02.18.07

(Alex: 3, Lila: 1)

Life as a parent is filled with questioning our choices. It’s night’s spent laying awake wondering Did I double, no, triple check the label on that oatmeal bar I gave him? Did it have nuts in it? We’re not doing nuts yet. Oh no, I’m pretty sure there must’ve been nuts. Why am I such a slacker? Why can’t I even survive lunchtime without potentially killing my child?

I live in a constant battle to keep Mommy-guilt in check. Constant. I need to breathe, in and out, to regain a sense of reality, the sense that not everything that I do to or with my child is going to impact him or her forever. Sometimes, an oatmeal bar is just an oatmeal bar.

And sometimes, watching an educational DVD, is just watching an educational DVD.

Yes. I let my son watch television. Shocking, I know. Give me a moment to breathe in and out, let my Mommy-guilt subside.

And we’re okay.

The trouble is, in this world where I am raising these children, there seems to be no moderation, no middle ground – there is nothing but the Don’t ever! and the Sure, I plop my kid in front of that thing seven, eight hours a day – cheapest babysitter around!

And so, I’m here, often feeling alone, or as though the Don’t Ever camp shrugs me off as a lazy parent (or one who is either uneducated about the ‘risks’ of television, or simply dismissive of them), while the TV=Babysitter camp can’t understand why I don’t let my son watch anything other than specific programs at specific times, with a specific purpose.

The truth is, I choose to believe that the way that my husband and I have integrated television into our child’s routine is not going to harm his development – and that the benefits of it (his vocabulary has sky rocketed since introducing him to a DVD created by speech pathologists for children his age) will outway the potential risks. Much like how I choose to have my children vaccinated, falling again into a debate. (As a person who hates to debate, I’m fairly sure that if I’d known how many heated debates are always raging in the realm of parenthood, I might never have come.)

What it all boils down to is this: Mommy-guilt exists because parenting is complex and difficult and filled with decisions such as how much (if any) television should you let your child watch, how and when to potty-train, what type of shoes should you buy – the good one’s perfectly fitted to his wide feet, or just a pair from Walmart because he’ll out grow them soon anyway. Each of these seemingly small decisions will weigh on me and find me as I’m tossing and turning and trying to sleep.

If my son doesn’t love books, I’ll blame myself for letting him watch Blues Clues. If he doesn’t excel in sports, I’ll blame myself for stunting his feet somehow with those darned cheap shoes. When really, the fact is, sometimes, some kids just don’t like books when they grow up – television or not. Long before the idiot box was invented, there were kids trying to get out of doing their reading to go outside and play. And as for my son’s athletic prowess? Maybe he’ll prefer to be in the band.

Parenting is difficult because no matter the choices that we make, the outcomes may not be that which we have intended or hoped for.

Parenting is difficult because we cannot protect our children from everything that can harm them and trying to shield them from everything may wind up doing more harm than good.

Parenting is difficult because other parents, teachers, grandparents, cousins, your neighbors, the lady behind you in the grocery store – everyone – has an opinion that they feel is worth sharing, under the assumption that it is the key – the golden answer to unlock all the mysteries of what-if’s – the way to avoid ever needing to feel Mommy-Guilt again.

The way to raise the best child possible.

But the fact is, I don’t want to raise anyone else’s best child possible. I want to raise my own.

And no matter how Alex or Lila turn out, they’re the best that I’ll ever have. The best that God has given me, and I’ll know that I’ve done my best with them out of service to Him.

And I’m ok with that. Because when it comes right down to it, to the two-in-the-morning moment of the soul when I’m laying awake replaying each of the choices I’ve made that day for my child, this is what I know beyond doubt:

I want my kids.

Kids with messy faces and who hide behind the couch when it’s time to put their bibs on for lunch. Kids who pull off their diapers and bring them to me, proudly declaring Poop! 

