It seems that I blog about once a year (around my oldest son's birthday) so naturally when something happened around his birthday this year that I thought, I should go blog....I also thought, man, I'm a broken record. But c'est la vie.
Last year it was birthday party favor bags. What to put in, what to not put in, how much to put in....this year? Birthday parties. My son is in preschool, and for turning the grand age of five, I thought, we could consider having a birthday party this year. The problem? At this age, the good and the bad thing is that if you have an event and invite anyone, you really have to invite everyone. So between kids that go to school five days a week, three days a week and two days a week, that's 36 kids. Hardly the 'one kid per year of age' rule of thumb for kids parties. Birthdays at this age are already a delicate dance. Just like the goodie bags, you don't want to go overboard and make other kids/parents go, heh, my birthday wasn't that huge/look at those assholes showing off, but you don't want to do nothing, because then your own kid wonders what is up. So I tried to be aware of what other parents were doing for their kids. Some did little favor bags, some made cupcakes at school, some did something really simple like a sticker for every kid, and still others did nothing. As always, there was no standard to look to, to fit in but not stand out. And 36 kids? That's a lot of kids. But we still looked into it. Just not fast enough. One day at school, there, in my son's cubby, is an invitation to a birthday party. The day after his birthday. So immediately we scrapped the idea for a party. Don't want to look like we're competing, or trying to detract. When did this get so complicated? And I like the kids who were having the party, their moms are nice, etc., but still, it stung. My first lesson in seizing the day. It was my fault for not planning better.
I don't know how long it lasts, but with my oldest son, it seems like a lot of our interactions include managing his expectations and trying to avoid meltdowns over what he imagines things are going to be like and what things are actually going to be like. And of course, there's the fine line of trying to allow him to dream and hope without totally crushing him. Life will do that later all by itself, I don't have to help. But, being the mom with the bawling kid who really looks too old to be having a fit.....not the greatest thing in the world. If he comes home talking about how they learned about Mardi Gras in school and how they are also going to have a parade, I have to think, did he make that up because he thinks it's going to be fun, or are they actually having a parade? If he made it up, will he cry and freak out when he finds out there is no parade? So I've become the negative reality check in life. It's okay if there's no parade, not a big deal, it's still fun to talk about parades.....So I talked to him, let him know how FUN it was that he got invited to a party. How nice it was to go take a present to other kids, and how they would be opening a lot of presents from a lot of people! YAY! Look at mommy's frozen huge freaky smile and not in her anxiety ridden eyes. And he bought it. He was good. He didn't throw a fit when kids were opening a bunch of gifts the day after his birthday. He was excited to give them his gifts (oh yeah, I was the only mom who brought children that I don't know at all gift certificates instead of toys...apparently I am really that out of touch), and he didn't say anything about his own birthday. Did it help that he went to go see MONSTER TRUCKS on his birthday with Daddy? Probably.
The whole thing made me ponder birthdays in general. My birthday is over the summer, so I almost never ran into this problem, and could decide if I wanted to have a party, or even tell my friends about the day at all. I often didn't have a party, probably because I got burned from my formative years when we lived in rural Utah and everyone was invited to everyone else's birthday parties......except for me. And then there were the people who we invited to my birthday......and they didn't come. So now that we aren't living in a religiously oppressive atmosphere (or at least not as oppressive as rural Utah), I am glad that my son is still at the age of 'include everyone.' I am worried about the future when the herd of children will divide themselves into groups. I want my son to be liked, but I also want him to be kind, and to be himself. Most of all I want him to be happy. And this year, despite everything, that's what his birthday was. And for now, I can't ask for more than that. Or I shouldn't at least.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Monday, December 31, 2012
We'll Always Have New Year's Eve
Ah, New Year's Eve. Together with Valentine's Day, these are the 'holidays' that have always haunted me. At some point, I shed my expectations for the fake holiday that is Valentine's Day. I truly felt at some point that it was a horrible excuse of a day where people just felt bad about themselves, or made others feel badly about their forced displays of affection. I also hated how it somehow made it okay to ignore telling someone you love them the other 364 days of the year, as long as your sacrificial offering to Hallmark, florists or jewelers was somehow 'enough.' I wasn't always immune, there were plenty of times that I pined away for a boyfriend, or just to not feel alone. But now I'm married, and we don't even exchange a card, because that is how we want it.
