A lot of my mental energy these days, the parenting of little girl days, is spent on trying to figure out how to help my girls feel strong and confident and beautiful and just right. We (mamas and women who are not mamas) are becoming increasingly aware of how crappy we feel about our bodies and not just our bodies, but also our abilities to do shit. Shit that is daring. Like speaking up about what we really want or saying no to the things we don't want or don't want to do or really don't have time for. And this is good. This noticing. I would also like to figure out how to abort the paradigm that created this pervasive feeling of shame and incapability in women. I don't want my girls to have to overcome these feelings when they are in their 30s. I want them to never have them. I want them to be able to hold on to the beautiful confidence that they have right now. I want them to never lose this. Right now they know that their bodies are perfection. Their legs are strong; they can run and climb and jump. Their fingers are dextrous and they can make daisy chains. They know that they can do anything that pops into their ridiculous little heads. They know that they don't have to stand for the shit that makes them not feel awesome. They are strong willed and they are so . . . perfect. I know that part of saving their notion of perfection is about modeling it. Also, when I say perfection, I mean being comfortable just the way they are. I don't mean that there is no need to improve, or no need to work on things. We can always improve; be stronger, kinder, more attentive to our loved ones, healthier. Let's work on those things, but let's be gentle with the people that we are right now. We are perfect. We are humans and part of that means imperfection. And it is lovely. I will be vocal about what strength looks like, what beauty looks like. I will surround my girls with people that feel like I do. I will consciously avoid those that haven't figured this out yet. Those that will comment on the way my girl looks rather than the phenomenal way she just scaled that wall that she has no business climbing. There is a movement afoot. There are large companies and small companies and bloggers all voicing this, sending messages about "beauty". But what is much more pervasive and BIG, are the images in magazines, on billboards, on TV, in movies, in cartoons, fucking everywhere, telling us what beauty is. And, the truth is, I hate most of it. Even then campaigns with a "positive" message. Because that message is often still about beauty. I want the most important thing to not be beauty. I get that the way we look is the first thing we see. I get it, but I want that to carry a superficial value. I want it to not matter beyond the first impression.
I'm tired of "Stranger Danger". We are raising a bunch of little people that are scared. Scared of all strangers. WTF?! Yes, I know, *gasp*, I am calling into question the notion of "stranger danger". This is not actually revolutionary, I'm just saying it again. Most people are good and kind. To teach our children that they need to be scared of everyone that they don't know is ludicrous! And truly, it's a disservice. Also, if someone is going to "get" our sweet babies in any of the nasty ways that sweet babies can be gotten, it will probably be someone that they know. By all means, teach them to be safe. Teach them to trust their intuitions, teach them about friendly interactions from neighbors vs. invitations that are inappropriate, teach them that there should never be a need to keep a secret from you. Teach them that they should be looking out for each other. Teach them that a mama on the playground is usually a good bet if you need help finding your own mama, or if your sister is stuck in a tree, or if some kid you don't know just fell from the monkey bars and is crying. Today I reprimanded a child that does not live under my roof. Actually 3 or 4 children that do not live under my roof. They were being douchey, as children are wont to do. I also celebrated tree climbing and pogo-ing victories of children that I don't know or have only met in passing. I'm paying attention and I think you should be too. It takes a village, blah blah blah. That's not actually why I'm paying attention. One really good reason is that I'm bossy, but another good reason is this: We can't watch our children all the damn time! We need to be able to rely on each other. We're all on the same kid raising team. We're not soldiers in some fictional "mommy war". I'm relying on you. If my kid is an a-hole to your kid and I don't see it, please, call her out. In the gentle way you would with your own child. You don't need to march over to me to have it out. We don't need a sit down. Just call her out. Talk about it. If my girl has an assist and I miss it because I'm standing on my head while juggling chocolate bunnies in an effort to entertain Little E until soccer is over, please, cheer wildly for her. Also cheer wildly for the scorer of the goal and also for the other team. "Nice effort girls. Way to go!" Pay attention grown ups. Please. Our children can benefit immeasurably from the involvement of other grown ups. Pay attention. Praise them often. Re-direct them when necessary. But, fucking pay attention! Look at them. Pat them on the shoulder. Ask them questions. Tell them about what you do for a living. How is my kid ever going to learn to be an engineer or a poet unless she gets one for a role model? It's not going to be me and it's not going to be her dad. She needs another grown