When I was a kid, we led what one might call a transient life. My mom once did the math. We moved 15 times by the time I was 8.
That's a lot. And it's the kind of pattern that follows you. I've spent most of my life sending out change of address cards.
One day, I looked around what was then my crowded little house in my crowded little New Jersey town and realized that I'd lived in that little house longer than I'd ever lived anywhere. I knew how to get creative with pierogi, and that there really are people who use the word "gravy" to refer to tomato sauce. I talked about "going down the shore" instead of to the beach. I had become, in some sense, a Jersey girl. Without the big hair or the accent.
This was particularly startling because I consider myself a Virginian.
After six years in that house - we beat my previous "stay" record by four years - we moved to Maryland. But that little New Jersey town still feels just a bit like home, probably because no other address before or since ever stuck as long.
And I passed fairly close by it this weekend on my way to Connecticut to see old friends and family. Or, at least, that was my goal. Until I saw several giant, blinking red signs that read: "MAJOR CONGESTION GWB - USE LOCAL."
The GWB is, of course, the George Washington Bridge. It connects northern New Jersey with New York. There are two spans, an upper and a lower. My mom used to call the upper one George and the lower one Martha. Then she'd giggle. It was a decade before I got the joke. Which I think is a good thing.
I once sat in a back-up at the GWB for three straight hours. So I took those signs seriously. Better still, I knew the "local" (I assumed they meant roads). And I figured this was the powers that be rewarding me for the nickel +1 I did in New Jersey. I didn't have to sit in a ridiculous GWB back-up. I could get out! The Tappan Zee Bridge was calling me.
And that's how I found myself in Teterboro driving through foot-high standing water trying to remember where they'd put the Garden State Parkway.
That was just the early part of hell. My minivan and I swam through New Jersey, New York and Connecticut, braving lightning, high winds, monsoon-strength rains and flash floods. Yes, floods. And it all began the moment I decided I should drive through New Jersey rather than attempt the bridge. That's when the skies went dark. I went to pay the toll to exit the Turnpike, and when I opened my car window I was hit in the face with a horizontal wall of water that took my breath away and soaked me to the skin. Scary, scary weather.
Living in Jersey must be its own reward. Because my decision clearly just pissed off the powers that be.
In the end - well, in Connecticut - I did get my reward. Three stunning rainbows - one for each of the kids I'd left back home. The third was breathtaking, lighting up brightly against a pink and gray sunsetty sky. Lots of drama and color. I figure that one was for my rain-phobic, Jersey-born diva.
So maybe I have roots in Jersey after all.
June 30, 2009
June 23, 2009
It's Good to Be the Mom
It's high time I admitted the truth. Nearly all of my parenting decisions are predicated on my relentless need for sleep.
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
They can cook. My kids wake up hungry. Now, I honestly don't think they need to eat at 6:30 a.m. Not when it means I have to get out of bed. They disagree. So I've taught my older two how to heat toaster waffles, fill a bowl with cereal and milk, slice up some cheese, peel a banana, open a yogurt or two, and pour their own juice. Voila! Breakfast.
- They are responsible. The kids have noticed that if they don't let the dog out and feed her, the house gets loud and stinky, and mom gets cranky. So they take turns managing the dog in the mornings. (To be fair, this has been a kid chore for years; the difference is that now they do it without being asked.)
- They use the potty. My older two had the benefit of a grown-up morning person in the house when they were toilet training. I suspect that's why neither of them mastered the art till the age of four. Not so my little guy. He is now fully independent on the toilet and has been since he was two. That's right, two. This is largely because I move verrrrry slowly in the mornings. He hollers "Pee-pee!!!" and runs into the bathroom in a blind panic. By the time I get there he's washing his hands. (For which, by the way, WAY TO GO little guy! )
- They play fewer video games. My kids used to get up in the mornings and go play on the Wii. World War III would promptly follow. "You cheated!" "That's MY game!" "Mooooooom!!!" Screaming, bickering and tattling are not conducive to sleep. So I no longer allow video games in the morning. They play less, so their brains rot less. Yay!
- They are independent. My kids know that if they dress themselves, brush their own teeth, and head quietly downstairs, I will remain in bed. If they're lucky, this means an extra 30 minutes of SpongeBob.
- They're more creative. Books, art projects, pretend play - these are quiet and can be done independently, with a minimum of bicker-inducing interaction. Quiet is good, and TV gets boring. So the kids set out stacks of books, art supplies and toys to entertain themselves.
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
June 22, 2009
Thunder! Lightning!
After dinner tonight, I proposed a walk to the kids. It's June, and the fireflies are out in droves. The sky was clear with a stunning sunset in the making. I even promised popsicles and a late bedtime, figuring on a little bonding and some memory-making.
And from the diva? A total meltdown. She could not handle even the thought of walking out the front door. Tears streamed down her face from the mental trauma of it all. I was at a loss until she blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably, "But Moooom! What if there's a thunderstorm!"
A new phobia is born.
To be fair, we've had our share of thunderstorms these last few weeks. All that noise and lightning, it's a bit unnerving when you're seven. Today, though, was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-sky day. The kids were outside in it at the ballpark with their dad for Father's Day. Bevy of sunburns all around.
