I have always been able to talk. I mean, not always, obviously, but since a very young age. I've never stopped talking, really. Even when I say I'm speechless, I'm not. I love my ability to weave words into sentences, phrases, stories, poems. It's not something to which I give much thought.
If I'm in a good rhythm of reading poetry, I think in poems. Mystery novels? I narrate my life as if I'm a detective. Right now, I'm reading articles and watching documentaries. There is a lot of quirky music playing in my head and an NPR-type narrator going at all times.
It's tough for me to imagine a life without language. I love hearing people speak in foreign languages because it's like music to me. I have always loved the Romance languages. Even when you're angry, it sounds like an opera. I enjoy the way the words string together.
German and the Slavic languages remind me of staccato gunfighting. Even when you are showing love, it sounds like you are damning someone. I have the ability to understand a smattering of words in a variety of languages.
It's interesting when people speak Spanish around me. I used to be fluent; a lot of vocab se me perdio (lost itself to me-literal translation) because I didn't practice it. In general, I don't eavesdrop when people are speaking Spanish. I respect their desire to conduct a conversation in their native tongue, whatever their motivation or reason.
If someone speaks Spanish to me, it's a process. I stumble to translate it into English, then contemplate the response, then stumble to translate it to Spanish. When I spend a long time in Mexico, I start dreaming in Spanish. It internalizes. I am grateful to have family that accepts my Spanglish with grace.
I don't believe English should be our national language. I think that's a backward and old-fashioned idea. I believe language is an art and we all appreciate art in different ways. We all express art in different ways. I just watched a documentary, Herb & Dorothy, about two New Yorkers who have spent their lifetime appreciating, collecting and promoting minimalist art.
It's not my aestethic. I love Impressionistic art and sculpture. I love black and white photography, especially of the journalistic variety. I enjoy that pictures tell a story. It seems simplistic, but what if I were to outlaw minimalist art? Wouldn't that cause an outcry from minimalist artists? Of course it would.
Saying that people shouldn't be able to speak their native language is the same thing. It seems to offend people that immigrants don't want to lose the tradition of their native language. It seems to offend people that they have to press "1" for Spanish. I really have never understood why.
Part of is that I've always heard another language. I have always heard Spanish at family gatherings. It's not offensive to me. It's beautiful. It's like walking into a different wing of a gallery. It's like realizing there was a beautiful artist who's been producing work for years and I'm just now seeing her work.
Yesterday, I went to get my oil changed. The kids and I went into the kids lounge and were by ourselves for a bit. After a while, two women and two kids came in. They were conversing part in English and part in another language. I was racist and judged them to be Hispanic because of their brown skin. However, the language they were speaking was not Spanish. There were elements that seemed to fit, but then they used words that were discordant to the melody I was expecting.
I wanted to ask them what language they were speaking, but didn't want to be intrusive. Whatever language it was, I wanted to walk in the gallery for a bit. I was intrigued. I was not terrified that they were plotting something; I didn't think they were gossiping about me.
The documentary I'm watching right now is amplifying this idea. It's called Retches and Jabberers and it's about two men with autism. They discovered that they could communicate with one another and other people through typing on the computer. They are beautiful people who feel they have been struck with an awful disease. But to watch them communicate, it makes me cry.
They express themselves in a way that is more beautiful than any language I've ever heard. They are giving a voice to thoughts and feelings that were trapped inside themselves for decades. If people cannot speak it doesn't mean they cannot feel. It doesn't meant they aren't in anguish about their lives or situation or feelings. Not speaking in English doesn't mean someone is dumb or deaf. It means they process information differently. It means they express information differently.
I think it's time we keep expanding, not restricting, the gallery. We all can benefit from more art in our lives.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Friday, October 26, 2012
Ah, Friday
Every week seems to build toward a crescendo on Thursdays. Brian works late on Thursday. He doesn't get home until 7. It's only an extra hour, but because the hour is after naps it feels longer.
It can be a great day with the kids, but because I know he's gonna be late, I postpone naps as late as I can. I draw out lunch, let the kids play a bit, try to take care of laundry.
My strategy is simple; the later naps are, the less time between post-nap and Brian's arrival. Post-nap behavior is typically not good. It would help if my older two napped regularly; they don't.
The attitudes are poor and they quickly decompensate. The kids like to make demands--can we go to d'da and bubba's house, can we eat candy, can we take every toy we own out and not play with it? (That last one was made up, but I'm looking at a pile of trains and trucks on the ground in the kitchen. They didn't ask but it happened anyway.)
My behavior also decompensate after naps. On a good day, when I get to nap by myself (it's very rare), I am able to replenish my patience. It's never back to morning levels but it means my head won't spin around if someone accidentally spills a cup of milk.
Most Thursdays, my head spins at least once. It's such a marathon of a day and the kids don't appreciate that. Unable to tell time, an extra hour means very little to them. They don't purposefully try my patience more; the weight of those extra sixty minutes empties my reserves quicker.
I have grown to dread Thursdays. In a perfect world, I would spend time with another family. That doesn't happen because it's the witching hour for everyone. Extra faces around someone else's table puts extra weight on their reserves.
The sigh of relief that accompanies Brian's first step into the house is heavenly. It's wonderful to exhale into Friday.
It can be a great day with the kids, but because I know he's gonna be late, I postpone naps as late as I can. I draw out lunch, let the kids play a bit, try to take care of laundry.
My strategy is simple; the later naps are, the less time between post-nap and Brian's arrival. Post-nap behavior is typically not good. It would help if my older two napped regularly; they don't.
The attitudes are poor and they quickly decompensate. The kids like to make demands--can we go to d'da and bubba's house, can we eat candy, can we take every toy we own out and not play with it? (That last one was made up, but I'm looking at a pile of trains and trucks on the ground in the kitchen. They didn't ask but it happened anyway.)
My behavior also decompensate after naps. On a good day, when I get to nap by myself (it's very rare), I am able to replenish my patience. It's never back to morning levels but it means my head won't spin around if someone accidentally spills a cup of milk.
Most Thursdays, my head spins at least once. It's such a marathon of a day and the kids don't appreciate that. Unable to tell time, an extra hour means very little to them. They don't purposefully try my patience more; the weight of those extra sixty minutes empties my reserves quicker.
I have grown to dread Thursdays. In a perfect world, I would spend time with another family. That doesn't happen because it's the witching hour for everyone. Extra faces around someone else's table puts extra weight on their reserves.
The sigh of relief that accompanies Brian's first step into the house is heavenly. It's wonderful to exhale into Friday.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Crying Shame
I cry all the time, or I used to, anyway. I would cry when I was angry, sad, happy, upset, frustrated...you name it, I cried. I took the Series 7 test several years ago. Before I could sit for it, I had to take a class. It was excruciating. I was 31 years old and I cried...during class...because I was so frustrated.
When I am on my anti-depressants and taking them as prescribed, I am less likely to dissolve into tears. I much prefer that state of being. My teachers were the first people to realize my tears were out of the ordinary. I have talked before about being pulled out of third grade to speak with the social worker. My teachers called me "sensitive."
I didn't intend, in the beginning, to use my tears as a weapon. I was genuinely upset about things. I couldn't manage my responses to stimuli. I would try to verbally spar with the bullies; they outclassed me every time. I would try to navigate female friendships in school; I was always left crying and puzzled. I simply was unable to keep the tears back.
There were times my tears were endearing. One of the first dates Brian and I had was to downtown Chicago. I love Christmas (this is no mystery) and he wanted to show me the lights on Michigan Ave. We drove down to the city and as we turned onto the Magnificent Mile, I got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It's like it was a physicological response. Brian looked over at me and was touched by how I reacted.
I have not always used my tears for good. I learned, early on, that my dad (especially my dad) was not able to resist my tears. They were (and are) his Kryptonite. I knew that if I was in a pinch, a well-placed call to dad (with tears) would get me some money. I don't think I actually ever made myself cry; in those moments and times, the tears were real because I was feeling overwhelmed.
The one group of people who were immune were policeman. I have friends who sidestepped numerous moving violations by turning on the waterworks. To be fair, these friends are cute and the tears accentuated that. They are non-messy criers; maybe some streaming of tears down the face, but other than that, nothing. I, on the other hand, turn into a snot-faced, red-faced mess. If I'm stressed--as I normally get when stopped by our fine men in blue--the crying becomes violent, replete with shoulder shaking and shallow breathing. I am not some cute movie star, crying in a beautiful way. I am, quite frankly, disgusting. It's not pretty and it probably shouldn't be a shock that policemen seem more eager to give me a ticket and get away from me.
Today was a crying day. Nothing happened that should have elicited the tears, per se. I went to Bible study (after having crammed last night to get my homework done). My leader, Marcy, usually calls every week to check in on all of us. This week, I only got a text from her. She didn't seem to be too concerned that I had missed last week. I wasn't feeling well and I'm used to at least having one person call to check on me.
Then, to make matters worse, the homework I did was for the wrong week. The rules of this Bible study state that if you've not done the homework, you are not allowed to participate. Perfectly fine rule but I was having a day where I wanted to participate. I have attended Bible study at my own church for several years. I had gotten to know the women quite well and felt comfortable talking about my feelings. Even though I hated it, I had cried in front of them on a couple of occasions.
Today, though, the tears started coming and I had no desire for anyone to see me. I just didn't want to talk about what was upsetting me. I didn't want to be that emotionally vulnerable with people I barely know. This is a shift for me. Typically, I am pretty open and honest about my life. I tend to overshare with people I've just met. It's both endearing and off-putting. I feel like, if I'm honest about who and what I am right at the beginning, people can decide to back away or step forward with me.
So I left. I waited around until I could mostly compose myself (I didn't even want the childcare workers to see me cry), grabbed the kids and left. Bekah noticed that we left early. She kept the chatter up from the time I got her until we got out to the parking lot. Finally, she asked me, "mommy, why did we leave early?" In the interest of full disclosure, I was honest; "I don't know, honey. I don't know."
