My children are so different. Sure, they have some similar qualities: they're both free spirits, funny, strong-willed, and full of life, but it's so interesting to watch the ways in which they are different, too. Sometimes, these differences prove to be a challenge when trying to parent them, particularly when you really don't understand why your child acts the way she does to begin with.
Personality-wise Hallie is so much like me: sarcastic, prone to occasional pouting, requires quiet time, and enjoys being left alone. When she's mad, you'd better just back off. This I understand. It's so simple. When she's upset, I can just say, "I know you're upset. When you stop being upset, let me know." That doesn't mean she's automatically okay, it just means that after some time alone, she can usually work through it and get over it. Kevin has no idea how to handle this child. To his credit, he tries, but most of his interactions with her are huge failures. I attempt to play his Cyrano de Bergerac, whispering helpful words and hints to aid him in his attempts at communicating with her (incidentally, he doesn't appreciate this nearly as much as I think he should). I help by saying things like, "Leave her alone" and "You should stop talking to her now" (also sound advice for dealing with me when I'm upset). But oh, no. Not Kevin. He's going to talk to her about it whether she likes it or not. Endlessly. Until she's far more upset than she was before. In the end, he usually just winds up walking away, head shaking, and I have to go tell Hallie to calm down in another room.
Leah, on the other hand, is her daddy's child through and through. I can't get either of them to shut up or be still. This I do not understand. I clearly remember being 16 years old, sitting beside Kevin in church, begging him to stop moving and please just sit still. Now, I hold Leah during church, begging her to stop wiggling and please just sit still. I have never been successful at getting either of them to comply.
Let me interject here that my mom HATES it when I say this, but to state the obvious, Leah is hyperactive. Like will-probably-need-Ritalin-at-some-point-in-the-near-future hyperactive. I would like to think that I've spent enough time around children to be able to identify when one is more active than most of the others. This has no bearing on her intelligence, which I'm sure is perfectly normal (or if a smart mouth is any indication of a high IQ, Leah is probably even gifted). Nevertheless, my mom believes in the perfectness of each of her grandchildren, and she refuses to acknowledge Leah's...let's just call it...over-the-top zeal for life (Is that better, mom?). You're just going to have to take my word for this one, though. The kid's got it bad.
And Kevin understands her perfectly. A day with Leah on full blast exhausts me. I can hardly keep up with the moving, running, jumping, crying, and talking. Oh, the endless talking. I've never known another child who could keep up a complete conversation with just herself for long periods of time. I've tried to think of anything just to get her to hush like, "Leah, we can't talk now because it upsets the monsters that live under your bed" or "God loves quiet boys and girls more." Okay, I've never actually told her either of those things, but if I thought it'd work... Kevin thinks her hyperactivity is the cutest thing he's ever seen, and I'd give her Ritalin through an IV drip if her doctor offered it to me.
As much as I hate to admit it, I'm just as inept at disciplining Leah as Kevin is at disciplining Hallie. When he's home, there've been many times when I've plopped her down in his lap and just said, "Do something with your kid." When he's not home, I'll even admit that I've called him and made him talk to her because I'm out of ideas (I swore I'd never do this). And she listens to him every time. She's kind of like a little puppy dog that is so dang cute, you just want to hug it and love on it, but then you're ready to put it in its crate because it won't quit jumping all over you.
Of course, Leah doesn't have a crate, but I can't promise that I haven't banished her to the playroom on occasion when she's channeling her inner Tasmanian Devil. During these times, we just hope that Hallie isn't in hiding from her dad up there...
Monday, August 5, 2013
Monday, June 11, 2012
It's Not Easy Being Green
A few months ago, I had the privilege of taking part in a
ladies’ event at church where we took this Colors personality test. Briefly, there are 4 “colors” or “personalities”
that one can be. One is blue. These are the people who cry and want to hug
you all the time. Then you have gold. These people are the ones who are so “with it”
and organized that they unconsciously make everyone else feel incompetent. Another one is orange. These people are the life of the party. Then, there’s green. These people have no feelings and would
prefer to just be left alone. That’s me.
So, for example, orange will come up with the great idea to
have a party, then they’ll turn it over to a gold to plan the whole thing. The blue person will probably get her
feelings hurt that she wasn’t asked to help, and the green person hopes she
doesn’t get an invitation.
Okay, to be fair (and so as not to offend anyone), I would
like to say that I realize I am vastly over-simplifying these personality
traits, and Marilyn Waldron would probably have something to say about my
description of each personality, but I’m just giving you my interpretation. (I can just hear April saying, “Now, that’s
not exactly what she said, Caren.” Yes,
she’s gold. Whatever. You can Google it for a more technical
description of each if you feel moved to do so.) The point of the workshop is to teach us how
to use our varying and God-given personalities to glorify God. For me, it answered a lot of questions. Questions like, “Why don’t I have tears?” and
“Why do I so enjoy very large quantities of introspective alone time?”
My friends who understand me are very special to me. They don’t try to force me to be something I’m
not, and they accept me, flaws and all.
They’ll never understand how much I appreciate that. I have wonderful friends who I love and value
but who I have never, ever called. I simply
find long phone conversations exhausting.
In fact, I believe God created e-mail, texting, and caller ID just for
me. This helps me avoid actually having
to speak to anyone unnecessarily. Yes,
there are lots of times when I enjoy being with my friends and talking and
laughing, but just know that when I get home from those times, I require some
time to recharge. Alone. Quietly.
Like maybe for hours. In the
fetal position.
I can still remember that last day of school before summer
break every year. It was always one of
my most dreaded experiences, everyone crying and hugging because they wouldn’t
see each other for a few months. Then,
of course, we’d have to come back from summer break and repeat the whole torturous
process. I say we all just agree that seeing
each other after a 2-month break is not hug worthy. Nor do I want to tell you about my entire
summer or hear about yours. I bet we
spent them pretty much the same. Let’s
just assume we did.
Kevin really hates these personality tests. He believes them to be pointless wastes of
time. And he really hates it when I
refer to myself as my color. Like when
he tries to talk to me, and I answer by saying, “Please don’t talk to me. I’m green.”
