I don't really do New Year's Eve. It feels redundant to me, with Rosh Hashana as the Jewish New Year, and my birthday in January, I've already got the holiday covered. So having another day to celebrate another beginning of the same year... I'm okay with skipping it. That being said, I do have children who believe wholeheartedly in New Year's Eve. Complete with take-out, a desperate attempt to stay up late enough to see the ball drop, and a rocking dance party. All of which we did last night. We rented Shrek Forever, I think it was called. The last Shrek movie, and everyone sat and watched it. Even Julie - and she's not great with movies. But this one made sense to her, because the "Yaya was so sad." She immediately got that Shrek was a dad who had lost his wife and his three kids (his Mama, G, Boy, and Baby). After the movie, the kids danced for a while. They danced to every song on the credits, and then we switched to the New Year's show, and they danced to that. By 10:00, I was done, exhausted and could see that they were too. I took Julie off to bed, and then came in and got Sam. Sam was so cute, he said to me "I'll just pretend the ball just dropped - YAY!" as he got into bed. Then I shut off all the lights, set the auto shut off on on the cable box for a few minutes after midnight and told Jessie and Glennys they were on their own.
So we're up, rocking migraine and kids still bouncing off the wall. Glennys is going home today, and my kids are going to miss her incredibly. Jessie has already broken down sobbing three times over the fact that she was going home, and Sam and Julie... it's going to be ugly. As much as they love having her come down, they hate having her leave.
I don't generally post recipes here, mainly because I really don't like to cook, and it's so ridiculously easy to get recipes on line, it seems silly to put them here. But I found a couple of recipes this week and my kids LOVE them. One is for finnish pancakes. You take half a stick of butter, stick it in a pie plate, and melt the butter in a four hundred degree oven. While the butter is melting, mix together two thirds of a cup of milk, two thirds of a cup of flour, a teaspoon of cinnamon and suguar, and three eggs. Dump it in the pan when the butter is melted and bake for 20 minutes. After twenty minutes, pull it out and sprinkle more cinnamon and sugar on it, and then bake for another five minutes or so. It's awesome. I also had my mother dig out her cinnamon bun recipe, and that's kind of awesome as well. So I baked a lot this week, made chocolate chip cookies, lots of bread, and four batches of finnish pancakes.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Friday, December 28, 2012
Raising a son
It's very different from raising a daughter. Not in some ways, but in others - it's a completely different experience. I'm not talking just about pointing the peepee down when changing diapers (a lesson I sincerely wish someone had mentioned before I went thru a week of leaking diapers - postpartum, with no sleep, it took a ridiculously long time for me to clue in). I'm not even talking about learning all of the names of farm equipment and construction vehicles, or understanding why fire engines and trash trucks are so fascinating.
I'm talking about the deeper things. I'm talking about masculinity. And that's a subject I know very little about. I was raised by a single mother, in a very female dominated family. I was a very feminine kid. I preferred dresses and hair bows to jeans and a tshirt. I'd always rather stay inside and read than go outside and run around. I've never voluntarily touched a frog. I've never accidentally touched a frog, now that I'm thinking about it. I don't like scary rides, I don't like scary movies. I'm frilly and girly, I like boppy music and sunshine and lollipops. And my two daughters, thus far, are feminine little girls. Jessie more so than Julie, but Julie's two, and with an older brother as her most immediate influence. Jessie wouldn't touch a frog for money, would dress in lace and hair bows every day, and would never voluntarily go outside to perform manual labor.
Then there's Sam. And he's.... a boy. I mean, a boy in a way that is completely different from my girls. From myself. Today, he got up, announced he needed to do some shoveling, put on snow gear, and headed out. He brought up my recycling bins onto the porch, and spent the next hour outside, diligently shoveling my front lawn. Because the fact that there was no snow on the sidewalks or front steps wasn't going to stop him. He was shoveling. I don't get that. I love it. But on a core level, I can't understand heading out into the frigid freezing cold because you need to shovel. When in fact, you don't need to shovel. For one thing, he's six. And for another, Marc had already shoveled yesterday. But it was so icy and dangerous, I wouldn't let him go out yesterday.
He's got a whole different perspective. He's a boy - and different on a level that I'm still struggling to understand. He wants to be a man. He wants to be a good man. And thank God, he's got such an incredible example to follow. Marc is as masculine as I am feminine. Marc likes wrestling and army shows and is perplexed by emotional complexity. He can't talk for hours about how he feels. Coming off of December - despite my hours of agonizing and discussing how he feels about Christmas - every time it came up in conversation, he'd screw it up. He'd say something that would make me nuts - but when it came to action - he was right there. He gave my kids the best Christmas, did all the shopping, all the prep work, and bent over backwards to make it awesome because he loves me and he knew it was important to me. Because doing something, that's so much easier for him. Sam is so similar to him. So incredibly similar to him, he wants to be just like his daddy. And it's not just about being like his daddy, he is fundamentally like him already.
