House of Estrogen

Mother's Day

It is nearly midnight. As Mother's Day comes to a close, I find myself sitting here watching "Doc McStuffins" with my four year old as she does a nebulizer treatment for asthma. As much as Mother's Day is supposed to day of pampering, relaxation, and a "day off" for moms, there's just no such thing. Don't get me wrong, I had a great Mother's Day. There was a fancy breakfast, lovely gifts, some time to myself, and a nice dinner as well. In the big picture though, there is just no break, no time off, no vacation from being a mother. It is a hard 24/7 job, period. A day at the spa, a weekend at the beach, or a week in Hawaii may be a little time off from the day-to-day chores of wiping snotty noses, packing lunch boxes, and muddling through confusing second grade math homework, but there is no break from the overwhelming responsibility of raising these little people. Is another nebulizer treatment at home the right answer? Or is it time to head to the ER?  She's in respiratory distress, but how bad is the respiratory distress?  Sometimes the questions feel so big. Moms have been doing this mothering gig for centuries. I know I can do it. Sometimes it just hits me what an awesome responsibility it is. I have to keep these little people safe. I'm responsible for their health. I have to do all I can to insure that they grow up to be hard-working, honest, responsible, independent adults.

You'd think I'd have adjusted to this by now. I've been a mom for ten years. Some days seem harder than others though, and those are the days I'm reminded how huge the job really is.

The nebulizer is done, and I'm off to bed to lie there waiting to see who needs it next. Will I be watching Handy Manny with the four year old or iCarly with the ten year old? I'm tired... not physically, just mentally. Tired, and desperate for a wheeze and cough free night.

Good night. Sweet dreams.

Finding the Real Children within my Children

Have you seen the Caine's Arcade video yet? If not, it is a must-see. (It is at the bottom of this post.) I love this kid, and more than that, I love his dad. Kids are so spoiled these days (mine included) with iPods, iPads, Wiis, and 24/7 cartoons that it just seems to suck the creativity out of them.  Caine's childhood reminds me more of my own. One summer, all the kids in the neighborhood decided we were going to build a car. Imagine Fred Flintstone's car built with scrap lumber, a million nails, paint, and old roller skate or skateboard wheels, and you have a pretty good picture of it. We spent hours every day from sun up to sun down in the stifling Texas heat in my parents' carport building that thing. My mom's poor car tires suffered more than one puncture wound from the nails we left scattered hither and yon.  She just patched the tires and let us keep going though. We were out of her hair, out of her house, and using every bit of creativity, teamwork, and determination that we had.  After the car's short maiden voyage where we realized our engineering of the wheels really didn't work out so well, we turned the car into a lemonade stand. How's that for making lemonade out of a lemon?

I try to foster that environment for my girls. I kick them outside with the neighbors and tell them they have to play outside.  When Addie and I are taking our weekend siestas, the girls know they aren't allowed in the house unless someone is bleeding. They always manage to entertain themselves - usually with bikes, scooters, jump ropes, sidewalk chalk, dancing, and friends.  They have yet to build anything the scope of a car or arcade though. Perhaps I need to enforce more boredom? We had enough cardboard from broken down Girl Scout cookie boxes that they probably could have built Six Flags if they had been inspired.

Perhaps next time they claim they are bored or ask to watch TV, I'll hand them some packing tape, empty boxes, scrap wood, a box of nails, and a hammer, and tell them to go away. I'd love to see the results.  I know somewhere under the layers of Lady Gaga lyrics, Temple Run high scores, and iCarly quotes, there are children with big dreams, endlessly creative minds, and boundless optimism that only children have.

Here is the Caine's Arcade video. It will make you smile, make you cry, and make you wish you hadn't bought your kid that handheld video game.

