Category Archives: Working Mom

on tantrums then and now

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There’s a story that my family tells about when I was a little girl and we were at a campground with my mom’s whole family and I threw an epic tantrum. The details vary based on who’s telling the story; sometimes it’s about the bubblegum I was chewing that dropped in the dirt or about not wanting to take a picture. But the fact is, I threw a big giant fit–one of many in my childhood–in front of everyone. And I didn’t care.

I used to be sort of proud of this story and others about tantrums I threw, like I was some defiant imp, a strong-willed child on my way to becoming a true blue strong woman who spoke her mind. But the truth is I was a brat–an irrational, short fused kid.

I can see this clearly today, one day after my three-year old threw an epic tantrum of his own. My sister, my mom, my brother-in-law, my two stunned nephews, my brand new baby niece and my oldest son watched as a difference of opinion progressed from reasoning to warnings to threats to yelling insults to physically pinning my youngest into a car seat while attempting to buckle the five point harness around him. His writhing, screaming body would not be buckled. 25 minutes later, we left. He had won.

I felt like throwing a tantrum myself. I had engaged in a war of wills with a three-year old in front of half my family and lost.  Sitting in the car, driving back to Portland, I listened to his sniffling, half-sobbing breaths regulate to normal. I felt bad for my mom those years ago.

I’m sure looking back now, she knows that there’s no winning with an irrational three-year old in the throes of a tantrum, that giving in doesn’t make you a terrible parent, that her kid wouldn’t turn out to be a horrible irrational adult, that everyone else knew exactly how she felt and had been there themselves with their own kids.

I’m sure I’ll know that too. For now, I feel like a terrible parent who has no control over my kid.

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The Curious Case Of The BB Gun At Christmas

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Surveying all the colorful packages under and around the tree one long rectangular package caught my eye. To Primo, From Santa read the tag and as I reached for the present that “Oh Shit” feeling came over me. This was the BB Gun that Papa and Grandma asked if they could get for Primo, the one I said yes to without talking to Beautiful, and the one he would open in a few minutes. I hurried to Beautiful and pulled her a side to tell her about the gun and to apologize for being an idiot.

The problem wasn’t the gun per se. While we aren’t much of a gun family, we don’t have one and likely never will, we aren’t militantly anti guns either. Just last month we enjoyed some Shepard’s pie made with the Venison from a Deer Papa shot with his hunting rifle and I look forward to the day that my boys and I join Papa on a hunting trip. A closer connection to the food we eat and the realities of where it comes from is important to us and hunting plays a big part. No the problem was my unilateral decision making on whether it was OK for our five-year old to have his first gun.

When you are alone with the kids there are any number of decisions to be made from things as small as what’s for lunch, to whether or not the boys can ride their bikes across the street with the neighbor girl. These decisions don’t need to be discussed with someone else so I get in the habit of being the decider. Along comes one of those bigger decisions and I just answer on impulse without talking to Beautiful. I think about how she would respond and make informed decisions but I don’t always include her in the discussion and answer. But “don’t always” I really mean “almost never”. There has been a time or two when made the right call and said “Let me talk to Beautiful about that first” but that is not a natural response for me.

When I cornered Beautiful to tell her about the gun she was OK with it as well, but teased me the rest of the day. She asked if there were any other big decisions I had made for the family that she should know about. It was playful and in good fun but I knew that I was wrong in not talking to her first before WE made a decision. It’s that “WE” part that is tough for me sometimes and it comes across as me not valuing my wife. When I make these unilateral decisions I am communicating that her thoughts, opinions, ideas, aren’t important and that is far from true. I told her how sorry I was and she could see I really was even if others there didn’t see what the big deal was. It was only a BB gun after all. But it wasn’t the gun, it was the relationship and the communication. Isn’t that always the case.

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Wham! Pow!