When I am on my anti-depressants and taking them as prescribed, I am less likely to dissolve into tears. I much prefer that state of being. My teachers were the first people to realize my tears were out of the ordinary. I have talked before about being pulled out of third grade to speak with the social worker. My teachers called me "sensitive."
I didn't intend, in the beginning, to use my tears as a weapon. I was genuinely upset about things. I couldn't manage my responses to stimuli. I would try to verbally spar with the bullies; they outclassed me every time. I would try to navigate female friendships in school; I was always left crying and puzzled. I simply was unable to keep the tears back.
There were times my tears were endearing. One of the first dates Brian and I had was to downtown Chicago. I love Christmas (this is no mystery) and he wanted to show me the lights on Michigan Ave. We drove down to the city and as we turned onto the Magnificent Mile, I got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. It's like it was a physicological response. Brian looked over at me and was touched by how I reacted.
I have not always used my tears for good. I learned, early on, that my dad (especially my dad) was not able to resist my tears. They were (and are) his Kryptonite. I knew that if I was in a pinch, a well-placed call to dad (with tears) would get me some money. I don't think I actually ever made myself cry; in those moments and times, the tears were real because I was feeling overwhelmed.
The one group of people who were immune were policeman. I have friends who sidestepped numerous moving violations by turning on the waterworks. To be fair, these friends are cute and the tears accentuated that. They are non-messy criers; maybe some streaming of tears down the face, but other than that, nothing. I, on the other hand, turn into a snot-faced, red-faced mess. If I'm stressed--as I normally get when stopped by our fine men in blue--the crying becomes violent, replete with shoulder shaking and shallow breathing. I am not some cute movie star, crying in a beautiful way. I am, quite frankly, disgusting. It's not pretty and it probably shouldn't be a shock that policemen seem more eager to give me a ticket and get away from me.
Today was a crying day. Nothing happened that should have elicited the tears, per se. I went to Bible study (after having crammed last night to get my homework done). My leader, Marcy, usually calls every week to check in on all of us. This week, I only got a text from her. She didn't seem to be too concerned that I had missed last week. I wasn't feeling well and I'm used to at least having one person call to check on me.
Then, to make matters worse, the homework I did was for the wrong week. The rules of this Bible study state that if you've not done the homework, you are not allowed to participate. Perfectly fine rule but I was having a day where I wanted to participate. I have attended Bible study at my own church for several years. I had gotten to know the women quite well and felt comfortable talking about my feelings. Even though I hated it, I had cried in front of them on a couple of occasions.
Today, though, the tears started coming and I had no desire for anyone to see me. I just didn't want to talk about what was upsetting me. I didn't want to be that emotionally vulnerable with people I barely know. This is a shift for me. Typically, I am pretty open and honest about my life. I tend to overshare with people I've just met. It's both endearing and off-putting. I feel like, if I'm honest about who and what I am right at the beginning, people can decide to back away or step forward with me.
So I left. I waited around until I could mostly compose myself (I didn't even want the childcare workers to see me cry), grabbed the kids and left. Bekah noticed that we left early. She kept the chatter up from the time I got her until we got out to the parking lot. Finally, she asked me, "mommy, why did we leave early?" In the interest of full disclosure, I was honest; "I don't know, honey. I don't know."
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Short and Sweet
I am trying to keep the momentum going for my writing. I feel like I dropped the ball in the September. I don't have a lot to say today, just trying to keep myself honest and out there.
When I started working at Hewitt, I had a female trainer named Chrissi. She was bubbly and energetic--it's like she was born for that role. She went on leave to have gastric bypass; the next time I saw her, she was frail and in a wheelchair. She and I had little in common except our employment and faith. I had lunch with her but felt bad asking about why she was in a wheelchair.
This last week, she shared her testimony at her weekly Bible study. She videotaped it and then posted that video to Facebook. Her story is extraordinary. She had the gastric bypass surgery and then became partially paralyzed due to complications stemming from the initial surgery. She is still as radiant as ever, has two beautiful children, walks with the use of a walker, and is still married to her husband.
I saw myself in her story. There are similarities, to be sure; I am a candidate for gastric bypass (even though my insurance company won't cover it). I am a Christian, I have a wonderful husband and small children. I can also relate to her spiritually.
God has blessed her immensely even through her difficulties. She acknowledges her children as miracles; that was why she even considered the surgery in the first place. Her doctors discouraged her against getting pregnant, but God had other ideas.
The idea she had that struck me cold centered around Matthew 7:9-10: "who among you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?" She admits that she twisted God's truth in those verses to mean that God was giving her stones and snakes. Even though she knew God's hand was on her life, she still struggled with her faith. She still felt far from God. She still felt like God wasn't listening.
It occurs to me, my life is on a similar trajectory. We have encountered innumerable obstacles, trials and suffering over the past 5 years, starting with Jeremy's health issues through our current struggle to stay in our home. God has, without a doubt, been at work in our lives. He spared Jeremy's life, spared Brian from having to undergo chemo and radiation, kept me safe in my pregnancy with Doug (just to name a few). He has provided money for us when we needed it, kept our cabinets and tummies full, and ministered to us.
But I am still struggling in my day-to-day relationship. I have two traditions that encourage me to pray in the morning and at night, but I neglect to do it every day. I have wonderful, God-fearing women and men in my life. They are invested in seeing me spiritually successful. I have not shared with them that I don't commune with God on a daily (or even weekly) basis. I pray at small group and say grace over some meals with my kids, but otherwise, nothing.
I am not wholly convinced that God's plan will work out in the end. I am still doubtful about whether or not He has our best interest at heart. I am still sure that he is giving me stones and snakes when I'm asking for bread and fish. The reality ties into my main defect; impatience. I interpret my having to wait as God not answering.
It's tough to admit that I'm really being an agnostic lately. I want the desire to pray. I want to be filled with love for my Creator. I want to worship Him, I want to help my kids love Him. I am sick of feeling empty but not thirsty enough to drink from the right well.
When I started working at Hewitt, I had a female trainer named Chrissi. She was bubbly and energetic--it's like she was born for that role. She went on leave to have gastric bypass; the next time I saw her, she was frail and in a wheelchair. She and I had little in common except our employment and faith. I had lunch with her but felt bad asking about why she was in a wheelchair.
This last week, she shared her testimony at her weekly Bible study. She videotaped it and then posted that video to Facebook. Her story is extraordinary. She had the gastric bypass surgery and then became partially paralyzed due to complications stemming from the initial surgery. She is still as radiant as ever, has two beautiful children, walks with the use of a walker, and is still married to her husband.
I saw myself in her story. There are similarities, to be sure; I am a candidate for gastric bypass (even though my insurance company won't cover it). I am a Christian, I have a wonderful husband and small children. I can also relate to her spiritually.
God has blessed her immensely even through her difficulties. She acknowledges her children as miracles; that was why she even considered the surgery in the first place. Her doctors discouraged her against getting pregnant, but God had other ideas.
The idea she had that struck me cold centered around Matthew 7:9-10: "who among you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?" She admits that she twisted God's truth in those verses to mean that God was giving her stones and snakes. Even though she knew God's hand was on her life, she still struggled with her faith. She still felt far from God. She still felt like God wasn't listening.
It occurs to me, my life is on a similar trajectory. We have encountered innumerable obstacles, trials and suffering over the past 5 years, starting with Jeremy's health issues through our current struggle to stay in our home. God has, without a doubt, been at work in our lives. He spared Jeremy's life, spared Brian from having to undergo chemo and radiation, kept me safe in my pregnancy with Doug (just to name a few). He has provided money for us when we needed it, kept our cabinets and tummies full, and ministered to us.
But I am still struggling in my day-to-day relationship. I have two traditions that encourage me to pray in the morning and at night, but I neglect to do it every day. I have wonderful, God-fearing women and men in my life. They are invested in seeing me spiritually successful. I have not shared with them that I don't commune with God on a daily (or even weekly) basis. I pray at small group and say grace over some meals with my kids, but otherwise, nothing.
I am not wholly convinced that God's plan will work out in the end. I am still doubtful about whether or not He has our best interest at heart. I am still sure that he is giving me stones and snakes when I'm asking for bread and fish. The reality ties into my main defect; impatience. I interpret my having to wait as God not answering.
It's tough to admit that I'm really being an agnostic lately. I want the desire to pray. I want to be filled with love for my Creator. I want to worship Him, I want to help my kids love Him. I am sick of feeling empty but not thirsty enough to drink from the right well.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Compassion
I consider myself a good mom, even a momma bear. I am grateful for all of my kids. I do everything I can to provide for their basic needs.
I am not, however, a patient person. It's my biggest character defect. Once I get an in my head, I am unable to let it go. I hate to wait on things or people.
This defect, more than any other, has the biggest negative impact on my relationship with Christ, my family and my friends. I tend to have my own timeline for when things should happen. If that timeline isn't met, I become a foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing, petulant 3-year-old.
The word I hate to hear is "wait." I hate to hear it from other humans and I hate to wait on God. I have been like this my whole life. It is a contributing factor in my obesity. It's something that is slowly killing me.
It also means I'm slow to have compassion, especially for those to whom I'm closest. I spend the most chronological time with my kids and even though they're the youngest people in my life, they are the ones for whom I have the least compassion.
Today was an example of me lacking compassion. My older two don't nap everyday. When Jeremy was Bekah's age, he still napped everyday. The fact that they share a room makes it tricky to get them to take consistent naps.
Bekah could use a nap about three times a week. I am lucky to get her down for one. Jeremy does well with one nap a week. If I want them to nap, I have to separate them. That means I don't get a break myself.
