tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-34114986863666612022024-03-11T21:51:42.395-07:00The Tao of PoopFirst-time mom blogging about the ups and downs of raising a childAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.comBlogger211125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-81770304651592899192014-05-01T06:52:00.000-07:002014-05-01T12:30:11.736-07:00Forty is the New FabulousI get distracted at toddler story hour at the library. I guess I don't find <i>The Hungry Little Caterpillar</i> as edge-of-your-seat compelling as my daughter, Claire, does. My mind seems to wander to the other mothers seated around the perimeter of the circle. Sometimes, I even get caught staring. Creepy, right? But I just can't help myself!<br />
<br />
I marvel at how young the mothers are compared to my forties self. Perhaps, "marvel" is code for covet their flawless skin and the youthful stretches of time that they have ahead of them. But I marvel too. I marvel about how different my path to motherhood has been from a lot of women.<br />
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When I was single and approaching 40, I felt different then too. My non-marital status always left me open to strange, unsolicited questions and comments from people that made me extremely uncomfortable. I never said so, though. I think a part of me believed I actually owed them an explanation.<br />
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One time, an acquaintance of mine introduced me to her mother by saying, “This is Rachel. We have to find her a man. She’s just so great.” <br />
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<i>{My thought: Why do I need a man? Why am I not fine as I am?} </i><br />
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Her mother, then, responded, “How old are you?” <br />
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When I said “thirty-eight", she paused and said, “Well…maybe, there's a good divorced man out there for you..."<br />
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<i>{subtext: my advice to you is lower your sights.} </i><br />
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This kind of subtext was always close to the surface when these types of conversations arose. Sometimes, the words beneath the words seemed to scream louder than the words themselves. Here’s what people have said to me over the years <i>{and the subtext that I heard}:</i><br />
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"I don't understand why you're still single!"<br />
<i>{Why are you still single?}</i><br />
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“It’ll happen someday.”<br />
<i>{I am at a loss about what to say to you, so I offer this lame encouragement.}</i><br />
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“All the good ones are already taken.”<br />
<i>{Settle. Now.}</i><br />
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“You haven’t met the right one.”<br />
<i>{I can only imagine the bad choices in men that you've made.}</i><br />
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“Do you wanna have kids?”<br />
<i>{I hope not, because there's no way that's happening at this stage in the game.}</i><br />
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“Any man who’s single in his 40’s must have a lot of baggage.”<br />
<i>{You’re near 40 too. You must have a lot of baggage.}</i><br />
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“Any man who’s single in his 40’s most have commitment issues.”<br />
<i>{You must have commitment issues.}</i><br />
<br />
“What was your longest relationship?”<br />
<i>{You must have commitment issues.}</i><br />
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“Any man who’s single in his 40’s must be gay.”<br />
<i>{You must be gay.}</i><br />
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“Have you tried switching teams?”<br />
<i>{Are you a lesbian?}</i><br />
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“Thought about becoming a cougar?”<br />
<i>{Accept it. You're getting ready to be put out to pasture.}</i><br />
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“You don’t need a man anyway.”<br />
<i>{Make peace with your lot as Old Maid.}</i><br />
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“My brother's <i>still</i> single. Let me set you two up.”<br />
<i>{You'll only have age in common. But, really, can either of you afford to be picky at this point?}</i><br />
<br />
“It’s a jungle out there.”<br />
<i>{Lemme tell you how glad I am not to be in your shoes.}</i><br />
<br />
“Have you tried internet dating?”<br />
<i>{Can’t you get a man on your own?}</i><br />
<br />
Now, I'm at the part of my story where I get to tell the people who said these things what I really thought of their commentary. Yes, some of this list did come true. Yes, I did meet my husband on <i>Match.com</i> and, yes, I am now what is referred to as a "cougar". But I did not switch teams, nor did I get put out to pasture.<br />
<br />
I happily found love, marriage and the proverbial baby carriage after forty. The current organization of my family feels like a triumph in the context of the lame comments and questions I endured over the years.<br />
<br />
<b><i>But, really, why should anyone need to get married and have children to feel triumphant? </i></b><br />
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<i>We are all on our own personal journey with a unique timeline and purpose. Social expectations and cultural norms should not define its direction. When it comes down to it, a person's path is solely the business of her and her God, if she has one. Surely, God meant to include people living outside the nuclear family paradigm.</i><br />
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Personally, I know one little girl who will be happy that things went down the way they did in my life. I can't imagine them happening any differently either.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-40403107456545964072014-03-23T14:54:00.001-07:002014-03-24T09:51:01.179-07:00Knee Deep in Potty Training“Poop regression”...I never anticipated googling those words when we started potty training (or ever, really). Then again, I never thought I’d be writing a blog called <i>The Tao of Poop</i> either. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I’d ever make it to motherhood, but I digress. What I really want to talk about is how useless expert advice on the internet is in general.<br />
<br />
When I google “poop regression”, I have very specific needs around its sudden appearance in my life. I want to know <i>why</i> my daughter has decided to start pooping in her pants again after a six months stretch of using the potty, and I want a child expert to tell me how to <i>fix</i> the situation.<br />
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I mean, Claire’s not revealing any truths. I have NO CLUE what’s going on in that diabolical little head of hers. And I'm desperate. I practically had a ritual burning of the Diaper Genie when (I thought) it was time to get rid of it. I was just about ready to add an "ed" to train as opposed to an "ing". Now, we have swiftly veered off course.<br />
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Google, I'm looking for a roadmap!<br />
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My search query brings up a plethora of information on the subject. Seems like a good start. Yet, website after website pretty much tells me the same thing. None of the advice is helpful, despite it’s authoritative tone or air of commiseration. <br />
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I get LOTS of reassurance that I’m not alone and that my problem is common. Great. They might as well say “put that into your pipe and smoke it” for all this touchy-feely empathy helps me actually solve my problem.<br />
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Then, the standard line about w<i>hy </i>poop regression happens just pisses me off or makes me more confused...<br />
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<b>"Perhaps, your child wasn’t 'truly' potty trained to begin with."</b><br />
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<i>"What?"</i> I want to yell at the computer, <i>“You don’t know me! How dare you judge me! It’s been six months! Six months, dammit!...So, ok, calm down; you're yelling at a website</i>," I say to myself. <i>"Keep reading. If it isn’t that, how about..."</i><br />
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<b>"There’s likely been a big change in your child’s life that’s caused the sudden regression."</b><br />
<br />
Now, I just look at my daughter like she’s the Sphinx. <i>"What has happened to her?? Is she ok??"</i> I think, desperately, "<i>Speak child, speak!!!" </i><br />
<br />
I finally get to the solutions that the experts have to offer, which are always just plain common sense, e.g. not helpful....<br />
<br />
<b>"Wait it out, be kind and gentle, get her on the potty at regular intervals."</b><br />
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<i>"C'mon, can't you do better than that?! I’m looking for something that I can hang my hat on, expert people! I could've figure that out on my own!" </i>I implore to the computer screen.<br />
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But it isn’t the experts’ fault. Really, I'm just mad at myself. I'm mad that I had a fight with a computer. I'm mad because I should have known that I would have been better off praying to the porcelain gods than looking for any wisdom on the internet.<br />
<br />
And <i>The Tao of Poop</i> does know better. The <i>Tao of Poop</i> knows that my daughter is her own person, and that any designs I have on being her puppet master are limited, at best. There’s a lot about Claire that I will never understand and that I need to just roll with. For some reason, my daughter seems to like to throw a monkey wrench in things. <i>C'est la vie!</i><br />
<br />
It's a bitter pill to swallow, so I go on a futile and fruitless search for answers to impossible questions.<br />
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In the meantime, here we are, again…waiting it out…knee deep in...<br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-7054133375836203192014-03-09T10:49:00.001-07:002014-03-11T14:45:28.311-07:00Letting Go of Control as a Mom<div class="p1">
The Demas family had a bad morning getting out of the house the other day. Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say I had a rough start. </div>
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We were off to a family get-together and the stars were not aligning for a swift exit. Usually, my stellar time management skills make up for the added tasks that a child implies. Bad circumstances, along with poor strategic planning, made this trip different. </div>
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First, Claire decided she absolutely, 100% needed mama's undivided attention. George and I usually attack getting ready by handing off our daughter to one another, like a baton in a relay race. On this day, Claire had other things in mind.<br />
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As did the weather, which decided to change seasons overnight. Dividing my attention between Claire and locating new clothes in the hinterlands of the closet was not part of my to-do list.<br />
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While working half-brained and one-handed, I thought I might have just entered a sadistic challenge devised for a competition reality show like Survivor (except that I had no chance of winning a million dollars for my multi-tasking efforts). </div>
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What's more, I was shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen to make the dish we had promised to bring (nothing like waiting 'til the last minute). In general, chopping, mixing, and stirring, while a child hangs on my apron strings, wears me out. Add a deadline to get out the door, and I feel I'm going to boil over like the pot on the stove.<br />
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I know what you're thinking: <i>"Couldn't the free-handed husband cook and/or clothe the child?"</i> </div>
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To this query, my martyr self replies, <i>"No. He would have ruined it."</i><br />
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I was actually pulling off most of the shitshow. It's part of my controlling nature, an illness, really -- trying to push myself beyond my own limits to see what I'm capable of doing. I end up feeling sickly proud of myself.<br />
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The flip-side of the coin is that I feel exhausted and resentful as well -- bad for me and bad for the people I love. I remind myself of Mussolini, actually. Yes, Mussolini kept the trains running on time...while losing track of humanity altogether.<br />
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<i><b>Sure, we got to our destination like clockwork. My family got left behind, though, metaphorically speaking.</b></i><br />
