Fifty Shades of No

The phrase “rules were meant to be broken” was tailor-made for children. There should be a phrase for parents that goes something like: “rules were made to be repeated".

My toddler has recently morphed into Ms. Independent, so I’m just beginning to get the lay of the land of "no". I’ve noticed that there are many shades to her burgeoning ability to test me. Much to my dismay, she tries each one on for size several times a day:

The Ignorer: I’m going to pretend I’m fully engrossed in this play-doh, while you ask me to pick up the almonds I just threw on the floor.

The Evader: If I run away from you fast enough, I can surely keep this cap-less pen in hand. I’m enjoying this game, anyway. It’s hilarious listening to you repeat “Gimme that, gimme that” over and over, as you chase after me. So go ahead and catch me. Then, we get to do it all over again...

The Defiant One: I hear you saying, “don’t sit in that puddle”, I’m gonna do it anyway. In fact, I’m going to stare directly at you, while I do it. I dare you to try and stop me.

The Equivocator: “I want to carry that!”…”No, Mama, you carry that!”…”I want to carry that!” “Mama, you carry that!”…

Sly as a Fox: If I’m extremely quiet and hide in this corner, there’s no way you’ll notice I’m drawing on myself with magic marker.

The Determinator: I am determined to wear you down by returning repeatedly to the thing you said not to do and/or touch. You will relent. I've got time.

The Terrible Twos: Tantrums are a great way to get my way, no?

The Bully: If I yell my request at the top of my lungs, it will be granted. You just needed to know that I really, really wanted it. Or, maybe, you're hard of hearing.

The Flirt: I know that if I look at you and giggle as I bat my eyes, I can do whatever I want.

Just Plain “NO!”: Self-explanatory and loud.

As I said, I’m new to the land of "no". I’m sure there are more seasoned moms among you, who have more to add to the list. Please feel free to do so. I would appreciate the heads up about what's in store for Claire and me down the road...

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Photo Source: Wikipedia Commons: Sfs90, Simbolo No Revocatoria Lima 2013 

Braggy Mom or Bloggy Mom?

I would not have the following conversation with a mom friend of mine:

Mom friend: “How are you today, Rachel?”

Me: “I’m great, mom friend. Claire just said an 11-word sentence, which was grammatically correct. It was one of the most awesome things I’ve ever heard. It made my day!”

I would share that sentiment with my husband, Claire’s grandma or a friend who doesn’t have kids. My friends without kids would probably say something in return like, “Cool! Is an 11-word sentence good?”

I was reluctant to start a post like this too, even though it's the truth about Claire's current state of language acquisition, as well as my feeling about her blossoming ability to share her thoughts with me.

After all, I’m breaking serious mom etiquette. I’m not supposed to a) admit to keeping track of my child’s development so blatantly as to count the words in her sentences or b) be bragging about her mad skills in any particular area. If you google “bragging mom”, you can find tons of articles shaming such officious behavior.

I’m by nature a rule follower. I fear I’m exposing an obnoxious, squawking side of myself that is derided by mothers everywhere.

It’s precisely because of my fear that I swing to the opposite direction in daily interactions, which is equally annoying. I find myself being apologetic, diminishing my daughter’s very own strengths. I can see the wheels turning in other mom's heads as they compare their child to my daughter:

“I can’t get over how Claire talks. Sarah doesn’t say a word yet,” mom friend said, recently. “Do you think she’s autistic?”

“Wow, I want Max to hang around Claire more often,” another mom friend said. “Why can’t he say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ like her?”

Another mom was more direct: “I’m jealous! I wish Cassie talked like that,” she said.

I can’t take these statements. I don’t like feeling that Claire and I have made other people feel bad or uncomfortable. I just can’t seem to help responding by sharing Claire’s weak spots. She does not have the greatest gross motor skills, and could care less about figuring out how things like puzzles and blocks work.

I do also make a point to share the strengths that I see in each child. Sarah has amazing emotional intelligence. Max is a great problem solver. Cassandra has a long attention span. I mean what I say too. If there's one thing that I learned as a teacher of kids with special needs, it’s that all children have strengths. We are better off focusing on a child’s strengths and interests than comparing him or her to others.

But it’s human nature to compare. I do it too. That’s fine. It’s also inevitable that we want to celebrate our own children’s abilities.

Yet, as I go to hit the publish button on this post, I’m still worried about how you will view my words. I'm praying that you'll see me as less of a braggy mom, and more of a bloggy mom wanting to shine some light on a complex issue. (You do, don't you? Please tell me you do!)

I doubt I’ll be doing any such bragging to my mom friends any time soon either. I’m probably going to stick to being proud of Claire with my husband, grandma and friends who don’t know any better.

I have made a pact with myself though. I refuse to diminish my daughter any longer. That stance is ridiculously excessive. It’s a projection to think that other mothers even want this kind of reaction from me anyway.

