In parenting, as in comedy, timing is everything. When you have a brand-new, breathtakingly mysterious infant, it’s all about the moment-to-moment increments — generally, some variation on the question of What will keep this creature quiet and peaceful for the next minute? Parenting advice columns try to teach you how to stretch out the time between his feedings or how to prolong her nap.
Gradually, you start measuring time in weeks and months — when I signed my name on emails to my “June through December 2012 Forest Hills parents” Google group, I’d type “Rachel (Eli, 18 weeks).” Every month on the 16th, when I look at my Timehop app, it’s filled with pictures of baby Eli wearing his special onesie that proclaimed how many months old he was.
You’ve all seen similar pictures in your own Facebook feed, and some of them are invariably accompanied by shameful confessions about how they are “a few dates/weeks/months late, oops!” Because in parenting, as in comedy, it’s hard to get the timing right: You’re always either too early or too late.
Before I was a parent, I prided myself on my unfailing punctuality. As a parent, I’m either punctual alongside a whiny 5-year-old who’s irritated that he didn’t get a chance to gather as many Skylanders as he liked before I hustled him out the door and who’s growing increasingly antsty that the event isn’t starting on time, or I’m late.
Because I have a pathological fear of being late, I make sure to build in oceans of extra time when I’m going somewhere with Eli. The problem is that Eli thinks all that extra time is for negotiating about whether he can bring toys to school and for pretending he doesn’t know how to put his own socks and shoes on and desperately requires assistance. So I always feel like I’m rushing him out the door, even though we are on time, which is actually early.
“Are we late?” he’ll ask, bewildered by my frenzied exhortations to move faster as he saunters casually to the elevator.
“No! Are we ever late?!” I will retort, even the mention of the word “late” striking terror into my prompt heart.
In our apartment, beginning at 6 a.m., Eli is a tornado of activity, streaking through the living room in only his underwear and speeding from room to room. But once outside, he becomes slothlike, with nearby distractions slowing him to a crawl and a seeming inability to walk and talk at the same time. He frequently halts to gesticulate while expounding on an important point of clarification, and he also likes to take what he calls “shortcuts,” i.e., unnecessary diversions through ramps and staircases outside other buildings on the way to school.
When the weather is nice, I’m game for a good stroll on the way to school. But now that it’s cold, I frequently find myself several paces ahead of him, glancing back, because I’ve learned that if I pause to wait up for him, he’ll slow to a halt too.
But after we cross the last street, somewhere between a full block and half a block before the school building, he’ll suddenly yell, “Love you! Bye!” and take off like he’s been jet-propelled. I watch the flaps of his hat blowing in the breeze as he shrugs his backpack in closer to his body to make himself more aerodynamic, tucking his head low like he’s a football player weaving in and out of other pedestrians. If I’m lucky, he pauses just before the school gate to send me air kisses and “air hugs,” and I shout, “Be kind! Learn stuff! Have fun!”
And then he’s gone. He’s started the walk as the turtle and ended as the hare. Then suddenly all the time I’ve saved up getting us to school early is more time for me to miss him, the way I do when he finally falls asleep after popping out of his room six times, or when I find myself in the presence of other children who are cute and all, but not Eli.
Somehow, even after all the sturm und drang of the morning — the requests for additional breakfast foods, the board games he sets up for the two of us to play, the seven times I ask him to get dressed before he does it, the standoff when he tries to sneak a toy into his backpack and I catch him, the groaning over which jacket I hand him to wear and how heavy his backpack is — it’s always that last part that sticks with me as I walk alone to the subway: the way he looks when he’s no longer with me, the way he holds his body apart and his eyes are somewhere else, his own country.
I think that’s how timing so often goes in parenting: interminably, and then suddenly; slowly, and then all at once. You want them to go away so you can miss them, and then they do and then you do. Timing is everything.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 13, 2018
Friday, February 17, 2017
Regrets, I've had a few
This morning Eli and I were snuggling on the couch and looking at the Timehop app on my phone, which shows all the photos and videos and status updates I've done on the same day in previous years. Last year on this day was the first time Eli ever drew a "representational figure" (a stick figure with legs coming out of its head and "angry tears" on its face). From four years ago there's an incredibly sweet video of Phil stuffing Eli's fat flailing limbs into his swaddle and putting him into his swing with a Fisher-Price glowworm on top of him — obviously I was trying to capture the sturm und drang of naptime in infancy.
Eli was fixated on a video from three years ago: taking a bath at 18 months old. Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Bath! floats in front of him. "Where's your washcloth?" I'm asking him. He grabs it with a goofy grin on his face. "Wash the duckies!" I chirp. He obliges cheerfully. "Wash the cow!" I say. He looks up at me quizzically. "Bus? Bus?" he inquires apropos of nothing, and the video ends.
Present-day Eli wanted to know if we still had Barnyard Bath!, because suddenly Barnyard Bath! was the thing he desired most in the world. "But can we look at a map of where we bought it and can we buy it again? I really want that book," he said.
These days in the bath Eli is usually crashing his Transformers or submerging his Hot Wheels; I haven't encouraged him to wash the duckies in years. "Why do you want it?" I asked. He arranged his face into a crestfallen pout.
"I didn't get to wash the cow," he said despondently. "I really want to wash the cow."
Which strikes me in its own capricious way as a perfect metaphor for regret of any kind. I didn't get to study abroad in college, I didn't land that job at Sesame Street I always dreamed of, I never broke 4:30 in the marathon. I didn't get to wash the cow.
Parenting in some ways is like a crash course in regret. If I could go back to the beginning, I'd breastfeed longer, worry less, encourage a greater variety of vegetable-eating...
In a lot of ways, childhood is a crash course in regret too. Every parent knows what it feels like when your kid melts down at the end of a day that's been a orgy of excess in the fun department: We recently went to a birthday party where Eli boogied down during a dance party, rubbed elbows with a life-sized Minion, ate pizza and cake, drank several juice boxes, ran through a funhouse maze with his friends, played a host of arcade games and traded in tickets for prizes — but of course at the end of it all he was fixated on the prizes he didn't get, the tickets he didn't earn, the game he didn't get to play for the dozenth time. Woe! Oh, how his life might have been changed by that teeny slinky!
Doesn't he know there are starving children who would feel thankful to drink even one of those high-fructose juice boxes? Doesn't he understand how lucky he is?
Well, no, he doesn't. And I guess in some ways that's a blessing, that right now his biggest regret is not washing the cow, as opposed to the ones that keep me up at night: I wish I'd called my nana more, not fallen out of touch with those friends, campaigned harder for Hillary Clinton. After all, if YOLO behavior is supposed to prevent looking back in regret, there's no better embodiment than a child who's living his best life as 100% id.
Three years ago Eli was a chubby toddler in a tub who couldn't distinguish between a cow and a bus, and now he's a kid with enough self-awareness to actually feel mournful about that fleeting experience — isn't the human consciousness amazing? He's grown into this saucy, funny, earnest little person. And — I'm tempting fate here, but — when you have a baby everyone warns you about the terrible 2s and then about how 3 is worse than 2 and 4 is worse than 3, and these days we are in kind of a groovy place where I can't wait to see what he comes up with next and where his mind and heart will go.
And from this point forward, I'm going to think about regret the way Eli did this morning. There are some cows I didn't get to wash too, Eli. I really want to wash those cows.
Eli was fixated on a video from three years ago: taking a bath at 18 months old. Sandra Boynton's Barnyard Bath! floats in front of him. "Where's your washcloth?" I'm asking him. He grabs it with a goofy grin on his face. "Wash the duckies!" I chirp. He obliges cheerfully. "Wash the cow!" I say. He looks up at me quizzically. "Bus? Bus?" he inquires apropos of nothing, and the video ends.
Present-day Eli wanted to know if we still had Barnyard Bath!, because suddenly Barnyard Bath! was the thing he desired most in the world. "But can we look at a map of where we bought it and can we buy it again? I really want that book," he said.
These days in the bath Eli is usually crashing his Transformers or submerging his Hot Wheels; I haven't encouraged him to wash the duckies in years. "Why do you want it?" I asked. He arranged his face into a crestfallen pout.
"I didn't get to wash the cow," he said despondently. "I really want to wash the cow."
Which strikes me in its own capricious way as a perfect metaphor for regret of any kind. I didn't get to study abroad in college, I didn't land that job at Sesame Street I always dreamed of, I never broke 4:30 in the marathon. I didn't get to wash the cow.
Parenting in some ways is like a crash course in regret. If I could go back to the beginning, I'd breastfeed longer, worry less, encourage a greater variety of vegetable-eating...
In a lot of ways, childhood is a crash course in regret too. Every parent knows what it feels like when your kid melts down at the end of a day that's been a orgy of excess in the fun department: We recently went to a birthday party where Eli boogied down during a dance party, rubbed elbows with a life-sized Minion, ate pizza and cake, drank several juice boxes, ran through a funhouse maze with his friends, played a host of arcade games and traded in tickets for prizes — but of course at the end of it all he was fixated on the prizes he didn't get, the tickets he didn't earn, the game he didn't get to play for the dozenth time. Woe! Oh, how his life might have been changed by that teeny slinky!
Doesn't he know there are starving children who would feel thankful to drink even one of those high-fructose juice boxes? Doesn't he understand how lucky he is?
Well, no, he doesn't. And I guess in some ways that's a blessing, that right now his biggest regret is not washing the cow, as opposed to the ones that keep me up at night: I wish I'd called my nana more, not fallen out of touch with those friends, campaigned harder for Hillary Clinton. After all, if YOLO behavior is supposed to prevent looking back in regret, there's no better embodiment than a child who's living his best life as 100% id.
Three years ago Eli was a chubby toddler in a tub who couldn't distinguish between a cow and a bus, and now he's a kid with enough self-awareness to actually feel mournful about that fleeting experience — isn't the human consciousness amazing? He's grown into this saucy, funny, earnest little person. And — I'm tempting fate here, but — when you have a baby everyone warns you about the terrible 2s and then about how 3 is worse than 2 and 4 is worse than 3, and these days we are in kind of a groovy place where I can't wait to see what he comes up with next and where his mind and heart will go.
And from this point forward, I'm going to think about regret the way Eli did this morning. There are some cows I didn't get to wash too, Eli. I really want to wash those cows.
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, December 29, 2015
Wonderland
It's winter break and I found myself with some unexpected time off from work, so we decided to spend a few days in Lancaster after Christmas. I carefully plotted an itinerary packed with all the things I thought Eli would love — a hotel with an indoor water playground, a train ride, a visit to an amusement park. I packed snacks, the iPad, three different kinds of outerwear (the forecast was wildly variable) and raingear (just in case). I factored in time for naps, meals and driving.
What I forgot to take into account were the wild mood swings of my 3-year-old. The first 24 hours of our trip were, for the most part, pretty fantastic, punctured by a few memorable hair-raising, death-defying tantrums — we're talking running away from Mommy and Daddy down the hallway of a hotel wearing only a wet bathing suit (tantrum level: expert). By the time we were seated for lunch at Good 'N Plenty — an Amish-style restaurant so famous that it has a whole brochure to itself — I felt rather on edge, and it didn't help that (1) Good 'N Plenty was virtually silent and (2) the couple at the table next to us looked exactly like this.
One blessedly peaceful car nap in the Amish countryside later, we found ourselves at Dutch Wonderland (which, for the uninformed, is an amusement park for young children with an unspecified, vaguely medieval castle theme and absolutely no Dutch connection whatsoever). (Side note: While Eli was napping, Phil directed me to drive to a roadside pretzel stand in the middle of farmland. They were closed, but a perusal of Yelp reviews revealed that there is a dude who drives from New York City to Lancaster twice a year just for the pretzels, so how bummed are we that we didn't get to try them? Side note #2, there was literally a sign on the door that said "Temporarily closed; if you need anything, come to the house and we will open for you," and we should have gone to the house and asked for a pretzel!)
The very first thing that happened at Dutch Wonderland was that Eli really wanted to ride the train, but he did not want to wait in the line to ride the train. If you are a parent who has ever anticipated and then tried to head off a public tantrum, you know exactly how this moment felt. All my fight-or-flight instincts started to kick in. It felt like I was in for a long afternoon of reasoning with Eli, of modeling patience, of desperately cooking up little games to play while waiting in line. In short: a long afternoon of acting like an adult. Oh, the humanity!
