Today's word is Challenge.
Just as a follow up to my last post, I did have the surgery to remove the skin cancer today, and so far, I feel pretty good. I suspect there will be some pain tomorrow, but the doctor assures me that this will probably be the end of the skin cancer. Now I just have to be hyper-vigilant in making sure I don't get any more. There's a challenge, no?
So on to today's challenge....T2 is a bright second grader whose teacher talks about her glowingly at our conferences. "She's always working hard and trying to learn as much as she can." She loves school and is completely challenged by every single opportunity, however mundane it may seem. She finds a challenge in every boring homework worksheet and creates curriculum for fantasy classes that she teaches to her stuffed animals, always simultaneously reinforcing her own learning.
Today, she came home crestfallen with a timed math paper on which she received a 2 out of 15. Apparently, she "got stuck" on a problem, she says, and did not finish the test. T1, of course, was announcing this all over the house, soliciting glances of ire from T2's eyes. If she could have "Superman-heat-vision-ed" him, she would have. The problem she got stuck on was this word problem:
"Mrs. Tan has 23 stickers. She will give 5 children an equal numbers of stickers. How many stickers will each child get? 5? 4? 3? or 6?"
T2 took the problem to mean that there was an even number of stickers overall, not just an even number to each child. On her paper, she grouped the stickers into 5s and couldn't for the life of her figure out what to do with the other 3 stickers. She never moved on. In her note, the teacher said, "remember--don't spend all of your time on one problem--move on!"
Here is the challenge. Clearly T2 is a perfectionist. In this age of high achieving children in a "Race to Nowhere," T2 is starting from a very young age to see herself as exceptional. She is perpetually the highest scorer in the class. When frustrations like this trip her up, she is working with what psychologist Carol Dweck calls in her book "Mindset," a "fixed mindset" that if she can't figure out what frustrates her, she is no longer smart. How can I let my highly self-critical daughter know that mistakes are part of the learning process? And that messing up this timed math test is exactly what she needed to do in this moment to learn how to be a test taker? And how can I assure her that tests are not a measure of her intelligence or ability to solve the problems?
What DG and I did do was reflect back her feelings of disappointment in her paper. Not a judgment of her work, but rather a comforting, "Yeah, that probably felt extremely frustrating when you couldn't get that answer" kind of way. Then DG asked her the rest of the questions on the test, to show her that she did know the material. He explained "remainder," so that she would have a logical explanation for why there were extra in the problem. Her self deprecation was assuaged for the time being.
But what about the next time? I praised her effort, not her intelligence, like Dweck says, and crossed my fingers that this will be what she takes with her to the next test.
Showing posts with label fears. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fears. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Home is Where You Let Your Guard Down
Today's word is: Appreciation.
I have a tremendous appreciation for my life these days. I have a job that I love that allows me unbelievable flexibility and rewarding work. I have children who, most of the time, are cooperative and fun to be around. And I have a husband who loves me unconditionally, picks up where I am lacking, and shares my desire to jam pack our life with experiences, for better or worse, everyday.
So imagine my giddiness this morning as I looked forward to his coming home after a 5-day business trip. Lots of husbands leave for long periods of time, their wives experiencing single parenthood first hand, but this was the first time DG has gone away for more than a night or two.
I was as organized as the highest paid office manager in a Fortune500 company. I made lunches, got kids to school, went to work, remembered to put gas in the car.... I knew exactly who needed to be where and how long it would take to negotiate that fine dance of organization that makes a family with multiple children run smoothly. I had it down. Never once during the 5 days did I forget anything, overlook a task, or lose my patience with a child.
DG has been home since about 3 pm. Since then, I've found myself neglecting to turn off a stove burner, glued to the couch, light headed with exhaustion, and unwilling to do any of the things that made the days go so smoothly while he was gone. Maybe I'm finally letting my guard down. Maybe I was afraid to stop the intensity of extreme home/life management because to do so would mean, I'd lose my focus and spin out of control. Or maybe DG grounds me so imperceptibly that just his presence alleviates the pressure of having to do it all, because I know now I don't have to. Reinforcements are here, and they're welcomed with open arms.
Welcome home, DG. We missed you.
I have a tremendous appreciation for my life these days. I have a job that I love that allows me unbelievable flexibility and rewarding work. I have children who, most of the time, are cooperative and fun to be around. And I have a husband who loves me unconditionally, picks up where I am lacking, and shares my desire to jam pack our life with experiences, for better or worse, everyday.
So imagine my giddiness this morning as I looked forward to his coming home after a 5-day business trip. Lots of husbands leave for long periods of time, their wives experiencing single parenthood first hand, but this was the first time DG has gone away for more than a night or two.
I was as organized as the highest paid office manager in a Fortune500 company. I made lunches, got kids to school, went to work, remembered to put gas in the car.... I knew exactly who needed to be where and how long it would take to negotiate that fine dance of organization that makes a family with multiple children run smoothly. I had it down. Never once during the 5 days did I forget anything, overlook a task, or lose my patience with a child.
DG has been home since about 3 pm. Since then, I've found myself neglecting to turn off a stove burner, glued to the couch, light headed with exhaustion, and unwilling to do any of the things that made the days go so smoothly while he was gone. Maybe I'm finally letting my guard down. Maybe I was afraid to stop the intensity of extreme home/life management because to do so would mean, I'd lose my focus and spin out of control. Or maybe DG grounds me so imperceptibly that just his presence alleviates the pressure of having to do it all, because I know now I don't have to. Reinforcements are here, and they're welcomed with open arms.
Welcome home, DG. We missed you.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Safety or We're Not Ready for the Big One
Today's word is: Safety.
I have been so humbled by the devastation left by the earthquake in Japan. To think of the amount of time that they had before the tsunami hit, something like a minute and a half, boggles my mind. There was no time. Everything was just gone. Japan has many earthquakes. I've got to imagine that they had disaster training and disaster plans in place, but when the largest earthquake in history hit, all that preparation was probably no match.
It scares me when I think about how, living in Southern California my whole life , I have an awareness of earthquakes, but I am woefully unprepared for dealing with one as a parent. DG and I have canned goods in the garage. We have large bottles of water, but none of this is portable. If a big earthquake hits, we may have to evacuate our home, or worse, try to find each other without the aid of modern technology.
I'm not ready for this.
I'm not ready to assure my children that everything will be okay when I know I'll be terrified myself. I'm scared to think that I'll have to comfort and assure the safety of our children in the most insecure of moments. I think about parents in Japan and I wonder how they're doing it.
At our school's last PTA meeting, the American Red Cross came to talk to us about disaster preparedness. I listened, but I smugly reacted as if I had it all together. Now I know how much I really don't. But like every resourceful mom, I know what I need to do now to get ready. The American Red Cross has a "checklist" that is very helpful to teach people know what to do and to prepare a disaster kit.
If a quake as devestating as that in Japan hits, there may be nothing I can do. But, at least I can start putting together a plan. After that, it's kind of at the hands of fate. I hope I'll have the strength to carry the family through. At least, I can have hope.
I have been so humbled by the devastation left by the earthquake in Japan. To think of the amount of time that they had before the tsunami hit, something like a minute and a half, boggles my mind. There was no time. Everything was just gone. Japan has many earthquakes. I've got to imagine that they had disaster training and disaster plans in place, but when the largest earthquake in history hit, all that preparation was probably no match.
It scares me when I think about how, living in Southern California my whole life , I have an awareness of earthquakes, but I am woefully unprepared for dealing with one as a parent. DG and I have canned goods in the garage. We have large bottles of water, but none of this is portable. If a big earthquake hits, we may have to evacuate our home, or worse, try to find each other without the aid of modern technology.
I'm not ready for this.
I'm not ready to assure my children that everything will be okay when I know I'll be terrified myself. I'm scared to think that I'll have to comfort and assure the safety of our children in the most insecure of moments. I think about parents in Japan and I wonder how they're doing it.
At our school's last PTA meeting, the American Red Cross came to talk to us about disaster preparedness. I listened, but I smugly reacted as if I had it all together. Now I know how much I really don't. But like every resourceful mom, I know what I need to do now to get ready. The American Red Cross has a "checklist" that is very helpful to teach people know what to do and to prepare a disaster kit.
If a quake as devestating as that in Japan hits, there may be nothing I can do. But, at least I can start putting together a plan. After that, it's kind of at the hands of fate. I hope I'll have the strength to carry the family through. At least, I can have hope.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Persuasion
Today's word is "persuasion."
I am often asking my children to change their minds about something, to convince them that their opinions (on say something like...what they want for dinner) are misguided and uninformed. I provide them with evidence to the contrary, proving beyond a doubt, that mother really does know best. Children need to be persuaded to:
-- brush their teeth effectively (or you'll get cavities).
-- clean up their rooms (that's how you earn screen time/allowance).
-- take a sweater (it's not cold now, but it might be later).
It's mother's prerogative to dispense with all kinds of wisdom given her wealth of experience in all things related to childhood. If children could be convinced to listen to mother, all would be right with the world.
