I told my child that Donald Trump was a bully. I told my child that
Donald Trump was a bigot. I told my child that Donald Trump was the
wrong choice.
This morning I had to tell my child that Donald Trump is the president of the United States.
He burst into tears. "But I wanted Hillary Clinton to be the president,"
he sobbed. "She was going to be the first woman president and now she
never will!"
I was, frankly, unprepared for the depth of his emotion. I wondered
if I had done the wrong thing by being such an unabashed cheerleader
for Clinton, so partisan in my distaste for Trump. Like many of us, I had treated it kind of like a game: Ha ha, can you believe this crazy buffoon thinks he's going to be president? Good thing us reasonable people will see right through his rhetoric!
Van Jones on CNN said it for me: “It’s hard to be a parent tonight for a lot of us. You tell your kids
don’t be a bully. You tell your kids don’t be a bigot. You tell your
kids do your homework and be prepared. Then you have this
outcome. How do I explain this to my children?”
Being a parent is hard, and not always for the reasons I expected. I
expected the sleep deprivation and the impatience and the casual
disregard with which I would come to interact with certain bodily
fluids. I did not anticipate how hard it would be to instill those
prized values in my child that we all strive for: decency, kindness and
respect. I used to think those values were innate; you were
either born with certain moral standards or you were not. But since Eli was born
it's become clear to me that those values can be taught; must be taught.
He needs to see me going out of my way to help others. He needs to hear
me explain what it means to be impoverished, to be marginalized, to be powerless. It can't
be as simple as "Our side is right and the other is wrong."
Because how did we get here? Something ugly has been festering in
America that maybe I as an educated northeastern liberal have failed to
acknowledge. My America is supposed to look like "This Land is Your
Land," like the cast of "Hamilton," like "If I Had a Hammer." This is not my America.
But the problem is, this is my America now. This country where Trump
supporters kick the wheelchair of a disabled kid at a rally, where
dissenting Jews are taunted with photoshopped images of their biracial
children in ovens, where presidential candidates say maybe it would be a
good thing if their opponents were assassinated. This is our America
too. I have to come to grips with that.
But I don't have to make peace with it. Because I bear some of the
responsibility. I can't say that I did everything I could to make sure
Clinton got elected. Because I honestly didn't think this could happen.
Even though history tells us that the "it can't happen here" mentality
is our enemy, I thought it couldn't happen here.
When I woke up this morning, I had that Harry Potter line running
through my head: "Dark and difficult times lie ahead. Soon we must
all face a choice between what is right and what is easy."
So I'm strapping myself in. I'm getting organized about my charitable
giving. I'm putting my money where my mouth is. Every time I read
something online that enrages me, instead of drowning myself in a
cesspool of online vitriol, I will make a donation to a cause I care
about. I encourage you to join me. (So we can all go broke by 2020
together.)
Early in the evening, before we could bring ourselves to turn on the
news, we watched Sunday's episode of The Walking Dead. There's a
character named Negan who's truly a bad hombre, and his army of followers
has been trained to embody his philosophy so wholeheartedly that if you
ask them, "Who are you?" they will answer "Negan." At the episode's
climax, after spending an hour trying to break the spirit of a
long-beloved character named Daryl, Negan gets in his face brandishing a
baseball bat covered in barbed wire.
"Who are you?" he asks. There's a long pause.
"Daryl," says Daryl.
Who are we, America? We are not Trump. We are not xenophobes,
misogynists, racists. We are not Trump. We are better than this. We have
to be.
Wednesday, November 9, 2016
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
A snapshot of Eli on his 4th birthday
Dear Eli,
A few weeks ago, you ran your first 400-meter race. When the woman with the bullhorn announced it was time to line up, you waved cheerily and called out, "Bye!" as you hustled to the starting line. When the race started, you surged ahead with confidence. But 400 meters is a long way, and as you rounded the curve of the track your eyes took in how much farther you had to go and how many bigger and faster kids were already way in front of you. Your shoulders slumped forward in defeat.
I could tell what you were thinking, because you are that kid who throws tantrums by flinging himself to the floor and refusing to move, so I hastened across the track to you and shouted some encouraging words — Come on, you got this — and you started to move again, hesitantly this time, like you weren't really sure you were committed to making it to the finish. I tried to talk to you not like a mom but like a coach: You have the strength, you have the power, and you're going to go all the way!
Just before the end of the straightaway, your face changed. Suddenly there was a hunger in it, a determination I hadn't seen before in you. It said, I have the power. It said, I got this.
And you did.
I'm telling this story because next week you'll be 4 years old (in fact, you ask me every day, "Is it today? Is today my birthday?"), and I can't think of a better way to express the kind of kid you are. All at once you are confident and despondent, determined and powerful, independent and craving support.
You've had an incredible year. You finally ditched your pacifier. You sat through your first full bigscreen movie and your first family Shabbat service. You rode through the haunted house at Adventureland for the first time and tasted your first s'more. You had your first sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's and your first dropoff at the magical kids' play area in IKEA. You wrote your name for the first time.
You weren't all that affectionate as a baby, but this year you've started to reward my patience with sweet kisses and hugs. Every night we read together before bedtime and you nestle in close to me. Sometimes you stroke my cheek the way I used to stroke yours when you were small and I understand the meaning of the phrase "my heart melted."
Superheroes are your latest infatuation. You want to wear your Avengers T-shirt at all times (if it's not available, Captain America or Spider-Man or Ninja Turtles will do). You've developed some pretty kickass solitary pretend play skills that usually involve angry-sounding fights breaking out between various superheroes ("I said, no, you can't eat all the donuts! Yes I can!") or loud car crashes in our living room. You love "swordfighting" with Daddy, who swears he's taking you for fencing lessons as soon as you turn 4.
You love listening to audiobooks, especially Frog and Toad. When the Audible announcer says, "Audible: Audio that speaks to you wherever you are," you usually answer her back: "I'm in Forest Hills" or "I'm in my car," you say, and I crack up because it's so cute.
You are a summer kid through and through. You detest the frigid winter wind, and although you tolerated playing in the snow for about a half-hour longer than last year, it's apparent that summer is your spirit season. When we're at the beach, you're the happiest I've ever seen you, and you've never been in a pool you ever wanted to get out of.
You continue to rise at a painfully early hour and immediately request dairy products: cheese, yogurt, milk. You're partial to Danimals smoothies that you call "Dr. Dennis" for no reason we can discern. In your world the food groups are made up almost exclusively of different types of cheese: square cheese and string cheese, shredded cheese and powdered cheese, goat cheese and melted cheese.
This fall you'll start pre-K, and I'm a little nervous about how you'll fare in the world of academics. Recently you asked me, "When I go to pre-K, is it going to be fun stuff, or is it going to be just boring writing?" You've got a rebellious streak, and your teacher tells me she speaks with you quite a bit about "making good choices," which everyone knows is a school euphemism for "not being a pain in the ass."
But you're also wickedly smart and funny. You love being in charge, and I hope that teachers who really get you will channel that energy into leadership. Your teacher always told me that she knew to keep you very busy and give you lots of jobs to do.
I read an article recently about how our personalities tend to remain the same from the time we are babies. When you were a baby I thought, What personality? But now it makes sense: You are still loud and restless and demanding. You still love to laugh and crave independence and always manage to do things in your own unique way.
I'm going to say something hard and honest: It doesn't feel easy for me to be your mommy. But I don't think it's supposed to be. You challenge me every day to see and explain things differently. You frustrate me and you make me proud, sometimes in quick succession. You are a human in progress, and you are the best thing I have ever done.
Love,
Mommy
A few weeks ago, you ran your first 400-meter race. When the woman with the bullhorn announced it was time to line up, you waved cheerily and called out, "Bye!" as you hustled to the starting line. When the race started, you surged ahead with confidence. But 400 meters is a long way, and as you rounded the curve of the track your eyes took in how much farther you had to go and how many bigger and faster kids were already way in front of you. Your shoulders slumped forward in defeat.
I could tell what you were thinking, because you are that kid who throws tantrums by flinging himself to the floor and refusing to move, so I hastened across the track to you and shouted some encouraging words — Come on, you got this — and you started to move again, hesitantly this time, like you weren't really sure you were committed to making it to the finish. I tried to talk to you not like a mom but like a coach: You have the strength, you have the power, and you're going to go all the way!