But by some miracle we were the last riders to make it on to the train. As we started to chug around the park, Eli giggled with genuine glee every time we saw the signal arms clanging down to block the track. And a funny thing happened: I started to have fun. He was so happy, so absolutely loving the ride that I stopped fretting about the next meltdown around the corner and started to enjoy seeing him so happy.
Hours later, we were heading out of "storytime with Princess Brooke" when it suddenly seemed to have grown dark. I suggested to Eli that it might be a fun time to go on the SkyRide, a kind of open-air tram that takes you all the way across the park, to see the lights in the dark from the air. When we realized the ride was one-way only, Phil said he'd meet us at the other end.
As we waited on line, it suddenly started to rain, and as we headed further up the stairs, I realized it was growing chilly. Our jackets were in the stroller with Phil. A guy coming off the ride advised us against it — "The rain hits you in the face and it's really cold out there!" he said — and I tried to convince Eli to skip it. But he was determined: He wanted to ride.
The ride is like a ski lift, in that it doesn't stop when your car comes around. So I hoisted Eli up into the seat and quickly settled in next to him, and off we went.
There was a brief, terrifying moment where I thought about all the tantrums we had endured over the past few days and about how high up in the air we were and how easily it seemed like Eli could slide under the bar. If he loses it in mid-air, we're goners, I thought. But the same thing happened that always happens when I expect the worst out of Eli: He surprises me by being a champ. He was totally unbothered by the chilly wind or the droplets of water beating against our backs or the fact that we were really, really, really high up in the air. He chatted away about the view ("Look at that ride spinning!"), our fellow passengers riding in the opposite direction ("Look, he's all by himself! He looks cold!") and my death grip on his arm ("Mommy, why do you have your arm around me so tight?").
Later, after we reunited with Phil and rushed in from the rain to a memorably awful dining experience known as "Merlin's Buffet," I tried to explain the whole experience to him while Eli nonchalantly munched on his mac and cheese: the rainbow holiday lights twinkling below us, the cool expanse of the dark sky, Eli's enthusiastic ramblings. And as I talked ("It was kind of terrifying, but also kind of magical"), I realized it was sort of a perfect encapsulation of parenting itself. It's holding it together when you're secretly concerned your kid might fall apart. It's preparing yourself to be surprised by your child and sparkling with pride when it happens. It's going on an adventure when logic says you probably shouldn't, knowing you can't stop the ride if you want to get off — and never letting go of your kid's hand.
It's kind of terrifying, but also kind of magical.
I've written before about how I struggled with PPD when Eli was born. And here's a secret: I continue to struggle with it, mostly in the form of guilt about how I didn't enjoy those newborn days like everyone warned me I should. The morning after the SkyRide I had this weird thought (while running on the treadmill at the gym, of all places): When Eli was born I could only see how high up in the air we were, how far we could fall if we slipped. I could only feel how chilly the wind was and how the rain was beating against my back. I only saw the parts of the ride that were the most terrifying, because I didn't yet have Eli to point out how the lights were glowing and the rides were spinning and the music was playing. I needed Eli to help me realize that the cold and the wet and the height wasn't such a big deal. I needed Eli to show me everything that was magical about the wonderland.
What I forgot to take into account were the wild mood swings of my 3-year-old. The first 24 hours of our trip were, for the most part, pretty fantastic, punctured by a few memorable hair-raising, death-defying tantrums — we're talking running away from Mommy and Daddy down the hallway of a hotel wearing only a wet bathing suit (tantrum level: expert). By the time we were seated for lunch at Good 'N Plenty — an Amish-style restaurant so famous that it has a whole brochure to itself — I felt rather on edge, and it didn't help that (1) Good 'N Plenty was virtually silent and (2) the couple at the table next to us looked exactly like this.
One blessedly peaceful car nap in the Amish countryside later, we found ourselves at Dutch Wonderland (which, for the uninformed, is an amusement park for young children with an unspecified, vaguely medieval castle theme and absolutely no Dutch connection whatsoever). (Side note: While Eli was napping, Phil directed me to drive to a roadside pretzel stand in the middle of farmland. They were closed, but a perusal of Yelp reviews revealed that there is a dude who drives from New York City to Lancaster twice a year just for the pretzels, so how bummed are we that we didn't get to try them? Side note #2, there was literally a sign on the door that said "Temporarily closed; if you need anything, come to the house and we will open for you," and we should have gone to the house and asked for a pretzel!)
The very first thing that happened at Dutch Wonderland was that Eli really wanted to ride the train, but he did not want to wait in the line to ride the train. If you are a parent who has ever anticipated and then tried to head off a public tantrum, you know exactly how this moment felt. All my fight-or-flight instincts started to kick in. It felt like I was in for a long afternoon of reasoning with Eli, of modeling patience, of desperately cooking up little games to play while waiting in line. In short: a long afternoon of acting like an adult. Oh, the humanity!
But by some miracle we were the last riders to make it on to the train. As we started to chug around the park, Eli giggled with genuine glee every time we saw the signal arms clanging down to block the track. And a funny thing happened: I started to have fun. He was so happy, so absolutely loving the ride that I stopped fretting about the next meltdown around the corner and started to enjoy seeing him so happy.
Hours later, we were heading out of "storytime with Princess Brooke" when it suddenly seemed to have grown dark. I suggested to Eli that it might be a fun time to go on the SkyRide, a kind of open-air tram that takes you all the way across the park, to see the lights in the dark from the air. When we realized the ride was one-way only, Phil said he'd meet us at the other end.
As we waited on line, it suddenly started to rain, and as we headed further up the stairs, I realized it was growing chilly. Our jackets were in the stroller with Phil. A guy coming off the ride advised us against it — "The rain hits you in the face and it's really cold out there!" he said — and I tried to convince Eli to skip it. But he was determined: He wanted to ride.
The ride is like a ski lift, in that it doesn't stop when your car comes around. So I hoisted Eli up into the seat and quickly settled in next to him, and off we went.
There was a brief, terrifying moment where I thought about all the tantrums we had endured over the past few days and about how high up in the air we were and how easily it seemed like Eli could slide under the bar. If he loses it in mid-air, we're goners, I thought. But the same thing happened that always happens when I expect the worst out of Eli: He surprises me by being a champ. He was totally unbothered by the chilly wind or the droplets of water beating against our backs or the fact that we were really, really, really high up in the air. He chatted away about the view ("Look at that ride spinning!"), our fellow passengers riding in the opposite direction ("Look, he's all by himself! He looks cold!") and my death grip on his arm ("Mommy, why do you have your arm around me so tight?").
Later, after we reunited with Phil and rushed in from the rain to a memorably awful dining experience known as "Merlin's Buffet," I tried to explain the whole experience to him while Eli nonchalantly munched on his mac and cheese: the rainbow holiday lights twinkling below us, the cool expanse of the dark sky, Eli's enthusiastic ramblings. And as I talked ("It was kind of terrifying, but also kind of magical"), I realized it was sort of a perfect encapsulation of parenting itself. It's holding it together when you're secretly concerned your kid might fall apart. It's preparing yourself to be surprised by your child and sparkling with pride when it happens. It's going on an adventure when logic says you probably shouldn't, knowing you can't stop the ride if you want to get off — and never letting go of your kid's hand.
It's kind of terrifying, but also kind of magical.
I've written before about how I struggled with PPD when Eli was born. And here's a secret: I continue to struggle with it, mostly in the form of guilt about how I didn't enjoy those newborn days like everyone warned me I should. The morning after the SkyRide I had this weird thought (while running on the treadmill at the gym, of all places): When Eli was born I could only see how high up in the air we were, how far we could fall if we slipped. I could only feel how chilly the wind was and how the rain was beating against my back. I only saw the parts of the ride that were the most terrifying, because I didn't yet have Eli to point out how the lights were glowing and the rides were spinning and the music was playing. I needed Eli to help me realize that the cold and the wet and the height wasn't such a big deal. I needed Eli to show me everything that was magical about the wonderland.
Wednesday, December 9, 2015
It isn't a rat race. It isn't a race at all.
Every evening, I sit in my office and watch the clock as the minutes tick forward. When it hits 6 p.m., I grab all my things and race for the door.
It's not because I hate my job. It's because on a good day (and we all know how frequently the MTA has "good days"), it takes me at least an hour to get home. In an ideal world I walk through the door at 7 p.m. and we aim to have Eli in bed by 7:30.
Every evening is a race against time.
I spend that narrow half-hour on the bridge between two worlds, alternately wishing time would speed up and slow down. Usually I'm in such a rush to jump into our bedtime routine that I don't change out of my work clothes, sometimes shedding my tights in the foyer of our apartment and counting down the minutes until I can unhook my bra. (You know you've done it too.) (On some nights Eli has been known to survey me suspiciously and ask: "Why aren't you in your pajamas?")
If he's not already dressed for bed, I hurry Eli into his pajamas and into the bathroom to brush his teeth. If he stalls, I threaten to reduce the number of books we read at bedtime (three is the sacred number). I limit the number of drinks of water he can have and the number of times he can say goodnight to Daddy and the number of minutes I'll hang out in his room.
Then after I've left and am finally, blessedly unhooking my bra, I realize that I miss him.
In the mornings, too, we have plenty of time between when my early bird wakes up and when we have to leave for school, yet we seem to be always rushing. He doesn't want to walk himself to the elevator, or he wants a snack "for the road," or he wants to bring a gigantic fire truck, presumably so that he can refuse to let other kids play with it. I hurry to school, swerving the stroller around puddles and poop and people waiting for the bus, and then I linger in the doorway, wanting to watch him a little longer, not wanting to say goodbye.
I've written before about how challenging it is to be a working parent. (Funnily enough, it was right at this same time of year. I guess December, when the days are short and the holidays are imminent, is an especially tough time of year to be a working parent!) In the year since I wrote that post, there's been a lot in the news about companies offering more parental leave for newborns, but other than that, when it comes to flexibility and work/life balance, not a lot has changed. I still feel guilty racing out the door of my office at 6 p.m. when everyone else is still at their desks as if I don't have a single second to spare (spoiler alert: I don't), and I also still feel guilty racing Eli out the door of our apartment every morning as he casts pitiful glances backwards at all the toys he's leaving behind.
Lately there's also been a nice dash of existential melancholy mixed in, too: What am I doing this for? What's the point of all this? It seems like an apt question that applies whether "this" is "editing the copy on this PDF of this flier for the millionth time" or "snapping Eli's chuggers together, at his request, then waiting patiently as he has a complete meltdown in reaction to the fact that I snapped the chuggers together at his request."
This morning, when we were about three-quarters of the way to school, Eli announced that he had to pee. So I started running. "I see it!" Eli shouted as we neared his school, hopping casually out of his stroller as I panted and wiped the sweat from my neck. It was fitting: These days I feel like I'm always running toward or away from something, constantly in a hurry to get somewhere so that when I get there I can think ahead to being somewhere else.
(For the record, he squeezed out approximately one drop of pee after dancing into his classroom and breezily greeting everyone like he hadn't made me sprint the final quarter-mile to school.)
It's fitting then too that I'm participating in the holiday running streak, running a mile every day between Thanksgiving and New Year's. Because every day this month I've found myself out running, wanting to get it over with while simultaneously wishing it could last longer, not sure where I'm running to or how fast I'm planning to run there, not even sure if it's the best idea to be out running at all.
It's not because I hate my job. It's because on a good day (and we all know how frequently the MTA has "good days"), it takes me at least an hour to get home. In an ideal world I walk through the door at 7 p.m. and we aim to have Eli in bed by 7:30.
Every evening is a race against time.
I spend that narrow half-hour on the bridge between two worlds, alternately wishing time would speed up and slow down. Usually I'm in such a rush to jump into our bedtime routine that I don't change out of my work clothes, sometimes shedding my tights in the foyer of our apartment and counting down the minutes until I can unhook my bra. (You know you've done it too.) (On some nights Eli has been known to survey me suspiciously and ask: "Why aren't you in your pajamas?")