Don't get me wrong - Sam has part of me in there too. I recognize his shyness, because I'm the same way. And my son loves a lot of traditional feminine things like cooking and cleaning and snuggles and is such a tender, sweet boy. But he's a boy, not a girl, and sometimes it just really strikes me that I don't understand him the way I do the girls. Adore him with every fiber of my being, absolutely. But I'm so, so glad that Sam has Marc. I'm as grateful that my girls have a daddy that loves them and supports them and teaches them every day what a good man should do. But with Sam - Marc is modeling what he'll grow up to be - and Sam watches and absorbs all of it. As an adult, I'm sure that you'll see my influence on him as well, he'll make my challah recipe, and I hope that he'll decorate a Christmas tree. I'm sure he'll dance around the kitchen when he cooks like I do, and I hope that he'll love to read like I do. I'm sure that he'll do lots of things the way that I do - but mostly, I hope that he's the kind of man his father is. I also sincerely hope that he never really moves that far away, so when Marc is too old to shovel my walkways - he'll come and do it for me.
I'm talking about the deeper things. I'm talking about masculinity. And that's a subject I know very little about. I was raised by a single mother, in a very female dominated family. I was a very feminine kid. I preferred dresses and hair bows to jeans and a tshirt. I'd always rather stay inside and read than go outside and run around. I've never voluntarily touched a frog. I've never accidentally touched a frog, now that I'm thinking about it. I don't like scary rides, I don't like scary movies. I'm frilly and girly, I like boppy music and sunshine and lollipops. And my two daughters, thus far, are feminine little girls. Jessie more so than Julie, but Julie's two, and with an older brother as her most immediate influence. Jessie wouldn't touch a frog for money, would dress in lace and hair bows every day, and would never voluntarily go outside to perform manual labor.
Then there's Sam. And he's.... a boy. I mean, a boy in a way that is completely different from my girls. From myself. Today, he got up, announced he needed to do some shoveling, put on snow gear, and headed out. He brought up my recycling bins onto the porch, and spent the next hour outside, diligently shoveling my front lawn. Because the fact that there was no snow on the sidewalks or front steps wasn't going to stop him. He was shoveling. I don't get that. I love it. But on a core level, I can't understand heading out into the frigid freezing cold because you need to shovel. When in fact, you don't need to shovel. For one thing, he's six. And for another, Marc had already shoveled yesterday. But it was so icy and dangerous, I wouldn't let him go out yesterday.
He's got a whole different perspective. He's a boy - and different on a level that I'm still struggling to understand. He wants to be a man. He wants to be a good man. And thank God, he's got such an incredible example to follow. Marc is as masculine as I am feminine. Marc likes wrestling and army shows and is perplexed by emotional complexity. He can't talk for hours about how he feels. Coming off of December - despite my hours of agonizing and discussing how he feels about Christmas - every time it came up in conversation, he'd screw it up. He'd say something that would make me nuts - but when it came to action - he was right there. He gave my kids the best Christmas, did all the shopping, all the prep work, and bent over backwards to make it awesome because he loves me and he knew it was important to me. Because doing something, that's so much easier for him. Sam is so similar to him. So incredibly similar to him, he wants to be just like his daddy. And it's not just about being like his daddy, he is fundamentally like him already.
Don't get me wrong - Sam has part of me in there too. I recognize his shyness, because I'm the same way. And my son loves a lot of traditional feminine things like cooking and cleaning and snuggles and is such a tender, sweet boy. But he's a boy, not a girl, and sometimes it just really strikes me that I don't understand him the way I do the girls. Adore him with every fiber of my being, absolutely. But I'm so, so glad that Sam has Marc. I'm as grateful that my girls have a daddy that loves them and supports them and teaches them every day what a good man should do. But with Sam - Marc is modeling what he'll grow up to be - and Sam watches and absorbs all of it. As an adult, I'm sure that you'll see my influence on him as well, he'll make my challah recipe, and I hope that he'll decorate a Christmas tree. I'm sure he'll dance around the kitchen when he cooks like I do, and I hope that he'll love to read like I do. I'm sure that he'll do lots of things the way that I do - but mostly, I hope that he's the kind of man his father is. I also sincerely hope that he never really moves that far away, so when Marc is too old to shovel my walkways - he'll come and do it for me.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Christmas Vacation
We survived another year. And in the end, we did really well. Only one serious fight, and we resolved it that night. We'll probably always have at least one battle every year, but we work thru it. In the end, I'm always going to want Marc to embrace Christmas the way I embrace Judaism. And in the end, he always comes thru in awesome ways, I just ... I don't know. I fight with him over not feeling the way that I want him to - and since I do truly believe that actions speak louder than words, I need to remember that he does, in the end, work hard to make sure our kids have great Christmases. He's far better than I am at maintaining the Santa myth, oddly enough. I don't lie when asked outright, whereas he spun this tale about licensing - how the mall Santas have to be licensed in order to wear the costume, because he and Sam had already had a long discussion about trademarking things earlier in the month.
But either way - another year over. It was a really, really nice Christmas. Very peaceful and relaxed, and just lovely. Christmas Eve with chinese food and friends was perfect, especially because this year, in addition to Joy and Skip and their kids and Becky and Aimee and Abby, we also got my sister and niece to go. And Christmas morning was delightful, the kids were thrilled with their gifts, we got them each a couple of nice things and a ton of chocolate (Marc appears to believe that giving the kids a good Christmas involves a lot of candy). Then we headed down to my mother's house for the day.
