A friend posted this today, about federal mandates coming down on Washington educators. Read for yourself the idiocy and short sightedness of these mandates. I have this to say: you don't scare me, Uncle Sam.
As I mourn the end of summer, I am working to get my head back in the education game. Reading the article above, followed by this validating yet very depressing editorial about how insanely under-everything teachers are could have sent me searching for a new career. It didn't, because satisfying fundamentally flawed federal mandates created by politicians who have never taught is not why I became a teacher.
Don't get me wrong - I'm all for standards. High ones. I think bad teachers should be fired. (How "bad" is determined is a whole other issue.) I think most teachers - certainly about 95% of the teachers I've worked with - are brilliant, dedicated and possess a humanity that is required by only a handful of professions. I don't want to share the same salary and job description as a lazy, burnt out, uninspired teacher who doesn't actually like kids. I just want the standards to actually assess something meaningful. Test scores are all the feds can think up, really? They are limited, limited, limited. I'm not saying they mean nothing, but they sure as shit don't mean everything.
If I read too much stuff like this, the foolishness of the so-called leaders in education in this country would drive me stark-raving mad. So I don't. Honestly, call me fatalistic, but I don't feel like there is all that much I can do about it. I'm not going to march on Washington, or do much more than write my Senators and vote. Why? Because I'm too busy teaching.
I teach for the humanity of it. I love getting my hands dirty with young people who are learning, exploring, thinking, struggling and creating their way to a better world. I love watching teenagers find their passion for a cause that truly matters. I love it when I teach something really hard, it bombs, I go back and reflect on how I can do it better, I do it better, and then the kids get it!! I love graduation day, especially when I have the privilege of working with SO many kids who are the first in their family to graduate and go to college. I love hearing from students years after graduation, and finding out they are crazy successful, or that they figured life out on their own terms, or that they have found love and had children.
I am so very lucky to teach in a progressive, small public school with a visionary for a principal - who also supports all of his teachers in every way. My colleagues inspire me, make me laugh, and make me want to do better. My students piss me off and delight me all in the same day. My school is a family. Because of this, I am able to take the bureaucracy with a grain of salt. I take my job hella seriously, and I am dedicated to being a really great teacher. But the humanity in my job is what is important. If someday, in spite of all I do well, some fed decides I'm not good enough because my students' test scores aren't high enough (for a battery of complex reasons - but nuance and complexity has never seemed to be the strong suit of these dummies), oh well. I will keep serving my students in the ways that they actually need (which I have some idea of, because I know them). Or I'll pursue some other endeavor where humanity is valued above standardized test scores. And if it really takes a total implosion of our education system for the powers that be to figure it out, I'll homeschool my daughter.
So in a weird way, these posts actually inspired me. I'm excited to get back to the awesome journey that each day in the classroom offers me.
Score that, fuckers.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Sunday, August 11, 2013
The Yin and the Yang
What goes up must come down. You must have darkness to have light. If there is nothing bad, you can't appreciate the good. Whoever started these universal realities was most likely raising an almost three-year-old.
A few days ago, I found myself careening toward being the kind of parent I don't want to be, having the kind of kid I don't want to be responsible for co-creating. Nothing was working. I was a bitch. Frankly, so was she. She was whiny as hell, and oh my GOD I thought it would kill me. If there is anything worse than a cranky toddler with unmet needs, it's that same toddler attempting to communicate her needs through a series of guttural sounds that in no way resemble language. Add to that my hormones, and it's a recipe for disaster. While running away from you, wriggling out of your grasp in a busy parking lot, or perhaps even lifting up your skirt so the whole neighborhood can see what you're workin' with, as you attempt to pick her up in the throes of a tantrum.
I found myself saying to her at one point, thankful she would never catch the reference, "the power of Christ compels you!"
This video saved my ass. I laughed so hard my diaphragm hurt. Tears rolled down my cheeks. And I knew I wasn't alone. Forget the articles, the parenting books or - God forbid - the advice from your mother. What you need is another irreverent, blunt and borderline inappropriate parent who is in the trenches with you.
After releasing copious amounts of cortisol through my laughter tears, I slept on it. She woke me in the morning with her crazy-ass curly hair, bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The sun streamed into our bedroom, and I knew I only had to push the 'on' button on the coffee maker to start the day right. I am such a fan of new days, and after a bad day, I always try to start the day following with a flood of positive thoughts. Usually, it works. I also started the next day (yesterday), by re-committing to mindfulness, attunement and presence with my girl.
I asked her if she was nervous about starting preschool. Her emphatic "yes" told me that THAT was what was wrong the last two days. When I commented on what a good day we were having yesterday, she said "yeah, I'm not sick anymore." Well duh. I'm a total shit when I'm sick. Should I expect more of a three-year-old? Sigh. Live and learn.
Yesterday and today were seriously parenting bliss. We were in sync, there was a rhythm to our days that I knew intuitively was meeting her needs. (It was interesting to note how they were different from other days - with one exception, we didn't go anywhere we couldn't walk to, we didn't have anywhere to be by any particular time, and I said 'yes' as much as I could, on purpose.) And I could never appreciate them without a few days of parenting hell (which will no doubt re-present themselves at some point - it's life).
