Last week went by so fast, but that isn't why I haven't written. Brain block was the culprit. I sat, sluggish and fat on cookies and fun, and tired from constant motion. In these last hours of 2009, with a layer of white snow softening my window view and all four of my kids tucked up in their beds for the last time this year, my desire to share sweet thoughts about the holidays wars with the pull to end with a funny story.
I bring you both.
Hope your 2009 ends with a quiet snuggle and your 2010 is filled with hilarity and love. I hope any griefs this new year holds are tempered by joy. That's all we can really ask. Happy New Year.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sleep Science
Nate is a very light, very finicky sleeper. It's an anomaly. As I've said before, my kids sleep well. They're in bed by 6:45 p.m., asleep by 7:15 p.m., and I don't hear from them again until some time in the sixes, preferably late sixes, the next morning.
It's not because I'm an awesome parent or because I've found the ultimate answer to the age old question - how the hell do I get these kids to stay in their damn beds all night because I'm old and tired and I hate under eye bags? It's because I'm mean and I don't care if my kids cry.
Whoa, Tonto, put down the phone, no need to call DYS yet. Of course, I care if they cry if it's important. If they're sick or in pain or terrified of the ceiling (? IT'S JUST A CEILING, THERE'S NOTHING THERE BUT PAINT). But, thirsty? Not tired? Itchy? Blankets on wrong? Hair rubbed the wrong way? Favorite sock/PJs/toy/animal/blanket/pillow/paraphernalia of any sort missing?
I. don't. care.
I had to walk up here to tell you how much I don't care? You owe me fifteen minutes in your bed in the morning. While we eat breakfast. Which means you eat a plain waffle for breakfast on the way to where ever I'm going.
That kind of includes my older babies, I admit. I hit a brick wall with "OH MY GOD I AM SO DONE WITH THIS NURSING OVERNIGHT THING, I AM SO TIRED, YOU ARE JUST PLAYING, I DON'T LIKE YOU AT 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 OR EVEN 5:00 A.M." written all over it in huge, bubble graffiti at approximately nine (Gee), okay seven (Cue), okay six (Nate) months and I let my babies cry it out.
Gasp. I know. The C. I. O. words. So blase. So years beginning of time through 1990. So cruel and heartless. Dude. Comere. Closer. Closer. Divulging parenting secret the experts won't tell you. (Whispering) it totally works.
It generally takes about forty-five minutes the first night, less from there, and after four days, with all three boys, it's been over and my life has returned to blissful well-restedness.
I'm not advocating crying it out. I'm not judging anyone who responds to every whimper until their kid is five. I don't think you are a bad parent if you absolutely can not bear the crying and you respond. I don't think you are a bad parent if you think it's important to comfort children to sleep and you nurse your three-year-old at 2:00 a.m./let your kids sleep in your bed/sleep in your kids' beds/hang upside down from your kids' ceiling until they fall asleep.
I am NOT judging sleep choices.
Flip side is: you don't get to judge me either. Yep. I let them cry. And it's not because I love my kids less than you do. It's not because my kids are less precious than yours. It's not because I'm a hard ass or I don't have feelings or I think it's fun to listen to a baby wail for forty-five minutes.
I just don't think whether or not we respond to kids at night determines outcomes. I don't think it matters, particularly, where you are on the spectrum of child raising from the most attachmenty of attachment parents all the way down the continuum to what some might call, ahem, drill sargenty. I don't think my kids will end up ruling the world because we all slept 10 hours a night and your kids will end up in jail. I don't think my kids will end up in jail because I was mean about bedtime and your kids will have six Ph.Ds. If consistency and love are there, I think it's kind of a crap shoot. Scary, I know.
Also, I am selfish and I consider sleep probably one of the top three most important things in my life along with hot showers and chocolate chip mint ice cream. I rank my sleep above causing my children mild upset/distress/discomfort. I don't put it above their health, safety or reasonable well being. I do consider it more valuable than avoiding forty-five minutes of crying at six-months-old. That's just me.
Enter Nate. Delightful, flirty Nate of the sinfully cute smiles. At three in the morning. Gah. I gave myself a concussion on that wall the week before Christmas at about three a.m. while he was gnawing on my nipple purely for entertainment and companionship and not at all for nutrition or because he intended to soothe himself back to dreamland in any kind of appropriately prompt manner and I let him cry himself to sleep three nights in a row. I nursed him down in my arms, ignored the fact that he transfers from arms to rigged chair/bassinet contraption like a hungry polar bear with a toothache, let him cry himself to sleep and then ignored his fussing/cooing/smiling ass until 6:00 a.m.
It worked. He slept better. Until he got a really bad cold the day after Christmas and yes, even heartless wicked witch me can not leave a baby wailing in his rigged bassinet when he can not breathe through his nose. I caved and now that he can breathe I'm going to have to start all the damn way over again.
I know that this second go around should involve his crib, but I don't want to make the switch because he sleeps so well in that car seat when he sleeps. I absolutely do recommend the car seat in bassinet sleeping system for small babies. They breathe better when they are upright like that and they are all snuggly in there.
Behold, the car seat/bassinet contraption of sleepfulness.
And. Bonus. For that tricky transition from arms to car seat/bassinet? I can nurse him in the car seat. That's right. I can set him in the car seat and still nurse him. I have really talented nipples.
I absolutely am. My left nipple is in his mouth. You can see his wee toes on the bottom left. I have crazy nursing multitasking skills. In just a moment, I can pop it out and leave him cashed out in the chair. Where he'll stay, sleeping peacefully for two or three hours. Unless it's the middle of the night and I'm actually trying to sleep, at which point, I give him fifteen minutes.
Nate and I went to his six month well baby check on Tuesday and my pediatrician, who has been through four babies with me and knows me well, asked me casually if he was still sleeping in his car seat.
Me: Uh huh.
Dr. Sarah: You should probably start thinking about transitioning to a crib. Or a flat surface of any sort.