The nice thing about going to my mother's house is that my kids really, really like her. And my stepdad. He's such a great grandpa to them, and at one point, Julie climbed up and sat next to him, and my heart just melted. I was missing my grandfather a lot that day, and seeing my daughter loving her grandfather was so sweet. Reassuring. My brother and sister and their kids were bopping around that day too, and I just had the nicest day.
Now we're in the throes of Christmas vacation, and we've got our bestest friend Glennys down for the week. I'm so grateful for her - not only because she's Jessie's best friend, so utterly and absolutely. These two just click in a way that I've never seen Jessie click with another kid. Plus Sam and Julie absolutely adore her. I'm spending all day going from mess to mess - but they're having so much fun it's hard to mind. My two girls just took baths (Jessie did it only to get Julie in the tub - Julie still views bathtime as torture), and immediately upon getting out Julie announced that she needed her hat. Everyone's tired and I'm planning on early dinner and early bedtime tonight, Marc's taking the older kids (that's everyone except Julianna) to the hockey game tomorrow night.
But either way - another year over. It was a really, really nice Christmas. Very peaceful and relaxed, and just lovely. Christmas Eve with chinese food and friends was perfect, especially because this year, in addition to Joy and Skip and their kids and Becky and Aimee and Abby, we also got my sister and niece to go. And Christmas morning was delightful, the kids were thrilled with their gifts, we got them each a couple of nice things and a ton of chocolate (Marc appears to believe that giving the kids a good Christmas involves a lot of candy). Then we headed down to my mother's house for the day.
The nice thing about going to my mother's house is that my kids really, really like her. And my stepdad. He's such a great grandpa to them, and at one point, Julie climbed up and sat next to him, and my heart just melted. I was missing my grandfather a lot that day, and seeing my daughter loving her grandfather was so sweet. Reassuring. My brother and sister and their kids were bopping around that day too, and I just had the nicest day.
Now we're in the throes of Christmas vacation, and we've got our bestest friend Glennys down for the week. I'm so grateful for her - not only because she's Jessie's best friend, so utterly and absolutely. These two just click in a way that I've never seen Jessie click with another kid. Plus Sam and Julie absolutely adore her. I'm spending all day going from mess to mess - but they're having so much fun it's hard to mind. My two girls just took baths (Jessie did it only to get Julie in the tub - Julie still views bathtime as torture), and immediately upon getting out Julie announced that she needed her hat. Everyone's tired and I'm planning on early dinner and early bedtime tonight, Marc's taking the older kids (that's everyone except Julianna) to the hockey game tomorrow night.
Friday, December 21, 2012
What Christmas Means to Me
I'm Jewish, and pretty happy about it. But, yeah, I still celebrate Christmas. I don't celebrate it as the birth of Christ, but it's still a tremendously meaningful and important holiday for me. I wouldn't say it's my favorite holiday of the year - there's too much other stress going on for that. December is decidedly a challenging month for us here, between the number of Jewish people who write articles that I can't stop myself from reading that assure me that a tree has no place in a Jewish home, and worrying about whether or not people are judging me for putting up the tree anyway and celebrating a holiday that has never been particularly Christian to me, but is most definitely not Jewish. Plus, it's honestly a hard month for my husband, who grew up not only not celebrating Christmas, but not celebrating it is almost a part of his Jewish identity - so it's never easy.
But celebrate it we do, enthusiastically. I've got stocking hung by the chimney with care, and a tree that's lopsided, with way too many lights on it, and ornaments that are well loved and not particularly coordinated. I've got pictures of all of my babies with Santa Claus, and tinsel and candy canes EVERYWHERE. So why do I celebrate? Why do I insist on participating in holiday that everyone keeps telling me is all about rampant consumerism and materialism? If I strip away the Christian connotations to it, what exactly is Christmas all about? And why exactly do I insist every year that we celebrate it?
I celebrate it because it's wrapped up in some of my favorite memories from my childhood. Caroling with my cousins, singing songs to my sister at night before we fell asleep. Every Christmas Eve, my little sister would beg to sleep in my bed with me, and I'd tell her stories about Santa and swear that I could see Rudolph's nose in the sky. Baking Christmas cookies with my baby cousins, and taking my nieces and nephews out at night to look for the prettiest Christmas lights. My mother has this one song - Mary's Boy Child, and it's this odd sort of Jamaican Christmas carol, and every time it comes on the radio, she'd turn it up as loud as it could go and rock out. My mother doesn't rock out as a rule, and watching her chair boogie in the car while we drove anywhere in December was (and is) kind of awesome.
I celebrate it because I love the anticipation of Christmas Day. I love that my kids talk about Santa Claus (despite the fact that both the older ones know it's just a myth). When I was a kid, I loved that sense, all month long, that we were building up to this one day when magically, just because, we'd wake up and find that someone had brought us presents, just because. It's not about the gifts, exactly. Looking back, I don't remember any specific Christmas gift that I ever got that made a huge impression. What I remember is the magic, the excitement and the joy of it all. I want that for my kids.
