I'm not the kind of parent I thought I'd be

Alas, it’s true. I’m nothing like the parent I thought I’d be. Not even close. Not one single version of the parent I thought I’d be at any stage of my life.

Not even the version I’d like to be now.

Before I had kids I thought I’d be one of those crazy-strict parents. My kids would be picture-perfect. They’d sleep in their own bed from day one, they’d cry it out, they’d never throw a tantrum because they’d fear being spanked too much to do so. Crazy. Twisted. Extremely sad. But they say it’s hard to break from our parents, and I totally get that. Well, sort of. But honestly, I didn’t even know there was any other kind of parenting. Other than those freaks who let their kids run amuck, but that’s not really parenting, is it?

Then I got pregnant. The idea of ever yelling at my child or allowing her to cry – for any reason – made me want to hyperventilate. I couldn’t picture myself as any type of parent that could ever cause my child distress in any way, regardless of her behavior. The idea of hitting her repulsed me.

And when I had my sweet, first child, I thought that was how things would stay. I would never be cross with her, I’d never put her in time-out. I’d never be that “strict” parent my child feared.

I read a lot. I mean, a ton a lot. It was a good thing. It was a bad thing. A horrible, terrible, awful thing.

Pretty much any time I punish or bribe my children I feel like I’ve failed. Because maybe by participating in punitive parenting, I’m totally screwing them up. But then when I let them lay under the table at the restaurant, not bothering a soul, content and quiet, I feel like it’s wrong too because shouldn’t I be forcing them to sit up at the table and be perfect, quiet little people?

Blah.

We are in an information-overload world these days. There is so much stuff out there it’s overwhelming. And all of it is “scientifically backed up.” Whatever that means. I’m not a scientist.

But I am a momma.

And when I stop reading all this garbage or listening to unsolicited advice (the solicited advice is very welcomed!!!), I do a much better job. And I’m all around happier. And so are my kids.

So maybe I will bribe my 2.5 year old into the car seat and let her lay quietly under the table at a restaurant, and even threaten her with counting when the “need” arises “1…2…don’t make me get to 3…” (We’ve never gotten to 3, I don’t know what the heck happens if I get there…). We’ll use our “mad jar”, which is full of glitter and H has to play with on the steps while mommy has a break so she doesn’t lose her shit completely inappropriately. I will let a lot of things go because I don’t want a battle, but I will still force her say “please” and “thank you” even if that Blossom chick says I should just model it for her, never force it otherwise it isn’t authentic. Well, I’ve got news for you, Blossom, a lot of the time I don’t say “please” or “thank you” because it’s authentic to me, I say it for the person I’m saying it to. Because it’s polite. Because I have manners, even when I’m annoyed with the world. It’s the same reason I don’t punch stupid people in the face. I know better.

I’m certainly not the kind of parent I thought I’d be. Or even the kind of parent I want to be. I mean, honestly, I wish I could be a 100% non-punitive parent. But I just don’t know how to make that happen or work. I’ve tried to wrap my brain around it because I love the idea…just the reality of it doesn’t seem feasible no matter how much I read or try to believe it.

But that’s okay. Because regardless of it all, I know I’m a really kick-ass parent. And I feel confident about that. Every day. Even if I make mistakes. (And I make plenty of them, ask my daughter…ask her how many times momma has had to go back and say, “Whoa, I’m really sorry for…”). 

I’m a great mom, even if it’s not the mom I always want to be. Even if it’s not the mom I thought I’d be.

And in case no one has told you today, you’re a really fantastic parent, too! (Or you will be some day).

Why do my kids loathe sleep?

I freaking love sleep. Like to a T. I adore it.

I was that dork in college who was in bed by 10pm. For real.

My children, however, do not share this passion of mine. They loathe sleep. Hate it. Despise it.

It makes me want to cry. Or club baby seals. Or laugh at the melting glaciers, because then I feel a little better. I know. I'm sick. Twisted. But I'm okay with that. Whatever keeps me trekking, I say.

Three and half hours. That's how long J and I have been tag-teaming it. And yet both of my kids are still awake. Still on and off screaming. Still crying for whatever parent is not currently with them. Still hating the world of dreamland.

Whatever.

That's what kid's say, "Whatever." Because if they said "Fuck you" or "Fuck this" they'd probably get their mouths washed out with soap.

So I'm saying whatever. Whatever to sleep.

Because it hates me.

So I hate it.

Because that's the awesome 12-year-old mentality I have towards it right now.