--------------------------------------------
I've been thinking lately about the students I have in my classes. I should not have to give them reasons why it's important for them to do the work required for the class. Didn't they sign up for the class? Didn't they invest the fees and purchase the books? And while I muse about why I shouldn't have to do this, the fact remains that I am part cheerleader, convincing my students everyday about the value inherent in working for something. If you do the work, you'll be rewarded with pride in the outcome. If you slack off, your success is directly related to your effort.
I can only make my pitch, and then get out of the way of their actions. They're outcome is not a reflection of my effort; it's theirs. (This rings true for the children, too, by the way.)
---------------------------------------------
Sometimes, although not as much lately, I have to persuade myself to believe in myself. I am extremely self-deprecating. If you're even perused this blog a little bit, you can see that I have doubted myself at every turn. This is the year, however, that I turn that around and start acting with integrity, standing up for what I believe in and not second guessing myself. I'm thinking that I'm going to be hard to convince, but I'm hoping that I can give myself enough examples of how I'm doing the best I can do (see this, and this) and that what other moms, co-workers, friends, acquaintances are doing or feeling about me is none of my business. That ought to do it--my life, my way.
-----------------------------------------------
How do you use persuasion?
I am often asking my children to change their minds about something, to convince them that their opinions (on say something like...what they want for dinner) are misguided and uninformed. I provide them with evidence to the contrary, proving beyond a doubt, that mother really does know best. Children need to be persuaded to:
-- brush their teeth effectively (or you'll get cavities).
-- clean up their rooms (that's how you earn screen time/allowance).
-- take a sweater (it's not cold now, but it might be later).
It's mother's prerogative to dispense with all kinds of wisdom given her wealth of experience in all things related to childhood. If children could be convinced to listen to mother, all would be right with the world.
--------------------------------------------
I've been thinking lately about the students I have in my classes. I should not have to give them reasons why it's important for them to do the work required for the class. Didn't they sign up for the class? Didn't they invest the fees and purchase the books? And while I muse about why I shouldn't have to do this, the fact remains that I am part cheerleader, convincing my students everyday about the value inherent in working for something. If you do the work, you'll be rewarded with pride in the outcome. If you slack off, your success is directly related to your effort.
I can only make my pitch, and then get out of the way of their actions. They're outcome is not a reflection of my effort; it's theirs. (This rings true for the children, too, by the way.)
---------------------------------------------
Sometimes, although not as much lately, I have to persuade myself to believe in myself. I am extremely self-deprecating. If you're even perused this blog a little bit, you can see that I have doubted myself at every turn. This is the year, however, that I turn that around and start acting with integrity, standing up for what I believe in and not second guessing myself. I'm thinking that I'm going to be hard to convince, but I'm hoping that I can give myself enough examples of how I'm doing the best I can do (see this, and this) and that what other moms, co-workers, friends, acquaintances are doing or feeling about me is none of my business. That ought to do it--my life, my way.
-----------------------------------------------
How do you use persuasion?
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Supercharged Family Road Trip
Oh, the family road trip. I remember it oh so fondly wearily from my own childhood. Mom packed weeks of well-thought out games, books, stories and activities so that we wouldn't lose our minds staring out the window at miles and miles of flat land and a few scattered cows. Despite all those little extras, things meant to stimulate and occupy a kid for hours, I hated the road trip. I always got car sick, couldn't really read, was bored out of my mind, and eventually ended up goofing around so wildly with my siblings that Mom and Dad would end up with a one-arm-over-the-seat cry of, "If I have to come back there...."
Well things are different now. Welcome to the 21st Century road trip ala Grateful Twin Mom. Here's how we do it these days. Wired in. That's right; you heard me. Plugged in, dialed in, each with his or her own little screen or headphones. Not talking to each other--not commenting on scenery--not yelling, crying, or complaining. T1 and T2 got iPads (for their birthday/Hanukkah/Christmas for-the-rest-of-their-lives) from an extraordinarily benevolent aunt and uncle. Whole music libraries, math games, Angry Birds (enough said), 5 movies, and 3 chapter books (including A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh) provide enough entertainment for weeks, let alone a few hours up I-5 in one super cool laptop device. DG and I listen to audiobooks on iPods and occasionally, DG will blast E Street Radio on the satellite radio (loves him some Bruce Springsteen). But when we're plugged in, it's silent in the car.
Now I know the experts feel that screen time is detrimental for kids (twins are 8 now), especially young ones, and that little brains are marred permanently by too much exposure to video images (whether educational or not). I know that confined spaces are supposed to provide great, built-in opportunities for interacting--commiseration for the shared cramped experience and all, but somehow, this seems better to me. No one asks me, "Are we there yet?" or "Can we stop? I'm thirsty." A well-stocked snack bag, bottles of water, and one or two bathroom breaks and we all arrive at our destination happy, still in love with each other and excited to be where we are instead of weary from the trip.
So I ask you, are a few extra hours of screen time too high a price to pay for such satisfaction on arrival? Will there be increased melt downs because of the change in brain chemistry from too many hours with an electronic device? Are there microwaves and radiation seeping their way into my children's bloodstreams because of extra exposure? I worry about all of this. But part of being a parent is letting go of the fear that makes us second guess EVERYTHING and just being. The supercharged, plugged in road trip is just another way that we are just living.
And while I wonder how all this will affect my children as they grow, I'm guessing when they're grown and look back on the family road trip, they won't be lamenting Mom's angry voice telling them to be quiet and settle down. That's what I'm wishing.
Okay, gotta go charge all my electronic toys. We're on the road in 2 hours....
Well things are different now. Welcome to the 21st Century road trip ala Grateful Twin Mom. Here's how we do it these days. Wired in. That's right; you heard me. Plugged in, dialed in, each with his or her own little screen or headphones. Not talking to each other--not commenting on scenery--not yelling, crying, or complaining. T1 and T2 got iPads (for their birthday/Hanukkah/Christmas for-the-rest-of-their-lives) from an extraordinarily benevolent aunt and uncle. Whole music libraries, math games, Angry Birds (enough said), 5 movies, and 3 chapter books (including A.A. Milne's Winnie the Pooh) provide enough entertainment for weeks, let alone a few hours up I-5 in one super cool laptop device. DG and I listen to audiobooks on iPods and occasionally, DG will blast E Street Radio on the satellite radio (loves him some Bruce Springsteen). But when we're plugged in, it's silent in the car.
Now I know the experts feel that screen time is detrimental for kids (twins are 8 now), especially young ones, and that little brains are marred permanently by too much exposure to video images (whether educational or not). I know that confined spaces are supposed to provide great, built-in opportunities for interacting--commiseration for the shared cramped experience and all, but somehow, this seems better to me. No one asks me, "Are we there yet?" or "Can we stop? I'm thirsty." A well-stocked snack bag, bottles of water, and one or two bathroom breaks and we all arrive at our destination happy, still in love with each other and excited to be where we are instead of weary from the trip.
So I ask you, are a few extra hours of screen time too high a price to pay for such satisfaction on arrival? Will there be increased melt downs because of the change in brain chemistry from too many hours with an electronic device? Are there microwaves and radiation seeping their way into my children's bloodstreams because of extra exposure? I worry about all of this. But part of being a parent is letting go of the fear that makes us second guess EVERYTHING and just being. The supercharged, plugged in road trip is just another way that we are just living.
And while I wonder how all this will affect my children as they grow, I'm guessing when they're grown and look back on the family road trip, they won't be lamenting Mom's angry voice telling them to be quiet and settle down. That's what I'm wishing.
Okay, gotta go charge all my electronic toys. We're on the road in 2 hours....
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Thanksgiving is a time for ..... illness?
I took T1 and T2 shopping with my for the Thanksgiving groceries. It was a crazy and funny time that I had all blogged out in my mind, but then...as I sat down to write....T1 projectile vomited all over his bed. Lovely. We're hoping he's not sick, of course. (He does have a pretty easy gag and vomit reflex--it could just be allergies) No, no, kids can't get sick! I've got too much to do. But he's back in bed now with a bucket next to his head.
What do you do if you've got a house full of people for the holiday, and your kid gets sick?
What do you do if you've got a house full of people for the holiday, and your kid gets sick?
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Little Boy Liar--and Bully to boot?
T1's been lying to me. A lot. He never takes responsibility for his actions and is constantly trying to either pass the buck to someone else (most often, T2) or he rationalizes behavior with a disclaimer, "I didn't mean to..." I'm aware that little kids lie, and punishing them for lying, seems to me, is an invitation for more lying. I mean, he's already scared to tell me the truth if he's lying, so if I come back with a, "Don't you lie to me...." threat, he's going to shut down and tell me nothing. I suspect, if he's afraid to tell me anything he's done that can be misconstrued as outside my expectations for good behavior, this will become his pattern for sharing information with me at all as he grows up--avoiding it.
So how do I deal with this? I want to raise children who have integrity, who feel responsible for how their actions might affect other people. At what point am I making a big deal out of a small infraction, and at what point do I have to intervene?
This week, it was brought to my attention that T1 has been harassing an older boy at school. When I asked him why he did it, he completely denied it. (I know he did it because I have confirmation from 2 other people, and like I said, he's been lying to me.) It took a full day before he admitted to being involved in the situation, and even then, he made light of it, and instead of saying he was sorry or having any remorse, he blew it off and changed the subject. I am disturbed by this on so many levels. First, he doesn't seem to have any understanding of the other boy's feelings. Second, he doesn't appear to understand that when he lies to me, my trust in him is totally compromised. Third, and this is my own neurosis, I worry that he's on the road to being an inconsiderate jerk who, without any consequences for misbehavior, will grow into a sociopath.
