Tag Archives: motherhood

What You Learn About Thanksgiving in Kindergarten

Posted on November 26, 2012 by | 2 Comments

In the car today on the way to gymnastics, D says:

“Mom, say this: Raise your hand if you know the name of the ship the Pilgrims sailed on.”

“Raise your hand if you know the name of the ship the Pilgrims sailed on.”

D raises her hand. I call on her.

“The Mayflower.” Then she says, “Wasn’t it good how I didn’t just blurt it out?”

“Yes. Nice job not blurting. What else did you learn about the Pilgrims? I noticed a picture of Pocahontas in your Friday folder last week.”

“Pocahontas went to meet the king and queen. She was an Indian. She lived in India. Her dad was in charge of their area, and he didn’t like the pilgrims, and then Pocahontas got tooken to meet the queen, and then she met her husband and they had a baby and he was their son! So was that baby a boy or a girl?” (That last question is clearly an imitation of her teacher’s voice, so I answer.)

“Um, a boy.”

“Right. He was a boy.”

I wait a minute, to see if more information is forthcoming, but this seems to be the end of the story of Pocahontas. I ask a couple follow up questions, but it seems like she genuinely has no idea why Pocahontas’ father didn’t like the Pilgrims, why the Pilgrims came to North America, or why Pocahontas went to England to meet the king and queen. Since we only have a few minutes in the car, I decide to try and intervene with the most glaring misunderstanding.

“Hey D, remember when you read about Christopher Columbus?”

“Yes. In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue. That’s a rhyme: two, blue. His mom and dad thought the earth was flat but he did his dream and sailed and he was right because our world is a sphere, mom! A sphere!”

“Um, right. Remember how he wanted to sail to India, but he ended up in North America, but he didn’t realize that he had made a mistake sailing, so he called the North Americans he met Indians?

“Yes! But they were NOT India Indians!”

“Right. And neither was Pocahontas. She lived in North America, near the ocean, and the Pilgrims met her when they sailed here.”

“Oh. Did they think they were sailing to India?”

“Um, no. They pretty much knew where they were going. They just weren’t very respectful about people’s names. What else did you learn about the Indians?”

“Um, some really nice people bought Squanto and set him free after the bad people taked him and sold him. There’s a special word for that.”

“Slave? They made him a slave?”

“YES. They slaved him, and it was really bad, they were bad guys!”

“Who? The Pilgrims?”

“No. Well, I don’t know. Maybe Pilgrims. Or maybe Indians. But then those other people bought him and set him free. Wasn’t that nice?”

“Yes. That was definitely nice.” Again, all my follow up questions about this gem of a revelation are met with total confusion. She does not know if Squanto was enslaved (or freed) by Pilgrims or Indians, why he was enslaved, or how this story is connected to Pocahontas, if at all, beyond her initial (mis)understanding that both Pocahontas and Squanto lived in India.

Also, at no point did she mention the Pilgrims and Indians having Thanksgiving dinner together, which I would have assumed would be the centerpiece of any kindergarten lesson about the holiday. Or maybe it was, and I have the kid who only remembers the peripheral details of interest to her: ships, slavery, conflict, marriage babies. American History at its kindergarten best.

 

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3 Things About Raising 3 Girls

Posted on November 25, 2012 by | 4 Comments

1.) It’s not all tea parties. Yes, there are tea parties and princess dresses and My Little Ponies. There are also dinosaurs and robots made of legos and occasional wrestling matches and hair pulling. Today, D and Lucy defeated some sea snakes in the hallway by spraying large quantities of air freshener and then fleeing for the top bunk. Rather than saying no to gendered toys, we have tried to say yes to most things ( only a few things–Bratz, Alien Autopsy kits–have been ruled out entirely) and then encourage them to mix it up. It would not have occurred to me to put the My Little Pony skirts on the dinosaurs and stage an elaborate dino ballet, but they don’t hesitate to cross gender (and species) boundaries when they play.