I experience this very same thing with my students throughout the school year. Parenting and teaching, toddlers and teenagers (and dogs, but that always comes across as insulting) are SO. MUCH. THE SAME. I think my big takeaway is that I am the adult, and it really does start with me. Her brain isn't fully developed. (And their hormones - fuck it. They're crazy.) I am a grown up. It's up to me to set the stage and hold (sane) space for my little person (and those big little people) as she (they) navigate(s) the turbulent waters of growing up. I'll screw up, and she'll (they'll) piss me off, but hopefully less than without this understanding. I'd love to claim this understanding as my own, but I can't. More on that wisdom here.
Anyways. Here's some proof of the good times. I'd include proof of the shitty times in the name of balance, but no one takes pictures of their child's meltdowns.
A few days ago, I found myself careening toward being the kind of parent I don't want to be, having the kind of kid I don't want to be responsible for co-creating. Nothing was working. I was a bitch. Frankly, so was she. She was whiny as hell, and oh my GOD I thought it would kill me. If there is anything worse than a cranky toddler with unmet needs, it's that same toddler attempting to communicate her needs through a series of guttural sounds that in no way resemble language. Add to that my hormones, and it's a recipe for disaster. While running away from you, wriggling out of your grasp in a busy parking lot, or perhaps even lifting up your skirt so the whole neighborhood can see what you're workin' with, as you attempt to pick her up in the throes of a tantrum.
I found myself saying to her at one point, thankful she would never catch the reference, "the power of Christ compels you!"
This video saved my ass. I laughed so hard my diaphragm hurt. Tears rolled down my cheeks. And I knew I wasn't alone. Forget the articles, the parenting books or - God forbid - the advice from your mother. What you need is another irreverent, blunt and borderline inappropriate parent who is in the trenches with you.
After releasing copious amounts of cortisol through my laughter tears, I slept on it. She woke me in the morning with her crazy-ass curly hair, bright blue eyes and rosy cheeks. The sun streamed into our bedroom, and I knew I only had to push the 'on' button on the coffee maker to start the day right. I am such a fan of new days, and after a bad day, I always try to start the day following with a flood of positive thoughts. Usually, it works. I also started the next day (yesterday), by re-committing to mindfulness, attunement and presence with my girl.
I asked her if she was nervous about starting preschool. Her emphatic "yes" told me that THAT was what was wrong the last two days. When I commented on what a good day we were having yesterday, she said "yeah, I'm not sick anymore." Well duh. I'm a total shit when I'm sick. Should I expect more of a three-year-old? Sigh. Live and learn.
Yesterday and today were seriously parenting bliss. We were in sync, there was a rhythm to our days that I knew intuitively was meeting her needs. (It was interesting to note how they were different from other days - with one exception, we didn't go anywhere we couldn't walk to, we didn't have anywhere to be by any particular time, and I said 'yes' as much as I could, on purpose.) And I could never appreciate them without a few days of parenting hell (which will no doubt re-present themselves at some point - it's life).
I experience this very same thing with my students throughout the school year. Parenting and teaching, toddlers and teenagers (and dogs, but that always comes across as insulting) are SO. MUCH. THE SAME. I think my big takeaway is that I am the adult, and it really does start with me. Her brain isn't fully developed. (And their hormones - fuck it. They're crazy.) I am a grown up. It's up to me to set the stage and hold (sane) space for my little person (and those big little people) as she (they) navigate(s) the turbulent waters of growing up. I'll screw up, and she'll (they'll) piss me off, but hopefully less than without this understanding. I'd love to claim this understanding as my own, but I can't. More on that wisdom here.
Anyways. Here's some proof of the good times. I'd include proof of the shitty times in the name of balance, but no one takes pictures of their child's meltdowns.
Picking blackberries
"It's a magic garden!"
Oh yeah!
I remember sitting in this very spot with her at Greenlake when she was 2 1/2 weeks old. How is she so big? How?
Daydreaming while drinking hot cocoa at Chocolati.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Self-Care at Three
First of all, hello again.
Hannah is about to turn three, a bittersweet little miracle that defies belief. In just about every moment of the day, I simultaneously mourn and rejoice in her growing up. I miss so much about having a baby, love so much about every new day, and am astonished as I watch her become a PERSON. Not simply "my" baby, "my" child, but a fellow human being who is developing a moral compass and figuring out how she will relate to the rest of the world, how she will experience joy, and how she will take care of herself.
The primary lesson of my summer, courtesy of my child, has been to LET IT HAPPEN. When I don't, I create a rather impressive power struggle while bidding farewell to my mental health, all in just under 4 seconds. When I do, I do things like:
Recently on a family trip to the zoo, bullets #4 and 5 actually happened. There was free yoga on the lawn, Hannah was totally into it, and that was all she wanted to do. I was into it for about 20 minutes, but when she was done with the yoga and it was becoming a challenge to contain her, I decided that what we should be doing is seeing the animals. Because we hadn't just done that 4 days earlier? Because that's what the zoo is for? At any rate, my insisting she bend to my will resulted in her will getting stronger. After chasing her, still barefoot, into a crowd, I was mad. I went from ujayi breath to pissed off with a quickness, in lockstep with my attachment to a particular agenda.
