You said WHAT to that mom??

If you ever take a training course for positive working relationships, the main topics will be centered on what you should say and do to make each and every one of our interactions contribute to the healthy working relationship. If I were to do a Google search, I have no doubt that I would find hundreds of companies that offer this service for the workplace. I also have no doubt that I would find NONE that relate to how to handle a stay at home mom.  When it comes to the “stay at home mom” (SAHM), this concept can be tricky, but a simple “what to do/what not to do” list can be very helpful.

The following advice comes from the combination of my own personal experiences and those of the other SAHM’s that I know and have known in my life. Let me lend you some guidance, based on what I have learned.

1-      When your child wakes you in the middle of the night, necessitating a parental visit, DO NOT ask the SAHM to go deal with it because you have to work tomorrow. That’s not to say that your job isn’t difficult and/or important. This also does not discredit the value your income brings to the functioning of the home. I also feel that she should take her turn in the process of comforting children in the middle of the night, but it should be just that, her turn. Do not be deterred by the fact that her job has no official contract and salary. Let me assure you, she works tomorrow too. (And no, she probably can’t sleep when the kids sleep either. Not if you want dinner.)

2-      At every age, children exhibit a variety of behaviors, typically consistent with their age. Some of these behaviors are adorable, while others are downright annoying. Think nails on chalkboard and multiply by 10 and you will understand how charming some of these behaviors can be. When the SAHM complains about said behaviors, DO NOT calmly and flippantly comment on the normal developmental nature of this behavior and mildly assure her that this will eventually pass. It’s a true statement, it will pass. And it’s probably developmentally normal too. But that does not change the fact that dealing with it all day, every day, brings her reaction to a whole new level. Those that have the fortune/misfortune of leaving the house at 7:30 am and returning in time for dinner (i.e. avoiding this issue during the majority of the daylight hours) do not experience it to the same level. Trust me.

3-      Having down time is essential, for everyone and for all ages. Many SAHM’s have the luxury of their kids napping on a daily basis. While this is a wonderful luxury, let me assure you, this is not “free time” or “her time” any more than a planning period is free time for a teacher or non meeting time is “free time” for one who works in an office. Just like you, we are still at work and we have a lot to accomplish, mostly tasks that are impossible when the kids are awake. If we sit down for a few minutes, drink a hot cup of coffee, good for us. We probably ate our lunch standing up while prepping dinner and our breakfast standing up while we dealt with the kids and their needs. We deserve a few minutes of sanity.

4-      We’ve all seen it. The kid on the floor of target, wailing his little brains out. And mom, ignoring him while she finishes selecting an item to buy. Pre-child I had many opinions on this. I was one of “those people” that wondered about that mom. How could she be so callous? Didn’t she care that her child had needs? Given that I had worked daycare with toddlers, I felt justified in this opinion. After all, I had worked with this age. I knew what I was talking about. Right?  Not so much…!

Now I AM one of those moms. I let my kids scream on the floor if needed, given they aren’t sick or in need of something serious. No means no and I can’t afford to have my children learn that screaming is the way to get what they want. If I give in once, my future outings are going to get much more difficult. DO NOT give this mom advice. Do not suggest that her child must be tired, hungry, thirsty, etc. DO NOT suggest that she use her stroller if the child is running wild. Chances are that she is a good mom and knows exactly what is going on. She knows when an event is out of character or when it is part of a pattern that needs to be curbed. If you think she’s enjoying this moment, you are wrong. Horribly wrong. Being looked at “that way” is bad enough. Don’t make it worse.

5-      DO NOT arrange for workers to come to the house during the day, without asking her, assuming it won’t be a problem. After all, she’s home anyway, right? She’s working at home, if she’s there. If it’s the kind of work where the workers simply need access, it’s probably alright, presuming she doesn’t have other plans or the work is very important. Some workers need access to the homeowner, not just the home. I don’t know about you, but I can’t control two toddlers and keep them out of the work space without creating total chaos. If they will need that much homeowner input, you might need to be there to help her.

6-      DO NOT make the assumption that a play date is a social event. It has social elements, but so does your business meeting at the office. Would you classify your high stress business meeting as a social event? I think not. It is nice to see other moms and to give your kids a chance to play, but it’s often far from relaxing. You have to mediate, chase, and you almost never finish a conversation with the other moms. (Think about a difficult meeting at your office where you must be constantly at the top of your game to keep to your agenda, and you are at least on the correct planet, if not in the same city.) Play dates are survival, pure and simple; they are not carefree social events.

Now that I’ve given you a long list of don’t, I’d like to suggest few things that you can do, that would appreciated by every SAHM I know.

1-      DO be patient with her when she is blocking an isle of a supermarket/target because she is trying to herd cats, uh, I mean move her children in the same direction without losing one of them and/or letting one of them break something that she will have to pay for.  It’s not easy. Trust me. Herding cats, herding Jell-o… whatever you call it.

2-      DO compliment her on how nicely her kids are acting, wherever she may be with them. She may only give you a faint smile or nod, but she hears you. Loud and clear. She has worked hard, very hard, and has been that mom in target with the goal of having kids that can behave the way you are seeing now. Trust me, she appreciates it. Even if she doesn’t outwardly show it.

3-      DO have respect for the fact that she was probably working in some job (pre-children) that allowed her to wear unstained clothing, have some authority over humans with a developmental ability to follow some directions, finish an intelligent thought and finish a hot drink before it went cold. Oh, and a job that she could leave. That’s huge. If she seems vaguely frustrated, telling her to calm down is not entirely productive. If she needs to be calm, help her do it. Get her out of the house, alone, and not for an annoying errand. Take care of a household task that she would normally be responsible for. Do something to make her life easier. Amazingly, she will probably become much saner, very quickly.

4-      DO understand that her patience for her children may be significantly shorter than her counterparts that have had the opportunity to be away from their kids long enough to miss them. It’s not that she loves them less; it’s that her exposure is significantly greater. Count the number of times you have witnessed the particular behavior and multiply by 100. Her lack of never ending patience will make more sense.

5-      DO recognize that household chores not yet accomplished when the kids go to sleep should be divided evenly, not left to be done in her “free time”. If she is cleaning up the kitchen, you might want to help her and your share. If areas of the house need tidying or certain details need to be set in place for the next day, doing your part of these tasks is enormously appreciated by the SAHM. I don’t know about you, but I don’t enjoy food shopping at 8:30pm because the logistics of the day and the kids didn’t allow for a supermarket trip that day. Oh, and there’s no milk or eggs. She’d LOVE for you to take the shopping list and go for her. Really.

I was/am a teacher and I find it ironic how teaching and parenting have so many parallel issues. I am still a teacher, even when I don’t have an official classroom. My home is my classroom and I am teaching two members of the future of America, my kids. The ways they will act and the choices they will make will bear a huge connection to my actions and decisions now. This is an enormous responsibility and there is no break.