Or when he wants to know if I’m in a bad mood, and I say, “No, I’m
green. This is me being happy.” I, personally, think this makes me the
perfect wife. Don’t men complain that
their wives talk too much? Kevin Davis
can’t say that. I rarely say anything. Don’t men also complain that their wives are
moody and emotional? He can’t claim that
either. I have one mood and am rarely
emotional.
My personality does, however, create some disharmony when
raising children who are clearly not green.
In fact, my children are the opposite of green. They are whichever color cries a lot and talks
a lot. As a green, I understand neither
tears nor talking. Time in the car is particularly
problematic. My children like to carry
on long, involved conversations with me in the car, and that is precisely where
I do my best thinking. Frequently, from
the back of the van, I’ll hear a muffled voice say, “Mom, tell me a story.” Most of the time, I resist the urge to say
no, and I make an attempt to tell a story, which, of course, no one can hear
over the din of the van. So, I have to speak
up, which is code for Leah to start trying to talk over me. So, now I’m loudly trying to tell a story,
while Leah is trying to out-talk me, and Hallie is yelling at her to be
quiet. It’s the stuff of nightmares for
a green like me. Often, I just turn the
radio up and pretend that I don’t hear anybody saying anything, but that doesn’t
always work either. My children are very
persistent. I actually have to build in
times in my day when nobody can talk to Mommy.
It’s really just one or two 5-minute periods in the day when my children
can’t talk to me or ask me to do something for them, but it’s absolutely required
for my sanity.
Okay, so maybe my personality goes beyond just being “green.” I’m willing to accept that I may also have
some pretty pronounced anti-social behaviors, as well. You can be sure that I won’t be seeking help
for it anytime soon, though. That would
require talking about it. As a wise frog
once said, “It’s not easy being green.”
Monday, March 26, 2012
Casualties of a Working Mom
It’s a topic I’ve discussed before, but that’s only because it’s a topic that’s always on my mind. For me, this “working mommy guilt” never goes away, never takes a back seat. It’s constantly there like the gnawing stomach pains that accompany hunger. Every time Hallie or Leah step out of line, instead of chalking it up to normal childish behavior, that old nagging worry taps me on the shoulder and whispers, “If you didn’t work, she probably never would have done that.”
In this war of the working mom, there are many casualties. My sanity is one of them. Okay, in an effort to be real and honest here, I’m going to share something with you. I hate laundry. I hate it so much that it doesn’t get done during the week at all. Then, when the weekend comes, I feel that I deserve some sort of break, so it doesn’t get done then either. In fact, our entire empty fourth bedroom is dedicated solely to dirty laundry. On good days, I get in there and sort it all into neat little piles, sometimes by type of clothes, sometimes by who they belong to, it just depends on my mood. On bad days, I just toss clothes in there at random and shut the door as fast as I can. The door stays closed 99% of the time. Over Spring Break, I decided that it was high time to get caught up on the laundry, a task I hadn’t accomplished since Christmas Break (I told you I hated it…), so I washed and washed and washed. I don’t know how many loads of laundry I washed and put away, but I do know that I went through nearly an entire bottle of Tide. When I was finished, you can imagine the pride I felt as I flung open the door to that fourth newly-clean bedroom, opened the blinds to let some light in, and basked in the complete emptiness of it! I was, for a brief moment, a GOOD mother (because we all know that good mothers have clean houses and clean laundry)!! My children had clean clothes again! And they were actually in their drawers and not just stuffed in the dryer, where a random load had been washed out of necessity, probably for clean underwear, and left indefinitely!
But, alas, all good feelings must come to an end. My elation at having the laundry caught up soon turned to utter dismay when I went into Hallie’s closet after she cleaned her room last night. There were clothes piled high in the dirty clothes hamper with no consideration as to whether they were actually clean or dirty. There were more clothes she had just stuffed onto the shelves. Still other clothes were just hanging by one shoulder off the hangers, where I had just lovingly and neatly placed clean clothes days before. I hate to admit it to you, but I almost cried. Just seeing all of my hard work so quickly destroyed was almost more than I could bear. Now, it’ll be summer break before I’ll have another chance to get caught up again!
Admittedly, I was way more upset about laundry than any sane person ever should be. I had a funeral for my sanity late last night. I’m coming to grips with the fact that it’s never coming home.
Another casualty of this working mom is remembering important things. Things like Umbrella Day. The day came and went quietly with very little fanfare or excitement. That’s mostly because I completely forgot about it. I’m sure my sweet little Leah was looking so forward to taking her umbrella to school. I bet they’d been talking about what a fun day it would be. I remembered somewhere back in the recesses of my mind that the day was coming soon, but it was tucked way back behind things like laundry (and I’ve already illustrated how far back that is…). In fact, I didn’t give it another thought until I was cleaning off the calendar that hangs on the wall in my kitchen--you know, the one that still says “January.” There’s a little strip of cork board at the bottom of it where I hang important things I don’t want to forget. Things like notices about Umbrella Day. Umbrella Days that were two weeks ago. Can’t you just imagine sweet little Leah Jane standing around on Umbrella Day, the only poor child with no umbrella? Now I know exactly what she’lll be talking about as she lies on her therapist’s couch many years from now.
Perhaps it is because of my working mother neglect that Leah has the mouth on her that she does. Rebellious little potty-mouth, that one is! There was a time when I thought it wouldn’t be possible to be more sassy and spunky than Hallie. Then, God gave me Leah. Where Hallie’s sass and spunk come from a deep, emotional place, Leah’s is much more intellectual. Hallie gets angry or frustrated and lashes out impulsively. Leah is far more calculating and manipulative in her sass. If something happens that Leah doesn’t like, she just carefully explains how things are going to go down. For example, we were eating at Subway one evening, and she decided she needed to use the restroom, but she didn’t want me to come with her. Well, naturally, I’m not going to let my three-year old use a public restroom alone (mainly because people were watching), so I get up to follow her. She screams “NO” at me, runs into the bathroom, and scurries onto the toilet. As I enter the bathroom, she gives it another good, loud, “NO, Mama! Get out of here!” I calmly explain to her that I’m not leaving and if she continues to talk to me like that, I’m going to spank her. She looks me dead in the eye and says matter-of-factly, “I’ll poopy on your hand.” Spanking someone while they are actually sitting on the toilet was a new one for me (and a new personal low, I might add). To further illustrate my point, cut to school. Now, I’m getting this story second-hand because I don’t get to drop Leah off or pick her up from school (the whole work thing), but apparently her teacher was explaining to her that she needed to be quiet, presumably during naptime. Leah looked at her teacher and said, “You be quiet.” It’s my understanding that she was sitting in a room alone when she was picked up.