If he's not already dressed for bed, I hurry Eli into his pajamas and into the bathroom to brush his teeth. If he stalls, I threaten to reduce the number of books we read at bedtime (three is the sacred number). I limit the number of drinks of water he can have and the number of times he can say goodnight to Daddy and the number of minutes I'll hang out in his room.
Then after I've left and am finally, blessedly unhooking my bra, I realize that I miss him.
In the mornings, too, we have plenty of time between when my early bird wakes up and when we have to leave for school, yet we seem to be always rushing. He doesn't want to walk himself to the elevator, or he wants a snack "for the road," or he wants to bring a gigantic fire truck, presumably so that he can refuse to let other kids play with it. I hurry to school, swerving the stroller around puddles and poop and people waiting for the bus, and then I linger in the doorway, wanting to watch him a little longer, not wanting to say goodbye.
I've written before about how challenging it is to be a working parent. (Funnily enough, it was right at this same time of year. I guess December, when the days are short and the holidays are imminent, is an especially tough time of year to be a working parent!) In the year since I wrote that post, there's been a lot in the news about companies offering more parental leave for newborns, but other than that, when it comes to flexibility and work/life balance, not a lot has changed. I still feel guilty racing out the door of my office at 6 p.m. when everyone else is still at their desks as if I don't have a single second to spare (spoiler alert: I don't), and I also still feel guilty racing Eli out the door of our apartment every morning as he casts pitiful glances backwards at all the toys he's leaving behind.
Lately there's also been a nice dash of existential melancholy mixed in, too: What am I doing this for? What's the point of all this? It seems like an apt question that applies whether "this" is "editing the copy on this PDF of this flier for the millionth time" or "snapping Eli's chuggers together, at his request, then waiting patiently as he has a complete meltdown in reaction to the fact that I snapped the chuggers together at his request."
This morning, when we were about three-quarters of the way to school, Eli announced that he had to pee. So I started running. "I see it!" Eli shouted as we neared his school, hopping casually out of his stroller as I panted and wiped the sweat from my neck. It was fitting: These days I feel like I'm always running toward or away from something, constantly in a hurry to get somewhere so that when I get there I can think ahead to being somewhere else.
(For the record, he squeezed out approximately one drop of pee after dancing into his classroom and breezily greeting everyone like he hadn't made me sprint the final quarter-mile to school.)
It's fitting then too that I'm participating in the holiday running streak, running a mile every day between Thanksgiving and New Year's. Because every day this month I've found myself out running, wanting to get it over with while simultaneously wishing it could last longer, not sure where I'm running to or how fast I'm planning to run there, not even sure if it's the best idea to be out running at all.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
When your child says he wants to hurt you: A How Not To Guide
Recently Eli has been experimenting with exploring boundaries and testing limits to see how we'll react, particularly when he says things that are inappropriate or offensive.
In other words, he's acting like an asshole.
Most frequently this manifests itself in him telling us that he wants to hurt us. I want to punch you, he'll say, or I want to shoot you. Sometimes he says this mid-tantrum, through sobs, his chest heaving. Other times it's almost playful, scornful, like a dare.
I have a master's degree in Child Development from a respected university. I've read my fair share of parenting books — not to mention those weekly "Your Preschooler This Week" BabyCenter emails. So I know how to respond appropriately in these situations. I know that I'm supposed to remain calm and unruffled and say something like, "I can tell you're really angry right now" or "You must be feeling very upset."
Is that what I actually did this past week? Let's get real. HELL NO.
The other day, when Eli announced that he wanted to punch me, I responded "Then I don't want to be around you" and I closed the bedroom door. And locked it.
I did. I locked my 3-year-old out of my bedroom. Would you want to be around someone who tells you he wants to punch you?
The next time it happened, I promptly burst into tears. Not fake I'm-trying-to-get-you-to-empathize tears but real, frustrated tears, the tears of a woman who wonders where she's gone wrong and why her sweet boy has turned into a sociopath.
"Mommy? Why are you crying?" Eli asked tentatively.
"Because you keep saying you want to punch me and it makes me feel so SAD!" I replied. Eli's lip quivered. Soon he too was wailing.
"Now I'm sad like you!" he cried. "We're both sad!"
The first time he said it, I silently carried him to his room, deposited him on his bed, closed the doors to his room and ordered him to stay in there for three minutes. In other words, a classic time-out. When the timer beeped, he tearfully apologized and vowed that he would never say it again. But "never" is to 3-year-olds what "fact" is to Ben Carson, so...
Of course, in case you hadn't heard, time-outs are now cruel and abusive. I get this in theory: Isolating my child when he's having a hard time sends him the message that it's not OK to be having a hard time and doesn't really help him deal with having a hard time.
On the other hand, theory is a heck of a lot easier than practice, and sometimes in practice isolating myself when my child is having a hard time helps send us both the message that at least no one will get strangled when he's having a hard time.
Later that day, I did what I always do when I've made the wrong parenting decision and want to feel guilty about it: I turned to Google for advice on what I should have done instead. Google confirmed that I was, in fact, the worst mom in the world and that the right reaction would have been to remain calm and unruffled and that is really hard to do when you want to punch a wall, Google.
But what I appreciated was the psychology behind why it's prudent to do this, according to this helpful article: "Your child needs an accepting witness who loves him even when he's angry."
It's fitting that the site is called Aha! Parenting because reading it, I did have an aha! moment. Eli knows I won't want to be around him when he says he wants to punch me. So by isolating him in that situation I really am confirming his worst fears: that he is unlovable, or that I like him only when he's behaving appropriately, or that if he says the worst thing he can think of, I won't love him anymore.
(Aha! I am. The. Worst. Mom. In. The. World.)
I know I'm not the first mom whose kid has said something mean to her. I'm probably not even the first mom who's asked Google, "Is my toddler a sociopath?" Yesterday was the first time that I felt so frustrated and so demoralized that I wasn't even looking forward to going home after work. But when I got there, my stark-naked kid streaked out into the hallway and wrapped his arms around me.
"I'm not going to shoot you," said a muffled voice into my thighs. "I love you."
When Eli was a little younger and he used to cry about going to daycare, I'd sing him a little song to the tune of "The Farmer in the Dell": "I love you all the time, I love you all the time, even when I'm not with you I love you all the time."
The other day, after Eli told me he wanted to kick me and then upped his game by actually trying to kick me, I had my first opportunity to practice what Aha! Parenting preaches. I mustered up all my zen and took a deep breath.
"I know you're so mad that you're feeling like you want to kick me," I said through gritted teeth, "and it's OK to be mad, but it's not OK to kick me."
Deflated, he fell back against the couch and dissolved into wails.
"I love you," I said softly. "I love you all the time."
Let that be my mantra for the days and years ahead: I love you all the time. Even when I want you to get dressed and you put your underwear on your head. Even when you wake me up at 5 a.m. by leaning over my face and loudly requesting a chocolate sandwich and milk. Even when you say you want to shoot me or, God forbid, you learn crueler insults to fling at me. I love you all the time.
In other words, he's acting like an asshole.
Most frequently this manifests itself in him telling us that he wants to hurt us. I want to punch you, he'll say, or I want to shoot you. Sometimes he says this mid-tantrum, through sobs, his chest heaving. Other times it's almost playful, scornful, like a dare.
I have a master's degree in Child Development from a respected university. I've read my fair share of parenting books — not to mention those weekly "Your Preschooler This Week" BabyCenter emails. So I know how to respond appropriately in these situations. I know that I'm supposed to remain calm and unruffled and say something like, "I can tell you're really angry right now" or "You must be feeling very upset."
Is that what I actually did this past week? Let's get real. HELL NO.
The other day, when Eli announced that he wanted to punch me, I responded "Then I don't want to be around you" and I closed the bedroom door. And locked it.
I did. I locked my 3-year-old out of my bedroom. Would you want to be around someone who tells you he wants to punch you?
The next time it happened, I promptly burst into tears. Not fake I'm-trying-to-get-you-to-empathize tears but real, frustrated tears, the tears of a woman who wonders where she's gone wrong and why her sweet boy has turned into a sociopath.
"Mommy? Why are you crying?" Eli asked tentatively.
"Because you keep saying you want to punch me and it makes me feel so SAD!" I replied. Eli's lip quivered. Soon he too was wailing.
"Now I'm sad like you!" he cried. "We're both sad!"
The first time he said it, I silently carried him to his room, deposited him on his bed, closed the doors to his room and ordered him to stay in there for three minutes. In other words, a classic time-out. When the timer beeped, he tearfully apologized and vowed that he would never say it again. But "never" is to 3-year-olds what "fact" is to Ben Carson, so...
Of course, in case you hadn't heard, time-outs are now cruel and abusive. I get this in theory: Isolating my child when he's having a hard time sends him the message that it's not OK to be having a hard time and doesn't really help him deal with having a hard time.
On the other hand, theory is a heck of a lot easier than practice, and sometimes in practice isolating myself when my child is having a hard time helps send us both the message that at least no one will get strangled when he's having a hard time.
Later that day, I did what I always do when I've made the wrong parenting decision and want to feel guilty about it: I turned to Google for advice on what I should have done instead. Google confirmed that I was, in fact, the worst mom in the world and that the right reaction would have been to remain calm and unruffled and that is really hard to do when you want to punch a wall, Google.
But what I appreciated was the psychology behind why it's prudent to do this, according to this helpful article: "Your child needs an accepting witness who loves him even when he's angry."
It's fitting that the site is called Aha! Parenting because reading it, I did have an aha! moment. Eli knows I won't want to be around him when he says he wants to punch me. So by isolating him in that situation I really am confirming his worst fears: that he is unlovable, or that I like him only when he's behaving appropriately, or that if he says the worst thing he can think of, I won't love him anymore.
(Aha! I am. The. Worst. Mom. In. The. World.)
I know I'm not the first mom whose kid has said something mean to her. I'm probably not even the first mom who's asked Google, "Is my toddler a sociopath?" Yesterday was the first time that I felt so frustrated and so demoralized that I wasn't even looking forward to going home after work. But when I got there, my stark-naked kid streaked out into the hallway and wrapped his arms around me.
"I'm not going to shoot you," said a muffled voice into my thighs. "I love you."
When Eli was a little younger and he used to cry about going to daycare, I'd sing him a little song to the tune of "The Farmer in the Dell": "I love you all the time, I love you all the time, even when I'm not with you I love you all the time."
The other day, after Eli told me he wanted to kick me and then upped his game by actually trying to kick me, I had my first opportunity to practice what Aha! Parenting preaches. I mustered up all my zen and took a deep breath.
"I know you're so mad that you're feeling like you want to kick me," I said through gritted teeth, "and it's OK to be mad, but it's not OK to kick me."
Deflated, he fell back against the couch and dissolved into wails.
"I love you," I said softly. "I love you all the time."
Let that be my mantra for the days and years ahead: I love you all the time. Even when I want you to get dressed and you put your underwear on your head. Even when you wake me up at 5 a.m. by leaning over my face and loudly requesting a chocolate sandwich and milk. Even when you say you want to shoot me or, God forbid, you learn crueler insults to fling at me. I love you all the time.
Tuesday, November 17, 2015
It's a hard-knock life
One of my favorite memories from childhood is also one of the oddest, if only because it seems so random. I was 8 or 9 years old and I had been sick, so I was up very early in the morning — perhaps 4 a.m. It was still dark and my mother and I were watching I Love Lucy together on TV.
That's it. I've thought a lot about why this moment has stuck in my memory when I can barely remember anything about our family trip to Disney World or most of high school. I think what it comes down to is less the memory itself than the feeling — the feeling of being safe and warm and well taken care of.
When I was a kid, my mom always took amazing care of me when I was sick. She'd make me chicken soup and hot tea, diligently record my temperature and medications and let me watch Annie a hundred times in a row. She'd give me apple juice to drink and make sure my pajamas were warm and clean. And — of this she's particularly proud — she always changed my sheets so I'd have nice fresh sheets to sleep on instead of germy ones.
My mom always was and continues to be an expert at Jewish mother guilt and can always find a new way to say "I told you so," but when I was sick I never felt that she was annoyed or impatient with me. It was like all her energy was concentrated on making me feel better. And it usually worked.
