I just got waitlisted. By Pinterest. I didn't get waitlisted by Vanderbilt University when I was applying for colleges, but I sure did just get wait-listed by a virtual pinboard that everyone and their mother keeps talking about. The kicker is, a friend of mine sent me an invite at least two months ago. Reasoning that I already had plenty of distractions in my life, I never accepted it. And now I'm on the waitlist.
Whereas most waitlists serve the very practical function of making room for you (at a restaurant table, in the dorm at your coveted college), I suspect this particular waitlist is merely an ingenious marketing tool designed to whip the waitlistee into a clock-watching frenzy as she anxiously awaits her invitation to create her own personal board. Worked like a charm on me.
After recovering from the surprise of being notified by Ben and The Pinterest Team of my status, I went back to the homepage and started surfing through the featured pins. In mere seconds, I was hooked. I culled the selection down to just those pins focused on kids and was immediately transported to a page of pictures featuring everything from a cute DIY glitter headband that my daughter would love (but that I'm confident I couldn't DIMyself since I'm more than a little deficient when it comes to crafting) to gorgeously styled bento boxes featuring sandwiches tricked out like fluffy little sheep. (p.s. Those had to be done by a professional food stylist for some parenting magazine. Any real mom would know that if you have the time it takes to turn turkey and baby carrots into a barnyard tableau it would be much better spent on something with a richer ROI. Like showering.)
From there, it took two clicks for me to land on etsy and spend several minutes debating the purchase of a fabulously clever dress to commemorate my younger daughter's first birthday. Which is in July.
Since a quick tally of our budget board reflected a few, um, overages this month, I knew better than to fetch my AmEx. Stepping away from my laptop, I took a deep breath and assessed what had just happened in those 10 minutes (honestly, it happened that fast.)
First, I was right two months ago. I don't need any more diversions. In the time I wasted from my position on the waitlist, I could have folded the towels that are in the dryer, started a load of brights in the washer and scrubbed the plastic Hello Kitty sandwich box and thermos (oh, how I loathe non-dishwasher friendly items) that are still sitting in the sink from yesterday's lunch.
More importantly, have I already said that the budget board revealed that I hadn't exactly adhered to the budget this month? And have I ever mentioned that our tiny little bungalow is already stuffed to capacity with, well, stuff? Stuff falls into the category with distractions as something I definitely don't need more of. We can neither afford nor accommodate it within the four walls of our home.
We have stuff galore - clothing, toys, kitchen gadgets, DVDs, stuff, stuffity, stuff, stuff, stuff! We don't need one single thing in this world that money can buy. And Pinterest, for me, bears the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. It's a temptation to spend money we don't have on stuff we don't need.
So thank you Ben and The Pinterest Team for waitlisting me. My husband thanks you too.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
Perception is reality
If you ever have the opportunity to eavesdrop on a child's game of pretend, I highly recommend you take advantage of it. The odds are spectacular that you'll hear the funniest or most insightful (sometimes both) phrase of your day.
For example, during one particular game of house my daughter, in one sentence, revealed to me that the division of labor in our home perpetuates the age-old gender stereotype of woman as caregiver:
My son: I want to hold the baby.
My daughter (fully embracing her role as me and employing appropriate spousal nickname): No, hon. I'm the mommy, and mommies take care of babies. Daddies are their assistants.
On a more recent occasion, during another game of house, my son let his interpretation of personal liberties slip when he rebuffed his sister's request to do something (probably hold that baby he'd wanted to hold three months ago) with a matter-of-fact, "No, I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups can do whatever they want."
If only.
Let me assure you that neither my husband nor I have ever told our kids that daddies are only assistants in the child rearing process (though my husband might actually be in favor of that approach) or that grown-ups can do whatever they please whenever the mood strikes them, which obviously means that's how they perceive the world operates.
But isn't perception reality for everyone, including we self-indulgent, autonomous grown-ups?
I've written a few articles from a parents' perspective for our church newsletter. Hoping to be a voice of encouragement for other moms, I was very honest about my short-comings and insecurities as a parent.
In complimenting me on one of the articles, our minister remarked, "I was surprised to read that you felt that way. You always look like you have it all together."
Unfortunately, his perception is not my reality, and if I were a gambling gal I'd wager the same is true for most women who appear to "have it all together." So for those, like me, who often feel a twinge of envy when you see one of those on-the-ball moms who seems to have time for everyone and everything in her life, take heart. She probably had to stop at Walmart on the way to school to buy clean underwear and juice boxes for her kids because she hadn't gotten around to washing their undies or thermoses the night before.
And for those rare moms who do actually have it all together, consider investing in a method to bottle that mojo. You could make a fortune.
