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Category Archives: parenting

Putting My Big Girl Panties On: It’s Getting Real Up in Here

Jun 10

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Since I’ve been blogging publicly, there have been a few instances in which I’ve discussed the need to put on my figurative Big Girl Panties. The issues have been mostly minor, and I somehow managed to pull through.

But those big girl panties turned out to be merely Pull Ups.

I now need to put on some real ones.

Historically, there’s been a lot of swearing in this house. I’m not saying we’re a family of sailors, but my grandfather did have an anchor tattoo. I inherited this colorful language from my mother unit, who, I believe, inherited it from her mother unit, who humbly began the tradition by stringing saints’ names in a long, breathless, Italian row.

Now, there’s no swearing at people in this house, per se. Most of it appears in casual conversation, or in routine discussions about work or family. And we’ve had these conversations in the presence of the kids. But, up until, I’d say, the past week, no one’s noticed.

I had to put my daughter in Time Out last week, which resulted in her running around her room yelling, “Aagh! Facky! Facky! No! Facky!”

Oops.

Seems she was listening after all. And has also been able to successfully incorporate a few new words into casual conversation.

Fantastic.

Those conversations have now met an unfortunate end. Or should.

In addition, we recently found out that my husband has been offered, and accepted, a better job in a neighboring state, which would require a move.

Facky.

So, not only are we trying to hold it together verbally (I’m thinking swear jar) , I’m trying to hold it together mentally as well.

Remember about a year and a half ago, when we were facing moving out of state? The kids were really small, we had help basically seven days a week, and there was probably a lot of swearing, but I don’t remember, because I never slept. Well, he was presented with that same job – one I knew he wanted, one he wouldn’t be able to find in this state – again. So we said yes.

You can read my hilarious, yet pathetic, musings on my failure to launch last time here.

Of course, now that he’s accepted the job and reality is smugly staring me in the face, chewing with its mouth open, I’m starting to like this house. I like the yard. I like the various blooming plants I’m unable to identify because I’m from the city. I like the floors we put in, the toilet we replaced, and the basin sink in the laundry room that drips constantly. I like holly bushes that bent to the ground with the snow. I like the kids next door who take my kids skateboarding on their stomachs down their driveway. I like our new fridge. I like everything.

My husband continues to remind me that this house has been a source of negativity and stress since the day we closed, and is bleeding us dry. Which it is. And he keeps reminding me that he won’t find an opportunity like this in Rhode Island. Which he won’t. And he keeps reminding me that for the six weeks he was interviewing, I was one hundred percent on board with this plan. Which I was.

But, the yard is just – so pretty…

I guess a particular measure of panic comes with rose-colored glasses.

What I think I can do is work through the mental gymnastics and everything tangible it will take to get this done. What I’m having trouble doing is stifling the frequent and substantial expressions of emotion that accompany the process.

When the kids are all like, “Mommy, why you crying,” it’s not as if I can respond, “Well, kids, I’m crying because my family of origin did not afford me the tools I needed to believe I can handle an existence further than an arm’s length away from them. And, truth be told, I might just be a wuss.”  I shouldn’t be crying in front of my kids, period. But life for the past few years has been such a roller coaster, I have cracked a few times.

I can’t suck my thumb in the fetal position on the kitchen floor, whining about how the windows need to be washed or that the walls need touching up. Or that I’ll have to hire someone named Imelda to fill in my obvious deficiencies as a mother and a wife. Or that we might pick the wrong house. Again.

So, as I’ve clearly demonstrated, I need some good, sturdy, high-thread-count big girl panties. And your help.

If you hear me starting to flake or cleave or waffle (or the cap unscrewing from a bottle of hard liquor), please jump in and remind me that people do this every day and that this truly is the best choice for our family. 

And, please, please keep an eye on that swear jar. If there’s nothing in it, someone’s cheating.

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The Purse

Kidoozie My First Purse courtesy of WalMart.com

I bought my daughter a ‘My First Purse’ for Christmas, complete with ‘lipstick’, a mirror, a ‘cell phone’, and keys.

A few mornings ago, I watched as her twin brother carried the purse, on his forearm, stashing stray toys from around the living room inside. Cognitively, I knew that he was merely carrying toys in a bag. Cognitively, I knew this was an all-but-perfect solution to his older brother snatching toys from his hands and running away. But emotionally? Emotionally, I was fighting quite a battle.

