Low Moments in Parenting

I admit that I have had my moments of judging other parents. Noticing a kid under a certain age drinking a soda might make me cringe. Watching a consistently rude child on the playground might make me wonder if they’re the kid of the dad/mom/nanny on his/her cell phone oblivious to the scene around them. Seeing a child swatted publicly makes me uncomfortable and I wonder if it’s more than spanking at home.

Is it right? Recognizing parenting behavior that contradicts my own style and disagreeing with it is certainly okay. The judgey, sometimes sanctimonious “well, I’d never” that I admittedly feel in those situations, yeah, not so good. But we’ve all been there, right? I’m fairly confident I’m not alone in taking a modicum of pleasure at someone else’s parenting nightmare’s expense…at least it’s not my kid throwing all the groceries out of the cart. (Tell me I’m not alone in this.)
But lately, it is my kid.
Pumpkin has a horrible habit of randomly screaming. More accurately, of screeching a sound akin to getting your hand stuck in a door while biting ants nibble at your ankles and pigeons peck at your hair. It’s a blood curdling, no spinning it, scream.
It’s bad enough at home where a screech might pierce the air when his older brother takes a toy. Lately, however, it’s become very public. There was the restaurant while we were on vacation where I spent most of the meal outside with the toddler so his overtired screams would not disturb the other diners. There was leaving the Children’s Museum where Pumpkin voiced his displeasure at leaving with bursts of screeches I so desperately tried to ignore while hustling us out the door.
Then, this morning, there was the botched set of errands. The library visit was chaotic, with screaming ensuing every time I tried to distract Pumpkin from pulling a set of Caldecott winners off the shelf or running through the vertical blinds at the picture window. Perhaps my first mistake was thinking a change of scenery would help, but we braved the trip to Party City to pick up a few supplies for Peanut’s upcoming 5th birthday party.
It started so well. I kept my energy level high. A nice grandmotherly type complimented how cute the kids were as we strapped Pumpkin into the cart. Then, at aisle two, the screeching commenced. I heard someone gasp. The same grandmotherly type said something to the effect of “He’s not messing around.” I tried to distract. I tried to cajole. I firmly told him no. And then he screeched on aisle three when he couldn’t reach the balls, then screeched when he dropped the ball, then screeched when I tried to hustle us to the next stop in the store. Finally, the store manager peaked down the aisle and asked if everything was okay.
Needless to say, we got the heck out of dodge. We were in the store for a total of 10 minutes.
I drove home in tears.
What do you do when you’re that mom of that kid? How do you explain that you’ve tried time outs? You only run errands when the kids are well rested, fed and normally happy? You do everything you possibly can to make the experience pleasant and the kid screams like that simply because he sees a baseball across the store and I turned the cart the wrong way? I’m at the point where I want to beg those people for help. If you know so much better, then please, tell me. Help me. Make it stop.
But I can’t. Or I don’t. Instead, I simply feel defeated every time I strap the kids back into their car seats, my errands incomplete, my dignity shuffling along a few paces behind. It makes me question whether I’ve got the right stuff for this gig.
I know this too shall pass. Eventually, I’ll figure out what works or Pumpkin will grow out of it or he’ll start a new trend and everyone will start screeching like banshees at random moments in public (the next flash mob trend anyone?). Until then, I think I’ll stock up on earplugs and become a hermit since we obviously can’t leave our house.
On the upside, I’m providing a public service. Some other mother at the library or Party City might have been having a bad day today and instead left thinking at least that’s not her kid.

Sand, Water, Repeat

Nearly two weeks ago now, the boys and I tagged along with the hubby to see the final space shuttle launch. The hubby was covering it for work and had prime viewing from the Kennedy Space Center press site. We, however, stuck close to our hotel to avoid the crowds and watched from a Cracker Barrel parking lot about 15 miles west of the launch pad. Gotta say, it was still awesome, inspiring and breathtaking. I’m so glad that we did it and that the boys can say they were there for such an historic moment.

One of the hubby’s pictures of liftoff from KSC.

