Category Archives: am I doing this right?

Parenting me (part II of Parenting Upstream)

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A few weeks ago many of you shared your experiences with what I called parenting upstream.  You know, my futile attempts to nurture against nature.   With each new visitor comment I had a new theory.

Maybe all first-borns are CZD (“comfort zone dwellers”) and all second-borns are “daredevils”?  Nope, my own siblings negate that one.  Maybe all boys are the CZD and all girls are the daredevils.  Nope, we’ve got some boy daredevils in the mix.  Can’t really chalk it up to astrology, since my kids are the same sign.

So I have no theories as to why our kids are like this and definitely no answers as to how to parent either group.

However I did notice something really interesting.  Everyone seems to worry more about the one who is like them.  Are you a daredevil wild child?  I bet you sigh and wonder how you are going to ever get a handle this crazy mini-me.  Or are you the reserved one?  I bet you spend more time wondering how to pull this little one out of her shell more than you worry about the wild one.  In fact  you might even celebrate the wild one’s exuberance.

Ian worries a lot about our son.  He loves how smart Gavin is, but he doesn’t want him to always dwell in his head, to miss out on life in the ways Ian thinks he did. “Go for it,” he telepathically tries to encourage Gavin, “the world isn’t going to bite.”

I worry about Chloe.  I love how bold and fearless she is, but I don’t want her to just power through life and possibly make the same mistakes I did, especially believing you can do it all with no sacrifice.  “Slow down and enjoy the quiet moments,” I wish when I look at her.

If you worry about the one who is “like you”, it is because we know so intimately the struggles they will have to endure.  It’s a parent’s instinct to protect their child from harm.  It’s an adult’s perspective that gives us the experience of a hard lesson learned.  The balance between the two is the biggest challenge.  We can teach, we can show, we can warn but in the end each person – mother, daughter, father or son – has their own path and we need to respect that.

I was the wild child and I can already see Chloe doing this in a few years:

This is me in the 80s jumping off a Central Park playground

Playgrounds, the gateway drug to cliff jumping…

This is me jumping off a cliff in Maui. Twenty years later and all that's changed is the height of the things of which I jump off. Seriously, I pretty much have the same exact pose, don't I?

Instead of worrying about the lessons I know both my children will have to learn, I know I need to support them just being them. To gently guide without forcing a specific direction or result.

So I anticipate a lot of holding my breath as she explores the playground, a lot of sleepless nights as she navigates the teen years, and a lot of tears as she struggles with her identity.  And I forever wish that her path in life is smoother than mine…

 

The best consolation about her following in my footsteps is knowing she'll meet a man as awesome as her dad

 

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What to expect when your expecting: more panic attacks.

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Yesterday I strapped my baby girl in the Ergo to get my fix.  Not quite smack, but pretty damn close.  The very last day of the delectable Smores cupcake at Sprinkles.

Graham cracker-lined Belgian dark chocolate cake filled with bittersweet chocolate ganache and topped with toasted marshmallow frosting. Ooey gooey yummy-ness

Everything was going right.  I had money on my Metrocard and we caught the uptown 6 train in less than a minute (a nearly impossible feat on a Sunday afternoon).  When we arrived, more good fortune.  The Smores were fresh and there was a very short line.  My mouth was watering and Chloe was entertained by the constant movement of the city.

We headed back underground to the downtown 6, which was just arriving.  I couldn’t believe our luck!  No delays at Grand Central – round trip this little excursion would take less than 30 mi…..

My thoughts came to a screeching halt.  And it wasn’t just in my head.  It was the train as well.  The ear piercing sound of metal on metal could mean only one thing.  Someone pulled the emergency brake.

Despite my decades of living in the city and using the subway almost every day, I had never experienced this in real life.  I recognized it only from the movies — Speed, Die Hard (with a Vengeance), Hackers, Pelham 1-2-3.  You can see where my mind was going with this in an instant.  Not good.

So here’s where I want to tell you something you won’t read in any baby book.   Things even your awesome best friend – the one who told you about the weeks of bleeding, the night sweats, the baby blues, the leaking (breast and bladder) – forgot to mention:  your life is forever changed once you have children.  In ways your best friend can’t even begin to describe.

Let’s go back to my subway incident as a prime example.

Before kids: Probably some bored teenagers getting their kicks on a slow Sunday.  At my expense.  Damn kids.

Post-kids:  Don’t panic.  Don’t panic.  You need to think clearly.  Assess whether we are faced with a potential train collision, bomb, or hostage situation.  Then come up with a perfect plan of action to escape in the nick of time.

