This school year has been one of the most challenging I can remember. Two years ago, when Jimmy was in second grade, it was particularly tough because I had two miscarriages between November and June, which laid me flat both physically and emotionally for a lot of months. But with Audrey starting Kindergarten, this was the first year with two kids at the school table, and wow, it was a big adjustment for all of us.
Thankfully, I've reached a place where I feel completely confident in both my teaching and organizational abilities, and so it gave me the chance to focus on stepping up my game and really engaging with my children on a new level.
When I gave Jimmy his last journal assignment for the school year, I asked him to write about his four favorite things he learned this year. I'm giving myself the same assignment, so in no particular order, here's what I learned during 2012-2013:
1) Old dogs can (and should) learn new tricks. All year long, I've been coming up against the realization that for so many reasons, I need to stop yelling at my kids. So, with a little help from an amazing gal known as Orange Rhino, I'm doing just that. I still struggle, I still yell, but I'm only a couple months into this new trick and already I'm yelling less. It's making a huge difference for me and my kids. Even better, I dialogue with them about why I'm doing what I'm doing and they're helping me while they see me modeling this willingness to change.
2) I'm the expert on my kids. I'm sure you're thinking, well, duh. But starting out with a virtual academy--while it's been lovely having someone to give us guidance and hold us accountable--has allowed me to defer to others as knowing better what my kids might need or what curriculum might be best or what learning plan we should follow. Over the past couple of years, I've been putting the pieces together and finally feeling like if we had to fly solo (which we may have to do because of legislation in Olympia that will reform alternative learning experiences like CVA), I could do it. I could do it because I know what areas my kids are strong in, what they struggle with, how they learn, and how to teach them.
3) Kids are spiritual creatures. This year I've shifted some of my focus to providing a spiritual touchstone as an integral part of our learning day. For us this means we have a devotional each morning before we start school work. Doing this helps me and the kids to be more calm and centered before we dive into doing stuff that challenges us and trying to get along with each other while everyone is working at the table together. We also created an art area and did a fine arts course as part of our curriculum this year. It was amazing: seeing art, learning about it, creating it. Art feeds the soul.
4) I love my children. I already knew this, but I found I need to keep learning it all over again, every day. Sometimes I get so focused in on what needs to be done--the lessons we need to get through--that I lose sight of the why. And then things get adversarial: when I'm focused on checking off the subjects on our list, instead of tuning in my children's needs and how I can meet them, it's me against them instead of us learning together. If I go on autopilot and forget to be mindful of that overarching feeling of love, it all falls apart. I fall apart.
And now, I'm off to make another list... of things to do over the summer!
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenthood. Show all posts
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Tuesday, April 09, 2013
NaPoWriMo #6-7: valediction
I've been sick for over a week now, and while I soldiered bravely on for the first few days, I finally ran out of poetic steam. I just needed a few less things to worry about, so I could rest up and recoup. Today I'm feeling about 75-80%, which is progress enough to put me back in the saddle.
That, and after reading the prompt from the good folks at Napowrimo.net, I had to get the images out of my head that kept me up last night a little longer than I would have liked. See, the prompt was "valediction", and when I had a chance to sit with it and allow images and ideas to unfold, the place it took me was a memory from last year, when Jim and I took the kids to Spokane for the day.
As we were driving home, we saw a mother duck trying to lead her ducklings across the freeway. I have no idea how she had gotten them to the other side, but by the time we saw them, most of her babies had already been hit by passing cars. In the moment we witnessed it, Jim and I made a mute agreement not to call the kids' attention to the scene. This was something they would not be ready to see. One of our favorite bedtime books has been Make Way for Ducklings, by Robert McCloskey, a charming tale of a duck family who takes up residence in Boston. In one scene, the mother duck leads her little ones to safety under the watchful protection of police officers, who keep the cars at bay while the ducks cross the road to their home.
No, this was something my children would not be ready to see.
So, I went at this poem from two different directions: first, a tanka; then, free verse. For now, both are untitled.
***
Mother duck: a brown
buoy bobs in a sea of cars with
no way to guide her
small fleet to safety in the
tempest of rush-hour traffic.
***
She waits on the left shoulder
her fuzzy brood still strung across the median
then, when they have caught up
she darts out into the roadway
and one
by one
the ducklings
follow her
within seconds, the first two are crushed
by rush-hour traffic
suddenly, the mother duck
seems aware of the danger
when it is already too late
when five more downy, flightless babies
have already followed her
another down
then another.
The cars in front of us slow, briefly
and as if in slow motion
I see it unfolding:
dappled brown wings flapping in panic
and a scattered row of small bodies
flattened into the asphalt
feathers ruffled by the breezy wake
of passing cars
I grab my husband’s arm
and he swerves
to miss the last three ducklings.
For the rest of the ride, I’m stricken
tears falling uncontrollably
for the mother
now standing back beside the road
unable to leave her fallen babies
unable to lead the ones who still live
back to her nest.
That, and after reading the prompt from the good folks at Napowrimo.net, I had to get the images out of my head that kept me up last night a little longer than I would have liked. See, the prompt was "valediction", and when I had a chance to sit with it and allow images and ideas to unfold, the place it took me was a memory from last year, when Jim and I took the kids to Spokane for the day.
As we were driving home, we saw a mother duck trying to lead her ducklings across the freeway. I have no idea how she had gotten them to the other side, but by the time we saw them, most of her babies had already been hit by passing cars. In the moment we witnessed it, Jim and I made a mute agreement not to call the kids' attention to the scene. This was something they would not be ready to see. One of our favorite bedtime books has been Make Way for Ducklings, by Robert McCloskey, a charming tale of a duck family who takes up residence in Boston. In one scene, the mother duck leads her little ones to safety under the watchful protection of police officers, who keep the cars at bay while the ducks cross the road to their home.
No, this was something my children would not be ready to see.
So, I went at this poem from two different directions: first, a tanka; then, free verse. For now, both are untitled.
***
Mother duck: a brown
buoy bobs in a sea of cars with
no way to guide her
small fleet to safety in the
tempest of rush-hour traffic.
***
She waits on the left shoulder
her fuzzy brood still strung across the median
then, when they have caught up
she darts out into the roadway
and one
by one
the ducklings
follow her
within seconds, the first two are crushed
by rush-hour traffic
suddenly, the mother duck
seems aware of the danger
when it is already too late
when five more downy, flightless babies
have already followed her
another down
then another.
The cars in front of us slow, briefly
and as if in slow motion
I see it unfolding:
dappled brown wings flapping in panic
and a scattered row of small bodies
flattened into the asphalt
feathers ruffled by the breezy wake
of passing cars
I grab my husband’s arm
and he swerves
to miss the last three ducklings.
For the rest of the ride, I’m stricken
tears falling uncontrollably
for the mother
now standing back beside the road
unable to leave her fallen babies
unable to lead the ones who still live
back to her nest.
