Why?

We moms. We're a bright bunch. It's been said that we have eyes in the back of our heads. We can distinguish the particular brand of silence that says our children are up to something, even when we're in different rooms. An instinct kicks in when they're ready to act like a bull in a china shop. We know the look in their eyes that means they're hatching their next plan or telling a lie, sometimes even before they know it.

So why are we so surprised every time it happens? By "it" I mean the endless supply of irrational, impulsive and destructive things that occur on a daily basis.

When Claire rubs crayon into the Oriental carpet or sticks her hand in the trash for the hundredth time, I'm always shocked. Each time, it feels like the first time.

Each time, I want to say "Why did you just do that?" I want to say, "Didn't I just tell you not to?" I want to say, "Why don't you listen?"

When I'm particularly flabbergasted, I want to scream "Why, why, why?" to the heavens. Sometimes I do.

Am I just an eternal optimist, whose hopes are dashed each day? Do I wake up every morning believing that today will be different? Today she will listen. Today she will respect my things. Today she will follow my well-defined rules.

Of course not. I know a child needs to learn how to behave. She needs practice. She needs to be told over and over again. She needs to break the rules, even.

Yet, each time my child shows a kid's nature, I'm surprised.

I think it's because I want to be able to let my guard down every now and then. But, when I do, no good comes of it.

It sucks not being able to let your guard down every now and then.

That's why.


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Children Grow Up. Parents Grow Old.

George and I started talking about one of those 529 funds for Claire for college. I fear I'm going to break out in hives every time I think about it. Not for the obvious reasons, like the rising cost of college or that my daughter will be ready to leave the nest.

My reasons for gloom and doom are more self-centered. I start thinking about how old I will be then. When you have a child at 44, you're staring social security in the face (if it exists then) by the time your kid graduates from high school. In other words, mom is grandma's age.

I mentioned our impending golden years to George and he said, "Oh, I'll be 60, when Claire goes to college. Jerry's age. He looks great."

I just stared at him. It's true; our friend Jerry looks great at age 60...

"Jerry doesn't have kids," I said.

"You're right," he said. "I'm not going to look like Jerry."

Case closed. I usually don't win arguments that easily.

I recently found a picture of George and me online that was taken before we were married. I was on Google images with Claire looking at the Statue of Liberty. She wanted to see pictures of papa, so I searched my husband's name.

I was surprised when this one popped up. I had forgotten about it. We were at a fancy benefit for A.R.T. New York. Here we are with Director Ginny Louloudes.

Don't we look fresh faced? George doesn't have grey hair yet. I'm actually tan! I don't even remember the last time I was tan. Well, clearly, the last time I was tan was when this picture was taken. Wearing a dress is a distant memory also.

I can't say I would want to go back to the time before we had Claire. My life is much richer and more rewarding now. Before Claire definitely wasn't the good old days. But the days were certainly easier. And I miss that black dress.

I need to find a place to wear that again, no matter that I'm getting old.


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Parental Pet Peeves

Whole new categories of pet peeves grab hold of you, when you're a parent. Take shoes: Why can't they design children's shoes that go on tiny feet without major time and effort and/or struggle with your child? Or zippers; they've become my latest nemesis. How about drivers? I never noticed how many people get behind the wheel and act like they're in the last lap of the Indy 500.

I have a list of complaints about children's music. Buying a CD seems simple enough. I suppose I'm looking for the nursey rhymes I heard as a kid. Yet, take it home, pop it in…Hickory Dickery Dock's done rap style…Old MacDonald plays like a Southern rock song from the 70's, complete with guitar solo in the middle. My personal least favorite is Baa, Baa, Black Sheep done in quarter time with the chanteuse crooning as if she's Whitney Houston. A sheep just isn't that emotional, nor is the song itself.

These classics contain creative license, are full of artistic spin. Do they think they're appealing to parents' tastes or are they just frustrated rock stars sublimating their ambitions by producing children's music? I have a feeling it's the latter. Either way, the songs aren't as remarkable as the singers seem to think.

