House of Estrogen

I Passed! I Passed!

I passed!  I passed the tricky "taking your tween to a movie" test. For the last two to three weeks, Elise has been telling us daily about big plans that a group of her friends had to go see Divergent this past Friday night. "Everyone" was going to be there. This was a BIG deal. (Side note: The whole event was organized through Instagram which I find fascinating.) I made the classic dorky mom move by saying, "Oh! I want to see Divergent too. Can I go if I don't sit with you and don't talk to you?" I got a "NO! NO WAY, MOM! Absolutely not." response. I said, "I'll walk in separately from you. Nobody will even know I'm there. I promise not to talk to you." Again, I got, "Mommmm. <major eye rolls> You'll EMBARRASS me!"  OK. I get it. I was twelve once. I told her I wouldn't go. Then, Friday rolled around. She said, "Um, Mom... S's mom won't let her go unless an adult is there. Can you go?"  What? After all the grief she gave me, she now WANTS me to go? I'm not too proud though. I didn't turn down the offer.

We arrived at the movie theater. We bought tickets, and I told her, "I'll be sitting at those tables whenever you are done." Then, she was gone. She speed walked away from me and caught up with friends at the snack counter. She never gave me a second glance. I kept my promise of not talking to her and pretending I didn't know her. I got in line for popcorn, and she went on her way. When I turned toward the theaters, there were two theaters directly across from each other showing Divergent at the same time. I looked at my ticket stub and headed into the appropriate one. I didn't see a gaggle of sixth graders in my theater, so I correctly guessed they were in the other one. I'm sure Elise was thrilled that she didn't have to worry about somebody recognizing my profile in the dark theater.

When the movie was over, I waited patiently at the tables. I waited. I waited. I waited some more. I could see groups of kids socializing out in front of the theater. I didn't dare go out there and risk being spotted though. I just hoped she remembered where I said I would be. Eventually, she came running in, and said, "Mom! Can you come out and take a picture of us?"

This is when I knew I officially passed the test. I had remained invisible enough that she was willing to out me to her friends for a photo. She trusted that I would not be a complete embarrassment, so she brought me out of hiding.

After the picture, I said, "Do you want me to just wait in the car until you are done?" A big smile crept across her face, and she said, "Yeah. That would be great!"

I can remember being twelve. I remember that moms were a necessary evil. You couldn't drive, so they had to take you everywhere, but you didn't want anyone to actually know that. Moms were to be invisible chauffeurs only.

Navigating the waters of parenting a middle schooler is new territory for us, but I think I pulled off this particular test pretty well. Although, now that I think about it, blogging about it after the fact probably counteracts any progress I had made in the "not being an embarrassing mom" department. Oh well. Maybe I'll figure out how to do this whole parenting a tween thing by the time Addie hits middle school.

Nothing Says I Love You...

Like wearing the bracelet to work that your five year old made out of Justice and Old Navy price tags.

Dear ______, Thank you for the ______.

My mom was one of those mean mothers who was a stickler for thank you notes. After every Christmas and birthday, I remember sitting at the table having the importance of thank you notes drilled in to me and being made to write them. Like every child of a mean thank-you-note-writing-mom, I'm sure I complained. I'm sure I procrastinated. I'm sure many of my notes were hastily written, so I could run off to play. Looking back, I can honestly say, "Mom, thank you for sticking with it." Now, as an adult, the importance of a hand-written thank you note is understood, and I appreciate them that much more. There is no better way to show your gratitude. I'm trying my best to follow in my mom's footsteps as a mean thank-you-note-enforcer. I don't always succeed. Occassionally notes go out really late, through email, or (dropping my head in shame) not at all. Despite misses here and there, I want my children to grow up with the same foundation. To that end, we spent this morning at the kitchen table writing Christmas thank you notes.  If you've never made your five year old dictate a thank you note for you to write, you are missing out. Here are two from this morning.

Dear JoJo and Bubba,

Thank you for the P book. It will let me learn how to read because of letters. I like the letter R because it is my favorite letter in the whole state. I hope you can walk better soon.

Love, Addison

Dear Aunt L,

Thank you for the Wizard of Alls movie. I like it so much. I was wishing for it so much. How did you know that? I like the Wizard of Alls because I was wishing for it. My favorite is all of the sparkling shoes. The part of the movie I like is when the house got on one of the witches. Happy New Year!