I don’t expect a million dollar contract (although I wouldn’t turn it down…) but I’d like a little respect.  My job deserves to be on the “Top Ten List” of hardest jobs ever.

Full time motherhood is not for the weak!

A morning with my daughter...

I had a blessed morning with my daughter!

For those of you that follow my blog, you may have read my post about the swimming class dilemma. (“Enough is enough”, in case you want to go back and look). The summary, for those of you budgeting your time, is the following.

1-      We took our twins to swim class. (ok, water comfort class)

2-      My son enjoyed it. My daughter hated it. Really hated it.

3-      I handled it spectacularly badly and vented my frustrations in a heartfelt blog. Should we quit or should we persist?

After I calmed down (and yes, that was quite necessary) I realized that there was one central idea that could not be ignored. I love my daughter desperately and her learning this skill right now is not essential. We’re not giving up forever, but for now… it wasn’t worth it. I decided that enough was, in fact, enough.

And then the silver lining dawned on me, like the clouds parting. I think I actually heard that music that goes with the visual. You know…the crescendo of harmonics. My son could go to swim class with daddy and I could take a morning, once a week, with my daughter. Yes!!!!!! My husband asked why I couldn’t take our son and I may do that in a few weeks.  But the kids are much less daring with me. They cling more often and they are more likely to play helpless. With him, they are more independent.

As twins, they are almost never apart. They do everything together. It’s fantastic that that they have the wonderful twin bond, a multitude of shared experiences. It also means that they don’t have so many separate experiences though. Even beyond that, my relationship (to a certain extent) is with THEM, not each of them.  We’re the three musketeers, the three stooges; the three blind mice… take your pick. I do my best to give to give them each their own attention when I can, but it’s not always as possible as I would desire.

Which is why I loved this idea so much and so instantly.

Almost two weeks ago, we initiated the experiment. My husband took my son to the door and I waited in the family room. All was going well. Excellent. Then my daughter tried to go for the door too. Uh oh… When we held her back, both kids freaked. He didn’t want to go without her and she didn’t want him to leave her. Hmmm…  With a certain amount of adult intervention, the separation was complete. Complete with wailing that is.

They both got over it quickly, though, and a good morning was had by all. We went shopping and then to a playground that is almost always off limits, for sheer logistics. It’s enormous, and there’s no way I can safely watch two toddlers. She was in HEAVEN.

My husband and I wondered what would happen the 2^nd week and our dreams were heard. No fuss. No crying. No objecting. He went with daddy happily and she stayed with mommy. Then, she realized. She inquired as to where her brother was, and I told her that he was playing with daddy. She nodded, and then started to think. Yes, I could see the wheels turning. All of a sudden, she looked straight at me and said. “Play with mommy?” I smiled and confirmed that Yes, she was going to play with mommy. Slight pause and then a HUGE smiled crept over her face. Her feet started to do a little dance and she giggled.

All was right in the world.

We went to the flea market, browsed the vendors, looked at cool shiny stuff and shared an ice cream. She listened like a champ, followed me without having to hold hands and spent most of her time with saucer sized eyes, taking in all the visual stimulation. It was amazing. No tantrums, no discipline needed and no fuss. We just hung out and played. Is that what it’s like to have one kid?

What a wonderful morning.

Maybe one of these weeks I’ll take my son swimming and my husband can take my daughter.  It would be nice to have that kind of quality time alone with him too.

Frequently the horrible storm really does produce a beautiful rainbow.

Do you see what I see?

I was sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with the kids. We had a variety of cars and other toys, and were “zooming” them around the floor. It was fun, actually. The kids were giggling and I couldn’t help but laugh with them. At one point, I looked up from our play and really SAW the room. Everything was really tall. The back of the sofa was above my head and I couldn’t see into the family room because my view was blocked by furniture. The gate that blocks the living room was too tall to mount. And it hit me. This is how they see the room every day.  Ironically, it didn’t even feel like the same room in some ways.

We forget, sometimes, that others experience a space or time differently than we do.

Their difference in perspective may be due to physical attributes, such as height or weight. An item that is easy to reach for one may be difficult and frustrating for another. A chair that is comfortable for one person may be highly uncomfortable for another. The difference may be due to area of expertise. An individual who is knowledgeable about the topic of conversation is much more likely to feel at ease than one who is unable to understand. A person is also more likely to feel comfortable in a room with familiar people than strangers. It makes sense. Most people are happier when success is easier to achieve. I know that I am.

We all get frustrated with others sometimes. As I spend most of my time with my husband and my kids, they are my greatest point of reference for this particular emotion. I spend all day, every day, with my kids. It would be fair to say that I experience a fair amount of frustration with two, 2.5 year old children. After all, they are human enough to be highly emotional and way too young to be even vaguely rational. Sometimes that’s a deadly combination. As for my husband, let’s just say that we both have our frustrations with the other. I get frustrated with him for actions that he does and does not take. From where I sit, those actions were essential, either to complete or to avoid.  He gets frustrated with me for pressuring him on issues that don’t seem to deserve the attention they are receiving. From his seat, their priority is much lower and outweighed by something else that he is actively working towards.

And it all comes down to perspective. When I say “no” to my kids, it may not be a huge deal to me, but it’s enormous to them. To me, it’s just juice. What’s the big deal, right? Can’t they quench their thirst with water? To them, it’s one more indication that they do not have control over their lives. It’s not about juice; it’s about what the denial of juice represents. And it’s serious! 

I have been running into some interesting power struggles with my son recently. They are very comparable to the ones I encountered with my daughter a few months ago. Everything was a fight, a struggle. Then, suddenly, it went away. She calmed down and became much more compliant. I attributed the relief, at least in part, to her increased language development. All of a sudden she was able to really ask for what she wanted. Given that most of what she wanted was valid and easy to comply with, she got it. Why say no when you can say yes, right?

Now, it’s his turn. And wow, is it his turn…! Getting from point A to point B is an ordeal, even if the distance is 5 feet. I have taken to using the stroller more often, as his walking cooperation has deteriorated enormously. He refuses to climb the stairs for nap and sleep, outright refuses. The independent play that I have enjoyed for quite some time now, play that allowed me to accomplish a few home tasks during the day, has been cut significantly. I have to monitor them constantly as fights breaking out are a common occurrence. While I typically try to let my kids police themselves, it’s not entirely possible these days. It doesn’t seem fair to her.

I find this frustrating, very frustrating actually and sometimes it causes me to lose my temper, raise my voice. From my perspective, it’s one more barrier to relaxing with and enjoying the time with my children. It’s not that I want them to go away. What I want is to eliminate the level of struggle. It’s reasonable to have this desire, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen. At least not now.

