Can you tell I'm tired?

Me: Okay, you guys can play for a few minutes, and then we're going to run an errand.
M: What are we going to do?
Me: We're going to drop some food off at a friend's house.
M: Can we stay in the car?
Me: No. Where we park is too far away.
M: But I want to stay in the car.
Me: I know, but I don't feel okay leaving you far away from me.
M: What are you worried about?
Me: That someone will take you.
M: (thinks, then brightly) But won't you lock the car?
Me: They could break the window.
M: (even more brightly) But then the police will come.
Me: You might be long gone by then. If someone comes to the car and breaks the window and takes you far away, what are you going to do?
M: (thinks, then not so brightly) I think we will just come in with you.

POOP: Parents Obsessively Overprepping (little) People

I'm part of a parenting message board--the same one responsible for the children's literature debate--and found myself floored this morning by the following query:

"Has anyone used any books, programs or software tools to prepare for GATE (Gifted and Talented Education)?"

If you're not familiar with GATE, it's the program in California public schools that separates out the high-achieving and under-achieving kids and puts them in higher level classes. Around 3rd grade you take the test, if your parents so desire, which should assess your given IQ and tell educators whether you belong in the class.

I'm not sure what bothers me more: that children who are not necessarily at that level will be "snuck" into those classes, or the fact that their parents are willing to push them into preparing for a test at the tender age of eight--a test that, if it really does test your IQ, shouldn't require any prep at all.

Both B and I were in GATE, and I guess my general assumption is that our kids will be too, but I only want them there if that's what's best for them, if that's where they fit and could get the education they need/deserve. The thought of parents prepping kids for this test the way an adult boosts their score on the GRE is absolutely nauseating. Sorry to all the parents out there who might feel differently. I understand that you want your kid in the best class--I think most parents want the best for their children--and that some kids test more poorly than others (although I think prepping for test taking is different than prepping for a test). Seriously: when did we start treating our kids like little adults? I can remember taking that test, thinking that it was kind of strange and unfamiliar in a "boy, aren't grown-ups weird?" sort of way. I didn't really know what I was going in for and I didn't care after I left. My mom and I went somewhere fun--somewhere for kids--and that was that. It makes me sad to think of some poor kid cramming for the test, stressing out about it, then sitting around waiting for the score with their overobsessive parent. It's like taking the SAT nine years early. It's bad enough when you finally get to that point. Do you really have to treat your kids to that any earlier?

Okay, sorry. It's really too early for soapbox ranting. Feel free to read me the riot act on how I'm overreacting and how test prep is never a bad thing and how much that test could affect a kid's education. I know. Maybe I'll see the point when I'm a little less angry. Right now, I'm ready to take my kids into the playroom and let them be kids.

Today's Parenting Strategy: Non-parenting

Forty-five minutes into K's nap--a very quiet, uneventful forty-five minutes--she calls me into her room. Surprised, I go in to become even more surprised. She's still in her bed, but she's now surrounded by about twenty different books. Naptime clearly does not mean the same thing to her as it does to me. "This book scary," she says as she hands me Where the Wild Things Are. I'm sure there are a lot of things I probably could or should have said in this situation, but instead I took the book from her, laid it aside, and said, "Well, you don't need to read it." And then I walked out. I can blame this on busyness or hump day or pre-vacation distraction, but the truth is, sometimes I'd just rather avoid parenting.

Bunk Bed Challenge

You'd think, after four years as a parent, that I'd know not to mention things to the kids that we are not, at that precise moment, prepared to do. Like, say, buy bunk beds and have the kids start sharing rooms. But no, didn't really think through the inevitable ensuing events. So after a fruitless morning of bunk bed hunting, we've arrived at the following scenario:

(1) K is not napping because she wants to sleep in M's room.

(2) I have promised to move them into the same room right after nap, even though we have an afternoon playdate.

(3) M does not want to share rooms unless there are bunk beds involved.

