Is Silver Medalist Pikus-Pace a Role Model?

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AP Photo – Michael Sohn

Noelle Pikus-Pace’s silver medal win and choosing to share the moment with her family has drawn international attention. It is the sort of moment for which the Olympics are made. She is amazing. The moment was awesome. Who could help but be swept up in the moment of it all?  In a moving interview with Summer Sanders, Pikus-Pace’s new career as a role model was launched. Let’s jump on the bandwagon and celebrate an amazing moment and person but let’s also be clear about who our role models really are.

Pikus-Pace is a world-class competitor. She is absolutely a role model for aspiring athletes. You can look to her to see what it takes to be an Olympian: talent, exceptional strength, determination, commitment and sacrifice – arguably sacrifice being at the top of the list. What she sacrificed for her moment of glory, her once-in-a-lifetime achievement, is immeasurable. As a parent, I’m certain time with her family is near, if not at, the top of the list. Those sacrifices are real and heart-wrenching for her and her family. Her silver medal is a memorable, extraordinary moment for her, her husband and their children.

However, her achievement should not be confused for her being a role model to all kids, all women, all mothers, or all parents. While the qualities she embodies are important, and something worth teaching our kids about, she applied them for a specific purpose – to win a race, to reach her personal goal.  I don’t doubt the image that is being painted of her but she is being launched into famedom for being an athlete, not for driving the carpool or getting dinner on the table by 6:00 every night. We should be careful to draw the lines of comparison too closely between her and us mere-mortals.

It would be easy for me to look at Pikus-Pace and say, “Look at what she has done! I could and should do more! I haven’t done enough! I could set such an example for my kids!” I implore, let’s not use Pikus-Pace as another reason for women, parents, and moms to beat themselves up and feel a need to do more. Pikus-Pace is undoubtedly a remarkable role model for kids about hard work paying off and that it is possible to achieve outlandish goals. Yet, let’s not fool ourselves – my kids, most kids, don’t know about her or won’t remember her six months from now. I know some children idolize athletes or (eegads) entertainers. I’m all in favor of using positive influence, wherever it may come from, to help kids find motivation and fulfillment and be productive contributors to our world.

In reality, it is the people my kids interact with and watch everyday – parents, teachers, coaches and neighbors – who have a bigger impact on their view of the world and their place in it. Everyone is a role model, for good or bad, and parents are their children’s most important role models.

I am a role model because I show my kids everyday how to treat other people. They see how I talk to their friends, other parents, teachers, neighbors and strangers. I am a role model because my kids learn from me how to let other people treat them when I teach my kids to say to other children they don’t like being called names. I am a role model because I show my boys how to treat their future spouses when I take the time to hug and kiss my husband and listen to him talk about his day. My kids learn from me how to be a good friend when they help me cook a meal for a sick friend. I am a role model because my children watch everything I do and everything I say and learn how they are going to succeed (or fail) in this world. That is enough. I am doing enough. Let’s celebrate Pikus-Pace without making it a commentary on our own achievements (or lack thereof).

By all means, heap praise on Pikus-Pace as a role model for athletes, as an example of what can be accomplished with properly applied talent, commitment, sacrifice and determination.  Before beating yourself up about not making a difference or being a role model though, consider what you’re modeling and who’s actually watching. The next time you have the chance, take a minute to say something nice to a person who is doing something right, even if it’s just holding a door open for someone else. It’s not a silver medal but it’s the kind of recognition that really matters.

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Yelling Less Is Totally Worth It

I am 21 days into the Orange Rhino’s 30-day yelling challenge. Essentially, it’s 30 days of learning how to yell less at my kids. The good news is that my angriest moments have gone from exorcist-like temper tantrums to a more civilized yet firm (usually through gritted teeth) frustrated whisper. I had one totally ballistic, lose-my-shit moment yesterday that left me feeling horrible, small and stupid but compared to a month ago, I think I’m doing pretty ah-MAY-zing.

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More importantly, I see and feel a difference with my kids. There is less tension and anxiety. I discovered some good tools to diffuse our most-likely-to-cause-yelling transitions (getting out the door is much easier…bedtime still has some work to be done). I’ve spent time talking to them about how I am managing my anger and I see them practicing it, too. My five-year-old now regularly asks to “just be left alone for a minute while I calm down,” and it always makes my heart soften and get all mushy. Not only do I know that what I’m doing, showing and teaching is making a difference in our relationship, but he’s also reaping benefits by learning how to recognize when his emotions are getting too big for him.

A friend often tells me that I shouldn’t be so concerned – most parents yell at their kids. Maybe you’re thinking, “Yea, well, yelling is just part of parenting. Most people do it and those who don’t, well, they’re just holding it in and that’s not healthy either.” I could point to lots of articles that talk about the damage yelling does to the kid/parent bond but they’ll just make you feel bad and guilty and will likely fuel the cycle of anger that leads to yelling outbursts.