So we're walking through the zoo exhibits, the three of us just not synced up. No one was really having that much fun, it seemed, but we were doing what you're supposed to do at the zoo, damnit! (By contrast, doing yoga and letting Hannah run through the grass, we were all three laughing and feeling the love.) Finally, at the giraffe exhibit, Hannah did what neither of her parents were wise enough to do. She said "I'm taking a time out for myself." (We don't do punitive time outs, so her only association with the term is simply stepping back, taking a break.) She proceeded to sit down on a bench and just CHILL for a minute. Such a better solution than nagging or being cranky.
Now that a few weeks have passed, I look back and realize how proud I am of that moment. She must see us do that, right? And it stuck. I often fail to take time-outs for myself, and it doesn't do anyone any favors. I wish for Hannah the mindfulness to know she is out of balance, and the wisdom to act on that calmly and kindly, right away. What a reminder this little time out was for me. (And who knew a trip to the zoo could pack so much wisdom?!)
So this is the sweet part. Yes, she is growing up way too fast. And yes, I love who she is becoming.
Hannah is about to turn three, a bittersweet little miracle that defies belief. In just about every moment of the day, I simultaneously mourn and rejoice in her growing up. I miss so much about having a baby, love so much about every new day, and am astonished as I watch her become a PERSON. Not simply "my" baby, "my" child, but a fellow human being who is developing a moral compass and figuring out how she will relate to the rest of the world, how she will experience joy, and how she will take care of herself.
The primary lesson of my summer, courtesy of my child, has been to LET IT HAPPEN. When I don't, I create a rather impressive power struggle while bidding farewell to my mental health, all in just under 4 seconds. When I do, I do things like:
- Spend a half hour trying on hats at Whole Foods, right at dinner time, just because it makes us both laugh
- Wander around Fred Meyer, talking and browsing the aisles with my little person, for an hour and a half. We leave with a Minnie Mouse water bottle, and she is so proud.
- Take pictures of her posing with the 40-foot bear in front of Brown Bear Car Wash (her idea)
- Do yoga on the grass at the zoo, Hannah in down dog next to me
- Watch her run barefoot, squealing with joy, through the grass
Recently on a family trip to the zoo, bullets #4 and 5 actually happened. There was free yoga on the lawn, Hannah was totally into it, and that was all she wanted to do. I was into it for about 20 minutes, but when she was done with the yoga and it was becoming a challenge to contain her, I decided that what we should be doing is seeing the animals. Because we hadn't just done that 4 days earlier? Because that's what the zoo is for? At any rate, my insisting she bend to my will resulted in her will getting stronger. After chasing her, still barefoot, into a crowd, I was mad. I went from ujayi breath to pissed off with a quickness, in lockstep with my attachment to a particular agenda. 
So we're walking through the zoo exhibits, the three of us just not synced up. No one was really having that much fun, it seemed, but we were doing what you're supposed to do at the zoo, damnit! (By contrast, doing yoga and letting Hannah run through the grass, we were all three laughing and feeling the love.) Finally, at the giraffe exhibit, Hannah did what neither of her parents were wise enough to do. She said "I'm taking a time out for myself." (We don't do punitive time outs, so her only association with the term is simply stepping back, taking a break.) She proceeded to sit down on a bench and just CHILL for a minute. Such a better solution than nagging or being cranky.Now that a few weeks have passed, I look back and realize how proud I am of that moment. She must see us do that, right? And it stuck. I often fail to take time-outs for myself, and it doesn't do anyone any favors. I wish for Hannah the mindfulness to know she is out of balance, and the wisdom to act on that calmly and kindly, right away. What a reminder this little time out was for me. (And who knew a trip to the zoo could pack so much wisdom?!)
So this is the sweet part. Yes, she is growing up way too fast. And yes, I love who she is becoming.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Oh, Bebe!
I've been humbled. I checked out Brinigng Up Bebe at the library, I read exactly one article about it (which happened to be rather unbalanced), and immediately dismissed the book. I planned to return it the next day.
Then, a friend - who happens to be a wonderful, loving mama - said she actually likes a lot of what the book says, though some of it is a bit harsh. What she says about the book, and about parenting, makes me want to give it a go. After all, this is the same friend who changed my life by casually mentioning to me when I was 9 weeks pregnant that I should consider a home birth. She was right about that, and she's right about this.
I think it's important as parents to know who we are, and who we are not. The approach to parenting that resonates with me and works for our family is Attachment Parenting, so that's what we do. (I don't know, maybe we're frauds because we use Huggies and don't grow our own food, but we try.)