I sat silently as my eyes darted back and forth between the purple bag and his pajama pants, which featured all manner of sporting good. I wanted to yell, “Put down that bag! That’s for girls!” as if his hands would catch fire for carrying it. I wanted to explain that the bag was just for girls, but I stayed silent. Frankly, the entire scene made me a bit uneasy. And I never knew I felt that way.

I always envied those gender-neutral families, with kids decked out in rainbows, khaki, and unisex t-shirts. I always imagined that once I’d made my own family, I’d follow suit.

But whether it’s something in (or outside of) my kids, or something in me, I have yet to make the leap.

I stared at him further, wondering what were the true implications of his carrying this purse. Is this okay? Would it be? Would other kids at daycare or preschool conveniently fail to notice that he was carrying a handbag? And then I kicked myself for giving that thought the time of day. I knew, I mean, inherently knew, that the kid found a bag, stuffed it with cars, and was toting it around the living room. But some part of me inside was screaming that it was wrong.

I stood back, trying to avoid further feeding my cognitive dissonance, and found myself back into the kitchen. But the image continued to slip through my consciousness. Who decides what’s gender appropriate? Is it inherent? Is it preschool television? Is it me? Can I fix it? Leaving the room obviously failed to relieve my unease.

Two afternoons later, my son and I were lying on my bed, where I’d deposited a few loads of clean laundry. He was rooting through the pile, when he found my daughter’s Minnie Mouse pajamas, held them up, and looked at me.

“Pajamas,” I said.

“I don’t like girly stuff. These pajamas are for girls,” he said, with a prefabricated disgust.

I sat, silently, again, attempting to decide whether or not I agreed with his statement. Sure, they were purchased in the girls’ department, but if my son wanted to wear them, would I protest? Should I? Could I?

How much of our gender identification is culture-based as opposed to genetically programmed? All of it? None of it? And why wasn’t I able to decide how I felt about it myself?

I never wanted to be the family with a gender line drawn in the sand. I never pictured my daughter inside, in an apron, baking banana bread with me, while my husband and sons split heavy logs outside. I never imagined that family. But I also never imagined this one, where I stifle reactions to my son for circumstantially carrying a purse, only to hear those same reactions coming from my children.

How do they learn about ‘boy toys’ or ‘girl toys’, anyway? And why is it my daughter has had no vested interest whatsoever in Matchbox cars since she’s been able to play? Why does my daughter talk about being ‘pretty’ while my sons talk about being ‘super fast’? I know my family didn’t impress these concepts upon them.

I can only conclude that some of it must be a product of our genetics, and some of it a product of our culture. Am I happy about it? No, not really, especially my reaction. If I could have changed how I felt in that moment, I would have. Am I happy that my older son has already decided, with some disdain, that he’s not having any of the Minnie Mouse pajamas? Absolutely not.

My only hope is this is a phase that we will all get through, because I don’t want to harm my children with reactions I never knew I had, and I don’t want any of my children to agonize over any of their choices, now or in the future.

Can we ever be a truly gender-neutral family? I’m not sure.

Is any family?

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Hey, I’ll Give You a Sticker!

So, we’ve enacted Reward Chart Protocol at Camp Bernaba. We were giving out stickers before, but found the preferred place to stick them turned out to be the bag of wipes, where they were quickly forgotten, and then thrown away.

I’ve offered every child in this house stickers, for doing everything from helping mommy to using the potty. I picked up construction-equipment stickers, 3D Cars stickers, Mickey stickers, Minnie stickers, ‘Great Job!” stickers, and silver-foiled monster truck stickers.

You’d think, with the preponderance of good behavior and the obvious surplus of stickers here, that our house would be plastered floor-to-ceiling, and my children would be making their own beds, sweeping the floors, and cooking their own meals by now.

Alas, this is not the case.

I created our first sticker charts on Sunday. As yet, Matthew’s has five stickers on it: two for brushing teeth, one for using the potty, and two for helping Mommy prepare breakfast. Not bad. Unless you start counting the five I owe him from last week, the two I promised Maggie for “being a good girl and playing with your brothers”, and the one Michael is owed for using the potty last week.

I’m bad at stickers and they’re bad at both guaranteeing themselves stickers and holding me to my lavish and empty sticker promises.

