This is the problem with parenting. Parental emotions yo-yo like a... umm, yo-yo. Life is scary! Life is delicious! I love these cherubs! I'm gonna kill these brats!
Thank goodness for naps, bunny ears, and crooked smiles.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Thunder Thighs
In case the Fear Factor Parenting entry was too negative and depressive, here's a new thought: Can anything in life be bad when cutie thighs like these exist?
This is the problem with parenting. Parental emotions yo-yo like a... umm, yo-yo. Life is scary! Life is delicious! I love these cherubs! I'm gonna kill these brats!
Thank goodness for naps, bunny ears, and crooked smiles.
This is the problem with parenting. Parental emotions yo-yo like a... umm, yo-yo. Life is scary! Life is delicious! I love these cherubs! I'm gonna kill these brats!
Thank goodness for naps, bunny ears, and crooked smiles.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Fear Factor Parenting
I'm not into fear based parenting. A section in my Parents magazine called "It Happened to Me" detailing freak incidents like a child cutting off his sibling's finger with safety scissors really pisses me off. Really? Safety Scissors? I refuse to give in to the voice in the back of my head that wants me to worry about insane things.
My little voice: See that edge on your coffee table? Imagine it imprinted in your baby's skull when she falls on it with her first steps.
Me: Shut up.
My little voice: Your child has been asleep and quiet for 45 minutes. Obviously she has suffocated herself with her My Little Pony doll.
Me: Shut up. (then I check on her anyway. Hand in front of face-- yep, still warm breath coming out.)
But now I'm worried about invisible danger. And the FDA, slow behemoth agency that it is, backs me up with this fear. Check this headline out: FDA Reviewing Plastic Ingredient BPA. The article talks about a chemical commonly used in baby bottles which is being studied because the National Toxicology Program thinks it might alter human development. Ominous sounding, right? The article goes on to discuss findings that low levels of the chemical can cause changes in behavior, the brain, and the age girls enter puberty. Thankfully, the FDA is launching their review. Read: they may possibly sometime in the next few years ban this chemical. Maybe.
And this is only the latest in the invisible attack on my children (and my health, too!) Their poor, immature livers are trying to detox the formaldehyde in their clothes, the chlorine in the pool, the off-gassing of the shower curtain and furniture, not to mention every time they ingest some child-marketed food product with dye, msg, and aspartame. And moving in to our new house we have paint fumes, new carpet, and drywall dust, too. My little voice is having a party in my head.
On the plus side, the "It Happened to Me" column seems quaint, old fashioned and charming in comparison. Heh, they're still afraid of the visible dangers. Isn't that sweet?
My little voice: See that edge on your coffee table? Imagine it imprinted in your baby's skull when she falls on it with her first steps.
Me: Shut up.
My little voice: Your child has been asleep and quiet for 45 minutes. Obviously she has suffocated herself with her My Little Pony doll.
Me: Shut up. (then I check on her anyway. Hand in front of face-- yep, still warm breath coming out.)
But now I'm worried about invisible danger. And the FDA, slow behemoth agency that it is, backs me up with this fear. Check this headline out: FDA Reviewing Plastic Ingredient BPA. The article talks about a chemical commonly used in baby bottles which is being studied because the National Toxicology Program thinks it might alter human development. Ominous sounding, right? The article goes on to discuss findings that low levels of the chemical can cause changes in behavior, the brain, and the age girls enter puberty. Thankfully, the FDA is launching their review. Read: they may possibly sometime in the next few years ban this chemical. Maybe.
And this is only the latest in the invisible attack on my children (and my health, too!) Their poor, immature livers are trying to detox the formaldehyde in their clothes, the chlorine in the pool, the off-gassing of the shower curtain and furniture, not to mention every time they ingest some child-marketed food product with dye, msg, and aspartame. And moving in to our new house we have paint fumes, new carpet, and drywall dust, too. My little voice is having a party in my head.
On the plus side, the "It Happened to Me" column seems quaint, old fashioned and charming in comparison. Heh, they're still afraid of the visible dangers. Isn't that sweet?
Friday, April 25, 2008
Just the Facts, Ma'am
It's been so long since I've written, and so much has happened in that time, that I'll give the quick and dirty details and fill in the rest (read: emotional side) as we go.