Just before the end of the straightaway, your face changed. Suddenly there was a hunger in it, a determination I hadn't seen before in you. It said, I have the power. It said, I got this.
And you did.
I'm telling this story because next week you'll be 4 years old (in fact, you ask me every day, "Is it today? Is today my birthday?"), and I can't think of a better way to express the kind of kid you are. All at once you are confident and despondent, determined and powerful, independent and craving support.
You've had an incredible year. You finally ditched your pacifier. You sat through your first full bigscreen movie and your first family Shabbat service. You rode through the haunted house at Adventureland for the first time and tasted your first s'more. You had your first sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's and your first dropoff at the magical kids' play area in IKEA. You wrote your name for the first time.
You weren't all that affectionate as a baby, but this year you've started to reward my patience with sweet kisses and hugs. Every night we read together before bedtime and you nestle in close to me. Sometimes you stroke my cheek the way I used to stroke yours when you were small and I understand the meaning of the phrase "my heart melted."
Superheroes are your latest infatuation. You want to wear your Avengers T-shirt at all times (if it's not available, Captain America or Spider-Man or Ninja Turtles will do). You've developed some pretty kickass solitary pretend play skills that usually involve angry-sounding fights breaking out between various superheroes ("I said, no, you can't eat all the donuts! Yes I can!") or loud car crashes in our living room. You love "swordfighting" with Daddy, who swears he's taking you for fencing lessons as soon as you turn 4.
You love listening to audiobooks, especially Frog and Toad. When the Audible announcer says, "Audible: Audio that speaks to you wherever you are," you usually answer her back: "I'm in Forest Hills" or "I'm in my car," you say, and I crack up because it's so cute.
You are a summer kid through and through. You detest the frigid winter wind, and although you tolerated playing in the snow for about a half-hour longer than last year, it's apparent that summer is your spirit season. When we're at the beach, you're the happiest I've ever seen you, and you've never been in a pool you ever wanted to get out of.
You continue to rise at a painfully early hour and immediately request dairy products: cheese, yogurt, milk. You're partial to Danimals smoothies that you call "Dr. Dennis" for no reason we can discern. In your world the food groups are made up almost exclusively of different types of cheese: square cheese and string cheese, shredded cheese and powdered cheese, goat cheese and melted cheese.
This fall you'll start pre-K, and I'm a little nervous about how you'll fare in the world of academics. Recently you asked me, "When I go to pre-K, is it going to be fun stuff, or is it going to be just boring writing?" You've got a rebellious streak, and your teacher tells me she speaks with you quite a bit about "making good choices," which everyone knows is a school euphemism for "not being a pain in the ass."
But you're also wickedly smart and funny. You love being in charge, and I hope that teachers who really get you will channel that energy into leadership. Your teacher always told me that she knew to keep you very busy and give you lots of jobs to do.
I read an article recently about how our personalities tend to remain the same from the time we are babies. When you were a baby I thought, What personality? But now it makes sense: You are still loud and restless and demanding. You still love to laugh and crave independence and always manage to do things in your own unique way.
I'm going to say something hard and honest: It doesn't feel easy for me to be your mommy. But I don't think it's supposed to be. You challenge me every day to see and explain things differently. You frustrate me and you make me proud, sometimes in quick succession. You are a human in progress, and you are the best thing I have ever done.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Love wins
In the living room, Eli picks up a long plastic tube and dangles it in front of his mouth. "I'm an elephant!" he declares, swinging it back and forth like a trunk. "Let's pretend I'm a baby elephant and I'm lost, and you're the mommy elephant and you have to find me."
I think of what I know about elephants, that mothers and calves stay together in lifelong family groups, that they have been known to tend to and grieve their fallen relatives, that a mother elephant probably would search in anguish for her lost baby.
It is the day of the worst mass shooting in American history, and even as I pick up my own plastic elephant trunk I'm thinking about another mother, the one I saw on the news outside the nightclub in Orlando, searching for her baby.
"I've been so proud of him," she said, the pride in her eyes even as her heart was breaking.
We have been here before. In San Bernardino, Aurora, Newtown. The first time I ever truly felt like a mother, the first time the full weight of motherhood seemed to settle itself around me, it was 2012 and I had just heard about the gunman at Sandy Hook. I looked back and forth from the television to my baby in his jumperoo, imagining him among the children in their classrooms, huddled under desks or in closets and bathroom stalls.
Since then: a clinic, a church, a college campus. I expect to feel devastated. I expect to feel angry. But this time I feel something else: fear. A movie theater, a library, a salon. This can happen anywhere, I think. This can happen to my child.
The next day, I'm scrolling through my newsfeed, reading Donald Trump's contemptuous words in despair. "Radical Islamic terrorists are pouring into our country," he says. "Threatening not only our society but our entire way of life."
In other words: We should be afraid. We should live in fear. Donald Trump's campaign depends on it, feeds off it, like the dementors in the Harry Potter books who breed in its wake.
"Dark times lie ahead of us," said Dumbledore, "and there will be a time when we have to choose between what is easy and what is right."
In Time magazine after September 11, Nancy Gibbs wrote something I've never forgotten: "Do we now panic, or will we be brave?"
It's easy to panic. Close the borders. Keep them out (whoever "they" are). Build a wall. But I can't build a wall around our neighborhood, our playground, our school. I keep thinking about the concept of tikkun olam, the idea that we bear responsibility as God's partners to repair the broken world. When the world is shattered, where do we begin? Not with ugly rhetoric and threats. "We're on this earth for such a short time," said that mother in Orlando. "Let's try to get rid of the hatred and violence."
Like any mother of a 3-year-old, I talk with Eli a lot about choices. Make good choices, I tell him. What I mean is to choose to keep his hands to himself, to keep his voice calm, to use his listening ears.
But today I also want to tell him: Choose hope over fear. Choose kindness over bigotry and xenophobia and hatred. Choose to be brave.
I think of what I know about elephants, that mothers and calves stay together in lifelong family groups, that they have been known to tend to and grieve their fallen relatives, that a mother elephant probably would search in anguish for her lost baby.
It is the day of the worst mass shooting in American history, and even as I pick up my own plastic elephant trunk I'm thinking about another mother, the one I saw on the news outside the nightclub in Orlando, searching for her baby.
"I've been so proud of him," she said, the pride in her eyes even as her heart was breaking.
We have been here before. In San Bernardino, Aurora, Newtown. The first time I ever truly felt like a mother, the first time the full weight of motherhood seemed to settle itself around me, it was 2012 and I had just heard about the gunman at Sandy Hook. I looked back and forth from the television to my baby in his jumperoo, imagining him among the children in their classrooms, huddled under desks or in closets and bathroom stalls.
Since then: a clinic, a church, a college campus. I expect to feel devastated. I expect to feel angry. But this time I feel something else: fear. A movie theater, a library, a salon. This can happen anywhere, I think. This can happen to my child.
The next day, I'm scrolling through my newsfeed, reading Donald Trump's contemptuous words in despair. "Radical Islamic terrorists are pouring into our country," he says. "Threatening not only our society but our entire way of life."
In other words: We should be afraid. We should live in fear. Donald Trump's campaign depends on it, feeds off it, like the dementors in the Harry Potter books who breed in its wake.
"Dark times lie ahead of us," said Dumbledore, "and there will be a time when we have to choose between what is easy and what is right."
In Time magazine after September 11, Nancy Gibbs wrote something I've never forgotten: "Do we now panic, or will we be brave?"
It's easy to panic. Close the borders. Keep them out (whoever "they" are). Build a wall. But I can't build a wall around our neighborhood, our playground, our school. I keep thinking about the concept of tikkun olam, the idea that we bear responsibility as God's partners to repair the broken world. When the world is shattered, where do we begin? Not with ugly rhetoric and threats. "We're on this earth for such a short time," said that mother in Orlando. "Let's try to get rid of the hatred and violence."
Like any mother of a 3-year-old, I talk with Eli a lot about choices. Make good choices, I tell him. What I mean is to choose to keep his hands to himself, to keep his voice calm, to use his listening ears.
But today I also want to tell him: Choose hope over fear. Choose kindness over bigotry and xenophobia and hatred. Choose to be brave.
Friday, May 6, 2016
This is parenting
More often than I would like to admit, I miss the days before Eli was born. I miss when Phil could meet me after work and we'd go see a Broadway show with cheap tickets I'd gotten through TDF. I miss taking long walks with Ellie to the dog park after dark. And perhaps more than anything I miss waking up when I decided I wanted to wake up, not because a baby was crying or a toddler was whining in my ear.
