore-free, obligation-free time, and I'm a new woman, ready to take on the day.
Slacker Mom Says...find some time each day that belongs to you. Maybe it's a soap opera, maybe it's bad reality TV on the DVR, maybe it's a trip to the bookstore that doesn't involve a train table or a visit to the children's section. Whatever it is, whatever your status, moms need "me" time. It makes us better moms, better wives, better people. No one's going to "give" it to us; we've got to make it happen. Tomorrow, my friend Nancy and I are hitting our local taqueria for some salsa and gossip, and nothing short of a sick kid will stop us! I know I'll come back refreshed, renewed, ready to take on piles of homework and reading logs without complaint.
You'd like to think so, wouldn't you?
No, I can count on one hand how many lunch dates I've had this school year. (Kindergarten cafeteria duty doesn't count.) I haven't had a mani/pedi since last Mother's Day. No one comes over for coffee because we're all already on our third cup by the time we wake our kids up for school. And that trophy wife thing? Well, that all depends on your definition, I guess. If you're looking for someone who's obviously popped out (and nursed) a few kids, desperately needs to see her hairdresser, and has tee shirts older than her kids, then yeah, I'm your woman.
Truth be told, these days it's all I can do to make the house passably presentable, get some food in the fridge, spend a little time on my treadmill, and do some laundry before it's time to pick up the kids from school. And we all know what the after school hours are like (lessons, practices, projects, homework, playtime, dinner/ bath/ bed, and those damn reading logs). I have four hours between pick up and bedtime, and I make the most of it.
Ask the average husband, and he has no idea what we do all day. Why would he? Sure, on some level, he gets that there's cleaning, errands, volunteering, laundry, kid-related stuff to do - but in a superficial way, much like I understand that binary code is somehow important to the inner workings of my computer, but I really don't get how it all works. And I don't have to. Someone else figured it all out for me, and now the thing just does what it does without my having to think about it. I think husbands are often like that: they don't really want to know the mundane details of our days. They just want to know that everything is running smoothly, efficiently, like my computer. I turn it on, it works, end of story. They come home; house/kids/chores have been taken care of; end of story.
So why do we feel the need to justify our time? And who, exactly, is asking us to? Is it really our husbands? When they ask, "Did you have time to (wash my socks/ buy dog food/pick up my dry cleaning/get eight 8 x 12 foam sheets in various pastel colors for the Indian Princess bottle rocket craft that I need at 6:00 tonight but I just told you about right now)?" are they making a statement about what we do all day, or just asking a question? When they ask, "So, what did you do today?" are they passing judgement or merely making conversation? Let me tell you, I'm fairly certain that my husband has zero interest in hearing how it took me 90 minutes, 4 washes, and a LOT of OxyClean to remove the fruit juice stain from my Kindergartner's favorite blue horse shirt that she wore last week on the field trip (and which only cost $8, less than I spent on detergent and water to get it clean, but hey, whatever). And while he can appreciate the adorable additions to the playroom decor, I'm pretty sure he doesn't want the play-by-play, just the highlights - like SportsCenter, but without the annoying theme music.
Or do we do it to ourselves? And if so, why do we feel the need to remind ourselves how busy we are, how much work it is to run a home and care for our kids and meet our obligations to our communities? Every mom, working or at-home, knows exactly how much time and effort it takes to be all things to all people at all times. No one actually asks me to justify my time - except for me. I have a constant conversation playing in my head that reads like a train schedule, down to the minute, what I've done, what I need to do, how much time has elapsed, how much time is left. It's mentally exhausting. It's ridiculous. And it's completely unnecessary.
(Once, when my kids were both toddlers, I actually kept a running timetable of my day. For an entire week, I wrote down every single thing I did, every single minute of every single day and night. I then made my husband read it, so that he would finally, truly understand why I was so tired all the time. He got to noon on the first day, looked at me and said, "I'm exhausted just READING this!" Exactly.)
So where does the "me" time fit in? Wherever the heck you can find it! My friend Coley eats lunch - alone - at 10:00, just to have some time to herself before preschool pick up. For Nina, it's an afternoon run - the kids have to keep up and no one is allowed to talk to her. My sister has no problem grabbing the remote from her preschooler and saying, "Mommy's shows now!" Even Superwoman Tina Fey finds time for herself: She grabs a fountain drink and wanders around Target, alone. Shoot, if she can do it, anyone can do it! For me, it's a phone call to my friend Michelle while we drink our morning coffee, right after her kids catch their bus. A few minutes of kid-free, chore-free, obligation-free time, and I'm a new woman, ready to take on the day.
Slacker Mom Says...find some time each day that belongs to you. Maybe it's a soap opera, maybe it's bad reality TV on the DVR, maybe it's a trip to the bookstore that doesn't involve a train table or a visit to the children's section. Whatever it is, whatever your status, moms need "me" time. It makes us better moms, better wives, better people. No one's going to "give" it to us; we've got to make it happen. Tomorrow, my friend Nancy and I are hitting our local taqueria for some salsa and gossip, and nothing short of a sick kid will stop us! I know I'll come back refreshed, renewed, ready to take on piles of homework and reading logs without complaint.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Bibbidi Bobbidi Blue (Or, Painting as the Path to Self-Awareness)
A recent winter weekend found my husband and I painting our girls' playroom Bibbidi Bobbidi Blue. (You know, the color of Cinderella's gown. Yes, even our paint belongs to the cult of Disney.) Now, when I paint a room, it takes one weekend, start to finish. I tape off the baseboards and ceiling line, and just get to it. One day to tape, paint, check for "bald spots"; let it dry overnight and put everything back to rights the next morning. If I start on Saturday morning, the kids are playing in there by Sunday afternoon.
