"Are fairy tales real?," Bee asked out of the blue. We were in the car, driving home from church.
"Nope," was my short answer, but her Dad followed up: "Why do you ask?"
"Because I wish they were real."
"Which fairy tales would you want to be real?"
"Jack and the Beanstalk."
"Why?"
"Because if the giant were real, he could come down here. He could look around and see all the great food he could eat. He would think the red houses and the red cars were watermelons. And he would think the yellow things on the electrical wires were frisbees."
She turned to me. "Would you let him destroy our house, Mom?"
"Not if you were in it."
"What about your new brown chair?"
"I would probably draw a line at the new chair."
"That's what you could do. You could draw a line on the house and the chair and the parks." It took me a minute to catch up with her here, as she continued to make a long list of all the things I could draw lines on--to limit the giant's rampage through our neighborhood. She had taken my metaphorical line literally and was extending the possibilities on and on. It was magical, how powerful that "line" was.
"Do you think the giant would need a map showing all these lines?" I asked.
Bee nodded. "Yeah. But it would take a lot of paper."
We arrived home and Bee left Jack and the Beanstalk in the car. But I kept thinking of her giant, who would mistake red roofs and red cars for watermelons. I was so glad her Dad had asked her that first follow-up question: "Why do you wish fairy tales were real?" If he hadn't asked, I would never have had a chance to travel along her line of thought: or to imagine a giant biting into our house expecting a juicy morsel, only to discover that shingles and aluminum siding taste like needles and splinters. The poor giant would splutter and stomp in confusion and pain. The house would be smashed, and the new brown chair, too.
And imagine me, the all-powerful mom, drawing impossibly powerful lines around all the things I didn't want the giant to destroy. I would have to draw quickly--because he's a hungry giant, Bee pointed out.
Dear child, I want to say, never lose that creative whirl of imagination that takes you into the mind of giants, that sees our world, which so few really look at, with a freshness that beguiles the hearer.
Dear parent, I want to say, remember to ask the next question--the question each first question begs.
Dear God, I want to say,
give me a child's mind and heart
that I might frolic
in the possibilities
presented by fairy tales,
dreams, and "impossible" prayers
that might--just might--
erupt
into vibrant life...
to the surprise of us all.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Patience vs. Anger: Chocolate Wins
(Originally published March 2010)
I was ever so patient this morning. Really, I was. Until I found myself dealing with a very grumpy kid who -- in the process of getting ready for school -- was unhappy about everything under the sun. She wanted me to brush her teeth, and because she is seven, I told her she could manage that herself. Humph. She reminded me that while we were at the dentist yesterday I had been told to supervise teeth-brushing. She's right, I said, "but it's fine if I check your brushing in the morning and work with you at night and help with flossing." I tried to explain, "I'm making lunches right now and you can manage the morning routine on your own." Major humph. (Obviously I am failing the dentist's orders. That these orders have fine print is unclear to her.)
She then asked me to brush her hair, bringing her hairbrush to me in the kitchen. Once again I gently replied, "you can manage this, too." Humph.
Time to go, let's get the backpacks. "Mom, I can't find my backpack and black binder." (They're in the kitchen.) "Mom, I can't find my purple folder." (It's in the black binder.) "Mom, you know I HATE IT WHEN YOU PUT THE PURPLE FOLDER INSIDE MY BLACK BINDER... DON'T DO THAT!!!!!" She throws her backpack on the floor, takes everything out, and instructs me as she reassembles her stuff, "YOU HAVE TO PUT the binder in the backpack THIS WAY, and the FOLDER goes on top THIS WAY, and .... I HATE MY FAMILY. I wish I didn't have to have a sister, and I want another mother, and..."
Are we having fun yet?
Even walking to our car became an event. "I'm walking behind you. You go in front of me." she ordered. "But I have to lock the door," I pointed out. Humph.
Inside the car, more of the same. (Thankfully it's a short drive.) "Bee is lying. Bee is kicking your seat. I don't like my sister....I wish I had another family."
Somewhere in this monologue the thread of my patience broke. "SILENCE!!! If I hear one more word out of you -- OR YOU (I said to Bee, who was NOT helping matters by being obnoxiously cheerful. She does this to bug April.) -- You are going to be sorry."
By this time we were in front of the school, where April's speech therapist is on traffic duty, making sure that drivers don't kill the kids in the cross-walk. (She's not responsible for the drivers who might kill the kids in their cars.) April gets ready to get out of the car and pulls a very nasty face with her tongue sticking out -- at me. That did it. I said, "You're in time-out. I don't care if you're late. You're sitting here...in this car, quietly." I parked the car and turned off the engine. (I sometimes think time-outs are lame, but they're handy and easy to dole out.)
Two big tears roll from April's eyes.
The school bell rings.
"You need to apologize to me."
Mumble mumble. "I apologize," she glowered. Yeah, right. I'm ready to let her go. I don't want to sit there any longer with her fuming and Bee humming.
"Okay, go ahead," I said. My usually perky seven-year-old grabbed her backpack and walked, hunched over, toward her watching speech therapist, who's probably wondering at our behavior. (Or maybe not.)
Bee starts up a monologue, all cheeriness.
I only have one more kid to go, I think to myself. Then I'm on my way home -- to coffee and chocolate... and silence.
(p.s. Later that same day, a friend who volunteers in April's classroom noted how happy April was all day. She, in fact, skipped into school.)
THE MORNING'S CHOCOLATE FIX:
Chocolate Ricotta Muffins
(Recipe from Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe cookbook) Yield 12-14 muffins
Nonstick spray
2 1/3 cups flour
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
6-8 tblsp unsweetened cocoa
1 cup sugar
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup ricotta cheese
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cups milk
1 tblsp vanilla extract
4 tblsp unsalted butter, melted
1. preheat oven to 350 F. Lightly spray 12 muffin cups with nonstick spray.
2. combine the flour, salt, baking powder, cocoa, sugar, and chocolate chips in medium-sized bowl.