There are a million ways my mom and I are different, as people and as mothers. But when Eli is sick, it's my mom I try to emulate. Last week, when he was laid flat by a raging ear infection, I even found myself calling him "sweetheart" — which isn't something I don't think I've ever called him before, because it was my mom's nickname for me.
Of course, with Eli sleeping in my bed and coughing all over my pillow, he was generous enough with his germs that I soon found myself with a raging sinus infection of my own. (Note to Mom: Of course, I changed Eli's germy sheets — but not mine!) I don't know if other moms feel this way, but to me there is nothing more pitiful than being sick as a grown woman with a child, a dog, a job and other responsibilities.
I want someone to change my sheets, I thought miserably. I want someone to make me chicken soup and put on Annie. Not the remake, either — the original with Carol Burnett.
There are some things I appreciate about being a grownup. Whenever I'm in a bulk candy store and some mom is telling her whiny kids they can't have any more candy while I'm gleefully shoveling more into my bag, for instance, or turning up the space heater in my office really high, or even when I go out with friends after dark and I decide to wear my glasses instead of my contacts because I'm grownup enough that I no longer give a fig about trying to look cute. (Yes, I said "give a fig.")
But as much as I felt like a grownup taking care of my son the way my mom took care of me, when I was sick I just felt like I was 9 again.
Sometime last week Eli announced joyfully, "You're my best friend!" But then, he continued mournfully, "But when I'm big, I won't see you anymore. Because I have to go to big kid school."
"Who do you think will take you to the big kid school?" I asked, pointing at myself. He shook his head.
"I have to go by myself!" he declared.
That's how I feel, some days: like I still need my mom, but I have to go by myself.
(Fortunately my mom lives three blocks away. And sent over chicken soup. And at least I have Phil to entertain Eli and walk the dog and get me apple juice and Afrin. But alas, no surviving copy of Annie.)
That's it. I've thought a lot about why this moment has stuck in my memory when I can barely remember anything about our family trip to Disney World or most of high school. I think what it comes down to is less the memory itself than the feeling — the feeling of being safe and warm and well taken care of.
When I was a kid, my mom always took amazing care of me when I was sick. She'd make me chicken soup and hot tea, diligently record my temperature and medications and let me watch Annie a hundred times in a row. She'd give me apple juice to drink and make sure my pajamas were warm and clean. And — of this she's particularly proud — she always changed my sheets so I'd have nice fresh sheets to sleep on instead of germy ones.
My mom always was and continues to be an expert at Jewish mother guilt and can always find a new way to say "I told you so," but when I was sick I never felt that she was annoyed or impatient with me. It was like all her energy was concentrated on making me feel better. And it usually worked.
There are a million ways my mom and I are different, as people and as mothers. But when Eli is sick, it's my mom I try to emulate. Last week, when he was laid flat by a raging ear infection, I even found myself calling him "sweetheart" — which isn't something I don't think I've ever called him before, because it was my mom's nickname for me.
Of course, with Eli sleeping in my bed and coughing all over my pillow, he was generous enough with his germs that I soon found myself with a raging sinus infection of my own. (Note to Mom: Of course, I changed Eli's germy sheets — but not mine!) I don't know if other moms feel this way, but to me there is nothing more pitiful than being sick as a grown woman with a child, a dog, a job and other responsibilities.
I want someone to change my sheets, I thought miserably. I want someone to make me chicken soup and put on Annie. Not the remake, either — the original with Carol Burnett.
There are some things I appreciate about being a grownup. Whenever I'm in a bulk candy store and some mom is telling her whiny kids they can't have any more candy while I'm gleefully shoveling more into my bag, for instance, or turning up the space heater in my office really high, or even when I go out with friends after dark and I decide to wear my glasses instead of my contacts because I'm grownup enough that I no longer give a fig about trying to look cute. (Yes, I said "give a fig.")
But as much as I felt like a grownup taking care of my son the way my mom took care of me, when I was sick I just felt like I was 9 again.
Sometime last week Eli announced joyfully, "You're my best friend!" But then, he continued mournfully, "But when I'm big, I won't see you anymore. Because I have to go to big kid school."
"Who do you think will take you to the big kid school?" I asked, pointing at myself. He shook his head.
"I have to go by myself!" he declared.
That's how I feel, some days: like I still need my mom, but I have to go by myself.
(Fortunately my mom lives three blocks away. And sent over chicken soup. And at least I have Phil to entertain Eli and walk the dog and get me apple juice and Afrin. But alas, no surviving copy of Annie.)
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Doing it right
Somehow Eli learned the song about the days of the week. This one:
He likes to sing it at the top of his lungs as we stroll to school in the mornings. Except he invariably skips Thursday.
"Sunday Monday, Tuesday Wednesday, Friday Saturday!" he'll shout. Then he'll turn around to ask me: "Did I do it right?"
"Buddy, you skipped Thursday," I'll say. So he'll try again: "Sunday Monday, Thursday Wednesday, Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"
"That time you said Thursday instead of Tuesday and then you still left out Thursday."
...you get the idea.
I love this routine with him. Not just because it's cute, but because it's easy. "Did I do it right?" is a simple question to answer when we're talking about the days of the week. Eli knows it, too, which is why he enjoys asking me like we're both in on the joke. "Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"
If only Eli knew how many times I ask myself that same question, without being at all certain of the answer. After every meltdown, every negotiation, every outing that goes awry, I wish there was someone I could turn to and ask, "Did I do it right?"
This spring, Eli was spending the day with my good friend when she called to tell me that he had hit his head and it wouldn't stop bleeding. I didn't panic, but what I did was worse: I froze. Should she take him to our pediatrician? Or to pediatric urgent care? Would they see him if he wasn't accompanied by a parent? What about insurance? Should she wait until I got home? But what good was I going to be?
Was I doing it right? And who was going to tell me if I wasn't?
Sometimes it feels like I'm making dozens of decisions in a day. Should I let him eat this granola bar before school? Will he ever let me leave the room if I lay here in his bed for an extra five minutes? Am I ruining his teeth if I don't take away his pacifier? Am I ruining his hygiene habits if I let him watch Peppa Pig while brushing his teeth? Actually, isn't it time we started brushing teeth in the morning too? Why am I so concerned about his teeth when they're all going to fall out anyway?
Am I doing it right?
Phil would say these worries are good problems. After all, even the idea of being able to worry about whether or not I'm doing it right is a luxury. My kid always has enough to eat (even if he chooses not to eat it, or only eats the cheese and pasta out of it, or demands dessert to go along with it) and appropriate clothes to wear (even if he refuses to put them on, or take them off, or insists that he can't possibly pull them up himself).
But when Eli was a baby, somehow my concerns seemed more urgent, more immediate. Will he get sick if I give him this formula that's been sitting out for more than three hours? Do I need to call the doctor for this fever? What in the name of all that is good am I going to do if he does not take a nap?! I didn't worry about damaging his psyche because, well, he didn't really have much of a psyche, just more of a burning desire to eat every three hours and never, ever go to sleep.
But now that we've survived infancy, I don't worry so much about his health or his nap schedule as much as the kind of person he'll turn out to be. If I refuse to give in to his stalling at bedtime, does he learn that I've set limits, or does he learn that I'm inflexible even when he needs me? If I let him hang on to that pacifier forever, am I respecting his autonomy or just babying him? What decisions can I make that will help him become kind, curious, responsible? Am I doing it right?
Last night I was lying in bed with Eli when he whispered that he had a secret to tell me "at the very end." After I sang him his nighttime song, he snuggled in close to me. "I'll tell you the secret after you smile," he said, and I obliged. He reached up and adjusted his pacifier, his breath warm against my neck. "The secret is..."
I expected the secret to be "I love you," and I would have loved it. But what I got was even better. "The secret is: You're the mommy," he whispered breathily.
I laughed. "I'm the mommy? That's the secret?" I said. Then I had a sobering thought: I'm the mommy. I'm the mommy!
That's not a secret, but it is a gift. I am the mommy. I don't know if I'm doing it right. But I am doing it.
This morning, I took Eli for a run, which is my favorite thing to do with him in the morning before school. I tucked him into his jogging stroller with his fleece whale blanket and fortified him with a Trader Joe's granola bar — his new favorite treat. It seemed like it might be drizzly, so instead of our normal route we ran over to Burns Street to see the "spooky houses" decorated for Halloween. We ooohed at the ghosts and spiders and pumpkins and then we flew through the darkness back across Queens Boulevard. When we got home Eli jumped out of his stroller and hugged me tightly around the legs.
"I really love you," he said, sounding mildly surprised to be admitting it. Another secret. Another gift. And I didn't have to ask if I was doing it right.
He likes to sing it at the top of his lungs as we stroll to school in the mornings. Except he invariably skips Thursday.
"Sunday Monday, Tuesday Wednesday, Friday Saturday!" he'll shout. Then he'll turn around to ask me: "Did I do it right?"
"Buddy, you skipped Thursday," I'll say. So he'll try again: "Sunday Monday, Thursday Wednesday, Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"
"That time you said Thursday instead of Tuesday and then you still left out Thursday."
...you get the idea.
I love this routine with him. Not just because it's cute, but because it's easy. "Did I do it right?" is a simple question to answer when we're talking about the days of the week. Eli knows it, too, which is why he enjoys asking me like we're both in on the joke. "Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"
If only Eli knew how many times I ask myself that same question, without being at all certain of the answer. After every meltdown, every negotiation, every outing that goes awry, I wish there was someone I could turn to and ask, "Did I do it right?"
This spring, Eli was spending the day with my good friend when she called to tell me that he had hit his head and it wouldn't stop bleeding. I didn't panic, but what I did was worse: I froze. Should she take him to our pediatrician? Or to pediatric urgent care? Would they see him if he wasn't accompanied by a parent? What about insurance? Should she wait until I got home? But what good was I going to be?
Was I doing it right? And who was going to tell me if I wasn't?
Sometimes it feels like I'm making dozens of decisions in a day. Should I let him eat this granola bar before school? Will he ever let me leave the room if I lay here in his bed for an extra five minutes? Am I ruining his teeth if I don't take away his pacifier? Am I ruining his hygiene habits if I let him watch Peppa Pig while brushing his teeth? Actually, isn't it time we started brushing teeth in the morning too? Why am I so concerned about his teeth when they're all going to fall out anyway?
Am I doing it right?
Phil would say these worries are good problems. After all, even the idea of being able to worry about whether or not I'm doing it right is a luxury. My kid always has enough to eat (even if he chooses not to eat it, or only eats the cheese and pasta out of it, or demands dessert to go along with it) and appropriate clothes to wear (even if he refuses to put them on, or take them off, or insists that he can't possibly pull them up himself).
But when Eli was a baby, somehow my concerns seemed more urgent, more immediate. Will he get sick if I give him this formula that's been sitting out for more than three hours? Do I need to call the doctor for this fever? What in the name of all that is good am I going to do if he does not take a nap?! I didn't worry about damaging his psyche because, well, he didn't really have much of a psyche, just more of a burning desire to eat every three hours and never, ever go to sleep.
But now that we've survived infancy, I don't worry so much about his health or his nap schedule as much as the kind of person he'll turn out to be. If I refuse to give in to his stalling at bedtime, does he learn that I've set limits, or does he learn that I'm inflexible even when he needs me? If I let him hang on to that pacifier forever, am I respecting his autonomy or just babying him? What decisions can I make that will help him become kind, curious, responsible? Am I doing it right?
Last night I was lying in bed with Eli when he whispered that he had a secret to tell me "at the very end." After I sang him his nighttime song, he snuggled in close to me. "I'll tell you the secret after you smile," he said, and I obliged. He reached up and adjusted his pacifier, his breath warm against my neck. "The secret is..."
I expected the secret to be "I love you," and I would have loved it. But what I got was even better. "The secret is: You're the mommy," he whispered breathily.
I laughed. "I'm the mommy? That's the secret?" I said. Then I had a sobering thought: I'm the mommy. I'm the mommy!
That's not a secret, but it is a gift. I am the mommy. I don't know if I'm doing it right. But I am doing it.
This morning, I took Eli for a run, which is my favorite thing to do with him in the morning before school. I tucked him into his jogging stroller with his fleece whale blanket and fortified him with a Trader Joe's granola bar — his new favorite treat. It seemed like it might be drizzly, so instead of our normal route we ran over to Burns Street to see the "spooky houses" decorated for Halloween. We ooohed at the ghosts and spiders and pumpkins and then we flew through the darkness back across Queens Boulevard. When we got home Eli jumped out of his stroller and hugged me tightly around the legs.