Channeling my Inner Tiger Mother

Before I read Amy Chua's book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, I had preconceived ideas about her from reading her Wall Street Journal article and hearing clips about her on the news. I was convinced I was going to think that she was a harsh, demanding, overbearing, abusive mother. I was sure that I would not agree with any of her parenting tactics. Then, I read the book. As I read, I immediately recognized myself as fairly typical of the "Western parents" that she criticizes. I praise my children if they try hard, regardless of the grades or outcome. I let my children choose their own activities and quit when they tire of them. I encourage my children to work hard in school, but I do not demand it. Conversely, the tiger mother chooses activities, forces hours of practice, and demands nothing less than A's in school. While I can never picture myself following in Amy Chua's footsteps, I did begin to realize there could be a happy medium between the two parenting styles. I agreed with her that perhaps some of my Western parenting ways let my children "off the hook" too easily. I could think of times when I could have pushed them harder or given more of a critique rather than praising the effort.

I made the decision that I would channel my inner Tiger Mother. I wasn't going to ban sleepovers and playdates. I wasn't going to make them practice a musical instrument for hours every night. I wasn't going to call my children "garbage" or "fatty" like Amy Chua has done. That said, I knew I could bring a little Tiger into our home, and I thought it was worth a try.

A couple months ago, Nina told me that she wanted to go to ice skating camp for all three weeks of track-out camp. I love that she enjoys skating. The rink is a bit out of the way for us though, so it isn't the most convenient place for camp. I knew there was a holiday ice show coming up, and that campers had the opportunity to do a group number in the show. Nina had said very vehemently that she had NO intentions of doing the show. As much of a ham as Nina is at home, she is very uncomfortable performing or being in the spotlight. I had asked her about the show several times, and she had always refused. I thought the show would be a good experience for her though. So, WWTMD?  (What Would Tiger Mother Do?)  Well, Tiger Mother would already have her skating six hours a day with the toughest coach at the rink, so I'm already behind on that one. Tiger Mother would definitely force her to do the show though. In my not quite so forceful way, I said, "Nina, I will only sign you up for two weeks of camp if you do the holiday show." She thought about it for a minute, and then said, "OK. I'll do it."  She later told her dad, "Mom is forcing me to do the show."  I gave myself a little Tiger Mother pat on the back for making her to do something she really didn't want to do because I thought it was best. Tiger Mother would be proud. Maybe.

As Nina started preparing for the show, she was just a bundle of excitement - the costumes, the jackets, the rehearsals, the spotlights, the routine - she was loving it. She came home from camp every day with a big smile on her face. I thought to myself, "This Tiger Mother thing is the way to go. If I hadn't made her do the show, she wouldn't know what a great experience it could be."

Nina skated in the show last Friday, and she was beaming through the whole performance.

She was the youngest in her group, and the most beginner of the four, but she skated her heart out. Of course, the real Tiger Mother's child would have been doing triple lutzes. I'm still a Western mom at heart though, so I was quite proud of her bunny hops.

When the show was over, I said, "Nina, aren't you glad I made you do the show?" She agreed, and the next morning, she even said it was sad that it was all over.

Imagine my surprise when a couple days ago Nina said, "Mom, I want to stop skating. I want to do
gymnastics instead." What? What happened to that smiling child who wanted to go to skating camp every day and was sad when the ice show was over? What happened to that child who wanted skating pants more than anything else for Christmas?

More importantly, WWTMD? Well, Tiger Mother would simply tell her "no", lace up her skates, and push her out on to the rink. Hmmm.. this Tiger Mother thing is hard. J.C. and I both talked to Nina for a while to find out exactly what was going on. (Tiger Mother would not approve.) Basically, she just wanted a little break to do something different for a while. She doesn't want to stop skating completely, but we only let her do one sport at a time, and she was ready for a change. It sounded reasonable to us. So, as a stereotypical Western parent, I cancelled the next session of skating and called a gym about gymnastics lessons. 

My poor inner Tiger... she didn't last long. At least I know I can call on her when I need her.

 

And Then the Fourth Child's Head Spun Around (alternate title: Why We Stopped at Three)

What a night.... First, I tried to put my dearest third child to bed. She screamed at me at the top of her lungs and threw a book at me. Nice. I love this age. Then, J.C. poured Listerine all over my head to treat the lice that I contracted from loving second child.  In all the online instructions about using Listerine to kill lice, they neglect to mention that it not only kills the lice, but it also kills every nerve ending on your entire head. I thought my scalp was going to burst into flame. Then J.C. wrapped my head in saran wrap. Yes, I looked as ridiculous as you are imagining. While I sat watching TV with Listerine running into my eyes, burning away my flesh, and dribbling down my ears, I heard my darling first child vomiting. Sweet. The night gets even better. Not a drop of vomit hit the easily washable bed linens or trashcan. No, she managed to spew all over the wall, the carpet, a jewelry box, photographs, a deck of cards, a ball of yarn, and electrical cords.  So, wearing my saran wrap do-rag, with Listerine searing through my brain, I cleaned up gallons of vomit. 