Genres reinterpreted. Classical music done on a recorder, Jazz-lite. Mozart and Coltraine are rolling over in their graves. Why not listen to the originals? Well, except for the classic Irish music that you maybe want to listen to on St. Patrick's Day (sorry Irish readers).

Then, there are the lyrics that I didn't notice as a child. Three blind mice is just plain sadistic. And Skip to My Lou? Who is Lou? Why are we skipping to her?…him? Who knows.

Forgive me, I clearly spend too much time for my own good listening to this music.

Of course, it's really for my daughter's benefit, and Claire doesn't seem to mind. She's blissfully oblivious to my pet peeves. Although, her favorites are Itsy-Bitsy Spider and Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star -- done as they should be with simple melodies and straightforward lyrics.

Perhaps, my daughter isn't buying the artistic flourish either.


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Eat, Mess, Learn

Mashed avocado hangs precariously from the bottom of Claire's plastic spoon, as she inches it to her mouth like a drunkard.

I want to intervene, badly. I know the odds. In the race between speed and gravity, gravity usually prevails with a baby learning to eat from a spoon.

"Oh, no!" Claire says, rubbing the glob of green that has hit her shirt further into the weave of the fabric. In the process, she elbows the sippy cup off the table and onto the floor.

”Yup. I was right. I win,” I think.

If my baby could talk better, she would respond with something like, "But who needs to win, mom?" Why you spoiling all the fun?"

Each meal is new adventure for Claire, an opportunity to investigate properties, try new things, practice hard-won skills. She's part explorer, part scientist, part conqueror of the world -- planting her flag gloriously atop a mountain of guacamole. When I look at it from a baby's perspective, I'm happy to serve as her guide, to be the Sacagawea to her Lewis or Clark.

The problem is that I don't always see things the way Claire does. Instead, I see the big, giant mess she leaves in her wake. And the chaos that I am left to clean up.

The funny part is that I'm not considered the Donna Reed of housekeeping anyway (my husband would concur). I often wonder how moms with greater perfectionist tendency than my own deal with the amount of daily mess that toddlers make (and I'm clearly not talking only about disarray in the eating arena here). It must be a challenge.

I'm able to temper my own inertia about the Groundhog's Day phenomenon of toddler chaos by putting on my teacher's hat.  I find inspiration in the beliefs of the 19^th Century father of American education, John Dewey:

To 'learn from experience' is to make a backward and forward connection between what we do to things and what we enjoy or suffer from things in consequence. Under such conditions, doing becomes a trying; an experiment with the world to find out what it is like; the undergoing becomes instruction -- discovery of the connection of things. 

-Democracy and Education

I'm reminded to value the time that Claire gets to experiment, explore and play. It's the best way for her to learn about herself and her world, to gain confidence in her abilities and to grow more independent.

The part that Dewey leaves out in his philosophy is that the process of learning can be extremely messy, particularly when the learner in question is of the baby or toddler variety. Still, I’m a believer. His ideas embrace exuberant curiosity about everything around us; a quality I desire to instill in my daughter, even when I’m wearing my mom hat (or cleaning gloves, as it were).

Yes, being a mom is filled with daily banalities like rubbing Spray & Wash on green stains. Thinking about some of our great philosophers makes these routine things about motherhood feel a bit more heroic!

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Photo Source, Molly, Moom in Molly, Flickr. This photo has been adapted and does not suggest that the licenser endorses me, this blog or its use. License.

Twinkle, Twinkle, Hold the Soft Porn

Claire loves music. We have a treasure trove of children's music on iTunes, 311 songs with a playing time of 11 hours. Of course, my daughter just has to hear a song that doesn't exist in this collection today.

I'm undeterred. Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star can't be too hard to get online, I figure. I find it quickly on a children's music site online. I find something unexpected also.