So then I read this article about Bringing Up Bebe that, in a grand dismissive gesture, sums up French parenting as the polar opposite of everything I believe in and practice. Basically, the article left me assuming the following:
I am utterly mystified by the French prescription for baby sleep, referred to as "Le Pause" throughout the book. I am in no position to offer sleep advice to anyone - I got kicked in the face so hard by my 2-year-old this morning as I woke up that I was momentarily certain I had either a concussion or a broken nose. So it goes like this: from birth, French parents don't rush to a crying baby instantly, they give them a moment to "sort it out on their own." Sounds ridiculous to me, but I guess they really are talking about a max of a few minutes. The book claims that it obviates the need for Ferberization and such later. I dunno. That ship has sailed for us. But I will say, it's not nearly as severe as I thought.
My impression is that everyone who does not live under a rock knows that "Breast is Best." Right? Not in France. It seems that most mothers view it as a nuisance that is hard on their bodies and puts them on a leash. There was zero talk in that chapter about how nursing bonds mother and child, and all of the social-emotional benefits. "Formula is just fine" seems to be the prevailing attitude - and if a woman nurses, she doesn't very frequently do it past 3 months. Alien concept to me, obviously. A large part of the reason is that French society doesn't want to reduce breasts to a merely utilitarian function. Even though, biologically, that is clearly why they exist. But okay. To each his or her own.
So there are some pretty significant points of disagreement between myself and your average French mother. What surprised me, however, are the many ways in which I'm already doing a lot of what the book talks about, and how my mother did it before me. The heart of the French approach to parenting seems to be in raising confidently independent, respectful, considerate little humans. Oh, and mom's that aren't losing their shit. Amen to that. So here's where I totally resonate with French parenting.
Children should be taught patience, and that they are not the center of the universe. I am surrounded daily by people with a sense of entitlement and self-absorption. And not just in my high school classroom, but everywhere in society. We will teach Hannah that she matters, but so does everyone else.
Children should have clear, reliable boundaries about non-negotiable things that parents decide on, and lots of freedom within those boundaries to discover their world. Sort of like not micro-managing, I suppose. I have noticed lately that if I present something to Hannah as a choice, I immediately prevent a power struggle. "Do you want to take your shirt off, or do you want mommy to do it?" So, the shirt is coming off, because we're getting ready for bed. But there are multiple ways to get there.
Children do not need a bunch of blinking plastic shit, flashcards and other baby-genius gadgets to learn. My new favorite thing to do with Hannah is bake. It's amazing - she can crack eggs, measure flour, WAIT, stir, preheat the oven, and listen on pins and needles to directions. Everything we create, even if it flops, she is so proud of. Another benefit is that I am my most tuned in to her when we bake together, out of necessity. I am forced to be present, which is good for me, and for her. At the risk of melodrama, it feels as if we are making memories that will shape her life. No toys needed. Embedded in this is the idea that children are rational, smart, and capable. We should treat them as such.
Children are happier and calmer (read: better behaved, but I hate the word "behave" - I guess that's part of the crazed hippie side of my parenting style) when their caregivers are tuned in to them and can more accurately understand what they need. Something we in America seem to getting worse and worse at is paying attention. We are pathetically distracted and overstimulated. I constantly see parents pretty much ignoring their kids, and then they are mystified when the kid goes agro on them.
The mom formerly known as ______________ is still a person. Say, WHAT?! I will give mad props to the French on this front, from what I've learned in this book. It is expected that women will return to their careers when they have children because a) daycare is free AND of exceptional quality and b) women, too, enjoy the careers they built before they became mothers and c) relying on the income of your spouse might backfire. (I realize c is a loaded statement - don't shoot the messenger.) Society is set up to support women and families, so both spouses working and shelling out a grand or more every month for daycare isn't an issue. Aside from that, French mothers are encouraged, albeit largely by societal pressure to look sexy, to take care of themselves. And yes, get their bodies back. But I prefer to set the focus on taking care of ourselves without feeling guilty for it. I'm paraphrasing, but as the book puts it, a woman should be able to continue as an important member of society, and she deserves to feel good. I've groaned on here before about how I feel mothers in the U.S. have no real place in society. What each mom and each family chooses is a decision they should make without judgement. Wouldn't it be nice if we lived in society where we were supported for having children, though? For real.
This post is a bit premature, as I haven't actually finished the book (okay, CD). If it already bears reflecting on, I'm sure there will be a part deux.
And for your viewing pleasure, we documented our making of the Gateau Yaourt, "yogurt cake" that is included in the book.
Then, a friend - who happens to be a wonderful, loving mama - said she actually likes a lot of what the book says, though some of it is a bit harsh. What she says about the book, and about parenting, makes me want to give it a go. After all, this is the same friend who changed my life by casually mentioning to me when I was 9 weeks pregnant that I should consider a home birth. She was right about that, and she's right about this.
I think it's important as parents to know who we are, and who we are not. The approach to parenting that resonates with me and works for our family is Attachment Parenting, so that's what we do. (I don't know, maybe we're frauds because we use Huggies and don't grow our own food, but we try.)