Since we were already in Florida, we took the opportunity to spend a few days at the beach after the launch. Once we had lugged all the gear two kids and two adults appear to need for a few hours of fun in the surf and set up the sun tent and applied all the sunscreen, we had a blast. At one point, I simply leaned back on my elbows, my toes digging down into the warm, sun baked sand and watched.
I watched as my boys were digging moats, building roads, running in the surf, peering in crab holes, examining shells. There was endless entertainment and all they had at their disposal was sand, water, a shovel, a bucket and their parents. I didn’t hear “I want to go home,” “I’m bored,” “what can I dooooo?” or the killer, “when can I watch TV?” These thoughts never crossed their minds. They were in love and having a blast.
My dad and his six siblings, grew up in a small New England mill town. My grandfather repaired sewing machines. Certainly he wasn’t pulling in the big bucks and providing for seven children couldn’t have been easy. And yet my grandparents had a “place” on Martha’s Vineyard. Granted this place was not much more than a shack and didn’t have hot water, but my aunts and uncles all have fond memories of summers on the island.
As a mom of two active boys, now I get it. I get why my grandmother would have packed up a summer’s worth of stuff, ridden a ferry and committed to caring for seven kids alone with only her husband as back-up on the weekends for the long stretch of summer. Outside play all day, tired bodies in bed at night, kids using their imaginations to create fun, making new friends, appreciating the simple, yet majestic, aspects of nature.
I wish that little shack was still in the family. I wish I could pitch a tent on a tiny square of its yard and live the summer in a state of hazy, salty glee with my kids. I wish my toes were still in the sand.
In the absence of a small fortune to buy some beach front property, I’ll just have to settle for planning another trip to the shore in a few months.

Raising Men

With two boys and a husband, I am most certainly outnumbered in this house. It’s not usually a big deal – trucks and Legos are a-okay with me, getting dirty is no big deal and not having to buy into or struggle against the princess thing is a total plus.

There are some issues, of course, mostly related to privacy. The Y family changing room is a bit of a challenge after pool time and women’s public restrooms are nearing awkward as Peanut closes in on 5.
I am also conscious of stereotypes, particularly when it comes to reading and the creative arts. I don’t want my boys to ever hear that it’s okay that he doesn’t try in English because reading is just not a guy thing. Instead, I do my best to encourage books and storytelling, the craft cabinet is always available to Peanut and no task or job has ever been labeled just for boys or girls in this house.
Surprisingly, the toy catalogs that arrived at Christmas time posed a bit more of a challenge. The traditionally labeled boy and girl toys were designated by blue or pink tabs on the page layout. Sure, most boys would probably pick a Thomas toy over a Barbie doll, but the play kitchens or building sets? Who is to say that a boy can’t whip up some pretend cookies or that a girl can’t design a fabulous house out of an erector set? I hated Peanut flipping over to the play house pages and saying “That kitchen is a girl’s toy. See, it’s on the pink page.” That took some explaining, but the fact of the matter is I can’t monitor every message that enters his world.
Peanut is still at that happy age when all things are equal, when society and history and cultural influences haven’t colored his thoughts about the opposite sex or skin pigmentation. I want him to hold onto that as long as possible, to see the soul, the good, the person and not the trappings of a society that so often decides who can be good enough. I struggle with this when he says things like, “Daddy’s work and mommy’s stay home” simply because that is what I’m doing now. We talk a lot about mommy “working” on the computer (when I’m actually writing, not when I’m sneaking a Facebook status). The pressure of raising future men that will respect women as equals in their classrooms, relationships and workplaces is real to me.
So earlier this week, we watched the USA take on France in the World Cup. He cheered, he chanted USA, he was thrilled that we won. Today, we sat down as a family to watch the finals. We talked about how fast the women were. How much time they must practice. How hard they were playing. We cheered them on and were disappointed when they came up short.
Although it was a heartbreaking loss, for a moment, the US was focused on women’s achievements, and we weren’t surprised to be doing so. We marveled at their skill, their physicality, their teamwork. The game was remarkably respectful with fantastic sportsmanship on both sides and little evidence of personal ego. It was a joy to watch.
Yes, I am glad that girls around the country have strong, female, athlete role models to look up to. I just hope that it’s okay if my boys look up to you, too.