2.) Having 3 is actually not that much more difficult than having 1. Because when you have 1, all you know is how to be a parent to 1 kid. And if you are anything like me, it is the most unbelievably overwhelming life-altering time suck you could ever imagine. I distinctly remember feeling that every minute of every day was overflowing with this new weird experience of parenting and sometimes that was joyful and sometimes we were all crying but there was no escaping, either way. I wrote about the intensity of those emotions earlier this spring. But once I had two, and three, I flexed. Time flexed. I parent differently. I’m less likely to read Busy Busy Pandas 100 times in a row and more likely to read it once and then say, “Now look at the pandas and make up your own story!” Or, “Go find your sister and ask her to make up a panda story with you!” Or, “Go roll around on the floor and pretend to be a panda!” Before Margeaux was born, I worried that D and Lucy would be jealous of the time I would need to devote to her. It only took a couple weeks to realize that in fact, they are so deeply enmeshed in their relationship to one another that if I left the fruit snacks and juice boxes within their reach, they might ignore me all day. And now that Margeaux is on the move, she tags along behind them and plays along to the best of her ability. Which brings me to:

3.) By the time you get to the third, safety standards seem like very flexible recommendations. When D was 1, if you had suggested that I let her go down the steps alone to jump on a trampoline with a 4 and 5 year old, I would have laughed out loud at your hilarious joke. Margeaux does this every day. In the morning, she sits on the couch with a toaster waffle and watches Ni Hao Kai Lan in her sleeper. She brushes her teeth. When I drop Lucy off at preschool, if I start chatting she’ll slip away and sneak into the classroom and sit down in a chair at one of the tables, like she’s totes ready for art center or play dough time. She can climb all the way up the ladder to the top bunk, though I try and prevent this since she and Lucy came crashing down in a sad, bruised pile last week. Today, though, I forgot to pull the ladder up because D slept in late, and when they fled the sea snakes Margeaux followed them up, lickity split, and they rolled around on the top bunk laughing and shrieking. When I reminded them that it’s not safe for Margeaux to be up so high D said, “But Mom! We were escaping the sea snakes! And sea snakes aren’t safe for babies either!” Can’t blame a girl for looking out for her baby sister.

Sisters are doin’ it for themselves.

 

 

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A Long Dark Weekend in My Soul, and My Living Room

Posted on November 24, 2012 by | 7 Comments

Ugh. You know those weeks where it feels like you just keep coming up short? This has been one of them. Even the new recipe I tried from The Pioneer Woman was a disappointment — and that NEVER happens.

For starters, I’ve clearly fallen off the NaBloPoMo wagon, although I’m hoping to finish strong with a post a day for the next 6 days. This happened in large part because I had been counting on the hours between 9pm and midnight to squeeze out blog entries, but I had that terrible migraine, which put me under for a few days, and T was frustrated that I was blogging in our only grown up time together and then I made the crazy decision to try and put Margeuax into her big girl bed, which means that my nights are now entirely taken up with trying to get her to go to sleep and stay asleep so now I’m not blogging and there’s still no time when T and I can have conversation and beers and make secret Christmas plans or watch House Hunters International. I think in order for this transition to work M has to stop nursing, but I don’t know how to do that without dealing with a lot of middle of the night tears and agony, so we’re just muddling through, and nobody is sleeping much.

Which is particularly problematic because since T works retail, he worked overnight shifts Thursday night into Friday and Friday night into today, so his sleep schedule is completely off kilter, and I’m cranky, and the girls are tired of being cooped up but I’ve been hesitant to take them anywhere because all the kiddo hot spots (children’s museum, indoor play gyms) are packed full this weekend, and I was trying to avoid the stress of being in a crowded play area with  3 children who all want to do different things but who really can’t operate independently. But our house is small, and it’s hard for them to remember to be quiet.

Tonight, thankfully, they all took a bath and watched the Barbie version of the Nutcracker, and D and Lucy danced off to bed with no complaints. And Margeaux is in our bed with T, who works a semi normal shift tomorrow, and even though I should just go to bed in her bed so I can sleep peacefully for a few hours, I’m feeling this internal nagging about blogging, and washing dishes. So. Now to the kitchen. I might be able to squeak one last glass of wine out of the box in the fridge and try and bring some peace back to my mind/heart/soul before I go to sleep.

Anybody got any advice about weaning an 18 month old? Ideally, I would love to be able to nurse her before she goes to bed, but not have her wake up and demand to nurse repeatedly (3-4 times) in the middle of the night. Is this an impossible dream? When she asks to nurse during the day I just tell her we only nurse at bedtime and then distract her with a story or Elmo or a snack, and that has been working fine. But I’m really not into having story and snack time in the middle of the night, and she’s really not into just being snuggled. Advice? Anyone? Lauren?

