We always worry about our kids no matter what. From the moment they are born, are they breathing, hungry, scared, healthy, happy, smart, liked? The list of everyday worries gets longer and longer the older they get - loss of eye from juice box straw, choking on non-organic, processed snack foods, fear of abduction by all men with mustaches wearing hoodie sweatshirts and dark sunglasses. While each of these is a horrible vision, they are not the worst of my fears. To me, the worst worries are the ones that cannot be controlled, no matter the amount of preparedness.
When you think your child has something physically, mentally, developmentally, or emotionally wrong with them, there is a whole new feeling that gets added to that worrying mix - guilt. Especially for mothers, you scrutinize every move you've made from conception through birth. Did I really need to ingest a jar of peanut butter a week for the entire 36 weeks of my pregnancy? Did drinking my merry way through the Christmas season, prior to knowing I was pregnant, leave my child deficient in healthy brain cells? Should I blame diet Coke for his hyperactivity? Would I sue NutraSweet or Coke? Yes, rationality tends to go out the door when questioning the well being of your child.
Brian and I have been worried about Charlie for some time now. While we joke about it, calling him Jekyll and Hyde or El Diablo, and I write about it, over the past months his aggressiveness, most specifically towards his brother, has strayed beyond the boundaries of our home. Spilling over into the outside world - school, parks, play dates - it seemed no stranger, friend, or foe under the age of 10 was safe. If someone were to take Charlie's sand toy, that child would be met with a swift poke in the eye with the end of a shovel or a bitch slap that would make Alexis Carrington proud.
And our smart, thoughtful, wonderful little boy, did not seem to care about any of the consequences for his actions. Leave the park, scream at the top of my lungs, ignore him, strap him to the roof of the car while driving 75 mph down the highway; no matter what my reaction, he continued along this same path. Aggressive, almost crazed behavior one minute, then sweetly sharing his snack with his brother the next. I chalked it up to his being 3 1/2, or the next coming of Sybil.
Brian of course, being the worried Jewish father type, has always said, "His behavior cannot be normal." This has been a source of much contention in our marriage. Me countering with, "He's fine. He's 3. I see a lot of kids we know doing the same things to their siblings." Though the more I observed, lost my temper, and lost hope that any of my attempts to alter his behavior would work, the more I came to believe that Charlie was on track to do his brother in by spring, giving March Madness a whole new meaning.
So I sought the advice of his teachers. After they witnessed him running Gregory over with the class art cart, they gave us the name of a counselor to help determine if Charlie (or his parents) had a problem. It's a big step, to admit to someone other than your spouse that something may be wrong with your child and that you're not doing a great job as a parent dealing with it. It's like if you say it out loud, it makes it real and very scary and of course, your fault. Can I fix this? What if it effects him for the rest of his life? Or worse, what if my son blames me, then goes and writes a book about it? Probably time to get rid of those wire hangers.
We went to see a counselor at Jewish Family Services. I can't say enough about what a fantastic resource this place is, for anyone in need. Her very first words to us, "From everything you've described, your child is developmentally appropriate and on course." Really? Attempting to 'help' one's brother down the slide by pushing him over the railing is normal? Drop kicking him from the top of the couch and landing on his back is developmentally appropriate?
She did give us some constructive ways to help deal with Charlie when he gets out of control, as well as good reminders about our own behavior. It's amazing when you calm yourself, how your child follows suit. Sounds simple but when I get worn down and frustrated, cool, calm and collected is not usually my first or favorite response - love those wire hangers.
She did suggest that we read some books on dysfunctional sensory integration. Without actually meeting Charlie and observing him, it was impossible for her to make a judgment. I think Brian and I felt a combination of relief and vomitousness. There really could be something wrong with our child and thank G_d we might have an explanation.
She suggested we read 'The Out of Sync Child' and 'The Sensory Sensitive Child' to decide if we wanted Charlie to be observed by someone. After researching tons of stuff on the web and reading the books, I was still not 100% that we were dealing with something other than normal 3 1/2 year old behavior. But there was enough doubt in my mind that I've asked someone from Easter Seals to come out for a home visit to see if further evaluation is necessary.
