My Son the Storyteller

Posted on | February 9, 2012 | 11 Comments

For a while now, when I ask J about his day at school, he tells me what toys he played with and which friends were there.  And then he says “I hit Emma. I knocked Emma over. I got time out” or some variance involving hitting other children or pulling their hair.  Finally, I asked his teachers if this was causing a problem. I swallowed my pride and asked her if my son was a bully.

She looked at me, rather confused, and informed me that my son almost never hits and when he does, it’s in response to someone who hits him. 

“The only problem we have with J,” she told me with a smile, “is that… well… he argues with us all the time.”

::cue sheepish grin:: I have no idea where he gets that from.

But back to the point… my son has entered the age of “storytelling.”  I hesitate to call it straight up lying because he’s two… but you know what I mean. 

Case in point: This morning we snuggled together on the sofa and watched Little Einsteins before school.  The morning was completely without incident; we had cereal bars and juice/coffee, and snuggled and then we were out the door.  On the way to school, he was very quiet.  Finally, as we pulled into the daycare parking lot, I asked him what was wrong.

“I sad.” He said, not looking at me.

“What made you sad?” (All questions must be formed into “what” questions and not “why” questions because he doesn’t quite understand “why” just yet.)

“Mommy.”

??? 

“What did mommy do that made you sad?”

“You put me in time out this morning and I cried.”

?????????????????????????????????????

Nope.  Sorry.  None of that happened.  There were no tears.  There was no time out.  There was nothing sad in our morning.  It’s kind of funny…

And kind of not.

Because ultimately, it lead me to think about bigger and scarier things… how do you teach your kid how to tell the truth?  How do you encourage his creativity in making stories and exploring imagination while still instilling an understanding of “this is what really happened?”  It’s no big deal if he tells his teacher that mommy put him in time out, even if it’s not true.  But what happens when he decides to tell someone that mommy hits him? Or that daddy hurts him? Or that anyone does anything that they shouldn’t and didn’t do?

He’s only two.  He’s creative and I love that.  And I want to raise a son who tells stories in all the best ways.

But I also want to raise a son who knows the truth and stands by it.  And at two, I’m not sure how to start that conversation.

Category: Little boy, parenting

I’m Not Fighting Alone

Posted on | February 8, 2012 | 11 Comments

One of the hardest things about being an attorney, or really any type of professional, is when you are faced with weeks like this one.  Weeks when what you want to do is stay tucked in bed, letting the world pass you by at a slow, snail’s pace, while you try to remember what the point of it all is anyway.  Weeks when you feel like if you have to put on make up one more day, your face is going to fall off and your hands are going to revolt and honestly, you still look like crap even with the make up on, so what’s the point.

Weeks where you just wonder what the hell is the point.

Normally, on weeks like this, I try to remind myself that J is the point, that I work and get out of bed every morning because of him.  But it’s hard to remember that when your legs are heavy and your head is aching and you feel the weight of the world pressing down on you until you just want to scream or break something… a bone, a heart, a precious picture… just to remember what it’s like to feel something other than, well, nothing.

I struggle with depression.

It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me or to anyone who has read this blog for any significant period of time. 

I struggle with it.  I fight it off morning after morning.  I pop little blue pills to tell it to clear out and leave room for being happy and joyous and… me.  I go round after round, being pounded into a corner one moment and landing a strong right hook the next.   This is a week when I am losing.  This is a week where I find myself bruised and beaten, using the ropes of this arena just to hold myself steady… just to hold myself together.

It is a hard fight… especially on weeks like this.  Especially when I’m the only person who can answer the questions, calm the fears, cheer the sadness.  Especially when my son needs his mommy to be, well, Mommy… and not to sit quietly by.

Fighting depression is hard. Especially when there are children watching… especially when there is anyone watching.  

But if I’ve discovered anything in my life it is this:   Fighting depression alone is even harder.

Category: about me, depression, I'm still awesome

I’m Somewhere Else…

Posted on | February 7, 2012 | No Comments

Rather than try to bore you with the fact that I have nothing to say today, I’ll direct you to my contributor post over at Liberating Working Moms!  I’m coming clean about television… it’s time.