I celebrate it because I'm my mother's daughter. And I'm raising her grandchildren. Having a child convert to a different religion isn't easy, and my mother supported me and stood beside me every step of the way. I've never doubted her love or commitment, and I can't imagine how disappointed she'd be if I didn't give my kids the same opportunity to love Christmas as she gave me. I won't do that to her. I won't do that to her grandchildren. It's not that she wants them to not be Jewish - she just wants to know that they're still a part of her family, celebrating her favorite holidays and traditions. Like sleeping over at Grammy's house on the night before Thanksgiving, and trekking up to Maine every year to camp at Hermit Island - celebrating Christmas, for my mother, is about spending time with her kids, and her grandchildren. Passing along those traditions. I'm not willing to tell them that it's not their holiday just because they're Jewish. Yes, they're Jewish, but they're also a part of my family too and they get to do our fun stuff as well.
I celebrate it because I believe in peace on earth and goodwill towards men. And having a day to celebrate that is lovely to me. I celebrate it because I feel a little closer to everyone else on earth during this time of year - it seems to me that it's the one time when we all try a little harder to be nicer, a little harder to appreciate the blessings we have. We don't always succeed, and we aren't all on the same page, but I sincerely think that the world is an amazing and beautiful and blessed place. On Christmas, I think we all feel that way.
It's not about the shopping or the wrapping or the stress. And for me, it's not about celebrating the birth of the Messiah. It's about joy and peace - it's closer to a celebration that we're coming into the light. It's no accident that the Solstice is on the twenty-first - we are literally getting a little more light, just a bit, every day. I think that's worth celebrating. I think having a day to stop and just celebrate the magic, celebrate the beauty of family and friends, to eat candy canes and drink eggnog, to watch your kids open presents and be absolutely delighted is awesome. Christmas isn't perfect, and it's nowhere near as simple and as easy as it used to be for me, but it's still an integral part of my year. And my life. I don't want to miss it. Being Jewish has added so much to my life, so much meaning and resonance, it's given my kids a framework to build a spiritual life upon. It's given me Shabbat dinner, and Passover Seders and a community that I love. But I still love Christmas.
But celebrate it we do, enthusiastically. I've got stocking hung by the chimney with care, and a tree that's lopsided, with way too many lights on it, and ornaments that are well loved and not particularly coordinated. I've got pictures of all of my babies with Santa Claus, and tinsel and candy canes EVERYWHERE. So why do I celebrate? Why do I insist on participating in holiday that everyone keeps telling me is all about rampant consumerism and materialism? If I strip away the Christian connotations to it, what exactly is Christmas all about? And why exactly do I insist every year that we celebrate it?
I celebrate it because it's wrapped up in some of my favorite memories from my childhood. Caroling with my cousins, singing songs to my sister at night before we fell asleep. Every Christmas Eve, my little sister would beg to sleep in my bed with me, and I'd tell her stories about Santa and swear that I could see Rudolph's nose in the sky. Baking Christmas cookies with my baby cousins, and taking my nieces and nephews out at night to look for the prettiest Christmas lights. My mother has this one song - Mary's Boy Child, and it's this odd sort of Jamaican Christmas carol, and every time it comes on the radio, she'd turn it up as loud as it could go and rock out. My mother doesn't rock out as a rule, and watching her chair boogie in the car while we drove anywhere in December was (and is) kind of awesome.
I celebrate it because I love the anticipation of Christmas Day. I love that my kids talk about Santa Claus (despite the fact that both the older ones know it's just a myth). When I was a kid, I loved that sense, all month long, that we were building up to this one day when magically, just because, we'd wake up and find that someone had brought us presents, just because. It's not about the gifts, exactly. Looking back, I don't remember any specific Christmas gift that I ever got that made a huge impression. What I remember is the magic, the excitement and the joy of it all. I want that for my kids.
I celebrate it because I'm my mother's daughter. And I'm raising her grandchildren. Having a child convert to a different religion isn't easy, and my mother supported me and stood beside me every step of the way. I've never doubted her love or commitment, and I can't imagine how disappointed she'd be if I didn't give my kids the same opportunity to love Christmas as she gave me. I won't do that to her. I won't do that to her grandchildren. It's not that she wants them to not be Jewish - she just wants to know that they're still a part of her family, celebrating her favorite holidays and traditions. Like sleeping over at Grammy's house on the night before Thanksgiving, and trekking up to Maine every year to camp at Hermit Island - celebrating Christmas, for my mother, is about spending time with her kids, and her grandchildren. Passing along those traditions. I'm not willing to tell them that it's not their holiday just because they're Jewish. Yes, they're Jewish, but they're also a part of my family too and they get to do our fun stuff as well.
I celebrate it because I believe in peace on earth and goodwill towards men. And having a day to celebrate that is lovely to me. I celebrate it because I feel a little closer to everyone else on earth during this time of year - it seems to me that it's the one time when we all try a little harder to be nicer, a little harder to appreciate the blessings we have. We don't always succeed, and we aren't all on the same page, but I sincerely think that the world is an amazing and beautiful and blessed place. On Christmas, I think we all feel that way.