DG and I talked about how to deal with this situation. After consulting with our trusted parenting advisor, we concluded that our job is not to threaten him with consequences for lying, bullying or misbehavior, because they will build a wall between us that will grow taller and taller over time. I mean, what's the recidivism rate among criminals released from prison? Do they respect authority? Rather, we need to redouble our efforts in teaching him right from wrong so that it becomes his idea to do the right thing on his own, and while I thought he already knew this, each new developmental level presents a new opportunity for a moments to teach him our values. Respect, kindness, compassion, hard work, and self-respect.
I'm willing to relate to him in a completely different way that will teach him that what I do, and not the empty threats that I want to say, is how grown ups behave.
Still, parenting conventions indicate that I need to
So how do I deal with this? I want to raise children who have integrity, who feel responsible for how their actions might affect other people. At what point am I making a big deal out of a small infraction, and at what point do I have to intervene?
This week, it was brought to my attention that T1 has been harassing an older boy at school. When I asked him why he did it, he completely denied it. (I know he did it because I have confirmation from 2 other people, and like I said, he's been lying to me.) It took a full day before he admitted to being involved in the situation, and even then, he made light of it, and instead of saying he was sorry or having any remorse, he blew it off and changed the subject. I am disturbed by this on so many levels. First, he doesn't seem to have any understanding of the other boy's feelings. Second, he doesn't appear to understand that when he lies to me, my trust in him is totally compromised. Third, and this is my own neurosis, I worry that he's on the road to being an inconsiderate jerk who, without any consequences for misbehavior, will grow into a sociopath.
DG and I talked about how to deal with this situation. After consulting with our trusted parenting advisor, we concluded that our job is not to threaten him with consequences for lying, bullying or misbehavior, because they will build a wall between us that will grow taller and taller over time. I mean, what's the recidivism rate among criminals released from prison? Do they respect authority? Rather, we need to redouble our efforts in teaching him right from wrong so that it becomes his idea to do the right thing on his own, and while I thought he already knew this, each new developmental level presents a new opportunity for a moments to teach him our values. Respect, kindness, compassion, hard work, and self-respect.
I'm willing to relate to him in a completely different way that will teach him that what I do, and not the empty threats that I want to say, is how grown ups behave.
Still, parenting conventions indicate that I need to
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Toppling Plates Revisited
So the balance theme continues to permeate my posts, and sometimes, I gotta say, I find it so redundant. I mean EVERY mom deals with this, right? Meanwhile, maybe that's why it gets so much attention--because we all deal with it. As an older mom, I had a lifetime of experience before I had kids. When your life changes so dramatically, and you keep trying to have parts of the old life peppered into the new one, there's going to be some roadblocks. I'm getting more creative in navigating roadblocks and finding detours that I didn't even know existed.
I took some actions last week to try to get past my roadblocks and find fulfillment in my varied life. (I know--this is a quality problem--sometimes I feel like I don't even have a right to complain because my life is so blessed, but here goes anyway.)
First, I wanted to try going offline for a while. No reading and commenting on blogs, no Twitter (okay--that one's easy to fit in, so I only stayed away from that for 3 days), no Facebook. I found I was focused and productive in my job and present with my children. I was in mono-tasking mode. Felt very old school, but strangely rewarding--for a time.
I assessed things that are important to me. Is it important that my kids get to every single soccer practice or dance class in the week? Not really. What is important to me is taking care of myself physically, emotionally, and creatively. I have one of those unfortunate, narcissistic personality traits of wanting other people to see me as a vibrant and valuable participant in all I do. In all the roles of my life--wife, mother, professor, blogger, crafter, writer, cook, and volunteer--I want people to see that I'm doing a good job. And while this has always been important to me, I am starting to shift toward seeing what I do as good enough for me regardless of what anyone else thinks.
I made a schedule. In order to fit in everything I want to do in my day, I had to come to the realization that I can't do everything everyday. It's got to be compartmentalized. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday-- work out. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday--writing. Like that. Scheduling is what I hound down my students' throats on a daily basis. It's about time I tried it myself.
I forgave myself. I can't be all things to all people. I'm a perfectionist, and trying to stay the perfect everything is exhausting and demoralizing. I downsizing my big personality.
I don't know how long this new "c'est la vie" attitude will last, but I'm going to keep working on it.
I took some actions last week to try to get past my roadblocks and find fulfillment in my varied life. (I know--this is a quality problem--sometimes I feel like I don't even have a right to complain because my life is so blessed, but here goes anyway.)
First, I wanted to try going offline for a while. No reading and commenting on blogs, no Twitter (okay--that one's easy to fit in, so I only stayed away from that for 3 days), no Facebook. I found I was focused and productive in my job and present with my children. I was in mono-tasking mode. Felt very old school, but strangely rewarding--for a time.
I assessed things that are important to me. Is it important that my kids get to every single soccer practice or dance class in the week? Not really. What is important to me is taking care of myself physically, emotionally, and creatively. I have one of those unfortunate, narcissistic personality traits of wanting other people to see me as a vibrant and valuable participant in all I do. In all the roles of my life--wife, mother, professor, blogger, crafter, writer, cook, and volunteer--I want people to see that I'm doing a good job. And while this has always been important to me, I am starting to shift toward seeing what I do as good enough for me regardless of what anyone else thinks.
I made a schedule. In order to fit in everything I want to do in my day, I had to come to the realization that I can't do everything everyday. It's got to be compartmentalized. Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday-- work out. Tuesday, Thursday, Friday--writing. Like that. Scheduling is what I hound down my students' throats on a daily basis. It's about time I tried it myself.
I forgave myself. I can't be all things to all people. I'm a perfectionist, and trying to stay the perfect everything is exhausting and demoralizing. I downsizing my big personality.
I don't know how long this new "c'est la vie" attitude will last, but I'm going to keep working on it.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
"Mr. D, your house is on fire!"
"Hang up and call 911! I'm on my way" were the words I heard my husband scream as I was on the other line with his assistant last Tuesday. "The housekeeper called," the assistant said. "Your house is on fire."
Shock. Stumble. No. It can't be. There must be some mistake. This can't be happening. I hung up the phone and went back in my office. "I think I need to go home," I quietly said as my co-workers started to rally me out the door.
These are not the words that you're ever supposed to hear. Disaster is something that befalls other people, and you sympathize, you send aid, you help them recover, but it doesn't happen to you. In my mind's eye, as I tried coolly to drive, I could see the flames melting my children's toys, my computer, all the memories of my life in photo albums and irreplaceable heirlooms. I imagined being homeless, trying to explain to my children when they came home from school that we'd rebuild our life, that this was a way for a fresh start. We'd be okay. Then I thought it can't be that bad. Stop going to the darkest, bleakest possibility. After all, the fire department was already on its way. The fire would be out by the time I got home.
I called DG. He sighed, "It's okay, the fire's out. Just get home and we'll deal with what we have to deal with."
I pulled up to my house as the fire engine was pulling away. I've seen this in the movies before; the main character drives down her street like she's done a million times before and sees the fire truck in front of her house. The same pit in my stomach rose into my throat. I tried to keep from crying.
DG and my housekeeper were in the garage. Burned debris was all over the driveway. Water pooled in places and trickled down into the gutter. "Thank God you're okay," I whimpered as I threw down my things and embraced my long-time housekeeper, the woman who brings gifts for my children every new year on 3 Kings day as is the custom in her country, Mexico, the woman who has been a part of our family for 15 years. "I tried to put it out, but when I put water on it, it got bigger."
"Thank you for saving our house," I said.
We were amazingly lucky. The fire burned a pile of things we were storing by the side of our house. An old dog crate, some toddler high chairs that attach to the table, boxes, potting soil, planting pots and mulch. As the flames rose up the wall and over the roof, they only burned external items. The electric meter was burned, the tankless water heater was fried, and a ceiling spot light in the eaves was melted, but nothing structural was damaged. The fire was against the wall and never entered the house.
The fire department did a thorough investigation. They went into the attic and took temperature measurements. Our electrician came out and checked our circuit breakers that turned off during the fire, saving the house from an electrical fire. The house was fine. We were fine. In a matter of 20 minutes from the time the fire started to the time it was out, we were fine.
How could this have happened? I wondered about all the junk I piled into that space, never once thinking that it could be dangerous. The fire department thinks a spark might have charged from a battery we had stored there for an electric scooter (you know, the kind that's like a wheelchair we used when my mom visited when she could still walk a little). Maybe it was from the potting soil or fertilizer. Just a hot patch with a piece of glass that caught the sun just right on the pile of what I now know was kindling? We'll never know. They put the cause as "indeterminate."
Our lives could have been irreversibly changed by an "indeterminate" cause. The possibility of what could have happened was infinitely worse than what did. DG and I followed nearer each other for the rest of the day. I hugged the children a little tighter when I picked them up from school. I thanked our housekeeper again and again for her quick thinking. If she hadn't been there...if this had happened on a Monday or Wednesday when we were at work....