Category: television, working mom, working moms

Growing Up

Posted on | February 6, 2012 | 5 Comments

Last night, while half the world watched Madonna rock out the halftime show, I was tucking a small boy into bed.  For the first time since the divorce, he walked past my room and into his own, crawling up into his own bed with no prodding from me.

“You lay down, too?” he asked, from his cozy spot on the Lightening McQueen pillow. I politely declined, telling him that I had a few things to do before I went to bed.  We read a story and I kissed him goodnight, silently wondering just how long he would actually stay in his bed.

Twenty minutes later, he was sound asleep.  In his own room.  Tucked into his own bed.  Without me.

I peeked in on him several times, watching the rise and fall of his breathing like I had when he was just an infant in that same room.  Finally, I turned off the light and plugged in a night light and tip toed out, leaving the door open wide.

And then I crawled into my own bed, alone, with no pint-sized cover hog or pillow stealer.  There was no 30 some pound heat seeker pressed up against my arm or leg or face and there were no tiny toes digging under my side.  I left the door open, waiting for the call of “mommy!” that didn’t seem to be coming.

I couldn’t sleep.

Even from my bed, in my separate room, I could hear each breath that he took.  This must be a mother thing…. to be able to hear the breathing of your child across county lines?  I tossed and turned, wondering if he was too cold or too hot.  I sighed and counted sheep and tossed and turned some more, ultimately realizing what was keeping me so wide awake.

My baby is growing up.

While he was safely tucked under the covers of my bed, safely next to me, I could protect him.  I could watch for  monsters under the bed or coughs that needed medicine. I could breathe in the soft, baby curls atop his head and I could know that he was safe and sound… and mine.  And now, he was just in the next room over and even that seemed so far.  One day, he’d be across town, or across the state… or across the country.  I wondered if I’d hear him breathing then.

He will not always be so singularly mine as he is now.  He will grow and change and make choices… some that I agree with and some that I don’t.  He will grow up and away from the safety of my arms.  And he’s supposed to… I’m supposed to help him do that.  I just didn’t realize that we were moving so quickly toward that day.  I didn’t realize time was whirling him so quickly from my arms.

And then just as I started to fall asleep, I heard him.  A soft call, a tiny cry; one small, echoing question: Mommy?

I was up in a flash, to his bedside where he reached his arms up and despite a bad back and a half-asleep mind, he wound up in my arms, clutching little hands across my neck and cuddling a soft head against my shoulder.  I carried him softly back to my room, letting him snuggle up next to me for the last few hours before sunrise.

I was being silly.  I was being foolish.

He will grow and change and move.  But I will always be his mommy.  And all it will ever take is one cry for me to find him and wrap him in my arms again.  Maybe not always this way; maybe not always close beside me with the sweet, soft suck of a pacifier… but always. Someway.  Somehow.

Forever my little boy.

Category: Little boy, moms

A Cry for Attention

Posted on | February 1, 2012 | 9 Comments

At the end of the work day, I am exhausted.

I spend all day answering questions, solving problems, and talking to all sorts of people.  The only thing I want to do when I leave the office is put on my pajamas, eat some dinner, and maybe watch a little television.  I just want to relax.

Today, I picked up J from daycare after a particularly trying day.  I helped him climb into his car seat, balancing my cell phone next to my ear.  I slid into my seat and started up the car, waving absently at another mother running the same routine from her SUV.  As we pulled out onto the road, I resumed my conversation with my mother, exasperated and tired.

From the backseat, J started telling me to ”go straight” where I normally turn, and I humored him.  We went straight and turned at the next street, heading towards home.  He again told me to go straight, kicking his feet against the back of the chair in front of him.

“I can’t go straight there, J, we wouldn’t get home.”  I threw out the words, patiently interrupting my tirade to answer him.   I was being patient.  I was responding.  I was phoning it in.

“I DON”T WANT TO GO THIS WAY!” He was yelling now, incessantly kicking and flailing his arms like I was torturing him by, you know, driving the route to go home.  After about five minutes of interrupting my conversation to tell him over and over, in as patient a voice as I could muster, that I had to go this way, I finally snapped.

“I am SORRY you don’t want to go this way, J, but THIS IS THE WAY WE’RE GOING.”  I was short.  My fuse was done.  I was done.