Besides, even if they do, Claire deserves a mom who errs on the side of singing her praises, not one who is worried about people seeing her as a braggart. (You don't, do you?)

How do you feel about sharing your child’s accomplishments? How about when others share their child’s accomplishments with you? Is there a difference between 'bragging' and 'celebrating a child'?  Do you ever find yourself comparing your children to others?


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Photo Source: Jeremiah John McBride, Flckr 

Sting, My Husband and Me

Right now, my husband is at Sting’s house overlooking Central Park West! I picture George with cocktail in hand, trying to follow along as Sting (who is dressed in some black, flowy, Asian-inspired garb) talks to him about tantric sex.

Significant others were not invited to this soiree. My husband was more disappointed that I'm not there than I was. Frankly, I was relieved I didn't have to go. Is it weird that I don’t care?

If it were 1983, I would have cared. I even ruined a childhood friendship with Jenny Crandall* because of Sting. Well, in reality, I was more to blame than Sting.

Jenny was out of town, and I kissed her boyfriend Steven (I don't remember his last name). My youthful indiscretion was due to too many cans of cheap, domestic beer, and the fact that “Wrapped Around Your Finger” was playing on the radio every five seconds. I was sure that marrying Sting at the tender age of 16 was my destiny. Since that fantasy wasn’t panning out quickly enough, I tried kissing Steven (he was blond like Sting), as the Police played on KLZR.

Ah, youth! My friendship with Jenny was never the same. Plus, I didn’t marry Sting as a teenager (in case you were wondering).

Fast forward the mix tape 30 years (bypassing 90’s grundge music entirely), and I still regret the mistake that resulted in the end of my friendship with Jenny. I don’t regret not marrying Sting (even though I really didn't have a choice in the matter anyway).

I like my funny, little life. My lovely, brown-haired husband helped me make a special little girl. Yes, they both drive me crazy sometimes. Sure, I get tired and bored, on occasion. I wish we had more money, at times.

But life has given me everything I could ever need and want and more.

I hope my daughter will read this post in her teenage years, and realize earlier than I did that a simple life filled with people who care about you is more important than fame and fortune.

I have my doubts though. Every teenager needs to figure out his or her own path. Just like me, her journey will be filled with pitfalls and detours. When she loses her way, I’ll still be here, married to her greying father and loving her.

I don't think Sting will factor into this picture at all.


*Names changed to protect the innocent

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Photo Source: David Shankbone, Wikipedia Commons

The Good, The Bad and The Toddler

My baby girl turns TWO soon! Really, not my baby anymore. She's a person!

I couldn't be more honored to be the mama she chose to witness her transformation from baby to toddler.

However, the miraculous milestones of toddlerhood give this mama equal opportunity to celebrate and to complain...

My toddler has her own personality!
She insists on wearing a winter hat in eighty degree weather, decides she only wants cake for breakfast or refuses to get into a car seat without a huge commotion.

She puts on her clothes all by herself!
After an hour's worth of effort.

She can undress herself too!
In public.

She understands cause and effect!
She opens the refrigerator to dump out the contents of an entire can of coffee or bag of walnuts.

She has a mouth full of baby teeth!
Which she uses to bite the cat, her parents and friends in baby classes.

She climbs up onto her chair to eat all by herself!
She climbs onto tables, bookcases and over various barriers meant to contain her.

She can talk!
Whine, say "no" and imitate my curse words with great precision and impeccable inflection.

She can walk!
Into a crowd or oncoming traffic.

She's gotten so big!
She can reach up onto kitchen counters and other surfaces containing dangerous objects like knives and pens.

She's even tall enough to reach up and hold my hand when we're walking together!
She refuses to hold my hand when we're walking together.

She can run too!
Away from me after placing beads, pebbles and other random debris in her mouth that she's found on the ground and that are dirty and/or may result in choking.

She eats with a fork!
The fork makes a perfect catapult to propel food away from the table.

She's old enough for potty training!
Oh, yeah, we need to start potty training.

She throws a ball!
Or rocks, blocks and other heavy yet aerodynamic objects capable of breaking windows and/or causing bodily harm.

She likes to draw!
On walls, furniture, expensive family heirlooms and the entire length of her body.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl! I marvel at my growing, learning, curious beauty, who embraces the world with arms wide open!
When she's not making me want to pull my hair out.


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Photo Source: Mike Bailey-Gates, Flickr

Get Out of My Bed!

If I said to you, "your baby is going to grow up emotionally unattached, because you let him sleep in his own crib", you would yell "Poppycock!" (or use some other form of strong language).

You would be right to do so. Making such a broad prediction about a child based on a family's sleeping style is not only taking a rather limited view of child-rearing, it's insulting.

So why is it considered ok by some to say that co-sleeping families are sure to raise indulgent, dependent children? I've been hearing this opinion about our own family's decision to co-sleep, since before Claire was born.