Oh, and this is not due to children being jet-lagged. I wish I could blame it on that. That'd be awesome. Great. Fan-freaking-tastic. But I can't.

This is the norm.

I'm not advocating anyone sleep-train their bundle of sunshines. In fact, I'm pretty morally opposed to it. But I get it. I really do. I understand why people do that. They like their sleep. Like me.

Ah...sleep...

Whatever.

Why I let my 2 year old get a manicure

While vacationing in Okinawa, every time we walk to or from the pool or beach, we pass a nail salon in our hotel. The windows are filled with garish fake nails in crazy colors (I'm a pink and red kind of gal) with silly, over the top designs (I'm also a Plain Jane). There is also a nail display specifically made to entice small children.

It worked. Miss H loved it.

The first two days, each time we would walk by, she'd ask if she could get her nails painted. And each time, for those two days, I parroted to her, "Not right now. Momma has to figure out how she feels about it first." Luckily for me, that was an acceptable answer and continued on.

I was very conflicted about allowing my 2 year old to have a manicure. Of course, it was really just getting her nails filed, painted, and some art on the thumbs. But still.

I had mixed feelings.

I know, I know. You are either thinking 1.) It's just a freaking manicure, what's the big deal? or 2.) She's 2! That's a no-brainer. No!

I was raised more or less with a very strong emphasis that it is what's on the outside that matters. And I do not want that for my daughter. At all. I don't want her thinking she needs well-manicured fingers and toes or a face full of make-up at the age of 11 or designer clothes. I want her to always feel beautiful and confident regardless of what she chooses to wear of the upkeep of her nails. And I certainly do not want her judging others due to their appearance either.

That being said, I certainly do not think the aforementioned things are bad. I think it is very important to take pride in your appearance. And I give Miss H a let of leverage in controlling her own. I let her pick out her own clothes for the most part now. What is purchased for her as well as what she wears daily. Of course, that doesn't mean I do not enjoy dressing her up cute as doll (and B, too, for that matter!). She knows nothing about labels. She could care less about what I like, or her papa likes, or the girl down the street. She loves the dresses she picked out at Goodwill as much as the ones she chose from the local boutique a few blocks from our house. She has no idea about the price difference or the "designer" difference. Nor does she care. Which is, honestly, just how it should be in both 2 year old land and 42 year old land.

And as far as manicures go...well, before I got married I got pedicures religiously (definitely more often than I attended mass...). And even now, although I have learned I no longer enjoy receiving pedicures, I still like to paint my toes. And I have zero qualms with allowing H to paint her nails at home. As I said, there is nothing wrong with taking care of your appearance. I just don't want her stuck on it.

So really, is a professional manicure so bad?

Turns out, it's not. While J stayed with a sleeping B, H and I ventured to the nail salon. She chose a very sparkly blue polish that took my eyes some adjusting to get used to, and decided on one thumb nail to be painted as a cat (okay, it was "Hello Kitty" but she doesn't know what that is and I don't really have any desire to introduce her) and the other thumb nail she had a little orange decal glued on. She had a blast and couldn't stop saying "thank you" (at least manners is one department I've conquered successfully as a parent!).

You know what, she is still the same little girl. She doesn't seem anymore vain or materialistic for having it done. In fact, she proudly picked the orange decal off before she made it bed that night (and I think she may have eaten it...) and happily worked on peeling some of the other paint off.

Would I allow her to get another manicure again? Probably. Preferably in the US where it doesn't cost $30 to put a bit of polish on a toddlers nails. And it certainly won't be every time she asks.

But now that I know she prefers nail polish colors outside of the red family, some chemical-free, non-toxic nail polish may show up in her Christmas stocking.

A win-win for us both.

It's just part of being 2 - why'd it take me so long to realize that?

While speaking with a friend recently - who also has a little girl H’s age - about the whines I’ve been dealing with (dealing with improperly, might I add), she said something to me that really resonated, and made me realize that I’m doing a pretty damn good job.

She told me that H is 2. All 2 year olds whine. It doesn’t matter what your parenting beliefs are – if you react by ignoring, yelling, spanking, using kind words, etc., etc., your kid is still going to whine.

It seems so simple. So basic. And yet it hadn’t crossed my mind.

I figured that Miss H’s newfound whining was because I’d done something wrong.

And that’s just silly.

After discussing my issues with a few other good friends, some of the parent variety and some not, I was able to realize that I’d reached my stress-o meter and wasn’t reacting the way I believe is proper.