Self Defined

I am many things to many people. On the top layer I am wife, mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, friend. I have been worker, commuter, traveler, producer, sales person, account manager, colleague. In the minutia I am dishwasher, laundress, chauffeur, dresser, diaper changer, schedule wrangler, maid, chef, errand runner, UNO dealer, night-night kisser.

The word that defines me the most, the me me, the inside dreamer soul me is the word I am most unlikely to utter. The word that has whispered to me in the dark since I was seven years old. The word that has most inspired, scared, thrilled me. It is the word I have been holding onto since I stopped working. The word that lingers, tempts and pulls me forward through the day-to-day drudgery that often makes up the stay at home mom life.
I worry that I sometimes put too much pressure on the word. That I’ve put all my faith in my future accomplishments on it. That somehow I use it to give my ego a crutch at this time in my life when I don’t have the external, third party career successes to provide that self-esteem boost.
And then, I fell into a conversation with a stranger at the nail salon as we both waited for our pedicures to dry, our feet propped under the fan bar. She, too, has two boys, now 33 and 36. She asked if I worked. We joked about boys and their energy and the life of a stay at home mom. She admitted how going back part time when her youngest started kindergarten was a life saver for her. And then, I took a deep, conscious breath and said it. Out loud. I tried it on and owned it. For 10 minutes. To a stranger. And the result was a fascinating conversation that buoyed me for the rest of the day.
I am a writer.
It is the truth. It is a dream. It is me.

Silver Linings

After nearly five years at this parenting gig, there are a few things I have figured out. Picking your battles is paramount. Your child’s behavior typically has a source – hunger, boredom, fatigue, frustration (to name a few) – and the quicker you can figure it out, the better. And my children are always their best selves when they spend time, as much time as possible, outside.

Living in Atlanta is certainly a positive when it comes to outside time during the dark days of winter. The mild weather allows us to take advantage of our neighborhood’s playground and area parks throughout the year. The trouble with summer, however, is that it can get too hot. If we don’t play outside somewhere in the morning, I don’t have it in me to tackle the playground in the 90+ degree afternoon heat.
This afternoon, I had to pack them up for a quick grocery store run before dinner. When we returned, Pumpkin was practically pulling me down the hill from our front walk to the playground across the street. Even though they’d had some great playground play this morning, I decided to suck it up, put my own tired bones aside and off we went.
Balancing two kids with two totally different skill levels at the park can be tough. We tried some frisbee action in the field, but pretty soon Pumpkin was having none of it. I managed to convince Peanut to join us on the playground, where he promptly fell off the monkey bars. Mommy was there to pick up the pieces and put his confidence back together, once it was apparent there were no major injuries, but I was contractually bound to watch whatever jumping game he had just devised.
And while Peanut was mid-bounce, that’s when I heard Pumpkin start crying. It wasn’t the hey, mommy, pay attention to me cry. It wasn’t the somebody help me cause I can’t reach cry. It wasn’t even the I was running too fast and fell down cry. It was the I. AM. HURT. cry.
I immediately rushed to his side and couldn’t see anything obvious at first – he was standing, there wasn’t any blood, all his limbs were attached. Then I saw it. A small red dot near his temple that was beginning to swell around it.
My baby’s first bee (wasp? something?) sting.
He’s fine. Mama’s fine. But our impromptu attempt to get through the witching hour despite my better instincts? I want to say it was a fail, but to be honest, the outside time, albeit brief, helped their moods immensely. And when I was done putting the baking soda paste on Pumpkin’s head, Peanut came over and gently gave his little brother a kiss on the head.
That certainly took the sting out.