If it wasn't my life, it might be comical. There is nothing comical though about hair soaked in Listerine with a saran wrap turban and puke on carpet. Nothing at all.

Children... they are such blessings.

Really.

Most of the time.

Not tonight, but other nights.

Usually.

At least when they aren't vomiting and don't have lice.

I Want to be a Kid Again

When I was a kid, there was no such thing as clown camp.

 

I want to be a kid again, so I can go to clown camp, learn to juggle, paint my face, learn magic tricks, and make balloon animals.

 

When I was a kid, there was no such thing as an aquatic Easter egg hunt.

 

I want to be a kid again, so I can swim around in floaties grabbing Easter eggs as they bob up and down in the water.

 

I want to be a kid again, so I can have the thrill of donning goggles and diving down to retrieve cement filled eggs.

 

I want to be a kid again, so I can feel complete wonderment and awe over blowing a soap bubble.

 

Without the luxury of a magic time machine though, I can be content to live these experiences through the eyes of my children because that is a magical experience in itself.

 

I Could Have Killed My Mom Today

I'm not talking about the "Mom made a snooty remark about my parenting style, and I could have killed her" variety. I'm talking about the blood, guts, and trip to urgent care could have killed her. Today was a bad, bad day. My parents are in town for a fun, happy, carefree visit with their grandchildren.... or so they thought. I went by their hotel today to pick them up for a nice lunch. Dad walks with a walker, and mom usually puts it in the very back of my SUV. I had popped the hatch, so she could put it back there. Since there weren't any kids in the car though, she just stuck it in the back seat instead. When I realized she didn't need the back hatch open, I hit the snazzy, high tech button on my dash to close it. I used to love that thing.... used to.  The automatic door started going down just as mom was walking around to the other side of the car. Suddenly, she disappeared. Then, I saw a man yell and race across the parking lot. I jumped out of the car to find mom flat on her back in the parking lot where her head had crashed onto the curb. The formerly loved automatic hatch had collided with her head, knocking her off balance, and she had fallen flat on her back. She managed to sit up, feeling a bit woozy, but she made it to the car. She said she thought she was going to be OK. She just needed to rest a bit. I was completely rattled, but I started driving. Then she says, "Hmmm... I'm bleeding." I pulled over to the side of the road, jumped out, looked at the top of her head, and it looked like something out of a horror movie... you know that scene where someone gets an ax to the head, and blood is all matted in their hair?  Yes, I did this to my mother... the woman who gave birth to me. She didn't even have an epidural, and how do I thank her? I crack her head open.  I had been so worried about where her head met the concrete that I hadn't even looked at where the hatch door had hit her head. I jumped back in the car and drove straight to urgent care.  Poor dad was still in the car, diabetic, and needing lunch, so I called J.C. and said, "I tried to kill my mom with my trunk. We're at urgent care. You need to come get dad and take him to lunch."  Fortunately, neither head injury was too serious. The cut on top was superficial but had bled a ridiculous amount. She has a goose-egg on the back of her head, but no real head trauma. She twisted or tweaked her knee, so she is limping a bit, but overall, she is OK. I, on the other hand, have been a wreck all day. I may never use that automatic hatch door again. 

Mom, I love you. I hope you know that I wasn't trying to kill you. I'm sure there have been times over the years when I have been angry and thought to myself, "I could kill my mom for saying that.", but I promise I wouldn't actually follow through. I hope you feel better soon, and with any luck, the rest of your trip with be injury-free. I won't even slam your finger in the car door tomorrow, I swear.

It Makes Me Tired Just Watching Her

What I wouldn't give to have the energy of a three year old! My house would be clean. I would have abs of steel. My laundry would be clean, folded, and put away. My butt would be toned. My clutter would be purged. I would clip coupons and actually use them. My muffin top would be gone.

