Kid Connections

Probably only parents with lots of kids make weird lists like this, trying to compare the similarities and differences between their kids. (I guess you’d  need at least two, wouldn’t you?!)

I’ll refer to my kids by their birth order number, to save typing their names over and over.

Here are some of my rambling comparisons:

• 1 & 2 are from the 20th century, 3, 4, & 5 are from the 21st.
• 1 & 4 are Tauruses, 2 & 3 are Geminis, poor little 5 hangs out alone in the Libra camp.
• 1, 2, & 3 were born in Oregon, 4 & 5 were born in North Carolina.
• 2 & 3 were born at a birthing center, in the same bed, with the same midwife, 6 years apart. 1, 4 & 5 were all born at different hospitals (4 is the only one delivered by an OB instead of a midwife.)
• 1, 2, & 3 were all born in even years, 4 & 5 were born in odd years.
• 1, 3 & 5 are girls, 2 & 4 are boys.
• 2 & 5′s names both start with “G,” the rest are all different.
• 1, 3 & 4 were all born in May, while 2 has a birthday in June and 5 is in September.
• 1 was born premature, 2 & 3 were born after their due dates, while 4 & 5 were both induced.
• 2, 3 & 5 were all born in the same city they were conceived in, but 1 & 4 were conceived in one state then born in another.
• 1 & 2 were both born in the early morning, 3, 4 & 5 in the evening

I’m not sure why, but when I see two of them hanging out together, their random detail association always seems to come to my mind. It means a lot to me that they be there for each other throughout their lives, so the more connections I can foist upon them, artificial as they may be, the more reassured I am that certainly they will always have tights bonds.

Or maybe I just like lists of random details!

In any case, here’s a photo of me and my fantastic five:

The Volcano in my Heart

Okay, now I fully acknowledge that the story I’m about to relate to you is flagrantly insignificant in relation to events that occur around the world on a daily basis.

But part of the reason I’m sharing it is because I feel like these sorts of momentary, insignificant episodes, to which I too often respond badly, are contaminating my life with negativity. I want to let go of the anger in my heart, and not let it erupt in such awful ways, but then things like this happen, and before I know it I’m far too enthusiastically expressing my disapproval.

Remember how completely awesome (and around my childhood home, fairly rare) those cardboard tubes are that hold the wrapping paper? Well, yesterday my husband produced two of them by wrapping up birthday presents for our oldest. These tubes were smaller in diameter than usual and extra thick, rendering them quite sturdy. As a child I would have incorporated them into my play for at least a week, then hoarded it in my closet for years, occasionally pulling them out to use in some new and creative way (I was an only child until I was 13. Which helps explain why all of the sibling conflict I see between my children on a daily basis makes absolutely no sense to me.)

Our youngest, age 2 -1/2, asked me if she could have them.  I said yes. She played with them for about 15 to 20 minutes, even taking them outside, using them like ski poles, looking through them, tapping things, etc. Having a grand time.

At one point after she’d come inside and was still blissfully engaged in tubular play, our 5 year old son comes in. He asks her if he can have one. She, adoring him like a loyal subject does its king, immediately obliged. He proceeded to bash it into walls, chairs, the floor, and within 30 seconds it had broken in half. He abandoned it and asked her for the other one. Without hesitating she handed it over. He begins to bash the second one.

Enter a crazy, psychotic, raving lunatic, AKA their mother. Shrieking like a demon fresh from the underworld, I grab the still intact tube from him and howl about how he had just ruined everything for her.

Later, as I pondered it, of course he’s 5. It’s his personality to destroy everything in sight (PLEASE don’t tell me “He’s a boy” because there are boys who don’t destroy everything and girls who do. So just please don’t even go there. I won’t be able to hear anything else you say if you do because I’ll just figure you’re a genderist who assumes every single thing depends on genitals.)

But at the time, I was reacting to the horror of what I was seeing, the wanton wastefulness! The gratuitous injustice! The unthinkable evil of taking advantage of a person littler than you who worships the ground you walk on!

