Category Archives: Parenting

Down With Decorations!

The thing about achieving a personal record is that almost immediately after I do so, panic sets in that this may be the best I ever do. Sure, I could work harder, keep pushing, but what if 22 hours really IS the shortest amount of time I can leave up my holiday decorations?

My husband is the Decorator of the House. If you visit and tell me that my home is lovely, I will tell you honestly that I had very little to do with it. I’m totally fine with blank walls and empty shelves, but for some reason my husband likes the house to look like people actually live in it. He puts up the candles and the framed pictures of our kid. I contributed my mother’s urn on the mantle, but is she really décor? I don’t know. Maybe.

Every year I begrudgingly participate in the holiday decorating. The only thing I hate more than year-round ornamentation of the home is the seasonal ornamentation of the home. I am a busy woman and I resent having to spend time putting up shit that I will just have to take down soon thereafter. Don’t even get me started on how I have to go outside to decorate for Halloween. (I flat out refuse to decorate outdoors for Christmas. It snows in December. That’s enough fancy for me.)

Yes, sure, I do it to see the smile on my kid’s face. But let’s face it, he also smiles if I give him five bucks or an ice cream cone. Also? I cook him dinner and wash his clothes and stuff so that really should be enough.

In 2013, my husband had to travel for work in the week preceding Easter. Still weary from the Christmas decorations I’d packed up the first week in January, I kept putting off pulling out the Easter crap. It might have been mentioned as something we should do but I probably pretended to agree while silently hoping it wouldn’t be brought up again.

The problem with that was the house was totally undecorated, the kid noticed and here it was Saturday night before the big day and I felt the pressure. After my son went to bed, I sat down with my Domino’s pizza (and breadsticks) and filled plastic eggs with candy and loose change. And then I put up the decorations. Not many, but some.

“Who decorated?” Nathan exclaimed with glee on Sunday morning as we got ready to retrieve his father from his red-eye flight home.

“The bunny must have done it. I’m sure he knows how Mommy feels about decorating,” I replied, quite proud of myself for my selfless act of decorating AND my clever idea who to blame it on.

The next year, Kris was away again the same week and the bunny decorated the night before. I didn’t even pretend those decorations were going up early. I had started a new tradition where I didn’t have to look at pastel nonsense all over my house for the weeks before Easter and I had no intention of going back to the old way. Frankly, it was bad enough I’d have to look at it for at least a week before I got around to putting it all back in the basement for another year. Nathan noticed, but he wasn’t as elated over it as he was the year before.

This year, Kris was home. We figure we’ve got one or two years more at best where this kid believes in a decorating and egg-hiding rabbit who comes into our house while we’re asleep, so on Saturday night we put up the damn decorations. It took all of three minutes and then we sat down to catch up on The Walking Dead, which, oddly enough, was less creepy than the quilted rabbit wall hanging out in the foyer.

When Nathan got up and collected the eggs, he was really pleased with the chocolate. You know what he did not care about? The decorations.

“Hey, Nate, you don’t care if I put this Easter stuff away, do you?” I asked, already pulling stuff down.

“Nope,” he said, stuffing his face with more chocolate.

By 6pm, I’d packed up the basket and errant pieces of plastic grass, the eggs and the quilted rabbit. I’m not sure I can do any better next year, but with training and perseverance, I can give it my best shot.

And really, isn’t that all anyone can ask of me?

Featured image credit

More Like Dio-drama.

When I first had Nathan, people were coming out of the woodwork to tell me how to raise him. This generosity with advice seems to have leveled off and I’m not sure if it’s because I seemed ungrateful in the past or if there just isn’t a mother out there who knows what to do with the drama of the school-aged child.

Never have I felt so all alone as I did the day my son came home with his first diorama project.

Now, back in the day we called these shadow boxes. I remember virtually nothing from my shadow box days except that I hated them. This was due in large part to my tendencies toward Big Ideas and Poor Execution. If I stretch back into the corners of my memory I can almost recall a fuzzy image of me standing at my dining room table doing the child’s equivalent of swearing while my mother sat on the couch not helping. But that could have been any of the dumb assignments that kids get that seem to have no real reason to exist other than to teach them that life will be filled with many nonsense assignments that drive everyone crazy and to just suck it up and get them done.

The day Nathan was assigned this project, he came stomping and huffing out of school and, when I met eyes with the teacher, she gave me the he’s-your-problem-til-tomorrow look I’ve come to know so well. I asked why the grumping and he explained.

The children were going to randomly select the animal to be the topic of their project and Nathan expressed that he hoped he picked animals he knew about. The teacher said she hoped he picked something new. This offended him to the core of his being because obviously she just didn’t want him to be happy.

More to the point, I thought, was that she obviously didn’t want ME to be happy.