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
NaPoWriMo #2: acrostic
I went a bit nuts here, but it was hard to limit myself to just one word per letter on the subject in question.
Children
Children
Chaos, cheesy, curious,
cherish, clever, change, cheeky, crayons, cry, cuddles, crawl, choosy,
concrete, careful, crafty, calm, courteous, chickenpox, compassion, creativity,
cunning, conflict, chatty, complex, camping, cheerful, comics, conscious, cats,
cooperate
Happy, honest, helpful, hugs,
humbling, heart, hilarious, handprints, home, haircuts, high-spirited, harmony,
hunger, handkerchiefs, hardy, hurry, haven, headache, hotdogs, heaven, honey, hijinks,
holidays, hygiene, hiccups, hand-me-downs, heritage, hope
Innocence, intuitive,
inquisitive, important, imaginative, infuriating, intelligence, ice cubes, itchy,
intensity, inadequate, informant, impressionable, innovate, intrepid, impish, independent,
impulsive, indebted, ingenious, imperfect, inspiration, insects, intangible
Labor, laughter, loud, learn,
legs, lullaby, laundry, lively, lesson, likable, lucky, lava, limber, lavish,
linear, loyal, lilting, loquacious, listen, library, life, limits, literal,
longing, loving, lucid, lyrical, lunacy, lemonade, loopy, loss, leap (before
you) look, longsuffering
Determined, deep, diapers,
dirt, dedication, delicate, daredevil, discipline, dear, delicious, dreams,
drawing, dandelions, dinner, devotion, driven, discovery, dinosaurs, development,
diligence, drama, delight, discern, demanding, defend, deprived (of sleep)
Rowdy, running, reading, restless,
real, reasons, receptive, relax, routine, rollicking, respectful, responsive, rude,
rapid, ready, road-trip, rewarding, renewal, rocks, reliant, ride, resourceful,
rigorous, ridiculous, rip, roller-skating, ripe, rebellious, romp, replete
Expecting, eager, effervescent,
enervation, excitement, endurance, enthusiasm, engaged, elbows, extreme, entertaining,
emergency, education, expressive, eloquent, embarrassment, exhausting, empathy,
exacting, energy, excel, exploration, evolve, eternal
New, nurture, needs, nose-kisses,
now, nursing, nonsense, nest, no, nape, nuggets, noble, nap, naïve, naughty, nightmares,
nutty, normal, natter, notebooks, nimble, naked, noisy, neurotic, nightlight, nose-picking, nebulous, necessity
(is the mother of invention)
Monday, April 01, 2013
NaPoWriMo #1: sick kids
How ironic that as I look back to the last time I did NaPoWriMo (2011), the first poem I posted was inspired by Audrey having stomach flu. 'Tis the season, I guess: she's had a cold for most of the past week, and now Joe and I are sick, too. Sadly, Sunday didn't feel much like Easter to me, since the kids and I stayed home from church to rest and recoup.
It's always hard when babies are sick because they don't understand why they feel miserable, only that they do. I've been spending a lot of the time laying on the couch with Joe, rocking him to sleep so he can have some relief. I might enjoy getting to cuddle him more, if I didn't feel so lousy myself. The silver lining was a bit of poetic inspiration.
Easter
A golden afternoon
promises of summer in the wings
I am aware, just barely
of two older children
laughing somewhere outside
while I am stretched out on the couch
with my youngest
resting his sweaty head on my shoulder
his hair plastered to my cheek
after almost an hour
of me rocking, wiping his runny nose
of him squirming, coughing fretfully
he has finally fallen asleep
one clammy hand wrapped round
a fistful of my hair
I breathe in, but only half-way
because if I let my lungs fill
it will tickle my scratchy throat
then my coughing
will set him off coughing again, too
so I breathe shallow, shift my legs slow
so as not to wake him
my step-mother
who has no children of her own, says
I don’t know how you do it
how you care for them
when you are sick
but as my mind drifts between dreams
and waking I see
the question is all wrong
of wrinkles, scars and callouses
that cover my hands
as I run my finger lightly over the vertebrae
beneath the thin knit of his shirt
to the rollicking harmony of laughter
and roller skates grinding down the sidewalk:
this is what I do.
It's always hard when babies are sick because they don't understand why they feel miserable, only that they do. I've been spending a lot of the time laying on the couch with Joe, rocking him to sleep so he can have some relief. I might enjoy getting to cuddle him more, if I didn't feel so lousy myself. The silver lining was a bit of poetic inspiration.
Easter
A golden afternoon
promises of summer in the wings
I am aware, just barely
of two older children
laughing somewhere outside
while I am stretched out on the couch
with my youngest
resting his sweaty head on my shoulder
his hair plastered to my cheek
after almost an hour
of me rocking, wiping his runny nose
of him squirming, coughing fretfully
he has finally fallen asleep
one clammy hand wrapped round
a fistful of my hair
I breathe in, but only half-way
because if I let my lungs fill
it will tickle my scratchy throat
then my coughing
will set him off coughing again, too
so I breathe shallow, shift my legs slow
so as not to wake him
my step-mother
who has no children of her own, says
I don’t know how you do it
how you care for them
when you are sick
at first I think
I don’t know how I do itbut as my mind drifts between dreams
and waking I see
the question is all wrong
and when I know
the right question
I can feel the answer
in the intricate web of wrinkles, scars and callouses
that cover my hands
I can read the answer
in the braille of my baby’s
spineas I run my finger lightly over the vertebrae
beneath the thin knit of his shirt
I can hear the answer
as I finally float off to the rollicking harmony of laughter
and roller skates grinding down the sidewalk:
this is what I do.
Sunday, January 06, 2013
A house in order
I've been meaning to post for a while, but having been sick off and (mostly) on since Thanksgiving, something had to give. Blogging was only one of several casualties.
Around the last time I posted I realized I just didn't have the energy to do all the things I wanted to do for the holidays, so it was time to cut my losses and stick to the priorities: 1) teaching the kids their lessons until we (mercifully) hit winter break; 2) making balanced meals; 3) making sure there were clean dishes to eat the meals on; and 4) making sure there were clean clothes to have the meals spilled on. Only slightly lower on the priority list was making Christmas pajamas for each of the kids. Other than that, if it didn't happen, oh well.
The great thing about lowered expectations is I'm seldom disappointed, no matter the outcome. We had a modest but lovely Christmas, scaled back from previous years in terms of quantity, but overflowing with all that mattered.
My favorite thing about this Christmas was that as soon as we finished school on December 14th, the kids disappeared for the following week, holed up in our basement atelier making gifts for everyone in our family (including the cats) out of pipecleaners, beads, string and scotch tape. This resulted in Jimmy's first working invention: a cat toy made out of a single pipecleaner twisted into a ring. Something about the shape and fuzziness is irresistible to both of our cats, who've been chasing them all over the house for the last three weeks.
Simple really is better.
The week after Christmas, as I was putting away patterns and flannel scraps leftover from the Christmas jammies, and casting furtive, longing glances at the corner where the new dressform Santa brought me sat in its box, I had an "aha" moment.