3. place the ricotta in second bowl, add eggs, beat well. Add the milk and vanilla and blend.
4. pour the ricotta mixture and melted butter into dry ingredients. Stir from bottom of the bowl until dry ingredients are moistened. Don't overmix.
5. spoon the batter into muffin cups.
6. bake in middle of oven for 20-25 minutes. Wait at least 30 minutes before serving. (Good luck.)
(I paraphrased some of the directions. You'll end up with good muffins, unless you eat the batter first.)
I was ever so patient this morning. Really, I was. Until I found myself dealing with a very grumpy kid who -- in the process of getting ready for school -- was unhappy about everything under the sun. She wanted me to brush her teeth, and because she is seven, I told her she could manage that herself. Humph. She reminded me that while we were at the dentist yesterday I had been told to supervise teeth-brushing. She's right, I said, "but it's fine if I check your brushing in the morning and work with you at night and help with flossing." I tried to explain, "I'm making lunches right now and you can manage the morning routine on your own." Major humph. (Obviously I am failing the dentist's orders. That these orders have fine print is unclear to her.)
She then asked me to brush her hair, bringing her hairbrush to me in the kitchen. Once again I gently replied, "you can manage this, too." Humph.
Time to go, let's get the backpacks. "Mom, I can't find my backpack and black binder." (They're in the kitchen.) "Mom, I can't find my purple folder." (It's in the black binder.) "Mom, you know I HATE IT WHEN YOU PUT THE PURPLE FOLDER INSIDE MY BLACK BINDER... DON'T DO THAT!!!!!" She throws her backpack on the floor, takes everything out, and instructs me as she reassembles her stuff, "YOU HAVE TO PUT the binder in the backpack THIS WAY, and the FOLDER goes on top THIS WAY, and .... I HATE MY FAMILY. I wish I didn't have to have a sister, and I want another mother, and..."
Are we having fun yet?
Even walking to our car became an event. "I'm walking behind you. You go in front of me." she ordered. "But I have to lock the door," I pointed out. Humph.
Inside the car, more of the same. (Thankfully it's a short drive.) "Bee is lying. Bee is kicking your seat. I don't like my sister....I wish I had another family."
Somewhere in this monologue the thread of my patience broke. "SILENCE!!! If I hear one more word out of you -- OR YOU (I said to Bee, who was NOT helping matters by being obnoxiously cheerful. She does this to bug April.) -- You are going to be sorry."
By this time we were in front of the school, where April's speech therapist is on traffic duty, making sure that drivers don't kill the kids in the cross-walk. (She's not responsible for the drivers who might kill the kids in their cars.) April gets ready to get out of the car and pulls a very nasty face with her tongue sticking out -- at me. That did it. I said, "You're in time-out. I don't care if you're late. You're sitting here...in this car, quietly." I parked the car and turned off the engine. (I sometimes think time-outs are lame, but they're handy and easy to dole out.)
Two big tears roll from April's eyes.
The school bell rings.
"You need to apologize to me."
Mumble mumble. "I apologize," she glowered. Yeah, right. I'm ready to let her go. I don't want to sit there any longer with her fuming and Bee humming.
"Okay, go ahead," I said. My usually perky seven-year-old grabbed her backpack and walked, hunched over, toward her watching speech therapist, who's probably wondering at our behavior. (Or maybe not.)
Bee starts up a monologue, all cheeriness.
I only have one more kid to go, I think to myself. Then I'm on my way home -- to coffee and chocolate... and silence.
(p.s. Later that same day, a friend who volunteers in April's classroom noted how happy April was all day. She, in fact, skipped into school.)
THE MORNING'S CHOCOLATE FIX:
Chocolate Ricotta Muffins
(Recipe from Mollie Katzen's Sunlight Cafe cookbook) Yield 12-14 muffins
Nonstick spray
2 1/3 cups flour
3/4 tsp salt
2 tsp baking powder
6-8 tblsp unsweetened cocoa
1 cup sugar
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup ricotta cheese
2 large eggs
1 1/3 cups milk
1 tblsp vanilla extract
4 tblsp unsalted butter, melted
1. preheat oven to 350 F. Lightly spray 12 muffin cups with nonstick spray.
2. combine the flour, salt, baking powder, cocoa, sugar, and chocolate chips in medium-sized bowl.
3. place the ricotta in second bowl, add eggs, beat well. Add the milk and vanilla and blend.
4. pour the ricotta mixture and melted butter into dry ingredients. Stir from bottom of the bowl until dry ingredients are moistened. Don't overmix.
5. spoon the batter into muffin cups.
6. bake in middle of oven for 20-25 minutes. Wait at least 30 minutes before serving. (Good luck.)
(I paraphrased some of the directions. You'll end up with good muffins, unless you eat the batter first.)
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Being the One and Only
(Originally posted June 3, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
My husband grew up an only child in a small town, where large families could form baseball teams. Not wanting to repeat his lonely "only" experience, we agreed early in our marriage that we would have more than one child. So through the miracle of adoption, we now have two very different children from two countries. These two girls are sisters in every sense of the word: from the clothes they share to the rivalries that flare.
Our first daughter we adopted from China when she was 19 months old. I will call this daughter April (for she is sweet like spring and just as graceful). Our second we adopted from Ethiopia when she was 27 months old. Always scarily quick, she has a habit of rushing down stairs or out of doors. Her dad and I have bruised ourselves plenty in our haste to "save" her. You will understand if I call this four-year-old "Bee," as in "busy as."
When she came to us, Bee was a strong-willed, impetuous 2-year-old, who threw temper tantrums, cried over food and desperately fought for toys and clothes upon threat of removal. This Amharic-speaking, overwrought toddler wrecked havoc on April's emotional world. But just three weeks after bringing Bee home, April reminded us that she was resilient and able to cope. One day, as her sister lay wailing on our kitchen floor, April calmly stepped over her, ignoring her hysterics. It wasn't long after that that the girls' relationship as sisters and friends gained strength.