But it didn't. The forces in the universe that make things happen when they do must have been looking out for us. Call it God or whatever you want, something went right that day, and I am so grateful.
Shock. Stumble. No. It can't be. There must be some mistake. This can't be happening. I hung up the phone and went back in my office. "I think I need to go home," I quietly said as my co-workers started to rally me out the door.
These are not the words that you're ever supposed to hear. Disaster is something that befalls other people, and you sympathize, you send aid, you help them recover, but it doesn't happen to you. In my mind's eye, as I tried coolly to drive, I could see the flames melting my children's toys, my computer, all the memories of my life in photo albums and irreplaceable heirlooms. I imagined being homeless, trying to explain to my children when they came home from school that we'd rebuild our life, that this was a way for a fresh start. We'd be okay. Then I thought it can't be that bad. Stop going to the darkest, bleakest possibility. After all, the fire department was already on its way. The fire would be out by the time I got home.
I called DG. He sighed, "It's okay, the fire's out. Just get home and we'll deal with what we have to deal with."
I pulled up to my house as the fire engine was pulling away. I've seen this in the movies before; the main character drives down her street like she's done a million times before and sees the fire truck in front of her house. The same pit in my stomach rose into my throat. I tried to keep from crying.
DG and my housekeeper were in the garage. Burned debris was all over the driveway. Water pooled in places and trickled down into the gutter. "Thank God you're okay," I whimpered as I threw down my things and embraced my long-time housekeeper, the woman who brings gifts for my children every new year on 3 Kings day as is the custom in her country, Mexico, the woman who has been a part of our family for 15 years. "I tried to put it out, but when I put water on it, it got bigger."
"Thank you for saving our house," I said.
We were amazingly lucky. The fire burned a pile of things we were storing by the side of our house. An old dog crate, some toddler high chairs that attach to the table, boxes, potting soil, planting pots and mulch. As the flames rose up the wall and over the roof, they only burned external items. The electric meter was burned, the tankless water heater was fried, and a ceiling spot light in the eaves was melted, but nothing structural was damaged. The fire was against the wall and never entered the house.
The fire department did a thorough investigation. They went into the attic and took temperature measurements. Our electrician came out and checked our circuit breakers that turned off during the fire, saving the house from an electrical fire. The house was fine. We were fine. In a matter of 20 minutes from the time the fire started to the time it was out, we were fine.
How could this have happened? I wondered about all the junk I piled into that space, never once thinking that it could be dangerous. The fire department thinks a spark might have charged from a battery we had stored there for an electric scooter (you know, the kind that's like a wheelchair we used when my mom visited when she could still walk a little). Maybe it was from the potting soil or fertilizer. Just a hot patch with a piece of glass that caught the sun just right on the pile of what I now know was kindling? We'll never know. They put the cause as "indeterminate."
Our lives could have been irreversibly changed by an "indeterminate" cause. The possibility of what could have happened was infinitely worse than what did. DG and I followed nearer each other for the rest of the day. I hugged the children a little tighter when I picked them up from school. I thanked our housekeeper again and again for her quick thinking. If she hadn't been there...if this had happened on a Monday or Wednesday when we were at work....
But it didn't. The forces in the universe that make things happen when they do must have been looking out for us. Call it God or whatever you want, something went right that day, and I am so grateful.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
I Want What I Want When I Want It -- the 7-year-old version
Conversation between me and T1 at our niece's Bat Mitzvah this past weekend:
Me: Oh look, honey, you get to sit at a table with all kids; you don't have to sit with your parents. Won't that be fun?
T1: Okay. I want to sit with G (cousin) and all the other boys.
Me: Let's see. Oh, you're at the (Broadway-themed) "Hairspray" table and G is at the "Fiddler on the Roof" table.
T1: No! I don't want to sit at the "Hairspray" table. It's a bunch of girls!! I want to sit with G!
Me: But his table is full. There are already nine 10-year-old boys at that table. Your at the table with the littler kids.
T1: I WANT TO SIT AT G'S TABLE!! I DON'T WANT TO SIT WITH ALL GIRLS!!
(Tantrum escalating--speeches ensuing from the stage--7-year-old voice carrying with amazing range in the auditorium acoustics--me beginning to feel heads turning and eyes glaring)
Me: Calm down, honey. There's nothing I can do about it. (My voice starting to raise too as I pull him by the hand into the bathroom).
T1: WHHHHWAAAAAAAAA
Me: (virtual steam rising from my ears.....voice in my head saying, "oh suck it up, little guy. It's just a dinner. My God! but actually saying:) How about you sit with Daddy and me? There are other cousins at our table.
T1: I want to sit with G!
Me: There are no seats there. You CAN'T sit there. Want Daddy and me to sit with you at the "Hairspray" table?
T1: Nooooooo. I won't do it!!!!!
Me: (exasperated) I'm guessing this situation is making you feel left out. Like you don't belong where you've been put. How would you like this situation to be? How can you solve this problem?
T1: I want you to ask Aunt B to put another chair at G's table. Just go ask her.
Me: (wanting so badly to rectify this "gross injustice" as I figure this MUST feel to my son. Wanting to swoop in and stop the tantrum, the disappointment, the frustration, but knowing that doing so will cripple my son in the future when he must manage any and all situations when he doesn't get what he wants when he wants it)
Me: No. . . . I can't do that.
T1: Pleeeeeessssee, Mommy? (gasp, sob)
Me: What can YOU do?
T1: Can I ask G to put another chair at his table?
Me: That may be a good plan. Why don't you try it.
(T1 runs off to consult with G about all things boy that, I was beginning to quickly learn, include being sat at the right table. I hold my breath, watching over the ballroom as the exchange goes on. I try not to look. I don't want to see the tear-stained face return, crest fallen because I know what's going to happen next. He's gone. He doesn't come back. I reluctantly sit down to my own dinner, anxious. Where is he? What happened? Should I go look for him? Is he okay? Is he crying somewhere in a corner? Is he at G's table? I spy him. He's got a plate of food; he's headed for G's table. A chair is waiting for him. Wow, he did it, I say to myself.)
We are so much alike, T1 and I. Every milestone he makes over his sensitivity and social awkwardness is a triumph for me. It's something I struggled with so much in my childhood and want so badly for him not to have to feel. But I know it's going to happen. Can I sit on my hands and let him have his moments? Even the disappointing ones? I'm going to have to. That's my job.
Remind me to call my mom and tell her I appreciate all the anguish she must have endured raising us. Think I'm going to go get her a medal....
Me: Oh look, honey, you get to sit at a table with all kids; you don't have to sit with your parents. Won't that be fun?
T1: Okay. I want to sit with G (cousin) and all the other boys.
Me: Let's see. Oh, you're at the (Broadway-themed) "Hairspray" table and G is at the "Fiddler on the Roof" table.
T1: No! I don't want to sit at the "Hairspray" table. It's a bunch of girls!! I want to sit with G!
Me: But his table is full. There are already nine 10-year-old boys at that table. Your at the table with the littler kids.
T1: I WANT TO SIT AT G'S TABLE!! I DON'T WANT TO SIT WITH ALL GIRLS!!
(Tantrum escalating--speeches ensuing from the stage--7-year-old voice carrying with amazing range in the auditorium acoustics--me beginning to feel heads turning and eyes glaring)
Me: Calm down, honey. There's nothing I can do about it. (My voice starting to raise too as I pull him by the hand into the bathroom).
T1: WHHHHWAAAAAAAAA
Me: (virtual steam rising from my ears.....voice in my head saying, "oh suck it up, little guy. It's just a dinner. My God! but actually saying:) How about you sit with Daddy and me? There are other cousins at our table.
T1: I want to sit with G!
Me: There are no seats there. You CAN'T sit there. Want Daddy and me to sit with you at the "Hairspray" table?
T1: Nooooooo. I won't do it!!!!!
Me: (exasperated) I'm guessing this situation is making you feel left out. Like you don't belong where you've been put. How would you like this situation to be? How can you solve this problem?
T1: I want you to ask Aunt B to put another chair at G's table. Just go ask her.
Me: (wanting so badly to rectify this "gross injustice" as I figure this MUST feel to my son. Wanting to swoop in and stop the tantrum, the disappointment, the frustration, but knowing that doing so will cripple my son in the future when he must manage any and all situations when he doesn't get what he wants when he wants it)
Me: No. . . . I can't do that.
T1: Pleeeeeessssee, Mommy? (gasp, sob)
Me: What can YOU do?
T1: Can I ask G to put another chair at his table?
Me: That may be a good plan. Why don't you try it.
(T1 runs off to consult with G about all things boy that, I was beginning to quickly learn, include being sat at the right table. I hold my breath, watching over the ballroom as the exchange goes on. I try not to look. I don't want to see the tear-stained face return, crest fallen because I know what's going to happen next. He's gone. He doesn't come back. I reluctantly sit down to my own dinner, anxious. Where is he? What happened? Should I go look for him? Is he okay? Is he crying somewhere in a corner? Is he at G's table? I spy him. He's got a plate of food; he's headed for G's table. A chair is waiting for him. Wow, he did it, I say to myself.)