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Children have a way of finding your Achilles heel. My obsession with productivity can make me forget that love exists in the doing. I lose faith that the result will follow. I need to remember to slow down, and take my eye off of the proverbial prize.<br />
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When I breathe, allow people to help, and let things be less than perfect, that's when the space for relationships opens. I find myself surprised that the present really is enough. Everything seems to start falling into place...or it doesn't. That's just fine too.<br />
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</i><i>Welcome to <b>The Sunday Parenting Party</b>, hosted by <a href="http://www.dirtandboogers.com/">Dirt and Boogers</a>, <a href="http://play-activities.com/">Play Activities</a>, <a href="http://www.crayonfreckles.com/">Crayon Freckles</a>, <a href="http://www.tamingthegoblin.com/">Taming the Goblin</a>, <a href="http://www.thegoldengleam.com/">The Golden Gleam</a>, <a href="http://www.pricklymom.com/">Prickly Mom</a>, and <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/">The Tao of Poop</a>. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)</i><br />
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</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-64201400340880468852014-03-02T06:02:00.000-08:002014-03-02T17:27:36.865-08:00The Inevitables: Children's Milestones that the Parenting Books ForgotParenting books are all about chronicling children's milestones. The experts advise on what they are and when to expect them. The doctors break them up into neat and tidy categories: the emotional, the physical and the social. Your child's development outlined in a rather straightforward fashion.<br />
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But there are other less celebrated milestones that parents are left to discover on their own. It’s uncanny how universal they are.<br />
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To our delight or dismay, every parent on the planet will deal with every child in the world doing one or more of the following with pure and utter abandon. I call them, "The Inevitables of Parenthood":<br />
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1) Riding their cat or dog like a horse.<br />
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2) Throwing away a cellphone, important piece of mail or remote control.<br />
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3) Screaming &@#! in public.<br />
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4) Using their head like a wrecking ball.<br />
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5) Deciding night is day {never the reverse}.<br />
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6) Eating dirt, paper, paint and/or glue.<br />
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7) Throwing or otherwise engaging with their own poop.<br />
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8) Glomming onto some television show, character and/or song that you find abhorrent.<br />
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9) Ensconcing themselves in toilet paper.<br />
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10) Kicking their father in the balls.<br />
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11) Dining on pet food.<br />
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12) Sticking a small object so far into an orifice as to render it unretrievable without professional know-how.<br />
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13) Doing any or all of these things repeatedly, despite your best efforts to cajole, plead, order, admonish and/or otherwise deter them.<br />
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If you’re a parent and these things haven’t happened to you yet, be warned, they are inevitable. Your <br />
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response is inevitable too. It will likely be similar to other parents who have gone before you. Of course, the amplitude of your child's behavior and your own mood will determine the quality of your response too. But, on a good day (or if you're in pubic), you will laugh. On a bad day, you will scream, curse or cry to the heavens above. Either way, your encounter with one of life's inevitables will pass and you will carry on.<br />
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If, on that day, you happen to find yourself in a particularly philosophical mood, you just might be able to rationalize that you are getting in some good training for the inevitables of the teenage years...<br />
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</i></i> <i><i>Photo Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/paulm/31082081/">Paul Mayne, Flickr</a> This photo has been altered, and </i></i><i>it's use does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, it's use or this blog. <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">License</a></i><br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-79455175817957907402014-02-24T05:42:00.000-08:002014-02-24T10:14:37.468-08:00When Strangers Discipline Your ChildrenHow do you feel about strangers disciplining your children? My two year old, Claire, and I had such an incident recently. It started innocently enough...<br />
<br />
We stepped onto an elevator behind another man. The three of us took our places and waited for the doors to close. In the beat before we were moving, Claire reached up to push a button.<br />
<br />
The man yelled, “Don’t push that!”<br />
<br />
The volume of his voice filled the small space of the elevator car with import. Stunned, Claire pulled her index finger out of the air and hid it in the palm of her other hand. She turned around and looked at him, her brow knitted in confusion.<br />
<br />
I took a deep breath and said to my daughter, “It’s ok, Claire. Go ahead and push it.” She did. I turned to him and said, “She likes to push the buttons, so we’ve taught her how to press the 'close door' button.”<br />
<br />
He responded, “Oh, I thought she was pushing a random floor.” <br />
<br />
There you have it. We were on our way up. No apology from the man for yelling at my daughter. We rode the rest of the way in silence. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3H4F0rpEZiyaIiuOA6vSGJRSZwmb-cRQdClPwtDUnIH-a9BIkbl8arzflu7JscPHMl7dSniSuqUwlhTdLNfQWRtZw79r33DhUVP15L1glrIYJ9D5qXoyEmv0ucHhToMDd5WRw_w9h7Q/s1600/disciplining_children.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="disciplining children" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3H4F0rpEZiyaIiuOA6vSGJRSZwmb-cRQdClPwtDUnIH-a9BIkbl8arzflu7JscPHMl7dSniSuqUwlhTdLNfQWRtZw79r33DhUVP15L1glrIYJ9D5qXoyEmv0ucHhToMDd5WRw_w9h7Q/s1600/disciplining_children.png" title="disciplining_children" /></a></div>
My head wasn’t silent though. Inside, I was roaring. I tried to remind myself of other encounters with strangers, the ones I’m grateful for. The time when someone stopped my daughter when she’s broken away from me in a crowd. The time someone picked her up after she has fallen at the park. The many, many times that people have simply returned her friendly "hello". I tried to remember that this man's behavior was an aberration, or to look at things from his perspective. Telling myself these things was not enough to counteract the other voices in my head.<br />
<br />
I was thinking about how much I wanted to tell the man that he had crossed a line. <br />
<br />
I was thinking of saying that, unless my daughter is about to set herself or someone else on fire or something of that ilk, discipline is my domain and privilege as her mother.<br />
<br />
I was thinking, “Dude, I get the terrible repercussions of accidentally having to stop at another floor on an elevator (dripping sarcasm here), but keep your big, fat trap shut. Try picking on someone your own size, you selfish bully!”<br />
<br />
Instead of saying these things, I’m writing them here. Perhaps, I didn't say anything in the moment because Claire was with me. Or because I was trying to take the high ground. Or because I'm a wimp. Perhaps, I was worried that if I got started, I wouldn't be able to stop. Perhaps, this blog is my place to vent; where I go to find support from like-minded moms or to see if others have a different perspective to offer. <br />
<br />
It’s not Claire and my first encounter on the elevator either. About a year ago, I wrote a post about <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/2013/04/dear-mr-stranger-on-elevator.html">a stranger who ignored Claire's hello on the elevator</a>, and how angry and sad the interaction made me. I didn't say anything to that man either. That post brought out particularly impassioned opinions from readers. People on one side believed that the man was small and pathetic, and that ignoring the friendly gesture of a child is the lowest of low. People on the other side believed that I shouldn't have been angry at all, who told me that I should have given the man the benefit of the doubt or considered that he might have been having a bad day or, worse, a bad life.<br />
<br />
So folks, what do you think? Have you ever had an adult behave in a way towards your children that rubbed you the wrong way? How do you feel when strangers step in to tell your child what to do? How do you think I handled this man? Should I have flat out told the man not to discipline my children or that his tone was aggressive? Or should I have let it go? Should I have given him the benefit of the doubt and gone on with my day? Now that the incident is over and I have time to reflect, I find myself filled with questions…<br />
<br />
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</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-73141912961108563882014-02-16T11:48:00.003-08:002014-03-25T19:18:20.615-07:00Respecting Your Limits: Avoiding Mama Burn-Out<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My daughter, Claire, and I engage in all kinds of kid-friendly activities on a daily basis. We read books, do puzzles, make play-doh, sing songs, wash her baby dolls, bake cookies, occasionally, we enter a land of make-believe.<br />
<br />
When I say occasionally, I mean that this morning I said to my two year old, <i>“I don’t want to play castle and princesses right now.”</i> I also mumbled under my breath, <i>“Imaginative play just isn't my favorite thing.”</i><br />
<br />
The mumble part was directed at no one in particular, but my husband, George, piped in with, <i>“But it’s her favorite!”</i> His tone was filled with implication or, at least that’s how I heard it. <br />
<br />
<i><b>What I heard was that I was guilty of depriving my daughter of a vital experience that was essential to her very being. </b></i><br />
<br />
My husband’s no dummy. He knows just how to get to me. He had appealed to an insidious side of myself. -- the part that desires to be all things to all people at all times, especially my daughter. I almost bought into it, too. I almost succumbed to the "perfect mommy" myth.<br />
<br />
But then I remembered something about my husband. I remembered how George <i>flat out refuses</i> to indulge in sensory play with Claire. I'm talking the <i>second</i> I even <i>mention</i> the word "cloud dough", he practically alerts the press about his refusal to get all messy and stuff.<br />
<br />
Sensory play is considered mom's domain. I graciously abide. <br />
<br />
So I’m taking a cue from my husband. I do not need to be all things for my daughter. It's fine if she sees that I have limits. It's fine if she learns that people have tastes and likes, and that they don’t always jibe with hers. It’s fine if papa is the one who wears the crown around this house.<br />
<br />
In many ways, I am serving all of us by saying "no"...to imaginative play and to other things as well. I’m letting my husband have his own unique relationship with Claire. I’m showing my daughter I'm human, I'm teaching her some valuable things about being authentic in relationships, and I'm modeling how to respect her needs. I’m also protecting us all from mama burn-out.<br />
<br />
Of course, that doesn’t mean that I can’t occasionally don a crown and hold a staff in the name of my daughter's continued development. It also means I don’t have to buy into my husband’s attempt at a snow job either.<br />
<br />
