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.

The Magical Items I Really Want...

One of the reasons I watch TV and movies is to get lost. Yes, lost in the lack of reality that is the basis of the plot. Nobody ever REALLY says that their boss, they just think it. If they said it, they would get fired, lose their salary, lose their house and be in pretty big trouble. But you can dream that it’s your reality for that short period of time while you are watching, especially if you just ended a day with a terrible boss. What a lovely escape.

Maybe that’s why I love shows and movies that have a magical premise. While the lives of those characters are rarely simple, they do have access to certain items that I would give my left arm to play with, for just one day. For example…

1-      I want the tiny beaded purse that Hermione carries in one of the later movies, or equally I would take Dora’s talking backpack. Why, you ask..? They are like clown cars. Despite being totally tiny, they carry everything. Dora’s backpack carried two full snow suits, with boots and hats one time. Really? In that little bag that fits on little Dora’s back? Hermione’s lovely little purse carried textbooks, maps, even a full sized family tent. Seriously? And neither bag ever appears to be heavy or cumbersome.  Hmmm…  Fix me up with one of those, please.

2-      Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak. Despite what any naturalist tells you about your observations about animals in the wild, you are not seeing them in their natural state. You are seeing them in their home, while being observed by you. You think they don’t know you are there? Of course they do. Same for your kids. Both of my kids have perfected the helpless act and I frequently have no idea when their pleas for help are justified or if they simply want my attention. I would LOVE to observe them for about 20 minutes when they don’t know I’m there. I wonder what I would learn.

3-      A magic wand, but only if I had Hermione’s grasp of spells. That girl could fix anything with her wand. She could clean a room, find a lost item, you name it. Can you imagine what she could do for my kitchen after a dinner or the playroom after a long day of playing? Ahhh, the dreams things are made of. J

4-      Have you seen the movie “Click” with Adam Sandler? He gets this remote control that lets him move through his life, fast forwarding the boring and obnoxious parts. I watched the movie and it, being an American movie, finished with a sappy moral that life can’t be rushed. All parts have to be appreciated. I wouldn’t mind a very simple version of this remote, though, that just had a volume button. Wow, imagine hearing your child’s temper tantrum at volume 5 instead of 45. Bonus!!!!

5-      “Charmed” (the TV show) gave Piper a really cool power. She could stop time for everyone else except the magical people around her. How awesome is that? You could freeze your kids while you pack the diaper bag or while you go to the bathroom. They could be safe and you could take care of yourself. I might even brush my hair more often. Awesome!

6-      In another episode of “Charmed”, Pru casts a spell to be 3 times more powerful. The catch? Instead of her being 3 times more powerful, she creates two clones. One goes to work; the other solves a magical challenge, while the third works on her romantic disputes. What mom doesn’t dream about that? One mom could make lunch while the other changes diapers. The third could be doing the laundry. FANTASTIC!  The only flaw in that episode is that their common memory split so one Pru did not gain the memory of the others once they split. We would have to correct that detail.

Alas, I recognize that this is but a dream, but what a lovely dream it is. In some ways, it’s actually a comfort, in a bizarre kind of way. In light of the fact that we don’t have these magical luxuries, we will just have to do our best with reality.

So… To all my fellow moms out there, let us dream together as we live in a common reality!