One of the things I love about this drafty, ramshackle old house we rent is it is big enough for me to have a room of my own, à la Virginia Woolfe. It's a combination sewing room/office in a finished-off portion of what was once the root cellar, and lately the preferred hidey-hole for Santa to stash the kids' presents. As I was doing post-pajama clean-up, though, I realized that even with all the gifts cleared out it was still an unqualified disaster. I really, really wanted to set up my new dressform and get sewing so I could finish winter break doing a fun project just for me, but before I could even put it together, I knew I had to make a place to put it.
Then it hit me: I am my sewing room. It is me. We are both a hot mess.
Upstairs my house is moderately presentable. The living room, bathroom and dining room can be made company-ready in 20 minutes to a half-hour, tops. The kitchen, well, maybe an hour. The point is, I keep things functional and presentable up there so life can go on, even when I'm teaching phonics, refereeing squabbles, and dealing with teething babies.
And that's pretty much how I work emotionally, physically, spiritually and intellectually--I do enough on the surface to be serviceable. I have down days and forget to pray or meditate, I get stressed out, I eat too much, I don't get enough exercise--but I'm basically a good person who helps other people, cares for my family, gives back the wrong change the cashier made and tries not to yell at my kids. Too much. In public.
Below the surface, though--down in the basement, if you will--it's chaos. Things are out of place, neglected, haphazard. Boxes and bags and baskets--stacked every which way, filled with mementos, fabric, books, papers needing to be filed. A huge backlog of keep-or-toss. Because of that, I feel like I'm putting off doing the things I want to do because I haven't yet done the things I need to do, and I don't want to live my life in a holding pattern.
After I had this realization, a phrase started echoing in my head: "Put your house in order, put your house in order." We were in Yakima all day running errands on New Year's Eve, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I knew there was a scriptural reference, and finally looked it up (thank you, smart phone). As I read the passage, rather than feeling behind the 8-ball, I was filled with an immediate sense of calm that I could go about this a little bit at a time, systematically, when I had small chunks of time between my other commitments.
As I've said before, I don't believe in resolutions--making the start of a new year an arbitrary time to implement changes--but now is the time for me to put my house in order so I can start living in ways I've been putting off because I had other things I "ought to do"' first.
For the first time in months, I can see the top of my desk. It feels good.
Around the last time I posted I realized I just didn't have the energy to do all the things I wanted to do for the holidays, so it was time to cut my losses and stick to the priorities: 1) teaching the kids their lessons until we (mercifully) hit winter break; 2) making balanced meals; 3) making sure there were clean dishes to eat the meals on; and 4) making sure there were clean clothes to have the meals spilled on. Only slightly lower on the priority list was making Christmas pajamas for each of the kids. Other than that, if it didn't happen, oh well.
The great thing about lowered expectations is I'm seldom disappointed, no matter the outcome. We had a modest but lovely Christmas, scaled back from previous years in terms of quantity, but overflowing with all that mattered.
My favorite thing about this Christmas was that as soon as we finished school on December 14th, the kids disappeared for the following week, holed up in our basement atelier making gifts for everyone in our family (including the cats) out of pipecleaners, beads, string and scotch tape. This resulted in Jimmy's first working invention: a cat toy made out of a single pipecleaner twisted into a ring. Something about the shape and fuzziness is irresistible to both of our cats, who've been chasing them all over the house for the last three weeks.
Simple really is better.
The week after Christmas, as I was putting away patterns and flannel scraps leftover from the Christmas jammies, and casting furtive, longing glances at the corner where the new dressform Santa brought me sat in its box, I had an "aha" moment.
One of the things I love about this drafty, ramshackle old house we rent is it is big enough for me to have a room of my own, à la Virginia Woolfe. It's a combination sewing room/office in a finished-off portion of what was once the root cellar, and lately the preferred hidey-hole for Santa to stash the kids' presents. As I was doing post-pajama clean-up, though, I realized that even with all the gifts cleared out it was still an unqualified disaster. I really, really wanted to set up my new dressform and get sewing so I could finish winter break doing a fun project just for me, but before I could even put it together, I knew I had to make a place to put it.
Then it hit me: I am my sewing room. It is me. We are both a hot mess.
Upstairs my house is moderately presentable. The living room, bathroom and dining room can be made company-ready in 20 minutes to a half-hour, tops. The kitchen, well, maybe an hour. The point is, I keep things functional and presentable up there so life can go on, even when I'm teaching phonics, refereeing squabbles, and dealing with teething babies.
And that's pretty much how I work emotionally, physically, spiritually and intellectually--I do enough on the surface to be serviceable. I have down days and forget to pray or meditate, I get stressed out, I eat too much, I don't get enough exercise--but I'm basically a good person who helps other people, cares for my family, gives back the wrong change the cashier made and tries not to yell at my kids. Too much. In public.
Below the surface, though--down in the basement, if you will--it's chaos. Things are out of place, neglected, haphazard. Boxes and bags and baskets--stacked every which way, filled with mementos, fabric, books, papers needing to be filed. A huge backlog of keep-or-toss. Because of that, I feel like I'm putting off doing the things I want to do because I haven't yet done the things I need to do, and I don't want to live my life in a holding pattern.
After I had this realization, a phrase started echoing in my head: "Put your house in order, put your house in order." We were in Yakima all day running errands on New Year's Eve, and I couldn't get it out of my head. I knew there was a scriptural reference, and finally looked it up (thank you, smart phone). As I read the passage, rather than feeling behind the 8-ball, I was filled with an immediate sense of calm that I could go about this a little bit at a time, systematically, when I had small chunks of time between my other commitments.
As I've said before, I don't believe in resolutions--making the start of a new year an arbitrary time to implement changes--but now is the time for me to put my house in order so I can start living in ways I've been putting off because I had other things I "ought to do"' first.
For the first time in months, I can see the top of my desk. It feels good.
Monday, August 27, 2012
Good news and... more good news
First up: Joe started walking on Saturday. While it's the end of an
era (my last baby will only be a baby for about five more minutes), it's
a significant milestone in a series that mark his growing physical and
intellectual development, which is a wonder as it unfolds. I'm reminded yet again that if I'm doing my job as a mother, I become a little more
obsolete with every passing day. And that's a good thing.
Then, last night I opened my email to a lovely surprise: Segullah accepted my poem "Lacuna" for print in their last-ever print issue this fall.
Then, last night I opened my email to a lovely surprise: Segullah accepted my poem "Lacuna" for print in their last-ever print issue this fall.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Messy
A shout out to my dear friend and fellow poet, Elizabeth Maurer. She bravely invited me and the kids over for a playdate yesterday with her, her dog Max, and their trampoline. Later, she challenged me to write a poem about it and while I initially demurred, some phrases kept bouncing around in my head, trying to get out.
So Lizzy, it's rough and yes, messy, but this one's for you.