In all honesty, it is my daily prayer that God delivers my children from all manner of things that might affect them negatively, including my shortcomings as a parent. Before I actually had any, I used to daydream about having children. Oh, I was a wonderful mother. You knew my children because they were the ones who answered everyone politely with a “yes, ma’am” and “no, sir.” They sat quietly all through church. All it took to get them back into line was a withering look from me. Reality shattered my daydreams in a shocking, but beautiful way. It gave me Hallie and Leah, the two most perfect little devils on the planet.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
The Good Life
I wasn't a perfect child, but I was pretty good. Yes, I remember getting spanked, and yes, I got my mouth smacked a time or two (okay, daily), but overall, I didn't give my parents too much cause for worry. I was generally respectful, and I was definitely a rule follower. That's why I simply can't understand my current situation. God saw fit to not give me easy children. I didn't get easily compliant or easy going kids. I got Hallie and Leah. When I was pregnant with Leah, I figured God would have to have some mercy on me and give me one child that I could handle, but I see now that He was only laughing at me behind my back. I would like to think that He gave me these two girls because He believed I was such an amazing mother that I could handle it, but deep inside I know that's just wishful thinking.
As always, I feel like I have to stop here and interject that the reality is I LOVE my children. There probably have never been two children better suited to me in the history of the world. I think it's the very qualities that make them so difficult that also make them so amazing. And I try to remind myself that in the midst of the chaos.
It's just that the chaos is so frequent. Now that I've started back to work, I don't get to see my kids as often, which because I'm a glutton for punishment, makes me very, very sad. Leah has been staying with April on Thursdays. It's one of her favorite days of the week (Leah's, not April's). I, on the other hand, dread it. The other day, I went to pick her up, and as soon as I walked through the door, she started crying. No, not crying. Screaming. Immediately, April says, "I don't know why she does that. She's been so good all day." Of course she has been. As I'm trying to calm that storm, Hallie comes in from outside where she's been playing with Brock. She's pouting and finally tells me it's because Uncle Paul made her come back inside because she called Brock a "dumb boy." I'm not really sure what happened from there. It all happened so fast. There was a slamming bathroom door. A very angry mother. A spanking. A screaming child (the second one in 10 minutes). So, now I have two screaming children, and I'm sweating and trying to get everything together to leave. I wildly throw belongings and furious children in the car and peel out without much more than a "thanks" and "bye." We all three cry all the way home.
For another example, I need only look to last night's soccer practice. We had been having a pretty good afternoon. We were even early to practice. I should have known it couldn't last long. Let me set the scene for you. My wonderful friends were all there decked out in workout apparel, ready for a 7-mile walk after practice. They looked amazing, fit and skinny. My Goodmoodometer ticked down a few ticks. I was in danger of sliding into 'feel sorry for yourself' mode, but I was keeping it together. There's a blanket set out and the children were playing merrily with blocks and toys. As I looked out over everyone's children, I could almost see the sun glinting off their halos. Then, here comes Leah. You know that movie where the baby becomes huge and walks though town destroying everything while people run in horror? Well, that's how I imagine what happened next. She smacks a toy out of someone's hand, she takes a toy from one child and throws it, then she cries so loudly that she makes another child cry. I grab her and tell her to sit in her chair until I tell her she can get up. She promptly says, "I'm gonna get up, Mom." I tell her if she does, I'll spank her. She does, and I do. I put her back in the chair. She looks at me, smiles, and gets back up. I spank her again. Repeat a third time. Even though I try to be inconspicuous and take her away from the crowd, I feel the uncomfortable stares, and I'm totally imagining the worst of what everyone is thinking. My Goodmoodometer is completely broken by this point, and there's really no hope of getting it fixed any time tonight. Again, I'm throwing kids in the car trying to make a quick getaway. I'm white-knuckling it while Leah cries all the way home.
Wonderful, well-meaning people smile that "you poor thing, you just really aren't a very good mother" smile and say things to try and make me feel better like, "We've all been there," and "No child is perfect. Our kids act like that sometimes, too." My question is, WHEN? Does it happen in some bizarro world where everything is opposite because I've surely never been there, thought I think I might like to visit. Soon.
Cut to this morning. I'm sitting here typing, and Leah comes up to me with a book. "Read to me, Mama," she says. I look into those big, brown eyes, and my heart melts for her. I'm so in love with these whining, crying, complaining, spoiled children that my heart hurts. Intellectually, I know I'll look back on these days and be sad they're gone. I'm already a little sad the girls are 5 and 2. No, I don't look like I want to, and yes, my kids are unruly, but this really is the good life. I'm blessed beyond measure. Now, if I make it through raising children, I think I'll choose to look back and remember only what I want to. Probably much like I did with my own childhood.
As always, I feel like I have to stop here and interject that the reality is I LOVE my children. There probably have never been two children better suited to me in the history of the world. I think it's the very qualities that make them so difficult that also make them so amazing. And I try to remind myself that in the midst of the chaos.
It's just that the chaos is so frequent. Now that I've started back to work, I don't get to see my kids as often, which because I'm a glutton for punishment, makes me very, very sad. Leah has been staying with April on Thursdays. It's one of her favorite days of the week (Leah's, not April's). I, on the other hand, dread it. The other day, I went to pick her up, and as soon as I walked through the door, she started crying. No, not crying. Screaming. Immediately, April says, "I don't know why she does that. She's been so good all day." Of course she has been. As I'm trying to calm that storm, Hallie comes in from outside where she's been playing with Brock. She's pouting and finally tells me it's because Uncle Paul made her come back inside because she called Brock a "dumb boy." I'm not really sure what happened from there. It all happened so fast. There was a slamming bathroom door. A very angry mother. A spanking. A screaming child (the second one in 10 minutes). So, now I have two screaming children, and I'm sweating and trying to get everything together to leave. I wildly throw belongings and furious children in the car and peel out without much more than a "thanks" and "bye." We all three cry all the way home.