Me: Uh huh. I know. I will. It's just, he's kind of a light sleeper and we just did the crying thing and then he slept through the night for like two days and then he got an awful cold, so you know. But, I will. I know I need to do it. He's starting to sit up and he's going to roll himself right out of that seat and hit the floor.
She laughed because she's awesome and relaxed like that.
Dr. Sarah: Well he'll be fine as long as it's on carpet.
Aha. It totally is. Now.
It's not because I'm an awesome parent or because I've found the ultimate answer to the age old question - how the hell do I get these kids to stay in their damn beds all night because I'm old and tired and I hate under eye bags? It's because I'm mean and I don't care if my kids cry.
Whoa, Tonto, put down the phone, no need to call DYS yet. Of course, I care if they cry if it's important. If they're sick or in pain or terrified of the ceiling (? IT'S JUST A CEILING, THERE'S NOTHING THERE BUT PAINT). But, thirsty? Not tired? Itchy? Blankets on wrong? Hair rubbed the wrong way? Favorite sock/PJs/toy/animal/blanket/pillow/paraphernalia of any sort missing?
I. don't. care.
I had to walk up here to tell you how much I don't care? You owe me fifteen minutes in your bed in the morning. While we eat breakfast. Which means you eat a plain waffle for breakfast on the way to where ever I'm going.
That kind of includes my older babies, I admit. I hit a brick wall with "OH MY GOD I AM SO DONE WITH THIS NURSING OVERNIGHT THING, I AM SO TIRED, YOU ARE JUST PLAYING, I DON'T LIKE YOU AT 2:00, 3:00, 4:00 OR EVEN 5:00 A.M." written all over it in huge, bubble graffiti at approximately nine (Gee), okay seven (Cue), okay six (Nate) months and I let my babies cry it out.
Gasp. I know. The C. I. O. words. So blase. So years beginning of time through 1990. So cruel and heartless. Dude. Comere. Closer. Closer. Divulging parenting secret the experts won't tell you. (Whispering) it totally works.
It generally takes about forty-five minutes the first night, less from there, and after four days, with all three boys, it's been over and my life has returned to blissful well-restedness.
I'm not advocating crying it out. I'm not judging anyone who responds to every whimper until their kid is five. I don't think you are a bad parent if you absolutely can not bear the crying and you respond. I don't think you are a bad parent if you think it's important to comfort children to sleep and you nurse your three-year-old at 2:00 a.m./let your kids sleep in your bed/sleep in your kids' beds/hang upside down from your kids' ceiling until they fall asleep.
I am NOT judging sleep choices.
Flip side is: you don't get to judge me either. Yep. I let them cry. And it's not because I love my kids less than you do. It's not because my kids are less precious than yours. It's not because I'm a hard ass or I don't have feelings or I think it's fun to listen to a baby wail for forty-five minutes.
I just don't think whether or not we respond to kids at night determines outcomes. I don't think it matters, particularly, where you are on the spectrum of child raising from the most attachmenty of attachment parents all the way down the continuum to what some might call, ahem, drill sargenty. I don't think my kids will end up ruling the world because we all slept 10 hours a night and your kids will end up in jail. I don't think my kids will end up in jail because I was mean about bedtime and your kids will have six Ph.Ds. If consistency and love are there, I think it's kind of a crap shoot. Scary, I know.
Also, I am selfish and I consider sleep probably one of the top three most important things in my life along with hot showers and chocolate chip mint ice cream. I rank my sleep above causing my children mild upset/distress/discomfort. I don't put it above their health, safety or reasonable well being. I do consider it more valuable than avoiding forty-five minutes of crying at six-months-old. That's just me.
Enter Nate. Delightful, flirty Nate of the sinfully cute smiles. At three in the morning. Gah. I gave myself a concussion on that wall the week before Christmas at about three a.m. while he was gnawing on my nipple purely for entertainment and companionship and not at all for nutrition or because he intended to soothe himself back to dreamland in any kind of appropriately prompt manner and I let him cry himself to sleep three nights in a row. I nursed him down in my arms, ignored the fact that he transfers from arms to rigged chair/bassinet contraption like a hungry polar bear with a toothache, let him cry himself to sleep and then ignored his fussing/cooing/smiling ass until 6:00 a.m.
It worked. He slept better. Until he got a really bad cold the day after Christmas and yes, even heartless wicked witch me can not leave a baby wailing in his rigged bassinet when he can not breathe through his nose. I caved and now that he can breathe I'm going to have to start all the damn way over again.
I know that this second go around should involve his crib, but I don't want to make the switch because he sleeps so well in that car seat when he sleeps. I absolutely do recommend the car seat in bassinet sleeping system for small babies. They breathe better when they are upright like that and they are all snuggly in there.
Behold, the car seat/bassinet contraption of sleepfulness.
And. Bonus. For that tricky transition from arms to car seat/bassinet? I can nurse him in the car seat. That's right. I can set him in the car seat and still nurse him. I have really talented nipples.
I absolutely am. My left nipple is in his mouth. You can see his wee toes on the bottom left. I have crazy nursing multitasking skills. In just a moment, I can pop it out and leave him cashed out in the chair. Where he'll stay, sleeping peacefully for two or three hours. Unless it's the middle of the night and I'm actually trying to sleep, at which point, I give him fifteen minutes.
Nate and I went to his six month well baby check on Tuesday and my pediatrician, who has been through four babies with me and knows me well, asked me casually if he was still sleeping in his car seat.
Me: Uh huh.
Dr. Sarah: You should probably start thinking about transitioning to a crib. Or a flat surface of any sort.
Me: Uh huh. I know. I will. It's just, he's kind of a light sleeper and we just did the crying thing and then he slept through the night for like two days and then he got an awful cold, so you know. But, I will. I know I need to do it. He's starting to sit up and he's going to roll himself right out of that seat and hit the floor.
She laughed because she's awesome and relaxed like that.
Dr. Sarah: Well he'll be fine as long as it's on carpet.
Aha. It totally is. Now.
