Words of Wisdom

I've heard some insightful things this week:

"Pretend you're on a reality show."

This has not been my finest week with the boys. I've used more imperative sentences than necessary, ending most of them with the word, "Now!" Owen's usual announcement that "I don't like Joel, and I'm going to take his toys away from him," made me want to toss him in the dumpster.

Not a reasonable response. I've felt like a bear, being poked at with a big stick. With every little poke, I'm baring my fangs and slashing blindly. If I don't get myself to a dark, quiet cave, there's gonna be a mauling.

I was talking about this with a friend, and she understood completely. She said that when she has days like that, she plays a mental game with herself. She pretends that she is on a reality show, and that cameras are filming her every move.

Now, just this week, I've opined about the goofballs of reality TV, but I decided to give it a try today. And wouldn't you know...I censored myself, took a few more deep breaths, and today has been a better day.

"Stop Feeding the Rat"

This book I'm reading (The Coffee Mom's Devotional by Celeste Palermo) discusses the idea that many women have rats running on wheels in their heads, with endless to-do lists and self-induced pressures. She writes, "My rat runs on the need to please and the need to perform."

Did that ever hit home. Now that I'm done with the college class, I've decided to take writing more seriously. I'm working on a few different articles for submission and I've entered a few writing contests as well. This is exciting in regards to pursuing a dream and using my mind, but it is frustrating because these pesky kids keep me from doing what I want to do.

I'll find myself playing blocks with Owen, my mind on Planet Article. I'm only half-listening to his story of the Tree Frogs and their Pyramid, because all I want is for the boys to be upstairs, asleep and content. That way, I can write about the cool things they do and the lessons I'm learning as a mom.

See the problem here? I need to give my flesh-and-blood babies the passion I've reserved for my paper-and-ink babies.

Getting back to the rats. This book has forced me to examine why I'm so focused on writing. I think that part of the reason is that it brings me joy, and I think that it's a gift God has given to me to help other people.

I also think that I am a Type-A first child, and I want and need attention---the need to please, the need to perform. Look at meeeeeee! Love meeeeeeeeeee!

So, I'm going to stop feeding the rat. That doesn't mean that I'm going to be complacent and lazy. I don't think we're given gifts and talents for that purpose.

I am, however, going to do whatever job I happen to be doing---parenting, writing, driving, cleaning---with 100% of my attention.

And, I'm going to stop working so hard to get gold stars from other people. Instead, I'll try to make those I care about feel like stars.

This is not easy, but nothing that's important ever is.

Besides, if I don't try, my imaginary camera crew will film it. And that would be embarrassing.

A touchy subject

Owen was looking at Paul's booklet from the Boston Marathon. On the cover, there was a picture of Robert Cheruiyot, an incredible elite Kenyan runner. He pointed to him and said, "That man is black."

My heart sunk a bit, and I'm not sure why. He was simply making an observation, with no positive or negative connotations attached. Owen himself often declares himself to be blue or pink, depending on which type of river dolphin he wishes to be. (This would make sense if you also lived in Go Diego Go! world. You see, Diego once helped a baby river dolphin return to the river, so it could become pink. Apparently, this is a real and natural phenomenon. But I digress...)

I guess I've always enjoyed the fact that Owen has the right attitude regarding outward appearance. Like Stephen Colbert, Owen does not see race. He's often mistaken African-American professional athletes for his father. Everybody from LeBron James to Plaxico Burress has, at one point or another, been identified as "Daddy." Apparently, Paul Campbell makes the Sports section of the Post weekly, often dunking balls or charging the gridiron.

Barack Obama has also been called both "The Bobblehead" and "Daddy."

I don't think that Owen's attitude has changed, but I do think that he is becoming more aware of differences. So, now I need to think about how to answer questions, if and when they come up. My catch-all answer will probably be, "People are different because God made them that way."

Owen will surely ask, "But why?" At this point, I could answer scientifically, discussing melanin and genetics. Or, I could further explain that God gave Owen brown eyes, brown hair, and pink skin because that's part of His plan. Likewise, he gave Joel blue eyes and blonde hair and big blue glasses.