New Year's Eve though.....that's the one that still retains its mythical proportions in my head. The impossible standards of THE MOST FUN EVER!!!!! All while you look glamorous and so very.....very.......these ideas have been sold to me at some point. It probably doesn't help that I have actually had quite a few really wonderful New Year's Eves. Or maybe it's the idea that saying goodbye to the old and ringing in the new is a great idea. That reflection and hope are things I don't really want to lose. I can be honest enough with myself to know that most NYE plans never measure up to the great party in my head. My best NYE's have been wonderful because of where I was, and who I was with. Nowadays on any given December 31st, I can be found at home, on the couch, perhaps remembering to have some wine (or even actual champagne, ooh la la) at the appointed hour. But this is the holiday on which I choose to pin my future hopes. I've outgrown Valentine's Day, and maybe I've outgrown what makes NYE so terrible as well. I know that it doesn't have to be at a cool club or bar, and it definitely doesn't have to involve drinking too much. For me, it just has to involve being with those I love, laughing, and having a good time, no matter what my circumstances are. I like to think back over the last year, and feel nostalgic, silly and just plain glad it's over. Just as I like to think forward to the new year, so full of hope, and sometimes impossible expectations. It's a good thing to review the past, not to sit and wallow in it, and then to move on to what we want most for ourselves next. Nothing wrong with that at all. And there's nothing wrong to hope that in the future I will be in a fabulous place, like I was when I lived in Europe for three wonderful NYE celebrations, or with wonderful people, like I was when I witnessed 1999 turn into 2000. I like that feeling of hope. And the fact that for New Year's Eve there are relatively few Hallmark cards. So long 2012, you were very good to me. And greetings 2013, I can't wait to see where we go this year.
New Year's Eve though.....that's the one that still retains its mythical proportions in my head. The impossible standards of THE MOST FUN EVER!!!!! All while you look glamorous and so very.....very.......these ideas have been sold to me at some point. It probably doesn't help that I have actually had quite a few really wonderful New Year's Eves. Or maybe it's the idea that saying goodbye to the old and ringing in the new is a great idea. That reflection and hope are things I don't really want to lose. I can be honest enough with myself to know that most NYE plans never measure up to the great party in my head. My best NYE's have been wonderful because of where I was, and who I was with. Nowadays on any given December 31st, I can be found at home, on the couch, perhaps remembering to have some wine (or even actual champagne, ooh la la) at the appointed hour. But this is the holiday on which I choose to pin my future hopes. I've outgrown Valentine's Day, and maybe I've outgrown what makes NYE so terrible as well. I know that it doesn't have to be at a cool club or bar, and it definitely doesn't have to involve drinking too much. For me, it just has to involve being with those I love, laughing, and having a good time, no matter what my circumstances are. I like to think back over the last year, and feel nostalgic, silly and just plain glad it's over. Just as I like to think forward to the new year, so full of hope, and sometimes impossible expectations. It's a good thing to review the past, not to sit and wallow in it, and then to move on to what we want most for ourselves next. Nothing wrong with that at all. And there's nothing wrong to hope that in the future I will be in a fabulous place, like I was when I lived in Europe for three wonderful NYE celebrations, or with wonderful people, like I was when I witnessed 1999 turn into 2000. I like that feeling of hope. And the fact that for New Year's Eve there are relatively few Hallmark cards. So long 2012, you were very good to me. And greetings 2013, I can't wait to see where we go this year.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The Ill-Prepared Mom
So now that I am writing something about my son's upcoming fourth birthday, I realize that as my last post was something to do with his third birthday, I am now an annual blogger. So I have that going for me. At any rate, just put Boy 1 into preschool this last week, and while that was an adventure in and of itself, it is only now that I sit down and put fingers to keyboard. Because I have a major bone to pick with the very blank parenting manual I received after I had this kid (it was completely blank, which seemed kind of weird at the time, and not any better now). In the general guidelines for his preschool, it states that they do celebrate birthdays, and that I, as a parent (seriously, people better stop calling me that), can bring in any non-food item. This is, of course, due to the fact that children today have weird food allergies that we had never even heard of when I was a kid. If you would have told younger me that it was possible for children to not only have an allergy to peanuts, but in fact for them to have a deadly allergy to peanuts, it probably would have rocked my tender world order. I asked the teacher what the status quo was for parents bringing in things, hoping for something specific ("they bring in one balloon." or "thick-rimmed cosmetic eye glasses are all the rage if you want your child to not be ostracized here and for the other parents to be kind to you and let you back out of your parking space upon dropping off/picking up your child." Anything along these lines would have been fabulous), and got the whole, well, they bring in pretty much anything. She also added that as none of these kids have food allergies (they're a vintage class apparently) it was okay to bring in cupcakes, etc. As tempted as I was by the cupcake suggestion, I was also raised to be very scared and obedient of certain types of authority, and well, I just can't go against the written guidelines without having anxiety-inducing hallucinations of the entire scenario where I try to explain to the administration that 'the teacher SAID it was okay.....' So now I am left with the generic description of 'pretty much anything' to bring along in goody bag form.