Feb. 8th- Moxie is 2 months old. My family goes to the Greek Festival with Kent's parents and enjoy baklava while, unbeknownst to us, someone breaks into our house for the third time in a year and a half and steals Kent's phone, our second replacement camera from the last two robberies, and my laptop. They do this in the span of ten minutes despite our huge dog and security system. Since the music at the Greek festival is loud, I don'y hear my cell phone ringing when the security company calls to warn us that our alarm has been tripped.
Feb 9th- Discussion with Kent about getting out of our house despite the really crappy timing (housing sales slump, drop in house value, new baby, our own constant poverty) Drive around our dream neighborhood looking for houses for sale.
Feb 10th- Dinner with Kent's parents. They offer to help us get out of our crappy neightborhood. My thoughts continue to be gloomy. Contemplating the decline of the neighborhood, the increasing crime, the drug use in our neighborhood park. The phrase "the whim of a crackhead" circles in my head.
Feb 11th- In our dream neighborhood, where the house prices range in the 225-250k's, we come across a four bedroom, two story cutie house priced at 175k. We call to tour.
Feb 12th-- A real estate friend comes to our house to talk about options for getting out. The situation looks bleak. We refinanced when the market was high and the value is close or below what we owe on it.
Feb 14th- We tour the other house and the real estate agent greets us with the news that the house has been lowered in price to 164k. We like what we see and invite Kent's parents to come take a look. They like what they see, too.
Feb 15th- We make an offer on the house. On my birthday. I make jokes about being THAT kind of wife-- the kind a husband buys a house for on her birthday. Next year I'm asking for a pony.
Second week after break in- I can't be alone in the house. I keep thinking about our house being watched, my girls being pretty, the insanity of somebody high on crack. We start preparing the house to list with an agent or rent out-- we haven't figured out what the smart thing to do is, but we know we're leaving. I realize that I have nothing left over from my house craziness and talk to my business partners about quitting my job as editor at the parenting magazine. I think, I don't know how to work without my laptop, I can't think creatively enough to write, I can't get organized with a two month old, a move, my panic, and no computer. And when it settles down, I'll need to get a better paying job to pay back the in-laws.
I cry a lot.
Third week after break in, last week of February- Our offer is accepted! We have a new house with a closing date of the end of March. Now we have to figure out what to do with the old house. I am in the new house for an inspection and go upstairs to nurse the baby. I get lightheaded and race out of the house worried about fumes, worried about Moxie, worried about our safety, our health. Out of the house, I realize it was stress, exhaustion, and the weird position I'd been sitting in. I sob. Will I ever be able to keep my babies safe? Will I ever feel in control again? The robbery took so much from us.
The month of March- Cleaning up the old house, finishing projects we'd put off, getting paperwork prepared for the new house, working on the last issue of the magazine and preparing a new editor to take over, parenting, crying a lot, panicking when I'm away from any of my family. I'm driving Kent a little crazy with my many check-in phone calls. I still can't stay at home alone so on evenings when kent goes to Gung Fu, I go to the Bonifields creating a stressfully late night for all of us.
The month of April- We are in the new house. We have renters lined up for the old house beginning in May. I am breathing easier. Somehow we got moved. Somehow events lined up just so. Somehow we are intact, safe.
Moxie is five months old (almost) and exploring the house by rolling from end to end of it, Tallulah is adjusting much better now that mommy isn't a raging, sobbing bundle of stress, our house is filled with boxes, but its also cute, tiny, and perfect for us. I am slowly, so slowly relaxing, unfurling my muscles and defenses an inch at a time.
Feb. 8th- Moxie is 2 months old. My family goes to the Greek Festival with Kent's parents and enjoy baklava while, unbeknownst to us, someone breaks into our house for the third time in a year and a half and steals Kent's phone, our second replacement camera from the last two robberies, and my laptop. They do this in the span of ten minutes despite our huge dog and security system. Since the music at the Greek festival is loud, I don'y hear my cell phone ringing when the security company calls to warn us that our alarm has been tripped.
Feb 9th- Discussion with Kent about getting out of our house despite the really crappy timing (housing sales slump, drop in house value, new baby, our own constant poverty) Drive around our dream neighborhood looking for houses for sale.
Feb 10th- Dinner with Kent's parents. They offer to help us get out of our crappy neightborhood. My thoughts continue to be gloomy. Contemplating the decline of the neighborhood, the increasing crime, the drug use in our neighborhood park. The phrase "the whim of a crackhead" circles in my head.
Feb 11th- In our dream neighborhood, where the house prices range in the 225-250k's, we come across a four bedroom, two story cutie house priced at 175k. We call to tour.