But my husband? Well, he's a LITTLE bit of a perfectionist when it comes to painting. Yes, when HE paints, he spends approximately 14 hours "prepping" the room. (This involves taking out all the furniture, taking down the blinds and hardware, removing switch plates, spackling all nail holes, taping, retaping, retaping the retaping, putting drop cloths over every single surface, and - I'm not making this up - checking the ceiling line for any trace of Boring Beige, the color the builders used, which he then painstakingly paints over with white paint. On the ceiling. Which is like 15 feet high.) Then he's pretty sick of the room, so he takes another day or two to start the painting, which invariably takes at least 2 days - because he needs a day to "see" the room in different lights so that if he missed a spot he can go over it again. Then he needs a day or two to find the time to take down the tape, pull up the drop cloths, and put the furniture back. By this time, the room has been unusable for approximately 9 days and we've all been tripping over its contents, which are stuck in some hallway somewhere. (This is especially problematic if the room being painted is a bathroom and he hasn't put the toilet back together yet.)
Now, surely at this point you are wondering, "Why the hell doesn't Slacker Mom just paint the room herself and quit complaining about it?" Well, you see, my husband really, really doesn't like anyone else doing the painting. Really, REALLY doesn't like it. In his defense, he does a VERY thorough job. I'll admit that he does a much better job than I do. And the only two areas where he gets a little psycho and overly concerned with perfection involve walls - both painting and hanging pictures bring out his inner control freak. But I think he's forgotten that I'd painted many, many rooms before I met him; I painted my room three times just while I was in high school. Without help. At age 14. And he'd never painted a room at all until we bought our first house together and I convinced him that bare white walls are boring and builder's paint is crap. So when he starts with his "helpful, friendly reminders", I kind of want to shove a paint stirrer up his ass. He says things like:
* Don't you want to stir that paint more? How many times did you stir it?
* Don't forget to really tape it well. Really well. Do you want me to do it?
* Don't put too much paint over the taped-off area. That's too much!
* Don't forget to check your feet for paint before you walk out of the room.
* Don't dip the brush too far in the paint - only put it on the ends.
* Don't let any paint drip down the wall when you use the roller.
* Don't get any blue on the ceiling line. I already painted over the beige.
* Why don't you let me do that part? Really, I don't mind.
* Any chance of getting some cheeseburgers?
Seriously. He asked me to make him cheeseburgers. At 11:00 at night. I think he did it just so I'd leave the room and he could "check my work". And like I counted how many times I stirred the paint. If I thought it needed more stirring, WOULDN'T I HAVE STIRRED IT MORE? Jeez. When he acts like that, I think, "Give me some credit! I'm not a moron. I have SOME skills. And who made YOU the President of Painting, anyway! Leave me alone!" Any more painting and we'd need some serious marriage counseling, stat.
So as I'm flipping burgers and it's nearing midnight (of course I did it; if I'd stayed in that room any longer I'd have strangled him with his blue painter's tape), I sulked because, to be honest, he's not a lot of fun when he's painting. Me? It's Saturday night! With the right person and the right attitude, I can have fun doing anything! (Nina and I once spent an evening working on a project for her Masters and drinking wine, and, school geeks that we are, had a great time.) But he was far too intense and serious about the whole thing. I wondered why my usually mellow, laid-back, goofy husband barks orders and stresses about a little paint on the ceiling, about why he feels the need to "remind" me about things that I obviously already know (like I'm going to track paint on the hallway carpet, dude), about how this one task makes him into a bossy control freak. And I came to a startling conclusion: I do this to my kids all the time.
Think about it. They've barely finished their cereal and I'm "reminding" them to put their bowls in the dishwasher, even though they've been doing it since they were 2. Give them a chance already! I'll remind my 8-year-old to wash her apple first, even though I know she will, she always does, and I buy organic apples anyway so really, how bad could it be if she were to forget? I automatically remind them to say "Thank you", not even noticing that they've already said it and they certainly don't need me to remind them as if they're toddlers. I hurry them along every single morning with reminders like, "Put on your shoes!" as if they'd walk out barefoot into the cold. I suggest moves they should make when we play board games, even though they are perfectly capable of playing the game on their own. I take over and do things for them simply so it will be done MY WAY, even if it isn't important that it's done my way. Just like my husband does when we are painting, I get bossy and controlling and make unnecessary comments about the jobs other people are doing. "No, not like that, do it like THIS!" is something I hear myself say all too often. And I decided to be (gasp) grateful to my husband for teaching me something about myself. A little self- awareness and self-improvement, all for the price of a gallon of paint.
So yes, he was annoying and irritating and bossy. But maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing he was - because it forced me to examine my behavior a bit. It made me realize that when I get that way, it affects my relationship with my kids. It makes them think that I don't trust them to do it right without me hovering over them, barking instructions and reminders; it sends the message that I don't think they are capable, smart, responsible girls who know what to do and will do it if they are just given a chance. How annoying. And irritating. And bossy.