So then I read this article about Bringing Up Bebe that, in a grand dismissive gesture, sums up French parenting as the polar opposite of everything I believe in and practice. Basically, the article left me assuming the following:
- Birth in France is highly medicalized, and anyway what's the point of a natural birth?
- French babies are left to cry-it-out from day one
- French parents interact with their children more like we expect people to interact with their dogs - barking orders, administering a kick here and there, and merely "observing" them as they play, but never truly engaging with them. Smacking a bit of the "to be seen and not heard" era that my parents grew up in.
- French mothers are selfish, vain, snooty bitches
- Breastfeeding is pointless. And if you nurse a toddler, you're a "crazed hippie."
I am utterly mystified by the French prescription for baby sleep, referred to as "Le Pause" throughout the book. I am in no position to offer sleep advice to anyone - I got kicked in the face so hard by my 2-year-old this morning as I woke up that I was momentarily certain I had either a concussion or a broken nose. So it goes like this: from birth, French parents don't rush to a crying baby instantly, they give them a moment to "sort it out on their own." Sounds ridiculous to me, but I guess they really are talking about a max of a few minutes. The book claims that it obviates the need for Ferberization and such later. I dunno. That ship has sailed for us. But I will say, it's not nearly as severe as I thought.
My impression is that everyone who does not live under a rock knows that "Breast is Best." Right? Not in France. It seems that most mothers view it as a nuisance that is hard on their bodies and puts them on a leash. There was zero talk in that chapter about how nursing bonds mother and child, and all of the social-emotional benefits. "Formula is just fine" seems to be the prevailing attitude - and if a woman nurses, she doesn't very frequently do it past 3 months. Alien concept to me, obviously. A large part of the reason is that French society doesn't want to reduce breasts to a merely utilitarian function. Even though, biologically, that is clearly why they exist. But okay. To each his or her own.
So there are some pretty significant points of disagreement between myself and your average French mother. What surprised me, however, are the many ways in which I'm already doing a lot of what the book talks about, and how my mother did it before me. The heart of the French approach to parenting seems to be in raising confidently independent, respectful, considerate little humans. Oh, and mom's that aren't losing their shit. Amen to that. So here's where I totally resonate with French parenting.
Children should be taught patience, and that they are not the center of the universe. I am surrounded daily by people with a sense of entitlement and self-absorption. And not just in my high school classroom, but everywhere in society. We will teach Hannah that she matters, but so does everyone else.
Children should have clear, reliable boundaries about non-negotiable things that parents decide on, and lots of freedom within those boundaries to discover their world. Sort of like not micro-managing, I suppose. I have noticed lately that if I present something to Hannah as a choice, I immediately prevent a power struggle. "Do you want to take your shirt off, or do you want mommy to do it?" So, the shirt is coming off, because we're getting ready for bed. But there are multiple ways to get there.
Children do not need a bunch of blinking plastic shit, flashcards and other baby-genius gadgets to learn. My new favorite thing to do with Hannah is bake. It's amazing - she can crack eggs, measure flour, WAIT, stir, preheat the oven, and listen on pins and needles to directions. Everything we create, even if it flops, she is so proud of. Another benefit is that I am my most tuned in to her when we bake together, out of necessity. I am forced to be present, which is good for me, and for her. At the risk of melodrama, it feels as if we are making memories that will shape her life. No toys needed. Embedded in this is the idea that children are rational, smart, and capable. We should treat them as such.
Children are happier and calmer (read: better behaved, but I hate the word "behave" - I guess that's part of the crazed hippie side of my parenting style) when their caregivers are tuned in to them and can more accurately understand what they need. Something we in America seem to getting worse and worse at is paying attention. We are pathetically distracted and overstimulated. I constantly see parents pretty much ignoring their kids, and then they are mystified when the kid goes agro on them.
The mom formerly known as ______________ is still a person. Say, WHAT?! I will give mad props to the French on this front, from what I've learned in this book. It is expected that women will return to their careers when they have children because a) daycare is free AND of exceptional quality and b) women, too, enjoy the careers they built before they became mothers and c) relying on the income of your spouse might backfire. (I realize c is a loaded statement - don't shoot the messenger.) Society is set up to support women and families, so both spouses working and shelling out a grand or more every month for daycare isn't an issue. Aside from that, French mothers are encouraged, albeit largely by societal pressure to look sexy, to take care of themselves. And yes, get their bodies back. But I prefer to set the focus on taking care of ourselves without feeling guilty for it. I'm paraphrasing, but as the book puts it, a woman should be able to continue as an important member of society, and she deserves to feel good. I've groaned on here before about how I feel mothers in the U.S. have no real place in society. What each mom and each family chooses is a decision they should make without judgement. Wouldn't it be nice if we lived in society where we were supported for having children, though? For real.
This post is a bit premature, as I haven't actually finished the book (okay, CD). If it already bears reflecting on, I'm sure there will be a part deux.
And for your viewing pleasure, we documented our making of the Gateau Yaourt, "yogurt cake" that is included in the book.
