Gently Down

I started this blog for a few reasons, mostly because I was in my twenties and thought I was special. After I lost a pregnancy at my destination wedding and suffered from ptsd I found myself writing to help clear my head and to keep things from seeming “secret,” a problem many of us growing up in alcoholic households suffer from (we’re only as sick as our secrets). My therapist acknowledged that it seemed a good idea to her. But I would delete many of the posts, thinking of specific people reading them and imagining my mother, or, horrors, of somehow my mother finding the blog or being told about it.

Recently, due to the age of my son and the rage I sometimes feel, I’ve been thinking a lot about my parents and how I was raised. Running with TNT for my father makes me think of him a lot. And it is hard to come up with happy memories. Which is unfair, because I know there must have been some. To be honest, it’s hard to come up with any memories, mostly there’s just a feeling of fear and guilt in the pit of my stomach, unconnected to anything I can put into words.

The people upstairs bang around a lot on their hardwood floors. It took a long time for me to realize why that made me want to grab the kids and hide under the bed, not breathing.

These things are things I need to talk about. Along with the positive, absolutely wonderful things that are going on. But to talk about one and deny the other has the ring of a secret. I hear my mother in the back of my head telling me not to talk about it with anyone. Not to mention it. And I can’t do that. The more I do the more I draw everything in, the less I talk about anything with anyone. And I can’t do that to my kids. So on my desk I’ve placed the secrets quote, and I’ve made up my mind to discuss what I need to, with the knowledge that for awhile it’ll probably be heavily negative. But once told most stories don’t need to be repeated.

I should probably follow through and try to be more anonymous, restart a blog without telling any of you where I’ve disappeared to. But it comes down to pride, as ridiculous as it may sound. These are MY experiences. I may not be happy with them, they may have sucked (and I’m the first to admit I had it better than most), but they are still what made me who I am, and I still was the one who survived them. In the end I can’t let fear of being caught stop me from relating my truth (good god, that sounds like such new-age crap).

I can not ask you for your discretion: I’m airing my dirty laundry for all the world to see. But I do ask that if you know my family, please keep in mind that we all have our bad moments. We are all trying the best with what we have been given. And you’re only hearing my side of the story, warped by my age at the time and immaturity, then and continuing to the present.

So, yeah, 2012, perhaps the year I can let my rage go, stop tensing up my back when someone asks if they can ask me a question, stop being so afraid someone will find me out, stop jumping when someone slams a door. Even if it doesn’t happen, there just isn’t any space left to hide this shit and it’s no place to raise children.

I have a friend who’s constantly trying to get me to go back to work. She sends me job openings and tells me I’m too creative to waste my talents. She has a kid Reed’s age. She’s not the only one, but she’s the most persistent. When I have weeks like last week, I need to be careful not to complain about how frustrating it can be or she really starts to push.

It’s not easy to describe why I’m a stay-at-home mom. It’s especially hard to do without sounding like I think it’s the only right decision.

It is the only right decision for MY family. And, frankly, I’d complain just as much about how frustrating being a working mom is. It’s just what I do. (Although I think I’m making some fantastic headway in not complaining as much as I used to, in seeing just how blessed I truly am.)

Sometimes it hurts to hear these remarks and not have a decent way to describe why this was my decision. There was an especially difficult time when she commented that it’s similar to a friend leaving a prestigious and difficult-to-get-into career program to follow a boyfriend across the country. It made me wonder if I was the only one to see these as different things. The comment still haunts me. Can I be friends with someone who looks down on my world view so completely? Because, to me, following a boy instead of finishing a six-month program is giving up on your life, raising your kids isn’t.

I’m proud of my decision to stay home. I just need to own it a bit more. I’m a feminist because I believe that women should be given equal chances to succeed, that we should have the ability to choose between home and career, and that our careers should be limited based on our abilities, not our sex. I am a stay-at-home mom because I believe our children should have stability in their early years (Every Childs Birthright: In Defense of Mothering) and that a parent is the best hope for that. I believe that childcare can be just as good, but that decent childcare is too expensive where we live, especially when you factor in how badly I truly wanted to be home to raise my kids.

Honestly, that’s the crux. I love being home with my kids. I love that each day there is another chance for me to watch my son learn about the world and to snuggle with my daughter. I love to show them new things and celebrate each little victory. I love to take them to the park and watch their interactions with the other children. I would miss so much of that if I worked outside the home. And instead I’d be paying someone else to enjoy these moments and tell me about them. I don’t want a second-hand experience like that. I want to see Reed’s eyes light up when he sees the moon, even if it’s the hundredth time he’s shown me. I want see Thrace pull to a stand and take her first steps. I’ve seen how upset Tom is when he misses these moments. I don’t feel guilty that I don’t bring in money, I feel guilty that one of us needs to.

Which is actually what it comes down to. The feminist in me applauds the men in my life who’ve chosen to stay home to rear their children, why does she berate me for taking the same path? Yes, my career has a hiccup, but what’s the point of a career if you’d really rather spend your life doing other things? We aren’t seriously hurting for money, we can afford the things we need. We’ve just chosen to have me home instead of taking vacations other than seeing family, which is really all we need. We’ve chosen to have a parent home instead of having two cars, new clothes every season, a new home, the latest gadgets. Why should I need to explain this to my feminist side every time my friend sends me a job opening?

I loved my job. There are days I miss it. But most of the time I enjoy this far more. I work harder every day than I ever did behind a desk, and I never need to question at 5 PM whether I should devote another hour to a project or go home to my kids, which, given the nature of my career was what I watched others do.

There it is, I feel like I’m making a judgment on those mothers. I’m not, it’s just not what I want. They were amazing moms. But the decision they made was for THEIR families, their careers. There is no defense of staying home that doesn’t sound like an attack on not staying home. There’s nothing I can say to my friend to convince her that this was the right decision for me without feeling like I’m insulting her decision.