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Dream a little dream

Posted on November 20, 2012 by | 1 Comment

What I thought: I’ll just lay down with Margeaux this first night in her big girl bed while she figures out how to fall asleep.

What Margeaux thought: Whoa. I can just climb in and out of this bed? Anytime I want? Maybe I’ll just do that a couple times. Maybe a couple more times. Weird how mom is not excited about climbing in and out of the bed.

What I thought: Maybe she just doesn’t understand what’s supposed to be happening here. “Night night Margeaux! We go night night in the bed! Put your head on the pillow and close your eyes!”

What Margeaux thought: Oh! Night night! Maybe I’ll lay on my back. Huh. I’m not asleep yet. Maybe I’ll flip over to my tummy. Nope, still not sleeping. On my back? Still awake. On my tummy? Still awake. Mom looks like she’s sleeping. Maybe I need to be closer to her. I’ll just put my face right here, touching her face. Wow. Her eyes are right there. I can touch them! (pokes me in the eye about 50 times, saying EYE! in a perky voice each time) Oh look, there’s her nose! And her mouth! Does she have teeth? (jams a couple fingers in my mouth) Yup, teeth!

What I thought: Please god, please, let her fall asleep.

What Margeaux thought: Are those Polly Pockets? YES! I never get to play with the Polly Pockets!! I’m just going to dump all these tiny things on the floor, so it’s easier to find what I want.

What I thought: I wonder how much that sleep lady that my facebook friend was talking about costs. I’m pretty sure I remember her saying the sleep lady totally trained their toddler to sleep in a weekend. I need to look her up tomorrow.

What Margeaux thought: I love that duck and turtle on my wall. Maybe I should say good night to them. Night night duck! Night night turtle! QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK! Hey, is mom still awake? Hard to tell when her eyes are closed. Better look closer. Hmmmm. Our foreheads are touching, but I’m still not sure. Maybe I should shout in her face a couple times. Mama Night Night? Mama Night Night?

What I thought: I’m going to open my eyes, just to be sure this is actually happening.

What Margeaux thought: YES!! She’s awake!! “HI MAMA!!! HI MAMA!!!”
 Funny how she keeps telling me it’s night night time when I’m so wide awake.Maybe I’ll try laying on my back again. Nope, still not sleeping. Tummy time! Hmmmm. Still awake. What if I kick these blankets off? Or pull them up to my chin? Or kick them off? I like how it feels when my feet bounce off the mattress. Maybe I’ll just kick the bed a couple times. Maybe a couple more times. Hey, what if I kick mama? Do my feet bounce? Nope. What if I kick the wall? Nope? Okay, better kick the bed a few more times then. Night night Mama!!

**It was around this time that I actually did fall asleep. When I woke up in the middle of the night Margeaux and several Polly Pockets were in bed next to me. Needless to say, no one got much sleep. If you’re the sort of person who prays, please pray for us. If you’re the sort of person who trains other people’s children to sleep, please come to my house immediately. Because I’m about to get back in bed with her, and I’m not looking forward to it.

 

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Wordless Wednesday: Tiny Dancers

Posted on November 14, 2012 by | Leave a comment

The cuteness was deafening. Or maybe it was the tap shoes. Hard to say, really.

Today was observation day in dance class. You can see the reflection of all the parents in folding chairs in the back of the studio. The girls started classes at this studio in early September, and parents haven’t been able to see or hear (other than the echo of the tap shoes) the classes yet, so today was exciting for all of us.

A rare moment of grace.

When they were doing these arabesques, all I could think of was that episode of Malcolm in the Middle, where Lois takes ballroom dancing lessons and in her mind she’s so elegant and amazing? In their minds, they are ballerinas.

That’s my girl.

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Rock Stars

Posted on November 12, 2012 by | 8 Comments

When I was pregnant with Dorothy, I had two CDs in my car that I listened to over and over: Weezer’s The Blue Album and Springsteen’s Born to Run. Back out of the driveway, put on my seatbelt over the awkward big belly, down the hill to the highway, music blasting out my windows into my otherwise quiet West side neighborhood: Say it ain’t so, My name is Jonas, the Sweater Song. Lying on the floor! Lying on the floor! I’ve come undone!