After a full meltdown at home, I learned the root of the problem was that he didn’t know how to do the project and if he at least knew about his animal (gorillas) then it would be easier. But now he had to learn about gorillas AND dioramas and this was all just too much for my dear little anxious one to handle.

He was given four weeks to do the assignment and every day it wasn’t completed meant a day that Nathan a) yelled at me because it wasn’t done yet, or b) cried that it wasn’t done yet. All of the teacher’s reminders, I’m sure directed to the entire class, were translated by Nathan as personal attacks on his work ethic.

Tired of all the melodrama, we gathered supplies and I guided him through his first project of this magnitude. No sitting on the couch not helping for me! I didn’t need a parenting manual to tell me what to do!

He turned in his diorama and accompanying two page report with bibliography on Tuesday, a full three days before it was due. For as pleased as he may have been to have this off his plate, I was doubly pleased to have it off mine.

After school, I asked how the day went.

“Fine, but my gorilla fell down and she wouldn’t let me take it home to fix it so now I’m going to fail just like she wanted me to all along,” he complained.

Well, okay then. The drama continues.

finished

Finished project before the gorilla fell down.

Leave the Hall Light On.

“MOM-my!”

My eyes snapped open and I realized what I thought had been a cat meowing in a dream had actually been my son calling me. How many meows was it? At least two. I think.

“MOMMY!”

I jumped off the couch, found my glasses and looked at the time. Almost midnight. Next thing I knew, I was in his room and lightheaded from the sprint up the stairs and the sinus medication I had taken earlier.

“What’s wrong?”

“I need water.” He sounded so little, quite unlike the eight year old he actually turned into two weeks ago.

I sighed and fetched the water. I held the tiny cup as he drank.

“You need to start getting your own water,” I said. “You can do this yourself.” He stared at me wide-eyed but said nothing.

I knew he would wake up and call me. I had turned off the big light in the hall. I’ve been leaving it on all night, every night, and changing the bulbs is a pain and we are using too much electricity and he was asleep so, this time, I turned it off. I should have known better, though, since every time he wakes up and it’s off, he calls out for me. What’s more important: household chores and finances or my sanity? I have no idea anymore.

I never thought parenting would be easy, but I didn’t think about things like this. I didn’t expect to wonder about the level of normal we were at for every single thing that goes on in our lives. Is it normal to need water? Is it normal for him to not want to get it himself? To be afraid of the dark still? To rely on me so much?

Even if I had the data to prove which percentile we were in for each matter related to child development, what would I do with the information? If I were to find out, for example, he’s in the 90th percentile for neediness, I’m not sure if that would help. After all, the best parenting advice I’ve ever heard was to parent the kid you have. As in, it doesn’t matter what everyone else says or does, this is the kid you have so this is the one you have to parent. Of course, I might only think it’s the best advice because it’s insinuating I’m not screwing the whole thing up.

Most of the time though, I’m pretty sure I’m screwing the whole thing up. Delivering one small cup of water to a semi-conscious kid upon request will surely create lasting damage, at least that’s what I came up with when I examined my parenting strategy in the middle of the night. I decided, once I made it to my own bed, that first thing in the morning I would confront this child and find out why he cannot get his own water in the night. Then we can get to the root of the issue, address it, and I will have a completely autonomous 8 year old.

The next morning, though, I learned he no recollection of the incident and so he couldn’t tell me why it happened. If he doesn’t know he’s doing it, how can he stop? That was his question for me. And it’s a good one.

There are no answers or solutions. I can get the water or I can ignore him. It’s probably doesn’t matter. I’m sure it won’t be the last parenting mystery I encounter.

For tonight I’ll just parent the kid I have. Tonight, I’ll leave the hall light on.

 

Lunch Shamed

With the onset of a new school year fast approaching, I know my kid is a bit nervous. I won’t lie though, I’m think I’m probably more nervous.

I worry about the usual things:

  • Will I remember to do laundry often enough so that Nathan has clean clothes every day?
  • Will I have enough of whatever odds and ends are necessary to make whatever ridiculous project he will be assigned that will require me to gather up odds and ends?
  • How many pencils will be thrown, tears shed, and papers crumpled in an attempt to avoid doing homework he is perfectly capable of doing?
  • And what about the bullying and shaming?

For the record, I’m not worried about Nathan being bullied. I’m worried about me. These kids are brutal!

Last June, I was standing on the playground with Nathan and some of his friends. He asked if I had packed his lunch I and told him I had. (Of course I had! I only forgot that *one* time.) He was satisfied with my response so I turned to join the grown ups and engage in some early morning, under-caffeinated conversation.

“Nathan’s Mom? I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” Nathan’s friend had a very serious face on as he addressed me and an even more serious tone.