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The Justice League logos in playdough

This year for Christmas, all gifts for our children will revolve around Superheroes. Because our kids are obsessed with all things batman, superman, green lantern, wonderwoman and storm (the women are for my sake) and especially, inexplicably Aquaman and the Flash. This is strange for a number of reasons: Neither James nor I have ever been interested in Superheroes in our lives so have not encouraged this obsession in any way; as of about 2 months ago, our kids were fully in the throes of toy car obsession and had never even ventured into the superhero aisle at the toy store; and because this whole fascination has turned our kids into sound-effect-making, costume wearing, aggressive defenders facing unknown villains (their expertise hasn’t involved the bad guys yet).

We did not see this coming.

The whole thing came on so quickly in fact that James and I have not been able to keep up with their knowledge of this whole genre. Not that we had much to begin with but seriously, the oldest has started correcting me when I am roped into the superhero play. He’ll say things like “no! Superman is not faster than the Flash. He is stronger and can lift more but he isn’t faster”. Well, sorry…

Part of it, I love though. They are imaginative and expressive and the whole role playing part of it reminds me of how I used to play Barbies. They make up stories and run around the house and when they don’t have established superhero facts to explain things, they fill in with their own little boy experiences. Like when the youngest used a couch cushion as a submarine and explained that he was “fighting the dreams”. Or when the oldest described the shape of green lantern’s magical ring ray as, “fat as daddy’s belly and high as daddy is tall”.

We don’t know where it came from and we don’t exactly understand it, but we are enjoying this phase.

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I Roar (a post from the working mom)

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This weekend there were a number of things working against me. It was cold and rainy for the first time after a lovely but too-short summer; our dinner party was a raving success and so inevitably we are coming down into that post party-nothing-to-look-forward-to slump; the boys have converged in the most annoyingly simultaneous whiney stages; I have a really excellent book to read which I’ve waited patiently for along with the other 873 people who wanted to read it in the Multnomah county library system; I’ve been really busy at work; we haven’t been grocery shopping since before the dinner party so the fridge has only baggies full of bizarre foods like pâté and beets with goat cheese and ginger beer, which translates into unhappy kid meals.

Which is all to say that this weekend I was terrible to my kids.

The oldest wanted more water in the bathtub after letting the water out of the bathtub in successive gulps as a part of an elaborate game he plays with the tub drain stopper. I said no. He whined. I roared.

The youngest is perfectly capable of fitting his elastic laced shoes onto each of his chubby feet, mostly even on the right chubby feet. But this weekend (and mostly every other day) he did not want to put his own shoes on. I explained that he could and would put them on his own feet or else he wouldn’t be coming to dinner with us. He screamed. I screamed back.

James was not immune either. I yelled from the living room couch (where I was trying to read that very excellent book) for the youngest to stop yelling in the back yard. James asked me to stop yelling and then had an elaborate wrestling match with the boys to their very hysterical delight. I said he was just trying to make me look bad. He said to join them when my attitude changed. I read my book and sulked.

I know this is not acceptable, especially for the working parent who should have a surplus of patience. But I rarely have a surplus of patience. I feel like I often walk into or am minutes away from some kind of melt down from one of the kids and it’s sort of disappointing. I have this secret expectation that I will spend these quality hours after work with my well behaved, clean shirted kids, that this will be special time. And that somehow they should understand that this time should be special, non-whining, unmessy time spent with me–that they are supposed to be my ideal kids. But they do not realize this because they are 5 and 3 years old. I’m just an occasional accompaniment to their whiney, messy days. They are not ideal but these days, neither am I.

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So It Goes

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As James mentioned, this week our oldest got his shots, got his eyes checked, got his finger pricked, got new school shoes and got registered for kindergarten. And to me, this generally indicates that he has started the process of being grown up and leaving us. I could cry just thinking about it. In fact I fully expect to be sobbing silently by the time I finish writing this, wiping my snotty nose and my smeared mascara for the very sadness of the fact that kids who were little get big.

I think the hard part is mostly that we have been slowly losing control as he grows up and has other influences and gets more capable and independent. The start of public school education marks a significant jump in this lack of control. He will be away from our home for somewhere around 7 hours a day where he will be interacting with other kids and taught by other adults. I realize this is inevitable and healthy. And I also realize that it is inherently irrational that I would be counting the hours he is away from home when I work away from the home for more hours than he will be gone.