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</i><i>Welcome to <b>The Sunday Parenting Party</b>, hosted by <a href="http://www.dirtandboogers.com/">Dirt and Boogers</a>, <a href="http://play-activities.com/">Play Activities</a>, <a href="http://www.crayonfreckles.com/">Crayon Freckles</a>, <a href="http://www.tamingthegoblin.com/">Taming the Goblin</a>, <a href="http://www.thegoldengleam.com/">The Golden Gleam</a>, <a href="http://www.pricklymom.com/">Prickly Mom</a>, and <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/">The Tao of Poop</a>. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)</i><br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-43653098759863754412014-02-13T19:04:00.000-08:002014-02-25T16:32:20.568-08:00Bad Mommy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0knGsjzAH1V-GZRNFGKyuIkLepr_nMp4Lnv0oLywBYygecJLx_ktDEkVxEJHcQ-w7FJXeHfODMCtP0qbZXCIDeIG4h0mDBy_foK4FuuJQfajg_qREq6HOh5yj9ljXLTTsXMvcyley-Uc/s1600/bad_mommy.giff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0knGsjzAH1V-GZRNFGKyuIkLepr_nMp4Lnv0oLywBYygecJLx_ktDEkVxEJHcQ-w7FJXeHfODMCtP0qbZXCIDeIG4h0mDBy_foK4FuuJQfajg_qREq6HOh5yj9ljXLTTsXMvcyley-Uc/s1600/bad_mommy.giff.jpg" height="200" width="160" /></a>Blogging has become the equivalent of a church confessional of sorts. Okay, I'm game! Or, rather, I have no shame...which brings me to my first confession: I would do anything for a laugh, including fessing up to some Bad Mommy moments. My second confession? Some of these dirty little secrets amount to more than "moments"...<br />
<br />
<i><b>I'm guilty of... </b></i><br />
<i> <br />
#1 - Lying to my two year old, Claire, about my phone being broken, so I don't have to watch Elmo again.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#2 - Serving the same meal for breakfast, lunch and dinner.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#3 - Pretending to be sicker than I really am, so my husband takes over childcare duties for awhile.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#4 - Shoving a Mallomar in my mouth, while secretly hiding from Claire in the kitchen.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#5 - Only cutting my daughter's fingernails when we go somewhere special.</i><br />
<i><br />
#6 - Playing hide and go seek together, so I can take a power nap while Claire’s looking for me.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#7 - Rationalizing that its ok to not brush her teeth at night, because there's always tomorrow.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#8 - Using my daughter as an excuse to get out of social engagements.</i><br />
<div>
<i><br />
</i></div>
<i>#9 - Leaving one too many sippy cups of spoiling milk lying around the house.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#10 - Celebrating loud fart noises with my daughter.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#11 - Counting down the days til Claire goes to preschool.<br />
<br />
#12 - Having no desire to go back to work, once preschool starts.</i><br />
<br />
<i>#13 - Blogging and ignoring my daughter (like right now).</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><i>#14 - Only believing #13 is such a crime, because the rest don't really amount to much in the scheme of life.</i><br />
<br />
So, folks, how many "Hail Mary's" do I need to say? Am I absolved yet?<br />
<br />
And, for good measure...<i>I showed you mine. Now, you show me yours...</i><br />
<i></i> <i><br />
</i><i><br />
</i><br />
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Linking up with <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/the-worst-community-service-jobs-ever/">Finish The Sentence Friday</a>, "I've been found guilty of..."Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-33416500889919583852014-02-09T15:57:00.000-08:002014-02-10T09:38:28.513-08:00The Question I Dread as a Stay-At-Home Mom"What do you do?"...The proverbial conversation starter that leaves me flummoxed every time.<br />
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<br />
“Um…I’m just at home, taking care of my daughter, Claire,” I said almost apologetically to a woman at a party recently...<br />
<br />
<i>Dead silence</i>…<br />
<br />
So I filled the air with: “I used to be a teacher..What do you do?”<br />
<br />
Why did I feel so taken off my center by a complete stranger's question? Why the “just” part? Why did I need to reference my former life at all? Why did I shift the focus off of me?<br />
<br />
It’s not as if I don’t think I have anything to say about being a mom. Hell, I’m writing a blog about it!<br />
<br />
Part of my unease had to do with the “do” bit. I don’t <i>do </i>mothering. I <i>am</i> a mother.<br />
<br />
Plus, no one wants to hear what I <i>do</i> everyday. That’s one of the wild things about parenthood. The daily doingness of it can be banal and mindless. Yet, I do these things for this sublime creature, and will gladly do them over and over again. I don’t want to talk about them over and over again, though.<br />
<br />
Nor does everyone at a party want to listen. I'm paranoid that people are going to hear "mom", and think I’m going to trap them into self-absorbed talk about children at any moment. Indeed, a guy at the party <i>did </i>get stuck in just such a conversation. Another woman at the party started talking about how long to breastfeed on each breast. This guy just happened to be standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.<br />
<br />
Now, me, I was interested in this topic. I'm all about the breast. I'm also mesmerized by every little thing my daughter and other little ones do. My husband too. He actually contributed valuable insight to this conversation. But this single guy in his 30’s? I doubt he was that interested. Talking about babies is an acquired taste.<br />
<br />
Likewise, the single woman who I rendered speechless with my latest career as a SAHM. I do understand her, completely and utterly. I used to be her, living in New York City. Manhattan is supposed to be exciting, an exotic place of adventure and surprise. Each night is supposed to hold endless possibility. When I was her, I didn’t want to hear about things like nighttime feedings either. Discussions about the night needed to be about the next party not the party in the diaper.<br />
<br />
So there it is – I am now the woman who ruins the mystique of Manhattan for single people.<br />
<br />
Really, I am so happy to be Claire’s mom. I don’t miss the career I left behind. Clearly, I have what's referred to as a "first-world problem" here. Still, that type of changing of the guard stings a bit.<br />
<br />
Just you wait until Claire's old enough to find Manhattan an exotic place of adventure and surprise. I'm sure I'll be tons of fun then…<br />
<br />
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</i></i> <i>Welcome to <b>The Sunday Parenting Party</b>, hosted by <a href="http://www.dirtandboogers.com/">Dirt and Boogers</a>, <a href="http://play-activities.com/">Play Activities</a>, <a href="http://www.crayonfreckles.com/">Crayon Freckles</a>, <a href="http://www.tamingthegoblin.com/">Taming the Goblin</a>, <a href="http://www.thegoldengleam.com/">The Golden Gleam</a>, <a href="http://www.pricklymom.com/">Prickly Mom</a>, and <a href="http://taoofpoop.blogspot.com/">The Tao of Poop</a>. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)</i><br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-43152935554755190462014-02-06T10:55:00.000-08:002014-03-25T20:30:31.591-07:00Being Present with ChildrenI had a dream late in my pregnancy that I gave birth to what I called “The Big Buddha Baby”. In it, my daughter entered the world full force, all round-faced and chubby, happy and smiling.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYaeD5Qi1qhAE2MPQjeSq-tJDETAhjI-NXogPnv9jQR3J0TLZQJ9qmpPpOqJN1NURC5iX8PEHTv4v7hBBphTKbtOZ8crsW_rZvY0RI5Wuml5VImHgLmTHsyrTsF-psjHDdnnJBSJVgAw/s1600/buddha.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="buddha statue" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpYaeD5Qi1qhAE2MPQjeSq-tJDETAhjI-NXogPnv9jQR3J0TLZQJ9qmpPpOqJN1NURC5iX8PEHTv4v7hBBphTKbtOZ8crsW_rZvY0RI5Wuml5VImHgLmTHsyrTsF-psjHDdnnJBSJVgAw/s1600/buddha.jpg" title="Buddha" /></a></div>
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I found my dream funny, because I'd read that some <a href="http://www.thebabycorner.com/page/338/">women dream of giving birth to babies with green heads</a> or to animals like fish. I'd heard that the cause of this psychedelic dreaming is fear of the unknown and anxiety about giving birth. My dream was quite optimistic, not normally like my usual doom-and-gloom self.<br />
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I also thought my dream couldn’t possibly be prophetic, because I believed that babies generally come out scrawny, misshapen and not so happy to greet the world. Sure enough, with the exception of the smiling part, Claire was the epitome of "The Big Buddha Baby" -- weighing 8 pounds 6 ounces and with a full shock of hair. She continues to be at the 85 percentile of weight for her age, and the size of her belly is matched only by the roundness of her cheeks.<br />
<br />
Her Buddha-like qualities go beyond the physical too. <br />
<br />
When Claire was a really little baby, many people asked me if she were on a schedule yet. I was so perplexed by this question that I didn’t know how to answer. Like most children, my daughter was and is so fully in the moment. More than me training her to be on a schedule, she has taught me how to be in the present. It's not something that comes naturally to me.<br />
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She's two and a half now. Just like when she was a baby, I lie with her while she's falling asleep. I listen for that deep breathing -- the sign that she's dreaming of her own big Buddha. The breathy cadence of those little lungs breathing in and out, making that sweet, sweet baby version of a snore -- its 's a beautiful sound...when I'm really listening. Instead, I'm usually making a list in my head of all the things that I’m going to do during her slumber (most are very exotic -- like doing the dishes, checking my email or going to the bathroom)…<br />
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Then, she wakes up. I'm crestfallen. <i>“Wait, I’ve just gotten her to sleep! What about all those things I’d planned?” </i>I think<i>.</i> If I’m not careful, my expectations become more important than being with my child. <br />
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Sometimes, I get so ahead of myself, I’m sure I can predict the future. Claire usually finds a way to surprise me. My husband, George, will come home late at night and I will say pessimistically, <i>“I’ve tried everything to get her to sleep, and I’ve been at it for hours! She's NEVER going to go the f7&k to sleep!"</i><br />
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He’ll say, <i>“Here, let me try”</i>....She’ll be asleep in five minutes.<br />
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I think, <i>“Wait! I just tried the same thing. It didn’t work!”</i><br />
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Would I rather be right or have her asleep? The latter, for sure.<br />
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Of course, there are things that need to get done, and I would absolutely, 100% be lying if I said that the fact that I can't get her to fall asleep doesn't drive me crazy. The need for mommy "me" time is important too.<br />
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But that's beside the point here. The point is that I can get lost in my own head thinking about this problem or that thing on my to-do list. I can be completely sure that I know what's going to happen next.<br />
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Suddenly, I look over at Claire, and she's smiling. Her eyes are piercing the darkness, while her nose crinkles. Sometimes, she will touch her hand to my cheek and say, "Mama!"<br />
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That moment contains a lifetime of fulfillment. I almost missed it.<br />
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<br />
<i>Linking up with <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/dream-that-this-is-enough/">Finish The Sentence Friday,</a> "My best dream ever was..."</i><br />
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<i>Photo Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/sakyamuni/">Jowo Sakyamuni, Flickr</a></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-11199924227885592782014-02-02T16:57:00.000-08:002014-02-22T06:51:10.609-08:00Mommy Brain: Real or Myth?“WHAT DAY IS IT?” I blurt out, like a <i>Rain Man</i> non-sequitor.<br />
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Generally, it doesn’t matter what day it is. My days tend to flow into one another. The saying <i>“Same shit, different day”</i> takes on a literal meaning with a toddler. <br />
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“It’s Friday?” my husband mumbles, clearly mirroring my own confusion. <br />
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“Crap, I was supposed to meet Reid 10 minutes ago! I’m late!” I say. <br />
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In vain, I try to gather a presentable-to-society outfit. I try to text my friend, as I race out the door. His number isn’t in my cellphone! <i>How is that possible?!</i> I rush to the restaurant. <i>What? He’s not here.</i> I check his emails on my phone…<br />
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Our plans are for NEXT Friday! <i>Oh! Duh...and crap! </i><br />