Mine Love You Too
"Is today a special day, mommy?" Garrett asked me at the breakfast table the fourth day after Christmas.
We had a lot of special days in a row. A cookie decorating party. An ornament making party. Grandparents. Swimming. Special PJs for Santa. Santa's big arrival.
"No," I told him. "Every day can't be special. Today is just an ordinary day."
Remember my post about delighting in my children? I still make that a goal every day. I forget. I still yell. I still get impatient and overwhelmed, but I have started and stuck with one new daily practice. Right before I sing their lullabies each night, when I give each of them a tight hug and smell their yummy baby hair, I tell them something that delighted me that day. I keep it simple so that I don't get angsty about it.
You delighted me today when you told Miss K thank you.
I loved it when you cleaned up without whining.
I loved how patient you were with your picture drawing.
You delighted me today when you kissed baby Nate when he cried.
I thought it was no big deal until I forgot it one night and they all protested in their loud, whiny protest voices. "You didn't tell us what we did, you didn't say what you loved today."
On the fourth day after Christmas, at bedtime, I hugged them all tight and I said one thing that I loved that day. Garret said, "I love you, twinklelopalotus," and Saige said, "I love you mommysapasourus," because they think that is hilarious.
My dear little Quinn, he kept it simple. "Mine love you too," he replied.
He isn't going to say "mine" instead of "I" much longer.
As sappy and corny as it is, I fought tears and I said, "today was a special day, Garrett, because I got to spend it with all of you."
If I have one hope for myself in 2010, one prayer for my family for this new year and one wish for all of you, it's that. That you spend your days with the people that make them special.
And if I have one resolution, it's that I remember that every day is a special day.
Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for being part of my life in 2009. I have very high hopes for 2010.
We had a lot of special days in a row. A cookie decorating party. An ornament making party. Grandparents. Swimming. Special PJs for Santa. Santa's big arrival.
"No," I told him. "Every day can't be special. Today is just an ordinary day."
Remember my post about delighting in my children? I still make that a goal every day. I forget. I still yell. I still get impatient and overwhelmed, but I have started and stuck with one new daily practice. Right before I sing their lullabies each night, when I give each of them a tight hug and smell their yummy baby hair, I tell them something that delighted me that day. I keep it simple so that I don't get angsty about it.
You delighted me today when you told Miss K thank you.
I loved it when you cleaned up without whining.
I loved how patient you were with your picture drawing.
You delighted me today when you kissed baby Nate when he cried.
I thought it was no big deal until I forgot it one night and they all protested in their loud, whiny protest voices. "You didn't tell us what we did, you didn't say what you loved today."
On the fourth day after Christmas, at bedtime, I hugged them all tight and I said one thing that I loved that day. Garret said, "I love you, twinklelopalotus," and Saige said, "I love you mommysapasourus," because they think that is hilarious.
My dear little Quinn, he kept it simple. "Mine love you too," he replied.
He isn't going to say "mine" instead of "I" much longer.
As sappy and corny as it is, I fought tears and I said, "today was a special day, Garrett, because I got to spend it with all of you."
If I have one hope for myself in 2010, one prayer for my family for this new year and one wish for all of you, it's that. That you spend your days with the people that make them special.
And if I have one resolution, it's that I remember that every day is a special day.
Happy New Year, everyone. Thanks for being part of my life in 2009. I have very high hopes for 2010.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sexiest Man Alive
There might be just a smidgen of bias.
Maybe he's not Brad Pitt, but doesn't he accessorize well? Babynater ala five year old bjorn. All the cool kids are wearing them.
Happy Birthday, my love. I didn't post this on your real birthday because I know how freaky you are about my imaginary friends in my internet world. That is how much I love you. Now please stop hyperventilating about the holiday cards. They are from people I have met. In real life. They were lovely and have families of their own and everything.
************************************************
Tying up a few loose ends. December is kicking my butt and my parents get here tomorrow and my sister comes on Wednesday and then ohmigoditsxmas and we've got I think a bajillion fun kid activities next week that all involve horrendous amounts of sugar and sticky things that children are supposed to touch like cookie decorating and ornament making. You'll be able to find me huddled in the corner, rocking, clutching a container of wet wipes. In between crafting and bread baking (I made another batch of challah and braided it into mini-loaves for preschool and I KNOW, it was briefly like I was the most collected, together, organized SAHM ev-ah and then in between dropping off the mini loaves at Ess and Gee's preschool and taking the rest of the mini loaves to Cue's preschool I called a complete stranger a b-i-t-c-h in a grocery store parking lot. In my defense, she totally was, but that does not really excuse my behavior.) and managing to get a few cards sent out and oh yeah (!) spending a little time with my children, I haven't been able to do much more on line than fly by twitter occasionally.
But. Tomorrow. Ess and Gee go to all day preschool camp. Just say it out loud with me. All.day.preschool.camp. Isn't it beautiful? Like a full orchestra playing Pachabel's Canon in D. My to do list shall be conquered.
And it's all good. It really is. This is the part of the holidays I love. We don't do a lot of presents. Santa brings only one gift to our house, something bulky for all the kids (this year a play kitchen, shhhh ;-) and Matt and I give each of the kids one present and fill their stockings. I love the going, the getting together, the making, the candle lighting, the baking, the note writing, the singing, the eating (oh, the eating, hello grandma's cherry cookies), the decorating. I love the traditions. Yesterday, the kids wore antler headbands and we danced in front of the finally decorated tree for an hour and I took one of those deep, warm breaths to stop the happiness from spilling right out of my eyes as silly, sappy tears.
All of that to say that there are two really important things I want to tell you in case I don't get back on the computer again until, oh I don't know, March. First, your comments on the Matching post were awesome. I loved them because so many of you identified with the issue and had dealt with it in some way even if you are not an adoptive family. Second, thank you for helping us with our holiday card question. We went with "another year, another Rudolf." I do believe I was slightly ahead in the voting (not that I counted), but Matt really liked it and as Andrea rightly pointed out, that may not, okay, most likely won't, all right, all right, probably most definitely won't ever work again.