It's not about the shopping or the wrapping or the stress. And for me, it's not about celebrating the birth of the Messiah. It's about joy and peace - it's closer to a celebration that we're coming into the light. It's no accident that the Solstice is on the twenty-first - we are literally getting a little more light, just a bit, every day. I think that's worth celebrating. I think having a day to stop and just celebrate the magic, celebrate the beauty of family and friends, to eat candy canes and drink eggnog, to watch your kids open presents and be absolutely delighted is awesome. Christmas isn't perfect, and it's nowhere near as simple and as easy as it used to be for me, but it's still an integral part of my year. And my life. I don't want to miss it. Being Jewish has added so much to my life, so much meaning and resonance, it's given my kids a framework to build a spiritual life upon. It's given me Shabbat dinner, and Passover Seders and a community that I love. But I still love Christmas.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Being a mean mommy works
I'm strict about some things with my kids. There's not a lot that I'm really hard core on, I'm lackadaisical about bedtimes, devil may care about wearing coats in the winter (I rarely wear them, I see no need to shove a crying kid into one for the sake of keeping them warm, I'll carry one along, but not force it on them). I don't force kids to eat, I let them have soda at parties, and I've been known to give them ice cream for breakfast.
But I do care about some things. A lot. One of the biggies is respect. Respect for us as parents, for other adults, and for themselves as well as their siblings. Another hot button for me is being responsible for your moods. I have extremely empathetic children. I don't know that all kids aren't like this - but I know for sure and for certain, that in my house, moods are contagious. If one of my kids is grumpy and miserable, it's not going to be long before we all are. Jessica and I, specifically, have always had a tendency to bounce off of each other's mood. Temper tantrums, not the toddler ones, but the ones when she was five, six, and seven were absolute and utter hell. Because I'd wade right in there with her and get just as angry and as frustrated. One of the things that I've had to learn, as a parent, is how to let her have her own feelings and emotions and not feel like I have to feel them along with her. One thing I've had to teach her, as a parent, is that she's got every right to feel whatever she's feeling, but she doesn't have the right to make everyone else unhappy because of it.
We had a party on Sunday for my niece, at a little kids' gym place. You know the type - with mats everywhere and big soft balls, bouncy things for bouncing on, etc. And Jessica was mortified by her father. She's at an age where she's starting to get mortified whenever he does anything other than sit quietly in the corner, God forbid, he sing in public or worse, do anything overt to draw attention to himself. Like jumping on a bouncy thing. Most of the dads were playing with their kids, so it's not like it was a big deal, but Jessie was just so embarrassed. She stormed away from everyone, sat in the corner and glared at everyone. People kept trying to talk to her, and she wasn't having any part of it. Finally I went over and sat down next to her. I explained that I understood, but that she was making the party difficult, and drawing more attention to herself than she wanted. And that the behavior needed to stop, she wasn't allowed to ruin her cousin's party, and to get up and go have fun. AND SHE DID. It worked.
A similiar thing happened this morning. Most mornings are a harried hot mess, with me rushing around to get the kids dressed, fed, lunches packed, coats found, healing stone stuffed full of love, and kids out the door. Sam trudges out of bed, snuggles with his daddy and I deliver a bowl of cereal and his clothes. Jessie staggers out, usually stops by for a hug and then curls on the couch and I bring her a breakfast bar. This morning, she stormed out of bed, glaring at everyone and snapped at me when I tried to say good morning. I gave it a few minutes, and then tried again. The third time she yelled at me, and I looked at her, and told her that it wasn't okay to be nasty to me, she could either change her attitude or eat her breakfast in her bedroom. AND IT WORKED. She was quiet for a few minutes, and the apologized, told me that she was just really tired, and could I help her pick out some clothes.
It was awesome. And I was so incredibly proud of her, because she's really, really growing up so fast. And learning that she's got control over her emotions, that she doesn't have to let herself sink into anger, misery and frustration, that she can take a deep breath, put a smile on her face, and things really do get better is such a huge milestone for her. She wouldn't have been able to do that a year ago. And she's still not at a point where she can stop herself on her own - but she is at the point where I can tell her that she needs to get her emotions under control, and with a firm reminder that we're responsible for our own moods, she's able to pull it together. I've always struggled with this - she's always struggled with it. Me with allowing her the space to feel what she feels without jumping in along side her, and she's always had such a hard time getting control over the emotions. Whatever it is, she does it 1000%. So if she's happy, she's kind of ecstatic. And if she's grumpy - God help us all. But she's getting to the point where she can stop herself before she reaches the point of no return. She can turn it around now, and I'm so proud of her.
I really am ridiculously thrilled by this child. Each one of my kids has a special place in my heart, and I'm pretty convinced that each one is my favorite child. But Jessie - she's my first. She's the one I've known the longest, I've been thru the most with her. I'm so proud of the baby she was, the toddler she was, the little girl she was, the big girl that she was, the tweener she is, and the teenager and woman that she'll be. She's just awesome, and I'm awed by the fact that being her mother is just as incredible now as it was when I first looked into her big, big eyes.
I've had to learn the hard way that, sometimes, being "mean" is what works. Feeling her feelings, and trying to force her to stop by getting as emotional as she was - that didn't work at all. Because I was, and am, so close to her, because her emotions are so available for everyone, especially me, to see and feel right along with her, I had a really hard time being able to stop and say "No - this behavior is unacceptable. It's okay that you feel this way, it's not okay that you are taking it out on everyone." But by doing that, by being firm, setting up the expectation that there is a standard of behavior that we will live up to, by doing that, I'm able to give her the framework to get a grip on the emotions. When I was in the trenches with her, feeling frustrated and angry and miserable along with her because I wanted so much for her to be able to stop, she couldn't do it. By achieving a little distance, by not allowing myself to get swept up in the emotional storm, and by being what I always thought of as mean, I'm able to show her how to better navigate thru the world.