Messy
Being a mother is messy
in ways having nothing to do
with blood, amniotic fluid
snot, urine, vomit
pureed carrots, mashed bananas
mud, grass stains
or crayon on a white wall.
A visit to a childless friend
unravels
when three children (mine)
mix with overly friendly dog
(hers)
and fancy landscaping (also
hers).
The boundaries of whose mother I
am blur
when my friend needs me
as much as my son
after he falls off her deck
and scrapes his back and elbows
on the volcanic rocks in her
flowerbeds.
How can I explain to her
that next time may still be
messy
even if dogs and children
are kept apart?
That being a parent is not just
about preventing chaos
by compartmentalizing variables
but accepting it will still be unavoidable
when large minds housed in small
bodies
learn the limits of their world
and their wills?
She cannot know
until it happens to her
how a woman’s hands leave the
wheel
the instant she conceives
and never return.
I can hope, though
she will open herself, get her hands messy
and find the art of nurture can
be learned
only in facing the fear
that what we have to offer
will never be enough—
will never be enough—
that giving up control
before the unthinkable even happens
is what prepares us
to be the calm eye
in the storm.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Dinner paradigm shift debrief
The short ribs were a big hit. I had to bite my tongue and reel myself in (old habits die oh, so hard) as I coached Jimmy through different tasks to prepare dinner, but it was definitely worth every ounce of self-control I exerted. He glowed with a sense of accomplishment after, was willing to try two new dishes, and loved everything he cooked.
This old dog is gonna learn new tricks, even if it kills her.
This old dog is gonna learn new tricks, even if it kills her.
Dinner paradigm shift
To say my relationship with food is complicated is an understatement, and of all the things that perplex me, cooking dinner tops the list. I love to eat, to cook for the holidays, and to cook for company or take dinner to friends when they're sick or have had a baby. When I know the people I'm cooking for will enjoy what I'm preparing, I find myself taking creative pleasure in trying new dishes and experimenting to improve old favorites. Making everyday dinners, though, is at best a perfunctory task, and most nights frustrating and exhausting.
I can't pinpoint the precise time I started to dread dinner, but I can trace it back to puberty, when my mom went back to college and work. I had to take on dinner duty several nights a week and like a typical teen, I chafed at the unwanted responsibility. That early resentment has informed my attitude about cooking dinner ever since.
When I first got married, it was challenging to cook for a husband who had strong prejudices against certain foods (many of them my favorites) but was reluctant to tell me for fear of offending his new bride. During the early years of our marriage, I struggled to find things we both liked while still injecting some variety into our menu; I could only eat spaghetti so many nights a week. I found a solution that seemed to work for a while: I created a monthly meal calendar of recipes we both could live with, so we only ate the same dish once a month.
When we had children, though, the monthly meal calendar no longer seemed to work. Not only were we on a tighter budget, but even more challenging, I had three disparate palates besides my own to satisfy. Some nights, out of desperation, I became a short order cook, making one meal for me and Jim and two additional, separate meals for Jimmy and Audrey. Even then, no one seemed pleased--especially not me.
Jim and I have come up with a few strategies to cope, but none of them is a complete fix. Each week I sit down with him, the kids and the ads from the local grocer, and ask for their input in deciding on what dinners we'll eat for the week. That way I can try to cater to their requests while taking advantage of what's on sale.
Each child also has one night a week that is "their" night: they get to choose what's for dinner--and originally the idea was for them to help cook dinner, too, though I've been less successful at implementing that part of the plan. Often, however, I still wind up preparing a separate meal for at least one person because Audrey will request chicken nuggets every time it's her night, and no one else likes them--or she refuses to eat what Jimmy has chosen for his night. Even with one night where they do get to choose, there are still six nights of "But Mo-om, I don't like this," and it wears me down. I look at blogs, food shows, and my go-to website, Allrecipes.com, and try to introduce new dishes, but it's a challenge to find ones that make everyone happy.
So, we buy a lot of Dino-nuggets at Costco for Audrey--and make a lot of peanut-butter-Nutella sandwiches for Jimmy.
Meanwhile, my resentment about cooking dinner has continued to grow. My blood pressure rises automatically at 5 p.m. As a matter of course, I tend to banish everyone from the kitchen while I prepare dinner just to have some peace and quiet so I can tend to a task I don't enjoy as quickly as possible. I am usually short with everyone while I cook and during the entire meal. If we're in a hurry to get somewhere after dinner (cub scouts, soccer practice, piano lessons), I get even more stressed out.
Add pregnancy to the mix... and yeah, the last several months have been rough. Jim has taken pity on me and we usually eat out about once a week, or he gives me a break by doing the cooking.
The upshot of all this is I'm suddenly finding myself in a place where I feel ready to change things up. Our dinner problem has been going on for years now, and I have had no idea how to fix it, but I want to--and I want a permanent fix.
If it's me that has to change for it to get fixed, so be it. While the timing isn't ideal because I'm pregnant and don't have a lot of energy, somehow being in a place in my life that is intrinsically creative (i.e., nurturing a new life) is helping me to think creatively in terms of solving this problem. I've been brainstorming, reading, bouncing ideas off Jim, and tweaking the things that are already working to see if I can take them further.
I just started reading a wonderful cookbook, Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys, by Lucinda Scala Quinn. Most of the recipes are for delicious but uncomplicated meals with basic ingredients--but even if none of them appeal to our family, what I'm really going to take away from the book is the author's philosophy that well-made meals can be an extension of our love for our families only when they are prepared joyfully and used as a teaching and bonding time between parents and children. Tonight we're test-driving, at Jimmy's request, a recipe from the book for short ribs, and I'm going to do my best to budget my time and have him in the kitchen with me.
I want dinner to be fun again. For all of us.
I can't pinpoint the precise time I started to dread dinner, but I can trace it back to puberty, when my mom went back to college and work. I had to take on dinner duty several nights a week and like a typical teen, I chafed at the unwanted responsibility. That early resentment has informed my attitude about cooking dinner ever since.
When I first got married, it was challenging to cook for a husband who had strong prejudices against certain foods (many of them my favorites) but was reluctant to tell me for fear of offending his new bride. During the early years of our marriage, I struggled to find things we both liked while still injecting some variety into our menu; I could only eat spaghetti so many nights a week. I found a solution that seemed to work for a while: I created a monthly meal calendar of recipes we both could live with, so we only ate the same dish once a month.
When we had children, though, the monthly meal calendar no longer seemed to work. Not only were we on a tighter budget, but even more challenging, I had three disparate palates besides my own to satisfy. Some nights, out of desperation, I became a short order cook, making one meal for me and Jim and two additional, separate meals for Jimmy and Audrey. Even then, no one seemed pleased--especially not me.
Jim and I have come up with a few strategies to cope, but none of them is a complete fix. Each week I sit down with him, the kids and the ads from the local grocer, and ask for their input in deciding on what dinners we'll eat for the week. That way I can try to cater to their requests while taking advantage of what's on sale.