For example, during one particular game of house my daughter, in one sentence, revealed to me that the division of labor in our home perpetuates the age-old gender stereotype of woman as caregiver:
My son: I want to hold the baby.
My daughter (fully embracing her role as me and employing appropriate spousal nickname): No, hon. I'm the mommy, and mommies take care of babies. Daddies are their assistants.
On a more recent occasion, during another game of house, my son let his interpretation of personal liberties slip when he rebuffed his sister's request to do something (probably hold that baby he'd wanted to hold three months ago) with a matter-of-fact, "No, I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups can do whatever they want."
If only.
Let me assure you that neither my husband nor I have ever told our kids that daddies are only assistants in the child rearing process (though my husband might actually be in favor of that approach) or that grown-ups can do whatever they please whenever the mood strikes them, which obviously means that's how they perceive the world operates.
But isn't perception reality for everyone, including we self-indulgent, autonomous grown-ups?
I've written a few articles from a parents' perspective for our church newsletter. Hoping to be a voice of encouragement for other moms, I was very honest about my short-comings and insecurities as a parent.
In complimenting me on one of the articles, our minister remarked, "I was surprised to read that you felt that way. You always look like you have it all together."
Unfortunately, his perception is not my reality, and if I were a gambling gal I'd wager the same is true for most women who appear to "have it all together." So for those, like me, who often feel a twinge of envy when you see one of those on-the-ball moms who seems to have time for everyone and everything in her life, take heart. She probably had to stop at Walmart on the way to school to buy clean underwear and juice boxes for her kids because she hadn't gotten around to washing their undies or thermoses the night before.
And for those rare moms who do actually have it all together, consider investing in a method to bottle that mojo. You could make a fortune.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Survivor: The Last Frontier
A friend of mine has 2-month old twin granddaughters who joined their 19-month old sister at home a little over a week ago. When I asked how everyone was doing, my friend advised that they were in "survival mode." If I had three kids under the age of 2, I might be in an inpatient therapy program, so in my opinion "survival mode" is worthy of applause.
Experts aplenty write about this phenomenon in pregnancy and parenting magazines in an effort to a) prepare new parents for the inevitable and b) reassure them that this phase won't last forever. While five years is by no means "forever", it's a heckuva long time to be in "survival mode." I know, because that's where my husband and I have spent the past five years of our lives. I'm not sure if that means that our learning curve is steeper than most or that our children are more high maintenance than most. Either way, if we were being graded on our ability to emerge from "survival mode", we wouldn't be at the top of our class.
For those who aren't parents, or for those parents whose children's medical school graduations have eased the sting of "survival mode", let me paint you a picture of what it's like to live there.
In "survival mode", sleep deprivation is Enemy Number One. Despite the fact that infants allegedly require a ridiculous amount of sleep, most seem to prefer to indulge that need on a first and second shift production schedule, spending the overnight hours regaling their bleary-eyed parents with endearing feats like pooping with such force that it necessitates a full linen change before you could even consider returning the kid to his or her bed.
We have friends whose babies slept like little logs from day one. We envied those friends. We resented those friends. Sometimes we considered making voodoo dolls of those friends. (Just kidding.)
I will admit that we compounded our sleep problems by having our second child just as our first was starting to get with the program. Our son woke up for a 4 a.m. snack every morning of his life until I finally employed "tough love" (another concept with which I was not previously acquainted until having children) a few short months before he turned one. I think my husband and I enjoyed approximately six months of decent sleep before No. 3 arrived this past summer. True to our DNA's form, she seems to despise sleep.
The second indicator that you're in "survival mode" is the state of affairs in your kitchen and laundry room. If you have to eat dinner off of a bread plate and dry your body with a hand towel, then you're either living in a fraternity house or "survival mode." I consider myself a success if our clothes are clean. I award myself bonus points if they're folded and tucked into laundry baskets. On the rare occasion that they actually make the leap from laundry basket to dresser drawer, I treat myself to a day at the spa. Or, I would if I could find the time and money to do so.
Which brings me to a third key feature of "survival mode": neither the clock nor your bank account are on your side. If you have the fiscal means, you'll pay for help - a nanny to diaper, bathe and feed the tot; a cleaning service to dust, polish and disinfect the house; a personal chef to shop, chop and serve the meals. If you have any one of these, you can't be in "survival mode." Parents like me who have none of those won't allow you to stake a claim to our pain.
But while money may buy you help, and thus free you up to indulge in luxuries like exercise, sleep and bowel movements sans an audience, it won't buy you more time. And when you're in "survival mode", time is a scarce commodity. People who don't have kids but would like to someday should heed the inherent warning in the words of any parent they hear lament, "I used to waste so much time before I had kids!"