I read it again recently in the comment section of an article entitled "Have American Parents Got It All Wrong" in The Huffington Post. The gist of the article is that parents in other countries do a better job bringing up independent and self-reliant children. The reader commenting shared her opinion that co-sleeping is adding to the problem of needy kids in America.

The ironic part is that some of the countries touted in the article as raising more independent children have high rates of co-sleeping. The National Institute of Health compiled data that showed that 88.2% of Korean families co-slept with their children aged 12-82 months. Data from another study showed that 65% of Swedish families co-slept at three months.

Honestly, I'm not even trying to make a case for co-sleeping here. Other countries that were mentioned in the article have much lower rates of co-sleeping. The same study found that 23% of German families co-sleep at age three months.

I do have a challenge for the woman who wrote the comment critical of co-sleeping, though. I dare her to stand in a room with 10 kids and tell me which children slept in a crib as a baby and which did not. I bet she couldn't.

Parenting is not so simple. It's not an all or nothing game. The idea that a baby's level of independence while sleeping results in greater autonomy later in life is as narrow-minded as the idea that a baby's dependence equals more connectedness. Individual personalities and characteristics of children that have nothing to do with parenting styles surely come into play. Then, there are the millions of interactions between parent and child that take place during daylight hours. I'm sure there are plenty of bed sleeping children who are cautious, just as there are co-sleeping children who are risk-takers.

And, lady, just plain stop the judging. My gut feeling about parenting styles in general is that children intuitively know when you believe in the way you are raising them. If you are confident in your decisions, they will be too, which will go a long way in growing secure and capable beings.

Paradoxically, too, our children are going to struggle in life, because of and despite of some of our parenting choices. We must be humble enough to admit that there is much about parenting that is out of our control. Wouldn't it be great if we could just all be there for one another when our children falter, instead of finding fault or blame?

And, speaking of judging. I don't know why anyone cares when, how, where and how often my husband and I have sex, which is yet another preoccupation of the HuffPo commenter and many others who are critical of co-sleeping.

Worry about your own marital bed, lady, not my family bed.


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Photo Source: Shiny Things, Flickr.com

Bad News

Elected officials as corporate puppets, the longest war in American history, terrorism, gun violence, drone strikes, climate change. Any of you still reading? It's easy to want to look away, throw our hands in the air.

It's hard to contemplate the world that our children will inherit.

I remember Walter Cronkite in black and white voicing over horrific pictures of children whose bodies were distorted, ravaged by hunger. Stick legs carrying bloated stomachs. Arms too weak to swat the flies away from their faces. The eyes of the mothers were animated with anguish.

My father sat on the couch watching, too. The images didn't seem bother him like they did me. Looking back on it now, I think I misread his helplessness for callousness.

I asked him why their stomachs looked like they did. My father, the scientist, could answer that question. When I asked him why we let children die from hunger, the scientific method seemed to fail him.

"It's complicated."

I remember thinking that I would do better, if I were a grown-up.

That day, my father fell off the pedestal on which I had placed him. Sooner or later, all parents fall, like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

We are not invincible, like our children believe. Like we would like them to think. Like I believed my father was back then.

Right now, Claire is ignorant to the suffering of the world. I am her sun. She circles me confidently and predictably, like a planet.

She will come to expect answers one day. As she should. As we all do.

Really, I'm stuck with a question though. I ask myself the question that I posed to my father then; Why is it so complicated?

I can answer it the same way my father did...I don't know.


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Wonder and Fear

Claire came home from Grammy's yesterday with news to share with a particular member of the family.

"I have chalk, Lloyd. It's red and orange and pink," she said over and over again excitedly. The cat listened to her news patiently, while he sniffed the pieces of chalk she held under his nose. I was grateful to the cat for being so obliging, and in awe of the magical world of my child.

Chalk might as well be gold. Cats will be sure to concur with you on just about anything. The world is surprising and new, and everything is possible.

But wonder has a shadow side, too.

"Pink scary," Claire said at Grammy's house, gesturing to the bathroom door with one hand while she clung to my pants with the other one. Grammy's pink satin robe hung on the back of it. Claire became fixated on it as unfamiliar and mysterious and, thus, an object of terror.

I tried to coax her toward the door. I wanted her to believe that the robe was something mundane and ordinary. I wanted to talk her out of her fear. "Look," I said. "It's like a coat. See the buttons." Sometimes, reassurance does the trick. Not this time. For all Claire knew, the robe was going to leap off the hanger and swallow her whole.

I started thinking about how fear springs from the same place as wonder. I stopped trying to reassure her. I decided just to be with her.

Each night, Claire sees the moon and I swear she believes it has risen for her and her alone. With great joy, I go along with her on this flight of fancy. I realized that I need to be able to roll with her when she's suspicious of the everyday too.

In time, Claire won't see the world as such a magical place anymore. For now, I want to treat this magical world with respect and empathy.


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Photo Source: Narcoleptic Dreaming, Deviant Art