Have you ever had one of those days. You could draw the chart of your frustration and it would look like the climbing of Mt. Everest, a couple of moments where you were able to regain your position, only to lose it again.

That has totally been my morning. I’m not sure it’s recoverable at this point.

It is such a gorgeous day! I am so excited because we could go to the park without worrying about the air quality or about overheating. High of 87º. Gorgeous.

Only Tom wakes up to tell me he had been up working until 2 AM, which makes me extremely guilty because I’ve GOT to go to the toilet and the kids are SCREAMING, an hour earlier than they normally wake up.

And then the coffee machine hadn’t been cleaned yesterday (which reminds me, I should take care of that now…done). Then the boy’s throwing things. Tom leaves, late, and baby wakes up from her nap almost at the same time, which is about two hours earlier than normal, having gone back to sleep earlier than she should. The boy isn’t turning around when I say his name and counting to three (my last-resort method) isn’t working AT ALL.

He FINALLY sits on the potty and poops. Everything seems right in the world.

But then we get to the sunscreen. Baby and I have it on, but he’s running around the house. I grab him, throw him over my shoulder, and head back to his room with the sunscreen. And step on my Ergo. On the buckle. With my heel. So, yeah, that’s dead. I can’t imagine life without it. I can’t even imagine the rest of the day without it. Chasing the boy over all terrains while pushing a stroller? Ain’t gonna do it.

Also, this is the fourth Special Thing of mine he’s caused to be broken this week (yes, it was my fault, I stepped on it, and I put it in a place where he could throw it on the floor, but y’know how these thoughts go). The first being a really fantastic Art Deco evening bag I bought before I was married.

I put the boy in his room and tell him I need a time out. Not for him, he can play, I just need to calm down. Baby and I investigate the damage. It’s not going to work. Okay. I’ll make do. We’ll figure it out as we walk. Usually the boy listens and won’t run off too far (as long as he’s on the sidewalk and in sight he’s allowed to walk ahead or down the paths in the parks we walk by, LARGE sidewalks, I just don’t like being outside the running distance of him stepping into traffic, which he CERTAINLY seems to understand). So we’ll be fine.

But then, there’s that Noise. I can’t describe the Noise. It’s something he does with his tongue or his lips or something. It’s almost silent. But it’s there. And it means he’s pooping. No problem, potty is easy to clean out. Only…he’s NOT…on the potty.

“I pooped Mommy.”

“In the potty, sweatheart?”

“Nope.”

“Where?”

“In me pants.” He gives me a sheepish grin, where did he learn that?

I’m gripped.

Back into the living room. It’s been awhile since I’ve needed to clean underpants, and it’s a LOT worse than cloth diapers. Regrouping. I’ve been operating with a low patience supply this week. A combination of lack of sleep, missing my family, being frustrated with The Man for forgetting both Mother’s Day and my birthday. I hold a grudge. I know that’s bad. Admitting these things to myself as I try to let go of my anger at the boy for not using the potty. I mean, it was RIGHT THERE!

Okay, back in. Only, well, let’s just say this isn’t going to be easy to clean up. So. Shower.

And I feel awful about this, because the boy hates the shower. I’m hugging him tight and trying to pull off the underwear. He’s doing really well. Water temperature is great, we’re clean, excellent. Put him down. And he runs off.

This is when I realize we’re not going to the park. But, even being as gorgeous as it is, this is more calming than anything else I could think of.

We settle down, and all play with the Little People. We’re having fun. Then he punches me full on in the face.

“Lunchtime,” I declare.

“Naptime,” I decide, immediately following quite a few too many minutes of heated debate concerning the slicing of sandwiches which may or may not have had too much peanut butter and too little jelly depending on who you choose to believe.

And here the peak is in view. I know it. I’m trying to get out of here. There’s been too much yelling and whining from the boy; he’s been running out the apartment door when I’m not looking, into the hall; he’s been opening the patio door when I’m feeding Evie in the other room, which scares the shit out of me because I’m afraid he’ll get hurt. I can’t take this much today. These are rules he doesn’t normally break.

But here’s the baby. Sweet, little, quiet baby. Suddenly she’s screaming with a bad diaper rash from a poop I HEARD come out as we walked into the room, brand new poop. She’s in SO much pain, and I can’t get her to stop crying, even after I give up cleaning her up. Even after I try to feed her. Even after I give her my iPod with Sesame Street playing, which was so novel I thought for sure it would work. The faint buzzing in my ear as I try to help her is the boy, who finally comes over and steals the iPod, just as baby is beginning to calm. He’s STILL telling me he wants it.

“SHUT UP!” I screamed at him. And I know I was able to perfectly channel my father by the look of absolute terror in his eyes, which mirrored the emotions I feel whenever anyone is mad at me. He sat himself down on the couch and waited for me to come over.

I have never been that loud. I have told myself I would never tell my kids to shut up. I have listened to him prattle on and ask the same question over and over again for weeks and not said it. I have told myself I wouldn’t scare my kids into submission. I know we tell ourselves these things we will not do (let our kids watch too much TV, eat candy, etc.), but this isn’t the same. This isn’t “bad parenting” that you should avoid. To me this is Terrible Parenting.

Please tell me it isn’t just me. Tell me you sometimes yell at your kids things you regret. Tell me that it isn’t my upbringing coming out and that I can learn to control my first impulse, which is to scream at the things making me angry. Tell me we can come back down from this.

Today I took Reed and Thrace to pick up our CSA veggies and fruit. We took the Metro and walked through the underground tunnels that constitute this area, which Reed loves to do and is usually pretty good for. It’s also a great, fun way to burn off energy and entertain him for a couple hours, since it’s basically just an underground mall. Reed walks and I wear Thrace in our Ergo, which is great except that it makes it difficult for me to keep up with Reed and stop him from doing things he shouldn’t. This isn’t NORMALLY a problem, as he’s pretty good at listening. NORMALLY. Still, it’s better than involving a stroller.