You have one hour to solve this fantastic parenting dilemma, but no fair telling me I shouldn't have put myself there in the first place. Go!

Well, nobody asked, did they?

M is going through a phase. Dear God, please let it be a phase. Whenever something doesn't go exactly his way, he pronounces, in a petulant whiny way often accompanied by tears, "I am just not happy right now." My response varies, depending on the time of day, the amount of sleep I did or didn't get, and the number of times I've heard this statement in the last ten minutes. Sometimes it's: "I'm sorry, sweetie. What can I do to help?" Or sometimes: "I'm glad to hear you expressing your feelings, even if there's nothing I can do." Or, in zen moments: "Happiness is a choice." Or occasionally: "Life isn't always about being happy." Or finally, in desperation: "Neither am I, kid. Neither am I."

The truth is, every one of these answers seems reasonable and valid. I want M to know that it's good to express your feelings, that I'm there to listen and help as needed, but that not everything can be controlled or fixed based on one person's emotions. As much as I would like to see him happy all the time, I have a lot of other considerations on the table, such as health, safety, education, and general well-being. Plus I have three other people in this family to nurture. And life isn't always going to make him happy, because life isn't always fair. In the end, it really does come down to our own daily choices. As Abraham Lincoln said, "People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be."

But he's four. The thing that's making him unhappy might be as small as the side of the car on which his sister got in. I need one simple response that I can spit out without getting my feathers in a ruffle, because the last thing my happiness level needs is more arguing. But it seems like such a teaching opportunity, about how we feel, communicate, respond, and process, that I can't seem to settle on any one thing. I end up feeling overwhelmed, fumbling, and stressed. What I want is to stop the whole phase in its tracks, because regardless of the positives of the situation, I can't help but feel that the last thing I want to revolve our lives around is a four-year-old's state of happiness.

But instead of passing, as phases ought to do, it's spreading. This morning, K came into the kitchen, frowningly grumpy, and pronounced: "Juss not happy now." Right. Take a number, sweetheart, right behind me.

No Know

My current parenting dilemma is a big I don't know. Not that I don't know things, which I don't, but I don't know, which is M's most overused refrain. He uses it and misuses it often during the day. For example, he may legitimately not know where his Duck is, or where he left his cup. But more often, I don't know is an easy translation for It will take too much work for me to figure this out, so I'm not going to deal with it.

Whether it's the response to "What did you have for snack today?" or "Why are you laying on the floor screaming?" I'm at a loss for how to cope. Because the simple solution is for me to fill in the blanks by offering likely responses, such as, "Crackers? Cereal? You wanted to eat lunch in the living room?" And when I do this, I fall upon an affirmative sooner or later.

But while the problem is known, then, I wind up feeling ever so manipulated. He knows what's going on. I know he knows. And he's rigged up this system where he can get me to do all the thinking for him. Which is not only lazy on his part, but ends up making me his voice.

I want my kid to have his own voice.

So then I stick to my less helpful responses: "If you don't know what you're screaming about, it must not be a big deal" or "Try thinking about it very carefully for a few minutes and then we'll talk about it." Which leave me feeling less manipulated. But they can also leave us in stasis for an hour or more while M, stubborn as all get out, waits for me to break.

It's a rock/rock place that shows up in many forms: do you take the route that leads to short-term communication and problem solving, or do you insist on breaking a pattern even if it means hours, days, or weeks of frustration?

I DO know the answer, of course, which is long-sighted (and long-suffering). I've been here before with M's speech delay, where I was filling in for his language in an attempt to make him feel heard. In the end, he was content just hearing me. And we worked through it then, as I'm sure we'll work through it now. But I can't help heaving a sigh, facing again a battle I've seen before and will likely face in the future. Parenting seems so circular, sometimes, that I wonder if I'm the one taking the wrong road.

Now you'll have to excuse me, as K has occupied herself by climbing up to the island and eating strawberry jam from the near-empty jar. Why did I let a twenty-month-old go to town on jam? Well, I just don't know.

