Mommy, what's your job?

My kids are curious kids, and I’m a talker. Combine those two realities and you find yourself in a highly conversational situation. We talk plenty at home, but our more focused conversations occur in the car. The reason is pretty obvious to me. We’re stuck there, and we all have a captive audience. I’m not a car DVD person unless it’s a really long drive, so our options for entertainment are somewhat limited. 

My kids ask me all sorts of questions and we discuss the world around us. We talk about the trees and how they change according to the seasons. We talk about the weather. We talk about the cars and trucks we observe. We talk about where we are going and where we have been.  We talk about what we like and don’t like. As the weather gets colder, we are starting to talk about what toys Santa should begin acquiring. It’s one big discovery lesson, in reality, and it’s normally enjoyable for all of us. 

The kids always ask if Daddy is home, when we pull into the garage. It’s ironic, really, because the answer is almost never yes. I can’t think of the last time we got home and he was already there. Normally, we’re in the house when he gets home from work. I always tell them, no. And then we talk about the fact that he drove his car to work and will be home in time for dinner.  

Today, as we were arriving home from school, my daughter looks at me and asks me, “Mommy, where do YOU work?”

Hmmmm…

As questions go, it’s not that outside of the box. Jobs are one of those topics that the kids love to revisit. We talk about grandparents’ jobs and aunts and uncles’ jobs. So, it’s not an unlikely jump to try to figure out what mommy’s job is. I was just impressed that she noticed the information gap. Where DID mommy work?

Up until recently, I would have told her that I’m a teacher when I’m not home with them. With the change in preschool, however, I had to stop working for a hiatus. It was a hard choice in some ways, because I love nurturing my professional side. The surrounding details, however, made the decision pretty easy. For the most part, I have been ok without the professional time. I would not change my decision if I had the opportunity. 

I smiled at her and said “Mommy’s job is to take care of you two, my beautiful children. My job is to teach you how to play and be safe. My job is to teach you how to go potty and clean you up when you are messy. My job is to kiss you and hug you. My job is to make you food when you are hungry. My job is to answer your questions.”

Her response? Pause. Then a slow smile. “Oh, okay!”

 I guess I answered her question to her satisfaction. I wonder if she realizes that she is a job. Probably not. Most kids don’t.  

As I was processing the conversation, though, I began to feel more and more justified in my low energy at the end of the day. My job is huge. It’s one of the jobs that doesn’t quite have a duty list, so nothing is really off limits. 

Here’s what I came up with.

On a daily basis, I…

-          Cook 3 meals a day

-          Clean my kitchen (constantly, it seems)

-          Food shop

-          Take out toys

-          Put away toys

-          Drive to and from activities

-          Schedule and drive to/from doctor’s appointments

-          Shop (i.e. obtain those items that we need to maintain our house day to day)

-          Hug happy kids

-          Hug sad kids

-          Control mad kids

-          Chase unwilling kids

-          Do laundry

-          Play referee over seemingly innocent and uninteresting toys

-          Take deep breaths when I would prefer to scream

-          Plan 10 minutes ahead (minimum) to increase the likelihood of tantrum avoidance.

-          Coax hyper kids to sleep

-          Oh, and whatever else happens to need doing at any given moment. 

On a daily basis, I DON’T …

-          Finish a sentence or sometime even a thought

-          Consistently finish phone calls having acquired all the information I needed

-          Pee when I have to

-          Get a drink when I would like one

-          Oh, meet most of my human needs on any schedule that resembles what my desires would dictate. 

And don’t get me wrong, I’m not really complaining. Ok, maybe a little, but no more than the average person gripes a bit about their reality. In actuality, it’s my choice and my wonderful husband would fully support my wanting a change at any time. 

I do, however, feel more justification for the weariness at the end of the day. Despite the fact that I can’t seem to list more than 5 things that I actually accomplished and still feel like I never stopped long enough to breathe. 

Man, it’s hard to not work.