I'm writing this in hopes that people will talk about what's going on with their children with friends, family, teachers, etc. Or do like I did, start a blog to complain about them to a larger audience. While a lot of bad behavior is just kids being kids, if you feel something is not quite right or even the tiniest bit off, ask someone, read, research, get help. Mommy intuition does not come naturally to some of us; it took me the better part of 6 months to do something about my son's behavior. Even if he is fine, I still learned how I can be a better parent. I'll never stop worrying, but this is my attempt to gain some control over those feelings, especially the guilt. If Charlie does ever write that book, I'm hoping there will be a chapter entitled, "At Least The Bitch Tried."
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Body Parts
One of my dearest friends is a successful financial analyst. She carries herself with all of the grace and sophistication of someone raised in southern Connecticut, with an Ivy league education, and a high falutin career. But when she ties one on, she has been known to expose herself to large crowds screaming, "What? What's the problem? They're just body parts. See!" Then proceeds to yank on one of her breasts.
You might think this will lead into a don't judge a book by it's cover story, but it's not. Since the time he could crawl, Charlie has always been interested in his own body parts - belly button, nose, ears, etc. Like most kids, he liked to repeatedly stick his finger, a blade of grass, a stick, or a rock, into the area of interest, rummage around for a bit, then move on. Fortunately, no ER visits to date have been necessary.
I think it was at about 18 months when he found his penis, affectionately called Mr. Snappy. I was expecting this stage to get rolling around the 'tween years'. I guess my kid is advanced. On the changing table, in the bathtub, while watching Elmo on the couch, everywhere you could imagine, Charlie was doing some in depth analysis of Mr. Snappy. Everything we read said this was totally normal and not to draw attention to it. So we let him explore away. Sure enough after about a month, he moved onto something else, like emptying the contents of my jewelry box into the toilet so he could give my necklaces a 'bath'.
Today at 3 1/2, he's more into talking about penis's or any other controversial word he can think of. He told me in the car the other day, "Mommy, aren't you so glad I don't say the word FUCK. Fuck is a really bad word." When leaving a voice mail message for his uncle recently, all he said into the answering machine was, "Penis, penis, penis, penis." Then laughed like he was George Carlin reincarnated - they're just words after all, we're the ones who assign them meaning. Most of the literature I've read would agree. The experts counsel that during this phase you should ignore the language. Children like to test boundaries to try to get a reaction, and/or to feel powerful by using bad words. If you pay attention or respond, you're just fueling the fire.
We've always tried to be open with Charlie about our own bodies. We use all of the correct terms for everything (not sure how Mr. Snappy came to be) and never shy away from any question. It's a slippery slope, you want your child to be at ease with his body and not feel embarrassed by or uncomfortable talking about it. But how open do you want them to be? What are you supposed to do when your son asks the checker at Safeway if he's ever had a ladybug on his penis? Seriously, do you shush him and tell him that it's not nice to talk like that? Do you walk away and pretend like the whole thing never happened? Or do you bolt for the nearest exit before he can ask about grasshoppers in the man's ass?
When faced with these situations, it's typical to reflect back on one's own childhood and wonder what your parents would do. I know exactly what mine would have done. I remember like it was yesterday, my older brother at age 6, telling my uncle he was going 'punch him in the penis'. My mother smacked him with a wooden spoon, threatened to put hot pepper flakes on his tongue so he could never utter the word again, then sent up to his room for about an hour. I'm guessing you wouldn't see that approach on Super Nanny.
And since we weren't at home and I wasn't near the spice aisle, I chose to smile politely while removing myself from the check out line, then asked the man if he could point me in the direction of the gluten free crackers. He just stared at me, I think his weird-o meter must have been tripped. As a mother, I've become a master in redirection and deflection, though sometimes to my own detriment. Like when I told Charlie to help me make dinner instead of terrorizing his brother. 2 minutes later there was milk, egg and Cheerio soup being cooked on my floor. Neither of these was my smoothest move, though I always have the most honorable of intentions. I'm sure my picture is tacked to the bulletin board inside the break room at Safeway with a sign, 'Warning, do not approach. Mother and child may exhibit inappropriate behavior with insects.'