As for my husband, my frustration comes from the inability that we both harbor to truly sit in each other’s seats, see what the other is seeing. When we argue, it inhibits our ability to hang out in our “free time”, cuts into our laughter time and puts up a barrier in our overall communication. I’m not saying that our relationship is in danger; we actually argue shockingly little for a couple with the stress of young twins. But we argue more than I would like and much more than we used to pre-life with children.

Maybe this is what makes us human?

Maybe the fact that we use our mental energy to contemplate this at all means that we aren’t failing as badly as we think.

It’s all in the bag… or is it?

Psychologists claim that you can evaluate a person by analyzing seemingly irrelevant elements of their behavior. How do they react to traffic? Do they calmly find a good radio station or do they begin to rant at the gods of traffic? How do they treat those that serve them in restaurants? How do they react to seemingly small, daily inconveniences?

I firmly believe that you can evaluate a mom by the diaper bag she uses and what she carries with her when out with her children.

When I was pregnant with my twins, I was always hungry. And I mean ALWAYS. My morning sickness was mostly contained to mornings and once the nausea passed I was famished… all the time. If I didn’t eat immediately, I would begin to feel seriously ill and it all went downhill from there. I was teaching pretty close to full time at that time, so free time was hard to come by, at least by my pre-child standards. I didn’t want to feel sick and I certainly didn’t feel like complaining to anyone. I was thrilled to be pregnant and feeling very happy with life, despite some of the physical discomforts of the pregnancy. In the spirit of making it work, I began arming myself. I always traveled prepared. My purse was always chock full of snacks. I ate during every class and in every meeting. I kept a variety of snacks, most of which were low odor and low noise (for the sake of others) and low mess (as I was frequently eating in typically inappropriate locations and situations). Then the babies arrived and the equation changed entirely.

Have you ever shopped for a diaper bag? It’s like shopping for a car, but more painful. There are different brands, different sizes, different shapes and different colors. It’s totally intimidating. And why are there so many choices? Because every woman has a different approach.  Let me elaborate…

Some diaper bags look like “baby”, with Winnie the Pooh or big pink hearts. A woman can carry that, but a man? No way! Some diaper bags look like “mom”. Basically, a woman’s purse but much larger. Think Vera Bradley floral. I don’t know about your situation, but my husband has rarely carried my purse and he would NEVER carry some of those diaper bags I have seen in stores.

Size is another part of this elaborate decision and the size of bag each woman chooses is a true testimonial to who she is and how she operates.

I’ll explain.

The “weekender”: There is actually a diaper bag called the weekender. It’s a larger version of a smaller diaper bag that is the same details (more or less) but miniature. Weekender? I think not… If you can fit a weekends worth of necessities in there, it’s gonna be a short weekend. I think they need to rename it the “twin” diaper bag. Twice the diapers, twice the cups/bottles, twice the everything. It could also be the “Irish twin” diaper bag. For those of you that don’t know the term, Irish twins are two singletons that are so close in age that the mom might as well be caring for twins in many ways. Both in diapers, two sets of sippy cups and bottles, etc.

This kind of mom either has two kids (or more) or she is a big purse woman. Yes, a big purse woman. The kind of woman who carries cold medicine when she doesn’t have a cold and chapstick in summer. The kind of woman who always has extra pens, a book, you name it… She had the mom bag before she was a mom. After all, you have to be prepared for anything, just in case... You never know what might happen.  You know the type.

The “midsize” bag: This bag, whether it’s a backpack or messenger bag, is like a medium sized school bag. Enough room for extra diapers but not enough for the kitchen sink.

This kind of mom is prepared, but probably carried a medium size purse in her pre-child life. She either has one child or her second child is out of diapers and old enough to not need so many special supplies. She is a well prepared mom, but not the kitchen sink category. For better or worse, she is more dependent on exterior sources when a need strikes.

The “mini”: Most brands make a diaper bag that is effectively a slightly large purse with a few minor alterations for the purpose. An insulated pocket, waterproof material for spills, etc.

This kind of mom ether only has one kid, doesn’t have any young kids anymore or is officially insane. That, or enviously calm. How do you NOT worry when you have such low levels of supplies? What if you get stuck somewhere, the kids are hungry, and you have no snack? That would not be fun!

The “converted” diaper bag: This bag is the one that is sold for some other purpose, a school bag or a large woman’s purse, possibly.

As this one has potential for all sizes, there isn’t one kind of mom that has this kind of bag. There is an implication of low maintenance, though, or at least non trendy or on a smaller budget. When something is identified as “For baby” there is a significant price hike. It’s similar to the concept of making a white dress more expensive when it’s called a wedding dress. If it were called a “white dress”, it would cost half the price.  Most diapers bags, placed in the school supplies section, would be priced much more reasonably.

So what kind of mom am I?

I started with the weekender and it took me a long time to down size, there was just too much stuff that I might need. And when you are outnumbered by two infants, nothing is left to chance. Every possible issue must be accounted for, and I do mean EVERY. When they were about a year old, I dared to downsize. I tried a midsize, but I just couldn’t make it work. I kept finding myself without items that I hadn’t previously judged essential, but then had issues without. Outings were cut short. What a pain. So I moved up in size to a converted diaper bag, an L.L. Bean backpack. It was enormous, stupidly big, but it held coloring books, extra toys, you name it. If you had looked hard enough, you might just have found a kitchen sink. Hey, at least you could wash your hands… right?

Very recently, I found the courage to downsize again. And it seems to be working, finally. After all, my kids are closer to 3 than 2 now. Can you believe it? I certainly can’t. I can’t believe that my kids are so old. I also can’t believe that I have downsized in bags. I have always been a big purse woman, so it’s a challenge for me. But I like a challenge… makes me alert, keeps me strong! J What doesn’t break you makes you stronger!!!

I suggest that each and every one of you check out your diaper bag right now, and do some valuable self analysis. Let me know if you come up with anything interesting.

The tiny international world we inhabit...

Being a novice to this world of blogging, I was mystified when a friend asked me about the “stats” on my blog. The what? I was so excited to learn that I could see the details of how many people have read each posting. I was even more fascinated by the fact that I could see where my readers were located, sorted by country. Check this out!

1. United States
2. United Kingdom
3. Singapore
4. Switzerland
5. Germany
6. Romania
7. France
8. Italy
9. Cayman Islands
10. India

Some of the countries made sense to me. The United States was obvious. I have at least one friend in Singapore, France, Switzerland, and the Cayman Islands. I have a past student who is currently in India. My husband’s family is British, so that explains the UK.

But Germany? Romania? Italy?  Wow… I’m told that search engines can find your blog and that might account for one or two of the countries, but still. Sort of blows my mind. Maybe one of my foreign friends shared the link to one of his or her friends? I guess it’s possible, right? It reminded me of how small the world actually is and it left me reminiscing about my travels as a young adult.