"I really love you," he said, sounding mildly surprised to be admitting it. Another secret. Another gift. And I didn't have to ask if I was doing it right.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Mom friends are better than mom jeans
It's birthday party season!
When Eli was born in August of 2012, I was lucky enough to connect with a network of other new moms. So most of my friends' kids have birthdays between June and December, which means throughout the summer and fall, we attend a lot of birthday parties.
One thing I didn't necessarily consider about having a baby was that it would open up a whole new social circle for me. Now in addition to work friends and school friends I had mom friends...a label I eventually shortened to "the moms" (as in, "Phil, I'm having dinner with the moms tonight").
Making mom friends is a little bit like dating. When I was on maternity leave, I joined every meetup group, every playgroup I heard about; I said yes to every playdate. Fortunately, mom friend relationships move a lot faster than romantic relationships: At the beginning of the playdate, you're shyly scrutinizing each other's diaper bags for clues (is that a bottle of formula? A Mam pacifier? Puffs, she lets her kid have puffs, that's a good sign); by the end, you're swapping birth stories and describing in graphic detail exactly what that last cervical check felt like.
When Eli was an infant, I relied on the women of my Google group to get me out of the house and give me something to look forward to. On Mondays, we did mommy/baby yoga at New York Sports Club, usually followed by a walk through Forest Hills Gardens and — if we were feeling daring — lunch. (Have you ever seen the look on a waiter's face when 5-10 women with strollers haul themselves into your restaurant? It's something!) On Fridays, we convened in the children's section of Barnes & Noble or at the park, laying blankets end-to-end to create a patchwork where all our babies could roll, spit, grab and faceplant onto each other.
We did stroller exercises and formed a book club. We glammed up for moms' nights out and brought each other pastries for day playdates in. We compared notes on solid food, sleeping through the night and teething. We traded horror stories about spitup and screaming fits. At night I would text them photos of my glass of wine sitting atop Eli's high chair — a perfect epitome for bedtime — or Paranormal Activity-style shots of the baby monitor in night vision mode.
Can I make a confession? When I went back to work, it wasn't staying at home with Eli that I missed, the day-to-day routine of changing diapers and playing peekaboo. It was all that socializing with "the moms" who had become my close girlfriends.
Now that our kids are older, it's not so easy to chat with other moms at the playground because our kids no longer stay in one spot long enough to get a good conversation going. ("So the other day I was at the — be careful on that slide — supermarket on Queens Boulevard with the — you have to get off the slide if someone wants to come down it! — guacamole and I noticed — no, we just got off the swings, I'm not putting you back on them right now — what was I saying again?") And it's interesting to see parenting styles develop and evolve from the days when all we all had in common was that we had new babies — it can be awkward when you find yourself at the playground with someone you haven't seen in a while and you realize, Oh, she's totally a helicopter mom and I bet she's judging me because I'm not paying enough attention to my kid! Wait a second, where is my kid?
But on the flip side — and this is where birthday party season comes in — another thing I didn't realize about becoming a parent was how much I would genuinely love my friends' kids, too. I love hearing about funny things they said or outrageous fits they pulled (bonus points if it makes me feel better about my own kid's outrageous fits). I love chatting with them (now that they can chat!) and watching them navigate playtime with each other.
When our kids were really small, before they had friendships of their own, I considered an invitation to a 1st birthday party an honor. After all, I reasoned, since the party was really for the parents, not the kid, and the parents were the ones doing the inviting, it must mean they liked us! So birthday party season feels, instead of a chore, like an affirmation: These are our people.
When you Google "mom friends," the top results that appear are all about how to make them: Why is it so hard? Why don't you have "good ones"? Poor Googlers. Am I allowed to brag about this for a moment? I have mom friends who have offered to get Eli from school for me when the subways were fucked and neither Phil nor I were going to make it to school on time. I have mom friends who I can talk to about poop and cervical mucus without blinking. I have mom friends I can drink bottles of wine in my sweatpants with and mom friends I can run for miles with (and sometimes they're the same friends!).
In family trees, children always appear as leaves growing out from the tree. But what I've been thinking about lately is that children are also roots, pulling us deeper and closer to where we are and to each other. At the first birthday party of birthday party season, I got to hold all these babies and I thought, I may not have another kid, but I hope someone will always lend me a baby to hold. I was walking to the subway on my way to work and a guy in a suit smiled and nodded at me — I have no idea who it was but I assume it was the dad of one of Eli's classmates. I've lived in Forest Hills all my life, but I've never felt more a part of the community than I do now that I'm "Eli's mom."
But when you have good mom friends, they become more than just mom friends; they become your community. I have friends who will text me to make sure I don't get on the E train if it's running slowly, and friends who will text me to make sure I walk Eli down 108th Street so we can see all the construction trucks. I have friends who tease Phil about how much he loves Legos and friends who chat with my mom in the bagel store. I was out of town during the most recent birthday party and someone texted me a picture of Phil and Eli riding around in a racecar; I sent it on to Phil, joking, "My spies are everywhere."
So that's why I love birthday party season. I love looking around at all these families I love whose kids have grown up with mine and thinking: We created all this. Three years ago, we couldn't have dreamed who these children would be. And how sweet it will be year after year as we get to see who they become.
When Eli was born in August of 2012, I was lucky enough to connect with a network of other new moms. So most of my friends' kids have birthdays between June and December, which means throughout the summer and fall, we attend a lot of birthday parties.
One thing I didn't necessarily consider about having a baby was that it would open up a whole new social circle for me. Now in addition to work friends and school friends I had mom friends...a label I eventually shortened to "the moms" (as in, "Phil, I'm having dinner with the moms tonight").
Making mom friends is a little bit like dating. When I was on maternity leave, I joined every meetup group, every playgroup I heard about; I said yes to every playdate. Fortunately, mom friend relationships move a lot faster than romantic relationships: At the beginning of the playdate, you're shyly scrutinizing each other's diaper bags for clues (is that a bottle of formula? A Mam pacifier? Puffs, she lets her kid have puffs, that's a good sign); by the end, you're swapping birth stories and describing in graphic detail exactly what that last cervical check felt like.
When Eli was an infant, I relied on the women of my Google group to get me out of the house and give me something to look forward to. On Mondays, we did mommy/baby yoga at New York Sports Club, usually followed by a walk through Forest Hills Gardens and — if we were feeling daring — lunch. (Have you ever seen the look on a waiter's face when 5-10 women with strollers haul themselves into your restaurant? It's something!) On Fridays, we convened in the children's section of Barnes & Noble or at the park, laying blankets end-to-end to create a patchwork where all our babies could roll, spit, grab and faceplant onto each other.
We did stroller exercises and formed a book club. We glammed up for moms' nights out and brought each other pastries for day playdates in. We compared notes on solid food, sleeping through the night and teething. We traded horror stories about spitup and screaming fits. At night I would text them photos of my glass of wine sitting atop Eli's high chair — a perfect epitome for bedtime — or Paranormal Activity-style shots of the baby monitor in night vision mode.
Can I make a confession? When I went back to work, it wasn't staying at home with Eli that I missed, the day-to-day routine of changing diapers and playing peekaboo. It was all that socializing with "the moms" who had become my close girlfriends.
Now that our kids are older, it's not so easy to chat with other moms at the playground because our kids no longer stay in one spot long enough to get a good conversation going. ("So the other day I was at the — be careful on that slide — supermarket on Queens Boulevard with the — you have to get off the slide if someone wants to come down it! — guacamole and I noticed — no, we just got off the swings, I'm not putting you back on them right now — what was I saying again?") And it's interesting to see parenting styles develop and evolve from the days when all we all had in common was that we had new babies — it can be awkward when you find yourself at the playground with someone you haven't seen in a while and you realize, Oh, she's totally a helicopter mom and I bet she's judging me because I'm not paying enough attention to my kid! Wait a second, where is my kid?
But on the flip side — and this is where birthday party season comes in — another thing I didn't realize about becoming a parent was how much I would genuinely love my friends' kids, too. I love hearing about funny things they said or outrageous fits they pulled (bonus points if it makes me feel better about my own kid's outrageous fits). I love chatting with them (now that they can chat!) and watching them navigate playtime with each other.
When our kids were really small, before they had friendships of their own, I considered an invitation to a 1st birthday party an honor. After all, I reasoned, since the party was really for the parents, not the kid, and the parents were the ones doing the inviting, it must mean they liked us! So birthday party season feels, instead of a chore, like an affirmation: These are our people.
When you Google "mom friends," the top results that appear are all about how to make them: Why is it so hard? Why don't you have "good ones"? Poor Googlers. Am I allowed to brag about this for a moment? I have mom friends who have offered to get Eli from school for me when the subways were fucked and neither Phil nor I were going to make it to school on time. I have mom friends who I can talk to about poop and cervical mucus without blinking. I have mom friends I can drink bottles of wine in my sweatpants with and mom friends I can run for miles with (and sometimes they're the same friends!).
In family trees, children always appear as leaves growing out from the tree. But what I've been thinking about lately is that children are also roots, pulling us deeper and closer to where we are and to each other. At the first birthday party of birthday party season, I got to hold all these babies and I thought, I may not have another kid, but I hope someone will always lend me a baby to hold. I was walking to the subway on my way to work and a guy in a suit smiled and nodded at me — I have no idea who it was but I assume it was the dad of one of Eli's classmates. I've lived in Forest Hills all my life, but I've never felt more a part of the community than I do now that I'm "Eli's mom."
But when you have good mom friends, they become more than just mom friends; they become your community. I have friends who will text me to make sure I don't get on the E train if it's running slowly, and friends who will text me to make sure I walk Eli down 108th Street so we can see all the construction trucks. I have friends who tease Phil about how much he loves Legos and friends who chat with my mom in the bagel store. I was out of town during the most recent birthday party and someone texted me a picture of Phil and Eli riding around in a racecar; I sent it on to Phil, joking, "My spies are everywhere."
So that's why I love birthday party season. I love looking around at all these families I love whose kids have grown up with mine and thinking: We created all this. Three years ago, we couldn't have dreamed who these children would be. And how sweet it will be year after year as we get to see who they become.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
When you're not mom enough
I'm a bad mom.
I grumble when Eli clambers into my bed at 5 a.m. I lose my patience when he won't stick out his feet so I can put his socks on or open his mouth so I can brush his teeth. On more than one occasion I have stomped away from him — my 2-year-old — and slammed the door while he stood wailing in the hallway.
But I'm also a great mom. I can get Eli from playtime to bedtime in 20 minutes flat and still have time to chat together in bed ("Talk to me about my day!" he demands). I let him ride his scooter to school and splash in puddles when it rains. I teach him about kindness and good manners and I hold back my flinch when he's sick and vomits all over me.
Some days I'm Supermom. Eli and I read books together and he walks companionably next to me. We share snacks and conversation and he'll say things like, "Great idea!" and "That's a good plan" and "Thank you, Mom!" I am like a generous benefactor, charitably bestowing gifts of screen time and treats upon my progeny.
Other days I'm unhinged and unmommed. Every other word out of my mouth is "no." We get into power struggles over whether he can do nonsensical things like sit on the bathroom stool while putting on shoes, or I refuse to give into his whining demands for "milk in a waaaaaater bottllllle" out of spite. (Why do you want milk in a water bottle, you tempestuous creature? It's a water bottle. Literally by its definition it is made to serve water!) Dreams are crushed. I am the meanest mommy in the world.
It's tempting to blame these incongruities on Eli — toddlers are, after all, mysterious and unpredictable, and what delights him one day may tick him off the next. (Earlier this week I was all jazzed to take him out for a morning run — I even sweetened the deal by offering to buy him a bagel on the way out, like the Holy Grail of breakfast foods — and literally on his way to get in the stroller he suddenly decided he wanted to stay home and eat string cheese instead.)
There's always a part of the day you're going to dread, when the gears grind uncomfortably against each other to bring things to a halt. I, for example, am spectacularly bad at getting Eli out of the house in the morning.
