Why I Love Being a Mom

I turned down the lights and held him for a moment before I sang him a nigh-night song. He rested his little head on my shoulder listening to a voice that only a baby could love. I laid him down, tucked his cozy blankets gently around his body, and said a little prayer thanking God for my special boy and whispered “amen” to which he yell echoed me, “AMEEEENNNNNN!” I kissed him one last time, whispered goodnight and turned to leave. My heart began to race. I’m almost free! A casual tip-toe quickly became a sprint followed by my own version of touchdown show-boating on the opposite side of his bedroom door. I made a beeline for the kitchen. That bowl of cereal that I had been craving was seductively whispering my name, “Come and get me! You won’t even have to share one bite!” Just moments after the milk bathed my mini-wheats in nummyness, my ecstasy came to a screeching halt. It was interrupted by a little boy screaming at the top of his lungs. It appeared to be something urgent. “Moooooommmmmyyyyy!” Staring longingly at my cereal, I ignored the first five to ten shouts. Eventually, I admitted that I would have to suspend the passionate affair between me and my late night snack. Slightly dissheveled, I tear myself away from my lover and head back to the slave cave. Making my way toward his room, the beckoning voice becomes louder with every step. I whisper urgently, “I’m coming honey.” Translation: “Please oh please stop screaming before you wake up your sister.” I open the door expecting to see him standing in his crib, but instead I find him laying just as I left him all nuzzled in his blankies. The only difference is his left arm is raised with his index finger extended. He looks at me and softly comments, “Boogie.” I fumble around his finger to find a miniscule yet sticky fragment, peel it off his finger on to mine, whisper good night and make my way back to my cereal, grinning ear to ear. Despite the intensely hard work, I wouldn’t trade this job for the world!

Ode to the First Borns

When my father was a young boy, he got his picture published on the front page of his community’s newspaper in recognition of bravery for putting out a local fire. What the newspaper failed to report (for the sole reason that he hadn’t confessed) was that the young home-town hero had bravely extinguished a fire that he himself started!
As my first born is getting older, sometimes, I feel a little bit like my dad in this story. As I parent her through new challenges, we are battling fires that, somehow, I feel responsible for starting. From the beginning, I have been the parent who felt the subtle yet irresistible pull toward high expectations, especially when it came to my oldest. I have always felt impressed by her and confident of her emerging abilities. Believing so highly in her, I have observed myself challenging her, oftentimes, seduced to realms beyond what is developmentally appropriate. I still remember with a tinge of pain, the day I took her to kindergarten readiness testing. As I sat in the far corner of the room watching her tiny hands struggle through the most rudimentary of exercises, I was overwhelmed with emotion. Tears ran down my face as I encountered with fresh eyes, the violent dissonance between what I had been expecting of her and this more accurate picture. As a tender green shoot, she had just barely penetrated through the soil into this thing we call life and I had been trying to hang swings from her branches.
Flash forward five years. As I now watch this same little girl, I observe an emerging young lady with a broad, and at times overwhelming, sense of personal responsibility. As her mom, I have taken on the role of trying to help her be gracious with herself, to accept personal limitations, and to give herself as well as others ample space for being human. I want her to be able to cope with the fact that sometimes when you do your very best, it still isn’t enough. I want her to be able to live with the reality that sometimes others let us down. And so I try to help her, and yet I must sit with the awareness that her whole life I have challenged her toward excellence, inadvertently lighting the match of perfectionism and fanning the flames of personal striving.

Dirty Monies

Talk about a super strange week! Jeff was traveling and all three of the kids were visiting family. I actually found myself with some extended time alone. Completely unheard of! While I definitely enjoyed the strange experience of finding everything in the house just as I had left it, I also began to notice a dull ache that took up residence in my heart. It definitely felt like something important was missing. It was particularly obvious when I got to spend some time on the phone with my 5-year-old. She affectionately shared, “Mommy, I miss you so much that I am going to surprise you when I see you! With pictures and money from the ground cuz I found three monies!” My heart leapt at her little expression of love. As I delighted in her cuteness, I was reminded of the strange bind of being a mommy. I LONG for space to breath, and yet as soon as I get it, I am thrilled bythoughts of dirty monies.