There’s an Au Bon Pain and a convenience store at one of the intersections before you get to the McDonalds. My plan was to buy us lunch at McDs (we eat pretty good, so I think once in a little while isn’t so bad), treat us to a cookie at Au Bon Pain, pick up our veggies and then hoof it back home.

But Reed ran into the convenience store, with me chasing him, telling him not to touch anything. He grabbed a Nutrigrain bar and ran out into the Au Bon Pain, laughing the entire way as I chased him.

(It makes it so much worse when they’re laughing as if it’s a game, doesn’t it. As though they’re really just here to toy with your emotions.)

Caught him, brought him back to the cashier, gave her the bar, which seemed fine to me when I handed it over. She called out to me and told me that it was destroyed and I’d need to pay for it. Fine. My kid, who I should have had a better hand on, destroyed something and I OF COURSE I’d pay for it.

But he’s still flipping out and screaming because I’m not buying it for him. She tells me it’s a buck. I hand over my debit card, and she tells me that it’s 1.25 if I pay by card. Which is ridiculous, and at which point I really would have expected her to say, “nevermind,” but whatever it’s a business they need to make money and it was MY fault, I know that. I’ll eat another quarter for a bar that I would normally never touch.

Reed is now COMPLETELY FLIPPING OUT and on the floor. I toss the bar onto the counter and say “I don’t actually want this, can you just toss it?” but, as I’m turning around to calm Reed down, I see it falls on the floor, I just overshot.

As I bend down to pick him up the thing WHIZZES by my ear and the woman SCREAMS something unintelligible at me. I yell back at her that I handed intended to throw it at her, it was a mistake, and run out the door pulling Ben. I then remember I need the receipt because I don’t trust her to charge me the right amount at this point, and go back to ask her for it. AND SHE’S PUTTING THE DAMN BAR BACK ON THE SHELF!!!

I left, dragging Reed by his shoulder, which I hate to do, but he wasn’t moving and I was so furious that I was crying and shaking and completely flipping out. When she threw the bar she knocked a pair of sunglasses off the stand near me, which just seems like it must have been really, really fast and hard. I pulled him past the Au Bon Pain and bent down next to him to explain that we didn’t have enough money to get a cookie any more (a total lie, of course, but how else do I explain without it just being “mommy’s mad”? Natural consequences just seem better in the long run) and told him I was mad that he stole the bar but still loved him and gave him a big hug.

We went and got McD’s, which was still a treat, and seemed reasonable since I’d already basically punished him by saying we couldn’t have a cookie I’d already promised. A woman came up to me and told me she’d seen the end of the flip out and thought I was doing an excellent job and I just lost it and started crying. I feel like an awful mom when I yell at all. And grabbing his arms like that totally freaks me out, because I do it in rage, even if it’s not rage at him. And I do it to scare him into complying with me. I work REALLY hard at not doing these things. But that woman TERRIFIED me in a way I couldn’t explain.

She HUCKED the bar at us. US!!! A woman CARRYING a baby and a three-year old. How is that appropriate? Even if I HAD thrown it at her, which I really don’t think I did, but maybe in trying to calm Reed down I did. EVEN if I did: a three-year old and a BABY!

We got lunch, played in the green area near our CSA pick-up, got our fruit and veg, and made it back home on the Metro in one piece. But I’m still feeling on edge over that woman and how I lost my mind.

So how was YOUR day?

I said I would never tell another mother how to dress or raise her kids. Mostly because you don’t know the whole story when you open your mouth, and you always look like a fool or a bitch when you tell me what I’m doing wrong. But I did it. And I still feel like an ass.

We’re in the middle of snowmaggedon right now, and while it’s nice it’s still chilly. We spend about 10 minutes getting Reed dressed every time we go out, and I still worry that he’s too cold (mostly because I am too cold). But we got down to the plaza and there was this baby with his parents screaming his head off. He looked like he was about four months old. And he was NOT wearing enough. He had a pants, a shirt, and a sweatshirt with a hood pulled up.

The couple came over to say hi (because usually you can count on people around hi to be nice and non-judgmental–at least until after you’ve left). They tried to get the baby to take notice of Reed and smile and maybe calm down a little. And I just couldn’t stop myself when his mom said, “He’s usually so happy to be out.”

“He needs gloves,” I said. “It’s cold.” Which is true! But she replied that he didn’t like gloves and walked away. It wasn’t like they were abusing the poor kid, but where do you draw the line in speaking up about kids that look like they may need a little more attention? The hands in question were bright red, and being out for only a few minutes I was already losing feeling in my toes. I was torn because I wanted to tell them about the bunting thing we’d had (which covered feet and hands without needing gloves) and wanting to keep my mouth closed, because it isn’t fair to assume that they’re stupid enough to take their son out in such cold weather dressed so poorly.

I’ve heard of people being told that their child wouldn’t be able to breathe with the plastic covering sold with their stroller, had people tell me that Reed shouldn’t be allowed to walk around the plaza as far from me as I let him, and had my mother tell me that Reed was very unsafe being carried by me. I know all of these people are acting with love in their hearts, as I was, but I still hate these people just a little.

Of course we used to raise our children as a village, with multiple generations having input. I don’t know. Should I be changing my opinion of busybodies? Or should I keep chastising myself for being one myself?

It is easy in the world to live after the world’s opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude. – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Self-Reliance

We move too fast and too easily through our lives now. We miss out on the spaces between events. I believe in the importance of pauses. I try to force these breaks: taking the train instead of the plane, walking most places with my kids, cooking dinners and baking from scratch. I want my kids to know that instantaneous does not mean best.