For another example, I need only look to last night's soccer practice. We had been having a pretty good afternoon. We were even early to practice. I should have known it couldn't last long. Let me set the scene for you. My wonderful friends were all there decked out in workout apparel, ready for a 7-mile walk after practice. They looked amazing, fit and skinny. My Goodmoodometer ticked down a few ticks. I was in danger of sliding into 'feel sorry for yourself' mode, but I was keeping it together. There's a blanket set out and the children were playing merrily with blocks and toys. As I looked out over everyone's children, I could almost see the sun glinting off their halos. Then, here comes Leah. You know that movie where the baby becomes huge and walks though town destroying everything while people run in horror? Well, that's how I imagine what happened next. She smacks a toy out of someone's hand, she takes a toy from one child and throws it, then she cries so loudly that she makes another child cry. I grab her and tell her to sit in her chair until I tell her she can get up. She promptly says, "I'm gonna get up, Mom." I tell her if she does, I'll spank her. She does, and I do. I put her back in the chair. She looks at me, smiles, and gets back up. I spank her again. Repeat a third time. Even though I try to be inconspicuous and take her away from the crowd, I feel the uncomfortable stares, and I'm totally imagining the worst of what everyone is thinking. My Goodmoodometer is completely broken by this point, and there's really no hope of getting it fixed any time tonight. Again, I'm throwing kids in the car trying to make a quick getaway. I'm white-knuckling it while Leah cries all the way home.
Wonderful, well-meaning people smile that "you poor thing, you just really aren't a very good mother" smile and say things to try and make me feel better like, "We've all been there," and "No child is perfect. Our kids act like that sometimes, too." My question is, WHEN? Does it happen in some bizarro world where everything is opposite because I've surely never been there, thought I think I might like to visit. Soon.
Cut to this morning. I'm sitting here typing, and Leah comes up to me with a book. "Read to me, Mama," she says. I look into those big, brown eyes, and my heart melts for her. I'm so in love with these whining, crying, complaining, spoiled children that my heart hurts. Intellectually, I know I'll look back on these days and be sad they're gone. I'm already a little sad the girls are 5 and 2. No, I don't look like I want to, and yes, my kids are unruly, but this really is the good life. I'm blessed beyond measure. Now, if I make it through raising children, I think I'll choose to look back and remember only what I want to. Probably much like I did with my own childhood.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Hi ho, hi ho...
You see, I love my job. I really do. I can't think of anything else in this world that I would rather do as a profession, though I must admit to scanning the Help Wanted ads from time to time. And after a particularly difficult day, I've stronly considered the greeter's job at Wal-Mart. Deep down, though, I believe that teaching is my calling, and while I think I'd make a heck of a greeter, I'm going to stick to the teaching gig.
Coming off one of the best summers I've ever had with my kids, though, going back to work sure was hard. My children, being the considerate angels I've taught them to be, tried every way they could think of to make my transition easier. They spent the last few days of our vacation executing "Operation Help Mommy Want to Go Back to Work." This covert operation included screaming endlessly for no reason, crying at the drop of a hat, physically attaching themselves to me whenever possible, fighting over toys, and general unruly behavior. I'll tell you that their plan did help. After those few days, I was scratching at the door to get back to work.
That is, of course, until the morning I actually had to go back. I thought this process was supposed to get easier as my kids got older, but it hasn't so far. I dropped them off in capable hands, shut the door behind me, and cried all the way to work. Being a working mom is not an easy job. Now, let me insert a disclaimer here. I am about to expound upon the woes of being a working mother. If you are going to have a hard time reading someone who works full-time and raises kids complain about working full-time and raising kids, you might want to stop reading now. This blog will only frustrate you. If you, however, can enjoy reading about one mother's perspective on work and kids, then by all means, carry on.
The hardest part of being a working mom is giving everyone 100% all the time. I'm just going to tell you that it's not possible. On any given day, somebody's going to come up short. I try my very best to make sure it's someone other than my children, but that's not always possible. Most days for me, that means my house is a wreck and I smell my children's dirty clothes to see which ones I can get by with putting back on them the next day. After being away from my children all day, my time at home belongs to them. I'll clean the house and do laundry in 16 years when they're off at college. Right now, I'm going to step over those cracker crumbs on the carpet and sit in the floor and play Barbies and read books.
That does paint a lovely picture, doesn't it? Here's how that actually plays out (an example from just today): I'm tired from work, but I can't wait to see my girls. I leave work as soon as I possibly can so I can get the girls home to play with them before church. I open the door at Mrs. Heidi's and they both yell, "Mommy" and come running into my arms. There's much hugging and kissing and laughter. We gather our things and head to the car. I get both girls strapped in, start the car up, and Hallie asks me if we can go get ice cream. I tell her that I don't have any money and I'd rather not stop today, but maybe we could do that tomorrow. A compromise. Hallie wads my compromise up into a tiny ball and hurls it back at me in the form of whining, crying, and pushing on the back of my seat with her legs. Leah begins to mumble something at me that I can't understand because she's 2 and Hallie is loud. Taking her cue from big sis, because I can't understand her, she gets frustrated and starts to yell at me. This continues for much of the trip home until I've taken ice cream off the table for tomorrow and tell them both it's in their best interest to be quiet. We do play nicely upstairs together until Hallie decides she wants a snack, which I get for her and Leah. One snack isn't enough, though, so she asks for another. I tell her no because it's too close to dinner. She promptly goes downstairs and comes back up with a cereal bar. Another skirmish. So far, I've been with my children for about an hour, and we've fought for 45 minutes of it! After that she wants crackers. I'm not sure why my message isn't getting through. More arguing.