Instead, I’ll ask, “How do you feel after you yell?” I doubt you feel good. I bet you feel guilty. I bet if you really look at your kids in the moments immediately after you yell, the looks on their faces are not associated with the feelings for which you want to be responsible. I know, you’re probably squirming a little and considering not reading anymore. It’s easy to rationalize away why we can excuse yelling, but bottom line is that everyone feels bad -mom, dad and kids – when we yell so why not try to do it less?

The Orange Rhino has been a wonderful way to kick-start changing my bad habit (I don’t know her and am not promoting her for any personal gain). Great tools, great community and the 30-day challenge gives it some structure. But, it takes more than 30 days to change a bad habit and I found I was craving more information to better understand why I yell and find more tools to help stop. There’s a lot out there. A lot. Which tells me that, yep, lots of parents yell and lots of people want to stop. Most importantly, that it’s really hard to stop.  I found lots of articles with great info but three articles stood out as helpful, informative and digestible:

Q & A,” from Symbio’s newsletter (a lovely, realistic, forgiving look at the problem)

How to Handle Your Anger at Your Child,” by Dr. Linda Markam (a more psycho-analytic take)

Yelling Doesn’t Help,” from Parents.com (warning: this article has some parental shaming language in it – yuck! – but it has some good info.)

Here are some things I learned from these articles and the Orange Rhino:

  • Figuring out common circumstances that often lead to yelling (triggers!) and coming up with preventive measures and management tactics is key.
  • We are all human which means we have a fight/flight response that can be triggered by the small humans we call our children, despite their diminutive size (surprise!). It is in the heat of the moment that our reptilian brain takes over and makes it very difficult for us to manage our outburst response but it is possible with practice.
  • This fight/flight response happens to our kids, especially preschoolers, when they throw a tantrum which is why we feel so silly when we find ourselves acting like three-year-olds screaming nonsense over misplaced shoes.
  • As adults, it’s important to recognize when this reaction is happening and to be able to appropriately experience, manage and express those emotions.
  • Experiencing, managing and expressing emotions are distinctly different processes and each plays a role in these moments of anger.
  • I must remind myself constantly that I must learn to manage my response – this is different than repress. I must work to recognize the anger, experience it, appropriately express it and then move on.

I have a long ways to go and lots of work to do, but I feel better-prepared to tackle this bad habit. I don’t beat myself up about it as much because I know I’m human and I’m trying. Tomorrow is another day. I also have seen the difference my no-yelling has made to my kids. It’s worth it. Totally worth it.

Photo Courtesy of Martha Soukup via Flickr

Remember Flying Without Kids?

I remember when vacation meant a week of sleeping in, eating meals over the course of hours while enjoying a bottle of wine and long leisurely days laying on the beach. I long for those days sometimes but I generally love vacations with my kids, too. What I don’t like is flying with my kids. A friend of mine told me she’s getting on a plane this week without her kids. I’m so jealous. I’ve flown without my kids once in five years. It was the most glorious trip ever.  I didn’t have to feed anyone, get anyone down for a nap or worry that someone was going to be unable to equalize the pressure in their ears and scream bloody murder for three hours. It was awesome. Here’s what flying looks like before kids and after kids:

Before: Getting to the airport exactly one hour before my departure time because that’s all I needed.

After: I now arrive at the airport two hours before departure because we travel with an entourage made up of 7 suitcases, a stroller, two car seats and two children who only want to run in opposite directions from each other. Moving through the airport is like driving an 18 wheeler: long, slow, wide turns while constantly checking to make sure I haven’t run into someone or dropped anything/anyone off on the side.

Before: Sharing knowing, annoyed glances with strangers over the screaming child in 9B.

After: Dodging eye contact with everyone around me because my child is seated in 9B screaming his head off. Instead, I share knowing, sympathetic looks with the other people traveling with kids and gratefully accept the bag of half-eaten Cheetos from the mom across the aisle in hopes it will shut my kid up. 

Before: I would pick out a book just for reading on the airplane knowing I would have a chance to sit there for several hours, uninterrupted, able to totally engross myself in the characters and plot.

After: My reading material consists of something that includes  an illustrator listed on the cover or the Sky Mall magazine.

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Before: I ordered more than one drink without dodging disapproving looks from other passengers.

After: I order more than one drink but it’s usually for the six passengers seated around me who are being tortured by my kid crying or my kid’s movie that is inexplicably still audible despite him wearing headphones, and those who will need surgery for their herniated disc caused by my  kid repeatedly kicking their seat.

Before: I wouldn’t drink anything for an hour before the plane in fear of having to actually use one of those broom closets disguised as a bathroom.

After: I contemplate letting my kid pee in a bottle rather than taking him to the bathroom. I made the mistake once of scheduling a trip while  my kid was in the middle of potty training. Never again. You think airplane bathrooms are gross? Try being three feet tall with questionable balance. There aren’t many places to put your hands to keep from falling over.

The next time you are flying and seated near someone traveling with kids, offer to buy them a drink. Trust me, they’ll appreciate it as much as you.

Photo Credit: Chef Cooke via Flickr   

Five Things you Should Never Say to the Father of Your Children

Note from Jenn: Today’s guest post is from my husband, who I let out of the basement long enough to write this post. Enjoy!