Family members have offered us deals on their older cars, have suggested various pre-made foods when they eat over (is my cooking not good enough?), to pay for airline tickets. They don’t understand that these are choices I’ve made based on something other than the monetary cost. There is a higher cost that I can’t explain without the shorthand of religion and faith.

Reed (2.5 yrs) is beginning to catch on to waiting. I let him watch too much TV—which in my mind right now is ANY—but when I tell him he needs to occupy himself for a little while he’ll generally find a car or crayon. I don’t expect this to last. I’m sure he’ll head off to school and quickly realize not everyone takes a full day to get to Boston. Not everyone takes a few hours to go to pick up groceries. But maybe I can instill in him some small seed that helps him know it isn’t always bad to wait. That you can want things for awhile and not suffer in the meantime. That the journey can be just as important and valuable as the destination.

When I was a child I had a doll with a heavy, floppy head. Her body was designed to feel exactly like a real baby’s, her arms moved exactly like a real baby when you picked her up, and her eyes fluttered when you laid her down. I was her third owner. I loved her more than anything. And I took very good care of her. She went for a walk every day in her pram; she was fed (with a little bottle that bubbled towards the top making it look like she was drinking) at least once a week; and she had her eyes poked quite a few times until they were broken.

I lift Thrace sometimes and am transported back to those moments. I remember playing in the cellar clutching her to me, telling her I loved her. I don’t know if it’s because she is my daughter instead of my son, or if somehow her weight is distributed closer to the weight of the doll’s, but I never had these memories with Reed. These memories seem newly uploaded.

It’s an odd feeling. I don’t remember a lot of my childhood. I remember occasions: specific birthdays, holidays, moments on vacation, the time my mom was pulled over for a broken tail light. I remember sitting in reading class in jr. high with my friend turned around to chat. I remember that time my Grandmother came shopping with us and had me bend down in front of a mirror and told me to “remember that” (but I still don’t know whether she was telling me to remember I have cleavage so that I wouldn’t show it off or remember that I’m a woman). I don’t remember generic moments. I don’t remember gardening with my family or sitting down to dinner. I don’t remember playing with my siblings. I remember the things we have pictures of or I wrote down in my diary.

Worse than the strangeness of being hit by these memories is the fear. I feel suddenly as though I’ve no clue what I’m doing. And as though I’m seven again pretending to be a mommy. And I realize I really don’t know how to parent. Is this an ACOA thing? Is it just because my kids are still young? Will I grow out of it as my kids age and I deal with each new issue? Do real people ever have moments where they feel not real?

I see moms in the supermarket or at the toddler playgroup I’ve just found, and no one seems to be worried that someone’s going to out them. I keep expecting one to point me out and whisper theatrically, “she’s totally faking it.” Or for MPs to jump out from behind walls to take away my kids because I’m not a “real” mom.

I keep expecting for someone to leave a glass unicorn on my doorstep.

I don’t want my children to be second-generation survivors. The woman who sent me to Al Anon wasn’t the child of an alcoholic, she was the child of the child of an alcoholic. She told me how the survival tactics her mother employed affected her own growth and development. In times of stress those traits come out in me. I don’t want to pass along the inability to function.

And so I set up programs to follow and mimic the examples I see other moms setting. I try to be as real with my kids as I can, especially right now with Reed. And I just keep praying that no one looks too closely and sees the strange way I bat my eyes or that my knees don’t bend.

There’s been this idea rattling around in my head for awhile, throughout most of my pregnancy and getting stronger as El’s birth approached. I believe it was Emily Bazelon of Slate who planted the idea in the first place, but it always feels like an idea that’s innate in each of us, but inexpressible with the words we use every day. It’s this idea that birth is somehow as sad and unknowable as death. Even writing it now I feel crazy. Of course giving birth isn’t sad like death. But it is. I’ve brought two children into this world and each time the closest event in my heart was the death of my father. I thought of it constantly. Not in a depressing, “I’m bringing life into this world that will eventually die” sort of way. But in a “this passage from void to life and life to void is unbearable to think of” sort of way.

No, really, I understand that I’m not making a lick of sense. I’m not some deep-thinker, and I’m sure I’m not even scratching the surface of this, but it doesn’t change the fact that it’s been on my mind.

Yesterday I heard Elizabeth Gilbert writing about the worst wedding toast she’s ever heard on This American Life. (By the way: The Fears of Your Life segment is most likely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.) The toast brings up the best man’s worst day of his life, where he made the decision to send a young man to his death (as part of a jury).

As she says, “The human psyche cannot always tell the difference between good events & bad events; all we can feel is the tremor of the earth.”

I’ve noticed that people are a little reluctant to ask me about Reed’s speech therapy. Someone in a group will ask and all eyes turn to me. People make comments to the effect that they didn’t want to bring it up because it might be hard to talk about, or they didn’t feel it was any of their business.

Like most things, I find it easier to when people show an interest and want to hear more. Getting this stuff out in the open is nice, it makes it feel less taboo. I’d like to suggest that if you know anyone with depression, a child with a speech/learning impairment, or other difficulty that you ask them if it’s something they’d like to discuss and if it’s okay to ask them questions about it. While I’m sure that not everyone is like me and wants to get into the details of their lives, we know that you’re thinking about what’s going on. When the elephant has been parked in your living room, you know everyone knows it. My main fear is that he’s been sticking his trunk where it doesn’t belong, and you’ve been complaining about it with others instead of with me. But it’s hard for me to bring up because you’ve got your own things to deal with.

There’s been a LOT of progress in Reed’s speech. The greatest being that he seems interested in talking. He will occasionally repeat words we say and, wonder of wonders, say new words on his own without prompting! This has been the hardest thing to explain to people. Someone will hear me say “now you try” and Reed repeat the word back (such as “all done”) and then say “well, that’s great! He can say ‘all done.’” But that’s not entirely true.

