While most of what I write about is the truth and reality of parenting, I am prone to Dave Barry-esque exaggeration and lapses into fantasy. Let me just assure you that I have never actually physically harmed my children or called them joy vampires that have ruined my figure and my life. Really. Never.
There used to be a sign that hung in my old workplace that said: People may not believe what you say, but they always believe what you do.
As a woman who has battled weight and body image all my life, I made a promise to myself that I would be a better steward of my children's self image as much as I knew how. The excerpt below is from guest blog post on you'd be so pretty if... It articulates the power of not just our words, but we act out what we believe about ousrelves..
I have three boys, two in grade school and one in pre-school, and Tee has a teenage daughter with special needs, and an adult son starting a family of his own. We both know that our kids watch everything we do and hear everything we say about ourselves. We’ve always made sure we never made negative comments about our bodies in front of our kids, and both of us have steered clear of unhealthy behaviors like yo-yo dieting, pills and other weird fads.
We thought this was good. That this was enough: The lack of negative references to ourselves would convey a confident, body-positive attitude.
Not quite.
Non-verbal communication is powerful; the things we hesitated to do, avoided and made excuses for said as much about how we felt about ourselves as disparaging comments about our thighs in passing would. In contrast, the things we take on, participate in, try our best at and embrace say as much about who we are and what we’re capable of as the words we use.
Service has always been an integral part of my family life. I had really great role models in my parents and grandparents, and I hope to pass along not only my belief that it is our Christian duty to serve, but that giving of your time, talent and treasure is a joy and a blessing all its own.
One time when my oldest was asked what motivated her to volunteer, she said: It’s just what we do. She had never considered that one might not want to share themselves with those most in need.
Recently, we had the opportunity to participate in a family project for Project Linus, a non-profit organization that distributes blankets, hand made by volunteers, to needy children who are sick or have been traumatized in some way. We had a great time picking out fabric and making our blankets. As I boxed up our blankets for mailing to Project Linus headquarters, I included some pictures of the children and their works-in-progress (seen here), and I was feeling pretty pleased with the whole business.
I showed the pictures to my oldest daughter, whose immediate response was: OMG! I look awful!
Uh, oh. Looks like I passed along more of myself than I thought.
Anyone who knows me, knows that my husband is frequently a source of frustration, aggravation and bewilderment. I assiduously avoid any gratuitous praise (like he should get a parade for running the vacuum?), but I must diverge from the usual condescending and cavalier attitude that I project for humor’s sake. (He knows how I really feel and indulges me when I need to use him as a punch line.) I am truly blessed to have a husband who is really a full partner in parenting.
Due to our work schedules, we alternate morning and evening duty with the kids. The morning shift includes getting everyone up, dressed, lunches packed, breakfast served, dog walked and all to the bus stop on time. Today my husband had morning duty which meant that I was off the parenting clock for a moment and could get myself - and only myself - ready for work.
As it happens, my bathroom shares a wall with the kitchen. I can hear very well what transpires over the breakfast bar while I am laboring over hair and makeup.
Most often what I hear is the ritual dance of early morning, time sensitive conflict. It has all the tranquility of an air raid siren with the attendant chaos. I can usually tune this out, but occasionally I have to step in.
Today what got my attention was a different sound – the sound of laughter. My husband and son were ready ahead of schedule, enjoying easy conversation and lots of giggles. Being on the other side of the wall and able to enjoy this moment anonymously was sa-weet! Very sweet, indeed.
Yesterday I tweeted this: "Ode to Joy" played by a 4th grader on the recorder in the car - isn't. Just sayin'.
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It’s the first day of spring - a glorious, picture perfect realization of what spring should be. Flowers are blooming, bees are buzzing, the sap is rising, and I have a 15 year old daughter with a boyfriend who is lurking. I’m feeling the need for a new sort of vigilance.
I’ve given the girl some Saturday chores. I should have known that when she had to take a shower to walk the dog that the boy was in the neighborhood. As she went about her housework, the boy started a pick-up game of baseball in the street right in front of our house. I asked her if he was waiting for her. She said, “No.”
Later I sent her outside with the kid brother in tow to work in the garden. The ball game dissolved and the boy moved into the yard to hang out. I kept watch through the afternoon. I saw the way he looked at her and was constantly reaching for her – her hair, the drawstring of her jacket. I knew better than he did what was driving him. The kid brother was great for distraction and deflection, but I kept checking out the window to be sure I could see where everyone was and what everyone was doing at all times.
At one point, little brother came in the house for some reason I can’t recall. I went to see what the 15 year olds were up to left unsupervised by the 6 year old. They were laying side-by-side in the hammock swinging and talking and holding hands. I wanted to casually go out there and make some excuse to interrupt this moment but as I watched, I was moved by nostalgia. Remembering the sweetness of a lazy Saturday afternoon with romance floating on the warm breezes.
I love my girl so much. I remember being that girl. So it is no wonder I am pulled to the four corners by knowing, remembering, longing, and fear.
I let her have this moment, but soon – if the boy is to stay much longer – he’s going to have to start doing some yard work. Maybe wash my car, too.
[I started this post as an object lesson for my work blog, but it's a funny story about the boy as well.]
About 2 weeks ago, my son started carefully considering how to manage the challenge of catching a leprechaun. Now he’s only 6 and still inhabiting a world of magical and fantastical thinking so I, of course, did not have the heart to tell him the truth about leprechauns – that they are very, very hard to catch.
Leprechauns are so elusive because they possess something of great value. If you are lucky enough to catch one you have a choice to make (and this is where my son began fretting). You can either take possession of the pot of gold that the leprechaun protects, or you can opt for the leprechaun to grant you a wish. Gold is a nice choice – and prudent in this economy – but a wish! That opens the door wide for even more than what money can buy.