It was amazing how our kids could play at first without any shared words. One day, they set up an elaborate sleeping arrangement with a Chinese doll and a "baby" sleeping side-by-side. When I showed pictures to a psychologist friend later, she observed, "It looks like they're recreating their orphanage bedrooms." I thought they had just been playing, but I could see what she meant. Whether they were recreating their institutional homes or playing, it was beautiful to watch them do it together.
But they do talk a lot now. And along with speech, their typical sibling rivalry has become more vocal. April, now six, told me the other night -- "Mom, I had a dream last night." "Really, honey? What about?" "You and I go out to play, and Bee goes to jail." "Really!? Jail?" April beams. "Yes. And she stays there." Of course Bee took great offense at this, but the message was clear.
April often asks for "mommy time" -- apart from Bee. Putting Bee in jail was a sure way to get it! The next day she and I went -- alone -- to Noodles and Company, and then we bought bubbles at the Dollar store. For awhile, she got to be an only child again. That focused time reminded me why I cherish April, with her lovely laugh and quirky humor. I needed that time. We all need that time, when we can be the one and "only"--when we can be loved solely and lavishly -- for just a little while.
My husband grew up an only child in a small town, where large families could form baseball teams. Not wanting to repeat his lonely "only" experience, we agreed early in our marriage that we would have more than one child. So through the miracle of adoption, we now have two very different children from two countries. These two girls are sisters in every sense of the word: from the clothes they share to the rivalries that flare.
Our first daughter we adopted from China when she was 19 months old. I will call this daughter April (for she is sweet like spring and just as graceful). Our second we adopted from Ethiopia when she was 27 months old. Always scarily quick, she has a habit of rushing down stairs or out of doors. Her dad and I have bruised ourselves plenty in our haste to "save" her. You will understand if I call this four-year-old "Bee," as in "busy as."
When she came to us, Bee was a strong-willed, impetuous 2-year-old, who threw temper tantrums, cried over food and desperately fought for toys and clothes upon threat of removal. This Amharic-speaking, overwrought toddler wrecked havoc on April's emotional world. But just three weeks after bringing Bee home, April reminded us that she was resilient and able to cope. One day, as her sister lay wailing on our kitchen floor, April calmly stepped over her, ignoring her hysterics. It wasn't long after that that the girls' relationship as sisters and friends gained strength.
It was amazing how our kids could play at first without any shared words. One day, they set up an elaborate sleeping arrangement with a Chinese doll and a "baby" sleeping side-by-side. When I showed pictures to a psychologist friend later, she observed, "It looks like they're recreating their orphanage bedrooms." I thought they had just been playing, but I could see what she meant. Whether they were recreating their institutional homes or playing, it was beautiful to watch them do it together.
But they do talk a lot now. And along with speech, their typical sibling rivalry has become more vocal. April, now six, told me the other night -- "Mom, I had a dream last night." "Really, honey? What about?" "You and I go out to play, and Bee goes to jail." "Really!? Jail?" April beams. "Yes. And she stays there." Of course Bee took great offense at this, but the message was clear.
April often asks for "mommy time" -- apart from Bee. Putting Bee in jail was a sure way to get it! The next day she and I went -- alone -- to Noodles and Company, and then we bought bubbles at the Dollar store. For awhile, she got to be an only child again. That focused time reminded me why I cherish April, with her lovely laugh and quirky humor. I needed that time. We all need that time, when we can be the one and "only"--when we can be loved solely and lavishly -- for just a little while.
Of Lice and Kids
(Originally posted June 8, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
When a notice came from April's school that lice had been found among her classmates, I did what every mom does. I sent my fingers walking through April's hair, desperately hoping I wouldn't find any squirming critters. Finding nothing but a little dandruff, I decided a change in shampoo was in order.
Over the next two weeks, I was preoccupied preparing for my parents 50th anniversary celebration in Colorado. All the family from across the country was traveling to stay in a mountain cabin for a week-long reunion. Kids, adults, grandparents -- everyone was to be together all week.
And April began to scratch her head. And scratch. And scratch.
The new shampoo was not helping her. We had two days remaining before our trip, so I squeezed April in for a visit to her pediatrician. The first thing the doctor said was "Maybe she has lice." I shook my head. "I don't think so. I checked."
"Well. Let's take another look." And bowing over April's head and dividing her hair, the doc and I saw a little winged pest scrambling to hide itself.
"Oh, no." I said. The attending nurse backed toward the door.
"Now don't feel bad," the doctor said. "Having lice doesn't mean your house is dirty or disgusting. It just means that April had contact with someone else who had lice. She has a pretty bad case, too."
And then the doctor showed me that all the dusty-looking specks that I had mistaken for dandruff were actually eggs. And those countless eggs were glued to each hair shaft with a cement-like substance so strong that removing them amounted to a herculean effort. "A lice comb will help with that. . .You also need to look for the so-called nymphs, the larvae that grow wings as they mature." Every mature female louse was busy laying up to 100 eggs on my daughter's head, and the mature lice could survive up to 30 days, feeding on their host's blood. (April was now being referred to as a "host"). So I had towash in hot water or freeze all the stuffed animals, bedding, pillows, etc., etc., in the house and car. And I kept staring at the doctor, during all these instructions, thinking, "I'm supposed to leave for Colorado with this kid day-after-tomorrow. "
I washed April's hair with the over-the-counter lice shampoo. I went to the laundromat and did 12 loads of heavy-duty laundry. I bagged all the stuffed animals and dragged them to the basement. Around midnight, I washed my hair with the same recommended shampoo. And the next day I went through April's hair -- for hours -- as she alternately cried and retreated into stoical calm.