Absurd, I know. In the grand scheme of waste, injustice and evil, this wouldn’t even be let in the door. The Judge of all Horror would laugh and tell this incident to run along and play.

And why couldn’t I have just walked up calmly and said, “Dude, really? Give her back that one so she can keep playing. You got your share and now it’s destroyed,” or something similarly chill and wise.

If I could just stay up on the mountain in my mind’s eye, where everything appears to fit into the context of reality, and nothing is blown up bigger than it really is… Can a person live like that? And would it help, or would it just generate new problems?

Because I know that leaving my perspective down in the trenches of nitty gritty daily detail, where the bullets fly past my ears and the muddy bloody walls appear to be closing in, turns me into a very angry, overwhelmed individual that I don’t want to be. Down there, I feel like my only recourse is to explode out of the trench, gun blazing. That’s no way to live, and no way to parent.

Family Pictures

After our latest family photo saga (the whole process seems to take an ungodly amount of time and effort), I looked at this photo and thought:

That’s a helluva lotta work, right there!

Not my most generous thought ever, but for some reason the whole weight of the last 20 years descended upon me at once, and I felt proud and grateful but also overwhelmed at the hugeness of the task I’ve lived (and I’m sure the years ahead loomed large in there somewhere as well.)

Do you ever stand back and just say, Wow!?

 

Too Tired to Multitask

I feel very low energy today. I know I could get a couple of projects done today, one at a time, throwing myself into each one in a singular motion, and in the act forgetting my fatigue.

But I have small children in the house. I cannot ever completely take my focus off of them. And the frustrating dance of trying to half-assedly get something done while being interrupted continuously, losing the thread, searching for it again only to drop it once more, and again, I just can’t take it today. I can only give everything I have to them, all day, while my own inspirations pace back and forth in the back of my mind, growling for attention.

Paying for Childcare

This article at Kindred Community raises a question I’ve wanted to know the answer to since forever (emphasis mine):

Our society needs to recognise the far-reaching developmental importance of breastfeeding and close, responsive mother-infant relationships in the early years, along with the close involvement of fathers, and aim to create social settings that facilitate and support them. If we are going to pay for quality infant care, why not support mothers to do it? Infancy cannot be re-run later.

Why would the government be willing to pay strangers to watch a baby but not the mother? It has always struck me as a punishment for poor people who dared to reproduce when they “couldn’t afford it.”

The underlying attitude of the family-values-right-wing policy makers has always sounded to me like: “Stupid poor people, having offspring in accordance with their animal urges. They’re just lazy and trying to get out of work! We’ll show them. You get a couple weeks off and that’s it! Back to the factory! Pop out another one and see what happens!”

I’ve always been violently disturbed by the fact that we in our supposedly civilized society allow conditions under which people “cannot afford” children. I believe that children are the only true wealth, insurance policy and retirement plan.

I’m not saying people should have to have children. I believe it should be entirely optional. If a person would rather completely dedicate themselves to a career, hoard money, invest in an IRA account, buy property and make investments, that’s one way to shore up resources for the future.

But when you’re old and you slip on one of your wads of cash and fall and break your hip in the middle of your castle, who’s going to come wipe your wrinkly butt and spoonfeed your shriveled mouth? Oh right, you’re going to hire a stranger to do that. That’s much more pleasant that having someone you love, who actually cares about you, treating you tenderly.

Or NOT.

And shouldn’t a baby have the same courtesy, of having the person they love and need more than anyone else in the world be the person who wipes their cheruby bum and nurses them lovingly at the breast?

But if you can’t afford such an idyllic life, then forget it. Park the kid at the licensed facility and punch that time card, or you’ll be under a bridge faster than you can say, “Subsidized childcare.”

 

A Child’s Disappointment

I say child, but she’ll be 20 years old in a couple of months.

After waiting FORVER to find out if she got into the nursing program, she got a notice saying that she is on the alternate list.

At my age, with my level of experience, that isn’t bad news. It isn’t the good news she wanted, but I don’t think she realizes how often people drop out, leave town, take a job, get married, or whatever other life-changing event comes along and poof! you’re in.