That ain't no joke. So figure out your favorite way to waste time, and waste away! Savor every moment of your reality TV show. Rejoice every time you run a quick errand, because "quick errand" becomes an oxymoron once you add a kid or two (or three) to the trip. And, hey, if you don't have anything else to do, consider volunteering a couple of hours to a good cause. Like babysitting for your mother-of-three friend who is in desperate need of a nap/shower/latte.
Experts aplenty write about this phenomenon in pregnancy and parenting magazines in an effort to a) prepare new parents for the inevitable and b) reassure them that this phase won't last forever. While five years is by no means "forever", it's a heckuva long time to be in "survival mode." I know, because that's where my husband and I have spent the past five years of our lives. I'm not sure if that means that our learning curve is steeper than most or that our children are more high maintenance than most. Either way, if we were being graded on our ability to emerge from "survival mode", we wouldn't be at the top of our class.
For those who aren't parents, or for those parents whose children's medical school graduations have eased the sting of "survival mode", let me paint you a picture of what it's like to live there.
In "survival mode", sleep deprivation is Enemy Number One. Despite the fact that infants allegedly require a ridiculous amount of sleep, most seem to prefer to indulge that need on a first and second shift production schedule, spending the overnight hours regaling their bleary-eyed parents with endearing feats like pooping with such force that it necessitates a full linen change before you could even consider returning the kid to his or her bed.
We have friends whose babies slept like little logs from day one. We envied those friends. We resented those friends. Sometimes we considered making voodoo dolls of those friends. (Just kidding.)
I will admit that we compounded our sleep problems by having our second child just as our first was starting to get with the program. Our son woke up for a 4 a.m. snack every morning of his life until I finally employed "tough love" (another concept with which I was not previously acquainted until having children) a few short months before he turned one. I think my husband and I enjoyed approximately six months of decent sleep before No. 3 arrived this past summer. True to our DNA's form, she seems to despise sleep.
The second indicator that you're in "survival mode" is the state of affairs in your kitchen and laundry room. If you have to eat dinner off of a bread plate and dry your body with a hand towel, then you're either living in a fraternity house or "survival mode." I consider myself a success if our clothes are clean. I award myself bonus points if they're folded and tucked into laundry baskets. On the rare occasion that they actually make the leap from laundry basket to dresser drawer, I treat myself to a day at the spa. Or, I would if I could find the time and money to do so.
Which brings me to a third key feature of "survival mode": neither the clock nor your bank account are on your side. If you have the fiscal means, you'll pay for help - a nanny to diaper, bathe and feed the tot; a cleaning service to dust, polish and disinfect the house; a personal chef to shop, chop and serve the meals. If you have any one of these, you can't be in "survival mode." Parents like me who have none of those won't allow you to stake a claim to our pain.
But while money may buy you help, and thus free you up to indulge in luxuries like exercise, sleep and bowel movements sans an audience, it won't buy you more time. And when you're in "survival mode", time is a scarce commodity. People who don't have kids but would like to someday should heed the inherent warning in the words of any parent they hear lament, "I used to waste so much time before I had kids!"
That ain't no joke. So figure out your favorite way to waste time, and waste away! Savor every moment of your reality TV show. Rejoice every time you run a quick errand, because "quick errand" becomes an oxymoron once you add a kid or two (or three) to the trip. And, hey, if you don't have anything else to do, consider volunteering a couple of hours to a good cause. Like babysitting for your mother-of-three friend who is in desperate need of a nap/shower/latte.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Better than fiction
I saw a possum playing possum last night. Literally. Peering out the storm door of my in-laws' kitchen, my five-year was the first to spot the oversize rat lying motionless in the side yard mere feet from my in-laws' two border collies. With the puppy's penchant for "bringing things into the yard", everyone assumed the possum was another trophy.
I seriously considered exiting through a basement door to avoid having any proximity to the thing, as, dead or alive, possums (and wildlife in general) aren't my thing. Being laden with bags and children, though, I stifled a shudder and followed my husband out the kitchen door, jokingly wondering aloud if the possum might be playing possum.
As I eased our truck out the gravel driveway, I glanced over at the side yard where the possum was, by that time, squared off against one of the dogs. In disbelief, I called my husband to share that, sure enough, that possum had been playing possum! The kids and I watched the collie made a halfhearted offensive pounce before I put the truck in gear and rolled on. After receiving a firsthand crime report on a rash of recent burglaries in our neighborhood and watching the 6 o'clock news with my father-in-law, my daughter had been traumatized enough for one day without witnessing a bloody to-the-death animal battle.