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(Later, I notice that his number was actually on our email correspondence.)<br />
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I am out of practice about having a “real” life. You know, meeting friends and such. Does my scatterbrained state of confusion suggest I'm suffering from the proverbial “Mommy Brain”?<br />
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It’s true. I exist in some sort of vague reality that's off the<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_-7kDLHMPsQk5c6FFyNDujtJ53HuvbfNRuiUJbUAz7qBLIWUAj8JoD02Icsv4e1a7ZszCT9YeXigTaaWnm9etP-29SrmmgRLcGHZDRbNt7LPN-_SyFyt2ZjyRI3rKKurBlmytMDPtik/s1600/thought_bubble.gimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="woman looking up at thought bubble" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhy_-7kDLHMPsQk5c6FFyNDujtJ53HuvbfNRuiUJbUAz7qBLIWUAj8JoD02Icsv4e1a7ZszCT9YeXigTaaWnm9etP-29SrmmgRLcGHZDRbNt7LPN-_SyFyt2ZjyRI3rKKurBlmytMDPtik/s1600/thought_bubble.gimp.jpg" title="thought_bubble" /></a></div>
time/space continuum. I have morphed into a toddler state of mind, complete with fairies and unicorns.<br />
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Yet, I struggle against the “Mommy Brain” cliché. I want to believe it’s an old wives’ tale. “Mommy Brain” seems to add to the stereotype that moms (particularly of the Stay-at-home variety) aren’t current -- that we have lost our edge and are no longer “productive” members of society. <br />
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It’s why I put “real” in quotes above. I mean I have a real life! It’s just not my former life. <br />
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Is my child <i>literally</i> making me lose my mind?<br />
<br />
I do see evidence of “Mommy Brain” all around me. I am more likely to know the words to a song from the movie, <i>Frozen,</i> than the hot topic of The State of the Union address. I’m more apt to read Dr. Seuss than Dr. Anyone Else Adult.<br />
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The other day, our family went out to brunch. The waiter asked me if I wanted more coffee. I looked at the table and said, “Uh, I can’t find my cup.” The waiter responded generously, “Um, ma’am, It’s in your hand.” <br />
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I didn’t make this interaction up, folks! Maybe, I should be blaming it on my toddler!<br />
<br />
So I googled “Mommy Brain”, and found some interesting stuff. It turns out that our babies aren’t the only ones growing. According to a study, <a href="http://news.discovery.com/human/psychology/mommy-brain-maternal-changes.htm">the grey matter in mom’s brain</a> actually grows too! It gets bigger in the areas of the hypothalamus, prefrontal corext and amygdala. These areas control emotional regulation, motivation, planning and foresight! Not bad, mamas!<br />
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The authors of the article do suggest that memory lapses, such as forgetting names (or that one’s coffee cup is in one’s hand), may be due to a shifting set of priorities.<br />
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I like that one better too. I would rather say that my priorities have changed to caring for my daughter than to say I have “Mommy Brain”.<br />
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Yeah, I’m going with that one, and with the fact that I have a bigger brain since having Claire!<br />
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<i>What do you think? Have you had "Mommy Brain" moments? Do you think "Mommy Brain" is real or an old wives' tale?</i><br />
<i><br />
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<i><br />
</i> <i style="text-align: center;">Check out this week's fab features:</i><br />
<i style="text-align: center;"><br />
</i> <i style="text-align: center;">Sadder but Wiser Girl, <a href="http://thesadderbutwisergirl.com/2014/01/24/fly-on-the-wall-january-2014-the-multimedia-edition/">Fly on the Wall</a></i><br />
<i>Left Brain Buddha, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/sarah-rudell-beach-/why-mindful-parenting-works-for-me_b_4647377.html?utm_hp_ref=third-metric%22">Mindful Parenting</a></i><br />
<i>Finding Ninee, Autism, <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/autism-sometimes-im-not-myself/">Sometimes I'm not ready</a></i></div>
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-4665434638895137352014-01-28T18:58:00.000-08:002016-03-03T09:17:42.662-08:00"Who Are You Wearing?"We all know “Who are you wearing?” is reserved for the red carpet. I doubt anyone would come up to a mom like me on the street and ask that question. If they did, well, that would just be creepy.<br />
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Yet, for a year and a half, I had a very fine answer to this question. I wore a person of distinction almost daily. I wasn’t wearing Cavalli or Chanel...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdnNBfCnjBD3FNn_zj0wzDp7s0iuMLMCDHq7_3GwQNiTqPzJDVNVUmXa1mKBY40V1wvj7_WcxKQi_VNVUr9XT_qjyJFq2CAMGVXFwlDZqPZMdvBa0k3BXat-FQ4NSQwrwUnBUNwoUXZg/s1600/Moby_wrap.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="mom and baby in moby wrap" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPdnNBfCnjBD3FNn_zj0wzDp7s0iuMLMCDHq7_3GwQNiTqPzJDVNVUmXa1mKBY40V1wvj7_WcxKQi_VNVUr9XT_qjyJFq2CAMGVXFwlDZqPZMdvBa0k3BXat-FQ4NSQwrwUnBUNwoUXZg/s1600/Moby_wrap.JPG" title="Moby_wrap" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I was wearing Claire.<br />
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Clearly, my daughter and I aren't red-carpet ready. But if we had the opportunity and Ryan Seacrest were to use his astute journalistic skills to query further about my extraordinary baby outfit, I would reply with great enthusiasm and pride. I would say that she's made entirely by hand. I would tell him that I worked on my creation for over nine months, and that she required intensive labor. I would say that I count my daily accessory as priceless and unique -- couture in the best sense of the word.<br />
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But he's probably not going to ask, and I probably won't walk the red carpet in my one-of-a kind creation. That's okay. I did get to do this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6f8tAFCArTJuHSnP6cXxtl17CVeiDBSrfSeLOG5Ae6iMhFVaoUEXMqgt-4IJSWce1OHltYyYB7ILG_8lhEFEFVp313BZu1oYmP1L4lTbMcyMzgD02PqygHap8FBcfzJ2S8yfqlB3JU8/s1600/baby_wearing.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="baby in moby wrap" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx6f8tAFCArTJuHSnP6cXxtl17CVeiDBSrfSeLOG5Ae6iMhFVaoUEXMqgt-4IJSWce1OHltYyYB7ILG_8lhEFEFVp313BZu1oYmP1L4lTbMcyMzgD02PqygHap8FBcfzJ2S8yfqlB3JU8/s1600/baby_wearing.JPG" title="moby_wrap" width="310" /></a></div>
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And, now that Claire is older, I get to do this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicDl4jocnAycRRowxhwnRvfd5-VKR2JTH4OTV2IBxG5H9B_5AWEoib1N31EPS_-NUz2Ou_ipwZfCaRGKsT_IfuoxzzkeJm5xf7IeG8QvUkc0EuH-oiWgN7GwtE7GtmBEq4UEbBk4YkCgw/s1600/mama.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="mama and child" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicDl4jocnAycRRowxhwnRvfd5-VKR2JTH4OTV2IBxG5H9B_5AWEoib1N31EPS_-NUz2Ou_ipwZfCaRGKsT_IfuoxzzkeJm5xf7IeG8QvUkc0EuH-oiWgN7GwtE7GtmBEq4UEbBk4YkCgw/s1600/mama.JPG" title="mama_child" width="303" /></a></div>
<br />
Clothes aren't really the point here, are they? Really, you barely noticed what I'm wearing in these photos, did you?<br />
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When I look at each picture, I do see a "who". I see my daughter. I notice myself in relation to another. I notice a connection between two people, between mama and child. <br />
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Sure, you can really, really like a dress on the red carpet. But love doesn't come from fancy clothes or make-up or big parties.<br />
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<i><b>Love grows in the fertile soil of everyday, uncelebrated gestures.</b></i><br />
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No, I won't be walking the red carpet anytime soon. That's okay. My designer creation is a true labor of love.<br />
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And I didn't have to squeeze my toesies into Louboutin's either!<br />
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<i>Moms and friends! Some of my lovely blogger buddies and I thought we would have fun combining the <a class="ot-hashtag aaTEdf" href="https://plus.google.com/s/%23365FeministSelfie" rel="nofollow">#365FeministSelfie</a> with Award Season in this post and in a link-up. The <a class="ot-hashtag aaTEdf" href="https://plus.google.com/s/%23365FeministSelfie" rel="nofollow">#365FeministSelfie</a> is all about showing women as they are, no filter, no primping, no perfection, and perhaps no makeup. Pretty much the complete opposite of the Award Season Red Carpet drama-rama. So we’re asking you...</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LNbDU1A5_ZVuOkG-M1oYppIhqz5yMF6EksigGWzDC-lHc8j4SsRI6VW4XRdLYst89AeKlJnibriQ_a4EgthVx9atRc1g53aGSyYL5bahlx27BfLC1hfjU3oPKXaM0VAyDFdztNlJvRY/s1600/baby_wearing.gimp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="mom looking at a baby in a moby wrap" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0LNbDU1A5_ZVuOkG-M1oYppIhqz5yMF6EksigGWzDC-lHc8j4SsRI6VW4XRdLYst89AeKlJnibriQ_a4EgthVx9atRc1g53aGSyYL5bahlx27BfLC1hfjU3oPKXaM0VAyDFdztNlJvRY/s1600/baby_wearing.gimp.jpg" title="Baby_wearing" /></a></div>
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<i>Who are YOU wearing? Link up a post with a picture and/or some text below. And, remember, COME AS YOU ARE!</i><br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-18418546456777689972014-01-26T14:47:00.000-08:002014-01-26T17:43:41.009-08:00Exercise, Motherhood and DepressionI just came back from the gym. <i>I feel good</i>.<br />
<br />
There are the obvious reasons for feeling good. I've crossed something off my to-do list. I have an overall sense of accomplishment. I've worked off the chocolates that my lovely husband got for me the other day.<br />
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But when I say, <i>"I feel good"</i>, I mean so much more. My <i>head</i> feels good. I feel lighter, more optimistic and relaxed. Love abounds in my heart for family, neighbors and mankind. Picture me with a skip in my step, humming the song<i>, I Can See Clearly Now</i>, as the serotonin balances in my brain.<br />
<br />
I need to workout. When I don't exercise, the stress in my life turns into dark thoughts, irritability, and a struggle to accomplish daily tasks. <br />
<br />
It's workout, go on Prozac or be depressed. I've done all three. I prefer the first option, and have <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqX-Iki8tt_vK_ZREhHq1-sIQhX4dQUy8y6IINtEiP5F0bBL6Lt7XL5Krw55aia1hB9-3KmchMjf1EdNPIruqEWmYzC2fdpukVrE79za3cwiVAi_v3FA9bMZeTk0DOUzsA2ekPdxs0EU/s1600/woman_jogging.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="Woman running on the beach" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqX-Iki8tt_vK_ZREhHq1-sIQhX4dQUy8y6IINtEiP5F0bBL6Lt7XL5Krw55aia1hB9-3KmchMjf1EdNPIruqEWmYzC2fdpukVrE79za3cwiVAi_v3FA9bMZeTk0DOUzsA2ekPdxs0EU/s1600/woman_jogging.jpg" title="woman_running" /></a>chosen exercise for many years. I haven't always wanted to get to the gym. There have been times that it was hard to fit it into my schedule.<br />
<br />
But working out is a commitment that I have made to myself and my mental health. I'm grateful that exercise has worked for me as well as any pill.<br />
<br />
Now, I have Claire. I'm finding it harder to honor that commitment. Frankly, it's easier to find time to blog. I can sit at home while she's sleeping and write. I've never been an exercise tape kind of girl. I'm tired. I don't have a ton of free time. The list goes on.<br />
<br />
I don't easily recognize the slow slide into depression either. Remember the frog sitting in a pot of water on the stove? She's slowly boiled, because she doesn't feel the rising temperature. I'm like her. I notice the dark side of myself only in contrast, when I feel differently than dark. <br />
<br />
In general, we moms have a hard time taking care of ourselves. It's ironic, though, that at a time when we need to be our best selves for our children, we find it challenging to attend to our needs. So many other priorities seem to trump us and our pesky needs. <br />
<br />
I do notice I'm not taking care of myself, though. I notice when I return from a workout and feel differently than dark. <br />
<br />
Like today. That's when I remember that my daughter deserves a mom who feels this good. I am a better mom when I feel this good. I deserve to say, <i>"I feel good"</i> and <i>really</i> mean it.<br />
<br />
We all do.<br />
<br />
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<i>Photo Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikebaird/482031103/in/set-72157600266151667">Mike Baird, Flickr</a>, this photo has been altered and does not suggest that the licensor endorses me or its use</i><br />
