Mama's Gonna Help Build the Wall

You hear a lot about attachment parenting these days. I'm all for it: I carried my babies on my body more than I pushed them in a stroller, I breastfed both kids until they were old enough to ask for it using four-word sentences and perfect grammar, I co-slept with my youngest until she was one, I never let my babies "cry it out," etc., etc. I'm no Mayim Bialik but I truly believe a parent cannot "spoil" a baby.

With my babies in 2008--
safe and sound

The problem with attachment parenting, however, is that you can spoil a toddler. And that's when things get difficult. At some point, you have to begin detaching.

Some kids will separate on their own. They'll strut into the classroom without looking back (and break your heart in the process). But most kids need a little push.

A push to go off and explore on their own, without mommy or daddy holding their hand. A push to make their own discoveries, accomplish their own feats, and, yes, make their own mistakes. They need to get hurt, because unless they learn and understand on their own where the dangers lie, they won't be able to protect themselves as they get older. They also need alone time to learn how to amuse themselves, and soothe themselves, too,

It's a fine line. Too much coddling and they might end up clingy and insecure. Too little coddling--too much detachment and "tough love"--and they might end up, well, clingy and insecure. 

I think I've established a good balance. My kids are reasonably confident and independent, yet they also have a healthy awareness of potential dangers. They are happy to go off and play or explore by themselves but they know not to venture too far, do anything too risky, or talk to strangers. 

Non-helicopter parenting can be scary. In addition to worrying about the Big Horrible Things that could happen, there are the everyday smaller-but-still-scary moments to deal with. For example, at this moment my kids are playing outside. They've been out there for hours while I've been doing some much-needed spring cleaning. I think they're in the back yard--at least that's where they were 20 minutes ago when I last checked--but I don't see or hear them. Am I worried? No. Well, a tiny part of me thinks they could've gone off and gotten themselves lost, run over, or abducted. While my rational side knows that's ridiculous, it doesn't mean I don't worry.

I imagine it's only going to get harder as my kids get older and the dangers become increasingly likely to actually occur. After all, the chances of a toddler sustaining serious injury while on the playground, or running off and getting himself kidnapped are slim. But it sure seems like the odds of an older child getting into real, serious trouble are much more likely. When I think about all the potential dangers that lurk down the road, I break out into a cold sweat.

I'd do anything to protect them.

And then Pink Floyd pops into my head:

Hush now baby, baby don't you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your
Nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama's gonna keep you right here
Under her wing
She won't let you fly but she might let you sing
Mama will keep baby cosy and warm
Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe Ooooh Babe
Of course Mama's gonna help build the wall

What sounded atrocious to me when I first listened to "The Wall" back in high school doesn't sound quite so awful now. I get it. It almost sounds appealing.

And that's the scariest part of all.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

Only Happy When It Rains

I was watching the very mediocre Something Borrowed on cable the other day (flirty, sexy, bitchy Kate Hudson is BFFs with bookish, cute Ginnifer Goodwin; Ginnifer has a secret affair with Kate's equally bookish, hunky fiancé; mayhem ensues), and it totally reminded me of how things were in my 20's with the never-ending, exhausting relationship drama; the worrying about my future; and the confusion, self-doubt, and sadness.

In the flick, Ginnifer and the fiancé are in love, but because he's engaged to Kate, they try to repress their feelings. Poor Ginnifer spends half the movie choking back tears as she watches Kate and her fiancé be all lovey-dovey. She walks down Manhattan streets crying in the rain, mourning the love she let slip away (she and nerd hunk liked each other first but both were too loser-ish to make the first move, so Kate swooped in and charmed the pants off him). 


Arrgghh, I wanted to strangle her! Oh, poor me...fret, fret, fret...I will never have the man of my dreams, I will never be truly happy, boo-hoo, my life sucks. So much pointless angst!


The truth is, I wanted to strangle her because she reminded me of...me. That's what I was like during my 20's--constantly stressing my relationship status and where my life was going. Do I like him more than he likes me? Do I sabotage relationships? Will I ever get married and have kids? Am I pretty/cool/sexy/interesting/smart/successful enough? 


I was so preoccupied worrying about my relationships and fretting that my life wasn't going the way I'd hoped that I couldn't see straight. Oh, sure, I put up a pretty good front. Most people probably couldn't tell I was total head case. 

Looking back, I want to slap myself across the face. What was I doing? I should've been basking in my life; I had a "great on paper" job at Scholastic (which, in reality, was horrible and demeaning), a cool apartment in the West Village, fun friends, plenty of disposable income...my youth. The world was my oyster, as they say. 

Shirley Manson, my 90's idol

But yet there I was, stumbling through my 20's all confused, down, and depressed--though I had no legitimate reason to be sullen. Sometimes I wondered whether perhaps I actually got off on the darkness and sadness. You know I love it when the news is bad./Why it feels so good to feel so sad./I'm only happy when it rains./Pour your misery down./Pour your misery down on me. 


Because when things were awful for real (like after 9/11), at least how I felt finally made sense. 