This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you that even though I miss these things, every time I look at my boy's sweet face or hear his delicious laughter or snuggle with his cuddly body it's all worth it. That everything before his birth was just a prelude. That my life now finally has meaning.
But I'm not going to tell you that. I mean, yes, I love looking at my boy's sweet face and hearing his delicious laughter and snuggling with his cuddly body. But that doesn't mean there isn't also a part of me — a secret, shameful, selfish part — that misses the time when my life was a little less magical but a lot less maddening.
Whenever I have these thoughts — usually when my ability to do something like get out the door of my own house is being held hostage by the emotional whims of my 3-year-old — I feel tremendously guilty. I know there are probably people who never have this problem, who are lucky enough to handle the whims of parenting with grace and good humor. And I know how many people wish they had this problem — I know, because I used to be one of them. I know I'm supposed to cherish every moment. I know it all goes so fast.
But I own these feelings — these flashes of resentment, these jolts of longing to be responsible for just myself and no one else — and I'm determined to be honest about them. Because when you admit your most secret, shameful, selfish feelings, those better angels of your nature rise up to seize you at the most unexpected times. Last night I got home late from a dinner with my besties with a belly full of cupcakes and cocktails, a night I could have had 5 or 10 or even 15 years ago (well, minus the cocktails). I tiptoed into Eli's room and there was my boy, all twisted up in his blanket with his feet sticking out at the bottom, his head wedged just below his Lightning McQueen pillow, his mouth slack against his blankie. I took the blanket and gingerly pulled it down over his bare feet, and all of a sudden there it was, the raw fierce love I almost didn't believe I was capable of.
Last week, I was at the playground with Eli when he suddenly announced he had to poop "right away!" Naturally, the bathrooms were locked. I happened to have a stroller with me, so I threw him in it and went flying down the block towards our house as Eli observed, "Mom, I never saw you run so fast!" Halfway there he casually said, "Mom, I just farted. I don't have to poop!"
Instead of trusting my gut, which says if your child announces he has to poop, believe him, I took him back to the playground, where five minutes later he hopped behind the fence, spreadeagled his legs next to a tree and fully exposed himself in front of a large audience of horrified grade-schoolers. "I have to poop," he explained.
I was embarrassed and sweaty and miserable. This is parenting, I thought.
A few nights later Phil decided that we should break Passover with not just the pizza I had been craving but with a full-on pizza party. He brought out funny hats and turned on the Disney Junior radio station. We jammed in our seats at the table in our funny hats and Eli beamed up at me as he munched on his pizza, his face incandescent with happiness.
This is parenting too.
On my new fave reality show, Bravo's There Goes the Motherhood, one of the moms had this to say about parenthood: "Parenthood is like the ocean. It's inviting to some, it's terrifying to others, and the minute you turn your back on it, it'll suck you right under."
But sometimes it's not such a bad thing to get sucked under. Because sometimes when you come back up, you learn how to float.
This is the part where I'm supposed to tell you that even though I miss these things, every time I look at my boy's sweet face or hear his delicious laughter or snuggle with his cuddly body it's all worth it. That everything before his birth was just a prelude. That my life now finally has meaning.
But I'm not going to tell you that. I mean, yes, I love looking at my boy's sweet face and hearing his delicious laughter and snuggling with his cuddly body. But that doesn't mean there isn't also a part of me — a secret, shameful, selfish part — that misses the time when my life was a little less magical but a lot less maddening.
Whenever I have these thoughts — usually when my ability to do something like get out the door of my own house is being held hostage by the emotional whims of my 3-year-old — I feel tremendously guilty. I know there are probably people who never have this problem, who are lucky enough to handle the whims of parenting with grace and good humor. And I know how many people wish they had this problem — I know, because I used to be one of them. I know I'm supposed to cherish every moment. I know it all goes so fast.
But I own these feelings — these flashes of resentment, these jolts of longing to be responsible for just myself and no one else — and I'm determined to be honest about them. Because when you admit your most secret, shameful, selfish feelings, those better angels of your nature rise up to seize you at the most unexpected times. Last night I got home late from a dinner with my besties with a belly full of cupcakes and cocktails, a night I could have had 5 or 10 or even 15 years ago (well, minus the cocktails). I tiptoed into Eli's room and there was my boy, all twisted up in his blanket with his feet sticking out at the bottom, his head wedged just below his Lightning McQueen pillow, his mouth slack against his blankie. I took the blanket and gingerly pulled it down over his bare feet, and all of a sudden there it was, the raw fierce love I almost didn't believe I was capable of.
Last week, I was at the playground with Eli when he suddenly announced he had to poop "right away!" Naturally, the bathrooms were locked. I happened to have a stroller with me, so I threw him in it and went flying down the block towards our house as Eli observed, "Mom, I never saw you run so fast!" Halfway there he casually said, "Mom, I just farted. I don't have to poop!"
Instead of trusting my gut, which says if your child announces he has to poop, believe him, I took him back to the playground, where five minutes later he hopped behind the fence, spreadeagled his legs next to a tree and fully exposed himself in front of a large audience of horrified grade-schoolers. "I have to poop," he explained.
I was embarrassed and sweaty and miserable. This is parenting, I thought.
A few nights later Phil decided that we should break Passover with not just the pizza I had been craving but with a full-on pizza party. He brought out funny hats and turned on the Disney Junior radio station. We jammed in our seats at the table in our funny hats and Eli beamed up at me as he munched on his pizza, his face incandescent with happiness.
This is parenting too.
On my new fave reality show, Bravo's There Goes the Motherhood, one of the moms had this to say about parenthood: "Parenthood is like the ocean. It's inviting to some, it's terrifying to others, and the minute you turn your back on it, it'll suck you right under."
But sometimes it's not such a bad thing to get sucked under. Because sometimes when you come back up, you learn how to float.
Tuesday, April 19, 2016
Growing in both directions
The other day, a video popped up in my Timehop — the app that shows you pictures you took on the same day in past years. It was a video of Eli at about 19 months old eating a particularly gooey piece of Passover cake at our Seder. Chocolate was smeared all over his face and hands. As everyone watched, he experimentally opened and closed his fists. His chocolate hands made a suction sound. He smiled broadly, said "Uh-oh" and then clapped his hands while we all laughed.
Watching the video made me smile, but it also made me think about what would happen if Eli did that at the dinner table today. I'd probably be horrified and annoyed. I'd rush to clean up the mess that Eli should have known better than to make. Eli would probably end up ashamed and crying.
Like most 3-year-olds, Eli has placed himself firmly in the camp of Big Kid. He can "Do It Himself." He "Does Not Need Your Help." He "Knows That Already." Last weekend, we were at a bar mitzvah where during the cocktail hour where Eli decided he was definitely, absolutely hanging out with the crowd of 12- and 13-year-olds and not with Mommy and Daddy. He made his position definitive by giving us the classic You're Embarrassing Me face and saying things like, "Mom, don't stand near me!" and "Dad, stop following me!" (These are direct quotes. Phil is "Daddy" when it's 5 a.m. and Eli wants Daddy to come into his room and play with him, but "Dad" in front of Eli's 13-year-old friends.) This past weekend, we were at Coney Island and Eli was so insistent that he was going on all the rides By Himself that he didn't even want me to follow him up to the gate to hand the ticket to the operator. "Don't follow me!" he kept saying. "I'm going by myself!"
So, at Eli's insistence, I have been thinking of him as a Big Kid too. Months ago, I discovered sort of by accident that Eli could dress himself. Up until that point I had been wrangling him into his clothes every morning while he was distracted by Chuggington on TV. But one day while we were in a hurry I jokingly said, "I'm going to get dressed, you get dressed too!" and then he turned up completely clothed, down to the socks.
Now, my expectation is that Eli dresses himself every morning. But it's never that simple. Some mornings he is "racing" Phil to get dressed and it takes twice as long because he pauses frequently to make sure that Phil hasn't "won" yet. ("Daddy, are your socks on yet?!") Some mornings he's goofy, pretending to put his pants on his head or his socks on his hands. Some mornings he claims to have "forgotten" how clothing works ("It's too hard! I can't do it! I don't know how!") and in frustration throws his "kid" all over the floor. (The first morning I laid out Eli's outfit for him, he laughed and said, "Mom, you made me a kid!" So now instead of telling him to get dressed we tell him, "Go put your kid on.")