You might think this will lead into a don't judge a book by it's cover story, but it's not. Since the time he could crawl, Charlie has always been interested in his own body parts - belly button, nose, ears, etc. Like most kids, he liked to repeatedly stick his finger, a blade of grass, a stick, or a rock, into the area of interest, rummage around for a bit, then move on. Fortunately, no ER visits to date have been necessary.
I think it was at about 18 months when he found his penis, affectionately called Mr. Snappy. I was expecting this stage to get rolling around the 'tween years'. I guess my kid is advanced. On the changing table, in the bathtub, while watching Elmo on the couch, everywhere you could imagine, Charlie was doing some in depth analysis of Mr. Snappy. Everything we read said this was totally normal and not to draw attention to it. So we let him explore away. Sure enough after about a month, he moved onto something else, like emptying the contents of my jewelry box into the toilet so he could give my necklaces a 'bath'.
Today at 3 1/2, he's more into talking about penis's or any other controversial word he can think of. He told me in the car the other day, "Mommy, aren't you so glad I don't say the word FUCK. Fuck is a really bad word." When leaving a voice mail message for his uncle recently, all he said into the answering machine was, "Penis, penis, penis, penis." Then laughed like he was George Carlin reincarnated - they're just words after all, we're the ones who assign them meaning. Most of the literature I've read would agree. The experts counsel that during this phase you should ignore the language. Children like to test boundaries to try to get a reaction, and/or to feel powerful by using bad words. If you pay attention or respond, you're just fueling the fire.
We've always tried to be open with Charlie about our own bodies. We use all of the correct terms for everything (not sure how Mr. Snappy came to be) and never shy away from any question. It's a slippery slope, you want your child to be at ease with his body and not feel embarrassed by or uncomfortable talking about it. But how open do you want them to be? What are you supposed to do when your son asks the checker at Safeway if he's ever had a ladybug on his penis? Seriously, do you shush him and tell him that it's not nice to talk like that? Do you walk away and pretend like the whole thing never happened? Or do you bolt for the nearest exit before he can ask about grasshoppers in the man's ass?
When faced with these situations, it's typical to reflect back on one's own childhood and wonder what your parents would do. I know exactly what mine would have done. I remember like it was yesterday, my older brother at age 6, telling my uncle he was going 'punch him in the penis'. My mother smacked him with a wooden spoon, threatened to put hot pepper flakes on his tongue so he could never utter the word again, then sent up to his room for about an hour. I'm guessing you wouldn't see that approach on Super Nanny.
And since we weren't at home and I wasn't near the spice aisle, I chose to smile politely while removing myself from the check out line, then asked the man if he could point me in the direction of the gluten free crackers. He just stared at me, I think his weird-o meter must have been tripped. As a mother, I've become a master in redirection and deflection, though sometimes to my own detriment. Like when I told Charlie to help me make dinner instead of terrorizing his brother. 2 minutes later there was milk, egg and Cheerio soup being cooked on my floor. Neither of these was my smoothest move, though I always have the most honorable of intentions. I'm sure my picture is tacked to the bulletin board inside the break room at Safeway with a sign, 'Warning, do not approach. Mother and child may exhibit inappropriate behavior with insects.'
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Hug It Out
It seems that every time I think Charlie has pushed me to the brink of sanity, usually within 24 hours of that moment, the kid does something to make me reconsider my 'Free to Good Home' posting on Craig's List. It's no surprise that our family, including his grandmothers, have taken to calling him Jekyll and Hyde, his attitude swings are that drastic.
Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"
Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.
As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.
Monday night, it's 4 pm, t-minus 4 hours till bedtime. Charlie has lost all privileges for the evening and I'm not sure what else I can take away from this kid short of his life, since his treatment of his brother is bordering on criminal. Brian arrives on the scene to see Charlie dragging his brother around the house by the blanket he has stuffed into his mouth. Gregory is not old enough to realize that he can simply open his mouth and let go. I'm making dinner and yelling from the kitchen, "Leave him alone. Why don't you drag your doll around the house instead of Gregory. I'm telling you for the last time, do not hurt your brother. Do you want to lose TV for tomorrow night, too?"