Feb 12th-- A real estate friend comes to our house to talk about options for getting out. The situation looks bleak. We refinanced when the market was high and the value is close or below what we owe on it.
Feb 14th- We tour the other house and the real estate agent greets us with the news that the house has been lowered in price to 164k. We like what we see and invite Kent's parents to come take a look. They like what they see, too.
Feb 15th- We make an offer on the house. On my birthday. I make jokes about being THAT kind of wife-- the kind a husband buys a house for on her birthday. Next year I'm asking for a pony.
Second week after break in- I can't be alone in the house. I keep thinking about our house being watched, my girls being pretty, the insanity of somebody high on crack. We start preparing the house to list with an agent or rent out-- we haven't figured out what the smart thing to do is, but we know we're leaving. I realize that I have nothing left over from my house craziness and talk to my business partners about quitting my job as editor at the parenting magazine. I think, I don't know how to work without my laptop, I can't think creatively enough to write, I can't get organized with a two month old, a move, my panic, and no computer. And when it settles down, I'll need to get a better paying job to pay back the in-laws.
I cry a lot.
Third week after break in, last week of February- Our offer is accepted! We have a new house with a closing date of the end of March. Now we have to figure out what to do with the old house. I am in the new house for an inspection and go upstairs to nurse the baby. I get lightheaded and race out of the house worried about fumes, worried about Moxie, worried about our safety, our health. Out of the house, I realize it was stress, exhaustion, and the weird position I'd been sitting in. I sob. Will I ever be able to keep my babies safe? Will I ever feel in control again? The robbery took so much from us.
The month of March- Cleaning up the old house, finishing projects we'd put off, getting paperwork prepared for the new house, working on the last issue of the magazine and preparing a new editor to take over, parenting, crying a lot, panicking when I'm away from any of my family. I'm driving Kent a little crazy with my many check-in phone calls. I still can't stay at home alone so on evenings when kent goes to Gung Fu, I go to the Bonifields creating a stressfully late night for all of us.
The month of April- We are in the new house. We have renters lined up for the old house beginning in May. I am breathing easier. Somehow we got moved. Somehow events lined up just so. Somehow we are intact, safe.
Moxie is five months old (almost) and exploring the house by rolling from end to end of it, Tallulah is adjusting much better now that mommy isn't a raging, sobbing bundle of stress, our house is filled with boxes, but its also cute, tiny, and perfect for us. I am slowly, so slowly relaxing, unfurling my muscles and defenses an inch at a time.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Psychological Experiments
Who doesn't like conducting pychological experiments on their children?
I was reading about delayed gratification on Wikipedia and it was talking about a marshmallow experiment used to predict emotional intelligence, the ability to delay gratification, even general test taking skills in four year olds.
I'd just bought marshmallows because graham crackers were on sale-- 2 for 1!-- the day I did the week's shopping (Sunday) and by Wednesday I'd had to run out and buy the chocolate and marshmallows to go with them. I mean, I waited until Wednesday, so I show the ability to delay gratification right? Let's ignore for the moment that I'm on a diet to lose the baby weight and we never should have had graham crackers in the house in the first place because I always have the urge to turn them into s'mores. We're not talking about impulse control, we're talking about delayed gratification! Hmm. Wait a minute...
Anyway.
I look at the marshmallows. I look at my four year old. I read more about how my daughter, if she can resist a marshmallow for 20 minutes, is destined for a life of joy, peace, and prosperity. And how, if she can't resist, she's bound to be a crack whore with 11 illegitimate babies fathered by former members of the Wu-Tang Clan. So I do it. I sit her down in front of a marshmallow and tell her she'll get two marshmallows if she waits until I get back to eat it. Then I take the marshmallows and leave the room to munch on them for twenty minutes.
After twenty minutes I have alleviated my fears of handing grandbabies over to Raekwon for visitation weekends. She resists! But I start to wonder, how well do these experimenters know four year olds? Because this same four year old snuck all of the Christmas presents from under the tree into her room for a frenzy of pre-Christmas gift opening. And maybe her ability to resist had to do with the s'mores she'd been eating with mommy all afternoon. Does the experiment count if her face is covered in chocolate?
I guess I'll have to wait about 18-30 years to see if her life is peaceful, joyful, and filled with prosperity. But if you want to test your own ability to defer gratification, check out this psychological test.