If These Walls Could Talk

I’m not sure if it’s my father in me or the writer in me, but I love houses. I love the stories behind them, in them, of them. It pains me to see homes torn down to make way for new buildings. I know it’s necessary and certainly, a lot of times, warranted. But I can’t help but think of the lives lived within those walls, the phone calls to friends, tears shed over losses, the slam of the door as someone rushes home to celebrate triumphs, the sweat shed pulling weeds or painting bedrooms, the dents in walls caused by overzealous children, the quiet shuffling steps down halls with new born babies.
When we lived in New England (before my dad was transferred to NC when I was five), we were friends with the “O” family. Their daughter, D was my age and we had numerous play dates and family gatherings. When I was in first or second grade, D got on the phone during one of our mothers’ touch base phone calls to ask me to be her pen pal. It was for a school project, ostensibly to practice their handwriting, but we kept it up through high school. I dropped in and saw her one summer when we were in New England visiting family and I was still in college, I think. Thanks to Facebook, we’re back in touch after losing contact somewhere after college. She has two boys, too, and lives on the west coast now.
D recently commented through Facebook on this post. She was apparently preparing for her annual summer trip with her kids back East. I jokingly told her to say hi to the old house for me. She did – by posting a picture of the old homestead on my wall:

After a quick search on Zillow, I realized the house hasn’t changed hands since my parents sold it in 1982. It looks better than it did the last time we drove by, several years ago. And so I have been wondering who bought it? Did they raise children here? Why the recent updates (other Google sleuthing shows a dumpster outside the house during the Street View shots – apparently renovations done relatively recently)?
The house was originally built as a fire station in 1888. And so I have been wondering when did it become a home? How many different families have lived inside its walls? How fleeting of residents we were, compared to its long history.
My first real memories were in this house. I remember big events, of course, like cutting the tip of my finger off during the “sandbox building incident,” dripping blood on the kitchen floor, waiting for my parents to grab the car keys to take me to the ER. A few errant drops permanently stained a few places on the floor by the back door. The time a car took the turn at the corner and a little girl fell from the moving car (always lock your doors and make sure your kids are in their seat belts, people) and my mom rushing to help.
I remember having a conversation with my dad in the back yard one fall while he was doing yard work, concerned that Santa would not be able to fit through the tiny chimney from our wood stove. I remember hiding in the thickness of the blueberry bushes in the backyard, and picking fresh berries for blueberry pancakes. I remember mom cursing the bunnies who kept eating the strawberries we planted. I remember wiffle ball games in the back yard. I remember squishing caterpillars on the blacktop driveway. I remember “men falling from sky” (we could see the parachute exercises from the nearby Army base).
I remember dressing like a clown one Halloween and my mom reminding me to keep my heavily made up face away from the couch and then promptly falling asleep, my rouged cheek staining a spot (oops). I remember following my dad and Uncle B up to the “bell tower” attic (the turret where the bell once hung for the fire department) and my uncle making some joke about bats in the belfry, only I didn’t get the joke and forever was afraid there were actual bats in our house. I remember my bedroom with the red curtains (the first two windows on the second floor on the right hand side), my dad’s closet of a home office with his drafting table crammed in it so that you couldn’t open the door all the way if he was sitting in the chair.
I remember “shaving” with my dad in the home’s one bathroom. I remember painting Snoopy paint-by-number Christmas ornaments with my mom while my infant sister was taking an unprecedented nap. I remember watching “The Wizard of Oz” one night with dad while my mom was working nights. I remember the wide curved wooden stairs. I remember sitting at a window on the stairwell and realizing that my eyes actually moved inside my head, that it wasn’t just my head moving (weird, but revolutionary revelation for a four year old).
If I remember that much about a short time living in a house, I wonder what my kids will remember of this house? Our current house is not our forever house. It’s entirely too small for two young boys as it is, not to mention two raucous school-aged boys and (help me) two teenage boys and their gaggle of friends. We have no plans to leave now, but occasionally, I find myself fingering the dent in the wall a thrown train made or remembering the spot where Peanut took his first steps or realizing how the step on the front porch has been home to waiting for daddy, popsicles and last night’s water bubble contest (might as well put our eldest’s obsession with blowing bubbles through a straw to competitive use, no?). I try to mentally snapshot these memories so that when the boys grow up and say “remember when…” I, too, will fondly remember the first house that they do.
I hope we are doing this house proud. Despite it’s failings and my constant desire to knock down walls or refinish surfaces or add on, it’s more than a house. It’s part of the family. It’s home.