Now, I have a master's degree in child development, and I should know that preschoolers don't always develop in a reasonable, linear fashion. Just because Eli can dress himself one day doesn't mean he doesn't genuinely need some help the next.
But I see getting dressed as a logical step in the natural progression of things: You are not wearing any pants because you took them off at some point during the night (don't even get me started on that) and you just took off your underwear to pee, therefore you should go put on some fresh new underwear and maybe some jeans while you're at it. But Eli doesn't see it that way: I am about to construct the world's most epic castle out of magnatiles and if I detour to my bedroom to get dressed it will ruin my vision! Nakedness forever!
Then last week I spoke with an amazing pre-K teacher who works in a Reggio-inspired school where they don't follow a formal curriculum and it's all about following the children's leads and nurturing their interests. She felt really strongly that a lot of what we expect prekindergarteners — and students in general — to do in school is developmentally inappropriate.
"I don't expect my students to raise their hands before they speak. Do you have to raise your hand before you speak?" she said. "When you hold a baby, they're going to grab your nose and pull your hair. Is a 4-year-old going to do that? No, because a 4-year-old has gotten that out of his system. So why should we expect a 4-year-old to sit perfectly still at the meeting area 'criss-cross applesauce'? Just because they're going to do it later in school doesn't mean they have to start doing it now."
As she talked about her 4-year-old students I was thinking about my 3-year-old, about how I'm already afraid that school will be hard for him if he hasn't learned to stay still or listen quietly or sit criss-cross applesauce at the meeting area. I told her that sometimes when I'm reading Eli a bedtime story at night and he wants to say something, he'll actually raise his hand.
I'm not sure when my expectations for Eli shifted, when I decided it would no longer be OK for him to play with his chocolate cake or goof around while getting dressed. I'm not sure when I decided that he needed to be prepared for kindergarten, let alone prepared now.
But talking to this teacher made me realize one of the great ironies of parenthood: Just recently, I was so amazed and proud that Eli could get dressed all by himself; now, only a few short months later, I'm supremely irritated that he won't do it.
So if there's one thing I want to keep in mind these days as Eli careens toward 4, it's this: Eli, you're a big kid, and someday you'll be even bigger. But you don't have to start right now. Sometimes it's still OK to play with your chocolate before you eat it, to lay boneless on the bed while your mom stuffs your socks on your feet, and most importantly to sing the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song at the top of your lungs while you ride your scooter like Evil Knievel down the sidewalk. I love you when you act like you're 13. But I love you when you act like you're 3, too.
Watching the video made me smile, but it also made me think about what would happen if Eli did that at the dinner table today. I'd probably be horrified and annoyed. I'd rush to clean up the mess that Eli should have known better than to make. Eli would probably end up ashamed and crying.
Like most 3-year-olds, Eli has placed himself firmly in the camp of Big Kid. He can "Do It Himself." He "Does Not Need Your Help." He "Knows That Already." Last weekend, we were at a bar mitzvah where during the cocktail hour where Eli decided he was definitely, absolutely hanging out with the crowd of 12- and 13-year-olds and not with Mommy and Daddy. He made his position definitive by giving us the classic You're Embarrassing Me face and saying things like, "Mom, don't stand near me!" and "Dad, stop following me!" (These are direct quotes. Phil is "Daddy" when it's 5 a.m. and Eli wants Daddy to come into his room and play with him, but "Dad" in front of Eli's 13-year-old friends.) This past weekend, we were at Coney Island and Eli was so insistent that he was going on all the rides By Himself that he didn't even want me to follow him up to the gate to hand the ticket to the operator. "Don't follow me!" he kept saying. "I'm going by myself!"
So, at Eli's insistence, I have been thinking of him as a Big Kid too. Months ago, I discovered sort of by accident that Eli could dress himself. Up until that point I had been wrangling him into his clothes every morning while he was distracted by Chuggington on TV. But one day while we were in a hurry I jokingly said, "I'm going to get dressed, you get dressed too!" and then he turned up completely clothed, down to the socks.
Now, my expectation is that Eli dresses himself every morning. But it's never that simple. Some mornings he is "racing" Phil to get dressed and it takes twice as long because he pauses frequently to make sure that Phil hasn't "won" yet. ("Daddy, are your socks on yet?!") Some mornings he's goofy, pretending to put his pants on his head or his socks on his hands. Some mornings he claims to have "forgotten" how clothing works ("It's too hard! I can't do it! I don't know how!") and in frustration throws his "kid" all over the floor. (The first morning I laid out Eli's outfit for him, he laughed and said, "Mom, you made me a kid!" So now instead of telling him to get dressed we tell him, "Go put your kid on.")
Now, I have a master's degree in child development, and I should know that preschoolers don't always develop in a reasonable, linear fashion. Just because Eli can dress himself one day doesn't mean he doesn't genuinely need some help the next.
But I see getting dressed as a logical step in the natural progression of things: You are not wearing any pants because you took them off at some point during the night (don't even get me started on that) and you just took off your underwear to pee, therefore you should go put on some fresh new underwear and maybe some jeans while you're at it. But Eli doesn't see it that way: I am about to construct the world's most epic castle out of magnatiles and if I detour to my bedroom to get dressed it will ruin my vision! Nakedness forever!
Then last week I spoke with an amazing pre-K teacher who works in a Reggio-inspired school where they don't follow a formal curriculum and it's all about following the children's leads and nurturing their interests. She felt really strongly that a lot of what we expect prekindergarteners — and students in general — to do in school is developmentally inappropriate.
"I don't expect my students to raise their hands before they speak. Do you have to raise your hand before you speak?" she said. "When you hold a baby, they're going to grab your nose and pull your hair. Is a 4-year-old going to do that? No, because a 4-year-old has gotten that out of his system. So why should we expect a 4-year-old to sit perfectly still at the meeting area 'criss-cross applesauce'? Just because they're going to do it later in school doesn't mean they have to start doing it now."
As she talked about her 4-year-old students I was thinking about my 3-year-old, about how I'm already afraid that school will be hard for him if he hasn't learned to stay still or listen quietly or sit criss-cross applesauce at the meeting area. I told her that sometimes when I'm reading Eli a bedtime story at night and he wants to say something, he'll actually raise his hand.
I'm not sure when my expectations for Eli shifted, when I decided it would no longer be OK for him to play with his chocolate cake or goof around while getting dressed. I'm not sure when I decided that he needed to be prepared for kindergarten, let alone prepared now.
But talking to this teacher made me realize one of the great ironies of parenthood: Just recently, I was so amazed and proud that Eli could get dressed all by himself; now, only a few short months later, I'm supremely irritated that he won't do it.
So if there's one thing I want to keep in mind these days as Eli careens toward 4, it's this: Eli, you're a big kid, and someday you'll be even bigger. But you don't have to start right now. Sometimes it's still OK to play with your chocolate before you eat it, to lay boneless on the bed while your mom stuffs your socks on your feet, and most importantly to sing the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme song at the top of your lungs while you ride your scooter like Evil Knievel down the sidewalk. I love you when you act like you're 13. But I love you when you act like you're 3, too.
Monday, April 4, 2016
In defense of work
Phil is an engineer with Metro-North Railroad, and Eli is a 3.5-year-old boy who loves trains, so at our house we talk a lot about how Daddy works on the trains. A few weeks ago it occurred to me that I had no idea if Eli knew what I do at work all day, so I told him.
He rolled his eyes at me like he was 13 instead of 3. "I know you're a writer," he grumbled.
I got a little thrill when I heard him say it, because I don't often give my job description as "writer." It sounds vaguely pretentious, for one — remember how Carrie Bradshaw used to flutter her eyelashes a little when she said it, like she knew writing a sex column for the fictional New York Star wasn't quiiiiite the same thing as writing for the Times? I write for the New York Teacher, so...they're both NYT, right?
But it's a little bit hard to explain to Eli the other things I do: "maintain the website," "send email and text messages," "stop and chat with colleagues on the way to the bathroom." So "writer" seemed like a safe bet.
Every evening I try my hardest to pump Eli for information on his day at school, and every evening his patience for my questions is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I try open-ended questions — "What's the funniest thing that happened at school today?" and basic ones — "Who'd you sit next to at lunch?" Still every nugget I do get seems like the Holy Grail. (To date the most extensive story Eli has ever told about his new school was about the time that Courtney bit Evie's sleeve and "they are not best friends anymore.")