I was reading about delayed gratification on Wikipedia and it was talking about a marshmallow experiment used to predict emotional intelligence, the ability to delay gratification, even general test taking skills in four year olds.
I'd just bought marshmallows because graham crackers were on sale-- 2 for 1!-- the day I did the week's shopping (Sunday) and by Wednesday I'd had to run out and buy the chocolate and marshmallows to go with them. I mean, I waited until Wednesday, so I show the ability to delay gratification right? Let's ignore for the moment that I'm on a diet to lose the baby weight and we never should have had graham crackers in the house in the first place because I always have the urge to turn them into s'mores. We're not talking about impulse control, we're talking about delayed gratification! Hmm. Wait a minute...
Anyway.
I look at the marshmallows. I look at my four year old. I read more about how my daughter, if she can resist a marshmallow for 20 minutes, is destined for a life of joy, peace, and prosperity. And how, if she can't resist, she's bound to be a crack whore with 11 illegitimate babies fathered by former members of the Wu-Tang Clan. So I do it. I sit her down in front of a marshmallow and tell her she'll get two marshmallows if she waits until I get back to eat it. Then I take the marshmallows and leave the room to munch on them for twenty minutes.
After twenty minutes I have alleviated my fears of handing grandbabies over to Raekwon for visitation weekends. She resists! But I start to wonder, how well do these experimenters know four year olds? Because this same four year old snuck all of the Christmas presents from under the tree into her room for a frenzy of pre-Christmas gift opening. And maybe her ability to resist had to do with the s'mores she'd been eating with mommy all afternoon. Does the experiment count if her face is covered in chocolate?
I guess I'll have to wait about 18-30 years to see if her life is peaceful, joyful, and filled with prosperity. But if you want to test your own ability to defer gratification, check out this psychological test.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Worried about my parenting skills
Not me. No, I'm pretty confident in my ability to keep my babies alive and even thriving. But Moxie, the two month old, has no confidence. She spends most of her day looking like this:
Worried.
Then, when she gets to crying, in those seconds before I figure out whether it's hunger, sleepiness, or poop, she screams, arches her back and looks frantically around the room as though to say, "HELP! Could someone who knows what they are doing Puh-lease Save Me??!!"
I thought this would even out as we got to know each other. She might cut me a little slack after a few weeks of getting her needs met, having her every whimper attended to. But no. Yesterday in line at the post office, a woman asked me if she'd gotten bitten (!!) on her face. Um no. Those are her worry lines. The deep divets at the eyebrow are just her constant concern over my parenting ability. I'm saving up for her Botox now because if things continue this way, I'm going to need to paralyze her 'skeptical' face before we get to kindergarten. Imagine facing this every time you fold a towel or pick out an outfit:
Just this morning she started getting crabby, obviously needing something. But instead of screaming outright, she gave me this meek little smile, as though she's given up on crying as a way to get her needs met and is resorting to playing cute games for attention. How can someone be passive aggressive at TWO MONTHS?
Give me plain old aggressive any day.
Worried.
Then, when she gets to crying, in those seconds before I figure out whether it's hunger, sleepiness, or poop, she screams, arches her back and looks frantically around the room as though to say, "HELP! Could someone who knows what they are doing Puh-lease Save Me??!!"
I thought this would even out as we got to know each other. She might cut me a little slack after a few weeks of getting her needs met, having her every whimper attended to. But no. Yesterday in line at the post office, a woman asked me if she'd gotten bitten (!!) on her face. Um no. Those are her worry lines. The deep divets at the eyebrow are just her constant concern over my parenting ability. I'm saving up for her Botox now because if things continue this way, I'm going to need to paralyze her 'skeptical' face before we get to kindergarten. Imagine facing this every time you fold a towel or pick out an outfit:
Just this morning she started getting crabby, obviously needing something. But instead of screaming outright, she gave me this meek little smile, as though she's given up on crying as a way to get her needs met and is resorting to playing cute games for attention. How can someone be passive aggressive at TWO MONTHS?
Give me plain old aggressive any day.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
You must understand my obsession
I woke this morning to a four year old standing at the foot of my bed.
"ssst"
"SSSssst!"
"Yes, Tallulah?"
"Mommy, it's morning and I have no pants on."
"Why?"
"Come here. I want to show you something."
What an ominous beginning to a day. Horror movies use less foreshadowing. I follow Tallulah into the bathroom where 12 rolls of toilet paper are stacked tall like the Eiffel tower....ok, Tower of Pisa, pajama pants and night diapers are on the floor, and the toilet is full of poop.