What I want to do: Get Eli to go the bathroom one last time and sit still so I can help him put his socks, shoes and jacket on.
What Eli wants to do: Run around the house like a madman, couple all his chuggers together, finish building a huge tower of magnatiles, take his pants and underwear off completely, hide under the table, beg for snacks, cry, find paci and soft blankie, request milk, refuse to go to school, et al.
Phil, on the other hand, is great at this kind of transition, because he specializes in throwing Eli a mini circus for each stage of the proceedings, which is something I refuse to do on principle because I am not a clown and I am not here to entertain you so I can trick you into putting your damn feet in your socks.
So every morning Eli and I do the same frustrating dance, in which I feel myself getting madder and madder — like a balloon slowly expanding with rage and the rage is ridiculously made out of the fact that my kid won't let me put his shoes on. This morning, in an epic parenting standoff of which I am the opposite of proud, I demanded that Eli pee in the potty while he wailed, "I wanna pee on the FLOOR!"
Obviously both of us have some growing up to do.
So what's essential — and yet so freaking difficult — for me to remember is that it's really in my hands; how can I expect him to be more mature when I'm behaving like a toddler myself?
So: deep breaths. I can be a grumpy mom, or I can be a great mom. What kind of mom am I going to be today?
(Not the kind of mom who consents to serving milk in a water bottle, though. I can tell you that much.)
I grumble when Eli clambers into my bed at 5 a.m. I lose my patience when he won't stick out his feet so I can put his socks on or open his mouth so I can brush his teeth. On more than one occasion I have stomped away from him — my 2-year-old — and slammed the door while he stood wailing in the hallway.
But I'm also a great mom. I can get Eli from playtime to bedtime in 20 minutes flat and still have time to chat together in bed ("Talk to me about my day!" he demands). I let him ride his scooter to school and splash in puddles when it rains. I teach him about kindness and good manners and I hold back my flinch when he's sick and vomits all over me.
Some days I'm Supermom. Eli and I read books together and he walks companionably next to me. We share snacks and conversation and he'll say things like, "Great idea!" and "That's a good plan" and "Thank you, Mom!" I am like a generous benefactor, charitably bestowing gifts of screen time and treats upon my progeny.
Other days I'm unhinged and unmommed. Every other word out of my mouth is "no." We get into power struggles over whether he can do nonsensical things like sit on the bathroom stool while putting on shoes, or I refuse to give into his whining demands for "milk in a waaaaaater bottllllle" out of spite. (Why do you want milk in a water bottle, you tempestuous creature? It's a water bottle. Literally by its definition it is made to serve water!) Dreams are crushed. I am the meanest mommy in the world.
It's tempting to blame these incongruities on Eli — toddlers are, after all, mysterious and unpredictable, and what delights him one day may tick him off the next. (Earlier this week I was all jazzed to take him out for a morning run — I even sweetened the deal by offering to buy him a bagel on the way out, like the Holy Grail of breakfast foods — and literally on his way to get in the stroller he suddenly decided he wanted to stay home and eat string cheese instead.)
There's always a part of the day you're going to dread, when the gears grind uncomfortably against each other to bring things to a halt. I, for example, am spectacularly bad at getting Eli out of the house in the morning.
What I want to do: Get Eli to go the bathroom one last time and sit still so I can help him put his socks, shoes and jacket on.
What Eli wants to do: Run around the house like a madman, couple all his chuggers together, finish building a huge tower of magnatiles, take his pants and underwear off completely, hide under the table, beg for snacks, cry, find paci and soft blankie, request milk, refuse to go to school, et al.
Phil, on the other hand, is great at this kind of transition, because he specializes in throwing Eli a mini circus for each stage of the proceedings, which is something I refuse to do on principle because I am not a clown and I am not here to entertain you so I can trick you into putting your damn feet in your socks.
So every morning Eli and I do the same frustrating dance, in which I feel myself getting madder and madder — like a balloon slowly expanding with rage and the rage is ridiculously made out of the fact that my kid won't let me put his shoes on. This morning, in an epic parenting standoff of which I am the opposite of proud, I demanded that Eli pee in the potty while he wailed, "I wanna pee on the FLOOR!"
Obviously both of us have some growing up to do.
So what's essential — and yet so freaking difficult — for me to remember is that it's really in my hands; how can I expect him to be more mature when I'm behaving like a toddler myself?
So: deep breaths. I can be a grumpy mom, or I can be a great mom. What kind of mom am I going to be today?
(Not the kind of mom who consents to serving milk in a water bottle, though. I can tell you that much.)
Wednesday, March 18, 2015
In the house of tomorrow
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
—Kahlil Gibran
The other day, Phil jokingly said to me, "What's it like to look at someone and see yourself?" Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.
Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.
But later that same day Eli and I were walking to school. It was one of the first days where it was warm enough for him to actually walk, rather than sit wrapped up in his fleece BundleMe and hermetically sealed inside the stroller's weather shield. After a few blocks where he took advantage of his newfound freedom by zigzagging all over the sidewalk and I thought I would have to duct-tape him into his stroller, he calmed down and strolled companionably next to me, even deigning to hold my hand while crossing the street.
At one corner there was a construction worker wearing a hard hat and Eli struck up a conversation. "Hi!" he said, waving. When he didn't get a response, undaunted, he tried again. "Hi!" The construction worker smiled and nodded a greeting. "Hi! I'm going to school!" Eli called congenially.
I felt this weird spurt of pride flare up inside me. So friendly and social! Then I thought: Where'd he get that from?
I was notably shy as a little kid, hiding behind my mom and crying when we separated. Phil was known to announce "I'm not talking today" and was such a silent toddler that his grandmother secretly spirited him away to a speech therapist. (Diagnosis: He didn't feel like talking today.)
But Eli has always perked up in the company of others. All those days I spent when he was an infant willing him to nap in his dark, quiet bedroom, all he wanted was to be out in the world where he could be the noisiest baby in any room he was in. The first time we brought Eli to Tot Shabbat, before he could walk, he crawled right into the middle of a large group of older kids and plopped himself down. He has always wanted to be part of the action — if not the whole dang center of attention. (Eli's teacher once told me that when some musicians came to perform at school, Eli effectively abandoned his role as "audience member" and launched directly into "performer" by getting up and dancing when he was supposed to be listening.)
For some reason I feel occasionally jarred by this realization: My kid looks like me, but his personality isn't my personality. I am embarrassed when I have to talk to strangers and avoid it at all costs; Eli practically follows them down the street, calling, "Guy! Hey guy!" I'm a little cautious in new environments; Eli dives into them like an unleashed beast, hungry to explore every corner. At a Purim carnival, Phil and I lost him in the crowd at least five times, and every time we found him in a different spot — coloring crafts with a new family, trying to jump the line at the skee-ball game, attempting to sneak a Dum-Dum from the lollipop stand. (Why did we not panic when we lost him so many damn times? That's for another post on being the Worst Parents Ever.)
Suddenly I think I know how my parents felt when they came up to visit me in my senior year of college and chatted with some of my friends about how I was running my first marathon. "She didn't get that from us at all!" I remember them saying, as if they felt baffled and maybe even a tiny bit betrayed by my newfound athleticism.
I think as parents, it's a natural instinct to look for the ways our kids are like us. Recently Phil took Eli out for a treat at the bakery and when Eli chose a chocolate mousse, Phil said, "That's Papa Dan coming through!" (My grandfather was a noted connoisseur of chocolate mousse.) That's why Phil keeps trying to get Eli to watch Star Wars with him and why we keep taking him to Mets games; we want him to like the same things we like. That's why when Eli grabbed my running hat and my keys and announced, "I'm going for a run" it was one of the prouder moments I've had as a mom.
But I've been surprised at how much I enjoy those other moments, the ones that make me wonder, How can we be related? When Eli walks into a doctor's office and boldly tells the nurse, "I want a lollipop." Or when he monopolizes the attention of the mascot at a Brooklyn Cyclones game, jabbering away with the enormous seagull costume while all the other kids wait patiently for autographs.
It's a beautiful and terrifying thing when you realize the child you've created is a wild and mysterious creature, one with desires and dreams that are totally separate from your own. The first time Eli tasted a gummi bear, made a face and handed the bag back to me, I was shocked. But you grew inside of me, I thought. How can you not like gummi bears?
It's boggling to me that, even though he's only 2, we can already have such a complex relationship. Can I really feel proud of the personality traits that are so different from mine — is that like taking credit for work that's clearly been plagiarized from a more outgoing parent? On the other hand, if I can be embarrassed by his tantrums (which believe me I am) why can't I be emboldened by his successes?
There are so many schools of thought on how to talk to your children about who they are and who you want them to be. Don't tell your child he's smart; tell him he tried hard so that you praise his effort, not his intelligence. Don't tell your child she did a good job helping; tell her she's helpful so you create an innate sense of being a helpful person.
Every day I find myself thinking, "Eli is so smart! So creative! So funny!" and then second-guessing whether I'm supposed to say that out loud. So instead I try to say this: "I love being your mommy." Because whether he's an extrovert or an introvert, whether he likes the Mets or...OK, there is no viable alternative there — that, at least, is always true.
On Children
Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
—Kahlil Gibran
The other day, Phil jokingly said to me, "What's it like to look at someone and see yourself?" Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.
Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.
But later that same day Eli and I were walking to school. It was one of the first days where it was warm enough for him to actually walk, rather than sit wrapped up in his fleece BundleMe and hermetically sealed inside the stroller's weather shield. After a few blocks where he took advantage of his newfound freedom by zigzagging all over the sidewalk and I thought I would have to duct-tape him into his stroller, he calmed down and strolled companionably next to me, even deigning to hold my hand while crossing the street.
At one corner there was a construction worker wearing a hard hat and Eli struck up a conversation. "Hi!" he said, waving. When he didn't get a response, undaunted, he tried again. "Hi!" The construction worker smiled and nodded a greeting. "Hi! I'm going to school!" Eli called congenially.
I felt this weird spurt of pride flare up inside me. So friendly and social! Then I thought: Where'd he get that from?
I was notably shy as a little kid, hiding behind my mom and crying when we separated. Phil was known to announce "I'm not talking today" and was such a silent toddler that his grandmother secretly spirited him away to a speech therapist. (Diagnosis: He didn't feel like talking today.)
But Eli has always perked up in the company of others. All those days I spent when he was an infant willing him to nap in his dark, quiet bedroom, all he wanted was to be out in the world where he could be the noisiest baby in any room he was in. The first time we brought Eli to Tot Shabbat, before he could walk, he crawled right into the middle of a large group of older kids and plopped himself down. He has always wanted to be part of the action — if not the whole dang center of attention. (Eli's teacher once told me that when some musicians came to perform at school, Eli effectively abandoned his role as "audience member" and launched directly into "performer" by getting up and dancing when he was supposed to be listening.)
For some reason I feel occasionally jarred by this realization: My kid looks like me, but his personality isn't my personality. I am embarrassed when I have to talk to strangers and avoid it at all costs; Eli practically follows them down the street, calling, "Guy! Hey guy!" I'm a little cautious in new environments; Eli dives into them like an unleashed beast, hungry to explore every corner. At a Purim carnival, Phil and I lost him in the crowd at least five times, and every time we found him in a different spot — coloring crafts with a new family, trying to jump the line at the skee-ball game, attempting to sneak a Dum-Dum from the lollipop stand. (Why did we not panic when we lost him so many damn times? That's for another post on being the Worst Parents Ever.)
Suddenly I think I know how my parents felt when they came up to visit me in my senior year of college and chatted with some of my friends about how I was running my first marathon. "She didn't get that from us at all!" I remember them saying, as if they felt baffled and maybe even a tiny bit betrayed by my newfound athleticism.
I think as parents, it's a natural instinct to look for the ways our kids are like us. Recently Phil took Eli out for a treat at the bakery and when Eli chose a chocolate mousse, Phil said, "That's Papa Dan coming through!" (My grandfather was a noted connoisseur of chocolate mousse.) That's why Phil keeps trying to get Eli to watch Star Wars with him and why we keep taking him to Mets games; we want him to like the same things we like. That's why when Eli grabbed my running hat and my keys and announced, "I'm going for a run" it was one of the prouder moments I've had as a mom.