I was raised by parents who love to travel, so I had the benefit of visiting many different countries by the time I graduated college. At that time, I already spoke two languages (French and English), and I added Spanish during my grad school years.  I had the luxury of spending a full year of college in Paris and wow, was that a fantastic year. If you ever want to get me talking (ok, babbling) without the possibility of shutting me up for a few hours, ask me about that year. I’d be happy to fill that time. Same with the 3 months in Spain, while I was completing my masters. Irreplaceable times and experiences. There are still many songs, pictures and words that elicit real visceral memories for me.  In the blink of an eye, I can travel back in time and relive the moment. It’s sort of surreal, actually.

I feel very fortunate for that time, and for those experiences. On the most basic level, it was FUN!  What adventures I had! What crazy, interesting people I met! Some names and faces I remember and others have been reduced to a blurry and anonymous part of an experience. Either way, they all played an essential role in the travels of a lifetime. In Rome, my friend and I stumbled onto a festival and spent the evening dancing with a crowd of Italians we couldn’t even talk to. Awesome!

On a more intellectual level, it was insanely educational. I did learn a lot in my classes during that time, but that’s not really what I mean. The everyday in the streets, time spent with my peers from other countries, cultures and languages. What is there NOT to learn? Every moment was an opportunity. While I was in Spain, I was student in an international college. We were placed according to our level of Spanish, so I often had no idea if my classmates even spoke English. Spanish was our mode of communication... it never came up. That still amazes me sometimes.

On an emotional level, those times of travel are my lifeline. Especially now, as I pass through the time of my life when getting to the supermarket is an accomplishment. And really, with two toddlers, it IS an accomplishment. Sadly. When I think back to my times of my backpack containing a novel and Discman (yes, that ancient device) instead of diapers and wipes, it reminds me that I had freedom once and I will have it again. This is a sincere comfort for me on those days when getting the bathroom requires strategy.

If I step back, though, I realize that there has been one side effect of all my travels that positively outweighs all the others. No doubt in my mind. And here it is…

I have never learned more about myself than during the times of my greatest discomfort. And despite the fantastic and positive elements of traveling abroad and learning a new language, it is also highly uncomfortable. You used to be able to pop into the supermarket, get a few items and move on with your day. Not anymore. Now it takes 2 hours and you find out that you got the wrong items when you get home. You used to be able to order a sandwich without sweating. Not anymore. Now you have to rehearse what you are going to say before you enter the shop, and your heart still pounds. You may get what you wanted, or maybe you won’t’. You used to be able to ask directions and get to your destination quickly. Not anymore. Now you have to create an intricate mixture of signs, facial expressions, pointing and badly pronounced foreign words to (possibly) get the most simple of ideas across. And I have never again taken for granted, knowing what the packaging of an item looks like. Even if the contents of the box are the same, the box itself is different. Good luck finding it quickly. And if you don’t know how what it’s called… then good luck asking for it. (Think baking soda and baking powder and imagine you switch them… can’t be good for the final result.)

I had to become acquainted with myself on a whole new level. I had to admit my level of impatience and my tendencies towards perfectionism with certain types of tasks. I formed an intimate relationship with “humble” on a level that I didn’t previously know existed. Trust me, it goes pretty darn low. I’ve been there.

I believe that your relationship with yourself becomes so strong because, for once, you have no choice. You’re in survival mode. Sink or swim. If you don’t get cozy with the real you, be prepared to sink. Fast.

Which brings me to the last lesson I learned. It was one, as the baby of the family and as an American, that I needed to learn. I am NOT the center of the universe. Neither is my home country. And I am responsible for taking care of myself and my own needs. I had to access a part of my bravery system that had previously rested dormant. I had to take care of myself, make wise choices and act quickly in moments of sincere discomfort or panic. Not fun sometimes, but a very handy skill. Many of us believe that the world is a good place, filled with people who do truly want to help. That’s probably true on some levels and I do believe that most of the time. But you still have to take care of yourself, end of story.

If you don’t do it, who will?

How it all started...

Over the past few weeks, I have alluded to my children being born prematurely, but I haven’t really given details. Here’s the short (or shortish) version.

My water broke at 31.5 weeks and I was rushed to the hospital. This was not good news, as we were hoping to keep the kids cooking for about 8 weeks longer. After 5 days of in hospital bed rest, the doctors had no choice. The kids were done cooking and coming on out.

At 32 weeks and 1 day, my beautiful son and daughter were born. Tiny. Helpless. They both cried immediately, thank goodness, but were whisked directly to the NICU, where they would spend the next 7 weeks. Their weights weren’t the real issue; they were both born just under 5 pounds. This is enormous for their gestational age. No wonder my water broke, I was huge and they were running out of space.

The problem was that they suffered from so many of the age related body immaturity issues that preemies so frequently encounter. Apparently, the sucking reflex comes at 34 weeks, so they couldn’t eat. And even if they could, the energy required for the eating process burned more energy than the food provided, so they were hooked to feeding tubes. My son had an air bubble in his chest, so day 2 he had a chest tube and got his first stitch. There is still a fold of skin on the side of his chest. I call it his brave scar and kiss it whenever I can.  (These days, he objects a bit. Ahhh….)

They also suffered from breathing issues, where they actually forgot to breathe, so they were hooked up to breathing monitors so that we would know when it happened, in addition to being given oxygen. To say that it was scary would be an understatement.  Day after day, I went to the hospital, looking at my little science experiments. It was the furthest I had ever been from them and it hurt like hell. I can’t tell you how many times I cried as I left for the day.

When they finally came home, they still had the monitors, but all the immediate issues seemed to have passed. Within weeks, the monitors were gone and they have not looked back.

Now, nobody looks at my kids and sees preemies. They see healthy kids and those that know how to judge child age accurately almost always guess close to correctly. They run, jump, play, scream, laugh, and learn like any other child.

But I KNOW that my kids are special. I am undeterred by the fact that my view is entirely biased and tainted by unconditional love. I know that my kids are the bravest and strongest kids in the world. I have no doubt that they saw the life they had ahead of them and they fought like hell to be healthy enough to enjoy it full force.  I know that they saw their Mom, Dad, extended family and medical caretakers smiling at them… and they sucked up all that positive energy to grow up and outgrow their medical issues.

Sometimes, in the midst of a “long” day, I look up at our mantle, where I keep their first pictures. The pictures are horrific, but I don’t take them down. The kids are red and blotchy, with masks and breathing tubes. Science experiments gone wrong.  It’s sort of scary, actually. But I don’t take them down.

Why not? Because it reminds me to be grateful.