Charlie decides to take Gregory on another lap. On the way, he swings by the kitchen to rub my face in his defiance. He stops, looks at me, then at Brian and says, "Daddy, you know what I haven't seen in a while?" What, Charlie? "You and Mommy giving each other a hug." Do you like it when we hug? "Yes, it makes me feel happy." We proceed to hug each other, then grab him and make a Charlie sandwich with him in the middle.
As quickly as it appeared, the cheesy family moment is gone. Charlie says, 'Thanks, stope it'. Pushing his brother into the wall, he runs from the room, hysterically laughing. Who was that masked man? I think he needs his Prozac prescription refilled.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Owie, Owie, Owie
It's hard not to compare your kids to one another. Charlie and Gregory walked at exactly the same age, 13 1/2 months. They both started sleeping through the night at roughly 5 1/2 months, which felt like 5 1/2 years. They both gave up the bottle at 12 months, though with Gregory, you would have thought I was stripping him of a vital organ. That boy loved his 'baba' and still stares longingly at little babies sucking away on theirs.
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Talking has been a whole other story. By 14 months Charlie had full words, he could mimic everything I said perfectly and with such clear enunciation that he would stop adults in their tracks. How could this tiny being have more words than most 2 or even 3 year olds? When I took him in for some developmental testing that they perform for babies born premature and who spent time in the NICU, the neurologist wrote in his chart that Charlie was 'VERY VERBAL'. And he continues to be to this day. This morning he said, 'Mommy, sit down, we need to have a discussion because I'm feeling very upset with you. You hurt my feelings when you told me I couldn't have chocolate ice cream for breakfast. I'm not so very happy with you. You should go to your room and think about what you've done.'
Gregory turned 14 months this past week and has a few words. Mostly 'Dada' when Brian comes home and 'Mama' when he feels he's been wrongly incarcerated in his crib. It doesn't bother me and I don't compare them in the sense that Charlie is better or smarter because he talked at an earlier age. Sure it would be easier if Gregory could say 'milk' instead of screaming at his sippy cup, but I find great satisfaction in trying to figure out exactly what he wants and then watching him kick his feet and smile with excitement when I give it to him. It's like a little victory for us both.
This week we've noticed a couple of new words entering his lexicon. The other night when Charlie jumped off the coffee table and body slammed him onto the ground, Gregory said very distinctly in between tears and snots, 'Owie, owie, owie.' He uses it now every time Charlie is around. Even if they're at opposite ends of the room, he'll point at him and say 'Owie, owie'. It would be funny, as well as hugely appropriate, if Gregory grew up calling him Owie instead of Charlie, considering Charlie treats him like a human punching bag.
The second word just came out this morning, I'm not sure but it sounded a lot like 'Stopit'. I take full credit for this one. In our home there is a din of 'stopitstopitstopistopitstopit.' To most people it's alarmingly loud when they first enter, but to us it's like background noise from the street. No wonder Gregory thinks it's one word and has taken to repeating it constantly. It's my most frequently spoken statement to both of the boys. 'Stop it, stop it, stop it! Get your hand out of his mouth. His tongue does not come out, it is attached.' Or 'Stop it, stop it, stop it. Gregory, get your hand out of there. Dirty! Dirty! Poop is dirty!'
I'm waiting with baited breath to hear his next word. If he's anything like his brother, it will be, "Hello, DCS? We have a problem."
Monday, February 2, 2009
Forget You, Mariah
For once I am not going to write/complain about my kids. The subject today is me; me and my ongoing journey of self discovery.
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
At a cocktail party last week, my friend Cynthia introduced me to her acupuncturist and friend, Laurence. Naturally since our introduction included what she did for a living, she asked the same of me. Some nonsensical talk of software sales and a 1/2 of a glass of Sauvignon Blanc later, I spit out like a swear word that I was currently a stay at home mom. Definitely an awkward moment, so much so that it distracted me from the rest of our conversation. Laurence could tell I wasn't paying attention. Mid sentence I attempted to make a confession of sorts. The reason I was not as forthcoming with my profession was that I was embarrassed. She looked at me like I was nuts and asked why on earth I was ashamed of being a full time mother?