Dear Wife,

You are an amazing mom. I am in awe of your patience and love every day. I also very much enjoyed your note “Five Things You Should Never Say to the Mother of Your Children.”  In the spirit of gender equality, I’d like to offer a few suggestions of my own: five things you should never say to the father of your children.

1.  “The trash needs to go out and the cat’s litter box needs scooping.”  I accept your statement of fact.  Oh, did you want me to do something about that?  I appreciate that you are trying to cleverly disguise your nagging so neither of us feels like I’m lazy and you are a nag but if you want something, ask.  If you are trying to make conversation, I hope two people who love each other and have so little time to talk to each other can find something else besides trash and cat poop to talk about.  Also, how old is the cat?  And…how long does the average cat live?  Just curious.

2.  “I know you think I just sit around all day drinking my mocha and watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.”  No.  No I do not. Ever. If I ever actually say that to you, they’ll find what’s left of me in a dumpster down at Hunter’s Point.

3.  “Drop your pants and get to work.”  I get it – we rarely have a minute to ourselves.  And I’m a hunk of man meat that you just can’t keep your hands off. We have to seize the moment!  But, when I get home from work, I’m tired.  I’ve had whiny customers calling and interrupting me and all these executives with unrealistic expectations up in my business all day.  Sometimes I just want to be held.

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4.  “Is that what you do at work all day?”  This statement usually comes after some TV show includes a scene where a bunch of nerds at work are playing ping pong.  It’s important not to compare or keep score because our jobs are very different. Our workplaces are very different.  Besides, I play foosball all day at work, not ping pong.  Ping pong is for dorks.

5.  “Let’s have another.”  Another what? Baby?? No. No. Those three words should be reserved only for ordering drinks.  I love our two boys. Fatherhood and our life with kids is more fulfilling than I ever imagined. I love our life. Just. How. It. Is. Let’s leave well enough alone.

I love you and I know you love me but obviously there are going to be things we do that drive each other crazy.  If the list is only five long and we can tell each other how freakin’ annoyed they make us, I think we’re winning.  Now I must go, I could really use another…drink.

photo credit: Shelly S. via Creative Commons and Flickr.

The Yelling Project

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I’m a yeller. I hate yelling. Yet, I can’t seem to stop myself. My Little Loves just push my buttons and then – WHAM! – nuclear Mommy meltdown and I start spewing forth all kinds of toxic loudness. It usually happens after I ask my kids 37 times to do something and it usually ends with me yelling some sort of Dr. Seuss sounding nonsense at them: “Time to go. Put on your shoes. Put your shoes on. Put your shoes on. Shoes on. Shoes on. Shoes on your FEET. Put SHOES on. Shoes go ON YOUR FEET. SHOES. Feet. On. GO. Feet. PUT SHOES ON! FEET AND GO!!!” And my head spins half way around my body and my eyes glow red all Exorcist-like.

I hate it. I feel horrible. My kids hate it. They feel horrible. Then I’m a Bad Mommy and I just feel worse and my patience is that much shorter making it that much more likely I’m going to lose it.

Bleckh.

So, I decided to do something about it and I found the coolest blog: The Orange Rhino (not a promotion. I don’t know this nutty lady. Just something I stumbled on in my search for help).  It’s awesome. The premise is to set a goal of number of days to stop yelling. The nutty lady set a goal of one year. And did it. Holy shitballs. A whole year of not yelling. At her husband. At her kids. At anyone. I was terrified and decided she was crazy and clearly had the help of tranquilizers, long child-free vacations and a live-in nanny. I dismissed it. Impossible. Liar liar pants on fire. A whole year is impossible. I mean, how did she make it through the holidays? How did she make it through a car trip longer than 30 minutes? How did she make it through a meal out at a restaurant? No way. 

But then I found out she was starting a 30-day challenge. I’m a sucker for challenges. I’m competitive. Ok. I can do 30-days. I’ll show you Orange Rhino Lady. Thirty days is nothin’!  I can do a month. 

So, here I go – 3o days of no yelling.  I’ve been reading up. I have my strategies. I’ve stocked the freezer and wine rack. I told my husband and kids (husband stifled a laugh but said he was on board and kids were genuinely excited). I’m telling all of you, so now I’m accountable. I’m nervous but excited. I’ve started rehearsing my song for “Put Your Shoes On” sung to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. The kids love it.

This is gonna be hard but fun(ish).

Wanna join me?

Photo Credit: The Found Animals Foundation.

Five Things You Should Never Say to the Mother of Your Children

Dear Husband,

You are a wonderful father and husband. I thank Fate everyday that we crossed paths and managed to scare each other into getting married. You do the grocery shopping (usually with the kids!), help with bedtime, cook dinner at least two nights a week, and are home for dinner almost every night. You are a dream! How did I get so lucky?

But, there are some phrases you should just stop saying. Every time I hear them, I  contemplate a one-way ticket to Tahiti…for me. Alone. All by myself.  For starters, here are five things you should never say to the mother of your children:

We need this in our house.