As Twinkle, Twinkle plays on my laptop, a picture flashes on the screen. A woman mugs at the camera with pouty lips. She's stands with her back arched and chest out. A skin-tight mini-dress shows half of an immense cleavage and barely covers an ample behind that's pushed into the air, as if to suggest an offering. She pulls at the bottom of the dress around her crotch to keep the thin, stretchy fabric from bunching up in front and revealing even more unsavory bits.

So many questions go through my head at once. What are they advertising? Why on earth would they think that someone coming to a children's music site would click on that picture? Why would I want my daughter to see this representation of femininity? How in the world do you shelter your children from these things? And, if you can't, how do you explain their existence?

We used to sneak looks at National Geographic, when we were little. Girlie magazines were hidden away in drawers. The good ol' days. Now, we have the internet. 

It's stating the obvious that I want my daughter to grow up with a healthy body image,  and a positive attitude about what it means to be a woman. We all want these things for our children. It's clear that it has become a growing challenge to accomplish these goals, when we live in a world overly-saturated with sexed-up advertising imagery and media outlets obsessed with the superficial. We all probably agree. 

My viewpoints aren't on the extreme end of the spectrum either. I believe in freedom of choice. While not my particular cup of tea, an adult has the right to look at this kind of imagery. I should have a choice NOT to look at the picture too. I should be able to have some control over what my daughter sees also. 

We try in our family too. We don't have a television. Our daughter doesn't spend time on the internet. Perhaps, we need to take more extreme measures, like moving off the grid.

It's disheartening. I didn't expect to have to start thinking about these issues, when my daughter is this young. I had hoped I wouldn't have to start facing my feelings of powerlessness about them just yet. 

I am unprepared. I fear that nothing I could possibly say or do is a match for the pervasiveness of objectifying messages about women that our world has to spare. Now, I can add paranoia about my lack of control over when and where they will suddenly pop up. 

I mean, come on, I found an incredibly objectifying and offensive image today on a children's music site, while my daughter and I listen to a nursery rhyme!


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This Time is Ours

I am composed of decades of history. Claire's history starts with me. 

I possess many identities. "Mama" is the only one Claire knows.

I struggle to remember being so young. Claire lives fully in the present without reflection.

I'm in awe of these distinctions. We see one another across a divide of time and experience.

Yet, we share an intimacy begun in the womb. Singularly, I am her mother. She is my child. I am humbled by such grace. I am overwhelmed by the weight of its responsibility also.

Parts of me have become neglected, the ones other than "mama", the ones from before her. I feel them flicker inside, exhorting me not to forget them.

But Claire began inside me too. She grows, still, in my gaze. It reflects back to her who she is and who she will become.

This kind of love only a mother knows, only she can give. It means that pieces of me lay fallow, for awhile. Claire won't be little for long. A day will come soon when I'm not the center of her world. 

Then, Claire will have her own mix of identities. They will have grown out of the relationship we are building now. 

This time is ours. I wish to savor it greedily.


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Whoa, oh, oh, on the radio!

Shock jocks and political pundits predominate the testosterone-filled airwaves of talk radio.  Breast size? Sure, tune in to the Howard Stern show. Breastfeeding? (insert crickets chirping here). 

The female voice, particularly that of the mom, is like an endangered species on the radio. Not considered sexy enough, I guess. 

The two women of Messy Mom's Radio are out to even the score. They've gone around the powers that be, and staked their claim to a piece of the internet radio airwaves. 

On Thursday, I'm being featured on their show as the Messiest Mom of the Week.  I wear the mantle proudly...Wait, no, tiara? Come on, now! The Tao of Poop digs Messy Moms' message. The more we embrace the mess and find inspiration in the everyday, the happier we will be. 

So tune in from 10-11AM EST on Thursday, March 7th, http://www.blogtalkradio.com/messymomsradio. For more information, visit their blog, http://www.messymomsradio.com/

You can nominate a Messy Mom too!

Since it's radio, I won't have to worry about any wardrobe malfunctions. No seven second delay broadcast either, though. Hopefully, I won't pull a Joan Rivers...

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