This wasn't clinical depression (I know the symptoms), but I walked around with a strange hollowness inside, and my head was a buzzing hive of doubt. I felt burdened by life and by what was expected of me (okay, what I expected of myself). Living my life just didn't feel the way I thought it should/would/could.


Occasionally, the burden would lessen (new & better job, vacation, marriage), but it always came back with a thud once the novelty wore off. 


Until, that is, I became pregnant with my first child. I was over-the-moon elated. And suddenly, it wasn't all about me anymore. By focussing on the life growing inside of me, I was finally able to get out of my head. The burden was lifted.


And it hasn't come back. 


Oh, sure, I still have "I'm Only Happy When It Rains" moments, but that's just it--they are mere moments (or, at worst, a day). I no longer spend the majority of my time in that dark place. 


These days, life is more "Here Comes the Sun."


And Ginnifer Goodwin's character? In the end she gets her man and lives happily every after. 

Drive Me Crazy

Most of the time I'm a pretty good mother, I think (if I do say so myself). I'm a stay-at-home mom and completely and totally dedicated to motherhood. I'm 100% engaged with my kids (okay, 99%). Just by touching a hand I can tell if one of them has a fever. I know what kind of mood they're in with one glance at their faces, and if something is on their mind, they can't hide it. All this is wonderful and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Except when it all drives me MAAAAAAD. Like now. It's 4 p.m. on a chilly, gray Saturday afternoon and I'm home alone with my two kids. My husband had to go out for a couple of hours for work. I haven't left the house yet today, and I just managed to get dressed an hour ago. Shower? Ha.

THEY. ARE. DRIVING. ME. CRAZY.

I sent them to our gross, unfinished basement to play because I needed them out of my hair for a few minutes. For some reason, they love it down there (probably because it is, in fact, so gross). Five minutes later I heard the dreaded words: "Uh-oh, Mommy's going to be so mad."

Turns out our cat (who has Irritable Bowel Syndrome) pooped in the playhouse. So instead of relaxing and having a little "me" time, there I was scrubbing dried diarrhea out of the rug instead. Calgon!

There's rarely one event that ends up pushing me over the edge. My kids are great kids and rarely do anything that makes me want to get in the car and keep driving. Usually, it's just a slow buildup of tiny frustrating moments. Then one or two more little things happen (today it was my daughter not napping combined with my husband having to work) and suddenly I find myself falling off the cliff.

I've noticed I lose it more often on weekends. During the week, I manage to keep it together better--I think because I have no choice. With my husband at work until evening, I'm the one in charge. But I don't stress it at all during the week--I'm happy doing all the mom things I love.

But then the weekend comes around and for some crazy reason I expect it to be a little relaxing. I expect to get a break from being the one "on" all the time. Except it hardly ever works out that way. My husband is a great dad and spends as much time with the kids as he can. But it's not like I can easily and breezily take a day off from being mom and recharge. The kids whine and pout about me leaving, which makes me feel guilty--which then makes me not enjoy my time away as much. Instead of recharging, I worry and end up rushing to get home.

But tomorrow is a new day. I will go to the gym and sweat this stress out while my husband takes the kids to church. Hopefully the sun will be shining and we can all get outside to enjoy the fresh air and beautiful spring flowers.

If not, at least I have "Mad Men" to look forward to tomorrow night. And the new season of "Game of Thrones." Yes, things are looking up.

Bus Stop Mamas

I was preoccupied all day--my mind wandering while driving, barely hearing my daughter prattle on, etc.--and it was because of something so totally insignificant and stupid. There are days when I'm amazed at how pathetic I am, and today was one of them.

First, a little background: I am way too insecure for someone my age. Seriously, aren't we supposed to "come into ourselves" in our 30's, and then by our 40's be effortlessly self-confident and radiating inner beauty? That's what Eileen Fisher would have us believe, but for me, unfortunately, it hasn't quite happened that way. Oh, sure, I'm less insecure about my appearance nowadays, but that's mainly because I'm old enough to realize that's a battle I'm not going to win.

Nor am I still insecure about what the hell I'm doing with my life, because I ended up getting married, having kids, and quitting my job to raise them--and I'm good with that. Sure, there are days I wonder what it would be like to go to an office everyday and contribute creatively and intellectually to society while a full-time nanny takes care of my kids, but it's not something I actually want. I don't regret the path I've chosen.

I am, however, insecure about my friends--or rather, lack thereof. And it's confusing to me because for most of my life, having and making friends came naturally and easily. Growing up, I didn't even think about it--friends just popped up wherever I went. I used to consider myself something of an Alpha Female--I was usually a leader amongst my various groups of friends.

But as I got older, things changed. Throughout my 20's and 30's, my number of female friends dwindled--people married, moved away, got jobs that left little time for socializing, etc. And because I was no longer making new friends left and right, pretty soon I was down to a precious few. Then I had my own kids and moved to the suburbs where I knew almost no one.

I've been trying to make new friends since we moved here five years ago, but because I've never had to actively pursue friendships before, I am pathetic at it. I've become good friends with about four mothers (in five years--sad), but then two of them moved away. The other two don't even live in our town.