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<i>Check out this week's fab features:</i><br />
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<i>Finding Ninee, <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/dear-special-needs-google-mama-thinks-sucks/">Dear Special Needs Mama</a></i><br />
<i>MamaSchmama, <a href="http://mamaschmama.com/2013/04/28/theater-of-the-absurd-aka-parenting/">Theater of the Absurd</a></i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-61830487085086718312014-01-23T19:01:00.000-08:002014-01-26T11:15:28.937-08:00Opposites Attract<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYDFxxkMnXelV3V6lf_8WsnRL4MlpmOlaD623V5mkVc9dqLox7bzTo-haOtuKHkbMDLKYkFxqkesf4UnYYzQ3qR_pvQWSYSWJjmxY46A_hCMUEQ79uCR3CQMKYfXB8Kt3PubZRxsDD20/s1600/Hot_Cold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimYDFxxkMnXelV3V6lf_8WsnRL4MlpmOlaD623V5mkVc9dqLox7bzTo-haOtuKHkbMDLKYkFxqkesf4UnYYzQ3qR_pvQWSYSWJjmxY46A_hCMUEQ79uCR3CQMKYfXB8Kt3PubZRxsDD20/s1600/Hot_Cold.jpg" height="235" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
“Vee cole, vee cole,” Claire said repeatedly.<br />
<br />
Translation: "Feet cold".<br />
<br />
My poor little baby had cold feet for the first time in her life. Actually, I think it was her first experience with cold, in general. It isn't hyperbole to say that it took me an hour to warm up those little piggies. I rubbed and rubbed each tiny, icy foot over and over again -- like I thought a genie would come out of one of them, if I kept at it long enough.<br />
<br />
I don't know who was more traumatized, her or me. Actually, I take that back. It was me. You see my husband, George, had taken her for an impromptu THREE hour trip to the zoo in FORTY degree weather wearing ONLY canvas sneakers!<br />
<br />
Really, I was mortified. <br />
<br />
I considered being mad along with mortified. But I’m trying to be more philosophical since having a kid. I can definitely cut him some slack this time too. First of all, how great is it that Claire and her papa went to the zoo together? Second, George doesn't mean to be reckless. He’s barely used to being married, let alone having a child. There's a learning curve to fatherhood, just like anything else.<br />
<br />
Same goes for motherhood. While I'm a stickler for schedules and routines, George would probably say I'm an old stick in the mud. He puts up with my neurotic need to make sure she eats on time, always has a nap at the appointed hour and that she's never, ever cold.<br />
<br />
In other words, that Claire has a boring mommy, who doesn't know the meaning of the word "spontaneous" and never does anything fun with her daughter.<br />
<br />
I'm the yin to George's yang, the traditional to his non-traditional. We compliment each other nicely. So Claire can go on adventures and explore with her papa, and, then, come home to the warmth and security of her mama.<br />
<br />
(In the future, I will just have to be more careful that I supervise my husband's sartorial choices for our daughter more closely. In truth, I could learn to lighten up a bit too. But don't let my husband in on this confession, please.)<br />
<br />
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<i>Reblog from Claire's baby days for Finish The Sentence Friday, "We can either be traditional or non-traditional..."</i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-40914092952434588672014-01-19T16:42:00.002-08:002014-01-20T11:59:52.344-08:00I Had a Pin FailThat's what they call it, right? <br />
<br />
This:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr88bnPnIcsgI3q3fBDToyJx6OcxvEKLUC6JuRXMwPSOH_-53Nljwvzloaa-iHXVwiJulp5PMTKvYQDNcQ5q9wDditXoMiu2g-ETFs9qJdLL_Jw02VeIicozM3gfPujr8IR8TBCGVD8BA/s1600/Pin_fail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr88bnPnIcsgI3q3fBDToyJx6OcxvEKLUC6JuRXMwPSOH_-53Nljwvzloaa-iHXVwiJulp5PMTKvYQDNcQ5q9wDditXoMiu2g-ETFs9qJdLL_Jw02VeIicozM3gfPujr8IR8TBCGVD8BA/s1600/Pin_fail.jpg" height="320" width="232" /></a></div>
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</div>
Was supposed to yield this:<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6isgaUL0Mw_wlhq1UXikIqllpn0XpcF6uWPz4XUr-uM3UmjGic4xbAftjTGe5btb7NfPGgyx7EUPH0-QdosJ4rIK-1SUOgSnMMSqE7JsEgnuG8-P-CJnMV67OnrNQx7ITYUEuIFZ3P20/s1600/Finger_paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6isgaUL0Mw_wlhq1UXikIqllpn0XpcF6uWPz4XUr-uM3UmjGic4xbAftjTGe5btb7NfPGgyx7EUPH0-QdosJ4rIK-1SUOgSnMMSqE7JsEgnuG8-P-CJnMV67OnrNQx7ITYUEuIFZ3P20/s1600/Finger_paint.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Really, I just have to laugh.<br />
<br />
I am a perfectionist in certain areas of my life. DIY is not one of them. I know my limitations. The bar is set very low. I expect to have a fail of the pin variety. I’m shocked, pleasantly surprised, when my endeavors come even close to the bright and shiny picture. <br />
<br />
You may be expecting a post hating on Pinterest right about now. Something along the lines of: <i>Pinterest makes mamas like me feel inadequate or pressured to be perfect.</i><br />
<br />
Or, maybe, something like: <i>Pinterest is reactionary, a throw back to the days when a mom’s worth was measured by her ability to make an apple pie (or play-doh)</i>. <br />
<br />
I've read posts that say as much, and know that Pinterest has become another great divide between mamas. I find myself resting somewhere in the middle -- a craft-impaired mother who loves Pinterest. You might say I'm looking to become a Pinterest peacemaker, so to speak.<br />
<br />
I love Pinterest <i>despite</i> the fact that my DIY adventures are more likely to be pin fails than pin-worthy. I’m glad there are women other than me -- the ones who actually possess the crafting gene -- who come up with ingenuous ideas and recipes that wouldn’t occur to me in a million years. <br />
<br />
They’ve given me the know-how to actually make stuff with my daughter, which is the definition of quality time for me. When play-doh is made at home, it is somehow infused with the good vibes of having your hand in it and of being together. And, just to clarify, our homemade experiments don't mean that I am obligated to always make play-doh every time. We have the store-bought kind too, but I digress. <br />
<br />
I do believe that there is power in making things by hand, though. Yes, I am incredibly grateful that Amazon Prime opens up a whole world of consumer goods, which appear at my door, as if by magic. I am likewise glad that making play-doh is the perfect tonic to an Amazon shopping experience. I want Claire to learn that clicking a button on her computer doesn't count as agency or effort.<br />
<br />
And that agency and effort count for something -- I want Claire to value process as much as product. Actually, when I really think about it, I'm even more of a fan of Pinterest <i>because</i> of the Pin fail. I am trying to teach Claire to embrace the fact that things don’t always turn out the way that you expect (which is often the case with a craft-impaired mama like me. She will be well schooled in this lesson). I want her to see that mistakes can yield surprising results too.<br />
<br />
No, we did not create finger paint like the lovely picture above. The result of our toil together was much, much more like slime (what’s ironic is that I put in the green dye BEFORE it went the way of pin fail). But, guess what, Claire loved it!<br />
<br />
No, I will never be Martha Stewart. I don’t need to be. My daughter needs a mama not a Martha anyway.<br />
<br />
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<i>Photo Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/aarongilson/5419296359/sizes/l/">Aaron Gilson, Flickr</a></i><br />
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<i>Finding Ninee: <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/the-best-special-needs-school-in-the-world/">The Best Special Needs School in the World</a></i></div>
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<i>Mommy is for Real: <a href="http://www.stephaniesprenger.com/2014/01/09/beautiful-girls-raising-feminist-daughters/">Raising Feminist Daughters</a></i></div>
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<i>Left Brain Buddha, Rite of Passage: <a href="http://leftbrainbuddha.com/rite-of-passage-ready-for-air-ready-for-motherhood/">Ready for Air; Ready for Motherhood</a></i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-39515235940713657012014-01-12T15:26:00.000-08:002014-01-14T17:03:01.807-08:00Babes in ToylandChristmas has a way of reverberating into the New Year and beyond. Much to my dismay, I will surely be confronting pine needles in the nooks and crannies of my home long after the red, red robin comes bob, bob, bobbing along. Much to my dismay, I will continue to relive the moment during this holiday season when a beloved childhood memory of mine was crushed. <br />
<br />
It all began as innocently as childhood itself. George and Claire were ripping the paper off a Christmas gift with great anticipation. My daughter excitedly pulls a box from its wrapping and George says, “Oh, cool! Candy Land!” <br />
<br />
I’m flooded -- not with distinct memories, but with the intense but inchoate images and feelings of a young child. I don’t remember the game’s specifics or its characters. I feel happiness about winding along a path of friendly colors through a swirling world of sweet fancy. <br />
<br />
I lean in to look at the box with Claire…<br />
<br />
Candy Land's gotten a sexy makeover.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I'm flooded again. This time with rage, helplessness and disappointment along with a barrage of thoughts: <br />
<br />
“Ah, not <i>my</i> Candy Land! Is nothing sacred? <i>My</i> Candy Land didn't have creepy bimbettes posing around the board! This game’s supposed to be for little kids! Can’t we just wait a few years?... Oh, shit, get over yourself, Rachel. You are such a control freak. You can’t shield Claire from everything in this world. There are so many other things to worry about than the sexualization of a dumb board game. She can still enjoy the game… Maybe, I’m just pissed I can't recreate my own past through my daughter. Or, maybe, I’m becoming one of those ‘things aren’t the way they used to be’ kind of cliches.”<br />
<br />
As the wheels in my head spin, Claire and George open the box and look at the pieces. Another newly-opened game sits on the table next to Candy Land. Claire points to Chutes and Ladders, the green and blue board filled with children of diverse racial backgrounds playing actively, absorbed and engaged -- how I would like Claire to imagine herself in her world. She looks at Candyland…<br />
<br />
<b>“Mama, <i>Candy Land</i> is for girls and <i>Chutes and Ladders</i> is for boys,” she says.</b><br />
<br />
The screaming in my head comes to a screeching halt. Claire cuts through my bullshit every time. <i>Out of the mouths of babes</i> is how the saying goes. <br />
<br />
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<i>DIRT AND BOOGERS, <a href="http://www.dirtandboogers.com/2014/01/son-says-doesnt-love/">MY SON SAID HE DOESN'T LOVE ME</a></i></div>
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-1546651657525463552014-01-05T16:30:00.000-08:002014-04-14T06:23:42.441-07:00"Don't Cry Over Spilt Milk"is the mantra that runs through my head, when I'm trying to find a Zen place in the face of a day’s worth of toddler chaos. Unfortunately, a few hours into said day, I start talking back to the voices in my head.<br />
<br />
<i>“But this is the THIRD time she’s <b>literally</b> spilled her milk! You said I can’t cry. What about screaming? PLEASE let me scream, please! I’ll feel so much better,” I say plaintively.</i><br />
<br />
Some days, I do scream….but I don’t feel better. <br />
<br />
Other days, I remember that I actually subscribe to the philosophy that making messes is part of the process of learning. On good days, I teach my daughter a spirit of experimentation and a love of discovery, unencumbered by the fear of the outcome of her endeavors. I remember that I really love this quote from Roald Dahl. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmiB3V0SUo6X0gNDjB-u2aiDW1HGy-7i_gEum8DwnWH6kMZ7Mb7Q1RMCffUeCnCfBx7aXpoRu18o9tIbtcOe9zWjCkK2W-jsdgkj9nNdMkwWlvPCUYC7eIV_vR90UGNb2CivcUQ8_MC8/s1600/Roald_Dahl.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXmiB3V0SUo6X0gNDjB-u2aiDW1HGy-7i_gEum8DwnWH6kMZ7Mb7Q1RMCffUeCnCfBx7aXpoRu18o9tIbtcOe9zWjCkK2W-jsdgkj9nNdMkwWlvPCUYC7eIV_vR90UGNb2CivcUQ8_MC8/s320/Roald_Dahl.jpeg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
(Dahl was referring to stuff like climbing trees, but giving a toddler a glass of milk qualifies as “risk” in my book.)<br />
<br />
On good days, I give her the space to make messes, so she can learn to clean them up. I show her that mistakes can be opportunities and that mistakes can be fixed.<br />
<br />
I am a believer. <br />
<br />
<i><b>What no one told me was how much tension would exist between my tolerance level for chaos and my philosophy about how to grow a healthy child and learner. </b></i><br />
<br />