I don’t want to get her hopes up again too much by saying all of that. I understand that she feels crushed, and she just wanted to know what the hell is going on in her life. That would be pretty comforting, and I can see having the school say, “Maybe…” again is not at all encouraging. Waiting some more is not at all fun or helpful.

But they didn’t say no, so that’s not completely terrible.

It’s hard to watch her go through all this. I want life for my children to be a satisfying challenge with a happy ending. I know we all learn from heartbreak, disappointment, that when one door closes another one opens, etc. etc.

But this is my baby we’re talking about!

*Sigh*

Priorities

Yesterday I cleaned my house (the front rooms, anyway) until it was sparkly. Then I hosted the homeowner’s association, of which I am the secretary and thus took all the notes.

I also made cookies and brownies.

I kept the children from bothering my husband, who was working at home all day in the study (writing.)

I paid a bunch of bills.

I spent a lot of time with the little ones, supervising their play outside, reading books, playing legos.

I fulfilled my duties at an online forum for which I am a moderator.

I walked and fed the dog, helped my husband edit his writing, made sure my daughter made it to the school dance, fixed a lovely lunch, and planted the fig tree my husband bought from the nursery.

Yesterday evening, my husband, who never makes a peep when the house is a complete wreck, which is most of the time, thoughtfully said, “The house looks amazing. It feels really comfortable.”

To which I responded, “Today was the first day all year that I didn’t write a blog post. When the house is clean, I’m not writing.”

And here I am today, before anyone wakes up, hoping I can get this last sentence in before the insanity starts.

Trusting Connection

Have there been times of wordless understanding between you and your child? I think it happens for a lot of us pretty naturally when they are pre-verbal, but once they learn to talk, the emphasis becomes on the parent explaining everything and the child responding in a way that shows they have listened and will comply.

There is a great blog post called walking with at hakea- reflections on living and working with kids that deals with this idea of connection through silent presence.

With wisdom and insight, she recounts an interesting story of an American family visiting an African village and their young son making a huge mistake.

Instead of anger, punishment or lecturing, the chief handled it by taking the boy for a walk.

The family asked the chief if that’s how he sorts out problems in the village, and he replied that he takes people for a walk in the desert, saying something like “we go out and come back”.

Definitely a thought-provoking read.

Do we make enough wordless contact with our children?

Do we trust our connection with them enough to simply be there with them while they process feelings or events internally, without us interrupting?

Is there a point where we have “explained” enough, and we allow the world to speak for itself to the child?

What power does our simple, silent presence have? A hand-holding, a hug, a smile, a connection of gazes?

Can you recall a time that you and your child, or you and your parent, experienced a wordless understanding develop between you, where a difficult situation was transformed simply by the other’s silent presence?

Pseudonyms for the young’uns

There seem to be two types of blogger parents on the internet: those who use pseudonyms for their kids, and those who don’t.

I think the only problem I have with the pseudonymers is that they inspire me to thoughtful reflections such as: Oh crap, are my kids in mortal danger because I’ve used their first names on the internet???!!!

Hope no one learns my secret identity!

My father is really big on privacy. This adds to my general paranoia. “Never tell anybody anything ever about anything! Less than that, if possible!” is the philosophy he raised me on. And this is BEFORE widespread use of the internet. This is just your average run of the mill caveman safety protocol, as far as he’s concerned. “What’s my name? None of your g.d. freakin’ business, you weirdo pervert! Jerk! Get away from me!”

And then I go ahead and say things like, “And Hank, age 4, dug a tunnel across our property line to bury and detonate secret fire crackers.” Or whatever crazy thing he’s done lately.  ”Gwen, age 2, has stolen the neighbor’s gnome and has repainted its nose a flaming purple after removing its ears.”

I hear sirens at this very moment.

No one will ever recognize me in these shades!

And the pseudonyms that bloggers use are always so painfully cutely adorable. “Munchkin scrumpkin jolly baby squid” or some such. Good lord, I already came up with names for these people, do I have to do it again?

Do these pseudonymers think that DSS or CPS, or whatever acronym the Child Police are using these days, has access to their blog? Because if this is true, I guess I’m genuinely screwed.