The morning we left on our two-day drive to Colorado, I soaked April's hair in olive oil -- to suffocate any surviving lice -- and swathed her head in plastic wrap. The poor girl marinated across three states. That night, in our hotel room, I picked through her hair and tried to dispose of the nits as carefully as possible. (Don't think about this the next time you rent a hotel room.) The next morning, as we drove into the mountains, I found another winged louse in April's hair: Thelice shampoo hadn't worked. The olive oil hadn't worked. My picking hadn't worked. I burst into tears and dialed our pediatrician's office in panic: "You've got to HELP me! (I told the nurse.) These things aren't going away, and everyone's going to hate me because I'm bringing lice to a family reunion. . ." The nurse said, "Oh boy, that's awful." And the nurse called the doctor and the doctor called in a super-strength lice prescription to the mountain pharmacy, and that night, I dosed my daughter -- again -- with a potentially carcinogenic shampoo.
My family, fortunately, laughed about the whole thing, and supported me as I continued to pick -- all week -- through April's hair. We all tried not to scratch our heads whenever we thought about lice. I'm sure that what finally won the battle was the hours spent pulling those persnickety eggs off each strand of my daughter's hair. I can't say I blame April now for hating having her hair combed.
And by the way, having lice does NOT mean your house is dirty or disgusting.
When a notice came from April's school that lice had been found among her classmates, I did what every mom does. I sent my fingers walking through April's hair, desperately hoping I wouldn't find any squirming critters. Finding nothing but a little dandruff, I decided a change in shampoo was in order.
Over the next two weeks, I was preoccupied preparing for my parents 50th anniversary celebration in Colorado. All the family from across the country was traveling to stay in a mountain cabin for a week-long reunion. Kids, adults, grandparents -- everyone was to be together all week.
And April began to scratch her head. And scratch. And scratch.
The new shampoo was not helping her. We had two days remaining before our trip, so I squeezed April in for a visit to her pediatrician. The first thing the doctor said was "Maybe she has lice." I shook my head. "I don't think so. I checked."
"Well. Let's take another look." And bowing over April's head and dividing her hair, the doc and I saw a little winged pest scrambling to hide itself.
"Oh, no." I said. The attending nurse backed toward the door.
"Now don't feel bad," the doctor said. "Having lice doesn't mean your house is dirty or disgusting. It just means that April had contact with someone else who had lice. She has a pretty bad case, too."
And then the doctor showed me that all the dusty-looking specks that I had mistaken for dandruff were actually eggs. And those countless eggs were glued to each hair shaft with a cement-like substance so strong that removing them amounted to a herculean effort. "A lice comb will help with that. . .You also need to look for the so-called nymphs, the larvae that grow wings as they mature." Every mature female louse was busy laying up to 100 eggs on my daughter's head, and the mature lice could survive up to 30 days, feeding on their host's blood. (April was now being referred to as a "host"). So I had towash in hot water or freeze all the stuffed animals, bedding, pillows, etc., etc., in the house and car. And I kept staring at the doctor, during all these instructions, thinking, "I'm supposed to leave for Colorado with this kid day-after-tomorrow. "
I washed April's hair with the over-the-counter lice shampoo. I went to the laundromat and did 12 loads of heavy-duty laundry. I bagged all the stuffed animals and dragged them to the basement. Around midnight, I washed my hair with the same recommended shampoo. And the next day I went through April's hair -- for hours -- as she alternately cried and retreated into stoical calm.
The morning we left on our two-day drive to Colorado, I soaked April's hair in olive oil -- to suffocate any surviving lice -- and swathed her head in plastic wrap. The poor girl marinated across three states. That night, in our hotel room, I picked through her hair and tried to dispose of the nits as carefully as possible. (Don't think about this the next time you rent a hotel room.) The next morning, as we drove into the mountains, I found another winged louse in April's hair: Thelice shampoo hadn't worked. The olive oil hadn't worked. My picking hadn't worked. I burst into tears and dialed our pediatrician's office in panic: "You've got to HELP me! (I told the nurse.) These things aren't going away, and everyone's going to hate me because I'm bringing lice to a family reunion. . ." The nurse said, "Oh boy, that's awful." And the nurse called the doctor and the doctor called in a super-strength lice prescription to the mountain pharmacy, and that night, I dosed my daughter -- again -- with a potentially carcinogenic shampoo.
My family, fortunately, laughed about the whole thing, and supported me as I continued to pick -- all week -- through April's hair. We all tried not to scratch our heads whenever we thought about lice. I'm sure that what finally won the battle was the hours spent pulling those persnickety eggs off each strand of my daughter's hair. I can't say I blame April now for hating having her hair combed.
And by the way, having lice does NOT mean your house is dirty or disgusting.
Working Mothers All
(Originally posted June 10, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
To work or not to work: That is a question some of us parents struggle with on more than one level. During this season of our family life, I am not working outside the home. Like many families, our finances are tight. Our retirement accounts are thin. Our cars are well-used. Although we eat well and live a luxurious life compared to three-quarters of the world, by American standards we could be considered "working class," because I am not earning a salary.
But I am a working mother: I have never worked so hard in my life. Not only that, I have never struggled so hard for a sense of identity as I have during this season of parenting young children.
Ever since I left my "career" and took on the job of mothering two daughters, I have experienced a sort of identity crisis. Prior to parenting, I had some rather impressive-sounding answers to the question "So, what do you do for a living?" In fact, "DOING" was a big part of my identity. I could say "I direct such and such a program." I could add that I had a graduate degree and then (pridefully) spout five-syllable words to prove it. But all that changed when I left the professional realm to work as a parent.
I don't think my identity crisis is unique; many women (and men) take breaks from their professions to parent young children. Not uncommonly, it's the high cost of child-care that lead either one or two parents to stay at home full- or part-time. There are, however, risks implicit in the choice to be a stay-at-home parent.
Will we lose out on future job opportunities? Will our resumes look outdated, our skill sets weak? The future unknowns can, in fact, weigh us stay-at-homers down and be a source of near-invisible stress.
The personal identity issues caught me by surprise. I thought I would love be a stay-at-home parent. After all, I had put a lot of time and energy into the adoption processes that finally brought our kids home. But parenting can be dull, I found, and I am not a particularly skilled homemaker. It does not come naturally to me to "play" with my kids. In fact, my workaholic past had led me to forget how to play; my kids have had to re-teach me the joy of being silly. And let's face it, cleaning the toilet and wiping running noses are not highly prized skills in our society. The ego doesn't get fed much by scraping oatmeal off a crusty bowl.