What ensued in the next 15 minutes of our 20-minute car ride was more amusing than any Seinfeld script could have aspired to be. We weren't even to the end of the driveway before my daughter launched into a rapid-fire Q&A on all things possum.
Do possums have fur? A lot of fur or a little fur? How big are possums ears? Do they have big eyes, medium eyes or little eyes? (My response necessitated a definition of the words "beady" and "sinister.") Can possums climb? Is a possum's tail like a raccoon's tails?
For sport, she converted our truck into a game show set, casting herself as the host who politely invited me to "tell the audience [my] name and age" before she continued grilling me on the finer points of possum.
When it was her brother's turn to spin the wheel, she lobbed, "What do possums eat?" his way.
"Um," he pondered. "Plants."
"I'm sorry, that is incorrect. You have two more chances."
"Um, meat."
"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! That's right!"
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"Two reasons: One, I'm a smart girl (Note to self: Double-down on efforts to instill humility.) And two, I'm older than you."
Not entirely satisfied with this response, he probed further. "How do you really know?"
Heaving an exasperated sigh, she replied, "Because Mommy told me." (I did? I was going to guess that possums ate garbage since the two I'd seen before last night were both lurking around our trash cans.)
"Mommy told me that they have sharp teeth, and sharp teeth are good for eating meat. Plant eaters have flat teeth, right Mommy?"
I'm pretty sure I learned something along those lines during a 3rd grade science unit on the Mesozoic Era, so I affirmed her logic.
"Or they could be omnivores," she added.
Silence reined for a full minute before the game host, her thirst for knowledge on the possum seemingly quenched, switched gears and started peppering me with questions on the topic of "The Time My Car Broke Down and I Had to Call AAA."
I'm not sure which will entertain her preschool teacher and classmates more today - her recounting of the possum playing possum or of my beige, 1983 Ford Escort station wagon breaking down at a gas station and me calling a tow truck.
I seriously considered exiting through a basement door to avoid having any proximity to the thing, as, dead or alive, possums (and wildlife in general) aren't my thing. Being laden with bags and children, though, I stifled a shudder and followed my husband out the kitchen door, jokingly wondering aloud if the possum might be playing possum.
As I eased our truck out the gravel driveway, I glanced over at the side yard where the possum was, by that time, squared off against one of the dogs. In disbelief, I called my husband to share that, sure enough, that possum had been playing possum! The kids and I watched the collie made a halfhearted offensive pounce before I put the truck in gear and rolled on. After receiving a firsthand crime report on a rash of recent burglaries in our neighborhood and watching the 6 o'clock news with my father-in-law, my daughter had been traumatized enough for one day without witnessing a bloody to-the-death animal battle.
What ensued in the next 15 minutes of our 20-minute car ride was more amusing than any Seinfeld script could have aspired to be. We weren't even to the end of the driveway before my daughter launched into a rapid-fire Q&A on all things possum.
Do possums have fur? A lot of fur or a little fur? How big are possums ears? Do they have big eyes, medium eyes or little eyes? (My response necessitated a definition of the words "beady" and "sinister.") Can possums climb? Is a possum's tail like a raccoon's tails?
For sport, she converted our truck into a game show set, casting herself as the host who politely invited me to "tell the audience [my] name and age" before she continued grilling me on the finer points of possum.
When it was her brother's turn to spin the wheel, she lobbed, "What do possums eat?" his way.
"Um," he pondered. "Plants."
"I'm sorry, that is incorrect. You have two more chances."
"Um, meat."
"Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding! That's right!"
"How do you know that?" he asked.
"Two reasons: One, I'm a smart girl (Note to self: Double-down on efforts to instill humility.) And two, I'm older than you."
Not entirely satisfied with this response, he probed further. "How do you really know?"
Heaving an exasperated sigh, she replied, "Because Mommy told me." (I did? I was going to guess that possums ate garbage since the two I'd seen before last night were both lurking around our trash cans.)
"Mommy told me that they have sharp teeth, and sharp teeth are good for eating meat. Plant eaters have flat teeth, right Mommy?"
I'm pretty sure I learned something along those lines during a 3rd grade science unit on the Mesozoic Era, so I affirmed her logic.
"Or they could be omnivores," she added.
Silence reined for a full minute before the game host, her thirst for knowledge on the possum seemingly quenched, switched gears and started peppering me with questions on the topic of "The Time My Car Broke Down and I Had to Call AAA."