I was ignoring or yelling and just over all losing my cool. Which just isn’t okay. She’s 2. She’s a human being. I wouldn’t treat my husband like that. It’s not okay to treat my daughter that way. And I always use phrases like, “Mommy doesn’t yell at you, you don’t yell at Mommy.” And obviously, if I’m yelling, then let’s just tattoo hypocrite to my forehead.

Needless to say, it’s been a super rough week or so. But I’ve forced myself to be calm. To tell my sweet daughter that I only understand when she uses a nice voice with mommy. I tried for a day to do a rewards system, but it didn’t feel right (I overall try not to do punitive parenting, but sometimes it just happens), and she didn’t care anyway. So now I just treat her normal. I’ve refused to let the whines stress me out and get me going.

And know what?

She’s better because of it. She’s less whiney and irritable, and I’m less stressed and frazzled.

It’s not a cure-all. She’s not a saint by any means.

But she’s two. And she’s mine.

And I’ll be kind to her even if she isn’t pleasant to me.

Because I know that’s what is right.

People are miracles, too

I remember when Miss H was still a brand new person to this huge, mysterious world, wondering to myself if, or better yet, when - as it seemed inevitable - I would someday look at her and not immediately view her as the miracle she truly is. At what point in a person's life, do we start to forget that they are this wonderful miracle?

To some deree, it's happened. I can't tell you the first time I looked at my amazing firstborn child and didn't immediately think "Wow, she's a miracle." I do remember the first time I realized I wasn't always viewing her as so.

I was a bit crushed. How could I not look at this beautiful, perfect, blatant symbol of mine and J's love and see her as anything other than the miracle she is?

Because she's a person. Because she cries when I'm all ready about to go nuts. Because she does things like sharpie my windowsills and kicks me when she's mad and tired, and then of course, I'm not thinking that she's wonderful at those moments.

So when I've had a particularly long day, and know that I haven't appreciated Miss H the way I should, I make myself remember the amazing day she came into this world. Those precious seconds when she left my body and became an entire person that was separate from me. A perfect, screaming, feisty person. A miracle.

It's so easy to look at a fresh babe and realize what a miracle they are. It's not so easy sometimes to do so with a  toddler. Or an older child, or even an adult. But all people are miracles. We just have to stop and remember that, and see the beauty in the every day moments of their lives. Because it's such a sad thing when we stop viewing our children as the miracles that God gave us (or Mother Nature...or whatever you believe in).

People are miracles, too. Not just newborns.

The Whines

Please, please, please. If anyone has a good cure for a serious case of the whines, please share it with me before I love my ever loving mind over here!

Everything is whine-worthy. I want an orange. No, not that orange. That orange is too small. That orange is too big. That orange isn’t orange enough, whatever that means.

I need water. That water is too hot. That water is too cold. I need a different cup. I don’t like this cup. You’re really making me sad, Momma.

Of course, if I ask her to do something simple she freaks out. Then baby B decides to do the something simple (i.e., pick up those two blocks, please) and then it is The. End. Of. The. World.

No matter what I do, cater to her, ignore her, etc., we always get an epic meltdown to follow-up all the whining.

I feel like I’m saying, “Miss H, I don’t understand whining….use nice words…be nice…we don’t speak like that in this family….I can’t understand you…if you need something you need to use nice words…” and then finally, “STOP IT!”

And I get all the time, You can do it! I don’t want to, Momma! You can throw it away! Ayudame! Help me! No! I can’t!

Seriously…this needs to end. I love her. I do. But holy cow, I am just not woman enough to deal with this. I try to be patient. I try to only speak to her the way I want to be spoken to. But dear God!

I want to hide under a rock.

Seriously.

That's right. I don't want compliant kids.

I can’t tell you how many times people have laughed when I’ve very proudly said, “I don’t want compliant kids.”

And then of course, when my daughter is the one who won’t put her shoes on to go out to the car; they sit and nod and say, “Yep, that’s what you wanted.”

They’re right. It’s what I want.

I know, I know. We all love the idea of  “obedient” children. I mean, who doesn’t? A child who will do whatever I say when I say, no questions asked. Man, imagine all the battles I’d never have to fight. All the times I wouldn’t have to tell myself to take a deep breath and think of the situation from the point of view of a two year old.

Seriously, this whole parenting thing would be easier.

But let’s be honest. I don’t want a compliant kid. I don’t want a kid who responds to “authority” with unwavering obedience.

Those kids get ignored. Their needs go unmet. They are more insecure. They don’t take responsibility for their actions. They grow up to be followers, not leaders.