Cracking Eggs
Mixing the wet ingredients
Putting the batter into the pan!
Holy $#!% she's cleaning up!
Et voila! Gateau Yaourt!
And just for fun...Daddy on the 6-string, Hannah on the Uke.
Monday, November 26, 2012
So It Really DOES Take a Village!
We are a society that is obsessed with independence. On the parenting front, we wean our babies, on average at only 6 months old (one quarter of the minimum suggested by the World Health Organization). If we co-sleep with our children, we sort of apologize for it and talk up how we're working on a "solution." In so many ways, we are so very stubborn about doing things on our own, with the help of family or friends.
I've read numerous articles lately about the impossible demands the current generation of parents puts on themselves. We daily face a dizzying list of contradictions and shoulds, and there are approximately a million opportunities daily for failure. And independence? I'm not sure it really works when you're raising children. For generation after generation before us, it took a village. Silly of us to think we're different, but it seems like maybe we do.
I am not suggesting we lower our standards. I am suddenly realizing that I - and I imagine I am not alone - CANNOT do this without a village. Today, it suddenly hit me that I have been trying to do exactly that for much of my parenting journey so far, and it's not doing anyone any favors.
Enter the massive, very non-American (not un- or anti-, just non-) lifestyle overhaul, which began with us moving in with my in-laws last spring. We could no longer bear to live hand-to-mouth only to come home to 600 square feet of rented living space. As Hannah began creating murals down the hallway, we were like "SOS."
This morning, we very quickly made the decision to pull Hannah out of full time daycare. It's just simply too early for a 2-year-old to leave the house. She's been sick since September. How many times can I take seeing her face fall when I open the front door on a cold, foggy and pitch black morning as she says "stay home" and heads back inside? Toddler wrangling bookends my full day of teaching (read: teenager wrangling), and I get home exhausted. And maybe a little mean, mostly to myself. Hannah spends 8 hours a day at daycare, and a full hour of her day in her carseat, commuting with me along 405. Her childhood, and life in general, is too short for this. Thoreau's words in Walden Pond echo (somewhat menacingly) in my mind. "Simply, simplify, simplify."
Last year, we were stubbornly independent in our parenting. Grad school? Full time teaching? Child-rearing? Making ends meet in an economy gasping for air? WE CAN DO THIS ON OUR OWN, DAMNIT!! WE'RE GROWN UPS!! WE DON'T NEED HELP!! (We needed help.) Now, my parents live a mile away - literally. His parents live...um...100 feet away? All 4 are madly in love with Hannah and can't get enough of her. And I'm still waking Hannah up pre-dawn to commute to Seatac to go to daycare? Seriously?
Our new plan involves a little help from everyone, rather than our previous lame-ass plan of no help from anyone. Both of our parents will be all up in the parenting mix, an idea we stiffened at a year ago. Today, she had the opportunity to, so she stayed home with daddy. I got to simply go to work, do my job, and then come home. And when I did, we decorated Christmas ornaments, made cranberry sauce and chopped vegetables for dinner. We played with puzzles and had a tea party. We looked at her baby book and read board books. I still had half a tank at the end of my day, so my time with my child was quality and it nourished us both.
Oh, and I didn't fall asleep, drooling, at 7:30!
To hell with independence. I'll take a village.
I've read numerous articles lately about the impossible demands the current generation of parents puts on themselves. We daily face a dizzying list of contradictions and shoulds, and there are approximately a million opportunities daily for failure. And independence? I'm not sure it really works when you're raising children. For generation after generation before us, it took a village. Silly of us to think we're different, but it seems like maybe we do.
I am not suggesting we lower our standards. I am suddenly realizing that I - and I imagine I am not alone - CANNOT do this without a village. Today, it suddenly hit me that I have been trying to do exactly that for much of my parenting journey so far, and it's not doing anyone any favors.
Enter the massive, very non-American (not un- or anti-, just non-) lifestyle overhaul, which began with us moving in with my in-laws last spring. We could no longer bear to live hand-to-mouth only to come home to 600 square feet of rented living space. As Hannah began creating murals down the hallway, we were like "SOS."
This morning, we very quickly made the decision to pull Hannah out of full time daycare. It's just simply too early for a 2-year-old to leave the house. She's been sick since September. How many times can I take seeing her face fall when I open the front door on a cold, foggy and pitch black morning as she says "stay home" and heads back inside? Toddler wrangling bookends my full day of teaching (read: teenager wrangling), and I get home exhausted. And maybe a little mean, mostly to myself. Hannah spends 8 hours a day at daycare, and a full hour of her day in her carseat, commuting with me along 405. Her childhood, and life in general, is too short for this. Thoreau's words in Walden Pond echo (somewhat menacingly) in my mind. "Simply, simplify, simplify."
Last year, we were stubbornly independent in our parenting. Grad school? Full time teaching? Child-rearing? Making ends meet in an economy gasping for air? WE CAN DO THIS ON OUR OWN, DAMNIT!! WE'RE GROWN UPS!! WE DON'T NEED HELP!! (We needed help.) Now, my parents live a mile away - literally. His parents live...um...100 feet away? All 4 are madly in love with Hannah and can't get enough of her. And I'm still waking Hannah up pre-dawn to commute to Seatac to go to daycare? Seriously?