I want kids who toss play food behind the toy chest, then walk around the house asking where it went. Kids who pull down book after book after book and imitate cow sounds, duck sounds, bird sounds, clock sounds, then point to roofs and chimneys and trees and rivers and kids who know them all by name, even though their tongue’s can’t yet speak them clearly.

I want kids who ask for Blues Clues, but still play nicely when it’s not turned on. Kids who dance around to The Laurie Berkner Band with their arms moving in perfect motion, mimicking the people on the TV. Kids who reach for the guitar and try to play along. Kids who pull out notebooks and hunt around the house on a scavenger hunt, in search of Blues Clues, but finding their own imagination leads them different places.

These are my kids. And I won’t let Mommy-guilt take away the joy that they bring me – or take away the pride that I have in knowing that though I’m not perfect, by the grace of God, I’m doing good enough for them.

This is a post from the vault of The Frozen Moon. Click here to return to The Frozen Moon.

08.15.09

(Alex: 4, Lila: 3, Asher: 4 months)

Here’s a little secret to all children out there – your parents always want to give you treats. If there’s a reason to celebrate, we want to shower you. We want you to be bathed in all things glowing and sweet and wonderful.

If we’re out on an adventure, say, at a planetarium or a museum and you have been well behaved, we want to reward you. And if there’s an ice cream stand on the way home – we want to stop and share the simplest of summer joys together as a family, jimmies and all.

Unfortunately, we do not want you to grow up rotten or demanding. We do not want you to feel entitled to every good thing that there is on this earth, simply because you were so kind as to bless it with your presence.

As parents we must be measured in our rewarding, in our discipline. And so, when you decide to deliberately disobey, and to throw your little body down on the ground and whimper when we simply tell you that you need to try to use the bathroom before we leave – you force us to do what we must.

Not without warning of course. We give you chances. We count to three – waiting patiently, hoping, crossing our fingers – that you might stand up, apologize and wrap your little arms around us. Or at the very least, pull it together and use the toilet without any more scenes.

But when we’ve let the number T H R E E stall long enough on the tips of our tongues and you are still prostrate on the floor, consequences happen.

No ice cream for you.

Even though we still want to give it to you. Even though it hurts us to watch you pout and watch your brother and cousin slurp chocolate soft serve from their plastic spoons and gleefully wipe rainbow jimmies from their chins.

Even though as we sit, you are well behaved and you are listening and though your lip quivers, you do not scream or shout or whine. You simply sit and watch with your round saucer eyes glistening, reflecting sunlight and hope – hope that we might cave perhaps and let slide one of our spoons to your lips.

But no. Alas, there are consequences for your actions. And though there is nothing we’d rather be doing than sharing our frozen treats with you, we can not. We must not. In the hopes that you might learn, might not sob when we tell you to try and pee before we take a long car ride, so that you might not wet yourself and your seat and the only pair of pants that we brought with us for the trip.

Please. Let this lesson of ice cream stick. May you remember the feeling of not eating the cool, creamy confection as much as your father and I are going to remember the sadness and longing in your eyes. Because really, truly, and you probably won’t actually understand this until you have children yourself – I know I didn’t – we always want to give you treats.

11.15.05

Tags

10 weeks, email, friendship, husband, loss, love, miscarriage, november 2005, pregnancy

(Alex: 11 months  Me: Day of our 2nd miscarriage)

Because I can’t bring myself to wrap this up into a neat and eloquent post, I won’t. Not yet. Instead, here are excerpts from emails between a close friend and I, sent over the past two days:

Monday – Nov 14 – 9:08 AM
From: Mella
To: M

…I’m going for my ultrasound today…Yay! Too early for the gender, but at least I’ll get to see a little baby in there with a beating heart (hopefully!)…

Monday – Nov 14 – 12:03 PM
From: M
To: Mella

ooo! Good luck! Send a picture of the little one if you can! =)

Monday – Nov 14 – 5:01PM
From: Mella
To: M

Hi M…

We did get to see our little one – peacefully lying still, eyes closed, legs crossed, little arms and all. But no heartbeat. It was the worst experience of my life – seeing a little baby, just like how Alex looked at his first ultrasound – but being told that he’s no longer alive.