I realize that this is just a variation of "Because God made them that way," but I hope that Owen will be distracted by a water faucet, and mercifully, drop the subject.

I guess I am, like a lot of the country, not as comfortable talking about race as I should be. It worries me that I must have referred to somebody as "black" at some point. How else would Owen know that term? Then, it worries me that I'm concerned about calling somebody black. Why should that term be any heavier than tall or short or skinny?

The reality is that race is a touchy subject.

When I was seven, I was at a pizza place with my parents. The boy behind the counter had terrible, terrible acne. I asked my parents, loudly, "What is the matter with that boy's face?" My parents shushed me and scurried me away. The boy behind the counter looked at me, and I knew that I hurt his feelings. I was ashamed.

Today, on our first outing with Joel (wearing his new, blue glasses), somebody joked, "Hey, where's Waldo?" I smiled politely, but it made me worry about the additional cracks Joel will endure in the name of clear vision.

Perhaps that's why I'm so sensitive. I don't want Owen or Joel to make anybody feel badly about his or her appearance, and I don't want the boys to feel badly about their appearances, with comments made either intentionally or in ignorance.

I want them to see people as people, and do a better job at this whole outward appearance thing than all the generations before them.

I Am the Adult

Yesterday, we took Joel to the Ear-Nose-Throat doctor to get to the bottom of his persistent ear fluid problem. She looked in his ears and declared that the fluid was still there, and it had "bubbles" in it. I can't imagine that's good. She explained that babies are "God's gift to ENTs," because by an anatomical quirk, their Eustachian tubes do not descend until they become older. Consequently, some babies collect fluid unless artificial tubes are surgically implanted. Without the tubes, sounds are muffled, the way things sound when you're underwater. This can impact speech and language development.

So, Joel is scheduled for surgery on the 27th. The procedure is so easy and quick that they do it in the office for older people. The nurse told me that the entire procedure will be over and done with, "by the time it takes to get a cup of coffee."

That nurse speaks my language.

Yet, I still know that on the morning of the 27th, I will walk next to Joel as he is on a stretcher. We will walk into a sterile, cold, bright operating room. They will put the laughing gas dispenser on his mouth. He will close his eyes, fall asleep, and be still.

And then I will have to wait.

God will protect him and give skill to Dr. D, and all will be fine. Nevertheless, this is one of the times that I realize that I am the adult in the room. This isn't something that my parents or Paul's parents can do. I am Joel's mother, and it will be either my job, or Paul's job, to be the strong, reassuring presence he needs.

I am the adult. I can hardly believe it either.

It reminds me of the time that we had to put Molly down. Molly was the first and only dog Paul and I had together. She was with us through one engagement, one marriage, several house parties, cacti attacks, a cross-country move, three houses, one pregnancy, and one baby.

Owen was about ten months old, when Molly started getting ill, unable to hold down any food. Her ribs jutted our sharply, and her eyes were vacant. We tried making our own dog food. We tried surgery. We spent more money on that dog than we've spent on clothing in three years. Nothing helped.

We finally realized that we needed to give that dog the mercy and rest she deserved. I made the call. I was fine. The lady on the other line explained to me the options of what to do with the body. I said, "Whatever is cheapest," because this was just a dog, and I wasn't going to blow this out of proportion.

Then she explained to me that the "basic package," (aka "cheapest") option was cremation. "We will spread her ashes over an apple orchard on the Eastern Shore. It's a beautiful place."

At that point, I was an incoherent mess as I attempted to tell the lady that that option sounded "very nice." I'm tearing up, almost three years later, thinking of it.

I know, logically, that Molly was used as industrial fertilizer. But, I like to think of her romping happily through the apple orchard, drooling happily, her nub of a tail wagging back and forth. She was a good girl, and she deserves that.

So, that morning, when I put Owen in his car seat and then watched poor weak Molly do a diminished version of her joyous leap into the back seat, I desperately wanted my Mom or Dad to appear from the bushes and take this difficult thing from me. But I was the adult.