Does that mean I’m raising babes who get what they want and to do what they want when they want? Kids who get to run amuck?

Hell no.

But yes, I have a little girl who is not afraid to say, “I don’t want to put my shoes on” or “I don’t want to go.”

She knows the rules and expectations. She doesn’t have to wear shoes outside. I’m not likely to pick her up if the ground is hot, cold, rocky, etc. But I will happily help her put on her shoes at that point. If she wants to go into a store with me. Her shoes must be on. There is no battle of the wills. Just a simple, “H, this store requires you to have shoes on. If you’d like to go in, then we need to get them on your feet.”

I always prep her for a departure. Whether it is leaving our house, friends’, or the park, etc. “H, in 10 minutes we are leaving…in 5 more minutes we are going…1 more minute until we leave.” Does that means she always leaves happily? Heck no! She’s 2! But I validate her feelings. (My head is spinning here…I used to laugh when I heard about others “validating someone’s feelings”…who knew that there is actually something to it!?). I tell her I understand she is having fun doing xyz and doesn’t want to go, but unfortunately it is time. Does she cry sometimes when we leave? Sure.

But at least she knows it’s okay to voice her desire not to go. She isn’t so obedient that she knows expressing how she feels is useless. Yes, Mommy hears her. Yes, Mommy cares about how she feels. Yes, Mommy still says we have to go though.

So maybe my kids will be the ones loudly voicing their opinions. I’m sure some will shake their heads at “bad parenting” (I know I did before I had babes!). And that’s okay.

Even when it’s frustrating, I’ll still smile inside at my children’s confidence to be expressive. At their security of knowing that their feelings will never be ignored or punished.

Because I’m not raising compliant children. I’m raising strong, confident, leading adults.

What's the learning rush?

There is so much hype these days to have a “gifted” child. A fast, advanced, talented child. Take your pick.

But honestly, I don’t get it.

I have one child that totally fits into that category. She’s always been well ahead of her peers. She was walking at 10.5 months old, had at least 30 solid words by the time she turned one year. She knew her ABC’s and spoke in sentences, as well as climbed the “big slide” at the playground and could go down on her own long before she turned 18 months. She potty trained herself before her second birthday. At not quite 2.5 years old she knows her letters and their sounds, she’s started putting letters together to make words. She can do simple math.

Everyone has always told me how “fast” she is. Heck, she was holding her own neck up at birth. For real.

What no one ever bothered to tell me is that being “fast” is normal, too. Ask anyone you know, they know at least one, but probably many, “advanced” kids. It’s just as normal as being “average.” It’s not really a big deal.

Except that it is. To a lot of people anyway. There seems to be this overwhelming need for many people that their child(ren) be first. The first to walk and speak and tie their shoes. The first to know their colors and shapes and letters.

But why? Does it even matter?

No.

At least I don’t think so.

I have one perfectly “average” child. He babbles a ton, actually only says “Mama”, “hi”, “muh [more]” and “aaaah duh! [all done!]”. And none of that is consistent. He’s a year old. Unlike his sister at this age, he doesn’t know the toilet is anything other than a big bucket that is fun to throw things into. Though he sometimes tries to repeat the animal sounds I make, I certainly cannot say “vaca” to him and have him make a “moo” sound without prompting, as I could his sister.

He likes to eat the woodchips on the playground. He is not typically interested in sitting with me and reading books, though he will occasionally let his big sister “read” to him. He will scribble on paper for just a minute or two before deciding that it is way more fun to eat the crayons.

As I said. He’s normal. He’s “average.” He’s perfect.

Do I ever wish he were more like his sister?

Yes.

Sometimes.

Not because I want him to be as fast or whatever, but because it is more difficult sometimes to know what he wants due to his limited communication skills. Other than that though, I don’t care if he takes his sweet time.

He doesn’t have to know his colors in the near future. I don’t care if he doesn’t sing his alphabet before his second birthday. I don’t even care if he doesn’t realize a toilet is for peeing in before his third birthday.

Because at the end of the day, he’s just as intelligent as his sister, without a doubt. He’s just at his own pace.

Miss H is fast. That’s her pace. I never forced her to learn any of the stuff she knows; she just wanted to. She’s a sponge. For awhile I was a bit caught up in the idea that she needed something better to help her little brain. Better teachers at a good school. Until I realized who in the world could ever be better than her parents? We’ve gotten her this far, surely we know her best and can teach her best.

Would she learn even more and likely even faster in an academic setting where all she does is learn?