Now, there must be a fine art to real parenting. Really knowing what will make other kids and parents happy......but I am not one to hone this particular 'craft.' So I resort to the dollar section at Target, hoping for inspiration, or maybe another couple of moms having a conversation about the perfect goody bag contents. After I purchased my items and began immediately worrying about whether it was too much, not enough, or the wrong thing, I went online to confirm my mental illness of wanting to fit in and not rock the boat with other moms. Sure enough, according to the internets, every mom hates goody bags. Doesn't want their kids to get them anymore, has never seen a goody bag with good stuff, it's a waste of trash space, money, time......so that's encouraging. I will say that almost everything that seems to be marketed towards goody bags is probably something that will either make other kids or other moms hate you. Alternately, or simultaneously. Bouncy balls? Why don't I just give their kids a BB gun already and tell them to go at it? Bouncy balls are a recipe for broken household items, black eyes, and possible car accidents (don't ask me the details, my pessimistic mind can come up with at least three different ways in which bouncy balls will cause a major car crash).....so I passed on those. Those sticky hands? Sure, kids love them, but even I hate those things. My brand of OCD cannot stand seeing all the dog hair that immediately sticks to them upon opening the package. Parachute men? Yeah, I don't know if your four year old is the oldest or youngest or middlest child at your house, but at my house I have an almost 18 month old who has a deep desire to hurt himself with anything that could possibly be used to strangle or choke. Things that make noise, a mess, or could possibly have been put together solely using some sort of cancer causing red paint from China......moms are not going to like me. Books, anything that smells like learning....my kid is going to get the stink eye. When did it become so complicated?
My brother and I had summer birthdays, so I never really had to worry about my birthday party being a topic of discussion at school. Which had its upsides and downsides. But I don't remember my mom ever agonizing over any of these things. Which isn't to say that she did not agonize, just that she, in her wisdom, did not bring her child into the thought processes that would drive anyone crazy. Over a four year old's birthday goody bags. I'd like to think it's going to get easier, but if these last four years have taught me anything (and everybody knows that there's nothing like failure and defeat to teach a lesson), it's that it's only going to get harder and more complicated. I hope these kids and their moms like the crayons, pads of paper and wooden clackers that I bought (um, yeah, I'm pretty sure the moms will not like the clackers, but, hey, not everything is my problem), and that I have not committed any sort of goody bag faux pas, but at the same time I hate myself for even caring one ounce.
Now, there must be a fine art to real parenting. Really knowing what will make other kids and parents happy......but I am not one to hone this particular 'craft.' So I resort to the dollar section at Target, hoping for inspiration, or maybe another couple of moms having a conversation about the perfect goody bag contents. After I purchased my items and began immediately worrying about whether it was too much, not enough, or the wrong thing, I went online to confirm my mental illness of wanting to fit in and not rock the boat with other moms. Sure enough, according to the internets, every mom hates goody bags. Doesn't want their kids to get them anymore, has never seen a goody bag with good stuff, it's a waste of trash space, money, time......so that's encouraging. I will say that almost everything that seems to be marketed towards goody bags is probably something that will either make other kids or other moms hate you. Alternately, or simultaneously. Bouncy balls? Why don't I just give their kids a BB gun already and tell them to go at it? Bouncy balls are a recipe for broken household items, black eyes, and possible car accidents (don't ask me the details, my pessimistic mind can come up with at least three different ways in which bouncy balls will cause a major car crash).....so I passed on those. Those sticky hands? Sure, kids love them, but even I hate those things. My brand of OCD cannot stand seeing all the dog hair that immediately sticks to them upon opening the package. Parachute men? Yeah, I don't know if your four year old is the oldest or youngest or middlest child at your house, but at my house I have an almost 18 month old who has a deep desire to hurt himself with anything that could possibly be used to strangle or choke. Things that make noise, a mess, or could possibly have been put together solely using some sort of cancer causing red paint from China......moms are not going to like me. Books, anything that smells like learning....my kid is going to get the stink eye. When did it become so complicated?