up. Lots of them. As many as possible. This article profiles the book "Our Kids: The American Dream in Crisis" by Robert D. Putnam. I think it's pretty damn spot on. I'm feeling a lot of pressure lately to "cherish every moment". Yes, I know, "they grow up so fast". Yes, I get it, "this time is precious". Oh. My. Fucking. God. Why are my children crying again?! I mean, "I'm coming my precious little dears who will soon be grown up. How can I help you this time?" Have I told you about the truly enormous overreactions of my sweet babies? Every scrape, bump, splinter or hurt feeling results in the same wailing and carrying on. Sometimes this wailing and carrying on will last only a few moments and sometimes the sweet baby is inconsolable for hours and hours and hours. Ok, maybe not hours. A long time though. I have no way of knowing whether this wailing is commensurate with the damage done by the fall from the top of the monkey bars because it's the same wailing that happened 7 and a half minutes ago when she stubbed her toe on the peddle of her bike. Yes, I've told them the story of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. They don't get how it applies to them. Even when I tell the story using their names. Also, dinner is not ready and I don't have a plan anymore because the potatoes that were going to become delicious mashed potatoes were growing long stems and a little bit of mold. And also, the chicken smells funny. Everyone is hungry and it is my responsibility to solve this problem before we all melt down and wail and carry on for hours and hours and hours. I'm trying really effing hard to cherish this time. Truly, I am. I get it, it will be gone in a blink. I'm trying to remember that it is a gift to have these beautiful, healthy, wailing children. I know that sooner than I can imagine they will be sullen teenagers who have come to realize the truth about me, which is that I have no idea what I'm doing and that I squandered the precious moments. They will hate me. And I won't have cherished enough. Fuck! I think maybe, all those old people (I mean the really old ones, like 64 year olds) didn't cherish this shit either. Maybe they cherished the sweet moments but forgot about the 92% of the day that is wailing and carrying on and making breakfast and making lunch and then making dinner and folding laundry and fetching glasses of water . . . again. I wish they would stop telling me to cherish it because that phrase is sneaking into the vernacular of my peers and they are saying it too sometimes. And the truth is, we are all perpetuating this myth that it's all sunshine and roses and if we're not loving it and recognizing it as precious then we're wasting the time and we'll regret it later. Bullshit. This is hard and we'll all be a little bit grateful when our teenagers sleep until noon and then only want a bowl of cereal that they can prepare their own damn selves. Probably we'll miss this sweet time too because we'll have forgotten the 92% of the day that is actually just kind of a slog and we will remember the sweetness. There is plenty (almost plenty) of sweetness. And some days those moments seem to swell enough to crowd out the 92%. We will tell new mothers to "cherish every sweet thing" and that it will "all be gone in flash". Humph! I guess I get it, but . . . Oh, wait, there's the crying again. On Saturday I went out with my college girlfriends. They're awesome and I wish I saw them more than 3 times a year. They are funny and smart and they've known me for 20 years, but they are not my family. Yes, we are all wearing the same owl shirt. See?! Funny, but not my family. So, obviously I was plagued with guilt. We had just gotten back from a week away, which could mean that since I'd just spent nearly every minute (really ev-er-y minute!) of the last 7 days with my family, that it was no big deal to be gone for a few hours. But instead, to me, it meant the following: I shouldn't have left today. There's loads of crap all over the house to be put away. The kids are going to be a collective pain in the ass as they settle back in. My husband will be saddled with all the work and he'll be mad at me for going and ditching him . . . and on and on. Because of all of that I promised to be back before dinner, thinking that would ease the pain of being left. However, (and this has happened before . . . more than one time) I didn't make it back in time for dinner. I had to sheepishly call at 5:00 and confess that I wasn't going to make it. More guilt! And, my husband was a little put out. Rightfully so. He wasn't planning on making dinner. When I got home the kids were bathed and fed, the crap was still all over the house, and my husband was not irritated with me. He'd gotten over it. Lucky me! There are all sorts of morals to this story but the most important take away for me was this: life in my family goes on just fine without me. That doesn't mean they don't need me. They just don't need me ALL THE EFFING TIME! Also, I deserve to have a break. And, also this: my partner is competent and capable. I'll say it again, he is competent and capable and he loves our girls just as fiercely as I do. And that's awesome. It doesn't diminish what I do. Being a full time parent and caretaker of the house is an enormous amount of work, but our partners (or babysitters) can handle the kids for a few hours, while we take a break. In fact it diminishes them when we suggest that they can't do it without us. Of course they can! And the guilt? We gotta let that shit go. It's not good for any of us.
