G: “Mom, is a tarantula hard or squishy?”
Me: “I don’t know honey. I’ve never squeezed one. I know that they’re kind of fuzzy.”
G: “I mean if you stick a fork in one, would it go through or would you really have to make a crunch?”
Me: “uh…”
Willis: “This is the worst conversation I’ve ever heard.”
The morning was not off to a good start. I hadn’t slept well and I woke up with a headache. I was grumpy. I really, really wanted to go back to bed.
I lifted a groggy Pinky out of her crib. As I changed her diaper, she protested being up so early. When I pulled her little sausage
arm through the sleeve of her shirt, she pointed to a sock monkey (the theme of her room) and very clearly said, “monkeys”.
I was shocked. She says “mamama” and “daddy”, but that’s about it for her verbal skills (although make no mistake, she makes her wishes known quite clearly). She hasn’t even said “no” yet, a word to which she has quite a bit of exposure.
“Monkeys?!?! I said.
“Monkeys,” she confirmed.
And then we celebrated. I showered her with praise and kisses. We ambushed Willis as he got out of the shower with our good news. We did a monkey dance of happiness.
And just like that, grumpiness turned to joy. Mental and physical exhaustion transformed into gratitude. With that one word, I no longer dreaded the day ahead.
I appreciate Pinky’s reminder to focus on my blessings and the opportunities that each day brings.
Monkeys to you!
Get out of my face.
Six is proving to be a strange age. On one hand, my sweet, thoughtful, funny little boy has turned into a loud, gross, hyper spaz. G is always right up in people’s faces. I say ‘shhh’ so much, the muscles in my face actually get tired. While I love him to pieces, he’s a lot to take.
On the other hand, G is so smart and our conversations (when he can calm down long enough to have one) are getting more and more interesting. His explanation of how popcorn works and how Legos are made are great fun. He’s fascinated by the flags of the world, so we’re studying geography together.
Since he started first grade two weeks ago, he’s developed an interest in being helpful. He wants to pull weeds with Willis, he wants to carry the bags out to the car for me in the morning. He’s been a great help.
After dinner the other night, G said, “Mom, can I please, please, please learn how to do the dishes?”
“Um…yeah.” So we had some on-the-job training.
“See how it’s like a puzzle to find the best way to fit all the different shaped dishes into the dishwasher?”
“Yeah. Cool!”
“After you put the soap in, you close the door and push this button right here.”
“I get to push it? Awesome.”
“Now that you’re an expert on the dishes, you want to learn how to use the new washing machine?”
“Yes!”
I almost feel like I should warn him about the terrible precedent he is setting for himself, but I will certainly not discourage housework!
New compromise: You can be loud and talk about boogers as much as you want – as long as you do it while cleaning up the kitchen at the same time.
When I was maybe 13, my family went on a road trip. My parents and my two siblings piled into the Ford Fairmont and drove for what seemed like an eternity to Minnesota where we had a rented cabin on a lake. Here’s what I remember about this trip: Dad yelled. A lot. The rest of us did some crying. There was sand and dirt everywhere – in our beds, in the food, everywhere. I remember my mother working like a slave to keep us fed, clean and occupied in our primitive home away from home. I can’t imagine that this was a vacation for her. I spent most of the week playing video games in the main lodge or begging for more quarters. Even at 13, I thought, “Why are we doing this?”
Now I think I know. I make G go for walk with the rest of us even though he’s bored and whines the whole time. I drag poor Pinky to restaurants she’s too little to appreciate and then work my ass off trying to keep her entertained long enough for everyone to eat. Because we are a family. We are going to enjoy each others’ company, godammit. Imagine my hand smacking my own forehead after I heard my mother’s voice come straight out of my mouth, “We are having fun so KNOCK IT OFF!”
I hope that Pinky & G will have happy childhood memories (as I do). If I have to drag them kicking and screaming into happiness, so be it.
I’m going to tell you the end of the story first – he’s OK.
I got “the call” Tuesday afternoon to come pick up G from camp. He was complaining of a headache. When I got there, his head hurt, but he was otherwise fine – talkative, antsy, fine. So I took him home, gave him some Tylenol and turned on the kind of violent and insipid cartoons that he likes so much. HE WAS FINE.
In the next 15 minutes, he spiked a 102.5° fever, his eyes got heavy and bloodshot, and his whole body started to hurt. Then he complained that it hurt when he moved his neck. My 6-year-old boy said, “Mommy, I want to go to the hospital right now.” This completed the meningitis checklist, so off we went to the doctor’s office. In the car, his head kept bobbing. I couldn’t tell if he was losing consciousness or not and it completely freaked me out. Mercifully, they got him in right away. The doctor poked and prodded. At this point, G was having a hard time sitting up and keeping his eyes open.
The pediatrician ruled out meningitis and other scary emergency diagnoses, but didn’t know what the problem was. So he gave G some ibuprofen and sent us home, where I put him straight to bed. 45 minutes later when I checked on him, I couldn’t wake him up. His fever was still raging. He was mumbling incoherently and couldn’t tell me his name. Panic began to set in.
Willis scooped him out of bed and carried him to the car. Off they went, rushing to the emergency room, leaving me alone with Pinky, trying not to let my mind go to the darkest and most frightening places it could find.