Reed doesn’t “own” many of the words he’s technically able to to say. He replaces many of these with “Budd-ah” which seems to be a cross of “buddy” and “what’s that.” Or else he’ll say “I don’t know.” These are placeholders. They give him a way to answer, which he’s realizing he needs to do, without actually speaking. It hurts. Especially when it’s a word we just had him say. It is getting better, though. I can’t stress how much having a speech therapist with him once a week is helping. She makes a point of telling us what we should work with him on each given week, and these things are usually something he’s caught on with by the next session.

Oh, he also “read” parts of Go, Dog. Go! (Beginner Books(R)) with us, and I must say that is a great book for this age. If Reed knows a lot of the words (Up, Down, Dog, Car) then other kids must know even more, and it should really help engage them in “reading” the book with you.

So, if you have any questions about this, even if you aren’t going through it yourself and are just curious, feel free to ask. The news is positive now, but even when it’s not it feels better to discuss it. And, no, you won’t make me feel like my kid’s a freak show.

I’m sure I’ve told you this story. It’s one of those formative events that pops into my head every so often. Reading Martha Brockenbrough’s post about excluded kids brought it back to me in a way I hadn’t considered: What should we do as the parents in these situations?

Some background, in case you’ve missed it. My dad was an alcoholic. The summer before my second grade I had a birthday party and cookout. My mom took us to the park and when we returned he was plastered with the parents of another attendee. Things were thrown, my mom took us back to the park, stories (most likely embellished, but even if they weren’t certainly terrifying enough to make parents forbid kids from coming to my house) were told to parents, I entered the second grade and no one would talk to me. It didn’t help that I was already pretty awkward and loved being the teacher’s pet.

My mom took in latchkey kids for extra cash. One, S., was forced to include me in all of her events, including a pool party at her house at the end of the year. S told me I shouldn’t go, that it wouldn’t be fun, that we wouldn’t be able to use the pool, etc. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what she was getting at. I begged my mom not to make me go, but she went on and on about how lucky I was to be included, how fun it would be, how she wished she had such rich friends when she was a kid (yup, she actually said that).

At the party I had a great time. I loved swimming, and though most of the girls were avoiding me, I barely noticed there was so much to do by myself. (They even had a DIVING BOARD!!!) Then S. called us all into a huddle the way only second-grade girls can. She talked about how much fun we were going to have and how great the sleepover was going to be and how we “all love everyone who’s here…well except for one person, but she doesn’t know who she is.” Only she did.

As calmly as I could I walked into the house and called my mom to come get me. I kept it together until I was on the phone and my mom just wasn’t understanding. When I started bawling she told me to “grow up and get over it” and hung up. S.’s mom got me a glass of water, but I don’t know if she heard my story. She showed me how to use cool water to make my red eyes less noticeable (not that it helped) and sent me back out with a plate of cookies.

On Monday one girl had lice and it was said I gave it to her at the party. Songs were sung about me and lice and my general disgustingness. I got over it.

People turned down my invitations. I wasn’t invited to every party. I don’t remember a single one of those. I do remember the sneers, the statements of “my mom is making me invite you,” the mean notes inside thank you notes and invitation cards and Valentines. Kids are mean. You can’t force your kids to be nice. Trying to get them to invite the kid they don’t like only teaches them to be disingenuous and increases the divide between them and the outcast.

I’m all for getting your kid to try new things, to invite the new kid, to step out of her comfort zone. But I will never force mine to invite the me-equivalent. Maybe I’ll suggest it, and if they so no we’ll try to talk about it. But forcing the issue is doing the outcast no favors. We may want our kid to be the one who doesn’t care about being popular, or who cares more about being nice and fair than being popular, but it isn’t fair to make that choice for them. And it’s a really hard choice to make when your entire world is school. I don’t think I could do it.

And if my kid ends up being the outcast, as I think everyone is at some point in his life, I’ll listen and give him hugs and make sure he knows that he isn’t an outcast with me and that there is NOTHING wrong with him. I’ll find him other activities outside of school. Mostly I’ll try to help him understand that we can’t change the way other people act, only how we respond.

Reed just said “K.” He listens to four songs sung by Ernie for bedtimes, his favorite being “Dee, Dee, Dee” which he recently told me is for Daddy (in the way that he tells me things, not really in a way that most people would understand). I’ve been telling him that M is for Mommy and K is for [Reed's real name]. So this is sort of cool.

Except that even as we were having this conversation it began to devolve into “ka” instead of “kay.” I’ve watched “potato,” said so clearly the first time, become “pata,” and “bicycle” and “basketball” become “buddy.” It sucks. And I wish I could tell you that I’m not jealous of the parents with kids saying “I’m two” or four word sentences to help them explain what they want, but I am. My kid is really smart and I’m really the only one he can communicate with, and even that’s not perfect, he’s been saying SOMETHING all day (“paka!”), and I’ve no idea what he means.

Reed has been accepted into the speech and language program here in our county. It’s a great program with the therapist coming to our home and a coordinator assigned to Reed until he enters school. Except that the nearest in-network provider is over 50 miles away and we’re unlikely to find one to work with this program. In other words, insurance is most likely not going to cover the fees for this. There’s a sliding-fee schedule with the program, but it’s still far more than we can really spend, especially with another baby on the way.

It’s frustrating. Insurance companies claim that they want the best for your child, yet these quality of life issues and mental health/learning disabilities situations never seem to be included. I’ve heard of other people dealing with much more intense issues costing FAR more than our predicament, which has always infuriated me, but reading about them and having to spend the time figuring this out yourself are two completely different animals. And no one I talk to with my insurance provider seems to understand how large Virginia is or what it means that I don’t have a car every day.