How about when motherhood seems a feat of endurance? Bad days where the disaster around me seems to be keeping pace with my internal state of mind. Days when I feel less of an idealistic teacher and more like Sisyphus.<br />
<br />
That's when it's best to let go the mantle of both idealist and Sisyphus. I need to strip away my beliefs about how things should go.<br />
<br />
Nothing stands between Claire and me -- our relationship is at its most essential.<br />
<br />
I see a child just being. I see a mom loving her child and her child's beingness very, very much.<br />
<br />
At the heart of the matter, that's all we need to remember.<br />
<br />
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<!-- end LinkyTools script -->Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-20658641677908002682014-01-02T17:05:00.000-08:002014-01-03T08:31:47.149-08:00Eleven Ways Toddlers are like DrunksI asked a friend of mine about his New Year’s Eve, and he responded candidly: “I don’t drink <br />
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anymore, so I find my drunk friends annoying. They either can't hold a conversation or they act crazy.”<br />
<br />
In return, I joked that his night sounded like daily life with a toddler. My friend has a teenager, so he<br />
commiserated about not missing those times. We started talking about how much toddlers remind us of drunk people in many uncanny ways. They both:<br />
<br />
<i>1) Can’t walk a straight line</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>2) Are loud and unruly in social situations</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>3) Spill their drink</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>4) Fall randomly</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>5) Cry </i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>6) Slur their words</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>7) Are prone to taking their clothes off in public</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>8) Have no sense of personal space</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>9) Spare no one the ugly truth</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>10) Suffer from memory loss</i><br />
<i><br /></i><i>11) Shouldn’t operate heavy machinery</i><br />
<i><br /></i>Toddlers and drunks are opposite in one important way though. When you are sober around a toddler, you really want a drink. When you are sober around drunks, you never want to drink again.<br />
<br />
HAPPY NEW YEAR, FRIENDS! May 2014 be a year of health, happiness, love and prosperity for you and yours.<br />
<br />
<i>Connect with: <span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/search/taoofpoop.blogspot.com">Bloglovin'</a>, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Tao-of-Poop/289350671181001?ref=hl">FB</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/TaoOfPoop">Twitter</a>, <a href="https://plus.google.com/u/0/106989767764294826207/posts">G+</a>, <a href="http://pinterest.com/taoofpoop/">Pinterest</a></span></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-19723224596219118442013-12-12T04:57:00.000-08:002013-12-12T11:04:47.157-08:00Santa Employs Sweatshop LaborI surveyed the bounty of my daughter’s toys around me, and knew I could come up with a long list of what I would banish from Santa’s List.<br />
<br />
There were the fine, easy plastic pieces that had spread out like a diaspora from their homeland toy. There were princesses taunting me with vapid, feckless smiles. I saw lego pieces that look innocent by day, but lie in wait to lodge in the tender part of the unsuspecting arch of the foot in the middle of the night. Then, the musical toys chimed in randomly with their voices of good cheer...oh, and the DVD’s that my daughter pesters me endlessly to watch...the dried-out markers and broken crayons...<br />
<br />
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<br />
The <i>sheer amount</i> of toys made me optimistic that Santa's <i>un</i>list would be lengthy. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDjaBGJsVNWSEEttY6zg2S54ECXW8uew2mDcgIi5P_NHukxsnOLxB8XCXF3L4SkyJY_r2qABlgQcVQFoqlP_RqVZgeEi1um9xaAMsZ_ajRFww9qZRArsPDWbGjeeGb3MVaTHecuXrfwo/s1600/q_007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Q from James Bond, 007" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlDjaBGJsVNWSEEttY6zg2S54ECXW8uew2mDcgIi5P_NHukxsnOLxB8XCXF3L4SkyJY_r2qABlgQcVQFoqlP_RqVZgeEi1um9xaAMsZ_ajRFww9qZRArsPDWbGjeeGb3MVaTHecuXrfwo/s200/q_007.jpg" title="Q_007" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Q is the man for the job!</td></tr>
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That’s when I realized that an <i>un</i>list just wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to consider a complete overhaul of the Santa system. No, I’m not recommending the demise of Christmas altogether. I’m not that Grinch-like. I’m suggesting something more along the lines of <b>Santa hiring Q from 007 to ensure toys self-destruct just around the time that fat baby rings in the New Year.</b><br />
<br />
Hear me out. What’s the fun part of Christmas for the kids anyway? It's the ritual of it all...putting out a plate of cookies and glass of milk, imagining Santa and his team on the roof, waking up with the sun, racing down the stairs and ripping the paper off the presents and opening the boxes for the big reveal!<br />
<br />
Let's face it, after that's done, you get a few hours of toy contemplation and the Christmas booty gets relegated to the Land of Forgotten Toys. Or, worse! If Santa's treasures aren’t abandoned altogether, then, parental involvement becomes necessary in the form of a job that offers zero pay, no upward mobility and no benefits: <i>toy management</i> (aka picking toys up off of the floor once an hour every hour).<br />
<br />
<b><i>We all know Santa employs elves at sweatshop wages. Parents, we are being equally exploited here!</i></b><br />
<br />
So, Santa, either we get a raise for our integral role in the whole merry-making system or hire Q. I know, I know. You’ve been at this a long time. It’s hard to change your ways. But if Jeff Bezos can revolutionize retail, I have all the faith in the world that you can put a finger aside your nose like a cherry and make it happen. Consider me a modern-day Natalie Wood. I believe, Santa, I believe.<br />
<br />
<i>If you and Santa need any more convincing of the necessity for dire action in this matter, go check out the unlists of my mom-blog friends. Not only are their arguments sound, but they are funny and smart (just like them). I'm proud that these fearless women are my comrades in the fight against Santa's exploitation...</i><br />
<i><br /></i><b>
Jean from Mama Schmama,<i> <a href="http://mamaschmama.com/2013/12/12/child-models-at-christmas/">My Child Models Deserve the Best</a></i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Kristi from Finding Ninee, <i><a href="http://www.findingninee.com/three-things-i-dont-want-my-son-to-get-for-christmas/">Three Things I Don't Want My Son to Get for Christmas</a></i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Katia from I am the Milk, <i><a href="http://iamthemilk.wordpress.com/2013/12/12/the-gift-that-just-keeps-on-giving/%EF%BB%BF">The Gift that JUST. KEEPS. ON. GIVING.</a></i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Jen from My Skewed View, <a href="http://jenkehl.com/raising-a-boy/gifts-not-to-buy-a-boy/"><i>Dear Santa, Please Don't</i></a></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Sarah from Left Brain Buddha, <a href="http://leftbrainbuddha.com/holy-testosterone-batman-why-superheroes-angry-these-days/"><i>Holy Testosterone, Batman! {Why are Superheroes So ANGRY These Days?}</i></a></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Stephanie from Mommy is for Real, <i><a href="http://www.stephaniesprenger.com/2013/12/11/thanks-nothing-american-girls-hate-american-girl-dolls/">Thanks for Nothing, "American Girls" - Why I Hate American Girl Dolls </a></i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Sarah from Sadder but Wiser Girl, <a href="http://wp.me/p2ulGT-22i%EF%BB%BF"><i>Flaming Pillows and Other Christmas List No's</i></a></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-57243131373546364902013-12-08T05:37:00.000-08:002014-03-16T19:37:15.591-07:00Tree-Trimming Toddlers: A Cautionary TaleI had high hopes for Christmas tree decorating. It was Claire’s first time participating in my favorite family tradition. But tree trimming was not all merry and bright at our house this holiday season...<br />
<br />
<i>“I want to put this one on the tree,” Claire says, holding up an ornament.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Sure. That’s baby jesus,” I respond.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“I want to look at baby jesus first,” she says.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“OK, Claire,” I say…</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>“Claire, don’t put baby jesus in your mouth…Claire, baby jesus is not for eating!”…<b>Ah, shit, Claire, you broke baby jesus!</b>"</i><br />
<br />
'Tis the season with a toddler! I wasn't surprised when the festivities started going awry...when Claire knocked over my coffee, which proceeded to splatter on the decorations sitting at the ready to deck the halls. Nor was I surprised when I had to say “get out from behind the tree” or “leave the ornaments alone” more often than the nation sings <i>Jingle Bells</i> each December.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
But when I had imagined decorating the tree with my daughter for the first time, the words <b>"baby jesus is not for eating"</b> did not instantly spring to mind.<br />
<br />
On the bright side, our family was together and the tree came out nice. The lesson to be learned is to lower expectations and be happy that everyone survived (well...except baby jesus).<br />
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<br />
My daughter's only two years old, yet she's chosen a favorite Christmas carol. She even has a particular rendition of <i>Jingle Bells</i> that has taken her fancy.<i> </i>When she hears Bing Crosby crooning that proverbial song of the season, she yells "It's Santa Claus, mama!". Then, she starts singing along with the chorus, always a beat or two behind the melody like toddlers so affectionately do. She stops briefly to remind me that Andrew Sisters are "Mrs. Claus" collectively.<br />
<br />
I nod enthusiastically in agreement. Who knows? Maybe, she's right! For me, the merry revelers are more like “babysitters” than the Clauses, since Claire can listen to that particular Christmas carol over and over again. In fact, I put it on repeat, and it’s kept her attention long enough to write this post. Talk about a gift that keeps on giving! And, unlike <i>Wheels on The Bus</i>, I haven’t gotten sick of it…yet.<br />
<br />
Right now, I’m just fascinated watching her develop the language of the holidays. At two, Christmas is new and full of wonder. It's a gift to get to rediscover Christmas through her eyes.<br />
<br />
Before Claire become so enamored with it, I hadn’t really paid much attention to that Bing Crosby/Andrew Sisters rendition of <i>Jingle Bells</i>. Really, it makes me think of music playing in the background at malls, as I pass the Salvation Army Santa and the perfume counter at Macy’s. I'm shuffling through the chaotic holiday crowd, list in hand. I'm way too busy to notice the music. But Claire's enthusiasm for the season helped me stop and take notice.<br />
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<br />
When I pulled the song up on my computer for Claire, a detail on iTunes caught my eye. The song was written in 1943. We listen to so few songs from this age -- the age of The Great War and the Greatest Generation, victory gardens, rationing, Rosie the Riveter.<br />
<br />
I picture my grandmothers in their youth, like I've seen in old photo albums. They're in their bedrooms getting ready for the day. They turn the dial on the radio and happen upon Bing, before putting on their silk slips and hooking their stockings to their garters.<br />
<br />
That's how I like to imagine they started their day. Really, I have no idea what 1943 was like. My grandparents' heyday was so long ago, and before all of us were even a twinkle in the eye. The idea of that time is probably filled with as much mythology as that of Santa Claus.<br />
<br />
Yet, in 2013, Claire and I are listening to a song from generations past. My daughter will never come to know my grandparents. They fill my childhood memories of Christmas. I miss them and remember them most during the holidays.<br />
<br />
My daughter has chosen to love a Christmas song that reminds me of my grandparents in so many ways. Her choice in song connects me to the past and the future. I recognize that traditions remain constant yet time moves forward. I'm reminded that traditions are both the legacy of those before us and are alive and changing, as we initiate our young ones into our cultural heritage.<br />
<br />
Indeed, It's the most wonderful time of the year (<i>my</i> favorite Christmas song)!