Ego Boost

I hate to brag, but as it turns out I am super slick with talent when it comes to cleaning the bathroom. Some of my talents are especially pronounced when it comes to cleaning the toilet. First off, I know how to swirl the brush around the bottom of the toilet to get it sparkling even in the hole. I also clearly rock at scrubbing the water line and, if you can believe this, I know how to wipe around the rim and then to fold my disposable disinfecting wipe in half to get maximum usage without ever touching the yucky side!! It’s a special skill that I have considered posting on YouTube to provide a visual on this delicately choreographed move. It may necessitate a “Do not try this at home” warning though as it definitely is one that you don’t want to flub up. Beyond the toilet, I also have a number of other proficiencies including spreading out a cleaning rag to obtain maximum coverage. It requires fewer swipes AND results in fewer missed areas meanwhile bringing a sparkling shine to those larger surfaces. If all of this were not enough (bear with me), I have this tricky way of incorporating specialized dexterity to the application of pressure which effectively removes difficult stains, AND I know how to strategically order my cleaning efforts which, when combined with my sharp-shooting precision with Windex , makes for mad skilz! I can hear the Randy Jackson of American Domestic Idol shouting now, “You’ve got mad talent, Dawg!”
Now, how do I know this, you may ask? Great question! It all came by way of comparison, when I recently decided to teach my 5-year-old how to clean the bathroom. As I watched her shaky little hand grasping a wadded up rag haphazardly “cleaning” spots here and there, I realized just how far my skills have evolved in the last 36 years.
Together, as my daughter and I walked through the apparent intricacies of cleaning, not only did I get an ego boost (I did have that “showing off” feeling at times), but I was startled by her struggles. I was reminded in very concrete terms of what it is like to be five years old. As my mind wandered back to a variety of recent frustrations as I challenged her to hurry, or to pick up, or to help with her little brother, I felt bad. My adventures in the bathroom reminded me just how important it is to temper my expectations of my kids with a realistic picture of what it is like to be their age. And so I am left with this useful image. As I encourage her in her growth and participation in family life, I also need to remember what she looks like when she cleans the bathroom.

Worse Than a Root Canal?

Settling in to the dentist's chair, Dr. Manese pulled the short cord around the back of my neck and clipped it to the other side of the ever-familiar blue paper bib. She instructed me to relax into my seat. It slowly reclined. Once in place, the looming over-head light quickly located my face. Following a few moments of oral inspection, Dr. Manese and her gloved hands presented the large glistening needle. The procedure would soon begin. I had arrived at the place where fear often reigns supreme and yet it became for me the place where peace settled over me like a warm, heavy blanket. (For those of you who are wondering, it was not a substance-induced state.) The thought that nestled cozy alongside me in my chair was, "I'm not in charge and there is nothing I have to do right now." I was firmly planted in this chair and no number of screaming children, appointments, dirty laundry, email or hungry babies could rouse me from my place. As she began the procedure, I felt coddled by the drill as it hummed in my ear, "None of what is going on right now is up to you. All you must do, my sweet dear, is sit, close your eyes, and rest."

No, I am not crazy. Just really tired and I guess that pain is all relative. Sometimes, the discomfort of busyness and constant responsibility feels even worse than a root canal!

Excerpt from "Coming Up Short"

I have been working on a book which reflects on my experiences as a working mom. Just for fun, I thought I would include a brief excerpt from a chapter titled, "Ode to Mother Hubbard." It chronicles the perils of combining children and grocery shopping. Enjoy!