But I've been surprised at how much I enjoy those other moments, the ones that make me wonder, How can we be related? When Eli walks into a doctor's office and boldly tells the nurse, "I want a lollipop." Or when he monopolizes the attention of the mascot at a Brooklyn Cyclones game, jabbering away with the enormous seagull costume while all the other kids wait patiently for autographs.
It's a beautiful and terrifying thing when you realize the child you've created is a wild and mysterious creature, one with desires and dreams that are totally separate from your own. The first time Eli tasted a gummi bear, made a face and handed the bag back to me, I was shocked. But you grew inside of me, I thought. How can you not like gummi bears?
It's boggling to me that, even though he's only 2, we can already have such a complex relationship. Can I really feel proud of the personality traits that are so different from mine — is that like taking credit for work that's clearly been plagiarized from a more outgoing parent? On the other hand, if I can be embarrassed by his tantrums (which believe me I am) why can't I be emboldened by his successes?
There are so many schools of thought on how to talk to your children about who they are and who you want them to be. Don't tell your child he's smart; tell him he tried hard so that you praise his effort, not his intelligence. Don't tell your child she did a good job helping; tell her she's helpful so you create an innate sense of being a helpful person.
Every day I find myself thinking, "Eli is so smart! So creative! So funny!" and then second-guessing whether I'm supposed to say that out loud. So instead I try to say this: "I love being your mommy." Because whether he's an extrovert or an introvert, whether he likes the Mets or...OK, there is no viable alternative there — that, at least, is always true.
On Children
Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
The laws of toddler motion
This weekend we had a remarkably perfect unremarkable day. Eli woke up
before 6 a.m. as usual and I presented him with a flashing Mickey Mouse
cup, a Mickey spinning toy and a card full of Hot Wheels stickers in
honor of Valentine's Day. In the morning Phil and Eli lounged in their
pajamas building intricate towers out of magnets and blocks while I ran a
frigid local 5K with the women of my moms' running group. When I got
home we packed up and headed to Williamsburg for swim class, where Eli
blew bubbles like a champ and had to be dragged bodily from the pool while insisting that he had to keep looking for "treasure." He
slept in the car on the way home and then we all headed back upstairs
for more playing before Phil's mom arrived to put Eli to bed so Phil and
I could go on our Valentine's Day date at Luke's Lobster.
It was unremarkable because we didn't do anything out of the ordinary, but it was remarkably perfect because it was virtually tantrum-free. That's 12 hours without any meltdowns, fits or crying jags. There was no stomping of feet or banging of heads or flinging of toys, no wailing or shrieking or howling.
I wouldn't say that Eli is any more dramatic than your average toddler, but he can throw a temper tantrum with the best of them. He's been known to fling himself to the ground and beat it with his fists after, say, being denied a fourth slice of cheese. On one memorable occasion, he cried because he wanted to go inside the picture in his book and he couldn't because, well, it was a picture inside a book. A few weeks ago, while suffering from the lingering after effects of a virus, he was having such regular meltdowns over such inconsequential occurrences that Phil declared, "This is not normal behavior!" and insisted on bringing him to the doctor, who diagnosed him with a very grave condition: Eli, he explained, was 2 years old.
The mysterious non-patterns of toddler behavior are particularly difficult for Phil, who's an engineer, to understand. In his mind, a particular pattern of input should reliably produce a similar pattern of output (let's call this Phil's Second Law of Toddler Motion). He likes to analyze Eli's tantrums to review how we can change our behavior to prevent future meltdowns. (This Monday-morning post-tantrum quarterbacking is exactly as enjoyable as you can imagine.) So he's always saying things like: "Historically we know that when Eli eats yogurt for breakfast during a waxing moon phase, he'll require one or more hours of physical stimulation before 10 a.m. in order to facilitate optimal midday napping. So in the future we should ensure that all yogurt consumption is accompanied by early visitation to (a) the Hall of Science or (b) Twinkle Playspace."
But what Phil's Second Law of Toddler Motion repeatedly fails to account for is the Toddlers Are Bat$&!t Crazy escape clause, which decrees that every force you exert upon a toddler to produce a reaction will eventually be accompanied by an equal and opposite reaction. Like last night at dinnertime, which went like this:
Eli: "I want a meatball. I want a meatball. I want a meatball. I WANT A MEATBALL!"
Meatball is placed in front of Eli.
Eli: "I don't want a meatball! I WANT PEANUT BUTTER!"
So when we had this remarkably perfect unremarkable day, I had a realization that was a relief: We hadn't done anything differently than usual. We hadn't hustled Eli out of the house as early as possible to burn off energy or fed him a specially protein-packed lunch or infused the morning with the correct balance of screen time. We just had a remarkably perfect unremarkable day because, well, toddlers are bat$&!t crazy and this time it worked in our favor.
It was unremarkable because we didn't do anything out of the ordinary, but it was remarkably perfect because it was virtually tantrum-free. That's 12 hours without any meltdowns, fits or crying jags. There was no stomping of feet or banging of heads or flinging of toys, no wailing or shrieking or howling.
I wouldn't say that Eli is any more dramatic than your average toddler, but he can throw a temper tantrum with the best of them. He's been known to fling himself to the ground and beat it with his fists after, say, being denied a fourth slice of cheese. On one memorable occasion, he cried because he wanted to go inside the picture in his book and he couldn't because, well, it was a picture inside a book. A few weeks ago, while suffering from the lingering after effects of a virus, he was having such regular meltdowns over such inconsequential occurrences that Phil declared, "This is not normal behavior!" and insisted on bringing him to the doctor, who diagnosed him with a very grave condition: Eli, he explained, was 2 years old.
The mysterious non-patterns of toddler behavior are particularly difficult for Phil, who's an engineer, to understand. In his mind, a particular pattern of input should reliably produce a similar pattern of output (let's call this Phil's Second Law of Toddler Motion). He likes to analyze Eli's tantrums to review how we can change our behavior to prevent future meltdowns. (This Monday-morning post-tantrum quarterbacking is exactly as enjoyable as you can imagine.) So he's always saying things like: "Historically we know that when Eli eats yogurt for breakfast during a waxing moon phase, he'll require one or more hours of physical stimulation before 10 a.m. in order to facilitate optimal midday napping. So in the future we should ensure that all yogurt consumption is accompanied by early visitation to (a) the Hall of Science or (b) Twinkle Playspace."
But what Phil's Second Law of Toddler Motion repeatedly fails to account for is the Toddlers Are Bat$&!t Crazy escape clause, which decrees that every force you exert upon a toddler to produce a reaction will eventually be accompanied by an equal and opposite reaction. Like last night at dinnertime, which went like this:
Eli: "I want a meatball. I want a meatball. I want a meatball. I WANT A MEATBALL!"
Meatball is placed in front of Eli.
Eli: "I don't want a meatball! I WANT PEANUT BUTTER!"
So when we had this remarkably perfect unremarkable day, I had a realization that was a relief: We hadn't done anything differently than usual. We hadn't hustled Eli out of the house as early as possible to burn off energy or fed him a specially protein-packed lunch or infused the morning with the correct balance of screen time. We just had a remarkably perfect unremarkable day because, well, toddlers are bat$&!t crazy and this time it worked in our favor.
Rachel's Laws of Toddler Motion
- A toddler in motion tends to stay in motion unless acted upon by a parent attempting to direct the motion of the toddler toward the door of the house because it's time to leave, at which point the toddler will plant himself in a corner and refuse to move. A toddler at rest has probably been clubbed over the head or plied with a pacifier and blankie.
- The acceleration of a toddler toward an object is inversely related to the parent's desire for the toddler to leave the object alone (i.e., the more forcefully a parent expresses a desire for the toddler to stay away from the object, the faster the toddler will accelerate toward that object). More undesirable objects will require a greater magnitude of force to be exerted on the toddler: For example, a toddler's acceleration toward a toothbrush at bedtime will require a much greater magnitude of force than his acceleration toward a cookie.
- For every action there is an equal and opposite bat$&!t crazy toddler reaction.
Friday, January 9, 2015
Turn off, tune out, drop in
The other night when I came home from work, Phil decided Eli should show me some of his new dance moves, so he took out his phone and turned on our signature family dance party song (if you must know, it's Taylor Swift's "Shake It Off" and we're proud of it, thanks). Eli's new move was amazing. It involved running rapidly in place with his feet very close to the floor like a hamster in a wheel while he lifted just one arm like a marionette, all the while keeping a look on his face that suggested great concentration.
I giggled, loving it. I had to have it on film. Because Eli hates it when I videotape him, I tried sneakily reaching for Phil's phone, not realizing that the song would stop playing. We turned it back on, but Eli was finished dancing.
I had ruined it.
I do this a lot. I feel compelled to document every new or cute thing we're doing, often at the expense of participating in the new and cute thing myself. Sometimes I catch Eli doing something extraordinary -- reading a book out loud to himself, singing the Shabbat blessing while lighting his pretend candles -- and the instant I try to capture a video, it's over -- and then I feel frustrated that I "missed" it instead of glad to have seen it with my own eyes!
I've always been a multitasker. When I was young, I tried to read at the dinner table, as if conversation with my parents wasn't enough to keep me occupied. In college, I often found myself working on two papers at once -- switching between them kept me fresh without wasting time with breaks.
When smartphones were invented, people like me rejoiced. Here was something at my fingertips that could give me backup entertainment at all times. I could check Facebook while waiting on line at the post office, browse movie reviews while talking to Phil about which movie to see, read BabyCenter message boards while nursing Eli.
When Eli was a baby, my iPhone and I were inseparable. In fact, if I sat down to nurse him without it next to me I'd be cursing myself for the next 20 minutes. Anyone who's ever spent any length of time at home with a newborn knows how lonely and boring it can be. I needed my phone to text my mom friends about what new foods they were trying next. I needed my phone to Google how often my baby should be napping. I needed my phone to post photos to Facebook that proved I was being a good mom to the cutest baby in the world. And as long as Eli had his pacifier and his bottle and his swaddle and his baby iPod and his jingly toys and his playmat and his Boppy, he didn't care.
But now Eli makes it clear that he does care. "Leave your phone!" he'll say impatiently, waving his hand at me in a classic Jewish-grandmother-no-no gesture. "Put your phone away!" Sometimes I feel like a character in The Sims, that computer video game I loved playing when I was in high school. In The Sims, certain household objects emit temptation that compels your Sims to keep interacting with them, even when they have to do more urgent things like flirt with their significant others or, um, use the bathroom. They just keep being drawn to play with their computers even as the school bus drives away or their hunger begins to rise to unacceptable levels.
Or, as an article I once read put it, "When I look back on these moments in 20 years I know I'm going to have enjoyed playing with my kids more than browsing on my phone, so why am I so compelled to browse on my phone when I could be playing with my kids?"
This past summer, when we were on Martha's Vineyard, I went as far as deleting the Facebook app from my phone so it wouldn't be a distraction from our vacation. Because besides the fact that just browsing my newsfeed is a timesuck, I didn't want to get caught up in posing the perfect pictures and then constantly posting them all, "Look at what a great time we're having!" (Instead, I preferred to go for the Grand Facebook Reveal when we returned: Look at what a great time we had!)
This is all a long-winded way of saying that my new year's resolution is to unglue myself from my phone. Gradually, because we're BFFs, but I'm making a concerted effort. My ultimate goal is to go media-free on Friday nights and Saturdays (aka Shabbat Lite, if you will).
In the meantime, there are certain moments that you're just never going to capture. Like last night, when I came home from work and Eli streaked out into the living room. I say "streaked" because he was stark naked except for one sock. With the door open behind me, he caught a glimpse of his stroller still sitting in the hallway.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "We have to get my stroller!"
I quickly pushed the door shut to prevent him from a naked escape. "Not now," I assured him, "we'll get it later."
He looked at me with wide eyes. "But Mom!" he protested. "It's gonna be amazing!"
It sure is.
I giggled, loving it. I had to have it on film. Because Eli hates it when I videotape him, I tried sneakily reaching for Phil's phone, not realizing that the song would stop playing. We turned it back on, but Eli was finished dancing.
I had ruined it.