Slacker Mom Says...sometimes we have to back off and let our kids have a chance to do things their way. My way isn't always the only way, and that's hard for me to swallow. But kids need to know that we trust them, that we believe in them, and that if they do fail - and they will - we'll be there to help them fix things, to start over, to wipe the blue paint off the ceiling. No one likes being bossed around or treated like they don't know what they're doing. A positive comment and a pleasant tone of voice goes a long way, as I told my husband - and myself.
But my husband? Well, he's a LITTLE bit of a perfectionist when it comes to painting. Yes, when HE paints, he spends approximately 14 hours "prepping" the room. (This involves taking out all the furniture, taking down the blinds and hardware, removing switch plates, spackling all nail holes, taping, retaping, retaping the retaping, putting drop cloths over every single surface, and - I'm not making this up - checking the ceiling line for any trace of Boring Beige, the color the builders used, which he then painstakingly paints over with white paint. On the ceiling. Which is like 15 feet high.) Then he's pretty sick of the room, so he takes another day or two to start the painting, which invariably takes at least 2 days - because he needs a day to "see" the room in different lights so that if he missed a spot he can go over it again. Then he needs a day or two to find the time to take down the tape, pull up the drop cloths, and put the furniture back. By this time, the room has been unusable for approximately 9 days and we've all been tripping over its contents, which are stuck in some hallway somewhere. (This is especially problematic if the room being painted is a bathroom and he hasn't put the toilet back together yet.)
Now, surely at this point you are wondering, "Why the hell doesn't Slacker Mom just paint the room herself and quit complaining about it?" Well, you see, my husband really, really doesn't like anyone else doing the painting. Really, REALLY doesn't like it. In his defense, he does a VERY thorough job. I'll admit that he does a much better job than I do. And the only two areas where he gets a little psycho and overly concerned with perfection involve walls - both painting and hanging pictures bring out his inner control freak. But I think he's forgotten that I'd painted many, many rooms before I met him; I painted my room three times just while I was in high school. Without help. At age 14. And he'd never painted a room at all until we bought our first house together and I convinced him that bare white walls are boring and builder's paint is crap. So when he starts with his "helpful, friendly reminders", I kind of want to shove a paint stirrer up his ass. He says things like:
* Don't you want to stir that paint more? How many times did you stir it?
* Don't forget to really tape it well. Really well. Do you want me to do it?
* Don't put too much paint over the taped-off area. That's too much!
* Don't forget to check your feet for paint before you walk out of the room.
* Don't dip the brush too far in the paint - only put it on the ends.
* Don't let any paint drip down the wall when you use the roller.
* Don't get any blue on the ceiling line. I already painted over the beige.
* Why don't you let me do that part? Really, I don't mind.
* Any chance of getting some cheeseburgers?
Seriously. He asked me to make him cheeseburgers. At 11:00 at night. I think he did it just so I'd leave the room and he could "check my work". And like I counted how many times I stirred the paint. If I thought it needed more stirring, WOULDN'T I HAVE STIRRED IT MORE? Jeez. When he acts like that, I think, "Give me some credit! I'm not a moron. I have SOME skills. And who made YOU the President of Painting, anyway! Leave me alone!" Any more painting and we'd need some serious marriage counseling, stat.
So as I'm flipping burgers and it's nearing midnight (of course I did it; if I'd stayed in that room any longer I'd have strangled him with his blue painter's tape), I sulked because, to be honest, he's not a lot of fun when he's painting. Me? It's Saturday night! With the right person and the right attitude, I can have fun doing anything! (Nina and I once spent an evening working on a project for her Masters and drinking wine, and, school geeks that we are, had a great time.) But he was far too intense and serious about the whole thing. I wondered why my usually mellow, laid-back, goofy husband barks orders and stresses about a little paint on the ceiling, about why he feels the need to "remind" me about things that I obviously already know (like I'm going to track paint on the hallway carpet, dude), about how this one task makes him into a bossy control freak. And I came to a startling conclusion: I do this to my kids all the time.
Think about it. They've barely finished their cereal and I'm "reminding" them to put their bowls in the dishwasher, even though they've been doing it since they were 2. Give them a chance already! I'll remind my 8-year-old to wash her apple first, even though I know she will, she always does, and I buy organic apples anyway so really, how bad could it be if she were to forget? I automatically remind them to say "Thank you", not even noticing that they've already said it and they certainly don't need me to remind them as if they're toddlers. I hurry them along every single morning with reminders like, "Put on your shoes!" as if they'd walk out barefoot into the cold. I suggest moves they should make when we play board games, even though they are perfectly capable of playing the game on their own. I take over and do things for them simply so it will be done MY WAY, even if it isn't important that it's done my way. Just like my husband does when we are painting, I get bossy and controlling and make unnecessary comments about the jobs other people are doing. "No, not like that, do it like THIS!" is something I hear myself say all too often. And I decided to be (gasp) grateful to my husband for teaching me something about myself. A little self- awareness and self-improvement, all for the price of a gallon of paint.
So yes, he was annoying and irritating and bossy. But maybe, just maybe, it was a good thing he was - because it forced me to examine my behavior a bit. It made me realize that when I get that way, it affects my relationship with my kids. It makes them think that I don't trust them to do it right without me hovering over them, barking instructions and reminders; it sends the message that I don't think they are capable, smart, responsible girls who know what to do and will do it if they are just given a chance. How annoying. And irritating. And bossy.
Slacker Mom Says...sometimes we have to back off and let our kids have a chance to do things their way. My way isn't always the only way, and that's hard for me to swallow. But kids need to know that we trust them, that we believe in them, and that if they do fail - and they will - we'll be there to help them fix things, to start over, to wipe the blue paint off the ceiling. No one likes being bossed around or treated like they don't know what they're doing. A positive comment and a pleasant tone of voice goes a long way, as I told my husband - and myself.