I usually aim for "quiet time" 2-3 times a week. I put both the kids in their room and make them stay there while I do administrative work, catch up on my DVRed shows, whatever. It allows me to catch my breath and recharge my "patience" batteries.
You see, those batteries don't get completely charged everyday. It becomes like a cell phone battery; after a while, the battery doesn't hold as much of a charge.
That battery is used as much as the battery for my iPhone. I start off the day with it being used by the kids and it never lets up. So when it turns to lunchtime and behavior goes sour, I'm not working with much in reserve.
Today, we had physical therapy for Doug. This has become a difficult activity. It conflicts with Doug's nap time, causes Bekah's "mommy" gene to flare-up and generally causes the green-eyed monster to arrive in a cloud of smoke.
Jeremy, who's been obsessed with his trains, refused to share one of his freight cars with Laura (the therapist) to use with Doug. Mind you, he's got about 20 that he uses.
Today, I didn't have patience for it. I sent him to his room for the remainder of the session. After Laura left, though, it got ugly.
He wouldn't go to his room on his own. In the back of my mind, I knew that today had to be a nap day for one or the other. Bekah was the heavy favorite, but when things went south with Jeremy, he moved to the top of the list.
I was not the mom I wanted to be in that moment with Jeremy. I didn't have compassion for my 5-year-old. I knew he probably needed a nap. He struggles with talking about his feelings. I think it's tough thing to want more attention from mom and not always know how to ask for it.
I expect him, at 5, to be great at sharing. I expect him to be able to articulate his feelings. I expect that he can amuse himself for an hour without bugging me.
This is a boy who still needs me to button his pants after he goes to the bathroom. He is awful at drinking out of a non-sippy cup. He still can't dress himself on his own.
What about all of that would mean my son is emotionally independent? Why would I expect him to come to me, reticent, saying "Mom, it's tough for me to share your attention with my younger siblings. I want to have an opportunity to be with you on my own. When I can't, I get really upset and act out inappropriately. I apologize and will now go for a nap on my own."
No, he's 5. His reaction is to treat his brother's therapist poorly, throw a tantrum, refuse to nap, kick the closed door of his bedroom and generally be 5.
The problem with being impatient is that the anger is more pronounced. I know there's a theory about taking 5 minutes to calm down but when I can't even put the laundry away by myself, it's a tough thing to practice. The solution is patience--it tends to breed compassion.
I am sure today was not the last day I'll lose it with my kids. I am hopeful that, if I start to get more sleep, pray more and shout less, I can try to show my babies more compassion. They really do deserve it; really, I do too.
I am not, however, a patient person. It's my biggest character defect. Once I get an in my head, I am unable to let it go. I hate to wait on things or people.
This defect, more than any other, has the biggest negative impact on my relationship with Christ, my family and my friends. I tend to have my own timeline for when things should happen. If that timeline isn't met, I become a foot-stomping, tantrum-throwing, petulant 3-year-old.
The word I hate to hear is "wait." I hate to hear it from other humans and I hate to wait on God. I have been like this my whole life. It is a contributing factor in my obesity. It's something that is slowly killing me.
It also means I'm slow to have compassion, especially for those to whom I'm closest. I spend the most chronological time with my kids and even though they're the youngest people in my life, they are the ones for whom I have the least compassion.
Today was an example of me lacking compassion. My older two don't nap everyday. When Jeremy was Bekah's age, he still napped everyday. The fact that they share a room makes it tricky to get them to take consistent naps.
Bekah could use a nap about three times a week. I am lucky to get her down for one. Jeremy does well with one nap a week. If I want them to nap, I have to separate them. That means I don't get a break myself.
I usually aim for "quiet time" 2-3 times a week. I put both the kids in their room and make them stay there while I do administrative work, catch up on my DVRed shows, whatever. It allows me to catch my breath and recharge my "patience" batteries.
You see, those batteries don't get completely charged everyday. It becomes like a cell phone battery; after a while, the battery doesn't hold as much of a charge.
That battery is used as much as the battery for my iPhone. I start off the day with it being used by the kids and it never lets up. So when it turns to lunchtime and behavior goes sour, I'm not working with much in reserve.
Today, we had physical therapy for Doug. This has become a difficult activity. It conflicts with Doug's nap time, causes Bekah's "mommy" gene to flare-up and generally causes the green-eyed monster to arrive in a cloud of smoke.
Jeremy, who's been obsessed with his trains, refused to share one of his freight cars with Laura (the therapist) to use with Doug. Mind you, he's got about 20 that he uses.
Today, I didn't have patience for it. I sent him to his room for the remainder of the session. After Laura left, though, it got ugly.
He wouldn't go to his room on his own. In the back of my mind, I knew that today had to be a nap day for one or the other. Bekah was the heavy favorite, but when things went south with Jeremy, he moved to the top of the list.
I was not the mom I wanted to be in that moment with Jeremy. I didn't have compassion for my 5-year-old. I knew he probably needed a nap. He struggles with talking about his feelings. I think it's tough thing to want more attention from mom and not always know how to ask for it.
I expect him, at 5, to be great at sharing. I expect him to be able to articulate his feelings. I expect that he can amuse himself for an hour without bugging me.
This is a boy who still needs me to button his pants after he goes to the bathroom. He is awful at drinking out of a non-sippy cup. He still can't dress himself on his own.
What about all of that would mean my son is emotionally independent? Why would I expect him to come to me, reticent, saying "Mom, it's tough for me to share your attention with my younger siblings. I want to have an opportunity to be with you on my own. When I can't, I get really upset and act out inappropriately. I apologize and will now go for a nap on my own."
No, he's 5. His reaction is to treat his brother's therapist poorly, throw a tantrum, refuse to nap, kick the closed door of his bedroom and generally be 5.
The problem with being impatient is that the anger is more pronounced. I know there's a theory about taking 5 minutes to calm down but when I can't even put the laundry away by myself, it's a tough thing to practice. The solution is patience--it tends to breed compassion.
I am sure today was not the last day I'll lose it with my kids. I am hopeful that, if I start to get more sleep, pray more and shout less, I can try to show my babies more compassion. They really do deserve it; really, I do too.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Because He Must
There was a movie that came out in the late 90s called "Blast From the Past." It starred Brendan Fraser, Alicia Silverstone, Sissy Spacek and Christopher Walken. The movie is set in the 60s and the 90s. The premise is that Christopher Walken is an eccentric scientist who, in a panic over the Cold War, builds a bomb shelter under his house.
In a twist of fate, there is a plane crash nearby that panics Walken and he takes his wife (Spacek) and young boy (Fraser) into the bomb shelter. They spend the next couple of decades underground. The movie shows Fraser's character as he grows up. Walken does everything he can to educate Fraser on all subjects. (Spacek, who ends up feeling trapped, spends more and more time drunk.)
One subject that Walken cannot seem to educate Fraser about is baseball. He does everything he can to help Fraser understand how the game works, but he is unable to process the force-out. Walken tries everything to illuminate the subject, but ends up exasperated. He keeps saying, "because he [the player] must."
I have been considering this movie and this phrase since I had kids. I'll explain why using a recent example. A few weeks ago, Brian and I attended a wedding of a friend of ours. She gave everyone a little acorn-shaped bell to jingle when we wanted her and her husband to kiss. I left it in my clutch that I took for the evening and Bekah found it.
She has asked me, several times, what the bell was used for. You can see where this is going; how do I explain this tradition to my 3-year-old? I can't even begin to explain what a wedding is. When my husband was baptized this summer, we tried to explain to her what was happening. I explained that, in our family, we believe in getting baptized as adults after we've accepted Jesus into our hearts.
With all sincerity, she listened and then said, "mommy, when I get older, I want to get bath toys, too." I gave her a big hug and smile and sent her up for bed. How, then, must a wedding sound? A girl gets dressed up in a white dress and marries a boy. It must seem foreign. So then, how much tougher is it to explain that, after she marries the boy, everyone sits down to dinner. When the guests want to see the girl and boy kiss, they ring the little bells.
Nope, I knew there was no hope in explaining it. I am sure, when she attends her first wedding, she will (as Brendan Fraser does when he sees his first, real-life baseball game) mutter under her breath, "because they must." It makes me smile to think about it.
In a twist of fate, there is a plane crash nearby that panics Walken and he takes his wife (Spacek) and young boy (Fraser) into the bomb shelter. They spend the next couple of decades underground. The movie shows Fraser's character as he grows up. Walken does everything he can to educate Fraser on all subjects. (Spacek, who ends up feeling trapped, spends more and more time drunk.)
One subject that Walken cannot seem to educate Fraser about is baseball. He does everything he can to help Fraser understand how the game works, but he is unable to process the force-out. Walken tries everything to illuminate the subject, but ends up exasperated. He keeps saying, "because he [the player] must."
I have been considering this movie and this phrase since I had kids. I'll explain why using a recent example. A few weeks ago, Brian and I attended a wedding of a friend of ours. She gave everyone a little acorn-shaped bell to jingle when we wanted her and her husband to kiss. I left it in my clutch that I took for the evening and Bekah found it.
She has asked me, several times, what the bell was used for. You can see where this is going; how do I explain this tradition to my 3-year-old? I can't even begin to explain what a wedding is. When my husband was baptized this summer, we tried to explain to her what was happening. I explained that, in our family, we believe in getting baptized as adults after we've accepted Jesus into our hearts.
With all sincerity, she listened and then said, "mommy, when I get older, I want to get bath toys, too." I gave her a big hug and smile and sent her up for bed. How, then, must a wedding sound? A girl gets dressed up in a white dress and marries a boy. It must seem foreign. So then, how much tougher is it to explain that, after she marries the boy, everyone sits down to dinner. When the guests want to see the girl and boy kiss, they ring the little bells.