Love, Addison

How sad would it be if I deprived the gift givers of notes like those.  My hope for my children is that one day they will appreciate the dying art of thank you note writing and continue the habit as adults. When I am a grandmother, I hope to get notes from my grandchildren about their favorite letter in the state and favorite part of the Wizard of Alls!

A Quick State of the Union

Addison - strep throat

Nina and Elise - at track-out camp, waiting to come down with strep throat

J.C. - temporarily single parenting three kids, one of whom has strep throat

My mom - in the hospital recovering from surgery for the hip she broke yesterday

My dad - mostly blind, mostly deaf, unable to care for himself without my mom's help

Me - AAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!   Working on developing a cloning machine that will allow me to be in five places at once.  Engineering that technology sounds easier than actually being in five places at once, so wish me luck in my endeavors. I'll let you know when I get it patented.

Holiday stress? - Nope, no time for that.

When Did I Have Sex with the Devil?

And how did I not know about it?  Clearly I did though because Addison's behavior lately is a work of evil. You know how you watch that show Supernanny and think, "Holy crap! Those kids are so out of control. Even on a bad day, my kids are never that bad. Whew!  This makes me look like a fabulous parent!"  I used to do that. Now I watch that show and think, "How can I get Supernanny to come visit me?  Those kids have got nothing on Addie."  She our third child. You would think after having parented two other four year olds that we would have figured out a few tricks in dealing with them. We may have. We might be able to parent ANY OTHER FOUR YEAR OLD IN THE UNIVERSE, but this one is killing us. If she doesn't take a nap today, my head will explode. I apologize to whoever finds my body. It won't be pretty. The kicking, the hitting, the spitting, the running in parking lots, the kicking my seat back in the car, the yelling, the disrespect... it is getting to me, and getting me down. A few days ago, JC decided that she must be schizophrenic or manic depressive. He said, "I think she needs a therapist."  I pulled out my trusty Touchpoints 3 to 6 book by T. Berry Brazelton because he is a parenting genius and has never let me down. I read about a four year old so out of control that her parents thought "she was hyperactive or even manic" and about another four year old whose eyes would glaze over as his mother spoke to him, and about a mother who wondered "why a four-year old could show sadistic behavior."  All of that was somewhat comforting. It sounds like Addison is not outside the realm of normal four year old behavior, but all of Brazelton's suggestions for dealing with it are WHAT WE'RE ALREADY DOING. Brazelton, Super nanny, I need your help!

Being a parent the second and third times to a baby seemed like a breeze. We knew how to diaper them, bathe them, soothe them, swaddle them, how to work a carseat, and what to pack in a diaper bag. All those things that were so overwhelming with the first baby seemed like second nature with the next two.

This four year old thing though... it is like a big smack in the face (literally and figuratively).  Where did this child come from? Brazelton talks a lot about temperament. We've always thought Addie and Nina were quite similar as they are both insanely stubborn. Nina is stubborn and cunning though. Addie is stubborn with the temperament of a wild honey badger (Guiness World Record title: most ferocious predator animal). It is a dangerous combination.

I love that girl. I really do, but if anybody has an in with Supernanny, will you please send her my way?

I Love My Children. I Love My Husband.

I love my children. I love my husband. I love my children. I love my husband. I love my children. I love my husband. Do you think if I keep repeating that over and over it will keep me from disowning some or all of them while JC is out of town? I don't think I'm cut out to be a single mom.... or at least not a single mom to all girls. We already have a pretty unbalanced ratio of estrogen to testosterone on a good day in our house. When JC goes out of town, the estrogen is off the charts. He has been gone less than 24 hours, and during most of that time, we have been asleep. During the waking hours though, we have had:

• two runny, snotty, sniffly noses
• one injured hand from punching a door
• three nosebleeds
• one meltdown over curly hair
• one tantrum over too long bangs
• one brawl over a chair, including spitting and a twisted arm
• one crying fit over ice cream
• one four year old running through a restaurant screeching like a maniac
  
• one mother singing Kanye West's "Stronger" at the top of her lungs in the carpool line to remind herself that what does not kill her will make her stronger
• one four year old screaming at the Starbuck's drive-through speaker about wanting a cake pop instead of a donut
  

I love my children. I love my husband. I love my children. I love my husband. [To be repeated as necessary until JC returns home]

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 be a 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.