Monday, February 15, 2010
"That's Not a REAL Toilet!" is Something You Never Want to Have to Say
Last Saturday night, my husband and I were curled up in front of the fire, about to watch Vince Vaughn in "Couples Retreat." We'd been looking forward to it for months, ever since we kept missing it in the theater. (Every time we had the babysitter booked, someone got sick. Swine flu, seasonal flu, sinus infection, pneumonia, yeah, you name it, my kids got it.) So when it came out on DVD, we were ready to laugh our asses off. (Ever seen him in "Wedding Crashers"? Rent it. But make sure to pee first. You know what happens when you laugh too hard after popping out a few kids. I'm just sayin'.)
So in the movie, Vince Vaughn's character and his wife are in a home improvement store, looking at tiles for their remodel. Now, most husbands hate that kind of thing and are happy for any reason to walk away from looking at 3,492 different options - most of which look identical to them - and Vince's character is no exception. So while he's on his cell phone talking to his buddy, he's not really watching what his kid is doing - probably assuming that his wife is on kid-duty. Suddenly, the camera pans to the boy, who is peeing in a display toilet as customers and sales people look on in horror. Vince shouts, "That's not a real toilet!" to his son. Then he gets off the phone, picks up his kid, and says, "There's not really anything more to say," and walks away. No embarrassment, no wiping up the pee, no apologizing to the manager.
Yeah, that's the Hollywood version.
In REAL life, in MY life, I'd find myself with a makeshift glove made from wads of generic paper towel wrapped around my hand, scooping "I've eaten nothing but fruit all day" type poop out of the display toilet. In REAL life, when my 3-year-old was playing in the design center's kids' area when she told me she had to poop, I told her to put on her shoes - and then, distracted by my Level 5 flooring options, promptly forgot about her "needs". So a few moments later, when I heard, "Mommy? I can't find any toilet paper!" I knew EXACTLY what had happened. And so did my husband. In one of those "are you thinking what I'm thinking" husband and wife moments, we looked at each other in horror, shock, disgust. And mentally calculated who'd have clean-up duty.
Thankfully, our real estate agent, the designer, and the sales manager did NOT realize that the Ecru/Low Flow/Elongated Bowl Display Model was now completely full of crap. Literally. No, in REAL life, the kid doesn't merely pee into the model toilet. She poops, and poops, and poops. And it's after hours, so the deserted design center is also completely without its custodial staff. Nope, just us and our helpful real estate professionals, ready to sell us $40,000 in upgrades but unable to locate a little bit of bleach and some rubber gloves.
Yes, in a bizarre twist of "Art Imitating Life", I found myself flashing back to that May day several years ago. (I should get a cut of the movie's profits! If only I'd written about this and then claimed Hollywood stole it from me!) There I was again, crouched in front of a fake toilet, paper towels wrapped carefully (but ineffectively) around my entire hand, shoving my manicured fingers into the toilet to clean it out. (Truly, you have no IDEA how long that pipe from the bowl to the tank is. Truly. Thank God I have long hands.) It took about an hour, two rolls of paper towels, and all the Purell wipes I had in my car and my purse - but that toilet was cleaner than it was on the day it was installed. It shined like the top of the proverbial Chrysler Building. There was no evidence at all that we'd ever been there. We apologized, washed our hands, and got the hell out of Dodge. (And we DID buy a house from them, Level 5 upgrades and all. Heck, it was the least we could do.)
Slacker Mom Says... motherhood isn't always kisses and pretty Hallmark cards and sweet-smelling baby powder. Sometimes it's a dirty job, and sometimes you get the short end of the stick. Sometimes our kids ruin things that aren't theirs and we have to take care of it. Because that's what we do. We take responsibility for our young children and their actions, even when they poop where they shouldn't. Even when it's going to be disgusting. Even when we know it will take approximately 825 gallons of scented soap to take the smell out of our hands. We take responsibility. We take care of it. Because what's the alternative? Walk away from the situation? No, that only happens in the movies. In real life, parents have to teach by example. What would I have taught my daughters if I'd walked away from the mess? My toddler was too young to take responsibility for it, and it was my fault for putting her off so long. It was my job to take care of the situation, no matter how unpleasant or truly vomit-inducing it was. And my kids saw me do just that. Our society is plagued by a severe lack of personal responsibility. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Caring for our kids, teaching them to take responsibility for their mistakes, to own up to what they did, to make it right and to apologize for inconveniencing others, that's our job. We're moms.
Besides, now I have a really fun story to tell at her prom, or graduation, or rehearsal dinner...
So in the movie, Vince Vaughn's character and his wife are in a home improvement store, looking at tiles for their remodel. Now, most husbands hate that kind of thing and are happy for any reason to walk away from looking at 3,492 different options - most of which look identical to them - and Vince's character is no exception. So while he's on his cell phone talking to his buddy, he's not really watching what his kid is doing - probably assuming that his wife is on kid-duty. Suddenly, the camera pans to the boy, who is peeing in a display toilet as customers and sales people look on in horror. Vince shouts, "That's not a real toilet!" to his son. Then he gets off the phone, picks up his kid, and says, "There's not really anything more to say," and walks away. No embarrassment, no wiping up the pee, no apologizing to the manager.
Yeah, that's the Hollywood version.