20 minutes later, Willis called. G’s fever apparently broke in the car. G asked to go to the bathroom and while they were there, he perked up as if someone flipped a switch. Whatever this was left just as quickly as it came. G bounced back through my door, completely back to normal. By 8:00 that night, I was griping at him to quit jumping on the bed and he’s been fine ever since.
After a stiff drink and a good cry, I’m fine too I guess – other than my lingering sense of “WTF?!”
So today, I am grateful for my beautiful, healthy babies. And for all of the people who were concerned and supportive. And for the fact that we are fortunate enough to have medical care when too many do not. And that he’s OK. And that there’s a happy (although still mysterious) ending to the day’s drama.
Deep breath. He’s fine.
As I’m getting settled back into the every day chaos of life after being away for two weeks, I’m finding that I had forgotten two things –
At bed time, G’s boundless energy finally simmers down a little bit. It’s when we leave Pinky and Daddy behind for awhile and go off alone together. He tells me about his day and about his innermost thoughts. We snuggle up and read stories. We talk about little boy things.
After G is down for the night, Pinky takes a bottle – the only one of the day any more. The last remnants of her babyhood. She too fits snugly and warmly into my arms and although she fights it valiantly, her eyes eventually close as she dozes off.
And after all the stories and drinks of water and hugs and kisses, the house of chaos is finally quiet. Depending on the evening, I will either sidle quietly up next to my husband or by myself under a quilt with a book or the remote. Doesn’t really matter which because I will be asleep in a matter of just a few minutes either way. That last 45 minutes of the day often makes the other 14 hours of running around like a headless chicken worthwhile.
So today I give thanks for bed time.
Question of the day: How do you balance between wanting to raise strong, capable, independent children and wanting to protect them from every hurt?
Case in point: My husband works in Italy each summer. This year, I’m going with him for the first two weeks of his trip. (Yay!) G who just turned six, is really upset about us leaving. He’ll stay with Grandma and Grandpa where he spends plenty of time and is more than comfortable. But a guy needs his mom. So we’re having lots of hugs. And lots of reassurances about how much I love him and that I will be back before he knows it. We look at the globe so he can see where Italy is. We’re setting up iChat so we can still talk face-to-face. He’s still scared. I totally get it and I feel terrible.
But here’s the rub. He sees that I feel terrible and he’s learning to use that to his advantage. I dropped him off at school two weeks ago – same as every other day. Instead of a quick hug and running off to join his friends like usual, he clung to me and said, “See. You’re leaving me.” Same thing at bedtime that night. I refused to read a fourth book and was accused of abandoning him. Sorry, I’m not playing that game. It’s been the same scene ever since.
Part of me wants to cancel my ticket (thus teaching him that guilt tripping me works.) Part of me wants to kiss him and hold him and make him see that it’s all going to be OK. And part of me want to say, “G, I am going and I am coming back. I need you to be brave.”
Is this one of those moments that he’ll be telling a therapist about twenty years from now? Is this something that he will have no memory of at all in six months? Is this all simply grade A mommy torture?
A much younger co-worker of mine recently got married and is talking whimsically about starting a family. It’s been fun to watch. I remember that magical, idealistic newlywed time. I got married five minutes after I turned 22 and she reminds me very much of myself. I was impossibly young and never could have imagined what I was in for – for better AND for worse. So I share my happy mommy stories with her and keep my gory labor and delivery details to myself. Watching her makes me think about how much my life changed when my children were born.
Being a somewhat compulsive list maker, I started to write down the things about my life that changed when I became a mom. Some things I expected and some came from out of the blue. Some changes I made consciously and others just happened without me noticing. Here are the lists:
Things You Sacrifice to Have Kids
Things You Gain by Having Children
To sum it all up, motherhood is joy, joy, exhaustion, joy, poop, joy.
When G was 3 years old, we discovered his competitive streak and quickly learned to manipulate it. I would tell him it was time to head upstairs for pajamas and he would reflexively start whining. And begging. And negotiating to stay up later. He would do anything to avoid bed time. Until I took one step towards the stairs and said, “I’m gonna win.” Then whoosh! He was a blur racing up the stairs. He would rather stick needles in his eyes than go to bed, but he would much rather go to bed than lose a race. It was a parenting novelty. I was sure that he would wise up to me soon – I promise he is a brilliant child. But I was wrong. It’s three years later and it still works.
I also thought this compulsive competition was unique to my quirky little boy. Wrong again. I work in a male-dominant environment. I see people (sorry, but mostly men) let their competitiveness overcome their common sense on a fairly regular basis. For example, a friend of mine is a smart, successful executive. A job was offered to him in a new division. He had no interest in it. He didn’t want it. He gave a long list of reasons why it wasn’t a good fit for him. Until the hiring manager said, “Well, if you think you’re not up to the challenge, I suppose I can offer it to Joe.” Sure enough, he accepted the job that day. He would rather take a job he didn’t want than let poor, unsuspecting Joe win the race.
What is this phenomenon? As a parent, should I be concerned? Winning is certainly not a bad thing. But doing it with disregard for your own best interest is. Is G neurotic? Or is he pre-disposed to have Senior Vice President behind his name? Or are those the same thing?