***************************
Updated P.S. This post makes me sound like an ass. Of course there are three very important things that I want to tell you. The most important being a wish for the merriest and busiest and traditioniest of weeks for all of you. I planned to say that in a separate post. That I totally intend to publish before March. XO.
Maybe he's not Brad Pitt, but doesn't he accessorize well? Babynater ala five year old bjorn. All the cool kids are wearing them.
Happy Birthday, my love. I didn't post this on your real birthday because I know how freaky you are about my imaginary friends in my internet world. That is how much I love you. Now please stop hyperventilating about the holiday cards. They are from people I have met. In real life. They were lovely and have families of their own and everything.
************************************************
Tying up a few loose ends. December is kicking my butt and my parents get here tomorrow and my sister comes on Wednesday and then ohmigoditsxmas and we've got I think a bajillion fun kid activities next week that all involve horrendous amounts of sugar and sticky things that children are supposed to touch like cookie decorating and ornament making. You'll be able to find me huddled in the corner, rocking, clutching a container of wet wipes. In between crafting and bread baking (I made another batch of challah and braided it into mini-loaves for preschool and I KNOW, it was briefly like I was the most collected, together, organized SAHM ev-ah and then in between dropping off the mini loaves at Ess and Gee's preschool and taking the rest of the mini loaves to Cue's preschool I called a complete stranger a b-i-t-c-h in a grocery store parking lot. In my defense, she totally was, but that does not really excuse my behavior.) and managing to get a few cards sent out and oh yeah (!) spending a little time with my children, I haven't been able to do much more on line than fly by twitter occasionally.
But. Tomorrow. Ess and Gee go to all day preschool camp. Just say it out loud with me. All.day.preschool.camp. Isn't it beautiful? Like a full orchestra playing Pachabel's Canon in D. My to do list shall be conquered.
And it's all good. It really is. This is the part of the holidays I love. We don't do a lot of presents. Santa brings only one gift to our house, something bulky for all the kids (this year a play kitchen, shhhh ;-) and Matt and I give each of the kids one present and fill their stockings. I love the going, the getting together, the making, the candle lighting, the baking, the note writing, the singing, the eating (oh, the eating, hello grandma's cherry cookies), the decorating. I love the traditions. Yesterday, the kids wore antler headbands and we danced in front of the finally decorated tree for an hour and I took one of those deep, warm breaths to stop the happiness from spilling right out of my eyes as silly, sappy tears.
All of that to say that there are two really important things I want to tell you in case I don't get back on the computer again until, oh I don't know, March. First, your comments on the Matching post were awesome. I loved them because so many of you identified with the issue and had dealt with it in some way even if you are not an adoptive family. Second, thank you for helping us with our holiday card question. We went with "another year, another Rudolf." I do believe I was slightly ahead in the voting (not that I counted), but Matt really liked it and as Andrea rightly pointed out, that may not, okay, most likely won't, all right, all right, probably most definitely won't ever work again.
***************************
Updated P.S. This post makes me sound like an ass. Of course there are three very important things that I want to tell you. The most important being a wish for the merriest and busiest and traditioniest of weeks for all of you. I planned to say that in a separate post. That I totally intend to publish before March. XO.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Holiday Infection, Er, Spirit
I'm working on holiday cards tonight. Making them.
I also baked challah for Hanukkah on Friday and I'm deeply immersed in a little crafting project for the kids of some close friends.
That is bread that I made. From a recipe. With yeast and everything. I only had to call my mom like four times and it was all in the first hour while I was hyperventilating over the failure of my yeast to breathe or grow or whatever it needs to do to make the dough rise. Turns out it is too cold in my house for yeast to work. I hear you, yeast, I often complain to the management as well. Maybe I should refuse to rise.
Anyway, crafting, creating, baking. I'm thinking brain tumor. Actually, it's a spirit-of-the-season brain infection. Totally curable by dark, cold, gloomy January. For now, I'm looking through "twinkle yights" colored glasses.
And finally, after failing miserably to produce any holiday cards last year, I get to participate in Meghan's Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. Behold, the front of our holiday card.
I can't show you the back because the message is a topic of debate.
Matt's pick is: "Another year, another Rudolf. (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
I like: "I'm Rudolf! No! I'm Rudolf! Mine Rudolf! (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
What thinkest thou? That's Shakespeare for which one do you like? Matt is currently winning on twitter. Not that it's a competition or anything. It is cute and his birthday is this week.
Hope the magic of the holidays has infected all your brains and you are seeing twinkle light colored spots every where you look.
I also baked challah for Hanukkah on Friday and I'm deeply immersed in a little crafting project for the kids of some close friends.
That is bread that I made. From a recipe. With yeast and everything. I only had to call my mom like four times and it was all in the first hour while I was hyperventilating over the failure of my yeast to breathe or grow or whatever it needs to do to make the dough rise. Turns out it is too cold in my house for yeast to work. I hear you, yeast, I often complain to the management as well. Maybe I should refuse to rise.
Anyway, crafting, creating, baking. I'm thinking brain tumor. Actually, it's a spirit-of-the-season brain infection. Totally curable by dark, cold, gloomy January. For now, I'm looking through "twinkle yights" colored glasses.
And finally, after failing miserably to produce any holiday cards last year, I get to participate in Meghan's Bloggy Holiday Card Exchange. Behold, the front of our holiday card.
I can't show you the back because the message is a topic of debate.
Matt's pick is: "Another year, another Rudolf. (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
I like: "I'm Rudolf! No! I'm Rudolf! Mine Rudolf! (Dear Santa, if it's foggy, call me. I'll make you a deal.)"
What thinkest thou? That's Shakespeare for which one do you like? Matt is currently winning on twitter. Not that it's a competition or anything. It is cute and his birthday is this week.
Hope the magic of the holidays has infected all your brains and you are seeing twinkle light colored spots every where you look.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Matching
"Almost all the kids match," Gee declared.