One of my dearest friends has proclaimed that she "hates nature". For a long time I thought that she was just saying this to be funny, but I think it's true. I don't get it, but I think it's true. Even while she is busy hating nature, she is also busy spending as much time as possible lazing in Our Park while her kiddo runs, scooters, climbs trees, and skips merrily through nature. I bring this up, not to point out the flaw in her nature hating logic, but to point out that she knows how important outside is for our kids. (and for us too!!) She's found a way to be outside with her girl that works for her and her nature hating ethos. It doesn't matter what you do, but find something that works for you and works for your kids. Go outside. Draw with chalk on sidewalk. You read a book while your kids draw with chalk. Walk around the block, go hiking, lay on a blanket in the park while you let your little monsters run wild. Whatever, just get out. This is just as good as This! If you're interested in the full article from the University of Michigan, check out the link below. It's interesting. Actually, it is. http://www.med.umich.edu/yourchild/topics/tv.htm
Before we had A we (Daniel and I) talked about the most important thing we could teach her. There are lots of things to teach. So effing many actually. You might think that boiling it down to one thing would be hard. Turns out, it's not. Be kind. That is the thing. At dinner we all share a high light and a low light from our days. Yep, we're that family. Actually we're not, usually Little E shares some made up tedium that happened to her imaginary brother or sister and A hems and haws and says she has to think about it, and as soon as Daniel or I start to share, bam! she's ready and then she sulks because she has to wait. Oh. My. God. This sweet ritual is now super irritating and obnoxious. Sometimes, though, it goes smoothly and we learn a bit about what happens when we're not around. During the dinner in question, high lights and low lights went smoothly. Little E shared that she'd gotten two extra stars from her teacher and A shared that she too had gotten an extra star from her teacher. Instead of applauding my girls, I said (probably in a defeated and exhausted voice), "I wish someone would give me an extra star." "Who?", A asked. Exactly. Who?! The next morning upon entering the kitchen I found this note, complete with extra star. I should maybe tap out now before I mess her up because it seems like possibly, she's getting it.
I yelled. And it felt shitty. My sweet girl was scared. I was mad. Really mad and incredulous and irritated. And mad! "Just do your fucking homework," I yelled as I slammed a little pink eraser down on the table. It feels awful to lose your cool. If it's never happened to you, then stop reading and go to some other blog where the author is perfect. Oh, wait there exists no such person? Hah! Then keep reading, because it will happen to you one day. Probably.