Our new plan involves a little help from everyone, rather than our previous lame-ass plan of no help from anyone. Both of our parents will be all up in the parenting mix, an idea we stiffened at a year ago. Today, she had the opportunity to, so she stayed home with daddy. I got to simply go to work, do my job, and then come home. And when I did, we decorated Christmas ornaments, made cranberry sauce and chopped vegetables for dinner. We played with puzzles and had a tea party. We looked at her baby book and read board books. I still had half a tank at the end of my day, so my time with my child was quality and it nourished us both.
Oh, and I didn't fall asleep, drooling, at 7:30!
To hell with independence. I'll take a village.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Ah, Failure.
Taking of 3 1/2, possibly 4 1/2 days out of 5 in a week is not as relaxing as it sounds. Not when the cause is a sick toddler and you spend the whole time feeling guilty for:
1) Wishing you were at work and she were at daycare because it's stressful to have your routine interrupted (and you know you're walking back into chaos when you DO get back to work)
2) Exposing her, via daycare, to the germs that have made her sick
3) Doing whatever you did or failed to do, which resulted in her being sick
4) Feeling inexplicably stir-crazy because you haven't left the house in DAYS, and even though she is amazing, it's not actually all that stimulating to be stuck inside with a headstrong toddler for days on end
5) Being a bad teacher who has subs all week
6) Pretty much choosing the wrong path through life
So, you know, damned if you do and damned if you don't. It takes me back to a post I wrote as I anticipated the end of summer, in which I reflected on feeling like there's no real place for women in society who are mothers and who still have careers. You sort of always feel like a mild failure as a parent AND a professional. And while I know I am not actually a failure in either domain, it's just HARD.
But, every cloud has a silver lining! I have taken a long nap on each of these days I've been home. We have made pancakes on multiple mornings. I have gotten to hear Hannah's vocabulary expand in several directions. My pretend play skills are reaching new heights. We took a walk on Monday, Hannah back in her Ergo which has been gathering dust as she grows heavier and more independent, and the fall colors were indescribably beautiful.
And as usual, my little Zen master has so much to teach me. I am quite possibly obsessed with always going somewhere and doing something. Lazy days at home are a struggle for me. When my daughter clearly asks for what she needs, and I know it's what is best for her - "stay home, mommy" - I must surrender. I must slow down. I must stop doing.
Of course, life will return to it's normal pace, which is usually too fast. So tomorrow, I'm hoping to set aside my stupid guilt, let go of my need to do, and just let myself - and my little darling - BE.
I am reminded of a favorite quote (which I've probably used before, but oh well). "The days are long, but the years are short."
1) Wishing you were at work and she were at daycare because it's stressful to have your routine interrupted (and you know you're walking back into chaos when you DO get back to work)
2) Exposing her, via daycare, to the germs that have made her sick
3) Doing whatever you did or failed to do, which resulted in her being sick
4) Feeling inexplicably stir-crazy because you haven't left the house in DAYS, and even though she is amazing, it's not actually all that stimulating to be stuck inside with a headstrong toddler for days on end
5) Being a bad teacher who has subs all week
6) Pretty much choosing the wrong path through life
So, you know, damned if you do and damned if you don't. It takes me back to a post I wrote as I anticipated the end of summer, in which I reflected on feeling like there's no real place for women in society who are mothers and who still have careers. You sort of always feel like a mild failure as a parent AND a professional. And while I know I am not actually a failure in either domain, it's just HARD.
But, every cloud has a silver lining! I have taken a long nap on each of these days I've been home. We have made pancakes on multiple mornings. I have gotten to hear Hannah's vocabulary expand in several directions. My pretend play skills are reaching new heights. We took a walk on Monday, Hannah back in her Ergo which has been gathering dust as she grows heavier and more independent, and the fall colors were indescribably beautiful.
And as usual, my little Zen master has so much to teach me. I am quite possibly obsessed with always going somewhere and doing something. Lazy days at home are a struggle for me. When my daughter clearly asks for what she needs, and I know it's what is best for her - "stay home, mommy" - I must surrender. I must slow down. I must stop doing.
Of course, life will return to it's normal pace, which is usually too fast. So tomorrow, I'm hoping to set aside my stupid guilt, let go of my need to do, and just let myself - and my little darling - BE.
I am reminded of a favorite quote (which I've probably used before, but oh well). "The days are long, but the years are short."
Saturday, August 18, 2012
The Nap Gnome
I am convinced that on the days you most need/want your little one to have a nice, long, predictable nap, there is a sneaky little being I will call the Nap Gnome. And I hate him (or her, to be fair).
Here's how the Nap Gnome struck today. We were driving back from a lovely outing to the Children's Museum. Hannah was clearly tired, but also very involved with her PB&J, so I was confident we could make it home in time. Torrey and I were planning to go see a movie together, a rare pleasure, so a good nap was essential to keeping the grandparents willing to babysit so we can spend some time alone together.