I tensed a little in my miniature chair, wrapped both hands more tightly around my chai and waited to see if he would pursue it. Fourteen munchkins arrayed around the preschool snack table gave him varying levels of non-attention, fixated mostly on their little hoards of raisins and wheat crackers.
Vaguely, it occurred to me that "almost all" was a complicated concept. Their brains develop so fast. They inhale sophistication. I can watch their thinking process grow and change like bread rising.
"Almost all the kids are peach momma. We match. And Ess matches Teacher Miscilla."
Ess barked, a second after I predict it in my mind, "I match mommy's eyes."
This is a recurrent theme in our house for the last month or two. As their minds become aware of color. Of features. Of alike and not alike. Their brains breathe in, breathe out, puzzling it. Our skin is different. Our eyes are the same. Ess has a tummy mommy. I do not.
I'm torn by her desire to match me. We have worked so hard for three long years to attach as a family. My emotional identity as her mother is strong, but they are young, simple, physical beings still. She wants the hard evidence. She wants to belong to me in fibers and colors and names and skin. Words are not satisfactory. Love. Bond. Concepts can't be touched. They want to see and hold. Gee's hair matches Daddy's hair. Ess' eyes match Mommy's eyes.
I encourage it gently and hide my reservations. My fears are adult fears. I know that she needs an identity as she grows that includes her Haitian heritage and her brown skin. I know that someday soon a desire to match her white mother and not her African American teacher could mean that I have failed to combat the pervasive message in our society that white is beautiful. That princesses are blond. That different is bad.
Not yet though. I feel fairly confident of that. She tells me she is pretty. She smiles when I do her hair and asks if she can see it. Oh, she primps, it's beautiful. This four-year-old year, I see only a child exploring the ways she belongs in her family, not a child rejecting the way she looks.
The preschoolers looked to me, sticky handfuls of raisins half way to their mouths.
"I don't match," I reminded Gee, "my skin is olive. Ess' eyes match mine but her skin is chocolate like Teacher Priscilla. We are all unique. Who else has brown eyes?"
Four small hands went up. "I have blue eyes," an adorable little blond piped.
"You do. Who else has blue eyes?" More comparing. Liam has green eyes like Gee.
"But you're the only one with red hair," I told Gee, "we're all different and we all match."
Just as suddenly as it began, it's over. Their fickle attention shifted to something else, a spilled water cup, their dwindling raisins. Teacher Marietta directed them to the Rainbow Room where Ryan's Grandpa, an entomologist, is ready to show them his Australian leaf bugs. They are huge! They are interesting! The biggest one laid an egg on his hand! We talk about bugs and only bugs for days, but I know it will come back up. I know it's on their minds because of the way it surfaces and sinks and resurfaces in our conversations. Matching. Our skin. Our eyes.
This round is easy because they are easily satisfied. The hard questions wait for us around the corner.
I want to pour my heart into her. You are stunning. You are gorgeous. You are unique. Don't cave to them, with their airbrushes and their chemical treatments and their make believe women in their make believe lives. Don't think that pretty and picture perfect are equal. Don't think that there is a look, a hair color, a weight, a wardrobe that brings happiness. Happiness is a family that loves you. Happiness is friends to giggle with you all night. Happiness is wine night every Thursday. It's finding a passion. It's tracing 1000 year old carvings with your finger. It is pouring your heart into something and coming in second. It's in a hug. It is seeing your grandmother's eyes light up when she meets your baby boy.
It is inconstant. It takes effort.
If you try to bleach or tan or sleep or puke or buy or exercise or read or drug your way to it, it will always elude you.
She is too small. I know. She is too small for all these words. So, I put them here for her for someday. You can not know the weight of someone's heart by looking at them, darling. There are plenty of tiny blonds that cry themselves to sleep at night. There are redheads the world over that starve themselves in the name of a warped concept of beauty.
We are all different. We are all the same.
I tensed a little in my miniature chair, wrapped both hands more tightly around my chai and waited to see if he would pursue it. Fourteen munchkins arrayed around the preschool snack table gave him varying levels of non-attention, fixated mostly on their little hoards of raisins and wheat crackers.
Vaguely, it occurred to me that "almost all" was a complicated concept. Their brains develop so fast. They inhale sophistication. I can watch their thinking process grow and change like bread rising.
"Almost all the kids are peach momma. We match. And Ess matches Teacher Miscilla."
Ess barked, a second after I predict it in my mind, "I match mommy's eyes."
This is a recurrent theme in our house for the last month or two. As their minds become aware of color. Of features. Of alike and not alike. Their brains breathe in, breathe out, puzzling it. Our skin is different. Our eyes are the same. Ess has a tummy mommy. I do not.
I'm torn by her desire to match me. We have worked so hard for three long years to attach as a family. My emotional identity as her mother is strong, but they are young, simple, physical beings still. She wants the hard evidence. She wants to belong to me in fibers and colors and names and skin. Words are not satisfactory. Love. Bond. Concepts can't be touched. They want to see and hold. Gee's hair matches Daddy's hair. Ess' eyes match Mommy's eyes.
I encourage it gently and hide my reservations. My fears are adult fears. I know that she needs an identity as she grows that includes her Haitian heritage and her brown skin. I know that someday soon a desire to match her white mother and not her African American teacher could mean that I have failed to combat the pervasive message in our society that white is beautiful. That princesses are blond. That different is bad.
Not yet though. I feel fairly confident of that. She tells me she is pretty. She smiles when I do her hair and asks if she can see it. Oh, she primps, it's beautiful. This four-year-old year, I see only a child exploring the ways she belongs in her family, not a child rejecting the way she looks.
The preschoolers looked to me, sticky handfuls of raisins half way to their mouths.
"I don't match," I reminded Gee, "my skin is olive. Ess' eyes match mine but her skin is chocolate like Teacher Priscilla. We are all unique. Who else has brown eyes?"
Four small hands went up. "I have blue eyes," an adorable little blond piped.
"You do. Who else has blue eyes?" More comparing. Liam has green eyes like Gee.