Before kids:   Hey, great timing!  Sprinkles in hand!  Maybe now I’ll have an opportunity excuse perfectly valid reason to eat all four cupcakes without having to share with anyone.  After all, we could be stuck here for hours.

Post-kids:  What the f#ck was I doing?  I put myself and my 14 month old baby in grave danger (is there any other kind?) for the insanely selfish reason of enjoying overpriced cupcakes??!?!?!?!??   Stupid, stupid, stupid!!

Before kids:  it’s too bad I don’t have any milk to enjoy with these rich cupcakes.

Post-kids: I’m too far into the weaning process to produce enough milk for Chloe to survive.  Damn it!  Why don’t I have more milk?!?

Before kids:  If this train blows up it will be really sad because I never got to have children. 

Post-kids: If this train blows up it will be really sad because I have children.

People openly lament the lost exotic vacations, copious amounts of free time and, of course, the dream of a good nights sleep.  But not enough people remind you of the loss of simplicity that is replaced by hyper-awareness.  Suddenly you are given parent goggles.

Image courtesy of myclone.wordpress.com

With these special glasses you cannot see the world as it once was.  Instead you must see the potential harms in everything:  from subway terrorists, to the media, to the strawberries at the local market.   Because maintaining the innocence, the purity, the security of other human beings (two in my case) — that’s your responsibility now.

A heavy but beautiful burden

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Melancholy baby (this is not that kind of blog)

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I’m pinned to the ground, covered with boulders.  Everything is black.  Air too thick to breathe.

Heavy.

Dark.

Suffocating.

Trapped.

Negative chatter fills my mind.

You’ll never.  You can’t.  You don’t.

Foolish.  Selfish.  Naive.

Not good enough.  Not quick enough.  Not enough.

I want to rage against it, I want to break free.  I surf blogs, the news, misbehaving moms at the playground – searching for something to incite me.

Nothing.

I stare at my notebook, knowing that writing will make it all feel better.  Or manageable at least.

But I can’t.

I have the tools to make it stop.  I’m just searching for the will.

Until then, I’m on autopilot.  In survival mode.

Just waiting for the dark cloud to pass.

I don’t need your pity.  I just want you to say you’ve been here too.  Remind me it doesn’t last forever.

Three things all moms hate (except me)

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I don’t know if I was born with some missing chromosomes or what, but there are a few “mom issues” that I don’t seem to get.

1.  I don’t mind when the little old lady in the Target checkout line tells me to “enjoy every moment.”  I don’t – enjoy every moment, that is – but I understand her sentiment.  The days are long but the years short.  I get it.  It’s true (even if your timing sucks).  And it doesn’t infuriate me.

She's just telling it like it is, right Granny Clampett?

2. If when I tell a story about how hard X is for me, or what a crappy day I’ve had and you respond with a story about the ways your experience is worse – it actually makes me feel better.  It means that you can relate to the way I am feeling and it gives me a little perspective to see the brighter side of my own situation.

This definitely looks rougher than my day

3.  When someone says something as stupid as this, I enjoy the validation that a mom’s job is the hardest job.   Sure there is a twinge of condescension, maybe, when these words come from Obama or Oprah – as if the subtext is a pat on the head and a “good for you, little mommy that could, you keep on trucking through your tough day while I get back to running the free world/company that’s bigger and more efficient than the free world.”

Being a mom is the toughest job – whether you do it for 2 hours a day or 20 hours a day – for one reason.  It’s the only thing in life that requires you to be completely selfless.  All. The.Time.  The more hours you do it, the more your patience, empathy, sanity and strength are tested.  Your own basic needs are secondary.  Any other job doesn’t have co-workers who steal your food right out of your mouth or bust open the bathroom door to chat, right?

Is it the “hardest” job in the world?  I don’t know.  All I can do is share my experience.  I was a stay at home mom for two years and then I went back to work for a year.  I can tell you that being home is FAR harder than even my most demanding day as a lawyer.  It’s not even close as far as personal challenges go.  The stakes are higher at home than anywhere else.

And since being a mom is also a thankless job, I take those nuggets of validation, even with a small side of haughty disdain, and pat myself on the back.

Because raising a boy who takes time to grimace at the flowers is a challenge

So maybe it’s just me…

Parenting upstream

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When Gavin was born, my ass was quickly kicked by Motherhood.  Breastfeeding gave me the one, two punch.  Attempt to implement a schedule?  Uppercut.  Colic was the roundhouse kick to the face, just for good measure.  I waved my white flag of surrender a few long weeks in, gave up all the baby books and vowed to learn as I go.