Coping mechanisms

So, being the second time we've been sick in two weeks, I'm getting better at the whole sick-life. Here's a few suggestions when that first sniffle shows up:

1) Cancel all activities for the rest of the week. This includes sleep, regular meals, and whatever little bits of work you leave for nap times.
2) Start taking Vitamin C, Zinc, Echinacea, and crack (per sleep cancellation in #1).
3) Designate your back pockets at Kleenex receptacles. Keep clean ones in the right pocket and used ones in the left. Or was that clean in the left and dirty in the right? Oh look, now kid#2 has a runny nose.
4) Practice telling yourself, It's just one video. Also tell yourself to ignore the fact you've said that four times already.
5) Make coffee. Lots of coffee. Run out of creamer? Just throw in some Red Bull (unless you really did start taking that crack).
6) Run a load of laundry, because the one time you saw your kid wipe his snotty nose on your bathroom hand towel was probably not the only time it was done.
7) Set up blankets on the couch and put new batteries in your book light. You'll be at the coughing stage before you know it.
8) Practice telling yourself, It's just one movie. Also tell yourself that movies and videos are not the same thing and should not be counted as cumulative time. Luckily, you're so sleep deprived by now that you might actually believe this.
9) Come up with catchy responses to your kid's public displays of illness, such as, "Oh, did you get choked on something?" or "What is with this nose of yours today?" Keep handy for that run to Trader Joe's.
10) Plan fun out activities like eating in the car outside daddy's office and driving around the block. It's like going places, but less work.
11) Remember that next week is going to be business as usual. So open up that Hansen's, climb under those covers on the couch, and read or watch or sniffle/cough together. Aren't you always wishing you had more time to lay around anyway?

Zero percent parenting

K pushed the CREDIT button for me on the card-swiping machine at Henry's this morning.

"Look at that," said the bag boy. "She already knows just what to do."
"You'd be amazed how quickly they pick up things like that," I said.
Then, as I handed back my signed receipt and thanked them both, I heard the checker say to the bag boy, "I try to tell parents not to do that. Wouldn't want to teach kids bad habits so early."

I'm sorry: bad habits? What would those be: paying for groceries, or pushing the button instructing PUSH HERE? Is there really some concern that I am teaching my daughter something bad because she understands that we collect things in a store and must then swipe our credit card instead of just walking off with them?

Look, I firmly believe that my kid would have picked up on the system whether I let her push a button or not. She wants to push the button because she sees me do it, and by gosh, buttons are the bomb. She knows I have to swipe my little card and push that little button before we get our blueberries and bunny mac & cheese. She just wants to play a tiny part in this whole dance--and that's all it is, because K can't even wrap her mind around the concept of paper money let alone credit--and I like for her to feel like she can. God help me, I've ruined her already.

The forest you do not see

I was having dinner last night with a group of friends when the topic of kindergarten came up.
Most of M's friends fall very close to the cut-off for starting the school year, which in California is December 1. This means that if you have your birthday before December 1, you may start kindergarten, even though you will be four and the rest of the kids will be five. You will turn five in the first few months, but you will still be nearly a year behind the oldest students.

A friend, whose daughter is already close to the cut-off date and will therefore be one of the youngest in her class, was detailing her plan to send her daughter at the age of four to a couple years of school, then have her skip second grade so that when she switches from private to public education, she can go straight into the GATE program (Gifted and Talented Education).

Seriously? Already got your daughter set up to skip a grade, even though she will already be months and months younger the kids in her class? Seriously?

But then, maybe we don't each see how our little interests or obsessions or idiosyncrasies are setting our children up for therapy later in life. Because we are all--mostly--trying to do our very best. I'm sure she feels that her daughter will easily be up to the challenge, and that this push is really better for her daughter. I'm sure she probably thinks that I am too easy on my kids, or that I'm making them germ-phobics, or that I don't push them to be physically adept.