So presented with seemingly endless possibility, my son decided that if should he catch a leprechaun, he would wish to catch another. Clever.
I don’t know if this is actually allowed, however. It is well known that when you release a genie from a lamp, you get three wishes that are tightly governed by specific Wish Rules of Engagement – including no wishing for more wishes. This may seem like a tricky CYA move on the part of genies and leprechauns (if they do indeed observe the same rules), but one would do well to recognize this as the proper gift of confrontation that it is: you must choose.
I understand well the paralysis of choice. Sometimes there’s just too much to chose from; it’s overwhelming. Mostly, it’s about fear. We believe if we just keep more options open longer, that’s better. I don’t think so.
So what would you do if you caught a leprechaun? I’m say we go for the gold.
[This post is recycled. Hey, I thought it was a good one and I need to fill in the new parenting blog project. Sue me.]
I have never been one of those girls that needed, wanted, or offered accompaniment to the restroom. I won’t go into my public restroom or port-a-potty phobias now, but suffice it to say that I was really glad child number three was a boy. Now it was dad’s turn to visit every stinking bathroom in every store, restaurant, or gas station we’d pass for the next 10 years.
Privacy is good, and so is maintaining a little feminine mystery – no matter how long you’ve been married. Unfortunately, I do now feel the need to announce my intentions to head off to the privy, as my loved ones seem to get panicky if they don’t know exactly where I am at all times.
This strategy has met with limited success.
EVERY time I go to the bathroom, I hear someone say, “Where’s Mom?” They could be in the basement watching a movie or surfing the internet for hours or even at the neighbor’s house, with not the slightest interest in interacting with me in any way.
Then I quietly depress the lock on the bathroom door, and suddenly we are in a movie thriller with quick cuts and close ups: door shut and locked, antennae up, eyes darting, hair bristling…they are now alert and buzzing with the uneasy feeling that I have just made myself unavailable somehow.
And now a little more urgently, I hear it again, “Where’s Mom?”
I wait and see if someone else has the answer to that burning question, but more often than not I find myself shrieking, “I’M IN THE BATHROOM!” There is no gentle, loving, reassuring quality to the shrieking. No, just fire-breathing, flesh-melting rage from behind the locked door.
So now I am in the most undignified position of having loudly declared my exact location, with little doubt as to my exact activity.
There is an awkward period of waiting.
I can no longer take care of my personal business in leisure, I am now terribly anxious about both the passing of time and judgement concerning my daily constituitional.
So I suppose there’s no hope for it. As long as I continue to cohabitate, I can expect someone will notice when I have to go to the bathroom. The question is: how can I get this to happen when the dog needs to be walked?
One of the most critical and dangerous aspects of parenting is the strategic alliance between the two parents. This is true regardless of whether you are happily married, unhappily married, divorced, living together or apart. If you are single parent, I tip my hat to you for performing the hardest job in the world, but in this one aspect you may have the advantage. You benefit by having one sovereign voice of authority.
If two parents are not perfectly aligned in mission, strategy and tactics, those sweet little bundles of (seemingly vulnerable) love and joy will eventually pillage the household like Attila the Hun. They can smell weakness. At the slightest hint of a parental fault-line, they will plunge a wedge in it and hammer until you shatter into a million tiny shards of defeat not big enough to scoop coals from the fire or draw water for a drink. (Please refer to the book of Jeremiah - I'm referring to Old Testament-style vengeance here.)
It is for this very reason that I try especially hard to always have my husband’s back – especially in front of the children. I disagree with most everything he does (tactically) but I exert Herculean effort to restrain my disappointment that he has not executed my superior parenting methods. Sometimes, though…well, this wouldn’t be interesting if I always got it right, now would it?
I was in the bathroom this morning getting ready for work. I can hear my husband and my son engaged in the morning ritual dance of asking, ignoring, pleading, rejecting, cajoling, and yelling involved in getting the boy fully dressed and fed before school. My husband was exhibiting saintly patience (i.e. a maddening passivity and failure to acknowledge the boy’s insolent behavior) while my blood pressure continued to increase with the rising volume and sass of said boy. I try not to jump in and take over these situations.
Really.
I try really, really, really hard.
But this morning my restraint buckled.I marched out of the bathroom with curlers still in my hair and affixed my laser vision on the boy. And with the thundering voice of Zeus I declare: I will not tolerate this noise anymore! You will not speak to your father that way; I will not have it! Let me remind you how this works. He (I point to my husband) is an adult; you (I point at my son) are the child. He is the parent; you are the child. He is the boss; you ARE NOT THE BOSS.
I swing around on my husband and inquire: Who’s the boss? (I’m picturing this in my head kind of like a half-time locker room pep talk, but I’m not sure my husband received it as such.)
My husband responds: Um, m-me?
That’s right! I say and swing around once more casting a squinty, zzzt! look in my son’s direction. Do you understand me?
His sweet little head nods furiously.
I stand, fists on hips, head cocked in classic superhero reflective pose and declare: My work here is done.
(Image is crudely scanned and used without permission from my favorite Anne Taintor calendar. Sorry Anne – luv ya!)
Have you ever wondered about the proper pronunciation of “posterous”? In my head, that first “o” was a short vowel – the same way you’d say preposterous! Then I heard someone say it out loud with a long “o” – like poster or post-it note. Um, that probably makes more sense since it is a platform for blog posting.
Anyhoo… when I knew the world could no longer spin without the fuel of my witty insights on family life, I had to come up with a new blog name. prePosterous parenting practically wrote itself! There’s a reason the family sitcom is so popular – child rearing is just a hoot.