Embarrassed or ashamed is not accurate, I told her. Since quitting my job last March, I simply do not like to tell people right off the bat that I'm a stay at home mom. My reasoning is that when you first meet a stranger, the get to know you dance inevitably starts with 'What do you do?' - meaning your job. Your answers begin to form the impression of 'you' in their mind. And the person you're talking to could be the Pope, but even he judges (good or bad) based on this information. So my fear was that I would immediately be judged as being 'less than' something because of my job; less smart, less ambitious, less motivated, less worldly, less business savvy, less everything, except crazy, maybe. Okay, yes, I have some issues of self perception/worth that are intrinsically tied to my job, but there is an element of truth here that I wanted to explore.
Laurence was very kind to indulge me. She said, 'You have the most important job in the world.' It didn't rub me the wrong way like when Oprah says it, must have been the French accent, acupuncturist zen thing she had going on. Our discussion (or my therapy session) deepened as we chatted about how American society views the profession of motherhood, not really as a profession at all, but as a mini break from the real world. You shuttle children around in an SUV (or G_d forbid a minivan) all day, drink lattes, listen to Raffi or the Jonas Brothers, take your kids to the park, and talk to other Mom's about teachers, organic produce and the gym.
In France, while motherhood is revered, it does not serve to pigeon hole a person into a particular role or identity. Full time mother's are viewed as entire human beings, with other interests, wants and desires apart from her child's.
Laurence's perspective did make me feel better, but my mind started racing. Was I always this evasive, bizarre and long winded upon first meeting someone, my thinly veiled attempt to hide my stay at home mom-ness? My mind was blank, void of one single memory or example that I could point to. Of course, I'm the person who can't remember if she showered that day unless she smells under her own arm pits, so this was not shocking.
It didn't take but a few days before I had my answer. I get my hair cut at pretty popular, hip salon. When I say hip, I mean the people who work there are hip. Most of the clients are suburban Mom's like myself. The stylists and assistants dress crazy cool, in outfits that are wacky but fabulous; silver stilettos, red and green plaid pants, royal blue tank top, leopard vest, silver tie. That same outfit on me would scream blind, Scottish, Thompson Twins wannabe.
Like any high end salon, there are assistants for everything - they bring you water, take your coat, shampoo your hair and often blow dry it. Meet Jesse, my assistant du jour and the epitomy of cool; tattoos, pierced nose, super tight black pants, funky shoes, perfectly coiffed hair. This was our first introduction. We chatted and naturally he asked what I did. Enter sarcastic, evasive Christine. "Oh, I'm the keeper at the zoo." As only a 20-something year old could ask, Are you serious? Um, no, I stay at home with my kids. He laughed.
At this point I was having an out of body experience. The next 20 minutes I witnessed myself purposefully not talking about my children, swearing like a truck driver, and trying to hide my sensible Dansko clogs under the hair cutting cape. All in an attempt to make myself seem more interesting and cooler than I really am. It was like high school 20 years later.
It was awful. I was awful. Yet I couldn't stop. I heard myself calling Mariah Carey a gap toothed, Botoxed bitch. For those of you not obsessed with celebrity gossip, there's a reason Mariah will only have her photo taken from her right side. Yup, funky teeth on the left side. Good G_d. THIS was my ticket to cool and interesting?
Fortunately at that exact moment, my real self entered back into my body and took control of my mouth. I promptly removed all curse words from my vocabulary and told Jesse a funny story about my kids. Incidentally it was about cocktail parties. The evening prior to meeting Laurence, Charlie asked what a cocktail party was. I told him it was when adults get together to drink, sometimes eat, and laugh a lot. Now he says, 'Mommy, at school today, we laughed like we were at a cocktail party.' Way funnier than Mariah and her unfortunate teeth.
As I come to terms with my stay at home mom-ness (clearly I have some issues to work out), I won't let my kids be the only thing I talk about, if you promise that's not the only thing you'll ask me about. Deal?