When the kids are running around my legs, stepping on my toes, while I try to make lunch… I can feel grateful that they have the strength and coordination to move their bodies so successfully. When they are “dying” of hunger, I can feel grateful that their bodies are growing at such a successful rate that they feel such a hunger. When they scream and wail, yelling “mama” and “cookie” at ear splitting frequencies, I can feel grateful that their lungs now function normally and I don’t have to worry about this behavior making them pass out or putting them in any medical danger at all. I can feel grateful that they have the intelligence to be learning to talk and communicate so successfully. When they are pulling on my legs, both kids wanting to be picked up at a moment where I need two hands to complete a task, I can feel grateful that their emotional development allows them to want the comfort of Mommy at a time when they feel distress.

Overall, I can feel grateful that anything and everything my kids do (both positive and negative) is developmentally normal. My concerns, as their mom, are not medically founded, even if they are emotionally reasonable.  I mean, really… what mom doesn’t worry?

Thank goodness… I can feel grateful.

How they break your heart...

About two months ago, my kids both got bad colds. It was pretty nasty, actually. I considered taking out stock in a tissue company. Every time I tried to sit or accomplish any kind of task, I had to stop to wipe a nose, urgently. I jokingly started calling my kids “goobers” for the nasty nose effect of the cold. It kept the mood light.  “Goobers” transitioned to “Goobs” and finally landed as “Goobie”. Now, despite the disgusting beginnings, I call my kids “goobie” as a term of affection and they love it. I even sing it to them when I want to be extra goofy. Think of the “Scooby Doo” theme song and sing:

“Goobie, Goobie, Goo… I love you! “

Fun, huh? I have to be careful not to do it too often when they are on elevated surfaces. They laugh so hard I’m afraid they will fall and hurt themselves. J

Then my daughter called my son “goobie” one day, as she reached out and gently tickled his arm, grinning sweetly at him. He beamed back at her, their eyes locking in happiness. My heart, previously containing some solid substance, turned to mush and melted away. They had figured it out.  Calling someone “Goobie” is comparable to saying “I love you”.

Last week, when I was tucking my daughter into bed, I said. “I love you Goobie, Good night”. She stopped wiggling, turned her head to me. She looked me directly in the eyes with a gorgeous, confident smile and stated (so clearly) “I love you Mommy Goobie”.

How is the heart supposed to withstand such statements?  I still get all teary when I think about it.

We have video monitors over the kids’ cribs and sometimes I take a few minutes and just watch them. While they are sleeping is a lot less interesting than when they are awake. I enjoy watching what they choose to do with their quiet, alone time, when they think they aren’t being watched. I watch them hug, kiss and talk to their “friends” in the crib. (And I LOVE that they always give their little friends the most wonderful hugs. If those bears and dolls had feelings, they would be in love.) I watch them sing ABC and count their toes and fingers. I listen to them sing their favorite songs.  Both my kids now fall asleep in a body position that makes them look so much like little kids, so NOT like babies. I want to cry. Where did the time go?

It’s really ironic, the double standard between our hearts and our minds. We want smart kids, but we don’t want to deal with the fallout from when they outsmart us by climbing out of cribs and unlocking “child-proof” gates. We want them to learn how to be more mature, but we don’t want them to grow up. We want them to learn independence, but we never want them to leave us.  When it comes right down to it, we’re nuts. Totally, certifiably insane.  Parents.  All of us…  We don’t want what we say we want. Or do we?

For now, I am content watching my kids and tearing up when they aren’t watching. At least I don’t think they are watching.  Maybe they have their own kind of monitor on me and I just don’t know it. At least they can’t complain that I am embarrassing them in front of their friends… yet.

How I've changed over the past 10 years...

I read a sci-fi thriller a while back. The main characters are a family, a couple with one child. The woman came from a family that, while lovely and well meaning, had created some unfortunate personality traits. One of these traits was the inability to handle stress calmly. She frequently reminded herself that she was no longer part of her childhood family, and that she had changed. She was now part of her husband’s family and his family was calm. The calm part was relevant because all kinds of really horrible stuff kept happening (Think Stephen King) and she had to keep reminding herself to be calm. While I did not identify with the violent episodes, I did identify with her thought process.

Childhood development is a hot topic. The sheer number of books and articles dedicated to the topic is staggering. We observe children all the time. We comment on their behavioral changes and correlate their actions with their developmental stages. But what about adults? We change too. We modify our behaviors based on our developmental stage. Are you the same person now that you were ten years ago?

 I would guess not… I hope not…

I know that I’m not…   Let me provide you with a few examples.

1-      I now look like I belong in Home depot. Don’t laugh; it’s a bigger deal than you would think. I was NOT raised to fix my own things and the first time I remember going into Home Depot with my husband, I was terrified. Where the hell was I? What was all this stuff? Was I supposed to have ANY idea of what I was looking at? That was approximately 6 years ago. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to go to Home Depot by myself and I felt totally comfortable. I knew what I needed and I knew where it was located.  The only time I was approached by an associate, he told me that he could see I knew what I was looking for and it didn’t seem like I was finding it. I am embarrassed about how proud that made me feel!  (He was right, by the way. The item I was looking for was in box, but not on display, which explained my confusion).  This is not to say that I am the queen of fix-it land, but I am also not outside of the kingdom. I am slowly but surely entering and finding my place.

2-      I am far more outdoorsy than I used to be. This started in high school, when my friends began the process of “de-prissying” me. It continued in college, where I made some really great, down to earth friends. Since college, and then since meeting my husband, this pattern has only continued. I not only camp now, but I enjoy hiking and I am much more tolerant of less than ideal weather. This is very fortunate, as having kids and being “indoorsy“ doesn’t always work if you want to have your kids enjoy being outside.  

3-      I am much more realistic when it comes to what I “want” and what I “need”. Not that I don’t buy too many clothes, shoes and other frivolous items. I do… but I am much more aware of money and when it is being wasted. I have a ways to go, but I’m working on it. Whenever I look at something in a store, and consider buying it, I ask myself one essential question. “Can I justify this purchase to my husband?” If the answer is yes, then I ok… maybe I will buy it. If “no way” is the first thought that crosses my mind, back on the shelf it goes.

4-      I am much less fatalistic than I used to be. I used to freak out (big time) when things weren’t unraveling the way I had planned. The barrage of “what if’s” that invaded my brain was unreal. You try thinking calmly and effectively when your brain is under that sort of attack. It’s not easy. These days, I can see the influence of my husband on my reactions to stress and surprise. While I still panic more than he does, I do it much less frequently and when I do the level of reaction is significantly smaller. This is a wonderful development for me. The inability to stay calm was never pleasant for me. I like my current mode much better, it’s much more satisfying.