In REAL life, in MY life, I'd find myself with a makeshift glove made from wads of generic paper towel wrapped around my hand, scooping "I've eaten nothing but fruit all day" type poop out of the display toilet. In REAL life, when my 3-year-old was playing in the design center's kids' area when she told me she had to poop, I told her to put on her shoes - and then, distracted by my Level 5 flooring options, promptly forgot about her "needs". So a few moments later, when I heard, "Mommy? I can't find any toilet paper!" I knew EXACTLY what had happened. And so did my husband. In one of those "are you thinking what I'm thinking" husband and wife moments, we looked at each other in horror, shock, disgust. And mentally calculated who'd have clean-up duty.
Thankfully, our real estate agent, the designer, and the sales manager did NOT realize that the Ecru/Low Flow/Elongated Bowl Display Model was now completely full of crap. Literally. No, in REAL life, the kid doesn't merely pee into the model toilet. She poops, and poops, and poops. And it's after hours, so the deserted design center is also completely without its custodial staff. Nope, just us and our helpful real estate professionals, ready to sell us $40,000 in upgrades but unable to locate a little bit of bleach and some rubber gloves.
Yes, in a bizarre twist of "Art Imitating Life", I found myself flashing back to that May day several years ago. (I should get a cut of the movie's profits! If only I'd written about this and then claimed Hollywood stole it from me!) There I was again, crouched in front of a fake toilet, paper towels wrapped carefully (but ineffectively) around my entire hand, shoving my manicured fingers into the toilet to clean it out. (Truly, you have no IDEA how long that pipe from the bowl to the tank is. Truly. Thank God I have long hands.) It took about an hour, two rolls of paper towels, and all the Purell wipes I had in my car and my purse - but that toilet was cleaner than it was on the day it was installed. It shined like the top of the proverbial Chrysler Building. There was no evidence at all that we'd ever been there. We apologized, washed our hands, and got the hell out of Dodge. (And we DID buy a house from them, Level 5 upgrades and all. Heck, it was the least we could do.)
Slacker Mom Says... motherhood isn't always kisses and pretty Hallmark cards and sweet-smelling baby powder. Sometimes it's a dirty job, and sometimes you get the short end of the stick. Sometimes our kids ruin things that aren't theirs and we have to take care of it. Because that's what we do. We take responsibility for our young children and their actions, even when they poop where they shouldn't. Even when it's going to be disgusting. Even when we know it will take approximately 825 gallons of scented soap to take the smell out of our hands. We take responsibility. We take care of it. Because what's the alternative? Walk away from the situation? No, that only happens in the movies. In real life, parents have to teach by example. What would I have taught my daughters if I'd walked away from the mess? My toddler was too young to take responsibility for it, and it was my fault for putting her off so long. It was my job to take care of the situation, no matter how unpleasant or truly vomit-inducing it was. And my kids saw me do just that. Our society is plagued by a severe lack of personal responsibility. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Caring for our kids, teaching them to take responsibility for their mistakes, to own up to what they did, to make it right and to apologize for inconveniencing others, that's our job. We're moms.
Besides, now I have a really fun story to tell at her prom, or graduation, or rehearsal dinner...
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
What Ever Happened to "Because I SAID So!"
A recent Friday afternoon conversation with my daughter went a little like this:
Me: It's chore time - you need to clean your room, empty all the trash cans, and then set the table for dinner.
Her: But I want to finish (reading, playing, coloring, dancing, anything but what you want me to do at this moment in time) first!
Me: And I want a million dollars, my pre-baby abs AND boobs, and Brad Pitt on a stick, but that's not going to happen. (OK, what I really said was more like, "Chores first, then playtime" or something along those lines.)
Her: OK, Mom. (There may have been a sigh involved, but I was too busy heading to the other one's room to give her a chore list, too. My ears have become rather sigh-proofed, what with my daughters inheriting this lovely habit from their father.)
And then? And then she DID HER CHORES. No, I didn't have to tell her again. No, I didn't offer her a bribe. No, I didn't pay her for cleaning up her own crap and setting the table so that our family could eat a meal that I prepared. I did thank her for being cooperative and helping our family; I did tell her that I appreciated how quickly she got her chores done without my having to remind her. But the bottom line is, she knows what she needs to do, she knows what will happen if she doesn't do it, and she knows that it's in her best interest to get it done quickly. Because I'm the mom, and I said so.
And that was the five-year-old.
As one of many tools in my parenting arsenal, I'm definitely in favor of using incentives to induce desired outcomes. If I want the children to do something, I'm OK with offering something in exchange. For example, if they clean up their rooms, I will continue to let them sleep there. If they put away their toys, I won't donate them to charity. I may even take it a bit farther and say, "If you behave while I get my hair done, I'll thank you by taking you out for ice cream afterwards" or even "If everyone manages to get a flu shot without Mommy losing either an eye or her sanity, or having to place anyone in a full prone containment restraint, we can stop at the book store on the way home." At times, I'll offer the children an explanation for certain rules and requirements. Like, we get flu shots because we all have asthma, and the flu could be very dangerous for us. Or, you must do your homework to reinforce the skills you're working on in class. Or even, no, you cannot watch "Twilight" because if you do, you'll be totally freaked out and no one will sleep for approximately the next 125 days.
But I'm not above the use of those four words used by our parents and grandparents and their grandparents before them. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the infamous and often underused "because I said so."