I'm not sure which will entertain her preschool teacher and classmates more today - her recounting of the possum playing possum or of my beige, 1983 Ford Escort station wagon breaking down at a gas station and me calling a tow truck.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
You don't get your name in the paper for passing
If you read last Wednesday's post, you know that my 5-year old started bitty basketball two weeks ago. To date, she has learned how to breakdown into a semi-proper defensive stance and that little boys aren't apt to pass the ball to female teammates unless a coach is standing right behind them saying (repeatedly), "Pass the ball to Brianna." Even then, there are no guarantees.
What I have learned is that I am competitive to a fault. Actually, I already knew that, so bitty ball just brings the knowledge into painfully sharp focus.
While most parents reserve sideline encouragement for positive, team-building missives like, "Pass the ball to your teammates, sweetie!" I found myself, early in the first quarter, shouting, "Go get the ball!" and "Shoot it!" after she finally did get the ball.
I have become one of those parents that I used to observed with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment at my niece and nephews' little league sporting events. One of those poor, frustrated, reliving (or perhaps living for the first time) glory days parents who shouts at their kids during bitty basketball games. Nice.
I'm not living or reliving any former glory because I never played basketball, save for a few summers of overnight ball camp that I attended with my basketball coach dad so I could enjoy a week of junk food in the college cafeteria and swimming in the Olympic-sized pool. The year I accidentally won the cut throat competition for my age division was the last time I attended. As I explained to my mom, I was afraid my dad thought I might actually want to play basketball.
No, my embarrassing behavior is simply an illustration of the uber competitiveness that I typically do a decent job of concealing to most of the world. But bitty ball brings out the worst in me.
Since I want to win, or at least be good, at everything, I expect my kids to follow suit. And while my daughter displays flashes of competitiveness (like when she expressed concern prior to me signing her up for bitty ball that she might not be able to win every time), it's clear that when she's on the court the furthest thing from her mind is competing.
While I want her to perform well, or at least pay attention to what's happening, she seems quite content to skip (literally) around the court and gleefully cheer for her teammates on the rare occasion that one scores.
I hit rock bottom this past Saturday when I blurted out, "Pay attention!" after my daughter trailed off to the sideline to check on a player from the opposing team who'd left the game after taking a tumble onto the hardwood. Instead of beaming that my child was showing compassion and concern for her fellow man, I was ranting like a crazy person for her to get back in the game. Shameful.
What bitty ball unleashes in me is an inexplicable force that makes it impossible, or at least inadvisable, for me to compete against my husband in any sort of contest and compels me to strive and worry and fret about getting credit and "gaining exposure" in a career that I have finally admitted just isn't for me. I hate to lose, and if I'm not good at whatever it is I happen to be doing, then I don't want to "play."
To preserve whatever shred of dignity I may still have after Saturday's display and to avert the potential for a sideline cardiac episode, I have officially deemed my husband household AD. Henceforth, I will handle ballet and swimming lessons, and he can steer the competitive sports ship. At least when I was watching her arabesque and pirouette around the dance studio this past summer, I had the good sense to know that she wouldn't hear my embarrassing admonishments to point her toes and pay attention through the glass window anyway.
What I have learned is that I am competitive to a fault. Actually, I already knew that, so bitty ball just brings the knowledge into painfully sharp focus.
While most parents reserve sideline encouragement for positive, team-building missives like, "Pass the ball to your teammates, sweetie!" I found myself, early in the first quarter, shouting, "Go get the ball!" and "Shoot it!" after she finally did get the ball.
I have become one of those parents that I used to observed with a mixture of disdain and bewilderment at my niece and nephews' little league sporting events. One of those poor, frustrated, reliving (or perhaps living for the first time) glory days parents who shouts at their kids during bitty basketball games. Nice.
I'm not living or reliving any former glory because I never played basketball, save for a few summers of overnight ball camp that I attended with my basketball coach dad so I could enjoy a week of junk food in the college cafeteria and swimming in the Olympic-sized pool. The year I accidentally won the cut throat competition for my age division was the last time I attended. As I explained to my mom, I was afraid my dad thought I might actually want to play basketball.
No, my embarrassing behavior is simply an illustration of the uber competitiveness that I typically do a decent job of concealing to most of the world. But bitty ball brings out the worst in me.
Since I want to win, or at least be good, at everything, I expect my kids to follow suit. And while my daughter displays flashes of competitiveness (like when she expressed concern prior to me signing her up for bitty ball that she might not be able to win every time), it's clear that when she's on the court the furthest thing from her mind is competing.
While I want her to perform well, or at least pay attention to what's happening, she seems quite content to skip (literally) around the court and gleefully cheer for her teammates on the rare occasion that one scores.