"But you're the only one with red hair," I told Gee, "we're all different and we all match."
Just as suddenly as it began, it's over. Their fickle attention shifted to something else, a spilled water cup, their dwindling raisins. Teacher Marietta directed them to the Rainbow Room where Ryan's Grandpa, an entomologist, is ready to show them his Australian leaf bugs. They are huge! They are interesting! The biggest one laid an egg on his hand! We talk about bugs and only bugs for days, but I know it will come back up. I know it's on their minds because of the way it surfaces and sinks and resurfaces in our conversations. Matching. Our skin. Our eyes.
This round is easy because they are easily satisfied. The hard questions wait for us around the corner.
I want to pour my heart into her. You are stunning. You are gorgeous. You are unique. Don't cave to them, with their airbrushes and their chemical treatments and their make believe women in their make believe lives. Don't think that pretty and picture perfect are equal. Don't think that there is a look, a hair color, a weight, a wardrobe that brings happiness. Happiness is a family that loves you. Happiness is friends to giggle with you all night. Happiness is wine night every Thursday. It's finding a passion. It's tracing 1000 year old carvings with your finger. It is pouring your heart into something and coming in second. It's in a hug. It is seeing your grandmother's eyes light up when she meets your baby boy.
It is inconstant. It takes effort.
If you try to bleach or tan or sleep or puke or buy or exercise or read or drug your way to it, it will always elude you.
She is too small. I know. She is too small for all these words. So, I put them here for her for someday. You can not know the weight of someone's heart by looking at them, darling. There are plenty of tiny blonds that cry themselves to sleep at night. There are redheads the world over that starve themselves in the name of a warped concept of beauty.
We are all different. We are all the same.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Health and Safety
I'm flying to Dallas tomorrow to visit my grandmother. That makes today pretty much the most insane day ever. Nater helpfully stayed up all night last night so that he could sleep, like a little sleeping angel, from 7:00 a.m. until I woke him up - I am not kidding, there is absolutely no kidding in this entire post - until I woke him up at 11:15 a.m.
I woke him up because I needed a few items and Ess and Gee and Cue and I were tired of grouching at each other while I tried to get a million and one things done for my trip, so I decided to break up the day by going to Wal.mart. Will I never learn?
We ate packed lunches in the parking lot of Walm.art because we are ca-lass-sy like that. I called my sister and my mother to let them know that I was hanging out in my used minivan in the Wal.mart parking lot nursing my baby while my three other toddlers ate goldfish crackers and a man in full camo, I mean full camo, head to toe, loaded some kind of herd animal food into his truck. They like it when I give them these little visuals of my life on the border of Idaho.
When everyone was full and relatively non-grumpy, I assembled my little procession. Nater sat in his pumpkin seat on his stroller frame, Ess held the left hand side of the stroller, Gee held the right hand side and Cue "helped" me push the stroller. No, there is no where for me stand. Also, I was wearing a tacky red backpack. (In case you are visualizing.)
I neglected to fasten the strap that secures the car seat onto the stroller frame. That becomes important in a moment. (Matt never forgets that freaking strap and he is rolling his eyes at my trials and tribulations as I type this.)
The kids each had something that we needed to "find" in the store. That keeps them busy. Gee had his little magnifying glass because he thinks "finding" something at the store is like Blue's Clues and he needs it to look for clues. Click! I don't know what Click! had to do with anything but I assume it's an annoying Blue's Clues thing because we all have to say it as we walk through the store. Click! Click!
We made it halfway down the first aisle. Half way down. No kidding in this post. At all. Cue kept hanging from the stroller handle and I kept asking him, ineffectively, not to hang from the stroller handle and then my phone rang. I thought. I didn't actually ring. No one ever calls me because I never have my freaking phone, but I thought it rang and I put my ugly red back pack down to find it. In doing so, I let go of the stroller.
So you know what happened then right?
Cue tried to hang from the handle again and the entire stroller flipped over on top of him and the unsecured back of the car seat let go so that it too flipped over. I couldn't see them, but I imagine that he and Nate lay there, suddenly eye to eye, wondering what the hell just happened.
Right at that moment, as I lunged for my upside down baby and pinned toddler in a blind panic, a man walking passed us commented, without stopping to help, "that doesn't look safe."
You think? Well I'll be a camouflaged deer-feed buying Walm.art shopper. You must be some kind of safety engineer. What tipped you off, Einstein? The upside down baby? The toddler laying flat on his back with forty pounds of stroller and upside down baby on his chest? I wanted to retort something obnoxious and clever like that, but unfortunately at that exact moment, I was grovelling on the floor of Wal.mart trying to rescue my two small children from what was, in all fairness, an unsafe situation of my own making. So yeah. I had to eat the Wal.mart shopper parenting commentary. Bummer.
I righted the baby and stroller. Cue lay there looking utterly shell-shocked. Nater never took his fingers out of his mouth, but his expression was all "what's with the loop-de-loops, milk lady, I just ate? And whoa! It's bright here! Is this Disney World?" Thank all that is holy that he was secured in the actual car seat.
Then, Gee screamed, "A CLUE! A CLUE!" Because enough people weren't looking at us already and I'm like, "WHAT MFING CLUE?!!"
I need a clue. Here's a clue, dumbass, stop taking four kids under the age of five out in public. He pointed at the large puddle on the floor by Cue's head. The large puddle of my expensive, precious chai latte, which I bought because I drove to Wal.mart, where things are cheap and made in China. Oh. Okay. Sure. A clue. Investigate while I pick up your brother and make sure I haven't permanently damaged him in front of like 200 witnesses.
Cue seemed fine. I reassembled our procession, wiped up the chai with a wet wipe, scraped my last vestiges of pride off of the cold, gray tile Wal.mart floor, and we carried on following CLUES! to the MILK! Click! Click?
Nate fell asleep again in the car on the way home. He had slept six hours already by 2:00 p.m. today. He wants to make sure that he is very well rested so that he can keep me up all night and we won't miss our 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow morning.