So many parents seem to think it's necessary to negotiate with their kids or give their kids input into every single decision. They ASK their kids to do chores. They ASK them what they want for dinner. They even ask them if they feel like coming inside and taking a bath. Are you freakin' kidding me? I can tell you right now how my kids would answer those questions: "No, thanks, Mom, I'd rather NOT do chores. Dinner? Ice cream sundae, extra whipped cream. And I think I'll have it outside while I continue to play in the sandbox. I'm skipping the bath tonight."
So many kids have a terminal case of the "whys". Why do I have to come inside now? Why do I have to clean up my room? Why can't I have candy for breakfast? And too many parents try to answer those questions, thinking they are educating their kids, patiently explaining that breakfast should contain protein and fiber for optimal learning at school, or that toys should be put away so that no one trips over them in the night. Seriously? Do you really think they need the explanation again? Do you really not know that "why" is actually about stalling for time, trying to wear us down until we give in out of sheer exhaustion, that it's about trying to see exactly how far they can push us?
Nah, I TELL my kids to do their chores. And I don't always say please. (No, it's not rude. It's called parenting. This is not a request, so don't ask, "Will you please make your bed?" unless you're prepared to hear, "Um, no, thanks for asking.") And then I MAKE SURE they do their chores, even if I have to stand over them, check back in a few minutes, take away privileges - in other words, even if it's inconvenient for me. I put dinner on the table; they can eat it or not. And I certainly do not ask IF they want a shower, I just tell them "Get in. Now. And don't forget to wash your hair." What's the incentive? Do it and you won't get in trouble. Do it and Mommy might thank you for cooperating. Do it - wait for it - BECAUSE I SAID SO. I'm the mom; you're the kid. It's not rocket science. And it's definitely not a democracy, more like a benevolent dictatorship, one where I rule with absolute authority because I love my subjects and want the best for them.
So why do our kids think they are entitled to an explanation every single time we tell them to do anything at all? I'll tell you why: because we give them one. We over-explain things. Constantly. And why do we do it? Because we hated it when our parents said, "Because I said so!" to us. So we vowed NOT to say it to our kids. But here's the kicker: our parents said it because it works, because it's the truth. "Because I said so" really means "because I am the mom, and I know best; I will keep you safe and healthy, and you can trust that the decisions I make for you are necessary and right." As my sister tells her daughter, "My job is to raise you right."
Slacker Mom Says... let's bring back "because I said so!" Not all the time; not for every single demand. Sometimes, kids need to hear the "why" behind our rules. Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, it's just about respecting a parent's authority. Sometimes, it IS simply because I am the mom, and you are the child, and I TOLD YOU TO DO IT! Our job as parents is to make sure our kids go out into the world with all the skills they will need to be successful adults who contribute positively to their communities. When they have kids, they'll understand the why. Until then, it might just have to be "because I said so."
Me: It's chore time - you need to clean your room, empty all the trash cans, and then set the table for dinner.
Her: But I want to finish (reading, playing, coloring, dancing, anything but what you want me to do at this moment in time) first!
Me: And I want a million dollars, my pre-baby abs AND boobs, and Brad Pitt on a stick, but that's not going to happen. (OK, what I really said was more like, "Chores first, then playtime" or something along those lines.)
Her: OK, Mom. (There may have been a sigh involved, but I was too busy heading to the other one's room to give her a chore list, too. My ears have become rather sigh-proofed, what with my daughters inheriting this lovely habit from their father.)
And then? And then she DID HER CHORES. No, I didn't have to tell her again. No, I didn't offer her a bribe. No, I didn't pay her for cleaning up her own crap and setting the table so that our family could eat a meal that I prepared. I did thank her for being cooperative and helping our family; I did tell her that I appreciated how quickly she got her chores done without my having to remind her. But the bottom line is, she knows what she needs to do, she knows what will happen if she doesn't do it, and she knows that it's in her best interest to get it done quickly. Because I'm the mom, and I said so.
And that was the five-year-old.
As one of many tools in my parenting arsenal, I'm definitely in favor of using incentives to induce desired outcomes. If I want the children to do something, I'm OK with offering something in exchange. For example, if they clean up their rooms, I will continue to let them sleep there. If they put away their toys, I won't donate them to charity. I may even take it a bit farther and say, "If you behave while I get my hair done, I'll thank you by taking you out for ice cream afterwards" or even "If everyone manages to get a flu shot without Mommy losing either an eye or her sanity, or having to place anyone in a full prone containment restraint, we can stop at the book store on the way home." At times, I'll offer the children an explanation for certain rules and requirements. Like, we get flu shots because we all have asthma, and the flu could be very dangerous for us. Or, you must do your homework to reinforce the skills you're working on in class. Or even, no, you cannot watch "Twilight" because if you do, you'll be totally freaked out and no one will sleep for approximately the next 125 days.
But I'm not above the use of those four words used by our parents and grandparents and their grandparents before them. Yes, that's right, I'm talking about the infamous and often underused "because I said so."
So many parents seem to think it's necessary to negotiate with their kids or give their kids input into every single decision. They ASK their kids to do chores. They ASK them what they want for dinner. They even ask them if they feel like coming inside and taking a bath. Are you freakin' kidding me? I can tell you right now how my kids would answer those questions: "No, thanks, Mom, I'd rather NOT do chores. Dinner? Ice cream sundae, extra whipped cream. And I think I'll have it outside while I continue to play in the sandbox. I'm skipping the bath tonight."