Good bye, Friend. May you rest in peace.

      

I bought a new plant the other day. An African violet. It’s a small plant, pretty but somewhat unimpressive. I’m not really a plant person, but I couldn’t feel better until I did it. I know… bizarre. 

I’ll explain.

We got some profoundly sad news the other day. A friend of ours, and a colleague of my husband, lost his battle to cancer. The news shouldn’t have been the shock it was, if I think about it rationally. He had been battling for many years and he was running out of treatments to keep him going. But we saw him a few weeks ago and he looked ok. Well, not really like his old self, but sort of ok. He certainly didn’t seem to be nearing the end of the fight.  It turns out that that he had had a turn for the worse shortly after our visit and the family was intentionally quiet about it. They wanted to handle it without “help” from outsiders.  I can’t say I blame them, to be honest. Sometimes help isn’t really helpful. 

Ironically, it wasn’t the cancer that got him. It was the infections and unfortunate side effects from all the treatments that were his final enemy.

I learned of his death by accident. I found his daughter’s Facebook post when I was having a cup of coffee, an hour before picking my kids up from preschool. I hate crying in public and it took until the end of the day, when I had some time alone, to truly take it in. I became instantly obsessed with buying a plant, a beautiful living thing, to replace the soul that had been lost. 

Over the weekend, we went to the family home to pay respects. The funeral was the day before, but I had been unable to go, with such short notice. My husband was there to represent us. He informed me that it was a packed house. So many people had felt the need to say goodbye.  That really speaks to the person he was, and he will be very missed by so many. 

And as terrible as it may sound, I’m happy for him. In a backwards sort of way.  When we were informed of his last few weeks, I felt more than a little sick. I actually found myself glad that he hadn’t survived because he would never really have “lived” again. He wouldn’t have played with his grandkids. He wouldn’t have hung out at the pool with his family.  He was an active guy, he loved life. The life he would have lived, had he survived, would not have been truly living. It would have been worse, for everyone. 

My husband and I watch Buffy, on Netflix. I know… we’re geeks. This is not new information to me. We are currently on one of the later seasons and we are just past the point where Buffy dies, sacrificing herself for her sister. Her friends, believing she is in hell, bring her back using magic. (I know… the writers couldn’t have a Buffy series without Buffy. Their plot was below standards. But that’s not my point.) My point is that Buffy, once brought back, is a disaster. When she decides to come forth and be honest, she confesses that she had not been in hell. She had been in heaven. And she had been happy there. The sadness had been limited to those left behind.

Despite being part of a cheesy, substandard plot, that confession rings as truth to me. It’s the way we felt when my grandpa passed away. He was ready and it was time for him to go. To be peaceful.

So, what’s my point? My point is this. 

Andy, we miss you. Being at your house without you wasn’t right. We hope that you are peaceful, distanced from the difficult and stressful medical invasions of your life for so long. We’ll help take care of your family, check in on them to make sure they get the support they need and hug them when they need hugs. 

You go on, now. Rest.

Diversity and a change of heart...

In June of 2011, I posted a blog about raising color blind children. Those of you that want to go back and look, fantastic. For the rest of you, here’s the gist of the blog.  My kids found themselves in a highly diverse situation and did not seem to notice skin color in their choice of friends to enjoy. I, having grown up in a less diverse environment, was thrilled. I could not have been happier that my kids were seeing past race, looking at the person.

I pondered whether our children were really growing up color blind. I couldn’t wait for them to be old enough, so that we could talk about it. So I could find out what they were really thinking. 

And I felt pretty secure about my thinking. After all, isn’t it beneficial to us all, as people, to be seen as who we are beyond our race or other markers that our society has deemed important? Beyond our race, our gender, our religion… 

Shortly after posting that blog, I found an interesting article online. The author of this article would have had heavy commentary on my blog, given ample opportunity. He felt that striving to raise color blind, i.e. diversity blind, children was a misguided goal. While it might promote harmony, the process of doing so would erase the value of diversity brought to the situation. He felt that we should raise kids that are color/diversity aware without the detrimental judgments that often attach themselves. After all, do we avoid mentioning that a person is blond or dark haired? Blue eyed or brown eyed? No, we don’t. Because our society doesn’t attach larger implications to those particular details. And to be honest, very few people identify themselves based on their role in a blond haired culture or a brown eyed culture. 