So lately I've wondered if coming to peace with these parts of staying at home-- the reframing of professional expectations and the way I value myself--isn't part of my personal growth.
I struggle with self-centeredness every day. I struggle to satisfy my personal desires, even as I work to be a conscientious parent. "The world is not all about ME," I remind myself, just as I remind my kids when they're being obstinate. It's not all about my goals, my accomplishments, my expectations. The reality is that my SELF is now a minor actor in life's larger play. My family has become a stage of sorts. As a parent, I now play a critical role in SOMEONE ELSE'S life and development. It is humbling to not be the most important figure in my own personal drama.
So when people ask me "What do you DO?," I'm trying to be more honest about the way I answer: because my choice, while deliberately made, has also been difficult and not always personally rewarding. My answer might go something like this: I'm in constant on-the-job training with two youngsters who delight, exasperate, and teach me daily about life's challenges and joys. Together we are trying to learn how to live by the Golden Rule, to treat people with love, to live with integrity and show respect for ourselves and others. Our family relationship gives us the means of learning and living out these principles together. Hopefully, in the process, my children will become conscientious scholars, citizens, workers and parents.
My hope is that my work (and my husband's, too) will result in our kids growing into the type of people I'll want to hang around with in my old age. Maybe they'll also want to hang around with me. Between now and that time, my children will see me doing all sorts of work. Across the years, I hope we will grow together to share the wealth that ultimately lasts -- mutual respect, contentment, and love.
To work or not to work: That is a question some of us parents struggle with on more than one level. During this season of our family life, I am not working outside the home. Like many families, our finances are tight. Our retirement accounts are thin. Our cars are well-used. Although we eat well and live a luxurious life compared to three-quarters of the world, by American standards we could be considered "working class," because I am not earning a salary.
But I am a working mother: I have never worked so hard in my life. Not only that, I have never struggled so hard for a sense of identity as I have during this season of parenting young children.
Ever since I left my "career" and took on the job of mothering two daughters, I have experienced a sort of identity crisis. Prior to parenting, I had some rather impressive-sounding answers to the question "So, what do you do for a living?" In fact, "DOING" was a big part of my identity. I could say "I direct such and such a program." I could add that I had a graduate degree and then (pridefully) spout five-syllable words to prove it. But all that changed when I left the professional realm to work as a parent.
I don't think my identity crisis is unique; many women (and men) take breaks from their professions to parent young children. Not uncommonly, it's the high cost of child-care that lead either one or two parents to stay at home full- or part-time. There are, however, risks implicit in the choice to be a stay-at-home parent.
Will we lose out on future job opportunities? Will our resumes look outdated, our skill sets weak? The future unknowns can, in fact, weigh us stay-at-homers down and be a source of near-invisible stress.
The personal identity issues caught me by surprise. I thought I would love be a stay-at-home parent. After all, I had put a lot of time and energy into the adoption processes that finally brought our kids home. But parenting can be dull, I found, and I am not a particularly skilled homemaker. It does not come naturally to me to "play" with my kids. In fact, my workaholic past had led me to forget how to play; my kids have had to re-teach me the joy of being silly. And let's face it, cleaning the toilet and wiping running noses are not highly prized skills in our society. The ego doesn't get fed much by scraping oatmeal off a crusty bowl.
So lately I've wondered if coming to peace with these parts of staying at home-- the reframing of professional expectations and the way I value myself--isn't part of my personal growth.
I struggle with self-centeredness every day. I struggle to satisfy my personal desires, even as I work to be a conscientious parent. "The world is not all about ME," I remind myself, just as I remind my kids when they're being obstinate. It's not all about my goals, my accomplishments, my expectations. The reality is that my SELF is now a minor actor in life's larger play. My family has become a stage of sorts. As a parent, I now play a critical role in SOMEONE ELSE'S life and development. It is humbling to not be the most important figure in my own personal drama.
So when people ask me "What do you DO?," I'm trying to be more honest about the way I answer: because my choice, while deliberately made, has also been difficult and not always personally rewarding. My answer might go something like this: I'm in constant on-the-job training with two youngsters who delight, exasperate, and teach me daily about life's challenges and joys. Together we are trying to learn how to live by the Golden Rule, to treat people with love, to live with integrity and show respect for ourselves and others. Our family relationship gives us the means of learning and living out these principles together. Hopefully, in the process, my children will become conscientious scholars, citizens, workers and parents.
My hope is that my work (and my husband's, too) will result in our kids growing into the type of people I'll want to hang around with in my old age. Maybe they'll also want to hang around with me. Between now and that time, my children will see me doing all sorts of work. Across the years, I hope we will grow together to share the wealth that ultimately lasts -- mutual respect, contentment, and love.
Do you want to hear a secret?
(Originally posted June 25, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
"Psssst…Do you want to hear a secret?"
See, it's seductive, isn't it? You wanted to know what I had to say, didn't you? Did you lean a bit forward in your chair? Did you crave, just a little, to get the inside scoop?
Look at the cover of your basic women's magazine. "Such and such celebrity REVEALS their __________." We readers are invited to get in on their secret. Whether a celebrity shares some inane, boring detail of their life, or some strategy for dieting success, the magazine dangles before us the carrot of the inside scoop. And we bite.
My youngest daughter, Bee, is an astute little tyke, and she told me that she likes secrets because they "surprise" her. They're like a little informational package she gets to unfold, examine, and pass on -- a form of social currency.
April's introduction to secrets and secret-telling began this spring during her second semester of kindergarten. Around that time, the youngest kids in school begin to learn how to exercise their social power. They've mastered the school's routine. They've gotten to know social rules for behavior. They've formed friendships. Some of them have become "best friends" for the first time ever with someone else. And then these lovely youngsters, it seems especially the girls, begin to tell secrets.