Now that it's time for church, I get a kicking and screaming Leah dressed. I'm thinking she doesn't want to stop playing to get back out. We finally make it to church for the meal. After Leah eats her token one bean for dinner, she decides to get down. She falls. She screams. People stare and give me that half-smile, half-pained look that means something like, "I'm sort of smiling so you'll think I think she's cute, but really she's just being loud and getting on my nerves so will you please get that screaming baby out of here because you're ruining my dinner!" Now, if you know me at all, you'll know that calling attention to myself in any form is my absolute worst nightmare. So, I'm tired, I've been fighting with my kids since I picked them up, and now everyone is staring. I'm trying very hard not to cry, and by the time I make it back to my seat, Leah is ready to go play again. When I hear another child screaming just minutes later, I start to do that half-smile, half-pained look at the poor mother (mainly just to make myself feel better) until I realize, crap, that's Leah again. Fabulous. I walk through the stares again to retrieve her, and some poor soul asks if she's hurt. I want to say, "No, this is just how Leah communicates. Some kids know sign language, Leah cries." And although that is completely true, I choose instead, to rush with my head down, mumbling something about "why's everybody staring at me" back to my seat.
By the time I get these kids home, it's all I can do not to drop them off at the foot of the stairs, pat them on the rear, and instruct them to run along and put themselves to bed. Instead, I put on my happy mommy face, give lots of kisses and hugs, zip Leah up in her little crib cage, and tuck those sweet babies in bed.
Tomorrow, I'll get up and do it all over again. I'll go to work, come home and play with my kids, and have a conversation with my husband when the kids go to bed, all the while, trying to do it everything perfectly. I will fall short on many levels. I won't be the mom, teacher, wife, housekeeper, cook, or friend I'd like to be. I'm not sure what the answer to that is; I'm just hoping that my kids have short memories and low expectations.
Coming off one of the best summers I've ever had with my kids, though, going back to work sure was hard. My children, being the considerate angels I've taught them to be, tried every way they could think of to make my transition easier. They spent the last few days of our vacation executing "Operation Help Mommy Want to Go Back to Work." This covert operation included screaming endlessly for no reason, crying at the drop of a hat, physically attaching themselves to me whenever possible, fighting over toys, and general unruly behavior. I'll tell you that their plan did help. After those few days, I was scratching at the door to get back to work.
That is, of course, until the morning I actually had to go back. I thought this process was supposed to get easier as my kids got older, but it hasn't so far. I dropped them off in capable hands, shut the door behind me, and cried all the way to work. Being a working mom is not an easy job. Now, let me insert a disclaimer here. I am about to expound upon the woes of being a working mother. If you are going to have a hard time reading someone who works full-time and raises kids complain about working full-time and raising kids, you might want to stop reading now. This blog will only frustrate you. If you, however, can enjoy reading about one mother's perspective on work and kids, then by all means, carry on.
The hardest part of being a working mom is giving everyone 100% all the time. I'm just going to tell you that it's not possible. On any given day, somebody's going to come up short. I try my very best to make sure it's someone other than my children, but that's not always possible. Most days for me, that means my house is a wreck and I smell my children's dirty clothes to see which ones I can get by with putting back on them the next day. After being away from my children all day, my time at home belongs to them. I'll clean the house and do laundry in 16 years when they're off at college. Right now, I'm going to step over those cracker crumbs on the carpet and sit in the floor and play Barbies and read books.
That does paint a lovely picture, doesn't it? Here's how that actually plays out (an example from just today): I'm tired from work, but I can't wait to see my girls. I leave work as soon as I possibly can so I can get the girls home to play with them before church. I open the door at Mrs. Heidi's and they both yell, "Mommy" and come running into my arms. There's much hugging and kissing and laughter. We gather our things and head to the car. I get both girls strapped in, start the car up, and Hallie asks me if we can go get ice cream. I tell her that I don't have any money and I'd rather not stop today, but maybe we could do that tomorrow. A compromise. Hallie wads my compromise up into a tiny ball and hurls it back at me in the form of whining, crying, and pushing on the back of my seat with her legs. Leah begins to mumble something at me that I can't understand because she's 2 and Hallie is loud. Taking her cue from big sis, because I can't understand her, she gets frustrated and starts to yell at me. This continues for much of the trip home until I've taken ice cream off the table for tomorrow and tell them both it's in their best interest to be quiet. We do play nicely upstairs together until Hallie decides she wants a snack, which I get for her and Leah. One snack isn't enough, though, so she asks for another. I tell her no because it's too close to dinner. She promptly goes downstairs and comes back up with a cereal bar. Another skirmish. So far, I've been with my children for about an hour, and we've fought for 45 minutes of it! After that she wants crackers. I'm not sure why my message isn't getting through. More arguing.
Now that it's time for church, I get a kicking and screaming Leah dressed. I'm thinking she doesn't want to stop playing to get back out. We finally make it to church for the meal. After Leah eats her token one bean for dinner, she decides to get down. She falls. She screams. People stare and give me that half-smile, half-pained look that means something like, "I'm sort of smiling so you'll think I think she's cute, but really she's just being loud and getting on my nerves so will you please get that screaming baby out of here because you're ruining my dinner!" Now, if you know me at all, you'll know that calling attention to myself in any form is my absolute worst nightmare. So, I'm tired, I've been fighting with my kids since I picked them up, and now everyone is staring. I'm trying very hard not to cry, and by the time I make it back to my seat, Leah is ready to go play again. When I hear another child screaming just minutes later, I start to do that half-smile, half-pained look at the poor mother (mainly just to make myself feel better) until I realize, crap, that's Leah again. Fabulous. I walk through the stares again to retrieve her, and some poor soul asks if she's hurt. I want to say, "No, this is just how Leah communicates. Some kids know sign language, Leah cries." And although that is completely true, I choose instead, to rush with my head down, mumbling something about "why's everybody staring at me" back to my seat.
By the time I get these kids home, it's all I can do not to drop them off at the foot of the stairs, pat them on the rear, and instruct them to run along and put themselves to bed. Instead, I put on my happy mommy face, give lots of kisses and hugs, zip Leah up in her little crib cage, and tuck those sweet babies in bed.
Tomorrow, I'll get up and do it all over again. I'll go to work, come home and play with my kids, and have a conversation with my husband when the kids go to bed, all the while, trying to do it everything perfectly. I will fall short on many levels. I won't be the mom, teacher, wife, housekeeper, cook, or friend I'd like to be. I'm not sure what the answer to that is; I'm just hoping that my kids have short memories and low expectations.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Me Time
What do the Yeti, the Loch Ness Monster, aliens, and time to myself all have in common? That's right. They don't exist.