Sure. I bet she would.

But she’s 2.5. She’s a toddler. A baby almost. She has the right to be a child. She has her entire life to learn. But she has such a short time to be a child. And of course, she’s still learning anyway. It’s not like that gets turned off if you’re not in a school.

There’s no need to rush learning. Every day is a learning experience. We simply cannot help but learn.

Baby B is taking things at his own stride. He’s marching to his own drum. That’s really a fiddle. And that’s okay.

Because I guarantee that when they’re 10 and 11, they’ll both be able to read and write. They’ll be able to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. They’ll know all about the science behind volcanoes and clouds. They’ll know about animal habitats. They’ll know geography. And it won’t matter if they learned it all at 3 or 6 or 9.

So for me, there is no reason to push it.

Of course, I will encourage them to learn every day by all the things we do. And I will always help them if they want to learn. Miss H is really determined to “read the words, Momma.” So I’m doing my best to help her learn to read. But only because she wants to.

I think it’s important that kids be kids. That they do things in their own time. That they have lots of unstructured time.

And who cares if baby Joe can multiply at 3? When he’s 8, he’ll still know how to multiply, and so will all of his peers. So really, does it matter?

Maybe.

But not to me.

So does that mean I’m not proud when my 29-month-old can sound out the word “bat”? Of course not! But I wouldn’t be any less proud if she didn’t do it until she was 6 either.

There is no foolin' H

The babes participate in a lot of psychology studies at the local universities. They go in, get to play with toys, watch little video clips, whatever. It's easy, fun, and at the end they get a free book or puzzle or whatnot, so they enjoy it.

Well, today I took Miss H in for one where they showed her a nonsensical shape, gave it a nonsensical name, then took it away and put two shapes in front of her - one the nonsensical shape, one that was different. Only the "new" nonsensical shape was a different color than the original. She was to point out which was the original. Pretty easy. She always got the correct shape, even though it was a different color.

Then they did round two. Nonsensical shape, then two shapes, but this time the nonsensical shape was the same color, but a different size. Once again, she still got them correct.

Then round three. This is where it went all downhill.

This time, they showed the nonsensical shape, took it away, and brought out two completely different shapes. They weren't like the original. At all.

So the poor girl who is conducting the study keeps asking Miss H to point out the "teeg" and H is all, "None of them! The teeg is gone!" And this goes on for a good while before the girl gives up and realizes that Miss H will not be fooled and she will not just randomly pick an object for her pleasure. She was asked to point at the "teeg", there is no longer a teeg, not even in a different color or a different size, thus there is nothing to point out.

And Miss H very loudly informed them of all of this.

They probably won't ask us back again.

It is incredibly sexy when a man...

Needless to say, since becoming a mother, my ideals of “sexy” have changed drastically. I find myself thinking some things are incredibly sexy that beforehand, I would have never thought twice about, much less have been turned on by.

It is incredibly sexy when a man…

1.)    Wears his baby/children. (Extra points if he knows how to put on the baby carrier by himself and/or knows the difference between and Ergo, Beco, Moby, etc. Even more bonus points if he knows that “crotch danglers” are bad and so is forward face wearing).

2.)    Carries his sleeping babes in from the car and tucks them sweetly into bed. (Or tucks them into bed and cuddles up next to them!)

3.)    Doesn’t move for several hours because his babe has fallen asleep and he doesn’t want to disturb the child’s imperative sleep.

4.)    Uses kind words instead of yelling or hitting his children, even during times of utter frustration.

5.)    Reads to his children.

6.)    Plays with his children.

7.)    Listens to his children.

8.)    Comes home from work when his child calls and says he misses him, even if he’s only been at work for 2 hours. That’s what vacation time is for anyway!

9.)    Insists on attending every well-baby visit, even though you tell him repeatedly you can go by yourself.

10.)  Tells you that he finds every stretch mark on your body incredibly sexy, because it’s just physical

       proof of the amazing beings you brought into this world.

11.)  Is willing to put his “fun time” (i.e., golf, video games, etc.) off, possibly indefinitely, in order to

       spend time with his family.

12.)   Looks at photos of his children’s births and gets a bit teary-eyed.

13.)  Acts as if he could care less about health and nutrition and then asks you before ever purchasing 

       anything or allowing someone else to feed your children if it is something acceptable.

14.) Complains about all the information about chemicals and other toxins that you force him to be  

       knowledgeable on and then find him reading such information all on his own.

15.)  Loves his wife and children.