Each child also has one night a week that is "their" night: they get to choose what's for dinner--and originally the idea was for them to help cook dinner, too, though I've been less successful at implementing that part of the plan. Often, however, I still wind up preparing a separate meal for at least one person because Audrey will request chicken nuggets every time it's her night, and no one else likes them--or she refuses to eat what Jimmy has chosen for his night. Even with one night where they do get to choose, there are still six nights of "But Mo-om, I don't like this," and it wears me down. I look at blogs, food shows, and my go-to website, Allrecipes.com, and try to introduce new dishes, but it's a challenge to find ones that make everyone happy.
So, we buy a lot of Dino-nuggets at Costco for Audrey--and make a lot of peanut-butter-Nutella sandwiches for Jimmy.
Meanwhile, my resentment about cooking dinner has continued to grow. My blood pressure rises automatically at 5 p.m. As a matter of course, I tend to banish everyone from the kitchen while I prepare dinner just to have some peace and quiet so I can tend to a task I don't enjoy as quickly as possible. I am usually short with everyone while I cook and during the entire meal. If we're in a hurry to get somewhere after dinner (cub scouts, soccer practice, piano lessons), I get even more stressed out.
Add pregnancy to the mix... and yeah, the last several months have been rough. Jim has taken pity on me and we usually eat out about once a week, or he gives me a break by doing the cooking.
The upshot of all this is I'm suddenly finding myself in a place where I feel ready to change things up. Our dinner problem has been going on for years now, and I have had no idea how to fix it, but I want to--and I want a permanent fix.
If it's me that has to change for it to get fixed, so be it. While the timing isn't ideal because I'm pregnant and don't have a lot of energy, somehow being in a place in my life that is intrinsically creative (i.e., nurturing a new life) is helping me to think creatively in terms of solving this problem. I've been brainstorming, reading, bouncing ideas off Jim, and tweaking the things that are already working to see if I can take them further.
I just started reading a wonderful cookbook, Mad Hungry: Feeding Men and Boys, by Lucinda Scala Quinn. Most of the recipes are for delicious but uncomplicated meals with basic ingredients--but even if none of them appeal to our family, what I'm really going to take away from the book is the author's philosophy that well-made meals can be an extension of our love for our families only when they are prepared joyfully and used as a teaching and bonding time between parents and children. Tonight we're test-driving, at Jimmy's request, a recipe from the book for short ribs, and I'm going to do my best to budget my time and have him in the kitchen with me.
I want dinner to be fun again. For all of us.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
NaPoWriMo #8: why
Have you ever had a kid ask you a question, only to follow up the answer with "But, why?"
Yeah, me too.
The Hard Questions
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions.
Not
“Where is the pain
on a scale of one to ten?”
(Between 7 and 8.)
Or
“What are your plans
for the baby’s remains?”
(I need to give that some thought.)
Or
even those questions
disguised as statements,
“We’ve got a narrow window here
to test for genetic abnormalities.”
(Like I told you before,
I’m not interested in testing.)
No
they are the ones
who ask me
“Mom, why did our baby die?”
(I don’t know, honey.)
“Which parts weren’t growing right?”
(The doctors couldn’t tell.)
“Will we have another baby?”
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions
questions that school me
with answers I don’t know
outcomes I can’t control.
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
Yeah, me too.
The Hard Questions
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions.
Not
“Where is the pain
on a scale of one to ten?”
(Between 7 and 8.)
Or
“What are your plans
for the baby’s remains?”
(I need to give that some thought.)
Or
even those questions
disguised as statements,
“We’ve got a narrow window here
to test for genetic abnormalities.”
(Like I told you before,
I’m not interested in testing.)
No
they are the ones
who ask me
“Mom, why did our baby die?”
(I don’t know, honey.)
“Which parts weren’t growing right?”
(The doctors couldn’t tell.)
“Will we have another baby?”
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
They are the ones
who ask me the hard questions
questions that school me
with answers I don’t know
outcomes I can’t control.
(We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.)
Thursday, April 07, 2011
NaPoWriMo #7: curriculum vitae
My friend Steve from my poetry group recently finished an excellent CV poem and challenged the rest of us to try it. I did one for NaPoWriMo last year, but recently I've been ruminating on a different direction to take on the concept--my CV as a mother.
How appropriate that pregnancy was the catalyst to get me writing this; at 3:30 this morning I woke up after a particularly bizarre dream and found myself with insomnia (both things that happen often when I'm expecting).
Written when and how this was , it is a very, very rough first draft. In fact, as I read it, I'm almost not wanting to post it because I realize it's an uneven mix of imagery and narrative--but that's the beauty of NaPoWriMo. I write a lot of fresh, raw stuff, and figure out what works, what doesn't and what has the potential to be developed further.
Resume of a Reluctant Mother
I was born the first of five children
to a good man and good woman
who were each lonely before marriage
and lonelier after.
My early childhood was a happy haze
of beaches, blackberries and books.
My father had an unnamed rage
used the belt on us
like an artist uses paint on canvas
but sang us to sleep at bedtime.
My mother had an unnamed sorrow
her children couldn't know or fix
gave us no boundaries
but sewed our clothes
and baked bread in yeast cans.
The last half of my childhood
I spent as a third parent
while my mother and father took turns
trying to run away
from discontent at home.
I was babysitter, cook
laundry washer and ironer
tyrannical big sister
and unwilling partaker
in my parents' disaffection.
When I was sixteen
my father and mother gave up the fight
of staying together for their children
and for a year or two
we were all happier.
At the end of my senior year
my parents remarried
within a month of each other.
We stayed with my mother and stepfather
got four new brothers and sisters
grieving a mother lost to cancer
just a year before.
I was still the oldest
and at eighteen, took my own turn
running away from home.
At twenty-five I married
terrified but hopeful
I would not repeat my parents' mistakes.
Instead, I made my own.
I waited too long to have children
traded stamina and immaturity
for patience and rigidity.
In the end it was a fair trade
for motherhood came hard to me.
I thought it would be different
with my own children
if I chose to have them
loved them because they were mine.
Instead, I found myself
living out my own unnamed sorrow
one that brought back the agony
of responsibilities I hadn't chosen or wanted
except this time, I had.
This time, I could only blame myself.
I could, and did
but now I'm done blaming.
I've decided this story will have a happy ending.
I've decided sorrow and joy can and do coexist.
I've decided I can be a mother
without that being who I am.
I've decided I can love my children
my husband and myself
all at the same time
because I have enough love to go around.
I've decided to let go of resentment
again and again
as many times as it takes.
I've decided to be grateful to my parents.
I've decided to make peace
with my mistakes and flaws
for they have shaped me but do not define me.
I've decided that while I didn't always know
I wanted to be a mother
I do now.
How appropriate that pregnancy was the catalyst to get me writing this; at 3:30 this morning I woke up after a particularly bizarre dream and found myself with insomnia (both things that happen often when I'm expecting).