Also, we all see so little of how other people parent their children--and vice versa--that it becomes very easy to pinpoint "problems" in other peoples' methods. But it's like picking out one book from a person's bookshelf and defining them solely based on your selection. The book may complement or challenge the whole. The book may be indicative of a person or the lone exception.

I sometimes feel that I have a heightened awareness for how I am judged by the very few glimpses people have of my whole. Perhaps it's because I'm shy and self-conscious that I constantly pick up on feelings such as "I shouted at my kid so they must think I yell all the time" or "My kid's got chocolate on his/her face and therefore must eat sweets often." I end up inwardly reminding myself why my actions are the exception to the rule, why it doesn't matter what rule others think I follow anyway, or why I broke my own rule in the first place.

But last night, I was the one making that same leap, the one I'm so sensitive about. I'm glad I kept my mouth shut. I'm glad I kept myself open to the fact that I was seeing only a small piece of the whole. I hope others, sometimes, offer me the same grace when I feel those eyes upon my back. And I hope that I truly don't care whether they do or not.

Don't make me ruin Curious George

I've been seething all day about something from this morning. See, I'm part of an online group called Parent Connection. It's really just a message board where San Diego parents post questions and give advice to each other. All very useful, when you need a recommendation on a new stroller or want to find a reliable contractor.

But, being a place where parents preach a little, it invariably hosts the occasional dialogue about television/video games/vaccinations/etc. You know, those touchy topics that seem to draw out the worst of our judgemental tendencies.

One such discussion is currently taking place. At first I was appreciative at the way everything was handled. First, a parent posted stating that they were finally ready to let their three year old watch television. Since they were unfamiliar with children's programming, they wanted suggestions from parents on healthy/unhealthy options. A variety of responses popped up, most including a virtual pat on the back to the parents who waited so long before turning on the boob tube.

(For the record, I'm not writing as one of those parents, and this isn't one of those posts. I have plenty of opinions on that particular subject, which I'm more than happy to keep to myself. It's the only way I keep my own judgemental tendencies in check.)

Personal opinions, kindly and fairly rendered, very nice indeed. Then I read the most recent response. In it, the parents urged their peers to shy away from television and turn back to the tried-and-true fairy tale--Grimm Brothers, to be exact. They contended that these stories had been around for ages, standing the test of time, and were much better for development than modern offerings.

If I had fur, it'd be bristling.

Turns out I studied a lot of literature in college and graduate school. A lot of children's literature, especially, and pop culture as well. And the thing that became clear to me as I studied children's literature and culture is that there's a surprising amount of subtext in even the most simple of stories. Now, I'm trying to hold back my own judgements on what parents should read or watch with their kids. I think that's a decision that each parent needs to make with his or her own family. But I do want to point out that you should never accept anything at its face value. You should never accept a story just because it's been around for a long time. You should never watch a show just because everyone else says that it's okay. I can come up with many examples right off the top of my head--Peter Rabbit, Goldilocks, Babar--of classic stories with disturbing subtexts. I even delivered a paper at a conference on the dangerous subliminal messages in Veggietales. Veggietales! They're talking Christian vegetables, for pete's sake!

Here's the thing: just because they're cute, classic, or even Christian does not make them okay. What makes them okay is if you sit down and read them, think about them, and consider how they fit in with your values; if you talk about them with your children, working through messages that you find unappealing; if you decide that they are okay for you and your children.

It's so much easier to just ask other people. And I'm not dissing that in the least. Get advice, by all means, but when it's all said and done, lay that advice out on your own kitchen table, make the best decision you can, and then make it work for you. We still watch Veggietales, occasionally, despite the paper and its very convincing findings, and Peter is a favorite around here, too. But I'm too aware now, and I cringe to think that others might blindly take advice without making sure that it makes sense, not just in general but for them and their family.