So many kids have a terminal case of the "whys". Why do I have to come inside now? Why do I have to clean up my room? Why can't I have candy for breakfast? And too many parents try to answer those questions, thinking they are educating their kids, patiently explaining that breakfast should contain protein and fiber for optimal learning at school, or that toys should be put away so that no one trips over them in the night. Seriously? Do you really think they need the explanation again? Do you really not know that "why" is actually about stalling for time, trying to wear us down until we give in out of sheer exhaustion, that it's about trying to see exactly how far they can push us?
Nah, I TELL my kids to do their chores. And I don't always say please. (No, it's not rude. It's called parenting. This is not a request, so don't ask, "Will you please make your bed?" unless you're prepared to hear, "Um, no, thanks for asking.") And then I MAKE SURE they do their chores, even if I have to stand over them, check back in a few minutes, take away privileges - in other words, even if it's inconvenient for me. I put dinner on the table; they can eat it or not. And I certainly do not ask IF they want a shower, I just tell them "Get in. Now. And don't forget to wash your hair." What's the incentive? Do it and you won't get in trouble. Do it and Mommy might thank you for cooperating. Do it - wait for it - BECAUSE I SAID SO. I'm the mom; you're the kid. It's not rocket science. And it's definitely not a democracy, more like a benevolent dictatorship, one where I rule with absolute authority because I love my subjects and want the best for them.
So why do our kids think they are entitled to an explanation every single time we tell them to do anything at all? I'll tell you why: because we give them one. We over-explain things. Constantly. And why do we do it? Because we hated it when our parents said, "Because I said so!" to us. So we vowed NOT to say it to our kids. But here's the kicker: our parents said it because it works, because it's the truth. "Because I said so" really means "because I am the mom, and I know best; I will keep you safe and healthy, and you can trust that the decisions I make for you are necessary and right." As my sister tells her daughter, "My job is to raise you right."
Slacker Mom Says... let's bring back "because I said so!" Not all the time; not for every single demand. Sometimes, kids need to hear the "why" behind our rules. Sometimes, they don't. Sometimes, it's just about respecting a parent's authority. Sometimes, it IS simply because I am the mom, and you are the child, and I TOLD YOU TO DO IT! Our job as parents is to make sure our kids go out into the world with all the skills they will need to be successful adults who contribute positively to their communities. When they have kids, they'll understand the why. Until then, it might just have to be "because I said so."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Stinky Socks and the Men Who Wear Them
Tonight at dinner, my husband was telling me about his day. It was just the two of us, since he usually gets home after the kids are in bed, and he'd had a busy and frustrating day at the office. I was trying to "listen actively" and be supportive, really I was, but all I kept hearing was, "Yada yada blah blah blah." Yes, I'm a Slacker Wife at times, too, but it's just that I was so tired and had so much on my mind that still had to get done - lunches to pack, a birthday cake to make, laundry to wash/dry/fold/put away, reading logs to fill out (will NO ONE ever listen?!?) - that I just couldn't stay focused on his monologue. (Similar to the time my roommates and I met some very cute, very drunk Irish guys we couldn't understand - smile and nod, smile and nod - my technique was much the same. Just take away the Guinness and add some pot roast, and substitute over-tired for drunk, and it was pretty close.) I tried to toss out a few well placed "uh huhs", but I think he was on to me.
So I'm sitting there, my mind racing, nodding away like a bobble head, fake smile plastered on my face, when it hit me: This is EXACTLY what he does to me when I'm going on about something while he's reading. And when he does, it makes me CRAZY. I mean, how hard is it to just hear my voice, attend to what I'm saying, and pay some attention? And now I know. Sometimes, now and then, it's a tall order.
While motherhood can be tough, this marriage thing can be pretty challenging, too. At least with the kids, I rule all. They're small, they don't take up much space, they don't snore or shed hair on the counter. They sleep a lot and don't eat very much, they're easy to clean, and their stuff is generally confined to the upstairs area. They pretty much have to listen to me and do whatever I tell them or face the wrath of Mommy. My husband? Not so much. He'll ask me the same thing 4 times in one day. No matter how many times I ask him not to put my tweezers in his drawer, guess where I usually find them? Shoes are anywhere BUT the closet. If he's driven my car all weekend, I can pretty much assure you there won't be gas in it come Monday morning. He can drive me crazy. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. But when I've had to pick up his dirty socks off the floor three days in a row, or pull dirty underwear out of the shorts he's left on the bathroom floor every day for a week, or - my personal favorite - when I find a toothpick he left in MY car (and no, I don't know if it was clean or dirty because I was NOT about to investigate too closely!) I start to get a little bit crazy. I start to think about all the ways he makes my life more difficult, about all his annoying little habits. I start thinking about "Friends", about the episode where Rachel is moving out so that Chandler can move in. Monica turns to Rachel and wails, "You get to live with Phoebe, and I have to live with a BOY!" He makes me crazy. He makes extra work. He doesn't always listen to me or remember what I tell him or put my needs ahead of his own.
But.
But what if there were never any socks on the floor? Or toothpicks in the car? What if there was no more Monday morning panic when the gas gauge is a LOT lower than I remember it? What if he weren't around to leave a full water glass teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter every morning, just waiting for the cat to knock it onto the tile floor so it will shatter into a million little pieces, simply because that's what cats do?