And in the backseat, my son began to cry big, round crocodile tears.

“I have to go,” I told my mom and hung up the phone quickly.

I was embarrassed with myself.  I was embarrassed by my lack of understanding.  J didn’t care which way we drove to go home; he cared that I wasn’t really listening to him… regardless of what he said.  I was so embarrassed.

Because at the end of a work day, I am so very tired and it’s so very hard to remember that my son is tired, too.  It’s hard to remember that a nine hour day away from mommy is a very long time for a very small boy.  It’s hard to remember that when he climbs into his carseat at the end of the day, he wants my undivided attention.  He wants me to listen to him sing or laugh or talk about what color the lights are on the stop lights.  He wants me… to listen.

So I apologized to my small one, reaching a hand back and squeezing the roundness of his calf.  I told him I was sorry, that I shouldn’t have been on the phone, that I should have been talking to him.  I told him I wanted to hear what he had to say.  And then I asked him about his day, and little by little he told me the story of his nine hours without me.

It is hard to remember that the exasperation in my voice when I speak to my son is taken personally by his two year old heart; he doesn’t understand “mommy’s frustrated with someone else.”  It is so hard to remember, at the end of my work day, that I still have work to do; that I still have my most important client to tend to.

He just wants my attention.  He just wants my smiles aimed at him, my hugs to include him, my eyes to drink him in the way I do on Saturday or Sunday… or after a good day at work.  J doesn’t care if my clients are happy or unhappy.  He doesn’t care if my work is finished or unfinished.

He just wants me.

And I hope I can remember to give him that… even on the tough days.

Category: Little boy, moms, working mom, working moms

If I Admit It’s My Fault, Will You Quit Blaming Me?

Posted on | January 31, 2012 | 15 Comments

When J was still a very small baby, maybe five months old, he was diagnosed with reactive airway disease.  After about our fourth visit to the pediatrician in four weeks, my doctor looked at me and “kindly” told me that if there were any way for me to work it so that I could stay home with my son, he would be a much healthier baby.

To say that I fell completely apart would be a gross understatement.

I believed every word that man said to me.  I believed him that I was jeopardizing my child’s health by working, by “selfishly” pursuing a career to the detriment of my son.  I never questioned why he pointed his finger at me and not my husband or our dog or maybe, just maybe, an old house with roll out windows that let in every sort of pollen under the sun.  I didn’t consider any other options; my doctor said it was my fault.  I believed it was my fault.

And when I look back on that now, it makes me lividly angry. 

Because you know what? Babies get sick, some more than others. And yeah, daycare can contribute to that.  Certainly putting young children around other young children is going to foster the transfer of germs.  It’s inevitable.  It’s inevitable, that if one parent can’t stay home with the child, daycare is the option. (Unless you have tons of money and can afford a nanny or you’re fortunate enough to have a mother or mother in law who not only lives nearby but who also wants to care for your child as her 9-5 job).

It wasn’t my fault that my son was diagnosed with reactive airway disease.  And more than that, it was infinitely wrong of J’s pediatrician to even remotely point a finger in my general direction.

It wasn’t my fault.  Not any more than it was my husband’s fault, or daycare’s fault or the fault of genetics.

But that’s what we do, isn’t it?

We point at the parents; we find reasons why some kids are sick and others are healthy.  We need to blame something or someone for when a child is overweight or not as bright as another.  We need to believe that there is a “right” way to raise a baby.  We need to believe that if we follow all the directions and color within all the lines, our child will turn out right and good.

I don’t know if it’s because for so long, women were considered to have a place in the home or if it’s because most women have a sweetly strengthened bond with their children, but for whatever reason it seems to be the norm to focus on a woman’s “choice” to work outside or inside the home as a pin-pointed factor in obesity, or illness, or hell, I don’t know… freckles.  No one seems to care if the husband is home or at work… it all boils down to whether the mother is there.

And I don’t know about you, but I’m over it.

I’m over hearing about how my “choice” to work means my child is 42.8% more likely to be overweight at age 61 or that my career means that J will have a 17.9% chance of coloring a hippo orange in first grade. 

WHO THE HELL CARES?