Geez, this soapbox is making me queasy. I don't rant often, so I hope you'll forgive this one. I just find it frustrating that after studying this topic for seven long years, I still see people offering up opinions that don't relay all the facts. If you had a question about that stroller, you wouldn't want answers from a person who'd never used one. If you had a question for that contractor, you wouldn't want your CPA to respond. So why is it that in questions about literature and culture, everyone's suddenly an authority? I know, I know: we all read books, we all create the culture. But we all have homes, too, and don't pretend like we know how to build them. I can at least hope that if people aren't going to consult an authority on this topic, they will at least enact their own analysis in its place.

When no one else will

There were time when I was a kid, when my mom would rave about something I'd done or tell me how beautiful I looked, that I really felt she was patronizing me. Not that I could have identified that feeling at the time, but the falseness echoed in my ears. She can't really mean that, I'd mutter inside. She can't possibly be so blind.

As a parent, I'm starting to understand that it isn't always false. Blind, maybe, but not false. I see my kids and think they're incredible. I recognize their character flaws, often because they share them with me or B, but they are always overshadowed by their fabulousness: M's willingness to share, his great sense of humor, his energy and creativity; K's intrepid nature, her free-flowing smiles, her eagerness to participate. I can't imagine how anyone could not want to be around them, at least a good portion of the time.

But the thing is, I know how kids are. I remember being told that I was no longer a friend. I remember being made fun of. I remember being excluded. I remember the painful lump in the throat and the burn of tears held steadfastly behind red eyes.

I saw it yesterday for the first time. M has a couple friends with which he plays frequently. The three of them have known each other since before their first birthdays. Most of the time they play together so nicely. But the other two are girls, and he's a boy, and the differences that have had so little effect in the past are starting to hedge in. The girls dance around as princesses, as M fights fires. M charges off down a hill while the girls shimmy down in hesitation. The girls spin through ring-around-the-rosy; M prefers to hack at the sand with his shovel. Every time I see this two-on-one divide, my stomach sinks.

And then yesterday, as we were leaving a restaurant, the two girls joined hands and headed down the path. M hurried alongside, reaching out for a free hand. Both girls withdrew, pushing past him with their shoulders and whispering conspiratorily. He didn't see it, just laughed and ran on ahead. But I got a glimpse of the future, and that burning feeling came right back, fresh as if I were in elementary school all over.

I thought it was bad enough to live through that pain once. How cruel, then, to have to live it all over again, only though the experience of the two people you think deserve it least of anyone in the whole world? I hear my mother's words, her encouragement, her support, and realize that she meant every last syllable. I'll mean them too, when I say the same thing. That anyone could see otherwise--even though I know, sadly, that they certainly will--is already beyond me.

I hope they have good friends, dear friends, sweet friends, and that they are good, dear, and sweet in return. But like so much I face as a parent, it's out of my control. All I can do is whisper those words, wipes those tears, and hold the hand when no one else will. It won't be the same--hey, it probably won't even be appreciated--but maybe someday they'll see that it wasn't just about them.

Selfish, lazy, mediocre...

And I did it. Added a picture to my NaBloPoMo page, that is. But no blog posts. I guess people are just going to have to click on over to find out what I'm doing.

In the non-virtual world, I've been tied up with sick kids. Again. I feel like I should tattoo "Beware of Germs" on our foreheads. I feel like my friends are going to start avoiding us and the germs we seem to crawl with. I feel like a failure. I wash hands diligently, feed the kids lots of fruits and vegetables, take multivitamins and supplements, avoid cold-bearing friends and places, etc. And still: the kids get sick. A lot. So much so that I'm starting to have people comment on it.

Look, I know why the kids get sick. They have inherited allergies, asthma, and eczema that tax their immune systems, thus making them more vulnerable to colds. But there is so little I can reasonably do about the allergies. They have some medications (M at least) and we've cleared the house of the big culprits. Still, too much running and coughcoughcough. A little cold turns into a big ordeal. I know it's not enough.