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-78350550417302302972013-12-01T13:44:00.000-08:002013-12-01T18:08:18.131-08:00The Yin and Yang of ParentingA loud voice can be heard singing, “We’re on our way. We’re on our way, on our way to Grandpa’s farm…”<br />
<br />
The person belting out children's verse with such abandon isn’t my daughter. It’s my husband. He has a beautiful, childlike quality, which is one of the reasons I fell in love with him. Now that we have Claire, it makes him an awesome dad. He can instantly get down on her level and have fun. <br />
<br />
I can’t even begin to imagine being so excited about a children’s song. I think I came out of the womb all serious and adult-like. When I play with Claire, I am keenly aware of how I’m informing her development. In other words, I’m one step removed. I’m thinking about Claire’s fine-motor skills and how we are incorporating imaginative play into our activities instead of fully immersing myself in the play-doh with her.<br />
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I am jealous of my husband's ability to be so fully present with our daughter, but I also don’t think it’s such a bad thing that George and I influence her in different ways. Most of the time, we strike a good balance. This morning, George took Claire sledding, while I stayed home and made lunch. I’m sure he thinks he had all the fun. I was happy not to be cold. Claire had an adventure in the snow and came home to a warm meal -- a quintessential childhood experience, if you ask me.<br />
<br />
Our distinct personality traits offer Claire a mix of good and bad too. Whereas, George can sit and laugh at the cartoons they watch together, he can quickly take it personally when she isn't cooperating. I may feel terribly self-conscious and foolish pretending to be a Cookie Monster puppet, but I have a better ability to step back from her toddler vicissitudes (on my good days). <br />
<br />
Following his impulses is part of George’s nature, while analysis is mine. That’s fine. We just need to remember that my analytical tendency can swing too far into the land of joyless and frosty, while his playfulness can turn impatient and unpredictable.<br />
<br />
If we keep those two things in mind, maybe...just maybe...if we are very lucky, our different parenting styles will lead to a well-rounded child instead of hours of fodder for the therapist’s couch. <br />
<br />
<i>How does your personality affect your parenting style?</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>Photo Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/hacedoraweb/5590773498/sizes/o/in/photostream/">Guadalupe Cervilla, Flickr</a></i><br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-39876132886380438592013-11-24T07:46:00.002-08:002013-11-24T07:46:52.257-08:00Parents, Look at the Light Side!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_-niWdTaGQ-9KWJHn6VaMRHLuvqoUfPqZgnnr9MCC2m4NC9-oezOTh9zeCEvQ8dzbwKkCQj3wvDUN5FJ9ic-Up9NSoyMB_77jfzdCFLk279UEbhvofVJC3Wbo7K3VNOD9bATIYU9msA/s1600/zardoz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb_-niWdTaGQ-9KWJHn6VaMRHLuvqoUfPqZgnnr9MCC2m4NC9-oezOTh9zeCEvQ8dzbwKkCQj3wvDUN5FJ9ic-Up9NSoyMB_77jfzdCFLk279UEbhvofVJC3Wbo7K3VNOD9bATIYU9msA/s1600/zardoz.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
I send George one or two links a week to articles that, in my humble opinion, offer sound parenting advice. In return, I receive links from him to things like the trailer from the 1974 Science Fiction movie, <i>Zardoz</i>, starring Sean Connery. So it seemed novel to me to get an email from him with the subject, “Important article on parenting”.<br />
<br />
I clicked on the link and found an article from <a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/study-finds-every-style-of-parenting-produces-dist,26452/">The Onion</a>.<br />
<br />
“Hmm, <i>The Onion</i>”, I thought, “Not exactly La Leche League or The American Academy of Pediatrics, but I’m game. It’s better than YouTube videos of laughing puppies or burping children."<br />
<br />
I read on in horror....<br />
<br />
<i>The California Parenting Institute did a study and found that, <b>regardless of parenting style employed, it’s a child’s fate to become a maladjusted adult</b>.</i><br />
<br />
Wow, that big claim could pretty much rock my world. I needed details. Like the informed parent that I pride myself on being, I looked for the study at the <i>California Parenting Institutes</i>’ website.<br />
<br />
Evidently, I was not alone. <i>The California Parents Institute </i>was inundated with calls from nervous parents like me. These queries were much to the organization’s dismay; however, since the article was....<br />
<br />
<b>A HOAX</b>.<br />
<br />
“Oh, right, <i><b>The Onion</b></i>. Silly me,” I thought. “What a relief. I can go back to being puppet master of Claire’s destiny!”<br />
<br />
But then I started thinking some more..<br />
<br />
“Was George trying to tell me something? Maybe, he thinks I need to lighten up a bit. Perhaps, I should just let Claire be...He’s pretty good at that.”<br />
<br />
So I haven’t sent him a link in awhile…a day or two, maybe. And for good measure, I checked out the link to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kbGVIdA3dx0">Zardoz</a>. You should too; it's pretty hilarious.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-72522989093516258092013-11-16T17:31:00.000-08:002013-11-17T17:38:04.635-08:00Developing a Child's Sense of Self...or Celebrating Bed HeadYou know how kids get so excited to show their stuff to people who come to visit? It’s like they're under the impression that their own tiny hands actually stitched the teddy bear together, or that they slowly chiseled their toy duck from a block of wood.<br />
<br />
Indeed, the other day, Claire fancied herself the architect of her favorite playground, and needed to give her Uncle Tom a tour of her brainchild. <br />
<br />
Uncle Tom happily agreed to check out her swings and slide. That was fine, except Claire looked more suited for an afternoon nap than for the playground. She was still wearing pajamas, and she had bed head: her hair was smushed to the back of her head in endless tangles.<br />
<br />
I usually don't care how Claire looks. There are only so many toddler battles I can face in a day. Why fight her when she wants to keep on her bow pajamas? (I did let her go out with underwear on her head one time, though. The funny part was that no one even batted an eye. Remember: we live in NYC; people are thankfully non-plussed.)<br />
<br />
But Uncle Tom and Claire decided a trip to the park was imminent. And Tom is a photographer. When he grabbed his camera before heading out the door, I looked at Claire and said to him, “You’re not going to put these on Facebook are you? I don’t want anyone knowing I let Claire go out this way.”<br />
<br />
Ah, yes, my child as brilliant extension of me. Those time when I see my daughter’s looks or her behavior or her intelligence as a reflection on me. <br />
<br />
It got me thinking about the boundary that begins developing between parent and child the second they leave the womb. And, consequently, how we grow a child's sense of self.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAVX5Kw1WyZx4t_TQWlQlwB6WU5LQGI4JhqgL2WfJtlqwPrkUfWATwC2dAksc3gkgpYQvucsKcfeGEZSGwsmp44HRYvaOsXJT5UFG60dm2DNYVcT6FTGLTgWZFuk-Xr2Esa5UN6ce1GA/s1600/child's+handprint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAVX5Kw1WyZx4t_TQWlQlwB6WU5LQGI4JhqgL2WfJtlqwPrkUfWATwC2dAksc3gkgpYQvucsKcfeGEZSGwsmp44HRYvaOsXJT5UFG60dm2DNYVcT6FTGLTgWZFuk-Xr2Esa5UN6ce1GA/s200/child's+handprint.jpg" width="199" /></a>I read somewhere that the relationship between a parent and child is unique, because it’s the only one in which the purpose is to love and nurture enough to let the person go.<br />
<br />
A good place to start the slow, sometimes painful, process of separation is letting my daughter choose what she wears.<br />
<br />
But, sometimes, I'm more concerned about myself than Claire's sense of self. Like the days when we are going to go visit Grammy or taking a picture with Santa. Those days, I am full of bribes and threats to have my sweet innocent reflect her beauty back on me.<br />
<br />
Other days, I let her be. She <i>did</i> go to the playground in all of her bedheaded, pajamaed glory. And I have a brilliant Uncle Tom photo to prove it. I barely even notice the pajamas in it. If I do say so myself, I couldn't ask for a better reflection on me...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrSjH2eHcCRRZOSB0sJ9ufvwJoqZZpAjmK4y_z2lIqcelRVLPFAxWIhsw1O_LADr3uCPzJc2-52Iao1kLISprEYVMjYRXfVexxj1ingqoR2KHPugNK8ga_O2xdvTjH929sHzcwbDCcyQ/s1600/Playground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPrSjH2eHcCRRZOSB0sJ9ufvwJoqZZpAjmK4y_z2lIqcelRVLPFAxWIhsw1O_LADr3uCPzJc2-52Iao1kLISprEYVMjYRXfVexxj1ingqoR2KHPugNK8ga_O2xdvTjH929sHzcwbDCcyQ/s320/Playground.jpg" title="Photo Source: Tom Bruso" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Photo Source: Tom Bruso</i><br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><br /></i>
<i>There's more...Jane Marsh of <a href="http://nothingbythebook.com/2013/08/20/the-ap-hair-style-i-dont-brush-my-childrens-hair-its-a-massive-philosophical-thing-really/">Nothing by the Book</a> got me thinking about this topic. She has a definite opinion about <a href="http://nothingbythebook.com/2013/08/20/the-ap-hair-style-i-dont-brush-my-childrens-hair-its-a-massive-philosophical-thing-really/">hair brushing</a> that I can safely say would go in the "Celebrating Bed Head" category. What's your opinion about how a child should look? </i></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-32130055078036729242013-11-12T16:11:00.000-08:002013-11-15T19:37:30.425-08:00The Motherhood Test ManualThe saying goes, "You need a license to go fishing, but any old fool can have a child." I have to say I’m kinda glad there isn’t a motherhood test. I'm not so sure I would have passed it, before having Claire. There's just so much you can't anticipate about being a mom.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I don't know how they'd fit all of the requisite skills in the test manual anyway. And I would love to see the diagrams in the booklet for some of the following areas of mothering mastery. (And, wow, this list only takes us partially through the toddler years! My head just might explode thinking about the terrain ahead of me.)<br />