My brother and I had summer birthdays, so I never really had to worry about my birthday party being a topic of discussion at school. Which had its upsides and downsides. But I don't remember my mom ever agonizing over any of these things. Which isn't to say that she did not agonize, just that she, in her wisdom, did not bring her child into the thought processes that would drive anyone crazy. Over a four year old's birthday goody bags. I'd like to think it's going to get easier, but if these last four years have taught me anything (and everybody knows that there's nothing like failure and defeat to teach a lesson), it's that it's only going to get harder and more complicated. I hope these kids and their moms like the crayons, pads of paper and wooden clackers that I bought (um, yeah, I'm pretty sure the moms will not like the clackers, but, hey, not everything is my problem), and that I have not committed any sort of goody bag faux pas, but at the same time I hate myself for even caring one ounce.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Keeping up with the Crappers
My oldest son turned three today. Everything about that sentence kind of weirds me out. Regardless of whether or not it seems possible, however, it is true.
We are in the midst of potty training, the one defining thing thus far of parenting that has made me either want to hug or slap other parents. I never thought that I would feel the pressure of keeping up with other people, of comparing children and their accomplishments (because, you know, children are just extensions of ourselves. Oh, wait, no, that's not right....well too late now, we've chosen our parenting philosophy and we're sticking with it), but with the potty training....yowza. When my son turned two, we started to think about potty training. All of the signs we were supposed to be looking for (turns out there IS a manual on parenting, we just haven't been reading it, or getting updates) were never there, so we continued potty readiness watch and sat back. But then I was pregnant (hence the 'oldest' in my opening statement. Clever, no?) and it suddenly seemed important to lay some sort of toilet foundation before a second child made the scene.
It didn't go well. Let's leave it at that.
Then came mommy and me swimming lessons. Something I wanted to do, not so much to teach my son how to swim, but just as something to get out and do with him as our last 'mommy and JUST me' hurrah before the second child showed up to teach him all about how unfair and inexplicable life will always be. Something.....FUN. But the other parents apparently didn't read the same class description that I did, or maybe it was me that had other ideas for a 'Mommy and Me (Dads welcome!)' swimming class for 6 months and older. The other moms were determined that their kids succeed dammit! PASS that mommy and me swimming class! Go to the next level! Dominate their peers! Other various marketing style slogans! They were actually 'practicing' during non-class time. Getting their kids to jump in from the side to them, blow bubbles in the water, put their faces in the water.....not because these things will lead them to lay a foundation to build upon for later swimming, but because they wanted their kids to pass the class to be able to take the next class. They wanted some sort of paper certification that their kid was a winner, given to them by a teenager who passed a lifeguard course.
What a fool I was, there to have fun. After listening to these moms drill and yell at their kids to do all of the things we practiced! I probably shouldn't have been so surprised when talk turned to other out of pool accomplishments. However, I was surprised when it turned to potty training. In an 'anything you can do I can do better' style of repartee, it all boiled down to one mom who had gone 'diaper-less' with their child at one year old. Um, yeah. You say 'diaperless' I say 'the world is now their diaper.'
So here I am with my old man 2 and a half year old still in diapers, the pariah of the group because I have not invested in my son's future therapy by forcing him to conform physically to something he isn't ready for yet but would be nice and convenient and cheaper for me (in the now, I mean, diapers, therapy, diapers, therapy, maybe they figure the therapy won't be on their tab?). But as much as I felt these women were crazy lunatics, it still got to me. MY son wasn't potty trained. Maybe in his little heart he was really longing to be potty trained, and I was holding him back. One of the moms asked me quite pointedly how old my child was, probably motioning for the other moms to see the swim diaper as I converted his age into months for them (the only age standard those moms understand). There were murmured condolences, as if I had just explained that my child had some sort of mental disorder, and even some shaking of heads. One mom actually looked right at my third trimester pregnant belly and said that she definitely wanted her son to be potty trained BEFORE they had another child.
So I slogged home, feeling sheepish, humiliated and very defensive. Of course, my son had no idea that we had just been called out in super mommy universe. In my head for the rest of the day and until the next swim lesson, I formed all sorts of sarcastic and snide responses to them, making me feel a little George Costanza-ish, but also better in some weird way. And then, when time came for the next swim lesson, and they were all gathered around to squawk about how many words of three syllables their children could recite (ther-a-py), I remembered, I can't stand these women. What do I care? Their children were picking their noses and butts and were dirty and pushing and just generally KIDS. And I laughed. Because it doesn't matter. The only thing I can really do 'wrong' at this juncture would be to push him too hard, to put too much pressure on him, all for the sake of my ego. And so we had fun. We did NOT pass the mommy and me swim class. We laughed at the kids who trained to pass the class. We just spent time together. We stuck to the plan.