But the alternative? Trying a bunch of radical changes that may or may not do anything, other than throw our whole life for a loop. If I was assured that these changes could help our kids, I'd do them. Even if they were tough. Even if they seemed un-doable. But I don't know that.

Okay, but I do know that I ought to just try. I mean, it's my kids and their health. But it seems like such a huge thing to do that I find myself praying, thinking, hoping that things will just resolve themselves on their own. Isn't that how we are about so many problems, parenting or otherwise? It's just a phase. Or, It's just this one time. Or, It's not really a big deal. We tell ourselves these things when the nagging little spirit within--often the Holy Spirit, if you're of faith--is telling you otherwise.

Why? Human nature. Laziness. Denial. Envy, even, of other people who have it so easy. Common sense, which tells me that other people are fine without these extreme measures. But we're not fine, right? And these aren't other people. They're us.

And I know parents who've made similar changes. I know they've managed, that they live happy lives, but it seems like such a big change fraught with such uncertainty. So what made them decide to do it? And does the fact that they made the same decision that I continue to avoid make me a worse parent? Or just a realist? Just some combination therein?

It just seems like I can't manage the daily stuff. How in the world can I tackle something so big? Where do you come up with that strength? Or am I just shortchanging myself? Because I know--regardless of whatever else there is--that I'm just a capable of a mom and person as anyone else. It's just a matter of application.

And today, the only application I've managed is a fork and knife to the Pizza Hut lunch buffet. And my NaBloPoMo page. And the photo book I'm making for my grandmother. Which seems in writing like a lot less necessity and a lot more avoidance. Great--Now I can add shallow to growing list in my head.

Another reason why time sucks

Yesterday was Veteran's Day, one of those holidays important enough to leave our trash by the curb for an extra day and let all the kids off from school, but not important enough to have your spouse off from work too. Since it was one of M's usual preschool days, I tried to be extra excited about Veteran's Day this year.

"You have a vacation day today!" I said brightly yesterday morning.
"Is it a preschool day?" M asked slowly.
"Yes, but you have vacation! A holiday!"
He cocked his head a little. "Can I go to preschool?"
The sinking feeling I've been getting a lot lately opened up in the pit of my stomach. "You don't have preschool today. It's vacation!"
M lowered his head and fiddled with his plate. "But I really wanted to go to preschool."

Apparently vacation doesn't mean much for a kid who thinks every preschool day is his "break" from Mommy. I try not to take that personally, although I'm really not sure how you take it any other way.

No matter. I promised him a fun and special lunch, right after we went to K's usual swim class. B stayed with M on the side, brought lots of trucks for him to play with, and pointed out our happy waves and smiles. At the end, he walked up to me, that same longing look on his face, and asked, "Now can I go in?" Repeat this scenario about ten times--compounding guilt exponentially--and you'll get the gist of the next hour.

It made me really feel for M. I know a lot of parents worry so much about not having enough time to spend with their second child, but the thing is, M doesn't remember that I spent a lot of time just with him, so there's not really much difference between the two. He doesn't remember that we did take swim lessons for months before K was born. He also does not remember, apparently, that he hated swim lessons, that they were filled with more screaming than splashing and that he never did learn to kick/paddle/hold his breath the way his sister has already done. This was because he wouldn't actually let go of me the entire lesson. He doesn't remember that we used to take long walks, just the two of us, that we ate lunch together every day, just the two of us, that we were one Mommy-M team against the world.

But it's in there, all the same. And I think it must generate a longing that I don't think I'll ever see in K, that subconscious desire to have that time back. So while parents are so busy worrying about whether they'll be there for the second child the way they were with the first, I think they are also forgetting that they exchange that focus for the one they had originally, the one that still lingers somewhere in the back of their first child's mind. And there's nothing I can do to pull it out, nothing I can do to trade in all those times for the ones he now lacks.

We did have a fun morning, despite the pouting and confusion and guilt. We shopped and the kids played with displays and ran through aisles and then we picked up lunch and took it over for a picnic with Daddy. On the way home, I said brightly, trying to put the morning behind us, "Now wasn't that a fun vacation day?"