Interesting theory… It made me think.

My kids are in a new preschool this year and making new friends. My daughter, very gender oriented, likes to think that girls are her friends and boys are for her brother. I’m told this is normal and I believe it. 

One of the little girls in the class, an adorable little lady, is my daughter’s newest topic of conversation. Let’s call her M, as I don’t know her mom well enough to ask for consent. 

M is black. (Trust me. I’ll explain why this is relevant in a moment…)

So, we are on the way home from school the other day and my daughter starts talking about her friend M. 

Her: Mommy M is my friend. She’s a girl like me. She has long hair like me. She has brown eyes like me. She has pink fingers like me.

Me:  (thinking for a second…) You’re right honey. She is your friend. She’s a girl. Her eyes are brown and she has long hair. But, are her fingers all pink?

Her: Yes, they are.

Me: Are Ms. Erika’s fingers all pink like mommy’s or are they darker?

 (Ms. Erika is a dear friend of mine. She happens to be black and my kids adore her. I figured she was a good reference for this particular conversation.)

Her: (Thinks for a second, then grins) They are darker!

Me: That’s right. And how about M? What color are her fingers?

Her: (Thinks for a second, grins again). They are dark like Ms. Erika’s!

Me: That’s right, honey. They are. 

SLIGHT PAUSE

Her: Mommy, M is my friend. She’s a girl like me. (Huge grin)

I grinned too, because the conversation made me happy. I like what my daughter took from what had been said. It was cool to figure out something new about her new friend, but ultimately the coolest part is that she’s a girl. Oh, and she has a Hello Kitty backpack and gives good hugs. That’s pretty important when you are 3, almost 4.  

I like my change of view. I appreciate that we are talking about race, about diversity, about differences. It’s something to notice, to embrace. It’s just not everything.

Potty training and the 7th circle of hell

Alert the press. I found it… the 7^th circle of hell. Did you know that it has been disguising itself behind the deceptively innocent name of “potty training”? 

My kids turn 4 in December and we have tried, on multiple occasions over the past year, to get the process started. We have always kept the bathroom door open, my husband and I, so the kids were accustomed to seeing us during our potty time. We assumed that this would facilitate the process. Clearly, assumptions can be dangerous. 

 We tried sitting on the potty three times a day, cheering enthusiastically when we were lucky enough to avoid screaming tantrums. We figured cooperation was to be noted, right? We even gave treats and stars (that accumulated for a treat) for sitting cooperatively. Months later, our kids loved sitting on the potty but no actual peeing in sight. 

Sigh. 

I am SO not a boot camp kind of person. Every transition for our kids has been just that, a transition. Bottles were slowly transitioned away, as was breastfeeding. We almost never introduce, take away or change an expectation of the kids quickly. Instead, we make a more natural process. In my experience, this has been successful and much less stressful for everyone involved.  So, when people spoke of their boot camp approaches to potty training, I dismissed this idea for my house. It wasn’t my style. I’d do it my way, thanks. 

And here we are. September. 3 ¾ years old. Still in diapers. Boot camp here we come. 

Last week, on a seemingly benevolent Monday, we started. I took the underwear out of the drawer after morning preschool and we started sitting on the potty. Every 20 minutes. Oh, and we set the clock by when the previous sitting BEGAN, not ended. Made me think of breastfeeding an infant and feeling like it just never stopped.  By the time you are done, it’s time to begin again. I could count the minutes on one hand that the kids were OFF the potty that day. I began by starting the clock when we finished, but the constant floods proved that system wrong. I pumped them with juice, probably too much juice actually. Perhaps that’s why they had 15 accidents combined by noon. I kid you not. I almost cried right in front of them.