We need this in our house.

1. “I need a couple of minutes to go to the bathroom.” Almost without fail you come home, say hello, kiss me on the cheek, get the kids riled up with excitement to see their daddy and then excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. Alone. With the door closed. And locked. You get annoyed when one of the kids tries to follow you in there, or worse, bangs on the door demanding to be let in. I get to go to the bathroom alone only when both kids are at school or in bed. That averages out to about 1.5 times a day. And in reality, usually during one of those times you are in the bathroom brushing your teeth. No, dear husband, you get to have an audience, complete with running commentary on all of your body parts. Prepare to be humbled.  And by the way, our three-year-old is potty training so show some enthusiasm!

2. “I thought you were going to _______ .” Yes, I had big plans for today, too. I thought I was going to get a shower. I thought I was going to call the plumber. I thought I was going to put the Christmas decorations away.  I thought I was going to make it to the pharmacy. I thought when I grew up I would  travel around the world saving children from orphanages but then, guess what?? You knocked me up. Twice. And now those little bastards are holding me hostage everyday making me do things I never dreamed I would do without someone putting a gun to my head. I do not control my days, let alone my hours or minutes. Yes, I thought I was going to do something today too, but alas, I only managed to keep our small humans alive just so I can live to tell of their tortures tomorrow.

3. “Have you seen my ______?” You are a grown-up. I am keeping track of my stuff and the humongous piles of crap that come with our two children. I cannot keep track of your stuff, too. Please do your part and find your own crap. And while you’re at it, pick it up and put it away, too.

4. “It’s been a while since we…you know.” Yep. And it’s gonna be a while longer (see #1 and #2). I am never alone. Someone is always touching, grabbing, licking, wiping, hitting or otherwise abusing my body. At 8:30 at night when that finally stops, the last thing I want is a grown-up touching, grabbing, or slobbering on me. To say nothing of the other thirty things that I didn’t get done today that I must now somehow get done between the hours of 8:30 PM and 11:00 PM. Yes, I miss you. Yes, sex is important but you knocked me up (twice, remember!) and now I have certain responsibilities. I should be free in 2018.

5. “I don’t feel so well. I’m gonna take a sick day.” I call this the Man Flu. I didn’t coin this phrase but it is so true. It doesn’t matter what the affliction is but men seem to suffer so much more than anyone else when they are sick. In the five years I’ve been a parent, there is only one thing that has made me take to my bed and it was a horrible case of mastitis (can I get an “Amen!”?). So, dear husband, not that you aren’t allowed a sick day but you aren’t allowed to then lay in bed all day, complaining of how bad you feel and summoning me to fetch you drinks, medications, and meals.The barely controlled chaos of my day tips into uncontrolled chaos with the addition of your sickly demands. The lives of the three other people in our house must go on. I get sick yet our kids still get to school. They still get fed.  I still wake up at an ungodly hour to snuggle our youngest so he doesn’t wake our eldest. You can take a sick day but don’t be surprised when I only manage to throw some Children’s Tylenol and a gummy bear vitamin at you as I pass by with a half-naked toddler.  Yes, that is probably poop smeared on your drinking glass because you summoned me in the middle of a diaper change. If you get sick, do what I do and Suck. It. Up.

I love you. I appreciate you. You are amazing. But please stop saying these phrases unless you want to  be forced to hunt me down on a remote island in the middle of the South Pacific.

Hm. I think my plan is about to backfire. <Sigh.>

In case you didn’t see it, my husband  posted his reply, “Five Things You Should Never Say to the Father of Your Children.”

Photo credit: Beautiful Freaks

Going Back to Work: Using My Powers for Good

My days of living in yoga pants, optional shower days, and comfortable footwear are coming to an end. It’s time for me to start the process of finding a paying job.

Working outside the home part-time or full-time or staying home full-time…this dilemma is one that most moms encounter at some point, sometimes repeatedly, once that little pink, squirmy, and warm bundle of joy enters her life. For me, I put work out of my mind with the arrival of my second child. It was a decision based largely on my complete inability to accept that I couldn’t be “the best” at my job. In the words of my eighth grade gym teacher, I’m a competitive little fart. I wasn’t sure I could handle the competing demands of a job and the needs of very young children. I chose to embrace the opportunity to be home with my kids while they were very young. I packed away my suit and high heels and invested in lots of stretchy black clothing.

Reality came knocking on my door this week. A friend stopped by to drop something off and during small talk mentioned she was waiting to hear back on a job interview. It was her first job interview in eight years after she also made the decision to stay home full-time. She related the challenges she was having in conveying to potential employers her viability as an employee after being out of the workforce for eight years. After she left, it hit me that I had not worked a paying job in almost four years. I pulled out my resume and immediately felt like the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz left out in the rain too long. As I read my resume, I could hear the rusty squeaks of the wheels turning in my head.

Yowzer.