"Yeah," M said reluctantly. "Now can I go to preschool?"

I'm a little quick on the uptake, obviously, but I will no longer mention vacation. Ever. Unless we're going to Oma and Opa's. Because that trumps everything--even a break from Mommy.

Work cut out and stacked chest high

You know those days when the kids are actually occupying themselves--and playing semi-civilly with each other--so you end up distracted by the craft you're trying to set up and the recipes for that holiday party you're obsessing over, until you look at the clock and realize that it's already nap time and you rush everyone off to nap only to come back in and discover that the consequence of that quiet play is a house knee deep in toys, paper, dishes, books, and laundry, all spewed about like the vomit of some hideous clutter demon?

Today is one of those days.

Two kids + three years = ALL THE ANSWERS

Want to potty train your children? It's super easy. Just wait until they suddenly tell you that they need to poop (this will, of course, happen before they're old enough to distinguish between poop and pee, so everything is called "poop"). Then let them sit on the potty. Don't make a big deal, don't push them, and by all means, never remind them that they should be using the potty. They'll just do it all by themselves, whether you were actually ready to potty train or not.

Because this is what happened with M, and what appears to be happening with K (who is, by all accounts, way to young to be effectively using the potty, which she is occasionally using, well, effectively).

And because it happened just that way with my kids, I'm sure it will be just that way for everyone else. Isn't that how parenting advice always gets passed, anyway?

The Stairmaster From Hell

Being a mom is like climbing an escalator, only it's moving in the opposite direction. The higher you go, there you are. The faster you go, there you are. There's an infinite set of stairs, and finite energy with which to climb.

For example: activity books. There are tons of activity books. Cutting, pasting, folding, drawing, tracing, and so on. Or you could just cut regular paper. Or make activities of your own. I have six separate boxes for theme activities, like play clay, foam shapes, painting, etc. Why, the artistic stimulation is endless.

But it's endless. I could do art all day and not cover everything I want to show M and K. I could do art all day every day for a month and not get there. Because there's always more.

Oh, but we can't just do art, can we? Because there's music. Let's get out those instruments and sing and dance and make merry. Or we could learn to do hand gesture to songs.

That brings up physical activity. Should we be making an obstacle course, or playing a sport? What about taking a walk? Or should we bring the tricycle instead?

I guess sometimes I'm overwhelmed. The more I do, the more there is to do, or so it seems. And I want to give them everything, at least when it comes to their development. I passed a sign on the road today that reminded me: "90% of a child's brain is developed by the age of 5." As if the pressure wasn't enough already--I am an anal, obsessive, over-achiever after all--there it was. A world of ideas, issues, activities, and only five years in which to cram in the best that I can muster. All while tackling sleep deprivation, disciplinary struggles, and a house full of chores.

No wonder moms are tired all the time. Go give yours a hug, and give yourself one while you're at it. At least we are still climbing, amidst it all. What is it we always tell our children? Ah, yes: slow and steady wins the race. Or climb. Or battle to raise the best darn children out there. Or just to make it to bed without giving up entirely. Any of those work, too.

And it don't hurt, either

Yesterday, in the very long line for the ride we weren't even allowed to ride (perhaps Sea World should consider posting useful information like parent to child ratios and baby restrictions, etc., but I digress):

"Ooh, she's got dirt in her hands."

Uh huh.

"She's got it all over her shirt now."

Okay.

"Um, she has some in her mouth."

Sure does.

Altogether now, repeat after me: It's just dirt. Sheesh.

But even with all that to do...

The room is dark, cool, and quiet. The house has reached that restful point at the afternoon's warmest when lunch has settled in and the weight of the morning's activities is resting heavy on our lids. There's only one problem.

"I all done nap."