The other night, to my surprise, Eli asked me for the very first time about my day at work. As it happened, I'd had a bit of an exciting day because this guy stopped by:
(I did not stay after to get a selfie like some of my coworkers evidently did. Darn it.)
Eli somehow knows that Barack Obama is the current president, so I told him that a former president had come to work and I had gone to see him. (His response to this was, "But I didn't see him because I was in your belly," which I think means that he thinks Clinton was president when he was still in utero, which made me feel sort of old because at this point it sort of feels like Clinton was president when I was still in utero.)
Then he asked if I get to eat lunch at work (yes) and if I get to sleep (no, but sometimes I wish I could). "But you have to sleep because you'll be tired if you go to the late-stay room!" he insisted. "At work," I sighed, "everyone goes to the late-stay room."
This conversation made me realize a couple of things. First of all, as much as I'm interrogating Eli for information about his day, I should be encouraging him to ask me about my day, too. (#AskHerMore!) I could be telling him, "Today at work I was writing about a school I visited in Chinatown," or "Today at work someone shared cookies with me and made me very happy." (Except then he'd probably ask where his cookies are.)
Second of all, like any working parent I have a complex relationship with my job. (And I won't really get into all the working mom guilt now because I've written about it before.) But when I was talking to Eli last night I felt something I'd never felt before when discussing my job with him: I felt proud.
I'm proud of the work I do. This week my story about the theater teacher who inspired one of the stars of Hamilton was the cover story in the New York Teacher. I put together a campaign calling on Senate Republicans to do their jobs and hold hearings on Merrick Garland for the Supreme Court. (File under things I'd never thought would be in my job description: Writing mean tweets directed at the Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee. Yes, I did make that graphic myself, thank you very much.)
I don't always like my job, but I do like having a job — and that's the part that sometimes feels like I'm supposed to keep it a secret, like any real mom is supposed to prefer to be home with her kid. I like wearing business casual clothing and tasteful jewelry that no one is going to yank off. (Unless I get mugged/slashed on the subway. Har har.) I like going to the coffeemaker in the morning and logging into my computer and checking things off my Outlook task list. I especially like visiting schools all over New York City and getting to write about the amazing, dedicated, innovative educators we have in our public schools.
(I also like having a wall in my office on which to hang all my race bibs. But I digress.)
I do not love commuting for two hours every day. I do not love racing out of the office at 6 p.m. only to get home and rush Eli off to bed the second I walk through the door, most nights without even changing out of my tasteful work outfit first. And sometimes I feel a little twinge when Eli occasionally by accident calls me "Miss Erica" instead of "Mommy." (I take comfort in the fact that this probably means he spends 75% of his day at school going, "Miss Erica! Miss Erica! Miss Erica!")
I have never missed a class party. Or a parent-teacher conference. When Eli is sick, Phil and I usually split the day so that both of us get to make appearances at our offices and one of us is always home with Eli.
I know that motherhood is about choices. I know that stay-at-home moms get as much grief as working moms do and we should all stop shaming each other and end the mommy wars, blah blah blah. I know that no one out there is actually judging me for working (...is there?) But I've been thinking about this a lot lately — in fact, it's one of the reasons I haven't posted in a few months. (The other reason is I got really heavily back into reading fanfiction after the X-Files reboot. No, I'm just kidding. Mostly.) There's this vibe out there sometimes that if you're doing anything that takes any time away from the time you spend with your kids, it has to be monumentally important or lifesaving or empowering and sometimes my work just isn't. (Mean tweets notwithstanding.) I don't necessarily have occasion to gush about work (although I guess no one really does, unless you're Lin-Manuel Miranda and everyone wants to interview you because you're a goddamn wizard genius), and it can sometimes feel like unless you are Loving Every Moment of your job you should quit because YOLO. But the other day in my Timehop/Facebook Memories there was a status update from six years ago (when I was a teacher) that read: "Rachel hopes someday she'll have a job where she won't get called a stuck-up bitch. By a 10-year-old." So by that standard...I've already won.
When Eli started his new school a few weeks ago, I worried about the adjustment period. His old school was a traditional daycare, where most of the kids were in class together until the bitter end. His new school is more of a school with after-care (or "late stay" as he calls it), and only one other kid in his class stays late. I worried that Eli would feel sad at 3:45 when all the other kids were picked up by their parents to go home and he had to go across the hall to the "late-stay room."
Then I swiftly came up with a parenting move I'm still patting myself on the back for. I told him this: "At the end of the day, all the other kids are going to have to go home. But you get to stay and play more."
His eyes lit up. He actually clapped his hands with excitement. "I get to stay and play more!" he laughed. It made him feel special. It made him feel proud.
The truth is, as working parents we can come up with all kinds of reasons to feel guilty about the effect it has on our kids. But I have always made every conscious effort not to frame it as a negative, not to say "I have to go to work," not to apologize for somehow abandoning him. Going to work, going to school, even going to the late-stay room are just things we do in our family, because they are important. We are important.
Of course, this is easy for me to say now when I've had a good week, when I'm lucky enough to have a job with good benefits, when our family situation allows me to work outside my home. But it's something that's important for me to remember. I have a regular, full-time, outside-of-the-house job, and I refuse to feel guilty about it anymore.
He rolled his eyes at me like he was 13 instead of 3. "I know you're a writer," he grumbled.
I got a little thrill when I heard him say it, because I don't often give my job description as "writer." It sounds vaguely pretentious, for one — remember how Carrie Bradshaw used to flutter her eyelashes a little when she said it, like she knew writing a sex column for the fictional New York Star wasn't quiiiiite the same thing as writing for the Times? I write for the New York Teacher, so...they're both NYT, right?
But it's a little bit hard to explain to Eli the other things I do: "maintain the website," "send email and text messages," "stop and chat with colleagues on the way to the bathroom." So "writer" seemed like a safe bet.
Every evening I try my hardest to pump Eli for information on his day at school, and every evening his patience for my questions is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I try open-ended questions — "What's the funniest thing that happened at school today?" and basic ones — "Who'd you sit next to at lunch?" Still every nugget I do get seems like the Holy Grail. (To date the most extensive story Eli has ever told about his new school was about the time that Courtney bit Evie's sleeve and "they are not best friends anymore.")
The other night, to my surprise, Eli asked me for the very first time about my day at work. As it happened, I'd had a bit of an exciting day because this guy stopped by:
Eli somehow knows that Barack Obama is the current president, so I told him that a former president had come to work and I had gone to see him. (His response to this was, "But I didn't see him because I was in your belly," which I think means that he thinks Clinton was president when he was still in utero, which made me feel sort of old because at this point it sort of feels like Clinton was president when I was still in utero.)
Then he asked if I get to eat lunch at work (yes) and if I get to sleep (no, but sometimes I wish I could). "But you have to sleep because you'll be tired if you go to the late-stay room!" he insisted. "At work," I sighed, "everyone goes to the late-stay room."
This conversation made me realize a couple of things. First of all, as much as I'm interrogating Eli for information about his day, I should be encouraging him to ask me about my day, too. (#AskHerMore!) I could be telling him, "Today at work I was writing about a school I visited in Chinatown," or "Today at work someone shared cookies with me and made me very happy." (Except then he'd probably ask where his cookies are.)
Second of all, like any working parent I have a complex relationship with my job. (And I won't really get into all the working mom guilt now because I've written about it before.) But when I was talking to Eli last night I felt something I'd never felt before when discussing my job with him: I felt proud.
I'm proud of the work I do. This week my story about the theater teacher who inspired one of the stars of Hamilton was the cover story in the New York Teacher. I put together a campaign calling on Senate Republicans to do their jobs and hold hearings on Merrick Garland for the Supreme Court. (File under things I'd never thought would be in my job description: Writing mean tweets directed at the Republicans on the Senate Judiciary Committee. Yes, I did make that graphic myself, thank you very much.)
I don't always like my job, but I do like having a job — and that's the part that sometimes feels like I'm supposed to keep it a secret, like any real mom is supposed to prefer to be home with her kid. I like wearing business casual clothing and tasteful jewelry that no one is going to yank off. (Unless I get mugged/slashed on the subway. Har har.) I like going to the coffeemaker in the morning and logging into my computer and checking things off my Outlook task list. I especially like visiting schools all over New York City and getting to write about the amazing, dedicated, innovative educators we have in our public schools.