**************************************
It's 9:30. I think it felt good to write that out. Takes the sting out. A little. Wish me luck, I'm off to Texas in a few hours. I'll be handling only one child for the weekend, so with any luck I will be able to properly orient him with the earth at all times.
(E, K, A and M, that title is for you. I'll miss you. Any chance we could start taking shopping trips as a group? Apparently, I'm a danger to myself and others and I need better supervision.)
I woke him up because I needed a few items and Ess and Gee and Cue and I were tired of grouching at each other while I tried to get a million and one things done for my trip, so I decided to break up the day by going to Wal.mart. Will I never learn?
We ate packed lunches in the parking lot of Walm.art because we are ca-lass-sy like that. I called my sister and my mother to let them know that I was hanging out in my used minivan in the Wal.mart parking lot nursing my baby while my three other toddlers ate goldfish crackers and a man in full camo, I mean full camo, head to toe, loaded some kind of herd animal food into his truck. They like it when I give them these little visuals of my life on the border of Idaho.
When everyone was full and relatively non-grumpy, I assembled my little procession. Nater sat in his pumpkin seat on his stroller frame, Ess held the left hand side of the stroller, Gee held the right hand side and Cue "helped" me push the stroller. No, there is no where for me stand. Also, I was wearing a tacky red backpack. (In case you are visualizing.)
I neglected to fasten the strap that secures the car seat onto the stroller frame. That becomes important in a moment. (Matt never forgets that freaking strap and he is rolling his eyes at my trials and tribulations as I type this.)
The kids each had something that we needed to "find" in the store. That keeps them busy. Gee had his little magnifying glass because he thinks "finding" something at the store is like Blue's Clues and he needs it to look for clues. Click! I don't know what Click! had to do with anything but I assume it's an annoying Blue's Clues thing because we all have to say it as we walk through the store. Click! Click!
We made it halfway down the first aisle. Half way down. No kidding in this post. At all. Cue kept hanging from the stroller handle and I kept asking him, ineffectively, not to hang from the stroller handle and then my phone rang. I thought. I didn't actually ring. No one ever calls me because I never have my freaking phone, but I thought it rang and I put my ugly red back pack down to find it. In doing so, I let go of the stroller.
So you know what happened then right?
Cue tried to hang from the handle again and the entire stroller flipped over on top of him and the unsecured back of the car seat let go so that it too flipped over. I couldn't see them, but I imagine that he and Nate lay there, suddenly eye to eye, wondering what the hell just happened.
Right at that moment, as I lunged for my upside down baby and pinned toddler in a blind panic, a man walking passed us commented, without stopping to help, "that doesn't look safe."
You think? Well I'll be a camouflaged deer-feed buying Walm.art shopper. You must be some kind of safety engineer. What tipped you off, Einstein? The upside down baby? The toddler laying flat on his back with forty pounds of stroller and upside down baby on his chest? I wanted to retort something obnoxious and clever like that, but unfortunately at that exact moment, I was grovelling on the floor of Wal.mart trying to rescue my two small children from what was, in all fairness, an unsafe situation of my own making. So yeah. I had to eat the Wal.mart shopper parenting commentary. Bummer.
I righted the baby and stroller. Cue lay there looking utterly shell-shocked. Nater never took his fingers out of his mouth, but his expression was all "what's with the loop-de-loops, milk lady, I just ate? And whoa! It's bright here! Is this Disney World?" Thank all that is holy that he was secured in the actual car seat.
Then, Gee screamed, "A CLUE! A CLUE!" Because enough people weren't looking at us already and I'm like, "WHAT MFING CLUE?!!"
I need a clue. Here's a clue, dumbass, stop taking four kids under the age of five out in public. He pointed at the large puddle on the floor by Cue's head. The large puddle of my expensive, precious chai latte, which I bought because I drove to Wal.mart, where things are cheap and made in China. Oh. Okay. Sure. A clue. Investigate while I pick up your brother and make sure I haven't permanently damaged him in front of like 200 witnesses.
Cue seemed fine. I reassembled our procession, wiped up the chai with a wet wipe, scraped my last vestiges of pride off of the cold, gray tile Wal.mart floor, and we carried on following CLUES! to the MILK! Click! Click?
Nate fell asleep again in the car on the way home. He had slept six hours already by 2:00 p.m. today. He wants to make sure that he is very well rested so that he can keep me up all night and we won't miss our 6:00 a.m. flight tomorrow morning.
**************************************
It's 9:30. I think it felt good to write that out. Takes the sting out. A little. Wish me luck, I'm off to Texas in a few hours. I'll be handling only one child for the weekend, so with any luck I will be able to properly orient him with the earth at all times.
(E, K, A and M, that title is for you. I'll miss you. Any chance we could start taking shopping trips as a group? Apparently, I'm a danger to myself and others and I need better supervision.)
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Batting 1000
Tuesdays are crazy. Matt needs to leave the house with Ess and Gee close to eight in order to maximize preschool time. Technically, drop off is between eight and eight thirty, but in my opinion dropping them off at any time after about eight-oh-two is a waste of a perfectly beautiful half an hour when there could be two less kids in my house.
Since we all - and by we all I absolutely do mean Matt and I - don't roll out of bed until seven most mornings, it can be tight. I don't know why I do that. Stay in bed until seven. It's mostly miserable after six thirty. Ess and Gee and Cue are wrestling or licking through the safe paint on the walls in order to access the lead paint or dropping books down the heating vent in their bedroom. Nate is usually chewing on my nipple like it's an Olympic sport. I'm completely, uselessly awake and yet I can't bring myself to apply cold, bare foot to freezing floor until the clock says seven.
It just is. I entered their room already feeling a bit behind and they sensed my hurry with their little toddler-preschooler-shark hurry sensors. Instantly, they hit irritatingly slow and uncooperative mode. Where normally we would just get dressed, once they sensed hurry, Gee had his underwear on his head and Ess whinged because her arm wouldn't go into her sleeve and Cue screamed because I had the unbelievable audacity to fetch a clean diaper myself after he ignored my repeated requests that he please do so.