Written when and how this was , it is a very, very rough first draft. In fact, as I read it, I'm almost not wanting to post it because I realize it's an uneven mix of imagery and narrative--but that's the beauty of NaPoWriMo. I write a lot of fresh, raw stuff, and figure out what works, what doesn't and what has the potential to be developed further.
Resume of a Reluctant Mother
I was born the first of five children
to a good man and good woman
who were each lonely before marriage
and lonelier after.
My early childhood was a happy haze
of beaches, blackberries and books.
My father had an unnamed rage
used the belt on us
like an artist uses paint on canvas
but sang us to sleep at bedtime.
My mother had an unnamed sorrow
her children couldn't know or fix
gave us no boundaries
but sewed our clothes
and baked bread in yeast cans.
The last half of my childhood
I spent as a third parent
while my mother and father took turns
trying to run away
from discontent at home.
I was babysitter, cook
laundry washer and ironer
tyrannical big sister
and unwilling partaker
in my parents' disaffection.
When I was sixteen
my father and mother gave up the fight
of staying together for their children
and for a year or two
we were all happier.
At the end of my senior year
my parents remarried
within a month of each other.
We stayed with my mother and stepfather
got four new brothers and sisters
grieving a mother lost to cancer
just a year before.
I was still the oldest
and at eighteen, took my own turn
running away from home.
At twenty-five I married
terrified but hopeful
I would not repeat my parents' mistakes.
Instead, I made my own.
I waited too long to have children
traded stamina and immaturity
for patience and rigidity.
In the end it was a fair trade
for motherhood came hard to me.
I thought it would be different
with my own children
if I chose to have them
loved them because they were mine.
Instead, I found myself
living out my own unnamed sorrow
one that brought back the agony
of responsibilities I hadn't chosen or wanted
except this time, I had.
This time, I could only blame myself.
I could, and did
but now I'm done blaming.
I've decided this story will have a happy ending.
I've decided sorrow and joy can and do coexist.
I've decided I can be a mother
without that being who I am.
I've decided I can love my children
my husband and myself
all at the same time
because I have enough love to go around.
I've decided to let go of resentment
again and again
as many times as it takes.
I've decided to be grateful to my parents.
I've decided to make peace
with my mistakes and flaws
for they have shaped me but do not define me.
I've decided that while I didn't always know
I wanted to be a mother
I do now.
Friday, April 01, 2011
NaPoWriMo #1: stomach flu
Audrey has been sick the better part of this week with stomach flu. Funny what inspires you when you're laying in bed trying to fall asleep after doing vomit patrol...
1:23 A.M.
Pulled back from the edge of sleep
by your moans in the next room
I fumble from bed
hurry to hold up a bucket
gently rub your back
while your small body rocks with heaves.
Daddy follows me, waits beside you
to dump the bucket when you’re done.
This is the second night of stomach flu.
The first night, you vomited six times
cried to your father and me
“Make it stop!”
We changed the bedding twice
finally left it with a few small stains
just so we could all get some sleep.
You waited until morning
when I tried to give you juice
to finish off the third set of sheets.
All the next day
our washing machine hummed.
Blankets and pillows kept unbalancing each load
so I would rearrange the sopping, soapy mess
close the top, cross my fingers
repeat the process two or three times
then lean against the cool steel
steadying myself against the spin cycle
gagging at the vomit smell
of a nearby basket of still-unwashed linens
that reawakened my dormant morning sickness.
This afternoon I folded basketfuls
of warm, clean laundry
felt in the patient grace of each fold
as I do now
even in gripping the cold plastic rim of this bucket
how I love you.
1:23 A.M.
Pulled back from the edge of sleep
by your moans in the next room
I fumble from bed
hurry to hold up a bucket
gently rub your back
while your small body rocks with heaves.
Daddy follows me, waits beside you
to dump the bucket when you’re done.
This is the second night of stomach flu.
The first night, you vomited six times
cried to your father and me
“Make it stop!”
We changed the bedding twice
finally left it with a few small stains
just so we could all get some sleep.
You waited until morning
when I tried to give you juice
to finish off the third set of sheets.
All the next day
our washing machine hummed.
Blankets and pillows kept unbalancing each load
so I would rearrange the sopping, soapy mess
close the top, cross my fingers
repeat the process two or three times
then lean against the cool steel
steadying myself against the spin cycle
gagging at the vomit smell
of a nearby basket of still-unwashed linens
that reawakened my dormant morning sickness.
This afternoon I folded basketfuls
of warm, clean laundry
felt in the patient grace of each fold
as I do now
even in gripping the cold plastic rim of this bucket
how I love you.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Baby got back
Yesterday morning when I was in the shower, Audrey knocked on the bathroom door. Since we are in the final stages of potty training her and I had no desire to interrupt her accident-free streak, I told her to come in and do her business--only please don't flush until I'm out of the shower!
I hurriedly rinsed off (better safe than sorry) and as I reached for my towel, I saw Audrey perched on the toilet, carefully gripping the seat. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and a slow grin spread across her face.
"Mom, you have a big bottom," she observed. Then, after a pause, "Girls have little bottoms, so they have to hold on. Ladies have big bottoms, so they don't fall in the toilet."
Just in case I had forgotten, I have no pride left.
At least the source of my deficit of vanity also assures I will be free from the humiliation of falling in.
I hurriedly rinsed off (better safe than sorry) and as I reached for my towel, I saw Audrey perched on the toilet, carefully gripping the seat. Her eyes widened ever so slightly and a slow grin spread across her face.
"Mom, you have a big bottom," she observed. Then, after a pause, "Girls have little bottoms, so they have to hold on. Ladies have big bottoms, so they don't fall in the toilet."
Just in case I had forgotten, I have no pride left.
At least the source of my deficit of vanity also assures I will be free from the humiliation of falling in.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Mr. Popper's Penguins
We just got back from the Bookworms Club, a chapter book reading club which meets every week at the public library. Last fall we, or rather Jimmy, attended the picture book club, which I thought was probably a bit below his reading level, but I wanted to start out easy getting him used to the norms of the group. When the schedule came out for the new session, I signed him up for the chapter book club, and his first meeting was this afternoon.
Sue, one of the children's librarians, reads to the kids and then leads an activity related to what they're reading. Today the kids came upstairs from the meeting doing a stiff, penguin-like march, and Sue told me she's reading "Mr. Popper's Penguins" to them.
According to Sue, this is her first time reading it, but I remember the book well from my childhood, when I received it as a Christmas gift one year from my grandparents. If you have or know kids, it's a great book to read and share with them--funny, imaginative, surprisingly tender--and apparently, soon to be a motion picture starring Jim Carrey in the titular role.