The vet was compassionate, and the procedure itself was peaceful. Paul had taken an extended lunch to be with us as we said goodbye to Molly. We were all tragic messes, except for Owen, who was happily chewing on a teether. We gave her tearful, final pats, and said goodbye to that Big, Dumb Black Dog.

We did a hard thing, because we were the adults, and it was our job. We know that Molly's last moments were calm and she could finally rest.

I'm not comparing Joel's minor surgery to putting Molly down. They are very different events, with very different results. One is ending a life, the other is bringing out a new world of sounds and clarity. But both take steely nerves and the peace of knowing that this is the right decision.

I know that this is just the beginning. My parents were the adults through surgeries, broken bones, putting down of family dogs, death, stitches, learner's permits, and sending their children off to college. It never occurred to me that they were terrified on the inside.

That's a blessing. That's being the adult. Being brave for those you love, and doing the hard things because they need to be done.

I'm still me!

When I started this stay-at-home-mom business a little over three years ago, I was scared out of my mind.

I was sure that I would become one of those people that didn't know how to interact around adults, a woman who talked loudly about lactation and potty training instead of books, music, work, or travel.

I was afraid that I would not have enough to do, and I would invent pathetic little hobbies to occupy my time, to keep the days from blending into one endless loop of diapering and ga-ga-goo-ing.

Now, three years later, I am no longer scared. However, I am amazed: I was scarily accurate. I do talk about sleep schedules, poop, nursing, and discipline more than I should. At parties. With a glass of wine in my hand. Thankfully, I can get away with this because most of the parties I frequent are hosted by parents of young children.

Since most of my friends are parents, I live in this bubble where I am not tiresome. Every once in awhile, though, my bubble bursts. When I'm telling a "hilarious" story about one of the boys to my brother, he tries so hard, but I can still hear his stifled yawn on the other end of the line.

I'll get occasional emails that say things like, "Oh, Nancy, you're such a mom!" The underlining message is: you're so uptight.

"No, I'm not!" I want to reply. "I'm still me!" I still love campy stuff, like "RuPaul's Drag Race," which is "Project Runway" meets "America's Next Top Model," except that the contestants are all drag queens. I mean, the lip-synch-off alone makes the show quality television.

I also still love to read. When I go to the library now, I grab as many titles as I can, usually by scanning the cover and reading the first two to three lines of the jacket. I would read more, but I'm often peeling Owen off the bookshelves. Why are bookshelves so similar to ladders?

I'm still me. I am a child of the desert, and will always feel happiest soaking up the sunshine. On Sunday, I took Joel outside and he and I found the warmest spot we could and just sat. While Joel picked up leaves and pulled at the grass, I basked in the warmth and felt myself recharge like a battery.

I love music. Having an iPod has helped me reconnect with my high school roots, when knowing the "right bands" and listening to the "right music" separated the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. I'm listening to The Decemberist's new album, "The Hazards of Love," and I'm astonished by its creativity and artistry.

I'm still me. But I'm tied down now. The part of me that loves adventure, spontaneity, freedom, is presently hibernating. In college, my friend and I once drove to the Grand Canyon to see the sunrise, just because we could. I once dated a guy who played music with a conch shell. Paul and I used to go up to DC and try new restaurants, sampling sea urchin or speciality beers. We hiked in Baxter State Park in Maine, swatting away the deer flies and smiling at each other, thinking, "Can you believe we're here?" We talked about seeing Fiji, Scotland, Italy, Ireland.

Those plans are on hold. If and when they happen, they will be a different reality. A safer, more family-friendly reality. I'm mostly okay with this, but it bothers me a little, too.

I'm still me, but I am also, such a mom. I worry about the economy, because I want the brightest future for my boys. I can't read books like Night anymore. While Wiesel's depiction of the Holocaust was and is troubling, as a mother, it is too heartbreaking for me. Likewise, when Dr. House has a case involving a child, the TV is turned off. I can't handle to see a sick child, fictional or not.