I hit rock bottom this past Saturday when I blurted out, "Pay attention!" after my daughter trailed off to the sideline to check on a player from the opposing team who'd left the game after taking a tumble onto the hardwood. Instead of beaming that my child was showing compassion and concern for her fellow man, I was ranting like a crazy person for her to get back in the game. Shameful.
What bitty ball unleashes in me is an inexplicable force that makes it impossible, or at least inadvisable, for me to compete against my husband in any sort of contest and compels me to strive and worry and fret about getting credit and "gaining exposure" in a career that I have finally admitted just isn't for me. I hate to lose, and if I'm not good at whatever it is I happen to be doing, then I don't want to "play."
To preserve whatever shred of dignity I may still have after Saturday's display and to avert the potential for a sideline cardiac episode, I have officially deemed my husband household AD. Henceforth, I will handle ballet and swimming lessons, and he can steer the competitive sports ship. At least when I was watching her arabesque and pirouette around the dance studio this past summer, I had the good sense to know that she wouldn't hear my embarrassing admonishments to point her toes and pay attention through the glass window anyway.
Friday, January 13, 2012
As good as it gets
I have really great kids.
I often lose sight of that because my vision is obstructed by the weeds in which I constantly find myself. If you have children, you may understand. When you're entrenched in the campaign of teaching manners, kindness, empathy, generosity and general public decency (no, son, it's actually not okay for you to drop trow and water the pear tree in the front yard), you tend to overlook what outsiders can easily see.
Friends, acquaintances, babysitters and strangers have all told me at various points in time and in various ways that I have good kids. And I know that, in general, they're right. Sure they have their moments, but don't we all? Some of my finer ones can be seen in the twice-re-glued kitchen drawer that I have a tendency to slam ferociously when my crab cakes turn to crab fricassee or a bottle of nail polish shatters all over the bathroom floor creating a circa-1982 feather duster paint effect on the walls.
My reality check comes when I read and hear about kids who have four alarm meltdowns over crust on their bread or who repeatedly lay hands on classmates. With both sides of my brain having been fully operational for more then a decade, I forget that the same can't be said of my kids. At least they can play the developmental appropriateness card when they indulge their tempers. Wish I could say the same when I indulge my drawer-slamming addiction.
So thanks, kids, for making your mommy proud and making her job as a parent comparatively easy. 98% of the time.
I often lose sight of that because my vision is obstructed by the weeds in which I constantly find myself. If you have children, you may understand. When you're entrenched in the campaign of teaching manners, kindness, empathy, generosity and general public decency (no, son, it's actually not okay for you to drop trow and water the pear tree in the front yard), you tend to overlook what outsiders can easily see.
Friends, acquaintances, babysitters and strangers have all told me at various points in time and in various ways that I have good kids. And I know that, in general, they're right. Sure they have their moments, but don't we all? Some of my finer ones can be seen in the twice-re-glued kitchen drawer that I have a tendency to slam ferociously when my crab cakes turn to crab fricassee or a bottle of nail polish shatters all over the bathroom floor creating a circa-1982 feather duster paint effect on the walls.
My reality check comes when I read and hear about kids who have four alarm meltdowns over crust on their bread or who repeatedly lay hands on classmates. With both sides of my brain having been fully operational for more then a decade, I forget that the same can't be said of my kids. At least they can play the developmental appropriateness card when they indulge their tempers. Wish I could say the same when I indulge my drawer-slamming addiction.
So thanks, kids, for making your mommy proud and making her job as a parent comparatively easy. 98% of the time.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
A tisket, a tasket, a nylon-netted basket
My five-year old started bitty ball (that's basketball for the eight and under crowd for those who, like me, weren't already in the know) this past Saturday. In case you missed the highlights on Sports Center, I've summarized them below.
Pregame
Like most little girls her age, my daughter shuns pants, especially jeans, expect when it's absolutely necessary to wear them. Bitty ball qualifies as one of those occasions. In an effort to redeem the situation, she informed me that she was going to pack the new Hello Kitty lipgloss and glittery silver nail polish that she'd scored in a birthday party goody bag the previous afternoon.
"I can apply these during breaks," she reasoned, stuffing them into a tiny red purse.
After convincing her that timeouts would not actually afford enough time for a mid-court mani, I proceeded to deliver another blow: we'd have to omit the ubiqutous headband from her ensemble. Though I haven't personally reviewed the bitty ball rules book, I do know from my high school basketball coach hubby that headbands are a no-no. I figure if the KHSAA rules are good enough for every teenage athlete in the state, they're good enough for my daughter.