On the way home, bumping down the brick streets away from the warehouse/office/greenhouse, singing Thunder Road: Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night—you ain’t a beauty, but hey, you’re alright…

All the pregnancy books tell you that your baby is absorbing sound and rhythm before she’s born, learning to recognize your voice, getting smarter as muffled waves of Mozart wash over her. I wonder if there are long term studies on the effects of Weezer and Springsteen, if Born to Run babies grow up unafraid to ride motorcycles into some dark night. When an old friend’s band came through town I declined the offer of earplugs, needing to feel the sound full on, hoping the baby could feel the intensity of that show: Turn off the lights and watch it all melt down, Napoleon slow, to the bottom of this town.  Am I a bad mother if I secretly hope my girls absorbed a little bad boy rock star in utero?

T has always been resolutely opposed to kid-oriented music: in his car, the girls listen to Phish, or jazz, or the local radio station that makes me batty because you never know if you’re going to get Ani DiFranco or Celtic folk or terrible low-key techno, bass thumping under some weird repetitive phrase: Ambient! Technology! AMBIENT! TECHNOLOGY!

I’m more lenient. Laurie Berkner Band, Muppets soundtrack, even the dreaded Kidz Bop, with its kid safe versions of pop songs that can’t possibly hold any meaning for my kids: The Chipmunks singing Party Rock, a shiny clean version of Call Me Maybe: Your stare was holdin’, ripped jeans, smile showing, where do you think you’re going baby?

Most days, though, we listen to the Fresh Beats. When we started watching the show on Nick Jr, D was immediately hooked: the plots and jokes are a step up from Dora and Wonderpets, the music is insanely catchy, and the mix of fantasy and pseudo-reality is weirdly engrossing. And then she noticed the commercials for the Fresh Beats LIVE IN CONCERT. Kids dancing in the aisles, Kiki rocking out on guitar on stage: Mom can we please go tomorrow?

Live music, lesson one: let’s check the tour schedule.

Indeed, the Fresh Beats were coming to our very town, and the tickets were outrageous.

Live music, lesson two: sometimes it’s worth it.

I ended up buying scalper tickets through Stub Hub, guessing that the small mark up would be worth it to get close to the stage. I’m a front row junkie. Live music was a central part of my identity and my relationship with T in our 20s (our experience seeing Phish at Coventry was the pinnacle of this). I proposed at a Phish show. The fact that it was the Fresh Beats didn’t so much matter – I wanted the girls to have a taste of the magic, the intensity, the awesomeness of rocking out in the presence of a band you love. Front row seats were hundreds of dollars and could only be bought as part of a package including a backstage party with healthy snacks, but I got us on the main floor about 15 rows back.

Hey girl shout it out– Put your hands up! Put your hands up!

Live music, lesson 3: Vocab

I may have been the only parent there who used the words merch table, opener, set break, cover, and encore. The 2 year old next to us spent most of the first set quietly weeping. Some kids appeared overwhelmed; others seemed underwhelmed. But D and Lucy really loved it: maybe because of my dorky prep, they were expecting a concert, not a live version of the tv show, they were psyched to be close to the stage, and they stood up and danced spontaneously to their favorite songs. Afterwards, they were bursting with excitement, wanting to rehash their favorite moments, excited to talk about the new songs, stoked that the band played some old favorites. When the songs we heard live come on in the car, they talk about the show: “Remember when the monkeys came on the screen and we all yelled GO MONKEYS! GO MONKEYS!”

I want them to love Weezer like I do, and Phish, and the Killers, and Regina Spektor. I hope that those months spent floating in the belly listening to Born to Run mean they learned the Boss’ voice along with mine. But for now, it’s okay with me if they love the Fresh Beats and Carly Rae Jepson. After all, my first concert was New Kids on the Block. I want them to know the dorky joys of fandom, the thrill of unrolling the poster from the concert and taping it up on your bedroom wall. I love that they know all the words to their favorite songs, fantasize about being rock stars with their own bands, put on shows in the living room. A couple days ago, D said from the backseat while we were listening to a Fresh Beats cover of I’m Yours, “Mom, when I grow up, I want to have a band, and I will sing, and there will be guitars and drums and a banjo and a washboard and Jason Mraz will play the keyboards.” Maybe it’s time to start those guitar lessons: we’ve got a couple rock stars in the making here, and they’re already imagining their heroes singing back up.