One of the things that I hate (and my children clearly love) about Albertson’s is the car carts. While the adult shops, the children can pretend they are driving. The cart comes complete with an enclosed cab, doors, and a steering wheel. The sheer excitement of such an experience can transform everyday children of seemingly moderate energy levels and average self-regulatory abilities into complete maniacs. Such was clearly the case today. What started out as the slightly annoying opening, closing and reopening of the doors on the cab followed by the inability to secure the latch over and over again soon turned into arm wrestling over the steering wheel seasoned with multiple attempts at riding the roof. It looked a little something like this: I would take a few steps, stop, and fix the latch. Grab some plums. Stop again, order a child off the roof and explain the hazards of riding on the roof. Take a few additional steps, pick out green onions. Stop, explain the hazards of riding on the roof and add in the comment about “the manager of the store will probably yell at you” to give things a little more weight. Turn around and head back to the oranges and bananas that I passed up while talking her down from the roof the first time. And so on and so forth... Half-way through the “quick” trip, the novelty of the car finally wore off and my oldest was now into asking for every item off the shelf. “Hey mommy! It’s the cereal bowls with the straws. We have pink and blue but we don’t have green. Can we buy that green bowl too, Mommy? Mommy… Mooommmmmy!!!!” By the time we made it up to the check out lane, simply put, I was fried and beginning to evidence dissociative-type behaviors. My eyes began to glaze over and the various grocery store noises faded and blended together. Having severely violated my threshold for time spent in split attention, the walls had begun to spin. “No you can’t have that gum.” “Yes I have my rewards card.” “Quit swinging on the bars!” “Plastic is fine.” “Because I said so.” “Quit poking your sister.” And on and on and on... We finally made it through the checkout stand and headed for the door only to be accosted by some over-zealous store clerk informing us that the car carts must remain in the store. Failing to comprehend why the bagger would load my many groceries into a cart that I would only be permitted to use for the next 10 feet, I gave up my pursuit for that which is logical, pulled up to a normal cart and began to transfer my things. It was only a matter of moments until I discovered my oldest had vacated the immediate proximity and could be observed surfing the roof of a car cart buried deeply amidst the aisles of carts. “What on earth are you doing? Get over here!” Having scaled a number of cars to make it back that far, I waited for what seemed like an eternity, wincing as she made her way back, “Please don’t fall and crack your head!”
With the groceries reloaded to an outside cart, she finally made it back and we prepared to exit the store. The automatic doors swung open as we were promptly greeted by a litter of little girls, “Would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?” Recollecting that I had charitably promised to buy some on my way out, I ignored the overwhelming evidence that I was no longer fit for public and should be making a bee-line for my car. I headed for their table. The table was set up with several young girls and their mothers. As I moved toward the table, wisdom’s hushed whisper escalated to a scream, “Just get in the car! You can get cookies another time. You are on your very last nerve. Warning!! Abort mission for cookies. Abort!” Having never been fantastic at deviating from my plan or my word, I smacked upside the head the mini-me with wings who sat upon my shoulder and continued toward the cookies.

Sibling Squabbles

I decided this week that I am so over my kids bickering and fighting. Deep into summer break, I was beginning to feel as though, every time I turned around a new dispute was breaking out. On one incessantly petty morning, I decided to take a stand. Fortunately, I have been studying for the EPPP (Exam for the Professional Practice of Psychology) and was prepared with an influx of arsenal for addressing unwanted behaviors. At the first sign of conflict, empowered by my options, I was ready for battle. Call me over-zealous, if you must, but I decided to use them all. The poor little humans had no chance against me. I mixed a batch of “Oh No Not Today” that was complete with over-correction, re-direction, interval time sampling, seasoned with natural and logical consequences and a pinch of paradoxical intervention. I finished it off with an empathy glaze which allowed it to sound far less sinister than it might have been. In a nutshell, it went something like this: “This fighting isn’t going to fly. I realize that it isn’t always easy to get along, but this is the deal: I don’t want to hear it. I need you to fight quieter. In fact, when you fight and I have to hear it, it zaps all my energy. So much so, that all I am able to do is lay on the couch while you clean the house.” All disbelieving eyes were on me. Even the sing-songy voice could not conceal the threat of chores. I capped off my statement with a friendly effort to redirect their attention. I asked them if they would like to help me make some special breakfast. I got one taker. I figured this would also address the possible role of low-blood sugar in all of our problems. It was 10 a.m. and we had yet to eat breakfast. All in all, I have to say, I was actually quite pleased with my intervention. I didn’t raise my voice and yet I clearly got their attention.
After conveying my intent to take a serious stand against fighting, I decided to also log their behavior to attempt to determine just how big of a problem this fighting thing had become. After a brief period of documenting their every move which began to feel like a big fat waste of time, I decided to move to interval sampling. I would set the alarm for an hour and document their behavior on the hour. Not only could I inventory their fighting, but I could utilize the “catch them being good” technique to encourage positive behavior as well.
In spite of the pride I felt over my strategic intervention, I am here to confess that the truly profound discipline that took place on this particular morning was not with the children but with the mind of the mother. A strange thing happened as I began to tune into their behavior and take inventory. Much to my surprise, I quickly realized that I had been neglecting to notice the abundant episodes of peace and cooperation that my children share with each other. More difficult to log than the conflict would have been to attempt to document every episode of giggling, imaginative play, kindness, playful wrestling, and even (dare I say it) sharing! This notion of catching them being good – was far more profound of a corrective for me than it was for them. I began to realize that my negative reaction to their conflicts had caused me to severely over-estimate their frequency. I was under the impression that my kids “fight all the time” and I wasn’t noticing the ample evidence that testified to quite the opposite: my kids enjoy many moments of shared friendship.
As I write, it’s several days past this insight-provoking morning and my new appreciation for my kids and their relationship remains intact. Of course there have been squabbles, but it seems like my ability to tolerate them has improved. Even if, from time to time, I offer with surprising effectiveness, “Should I get out the vacuum?”