But I read a blog post recently where this woman described this same feeling, this “empty-lapped” feeling where you start to notice that these kids have started to be busy with other things than holding onto your leg vice-style while you stand at the sink doing the dishes or driving matchbox cars over the stretchmarks on your belly while you lay on the couch trying to read Entertainment Weekly or pepper you with “8942-hundred” questions while you try to follow the google map instructions to a friend’s house. And it feels a little lonely, knowing that they will gradually have more and more things that have nothing to do with us.

That same blog post, she mentions how she has always felt about getting in bed at the end of the day with her husband, how it feels a little like touching down in a plane, home at the end of a trip. That feeling of relief that we all made it and we are back. I couldn’t agree more. And the kids have become a part of that. The routine at the end of the day, the finding of jammies and reading of books—it’s all a part of returning again, of touching down.

I know I have a lot of years still where the kids will be part of that touch down at the end of the day. And a lot of years of them running out to my car in the morning, demanding that I give them a kiss out the car window as I leave for work, of holding my hand a little too tightly on the escalator, of hiding behind my legs when there are new people to meet.

But it has started. The Growing up. Or I guess the better thing to say is: it continues, the growing up. And I can’t say I’m entirely thrilled to watch these landmarks pass. He’ll do great in kindergarten and I’m proud of him. But I ache a little for his chubby little baby legs, his mispronunciations, his dependence.

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Mothers’ Day Giveaway from Pilsbury

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There are some people that think being a stay at home dad means that Mothers’ day has a little different meaning than it would for a working dad, and that just isn’t true. At the heart of confusion is the idea that a at home dad is just replacing the at home mom, but I’m not a mom. I don’t try to be the boy’s mom because I would do a terrible job at it and my hairy chest would cause problems while breast feeding. So when Mothers’ day comes around it’s time to celebrate the many different roles that moms are taking on, and the special place that Primo and Segundo’s mom occupies.

We celebrated the weekend by giving mom some alone time to work on some sewing projects, eating out at the food carts around Portland, and by giving Beautiful some sweet home made cards that are the staple of mothers’ day memories.  We alos had some tasty cinnamon roles from Pilsbury who did their own survey with some tips on how to honor mom this day and every day:

 

Survey Finds Dads Putting Moms First for Mother’s Day:

  • The survey found dads agree that small, meaningful gestures on Mother’s Day (94%) are more important than buying expensive presents (55%). Starting the day with Pillsbury Sweet Rolls is a great way for the whole family to show mom how much she’s appreciated. Quick and easy to prepare, a memorable beginning to Mother’s Day can be created in just minutes.
  • Mother’s Day is the perfect occasion to create unforgettable experiences, say 84 percent of dads, and seventy-nine percent of dads agree that one way to start of the memory-filled day is by treating mom to breakfast in bed.
  • The survey also found 91 percent of dads agree having a wonderful Father’s Day isn’t as important as ensuring their wives have a wonderful Mother’s Day.

Tips for Making a Perfect Mother’s Day:

  • Breakfast in Bed: Surprise mom in just minutes with Pillsbury Sweet Rolls. Quick and easy to prepare – simply place and bake for an impressive and delicious addition to your weekend breakfast – it’s an easy way the whole family can start Mother’s Day with a sweet surprise.
  • Family photos: A very thoughtful and sentimental gift is framed photos of the entire family. Capturing memories that can be displayed for a lifetime.
  • A homemade card: A great gift to get the kids involved with, making a homemade Mother’s Day card is a sentimental gesture that gives mom a unique memory!
  • Find a mom-centered event the whole family can enjoy: Plan a family fun day around one of mom’s favorite activities, such as a concert, hike, picnic or dinner at her favorite restaurant.
  • Give Mom the Day Off: Have the family all pitch-in to take care of mom’s chores and then get the kids out of the house for the day to give mom some time to herself to relax and unwind! Our survey found a full 94 percent of dads say it’s important to let their wives relax and forget about responsibilities for one afternoon, and 83 percent will even take over their wives’ responsibilities for the day just to show they care.