<br />
<i>How to:</i><br />
<br />
1) Lodge your child into a stroller, high chair or carseat, while his or her legs are locked shut in protest.<br />
<br />
2) Blindly retrieve an errant toy in the backseat of the car for your screaming child with one hand, while steering with the other.<br />
<br />
3) Change a diaper while your child is standing up, in the car, at a restaurant or has no intention of cooperating.<br />
<br />
4) Balance your child on one knee, while pushing the drinking fountain button or turning on the faucets in a public restroom.<br />
<br />
5) Survive on the calories leftover on your child's plate, which are shoveled into your mouth in the corner of the kitchen with a baby spoon, because you don't want to waste a perfectly good piece of clean cutlery or all the regular-sized ones are already dirty.<br />
<br />
6) Match your child’s enthusiasm for <i>Curious George</i> or the <i>Wheels on the Bus</i> after the thousandth rendition of the day.<br />
<br />
7) Deal peacefully with the mother who thought it was funny when her child whacked your child in the mouth with a toy truck.<br />
<br />
8) Chase and catch your kid and grab the breakable glass in hand, while masterfully dodging the plethora of tiny plastic pieces on the floor, which could do bodily harm if lodged in a foot.<br />
<br />
9) Do crisis management with exploding poop. My discretion tells me to leave it at that without providing any further details.<br />
<br />
10) Manage to cut up vegetables for a mirepoix without slicing your finger open, while your child successfully pulls down your yoga pants. <br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW51oadNRXAyS8uwxF6udDmFZH0RdHJaQjFOGT9XxLgbTCG9OEmBX2bKtuF88gxFRF6Oiq8-aothGQ7H4UIAHalf4acNm2fd82-Gmh7N87SiVpmhCsN0JL-W0EfuGdPmIrFBe1g4GL1bw/s1600/Chop+Veg+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW51oadNRXAyS8uwxF6udDmFZH0RdHJaQjFOGT9XxLgbTCG9OEmBX2bKtuF88gxFRF6Oiq8-aothGQ7H4UIAHalf4acNm2fd82-Gmh7N87SiVpmhCsN0JL-W0EfuGdPmIrFBe1g4GL1bw/s200/Chop+Veg+2.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>fig. 1</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXsB2g6sEbR-Gkneoqf1MT5yOTZOq4RAktnmD8hvo2VyUrCRQ_BSIisMxUBeDMhRyHeVm2RU3bGmEGGWUUHJTtSE6wuzyqOGnG9TVbrTBLquTU6qtHDWpHoDc2ZjunRhi8Fpan_oSXfU/s1600/Chop+Veg+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPXsB2g6sEbR-Gkneoqf1MT5yOTZOq4RAktnmD8hvo2VyUrCRQ_BSIisMxUBeDMhRyHeVm2RU3bGmEGGWUUHJTtSE6wuzyqOGnG9TVbrTBLquTU6qtHDWpHoDc2ZjunRhi8Fpan_oSXfU/s200/Chop+Veg+3.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>fig. 2</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFgW7Vl4B3PdKb5W_R3GO6Xox03EmrT5NcD1N0TWrl-OCemKynZq1503VrrXxRtG3lynW7472xfZ2Zg5MSsd6eantNH2P8Fltu6WHx89e09Z-LbXrZ0wb6epqhwLXvnU04IXfhG7yS0rQ/s1600/Chop+Veg+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFgW7Vl4B3PdKb5W_R3GO6Xox03EmrT5NcD1N0TWrl-OCemKynZq1503VrrXxRtG3lynW7472xfZ2Zg5MSsd6eantNH2P8Fltu6WHx89e09Z-LbXrZ0wb6epqhwLXvnU04IXfhG7yS0rQ/s200/Chop+Veg+4.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>fig. 3</i> </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZS8WfN4kkPqtfBKP_FBNHsDP2MwCI_3lpxeFpvPNUmajDlmKZ0qkBam7HomfXwiiR9tyQlU46Ph6y5wS7ZybrDbir3lYXQ3AClj0tGX2sNh_fcRw2jdWTqe785wtYPTmsvU7_0NAJgIw/s1600/Chop+veg+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZS8WfN4kkPqtfBKP_FBNHsDP2MwCI_3lpxeFpvPNUmajDlmKZ0qkBam7HomfXwiiR9tyQlU46Ph6y5wS7ZybrDbir3lYXQ3AClj0tGX2sNh_fcRw2jdWTqe785wtYPTmsvU7_0NAJgIw/s320/Chop+veg+5.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>fig. 4</i></td></tr>
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<i>Illustrations courtesy of the brilliant and lovely...Kristi Campbell of <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/">Finding Ninee</a>. Hilarious pictures are only half her talent. Her words are equally smart and funny. If you don't believe me, go check out this post. You'll LOL when you see <a href="http://www.findingninee.com/one-of-the-most-embarrassing-things-i-ever-did-was/">the picture that goes with the gem</a>: </i><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Bookman, Palatino, Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Bookman, Palatino, Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><b>"Note to future self: ALWAYS check out your own ass in the bathroom mirror. It might be virtually naked."</b></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Bookman, Palatino, Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: Bookman, Palatino, Georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22.5px;"><i>(Bet you're already LOL'ing. Kristi has a way like that. Now, if you have any of your own feats of mothering to share, please do so below. Then, head over to Finding Ninee. You'll be glad you did!)</i></span><br />
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<i><br /></i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06644197778332602406noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3411498686366661202.post-89887088427089832802013-11-09T15:43:00.000-08:002014-03-21T19:53:29.262-07:00Can't You *Just* Stop the Parenting Advice?I know I’m in for trouble when I hear the words “Can’t you *just*…” spilling out of someone’s mouth. A piece of unsolicited parenting advice is sure to follow.<br />
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Often, the priceless nugget of wisdom that is about to be shared is offered by a single person or childless couple. Often, they are clueless about the intricacies of raising a child, and/or like to hear themselves speak.<br />
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<i>"Can’t you *just* bring your daughter to the party at 9PM?"</i><br />
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<i>“Can’t you *just* put her in the highchair at the five-star restaurant?”</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiolvLsru3JweFKJ2XJWXk33bvAH20Q3LhBYNbu0dijz1gl4dXEjYvYldxFHR4vWfwC4RmUpnw3lhLghVOp4WVd8eyDtRfBZlziHUW8_l-lDI7JqnCh7E1UsWVVPmiMREYKPq7UXc4VHU/s1600/baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="baby lying on stomach" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiolvLsru3JweFKJ2XJWXk33bvAH20Q3LhBYNbu0dijz1gl4dXEjYvYldxFHR4vWfwC4RmUpnw3lhLghVOp4WVd8eyDtRfBZlziHUW8_l-lDI7JqnCh7E1UsWVVPmiMREYKPq7UXc4VHU/s1600/baby.jpg" height="320" title="baby" width="212" /></a></div>
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The *just* part is what gets me. *Just* is filled with some serious negative subtext. Just implies that a) there is a simple solution to your parenting problem and that you are either b) too stupid or pigheaded to figure it out on your own or c) you enjoy making parenthood more complicated than it needs to be or d) you are taking parenting way too seriously for their tastes.<br />
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I’ve come to expect “Can’t you *just*…” from the single or childless group, though. I even have some sympathy for their position. After all, I was single and childless and clueless and judgy too. I bear little resemblance to my pre-baby self; how could I possibly expect them to understand post-baby me?<br />
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But there are other groups of people who engage in the “Can’t you *just*…” shtick that still catch me off guard. Older folk who act like they have selective amnesia about raising children.<br />
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<i>“Can’t she *just* skip the nap?”</i><br />
<i><br />
</i> <i>"Can’t she *just* sleep in this twin bed as high as Mount Everest without railings?”</i><br />
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I have some sympathy for the older folk group too. It's kind of sweet that they only remember their children's youth with rose-colored glasses. I hope to be blissfully forgetful myself someday.<br />
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The final group that is prone to this lovely, little three-word conversation-starter still leaves me speechless. It’s the holier-than-thou parents, who just happen to <i>not</i> have the same problem as you. I want to say to them, “Et, tu, Brute? I thought we were supposed to be in this together!"<br />
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There is one consolation about the holier-than-thou parents group, though. I know that it won’t be long before they have their own “Can’t you *just*…” problem/s too. Karma is a bitch...or I am one. Bitchiness aside, I can always hold out hope that, along with their suffering, will come sympathy for the plights of their comrades in parenting.<br />
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For my part, if and when the holier-than-thou parents come to me with their problem/s, I will never, ever say "Can't you *just*..." I will listen to them and validate them and offer my support. I will ask, "Is there anything that I can do for you?"<br />
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I will do these things, because they are what I would like people to do for me when I'm facing the inevitable parenting impasse...instead of hearing, "Can't you *just*..."<br />
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<i>Photo Source: <a href="http://exclusiveyash.deviantart.com/art/Cute-baby-worried-282867390">Executive Yash, Deviant Art</a>. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorses its use or this blog. <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/3.0/">License</a></i><br />
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