I need to tell you something about this kid. I’ve always liked him. He’s such a nice, helpful kid. He offered me decorating tips once, including where I could install a flat screen TV on Nathan’s bedroom wall so that the next time he came over he could bring his Michael Jackson dancing game for PlayStation. He also suggested I buy Nathan a PlayStation of his very own. See? Very helpful.

Knowing I was likely in for some solid child-rearing wisdom from the mind of a seven year old, I gave him my undivided attention.

“Well,” he went on, “why do you only pack snacks for Nathan’s lunch?”

“I pack what he likes. There’s nutrition in there!” I was defensive. I’m a little self-conscious over my kid’s pickiness sometimes and now I had let his friend ruffle my feathers. But it was early and I’d only had one gallon of coffee so far. I wasn’t firing on all cylinders yet.

“There are all sorts of lunch things you could pack for him instead of cereal bars. See, my mom packs me chicken nuggets and sandwiches.”

“Your mom sounds great.”

“Do you want me to ask her what else you could make for him?”

“Um, no thanks.”

He was taken aback that I declined his offer. But then he smiled broadly and I’m pretty sure I saw a light bulb illuminate over his head.

“Nathan could buy his lunch. The school actually sells food. On Fridays they have pizza!” He was so proud of himself.

Nathan, who stood by silently this entire time, finally joined the conversation.

“I don’t like pizza,” he said.

“Yeah, he doesn’t like pizza,” I said as I put my arm around Nathan’s shoulder. Solidarity, my son.

Thankfully the teacher showed up just as this kid was refining the skill of the side-eye. He shrugged and said, “Okay, I don’t know what to tell you then,” and he took his place in line with the other children.

The other children who probably had better lunches than my kid did.

But this year will be different. I bought cinnamon bread and organic fruit strips. That’s going to change everything.

 

I’m participating in the yeah write weekly challenge grid. If you write, you should come check it out. There are prizes. (Click the badge above to learn more.)

Featured Image Credit: Me! This was an actual lunch I packed for Nathan before I gave up packing lunches he wouldn’t eat.

Why I Won’t Cut The (Monitor) Cord.

I realized my eyes were closed and I didn’t remember the last page I had read, so it was obviously time for sleep. I got up, turned off the light, then crawled back into bed. The sleeping conditions were perfect: a cool breeze and complete exhaustion. I figured I’d be unconscious in five… four… three… two…

Mmm-hmmm. No. Over there. Yes. {Unintelligible muttering}

My eyes popped open. Out loud, to no one in particular, I said, “You have GOT to be effing kidding me.”

It seemed Nathan had been partially awakened by the sound of the light switch or the mattress compressing under my weight and now he was talking in his sleep. His little outburst meant I was now once again wide awake.

When he was a baby, the first sound of him stirring meant I needed to immediately stop whatever I was doing, even if that was just  blinking or breathing. If I could remain completely still, maybe he’d go back to sleep. It rarely worked. It seemed fitting though since the sound of him sighing was enough to wake me back then. He and I were stuck in a vicious cycle. The thing was, I’d have given anything to make it stop whereas he seemed to take some sort of sadistic infant pleasure from making sure I never slept more than two hours at a clip.

But that was a long time ago and I am no longer so sleep-deprived that I believe my child is evil and deliberately trying to keep me awake. However, I think it’s fair to point out that often as I’m about to drift off, this kid starts to stir and his voice comes over the monitor and-

Oh, did I fail to mention the monitor?

Yes, so my kid is seven and a half and I still have a baby monitor. I’m aware that these are intended for babies, otherwise they’d be called child monitors or practically-a-tween monitors. I know hearing his every move is a big part of the reason I have trouble sleeping. Everyone has suggested that I turn the thing off. I have yet to find even one person on my side on this one, even with my very good excuses.

He hasn’t had a night terror in months, but what if he has one tonight? Or like how my kid doesn’t get up if he needs me, he just calls me from his bed. So if he had a bad dream, or misses me, is too hot or too cold, or just needs to tell me how tired he is at 2am, there really isn’t any other way for me to know unless the monitor is on. This is for his safety, really.

I don’t care what anyone says. I’m not a helicopter mom. So what if I still hold his hand until he falls asleep or I chaperon school events just so I can keep an eye on him? And maybe I still listen to him sleep and even use that monitor to spy on play dates when I can’t be in the room. None of this indicates a pattern of excessive hovering.

He’s only seven. It’s not like he’s ten. That would be excessive. I’ll turn it off by ten. Twelve the latest.

Definitely before college. I don’t need to sleep before then do I? And honestly, what’s there to worry about when he’s in college?

Photo credit: ME! (This is a picture of our monitor receiver next to a picture of my son around the time we actually needed the monitor.)