I stormed back to my computer where I was futilely trying to print my completed tax forms (I can't file electronically this year because my (and my entire family's) identity was stolen and my taxes filed by some A-hole bad guy. But that's another post). I couldn't get it to print, then I did and I ran out of paper and I printed on the back of old Christmas paper. Then I ran out of ink and had to replace a cartridge. Oh. My. God!!! Why is life sometimes so difficult?! No wonder I was pissed. Probably it didn't have much to do with A and her homework after all. Or it did and she's just so empathic that she felt my stress and took it on and turned into a little stress ball herself and therefore couldn't do her homework without a lot of tears and whining. Which I had no patience for because I was stressed. Damn it!!! Parenting is so effing difficult. In case you missed it . . . It didn't have much to do with her and she is so sensitive that she took it upon herself to feel super stressed out on my behalf. Not that her behavior wasn't super irritating. It was! But, she's 7. She's doing exactly as sensitive little 7 year olds do. I stepped outside and took a couple dozen deep breaths. I came back in and apologized. It felt good to say I was sorry. That yelling was my mistake. I hugged her and hugged her. She cried and said, "I'm just so stressed out. I don't know why." Oh sweet baby. Today was the much anticipated PAJAMA DAY at Little E's preschool. She has been talking about this for over a week (which is a long time for a kid that still doesn't get the concept of tomorrow). She wanted to go like this. No kidding. That is actually pajamas. In fact it is the much coveted Snow White nighty. I made her put it on properly with her arms in the arm holes. There were many tears. So many. After the tears she donned turquoise & brown striped leggings (which are very cute with the turquoise and brown spotted dress that she refuses to wear) and rainbow striped socks. I didn't take a picture because we were running late due to all of the aforementioned tears. Trust me, she looked ridiculous. . . I mean adorable in a quirky sort of way. It reminded me of a time when A was about this age and I put a post it note on her back that said "I dressed myself". I have since stopped doing that sort of thing and embraced the fact that they will dress themselves in questionable and unconventional ways. So unconventional that they will not be held back by such hindrances as assigned arm holes or leg holes. Actually, the truth is, I have not embraced this. It irks me to no end that my girls will not wear the pieces of an outfit that go together. Or the winter clothes in the winter and the summer clothes in the summer. Also, I know, some people get their shit together enough to switch their clothes around for the season (winter clothes away in the summer, summer clothes away in the winter). I don't do that. Half assed homemaking remember?! We should embrace their creativity though. I know. I'm working on it. I have learned to bite my tongue. I do love their spirit and I'm trying to understand their styles. If only so that I don't waste money on clothing that they will never wear. Today we brunched! We brunched like we meant it. And the exciting part of the whole brunch business was that I offered to host this brunch at 10:30 last night while holding my sweaty- so- exhausted- because- she- danced- her- pants- off (literally, right off) at- the- wedding- sleeping 3 year old. I was TIRED! When it was time to go home, my friends (who live far away and had travelled great distances to attend said wedding who I also almost never get to see) stood around debating the merits of one brunch place after another. Did I mention I was TIRED!? Because I couldn't bear one more moment of holding my 700 pound child and because the thought of standing in line for many hours to get into a loud restaurant where I would just spend all my time trying to talk my girls into coloring or participating appropriately in the conversations that they did not understand and I wouldn't actually get to visit with ALL the friends . . . for all of these reasons, plus I was TIRED! I offered to host brunch. A mere 12 hours from then. All 12 of which I planned to spend sleeping.
Let the half ass homemaking commence! Woot woot! We had a perfectly lovely time. I did not iron napkins. Does anyone actually do that?! I didn't make the yummy sounding breakfast bars that I had googled a recipe for at 11pm. I did provide clean champagne flutes and clean coffee cups and some mostly clean cutlery. And, I visited with ALL the friends and we even had mostly delicious and respectable food. If you're interested in the recipes for said food. Check out the recipe tab. |
I'm Molly. I'm all in for parenting. I'm all in for good food. All in for big and small outdoor adventures. And really only partly in for homemaking. I want a Martha Stewart home and meal, but the truth is, we mamas just can't do it all. Not really. This shit is tricky!
This is a collection of musings and missives about parenting like you mean it. I mean really mean it. About how you can pull off a really mostly decent meal, keep your house kinda clean, do some of your laundry, and also even remember to usually feed your pets. But mostly about how being a mama is hard and we can totally rock it, but maybe that dream of perfection has got to give a little.
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