And more importantly, who the hell is funding these ridiculous surveys?

Children are children.  They are a constant variable, a variable constant.  There are infinite ways that each of us shape and mold and scar our children.  There are infinite ways that we break and mend them on an hourly, daily and yearly basis.  And I don’t care if 9 out of 10 mothers who work outside the home like pumpernickel bread or if 3 out of 4 stay at home moms have better quilting skills.  It is all completely and totally irrelevant to my life, my choices, and my son.

Mothers are not the root of all evil.  We are not the deciding factor as to whether our children turn out good or bad or a healthy mix of both.  We are not the only influence in their lives.  And a woman who works outside the home is no more or less likely to cuddle her child at the end of the day than one who works inside the home.  A woman who spends 40 plus hours toiling away so that she can put food on the table and run lights overhead is no more or less likely to spank or hug or read or tuck in her child.

So can we just quit with all the percentages?

Can we stop with the he said/she said crap?

Can we stop pointing fingers and admit that we’re all right and we’re all wrong?

Can we just be moms, struggling, triumphing, eeking through the best we can?

Because if you’re anything like me, you don’t need someone to tell you that you’re screwing things up on occasion… I’m a mom.  And I already blame myself more than anyone else ever could anyway.

Category: parenting, perfect, working mom, working moms

The Age of Manipulation

Posted on | January 31, 2012 | 7 Comments

People tell me that my child isn’t old enough to be manipulative and to those people, I laugh.  Because if it is nothing else, two is most definitely the age of manipulation. Whether it is finding a way to weasel ten more minutes of play time or working out a whine and cry for five more pages of Winnie the Pooh, my child is, quite frankly, a masterful manipulator. 

I try to stick to a 7:30 bedtime.  It’s hard because on some days we don’t get home until almost 6:30, but we do the best we can.  If it means no bath, then we eliminate bath time in favor of a traditional bed time.  Last night, he begged to watch a movie and I caved so we were watching “Up” until almost 8pm.  As soon as it was over, I hustled him to bed and gave him books and a goodnight kiss. 

Let me interject two important points… 1) my child is not potty trained and has almost zero interest in actually being potty trained and 2) my child HATES brushing his teeth.  These are important things which I should have remembered last night.

He climbs into bed and as I go to leave the room, he announces that he needs to brush his teeth.  My internal “WHA?” goes off but who am I to tell him he can’t brush his teeth if he wants.  So he climbs out of bed and we go brush his teeth.  Then it’s back to bed, another kiss, another stack of books.  Inexplicably, he announces that he needs to pee pee in the potty.

Okay… so I realized at this point that he was stalling… but how do you tell your kid that no, he can’t go pee pee in the potty because you know he’s just trying to get out of bedtime?  So it was back to the bathroom, unzip the footed pjs, undo the diaper and let him plop down on the toilet.  He then proceeded to sit there for a good ten minutes, singing songs and telling me that he was not yet ready to pee pee.

Finally, he announced happily that he was “all done” and stood up.  Still no pee.  I asked him if he still needed to pee pee in the potty and he said “No, I just like to keep it inside right now.  I go later in my diaper.”

By that time, it was 8:30 and I was probably more tired than he was.  When I left the room for the third time, he began to cry; a fake, pitiful little “woe is me” cry that was as hilarious as it was pitiful.  Ultimately, I had to decide which was worse, lying down with him so he’d be quiet and actually go to sleep, or stay up and listen to the racket.  I tried to be strong.  I waited as long as I could.  But when he started sniffling and saying “I love you Mommy, pwease? Pwease come snuggle? I need a hug,” I totally caved.  I laid down with him and he was instantly happy. 

I got schooled by my two year old.

So yeah… keep your opinion that two is too young to be manipulative to yourself.  My kid has got that skill down pat.

 

**On a totally different note, I’m now a contributor at Liberating Working Moms.  Check out my very first post today on dropping the cross and using my hands for something more productive… **

Category: Little boy, parenting

Feeling Small

Posted on | January 30, 2012 | 6 Comments

There are days when I wake up and I think I can conquer the world.  Some mornings, I wake up with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.  I wake up and get dressed and think “Man, my clothes fit awesome this morning!” and “Wow, I look pretty!”   I snuggle up to J on the sofa while we eat our breakfast and think to myself, “what a wonderful world.”