5-      I am much less of a complainer regarding small injuries. As a kid, I loved to put band aids on bug bites. Yes, seriously. Growing up, let’s just say that I wasn’t the most resilient when it came to tolerating pain. These days, I am much improved in that department. I used to be scared of needles, but I got over that too. I can now calmly hold my children while they get their injections. I don’t love seeing them cry, but it’s better than getting the illness the injection is fending off. Right? This also impacts my ability to react calmly when my kids get hurt. If they are really hurt, fine. Most of the time, though, they are fine and just a little scared. Telling them that they are fine, when they really are fine, is significantly easier if you deliver this news calmly and confidently.

6-      I am much better at following my gut, even when it means going against the crowd or a close friend or family member. I was always independent but it was not always based on confidence. At different times in my life, this independence was actually more rebellion, and rebellion is actually the opposite of confidence. (Or at least that’s what I believe…) These days, I look at my life and the life of my family… and I do what needs to be done. If those around me don’t approve, oh well. It’s not their family. I don’t feel the need to prove myself; I’m too busy just getting it done. And to be totally honest, it feels good.

I know that I’m not perfect, and honestly, I don’t strive to be. I hold myself to the same standard that I hold those I love and trust. I expect them to be honest enough to be kind and tactful enough to hold back that truth that won’t help anyone. I expect them to be smart enough to be good to those around them, and silly enough to make enough mistakes to keep their feet on the ground. Oh, and funny enough to make people smile.

If it’s good enough for the people I choose to love, shouldn’t it be good enough for me?

And we’re really only just works in progress anyway… let the progress continue!

What we really teach our children...

My kids are starting to comprehend the idea of dress up. It’s really quite amusing to watch. It started a while back with them walking around the house in our shoes. Closed shoes provided an amusing visual (picture flippers and you get the basic idea), but their attempts to amble in my flip flops just crack me up. Seeing their tiny little feet in comparison to my huge shoes is such an image. It reminds me of how little they really are.

A while back I got my daughter a little pink sunhat from Target. It was meant to be an Easter hat, I suppose, but it was cute and cheap. Why not, right? She didn’t want to wear it. Oh well. It went on the shelf. Very recently, it has become interesting so I got out some of the other hats that I have bought them recently, in the hopes of them wearing it. (You can correctly assume that asking my children to wear any head covering results in catlike wailing. Always has… fun stuff!)

When progress was slow, I took out my own floppy sun hat and showed them just how cool I looked. It worked perfectly. They both wanted to wear MY hat. Ahhh…. Not the intended result. What’s worse, they now want me to wear their hats, which are way too small (obviously) and make me look quite silly. I wouldn’t care but they fall off continuously and that’s annoying. Then again, who said I was gonna get anything done anyway?

Many people assume that cultures in other parts of the world, with different religions, languages and clothing, must have different experiences with their kids. I assume the opposite. I believe that ALL kids in ALL cultures probably steal their parents’ hats and shoes. Why? Because they want to be just like the grownups, of course.

I was watching my children recently, while they were simply “being”. They were playing quietly, enjoying the light feeling in the air, and I was doing dishes. I started to watch them a bit more carefully and I realized that my kids sit just like I do. They cross their legs the exact same way. They even tilt their heads to the side when they are thinking about something… I didn’t even know I did that. My son has this hilarious way of looking up at the ceiling and extending his neck when he laughs, mouth wide open.  I caught myself doing that too. I never realized it before.  My daughter has copied the exact tone of “darn it” that I use when frustrated. I watched her try to fix her trains one day, fail, and proclaim “darn it” with a frustrated sigh and little pout of the lips. Oh crap, that must be what I do.

So, I got to thinking, hard. I realized, once again, the enormity of what I have done, bringing new human beings into this world. Not only have I created the responsibility to feed, clothe and handle the medical issues for these new little people, but I have assumed responsibility for modeling what they will see as the “real world”. I have accepted the job of teaching them, without even consciously trying, how to be and what to do.  I don’t know about you, but I find that sort of scary. 

And exciting…

I took the kids to a pet shop a month or so ago, just to kill time. I was rounding my son up when I saw my daughter running for the cat adoption cages. Uh oh, this could end badly… she was going to reach the cage before I could reach her. Warning! Potential danger!  They have claws!!!

When she reached the cage, she stopped and crouched by the cage. She smiled gently, tilted her head to one side and slowly inserted her little finger into the cage where the kitten’s neck was pressed against the bars. She cooed (yes cooed) “Beautiful kitty cat” and started to stroke his neck delicately. When he purred, she giggled and continued. When she saw me, she glanced up with a huge smile and went right back to playing with the kitten.  She was in love.

I was awed, amazed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away and I certainly couldn’t find my voice. How did she know to do this? Where did she learn to be so gentle? She had learned it the same place my son had learned to curl up in my lap and gently tickle my arm with his tiny little pudgy fingers, so delicately and tenderly that it felt like I was being caressed by a feather, sending chills down my spine.

They learned it from us. From every time we held them and rubbed their backs. Every time we kissed their heads and cheeks in comfort. Every time we tickled their round little tummies, while they rolled on the floor belly laughing. We didn’t have to tell them what gentle means, they live it. Every day. Even when they don’t choose to display that particular understanding (oh, like, when they choose to smack each other in the head with plastic toys before nap time… ) they know what gentle is. They’ll outgrow the immature emotions and impulsivity that disengage their gentle button at inconvenient times, but they will never outgrow this inherent understanding of the safe and loving world they inhabit.

Maybe, just maybe, we are doing a few things right as we bumble through this thing called parenting. J

Enough is enough... or should we keep trying?

In one of my past jobs, as a teacher, I had the privilege of taking part in the interview process for new, incoming teachers. If you ever want evidence of how we judge others, an interview process is exceptional. When you interview a prospective candidate, you really take them apart. Even though your intent may be benign or at least benignly self serving,   you really do dissect the candidate. You want to know what they are made of. If they will be a good match for your company. Rightfully so.

I remember discussing candidates, searching to identify “good” qualities. Perseverance. The ability work effectively when intimidated. Intelligence. Strength. Just to name a few.  One day, hopefully, someone will be doing this to my kids as they search for employment. I wonder what they will say about them.

Having two kids the same age, with very little help available, I am almost constantly outnumbered. As a result, there are limitations to the activities I can do with my children. Swimming is one of them.

My kids are not, to put it mildly, water babies. They can enjoy a kiddie pool when positively influenced by other kids but big pools are not such a great experience. We’ve taken them on vacation and they are willing to cling to us in the big pool. My son would be a little independent, but my daughter. No way…

My husband and I thought that signing them up for swimming lessons would be a great way to teach them to enjoy the pool.  Not really swimming lessons, to be brutally honest. Let’s calm them “water acclamation” lessons. Ahhh… the power of optimism to cloud ones view of reality.