Nope, I knew there was no hope in explaining it. I am sure, when she attends her first wedding, she will (as Brendan Fraser does when he sees his first, real-life baseball game) mutter under her breath, "because they must." It makes me smile to think about it.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Traffic on My Mind
I am setting out to write the entry I didn't want to write the other day. I am tired and it's late, but I am feeling led to write about it, so here goes.
I first learned about sex trafficking probably more than a dozen years ago. I was waiting in a doctor's office and saw a Newsweek (or Time, I can't remember which) with a cover story about the subject. I was transfixed by the subject. I sat there digesting the article and it's subject and getting angrier and more disgusted by the minute.
I will say, I saw this article before the internet became what it is today. I kept an ear out during newscasts, certain this would garner some sort of attention, but alas it didn't. Mira Sorvino and Donald Sutherland starred in the 2005 TV movie "Human Trafficking," but I didn't have a chance to watch it. (This was in the days before DVR.) I felt like, with such heinous crimes being committed, there had to be more news coverage.
So when a friend mentioned a passion for ending human trafficking, my ears perked up. She is currently trying to organize an event to benefit Dress a Girl Around the World. The organization supplies pillowcase dresses (with the organization's label on the outside) to girls in Uganda and other parts of the world. The idea is that girls who wear these dresses are less likely to be preyed upon by sex traffickers. They are seen as being cared for, as being important to someone, as being someone who might be missed.
The more I talked with this friend, the more the fire in my belly got stoked. She organized a forum at a local church and invited a trafficking survivor named Brenda to share her story. Brenda is an extraordinary woman, beautiful to the core. She held everyone's attention as she shared, over the course of an hour, her story of being trafficked for over 24 years.
She was raised by an alcoholic grandmother and started suffering at the hands of an abuser at age 4. By the age of 15, she was having her second child and was walking the streets as a prostitute. She remembers sitting in her apartment, watching the prostitutes outside her window and thinking to herself, "they look shiny. I want to be shiny, too." She suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of pimps and johns and got no sympathy at home. She was held for a month by two of her pimps. One night, she was at a truck stop and got the courage to ask a trucker to take her home. He obliged.
When she got home, her grandmother didn't ask where she had been. She lambasted Brenda for having left her alone with Brenda's children for a month. She repeatedly told Brenda that she "wasn't worth nothing." Brenda's last experience as a prostitute was profound. Her john dragged her down the street, shredding the skin on the left side of her body, and then abandoned her in the middle of the sidewalk. Brenda was taken to the hospital and the nurses started prepping her until the cops showed up. One of the cops told the nurses that they knew her; she was a prostitute they had busted before.
The nurses wheeled Brenda out into the hallway and she sat there for eight hours until the next shift change. A female doctor took one look at her at got to work. The damage to Brenda's face was extensive and she was going to need to be in the hospital for several days. Every day, the doctor would sit in her room and chart. Brenda didn't indicate everything they talked about, but she did say that the doctor never once shamed her because of who she was.
The last day Brenda was in the hospital, the doctor sat on the edge of her bed and asked if she would go and visit social services. Brenda wasn't sure about that, but she did remember a lady she describes as a hippy. She used to minister to Brenda and other prostitutes on the streets. She ran a mission called Genesis House. Brenda remembers her saying to come visit her "whenever you're tired, whenever you're hungry." The way Brenda describes it is almost comical, but it was what stuck with her.
Her injuries were going to require extensive follow-up care. She was going to have skin grafts and needed to change her bandages regularly. She decided to take the lady up on her offer and showed up on the doorstep to Genesis House. What she found there--compassion, love, warmth--was something she had never experienced before. She says that she was able to sleep peacefully for the first time in years. She would wake up and her bandages had been changed.
But what made me cry was hearing Brenda talk about the refrigerator. The staff there told her to go into the refrigerator and have whatever she wanted. Even typing this, my heart aches for people who haven't heard such a basic, kind command. Eat whatever you want in the refrigerator. It seems so simple, but it really hit Brenda hard. These people wanted to help her. They loved her.
It took her a while to heal. She attended anger management classes, 12-step meetings, therapy, anything they prescribed. She did whatever they asked her because she wanted to get better. And get better she has. She is the co-founder of The Dreamcatcher Foundation, based in Chicago. She is a tireless advocate for prostitutes and other victims of sex trafficking. She drives a 16-passenger van around the streets of Chicago, handing out food and hope to women in need.
Her phone is always on and she meets the needs of the girls she's saved with money from her own pocket. Many of them are trying to make a different life for themselves, but food stamps won't cover detergent. So Brenda has her garage and basement stocked with detergent. Diapers? She'll bring them to you. She talks to girls in group homes (where girls are easy pickings for traffickers), goes into the schools and educates young women, works with the Cook County Sheriff's Department and goes into Cook County Jail.
She brought a young woman with her who had also been the victim of trafficking. I'll call her Jane (because I can't remember her name). She comes from a home with mom and dad intact. A few days before her 16th birthday party, her dad lost her job. She wasn't going to be able to have the Sweet Sixteen party she wanted. She threw a fit and ran away to teach her parents a lesson. Within a few days, she had been picked up and spent the next 4 years being trafficked.
Brenda talks about how the internet has taken all of this activity underground. One scam that snags young girls starts out seeming harmless enough. A girl will be asked to submit pictures of herself (nothing lewd or naked--at this point, the traffickers want to see if she's attractive). They will then say, "you're a finalist in our contest. Here's $250 and a ticket to Las Vegas. Fly out to Vegas and you'll be able to participate in the bigger contest."
$250 to a teenager is a lot of money. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong; nobody's asked her to take off her clothes. Someone's sent her a plane ticket--that doesn't happen every day. She gets her friend to cover for her, flies out to Vegas and vanishes. Brenda had us ask ourselves why there are so many people handing out so many different fliers for escorts in Vegas. She works hard to teach young women that they are beautiful. If they're not hearing that at home, if they're not being well-cared for, they are easy prey for a pimp.
I left Brenda's talk with even more resolve. Then, in this month's issue of More magazine, I found an article about trafficking. It offers some scary statistics:
It would be easy to turn my head and say, not my kids, but I feel like that just makes my kids easy pickings. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by writing this entry. I am one person, with one blog, with a soft heart for female victims. Females are abused all over the world and often in the name of God, a god or some other religious craziness. I have been privileged to be studying the book of Genesis. What I'm learning is that God didn't create Eve to be under Adam's thumb. He created Eve because he saw that Adam was lonely. He created Eve to be uniquely compatible with Adam.
I first learned about sex trafficking probably more than a dozen years ago. I was waiting in a doctor's office and saw a Newsweek (or Time, I can't remember which) with a cover story about the subject. I was transfixed by the subject. I sat there digesting the article and it's subject and getting angrier and more disgusted by the minute.
I will say, I saw this article before the internet became what it is today. I kept an ear out during newscasts, certain this would garner some sort of attention, but alas it didn't. Mira Sorvino and Donald Sutherland starred in the 2005 TV movie "Human Trafficking," but I didn't have a chance to watch it. (This was in the days before DVR.) I felt like, with such heinous crimes being committed, there had to be more news coverage.
So when a friend mentioned a passion for ending human trafficking, my ears perked up. She is currently trying to organize an event to benefit Dress a Girl Around the World. The organization supplies pillowcase dresses (with the organization's label on the outside) to girls in Uganda and other parts of the world. The idea is that girls who wear these dresses are less likely to be preyed upon by sex traffickers. They are seen as being cared for, as being important to someone, as being someone who might be missed.
The more I talked with this friend, the more the fire in my belly got stoked. She organized a forum at a local church and invited a trafficking survivor named Brenda to share her story. Brenda is an extraordinary woman, beautiful to the core. She held everyone's attention as she shared, over the course of an hour, her story of being trafficked for over 24 years.
She was raised by an alcoholic grandmother and started suffering at the hands of an abuser at age 4. By the age of 15, she was having her second child and was walking the streets as a prostitute. She remembers sitting in her apartment, watching the prostitutes outside her window and thinking to herself, "they look shiny. I want to be shiny, too." She suffered unspeakable abuse at the hands of pimps and johns and got no sympathy at home. She was held for a month by two of her pimps. One night, she was at a truck stop and got the courage to ask a trucker to take her home. He obliged.
When she got home, her grandmother didn't ask where she had been. She lambasted Brenda for having left her alone with Brenda's children for a month. She repeatedly told Brenda that she "wasn't worth nothing." Brenda's last experience as a prostitute was profound. Her john dragged her down the street, shredding the skin on the left side of her body, and then abandoned her in the middle of the sidewalk. Brenda was taken to the hospital and the nurses started prepping her until the cops showed up. One of the cops told the nurses that they knew her; she was a prostitute they had busted before.
The nurses wheeled Brenda out into the hallway and she sat there for eight hours until the next shift change. A female doctor took one look at her at got to work. The damage to Brenda's face was extensive and she was going to need to be in the hospital for several days. Every day, the doctor would sit in her room and chart. Brenda didn't indicate everything they talked about, but she did say that the doctor never once shamed her because of who she was.
The last day Brenda was in the hospital, the doctor sat on the edge of her bed and asked if she would go and visit social services. Brenda wasn't sure about that, but she did remember a lady she describes as a hippy. She used to minister to Brenda and other prostitutes on the streets. She ran a mission called Genesis House. Brenda remembers her saying to come visit her "whenever you're tired, whenever you're hungry." The way Brenda describes it is almost comical, but it was what stuck with her.
Her injuries were going to require extensive follow-up care. She was going to have skin grafts and needed to change her bandages regularly. She decided to take the lady up on her offer and showed up on the doorstep to Genesis House. What she found there--compassion, love, warmth--was something she had never experienced before. She says that she was able to sleep peacefully for the first time in years. She would wake up and her bandages had been changed.