And then… there are days.

I want so desperately to change the world, y’all.  I want to make it safe and bright and cheerful.  I want to stamp out racism and hate and fear and anger.  I want politics to be about doing what’s right and good and not about winning or beating the other guy.  I want a cure for cancer and a cure for depression and a cure for heartache.  I want to do more than just mail cards or respond to emails.  I want to do more than donate money or coats or dole out food at a soup kitchen.

There are days when I wake up and I can barely get out of bed, barely scrape away the hurt and horror at the world around me.  There are days when I just want to stay there, safe and warm under my covers, clutching my son close to my heart and protecting him from all of the truth and reality around us.

See, I carry your pain with me… all of you.  My friends, my family, my co-workers.  I carry you all.  You who I’ve never met, you who email me, who “tweet” me, who text me.  I carry you who hurt on the pages of my newspaper, on the images of my television, on the words of your own blogs.  I tuck you all away in the pockets of my soul and I nurture you with prayer and thought and soft, salty tears.  There are days when you weigh down my steps, when I worry that I’m not doing enough to change what is around me… to cheer what needs cheering.  There are days when I wonder why I can’t do more, why I can’t do anything right or good or helpful.

But even on those days when I feel the smallest, even on those days when I know that every tear I shed is simply falling unnoticed in the pool of sadness that swirls this world… even on those days, I can still find a way to smile.

Because even on those smallest of days, I carry your hearts in the pockets of my soul. 

And I wouldn’t change that for all the carefree days in the world.

Category: about me

The Real Motherhood of Bibb County

Posted on | January 27, 2012 | 8 Comments

Motherhood is not always about showing up with perfectly iced cupcakes with sprinkles for a classroom birthday party, or handmade Valentines.  Sometimes it’s not about a bath every night and perfectly matching clothes pressed and ready for school.  It’s not the everyday serenity smile and kiss on the cheek or the cover tuck at night after a sweet bedtime story.

Sometimes? Sometimes motherhood is just about staying one teeny, tiny step ahead of your ever-running child.

And we’re not talking about an average, well meaning jaunt of a step, no.  This isn’t a “Take one giant step forward, mother may I?” kind of a deal.  This is more of a tiptoe past while your child is glancing at a squirrel in the backyard and breathing a sigh of relief that finally you are ahead of something.

Motherhood, for me, has been a constant struggle to be ahead at anything… ahead in paying for daycare, ahead in laundry, ahead by making my lunch the night before.  I can’t do it all and I can’t even pretend like I can do more than the minimum on most days.  If my child is well-fed and he arrives at daycare without something stuck in his hair or to his face, then I feel like I’ve won for the morning.  If I remember to grab a cereal bar for myself on the way out the door? I’m a rockstar.

Because motherhood isn’t about perfection… it’s about breathing.  It’s about plastering on a smile as you read “Goodnight Construction Site” for the fifth time in a row.  It’s about standing firm on some rules and caving in on others.  It’s about learning how to craft a sentence into such a way that argument is futile. 

It is survival of the fittest.

And it is with that in mind that I bring you my latest mothering success. 

This morning, my son wanted desperately to stay home and watch Little Bear.  He cried.  He begged.  He refused to stand up and make his way out to the car, no matter what I offered as incentive.  And then, in a stroke of pure, unadulterated genius, I struck a bargain.

“J, if you will go to school today, I promise, promise, promise that you and Mommy will both stay home tomorrow.  We’ll stay in our pajamas and watch TV all morning.”

And he grinned and nodded, totally placated.  Totally thinking he’d won the game.

Point, match, set to me, little one… Today is Friday.

 

Category: mom-isms, moms, parenting

Love, TWOO love…

Posted on | January 25, 2012 | 5 Comments

This morning I woke while J was still sleeping.  He woke up soon after me and snuggled up next to me.  With his right hand, he patted the side of my head and tilted his head to meet mine.

“Hey mommy,” he whispered, “I missed you.”

A full day of school followed by dinner/bath with Mommy and the first words out of my son’s mouth were that he missed me after his eleven-ish hours of sleep.

And THAT’S love.

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