Three weeks ago, on an average Saturday morning, it began. We arrived at the pool. No screaming. Excellent. We went into the pool and the kids clung like mad. Think Velcro. Think “White on Rice”. Ok, still no screaming though. When it came time to put on the floaties, all hell broke loose. Crap. This was not good. Let’s just say that over the next 30 minutes my kids contributed to the environment greatly, in noise and water. They screamed and wailed, crying and snotting the whole time. If you don’t need a drink after that, nobody ever did. The 20 minutes in the family bathroom afterwards, attempting to get two kids and two adults dressed was no quieter or less stressful. It amazes me that when an intelligent person creates a “family bathroom” they don’t bother to include features like lids on toilets and garbages.  Really? Trying to get two hysterical children dressed and keep their fingers out of the toilet is not always possible.

In a moment of insanity, I agreed to try again the next week. I figured it was only one day. Right? The next time would be better, right? Optimism can be pretty dangerous. He was ok, and she teased us a bit by tolerating the first 10 minutes. After that, not so much fun.  The bathroom situation was no improvement. Why then, you ask, did we go back for week 3? Good question.

My husband was convinced that perseverance was the key. I was not so convinced. But here’s the thing.  One of the reasons that my husband and I make the great pair we are is that we approach things differently. This particular moment represents our relationship well. He wants to move forward, no fear. I want to be cautious, think, and contemplate the next step. Luckily for us, we also communicate well (most of the time) so when we finally meet in the middle the decision tends to be a wise one.  This time, we decided to move forward.

This morning was week three. What a long morning it was. We entered the pool. She was fine. Yes! I put on the floatie… I had to sing the Dora song and pretend it was Dora’s backpack, but it worked like a charm. Yes!  She stepped into the water, voluntarily. Yes!

Then the lesson started. We moved into the deeper water. And here we go again…

It’s now official. I’m done. Despite being more than a little annoyed by the associated waste of money. It’s a 10 week class which means we will have wasted 70% of the cost for one kid. It wasn’t hugely costly, but that’s not really the point. Is it?

The point is quitting. When is the right time to quit? When do you say “enough is enough”? My husband says that she will have to learn to get over her fear of water. He’s right, of course. But she’s not even 3. Do we really have to force the issue right now? Should we keep on putting her in the water and letting her scream? If we keep it up, will she decide to hate it more? Or will she “get over it”? Do we just keep going and let her sit on the edge and watch?

 If we let her quit, are we just inviting this same unfortunate situation next time or will she outgrow it on her own?  Are we teaching her to quit? Starting her on the pattern of quitting? Because, when it comes time for her to be judged, many years from now, I don’t want to worry that we didn’t give her a chance to impress.

And equally importantly, how much more can I take?

Where’s the manual on this particular point of raising kids? I think it was left out of the edition of “Parenting 101” that I bought. Can I have the revised edition please?  

Dude, what's the rush????

My children were late movers. They crawled late, they walked late, and their climbing is probably still a bit behind those of their peers. Given how early they were born, this isn’t shocking, and it doesn’t bother me now (with most of the issues long gone), but it does give perspective to what I am about to say.

My daughter was never diagnosed as delayed enough to get special services, but my son did. Infants and Toddlers, our Early Intervention (EI) program, took an interest in him. I have always been grateful and will always be. They, and the NICU that initially treated my kids, will be huge recipients of money if I ever win the lottery. They deserve it, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

My son’s muscle tone made it difficult for him to lift his head as an infant, and he crawled for the first time 2 weeks before his 1rst birthday. He didn’t walk until almost 18 months old. You can’t imagine the comments I got from strangers, fellow moms, who inquired if I had seen a “specialist”. Yes, In fact I had. Not that it was any of their business, but that’s ok. I understand that they meant well.

My children have very different personalities. The only thing they really have in common is that they invaded my body at the same time and are being raised together, the same age at the same time. As individuals, they couldn’t be more different.  Where my daughter is drama, my son is low key. Where my daughter is loud and social, my son tends to keep more to himself until he knows someone or a group well. He thrives on one-on-one interaction. While he is a disaster at following directions (blatantly ignores you with a beautiful and naughty smile), she chooses between being so insanely helpful or throwing herself on the ground in public protest. No gray area for my little ladybug.  

Over the past 2.5 years, they have simply become more advanced versions of themselves. What’s most ironic, or at least amusing, to me is that he is his dad and she is me, her mom. It’s scary.

My husband and I are both stubborn people, but in distinctly different ways. When I want to dig my heels in, the world gets a show. I want them ALL to know that I am NOT doing it the way they are trying to make me. Fun, huh? My husband is much more under the radar. He’s much more likely to act as if he’s on the same page, and then go do whatever he wanted to do initially. While this does piss me off sometimes, it’s probably a more effective social political strategy. I envy his self control.

One trait my son embodies is what I like to call the “Dude, what’s the rush” gene. Yes, for all you scientists out there, I know that’s not a real gene. It should be, though. My son does nothing in a hurry. He doesn’t walk fast, unless it means seeing another truck or school bus. He’d rather walk slowly, as to not miss anything. When I try to hurry him he simply looks at me as if to say, “What’s the rush?” He then proceeds to bend down (stopping forward progress totally) and begins the pursuit of finding the perfect rock or stick. When he finds it, he shows it to me with total and utter glee. I feel like he’s trying to say. “Mom, if I had hurried, I wouldn’t have found this perfect rock. See?”

And most of me thinks this is fabulous. I love that he relishes the moment. So many of are so unable to do this. I love that he looks calmly at his sister when she freaks out, as if to say “Dude, chill out. Calm down. What’s the problem anyway?”  I can only pray that he holds on to this skill as he gets older and “wiser”. But part of me finds it difficult as well. On a logistical level, it can make things interesting, whether it is his sitting right in the middle of the doorway when I have grocery bags in my hands or refusing to walk when his sister is so far ahead on a neighborhood walk.

As a kid, I hated being rushed, commanded and pushed. I wouldn’t classify myself as having a problem with authority (usually), I just like being granted permission to go my own way within the designated structure. I don’t believe that the straight line is the always the best way to get to your destination. Sometimes the wiggly line gets you there just as well, with a better story at the end. I also believe in the right to ask “why” when you can’t have your way. Yes, I know this will bite me in the butt as my kids get older. But the fact that it’s an inconvenience for me, their mom, doesn’t mean it’s not good for them. (I’ll remind myself of my opinion when their constant “why” is driving me up the wall!)

As a result, I strive to NOT push my children. At least not in the way that makes the lose sight of their own goals and desires. My husband teases me that I will be like Greg’s parents in “Meet the Fockers”. I tend to ignore milestone charts, using them as guidelines instead of instruction manuals. They’ll get there. He tells me that I will be saving their 14^th place trophies. He’s a bit more competitive than I am, as you can see. We balance each other well.