Sure, I’ve made offers. They’ve accepted. And I’ve tried my hardest to remember to hand out stickers in a timely and appropriate manner. They’ve also accepted and not come through, accepted and only partially completed the required task, and accepted, but completed a completely different tasks. So, who’s the slouch here?

I’m going to break it down for you, kids. Bribery doesn’t work. This is something I’ve known, but I needed  a way to manage three growing, independent little people, and decided to give this route a shot.

And we were holding this ship together quite well until I brought Matthew to check out the preschool. We came home. We talked about it. He was very excited about attending. Yet, he’s irresistibly fought me on most responsibilities since that very day.  Is it too much pressure? Is he not ready? I haven’t gotten to the bottom of that yet. But every victory is hard-won, and my teeth and nails have seen better days.

Sure, he enjoys receiving and placing the stickers, but this protocol does not appear to be guiding his behavior in any meaningful way. Is this working for Matthew? I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is this bloody house should be literally covered in stickers by now, but it’s not. They behave as much as one would reasonably expect a three-year-old and two two-year-olds to behave. They’re quick. They’ve found ways to help Mom and Dad. But I need to encourage this behavior to continue. And flourish.

Do I continue along this imperceptibly successful road hoping the practice gets permanent traction? Do I give up on the stickers entirely and move on to something else? Do I focus on modeling, so they can simply follow along?

Stick around.

Hopefully, I’ll find the answer.

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Jailbreak: A Guest Post by Colleen of The Family Pants

Colleen of Adventures of the Family PantsColleen Thoele is also known as Mama Pants. She is a child advocate, awesome wife, best mother ever, worst mother ever, greatest sister of all time and lover of sensible clothing.  She tries really hard to not wear sweat pants every single day, which is hard because sweatpants go the best with flip-flops, and flip-flops don’t require socks.  She spends her down time blogging about the awesomeness and not awesomeness of living with the two tiny people that she made. 

[Thanks for reading along. Come hang with me around the webternet. These are my haunts… The Family Pants, Facebook and Twitter]

 

 

I dropped my keys in the parking lot. Shit. Bending down, gym bag on my shoulder and one kid holding each hand, he saw the opportunity to jump on my back and took it. She tried to make a break for it, but my vice grip proved strong enough, so she threw herself to the asphalt and screamed instead. One on my back, one in my arms and a gym bag. Did I mention it was raining? I was sweating before I even got in the door.

Covered in kids and dripping wet, I say an awkward “Heeeey” to the group of hot personal trainers all hanging out at the front desk before I drop the littles at the kiddie room (perk!) and head to the locker room.

That’s when I see her.  You know the girl I am talking about. Her gym clothes are like a second skin that someone painted on. Black gym shorts that stop right under her perfectly gorgeous butt and a hot pink top. Her hair is amazing-ness. Her skin, evenly tanned and kind of shiny. Even her shoes made her feet look sexy. She’s not a pound over weight. She smells like a sugar cookie. That girl.

Standing next to her, I smile to myself. Look at me. Mismatched socks, XXL church camp T-shirt, and a bun in my hair that’s been there since I showered 24 hours ago. I have a zit on my nose that you could see from space. I’ve got 83 pounds to go of the 100 that had slowly, but surely, jailed me.  That’s why I’m here, man. Jailbreak.

I smiled at her as she put her headphones on and floated walked out. She smiled back. And, as I sat down to stretch and focus for a few minutes before hitting the treadmill, it occurred to me that I don’t hate her. Good for her. She’s beautiful.

I laughed to myself like a crazy person, now alone in the locker room. Way to evolve, Colleen. Five years ago, I would have been so jealous of her. I would have tried to boost myself up by assuming she was shallow and dumb. Five years ago I would have been ashamed of my body. It  jiggles when I walk.  There is no mistaking that my belly housed some babies. My thighs rub together. And my chin? Sweet baby Zeus, my damn chins have neck roll friends.

Five years ago, I would have felt a cold sweat on my forehead and palms. A lump would have risen in my throat as I tried not to cry. The cold sweat would trickle down to meet the heat in my cheeks. I would have hidden in the bathroom stall to collect myself so no one would see me cry tears of shame and self-hatred. I would have hidden in order to stop hearing my heartbeat in my ears long enough to slip out of the door unnoticed by the beautiful people. Panicked. Paralyzed.