Now, if you know my husband, you'll know that he believes in each of these mythical ideas, including the concept of "me time". Bless his heart, he means well. I love when he recognizes that I might be a little worn thin and takes the girls outside to play. He always comes back in the house later and, very proud of himself, proclaims, "Aren't you glad I took the girls outside? Did you enjoy your time to yourself?" Here, I have to smile appreciatively and say, "Yes. Thank you. I did enjoy that," while I'm really thinking, "Yes. Thank you. Catching up on the laundry was really fun, but I think I enjoyed emptying the dishwasher even more."
Even when I'm sleeping, I always have one ear open, for at any time Hallie may come downstairs. There is no such thing as "me time." Honestly, most days that's okay. I love my girls more than any mother has ever loved her children, and I truly enjoy spending time with them. However, some days, I would be exceedingly happy if they could just take care of themselves and leave me the heck alone.
Today was one of those days. I actually decided to make myself useful today and get a few things done around the house. I didn't have much to do, but when I get focused on a task, I don't like for my attention to be diverted. I started first by emptying the dishwasher. A 5 minute job, right? Wrong. In order to keep Leah from climbing into the dishwasher, I had to sit her on top of the counter while I unloaded. With her dirty feet dangling all over the clean dishes in my open dishwasher, I finally decided that might not be the best place for her. I tried just moving her feet, and then she started sticking her hands in there, touching every glass she could get her hands on. She tired of that after a few minutes and moved on to the sink to turn the water on and off. Of course, I had to put her back on the floor, but that only angered the beast, so she stood at my side crying and begging me to pick her up. Emptying the dishwasher one-handed takes a long time.
Next, I moved on to some laundry. As I sat in the floor folding clothes, the children decided this would be the very best time to play a rousing game of tag in the 2-feet of space surrounding me, effectively unfolding the clothes I had previously folded and carefully placed beside me. I don't like folding clothes once. I hate folding clothes twice. After I got most clothes put away, I moved on to some other task. After only mere minutes, I went back into Hallie's room for something, and discovered that she had tried on and discarded onto her floor at least four outfits. Yes, I put the clothes away. Now, please no lectures here about how I should have made Hallie come back in her room and put all those clothes away herself to make a point. I already know what I should have done, but I also know that, so far, 20 minutes worth of chores had already taken me over an hour, and frankly, I just wanted to get it done. There will be plenty of time for a teachable moment later. Not today.
Finally, after the girls ate lunch, I thought I was going to get one of those precious moments to myself. The girls ran outside to play, and I sat down at the kitchen table to eat my soup and read my e-mail (okay, okay I was totally checking facebook). I watched the girls playing together outside and smiled happily, relishing my moment of quiet. Until, of course, after about 13 seconds when the girls started fighting over a sand toy, Leah came in the house screaming, and Hallie came in after her telling me why whatever happened wasn't her fault. My quiet lunch turned into me eating soup one-handed while Leah sat in my lap sniveling, and Hallie booted me off the computer so she could play her Disney dress-up game.
The rest of the day was full of "get me juice," "get my blanket," "I'm hungry," "swing me," etc. I'm sorry to admit, I was more than ready for bedtime when it rolled around. I prompted the girls to run upstairs and put their pajamas on, and I would be up directly. When I got upstairs, I found two very naked girls in Leah's floor reading a book. Not exactly what I said to do, but close enough. At least they were upstairs in someone's bedroom, one step closer to being in pajamas. It's usually at this point in my day when I feel very fortunate and blessed to be the mother of these two amazing girls. Today, I just wanted those amazing girls to go to bed. We read our books, and I turned out the lights to sing them a song. I chose one of my favorites tonight; one that my own mother used to sing to me. I'd like to share that song with you now.
The cruel war is raging. Johnny has to fight. (Hallie, sit still.)
I want to be with him from morning 'til night.
I want to be with him (Leah, your blanket is right here.) it grieves my heart so.
Won't you (shhhhh) let me go with you?
No, my love, no. (I don't know why he won't let her go. Be quiet.)
Tomorrow is Sunday (No, not really, Hallie. Tomorrow is Tuesday.), Monday is the day
That your captain will call you, and you must obey.
Your captain (Where are you going, Leah?) will call you. It grieves my heart so.
Won't you let me go with you? (I told you I don't know why. It's just a song. Hush.)
No, my love, no.
I'll tie back my hair (Stop making that noise, Hallie.), men's clothing I'll put on.
I'll pass as your comrade (I said stop, Hallie.) as we march along.
I'll pass as your comrade, no one will ever know.
Won't you let me go with you? (If you don't stop, you're going to have to leave the room.)
No, my love, no.
Oh, Johnny, oh Johnny (Oh, nevermind. Just forget it! Get in the bed!)
Well, now the girls are in bed, and I'd like to think that I'm headed downstairs to have a little "me time." But as you and I both know, this is a mythical idea. It doesn't exist. I'm not even fully in the kitchen, and Kevin is already talking to me. At one point, he actually asks me the question, "What is your idea of a perfect husband." Right now, my answer? A quiet one.
Now, if you know my husband, you'll know that he believes in each of these mythical ideas, including the concept of "me time". Bless his heart, he means well. I love when he recognizes that I might be a little worn thin and takes the girls outside to play. He always comes back in the house later and, very proud of himself, proclaims, "Aren't you glad I took the girls outside? Did you enjoy your time to yourself?" Here, I have to smile appreciatively and say, "Yes. Thank you. I did enjoy that," while I'm really thinking, "Yes. Thank you. Catching up on the laundry was really fun, but I think I enjoyed emptying the dishwasher even more."
Even when I'm sleeping, I always have one ear open, for at any time Hallie may come downstairs. There is no such thing as "me time." Honestly, most days that's okay. I love my girls more than any mother has ever loved her children, and I truly enjoy spending time with them. However, some days, I would be exceedingly happy if they could just take care of themselves and leave me the heck alone.