So then, I made a fatal error, and set out to take 99 to I-90, rather than I-5 to I-90. Thus, I got caught in HempFest traffic. My fault? No, it was the Nap Gnome. Do not be deceived.
So I lost a precious fifteen minutes to traffic, then heard the kiss of death: Hannah's sudden and total silence. I convinced myself she would transfer just fine, in spite of the story that history tells. So we peaceably drive home and pull into the driveway, a minefield of nap-thwarting obstacles.
Obstacle # 1 - my father in law was meeting with a plumber about doing some work on the house. Where? In the driveway, of course. I pulled right up to the tips of their toes, practically, and into the middle of their conversation.
Obstacle # 2 - our screechy miniature poodle sees us come home and, as usual, goes completely batshit crazy. I couldn't sleep through his dramatics if I were on sedatives.
Okay, so by now, Hannah is awake, but I'm just certain I can pull her back into sleep if I scurry inside past any more excitement. But then she sees grandma, and she wants to play with grandma. Grandma gets it, though, having been a sleep-worshipping mother, and clears our path to the bedroom as though we were fleeing a mob.
We're on the bed, and Hannah is sleepily asking for "beebie", which I'm certain will lull her back to sleep. Just as I feel her body start to slacken and ease toward sleep, the damn dog starts whining to get back out of the bedroom that he was whining to get into just seconds before. Hannah's blue eyes pop open, and she performs her amazing flip-twist, in which she quickly and with near superhuman strength flips from a side-lying position to her knees before I can even hope to convince her otherwise.
Eventually, I lure her back to lying down, having her beebie. Then grandpa and the plumber walk along the side of the house, right by the window above our bed, which is open. Repeat above scenario. Except now she wants to go play, because grandpa is synonymous with play around here.
Round three. I swear she's almost there, then daddy busts in singing "There's a Dog in School", much to Hannah's delight. Seriously? Seriously?!
Eventually I gave up. What is it about a missed nap that makes me feel like an abject failure as a parent? Our plans worked out just fine and she was easy on the grandparents. At bedtime she basically dove in. But there is something about that two-hour break in the middle of the day that is so essential for parental sanity, necessary for a child's health and well-being, and yet at times, utterly elusive.
Nap Gnome, you will be defeated tomorrow. Watch me.
Here's how the Nap Gnome struck today. We were driving back from a lovely outing to the Children's Museum. Hannah was clearly tired, but also very involved with her PB&J, so I was confident we could make it home in time. Torrey and I were planning to go see a movie together, a rare pleasure, so a good nap was essential to keeping the grandparents willing to babysit so we can spend some time alone together.
So then, I made a fatal error, and set out to take 99 to I-90, rather than I-5 to I-90. Thus, I got caught in HempFest traffic. My fault? No, it was the Nap Gnome. Do not be deceived.
So I lost a precious fifteen minutes to traffic, then heard the kiss of death: Hannah's sudden and total silence. I convinced myself she would transfer just fine, in spite of the story that history tells. So we peaceably drive home and pull into the driveway, a minefield of nap-thwarting obstacles.
Obstacle # 1 - my father in law was meeting with a plumber about doing some work on the house. Where? In the driveway, of course. I pulled right up to the tips of their toes, practically, and into the middle of their conversation.
Obstacle # 2 - our screechy miniature poodle sees us come home and, as usual, goes completely batshit crazy. I couldn't sleep through his dramatics if I were on sedatives.
Okay, so by now, Hannah is awake, but I'm just certain I can pull her back into sleep if I scurry inside past any more excitement. But then she sees grandma, and she wants to play with grandma. Grandma gets it, though, having been a sleep-worshipping mother, and clears our path to the bedroom as though we were fleeing a mob.
We're on the bed, and Hannah is sleepily asking for "beebie", which I'm certain will lull her back to sleep. Just as I feel her body start to slacken and ease toward sleep, the damn dog starts whining to get back out of the bedroom that he was whining to get into just seconds before. Hannah's blue eyes pop open, and she performs her amazing flip-twist, in which she quickly and with near superhuman strength flips from a side-lying position to her knees before I can even hope to convince her otherwise.
Eventually, I lure her back to lying down, having her beebie. Then grandpa and the plumber walk along the side of the house, right by the window above our bed, which is open. Repeat above scenario. Except now she wants to go play, because grandpa is synonymous with play around here.
Round three. I swear she's almost there, then daddy busts in singing "There's a Dog in School", much to Hannah's delight. Seriously? Seriously?!
Eventually I gave up. What is it about a missed nap that makes me feel like an abject failure as a parent? Our plans worked out just fine and she was easy on the grandparents. At bedtime she basically dove in. But there is something about that two-hour break in the middle of the day that is so essential for parental sanity, necessary for a child's health and well-being, and yet at times, utterly elusive.
Nap Gnome, you will be defeated tomorrow. Watch me.
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