But not today. Not anymore.

I am beautiful, too. Fuck it, man. I had kids. I can’t hate my body for that.

So, as I lace up my clunky $14.00 Wal-Mart shoes, I make a mental note not only to buy some better freaking shoes, but to get out there and sweat my ass off. To keep going.  To own the shit out of that treadmill. Because I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to be strong. Because, dammit, I am not defined by my Hanes Her Way comfort yoga capris. I am defined by the fact that I am taking a stand for myself. Oh, and that I’m kind of a bad ass.

It’s been five years since my body was just mine.  Five years of growing people or feeding them. Having babies and breastfeeding – it was exactly what I wanted to do. And I did it. My youngest is still nursing. But things are changing.  There will be no more babies. When my girl weans, there will be no more breastfeeding. My body will once again be mine.  All mine. And so I stride on out of that locker room with my chins up and my determination face on. I’m ready.

I don’t need to be that girl in the hot pink top, she gets to be her. And she is clearly rocking it. Me? I get to be me. And I really fucking like me. Stretch marks and all.

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You’re Not All That: Realizations of Motherhood by Bridgette of Shortcut Girl

bridgettegallagherBridgette Gallagher is a high school English teacher in Saratoga Springs, NY. She is the proud Mom to Parker, 3, an amazing little redhead and Celia,1, the true definition of a “spirited child.” She spends a good part of her days trying to figure out how to put her crazy thoughts into words that make people smile and (hopefully) laugh. Her blog Shortcut Girl is her attempt at showing how life can be easier when you are able to shamelessly make fun of and laugh at yourself. Please like Shortcut Girl on Facebook or follow her on Twitter (@shortcutgrrl).

 

 

When I first felt little fingers trace the lines of the small three-inch long tattoo that is graces my lower back (can you please suppress your desire to call it a “tramp stamp” in front of my children?), I knew that explaining writing on your body was going to be complicated – as complicated as explaining the symbol itself and what it represented (Mars, Pluto—yup, the non-planet—and Scorpio, my astrological sign). I never thought that explaining this to a child would make me feel like such an adult. And I never thought that I would simultaneously feel guilty about and proud of a decision I made.

Everyone has her own feelings about tattoos. I don’t really have a specific one. I think it’s a nice way to express yourself, if that’s what you like. I don’t think it’s for the fickle or the shy or the meek. Tattoos are statements and are meant to be seen. If you choose to make that statement, I think you should be ready to discuss what it means.  I mean, I believe that for other people (not me) when it comes to my children, of course.

That being said, I also think that tattoos are personal, expressive, and often reflect the person’s life at the time they got the tattoo. Some people get more tattoos, some people remove them. Each person has a fundamentally different relationship with the markings on their body.

For me, my tattoo was an eighteen-year-old’s expression of “So THERE!” I had a good relationship with my parents, was barely out past curfew or partying on weekends — but I was young for my grade. Sent to Kindergarten at age 4, I was the last to turn 18 of all my friends, and was determined to do it with a bang.

A tattoo gives you street cred into college and even after. But once you meet the man you want to marry and learn he’s not all that into tattoos, you wonder if asserting your independence in 1998 was worth it. (Pssst, it’s NOT!)

Nothing humbles you more than your child, whether it’s the “How many cookies are you going to eat, Mommy?” or the “My Mom has a vagina kind of penis!” exclamations, one thing is for sure: You might have gotten away with your BS before, but you will not anymore.

When we are twenty-somethings, not yet jaded by the trials of pregnancy and motherhood, we have little reason to think how life will be at thirty, thirty-five, or forty. Who wants to think about how things will be when they are old?

And then upon reaching age 30, or 35, or 40 you reach another phase. The let’s-just-pretend-this-never-happened phase. The rewrite-your-own-history phase. When you have children and have to start explaining past lives to them, the fact is that if they don’t ask, we don’t need to come up with a suitable backstory.

But with this tattoo, I’m done for. It’s an affirmation of the worst kind. It says, you were once young and you are now old all in the same breath. It screams rebellion and mischief. But mostly it says I was once not your mother, I was once just myself.

And maybe that’s the best explanation I have. This is something Mommy did before she was Mommy. When she was someone like you— making decisions and mistakes and learning from them, one flawed symbol at a time.

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