This whole process of telling secrets -- the business of parsing out silly tidbits to favorites in the relationship circle -- reveals our kids' simple hunger for social power and acceptance, and their fear of rejection. A kid sees two friends whispering together, and she feels left out. What are they saying? Are they talking about her? If she asks what they're snickering about, will they tell her? Or will they shun her, as she dreads?
Competition and insecurity thus enter the friendship drama. And I confess to feeling a little depressed to observe April shedding a bit of her charming artlessness in her effort to navigate the strange world that turns beneath her feet. Whispering behind cupped hands while obviously looking at a hapless friend is not my idea of attractive behavior. It is a form of artifice...a type of artifice I want my daughter to avoid.
She is all too human, as am I. As I try to communicate (clumsily) how treating people respectfully and kindly means not telling secrets or making fun of them in any way, I realize I am asking a lot of her. I am asking a very young child to think about the consequences of her attitudes and words. In a way, I am asking her to be practical and objective about her emotional and relational wants. She's capable of this, but she also wants mom to respect her independence and simply allow her to have "fun" -- fun that she doesn't quite comprehend can hurt someone else.
The world needs people who think carefully before they speak and to respond judiciously when faced with the temptation to engage in relational power-plays. We have enough social cannibalism going on already: our air-waves and public meetings are full of it. As I work on my corner of the world, I want my daughter to learn how to be a considerate kid. It's one thing to share confidences -- I want her to understand -- it's another to tell secrets. Helping her discern the difference is tricky.
Fortunately, April's "best" friend (a little girl I love) has parents who are also trying to model and teach openness and tact. We talk about our kids' challenges together. We want them to learn how secrets (not confidences) are damaging -- how secrets are by their nature negative and potentially harmful. There is one secret, though, that can be positive. The best kept secret. Everyone gets invited to be a part of it -- that is the exuberant surprise party, where a person is celebrated and feted, esteemed and blessed, and everyone gets luscious scoops of ice cream on lavishly frosted cake.
"Psssst…Do you want to hear a secret?"
See, it's seductive, isn't it? You wanted to know what I had to say, didn't you? Did you lean a bit forward in your chair? Did you crave, just a little, to get the inside scoop?
Look at the cover of your basic women's magazine. "Such and such celebrity REVEALS their __________." We readers are invited to get in on their secret. Whether a celebrity shares some inane, boring detail of their life, or some strategy for dieting success, the magazine dangles before us the carrot of the inside scoop. And we bite.
My youngest daughter, Bee, is an astute little tyke, and she told me that she likes secrets because they "surprise" her. They're like a little informational package she gets to unfold, examine, and pass on -- a form of social currency.
April's introduction to secrets and secret-telling began this spring during her second semester of kindergarten. Around that time, the youngest kids in school begin to learn how to exercise their social power. They've mastered the school's routine. They've gotten to know social rules for behavior. They've formed friendships. Some of them have become "best friends" for the first time ever with someone else. And then these lovely youngsters, it seems especially the girls, begin to tell secrets.
This whole process of telling secrets -- the business of parsing out silly tidbits to favorites in the relationship circle -- reveals our kids' simple hunger for social power and acceptance, and their fear of rejection. A kid sees two friends whispering together, and she feels left out. What are they saying? Are they talking about her? If she asks what they're snickering about, will they tell her? Or will they shun her, as she dreads?
Competition and insecurity thus enter the friendship drama. And I confess to feeling a little depressed to observe April shedding a bit of her charming artlessness in her effort to navigate the strange world that turns beneath her feet. Whispering behind cupped hands while obviously looking at a hapless friend is not my idea of attractive behavior. It is a form of artifice...a type of artifice I want my daughter to avoid.
She is all too human, as am I. As I try to communicate (clumsily) how treating people respectfully and kindly means not telling secrets or making fun of them in any way, I realize I am asking a lot of her. I am asking a very young child to think about the consequences of her attitudes and words. In a way, I am asking her to be practical and objective about her emotional and relational wants. She's capable of this, but she also wants mom to respect her independence and simply allow her to have "fun" -- fun that she doesn't quite comprehend can hurt someone else.
The world needs people who think carefully before they speak and to respond judiciously when faced with the temptation to engage in relational power-plays. We have enough social cannibalism going on already: our air-waves and public meetings are full of it. As I work on my corner of the world, I want my daughter to learn how to be a considerate kid. It's one thing to share confidences -- I want her to understand -- it's another to tell secrets. Helping her discern the difference is tricky.
Fortunately, April's "best" friend (a little girl I love) has parents who are also trying to model and teach openness and tact. We talk about our kids' challenges together. We want them to learn how secrets (not confidences) are damaging -- how secrets are by their nature negative and potentially harmful. There is one secret, though, that can be positive. The best kept secret. Everyone gets invited to be a part of it -- that is the exuberant surprise party, where a person is celebrated and feted, esteemed and blessed, and everyone gets luscious scoops of ice cream on lavishly frosted cake.
The Bug Club
(Originally published July 10, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
Most of us adults are familiar with the phrase,"Take time to smell the roses." For kids the phrase should be, "Take time to look under rocks." And the bigger the rock the better. Because beneath every rock, there are loads of--drumroll, please--bugs.
For the past several months, my daughters have been rolling over every possible rock, log and brick they can physically manage to reveal the writhing insect world underneath. Last week I discovered one of my nice belts tethered around a hefty rock in our front yard. Bee (4 and 1/2 years) had figured out that rolling over a small boulder was a lot easier if you fashion a pulley. Together, Bee and April combined their 100 lbs of strength to heave over a boulder and mine for bugs. In fact, Bee is intent on building a bug club. This is not a club for kids, united in their love of things creepy-crawly. Rather, she is building a club for mini pests in a plastic tub, complete with a playground, teeny toys, a miniature slide, a crawling tunnel, and rocks (of course) to climb and hide under. There are no membership fees for this club, although it sounds like a very fancy hang-out for a bug.