We are so much alike, T1 and I. Every milestone he makes over his sensitivity and social awkwardness is a triumph for me. It's something I struggled with so much in my childhood and want so badly for him not to have to feel. But I know it's going to happen. Can I sit on my hands and let him have his moments? Even the disappointing ones? I'm going to have to. That's my job.
Remind me to call my mom and tell her I appreciate all the anguish she must have endured raising us. Think I'm going to go get her a medal....
Saturday, July 24, 2010
My mother, myself?
I recently returned from taking my family to the Pacific Northwest where my mother and brother both live, having moved from CA in the '80s. I visit as much as I can, either by myself or with the family, but I always am left wanting more of them, as we are so very close, in my regular day-to-day life.
My mother has Multiple Sclerosis and is now in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, and needs help with all of her personal and daily tasks. It's hard for me to see my mother this way. She's 76 but seems 86. I feel that she's only getting small bits of my children's childhood. Still, I want her to know how important she is in how I'm raising my own kids. My mom has always been someone I've turned to for advice, to share about my day, and to hear about how her stoic, confident, and resilient individualism has seen her through the death of her own parents (her mother at age 3 and her father at 17), a divorce from my father, a death of her second husband, and this debilitating disease while remaining positive and enthusiastic for life.
I remember my mom as a vibrant, loving homemaker. She was there making the kitchen the hub of our existence. I remember the black ceramic tea cups that held the vinegar mixture that my brother, sister and I used to dye Easter eggs. They would splash water colored webs on the newspaper covered table. I remember the same table at Christmas when we would bake cookies and the table would be filled with sugar-sparkled newspaper. She was providing these environments and then she was gone, like a ghost. I think now that she was probably off doing laundry or making beds or somehow doing the mom things that needed to be done. She'd check back in and see where we were in our activity, but I don't remember her judging or commenting, although she must have.
She would take meat out of the freezer, leave it sweating on the counter, quiz us on what she might serve for dessert with initials, like "tonight we're having 'CH'" (stood for cream horns, pastry filled with cream.) She looked happy all the time--but I know she wasn't. That was the gift she gave us. She allowed us to be kids by keeping her emotions to herself allowing us the freedom of whatever stresses may have been bothering her. She let our lives evolve while we grew into the people that she was hoping we'd be.
Sometimes I feel like I fall short in that part about letting my children grow into the people they're going to be. My mother didn't deconstruct every parenting book on the market trying to find a philosophy that would be the panacea for all her fears. She took us to church, sent us to a good school, put us on "restriction, missy" when discipline was needed, and then got out of the way. I wish I could build upon her wisdom as I go through this journey, assured that I'm doing the right thing.
But she's aging rapidly now. This is one of the drawbacks of having children older--everyone in their lives is older. The MS has affected my mom in ways beyond her physical limitations. A recent MRI and CAT scan reveal advancement of the disease. My mom's mind is softening, not nearly as sharp as it used to be. She repeats her small bits of conversation over and over, for she has little stimulating to say because her life is so routine. "Did I tell you that your niece left for London today," she'll say, 3 times in a conversation. It's the biggest news to reach her room in days. I just say, "Yes, you did. Do you think she'll have a good time?" trying not to draw attention to her repetitiveness. I still see that woman with the apron and the jokes in the kitchen, raising a brood of silly squirmers, the woman who still listens intently to my every word and makes me feel loved.
Someday, I'll be like her, and my kids will be like me--only much younger than me. Will they be frustrated with me and ache to have me back the way I was in their childhood? I know that the times I share with them now are their memories in the making. When we go hiking, they're seeing me active, athletic. When I go on every ride at Disneyland (some they won't even go on), I'm to them what my mom was to me. Even when I'm too old to do these things anymore, they'll remember fondly, the way I do when I reminisce with my mom.
My mother has Multiple Sclerosis and is now in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, and needs help with all of her personal and daily tasks. It's hard for me to see my mother this way. She's 76 but seems 86. I feel that she's only getting small bits of my children's childhood. Still, I want her to know how important she is in how I'm raising my own kids. My mom has always been someone I've turned to for advice, to share about my day, and to hear about how her stoic, confident, and resilient individualism has seen her through the death of her own parents (her mother at age 3 and her father at 17), a divorce from my father, a death of her second husband, and this debilitating disease while remaining positive and enthusiastic for life.
I remember my mom as a vibrant, loving homemaker. She was there making the kitchen the hub of our existence. I remember the black ceramic tea cups that held the vinegar mixture that my brother, sister and I used to dye Easter eggs. They would splash water colored webs on the newspaper covered table. I remember the same table at Christmas when we would bake cookies and the table would be filled with sugar-sparkled newspaper. She was providing these environments and then she was gone, like a ghost. I think now that she was probably off doing laundry or making beds or somehow doing the mom things that needed to be done. She'd check back in and see where we were in our activity, but I don't remember her judging or commenting, although she must have.
 |
| My brother, sister and me--see the black cups? |
 |
| My older brother, me, my younger sister |
She would take meat out of the freezer, leave it sweating on the counter, quiz us on what she might serve for dessert with initials, like "tonight we're having 'CH'" (stood for cream horns, pastry filled with cream.) She looked happy all the time--but I know she wasn't. That was the gift she gave us. She allowed us to be kids by keeping her emotions to herself allowing us the freedom of whatever stresses may have been bothering her. She let our lives evolve while we grew into the people that she was hoping we'd be.
 | |
| That swollen eye isn't from my brother--I had a sty--she made me pose anyway |
Sometimes I feel like I fall short in that part about letting my children grow into the people they're going to be. My mother didn't deconstruct every parenting book on the market trying to find a philosophy that would be the panacea for all her fears. She took us to church, sent us to a good school, put us on "restriction, missy" when discipline was needed, and then got out of the way. I wish I could build upon her wisdom as I go through this journey, assured that I'm doing the right thing.
But she's aging rapidly now. This is one of the drawbacks of having children older--everyone in their lives is older. The MS has affected my mom in ways beyond her physical limitations. A recent MRI and CAT scan reveal advancement of the disease. My mom's mind is softening, not nearly as sharp as it used to be. She repeats her small bits of conversation over and over, for she has little stimulating to say because her life is so routine. "Did I tell you that your niece left for London today," she'll say, 3 times in a conversation. It's the biggest news to reach her room in days. I just say, "Yes, you did. Do you think she'll have a good time?" trying not to draw attention to her repetitiveness. I still see that woman with the apron and the jokes in the kitchen, raising a brood of silly squirmers, the woman who still listens intently to my every word and makes me feel loved.
Someday, I'll be like her, and my kids will be like me--only much younger than me. Will they be frustrated with me and ache to have me back the way I was in their childhood? I know that the times I share with them now are their memories in the making. When we go hiking, they're seeing me active, athletic. When I go on every ride at Disneyland (some they won't even go on), I'm to them what my mom was to me. Even when I'm too old to do these things anymore, they'll remember fondly, the way I do when I reminisce with my mom.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
"She said what?!?!" -- Confessions of a Mom-Gossip
Many of my friends and I became mothers around the same time. Most of my closest friends these days are those who I met when my kids were babies. It's funny because I seem to be looking, constantly searching for camaraderie, from people who share my experience or who have been through the same experience so that I can learn from them. But I'm learning a valuable lesson from this searching. No one shares your exact same experience, and while other mothers will have struggles with the same issues I struggle with, I can't base my actions or opinions on what others' actions are. I must make my own way.
I say this because I've been thinking a lot about how moms tend to be in competition with each other over the best way to nurture, feed, educate, and even diaper their children (see the discussion over at Mommywords.) One mom feeds her children only nutritious food with nary a sugary snack in sight and only organic fruits and vegetables; another mom attachment-parents her baby while another is Ferber-ing and night weaning; in the last 2 decades, the classic SAHM vs. working mom debate has reached mammoth proportions; public school, private school, home school; television or not. It's constant--everywhere--especially in the blogosphere.
I have found myself caught up in this gossip mill sometimes. I've said, "I would NEVER...." and "I can't believe she...." I've searched like-minded individuals who have shared my opinions and unknowingly, under the guise of making more sense and resolve out of my own decisions, have bashed unsuspecting mothers whose choices are different from mine. I've made comments based on my beliefs without thinking about how others might feel criticized. This behavior has weighed very heavy on my mind lately. I feel so badly about my past gossipy tendencies, and I am making a change.
My daughter has very strong opinions and never hesitates to voice them as she sees fit. I practice reflecting her feelings back to her, in a very neutral way, so that she knows she's been heard and acknowledged. However, I almost always follow that reflective listening with a "but...." and then spew forth my own opinion and rationalization or belief that is meant to get her to think beyond her feelings and see my point of view. Eliminating the "but..." is part of my new change in relating to other moms. I don't think it's productive to echo a mom's feelings about how she's coping with some new dramatic change in her child's behavior/health/education and then negate it all with a "but....here's what I think...."
I'm not saying that I don't want to hear how others are coping and even get suggestions, like I mentioned above. I want to know what you've done that works for you. Maybe it would work for me too. What I'm making a conscious effort to do now is see everyone's path for what it's worth. We all want the same basic thing--to help our children grow into strong, independent, confident beings who navigate the social waters like experienced sailors using all the tools taught to them by the experienced sailors before them. It's my job to be the example I want them to follow. I can't very well teach my twins how to treat others the way they want to be treated if I'm engaging in clandestine character assassination. I need to be done judging.