Countdown to Tip-Off
Surprisingly, my daughter, who until recently had a track record of being more than a little reticent in new situations, bounded right over to Coach John's huddle without so much as a backwards glance at me. Relieved to realize that I was more nervous than she was, I found an empty spot on the bleachers and fished the video camera from the depths of the diaper bag.
As I'd anticipated, roughly 75% of the players were boys. As they headed to their first practice station, I silently prayed that she wouldn't be the least coordinated one on the floor. Beyond the obvious reasons for not wanting my kid to be the klutz, like it or not, little girls who play co-ed sports shoulder the unfair burden of representing their entire gender, and I wanted her to do her sisters proud. I know I'm biased, but I think she held her own at each station before clasping hands with the other little girl on her team and skipping to the next.
Game Time
While her fundamentals are relatively solid, I can't say the same of her court awareness. At one point during the game, she and a little girl from the opposing team were parked at the half-court line chatting. Or maybe comparing lipgloss.
Shortly before their pow-wow, the same little girl had found herself in possession of the ball after a hasty pass from a panicked teammate. After taking a moment to process what had just happened, and hearing coaches and parents alike urging her to "pass the ball", she turned to my daughter and, smiling, handed her the ball. Part of me expected my littler baller to hand it right back with an explanation that you aren't supposed to give the ball to someone on the other team, but to my surprise (and, I have to admit, delight) my daughter simply took the ball and headed toward her team's basket.
Post-Game
When all was said and done, the Black Team (whose mascot is still TBD - candidates, supplied by the players, include The Panthers and The Black Olives) got trounced. Since bitty ball is all about fostering sound fundamentals, a love of the game and all that stuff that really matters not to kids (and some parents), there was no official score keeping, but everyone who watched knew that the Orange Team had scored at least a dozen baskets to the Black Team's maybe three.
As she skipped to the bathroom for one last potty break (our third in two hours) before we headed home, my daughter asked me if they'd won. When I replied that I didn't think they had, she was crushed. For about three seconds. Then she was asking about the snack that I'd promised to pack and why that little girl on the Orange Team had passed her the ball.
Pregame
Like most little girls her age, my daughter shuns pants, especially jeans, expect when it's absolutely necessary to wear them. Bitty ball qualifies as one of those occasions. In an effort to redeem the situation, she informed me that she was going to pack the new Hello Kitty lipgloss and glittery silver nail polish that she'd scored in a birthday party goody bag the previous afternoon.
"I can apply these during breaks," she reasoned, stuffing them into a tiny red purse.
After convincing her that timeouts would not actually afford enough time for a mid-court mani, I proceeded to deliver another blow: we'd have to omit the ubiqutous headband from her ensemble. Though I haven't personally reviewed the bitty ball rules book, I do know from my high school basketball coach hubby that headbands are a no-no. I figure if the KHSAA rules are good enough for every teenage athlete in the state, they're good enough for my daughter.
Countdown to Tip-Off
Surprisingly, my daughter, who until recently had a track record of being more than a little reticent in new situations, bounded right over to Coach John's huddle without so much as a backwards glance at me. Relieved to realize that I was more nervous than she was, I found an empty spot on the bleachers and fished the video camera from the depths of the diaper bag.
As I'd anticipated, roughly 75% of the players were boys. As they headed to their first practice station, I silently prayed that she wouldn't be the least coordinated one on the floor. Beyond the obvious reasons for not wanting my kid to be the klutz, like it or not, little girls who play co-ed sports shoulder the unfair burden of representing their entire gender, and I wanted her to do her sisters proud. I know I'm biased, but I think she held her own at each station before clasping hands with the other little girl on her team and skipping to the next.
Game Time
While her fundamentals are relatively solid, I can't say the same of her court awareness. At one point during the game, she and a little girl from the opposing team were parked at the half-court line chatting. Or maybe comparing lipgloss.
Shortly before their pow-wow, the same little girl had found herself in possession of the ball after a hasty pass from a panicked teammate. After taking a moment to process what had just happened, and hearing coaches and parents alike urging her to "pass the ball", she turned to my daughter and, smiling, handed her the ball. Part of me expected my littler baller to hand it right back with an explanation that you aren't supposed to give the ball to someone on the other team, but to my surprise (and, I have to admit, delight) my daughter simply took the ball and headed toward her team's basket.
Post-Game
When all was said and done, the Black Team (whose mascot is still TBD - candidates, supplied by the players, include The Panthers and The Black Olives) got trounced. Since bitty ball is all about fostering sound fundamentals, a love of the game and all that stuff that really matters not to kids (and some parents), there was no official score keeping, but everyone who watched knew that the Orange Team had scored at least a dozen baskets to the Black Team's maybe three.