Bee will spend long stretches of time observing ants. She will kneel in the dirt, her head bowed six inches above the earth, her posture similar to that of devotee. She will trail an ant to its destination, inching behind it as it scurries about its business. Is there an adult equivalent of this type of scholarly devotion? Yes, in the scientist, which she resembles. Her discoveries about the ways ants work and live are fresh to her -- and refreshing to me. Her bright eyes remind me of the beauty of the world's small things -- and the simple delight they can bring.
A book I skimmed recently discussed the ways small children appreciate and navigate their natural world, the ways they collect nondescript pebbles and consider them lustrous, and the ways they scavenge all manner of flora and fauna and carry them in pockets to show off later. Out in nature, or in the smallest of yards, children will set about creating little hide-outs that suit their own size. Adults, on the other hand, will tend to focus on larger territory (it's notable that the Internet has increased our territory even more), so that we tend to be scanners, to focus on vistas when we take photographs, to peruse globally. While the larger world overwhelms children, the smaller world can be under-noticed by adults. This makes me think that we should design a new bumper sticker -- courtesy of our kids' intuitive appreciation of the small beauties of the world -- to adhere next to our "Think Globally, Act Locally" bumper stickers. It would blare, "See the world. Pick up rocks." I like that idea. Sometimes it's a challenge for us adults to even NOTICE the ground underneath our busy feet. When we pay attention, our kids remind us of the value of the local -- the immediately local.
Bringing bugs into my house isn't my heart's desire, but I want to encourage Bee's exploring ways. I recently bought her an ant farm. Ironically, ant farms don't actually come with ants; you need to order the ants separately, and these are delivered in the mail. (Apparently, the 30 ants are carefully sealed and unable to escape. Postal workers take comfort.) The ant farm manufacturer recommends "harvester ants" (the ones with the giant mandibles) to live and work in the ant farm. The ants basically eat their way through the farm's nutrient-rich "gel" to create an illuminated network of tunnels. I haven't actually ordered the harvester ants yet (Ahem). In fact, I've wondered if I should bother mail-ordering ants at all.
The other night, as I drank wine and tried to converse with my neighbor, Bee and April worked at rolling over large rocks edging our neighbor's garden, ooohing and ahhhing over the critters they found. Within minutes, Bee came flying onto the deck, one fist full of what I thought was dirt. She was triumphant, shouting that she had found something amazing. She opened her palm onto the table, where my red wine sat. And there, spilling out and flaring in a black storm around my glass, were ants. Hundreds of them.
Bee had struck gold, and she wanted to share. Not one of those irate ants had stung her. Not one. It had never occurred to her that they would.
YOU Are Invited...
(Originally published July 16, 2009, Wisconsin Sate Journal)
True confessions: I made a little girl cry last week. The child I distressed wasn't my own. In fact, this little girl and I barely know each other, nor do I know her mother. But I did make this sweet child cry. Because I didn't R.S.V.P. to her birthday invitation.
Why did I fail in this common grace? Very simply, when the invitation first arrived, I wanted to "keep my options open" for that particular day. "Keeping my options open" led me to lay the invitation aside for later consideration. Second, by laying it aside, the little postcard decorated with beach balls and palm trees soon became engulfed in the paper pile that morphs on my dining room table. The invite remained buried in that pile until the night before the party -- when I was sorting and tossing.
Finding the invite was akin to pulling an overdue bill from a scrap paper pile. I felt a stab of regret, realizing that the party had crept up on me and I wasn't ready for it present-wise. Then my daughter said, "Mom, I want to go to that party," which meant she should go. Because it was "late" in the evening and we'd see the girl and her family the next day, I decided it wasn't necessary to R.S.V.P.: We'd just show up, present in hand. After all, what possible difference could my one kid make in what was bound to be a crowd?
This is the second place where my reasoning failed. You see, little girls get invited to several birthday parties a year. I assumed that a lot of girls in this circle of friends would be invited to the party. Our presence and R.S.V.P. wouldn't matter that much, right?
Well, lots of kids weren't invited. In fact, only two other girls besides my own were invited. One did R.S.V.P. -- twice. The first time to say she was coming. The second time to say she was not. We and another child didn't R.S.V.P. at all. The end result: devastation. The honoree didn't think any of her friends cared about her or her special day. She cried and cried. Her parents, who had stayed up late finishing an elaborate pinata, were stressed to comfort her. It's hard to know what to say to a kid who thinks she has been rejected by her kindergarten friends.
Then we showed up -- just a little late -- to the family gathering. The honoree shouted with joy. She ran up to my daughter and gave her a big hug. The mother graciously told me how GLAD she was we had come. I looked around and saw no other classmates. Then it hit me. Oh my gosh, my daughter had been specially picked by this little girl to be part of her special day. My assumptions had been nothing but fiction blended with rationalization about not wanting to make a phone call the night before.
While the girls went swimming, I learned from the mother about her daughter's earlier distress. I apologized profusely. I felt terrible. But the mom hadn't told me about her daughter's tears to make me feel guilty; she was simply sharing the truth and her relief that the afternoon had turned out better than she had feared. After we talked, I downed a soda to drown the crow I was chewing.
This humbling event reminded me that every invitation we receive is a gift extended by people (small and big), who somehow value us enough to include us in their plans. Sometimes those people are off my little radar screen. But they and their plans are important. In fact, they're more important than I often consider.
So I owe a six-year-old a big thank you for the lesson she taught me last week. R.S.V.P. means what it means: Réspondez s'il vous plaît -- "Please Respond". One way or the other. Yes or no. All it takes is a moment.
If I had simply respected that request... If I had simply ditched all my assumptions... a little girl wouldn't have cried. And I wouldn't have either.
Rock 'N' Roll Momma
(Originally posted July 27, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
For quite awhile I've been dragging myself out of bed in the morning with a silent sigh. I check to make sure the kids are watching PBS and Sesame Street, then I pour myself a cup of coffee and wish the dishes would wash themselves -- in that order. I look blearily at the world because my eyesight is blurring in the cliché way that happens to most everyone in their forties. My husband has lately had to read phone numbers to me from the city directory, because no matter how I squint, I can't distinguish an 8 from a 3 or a 6. If I'm this decrepit now, I wonder, what will I be like at 61, when my youngest hopefully graduates from high school?