In "Bad Mother" Aleyet Waldman discusses how she saw her first "bad mother" on a train--a woman who pulled her daughter's hair as she was putting it into a ponytail. She relays how she was mortified at how this woman could do such a thing, in public, no less. She says we moms are constantly trying to live up to some unrealistic expectation and when we see others who fail to meet that expectation, we judge them. I've judged and been judged, and I really want to let that drama go from my life. Waldman says the definition of a reasonable good mother is, "one who loves her kids and does her level best not to damage them in any permanent way. A good mother doesn't let herself be overcome by guilt when she screws up."
This is my goal for today--I'm gonna try not to screw it up, but if I do, I'm gonna cry to you, who will lift me up, and I won't feel guilty about it.
I say this because I've been thinking a lot about how moms tend to be in competition with each other over the best way to nurture, feed, educate, and even diaper their children (see the discussion over at Mommywords.) One mom feeds her children only nutritious food with nary a sugary snack in sight and only organic fruits and vegetables; another mom attachment-parents her baby while another is Ferber-ing and night weaning; in the last 2 decades, the classic SAHM vs. working mom debate has reached mammoth proportions; public school, private school, home school; television or not. It's constant--everywhere--especially in the blogosphere.
I have found myself caught up in this gossip mill sometimes. I've said, "I would NEVER...." and "I can't believe she...." I've searched like-minded individuals who have shared my opinions and unknowingly, under the guise of making more sense and resolve out of my own decisions, have bashed unsuspecting mothers whose choices are different from mine. I've made comments based on my beliefs without thinking about how others might feel criticized. This behavior has weighed very heavy on my mind lately. I feel so badly about my past gossipy tendencies, and I am making a change.
My daughter has very strong opinions and never hesitates to voice them as she sees fit. I practice reflecting her feelings back to her, in a very neutral way, so that she knows she's been heard and acknowledged. However, I almost always follow that reflective listening with a "but...." and then spew forth my own opinion and rationalization or belief that is meant to get her to think beyond her feelings and see my point of view. Eliminating the "but..." is part of my new change in relating to other moms. I don't think it's productive to echo a mom's feelings about how she's coping with some new dramatic change in her child's behavior/health/education and then negate it all with a "but....here's what I think...."
I'm not saying that I don't want to hear how others are coping and even get suggestions, like I mentioned above. I want to know what you've done that works for you. Maybe it would work for me too. What I'm making a conscious effort to do now is see everyone's path for what it's worth. We all want the same basic thing--to help our children grow into strong, independent, confident beings who navigate the social waters like experienced sailors using all the tools taught to them by the experienced sailors before them. It's my job to be the example I want them to follow. I can't very well teach my twins how to treat others the way they want to be treated if I'm engaging in clandestine character assassination. I need to be done judging.
In "Bad Mother" Aleyet Waldman discusses how she saw her first "bad mother" on a train--a woman who pulled her daughter's hair as she was putting it into a ponytail. She relays how she was mortified at how this woman could do such a thing, in public, no less. She says we moms are constantly trying to live up to some unrealistic expectation and when we see others who fail to meet that expectation, we judge them. I've judged and been judged, and I really want to let that drama go from my life. Waldman says the definition of a reasonable good mother is, "one who loves her kids and does her level best not to damage them in any permanent way. A good mother doesn't let herself be overcome by guilt when she screws up."
This is my goal for today--I'm gonna try not to screw it up, but if I do, I'm gonna cry to you, who will lift me up, and I won't feel guilty about it.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Day Care -- Is It Risky? Stop the Guilt Already
Just when I was thinking I was okay in the balance of working and child care, this study comes out in the Los Angeles Times this morning.
A comprehensive study of behavior of children who were in a day care setting as toddlers reveals that they are more likely to engage in risky behavior as teens. Great. Just what us moms who work outside the home need. And while the data and findings are marginal--there is only a slight rise in risky behavior in teens who spent a lot of hours in day care and those who mostly spent their toddlerdom at home--this feeds my paranoia and adds more worry to my already exploding head that is constantly spinning with blather like, "am I spending enough time with them?" "Are they learning bad habits after school?" "Will they learn the social skills necessary to fit in in school while still learning academically?"
See how this works? The study was about day care centers and toddlers, not school-age children. But does that stop my worry? No way.
I have a tremendously flexible job, one that allows me long breaks in the year with time to spend with the children, yet I focus on the 3 days a week, 2 hours a day, 9 months a year that they're outside school and my care.
"Whatever" to this study I say. My favorite quote in the article (you gotta love journalists who cover all sides of a story) comes from Ellen Galinsky, author of "Mind in the Making" and president of the Families and Work Institute in New York, "Risk-taking, thinking creatively, taking on a challenge, trying something new -- all these aspects of impulsiveness and risk-taking can be a positive thing." She this may be helpful to tomorrow's workforce.
If my kids' experiences at their marvelous Child Development Center taught them anything, I hope it's that it's okay to allow lots of people to take care of them and teach them different perspectives of the world. Go ahead, jump in and take a risk. Just don't ask me to stop beating myself up about it.
A comprehensive study of behavior of children who were in a day care setting as toddlers reveals that they are more likely to engage in risky behavior as teens. Great. Just what us moms who work outside the home need. And while the data and findings are marginal--there is only a slight rise in risky behavior in teens who spent a lot of hours in day care and those who mostly spent their toddlerdom at home--this feeds my paranoia and adds more worry to my already exploding head that is constantly spinning with blather like, "am I spending enough time with them?" "Are they learning bad habits after school?" "Will they learn the social skills necessary to fit in in school while still learning academically?"
See how this works? The study was about day care centers and toddlers, not school-age children. But does that stop my worry? No way.
I have a tremendously flexible job, one that allows me long breaks in the year with time to spend with the children, yet I focus on the 3 days a week, 2 hours a day, 9 months a year that they're outside school and my care.
"Whatever" to this study I say. My favorite quote in the article (you gotta love journalists who cover all sides of a story) comes from Ellen Galinsky, author of "Mind in the Making" and president of the Families and Work Institute in New York, "Risk-taking, thinking creatively, taking on a challenge, trying something new -- all these aspects of impulsiveness and risk-taking can be a positive thing." She this may be helpful to tomorrow's workforce.
If my kids' experiences at their marvelous Child Development Center taught them anything, I hope it's that it's okay to allow lots of people to take care of them and teach them different perspectives of the world. Go ahead, jump in and take a risk. Just don't ask me to stop beating myself up about it.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Beautiful Boy
I go into this same Starbucks almost everyday on my way to work. I swear to God; every time I go in there John Lennon's song Beautiful Boy is playing. And every time, I get choked up. I shed tiny tears thinking about my own beautiful boy (and my girl too) waltzing off to school while I drive 21 miles down the LA freeways to my job. I have a brief moment of remembering them--their faces flashing across my mind as I hurry to get my espresso and be on my way. And I, like many mothers who work outside the home, swallow any guilt that might come up, reassuring myself that they are fine, I am fine, and we'll be together soon.
But more than that, I think about Sean Lennon. He was 5 when he lost his father. John Lennon said when promoting the album Double Fantasy that he loved being a "house husband." He loved being with his child. And to have it all taken away after only 5 years is heartbreaking. As I listen to the song, I can feel his hopes for his son--the boy's life playing like a film in his imagination.
"I can hardly wait,
To see you to come of age,
But I guess we'll both,
Just have to be patient,
Yes it's a long way to go....."
He never got that chance. But I do.
This morning as I was leaving the house for work, I was running really late. I threw all my stuff in the car and yelled back at the house, "BYE..." Then I went back inside. I hugged and kissed my kids. I told DG I loved him. My family is the apex of my happiness, and I don't want to miss a moment of letting them know it.
But more than that, I think about Sean Lennon. He was 5 when he lost his father. John Lennon said when promoting the album Double Fantasy that he loved being a "house husband." He loved being with his child. And to have it all taken away after only 5 years is heartbreaking. As I listen to the song, I can feel his hopes for his son--the boy's life playing like a film in his imagination.
"I can hardly wait,
To see you to come of age,
But I guess we'll both,
Just have to be patient,
Yes it's a long way to go....."
He never got that chance. But I do.
This morning as I was leaving the house for work, I was running really late. I threw all my stuff in the car and yelled back at the house, "BYE..." Then I went back inside. I hugged and kissed my kids. I told DG I loved him. My family is the apex of my happiness, and I don't want to miss a moment of letting them know it.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
On Your Mark, Get Set, Go!!!!!
Competition brings out the best and the worst in some people. In kids, it's a little glimpse into how they're going to relate to others when they grow up. Case in point--The All City Track Meet. Here are the kids at the beginning of the cacophonous, frenetic, team-spirited event.
All smiles--Whoop-de-doo! Happy as can be. Ready to take on their events, run fast, pass batons, have fun. Here they are at the end of the event.
After all the ribbons had been presented. After they LOST their events. What? you say, but they've got ribbons. What gives? Yes, they were in relay races against 2 other teams. All the relay team members got ribbons. T2 didn't even run. She was the alternate.