We’ll get this figured out, I’ve no fear that we won’t find a way to cover the cost. And, seriously, it’s a little bit of a relief to have someone tell me that there is a problem, that it isn’t just a little delay, that we should stop responding to signs and his pointing (which is what the pediatrician told us). The speech pathologist who was part of the team called it a “disorder of motor planning” and mentioned “apraxia.” From what I understand looking at Apraxia-Kids they can’t truly diagnose it as apraxia until he’s three. It does explain why, when asked to repeat a word, he replies most often with “buddy” and why he didn’t babble-talk with us when he was a baby.

And it’s nice to know he isn’t lazy or slow. Both the speech and physical therapists had been impressed with his intelligence and seemed intent in making sure I understood that he was very smart and no one was claiming otherwise. It wasn’t necessary, I know he’s smart as a whip, but it was still nice to hear. And it must be so frustrating for him, not communicating with us, and I know he has so much to say.

To be clear, the baby signs did NOT cause this and the therapists both recommended continuing with them to help Reed learn to communicate more while he learns to vocalize and to help prevent him from becoming frustrated. So if you’re considering baby signs, please don’t think they will cause speech delays, studies have shown over and over that this is not the case…. no matter what you may hear from my mother. :)

I’ve been thinking of doing this for awhile, going through Reed’s books and telling you which I love. I put it off, because I’m lazy. Tonight, though, I reached my limit. I HATE the following book. And honestly feel I should warn you against buying it.

Day Is Done by Peter Yarrow is an illustrated book form of the song.

Word. for. word.

Seriously, think about what it would be like to read these words to your child. And the chorus. “Day is done, day is done, all will be well when the day is done.” Over and over again. And the images are cute enough, but not fantastic. Certainly not worth the annoyance of not having a real story to read.

I’ve been having problems getting rid of it, though, because it’s a book from my mom. I have really disliked nearly all the books she’s given us and they’ve ended up in the donate pile, the trash (after Reed tore it apart, it being a pop-up and me not caring enough to stop him, which I still feel really guilty over, I mean, it IS still a book!), or hidden away until she comes to visit and then placed on the shelf. Having them hidden means Reed is even more interested in them, so it looks like they’re favorites of his.

At the very least we’ve figured out to stop reading the repeated lines. Still. Do you really want to be telling him about how he’ll inherit the problems mankind has wrought?

Photo by: mdanys

Today sort of sucks. I’ve had people ask me what I find hardest in being a stay-at-home mom, and I always tell them that it depends on the day. Also, it’s worth it. Any given day it’s totally worth it.

Only, maybe not today.

Reed’s been sick with a stomach virus for a week now and I’m at the end of my “oh poor little boy is suffering and that’s why he’s so cranky” rope. I’m not being mean or anything (well, unless you ask him, there’s a whole “cookie” incident that we won’t get into), but he’s on his third episode of Sesame Street. I SWEAR we usually watch about 4 hours a week, and I try to keep it under that. Yes, I DO believe that television is the devil, if only just because of how it makes me feel when I’ve watched more than a little of it. And, yes, I do believe it contributes to bad behavior, and, no, you aren’t going to convince me otherwise. And, no, I don’t REALLY believe you’re a bad parent if your toddler watches more TV than mine. But I feel like a bad parent. I feel like a lazy parent who can’t find something else to do.

But I’m not beating myself up about it today, because, you know what? I’ve had it. Yesterday Reed had NO urine for about 7 hours. And when I told the doc she told us that we needed to up the fluids (oh my god as if I hadn’t been pushing Pedialyte every second of the day and following him around with a sippy cup of juice!) and that we needed to stay out of the heat. She’d mentioned keeping Reed “comfortable” when we saw her last Friday, but hadn’t really said no to being outdoors. Live and learn I guess. Anyway. Those Mighty Mini popsicles? A GODSEND. Woke up dreading checking Reed’s diaper (no pee tonight would have meant a trip to the ER) only to find his sheets drenched. Hooray! Yes, I was cheering over yet another load of laundry.

This is a bad, complain-y post. But I have a point. Seriously. I think.

This week has been without the park, which is much harder than I ever would have thought. It’s contained my being sick with the same bug Reed has (oh, and, hey, I’m 13-or-so weeks pregnant so that’s added to the wonder!), fears of an upcoming flight (I HATE flying. I’m not AFRAID of flying. I HATE it.), missing out on two really, really, really exciting events, one including a friend I haven’t seen in YEARS.

And so I’m feeling a little sorry for myself. I’m feeling a little blue. And then Reed comes and snuggles next to me on the floor and we pick up How Do Dinosaurs Say I Love You? which we’re borrowing from the library, and I remember that this will end. He pulls down the neck of my shirt so he can place his ear against my bare skin and hear my heart beat. And it’s a little better. It still really sucks. But it’s worth it again.

Photo by: Andreas Blixt

Somedays I hate the playground. Most frustratingly, I tend to hate the playground the worst on the days Reed loves it the best—those with the most kids.

Sand in my jeans, sand in my house, the possibility of falling off the ladder or running into a swinging child, the sometimes sharp toys brought by kids, the food I forgot to bring (oh, but how nice that everyone shared today), eating the wood chips, falling off the bench, trying to climb the fence and splitting open a chin, having to make small talk with some of the more intimidating moms and nannies. All these things are worth the fun we normally have.

But there’s one thing that makes my heart race. It’s going to sound ridiculous, and it’s not what you think. But I hate when a mom goes to sit or stand right next to her kid when he or she is playing with Reed.

I tend to hang back. I don’t think Reed needs my constant presence, and I like him being able to interact with other kids without me, able to solve his own smaller problems. And if another kid takes a toy Reed’s playing with he’ll usually either grab another to play with, try to take it back, or come to me. I’ll step in if there’s a problem: a crying kid, any sort of hitting. I leave it alone otherwise.