And now I have a three year old who runs into my kitchen in order to crap his impossibly tiny briefs with a variety of Pixar characters on them. And all I can do is make laundry my best friend. And measure my mommy success in things that no longer gross me out or make me want to puke. Or in the fact that I have kept that boy alive for three years now. I must be doing SOMETHING right. Of course, tomorrow I could sell him to gypsies too.
We are in the midst of potty training, the one defining thing thus far of parenting that has made me either want to hug or slap other parents. I never thought that I would feel the pressure of keeping up with other people, of comparing children and their accomplishments (because, you know, children are just extensions of ourselves. Oh, wait, no, that's not right....well too late now, we've chosen our parenting philosophy and we're sticking with it), but with the potty training....yowza. When my son turned two, we started to think about potty training. All of the signs we were supposed to be looking for (turns out there IS a manual on parenting, we just haven't been reading it, or getting updates) were never there, so we continued potty readiness watch and sat back. But then I was pregnant (hence the 'oldest' in my opening statement. Clever, no?) and it suddenly seemed important to lay some sort of toilet foundation before a second child made the scene.
It didn't go well. Let's leave it at that.
Then came mommy and me swimming lessons. Something I wanted to do, not so much to teach my son how to swim, but just as something to get out and do with him as our last 'mommy and JUST me' hurrah before the second child showed up to teach him all about how unfair and inexplicable life will always be. Something.....FUN. But the other parents apparently didn't read the same class description that I did, or maybe it was me that had other ideas for a 'Mommy and Me (Dads welcome!)' swimming class for 6 months and older. The other moms were determined that their kids succeed dammit! PASS that mommy and me swimming class! Go to the next level! Dominate their peers! Other various marketing style slogans! They were actually 'practicing' during non-class time. Getting their kids to jump in from the side to them, blow bubbles in the water, put their faces in the water.....not because these things will lead them to lay a foundation to build upon for later swimming, but because they wanted their kids to pass the class to be able to take the next class. They wanted some sort of paper certification that their kid was a winner, given to them by a teenager who passed a lifeguard course.
What a fool I was, there to have fun. After listening to these moms drill and yell at their kids to do all of the things we practiced! I probably shouldn't have been so surprised when talk turned to other out of pool accomplishments. However, I was surprised when it turned to potty training. In an 'anything you can do I can do better' style of repartee, it all boiled down to one mom who had gone 'diaper-less' with their child at one year old. Um, yeah. You say 'diaperless' I say 'the world is now their diaper.'
So here I am with my old man 2 and a half year old still in diapers, the pariah of the group because I have not invested in my son's future therapy by forcing him to conform physically to something he isn't ready for yet but would be nice and convenient and cheaper for me (in the now, I mean, diapers, therapy, diapers, therapy, maybe they figure the therapy won't be on their tab?). But as much as I felt these women were crazy lunatics, it still got to me. MY son wasn't potty trained. Maybe in his little heart he was really longing to be potty trained, and I was holding him back. One of the moms asked me quite pointedly how old my child was, probably motioning for the other moms to see the swim diaper as I converted his age into months for them (the only age standard those moms understand). There were murmured condolences, as if I had just explained that my child had some sort of mental disorder, and even some shaking of heads. One mom actually looked right at my third trimester pregnant belly and said that she definitely wanted her son to be potty trained BEFORE they had another child.
So I slogged home, feeling sheepish, humiliated and very defensive. Of course, my son had no idea that we had just been called out in super mommy universe. In my head for the rest of the day and until the next swim lesson, I formed all sorts of sarcastic and snide responses to them, making me feel a little George Costanza-ish, but also better in some weird way. And then, when time came for the next swim lesson, and they were all gathered around to squawk about how many words of three syllables their children could recite (ther-a-py), I remembered, I can't stand these women. What do I care? Their children were picking their noses and butts and were dirty and pushing and just generally KIDS. And I laughed. Because it doesn't matter. The only thing I can really do 'wrong' at this juncture would be to push him too hard, to put too much pressure on him, all for the sake of my ego. And so we had fun. We did NOT pass the mommy and me swim class. We laughed at the kids who trained to pass the class. We just spent time together. We stuck to the plan.
And now I have a three year old who runs into my kitchen in order to crap his impossibly tiny briefs with a variety of Pixar characters on them. And all I can do is make laundry my best friend. And measure my mommy success in things that no longer gross me out or make me want to puke. Or in the fact that I have kept that boy alive for three years now. I must be doing SOMETHING right. Of course, tomorrow I could sell him to gypsies too.
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