Let me know how you celebrated the mothers’ in your life by leaving a comment below and enter to win a basket from pilsbury.  The pack consists of: Cozy Throw, Golf Balls (Pinnacle  sleeve-3), Lunch Sack (thermal), Oven Mitt, Tumbler w/straw, Pillsbury Sweet Rolls VIP Coupon.

* The 2011 Pillsbury Fathers on Mother’s Day Survey presents the findings of an online survey conducted April 14-15, 2011 by ORC International among a sample of 300 men 18 years of age and older with a presence of children in the household.


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On riding two wheeled bikes

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As the working parent, there are often milestones and poignant moments that I miss out on in  my kids’ lives. James, with the very quantity of time he spends with the boys guarantees a certain statistical advantage for being the one to witness these developments. But today, as I rode home with Primo from Fred Myron I noticed how little the wheels of his training wheels actually touched the ground and I decided to take this “first” for my own. We peddled into the driveway and I fished out the slightly smaller pedal bike without training wheels and talked Primo through our plan. He had ridden a balance bike for months and then for Christmas got a pedal bike with training wheels from Grammie and Tom-tom so he had both the balance and the peddling mastered. Just not both at once. I started out with both hands over his on his handle bars and then jogged along with a firm grip on the collar of his vest when he got going. And he did get going. He peddled and balanced and wobbled a little and had to put his feet down a couple times and still hasn’t entirely mastered the first push off motion to get started. But he was riding down the street on a two wheel bike. And after the first couple times of collar gripped assistance, he did it entirely on his own. I jogged along behind him whooping and clapping like an idiot.

When we passed by the house after our first loop, I pounded on the front door for James to come see what we’d done. When he came out, he was equally proud and promptly strapped on his helmet and grabbed his bike to take Primo on a longer trip. I took the video camera from him, watched them ride away and then stood on the driveway feeling oddly resentful and forlorn. I wanted James to share this moment, this landmark development. But I didn’t want him to ride off into the sunset with my moment. He gets so many.

Later when they had come back and James and I were alone in the kitchen while Primo pulled his bike into the garage, I told him that I felt like he had swooped in and shanghai-ed my rare chance to be the companion to one of the boys’ firsts. That I wanted that whole memory for Primo to be of me jogging in my ugg boots behind him, out of breath and choked up watching the little legs of my kid motoring down the street. And then have it be me who strapped on my helmet and took him on the maiden ride around the block. As I said it out loud it felt dually selfish and extremely necessary that it be said. It hadn’t even occurred to James that I might be jealous of these landmarks. That he had stolen this from me. He felt bad. I felt bad. But he understood. And I think in the future, if I can be the one to teach one of the boys to tie their shoe or hold their hand on the first day of kindergarten or build a volcano or…. he’ll step back and let us have our moment. Because most of the time, I won’t be the one.  I’ll take every chance I get.

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So I worry

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I’ve found that the key benchmark delineating the part of your life that is childhood from the part of your life that is adulthood has nothing to do with stability or maturity or age but with the onslaught of the uncontrolled need to worry. And if the quantity of worrying translated to an amount of adulthood, I would be a very old woman. I worry all the time now. I posted on my own blog when Primo was six weeks old how his entrance into the world made me feel so out of control and fearful, that he would stop breathing in the night or that burglars would break into the house, that he wouldn’t ever go to sleep or get enough to eat.  And the worrying really never abated. Now I worry about rashes and the corners of tables and the lottery list at the charter school and the rumbley noise the car makes and how well Primo writes his letters and the color of Segundo’s poop and interest rates and gas mileage. I’ve turned into a worrier.

I realize objectively that most of the things I worry about will not be handled any better by my relative hours of worrying about them and that often I have no tangible control over the outcomes of these situations at all. But it’s this very lack of control that makes me worry. If I could solve it, I would. But I can’t. So I worry.

I also realize  that worrying is a clear enemy to being present and that kids are quite good at perceiving anxiety. So worrying might actually make me a worse parent even though it’s my kids I worry about. I’m not sure what the solution is though. I have thought in the past that we just need to be making a little more money or get to this next decision and then I won’t be so worried. But each new circumstance introduces new things I can’t control so old worries give way to new ones. So I worry.

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