When the second child came around I thought “surely my experience over the past two years has left me with some shred of useful information.”  A practical, if not hard earned “What to Expect.”

“WRONG AGAIN” taunted Motherhood.  Bitch.

Obvious gender differences aside, Gavin and Chloe are different in every way.  Their sleeping habits, their eating habits, their playing preferences, their dispositions, their methods of communicating – complete opposites.

Different kids call for different parenting techniques, right?  Absolutely.  Or maybe not?

Gavin has learned that everything has the potential to cause hurt.  When first learning to walk his forehead was always black and blue, his hands perpetually scraped.  At two, he got stitches in his lip after slipping on his own pants.  The simple act of walking or jumping up and down in the wrong pants = pain.

He's too young to think this now, but I'd be surprised if this poster isn't on his teenage walls

Chloe has no idea of the dangers the world holds.   She gets herself into a dangerous situation no less than eighteen times a day, but I am always there to dive onto the concrete  to cushion her fall or juggle the glassware she topples before she cuts herself.  She has never even heard the word boo-boo.  Blissfully oblivious.

No problem, I'll get that. You just keep on walking.

 

I silently push Gavin.  I stand far away while he plays.  If he shows interest in something new, I offer tons of support and instruction.  He still refuses to step out of his comfort zone.

I am Chloe’s shadow.   I constantly remind her that slides are not for running up, or for licking, or for diving down face first.  I discourage her from doing most of what she wants to do.  Her comfort zone is everything she’s never tried before.

So by pushing Gavin, letting him fall in an effort to show him life goes on, am I only reinforcing his caution and concern that he is never safe?  If so, I am getting the opposite of my desired result: to foster confidence and autonomy.  Should I hold his hand every step of the way instead?  Wait until he is decidedly ready to move away?

Or by protecting Chloe from the tornado that she is, leaving her with only a warning, am I reinforcing her oblivion and wild child antics?  If so, I am getting the opposite of my desired result: to foster awareness and caution.   Should I let her try things I know she can’t do?  Even if that means injury?

Some traits are present from birth (nature) while some traits are learned from our childhood environments (nurture).  It seems I am trying to nurture what goes against their nature.  It also seems that my efforts are only reinforcing their DNA.

What do you think?  Am I fighting the current, swimming upstream, and getting nowhere?  Or should I stay the course, confident they will get there with time?

If you are free tonight, God, I have a favor to ask

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Dear god:

I am so very sorry for laughing at moms who told tales of children over a year not sleeping through the night.  Please ask your fiery torture administrator (aka my daughter) to back off.  She not only doesn’t sleep through the night, she doesn’t sleep more than two hours at a time.  That’s not true, she has one four hour stretch when I put her down at 730. THEN it’s every two hours.  Sometimes every hour.  You must really think I was particularly cruel to these complaining women.  For this I apologize profusely.

As of late you seem to have engaged my son in your efforts as well.  I must report he is working superbly with your primary torture administrator.  They never wake at the same time, alternating seamlessly.  Some of your best work was Friday night.  Remember, when Chloe woke at 11:30pm and then again at 1230am?  Gavin shrieked about a wet bed at 2am.  Chloe up again at 3am.  At 4am, for the love of screaming at the top of your lungs, Gavin COULD NOT FIND FINN MCMISSILE.  That woke everyone.  Except daddy of course.  This torture is designed specifically for mommy and like a dog to his human, he cannot hear these cries.

I am wondering if you were busy with March Madness on Sunday night because Chloe only woke at 2am and 4am and Gavin slept until 630.  My bleary eyes were thankful that Kansas needed that much help beating Purdue on their way to the Sweet Sixteen.  Two night wakings after my own 4 hour stretch of sleep barely registered on my sleep deprivation meter.  It remained steady at “SEVERE” without crossing into “tomorrow you might be arrested for CHILD ENDANGERMENT.”

Despite thinking I was in a comfort zone as a mother, you have sufficiently humbled me.  I don’t know what to do about Chloe’s inability to sleep through the night.  I admit it!  I nurse, I refuse to nurse, I soothe, I let her cry.  I am at a loss.  There is no quicker and easier way to have a mommy call mercy than to render her sleep deprived…for over three years (what? no one sleeps during their third trimester).

You win dear god.  Consider me Daniel Plainview in church at the hands of Eli.  I will say whatever you need to hear.  Please just let my children learn to sleep a whole night through.

Eternally yours,

Carinn

 

PS – Don’t get all warm and fuzzy at this family cuddle.  It’s a survival technique.

Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

PSS – note the offending Finn McMissile in the photo.  I wonder if he is the one behind all this torture.  He is a spy after all…

Flapjack Redemption

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I love pancakes.  Light, fluffy, buttery pancakes.  Buttermilk.  Multi-grain.  Stuffed with berries or bananas.  Definitely chocolate chips.  When I was pregnant with Gavin I ate them for every single meal during my first trimester.  Sadly they were all delivered from the Starburst Diner.

You see, I cannot cook a pancake to save my life.  Though I am not sure the scenario where my life would be in jeopardy and the only way to recover would be cooking a pancake.  But if that were the case, I’d be toast.

They stick to the pan.  They crumble.  Forget if I try to add something to them.  Battered covered raspberries are not delicious.

This weekend I was a mom on a mission.  Armed with a few new pointers and a refrigerator full of goodies, I was going to make some damn pancakes!

 

the game changer

“A griddle will make all the difference,” I was told by a friend late on Friday.  My first thought, “where the hell am I going to get a griddle for Saturday morning pancakes?”  Thanks Ian, for reminding me that we in fact already had a griddle.  A fancy one purchased for our wedding.  Seven years ago.

In my defense, this is where it was hiding. Way above the cabinets.

Saturday morning, bright and early.  I was pumped!

The goods

The gang was excited too.

Assistant #1 already banging her tray

 

Assistant #2 actually helping

started off well

Warning:  the following images are graphic.

 

the box and I have a difference of opinion as to what constitutes 'medium-high heat',

So I turned the flame down to something I would call ‘low’.

victory was found in the 2nd batch

Ok, so they weren’t from scratch.  Or very pretty.  And they weren’t going to get me added to the Top 10 Places to Eat Pancakes.  But they got a reaction that made my heart sing.  I wasn’t able to capture it with my camera but it looked a lot like this:

Happiness!!

This ain’t the Boy Scouts. You will be prepared for nothing.

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I just overheard this conversation:

Man 1: are you going to Florida with the guys next weekend?
Man 2: (regretfully) No.  My wife is very pregnant and I am trying to limit the number of nights out of the house.

Clearly their first baby.

Six google-able words in that one simple sentence but three bold face lies.

Lie: my wife is very pregnant.  Truth: she is due in 7 weeks.  Which means she’ll deliver in 9.  An entire season of Survivor will begin and end before that baby comes.

Lie: I.  Truth: my wife.

Lie: limiting the number of nights out of the house.  Truth: my wife insists I suffer through every moment of this with her.

Bless his expectant dad heart, I know he is trying to do the right thing.  I wish someone could tell him “get out of the house as much as possible now because it will be entirely unacceptable for a year minimum after the baby is actually born”

I also wish I could hug his little first time pregnant wife.  I know pregnancy is hard.  Even an “easy pregnancy” involves, oh how do you describe it, CREATING LIFE.  It’s hard on your body, your back aches, you can’t sleep.  I’ve been there sister.  You know the only thing harder than creating life in your body for 10 months?  SUSTAINING it OUTSIDE your body for the next 12 months.

As you approach parenthood, you spend so much time reading books, creating a nursery, buying baby “gear” – all in an effort to prepare for the un-preparable.  And by 36 weeks you think you know – no – you are sure you know.  You know how you feel about breastfeeding, you know how you feel about co-sleeping, you know how you feel about pacifiers, crib bumpers, tummy time, TV, strollers, slings, solid food and swaddling.

But you don’t know.

You don’t know that all of that knowledge could fit in the thumbnail of the body that is shaking with fright over this new chapter in your life.  You don’t know how it is going to feel to see your baby, to hold your baby, to care for your baby.  You don’t know what it’s like to actually BE a parent, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

I can say all this because in hindsight I know how sure I thought I was and how clueless (read: scared) I ended up feeling.

With Gavin turning 3 this month and Chloe turning one, I am in a groove, a comfort zone.

But thanks to this amazing post, I now have foresight of how clueless (read: scared shirtless) I will be once again.

If a mother ran the Boy Scouts of America they would change their motto from ‘Be Prepared’ to ‘Always Be Armed with Snacks’.  It’s really the best you can do.

Tantrum diverted only by throwing an entire box of snacks her way

 

A tale of two Superbowls

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Superbowl XXXI (1997):  My 7 college roommates and 8 other friends threw an all girl Superbowl party – football fans need not attend.

We spent the night rotating through ‘Would you rather?’ variations involving the quarterbacks Tom Brady and Brett Favre (pre-junk texting scandal this was a win-win proposition, no matter how gross the details got).  The only time we stopped dancing to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe’ was to check out the commercials.

Superbowl XLVI (last night):  Was the Superbowl last night?  Oh.