But what made me cry was hearing Brenda talk about the refrigerator. The staff there told her to go into the refrigerator and have whatever she wanted. Even typing this, my heart aches for people who haven't heard such a basic, kind command. Eat whatever you want in the refrigerator. It seems so simple, but it really hit Brenda hard. These people wanted to help her. They loved her.
It took her a while to heal. She attended anger management classes, 12-step meetings, therapy, anything they prescribed. She did whatever they asked her because she wanted to get better. And get better she has. She is the co-founder of The Dreamcatcher Foundation, based in Chicago. She is a tireless advocate for prostitutes and other victims of sex trafficking. She drives a 16-passenger van around the streets of Chicago, handing out food and hope to women in need.
Her phone is always on and she meets the needs of the girls she's saved with money from her own pocket. Many of them are trying to make a different life for themselves, but food stamps won't cover detergent. So Brenda has her garage and basement stocked with detergent. Diapers? She'll bring them to you. She talks to girls in group homes (where girls are easy pickings for traffickers), goes into the schools and educates young women, works with the Cook County Sheriff's Department and goes into Cook County Jail.
She brought a young woman with her who had also been the victim of trafficking. I'll call her Jane (because I can't remember her name). She comes from a home with mom and dad intact. A few days before her 16th birthday party, her dad lost her job. She wasn't going to be able to have the Sweet Sixteen party she wanted. She threw a fit and ran away to teach her parents a lesson. Within a few days, she had been picked up and spent the next 4 years being trafficked.
Brenda talks about how the internet has taken all of this activity underground. One scam that snags young girls starts out seeming harmless enough. A girl will be asked to submit pictures of herself (nothing lewd or naked--at this point, the traffickers want to see if she's attractive). They will then say, "you're a finalist in our contest. Here's $250 and a ticket to Las Vegas. Fly out to Vegas and you'll be able to participate in the bigger contest."
$250 to a teenager is a lot of money. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong; nobody's asked her to take off her clothes. Someone's sent her a plane ticket--that doesn't happen every day. She gets her friend to cover for her, flies out to Vegas and vanishes. Brenda had us ask ourselves why there are so many people handing out so many different fliers for escorts in Vegas. She works hard to teach young women that they are beautiful. If they're not hearing that at home, if they're not being well-cared for, they are easy prey for a pimp.
I left Brenda's talk with even more resolve. Then, in this month's issue of More magazine, I found an article about trafficking. It offers some scary statistics:
- The U.N. estimates that trafficking is a $32 billion industry across 161 countries.
- Official reckonings of the number of victims are widely believed to be low, but according to the U.N.'s International Labour Organization, roughly 21 million people are being held against their will worldwide.
- Of those, about 22 percent are in the sex trade; others work in restaurants, on construction sites or wherever shadowy labor forces thrive.
- Every year, according to the U.S. State department, some 17,500 modern-day slaves are brought into the United States.
- No one knows exactly how many adult sex slaves are currently in the U.S.; estimates run as high as 50,000.
The article stipulates that "trafficking occurs whenever someone is held in the service of another through force, fraud or psychological coercion." I grew up thinking that (honestly, this is what I believed) women chose to become prostitutes because they liked having sex. It is abhorrent to me that we live in a country where slavery was abolished 150 years ago and yet, people are lining their pockets with the proceeds of sex slavery.
I am angry as a mother. These are people's daughters. I am angry as a woman. These women are being victimized because they are women. I am angry as a US Citizen. I live in a country that is a democracy and yet, really, capitalism runs the show.
I have watched Law & Order: SVU for several years. The invention of Netflix meant I could catch up on the seasons I had missed. SVU has had several storylines involving sex trafficking. They have helped me change my perception of who sex workers are, where they come from and what they look like. I admit, there are episodes where I want to turn away, but I watch because it's an education for me. I learn things about predators I wouldn't learn elsewhere. I have come to understand that there is no cure for pedophilia. I understand the signs to look for when someone is being sexually abused.
It would be easy to turn my head and say, not my kids, but I feel like that just makes my kids easy pickings. I don't know what I hope to accomplish by writing this entry. I am one person, with one blog, with a soft heart for female victims. Females are abused all over the world and often in the name of God, a god or some other religious craziness. I have been privileged to be studying the book of Genesis. What I'm learning is that God didn't create Eve to be under Adam's thumb. He created Eve because he saw that Adam was lonely. He created Eve to be uniquely compatible with Adam.
He didn't create Eve second because he considered her a second citizen; He walked with both of them in the Garden of Eden. He didn't ever command Adam to rule over Eve. He didn't give Adam permission to abuse or mistreat Eve. The New Testament passage about "wives, submit to your husbands" comes after a lengthy talk to men about how they are to love their wives as Christ loves the church.
I can find no basis in reality for why men treat women the way they do. It turns my stomach to think about Brenda's 24 years as a trafficking victim. I am angry that she was abused starting at the age of 4. I can't understand why this happens. I have had enough "bad" things happen to me that I know there's not always a reason.
But I have decided that I will no longer bury my head in the sand. I will no longer act as if this is not happening in my city (Brenda has actually rescued trafficking victims from hotels in Crystal Lake). I will no longer act as if it's okay for anyone to be treated with such malice. I don't care what anyone looks like, what color their skin is, there is no justification for anyone being treated this way.
In the end, I hope that I've given a bit of an education. The facts and stories I have shared only scratch the top of the top of the surface of this widespread story. I encourage you to visit Brenda's foundations website, www.thedreamcatcherfoundation.org. I encourage you to visit the website about pillowcase dresses, www.dressagirlaroundtheworld.com. My friend and I are planning to host an event where we will be sewing pillowcase dresses. If you are cleaning out your closets and find errant pillowcases, consider donating them to the cause. You can contact me at cteasabttn@yahoo.com and I can arrange to come and pick them up.
Talk about this in your place of worship. Maybe you can't contribute financially, but these girls need people to intercede in prayer on their behalf. Anyone who thinks they are "just praying" is underestimating the heart God has for these women. These are His daughters, heirs to His throne. He takes this all very personally. Pray for an end to this. Pray for these women to know their worth. Pray that our own daughters would know their worth. Pray that we would be vigilant when it comes to the safety of our children. For heaven's sake, pray!The Dreamcatcher FoundationDress a Girl Around the World
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
On the Mend
As I had predicted in last week's blog, I ended up with a nasty ear and upper respiratory infection. It's been a rough few days for two reasons. First, I've not been able to get an adequate amount of restful sleep. Saturday and Sunday morning, I woke up with blinding headaches and a bad pain in my neck. Sunday night into Monday morning, I would get comfortable, sleep for two hours and then wake with a start. Last night, I developed a cough that got worse when I laid down. My sinuses were draining something awful. I woke up this morning with yet another awful headache.
The other factor affecting my ability to convalesce is, of course, my kids. They seem unable to understand the phrase "Mommy doesn't feel well"; the variation, "Mommy is sick," also has been falling on deaf ears. I decided not to take them to preschool the past couple of days. I am fortunate that they don't really understand the days of the week; neither of them complained about not being able to go.
I am appreciative to my brother, Matt, for his help on Monday. I needed to take Bekah to dance and then get to the doctor. He was able to take Bekah to dance and then sat in the van with the kids while I went to the doctor. I abhor visiting the doctor with the three kids. It's like Ringling Bros on meth. The kids act like they normally do, but in such a small space it becomes much more full-contact. They like to touch every disgusting thing they can, switch on every light or machine they can, and generally not sit still for more than a minute.
I continued my "Mommy is sick" campaign again today, to no avail. I did end up ordering a pizza for lunch to help myself, but otherwise I still had to answer the unending list of requests. I love my kids and I answered all the requests. I am, however, exhausted.
Meanwhile, the other piece of all of this is that the chores don't take a break. I worked on laundry yesterday and today but the floor is a mess. I ran the dishwasher a few times, I've cooked dinner, but ultimately I'm behind. Whenever I emerge from this haze, I am going to have to spend at least 2-3 days catching up. Ah, the glamorous life of a full-time momma.
The other factor affecting my ability to convalesce is, of course, my kids. They seem unable to understand the phrase "Mommy doesn't feel well"; the variation, "Mommy is sick," also has been falling on deaf ears. I decided not to take them to preschool the past couple of days. I am fortunate that they don't really understand the days of the week; neither of them complained about not being able to go.
I am appreciative to my brother, Matt, for his help on Monday. I needed to take Bekah to dance and then get to the doctor. He was able to take Bekah to dance and then sat in the van with the kids while I went to the doctor. I abhor visiting the doctor with the three kids. It's like Ringling Bros on meth. The kids act like they normally do, but in such a small space it becomes much more full-contact. They like to touch every disgusting thing they can, switch on every light or machine they can, and generally not sit still for more than a minute.
I continued my "Mommy is sick" campaign again today, to no avail. I did end up ordering a pizza for lunch to help myself, but otherwise I still had to answer the unending list of requests. I love my kids and I answered all the requests. I am, however, exhausted.
Meanwhile, the other piece of all of this is that the chores don't take a break. I worked on laundry yesterday and today but the floor is a mess. I ran the dishwasher a few times, I've cooked dinner, but ultimately I'm behind. Whenever I emerge from this haze, I am going to have to spend at least 2-3 days catching up. Ah, the glamorous life of a full-time momma.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
My Little Doug Man
I don't know what to write about tonight. I want to keep it light--otherwise, I would write some about my passion for ending human trafficking. Tonight, though, I don't want to talk about it. I feel like it's too heavy.
I had fun tonight with my Doug boy. He is a bundle of fun. We didn't find out if he was a boy or a girl while I was pregnant. We wanted to be surprised. I had to be induced (which was a very different experience from going on my own). After Doug was born, I shouted at Brian to tell me if he was a boy or a girl. Brian couldn't see initially because the doctor's arm was in the way.