Fever Phobia

Peanut’s had a cough for the last couple of days. It hasn’t been too frequent, he’s had no other symptoms and he’s been acting normal.

Then, this morning, he started running a low grade fever.
Great.
Fevers for me make me question every little thing about my kids’ behavior, attitude, activity level, food consumption, etc… I think it stems back to my parents typically taking the line that you’re fine unless you have a fever. So when my kids have a fever, I tend to think, oops, something must be WRONG. I do this with myself as well and am constantly asking the hubby to check and see if I feel warm when I’ve got a bug. And, probably 90 percent of the time, I don’t.
Most of my fever paranoia was dissipated during Peanut’s toddlerhood. He was constantly coming down with mystery fevers that had no other symptoms. He was once diagnosed with a “fever virus,” whatever the heck that is. During that time period, my pediatrician comforted me with the wisdom that a fever means a body is fighting something, it’s a good sign and is not, in and of itself, cause for worry.
So, this morning, armed with the knowledge that my kid’s fever was only in the low 99s, I put him in his swim suit and took him to swim lessons.
Does this make me a bad mom?
All I know is that he was acting fine, wanted to go and actually did great during his swim lessons. To make myself feel better, I did speak to the nurses line at my pediatrician’s office later and they think it sounds like a tiny cold and unless he’s at 101 for 3 days in a row, we’re doctor’s-office-visit free.
Meanwhile, I’m restraining myself from checking his head too often and whipping out the thermometer too many times. The last thing I want is to give him the idea, by asking too many times how he feels, that he can use that as a ploy to get out of stuff in the future.
It’s bad enough kids are like petri dishes passing along all their germs, I don’t need to add to the equation by passing along my own phobias.
And yes, Y parents, barring any increase in symptoms and/or fever, we’ll be back in the pool tomorrow. After all, he probably caught it from one of your kids anyway.

Dreams of Summers Past

Summer often makes me nostalgic for my grandparents. Growing up 700 miles away meant we didn’t see them but once a year. BUT, once a year, we spent a week or two there in the summer, often just my sister and me. I don’t know if the 24/7 nature of those visits made up the distance difference, but I felt close to my grandparents. Maybe because I loved their place as much as they did.

My grandparents lived in a nondescript house on a pond in Tiverton, Rhode Island. I loved everything about it. The crunch of crushed clam shells in the driveway. The rickety tire swing in the front yard. The splotches of dehydrated moss on the boulders bubbling up in the back yard. The damp, dusty scent and clammy painted cement floor under my feet in the basement. The picture of one of my aunts as a teenager in a bathing cap, up on water skis, a smile as big as joy itself on her face. The sliver of beach and splintery pier perched on an outcropping of rocks. I loved the carefreeness of spending our days in the water, on the boat, in the sun. It was coffee ice cream before dinner, Red Sox games on TV and my sister, cousin and I taking turns with the mousse and curlers in my grandmother’s hair (always the night before she was due to have it done at the salon). There was a satisfying heaviness that would overtake our bones at the end of the day as we finally crawled beneath the nubby white comforter on the bed.
This place spoke so much to me and I still am not sure why. Was it simply the beauty of place? Was it that I was away from the routine, the mundane? Was it the company of cousins? Was it the ever present sound of laughter? Was it the unconditional love and “go outside and play” attitude of my grandparents?
My grandparents have been on my mind a lot lately either because it’s summer and I’m nostalgic for our yearly trips, I want to share the magic of their place with my boys, or if it’s my heart’s annual tug towards the water.
It could be because today would have been their 70th wedding anniversary. They made it to their 62nd anniversary before my grandpa passed in 2003, my grandma not long after in the summer of 2004.
Whatever it is, there is a part of my soul that yearns for Tiverton, for childhood, for raucous family clam boils, bawdy jokes shared in whispers amongst the “adults” that ended in gales of laughter traveling across the pond, clam cakes and lobster rolls at Evelyn’s, days spent without television, the smell of pond water in my hair as I drifted off to sleep.
My grandparents and summer days spent at their house were my lighthouse growing up. They somehow showed the way back to a quiet part of me that often got lost in the noisy day-to-day. I always felt at peace and whole after a trip there. My parents recognized it and sent me there as a college graduation gift. My husband recognized it and we often planned vacations that included a trip to New England.
Although I’ve been to visit family in New England in recent years, it’s been a long time since I’ve been back to the pond. In fact I don’t think I’ve been back since my grandmother’s funeral. Maybe this pull I’m feeling is my grandparents silently lighting the beacon for me again, shining the way to stillness. With all the changes in the last six years, my inner me yearns to recalibrate, to dip my toes back in the murky waters of Sawdy Pond, to watch the light play on the water for awhile, to listen to the sound of children’s laughter roll down the lawn. Only this time it would be my children.
Looks like it might be time to check the fare sales.