“Olivia, age 9, lined up Daddy’s beer cans on the fence so she and her friends could bet pennies on who could knock down the most by throwing empty shotgun shells at them.”

Why is the phone ringing?

Olivia is reduced to wearing a disguise to protect what's left of her privacy...

And if the kids hate that I’ve been talking about them and revealing their secret superhero identity, they can always change their names.

Like I did. Like my husband did.

Like my oldest did.

Names are a dime a dozen. My little petunia fluffy bunny nut.

The names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent.

(Oh, crap, I forgot to change the names, didn’t I? “Go see who’s at the door, uber-cutey-love!”)

"Who's that trip-trappin' over my bridge?" Garth in battle helmet guards the family estate

Children Need to See Breastfeeding

Recently there was an incident at a local restaurant wherein a nursing Mama was asked to cover up.

I happen to know that the owner believes in his heart that nursing, and the possible view of flesh that accompanies it, is inappropriate in a “family” restaurant where “10 year old boys” might catch a glimpse of something. The owner genuinely feels like he is protecting his patrons, who in turn feel like they are protecting their innocent children from indecency.

Tiny problem.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.

No wait, I did.

C’MON!

Ten year old boys and every other age of boy NEEDS to see a baby suckling on a nipple until it becomes BORING. I guarantee you if my 15 year old son was in the room with a nursing mother, he probably wouldn’t even notice it. Just like if someone were eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he wouldn’t really care. Or if someone were BREATHING it wouldn’t much draw his attention.

A big part of it would probably be that breastfeeding reminds him of his mother, and his mother’s boring friends, and his aunt, and all those other tedious not-sexy females (no offense to my friends or sister, but I’m sure you understand what I mean!)

It’s a baby eating. Seriously, the most boring, tedious thing in the world. (Well, okay, when you’re the one feeding the baby, it’s pretty magical and fantastic sometimes, but usually even for the Mama, it’s pretty run of the mill.)

And girls need to see it. They need to see that it’s no big deal, that it’s everywhere, that choosing to breastfeed does not mean fighting with blankets to cover the baby’s head or fighting with restaurant owners (to cover THEIR heads.) They need to see that they would be fully welcomed, supported, even IGNORED by doing what is natural, commonplace, no big deal.

And PUL-EEEEZE don’t start with the “pooping is natural but you don’t want people doing it in the middle of a restaurant.” There is NOTHING  smelly, disgusting, repulsive, horrible, gross, or otherwise distasteful about breastfeeding.

If you think there is, you have serious mental issues. I’m not kidding. If it gets you so worked up you can’t enjoy your dinner, then you need to deprogram yourself from the cultural cow  manure you’ve been taught and haven’t had enough sense to cure yourself of yet.

News flash: that’s what grown ups do. We take all the erroneous, unhelpful garbage we were taught and we learn a better way to think and live.

If you were raised by racist parents, didn’t you have enough decency to try to overcome those absurd prejudices? If you were shown by your father that it’s okay to beat one’s spouse, did you not have enough humanity to re-educate yourself about how to treat others? If you were told that boobies are for men’s pleasure alone, and that breastfeeding is a yucky private thing that no non-slut would ever do in public, don’t you have enough intelligence to detach that asinine idea from its death grip on your psyche and kick it to the curb where it belongs?

Just try. I believe in you.

Or at the very least, keep your stupid prejudices to yourself and try to act cool while your children witness something that will change the world for the better: the shift from feeding babies pretend food to feeding them liquid gold.

Trust me. You WANT your grandkids to be breastfed, even if you don’t know it yet. Even if the thought of it makes you feel all wiggly inside.

That’s where society is headed — for all the psychological, social, environmental, nutritional reasons that point to breastfeeding as The Way to nurture a baby (and toddler!), we are moving toward the day when a mother nursing in public is normal.  To make this happen, the next generation has to SEE breastfeeding, literally and figuratively, as NORMAL.

When you work to hide it, to shelter the kids, you don’t even understand the damage you do.

So quit it.