When I saw him, I was taken aback. He was perfect, of course, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jeremy. I loved him immediately. There's something about the third child--with Jeremy I was so overwhelmed with the prospect of having a child that I couldn't feel the love. I took the actions every day to care for him and then, later, my mom told me that was loving him. It was wild to feel the love from the beginning.
Doug was very laid back from the beginning. I struggled to nurse him more than I had with Bekah or Jeremy. I think it was a combination of my weight and having two small kids. Doug also had a bad case of reflux. I would spend an hour feeding him, burp him and he'd spit everything up. I tried everything to help him (including medicine) and it made it a little better, but not by much.
It's tough to write about my struggles with nursing. I am mourning the loss of nursing. I want to be pregnant again so that I can be successful with nursing. I am passionate about nursing--about the health benefits for moms and the health benefits for babies. I tried attending La Leche League meetings and left feeling more frustrated and more alone than when I went. I am frustrated that I was able to nurse Jeremy for so long without issues and struggled so much with Doug.
Doug, for his part, has never minded. Even when he was categorized as Failure to Thrive, he was smiley and happy. I would take him to a monthly check-up and the doctor would tell me Doug had a double ear infection. I would be so taken aback because Doug hadn't been fussier than normal.
He laughs a lot. When you tickle him, he cackles with delight. He didn't start moving around until later than Bekah and Jeremy, but he managed to get everyone to help him. He has a modified crawl (we call it the injured soldier crawl) and it suits him just fine.
He doesn't have a word for me, but he lights up uniquely when he sees me. Tonight, he crawled up to me, patted me on my leg, said "hey," and put his arms up for me to pick him up. I tried to let my friend Lisa hold him. He took one look at her and put his arms out for me. It's tough to have a child not have a name for me, but he does everything he can to show me he loves me.
I love watching him meet new women. He does this thing where he cocks his head to the side and smiles at them. I call it flirting and all of the women at church who watch him in the nursery are smitten. He is starting to get frustrated with his sister because she manhandles him a lot. She acts as if he's her baby. She loves to comfort him when he's sad, help him when he's in trouble, and direct his activities. It makes him a little cuckoo.
My Doug is my Doug. He's a happy little man, even if he can't name any of his family members, or his dogs, or his grandma and grandpa. He loves to shake his booty to the music, investigate my cabinets and shred toilet paper. I think he's going to be a little sneaky, but overall he likes to have things in order. I enjoy having one-on-one time with him because he reciprocates. He just lights up when he and I get to be by ourselves.
I spend a lot of time feeling like I am failing him, but he does everything he can to show me how my love for him bridges the divide.
I had fun tonight with my Doug boy. He is a bundle of fun. We didn't find out if he was a boy or a girl while I was pregnant. We wanted to be surprised. I had to be induced (which was a very different experience from going on my own). After Doug was born, I shouted at Brian to tell me if he was a boy or a girl. Brian couldn't see initially because the doctor's arm was in the way.
When I saw him, I was taken aback. He was perfect, of course, but he bore a striking resemblance to Jeremy. I loved him immediately. There's something about the third child--with Jeremy I was so overwhelmed with the prospect of having a child that I couldn't feel the love. I took the actions every day to care for him and then, later, my mom told me that was loving him. It was wild to feel the love from the beginning.
Doug was very laid back from the beginning. I struggled to nurse him more than I had with Bekah or Jeremy. I think it was a combination of my weight and having two small kids. Doug also had a bad case of reflux. I would spend an hour feeding him, burp him and he'd spit everything up. I tried everything to help him (including medicine) and it made it a little better, but not by much.
It's tough to write about my struggles with nursing. I am mourning the loss of nursing. I want to be pregnant again so that I can be successful with nursing. I am passionate about nursing--about the health benefits for moms and the health benefits for babies. I tried attending La Leche League meetings and left feeling more frustrated and more alone than when I went. I am frustrated that I was able to nurse Jeremy for so long without issues and struggled so much with Doug.
Doug, for his part, has never minded. Even when he was categorized as Failure to Thrive, he was smiley and happy. I would take him to a monthly check-up and the doctor would tell me Doug had a double ear infection. I would be so taken aback because Doug hadn't been fussier than normal.
He laughs a lot. When you tickle him, he cackles with delight. He didn't start moving around until later than Bekah and Jeremy, but he managed to get everyone to help him. He has a modified crawl (we call it the injured soldier crawl) and it suits him just fine.
He doesn't have a word for me, but he lights up uniquely when he sees me. Tonight, he crawled up to me, patted me on my leg, said "hey," and put his arms up for me to pick him up. I tried to let my friend Lisa hold him. He took one look at her and put his arms out for me. It's tough to have a child not have a name for me, but he does everything he can to show me he loves me.
I love watching him meet new women. He does this thing where he cocks his head to the side and smiles at them. I call it flirting and all of the women at church who watch him in the nursery are smitten. He is starting to get frustrated with his sister because she manhandles him a lot. She acts as if he's her baby. She loves to comfort him when he's sad, help him when he's in trouble, and direct his activities. It makes him a little cuckoo.
My Doug is my Doug. He's a happy little man, even if he can't name any of his family members, or his dogs, or his grandma and grandpa. He loves to shake his booty to the music, investigate my cabinets and shred toilet paper. I think he's going to be a little sneaky, but overall he likes to have things in order. I enjoy having one-on-one time with him because he reciprocates. He just lights up when he and I get to be by ourselves.
I spend a lot of time feeling like I am failing him, but he does everything he can to show me how my love for him bridges the divide.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Christmas on my Mind
I believe this will be the first Christmas we have where we write to Santa. This has been weighing heavily on me for several reasons.
First, Brian and I decided a few Christmases ago that we were going to limit gift-giving. Part of it was we had very limited resources; part of it was that we didn't want our kids opening so many presents on Christmas morning that they couldn't be grateful.
I came up with the idea of giving 3 gifts per child. It's kind of an arbitrary number, but I talked with other moms about what they did for their families. Universally, I've met no mother who says "my kids need more toys." Most will admit they could go for several years without receiving any more toys. We also all agree that grandma and grandpa are the perpetrators of giving the toys.
It's not that I want to squeeze the fun out of Christmas, don't get me wrong. I know my kids enjoy playing with toys. I know they like opening gifts. I know my parents (and other family members) enjoy giving gifts to my kids. It's not that I'm a Grinch, it's that I'm a realist. Kids can only play with so many toys. A couple of years ago, I conducted an experiment. I got tired of picking up and putting together every single puzzle my son owned every night. I was tired of every musical instrument being on the floor every day.
So I packed up a majority of my kids toys, put them in themed boxes (cars/trucks, musical instruments, puzzles, etc.) and put those boxes on the dining room table. If the kids wanted to play with those specific toys, they would need to pick up any other toys that weren't put away. Here's what I found. Largely, my kids have not missed the boxed-up toys. Bekah will ask for musical instruments every so often. I take the box down, she plays with them for a day, I box them back up (with her help) and we put them away.
There are still plenty of toys left in the house for them to play with, but the other toys are now more distinguishable. I think what happens is that the kids start to see toys as noise. They see a huge pile of toys as an indeterminate mass of stuff. I think it overwhelms them and they decide, on the whole, that it is really more fun to play with my plastic storage containers, sticks, rocks and other random flotsam from around the house.
I am a part of McHenry County Mothers & More. Twice a year, we host a resale. This past month, I took 5 toys (on the bigger side) to sell. The kids have not asked about where the toys are, what happened to them, etc. The toy room (although admittedly the entire house is the toy room) is less cluttered, I'm not hurting my feet on as many things and they have more room to play with other toys.
My parents have finally acquiesced to my repeated requests to not purchase toys for Christmas. I believe they will be purchasing a few, small toys, but on the whole they are going to give us cash. This is great because then I can use those funds for classes and other activities that happen outside the house and that expend energy. In the final analysis, I think that's what the kids remember.
Second, we have decided to pare down the gifts because we want to step out of the stream of consumerism. Last year our pastors encouraged us to be more conscious about how much we spend on Christmas. They challenged us, instead, to use the money we would spend on Christmas for other charitable giving.
We took that talk even further by sitting down with the kids in the toy room and asking them to give some of their toys to kids who had none. They were able to give up about 7 toys. This hasn't been a one-time thing, either. I probably ask them about every month what we can give away. They generally come up with 1 or 2 things we can take to Savers.
So the reason I'm worried about Santa this year is that Brian and I are going to have to stand by our convictions. We are going to have to make sure the kids understand that, in our house, Santa will only be bringing 3 gifts each. When we craft a letter to Santa, I don't want to be including the Toys R Us wish list book. I want to make sure they are thoughtful about what they ask him for. I also want them to be aware that Santa (in our house) won't always give them everything they want. I asked him for years for a pony and, alas, he never caved. (Nevermind that I couldn't even pick up my dog's poop in the backyard.)
It's tough, I think, to strike that balance. I want them to be excited for Christmas for the reasons we really celebrate the season. Even if we're wrong, we celebrate Christ's birth at Christmas (I understand that, according to some historians he was actually born in the spring and others believe that Christmas should really be called Saturnalia). That's what the focus should be; meeting the needs of others rather than getting everything we want. It's an important lesson, I think, and one that not everyone gets. I want my kids to know that we love them not because of how many gifts they unwrap, but by how much empty room in our house can be filled with love.
First, Brian and I decided a few Christmases ago that we were going to limit gift-giving. Part of it was we had very limited resources; part of it was that we didn't want our kids opening so many presents on Christmas morning that they couldn't be grateful.
I came up with the idea of giving 3 gifts per child. It's kind of an arbitrary number, but I talked with other moms about what they did for their families. Universally, I've met no mother who says "my kids need more toys." Most will admit they could go for several years without receiving any more toys. We also all agree that grandma and grandpa are the perpetrators of giving the toys.