(I also like having a wall in my office on which to hang all my race bibs. But I digress.)
I do not love commuting for two hours every day. I do not love racing out of the office at 6 p.m. only to get home and rush Eli off to bed the second I walk through the door, most nights without even changing out of my tasteful work outfit first. And sometimes I feel a little twinge when Eli occasionally by accident calls me "Miss Erica" instead of "Mommy." (I take comfort in the fact that this probably means he spends 75% of his day at school going, "Miss Erica! Miss Erica! Miss Erica!")
I have never missed a class party. Or a parent-teacher conference. When Eli is sick, Phil and I usually split the day so that both of us get to make appearances at our offices and one of us is always home with Eli.
I know that motherhood is about choices. I know that stay-at-home moms get as much grief as working moms do and we should all stop shaming each other and end the mommy wars, blah blah blah. I know that no one out there is actually judging me for working (...is there?) But I've been thinking about this a lot lately — in fact, it's one of the reasons I haven't posted in a few months. (The other reason is I got really heavily back into reading fanfiction after the X-Files reboot. No, I'm just kidding. Mostly.) There's this vibe out there sometimes that if you're doing anything that takes any time away from the time you spend with your kids, it has to be monumentally important or lifesaving or empowering and sometimes my work just isn't. (Mean tweets notwithstanding.) I don't necessarily have occasion to gush about work (although I guess no one really does, unless you're Lin-Manuel Miranda and everyone wants to interview you because you're a goddamn wizard genius), and it can sometimes feel like unless you are Loving Every Moment of your job you should quit because YOLO. But the other day in my Timehop/Facebook Memories there was a status update from six years ago (when I was a teacher) that read: "Rachel hopes someday she'll have a job where she won't get called a stuck-up bitch. By a 10-year-old." So by that standard...I've already won.
When Eli started his new school a few weeks ago, I worried about the adjustment period. His old school was a traditional daycare, where most of the kids were in class together until the bitter end. His new school is more of a school with after-care (or "late stay" as he calls it), and only one other kid in his class stays late. I worried that Eli would feel sad at 3:45 when all the other kids were picked up by their parents to go home and he had to go across the hall to the "late-stay room."
Then I swiftly came up with a parenting move I'm still patting myself on the back for. I told him this: "At the end of the day, all the other kids are going to have to go home. But you get to stay and play more."
His eyes lit up. He actually clapped his hands with excitement. "I get to stay and play more!" he laughed. It made him feel special. It made him feel proud.
The truth is, as working parents we can come up with all kinds of reasons to feel guilty about the effect it has on our kids. But I have always made every conscious effort not to frame it as a negative, not to say "I have to go to work," not to apologize for somehow abandoning him. Going to work, going to school, even going to the late-stay room are just things we do in our family, because they are important. We are important.
Of course, this is easy for me to say now when I've had a good week, when I'm lucky enough to have a job with good benefits, when our family situation allows me to work outside my home. But it's something that's important for me to remember. I have a regular, full-time, outside-of-the-house job, and I refuse to feel guilty about it anymore.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Mr. Bear rides again
At 3.5, Eli owns every toy train from the Disney Junior show Chuggington, the entire collection of the Shalom Sesame series on DVD and about 200 MagnaTiles.
But he has never owned a teddy bear.
Last week, we borrowed Ira Sleeps Over from the library. I was very eager to share it with Eli. (He took one look at it and commented, "At the JCCA they have that book!" So jaded.)
If you're not familiar with it, Ira Sleeps Over is a classic children's book about a kid who's excited to sleep over at his best friend's house until his sister asks if he's planning to take his teddy bear. Much consternation ensues: Should he bring the teddy bear? Should he leave the teddy bear home? What if Reggie laughs at him?
After we read it I began to tell Eli about my childhood teddy bear, Mr. Bear. Mr. Bear is a medium-sized brown bear with a dapper red bowtie who now lives on my dresser.
That night Eli asked if he could sleep with Mr. Bear. "I love Mr. Bear," he said longingly. "Mr. Bear is my best friend."
Now, Mr. Bear is my longest-running relationship: 30+ years and counting. I had visions of Mr. Bear being torn limb from limb while roughhousing with Eli, or of his debonair bowtie being ripped from his fur.
"Haven't you ever seen Toy Story 3?" Phil said. "Mr. Bear has been waiting for years for someone to play with him again."
This morning I came into Eli's room and Mr. Bear was sitting on Eli's chair on top of a book. "Look!" Eli said. "Mr. Bear is reading that book! That's so cute."
He picked up Mr. Bear and lovingly laid him on the bed. "Time for you to go to bed, Mr. Bear. I'll tuck you in now." He gently covered Mr. Bear with his beloved soft blankie. Then he gave Mr. Bear a kiss on the head.
"Shhh, turn off the lights," he said in a stage whisper. "Mr. Bear is sleeping."
I didn't mind that it was 5:40 a.m. and I wished I was still sleeping myself. I was just happy Mr. Bear had a child to love him again.
* * *
Shortly after we put Mr. Bear to sleep I took Eli for a run in his jogging stroller, something we've done together a few times a week since he was 5 months old.
It was still dark when we set out, and the moon was a half-circle above us in the chilly air. "Look, the moon is following us," I said to Eli.
"The moon is racing us," he said exuberantly as he munched on his bagel (a running tradition). "Mom, start your engine!"
I made a vrooming sound as I puffed along.
"Moon, start your engine!" Eli called up to the sky. He hunched forward. "Ready...steady...GO! Mom, you need to go really fast!"
I flew down Metropolitan Avenue, where Eli always complains that the cars are going faster than we are because I run too slowly.
Somewhere along Yellowstone, we lost the moon behind the buildings. Daylight emerged. We saw some cherry blossom trees, to Eli's delight.
"It's spring!" he said happily. When we turned onto Austin Street, we saw the moon in the sky again, paler now in the daylight. And we followed the moon all the way home, where Phil and Ellie were just coming out for a walk.
"Dad, did you wake up Mr. Bear?" Eli asked. Phil assured us that he had not.
Sure enough, when we got back upstairs, Mr. Bear was still fast asleep under Eli's blankie. I hope he was dreaming the contented dreams of a bear who has a little boy to love him.
But he has never owned a teddy bear.
Last week, we borrowed Ira Sleeps Over from the library. I was very eager to share it with Eli. (He took one look at it and commented, "At the JCCA they have that book!" So jaded.)
If you're not familiar with it, Ira Sleeps Over is a classic children's book about a kid who's excited to sleep over at his best friend's house until his sister asks if he's planning to take his teddy bear. Much consternation ensues: Should he bring the teddy bear? Should he leave the teddy bear home? What if Reggie laughs at him?
After we read it I began to tell Eli about my childhood teddy bear, Mr. Bear. Mr. Bear is a medium-sized brown bear with a dapper red bowtie who now lives on my dresser.
That night Eli asked if he could sleep with Mr. Bear. "I love Mr. Bear," he said longingly. "Mr. Bear is my best friend."
Now, Mr. Bear is my longest-running relationship: 30+ years and counting. I had visions of Mr. Bear being torn limb from limb while roughhousing with Eli, or of his debonair bowtie being ripped from his fur.
"Haven't you ever seen Toy Story 3?" Phil said. "Mr. Bear has been waiting for years for someone to play with him again."
This morning I came into Eli's room and Mr. Bear was sitting on Eli's chair on top of a book. "Look!" Eli said. "Mr. Bear is reading that book! That's so cute."
He picked up Mr. Bear and lovingly laid him on the bed. "Time for you to go to bed, Mr. Bear. I'll tuck you in now." He gently covered Mr. Bear with his beloved soft blankie. Then he gave Mr. Bear a kiss on the head.
"Shhh, turn off the lights," he said in a stage whisper. "Mr. Bear is sleeping."
I didn't mind that it was 5:40 a.m. and I wished I was still sleeping myself. I was just happy Mr. Bear had a child to love him again.
* * *
Shortly after we put Mr. Bear to sleep I took Eli for a run in his jogging stroller, something we've done together a few times a week since he was 5 months old.
It was still dark when we set out, and the moon was a half-circle above us in the chilly air. "Look, the moon is following us," I said to Eli.
"The moon is racing us," he said exuberantly as he munched on his bagel (a running tradition). "Mom, start your engine!"