Tuesday wasn’t much better. Actually it was worse. We had zero pees, tons of accidents and lots of tantrums. My daughter objected to taking her turn on the little potty when it was her brother’s turn for the big one. An hour later, her screaming ceased and my pounding head got some relief.  Cabin fever had officially struck. Wednesday was tolerable and we started to see some success. Thursday and Friday were uneventful. We increased our success but also became increasingly irritated. At everything. All three of us.  By Friday night I was in rare form and the kids were seriously pissed off. Poor daddy when he got home. Our house was like an emotional mine field. He never knew when he was going to step in the wrong place.

Saturday, my husband and I got away for the day, leaving the grandparents and kids at home. It was a much needed break and I even got to eat my food warm. Imagine that.

But it’s not over yet. My daughter’s progress is significantly more notable than my son’s and our house arrest may not be over yet.

And to think, I took my going to the bathroom for granted.

The political battle, uh, I meant debate...

Have I ever told you how much I miss my grandpa? He was a force to be reckoned with, a real pain in the butt sometimes. And I loved him dearly.

He used to call me, just to debate the politics and semantics of education.

Grandpa: Hey Lisa, have you heard about this phonics thing? Total baloney!

Me: Grandpa, do you even know what phonics is?

G: Yes. A way to read.

Me: I mean really know what it is. I mean, do you know how it works?

G: Uhm, no. How does it work?

Me: (insert silent snort here)

And I would tell him. Then he would ask me my opinion of phonics and I would give him my two cents. Or maybe even three or four cents. He would ask me follow up questions, really intelligent ones at that. Then we would chat about life. He’d tell me he loved me, I’d tell him the same and we’d hang up.

The fact of the matter is that he couldn’t have cared less about phonics. He just wanted to call, say hi, and debate a bit. Given that I am an educator, educational theory seemed like a good place to start. He was right. I bit every time. And loved it.

Did I mention how much I miss him?

I remember going down south to visit him and my grandma, with my family, when I was young. Every day, late afternoon/early evening, he would meet “the guys” at the pool. For approximately an hour they would sit around the pool and yell at each other. One would express an opinion and another would inform the first that he was wrong. And so it continued… It was hilarious. Then, abruptly, they would notice the time. Say their goodbyes and agree to meet the next day to do it all again.

I was on face book the other day and found a posting, one of those generic pictures you can forward with little effort. I sincerely wish I could remember the exact wording but it alluded to someone feeling annoyed by others wanting them to keep their political views quiet. Expressing those views, in her mind, was supposed to spark debate. And debate is a healthy thing.

I, personally, am someone who does not post according to my political beliefs. I don’t comment on the posts that I disagree with and I don’t forward the ones that I agree with. I have political opinions. Lots of them. Those of you that know me well could probably guess them all, as they are consistent with my overall personality.

I’ll tell you why I don’t mix face book and politics.

First, the standard forwards with political content rarely show respect for the other side. Second, the “debate” sparked from these forwards is rarely based in mutual respect. Few people agree with every decision made by the politician they support, but they don’t want to be forced into response by a comment that he/she is an idiot. Even if the person who posted the forward happens to believe it. I don’t object to an individual being adamantly pro life, but I DO object to being call a murderer for believing abortion needs to be kept legal. Do those that are against marriage equality enjoy being called antagonistic names by those who believe the rights should exist? I think not.  

And the “debates” that follow in the comment sections truly disturb me. The heart of a democracy is the ability to disagree, debate and remain civil. The total lack of civility in some of these comment threads can be truly upsetting. Is it debate or attack?

So, in light of the upcoming elections and the imminent mudslinging that is bound to occur, I sincerely hope that we will maintain our ability to be civil in our disagreements. That we will not define our friendships by those who agree with us on larger political issues.

I, for one, enjoy the diversity of my world. Don’t you?