It's not that I want to squeeze the fun out of Christmas, don't get me wrong. I know my kids enjoy playing with toys. I know they like opening gifts. I know my parents (and other family members) enjoy giving gifts to my kids. It's not that I'm a Grinch, it's that I'm a realist. Kids can only play with so many toys. A couple of years ago, I conducted an experiment. I got tired of picking up and putting together every single puzzle my son owned every night. I was tired of every musical instrument being on the floor every day.
So I packed up a majority of my kids toys, put them in themed boxes (cars/trucks, musical instruments, puzzles, etc.) and put those boxes on the dining room table. If the kids wanted to play with those specific toys, they would need to pick up any other toys that weren't put away. Here's what I found. Largely, my kids have not missed the boxed-up toys. Bekah will ask for musical instruments every so often. I take the box down, she plays with them for a day, I box them back up (with her help) and we put them away.
There are still plenty of toys left in the house for them to play with, but the other toys are now more distinguishable. I think what happens is that the kids start to see toys as noise. They see a huge pile of toys as an indeterminate mass of stuff. I think it overwhelms them and they decide, on the whole, that it is really more fun to play with my plastic storage containers, sticks, rocks and other random flotsam from around the house.
I am a part of McHenry County Mothers & More. Twice a year, we host a resale. This past month, I took 5 toys (on the bigger side) to sell. The kids have not asked about where the toys are, what happened to them, etc. The toy room (although admittedly the entire house is the toy room) is less cluttered, I'm not hurting my feet on as many things and they have more room to play with other toys.
My parents have finally acquiesced to my repeated requests to not purchase toys for Christmas. I believe they will be purchasing a few, small toys, but on the whole they are going to give us cash. This is great because then I can use those funds for classes and other activities that happen outside the house and that expend energy. In the final analysis, I think that's what the kids remember.
Second, we have decided to pare down the gifts because we want to step out of the stream of consumerism. Last year our pastors encouraged us to be more conscious about how much we spend on Christmas. They challenged us, instead, to use the money we would spend on Christmas for other charitable giving.
We took that talk even further by sitting down with the kids in the toy room and asking them to give some of their toys to kids who had none. They were able to give up about 7 toys. This hasn't been a one-time thing, either. I probably ask them about every month what we can give away. They generally come up with 1 or 2 things we can take to Savers.
So the reason I'm worried about Santa this year is that Brian and I are going to have to stand by our convictions. We are going to have to make sure the kids understand that, in our house, Santa will only be bringing 3 gifts each. When we craft a letter to Santa, I don't want to be including the Toys R Us wish list book. I want to make sure they are thoughtful about what they ask him for. I also want them to be aware that Santa (in our house) won't always give them everything they want. I asked him for years for a pony and, alas, he never caved. (Nevermind that I couldn't even pick up my dog's poop in the backyard.)
It's tough, I think, to strike that balance. I want them to be excited for Christmas for the reasons we really celebrate the season. Even if we're wrong, we celebrate Christ's birth at Christmas (I understand that, according to some historians he was actually born in the spring and others believe that Christmas should really be called Saturnalia). That's what the focus should be; meeting the needs of others rather than getting everything we want. It's an important lesson, I think, and one that not everyone gets. I want my kids to know that we love them not because of how many gifts they unwrap, but by how much empty room in our house can be filled with love.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
It's on It's Way
I am not a wuss. I delivered three babies, one of them without an epidural. I've run long-distance races, I've stepped on nails, I've done some awful stuff to my body. There is, however, nothing worse or more painful than not feeling well as a mommy.
When I was single (and even when I was married but un-childed), I would take to my bed for days when I felt a cold or flu coming on. I would snuggle under the covers and doze off to TNT's daytime line-up. I would eat whatever sounded good, even if it was takeout. I wouldn't clean, or take the dogs out more than absolutely necessary.
As a mommy, though, that all changes. I have been pretty ill on a number of occasions as a mommy. I've run high fevers, barely been able to breath, low-down not feeling well. I have, historically, gotten very little sympathy from my kids. They don't seem to understand that mommy feels so poorly that all she can do is sit, motionless on the couch, shivering under the blankets.
Have a migraine? They simply don't understand why having the iPad at the highest volume level while playing Angry Birds is an issue. They still need their cups filled with milk, bowls filled with pretzels and apple slices and selves filled with attention. It's exhausting when I'm at full capacity, well-rested, cheerful, spiritually filled.
When my body is aching all over, I'm shivering, my head hurts even looking at the screen on my phone, well, it's really just too bad. I love and appreciate my husband, but he's not much help either. Yes, he helps me take care of our children. Yes, he makes sure that they stay away from me while I'm napping. He feeds them, bathes them and keeps them from danger.
I cannot expect that he will do laundry, empty or fill the dishwasher, cook, take out the garbage or otherwise perform domestic chores. In his estimation, simply keeping the children safe fulfills his duty. "Don't worry about the laundry, though, honey," he'll say, as he heads to work in an ill-fitting dress shirt. What he really means is, the laundry will be waiting for you when you are well and, in the meantime, it will have grown exponentially.
"Just put the TV on and let the kids watch all day," he says, but he doesn't understand how annoying it is to watch the same episodes of "Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends" over and over and over. How "Dino Dan" grates on my with it's bland Canadian congeniality. I don't mind "The Fresh Beat Band," but man are those kids awful cheerful all the time.
I will give my husband lots of credit. He has gotten better at coming home early or taking a day off if I'm not feeling well. I am grateful for his presence, even if it's not really a vacation--it's just a postponement of all of my normal responsibilities.
In the case of prolonged illness, when the dustbunnies are having babies, the dishes are threatening to topple out of the sink, laundry has turned into the Blob and is spilling out of the laundry room, I can't take it anymore. I have to at least get some semblance of order restored. I usually do it on a day when I start to get my energy back just a bit. After a solid 2 hours of work, I can see I've made progress and collapse, exhausted, onto the couch. "Why would you do that when you don't feel well," he'll ask me.
It's a peculiar thing. I have just noticed recently that Brian is capable of sitting on the couch without being bothered by the mess. It doesn't bother him that there isn't an empty two-inch by two-inch square of space in the TV room. He's not concerned with the loose pack of Pirate playing cards that litter the floor in the kitchen. He's unaware that the pile of laundry sitting in the front entryway hall shouldn't be there. In short, he has on a special pair of goggles that permit him simply to not see ugliness.
I, however, do not. I am not able to really relax in front of the TV unless the room around the TV is free of debris. If my feet are sticking to the floor every time I walk to the sink, I can't just jut my chin out and walk back to the couch. If I'm stepping on laundry every time I'm walking upstairs, it really eats at me. I have a much lower level of tolerance for mess than I used to.
I say all of this because I feel run-down tonight. I've run the dishwasher 3 times, cooked dinner, made brownies with Bekah, run the washer and dryer numerous times, vacuumed upstairs, put away laundry, straightened our bed and cleaned our bathroom and performed various other household chores. The TV room is still a mess (I made the rookie mistake of trying to straighten it out with the kids still in it) and the kitchen floor looks awful. Do I just bundle up under a blankie, watch The Avengers for a third time and ignore the kitchen? Or, as a wizened mother do I clean it all up, knowing tomorrow I might not be in the shape to do it?
I'll probably end up doing it. And I'll be trying not to pass my germs on to Brian. The only thing that's worse than a sick child is a sick husband. True story.
When I was single (and even when I was married but un-childed), I would take to my bed for days when I felt a cold or flu coming on. I would snuggle under the covers and doze off to TNT's daytime line-up. I would eat whatever sounded good, even if it was takeout. I wouldn't clean, or take the dogs out more than absolutely necessary.
As a mommy, though, that all changes. I have been pretty ill on a number of occasions as a mommy. I've run high fevers, barely been able to breath, low-down not feeling well. I have, historically, gotten very little sympathy from my kids. They don't seem to understand that mommy feels so poorly that all she can do is sit, motionless on the couch, shivering under the blankets.
Have a migraine? They simply don't understand why having the iPad at the highest volume level while playing Angry Birds is an issue. They still need their cups filled with milk, bowls filled with pretzels and apple slices and selves filled with attention. It's exhausting when I'm at full capacity, well-rested, cheerful, spiritually filled.
When my body is aching all over, I'm shivering, my head hurts even looking at the screen on my phone, well, it's really just too bad. I love and appreciate my husband, but he's not much help either. Yes, he helps me take care of our children. Yes, he makes sure that they stay away from me while I'm napping. He feeds them, bathes them and keeps them from danger.
I cannot expect that he will do laundry, empty or fill the dishwasher, cook, take out the garbage or otherwise perform domestic chores. In his estimation, simply keeping the children safe fulfills his duty. "Don't worry about the laundry, though, honey," he'll say, as he heads to work in an ill-fitting dress shirt. What he really means is, the laundry will be waiting for you when you are well and, in the meantime, it will have grown exponentially.
"Just put the TV on and let the kids watch all day," he says, but he doesn't understand how annoying it is to watch the same episodes of "Miss Spider's Sunny Patch Friends" over and over and over. How "Dino Dan" grates on my with it's bland Canadian congeniality. I don't mind "The Fresh Beat Band," but man are those kids awful cheerful all the time.
I will give my husband lots of credit. He has gotten better at coming home early or taking a day off if I'm not feeling well. I am grateful for his presence, even if it's not really a vacation--it's just a postponement of all of my normal responsibilities.
In the case of prolonged illness, when the dustbunnies are having babies, the dishes are threatening to topple out of the sink, laundry has turned into the Blob and is spilling out of the laundry room, I can't take it anymore. I have to at least get some semblance of order restored. I usually do it on a day when I start to get my energy back just a bit. After a solid 2 hours of work, I can see I've made progress and collapse, exhausted, onto the couch. "Why would you do that when you don't feel well," he'll ask me.