I made a vrooming sound as I puffed along.
"Moon, start your engine!" Eli called up to the sky. He hunched forward. "Ready...steady...GO! Mom, you need to go really fast!"
I flew down Metropolitan Avenue, where Eli always complains that the cars are going faster than we are because I run too slowly.
Somewhere along Yellowstone, we lost the moon behind the buildings. Daylight emerged. We saw some cherry blossom trees, to Eli's delight.
"It's spring!" he said happily. When we turned onto Austin Street, we saw the moon in the sky again, paler now in the daylight. And we followed the moon all the way home, where Phil and Ellie were just coming out for a walk.
"Dad, did you wake up Mr. Bear?" Eli asked. Phil assured us that he had not.
Sure enough, when we got back upstairs, Mr. Bear was still fast asleep under Eli's blankie. I hope he was dreaming the contented dreams of a bear who has a little boy to love him.
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Requiem for the pacifier
On one of the last nights of 2015, I put my 3-year-old to sleep with his pacifier for the last time.
I didn't know it then — isn't that the way it always is with lasts? We'd
been working up to it for weeks (or was it months? years?): dropping
subtle hints about how the pacifier might be infecting him with germs,
talking about when he'd feel ready to go without it, 'practicing' the
art of sleeping with no paci ("And then I'll tuck you in, just like
always," I'd say soothingly as he snuggled under his fleece blanket, pretending to be sleeping).
But we hadn't yet pulled the trigger: We hadn't yet called the Binky Fairy, or poked a hole in the tip, or pronounced it "lost," or taken it to Build-A-Bear to insert into the heart of a stuffed animal, or attached it to a balloon and launched it aloft, or hung it on a tree in Borough Park, or visited a friend's newborn to give it away, or done any of the hundred other things parents suggest you do when you're ready for your kid to give up his pacifier.
Because the truth is, I thought Eli wasn't yet ready to give it up. I knew how much it comforted him when he was sleepy, or sad. I knew he hadn't gone to sleep without it at night since he was literally 7 weeks old. If it were a blankie (he has one of those too), or a stuffed animal, I thought, I wouldn't try to take it away. How could I do it with this?
For Eli, the pacifier seemed like a drug, one he'd take a hit off to function properly at stressful times of the day. In the midst of a tantrum he'd run back to his room and pop it in his mouth, sucking at it contemplatively while he scrubbed the tears from his face with his blankie. (This is exactly as pitiful a sight as you're imagining.)
So, like a drug, the pacifier became something secret, a hidden shame. I tried to impose rules: The pacifier is only for sleeping. The pacifier is only for your bedroom. And maybe your carseat so you can chill out when I'm driving instead of screaming like a madman. The pacifier is only for use three times in a day when not sleeping, then you have to put it away. On and on.
I wasn't sentimental about switching Eli from a bottle to a cup, or from diapers to underwear (well, I guess no one is really sentimental about that one). But something told me I was hanging on to his pacifier as much for me as for him. It was the very last thing left that signaled "baby," literally the only constant that had been with us from birth. For three years I'd listened to the sound of that squishy sucking noise when Eli slept. I'd fished pacifiers out from under dusty beds and from under car floormats, from the crumby depths of my purse and the crevices of the stroller. I'd produced pacifiers in strange hotel rooms and in doctor's offices, on long car rides and on long runs, in the middle of crying fits and in the middle of the night.
On our last night in Lancaster over winter break Eli announced that he would be going to sleep without his pacifier. "I don't need it," he said. "Just my soft blankie." As we read books, sang songs and cuddled in his hotel bed I actually felt my heart hammering. Was this it? Was it really going to be this easy?
Then, as I headed for the door, Eli stopped me. "I want my paci," he whimpered in the dark.
Phil accused me of being soft for giving it to him. But was a hotel room in Pennsylvania really the best place to try a paci-free night for the first time?! Instead, when we got back home, we practiced. And then after several nights of simulations, Eli got sick. He was so tired and so congested that for two nights straight he drifted off to sleep without his pacifier — something he had literally never done before.
It was like a fever had been broken — the detox from the pacifier drug, if you will. And on the first night of the new year, he went to bed healthy, but without a pacifier, for the first time.
When you're a brand-new mom, you're so eager to keep track of all the exciting firsts: the first rollover, the first smile, the first steps, the first word. It's only later that you look back and realize you've missed all the lasts: the last time you swaddled him up in the Miracle Blanket, the last jar of puréed baby food, the last time you read "Where is Baby's Belly Button?" before he tore all the flaps off. As I reflected, a little numbly, about Eli's sudden departure from the land of pacifier addiction, I suddenly realized that without his beloved pacifier he might very well not ever take another nap in our apartment. At the thought of that I burst into tears like a cartoon character.
The next day, Eli decided it was time to "do my work," which somehow translated into moving his bed away from the wall and clearing out everything that had fallen behind it. In the rubble I was grimly entertained to see not one, not two, but FOUR pacifiers. I rushed to snatch them up before Eli could notice them and pop one back in his mouth, but Eli was too fast for me.
"Pacifiers!" he laughed. He gathered them up and deposited them into my hands. "Here, Mom," he said casually. "I'm not using my pacifier anymore."
It hasn't been entirely smooth sailing. The other day, in the midst of a morning meltdown, I heard Eli retreat to his bedroom and sob, "I want my paci," like he was realizing afresh the pain of saying goodbye.
Because even though he must know perfectly well where all those pacis have ended up (he's spotted them in the kitchen drawer), he hasn't asked for them back. Not once.
I don't think I'll miss the pacifier in our lives. What I will miss, though, is the sweetness it represented, the simple contentment of being able to bring peace and joy to my child with a teeny plastic bulb. It's no longer so easy to soothe his broken heart. But then again, growing up isn't easy, either.
 |
| Last known pacifier photo: Dec. 27, 2015 |
But we hadn't yet pulled the trigger: We hadn't yet called the Binky Fairy, or poked a hole in the tip, or pronounced it "lost," or taken it to Build-A-Bear to insert into the heart of a stuffed animal, or attached it to a balloon and launched it aloft, or hung it on a tree in Borough Park, or visited a friend's newborn to give it away, or done any of the hundred other things parents suggest you do when you're ready for your kid to give up his pacifier.
Because the truth is, I thought Eli wasn't yet ready to give it up. I knew how much it comforted him when he was sleepy, or sad. I knew he hadn't gone to sleep without it at night since he was literally 7 weeks old. If it were a blankie (he has one of those too), or a stuffed animal, I thought, I wouldn't try to take it away. How could I do it with this?
For Eli, the pacifier seemed like a drug, one he'd take a hit off to function properly at stressful times of the day. In the midst of a tantrum he'd run back to his room and pop it in his mouth, sucking at it contemplatively while he scrubbed the tears from his face with his blankie. (This is exactly as pitiful a sight as you're imagining.)
So, like a drug, the pacifier became something secret, a hidden shame. I tried to impose rules: The pacifier is only for sleeping. The pacifier is only for your bedroom. And maybe your carseat so you can chill out when I'm driving instead of screaming like a madman. The pacifier is only for use three times in a day when not sleeping, then you have to put it away. On and on.
I wasn't sentimental about switching Eli from a bottle to a cup, or from diapers to underwear (well, I guess no one is really sentimental about that one). But something told me I was hanging on to his pacifier as much for me as for him. It was the very last thing left that signaled "baby," literally the only constant that had been with us from birth. For three years I'd listened to the sound of that squishy sucking noise when Eli slept. I'd fished pacifiers out from under dusty beds and from under car floormats, from the crumby depths of my purse and the crevices of the stroller. I'd produced pacifiers in strange hotel rooms and in doctor's offices, on long car rides and on long runs, in the middle of crying fits and in the middle of the night.
On our last night in Lancaster over winter break Eli announced that he would be going to sleep without his pacifier. "I don't need it," he said. "Just my soft blankie." As we read books, sang songs and cuddled in his hotel bed I actually felt my heart hammering. Was this it? Was it really going to be this easy?
Then, as I headed for the door, Eli stopped me. "I want my paci," he whimpered in the dark.
Phil accused me of being soft for giving it to him. But was a hotel room in Pennsylvania really the best place to try a paci-free night for the first time?! Instead, when we got back home, we practiced. And then after several nights of simulations, Eli got sick. He was so tired and so congested that for two nights straight he drifted off to sleep without his pacifier — something he had literally never done before.