After what he did to the Grinch, I may not be able to watch it; some things are better left alone.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Obscurity and competance
A while ago, my friend Kim at pagooey made an observation that resonated deeply inside me:
"If you wake up in the morning, if you're still Here, then there must be something left in this world that you're supposed to do. Originally I attached some pretty noble/vain aspirations to myself, out of this...but at 40, I've allowed that perhaps My True Purpose On This Earth is not necessarily to cure cancer, or attain the Presidency, or even write that blockbuster bestseller that gets me on Oprah. Maybe my purpose is smaller in scope, or meant to be taken a day at a time."
It gelled for me today on some never-before-reached level, as I was I teaching my Primary class of 9, 10 and 11 year-olds at church. Our lesson was about how John the Baptist was foreordained to his calling, and how all of us have our own unique callings we can choose to accept. Or not. Even for those who aren't religious, I believe there's a compelling universal truth in the idea that we each have a purpose to accomplish in life, one we can tap into when we listen to the cosmos--or whatever higher power we recognize--and follow where it leads.
As I was teaching, I had an "aha" moment when I realized I'm actually content--not resigned--but at peace with more modest purposes than I used to dream of: learning the art of being patient with my children, nurturing their minds and bodies, reading books for pleasure as well as knowledge, getting laundry done, working at my marriage, taking care of my body, once or twice a month cleaning the toilet, and slowly (but surely) building up a body of cohesive poems for my first chapbook (probably not the Pulitzer Prize-winner I once fancied, but a start). Those are things I can do, and possibly even do well, one day at a time.
Mark Twain had it when he said, "Obscurity and competance--that is the life that is best worth living."
Friday, July 16, 2010
Missing the point
Yesterday, as I was cruising by MSN.com, I caught this segment of Meredith Viera interviewing Jennifer Senior, the author of last week's New York Magazine cover story, "I Love My Children; I Hate My Life".
What I came to is this: not surprisingly, indignation usually is my mask for feeling defensive. Upon closer examination, I found the "I hate my life" part a little too painfully close to how I felt until fairly recently. As was pointed out in the interview, many parents--myself included--are reluctant to admit the experience of child-rearing doesn't live up to their expectations. I would never have gotten pregnant if I had a sneak peek at what was waiting for me in the first three miserable months of sleep deprivation and breastfeeding agony after Jimmy was born--and that's before I even had to deal with him as a toddler. So to say it didn't live up to my expectations is a mild understatement.
Still, it's completely worth it. My experience has been that when I make my best effort to be a loving, compassionate parent, I always learn more from my children than I know I'm teaching them.
In many ways, waiting until I was in my 30s to have kids has made motherhood much easier for me: I was more emotionally mature and patient than I was in my 20s, and I had a chance to accomplish some educational and personal goals before raising a family. On the other hand, I also got more stubborn, more controlling, more entrenched in a self-centered way of life that was difficult for me to give up when the kids came along.
I reached a point where I knew the next logical step for my personal and spiritual growth was to have children--and that intellectual justification was coupled with a strong emotional and physiological desire for children, as well. I was committed to working through the challenges I knew would come, knowing I would be better for doing so, and also that I (hopefully) would be raising happy, healthy, kind, and productive children.
Even so, nothing prepared me for the reality of what motherhood is really like, how draining it is. As much as I thought I was mature and patient, having to devote so much energy, physically and emotionally, pushed all my buttons. Every last one of them. Only within the last two years have I acknowledged to myself and my husband the rather startling fear of having my kids suck the life out of me, and the tremendous guilt that comes with resenting them for it. Identifying this was a big breakthrough for me, and allowed me to finally move past both the fear and the resentment.
What I've learned as I've attempted to reconcile my fears of "losing myself" to my children's demands is this: control is an illusion. I can teach my children good manners, discipline them, and in so doing modify their behavior to a certain extent. What it all comes down to, though, is how I respond when my children exert their own wills in conflict with mine. Do I explode? Do I lecture? Do I yell? Do I lose my patience? Do I beat myself up for not doing a better job? Do I regret ever giving birth to them? Yes, at some point, any and all of those things.
Eventually, after I made all the mistakes I could think of, I started to learn what does and doesn't work for my kids and for me. I learned the only thing I can control is my own reaction, and I'm more happy when I choose to let go of being angry and resentful. I'm learning (still learning!) to choose my battles, to be patient, and to be calm. I'm also learning how to communicate with my partner, get support, and carve out time for myself to do those things that feed my soul and nurture my creativity.
More than anything, I'm learning the difference between "happy" and "rewarding". Life with kids can be happy, even euphoric, but much more often it is painful, tedious, smelly, embarrassing, frustrating, challenging, expensive and even sometimes tragic. Those experiences, though, are a necessary part of life, of being human, of the cosmic balance of opposition in all things. Life with both bitter and sweet is sometimes happy, but always, always, rewarding.
Looking back at the interview, I don't feel indignant anymore. I just think Ms. Senior and Ms. Viera missed the point. Yes, parenting is a challenge, but it's possible to transcend resentment and frustration by focusing on the intrinsic value of sacrifice and growth possible during the parenting experience.
What makes the struggle worthwhile for me is the opportunity to rise above myself and my hangups by being open to change and open to all the things parenting can teach me if I'm willing to learn.
That, and sloppy tucking-in-at-bedtime kisses.
Visit msnbc.com for breaking news, world news, and news about the economy
For five seconds, I got rather indignant--until I slowed down, put the breaks on being judgmental (always my default), and asked myself why I felt that way.What I came to is this: not surprisingly, indignation usually is my mask for feeling defensive. Upon closer examination, I found the "I hate my life" part a little too painfully close to how I felt until fairly recently. As was pointed out in the interview, many parents--myself included--are reluctant to admit the experience of child-rearing doesn't live up to their expectations. I would never have gotten pregnant if I had a sneak peek at what was waiting for me in the first three miserable months of sleep deprivation and breastfeeding agony after Jimmy was born--and that's before I even had to deal with him as a toddler. So to say it didn't live up to my expectations is a mild understatement.
Still, it's completely worth it. My experience has been that when I make my best effort to be a loving, compassionate parent, I always learn more from my children than I know I'm teaching them.
In many ways, waiting until I was in my 30s to have kids has made motherhood much easier for me: I was more emotionally mature and patient than I was in my 20s, and I had a chance to accomplish some educational and personal goals before raising a family. On the other hand, I also got more stubborn, more controlling, more entrenched in a self-centered way of life that was difficult for me to give up when the kids came along.
I reached a point where I knew the next logical step for my personal and spiritual growth was to have children--and that intellectual justification was coupled with a strong emotional and physiological desire for children, as well. I was committed to working through the challenges I knew would come, knowing I would be better for doing so, and also that I (hopefully) would be raising happy, healthy, kind, and productive children.
Even so, nothing prepared me for the reality of what motherhood is really like, how draining it is. As much as I thought I was mature and patient, having to devote so much energy, physically and emotionally, pushed all my buttons. Every last one of them. Only within the last two years have I acknowledged to myself and my husband the rather startling fear of having my kids suck the life out of me, and the tremendous guilt that comes with resenting them for it. Identifying this was a big breakthrough for me, and allowed me to finally move past both the fear and the resentment.