But we’ve had problems with other moms stepping in too early and causing a problem. The worst was over an airplane. A really, really cool airplane. A boy brought it and was playing with it in the sandbox. Because his mom was right on top of him I decided to sit near them on the sandbox rim. Reed asked very nicely (signing and speaking his little “pEEAse!”) and was told by the mom that he could use it when her son was done. He sat waiting and watching the kid play with airplane for a good 5 or 6 minutes. Then the kid put it to the side and started digging in the sand. Reed took the toy and was having a great time making airplane noises and playing gently. The other mom got off the phone and saw him, I had made a phone call so I wasn’t paying that much attention, but I heard her ask her kid if he wanted his airplane back. And then took it from Reed and handed it over. Reed was FURIOUS! And who could blame him? He did exactly what he was told to do, waited patiently, and wasn’t hurting anyone. All that work and someone changed the rules.

I almost decked her. How could she be such a flaming asshat? Her kid hadn’t even seemed to notice. And Reed hadn’t run off with it or anything; they were playing right next to each other.

I tried interesting Reed in something else, I tried getting him onto the slide, but nothing was calming him down. So we had to leave. And I wish that I had said something, even now, weeks later. Her kid was at least a year older than Reed, much more mature and vocal, though the same size. And I know that people assume Reed is about 3 or so, since he’s the same size as most 3-year-olds at the park, and they expect him to act a little older, but even still, this was an awful thing to do.

The other time doesn’t really seem as bad to me, though when I put it in words people seem to get more upset about it. Reed was throwing sand. And I was two steps away to stop him when a nanny grabbed his hand and told him “no.” He wasn’t close enough to get any kid with the sand, though I was still going to stop him. It really wasn’t necessary for someone else to step in. I don’t approve of other people disciplining my kid unless we know them or there’s danger involved, for him or another kid. Okay, not exactly true, she could have told him not to throw the sand, but don’t touch my kid. If there’d been even one other kid in the sandbox I would have understood.

Anyway, I’m always worried about these lines being crossed. I worry that I’m not doing a good enough job parenting my kid, that I’m letting him be too much on his own and pissing off the other parents. I don’t know if I’m right or wrong in this situation. I don’t know if I’m being unfair to the other kids. But 90% of the time Reed and the other kids get along well, it’s only when the other people step in that we’ve had issues.

Where are your boundaries? Am I wrong about the airplane? Would you have taken it away? I know I would have if Reed had grabbed it or the other kid had been really upset. Without thinking, it would have gone back to the kid. But I never would have given it back to Reed if it had been his toy. We share. And he needs to learn that. Maybe the kid has developmental issues, it’s what I’ve been telling myself, but I still don’t understand bringing it up if both kids were happily playing.

This is going to come out all wrong.

Sometimes I hate hearing Tom talking to Reed.

We are all the parents we are, and really I can’t fault Tom. He’s a terrific dad (and a really fantastic husband, too). But I just lose all respect for him when I hear him in the other room. He turns into a sniveling lackey. I expect to walk in their to hear Reed saying “on this, the day of my daughter’s wedding.”

Seriously, everything becomes a question. “Do you want to brush your teeth now?” “Should we go in the other room and eat dinner?” “Don’t kick daddy in the balls, okay?” That’s the worst: the okay tacked onto the end of every statement to prevent it from being too harsh.

And I don’t want to be that wife. I am that wife, but I don’t want to be that wife. I constantly rephrase everything he says when he’s in the room with me. “It’s time to brush our teeth now.” “Let’s go eat dinner.” “Don’t kick daddy!” Arg! I’m such a bitchy bitch! But it’s fingernails on a chalkboard, and it’s so easy to slip into it myself.

“It’s time to go to bed now, okay?” No, it’s not okay. He’s a toddler. Of COURSE he doesn’t want to go to bed now, he wants to play. And he needs to know it isn’t a choice. I counted the other night. He used “okay?” seven times in 15 minutes. That has to be a record.

But what’s a mom to do? I’ve tried explaining Reed will generally follow commands, that it’s easier to start with “it’s time to” so that you can blame the clock. I don’t want Reed growing up thinking that he has this power over his dad, and I don’t want him being confused when he says “no” to a question only to have someone say that it really wasn’t a question. I mean even just that sentence is confusing.

Okay, end ranting. I know this is a triviality. And I know that Tom being a little weak in his directions is much better than him being overly forceful. But I hate to see him undermining our control, okay?

I don’t have a problem with the pacifier parents. We were for a little while, until I realized we were “plugging” Reed whenever he made any noise, but I don’t think all parents who use pacifiers do that. I’m a bit put off by the anti-thumb parents. Especially when they’re talking to me and telling me that they would NEVER let their six-old-baby suck her thumb, “because I can take away a pacifier.” With Reed on my back. With his two fingers in his mouth.

And I know, he constantly has his fingers in his mouth, but if I tell him to remove them he does. But it’s comforting to him. And what else do babies have for comfort at this point? It just seems a little cruel not to let them put their fingers in their mouths.

Anyway, I just had one of these encounters, and I couldn’t help but feel a little offended with her staring at Reed as she complained about kids sucking their thumbs. And I wanted to ask her what the problem is with it? It’s more likely he’ll stop by the time he’s in preschool, the germs he picks up may boost him immune system, I never had to get up in the middle of the night to reinsert a pacifier, and I’m not the one jamming it in to get him to shush. All I see is positives. But I’d love to hear from someone with a different point of view. What are the positives to a pacifier? Why would you be against thumb-sucking? And, if you have older kids, have you ever thought about it one way or the other after the habit stopped? It just seems like one of those things that wouldn’t matter at all in the end.

So the bike ride didn’t work so well, but I think we’ve learned some valuable lessons. First, it is a bad thing to try new things right before nap time. Second, it is a good idea to make sure Reed can comfortably sit all the way up in a helmet (we will be adding a pillow so that he’s more comfortable). Third, mirrors are vital to comfortably maneuvering a trailer around the highway without feeling like your kid is going to be dumped bodily into the oncoming traffic and have his head squashed like a casaba melon. But I’m excited to try again later this weekend.