Today was one of those days. I actually decided to make myself useful today and get a few things done around the house. I didn't have much to do, but when I get focused on a task, I don't like for my attention to be diverted. I started first by emptying the dishwasher. A 5 minute job, right? Wrong. In order to keep Leah from climbing into the dishwasher, I had to sit her on top of the counter while I unloaded. With her dirty feet dangling all over the clean dishes in my open dishwasher, I finally decided that might not be the best place for her. I tried just moving her feet, and then she started sticking her hands in there, touching every glass she could get her hands on. She tired of that after a few minutes and moved on to the sink to turn the water on and off. Of course, I had to put her back on the floor, but that only angered the beast, so she stood at my side crying and begging me to pick her up. Emptying the dishwasher one-handed takes a long time.
Next, I moved on to some laundry. As I sat in the floor folding clothes, the children decided this would be the very best time to play a rousing game of tag in the 2-feet of space surrounding me, effectively unfolding the clothes I had previously folded and carefully placed beside me. I don't like folding clothes once. I hate folding clothes twice. After I got most clothes put away, I moved on to some other task. After only mere minutes, I went back into Hallie's room for something, and discovered that she had tried on and discarded onto her floor at least four outfits. Yes, I put the clothes away. Now, please no lectures here about how I should have made Hallie come back in her room and put all those clothes away herself to make a point. I already know what I should have done, but I also know that, so far, 20 minutes worth of chores had already taken me over an hour, and frankly, I just wanted to get it done. There will be plenty of time for a teachable moment later. Not today.
Finally, after the girls ate lunch, I thought I was going to get one of those precious moments to myself. The girls ran outside to play, and I sat down at the kitchen table to eat my soup and read my e-mail (okay, okay I was totally checking facebook). I watched the girls playing together outside and smiled happily, relishing my moment of quiet. Until, of course, after about 13 seconds when the girls started fighting over a sand toy, Leah came in the house screaming, and Hallie came in after her telling me why whatever happened wasn't her fault. My quiet lunch turned into me eating soup one-handed while Leah sat in my lap sniveling, and Hallie booted me off the computer so she could play her Disney dress-up game.
The rest of the day was full of "get me juice," "get my blanket," "I'm hungry," "swing me," etc. I'm sorry to admit, I was more than ready for bedtime when it rolled around. I prompted the girls to run upstairs and put their pajamas on, and I would be up directly. When I got upstairs, I found two very naked girls in Leah's floor reading a book. Not exactly what I said to do, but close enough. At least they were upstairs in someone's bedroom, one step closer to being in pajamas. It's usually at this point in my day when I feel very fortunate and blessed to be the mother of these two amazing girls. Today, I just wanted those amazing girls to go to bed. We read our books, and I turned out the lights to sing them a song. I chose one of my favorites tonight; one that my own mother used to sing to me. I'd like to share that song with you now.
The cruel war is raging. Johnny has to fight. (Hallie, sit still.)
I want to be with him from morning 'til night.
I want to be with him (Leah, your blanket is right here.) it grieves my heart so.
Won't you (shhhhh) let me go with you?
No, my love, no. (I don't know why he won't let her go. Be quiet.)
Tomorrow is Sunday (No, not really, Hallie. Tomorrow is Tuesday.), Monday is the day
That your captain will call you, and you must obey.
Your captain (Where are you going, Leah?) will call you. It grieves my heart so.
Won't you let me go with you? (I told you I don't know why. It's just a song. Hush.)
No, my love, no.
I'll tie back my hair (Stop making that noise, Hallie.), men's clothing I'll put on.
I'll pass as your comrade (I said stop, Hallie.) as we march along.
I'll pass as your comrade, no one will ever know.
Won't you let me go with you? (If you don't stop, you're going to have to leave the room.)
No, my love, no.
Oh, Johnny, oh Johnny (Oh, nevermind. Just forget it! Get in the bed!)
Well, now the girls are in bed, and I'd like to think that I'm headed downstairs to have a little "me time." But as you and I both know, this is a mythical idea. It doesn't exist. I'm not even fully in the kitchen, and Kevin is already talking to me. At one point, he actually asks me the question, "What is your idea of a perfect husband." Right now, my answer? A quiet one.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Doing the Right Thing
It was always so simple for my Dad. Whatever the problem might be, the advice was the same. "Just do the right thing," he would say.
This is not good advice for a 5-year old. I know this because this is the advice I gave a certain 5-year old just today. It seems that "doing the right thing" isn't necessarily the same thing for a child as it is for an adult. For all of you who already knew this, congratulations. You have far surpassed me in your knowledge of children. It just sounded like such good advice at the time.
In my efforts to find that little gem of discipline that will finally work and encourage obedience every time, I go back and forth. I am, as you would say, both the good cop and the bad cop. I have been known to both spank and to give a motivational speech. Today, I chose a mixture of the two with less than favorable results. Being Tuesday, it was swimming day at Debbie's house in McMinnville. April and I packed our kids in my van, and headed out for a day of fun in the sun. Today was even a little more special because Brock and Hallie each had a friend along.
The good times always begin in the car. Today was no exception. Hallie was foul first thing this morning (never a good sign) and before we had even reached April's house, I had to pull over on the side of the road for a stern talk. Lame, I know. I should have just spanked her then and gotten it over with, but being the sensitive mother that I am, I was trying to spare her feelings in front of her friend (who was at the time the unfortunate brunt of Hallie's bad mood). That was mistake #1. Oh, I hoped that would nip the problem, but then again, I've been Hallie's mom for a while now, and I should have known better. By the time we got to April's house, you could just see the storm behind her eyes. My kids got out of the car for a potty break before heading to Debbie's while April and I loaded the car. We left all the kids alone inside. Mistake #2. Mere seconds later, we heard howls from inside the house. Apparently, Aida had somehow offended Hallie, who decided the proper course of action was to squeeze Aida's head. Really? Squeeze Aida's head? Naturally, I was provoked to exercise my superb parenting skills once again, so from my little bag of parenting tricks, I pulled out the spanking that I should have given her several minutes before on the side of the road.
There. That'll do it. Thinking that was mistake #3. More brooding on the way to Debbie's. This time her brooding was accompanied by taunts and smart-aleck comments (I truly do NOT know where that child gets that from...), and after much threatening by me (yet another award-winning parenting technique), we finally get to Debbie's. I think the gleam from the cold pool on this scorching day had a magical effect on her, and she suddenly became very agreeable. I call this the Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde Effect. Much fun was had by all for a good, long time.