But I do care about some things. A lot. One of the biggies is respect. Respect for us as parents, for other adults, and for themselves as well as their siblings. Another hot button for me is being responsible for your moods. I have extremely empathetic children. I don't know that all kids aren't like this - but I know for sure and for certain, that in my house, moods are contagious. If one of my kids is grumpy and miserable, it's not going to be long before we all are. Jessica and I, specifically, have always had a tendency to bounce off of each other's mood. Temper tantrums, not the toddler ones, but the ones when she was five, six, and seven were absolute and utter hell. Because I'd wade right in there with her and get just as angry and as frustrated. One of the things that I've had to learn, as a parent, is how to let her have her own feelings and emotions and not feel like I have to feel them along with her. One thing I've had to teach her, as a parent, is that she's got every right to feel whatever she's feeling, but she doesn't have the right to make everyone else unhappy because of it.
We had a party on Sunday for my niece, at a little kids' gym place. You know the type - with mats everywhere and big soft balls, bouncy things for bouncing on, etc. And Jessica was mortified by her father. She's at an age where she's starting to get mortified whenever he does anything other than sit quietly in the corner, God forbid, he sing in public or worse, do anything overt to draw attention to himself. Like jumping on a bouncy thing. Most of the dads were playing with their kids, so it's not like it was a big deal, but Jessie was just so embarrassed. She stormed away from everyone, sat in the corner and glared at everyone. People kept trying to talk to her, and she wasn't having any part of it. Finally I went over and sat down next to her. I explained that I understood, but that she was making the party difficult, and drawing more attention to herself than she wanted. And that the behavior needed to stop, she wasn't allowed to ruin her cousin's party, and to get up and go have fun. AND SHE DID. It worked.
A similiar thing happened this morning. Most mornings are a harried hot mess, with me rushing around to get the kids dressed, fed, lunches packed, coats found, healing stone stuffed full of love, and kids out the door. Sam trudges out of bed, snuggles with his daddy and I deliver a bowl of cereal and his clothes. Jessie staggers out, usually stops by for a hug and then curls on the couch and I bring her a breakfast bar. This morning, she stormed out of bed, glaring at everyone and snapped at me when I tried to say good morning. I gave it a few minutes, and then tried again. The third time she yelled at me, and I looked at her, and told her that it wasn't okay to be nasty to me, she could either change her attitude or eat her breakfast in her bedroom. AND IT WORKED. She was quiet for a few minutes, and the apologized, told me that she was just really tired, and could I help her pick out some clothes.
It was awesome. And I was so incredibly proud of her, because she's really, really growing up so fast. And learning that she's got control over her emotions, that she doesn't have to let herself sink into anger, misery and frustration, that she can take a deep breath, put a smile on her face, and things really do get better is such a huge milestone for her. She wouldn't have been able to do that a year ago. And she's still not at a point where she can stop herself on her own - but she is at the point where I can tell her that she needs to get her emotions under control, and with a firm reminder that we're responsible for our own moods, she's able to pull it together. I've always struggled with this - she's always struggled with it. Me with allowing her the space to feel what she feels without jumping in along side her, and she's always had such a hard time getting control over the emotions. Whatever it is, she does it 1000%. So if she's happy, she's kind of ecstatic. And if she's grumpy - God help us all. But she's getting to the point where she can stop herself before she reaches the point of no return. She can turn it around now, and I'm so proud of her.
I really am ridiculously thrilled by this child. Each one of my kids has a special place in my heart, and I'm pretty convinced that each one is my favorite child. But Jessie - she's my first. She's the one I've known the longest, I've been thru the most with her. I'm so proud of the baby she was, the toddler she was, the little girl she was, the big girl that she was, the tweener she is, and the teenager and woman that she'll be. She's just awesome, and I'm awed by the fact that being her mother is just as incredible now as it was when I first looked into her big, big eyes.
I've had to learn the hard way that, sometimes, being "mean" is what works. Feeling her feelings, and trying to force her to stop by getting as emotional as she was - that didn't work at all. Because I was, and am, so close to her, because her emotions are so available for everyone, especially me, to see and feel right along with her, I had a really hard time being able to stop and say "No - this behavior is unacceptable. It's okay that you feel this way, it's not okay that you are taking it out on everyone." But by doing that, by being firm, setting up the expectation that there is a standard of behavior that we will live up to, by doing that, I'm able to give her the framework to get a grip on the emotions. When I was in the trenches with her, feeling frustrated and angry and miserable along with her because I wanted so much for her to be able to stop, she couldn't do it. By achieving a little distance, by not allowing myself to get swept up in the emotional storm, and by being what I always thought of as mean, I'm able to show her how to better navigate thru the world.
Friday, December 14, 2012
93,295
According to the National Center for Education Statistic (which is the link that I got when I googled), there are 93,295 public schools in the United States. I'm clinging to that number today. Because when I look at that, and I think that this horrific accident happened in one out of 93,295 schools, I can remind myself that this is rare. And it's an unspeakable tragedy. And most importantly, schools are safe.