We made it through cereal only because Matt went down and got everything ready while I cracked the whip over getting dressed. I popped waffles in the toaster (because for some reason we have this pattern that they eat waffles after they eat a full bowl of cereal in the morning). As I re-entered the dining room, I caught Gee twirling his mostly empty cereal bowl around in a circle with his finger so that it resembled an old fashion record player except that instead of music pouring forth, milk streamed, in a perfect spiral, from the bowl and decorated my dining room.
"NO!! That's it!! You. are. finished. Get down. Go get your shoes on for school."
"But I want my waffle."
"No. No waffle. If you play with your food, you're done. Those are the rules."
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! WAHHHHAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAA!! (incoherent screaming/sobbing) WAHAHHHNT my WAAAAFFFFLLLEEEEE!! (incoherent snot bubbling)."
"GO! NOW! SHOES! I AM FINISHED WITH THIS BEHAVIOR."
He went amid regularly timed screams and dripping snot and heartbroken pleas for "hi-hi-hisssss wa-wa-wa-wa-ffle."
I was unmoved. This consequence is well-established in our house. Many, many children have left the table for playing with food. It is so expected that I am surprised he didn't pick up his bowl himself when I walked into the room.
My irritation grew as his drama continued and his shoes remained off. It was eight-oh-four. The great waffle scream fest was tragically cutting into preschool-children-are-not-here time.
He shuffled into the mudroom where his sister was ready to go and stood there sobbing. Matt sat on the bench, putting on his shoes. I could see the scene through the kitchen window that used to look out into the backyard and now looks down into the mudroom, like a movie, the volume muffled, the emotions taken out of me, removed. My sympathy returned, watching him cry. He is so little still.
"You are not getting your waffle, buddy, you know the rules," Matt told him in a calm, regulated voice. It was a statement of fact. He was not angry or irritated or hurried. "You can't play with your food. We still love you though, we always love you."
It is something I say often, but I had not said it that morning.
Gee's face crumpled and he cuddled into his Daddy's shoulder, sobbing. Oh. So then. Not the expected consequence at all. Not the waffle so much. Rather, the harshness in my tone, the impatience, the hard set of my face. My tired, understandable desire to have them gone for a few hours, even though I'll be there at noon, eager to get them back.
I am so thankful to have Matt on my team. Just when I am about to strike out, he hits it out of the park.
(Eight-oh-eight, the silence of one two-year-old with all the toys to himself. Coffee with cream and sugar. Sigh.)
Since we all - and by we all I absolutely do mean Matt and I - don't roll out of bed until seven most mornings, it can be tight. I don't know why I do that. Stay in bed until seven. It's mostly miserable after six thirty. Ess and Gee and Cue are wrestling or licking through the safe paint on the walls in order to access the lead paint or dropping books down the heating vent in their bedroom. Nate is usually chewing on my nipple like it's an Olympic sport. I'm completely, uselessly awake and yet I can't bring myself to apply cold, bare foot to freezing floor until the clock says seven.
It just is. I entered their room already feeling a bit behind and they sensed my hurry with their little toddler-preschooler-shark hurry sensors. Instantly, they hit irritatingly slow and uncooperative mode. Where normally we would just get dressed, once they sensed hurry, Gee had his underwear on his head and Ess whinged because her arm wouldn't go into her sleeve and Cue screamed because I had the unbelievable audacity to fetch a clean diaper myself after he ignored my repeated requests that he please do so.
We made it through cereal only because Matt went down and got everything ready while I cracked the whip over getting dressed. I popped waffles in the toaster (because for some reason we have this pattern that they eat waffles after they eat a full bowl of cereal in the morning). As I re-entered the dining room, I caught Gee twirling his mostly empty cereal bowl around in a circle with his finger so that it resembled an old fashion record player except that instead of music pouring forth, milk streamed, in a perfect spiral, from the bowl and decorated my dining room.
"NO!! That's it!! You. are. finished. Get down. Go get your shoes on for school."
"But I want my waffle."
"No. No waffle. If you play with your food, you're done. Those are the rules."
"WAHAHAHAHAHAH! WAHHHHAAAAAAAHHHHHAAAA!! (incoherent screaming/sobbing) WAHAHHHNT my WAAAAFFFFLLLEEEEE!! (incoherent snot bubbling)."
"GO! NOW! SHOES! I AM FINISHED WITH THIS BEHAVIOR."
He went amid regularly timed screams and dripping snot and heartbroken pleas for "hi-hi-hisssss wa-wa-wa-wa-ffle."
I was unmoved. This consequence is well-established in our house. Many, many children have left the table for playing with food. It is so expected that I am surprised he didn't pick up his bowl himself when I walked into the room.
My irritation grew as his drama continued and his shoes remained off. It was eight-oh-four. The great waffle scream fest was tragically cutting into preschool-children-are-not-here time.
He shuffled into the mudroom where his sister was ready to go and stood there sobbing. Matt sat on the bench, putting on his shoes. I could see the scene through the kitchen window that used to look out into the backyard and now looks down into the mudroom, like a movie, the volume muffled, the emotions taken out of me, removed. My sympathy returned, watching him cry. He is so little still.
"You are not getting your waffle, buddy, you know the rules," Matt told him in a calm, regulated voice. It was a statement of fact. He was not angry or irritated or hurried. "You can't play with your food. We still love you though, we always love you."
It is something I say often, but I had not said it that morning.
Gee's face crumpled and he cuddled into his Daddy's shoulder, sobbing. Oh. So then. Not the expected consequence at all. Not the waffle so much. Rather, the harshness in my tone, the impatience, the hard set of my face. My tired, understandable desire to have them gone for a few hours, even though I'll be there at noon, eager to get them back.
I am so thankful to have Matt on my team. Just when I am about to strike out, he hits it out of the park.
(Eight-oh-eight, the silence of one two-year-old with all the toys to himself. Coffee with cream and sugar. Sigh.)
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