Later, in the house, she decided that it would be a great idea to open the door on Brock's friend while he was using the restroom. Not so funny if you're a third grade boy at a stranger's house. Looking in my bag of parenting tricks, I find that now it's completely empty. I don't know what else to do. Until I remember my Dad's "Do the Right Thing" speech. I'm feeling good now. I know just what to do. I call her in, sit her down, and have the talk. It's a simple message, really. You know, the one where you just tell the kid what a good kid they are and that they know the difference between right and wrong. You encourage them to think before they act and then make the right choice. It's simple. It's true. It's genius. The only problem, as I stated earlier, is that it doesn't work on 5-year olds. Where is my evidence? Read on.
Allegedly, Brock pinched her under the water. Witnesses claim that they saw nothing, and the accused vehemently denied the allegations. The ruling of the court was that Hallie should stay away from Brock for good measure. Not finding the justice she sought, Hallie took the law into her own hands. I guess she was going to do what she considered the right thing. Pretty soon cries of, "Hallie pinched me!!!!" could be heard around the pool. Of course, I called her over and asked her why she did that. Her answer? Sit down, folks. "Dad said if anybody does anything to me, I should do it back to them." Dumbfounded, all I could think of to say was, "Your Dad gives really bad advice. Go sit on the porch until I tell you to get up." Moments later, I look over and she's sitting just off the porch, mind you, singing happily about the love of Jesus. Not exactly the kind of penance I was looking for.
Now, let me just say here that I LOVE this child with every fiber of my being. I could list a million strengths she has, but I told you when I started this thing that I was going to be brutally honest about the struggles I face as a parent. It's cathartic for me, so if you have it all figured out, keep it to yourself. I don't need that kind of pressure. Most days I'm just doing the best I can.
Both girls are spending the night away tonight due to an inservice I have in the morning, and in spite of a very long and trying day, one thing is for sure. I miss those girls. The house is too quiet, and somehow I miss every part of them. I am obviously a glutton for punishment.
This is not good advice for a 5-year old. I know this because this is the advice I gave a certain 5-year old just today. It seems that "doing the right thing" isn't necessarily the same thing for a child as it is for an adult. For all of you who already knew this, congratulations. You have far surpassed me in your knowledge of children. It just sounded like such good advice at the time.
In my efforts to find that little gem of discipline that will finally work and encourage obedience every time, I go back and forth. I am, as you would say, both the good cop and the bad cop. I have been known to both spank and to give a motivational speech. Today, I chose a mixture of the two with less than favorable results. Being Tuesday, it was swimming day at Debbie's house in McMinnville. April and I packed our kids in my van, and headed out for a day of fun in the sun. Today was even a little more special because Brock and Hallie each had a friend along.
The good times always begin in the car. Today was no exception. Hallie was foul first thing this morning (never a good sign) and before we had even reached April's house, I had to pull over on the side of the road for a stern talk. Lame, I know. I should have just spanked her then and gotten it over with, but being the sensitive mother that I am, I was trying to spare her feelings in front of her friend (who was at the time the unfortunate brunt of Hallie's bad mood). That was mistake #1. Oh, I hoped that would nip the problem, but then again, I've been Hallie's mom for a while now, and I should have known better. By the time we got to April's house, you could just see the storm behind her eyes. My kids got out of the car for a potty break before heading to Debbie's while April and I loaded the car. We left all the kids alone inside. Mistake #2. Mere seconds later, we heard howls from inside the house. Apparently, Aida had somehow offended Hallie, who decided the proper course of action was to squeeze Aida's head. Really? Squeeze Aida's head? Naturally, I was provoked to exercise my superb parenting skills once again, so from my little bag of parenting tricks, I pulled out the spanking that I should have given her several minutes before on the side of the road.
There. That'll do it. Thinking that was mistake #3. More brooding on the way to Debbie's. This time her brooding was accompanied by taunts and smart-aleck comments (I truly do NOT know where that child gets that from...), and after much threatening by me (yet another award-winning parenting technique), we finally get to Debbie's. I think the gleam from the cold pool on this scorching day had a magical effect on her, and she suddenly became very agreeable. I call this the Dr. Jeckle and Mr. Hyde Effect. Much fun was had by all for a good, long time.
Later, in the house, she decided that it would be a great idea to open the door on Brock's friend while he was using the restroom. Not so funny if you're a third grade boy at a stranger's house. Looking in my bag of parenting tricks, I find that now it's completely empty. I don't know what else to do. Until I remember my Dad's "Do the Right Thing" speech. I'm feeling good now. I know just what to do. I call her in, sit her down, and have the talk. It's a simple message, really. You know, the one where you just tell the kid what a good kid they are and that they know the difference between right and wrong. You encourage them to think before they act and then make the right choice. It's simple. It's true. It's genius. The only problem, as I stated earlier, is that it doesn't work on 5-year olds. Where is my evidence? Read on.
Allegedly, Brock pinched her under the water. Witnesses claim that they saw nothing, and the accused vehemently denied the allegations. The ruling of the court was that Hallie should stay away from Brock for good measure. Not finding the justice she sought, Hallie took the law into her own hands. I guess she was going to do what she considered the right thing. Pretty soon cries of, "Hallie pinched me!!!!" could be heard around the pool. Of course, I called her over and asked her why she did that. Her answer? Sit down, folks. "Dad said if anybody does anything to me, I should do it back to them." Dumbfounded, all I could think of to say was, "Your Dad gives really bad advice. Go sit on the porch until I tell you to get up." Moments later, I look over and she's sitting just off the porch, mind you, singing happily about the love of Jesus. Not exactly the kind of penance I was looking for.
Now, let me just say here that I LOVE this child with every fiber of my being. I could list a million strengths she has, but I told you when I started this thing that I was going to be brutally honest about the struggles I face as a parent. It's cathartic for me, so if you have it all figured out, keep it to yourself. I don't need that kind of pressure. Most days I'm just doing the best I can.
Both girls are spending the night away tonight due to an inservice I have in the morning, and in spite of a very long and trying day, one thing is for sure. I miss those girls. The house is too quiet, and somehow I miss every part of them. I am obviously a glutton for punishment.
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