I don't like sharing my kids. I'd rather keep them home with me all the time. I send them to school because I know that they are safe and loved and cared for. Because they have to live, they have to have friends and experiences outside of my living room. My kids have exceptional teachers. Teachers that have surpassed every expectation I've ever had with their dedication, devotion, concern, and effort that they put into making sure that my kids thrive. Flagg Street School is, as I'm sure so many schools are, a place of nurturing and security. I know this. But today, I don't feel like anywhere is safe.
They don't know about this. I've kept the television off. I did all my crying before they came home, and other than squeezing them both until they giggled and begged me to let go before they choked, they didn't notice anything different. I know that I'll have to tell them. I know that they'll hear about it. I just don't know how to yet.
And until I can manage to talk about it, without thinking about how I gave them both a kiss and one last hug and shipped them off to school like so many other parents, until I can stop putting myself into those parents' places. Until I can stop imagining what it would be like, to know that the last hug really was the last hug - I'm not going to tell them about it.
I'm sure that there are many people who will talk about gun control, and stronger security measures. But I think that misses the point. The point, if I may be so bold, is that horrible, unimaginable tragedies happen. They just do. Life can change in an instant, and you never know what tomorrow might bring. I don't want my kids barricaded in a school with metal detectors and afraid of everyone. That's not the solution. But for me, the point is that life is fragile and so, so precious. We forget that. We have to, I guess, in order to live.
So, for me, the point is just a reminder... there, but for the grace of God, go I. And I'll honor those lives lost today by remembering, as much as I can, how fortunate we are. To live in this time, in this place. To have beautiful, healthy children. To be able to squeeze them until they giggle and to cherish them as much as I can. And I'll do my best to forget how fragile and scary it is, because the world is an amazing place, filled with wonderful people and incredible experiences - and in order for me to allow my children out into it, I'm going to have to forget how incredibly fragile life is.
I don't like sharing my kids. I'd rather keep them home with me all the time. I send them to school because I know that they are safe and loved and cared for. Because they have to live, they have to have friends and experiences outside of my living room. My kids have exceptional teachers. Teachers that have surpassed every expectation I've ever had with their dedication, devotion, concern, and effort that they put into making sure that my kids thrive. Flagg Street School is, as I'm sure so many schools are, a place of nurturing and security. I know this. But today, I don't feel like anywhere is safe.
They don't know about this. I've kept the television off. I did all my crying before they came home, and other than squeezing them both until they giggled and begged me to let go before they choked, they didn't notice anything different. I know that I'll have to tell them. I know that they'll hear about it. I just don't know how to yet.
And until I can manage to talk about it, without thinking about how I gave them both a kiss and one last hug and shipped them off to school like so many other parents, until I can stop putting myself into those parents' places. Until I can stop imagining what it would be like, to know that the last hug really was the last hug - I'm not going to tell them about it.
I'm sure that there are many people who will talk about gun control, and stronger security measures. But I think that misses the point. The point, if I may be so bold, is that horrible, unimaginable tragedies happen. They just do. Life can change in an instant, and you never know what tomorrow might bring. I don't want my kids barricaded in a school with metal detectors and afraid of everyone. That's not the solution. But for me, the point is that life is fragile and so, so precious. We forget that. We have to, I guess, in order to live.
So, for me, the point is just a reminder... there, but for the grace of God, go I. And I'll honor those lives lost today by remembering, as much as I can, how fortunate we are. To live in this time, in this place. To have beautiful, healthy children. To be able to squeeze them until they giggle and to cherish them as much as I can. And I'll do my best to forget how fragile and scary it is, because the world is an amazing place, filled with wonderful people and incredible experiences - and in order for me to allow my children out into it, I'm going to have to forget how incredibly fragile life is.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Midnight Zombie Attacks
Marc's job entails a lot of late nights. It's got a lot of flexibility, in that he's able to do pick up and drop off from school and various afterschool activities, and get to the gym occasionally. But it also means that most nights, he's not here for bedtime.
I'm not great at bedtime. On the list of parenting tasks, it's probably got to count as a fail on my part. I don't put my kids to bed, kiss them goodnight and have them fall asleep on their own. I snuggle them to sleep. Jessie, not as much, she's at the point where sometimes she'll happily bop off to bed on her own, but mostly, she likes to fall asleep in my bed and then I haul her up and walk her into her own room. They can, and do, sleep in their own beds, but they like to fall asleep all snuggled up and fun. If I had just one, I could do it in their own beds and then go back to my own. But, as I've got three, I just keep doing it this way and hope that the day doesn't come when I've got a sixteen year old, a thirteen year old and a ten year old all in my bed. Or maybe I do hope that day'll come - I'm a little foggy this morning due to lack of sleep.
So last night... it's all flowing well. We went out for dinner as the special thing that night (this year, we aren't doing a gift every night because that's 24 gifts right off the bat, before we factor in stepdaughters and Christmas) but committed to doing SOMETHING special each night, in addition to lighting the candles). By the time we got home, it was eight thirty, and Jessie still had homework. So I explained long division to her. Again. Sam got himself ready for bed, we lit all the menorahs, and I took Samilicious in to fall asleep in my bed. Jessie finished a card she was making for one of her friends at school and wandered in a little later. Julianna had napped from 3-6 (which I was okay with, because at that point, I thought Marc would be home earlier and he could spend some time with her), so I knew that she'd be up for a while.