Here's what I know: He cleans my hair out of the shower drain every single morning without complaint. He gets up with the girls when they've had a bad dream - even though he's the one who has to go to work the next day. He once drove 3 hours in the middle of the night just to bring me sore throat medicine when I was pregnant and he was on a business trip. He thinks I am beautiful, stretch marks and all, and tells me often. He'll go grocery shopping after a long day of work when I've been stuck home with sick kids all day. He'll stay up half the night to put together toys on Christmas Eve. He held my hand while I cried on the due date of the baby we lost. He shows our daughters in a thousand little ways all the things a husband and father should be. And so I can overlook a few annoying habits, pick up a few dirty socks, separate some stinky gym clothes.
Love is a choice we make, every single day. I choose to love my husband in spite of his annoying habits, and maybe because of them. I choose to believe in him, in us, despite dental floss that doesn't always make it into the garbage, despite the fact that the towels would have to put themselves in the hamper before he'd think to change them, despite the fact that he's not perfect. My friend and mentor Beth recently told me, "Always be sure to maintain your primary relationship - and it's not the one with your kids. When your first child leaves, you'll feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. By the time your last one leaves, you'll remember why you got married in the first place." Her kids are grown and gone; she and her husband are taking motorcycle tours and have, as she says, no need for locks - or even doors - anymore. Wink wink. Wise woman. Well said.
Slacker Mom Says... be careful what you wish for. I'd rather pick up his dirty socks than not, because dirty socks on the floor mean he's here with me. The best thing I can do for my kids is to love and cherish their father. Marriage, like motherhood, is messy and inconvenient and annoying and hard. Nobody's perfect, and boys are stinky and messy, it's true. The toilet seat may be up, but that's because my husband is sharing my bathroom - and my life.
So I'm sitting there, my mind racing, nodding away like a bobble head, fake smile plastered on my face, when it hit me: This is EXACTLY what he does to me when I'm going on about something while he's reading. And when he does, it makes me CRAZY. I mean, how hard is it to just hear my voice, attend to what I'm saying, and pay some attention? And now I know. Sometimes, now and then, it's a tall order.
While motherhood can be tough, this marriage thing can be pretty challenging, too. At least with the kids, I rule all. They're small, they don't take up much space, they don't snore or shed hair on the counter. They sleep a lot and don't eat very much, they're easy to clean, and their stuff is generally confined to the upstairs area. They pretty much have to listen to me and do whatever I tell them or face the wrath of Mommy. My husband? Not so much. He'll ask me the same thing 4 times in one day. No matter how many times I ask him not to put my tweezers in his drawer, guess where I usually find them? Shoes are anywhere BUT the closet. If he's driven my car all weekend, I can pretty much assure you there won't be gas in it come Monday morning. He can drive me crazy. Don't get me wrong, he's a great guy. But when I've had to pick up his dirty socks off the floor three days in a row, or pull dirty underwear out of the shorts he's left on the bathroom floor every day for a week, or - my personal favorite - when I find a toothpick he left in MY car (and no, I don't know if it was clean or dirty because I was NOT about to investigate too closely!) I start to get a little bit crazy. I start to think about all the ways he makes my life more difficult, about all his annoying little habits. I start thinking about "Friends", about the episode where Rachel is moving out so that Chandler can move in. Monica turns to Rachel and wails, "You get to live with Phoebe, and I have to live with a BOY!" He makes me crazy. He makes extra work. He doesn't always listen to me or remember what I tell him or put my needs ahead of his own.
But.
But what if there were never any socks on the floor? Or toothpicks in the car? What if there was no more Monday morning panic when the gas gauge is a LOT lower than I remember it? What if he weren't around to leave a full water glass teetering on the edge of the kitchen counter every morning, just waiting for the cat to knock it onto the tile floor so it will shatter into a million little pieces, simply because that's what cats do?
Here's what I know: He cleans my hair out of the shower drain every single morning without complaint. He gets up with the girls when they've had a bad dream - even though he's the one who has to go to work the next day. He once drove 3 hours in the middle of the night just to bring me sore throat medicine when I was pregnant and he was on a business trip. He thinks I am beautiful, stretch marks and all, and tells me often. He'll go grocery shopping after a long day of work when I've been stuck home with sick kids all day. He'll stay up half the night to put together toys on Christmas Eve. He held my hand while I cried on the due date of the baby we lost. He shows our daughters in a thousand little ways all the things a husband and father should be. And so I can overlook a few annoying habits, pick up a few dirty socks, separate some stinky gym clothes.
Love is a choice we make, every single day. I choose to love my husband in spite of his annoying habits, and maybe because of them. I choose to believe in him, in us, despite dental floss that doesn't always make it into the garbage, despite the fact that the towels would have to put themselves in the hamper before he'd think to change them, despite the fact that he's not perfect. My friend and mentor Beth recently told me, "Always be sure to maintain your primary relationship - and it's not the one with your kids. When your first child leaves, you'll feel like your heart is being ripped out of your chest. By the time your last one leaves, you'll remember why you got married in the first place." Her kids are grown and gone; she and her husband are taking motorcycle tours and have, as she says, no need for locks - or even doors - anymore. Wink wink. Wise woman. Well said.
Slacker Mom Says... be careful what you wish for. I'd rather pick up his dirty socks than not, because dirty socks on the floor mean he's here with me. The best thing I can do for my kids is to love and cherish their father. Marriage, like motherhood, is messy and inconvenient and annoying and hard. Nobody's perfect, and boys are stinky and messy, it's true. The toilet seat may be up, but that's because my husband is sharing my bathroom - and my life.
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