Vinnie and I just started sobbing and hugging, right there in front of the technician. I felt almost worse for him – as we were looking at the baby, I could tell something was wrong, so I turned to Vinnie with a concerned look, but he just had a grin on his face and was staring at the little guy as though all was well. He was shocked…

There’s no rhyme or reason for why something like this would happen at 10 weeks along – at 5 weeks (as I was with the first one) – it’s probably a case of the embryo not properly implanting in the uterus…but at this point – it’s hard to say why the heart stopped beating. My mom says that there are no answers…she said that some people theorize that viral infections can have devastating impacts on fetus’s…and I did recently have a pretty bad virus. And that would explain why I still feel pregnant…if we only lost him a few days ago, the hormones haven’t gone down enough to have me feel normal again.

So…we’re just waiting for a call from the doctor to let us know when the operating room is open so that he can perform a D & C to clean out my uterus, since my body hasn’t started cramping or spotting yet – and since the fetus is already so far along, I would probably need a D & C even if I passed most of it on my own.

I don’t have the emotional energy to email the girls yet…probably in a couple of days after I have the procedure…but I wanted to let you know how things went.

Monday – Nov 14 – 10:52 PM
From: M
To: Mella

Oh Mella, I am so sorry. I don’t even know what to say. I’m just sitting here crying. I can’t understand it. I just can’t believe it. I don’t know what to say but I’m sorry. I’ll be praying for you both- this was supposed to be such a happy day… If there is anything I can do, or if you just want to talk, I’m here. I love you so much.

Tuesday – Nov 15 – 8:36 AM
From: Mella
To: M

Oh, M…it’s just terrible. I think I’m going through all of the stages of grief, rapid pace. I dreamt about losing the baby last night – that I miscarried it on my own, and it was awful. I tossed and turned all night and finally just gave up around 5:30 – but that was almost worse, because I was lying quietly just thinking about it. I wish I’d had some sort of warning – cramps, spotting, a gut feeling – anything…but this just came out of nowhere. The bloodwork was good, my size was good, I’m still feeling pregnant – and the little baby in there *looked* ok, he just looked like he was snoozing…until the technician fell completely silent.

It started out so well – she commented on my flat stomach and smiled while squirting on that cold jelly stuff – then she happily said “Oh! There he is!” when she put the sonogram thing on my abdomen, and we zoomed in on the little one – but within a few seconds, she fell completely silent. And I was worried almost instantly, because I didn’t see the flickering light in his chest.

I keep picturing her taking the measurements from his little rump to his head, still trying to date the pregnancy, not entirely positive if she was seeing what she feared she was seeing…but when she asked “and you’ve had no cramps or spotting?” I knew what was coming. That’s when I looked at Vinnie – but, M, he had the sweetest little smile on his face, just like he did when we saw our son for the first time – like love at first sight…he just squeezed my hand and said “baby!”

And then she said “I hate to tell you what I’m seeing…”

I’m sorry, M…I just can’t stop replaying it in my mind. Whenever I close my eyes, I see the little body lying there, and I just can’t believe that it’s real. So, then, I turn to denial and I think “Well, maybe they just missed something…maybe he was so still because he was sleeping and maybe we just couldn’t see, or the doppler couldn’t hear the heartbeat…and I want to have them check one last time before “cleaning me out”…

But I know that it’s unlikely, and that all that they’d be doing is billing me for an unnecessary ultrasound to confirm an already confirmed diagnosis – that I’m carrying an unviable pregnancy.

I’m taking the upcoming semester off – losing two babies so close together is a lot to process – I need a breather.