I’ve spent some time the last few days thinking about jobs I am interested in and whether or not I could go back to my previous career. I am reading about strategies for stay-at-home moms re-entering the workforce and everything I read says to start by considering what jobs I might be qualified for based on my experience. Thinking of the skills I’ve honed for the last five years, the stereotypical maid, chauffeur and cook come to mind but I feel like my days of full-time mothering are not useless. I brainstormed a list of potential jobs last night:

1- Bartender. Come 5:00 at the end of one of those days when my kids have done nothing but screamed at me and each other and there is no visible indication that I actually have hardwood floors in my dining room because they are covered in toys, blankets, crumbs and mystery stickiness, I’ve perfected the art of a 5:00 cocktail leftover from whatever I happen to have in the house. Red wine mixed with bourbon and coffee isn’t as bad as you may think.

2  – Sleep deprivation study coordinator. I can round-up twenty people in about two minutes from my group of friends and document the countless ways sleep-deprivation ruins your life. “Hmmm. I see…you haven’t slept for more than four hours at a time in three years. What effects have you seen? Hmmm…you lost your engagement ring three weeks ago only to find it in the fridge on top of the cream cheese. Mmmmhmmm. Yes, yes. Totally normal.”

3 – Server at some Fancy Pants restaurant catering to those with a sophisticated palette. Don’t laugh. This position can make six figures at some restaurants. Consider this scenario that played out at my house last week:

“Oh, I’m so sorry sir. Your carrot was cut in half lengthwise instead of chopped into thirds? I’ll be right back with a replacement carrot,” said me to my three-year-old. I could do this job in my sleep. My three-year-old hurls cheese sticks at my face on a regular basis because “it is cracking.” It. Is. String. Cheese. It’s supposed to do that. I handle all of these complaints with calm, detached indifference to the ridiculousness of my sons’ requests and continue to cater to their endless demands.

medium_29017384594 – Spy – Physical abuse? No problem. Days of sleep deprivation? Ha. That’s nothing. Try six YEARS of sleep deprivation.  Psychological torture? I’ve tortured myself over all of the ways I’ve screwed up my kids and all of the ways others are going to screw up my kids. Never mind the really horrible nightmares all parents have when they realize their  emotional Achilles heel walks around most of the day completely unaware of the dangers hurtling towards them at lightning speed: cars, trucks, kidnappers, earthquakes, tsunamis and the bully  next door. I can handle a little physical and psychological torture. You won’t break me.

5 – Hostage Negotiator – “Yes, yes. I hear you’re very upset that your brother threw your football onto the roof. Yes, I see that you want to strangle him and pound his head into the ground repeatedly. I think you can make a better choice here so that he doesn’t get hurt and you don’t get in trouble. Let’s talk about your options.” Rinse. Repeat. Everyday. My kids are still alive. I negotiate the preservation of their lives everyday.

6 – Presidential Scheduler – If I can handle the schedule of two adults and two children, I can handle one President. Yesterday I scheduled the exterminator to come to the house during a 30-minute break in my day created by me rescheduling a kid’s haircut and calling two moms to cover school pick-ups while I let the exterminator into the house. I get bonus points for not ripping the guy’s head off when he showed up 20 minutes late – coincidentally the exact time I originally asked him to come. I can handle a President and some annoyed foreign leaders, no problem.

7 – Professional Poker Player – The lies I tell my children to get them to do things without ever once twitching my eye, tugging on my hair or raising an eyebrow!  “Yes, I promise I will not eat any of your Halloween candy while you are at school.” Never mind that I know nothing about poker. I’ve got the game face down pat.Full house? Royal flush? Four aces? I’ll never give up my hand without someone giving up lots and lots of money.

8 – Jedi Night – There’s a scene in Star Wars where Obi-Wan says, “These are not the droids you are looking for,” and waves his hand in front of the storm troopers and the storm troopers trot off in the opposite direction. I do this every single day. “That is not the cookie you want to eat.” “This is not the child you want to play with.” “You love to eat broccoli.” “You will go to sleep now.” A small wave of my hand, magic words spoken at just the right time and in the right tone and miracles happen. These skills would be useful for anyone looking for help with a hostile corporate take-over or, even better, world domination. Surely there’s money to made there somewhere.  (Disclaimer: some days the wave of the hand is also accompanied by lots of screaming and threats of violence. I should maybe consider this position a “stretch goal.”)

9 – Ninja – Come on. This almost goes with the list of “maid, chauffeur, etc.”. I can sneak in and out of my kids’ rooms, put away clothes, rearrange furniture, change their sheets, undress and redress them without them ever waking up. I need to brush up on my steel  star-throwing skills but otherwise I’m set.

medium_10253833610 – Self-defense class assistant. You  know the people who wear those super-padded suits while students in the class practice hitting, kicking, biting and throwing techniques? I take that kind of abuse everyday from my three-year old just trying to get him dressed. I do my job without some sissy padded suit, too. I’m immune to that kind of punishment. “What? Are you hitting me? I can’t feel a thing. Go ahead, have at it. I’m just going to catch up on some sleep in here.”

Ah, yes. Feeling much better about my employment opportunities. So if you have any connections at the Jedi Knight Academy, I’d appreciate the introduction.