Mama Needs a Business Trip

After a week away with the boys, I came home chanting: “I need another vacation.” Once you have kids, the current wisdom says, you don’t really have a vacation, merely a change in location. While adults can easily blow off daily routines or postpone a meal or simply lounge on a beach all day, the kids don’t react well to too many skipped naps, meal times are sacred and to be adhered to at all costs and lounging? Ha!

Although there is something to be said for a change in location. The boys loved all the attention, exploring new things and playing in a different environment. Mama, however, was exhausted after juggling a variety of visits, entertaining the kiddos and trying to keep them out of the way of the contractors working to reassemble my parents’ kitchen. I had a great time, but R&R? Not so much.
As the sibling squealfest during dinner reached decibel levels that should require protective ear wear, I announced that I needed a vacation without you know who and who. Then it dawned on me, I don’t need a vacation. I need a business trip.
An unplugged plane ride with US Weekly, dinner and drinks with interesting people talking about a variety of topics (I was lucky to have great clients), an expense account, a quiet hotel room where someone else makes the bed, no one to raise an eyebrow at my mindless TV choices, coffee and the newspaper in the morning without interruption.
I never would have thought that one day, a business trip could feel like a vacation.

Vacation from the Ordinary

I am in the midst of a week in NC with the boys. By myself. At my parents’ house. Which is in the throes of a kitchen renovation. And my folks are at work all day. Did I mention I was by myself?

I dubbed the trip “Camp NC” for Peanut and we made t-shirts and a travel journal for him to fill with all the fun things we’re doing this week. We have included a trip to the Asheboro Zoo (where mama got to feed a giraffe!) and various play dates and meals with family around town.
Although catching up with everyone is crazy and remembering to wash out the sippy cups in the bathroom has been challenging, I am having a blast with my boys. Removing myself from the day-to-day tasks of laundry and meal planning and meal making and cleaning up and car pooling and Twitter and rewrites, I have found the fun again. There is just time for play. No distractions.
Sure, I have play time with the kids during a regular week, but there are mental to-do lists piling up while I deal the seventh game of Uno with Peanut. Or there is the (ahem) “play time” in the laundry basket with Pumpkin while I’m folding laundry. Or the “just give me a minute” responses when I’m trying to finish that last email or make one more phone quick call.
This week, it’s just been travel bingo, soccer balls, playgrounds, jokes, checkers, cuddle time and giggles. I haven’t felt the need to yell once. I’m watching the boys learn to play together in a way that is new to them, too. I recognize it as the way my sister and I would play at my grandparents’ house. No matter how entrenched in a violent cycle of sibling rivalry we were in during the car ride up or at home for weeks before ever departing, we would silently put aside those differences and enjoy each other’s company making up new games, boating with Poppa or playing hide and seek with our cousins. My boys are so little it’s not sibling rivalry they are putting aside, but more accurately, they are finally recognizing the playmates they have in each other when all their own distractions of home are missing.
I’m so glad I decided to make this trip. I’m even happier that we timed it when we did. The last day of school was last week and the summer stretches out long in front of us. Perhaps the lessons we are learning on this trip will inspire the rest of our summer. More play. Less worry. More focus on the moment. Less looking ahead. More joy in each other. Less looking for the flaws.
If this week is any indication, I think it’s going to be a great summer.
Although, according to Mommy’s Law, I probably just jinxed myself, didn’t I?