And on that note…I’m going to go hug my son…he’s the only thing that can take my mind off of things. He actually had me giggling this morning…I can’t thank God enough for giving me him first…I can’t imagine what it would be like to have these two sad pregnancies without having a sweet baby to go home to.

…And that’s all I’ve been able to write…

03.01.08

Tags

cocoa, love, March 2008, mother, motherhood, parenthood, quiet, snow, son

(Alex: 3, Lila: 1.5)

From his bedroom window we watch the snow tumble down in stark white clumps and marvel as it piles up our driveway. Maybe we should have some cocoa, he suggests, sound like a good idea?

He speaks like a bonafide little person now and associates snow with cocoa, because it’s what we drink after coming in and emptying our boots of damp snow sludge, after we hang our wet mittens above the pellet stove and stuff our socks in the washing machine.

He associates cocoa with warmth and being home.

So we have some cocoa and then he plays, quietly though as his sister naps.

First we try a puzzle, but since it is one he has long since mastered, he loses interest quickly. So we color, write our letters and talk in hushed voices about how much fun we’re going to have when Lila-Bean wakes up, when Daddy comes home, when we have cupcakes after dinner. For him, life is all in the anticipation, in the wondering what’s going to come next.

I’m a big boy now, I’m not a baby anymore, he tells me. And though it’s true, my heart still winces at his words. Because for me, life is all in the moment, the exact moment we’re living in. And after they’re tucked in at night, I long to have the moments back, to replay hugging their wriggling warm bodies fresh plucked from the tub. To have again the giggles and crumbs and silly outbursts over who’s toes would taste better with ketchup at the dinner table. To have them reaching for me, calling for me, wrapping their arms around my legs.

My husband worries that their clinging is overboard, that they reach for me too much and I need to be careful not to cater to their every whim. Which I certainly do not. But I do make exceptions. I’m only human, I bend. And how can I not? If they only want one moment more in my arms when it’s all I want from them as well?

01.07.08

Tags

hope, mom, nostalgia, parenthood, rememberings, working

(Alex: 3, Lila: 1 Me: Working full time, sometimes overnights)

Once upon a time, I could actually spend quiet moments mulling over which glittering part of my day to bring here and write about. Not so much lately. It’s four-thirty in the morning. I’ve been at work for over five hours and can hardly see straight, let alone stand for very long at this computer.

I am officially longing for the “good ‘ol days” – when diapers and kitchen clutter were the biggest of my worries. When I was seeing more clearly all of the ordinary magic of motherhood, wifehood, life.

I trust I’ll make my way back there, soon enough. Soon enough. But, for now, I have this picture of Lila here on the computer. Because she makes me smile. Thank goodness for lighthearted children to keep us from taking things too seriously. For dropping forks and grinning over spilled cups of juice. For fervently denying the poop in their diapers, no matter how badly they smell. For potty-training and cartoon-character underwear and the innocent blurting out of casual observations (“Momma, my peanut is cold.”) For imaginary monster’s and made-up games of blanket-head and for bare feet pounding out rain dances for crackers across my kitchen floor.

For giving me a thousand happier things to dwell on as the final few hours of the graveyard shift unwinds.

01.08.07

(Alex: 2, Lila: 2 months  Me: Starting my final semester as an MFA Student)

Last semester began over the weekend.

Things I’ve learned so far:

1. I love being alone in a place where no one really knows me. It’s like hiding, ducking out of my humdrum life for squandered hours here and there and getting to return to myself – to the me that’s silenced by Spaghetti-O’s on the floor and smears of Balmex. The me I pushed aside for my children, to carry them I gave my body – but to raise them, I gave the me I’ve always known. The one who secretly thinks terrible things like If I were living each day like it’s my last, I’d be on the other side of the Atlantic…and then I realize that in that perfect, idealic existence, I’m walking the cobblestone streets alone.

Thankfully, before I can delve too deeply away from myself (my mommy-self) the subway car jerks to a halt and my daydreams are scattered like the Cheerio’s I’ll be sweeping up when I get home.