We got the beat!

I’m blogging every day in the month of November as part of NaBloPoMo at Yeah, Write– check out the other amazing talented bloggers who are also on this crazy train!

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Good Enough

Posted on November 11, 2012 by | 6 Comments

None of the girls are sleeping in their own beds tonight. D and Lucy switched bunks, Margeaux is in my bed, T is working an overnight. I should be prepping for class or folding laundry, but instead I’m reading blogs, watching Pawn Stars, ignoring the basket of unfolded laundry.
The girls played outside today, bikes and scooters and freeze tag. T and I cleaned house, sorted toys. I cooked dinner. D practiced sight words with flashcards while I cleaned up the kitchen. Lucy helped Margeaux fit the ABC blocks into the Elmo toy. After the craziness of campaign work and elections, before the craziness of holidays and end of semester grading, a much-needed moment to breathe.
I used to dread these overnights- turning out the lights and going to bed alone. Tonight, I’m looking forward to it. Maybe as my days have gotten busier, I’m more appreciative of quiet. Maybe I’m just so much more tired than I used to be that sleep has a new appeal. I suspect both are true. Maybe more importantly, I feel more certain, more centered, less anxious than I did a few years ago. I don’t lay awake after my head hits the pillow. I’m not constantly rehashing conversations in my head, turning my words over for evidence of awkwardness or brilliance. My edges are smoother. Beach glass, instead of broken glass.
It’s not that we built a perfect life: there’s not enough money, not enough space, not enough time. But the dishes are done, and the girls’ hair smells clean from their bath tonight, and it’s time to turn out the lights. I’ll crawl into bed with M, and she’ll snuggle against me, and I’ll wonder what she dreams about. Tomorrow, we’ll learn a few more new words, eat leftover pancakes for breakfast, go for a walk if the weather holds. Good enough.

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Home sweet home: Is geography destiny?

Posted on November 9, 2012 by | 8 Comments

I’m writing this from a chain coffee shop in a strip mall a few blocks from D’s elementary school. Today has been fragmented in the way so many of my days seem to be lately: a few hours making small talk with parents who are showing us the ropes of popcorn volunteering, a few hours on campus answering student emails and reading reviews of Halberstam’s new book about Lady Gaga and wondering whether I should assign it for my Mass Culture class next semester, back to the elementary school for the book fair, then the coffee shop, then back to the elementary school, then back across town to go home.

I wrote the other day about how I have this more is more is more problem, but maybe the problem isn’t the more, it’s the driving to get to the more. The girls go to school in a nearby district and we can’t afford the extended day care at the preschool, so on days when I’m working I drive D to kindergarten, then drive Lucy and Margeaux to my mom’s house or T’s mom’s house, then drive to campus, then drive to my downtown class, then drive back to campus. By noon I’ve spent around 90 minutes in the car. Now add the driving to gymnastics and dance, the drive to school and back on days when I’m not working, and let us not forget the 45 minute commute to the night class, and I’m starting to feel like I live in my car. If you need further evidence, just look at the mountains of jackets, shoes, empty travel mugs, granola bar wrappers, and mismatched gloves accumulating in the minivan.

One possibility is to try and move to the district where the girls are enrolled, home of the strip mall chain coffee shop. Housing prices are affordable here (if we could sell our house, a nightmare which I will address in another post). We love the elementary school and have every reason to believe we would continue to be satisfied with the academic experience. There’s a Spanish immersion program and a championship marching band. There’s also a Romney/Ryan/Take Back Our Country yard sign in every other front yard.

The parents we’ve met have been lovely: friendly, funny, welcoming. I’ve asked lots of questions about the district, and everyone has been eager to be helpful, offering insight and perspective on teachers and schools. What I don’t know how to ask is, are we going to be welcome here once you find out we don’t go to church and my kids are ardent fans of President Obama? It seems crass, somehow, to bring it up, like I’m accusing them of intolerance when they’ve been nothing but genuine and kind. But I can’t help but wonder if it just hasn’t occurred to them that I’m an interloper of sorts, if they’re simply assuming that if we moved here we would join the neighborhood Bible study group and our kids would go to Sunday school with their kids.