Which is why my current best friend is my 3-year-old daughter.

So, yes, I'm a little fragile when it comes to friends.

For the past two weeks, I've been waiting at the bus stop with a few neighborhood moms. Two of them seem like they could be potential friends but I'm just so clueless when it comes to taking it to the next level. After the bus has come and gone, instead of staying to chat I just say goodbye and head home.

Well, shortly after the bus had picked up my son this morning, I was back at home reading my daughter a book. I looked out the window and saw the two moms I like pushing strollers down the street (they both have young kids) and taking a walk together. They were chatting like old friends, though I know they pretty much met at the bus stop, too.

I instantly felt like the biggest loser. Why not me? Don't they like me? Is it because they both have two boys and both their second sons are still young enough to be taken for a walk in a stroller? If my daughter were still stroller age would I have been included as well? 

I spent all morning wallowing in self-pity and feeling like the greasy-haired, zit-faced girl at the junior prom that no one will ask to dance.

I know I'll Miss This Someday, but Right Now....

Our neighborhood's annual block party was last night. It's always a fun day (and night) filled with live music, food, drinks, and good conversation. Well, at least for most people there's good conversation. Me? Not so much.

I was too busy dragging around an extra appendage (that looked an awful lot like my three-year-old daughter) to talk to anyone at length. I began a few conversations, but before long, my demanding, wants-me-all-to-herself little girl would start tugging on my hand, trying to pull me away. It was very distracting. And annoying.

I spent a good part of the day frustrated with her. I did understand that she was freaked out by all the people around and wanted me close by for security, but that didn't make her any less of a buzz-kill.

My girl during what was pretty much her only social
moment of the whole day (with her brother & a friend)

I was envious of my husband, who kept himself busy drinking beers and chatting with neighbors. Our five-year-old son spent the day happily playing with friends and riding his bike up and down the closed-off street, so my husband was free to drink and be merry. He attempted Daughter Duty a couple of times, but after just a a few minutes, darling girl would want her mama again.

And now that she's getting older, little princess has begun playing me. I'd ask if she needed to use the potty and she'd say yes. Then once back at the house, she'd sit on the pot for ages and ages pretending to try, when really she was just stalling. This happened a couple of times.

"C'mon hon, let's go back to the block party," I'd suggest.

"I no like block parties," she'd announce, as if she's been to so many and they are just so tiresome.

I struggled with her all day, and it put me in a bad mood. I was pissed off with her for ruining my block party. Bedtime was not pretty.

A couple of hours later, I looked in on her. She was facing the door, fast asleep, and as I opened the door wider, the light from the hallway fell upon her, illuminating her sweet and innocent little face. Tears sprung into my eyes as it hit me how stupid I'd been.

My daughter adores me and wants to be with me every second. I'm her best friend. This precious time I have with her will be so, so short-lived. God, I know that, yet last night I was dying to be unencumbered and free from her grabby little hands and whiny little voice. For what? So I could easily and breezily chat with my neighbors and have a few drinks? What the hell was I thinking?

Because I know...in what will feel like a mere instant, poof, it'll be gone. I'll blink and she'll be starting kindergarten, then I'll blink again and she'll be rolling her eyes over something stupid I said.

One morning I'll wake up, and this time will be over. And then I'll be pining to have it back, to have my baby back. My extra appendage. My shadow. My echo.

My best friend.

What a Girl Wants

The other day I was reading an interview with Christina Aguilera in Redbook magazine, in which she was talking about balancing work and motherhood. What she said pissed me off: "I'm not a 9-to-5 woman who has the same kind of lifestyle for years on end. I couldn't do it. I need the spontaneity, that thrill of change."

Well then, it's lucky for you, Ms. Aguilera, that you are a singer and actress who can change it up whenever you want...that you have enough money to pay someone else to provide your son with the consistency he needs while you are following your bliss. Most of us had to make a few compromises after having kids. 

After all, that's exactly what I used to say: I needed a varied life and never wanted it to consist of doing the same thing day in and day out. I wanted spontaneity...to experience the "thrill of change" whenever I desired. I mean, really, didn't we all? 

But here I am now: my life nothing but consistency, repetition and predictability. 

And that's okay, because my lifestyle isn't by accident. I've been led to believe that kids thrive on consistency and routine. And even if I wasn't inclined to follow the advice of "experts" in the field, I can confirm this just from the experiences I've had with my own children. It's true that they like knowing what to expect out of their day, and that too many last-minute changes can wreak havoc (especially true when kids are little).

So, yes, I've somewhat sacrificed my desire for a varied life in order to provide my kids with the stabile routines that help them thrive. Just add it to the list of sacrifices we parents make for our kids. But I'm happy to do it, as are the majority of parents out there.

Then along comes Christina Aguilera spouting off about how she just couldn't bear having the same lifestyle for years on end, how she needs spontaneity--and it riles me up. No, honey, you don't need it, you're just lucky enough to be able to choose it.