"...then it was on my foot and I wiped it with my finger and..."Tallulah was saying as I tried to make sense of the scenario with sleep-bleary eyes.
"Wait, what was on your foot?"
"Poop. I sat down and poop got from my butt to my foot. I wiped my foot with my finger and poop was on it. Then I wiped my finger on my leg-- here-- and poop got there, too. Then I played with my toys."
I don't even know where to begin cleaning this house, but my obsession with showers and personal cleanliness is becoming understandable, no?
"ssst"
"SSSssst!"
"Yes, Tallulah?"
"Mommy, it's morning and I have no pants on."
"Why?"
"Come here. I want to show you something."
What an ominous beginning to a day. Horror movies use less foreshadowing. I follow Tallulah into the bathroom where 12 rolls of toilet paper are stacked tall like the Eiffel tower....ok, Tower of Pisa, pajama pants and night diapers are on the floor, and the toilet is full of poop.
"...then it was on my foot and I wiped it with my finger and..."Tallulah was saying as I tried to make sense of the scenario with sleep-bleary eyes.
"Wait, what was on your foot?"
"Poop. I sat down and poop got from my butt to my foot. I wiped my foot with my finger and poop was on it. Then I wiped my finger on my leg-- here-- and poop got there, too. Then I played with my toys."
I don't even know where to begin cleaning this house, but my obsession with showers and personal cleanliness is becoming understandable, no?
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Cleanliness is my new Obsession
I took a shower today.
And before you applaud or sigh in relief or any other comical response I would normally find oh-so-funny if I didn’t constantly smell like baby spit and diapers, today’s shower is amazing because I didn’t have to
A. sing the entire time to assure my baby that I still exist and she was not, in fact, alone in the universe.
B. turn the temperature of the water just a touch colder than I like because some little girl decided at the last minute to join me. Or
C. have the following conversation while drafts of cold air enter my shower space:
“Have you seen my sweater?”
“What sweater?”
“You know, the black one with the shoulder detailing.”
“Do I know that sweater?”
“Yeah, you know I wore it to that party we went to with the girl you like.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No, you know, that party, at the house with the thing…come one, you have to remember.”
“I have no idea what party. Or what sweater. Can I finish my shower now?”
Stomps off grumpy, leaving the bathroom door open so any bit of my body not directly in the water stream gets hit with cold air.
But not today. Today I got clean without interruption, without frenzy, and without compromising my temperature preference. So, how did I get this amazing shower? The YMCA. After strollerobics I put both kids in childwatch and took a leisurely shower. Which means I’m using a gym locker room as my personal spa and retreat. My life is sooooo glamorous. This is truly NOT what I imagined adult life would be when I was 12. But I’m not going to think about it too much because I’m clean, I got some exercise, my kids were not neglected, and I’m feeling pretty damned relaxed. It’s a good day.
I just hope I don’t get athlete’s foot.
And before you applaud or sigh in relief or any other comical response I would normally find oh-so-funny if I didn’t constantly smell like baby spit and diapers, today’s shower is amazing because I didn’t have to
A. sing the entire time to assure my baby that I still exist and she was not, in fact, alone in the universe.
B. turn the temperature of the water just a touch colder than I like because some little girl decided at the last minute to join me. Or
C. have the following conversation while drafts of cold air enter my shower space:
“Have you seen my sweater?”
“What sweater?”
“You know, the black one with the shoulder detailing.”
“Do I know that sweater?”
“Yeah, you know I wore it to that party we went to with the girl you like.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“No, you know, that party, at the house with the thing…come one, you have to remember.”
“I have no idea what party. Or what sweater. Can I finish my shower now?”
Stomps off grumpy, leaving the bathroom door open so any bit of my body not directly in the water stream gets hit with cold air.
But not today. Today I got clean without interruption, without frenzy, and without compromising my temperature preference. So, how did I get this amazing shower? The YMCA. After strollerobics I put both kids in childwatch and took a leisurely shower. Which means I’m using a gym locker room as my personal spa and retreat. My life is sooooo glamorous. This is truly NOT what I imagined adult life would be when I was 12. But I’m not going to think about it too much because I’m clean, I got some exercise, my kids were not neglected, and I’m feeling pretty damned relaxed. It’s a good day.
I just hope I don’t get athlete’s foot.
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