Sam fell asleep easily enough, he's far and away my best sleeper. Once he was officially out cold, I hauled him up and tossed him into his bed. His queen bed, because I can't throw him up into the loft bed. Which is an important detail for later. Julie ended up crawling into bed and falling asleep a little earlier than I had anticipated. I fell asleep before Marc came home, with Jessie still in the bed next to me.
Marc apparently decided that he was too tired to be moving children hither and yon, and since Jessie was in my bed, and Sam was in the big bed in his room, his options were to climb up into the loft bed (which is an image that amuses me) or to just crash in Jessie's room. Which would have been FINE, except that Julianna woke up around two thirty. She never wakes up for any length of time, she just fusses a minute, latches on for a bit, and then drifts back to sleep. But it was enough to wake Miss Jess, who got up and toddled her little self into her own bed.
Which is when all hell broke loose. Jessie had no idea her Daddy was in her bed, and just climbed in. When she realized that there was SOMETHING in her bed, she started screaming like she was being attacked. Which in turn freaked Marc out, who had been in a sound sleep, until he suddenly was actually being attacked by an extremely loud and freaked out nine year old. So he also started screaming in terror. Which was funny, now, in retrospect, but last night, I was just irritated. Because I knew instantly what had happened and that it wasn't going to end well. Lo and behold, Jessie came tearing back into my bed, launched herself on top of me and Julie, still sobbing and screaming. Which woke Julie, who had been mostly still dozing, so she was wide awake. Three minutes later, barely enough time to shove Jessie over to the side and get her to mostly stop crying, in wandered my boy. "Why is everyone screaming??" I just shushed him and told him to snuggle back up. "Everyone back to sleep, shhhhh" I kept repeating, until, eventually, everyone did. Except for me. Because when everyone's in bed with me, I can't sleep. I'm trapped, unable to roll over or move or adjust a pillow without waking someone.
So tonight, even if it kills me, I'm staying awake long enough to shove everyone into their own beds.
I'm not great at bedtime. On the list of parenting tasks, it's probably got to count as a fail on my part. I don't put my kids to bed, kiss them goodnight and have them fall asleep on their own. I snuggle them to sleep. Jessie, not as much, she's at the point where sometimes she'll happily bop off to bed on her own, but mostly, she likes to fall asleep in my bed and then I haul her up and walk her into her own room. They can, and do, sleep in their own beds, but they like to fall asleep all snuggled up and fun. If I had just one, I could do it in their own beds and then go back to my own. But, as I've got three, I just keep doing it this way and hope that the day doesn't come when I've got a sixteen year old, a thirteen year old and a ten year old all in my bed. Or maybe I do hope that day'll come - I'm a little foggy this morning due to lack of sleep.
So last night... it's all flowing well. We went out for dinner as the special thing that night (this year, we aren't doing a gift every night because that's 24 gifts right off the bat, before we factor in stepdaughters and Christmas) but committed to doing SOMETHING special each night, in addition to lighting the candles). By the time we got home, it was eight thirty, and Jessie still had homework. So I explained long division to her. Again. Sam got himself ready for bed, we lit all the menorahs, and I took Samilicious in to fall asleep in my bed. Jessie finished a card she was making for one of her friends at school and wandered in a little later. Julianna had napped from 3-6 (which I was okay with, because at that point, I thought Marc would be home earlier and he could spend some time with her), so I knew that she'd be up for a while.
Sam fell asleep easily enough, he's far and away my best sleeper. Once he was officially out cold, I hauled him up and tossed him into his bed. His queen bed, because I can't throw him up into the loft bed. Which is an important detail for later. Julie ended up crawling into bed and falling asleep a little earlier than I had anticipated. I fell asleep before Marc came home, with Jessie still in the bed next to me.
Marc apparently decided that he was too tired to be moving children hither and yon, and since Jessie was in my bed, and Sam was in the big bed in his room, his options were to climb up into the loft bed (which is an image that amuses me) or to just crash in Jessie's room. Which would have been FINE, except that Julianna woke up around two thirty. She never wakes up for any length of time, she just fusses a minute, latches on for a bit, and then drifts back to sleep. But it was enough to wake Miss Jess, who got up and toddled her little self into her own bed.
Which is when all hell broke loose. Jessie had no idea her Daddy was in her bed, and just climbed in. When she realized that there was SOMETHING in her bed, she started screaming like she was being attacked. Which in turn freaked Marc out, who had been in a sound sleep, until he suddenly was actually being attacked by an extremely loud and freaked out nine year old. So he also started screaming in terror. Which was funny, now, in retrospect, but last night, I was just irritated. Because I knew instantly what had happened and that it wasn't going to end well. Lo and behold, Jessie came tearing back into my bed, launched herself on top of me and Julie, still sobbing and screaming. Which woke Julie, who had been mostly still dozing, so she was wide awake. Three minutes later, barely enough time to shove Jessie over to the side and get her to mostly stop crying, in wandered my boy. "Why is everyone screaming??" I just shushed him and told him to snuggle back up. "Everyone back to sleep, shhhhh" I kept repeating, until, eventually, everyone did. Except for me. Because when everyone's in bed with me, I can't sleep. I'm trapped, unable to roll over or move or adjust a pillow without waking someone.
So tonight, even if it kills me, I'm staying awake long enough to shove everyone into their own beds.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)