"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.

“But this is the THIRD time she’s literally 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.

Some days, I do scream….but I don’t feel better.

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.

(Dahl was referring to stuff like climbing trees, but giving a toddler a glass of milk qualifies as “risk” in my book.)

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.

I am a believer.

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. 

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.

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.

Nothing stands between Claire and me -- our relationship is at its most essential.

I see a child just being. I see a mom loving her child and her child's beingness very, very much.

At the heart of the matter, that's all we need to remember.

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Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. 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.)

 

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Mommy Blinders?

I’m slightly suspicious when I see a video link of someone’s cute kid on a blog. Some of the time, the video is especially cute. Other times, the cuteness factor is there, but it's more along the lines of regular cute. There’s nothing wrong with regular cute, it’s just that everybody’s kid is regular cute and regular cute doesn't necessarily need a video attached to it.

I'm sure that the moms who share these links are of a different opinion, though. They must be completely convinced that they are sharing the cutest thing ever with the world. The phrases “a face only a mother could love” or "love is blind" come too mind. While too harsh for my liking (kids are cute), they do point to a mom’s subjectivity about her children.

But rose-colored glasses should be part of the parental territory. We should think our kids are great, mamas. No need to apologize for wanting to show off our kids every now and then, especially when it doesn't sink to the level of Toddlers and Tiaras.

We are hardwired for unconditional love, and rightly so. This truism doesn't necessarily mean that everyone else (besides friends and family) are obliged to drink the go-go juice and/or wants to be subjected to our unique brand of maternal madness.

So it’s tricky. On the one hand, I am completely sure that the link I’m about to share is the cutest thing ever. On the other, it’s also quite possible that I am wearing a big, ol’, honking pair of mommy blinders the size of Honey Boo-Boo's hairdo.

You’ll let me know, won’t you?

P.S. This video is of my daughter using a microphone for the first time. I find it hilarious (and cute) because of her preferred word choice, which is peppered throughout both this video and our daily conversations, as well as being oh, so, quintessentially toddler.

P.P.S. You don’t have to watch the whole thing (not that you need my permission not to anyway). Watch and listen until around twenty seconds or so. I find the rest to be cute, but I'm Claire's mom. You may just find it regular cute.


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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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Orbit

  

I creep into the room to check on Claire.

The door squeaks.

Through the dim light, I see her eyes open. She looks at me without lifting her head.

“Mama," she says and smiles. Her eyes close again.

I feel fixed to my spot by the weight of my full heart.
 

A love this abiding. The sun around which a planet spins.  For each of us.

For Claire and me.

The Ghost of Halloween Past, Present and Future

Ah, Fall. The snap in the air is the first harbinger of the season. Then, the light takes on low, slanting glow. Life settles into a more ordered routine. My favorite time of year, sullied only by one day…Halloween.

I have been boycotting Halloween for a long while. The titular reason is that I want to avoid women dressed like ho’s and their male moron counterparts. Indeed, this statement is true. But the real reason is that I don’t have an ounce of creativity when it comes to costumes.

Opting out of Halloween as an adult has been no big deal. Now that I have Claire, it’s been on my mind again. When you have a child, you benchmark her experience growing up against your own. As the saying goes, we relive our childhood…

I remember my mom bent over the sewing machine with a knitted brow. I stood by her side, just about the height of her hands feeding the fabric through the needle. I watched what seemed a miracle transformation. She was turning one of her shiny, sequined 70’s disco numbers into a fairy princess costume for me. Come trick or treat time, I felt like the best shiny, sequined princess on the block. Later, the same piece became a tin man costume for my brother. One year, my brother and I both went as Raggedy Ann and Andy. That costume was so authentic; mom even made the wigs!

Mom, Brother Ben and Me (circa 1978)

I felt sorry for the kids who had to wear those Woolworth generated plastic items, complete with suffocating masks and an unseemly smell. They looked scratchy and uncomfortable, and made a weird rustling sound going up and down the street. But, worst of all, they lacked the hand of a mother’s love. I am haunted by the fact that Claire will now be one of those children.

I have warm feelings in my heart thinking about the love that went into the costumes mom made for us. I feel emptiness in my heart for Claire, because she will not have the same experience as me.

But I know I don’t need to be all things to her. Teaching children that we have limitations is wise. At some point, I will have to tell her that the craft gene has skipped a generation. This fact bodes well for her. Maybe one day, she will carry on the Halloween costume tradition with her own kids.