Photo Credits: Stolen Wheels and University of Denver

Fighting Words

In my previous post, I wrote that I thought I was the one in our family with the most anxiety about our oldest starting kindergarten. As it ends up, Boy Wonder had a lot of anxiety, too. He cried everyday for the first two weeks, clinging to my arm, leg, shoulder, neck – any part of my body he could wrap his little arms and legs around, begging me to take him home. Thinking back to my dream from my previous post, he was no longer happily playing in the water; he was drowning and screaming for me to help him and I had no (real) choice but to keep throwing him back in the water.

We weren’t the only ones struggling and I exchanged looks of sympathy with a handful of other parents with their own children velcroed to their legs. I was somewhat prepared for this. Actually, it went down about the way I expected it to with one little surprise wrapped up in a 45 inches tall, 50 pound package – a little boy named Anthony.

Anthony (not his real name) is one of those little kids I didn’t like from the moment I met him. Yes, I admit it –  I don’t like all children. All children are loveable (by someone) but Anthony is the type of child that makes me grateful for my own sons on their worst days. He is loud and rambunctious. He runs everywhere with arms flailing about, often running into and knocking down other children, sometimes on accident but usually on purpose. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him walk. Did I mention he’s loud? Really loud.  Worse, the words coming out of his mouth are often not the words that should be spoken loudly around children, especially when the person speaking them is a child himself.

On the second day of kindergarten as I knelt with my son in line outside his classroom, feeling his head buried in my shoulder and spilling hot little tears on my neck, Anthony stood in line in front of us. He turned around abruptly and said to us loudly (it’s the only setting on his volume dial), “You’re such a cry baby! Only babies cry like you!”

“Flick (Dylan Earhart) is tortured by school yard bully Scut Farkus (Calvin Whitney) while little Randy (Harrison Goyette) lays helplessly in the snow in A Christmas Story.I was stunned. I looked around for Anthony’s mom or dad, expecting them to step in with a quick admonishment (at least) and then model more helpful language (a hopeful long shot in most cases, I know). I scanned the parents standing around. Where were they? All of the other kids’ parents were there. No one stepped in so I ignored him and placed my body between him and my son. Anthony left us alone.

The next day I chose a place away from Anthony but he actually sought us out in line and he proceeded to taunt my son again: “You cried all morning yesterday. Are you gonna cry again today? Jeez. Such a cry baby! I don’t cry. My baby brother cries but I don’t. Quit crying already.”

I looked around again for Anthony’s parents, desperately hoping someone would intervene to say something to this child. Seeing no one, I felt my own anger, hurt and need to protect my child rise up like a red hot bowling ball from the pit of my stomach. My fight-or-flight instinct was kicking in and it was telling me to fight: “Who are you to call my son a cry baby! You little loud-mouthed runt! Step off or I will throw down! You think that just because there are a bunch of people around that I won’t? Just watch!”

Oh. My. God. I had just played out in my head what that fireball in my stomach wanted me to do. My body was preparing to take down a five-year-old! A kindergartner! He’s not even half my size! Horrified and embarrassed by my reaction, I swallowed the fireball, picked up my son and walked/stomped to the back of the line, certain everyone could see the steam coming from my ears and the lasers shooting from my eye sockets aimed straight for Anthony.

The next day, as we approached school, I felt my son tighten his grip on my hand and I started to feel my own anxiety rise. We were one of the first to arrive but Anthony was already there. He left us alone at first but inevitably he found his way to us and started hurling his insults at my son again. I swallowed my fireball and immediately knelt down and said in my kindest, softest mommy voice, “Anthony, it’s ok if he wants to cry. He’s feeling scared and sad and he feels better if he cries. Do you sometimes cry when you’re scared or sad?”

Anthony looked at me hard. I don’t know what he was thinking. Maybe he was thinking if he told the truth it would mean that he was a cry baby, too. And if he lied, well, then he was a liar. He didn’t say anything but instead turned to talk/yell at one of the other kids in his class. He left us alone.

The next day, Friday, my son and I were the first ones in his class to arrive at school. Anthony was the second. He walked right up to us and said at a volume that resembled normal, “Hi Mrs. Mommy. I brought my lunch today. It’s turkey.” I stood with my son on one side of me and Anthony on the other, instinctively feeling the need to protect my son, uncertain how this exchange was going to go.  As the three of us continued talking, I noticed Anthony stepping closer and closer until he was leaning against my leg.  Somewhere between telling me about his backpack and asking my son about his lunchbox, Anthony reached up and gently held my hand. He proceeded to have a very nice conversation with me and my son for the next couple of minutes before another child arrived. He let go of my hand and started talking/yelling at the other child, and my son started his routine of clinging to me tighter and tighter until we both enveloped ourselves into our little ritual to get him through the routine of walking with his class and into his classroom. But Anthony left us alone and has ever since.  I haven’t heard Anthony call my son a cry baby and Anthony almost always comes to say/shout hello to us when we arrive in the morning.