I guess I really know that I am a mother because I just bought scrapbooking software. I used to hate the idea of scrapbooking: these poor, pathetic mothers who have nothing better to do but memorialize every moment of their childrens' lives. I mean, really. It's like writing a short essay about one's children every day and posting it online. What a waste of time!

This is what a pot looks like when it calls a kettle black, in case I was being too subtle....

I decided that the boys, especially poor, sweet, forgotten Joel, should see their lives unfold through words and pictures. So, despite the fact that it's not my comfort zone, I am going to give this digital scrapbooking a whirl.

I'm still me. Even though I'm a mom. Even though I fill my days with "pathetic" hobbies and talk about my kids more than I talk about ideas.

I'm still me. I hope that my friends outside of the "parent bubble" know that.

Broken

Last night was awful. All week long, Joel has had restless sleep at night, getting up sometimes two, three times at night. Last night he got up seven times.

He's almost eight months old, people.

It's killing me, because I've worked hard to provide consistent naps and regular feedings. We've tried solids. Formula. Breast milk from the tap. Breast milk from the bottle. Keeping him up later. Putting him to bed earlier. It doesn't matter.


He just gets himself uncomfortable and cries and cries. So much so that I suspect we're dealing with another ear infection or saber-tooth-tiger fangs cutting through.

Since we're at my in-laws for the weekend, we were in the same room with him, so we both laid awake in bed, listening to him whine/cry/sob/grunt. Then, Paul said, "That's it, we're letting him cry it out. I'm going upstairs."


I didn't follow him, because I just wasn't sure why he was having a hard time, and I didn't want to leave him alone in the event that his crying was due to illness or injury. So, I stayed and got progressively angrier and more frustrated.

By morning, this was all Paul's fault. Naturally.

I'll spare you the details, just understand that Paul and I made up.

Then, something magical happened. My mother-in-law is a nice person, and I think we have a good relationship. However, I've always put my positive face on in front of her. She's Not My Mom, so I've always attempted to appear in control, and happy around her. I'm treating her son right. I'm treating her grandsons right. I'm not that daughter-in-law.

By doing this, I created a boundary. I never allowed her to take care of me, and by doing so, I kept my distance. I don't know if this is out of loyalty to my family of origin, or my own weirdness.

That changed today. I was sitting at the kitchen table and I said, "I don't know what I'm going to do with Joel."

She didn't say anything, but just let me continue talking. "I mean, I'm trying so hard to do the right thing, but I'm just so tired and I'm such a bitch all the time and..." and then, I started crying.


And I kept crying. Snotty, unable-to-get-full-sentences out crying. "I'm so tired of this. I don't want to have any more babies. This is so hard."

She just listened, and patted my head, and said exactly the right thing, "You don't owe anybody anything. You can be all done. I know it's hard. I know."

Joel may have an awful night again tonight, but a small miracle occurred nevertheless. I let down my guard with my mother-in-law for the first time in twelve years. I let her take care of me.

At a kitchen table in Virginia, grace came. That's why Joel didn't sleep through the night.

Sometimes you need to be broken in order to be fixed.

Creating Supermen

When I was editing a dissertation awhile back, I learned that self efficacy is defined as: "the belief in one's general capacity to handle tasks." The dissertation discussed the role of school administrators and their feelings of self-efficacy in the face of the local and federal testing mandates. For all two of you that care, most administrators felt an increased sense of self-efficacy when they were empowered to make plans specific to their building's needs, as opposed to "one size fits all" fixes. My thinking is that anybody who would choose to be an administrator to begin with has got to have a healthy sense of self-efficacy.

Now that most of you are yawning, let be attempt to save this sinking ship of a post...(Note to self: avoid posts that begin with the phrase, "When I was editing a dissertation...")

I've always had a healthy sense of self-efficacy. I grew up with good schools, loving parents, excellent health, and few barriers (socio-economic, etc); as a result, I think I can meet most challenges. That's another thing I learned while editing the dissertation (ugh, there I go again!); high self-efficacy causes people to meet their goals more consistently, which causes high self-efficacy. It's a reinforcing loop.