Sitting in the workshops, I’m creative-me. I’m curious and interested and, before we begin, I’m quietly listening – absorbing the gentle chatter of non-parental conversations sprinkling around me refreshing as rain.

Walking home, I peek in boutique windows or ethnic markets and am tempted to pause. To stop my fast foot-to-concrete pace and just let myself slip into aisles of foreign stores, fingering linens or knick-knacks or bags of strange sweets, until I forget where it was I had been in such a rush to return.

Except, I can’t. My mother-in-law can only watch the children so many hours in a day.

So I instead descend the million-steps to the subway, stare at the bricks, the rails, the dirt, the smudges of footprints on the thick yellow “Do Not Cross” line.

And I wait.

2. I love being home.
Because he runs to hug me within ten seconds after I walk through the door. Because his hair is soft and his cheeks are cool and he smiles when he looks up and calls me Mom like it’s a word he invented – just for me.

12.21.07

Tags

anxiety, myself, normal, rambling, reflection, stress

(Alex: 3, Lila: 1, Me: Working and rambling)

I’m wondering if I’m normal. Having said that, I also wonder if you are too. No offense. I don’t mean to suggest that everyone reading this falls into the category of abnormal, especially not in any perceptible way. I’m simply curious if most of us out there reading blogs might fall into the same sort of introspection-on-the-verge of anxiety that I do. The sort of anxiety that leaves us writing and reading blogs almost as a form of therapy, for lack of a better word.

I myself am perceptibly normal. I bathe. I wear appropriate clothing. I speak clearly, manage (somehow) to function most normally in every situation. Sit. Speak. Eat. Breath. Keep your hands inside the ride at all times. I am a mother of two, for goodness sakes. There’s no room for crazy here.

To the outside world, I’m vanilla.

It’s the inner struggles that have me questioning my grounding in the realm of “norm”

For example, today I dreaded the holiday potluck here in the spacious (note sarcasm) office kitchenette, as though I were walking into the office of a needle-happy doctor. Caught at my desk by my boss, I followed her at command (I mean, invitation) to the roomful of Christmas-sweater clad middle-aged mammography tech’s where I felt immediately out of place, as though I were vibrant and loud like a shrill, shrieking alarm. All eyes turned to me and I shrank back, hoping to disappear between the time clock and bulletin board.

And then they foisted their pot-luckiness upon me. Eat! Try these! And look – feta burritos with cranberries. Cranberries! And I grew more and more uncomfortable. Bumbling, really.

I scrambled to pluck appetizers, scattered them over my plate, snatched a few squares of fudge to bring home for the kids – and then I raced back to my quiet, private office – where all feta-stuffed burritos found their home in my trash bin (cranberries and all.)

And I thought – I wasn’t always like this. I was a bold child – a wake-up the neighborhood, go door-to-door with my zany ideas type of child. As a teenager and young woman too – even the things I did, the social situations I was involved in less than a decade ago, all give me anxiety just thinking of them. Have I changed that much? And if so – why? Age? Is all this adulthood finally getting to me? Or is it stress? Stress-induced maturity, leads to social anxiety? What was once OK is now risky, therefore, stressful, therefore, causes me to be anxious?

Or maybe I’ve just never been a big fan of forced socialization. Maybe my not wanting to participate in a yuletide potluck with a gaggle of virtual strangers is nothing short of normal. Maybe they’re the ones who are strange – the people who want to reheat food from their home kitchens and then serve them in a room no larger than the gutted interior of an SUV – maybe they’re the weirdos.

Come to think of it, I was almost always home sick from school on Valentines Day. It became like a joke between my mother and I. My sister would go to my classroom after school and bring home my box of valentines and a plate of cookies and cupcakes, and I’d go through the thin paper envelopes in the quiet of my own bedroom. Not much different than today, I suppose. (Though cupcakes fared better than the feta burrito’s.)