I can’t help but wonder and worry about Anthony. Who in his life is telling him it’s not ok to cry? Equally important, who is telling him it’s ok to treat others the way he treated my son? More importantly, how do I better prepare my son to weather these emotional attacks when I’m not around? What will happen when I’m not there to intervene? I hear my son stick up for himself in other situations and use the language I’ve taught him to use: “I don’t like it when you treat me that way. It hurts my feelings. If you don’t stop, I’m going to go play somewhere else.” I know he has no qualms about reporting to adults when he or someone else is physically injured; he’s probably closer to being a tattle-tale than anything else. Right now, I’m ok with that. He has time to learn more advanced social skills that will allow him to be more self-sufficient but he’s only five years old! He should still feel like he can go to an adult for help if he needs it. Maybe that’s exactly what Anthony was trying to do, and ultimately, it’s what he got.

The River

I am sitting on the banks of a river watching my five-year-old boy swim and play in the calm water. He dives underwater, exploring, inventing a new game every few minutes. His water games take him further and further away from the bank, until he drifts away, too far for me to reach him. I stand at the edge of the water bellowing for him to swim to me and come back. Too far away to hear me, he is happily swimming and playing, blissfully unaware of the possible danger and my panic.

And I wake up.

medium_3577182683It’s 4:30 this morning and after regaining my senses I’m disappointed in the transparency of my subconscious. My dream is uncreative in its reflection of what is going on in my life. After much (too much?) deliberation, we decided to enroll our oldest in kindergarten and he starts next week. We not only started him in kindergarten but we chose a Spanish immersion program at our neighborhood public school. After attending an informational meeting last winter and being blown away by the fifth graders in attendance who easily moved between speaking English and Spanish – and had a degree of maturity and confidence that surprised almost everyone in the room – we were sold. We entered in the lottery and were elated when we received notice this summer that Our Boy would be enrolled.

Reality hit hard this week. Much like millions of families across the country this week, we started the back to school shuffle: gathering school supplies, filling out paperwork, buying new clothes and running endless errands. I was fine. I was more than fine! I was excited and relieved to be starting this new chapter. I couldn’t relate to the many Facebook posts from friends sending their little ones off to kindergarten amidst tears and sadness. We had a great summer and I was ready for school to start and so were my kids. Our Boy was showing all the signs of being excited for school and it thrilled me to see him happily exploring reading, writing and math on his own.

We were ready.

Our boy went to his assessment and reported back to us (we weren’t allowed in the room) that the teacher only spoke Spanish but he figured out what she was asking and answered in Spanish when he knew the Spanish words (his numbers and colors) and in English when he didn’t know. He seemed unaffected. I was thrilled for him. But, I was unnerved when I learned the teacher would not speak English in front of the children. Period. I panicked. How was I going to talk to her? She didn’t offer an email or phone number (hopefully that’s coming). I was told by another parent that a separate appointment is needed at a time when the child isn’t present. The logistical nightmare became obvious and I started to worry but took comfort seeing how comfortable Our Son was with this new landscape. He was unphased.

A couple of days later we had Kinder Round-Up, a meeting at school giving kids the chance to meet their teacher and classmates and see their classroom. The teacher, speaking only in Spanish, invited the kids to sit on the carpet with her and read a book.  Predictably, Our Boy sat at the very most outer-edge of the carpet and he kept one eye on the teacher and one eye on me. About half-way through, he finally gave up and came and sat on my lap. The teacher invited him to participate and he refused. He didn’t cry or get upset but he withdrew. He has shown no other real signs of stress (yet) but I couldn’t help but panic a little more.

This panic took grip after the kids went to bed. I eventually fell asleep but then woke at 2:30, never to return to sleep for the night. His little bit of withdrawal threw me. Seeing the teacher interact with the kids only in Spanish threw me. The looks of confusion on the faces of almost every child threw me. I started to think we had made a mistake.  I carried this suspicion with me the entire day. We headed to a playdate organized by the school with other parents of kids in the Spanish immersion program. I sent the kids off to go play and immediately set out to find a parent who could answer some questions:

“Did your kid freak out?” “What happens when they lose it?” “Will the teacher speak to them in English?” “What about in an emergency? Will the teacher speak to the kids in English then?” “If the teacher won’t speak English in front of the children, when will I talk to her?” “Was this a mistake?” “Should I just pull him out and put him in traditional kindergarten?”

I found a group of moms with kids who had been in the program for at least a year. I happened to know one of them and elbowed my way into their circle. I got half-way through my first question before I felt the pinch in my voice that gave me away that I was about to lose it. The mom next to me said in a surprisingly reassuring voice, “He’s going to be fine.”

In my mind, I replied, “No he’s not.  Fear, confusion and intimidation are going to squash his confidence and curiosity. He’s gong to become a shell of his former self, start listening to heavy-metal, death-rock music, completely withdraw and start torturing bugs and small animals. I’ll have to check him into rehab at the age of eight and surrender him to the state before he’s 10. I’m making a colossal parenting mistake. The biggest of my life.” In my mind, the fragments of my dream were starting to form. I could see water swirling around Our Boy and it was dark and moving faster and faster. I swear I could see alligators and sharks circling him, ready to eat him up.