I do this a lot. I feel compelled to document every new or cute thing we're doing, often at the expense of participating in the new and cute thing myself. Sometimes I catch Eli doing something extraordinary -- reading a book out loud to himself, singing the Shabbat blessing while lighting his pretend candles -- and the instant I try to capture a video, it's over -- and then I feel frustrated that I "missed" it instead of glad to have seen it with my own eyes!
I've always been a multitasker. When I was young, I tried to read at the dinner table, as if conversation with my parents wasn't enough to keep me occupied. In college, I often found myself working on two papers at once -- switching between them kept me fresh without wasting time with breaks.
When smartphones were invented, people like me rejoiced. Here was something at my fingertips that could give me backup entertainment at all times. I could check Facebook while waiting on line at the post office, browse movie reviews while talking to Phil about which movie to see, read BabyCenter message boards while nursing Eli.
When Eli was a baby, my iPhone and I were inseparable. In fact, if I sat down to nurse him without it next to me I'd be cursing myself for the next 20 minutes. Anyone who's ever spent any length of time at home with a newborn knows how lonely and boring it can be. I needed my phone to text my mom friends about what new foods they were trying next. I needed my phone to Google how often my baby should be napping. I needed my phone to post photos to Facebook that proved I was being a good mom to the cutest baby in the world. And as long as Eli had his pacifier and his bottle and his swaddle and his baby iPod and his jingly toys and his playmat and his Boppy, he didn't care.
But now Eli makes it clear that he does care. "Leave your phone!" he'll say impatiently, waving his hand at me in a classic Jewish-grandmother-no-no gesture. "Put your phone away!" Sometimes I feel like a character in The Sims, that computer video game I loved playing when I was in high school. In The Sims, certain household objects emit temptation that compels your Sims to keep interacting with them, even when they have to do more urgent things like flirt with their significant others or, um, use the bathroom. They just keep being drawn to play with their computers even as the school bus drives away or their hunger begins to rise to unacceptable levels.
Or, as an article I once read put it, "When I look back on these moments in 20 years I know I'm going to have enjoyed playing with my kids more than browsing on my phone, so why am I so compelled to browse on my phone when I could be playing with my kids?"
This past summer, when we were on Martha's Vineyard, I went as far as deleting the Facebook app from my phone so it wouldn't be a distraction from our vacation. Because besides the fact that just browsing my newsfeed is a timesuck, I didn't want to get caught up in posing the perfect pictures and then constantly posting them all, "Look at what a great time we're having!" (Instead, I preferred to go for the Grand Facebook Reveal when we returned: Look at what a great time we had!)
This is all a long-winded way of saying that my new year's resolution is to unglue myself from my phone. Gradually, because we're BFFs, but I'm making a concerted effort. My ultimate goal is to go media-free on Friday nights and Saturdays (aka Shabbat Lite, if you will).
In the meantime, there are certain moments that you're just never going to capture. Like last night, when I came home from work and Eli streaked out into the living room. I say "streaked" because he was stark naked except for one sock. With the door open behind me, he caught a glimpse of his stroller still sitting in the hallway.
"Oh!" he exclaimed. "We have to get my stroller!"
I quickly pushed the door shut to prevent him from a naked escape. "Not now," I assured him, "we'll get it later."
He looked at me with wide eyes. "But Mom!" he protested. "It's gonna be amazing!"
It sure is.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Like a mommy
In case you missed it, there was a cute video circulating just before Christmas of President Obama helping to sort toys that had been donated to Toys for Tots. Obama was supposed to divide the toys into bins intended for "girls' toys" or "boys' toys," but -- like anyone who's seen this graphic demonstrating how to tell if a toy is intended for girls or boys ("Do you operate the toy with your genitalia?") -- Obama thought the sorting wasn't so obvious. "I want to make sure some girls play basketball," he said as he tossed a basketball into the girls' pile. "Let's break down these gender stereotypes."
Following on the heels of the little girl scowling at the "gifts for boys" sign and the renaissance of the vintage Lego ad that makes it clear that Legos are unisex toys, it feels like it's been a good year for the de-genderization of toys.
But when I watched the crowd applaud Obama's decision to put a T-ball set into the girls' pile ("Girls like T-ball!"), I wondered if the reaction would have been so positive if he had, say, put a set of princess dolls into the boys' pile. Or if he had given the boys a tea set and said, "Boys like tea parties!"
I find myself wrestling a lot with this issue. For example: I buy Eli cars to play with because he likes to play with cars. But does he like to play with cars because he likes to play with cars, or does he like to play with cars because I bought him cars because I've assumed that, as a boy, he would like to play with cars? I know that girls like to play with cars, too; in fact, one of my favorite childhood memories is lining up toy cars on the floor of my living room and racing them. So it wouldn't surprise me at all to see cars in a girl's room. But would it surprise me to see, say, My Little Ponies in a boy's room?
In October, just for fun, I brought Eli into a Halloween store and showed him some costumes, which he playfully rejected one by one. Then on the way out of the store, we happened to walk into the princess costume aisle. His eyes got wide; he literally oohed and ahhed. Who can resist all the sparkles and glitter in the princess aisle? After that, at home, he'd sometimes hold his blankie around his waist like a dress and exclaim, "Look, I'm a princess!"
He had a brief but torrid week-long love affair with Doc McStuffins during which I bought him a Doc McStuffins figurine playset, and yet in all this time I've never bought him any princesses to play with. But why? If he were a girl and he had shown the slightest interest in princesses, we'd probably already have princess paraphernalia in our house by now.
Phil says that once he was at an arcade with Eli picking out a toy, and the man behind the counter offered Eli his choice of colors. Eli systematically rejected each one until Phil finally asked if he wanted the purple (which he did, because who doesn't love purple). The man hadn't even offered it to him.
For a long while at school Eli's class was doing a "color of the week" theme where they'd all wear that week's color on Fridays. At some point I wondered what we'd do when they came to pink and purple, because he doesn't own any pink or purple clothing. Then we got a newsletter mentioning the end of the color theme. They'd done red, blue, green, orange (Eli wore his trick-or-treating shirt), yellow (pajama shirt), brown (Mommy's sweater) and white (out sick that day), but they skipped pink and purple entirely. I still wonder why.
Occasionally Eli requests to wear nail polish. The other day, while he was in the bath, I painted a few of his nails. He held his hands out, admiring them, and declared, "Beautiful!" It occurred to me that I should buy some non-toxic Piggy Paint for future rainy day manicures, so I hopped on Amazon. Besides being shocked at the price ($8.99 for a tiny bottle!), I was disappointed that their motto is "For fancy girls." What about fancy boys?
This summer, one of my favorite mom bloggers, Mommy Shorts, posted about an Always ad campaign that asks: When did the phrase "like a girl" become a bad thing? She did an awesome post of reader-submitted photos of their girls kicking ass: playing baseball, catching fish, earning black belts, riding road bikes. All the photos were hashtagged #likeagirl.
Then she followed it up with a post of boys acting #likeaboy: having tea parties, baking cakes, wearing Mommy's heels, getting their nails done.
I LOVED IT. Both posts made me teary.
Phil and I are like 99% sure that Eli will be our only child, and every so often I feel sad that I'll never have a daughter. And then I think: What if I wanted to have a daughter to dress in sparkly clothes and get my nails done with, and then my daughter wanted to play with cars and ride dirt bikes?
A few months ago, I took this adorable video of Eli walking around the apartment wearing my shoes and my work bag. He reached inside it and pulled out my work ID, which I've attached to this funky beaded necklace. "Oooh!" he said. "A necklace!" He immediately put it around his neck and then, studying it more closely, he noticed my picture. "It's you!" he said to me. I'm always showing him pictures of himself as an infant and telling him, "It's you! When you were a baby!" so he started to say, "Like a baby" and then corrected himself: "Like a mommy!" So I know that's the reason he likes to wear my heels and ask for painted nails; he wants to be like me.
And I want to embrace that idea that I, and mommies, and girls, can be emulated in all sorts of ways, that it's fine to choose the purple toy and crash your cars and wear nail polish and build with Legos. Like a girl. Like a boy. Like a mommy. Like an Eli.
Following on the heels of the little girl scowling at the "gifts for boys" sign and the renaissance of the vintage Lego ad that makes it clear that Legos are unisex toys, it feels like it's been a good year for the de-genderization of toys.
But when I watched the crowd applaud Obama's decision to put a T-ball set into the girls' pile ("Girls like T-ball!"), I wondered if the reaction would have been so positive if he had, say, put a set of princess dolls into the boys' pile. Or if he had given the boys a tea set and said, "Boys like tea parties!"
I find myself wrestling a lot with this issue. For example: I buy Eli cars to play with because he likes to play with cars. But does he like to play with cars because he likes to play with cars, or does he like to play with cars because I bought him cars because I've assumed that, as a boy, he would like to play with cars? I know that girls like to play with cars, too; in fact, one of my favorite childhood memories is lining up toy cars on the floor of my living room and racing them. So it wouldn't surprise me at all to see cars in a girl's room. But would it surprise me to see, say, My Little Ponies in a boy's room?
In October, just for fun, I brought Eli into a Halloween store and showed him some costumes, which he playfully rejected one by one. Then on the way out of the store, we happened to walk into the princess costume aisle. His eyes got wide; he literally oohed and ahhed. Who can resist all the sparkles and glitter in the princess aisle? After that, at home, he'd sometimes hold his blankie around his waist like a dress and exclaim, "Look, I'm a princess!"
He had a brief but torrid week-long love affair with Doc McStuffins during which I bought him a Doc McStuffins figurine playset, and yet in all this time I've never bought him any princesses to play with. But why? If he were a girl and he had shown the slightest interest in princesses, we'd probably already have princess paraphernalia in our house by now.
Phil says that once he was at an arcade with Eli picking out a toy, and the man behind the counter offered Eli his choice of colors. Eli systematically rejected each one until Phil finally asked if he wanted the purple (which he did, because who doesn't love purple). The man hadn't even offered it to him.
For a long while at school Eli's class was doing a "color of the week" theme where they'd all wear that week's color on Fridays. At some point I wondered what we'd do when they came to pink and purple, because he doesn't own any pink or purple clothing. Then we got a newsletter mentioning the end of the color theme. They'd done red, blue, green, orange (Eli wore his trick-or-treating shirt), yellow (pajama shirt), brown (Mommy's sweater) and white (out sick that day), but they skipped pink and purple entirely. I still wonder why.
Occasionally Eli requests to wear nail polish. The other day, while he was in the bath, I painted a few of his nails. He held his hands out, admiring them, and declared, "Beautiful!" It occurred to me that I should buy some non-toxic Piggy Paint for future rainy day manicures, so I hopped on Amazon. Besides being shocked at the price ($8.99 for a tiny bottle!), I was disappointed that their motto is "For fancy girls." What about fancy boys?
This summer, one of my favorite mom bloggers, Mommy Shorts, posted about an Always ad campaign that asks: When did the phrase "like a girl" become a bad thing? She did an awesome post of reader-submitted photos of their girls kicking ass: playing baseball, catching fish, earning black belts, riding road bikes. All the photos were hashtagged #likeagirl.
Then she followed it up with a post of boys acting #likeaboy: having tea parties, baking cakes, wearing Mommy's heels, getting their nails done.
I LOVED IT. Both posts made me teary.
Phil and I are like 99% sure that Eli will be our only child, and every so often I feel sad that I'll never have a daughter. And then I think: What if I wanted to have a daughter to dress in sparkly clothes and get my nails done with, and then my daughter wanted to play with cars and ride dirt bikes?
A few months ago, I took this adorable video of Eli walking around the apartment wearing my shoes and my work bag. He reached inside it and pulled out my work ID, which I've attached to this funky beaded necklace. "Oooh!" he said. "A necklace!" He immediately put it around his neck and then, studying it more closely, he noticed my picture. "It's you!" he said to me. I'm always showing him pictures of himself as an infant and telling him, "It's you! When you were a baby!" so he started to say, "Like a baby" and then corrected himself: "Like a mommy!" So I know that's the reason he likes to wear my heels and ask for painted nails; he wants to be like me.
And I want to embrace that idea that I, and mommies, and girls, can be emulated in all sorts of ways, that it's fine to choose the purple toy and crash your cars and wear nail polish and build with Legos. Like a girl. Like a boy. Like a mommy. Like an Eli.
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