I guess that’s what they mean when they tell you to accept your children for who they are. They are not yours, they are their own. All we can do is watch out for them and shape them the best we can and maybe even learn a few lessons from them in the process. Sometimes, when I find myself feeling frantic, I look at my son and I say to myself. “Dude, what’s the rush?”  Thanks honey, for teaching me that. I appreciate it.

Life is good...

If you ask some women, they’ll tell you that they dreamed about their wedding day since they were young girls. They knew what kind of dress they wanted, what kind of flowers, and they probably had a vague idea of the location. Maybe a beach. Maybe on a mountain. Perhaps in a rose garden. Regardless, they had a plan.

I was NOT one of those women. When I got engaged and started planning a wedding, I had no pre-conceived notions. This made it much easier to feel satisfied with the details that took formation. I had no childhood dreams to match, dreams that were formed before I knew what a budget was or just how expensive the details can get.  It made it easier to plan the wedding that was truly “ours”, and not mine.

And I have to say, our wedding was awesome. The air felt light; there was happy chatter all around and all of our pictures show smiling faces. Even the faces in the background that didn’t know the photo was being taken. The fact that the location was lovely didn’t hurt, but it isn’t what made the wedding beautiful.

This is not to say, however, that I was without dreams.  When I thought about my upcoming adulthood, I had a very clear image of what I wanted. I wanted a house, with a backyard. I wanted kids, more than one but less than five. In my little dream, my husband was there too, playing with the kids.  My kids were making an enormous amount of happy noise and the weather was good. (Hey, if you had a daydream, would you make it rain? I think not…)

The point is, I dreamed about my life, my marriage, my family… not my wedding. The wedding was, as a child and an adult bride, simply an event and a celebration.

I was reminded of this dream, recently, on a gorgeous summer day in our backyard. Let me tell you about our backyard. Quite simply, when a child dreams of heaven, they see our backyard. At least I would. We have a fenced in yard with a big play set, a sandbox and ride on toys. There is a little semi-enclosed clubhouse underneath the tower of the play set. Our deck is a combination of a big lower deck and an upper screened in porch. The lower deck is COVERED in outside toys, a water table, a plastic toy house and a blow up baby pool. A big umbrella protects one corner from the hot sun.  The screened in porch is ideal for playing outside on rainy days and at that hour when the bugs come out, at dusk. What else could a kid want?

Last week, I had a friend over for a playdate. We sat in the corner, under the big umbrella, and watched the four two year olds run and play happily. While we had to pay attention and give occasional assistance, the kids mostly played independently and contentedly, in nothing but swim diapers. My friend and I couldn’t be bothered to get bathing suits out of the wash, so we kept it simple. Even my daughter, the only girl of the group, didn’t have a bathing suit on. What’s the point? She looked so happy in her swim diaper and pony tail, I didn’t have the heart to impose a bathing suit upon only her. It’s not like she has anything to hide yet. As a girl who likes her freedom (myself) it’s against my religion.

What a wonderful morning.

I got to thinking about the little daydreams I had about my adulthood and it hit me. This was it. I have two kids, both happy (most of the time) and healthy. I have a husband who is a family man, and enjoys being with us. We are not simply an obligation to him, we are his family. I will never take that for granted. Our house is one that allows us to play, learn and grow.

Maybe that’s why I find myself to be a happy person, despite the fatigue associated with being the stay at home mom of two toddlers. Despite the challenge I find in creating a home/work balance that stays stable enough for moderate comfort. Maybe that’s why I find it so easy, most days, to smile at my kids in a way that gives them no doubt of their worth. I may not always refrain from yelling, but we always kiss, hug and make up. (I tell myself that I am teaching my kids to apologize… A worthy skill, right?) Every night, when I go to bed, I am grateful for the day that has passed and optimistic for the day that will arrive when I wake up.

Life is good…

Sticking with our "own kind"...

We were questioning our children, trying to figure out what they know, when my daughter came up with an absolutely hilarious response. When asked if she was a girl or a boy, she proudly announced that she was a “goy”. For those of you that don’t know the term “goy”, it’s a term for a non-Jewish person, and it’s not typically used in a complimentary way if the conversation is a serious one. In joking, well, all bets are off.

When she said it, I laughed out loud, really loud. Actually, I sort of snorted. My husband chuckled lightly. He’s not Jewish. The joke was lost on him.  He just found it amusing that she had combined the two words, a common mistake of kids her age. When I enlightened him, he smiled, chuckled again… but it never got funnier for him. Once you need to have the punch line explained, the joke has already failed. And it got me thinking about humor and culture.

I have always enjoyed traveling, seeing the world and meeting new people. I thrive off the excitement of a new adventure and eagerly await that next conversation, where I will be exposed to a new theory and point of view. I take pride in, at the very least, trying to see every situation from the different possible view points. As an educator, and speaker of multiple languages, this serves me well.

But I also take comfort in those conversations with those that are “like me”, where I don’t have to explain anything. Where I don’t have to finish the sentence because everyone already knows how it’s going to end.  It feels nice, relaxing, stabilizing. Maybe this is why so many of us tend to stick to our “own kind”.

This is not to say that our “own kind” is always based in religion. Quite the contrary. These groups can be formed by many different criteria. It can be nationality, race, profession, place of residence, level of education, topic of study or lifestyle… just to name a few. Many years ago I went to see a comedian in Boston who commented on being brave and evidenced this bravery by his willingness to ride a certain line of the local subway, the green line. I was astute enough to figure out that the green line might not be idea for drinking a cup of hot coffee, but it wasn’t funny to me. Years later, when I lived in Boston, I figured out what he meant, (and he was right) but I never regained the humor of the moment.  Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

A long time ago, during my university studies, I took a religion class that felt more like a mix of religion and sociology. Later, while getting a master’s in education, I took a class that dealt with the social environment in schools, particularly how it related to minority populations.  I remember feeling very sad looking at the statistics, wondering why so many people that are indentified as minorities were so unwilling to branch out. Looking back, I recognize how naïve that point of view really was. Not only was I missing the point that non-minorities suffer from the same tendencies, but I was missing a larger point as well. They wanted to be with people who understood them. They wanted to feel safe. It’s hard to criticize that desire, even if the end result was a bit isolating.

I find myself looking at myself, my friends, and my social tendencies. Is that what I do? I guess, to some degree, I must. To some extent, we all do it. We spend time with our friends, who we meet at the locations we choose to go. We select our locations based upon something that is inherent to whom we are. Is that so terrible? I guess it depends if we limit ourselves in the process.

I find myself wondering about the future of my children. In a previous blog, I had commented that my kids enjoy smiling at many different kinds of people. But does this really mean what I think it means or I am giving this particular observation too much power?  Is this consistent with the friends they will choose? Will their friends look like them or will there be a larger variety? Will they be the same religion? Have similar lifestyles at home?  I wonder…

As I look to the future, for my children and for myself, these are the things I ponder. I look forward to seeing the answers.