But the second she set foot back home, my beautiful diva became severely agoraphobic. Because of the weather.
It started off reasonably. Twice in the last week she crawled into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning, awakened by the loud bang of thunder. This is what you expect from a seven-year-old.
But it escalated from there.
By Friday, she was sitting for hours in the living room, glued to the windows. Every passing cloud she saw - whether high and white and puffy, a shadowed, pearly gray, or scarlet from the setting sun - was met with a bleak, drawn face and a panicked, "Mom, is that a thundercloud?"
Airplane passes overhead. "Mom! Do you hear thunder?"
"No. It's an airplane."
Perfectly delightful cotton ball cloud drifts by. "Mom! Is that a thundercloud??"
"No. Plain old cloud."
Gently overcast day, without a single raindrop. "Mom! Thunderclouds!"
"No. Just clouds again. See? No lightning."
Harry Potter zooms past on his Nimbus 2000. "Mom!!! Lightning!!"
Okay, I made that one up. But you get the point.
Tonight what was a simple irrational fear escalated to the point of total panic. She couldn't walk outside anymore without enormous thunderstormy angst.
So I reassured her. I told her that she'd know it's a thundercloud because she'd be able to see the lightning from far away. Thunder and lightning can't hurt us in the house, I said, and we'd have plenty of warning that a thunderstorm is coming. I explained the science of it. And we also came up with alternate theories on the weather. Such as, thunder God is bowling, and he's a poor loser so he starts crying his eyes out and throwing lightning bolts around. Made her laugh.
Otherwise, the talk-it-out approach was not working.
I finally got her outside by promising her that there would be NO thunderstorms, and that I'd tell her if I ever knew a thunderstorm was coming because I'd want her to be prepared. She liked that. She's young enough to believe that mom does know everything about everything and can also control the weather. I am like Rainman and Storm from the X-Men rolled into one. Makes me one heckuva smart autistic mutant superhero.
Desperate to do the mom thing and teach a lesson, I cited a line from my favorite movie, Strictly Ballroom: "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias" ... or, a life lived in fear is a life half-lived. I told her, "You can't let a little thing like being afraid of thunder keep you from having fun."
She bought it. She got out there, forgot her fear, and caught a few fireflies with her brothers. She had a great night.
We'll see how she does the next time it rains.
And from the diva? A total meltdown. She could not handle even the thought of walking out the front door. Tears streamed down her face from the mental trauma of it all. I was at a loss until she blurted out, sobbing uncontrollably, "But Moooom! What if there's a thunderstorm!"
A new phobia is born.
To be fair, we've had our share of thunderstorms these last few weeks. All that noise and lightning, it's a bit unnerving when you're seven. Today, though, was a gorgeous, sunny, blue-sky day. The kids were outside in it at the ballpark with their dad for Father's Day. Bevy of sunburns all around.
But the second she set foot back home, my beautiful diva became severely agoraphobic. Because of the weather.
It started off reasonably. Twice in the last week she crawled into bed with me in the wee hours of the morning, awakened by the loud bang of thunder. This is what you expect from a seven-year-old.
But it escalated from there.
By Friday, she was sitting for hours in the living room, glued to the windows. Every passing cloud she saw - whether high and white and puffy, a shadowed, pearly gray, or scarlet from the setting sun - was met with a bleak, drawn face and a panicked, "Mom, is that a thundercloud?"
Airplane passes overhead. "Mom! Do you hear thunder?"
"No. It's an airplane."
Perfectly delightful cotton ball cloud drifts by. "Mom! Is that a thundercloud??"
"No. Plain old cloud."
Gently overcast day, without a single raindrop. "Mom! Thunderclouds!"
"No. Just clouds again. See? No lightning."
Harry Potter zooms past on his Nimbus 2000. "Mom!!! Lightning!!"
Okay, I made that one up. But you get the point.
Tonight what was a simple irrational fear escalated to the point of total panic. She couldn't walk outside anymore without enormous thunderstormy angst.
So I reassured her. I told her that she'd know it's a thundercloud because she'd be able to see the lightning from far away. Thunder and lightning can't hurt us in the house, I said, and we'd have plenty of warning that a thunderstorm is coming. I explained the science of it. And we also came up with alternate theories on the weather. Such as, thunder God is bowling, and he's a poor loser so he starts crying his eyes out and throwing lightning bolts around. Made her laugh.
Otherwise, the talk-it-out approach was not working.
I finally got her outside by promising her that there would be NO thunderstorms, and that I'd tell her if I ever knew a thunderstorm was coming because I'd want her to be prepared. She liked that. She's young enough to believe that mom does know everything about everything and can also control the weather. I am like Rainman and Storm from the X-Men rolled into one. Makes me one heckuva smart autistic mutant superhero.
Desperate to do the mom thing and teach a lesson, I cited a line from my favorite movie, Strictly Ballroom: "Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias" ... or, a life lived in fear is a life half-lived. I told her, "You can't let a little thing like being afraid of thunder keep you from having fun."
She bought it. She got out there, forgot her fear, and caught a few fireflies with her brothers. She had a great night.
We'll see how she does the next time it rains.
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