Instead, I have the energy of worn out mom of three, so I sit on the couch eating bon bons videotaping my three year old playing Just Dance on the Wii.

 If you're reading in an rss reader and can't see the video, click here.

I Still Love You

This morning, when you threw the glass paperweight at me which hit me in the nose and made my nose bleed, I still loved you.

 

After that, when I gave you two outfit choices for the day and asked you which you wanted to wear, you threw them both on the floor, yelled, "NO WEAR DEES!", and selected a summer sundress from the closet. I still loved you.

 

Once I finally got you dressed and started to help you put on your brown boots that matched your brown dress, you threw them down, yelled, "NO WEAR DEES!", and put on one red Croc and one pink/purple swirled Croc. I still loved you.

 

Later this morning, when you threw yourself down on the floor of the bathroom in the pediatrician's office to throw a tantrum and then chose to crawl all the way down the hall back to the exam room, I still loved you.

 
 
When I got you up from nap this afternoon and you kept yelling, "NO! NO! NO!" in my face for no apparent reason, I still loved you.

 

Addison... you are two and a half, and I still love you. (You make it awfully hard some days though.)

Next Time I'll Just Stay in Bed

At 4:30 a.m. last night, I heard the tired moaning of "Mommy, Mommy" coming from the toddler room. "She'll fall back to sleep", I said to myself. The voice got a little louder, "Mommmmmy, Mommmmy."  My bed was so warm. I had been deep in sleep and was so cozy under the blankets. I didn't want to move. "Surely she'll go back to sleep. I'll just let her fuss a little longer," I thought.  The voice ramped up, "Mommmmy!! Mommmmy!"  I grudgingly rolled out of bed and shuffled down the hall to her room to comfort her. As I put my hand on her back and said, "It's OK... You're OK. Go back to sleep." She responded with, "NO MOMMY!  DOE AWAY!" 

Awesome.

Next time, I'll just put a pillow over my head and go back to sleep.

First Day of School Jitters

No, not them.

Me.

I've got the jitters.

Jitters, anxiety, insomnia, whatever you want to call a crazy-ass, wide-awake, nail-bitin', rambling bloggin' mom who can't sleep because her oldest is starting third grade for the second time tomorrow.

The kids who are actually attending the first day of school tomorrow are peacefully sleeping... new back-to-school clothes and shoes lined up by their beds, backpacks bursting at the seams with new school supplies ready at the back door. They don't have the jitters. Just me. Maybe I should follow their lead? It is a mom's perogative to worry though, right?

Speaking of school supplies, can someone explain the folder situation to me? Why are folders so hard to find? Target, Staples, Walmart, ARE YOU LISTENING???  WHY DON'T YOU STOCK MORE FOLDERS? (and not those cheap paper ones that you have stacks upon stacks of in the aisles. The teachers don't like those. Didn't you get the memo?) School supply lists require an obscene number of folders... and not just any folders. They get really specific. Elise's list called for only 2 folders this year, one green, one orange, both plastic with pockets and prongs. Orange? Really? You choose only two colors, and you can't choose something common like red or blue? I could find orange paper folders with pockets and prongs. I could find orange plastic folders with pockets but no prongs. I could find blue plastic folders with pockets and prongs. I finally made some poor Staples employee climb a mile up a ladder to the top shelf to locate the required orange folder for me. Nina's list called for 6 different folders (each color specified, of course) - all plastic with pockets only (NO PRONGS). Now really, is it that big a deal if a folder has prongs that go unused? Wouldn't a folder with pockets and prongs work just as well as a pockets-only folder if only pockets are needed? I suppose I could rebel against the whole folder conspiracy by actually sending in a folder with pockets AND PRONGS at some point, but I don't need to add to my first day of school anxiety worrying about a teacher saying, "Didn't your mom read the list? NO PRONGS." We eventually located the 6 folders Nina needed... 4 different brands, 4 different styles, but they are all plastic with pockets, NO PRONGS. Whew! Crisis averted.

I should go to bed and get some sleep. I have lunches to make, hair to braid, pictures to take, and more nail biting to do in the morning.