Part of my sense of debilitation is my own fault. Exercise is an anti-aging elixir I have been told, and I rarely darken the door of a gym or spin the wheels of a bike. "The girls wear me out," I tell my health-conscious husband. "I do the equivalent of 100 toe-touches a day just bending over to pick up toys and dirty clothes. Don't ask me to go to a gym," I tell him, "I'm too bushed to floss my teeth."
Part of my sense of debilitation is my own fault. Exercise is an anti-aging elixir I have been told, and I rarely darken the door of a gym or spin the wheels of a bike. "The girls wear me out," I tell my health-conscious husband. "I do the equivalent of 100 toe-touches a day just bending over to pick up toys and dirty clothes. Don't ask me to go to a gym," I tell him, "I'm too bushed to floss my teeth."
But this weekend, I found out there's still life in this evolving body. I went to a conference where 5,000 women gathered to celebrate all sorts of things -- friendship, business acumen, creativity, beauty. And a party held on the last night of the meeting featured an all-woman rock and roll band with a lead-singer who had a great physique, long gorgeous hair, a Tina Turner voice, and a double chin. It wasn't a double chin that comes with weight. . .just the chin that all women get as our skin starts to sag that little bit around our face. Truly, she rocked my world.
In a rusty sort of way, I descended to the dance floor and found myself shifting from first, to second, to third, to fourth, and then over-drive. I lurched and twirled about with other hardworking women, our preoccupied selves slip-sliding away. As one mighty mass, we sang together, pumped our hands in the air, channeled the Bangles, belted Journey lyrics.
Exhilarated, I realized there's still some rock n' roll in this on-the-go mom. I realized that as old as I sometimes feel, those feelings aren't the only real feelings I have. My body still knows how to move. My mouth still knows how to sing. I still know how to have fun, on my own, sans family. Did I miss my husband and kids? Yes. Every day when I called, the sound of my girl's lilting voices made my heart twist a bittersweet bit. But at the closing party, when I danced without stopping, when I disregarded the clock and the midnight hour, I knew I still have some steam building in this engine. Forty-seven is not a yellow light warning me to slow down. The road ahead is not a dead-end.
I bet at my upcoming appointment, my optometrist will pronounce me far-sighted. She will write me a prescription for eye-glasses and probably expect me to get something dignified, suiting my age. No way. I want something that hints at a spirit in motion, that reminds me to dance when I look in the mirror.
"No-ing" Myself Too Well
(Originally posted August 19, 2009, Wisconsin State Journal)
"No." That has been my answer to most requests lately. In fact, when my children ask to do even mundane things, I often find myself saying "No" before really considering the best answer. "No, you can't do the dishes." "No, you can't help me cook dinner." "No, you can't use that roll of toilet paper to make a trumpet." No. No. No.
It's partly about control. I want some semblance of control over my little world, and "No" has become one of my weapons in the familial tug-o-war. But I'm finding that I don't gain much control with my Nos. Rather, I make my kids wonder at my reasoning. More fun yet, we all get to find out we're equally stubborn in a battle of wills.
Not surprisingly my astute kids have begun to look at me with raised eye-brows when I say "No" too quickly. They have mastered expressions of sardonic skepticism that prod my conscience and make me cringe. Their expressions say, "Do you realize how unreasonable you sound?"It's funny how a five and six-year-old can make you feel immature.
One time I mentioned to our pediatrician that one of my girls was really annoying me with always wanting her own way. All he did was humorously raise his eyebrows in the same way my kids do: "Don't you want your own way, too?" He might as well have said it out loud. I shut up. One set of eyebrows told me what I needed to hear. Now my kids are driving the message home.
Wanting to have my own way -- especially to be left alone to do what I want to do when I want to do it -- is part of my nature. I set myself up for frustration because I (irrationally) want my kids to allow me the time and space to handle the issues and appointments that make up daily life. And daily life is full of mundane, boring, essential tasks that must be handled by responsible parents -- to the frustration of their attention-grabbing kids.
But even as I do my daily tasks I want my kids to know they are loved and that I enjoy their company. I live in the tension of trying to be personally available as I manage our home. Get the kids more involved, you say? Sure. I agree. But I'm still learning how to do that.
And let's face it. Some days I wake up feisty and don't want to go with the flow.
I wake up with the attitude "Just because my day is dominated by my kids, doesn't mean I will let my kids dominate me. No sirree." Sure, they want me to drop whatever I'm doing to play, to referee their arguments, go with them to the bathroom, paste Band-aids on microscopic boo-boos, tear tape for art projects, etc. While I try to balance their requests and my agenda -- and often succeed -- there are some days their unpretentious requests take on a sinister edge. As the requests accumulate, everything else does, too: the stacks of dishes, the piles of laundry, the papers that need sorting, etc. And then I hear my voice saying "No!".
The "No" can come out low and growly or loud and scary. It usually means "There is NO MORE of ME to go around." I am grasping for space and perspective. It's not about the kids. Most of the time it's about me.
So I am learning to pause. To breathe. To ask: Is this an unreasonable request? Am I feeling stressed? Am I trying to accomplish too much today? Do the kids need to spend some one-on-one time with me? WHY am I saying "No"?
We are all kids inside. When pushed, we push back. When pushed for time, for a sense of control, we push back against the things that threaten to take these away. We even push away the people we love most in the world. My "No" is one way of pushing back my kids -- to protect the territory that they daily threaten to invade: my time and energy.
But we are not enemies, my kids and I. We are on the same side. And we live on common ground; we can compromise on immediate requests. I can find a way to say a "Yes" that works for everyone. I just need to have more practice. "Yes." "Yes." "Yes."
It feels really different to say "Yes." It's kind of a slippery word. I'm still experimenting with saying it with as much gusto as "No." I do hope I like the results.
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