It's a peculiar thing. I have just noticed recently that Brian is capable of sitting on the couch without being bothered by the mess. It doesn't bother him that there isn't an empty two-inch by two-inch square of space in the TV room. He's not concerned with the loose pack of Pirate playing cards that litter the floor in the kitchen. He's unaware that the pile of laundry sitting in the front entryway hall shouldn't be there. In short, he has on a special pair of goggles that permit him simply to not see ugliness.
I, however, do not. I am not able to really relax in front of the TV unless the room around the TV is free of debris. If my feet are sticking to the floor every time I walk to the sink, I can't just jut my chin out and walk back to the couch. If I'm stepping on laundry every time I'm walking upstairs, it really eats at me. I have a much lower level of tolerance for mess than I used to.
I say all of this because I feel run-down tonight. I've run the dishwasher 3 times, cooked dinner, made brownies with Bekah, run the washer and dryer numerous times, vacuumed upstairs, put away laundry, straightened our bed and cleaned our bathroom and performed various other household chores. The TV room is still a mess (I made the rookie mistake of trying to straighten it out with the kids still in it) and the kitchen floor looks awful. Do I just bundle up under a blankie, watch The Avengers for a third time and ignore the kitchen? Or, as a wizened mother do I clean it all up, knowing tomorrow I might not be in the shape to do it?
I'll probably end up doing it. And I'll be trying not to pass my germs on to Brian. The only thing that's worse than a sick child is a sick husband. True story.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Monday, Monday
It's Tuesday night. Last night, I was in no frame of mind to blog. It had been, quite literally, the day from hell. I have struggled for the past month to etch out a schedule for the kids. I feel like I've turned into a cruise director/shuttle bus driver. I am happy to do it, but it has been tough to get everything scheduled without conflicts.
I had talked last week at Bekah's dance class about switching the class to the morning. It suited me better because we could drop Jeremy off at preschool, go to dance class, kill time and then pick him up again. It would allow Doug to go down for a nap at a reasonable time. It would mean less back and forth to the house.
So I started off getting ready for that scenario. I had to get Jeremy dressed for preschool and Bekah dressed for dance. I don't get up early enough; I fight for every additional minute of sleep that I can. We end up being slightly rushed when it comes to getting ready and out the door. We have a short list of things to do; eat waffles, get out of pajamas, get dressed, go. There is not a lot of time to mess around.
The easy solution would be to go to bed earlier and get up earlier, but I refuse to give up the time I spend by myself at night. So we found ourselves in a pickle first thing. Typically, Jeremy moves his bowels at odd times during the day. He's not someone by whom you can set your clock. It took a long time for him to do this function on the toilet. We cajoled, bribed and threatened him for a year before he made up his mind and started doing it.
That being said, when he makes the decision to take care of that business, you can't mess with him. He finds a book (this is the only indication he gives of what he's doing) and he can spend upwards of 15-20 minutes taking care of everything. Typically, this is not an issue because we have time for him to be able to attend to it. There is not time built into our morning routine to account for that.
I had Bekah and Doug dressed and strapped into the van. I was dressed, had my shoes on and sitting on the couch as the clock crept toward 8:50, then 8:55. Preschool starts at 9:00, the proposed new time for Bekah's dance class was 9:15. It was going to be tight, but I was fairly certain we could do it. However, no amount of verbal assault could get Jeremy to speed up the process.
We didn't leave for preschool until 9:00. We hurried into his school, then I hurried out. The first disappointment of the day? Apparently, the proposed change was for Wednesday morning, not Monday morning and it was to be for the start of the new session. So we pull up to her dance class and the building is empty. I have to explain to my 3-year-old that she will, in fact, have dance class. She is in tears. I am already at overflow for frustration.
I decided we would just run errands before going to pick Jeremy up. We headed to the bank, then the library. When I got Bekah out of her carseat, I realized she had ripped a hole in her tights. No matter, I thought, I have an extra pair at home. We walk up to the library and Bekah trips and falls. I have Doug in my arms because the umbrella stroller didn't make it's way back to the van. I can't even comfort her because Doug is heavy; if I put him down, I'm afraid he'll bolt for the stairs and take a header.
We pick up Jeremy and head home. I make lunch, then try to track down the extra pair of pink tights. It's always the case that I lay eyes on a desired object about a dozen times, make a mental note of it's location, and then when I need it, I can't find it to save my life. Compound that with my narrow laundry room and it's lack of organization? It's a recipe for disaster.
It took me 45 minutes to locate the damn tights. Meanwhile, I stepped on and broke my Swiffer, discovered that a bottle of detergent had leaked everywhere, kept discovering plastic grocery bags in every imaginable crevice, and generally cursed every item in the laundry room.
After dance class, I tried to take a nap with the kids in my room. That was laughable at best. I ended up putting them in their room so I could catch a few, uninterrupted zzzzzs. Then I was in a mad rush to get dinner ready. It came out well, but the meat and potatoes were slightly undercooked.
In general, it was just a rotten day. I eat when I am stressed and so I ate more than I wanted to and ate the kind of foods I should avoid. The misdirection with Bekah's class meant I lost my ideal time slot to work out--when I am down one child. I decided last night that I was going to work out even if it was late; this seemed to be the best decision I made all day. It helped me feel better about myself and resolve some of the anger I had been feeling.
I get this sense that being the mother of 3 small children is a lot like living in the movie "Groundhog Day." It is tough to distinguish one day from the next; they all start to blur together into one, long, uninterrupted repeat. There is something a bit melodious about the monotony because I know what to expect. I have to remember that I struggle during the summer to fill empty days. Full days make the time go by faster. The planful part of my nature wishes the routine was already set in place by now, but I also need to remember that variety is the spice of life. Everything is as it should be.
Let's hope next Monday brings a little less chaos.
I had talked last week at Bekah's dance class about switching the class to the morning. It suited me better because we could drop Jeremy off at preschool, go to dance class, kill time and then pick him up again. It would allow Doug to go down for a nap at a reasonable time. It would mean less back and forth to the house.
So I started off getting ready for that scenario. I had to get Jeremy dressed for preschool and Bekah dressed for dance. I don't get up early enough; I fight for every additional minute of sleep that I can. We end up being slightly rushed when it comes to getting ready and out the door. We have a short list of things to do; eat waffles, get out of pajamas, get dressed, go. There is not a lot of time to mess around.
The easy solution would be to go to bed earlier and get up earlier, but I refuse to give up the time I spend by myself at night. So we found ourselves in a pickle first thing. Typically, Jeremy moves his bowels at odd times during the day. He's not someone by whom you can set your clock. It took a long time for him to do this function on the toilet. We cajoled, bribed and threatened him for a year before he made up his mind and started doing it.
That being said, when he makes the decision to take care of that business, you can't mess with him. He finds a book (this is the only indication he gives of what he's doing) and he can spend upwards of 15-20 minutes taking care of everything. Typically, this is not an issue because we have time for him to be able to attend to it. There is not time built into our morning routine to account for that.
I had Bekah and Doug dressed and strapped into the van. I was dressed, had my shoes on and sitting on the couch as the clock crept toward 8:50, then 8:55. Preschool starts at 9:00, the proposed new time for Bekah's dance class was 9:15. It was going to be tight, but I was fairly certain we could do it. However, no amount of verbal assault could get Jeremy to speed up the process.
We didn't leave for preschool until 9:00. We hurried into his school, then I hurried out. The first disappointment of the day? Apparently, the proposed change was for Wednesday morning, not Monday morning and it was to be for the start of the new session. So we pull up to her dance class and the building is empty. I have to explain to my 3-year-old that she will, in fact, have dance class. She is in tears. I am already at overflow for frustration.
I decided we would just run errands before going to pick Jeremy up. We headed to the bank, then the library. When I got Bekah out of her carseat, I realized she had ripped a hole in her tights. No matter, I thought, I have an extra pair at home. We walk up to the library and Bekah trips and falls. I have Doug in my arms because the umbrella stroller didn't make it's way back to the van. I can't even comfort her because Doug is heavy; if I put him down, I'm afraid he'll bolt for the stairs and take a header.
We pick up Jeremy and head home. I make lunch, then try to track down the extra pair of pink tights. It's always the case that I lay eyes on a desired object about a dozen times, make a mental note of it's location, and then when I need it, I can't find it to save my life. Compound that with my narrow laundry room and it's lack of organization? It's a recipe for disaster.
It took me 45 minutes to locate the damn tights. Meanwhile, I stepped on and broke my Swiffer, discovered that a bottle of detergent had leaked everywhere, kept discovering plastic grocery bags in every imaginable crevice, and generally cursed every item in the laundry room.
After dance class, I tried to take a nap with the kids in my room. That was laughable at best. I ended up putting them in their room so I could catch a few, uninterrupted zzzzzs. Then I was in a mad rush to get dinner ready. It came out well, but the meat and potatoes were slightly undercooked.
In general, it was just a rotten day. I eat when I am stressed and so I ate more than I wanted to and ate the kind of foods I should avoid. The misdirection with Bekah's class meant I lost my ideal time slot to work out--when I am down one child. I decided last night that I was going to work out even if it was late; this seemed to be the best decision I made all day. It helped me feel better about myself and resolve some of the anger I had been feeling.
I get this sense that being the mother of 3 small children is a lot like living in the movie "Groundhog Day." It is tough to distinguish one day from the next; they all start to blur together into one, long, uninterrupted repeat. There is something a bit melodious about the monotony because I know what to expect. I have to remember that I struggle during the summer to fill empty days. Full days make the time go by faster. The planful part of my nature wishes the routine was already set in place by now, but I also need to remember that variety is the spice of life. Everything is as it should be.
Let's hope next Monday brings a little less chaos.
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