M is decidedly awake, through his own force, since I can tell by his grump that he's actually very tired. He moans and I sympathize. It's hard to fall asleep, hard to let go of the morning and whatever might await. I sit on the edge of the bed and rub, talk, soothe. He wants me to lay down and it would be so easy. In fact, I'm nearly asleep already. Five fifteen seems eons ago and ten fifteen a distant goal. But there is sweeping half-done, exercises half-finished, and a book due to book club next week. I only get one hour now that nap time had taken so long to get going, and I'll have to make the most of it to get done even half of what I had mentally noted to do. Still, it's so warm, and quiet, and peaceful, and M has nearly drifted off. But it's the principle of the thing, the precedent it sets for every nap from here on out.

I drag myself from the bed, slowly, and give him one last pat before leaving him to his rest. It's about him, of course, but even more so about me. People really are capable of so much more than they give themselves credit.

One side of self esteem, en flambe

As part of a couple mom groups, I get regular forwards for cute videos, quizzes, and anecdotes that I usual ignore. However, I got one this morning asking "Which Celebrity Mom Fits Your Style?" and couldn't pass it up. I so wish I had. Instead of the wholesome Jennifer Garner or hip Kate Hudson, I fell in with Nicole Richie. You know, the newbies. The newbies? Apparently I'm so clueless about parenting that I haven't figured out my parenting style yet: "You haven't thought much about your ground rules and may not know the difference between a time-out and crying it out." I feel like the lamest mom ever.

Truth is, I know I'm not this mom. I have my parenting philosophy down, or at least generally honed. I can waver on details and morph as I mature, but I've read enough books now that as I read more (and yes, I still read more) I know most of the tricks already, and pick/choose accordingly. I have two children who are generally well-behaved, who know what a healthy food is and what foods we don't touch (usually), who know about time-outs and crying it out but rarely see either one in use.

What's more, I know why I ended up in the "clueless" category. I'm just not that particular of a parent. I don't need to have professional pictures, fancy vacations, or lots of upgraded items. I'm good with what we have. I'm good. Period.

So why does this bother me so much? I don't know. Maybe I just really can't stand being set-up next to Nicole Richie. Because, really, all due respect here, I'd like to think I'm more than a little different. Maybe I'd like to think that it's not ignorance that makes me like what I have. Maybe it's just satisfaction. Or maybe I really want to be like Reese Witherspoon, because, gosh, she's just so darned cute. Whatever the reason, I'm taking a sabbatical from quizzes. I clearly don't want to know the answer anyway.

The Fine Li(n)e

One of my parenting philosophies is that I try not to lie to our kids. I know that sometimes even the littlest of white lies can make things more simple ("Kids can't eat that") or avoid tantrums ("I'd take you but it's closed right now"), but that really seems to me only a technique to avoid a real, possibly difficult, explanation. And since we also have a philosophy not to talk down to our kids, I have good reason to feel uneasy when these little lies try to make their way out.

The funny thing is, though, that I seem to have no problem referring to foods by alternative names so as to make them more appealing. Examples:

Ice cream = homemade, no sugar peanut butter and banana frozen yogurt
Bear cookies = organic animal crackers
Apple = almost any fruit, including peach and pear
Bear chicken = used to refer to orange chicken but regularly applies to any sort of meat cut into small pieces
Strawberry milkshake = fruit smoothie with berries, banana, yogurt, and wheat germ

They're not really lies, just creative titles. But when I think of what other people must think when they hear me offer M "ice cream" for an afternoon snack, I get that uneasy feeling all over again. So where is that fine line between creativity and outright lying? Because the truth is, I'm just calling them by these names because they're more appealing to M that way, thus avoiding the same tantrum that other parents might avoid with the "they're closed" line from above. Maybe I'm already off my parenting high horse, gallivanting with the rest, without even realizing that lying and my sneaky creativity are really one and the same.

It feels like there's some smart explanation here about the intention behind the lie/creation, but I seem to have used up all my thinking cells renaming our weekly menu. Sigh...