Ok, I knew it was happening but frankly I was too exhausted to watch.  We spent this weekend trapped inside our tiny cozy apartment as both kids attempted to raise their internal temperature to something closer to the surface of the sun (spoiler alert: Chloe won with a high of 104.1).

Like the Clint Eastwood movie, we experienced the good, bad and the ugly.

The Good

I know it’s wrong, but I enjoy don’t hate it when my kids are sick (so long as there is no vomit involved).  Here’s 3 reasons why:

  1. They are super cuddly.  Even when I can’t make it all better, they still want constant hugs and cuddles from mommy.  And I am only thrilled to oblige all the while knowing there will be a time when they won’t fit in my lap and they will wipe my kisses off their face in disgust.
  1. Sleep.  I am sure it’s part of my karma, but my kids don’t sleep.  Chloe is far more reasonable than her brother ever was but in Dr. Weissbluth’s spectrum of acceptable amounts of sleep she is still on the low side (Gavin just makes a mockery of it).

Except when they are sick.  There were naps, bedtimes without a peep of protest, and 12 hour stretches.  I know it’s wrong to rejoice but I did.

HALLELUJAH!

  1. Low energy.  I know its wrong to be happy about this too, but when they are sick these typically high maintenance, wired active kids take a break.  We watch a lot of TV (the HBO Classical Baby series to soothe the nerves) and read lots of books while cuddling on the couch.

The Bad

  1. The TV.  Once Classical Baby is over I am subjected to the same episodes of Team Umizoomi over and over until I quite literally begin to crazy shake.
  1. Whining.  Oh the whining.  I’m too hot.  My juice is too cold.  Pick me up.  Hug me closer.   It never ends.
  1. The pain.  Seeing my babies in pain, even if that pain is really only discomfort, is heart wrenching to me.  They look to me to make them feel better with every hug.  It is in your sick child’s eyes that you see the power and responsibility of being a mommy.

The Ugly

  1. Green snot.  Everywhere.  On shirt sleeves, pillowcases, my hands…oh yes and occasionally on a tissue.  Why do children hate having their noses wiped so much?  If I had cement quality green stuff hanging from my nose I would never dodge the person attempting to help.  Chloe is quick.  She ducks and leans all Neo-like.  And she’s never even seen the Matrix.  Gavin stands there and succumbs, but man does he cry and whine.
  1. Diarrhea.  Or as my son calls it “poopy juice”.  Yeah, I just wrote that.

The kids have a draw as to who is worse to deal with.  Gavin refuses to let me leave the room while he is on the potty.   The whole time.  A typical male, he could read Vanity Fair from cover to cover during a normal session.  It’s amazing I didn’t pass out from sustained exposure to the fumes.

Chloe usually goes off somewhere to be alone while she does her business, but then I am subjected to a UFC match to change her diaper.

And where does that smell come from???

  1. Did I mention the smells?  It’s worth another mention.

Superbowl XXXI Carinn and Superbowl XLVI Carinn might not agree on how to spend the night, but they do agree on one thing.  NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR VOGUE ANYMORE.  Ever.  Again.  Thanks Madonna.

Do you know the difference?

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My son has a real beef with the word ‘want’.  He doesn’t use it.  Instead, he uses the word ‘need’ exclusively.  Dramatic as he is, every request sounds like this ‘Mommy, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed.’

‘I neeeeeed something from the frigerator’ is how he asks for meals.

Potty time?  ‘I neeeeeed to go poopy’ (and apparently I need to stand watch).

‘I neeeeed to go to school’  (that one is borderline but since I am not homeschooling, I let it slide).

Then yesterday morning he crossed a line.

We were running errands when he told me ‘I neeeeeeeed to go to the playground’.  (I promised him we could go, since, you know – it’s 60 degrees in February!!)

“Ok, we’ll go after we are done at the store.”

“No, I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed to go now!”  and proceeded to thrash around in his stroller like some lunatic being put in a straight jacket.

This little episode made me realize it was time to focus on the finer points of language, such as the proper uses of need and want.  Sort of a nuanced topic (even though he is exceptionally bright) so I thought hard about how to explain to him.  Then I remembered the best way to teach is to show by example.  Here are some of mine:

I want that hooded Montcler coat.  I need to stay warm in the cold winter.

I want a Mason Pearson hairbrush.  I need to not look such a mess all the GD time.

I want privacy in the bathroom.  I need privacy in the kitchen (cause if you see me eating those Dutch Cocoa cookies, you are going to want one.  And mommy does NOT share her cookies).

They are subtle points, I know, but I am sure you can relate.