It was like a fever had been broken — the detox from the pacifier drug, if you will. And on the first night of the new year, he went to bed healthy, but without a pacifier, for the first time.
When you're a brand-new mom, you're so eager to keep track of all the exciting firsts: the first rollover, the first smile, the first steps, the first word. It's only later that you look back and realize you've missed all the lasts: the last time you swaddled him up in the Miracle Blanket, the last jar of puréed baby food, the last time you read "Where is Baby's Belly Button?" before he tore all the flaps off. As I reflected, a little numbly, about Eli's sudden departure from the land of pacifier addiction, I suddenly realized that without his beloved pacifier he might very well not ever take another nap in our apartment. At the thought of that I burst into tears like a cartoon character.
The next day, Eli decided it was time to "do my work," which somehow translated into moving his bed away from the wall and clearing out everything that had fallen behind it. In the rubble I was grimly entertained to see not one, not two, but FOUR pacifiers. I rushed to snatch them up before Eli could notice them and pop one back in his mouth, but Eli was too fast for me.
"Pacifiers!" he laughed. He gathered them up and deposited them into my hands. "Here, Mom," he said casually. "I'm not using my pacifier anymore."
It hasn't been entirely smooth sailing. The other day, in the midst of a morning meltdown, I heard Eli retreat to his bedroom and sob, "I want my paci," like he was realizing afresh the pain of saying goodbye.
Because even though he must know perfectly well where all those pacis have ended up (he's spotted them in the kitchen drawer), he hasn't asked for them back. Not once.
I don't think I'll miss the pacifier in our lives. What I will miss, though, is the sweetness it represented, the simple contentment of being able to bring peace and joy to my child with a teeny plastic bulb. It's no longer so easy to soothe his broken heart. But then again, growing up isn't easy, either.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Rusty Nobody is coming to town
When Santa saunters into the room at my husband's holiday work party, he's greeted with gleeful applause and shouts of delight. One little girl actually jumps up and down, squealing, "Santa!" The children are entranced.
All except one: my 3-year-old, who's glancing around with his eyebrows raised as if to say, "Huh?" When he spots the jolly bearded guy in the red suit, his eyes brighten. "Look! It's Rusty Nobody!" he exclaims. "Hi, Rusty Nobody!"
Who's Rusty Nobody? It's just a silly, made-up name Eli coined for Santa Claus — because he doesn't actually know who Santa Claus is.
Don't get me wrong: Eli loves Christmas. He just doesn't know that he loves it. He likes red and green well enough. He appreciates that every December, colored lights appear on the trees on our walk to school. He knows that some people pick out Christmas trees and bring them home — and this year, in just his third holiday season ever, I had to answer his first question about why we're not bringing home a Christmas tree. ("Because Grandma would have a heart attack" was edited out of my explanation.)
But at Eli's Jewish daycare, he spent the month of December learning what he felt were the most important things about Hanukkah (did you know that a menorah is actually called a hanukiyah? Eli does): that you can eat donuts fried in oil and how to cheat at dreidel (always turn your dreidel to gimel and then claim the whole pot for yourself).
So one day, when we were out admiring some holiday light decorations, it occurred to me that he probably had no idea who Santa Claus even was. We paused next to a giant inflatable Santa, his belly jiggling in the breeze.
"Do you know who this is?" I asked. Eli nodded enthuasiastically.
"Yeah!" he said. "That's Rusty Nobody!"
Sure, I thought, let's go with that.
December, more than any other time of year, sets up this kind of dichotomy: Why don't we get to bring a tree into our house? Why don't we string up colored lights?
I'm not a fan of the explanation that goes "We don't celebrate Christmas; we celebrate Hanukkah instead" — as if Hanukkah is supposed to be just some stand-in for Christmas where we've swapped out menorahs for Christmas trees and soufganiyot for figgy pudding.
Nor does explaining the complicated set of beliefs that separate Judaism and Christianity seem appropriate. After all, it's not like everyone who celebrates Christmas believes that the birth of Jesus Christ signified the coming of a Savior.
As I was puzzling over how to grapple with these questions, I realized something. I know that Eli knows about being Jewish — we light candles on Shabbat, we go to temple semi-regularly, we celebrate holidays like Rosh Hashanah and Passover — but does he know we are Jewish? For all he knows, maybe everyone lights candles and eats challah on Friday nights. Maybe everyone gives tzedakah and sings the Sh'ma right before bed.
I'd been so busy trying to weave Jewishness seamlessly into the fabric of our lives that I'd forgotten to give it a name. To say, We are Jewish, the same way I would say We are New Yorkers or We are Mets fans or We are runners — to make it clear that it's something to be proud of.
As Eli grows older, I want him to feel the same way about Christmas that I did when I was growing up: It was fun to help friends decorate their trees and nice to see cool light displays at others' houses. But it wasn't my holiday.
So when Eli spotted his pal "Rusty Nobody" at my husband's holiday party, I couldn't help but stifle a grin. A few days later, we found ourselves in Amish Country, riding a steam train through the countryside. Out the window, I spotted a large nativity display emblazoned with the words IS CHRIST IN YOUR CHRISTMAS?
I had to admit that he wasn't. But then again, neither was Rusty Nobody.
All except one: my 3-year-old, who's glancing around with his eyebrows raised as if to say, "Huh?" When he spots the jolly bearded guy in the red suit, his eyes brighten. "Look! It's Rusty Nobody!" he exclaims. "Hi, Rusty Nobody!"
Who's Rusty Nobody? It's just a silly, made-up name Eli coined for Santa Claus — because he doesn't actually know who Santa Claus is.
Don't get me wrong: Eli loves Christmas. He just doesn't know that he loves it. He likes red and green well enough. He appreciates that every December, colored lights appear on the trees on our walk to school. He knows that some people pick out Christmas trees and bring them home — and this year, in just his third holiday season ever, I had to answer his first question about why we're not bringing home a Christmas tree. ("Because Grandma would have a heart attack" was edited out of my explanation.)
But at Eli's Jewish daycare, he spent the month of December learning what he felt were the most important things about Hanukkah (did you know that a menorah is actually called a hanukiyah? Eli does): that you can eat donuts fried in oil and how to cheat at dreidel (always turn your dreidel to gimel and then claim the whole pot for yourself).
So one day, when we were out admiring some holiday light decorations, it occurred to me that he probably had no idea who Santa Claus even was. We paused next to a giant inflatable Santa, his belly jiggling in the breeze.
"Do you know who this is?" I asked. Eli nodded enthuasiastically.
"Yeah!" he said. "That's Rusty Nobody!"
Sure, I thought, let's go with that.
December, more than any other time of year, sets up this kind of dichotomy: Why don't we get to bring a tree into our house? Why don't we string up colored lights?
I'm not a fan of the explanation that goes "We don't celebrate Christmas; we celebrate Hanukkah instead" — as if Hanukkah is supposed to be just some stand-in for Christmas where we've swapped out menorahs for Christmas trees and soufganiyot for figgy pudding.
Nor does explaining the complicated set of beliefs that separate Judaism and Christianity seem appropriate. After all, it's not like everyone who celebrates Christmas believes that the birth of Jesus Christ signified the coming of a Savior.
As I was puzzling over how to grapple with these questions, I realized something. I know that Eli knows about being Jewish — we light candles on Shabbat, we go to temple semi-regularly, we celebrate holidays like Rosh Hashanah and Passover — but does he know we are Jewish? For all he knows, maybe everyone lights candles and eats challah on Friday nights. Maybe everyone gives tzedakah and sings the Sh'ma right before bed.
I'd been so busy trying to weave Jewishness seamlessly into the fabric of our lives that I'd forgotten to give it a name. To say, We are Jewish, the same way I would say We are New Yorkers or We are Mets fans or We are runners — to make it clear that it's something to be proud of.
As Eli grows older, I want him to feel the same way about Christmas that I did when I was growing up: It was fun to help friends decorate their trees and nice to see cool light displays at others' houses. But it wasn't my holiday.
So when Eli spotted his pal "Rusty Nobody" at my husband's holiday party, I couldn't help but stifle a grin. A few days later, we found ourselves in Amish Country, riding a steam train through the countryside. Out the window, I spotted a large nativity display emblazoned with the words IS CHRIST IN YOUR CHRISTMAS?
I had to admit that he wasn't. But then again, neither was Rusty Nobody.
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