Motherhood has challenged my sense of self-efficacy at times. Like I've discussed in earlier posts, I'm still working on ways to meet the boys' needs---how to set boundaries and provide attention, knowing when to expect independence and when to give support, figuring out how to be present without being a martyr. At times, I have never been more frustrated in my life, and keep in mind that I've taught middle school.

Yet, despite the frustrations, I always wake up the next day knowing that I can do it, that I can take anything and everything thrown at me. I wish I could bottle the choices, words, actions, and prayers of my parents and slip it into Joel's bottle and Owen's macaroni and cheese. They created two kids with strong senses of self-efficacy. I know that I must do the same.

Just last night, I felt like Superwoman. I was making a double portion of Shepherd's Pie (one for us, one from my friend that just had a baby boy.) The meat was browning, the potatoes boiling. Owen was playing with water in the sink while Joel bounced happily in his Jump-A-Roo. It was a house of cards; If Owen decided to spray me with the nozzle or Joel felt the need to scoot around the living room, all could be lost. Yet, miraculously, everything was done, and everybody was happy. I even had time to put lipstick on. Hear me roar!

And again, this morning: Joel was sleeping, and Owen and I went upstairs. Months ago (like, before Joel was born), Owen picked at his wallpaper border during "naptime," ruining the cute airplane themed-nursery we had carefully designed before his birth. (FYI--Joel's "nursery" is a crib in the guest room. Pity the second-born). So, today, I finally finished stripping the remaining wallpaper off the walls. It's tedious work, but as I scraped and sprayed, Owen pretended to be sailing in a makeshift boat (a box). I scraped, we talked, and everybody, once again, was happy.

It's moments like this, where everything falls into place and things follow a gentle, natural rhythm that I know that I am doing the right thing at the right time. I know that I have the capacity, the ability to thrive.

Now, parents who have older kids, tell me: How do I give the boys this most precious and lasting gift?

Because...

Because I lived with Janet Lee my senior year...I met Paul.

Because I met Paul....I know that the saguaro and mountains of Tucson will always be "home."

Because I made Tucson my home....I ended up working at the most amazing public middle school. My co-workers included: an Australian punk rock drummer, a professional jazz flutist, a unicycle-riding rabble-rouser, an Ivy-league educated poet, and a math-loving-nature-hating- smart-ass-devout-Catholic from Chicago.

Because I worked at this school....I gained confidence in my abilities to teach, inspire, talk, lead, and write.

Because I gained confidence...I stopped starting my sentences with disclaimers like, "I know this is probably a stupid idea, but..."

Because I decided that I can do hard things....Paul and I took risks, including a move to the East Coast, a new job, and a decidedly different culture.

Because that move was hard....I learned how to manage depression through exercise and faith.

Because I had faith that God would guide us...I felt like it was time to start a family.

Because I had the two boys....I learned that words and actions impact multiple generations.

Because of this insight...I am humbled.

Because I am humbled...I know that God has guided every step.

The Fact of the Matter

I've been in a funk for the last few days. Too much time inside and not enough opportunities to exercise made me into a resentful, passive-aggressive shrew. The feelings of resentment and frustration weighed heavier and heavier until I could hardly move, my hopelessness like the lead apron worn during X-rays at the dentist.

This is why I have to exercise. The treadmill is the only thing that keeps me from Zoloft. I am not negating the healing power of antidepressants---they help people with real, chemical imbalances. I am saying that exercise balances out my chemicals without the monthly co-pay and possible side effects.

Today I wore my new running skirt and did an easy three miles. God, it felt good. With each step, I shed the anger like a snake shedding its skin.

It's easy be angry with Paul because he doesn't have breasts, but the fact of the matter is, he's a great father, and does all he can with Joel.

It's easy to be angry with Owen because he acts out, but the fact of the matter is, he loves me so much that he'll take all the attention he can get.

It's easy to be angry with circumstances because being a stay-at-home mother can be so isolating and hard, but the fact of the matter is, this time is so fleeting and I will someday ache to hold my babies again.

The fact of the matter is, my children need me to exercise. I need to exercise. All it takes is thirty minutes, and I become myself again. Minus the lead apron.