She repeated it again, “He’s going to be fine. Like most things, this is a lot harder on parents than the kids. He’s going to be confused and frustrated for a while but he’s going to be fine.” The other parents nodded in agreement and offered their own stories of sleepless nights, doubt and oaths to “just pull their kid out.”

After talking to these parents, I realized that my anxiety was all about my fears. I’m not afraid because he’s afraid. I’m not panicked because he’s panicked. He’s not losing any sleep. He doesn’t know the difference; he doesn’t know what it’s like to go to a kindergarten class where the teacher speaks English. He doesn’t know that I’m going to have a communication barrier with his teacher and, even if he does, he doesn’t care. He wants to play, learn and make friends. And he’s going to do exactly that.

He needs to play and drift from shore and be oblivious to my shouts for him to come back. I need to stop panicking. Instead of shouting for him to come back, I need to smile and wave and tell him to have fun and go explore. I’ll be right here on the banks of the river, waiting for him to come home and tell me all about the wonderful things he discovered in the water.

Happiest of Birthdays

My oldest son celebrates his birthday this week. His birthdays are always bittersweet for me. Yes, there is the bitter because he’s getting older (and I am, too) but I’ve made peace with that sentiment (at least for now). The bitter for me is still in how long and how hard it was to finally be able to celebrate his birthdays.

This birthday is a turning point of sorts. This year, my son turns five years old. Five years is how long I waited before he finally arrived – five years before I knew, for certain, whether I would be a mom.

Six years ago this week I laid next to my husband on a beach in Santa Cruz, and despite wanting to embrace the purpose of our visit – to relax, take a break from the four-year roller coaster of trying to get pregnant, have some fun, reconnect – all I could do was sob…uncontrolled, primal, heart-destroying sobs. We had just finished our first, brutal round of in vitro fertilization and found out that I was not pregnant.

Again.

Still.

In the midst of my grief, my thoughts kept turning to a woman I had met a couple of months earlier. I attended a dinner for work and was seated next to a stranger, the wife of a work associate. She looked to be a little older than me and had a smile that invited conversation. We chatted about small stuff and I quickly learned she was the mother of twins from whom she was happily enjoying a night away. She asked if I had any children and I gave her the answer I gave everyone who asked at that time in my life, “No, not yet.”

By that point in our quest to have a child, it really meant, “I desperately want children but can’t and I’m holding onto my last thread of hope that I will someday.” But I couldn’t really say that. I could hardly say that to my immediate family and closest friends, let alone a perfect stranger.

She went on to share that her twins were the result of multiple tries of in vitro fertilization. It was a personal revelation and one she shared in confidence, maybe somehow knowing it was very relevant to me. She related a familiar story of desperately wanting children with years of failing absent a clear reason why the usual medical interventions didn’t work. Her eyes became wet with tears. I was touched but a little baffled. I thought, “She has kids! She has a happy ending to the infertility story! Why is she on the verge of tears?” As I wrestled with this, she looked me in the eyes and said, “The heartache is unbearable, even now, and this was years ago. I hope you get to have children soon.”

It was obvious what she shared with me was not for public knowledge. She lowered her voice and spoke slowly, with measure, to make sure I heard her. I still wonder what it was about me that made her think she not only could tell me this private experience, but that she should. She had no way of knowing that my husband and I had our first appointment just that morning to begin the process of in vitro fertilization. After years of trying unsuccessfully to have a child and talking to countless doctors, trying various medical procedures, having surgery, receiving acupuncture, and taking up meditation, we were still childless – and heartbroken. She couldn’t have known that I spent most of my morning sobbing, cradled in the abyss of hopelessness and I knew the unbearable heartache she spoke of very well. Until this night at this dinner talking with this mom of twins, I had not found comfort in any other person’s words. Not my husband’s. Not my mother’s.  Not my sister’s. Certainly not any of the doctors’.

But here she was. Her hope for me was genuine. Her sentiment was heartfelt and not condescending or patronizing. She didn’t give me false hope by saying, “Oh, I’m sure it will work out.” She didn’t insult me by telling me, “Just relax, it will happen.” Instead, she simply reflected the only thing I had left. Hope.

And so, laying next to my husband, sobbing on that Santa Cruz beach, I took a deep breath and realized that hope really was what I had and that it was what would get me through until I answered the question whether or not I would have children. I also realized that even if I were lucky enough to have a child, the pain of the experience, the perpetual, seemingly never-ending grief I felt each month when I realized – again – I wasn’t pregnant, would be something that became a part of me. I would always be willing to cry with a stranger over the heartache of not being able to have children (which I have done in the years since).

A little over a year after I laid on that beach in Santa Cruz, our oldest was born. The joy was endless, my gratitude immeasurable. But grief is a funny thing. It is triggered by memories and events and the passing of specific days on the calendar. So, while I celebrate my son’s fifth birthday, all of the amazing things he has brought to my life and the wonderful human being he is, I also give a nod of my head to the road I took to get here – grateful it is the road behind me.