As she skipped to the bathroom for one last potty break (our third in two hours) before we headed home, my daughter asked me if they'd won. When I replied that I didn't think they had, she was crushed. For about three seconds. Then she was asking about the snack that I'd promised to pack and why that little girl on the Orange Team had passed her the ball.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
A time for every purpose
I have a confession: My kids watch TV right before they go to bed. Despite all the admonishments, for adults and kids alike, to 86 screen time right before hitting the sheets, I let my kids wrap up their day with Dora and Diego. According to all "the experts", who I am convinced don't have young children of their own, I should be reading them bedtime stories or encouraging quiet imaginative play at that point in the day.
Whatever. By the time 8:00 p.m. rolls around, I'm so utterly exhausted that I'm just as excited to see those smiling animated Hispanic explorers as the kids are. I assuage my guilt by reminding myself it could be worse. At least they don't have a TV in their bedroom.
A few nights ago, however, the kids rebelled against the typical evening offerings on Nick Jr., for which we pay an upgrade charge just to have, so up the channel menu I went to find a suitable alternative. As it turned out, the Looney Tunes were on a cartoon channel that comes with that overpriced, I mean, upgraded TV package.
Turning to my husband, I asked if he thought the Looney Tunes were age-appropriate for our 5- and 3-year old. I'm not sure if it was the phrase "age-appropriate", which to them is synonymous with "must be more awesome than we can imagine", or if it was the palpable hesitation in my voice, but the kids pounced.
"Yes! Yes! Looney Tunes!"
So I conceded. I was exhausted, remember? And then I headed to the other room to luxuriate in the ensuing 30 minutes of peace.
Most nights, the kids pop in and out of the living room, keeping one eye on the show and the other on my every move. I run downstairs to the basement to grab clean pajamas that go from dryer to body with nary a stop in a dresser drawer in our house, and I literally trip over at least one child on my ascent back upstairs. But that night, they were riveted. And giggling hilariously. So was my husband.
For a full 30 minutes, they were enthralled by the wacky antics of Wily, Elmer and Daffy, the same goofball characters that had entertained me on many a Saturday morning. Though they've been given 21st century makeovers, the cast is still the same, and so are the jokes which, I decided that night, aren't so much "age-appropriate" as "ageless."
So what if Bugs Bunny wasn't teaching my kids to speak Spanish or Chinese? He was making them laugh, and sometimes that's all you need.
In the end, the kids did get a quick lesson on the finer points of discerning between cartoon behavior and human behavior after my son demonstrated Daffy Duck's back slap on my left cheek. A teachable moment, or my cosmic come-uppance for rotting my kids' brains with cartoons? I'll let you be the judge.
Whatever. By the time 8:00 p.m. rolls around, I'm so utterly exhausted that I'm just as excited to see those smiling animated Hispanic explorers as the kids are. I assuage my guilt by reminding myself it could be worse. At least they don't have a TV in their bedroom.
A few nights ago, however, the kids rebelled against the typical evening offerings on Nick Jr., for which we pay an upgrade charge just to have, so up the channel menu I went to find a suitable alternative. As it turned out, the Looney Tunes were on a cartoon channel that comes with that overpriced, I mean, upgraded TV package.
Turning to my husband, I asked if he thought the Looney Tunes were age-appropriate for our 5- and 3-year old. I'm not sure if it was the phrase "age-appropriate", which to them is synonymous with "must be more awesome than we can imagine", or if it was the palpable hesitation in my voice, but the kids pounced.
"Yes! Yes! Looney Tunes!"
So I conceded. I was exhausted, remember? And then I headed to the other room to luxuriate in the ensuing 30 minutes of peace.
Most nights, the kids pop in and out of the living room, keeping one eye on the show and the other on my every move. I run downstairs to the basement to grab clean pajamas that go from dryer to body with nary a stop in a dresser drawer in our house, and I literally trip over at least one child on my ascent back upstairs. But that night, they were riveted. And giggling hilariously. So was my husband.
For a full 30 minutes, they were enthralled by the wacky antics of Wily, Elmer and Daffy, the same goofball characters that had entertained me on many a Saturday morning. Though they've been given 21st century makeovers, the cast is still the same, and so are the jokes which, I decided that night, aren't so much "age-appropriate" as "ageless."
So what if Bugs Bunny wasn't teaching my kids to speak Spanish or Chinese? He was making them laugh, and sometimes that's all you need.
In the end, the kids did get a quick lesson on the finer points of discerning between cartoon behavior and human behavior after my son demonstrated Daffy Duck's back slap on my left cheek. A teachable moment, or my cosmic come-uppance for rotting my kids' brains with cartoons? I'll let you be the judge.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)