I want to be clear that I’m not hesitant about living in a community where faith is an important part of many people’s lives. I just don’t know how to gauge the centrality of faith and politics in establishing relationships here, and one of the things I really am longing for is a neighborhood where I can have coffee with other moms and carpool to preschool and feel connected to my neighbors and my kids’ schools and my community.But if those activities all include Bible study, this is just not going to work.

I want less time driving and more time doing, and in order to get that, something’s gotta give. My schedule next semester is shaping up to be slightly less time intensive behind the wheel, but there’s still the crazy morning commute: so much time and money wasted. This might be the only area of my life where I can say with absolutely certainty that I want less. I just wish I knew how to figure out whether or not we might want to call this place home.

 

 

 

 

 

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Sickness, wellness, compassion

Posted on November 3, 2012 by | 10 Comments

I took Lucy to the ER today, because she’s had a fever off and on since Thursday (at times as high as 102) and started complaining that her neck hurt. I’m not one to overreact to illness, and I’m generally comfortable with a ride it out, rest and fluids and endless Dora approach, but fever + stiff neck are the universal warning signs for meningitis, and meningitis is some scary, scary business.

So I packed a bag and we went to the Children’s Hospital ER, and it was the best hospital experience I have ever had. From the valet parking to the kid-centered approach to care to the tremendously compassionate and kind doctors and nurses, every minute we spent there I felt valued and respected and cared about, like they were as concerned about my kid’s well being as I was.

And the entire time I was there, I worried about how much it was going to cost.

And my plan was to write a thoughtful post about the completely fucked up debate about health care in this country, and my student who needs gall bladder surgery and the family friend who was just diagnosed with terminal esophageal cancer and the hospital bills from childbirth and preeclampsia that we are still paying, a year and a half later, and we will still be paying this time next year, and how can it possibly be that I live in a country that does so many things well and does this one thing so deeply, profoundly wrong?

But that thoughtful post is going to have to wait, because even though it is 10:20 and there is every reason in the world why this should be quiet writing and drinking tea time, for some reason every member of my household is still awake and two of them are crying. So. Health care conversation tabled. Just know this: every mother and child on the planet deserves the quality of care Lucy and I got tonight, and it shouldn’t leave them (or us) bankrupt.

 

 

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Less is more, more is less, more is more

Posted on November 2, 2012 by | 4 Comments

I have a long standing joke with my younger sister that my life philosophy is MORE IS MORE. Her house, her style, her basic approach to life is understated, clean, simple, elegant. But me? I’m crowded, messy, saying yes to too many things, feathers in my hair, 3 kids in 5 years, more is more is more.

Last week, I found myself hunched over Kate Millett’s Sexual Politics, prepping for class at the last minute, again, while trying to simultaneously answer phone calls and update my list of which mom was bringing cookies/juice/pin the heart on the skeleton/owl stickers to the preschool Halloween party.

I realized I’d been reading for 10 minutes by the clock but hadn’t actually read anything. And I didn’t know if cookie mom was also bringing the frosting. And the alarm on my phone that reminds me to go to class was ringing.

“I think my brain is full,” I said. “I think I’m doing too much.”

The lovely, amazing faculty member who shares her office with me stopped typing and said, “You always say you just need more time. But this is not that? You feel like you’re doing too much?”

And then she asked a really obvious question: “What do you want to do less of?”

And I was completely stumped. Less hands on time in my kids classrooms? Less time working at a job I love? The things I want to do less of I’m already neglecting: housework, for example.

I’ve been thinking about that question all week. What do I want less of?  What could I live with less of? What could I do better if I did less? What would I get more of if I was willing to let go of something else? I don’t have any answers yet. Letting go is my absolute worst skill. Like I said, I’m more is more is more. I hold on tenaciously. But oh, my brain is full these days. So maybe it’s time to rethink that life philosophy.

It’s NaBloPoMo! I’m blogging every day with the amazing writers at yeah, write. Because even though this entire post is about how I need to do less, at 11 pm on November 1 I decided that actually, I need to write more.

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