What I've learned as I've attempted to reconcile my fears of "losing myself" to my children's demands is this: control is an illusion. I can teach my children good manners, discipline them, and in so doing modify their behavior to a certain extent. What it all comes down to, though, is how I respond when my children exert their own wills in conflict with mine. Do I explode? Do I lecture? Do I yell? Do I lose my patience? Do I beat myself up for not doing a better job? Do I regret ever giving birth to them? Yes, at some point, any and all of those things.
Eventually, after I made all the mistakes I could think of, I started to learn what does and doesn't work for my kids and for me. I learned the only thing I can control is my own reaction, and I'm more happy when I choose to let go of being angry and resentful. I'm learning (still learning!) to choose my battles, to be patient, and to be calm. I'm also learning how to communicate with my partner, get support, and carve out time for myself to do those things that feed my soul and nurture my creativity.
More than anything, I'm learning the difference between "happy" and "rewarding". Life with kids can be happy, even euphoric, but much more often it is painful, tedious, smelly, embarrassing, frustrating, challenging, expensive and even sometimes tragic. Those experiences, though, are a necessary part of life, of being human, of the cosmic balance of opposition in all things. Life with both bitter and sweet is sometimes happy, but always, always, rewarding.
Looking back at the interview, I don't feel indignant anymore. I just think Ms. Senior and Ms. Viera missed the point. Yes, parenting is a challenge, but it's possible to transcend resentment and frustration by focusing on the intrinsic value of sacrifice and growth possible during the parenting experience.
What makes the struggle worthwhile for me is the opportunity to rise above myself and my hangups by being open to change and open to all the things parenting can teach me if I'm willing to learn.
That, and sloppy tucking-in-at-bedtime kisses.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
What do you do...
...when you're at the grocery store and your kids start yelling and hitting each other because someone stole someone else's imaginary ice cream? C'mon kids, figure it out--I mean, what is the point of imaginary ice cream if you can't imagine that yours is magically impervious to poaching (and of course, freezer burn)?
It was tempting to leave them there, in the dairy aisle, to duke it out.
So tempting.
It was tempting to leave them there, in the dairy aisle, to duke it out.
So tempting.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Flying solo, day #11
Today I loaded the kids up and we drove to Yakima for a Costco run. Grieving or not, we were out of cheese and lunch meat, and two sandwiches away from no more peanut butter. My first foray back into being in public was relatively pain-free, at least until I tried to lift a 45-pound bag of cat litter.
On the plus side, I used fewer Kleenexes today than yesterday--though I'm still trying to sort through whether it actually makes me feel worse that each day I am crying a little less, that in a few months I will no longer feel this keen sense of loss, that someday I may forget how much I loved this little person who was with me for such a short time.
On the plus side, I used fewer Kleenexes today than yesterday--though I'm still trying to sort through whether it actually makes me feel worse that each day I am crying a little less, that in a few months I will no longer feel this keen sense of loss, that someday I may forget how much I loved this little person who was with me for such a short time.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
T-t-tuesday
Today we drove down to Yakima so Jimmy could have a lingual frenectomy. He's been tongue-tied since birth (a congenital anomaly that runs in Jim's family), which wreaked havoc with trying to breastfeed him until we had his pediatrician snip his frenulum to open it up a bit. At the time Jim was convinced that she didn't snip it enough, but I noticed such a dramatic improvement with nursing I didn't really pay much attention to his concerns.
Recently, though, it's started to impact Jimmy's speech. While the lisp is barely noticeable, we decided it should be addressed before he gets any older. Jimmy's dentist here in town couldn't do the procedure, so he referred us to a pediatric dentist down in Yakima. They had to put Jimmy under so he'd be completely still to prevent them from accidentally severing any nerves around the base of his tongue.
Jimmy, in spite of his usual reticence about dentists, and some real anxiety about this particular visit, performed like a champ. He didn't complain at all about not having anything to eat this morning (12 hours of no food or drink because of the general anesthesia), and when he got to the dentist, he didn't put up any resistance about taking the meds they gave him. Jim took the day off and stayed with him at the dentist's office.
Meanwhile, Audrey and I took a trip just down the road to Walmart in search of that holy grail of toilet training: big girl underpants. Did I mention we started toilet training this week? The prospect of having two in diapers is a big motivator to get it done earlier with Audrey than we did with Jimmy.
Not just any underpants would do, though—it had to be Tinkerbell underpants. The $7.75 pricetag for a seven-pack of panties (the exact same pack Macy's sells for $11.95) was enough to get me over any lingering qualms I have about the general PC-ness of shopping at Walmart. That, and for a buck apiece I will be able to dole out a pair of new panties every day she goes potty and make the magic last at least two whole weeks.
Of course, we also had to get the floppy-brimmed Tinkerbell sun-screen hat. And after picking up the boys, we stopped at Target to find sandals for Jimmy, and wound up with a pair of Tinkerbell flip-flops for Audrey while we were at it. So now she's kitted out in sparkly purple Tink, head-to-toe, inside and out.
Getting used to having a girly-girl is still an adjustment, after four solid years of snakes, snails and puppy-dog tails. I do find myself painting my toenails more often than I used to.
Recently, though, it's started to impact Jimmy's speech. While the lisp is barely noticeable, we decided it should be addressed before he gets any older. Jimmy's dentist here in town couldn't do the procedure, so he referred us to a pediatric dentist down in Yakima. They had to put Jimmy under so he'd be completely still to prevent them from accidentally severing any nerves around the base of his tongue.
Jimmy, in spite of his usual reticence about dentists, and some real anxiety about this particular visit, performed like a champ. He didn't complain at all about not having anything to eat this morning (12 hours of no food or drink because of the general anesthesia), and when he got to the dentist, he didn't put up any resistance about taking the meds they gave him. Jim took the day off and stayed with him at the dentist's office.
Meanwhile, Audrey and I took a trip just down the road to Walmart in search of that holy grail of toilet training: big girl underpants. Did I mention we started toilet training this week? The prospect of having two in diapers is a big motivator to get it done earlier with Audrey than we did with Jimmy.
Not just any underpants would do, though—it had to be Tinkerbell underpants. The $7.75 pricetag for a seven-pack of panties (the exact same pack Macy's sells for $11.95) was enough to get me over any lingering qualms I have about the general PC-ness of shopping at Walmart. That, and for a buck apiece I will be able to dole out a pair of new panties every day she goes potty and make the magic last at least two whole weeks.
Of course, we also had to get the floppy-brimmed Tinkerbell sun-screen hat. And after picking up the boys, we stopped at Target to find sandals for Jimmy, and wound up with a pair of Tinkerbell flip-flops for Audrey while we were at it. So now she's kitted out in sparkly purple Tink, head-to-toe, inside and out.
Getting used to having a girly-girl is still an adjustment, after four solid years of snakes, snails and puppy-dog tails. I do find myself painting my toenails more often than I used to.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
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