But the individual events is where I really got to see my twins' sensibilities, and in the individual events is where the teachable moment lies.
When T1 didn't win, he said, "Oh well, at least I got a medal for the relay. It was fun."
"Good for you!" I said. That's right, you did your best and you had fun. Let's go home and have a cool drink and celebrate your maturity.
T2 cried. Sobbed. Said she was robbed. The other girls cheated. Little Miss Competitive. She was more than a little disappointed. And seriously unwilling to take responsibility for the outcome. The blaming is where I thought to act. How can I ease that feeling of pain that comes when you have an expectation that doesn't pan out? I know that feeling. I'm holding back tears too watching her process this sad emotion that inevitably comes as children learn about the ya-win-some-ya-lose-some lessons of the world.
"Did you do your best?" I asked.
"Yes," she sighs, "but my back still hurts from the bruise." (Long story of a mishap with some stone steps.)
"You know what?" I ask, "you're right. That must be still smarting you. And not placing makes it feel worse. For next year, we can practice. I've got a stop watch....."
Her eyes light up. "Right!" she says. I can see the brain going. "Let's run everyday. You can time me and see if I can do it faster."
A-ha. Will she grow and begin to see that she is the only one who can mold the outcome of her life? Did I do the right thing? (If you ascribe to Carol Dweck's Mindset, then yes, I guess). For how long will hugs ease the sting of losing?
Forever, I hope.
All smiles--Whoop-de-doo! Happy as can be. Ready to take on their events, run fast, pass batons, have fun. Here they are at the end of the event.
After all the ribbons had been presented. After they LOST their events. What? you say, but they've got ribbons. What gives? Yes, they were in relay races against 2 other teams. All the relay team members got ribbons. T2 didn't even run. She was the alternate.
But the individual events is where I really got to see my twins' sensibilities, and in the individual events is where the teachable moment lies.
When T1 didn't win, he said, "Oh well, at least I got a medal for the relay. It was fun."
"Good for you!" I said. That's right, you did your best and you had fun. Let's go home and have a cool drink and celebrate your maturity.
T2 cried. Sobbed. Said she was robbed. The other girls cheated. Little Miss Competitive. She was more than a little disappointed. And seriously unwilling to take responsibility for the outcome. The blaming is where I thought to act. How can I ease that feeling of pain that comes when you have an expectation that doesn't pan out? I know that feeling. I'm holding back tears too watching her process this sad emotion that inevitably comes as children learn about the ya-win-some-ya-lose-some lessons of the world.
"Did you do your best?" I asked.
"Yes," she sighs, "but my back still hurts from the bruise." (Long story of a mishap with some stone steps.)
"You know what?" I ask, "you're right. That must be still smarting you. And not placing makes it feel worse. For next year, we can practice. I've got a stop watch....."
Her eyes light up. "Right!" she says. I can see the brain going. "Let's run everyday. You can time me and see if I can do it faster."
A-ha. Will she grow and begin to see that she is the only one who can mold the outcome of her life? Did I do the right thing? (If you ascribe to Carol Dweck's Mindset, then yes, I guess). For how long will hugs ease the sting of losing?
Forever, I hope.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Homework: The Great Divider of Families
My son hates homework. He's like a puppy distracted by a shiny thing whenever he sits down to do it. No sooner has he finished one math problem that he's out of the chair, sharpening his pencil, looking at the notebook paper curling at the edges--anything to take him away from the homework. He pretty much always finishes the assigned work, but it's grueling to keep him focused long enough to do what other kids can do in 10 minutes. It can take 45 minutes to write five sentences.
And again, like I've mentioned in this blog, I blame myself for this dilemma because I am simply not there. I'm not there when he does his homework at the after-school program where the kids are crammed around tables with everyone talking, moving around, and being distracted in their own ways. I'm not there when the teacher gives out the homework and says, "You can do the packet but not this one page," which my son insists she says on a regular basis. When I try to help him, it's usually at the end of the day; he's tired, and so am I, and I am worried about getting dinner cooked. We both end up fried.
I am an educator. I have students who don't have a lick of study skills. I swore when my kids started school that I was going to know exactly what to do to make sure their love of learning was nurtured and molded in the best pedagogical way. I had fantasies of sitting around the dining room table, the kids helping each other with their work and me sitting there grading my students' papers. This is not what is happening, and I feel like I'm losing control, and that his love of learning is slipping away every. single. day. It disheartens me.
I have a friend who is a huge believer in the current movement that argues against the value of homework for elementary school kids at all. I read an article on Slate.com that reviewed 3 books on the subject. I am beginning to see the point. The struggle to help kids as they mire through pages of inane worksheets that practice the same math sums and subtractions in a myriad of ways is mind numbing. It makes that time that we spend together laborious, contentious, and sad. One article I read said, "If the homework is such that the child procrastinates, resists, surface-skims, and does sloppy work so he can get done, be advised that those are precisely the study habits being learned."
Indeed.
My children's elementary school rolled out a new homework policy that limits homework to only 10 minutes per grade level per night. No take home projects for long weekends. They say this is to preserve quality of life for families. I know what I have to do to have a better quality of life with my family. I have to be present to give them meaningful experiences that include teachable moments throughout their day. I have to inspire them to think critically and to explore learning because it's something they want to do to discover the world around them and to find their place in it. I have to let go my fear that what is happening now, in first grade, is any indication of how he will be for his entire academic career.
I have to believe in the hope that someday, I'll watch him pouring over some book or he'll come to me with a hypothesis he wants to research. I have to have that hope.
And again, like I've mentioned in this blog, I blame myself for this dilemma because I am simply not there. I'm not there when he does his homework at the after-school program where the kids are crammed around tables with everyone talking, moving around, and being distracted in their own ways. I'm not there when the teacher gives out the homework and says, "You can do the packet but not this one page," which my son insists she says on a regular basis. When I try to help him, it's usually at the end of the day; he's tired, and so am I, and I am worried about getting dinner cooked. We both end up fried.
I am an educator. I have students who don't have a lick of study skills. I swore when my kids started school that I was going to know exactly what to do to make sure their love of learning was nurtured and molded in the best pedagogical way. I had fantasies of sitting around the dining room table, the kids helping each other with their work and me sitting there grading my students' papers. This is not what is happening, and I feel like I'm losing control, and that his love of learning is slipping away every. single. day. It disheartens me.
I have a friend who is a huge believer in the current movement that argues against the value of homework for elementary school kids at all. I read an article on Slate.com that reviewed 3 books on the subject. I am beginning to see the point. The struggle to help kids as they mire through pages of inane worksheets that practice the same math sums and subtractions in a myriad of ways is mind numbing. It makes that time that we spend together laborious, contentious, and sad. One article I read said, "If the homework is such that the child procrastinates, resists, surface-skims, and does sloppy work so he can get done, be advised that those are precisely the study habits being learned."
Indeed.
My children's elementary school rolled out a new homework policy that limits homework to only 10 minutes per grade level per night. No take home projects for long weekends. They say this is to preserve quality of life for families. I know what I have to do to have a better quality of life with my family. I have to be present to give them meaningful experiences that include teachable moments throughout their day. I have to inspire them to think critically and to explore learning because it's something they want to do to discover the world around them and to find their place in it. I have to let go my fear that what is happening now, in first grade, is any indication of how he will be for his entire academic career.
I have to believe in the hope that someday, I'll watch him pouring over some book or he'll come to me with a hypothesis he wants to research. I have to have that hope.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Who's this game for anyway, them or me?
Ah the first signs of spring--the sun peeking through the clouds, the warm weather returning (before you laugh, we did have a coooooold winter by So Cal standards, but don't judge me), and Opening Day--little league for whole stinkin' town. Pretty much everyone with kids in this small town joins little league when their kids are five, maybe even before, if they can. We opted to stay out of little league last year. T1 seemed way to squirrelly to focus on a game where he would need to stand in a field and pay attention to something going on about a mile away. No, we chose to start this year.
When I went to sign up my very excited son, I learned that they had leagues for girls too. T2 and T1 would both be part of this community wide event. And I mean event. Last year, when we tried to get kids over to play on Saturdays in spring, no can do. Baseball game, sorry. Maybe next time. We were not going to miss it this year. They put them both on the same team. How convenient, I thought. This makes me so glad. No having to cart them to different practices and games that overlap. Super.
So we show up on Opening Day and we see all of T1's cub scout troop are together on the Cubs (we're the Angels). Then the rest of the first grade boys are on the Giants. All the girls are on other teams for 7- and 8- year-olds who have been playing for 2 years. When I ask them how they all turned up on teams with kids they know, they say, "Oh, we requested it. These kids all played together last year." Our team has really little 6-year-olds and a couple of 5-year-olds. None of whom we know. And none of whom played last year.
Here's the thing: I am finding myself hugely bothered by this. Why didn't anyone tell me I could choose a team? Why didn't I put them in last year so they could be with their friends? Won't they be angry when they have to play against all of their friends? I guess my own insecurities come out. I envision myself sitting in the stands, with moms I know, watching and cheering on our little darlings. When we play the Cubs, I will see the moms I know in the other set of bleachers. I might feel sorry for myself that I didn't get to be on that team. But it's not about me, is it? My kids aren't bothered that they didn't play last year. They don't care that kids they know are on other teams. They are not bothered by this at all. They are loving getting to know all their new teammates. And they love their coach. Who's baseball for anyway, them or me?