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
'Hey, Big Boy' Bed
Charlie has been sleeping on the floor for the past month, really since we got home from Christmas at my Mom's. Yes, he has a bed. It's a toddler bed that still uses his old crib mattress, and it is not comfortable at all. It does not surprise me that the carpeting on the floor gives him more cushion.
We finally decided to splurge and bought him a big boy mattress. The toddler bed converts into a full bed, which is cool, but kind of weird. I was a twin mattress girl until after college and this whole thing feels odd, almost dirty, like I'm pushing my own son toward, well, sex. I know, I know, he's only 3 1/2, and it's just a mattress. But why else does one need a bed larger than a twin unless A) you're a large person, or B) you share, or hope to share, that bed with someone.
We were awaiting the delivery of the bed and Brian decided to take Charlie on a sheet purchasing expedition; mistake #1. He took him to Ross Dress for Less, which is kind of like a ghetto Marshall's or TJ Maxx; mistake #2. It's the place you go for candles, picture frames, maybe underwear (if they still have the tags), or socks, but sheets? And not just any sheets, Charlie wanted pink or purple sheets, his favorite colors.
Upon their return, Charlie proudly showed me his purple satin sheets, as well as his pink satin ones with Playboy bunnies on them. Brian smirked, 'Charlie wanted them, he picked them out all by himself.' Wow, cool. I tried to mask my distaste for Charlie's benefit but I just couldn't do it.
Honey, you couldn't have redirected him to the cozy flannel sheets, or told him that these were the wrong size? 'But they were on sale', was his response. My husband has never bought something because it was on sale in his life. I'm not sure why he chose Ross Dress for Less as the place to alter his shopping habits.
The purple sheets I could live with, but the pink bunnies were down right offensive. Brian thinks I'm crazy and this whole thing amuses him. Not only do I think it's a sexist double standard; these sheets never would have been purchased if Charlie were a girl. But it's impractical as well; I doubt it's going to be Brian running into the kid's room at 3 am when he slides out of his bed and cracks his head on the floor.
My hesitation about buying Charlie a larger bed may be a bit unfounded, but now we've gone and introduced sexy boudoir accessories into his repertoire. What kind of parents are we? We might as well move to Nevada and open up a brothel.
Okay, so I'm a touch dramatic. I really worried for no reason, the sheets are already off after 1 night. Turns out satin sheets do not properly cover little boys who wiggle (in a non sexual way) in their sleep. As I said to Brian, at least he and the kids guarantee me material to write about. That would be the silver, or satin, lining.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Et tu, Brute?
Gregory started to walk about 2 weeks ago. Since then, he hasn't really progressed past taking a few tentative steps toward me or the coffee table. Usually it's when he wants something, a toy or his sippy cup. He'll either take a few steps then fall to the ground to crawl the rest of the way, or he just stands there with his arms out stretched, whining, crying, and pointing at the object he desires.
I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.
Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.
My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?
I don't mind that he's not walking yet. If I knew what was good for me, I'd strap him to the floor on all fours and never let him stand on 2 legs...ever. Once I have 2 kids walking, things will get way more hectic than they already are. Though Charlie will be happy to have someone who will actually play a real game of chase with him. And think of all the money I'll save not having to use an entire bottle of OxyClean each week to get the grass and mud stains out of the knees of his pants.
Last night, Brian happened upon Gregory hanging out in the living room playing quietly alone. He stood in the shadows observing this sweet moment. You can imagine his surprise when Gregory stood up and walked clear across the room over to the blocks. We're talking at least 5 feet, unassisted, no wobbling. We've started calling him Billy Ray Valentine. Those of you who are fans of Trading Places will appreciate the reference. The rest of you, shame, shame for not seeing one of Eddie Murphy's finest films.
My youngest child is manipulating me, playing upon my sympathies. Yes, I do want him to stay a baby for a little while longer, but not if he's going to lie about it. Charlie didn't start consciously manipulating me until he was well into his terrible two's. With an extra year under his belt and learning straight from the master, I can't even imagine the new heights Gregory will soar to. I'm scared for the future; 2 children walking, 2 children manipulating. Does anyone know of a local Enablers Anonymous chapter?
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