Photo by: Digital Sextant

As a child I wasn’t treated as well as we all should be. I don’t think that it’s necessary to get into it in detail, but it’s something that I think I need to say. It affects me every day that I spend with Reed. It’s a whisper in my ear for every decision that I make. Basically it’s important for me to tell you this, even if it isn’t important to you.

I don’t let Reed cry. I don’t think that people who let their children cry-it-out are bad people. I believe that is a decision each family needs to make for itself. But we don’t let Reed cry. I have this fear that mistreating a child is a little like alcoholism, and so, just as I don’t drink alone or ever have more than one drink in a sitting, I don’t let Reed cry. This doesn’t mean I think people who let their children cry are mistreating their children any more than I think people who have an occasional drink alone or order two drinks at a bar are alcoholics. I’m just afraid that there’s a slippery slope for some of us.

Another example: I am afraid of people who yell at their kids.

I am not a coward. I apologize too much, and I may be timid at times, but I am not a coward.

Really.

But when someone yells in my presence I have a desire to run away. It doesn’t matter if they’re yelling at a dog or merely to have their voice heard across the street. Every muscle in my body tightens up and I can feel my heart beat in my throat. And with Reed it is worse. If Reed is near me I suddenly have a keen understanding of where each and every exit is, where the crowd is thinnest, where that tree is that I might hide behind.

I think I can get over this. I think I can prevent myself from passing along this fear to Reed. Although, please don’t take this to mean that it’s okay to yell in my presence. I really don’t find it an effective form of communication.

What really scares me, what gives me nightmares is yelling myself. I worry about losing control and kicking in a door. Or hitting him. Or knocking him down. Or telling him “y’know, I wanted a life, too.” I have lost control of my anger in the past. And, like being drunk, the moment isn’t ever too clear in my memory. Mostly it was during high school and college, the only recent time being after one of the cats took a swipe at Reed when he was a tiny, tiny baby (you may have noticed I don’t speak of my cats anymore, they’re in good loving homes now).

I believe I’m more in control of my emotions now. And I’ve never hurt anyone. But I’m terrified of it anyway. I can’t imagine anyone ever thinking they had the capacity to hurt a child. I can’t imagine that if anyone loved a child as much as I love Reed that they could ever lose control of their anger, but I know that it happens every day. Can you really say, without a shadow of a doubt, that it could never be you if you know that it’s possible for other people?

And every little thing that Reed does reminds me of a parallel in my own childhood. And I thought that would make it bad, like picking at a really old scab or re-breaking a bone. Honestly? There’s a relief in it. Maybe it’s that each day with Reed I’m able to rewrite memories of what childhood is, even if it isn’t my own. Maybe it’s that I don’t need to remember that stuff anymore. Maybe it’s the feeling that I’m breaking that cycle. Maybe it’s just that I enjoy every minute of every day so much that there isn’t any room for anything worse less than that.

And these are the things that go through my head. These are the things that I’m really trying to share when I talk about values. And I have been trying for months now to figure out how to write this without embarrassing my family, whom I love. But these things need to be written. Because I need to figure out the mathematical principles of love and discipline, of safety, security, and boundaries. I need to learn how to hold on to my children without crushing them, and the formula wasn’t written down for me by my own parents.

I just finished Big Lessons for Little People, which is amazing. It’s sort of the whole reason for this post. There’s a section that talks about parents afraid to yell at their kids and all the damage that may cause. It’s amazing. I really think that just about everyone should read it, even if you don’t agree with everything she says.

Forgive me while I wax geeky and continue to go on about values. I promise to find something new to discuss next week. We went to Boston last week and values, and the misguided values I received from my family, have been on my mind. I am doing my best not to (unfairly?) categorize my parents or my upbringing. It’s tough at the moment.

We are currently (very slowly) reading Harry Potter to Reed. We’ve been reading chapter books to him at bedtime since the day we brought him home from the hospital. We will continue to do so until he tells us he’s sick of it. Maybe longer. We enjoy it and he seems to.

We’ve just met Hermione Granger on the train and the discussion the kids have about the Houses rung true to me. I’ve taken all the silly “tests” about which House I’d be in, and, while I think they’re rubbish, I do think that everyone really knows which House they’d be in. Because it isn’t about what you’d be good at, it’s truly about what you value. If the Gryffindor House were really only for the brave then Cedric Diggory would have been placed there, as well as others. And it would have been far less likely that Ron’s whole family would have been placed in the same house. I believe he was placed there because Ron’s parents did a fantastic job of passing on their values (although why Ron’s mom can’t knit a shirt herself and used sew-on patches for the Christmas sweaters really troubles me, it’s one thing not to knit at all, but to use MAGIC for KNITTING? UGH!).

Gryffindor values duty, or, as it is put elsewhere, chivalry. People find their true duty often contradicts laws and authority, as clearly happens time and again in Harry Potter. Ravenclaw values the attainment of knowledge. Slytherin values power ambition. And Hufflepuff values loyalty. (The difference between duty and loyalty? Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Or the Tick and Arthur.)

So, in trying to flesh out the values I want to teach Reed (who, poor kid, gets to be my guinea pig) I’m finding it easier to ask myself, “What would get him into Gryffindor?” Valuing friendship, honesty, risk-taking, bravery, standing up for the less fortunate and downtrodden. The truth is that it’s just vague enough to be a good stepping stone. Also, it makes it easier for me to not discount other people’s value systems. Sometimes I’m far too judgmental, and it really isn’t something I want to pass on to Reed.

So what about you? What is your North Star for these evaluations, whether religious, fictional, familial, etc. ? Or am I the only crazy one who thinks about these things as I lay in bed waiting for my son to fall back asleep or start crying so I can decide either go back to sleep or get myself up?