When I went to sign up my very excited son, I learned that they had leagues for girls too. T2 and T1 would both be part of this community wide event. And I mean event. Last year, when we tried to get kids over to play on Saturdays in spring, no can do. Baseball game, sorry. Maybe next time. We were not going to miss it this year. They put them both on the same team. How convenient, I thought. This makes me so glad. No having to cart them to different practices and games that overlap. Super.
So we show up on Opening Day and we see all of T1's cub scout troop are together on the Cubs (we're the Angels). Then the rest of the first grade boys are on the Giants. All the girls are on other teams for 7- and 8- year-olds who have been playing for 2 years. When I ask them how they all turned up on teams with kids they know, they say, "Oh, we requested it. These kids all played together last year." Our team has really little 6-year-olds and a couple of 5-year-olds. None of whom we know. And none of whom played last year.
Here's the thing: I am finding myself hugely bothered by this. Why didn't anyone tell me I could choose a team? Why didn't I put them in last year so they could be with their friends? Won't they be angry when they have to play against all of their friends? I guess my own insecurities come out. I envision myself sitting in the stands, with moms I know, watching and cheering on our little darlings. When we play the Cubs, I will see the moms I know in the other set of bleachers. I might feel sorry for myself that I didn't get to be on that team. But it's not about me, is it? My kids aren't bothered that they didn't play last year. They don't care that kids they know are on other teams. They are not bothered by this at all. They are loving getting to know all their new teammates. And they love their coach. Who's baseball for anyway, them or me?
T1 with his team
T2 checkin' her mit
Up at bat
On deck
I look at their smiling faces here, and I realize that little league is not about me being able to create a community of friends. It's not about me feeling left out of the other team. It's about them, learning to have fun in a sport that is about teamwork. They're up to the task. Maybe my maturity level needs to come up a bit. And to think of it. I thought they were too young.....
Oh well, at least I got to go out to a fancy dinner afterward and order this:
Lobster salad from Crustacean
............................................
Fast forward to the next day's laundry. Whose pants are whose?
It's gonna be a long season.....
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Summer Camp
I did not really like summer camp as a child. I remember I had to go to the YMCA day camp for a while, and then my mom sent my sister, brother, and I to Vacation Bible School at a Baptist Church. We were Catholic. Go figure. I guess if it's all Jesus, that's okay, right?
Anyway, the YMCA day camp felt very isolating. It was in this big, cavernous gym, with bunches of kids, none of whom I knew. We went on field trips and had contests--everything that should have made a kid thrilled. Not me. I was painfully shy and had trouble making friends. Mostly, I remember playing by myself and sticking with the counselors, who were like surrogate mommies to me, when what I really wanted was to be home with my mom, who was at work--like me now.
Fast forward to my own kids going to summer camp for the first time. I had a revelation yesterday that they are now forming their own childhood memories. These are the summers they'll remember as the "when I was a kid..." times. Oh, the responsibility of this makes me so nervous. What if they don't like camp? What if they have a bad experience that they remember forever and blame me for putting them there--for working.
I took T1 and T2 to camp for their first day on August 3. They knew 3 kids there from their previous pre-school. Long standing friends with whom they had fantastic relationships. There was even a counselor there from their pre-school. They'd be okay, I told myself. They had "people" there.
T1 has a similar personality to mine. He's sensitive, shy, and slow to warm. I projected all of my own childhood fears onto his experience. T2 will be fine, I thought. She's the social butterfly. No problems for her. I packed their lunches (special sugary treats included so they'd think fondly of me during the day. Why that works, I don't know), kissed them goodbye, and crossed my fingers for a good day. When I came to pick them up, the counselors' reports were all happy and upbeat. They had a great time! they said. T1 actually joined in the games and made friends faster and more easily than T2. T2 got into the game late in the day, but really, overall, they loved it.
You mean their lives aren't going to be the same as mine? Their childhoods will be different? As twins, their experience will always be different than mine. They will always have each other wherever they go together. I suppose that takes some of the pressure off. A week-and-a-half into camp now, and they're both loving it. And why not? Playing games, going swimming, and making new friends (friends that may last a lifetime, as other people tell me happens sometimes at camp) are infinitely more fun than hanging out with Mommy.
They're growing up.
Anyway, the YMCA day camp felt very isolating. It was in this big, cavernous gym, with bunches of kids, none of whom I knew. We went on field trips and had contests--everything that should have made a kid thrilled. Not me. I was painfully shy and had trouble making friends. Mostly, I remember playing by myself and sticking with the counselors, who were like surrogate mommies to me, when what I really wanted was to be home with my mom, who was at work--like me now.
Fast forward to my own kids going to summer camp for the first time. I had a revelation yesterday that they are now forming their own childhood memories. These are the summers they'll remember as the "when I was a kid..." times. Oh, the responsibility of this makes me so nervous. What if they don't like camp? What if they have a bad experience that they remember forever and blame me for putting them there--for working.
I took T1 and T2 to camp for their first day on August 3. They knew 3 kids there from their previous pre-school. Long standing friends with whom they had fantastic relationships. There was even a counselor there from their pre-school. They'd be okay, I told myself. They had "people" there.
T1 has a similar personality to mine. He's sensitive, shy, and slow to warm. I projected all of my own childhood fears onto his experience. T2 will be fine, I thought. She's the social butterfly. No problems for her. I packed their lunches (special sugary treats included so they'd think fondly of me during the day. Why that works, I don't know), kissed them goodbye, and crossed my fingers for a good day. When I came to pick them up, the counselors' reports were all happy and upbeat. They had a great time! they said. T1 actually joined in the games and made friends faster and more easily than T2. T2 got into the game late in the day, but really, overall, they loved it.
You mean their lives aren't going to be the same as mine? Their childhoods will be different? As twins, their experience will always be different than mine. They will always have each other wherever they go together. I suppose that takes some of the pressure off. A week-and-a-half into camp now, and they're both loving it. And why not? Playing games, going swimming, and making new friends (friends that may last a lifetime, as other people tell me happens sometimes at camp) are infinitely more fun than hanging out with Mommy.
They're growing up.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Sometimes You Just Gotta Say Okay
Decisions can be made in an instant. Faced with a challenging decision, one usually analyzes and then acts. I am compulsive; I almost always act before thinking. This has been a habit most of my life--talking before thinking, acting on impulse, instead of directed, reasoned thought. But if you ask me to go on a roller coaster, that's another story altogether.
Last week, I went to an amusement park with DG, T1, T2 and my 18-year-old niece. She's a roller coaster junkie--the scarier the better. She wanted to conquer them all. I was the opposite of compulsive on this point. I wanted to go on the rides with her because she really wanted to go, but the twins were too little for most of them, so DG went off to the mellow rides with them. So here I was, scared, not wanting to show it, and really, a little worried about seeming a wuss in front of this sweet girl who I have adored since she was born. How could I disappoint her?
I knew logically that nothing could truly happen to me on these roller coasters. I'd scream, feel the terror, and then it would be over in an instant.
I stood in line for this one 3 times. I chickened out twice. The third time, I went using that same over-in-an-instant rationale. This ride is called the Xcelerator. It takes off at 82 MPH, goes straight up, over a hairpin turn, and straight down. I remember looking at my niece right before it took off saying, "no turning back now." I barely remember what happened after that and the next thing I knew, we were over that turn, through all the other loops and drops and the brakes were put on. "I did it, I did it!" I cheered. The whole car cheered for me too.
I think it's weird but I feel the enormous sens of accomplishment at going through these fears. Somehow, it gives me hope that I can go through lots of scary stuff and I'll be okay.
T1 and T2 were impressed with my roller coaster rider abilities too. "Will you go with me on that when I'm older," T1 asked me. "I think I can," I answered him in all honesty.
Last week, I went to an amusement park with DG, T1, T2 and my 18-year-old niece. She's a roller coaster junkie--the scarier the better. She wanted to conquer them all. I was the opposite of compulsive on this point. I wanted to go on the rides with her because she really wanted to go, but the twins were too little for most of them, so DG went off to the mellow rides with them. So here I was, scared, not wanting to show it, and really, a little worried about seeming a wuss in front of this sweet girl who I have adored since she was born. How could I disappoint her?
I knew logically that nothing could truly happen to me on these roller coasters. I'd scream, feel the terror, and then it would be over in an instant.
I stood in line for this one 3 times. I chickened out twice. The third time, I went using that same over-in-an-instant rationale. This ride is called the Xcelerator. It takes off at 82 MPH, goes straight up, over a hairpin turn, and straight down. I remember looking at my niece right before it took off saying, "no turning back now." I barely remember what happened after that and the next thing I knew, we were over that turn, through all the other loops and drops and the brakes were put on. "I did it, I did it!" I cheered. The whole car cheered for me too.
I think it's weird but I feel the enormous sens of accomplishment at going through these fears. Somehow, it gives me hope that I can go through lots of scary stuff and I'll be okay.
T1 and T2 were impressed with my roller coaster rider abilities too. "Will you go with me on that when I'm older," T1 asked me. "I think I can," I answered him in all honesty.
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