I Quit!

Before I was a mom, I was sure that I was NOT going to have over-scheduled kids. While I wanted them to do things they enjoyed, I was not going to spend my life running them all over the place, to the detriment of my own sanity. Not to mention, kids need down time. They need time to just hang out with their families. Family time is incredibly important, in that it teaches valuable life skills, like how to sneak into your sister's room and steal her fairies without being caught, or how to pinch your brother and make your mom believe that he was the one who attacked you, while you were innocently sitting there, minding your own business. Having time together as family teaches kids how to get along with people they often dislike, but still have to live with. And in some cases, family time teaches some really specific skills, like the importance of a good left hook.

Several years ago, though, something happened that changed my line of thinking about having over-scheduled kids. I had kids.

Like so many other things where parenting is concerned, the reality was a little different than what I had anticipated. This year, N really wanted to do a gymnastics class. It was just for a couple months, but I wasn't sure she'd like it, so I didn't want her to quit dance, which she really likes. (There was also the fact that her incredibly coordinated mother could never do so much as a cartwheel, so anything that was likely to help even a little in the coordination arena was probably not a bad idea, from my stand point). Of course, N was also in Girl Scouts, but that was only once a month. And the chorus thing she wanted to do was only once a week for a few months, so it would be fine. While she also had CCD,  that was just on Sunday mornings, when we should all be going to Church anyway. N was quite content with this schedule. I, however, was in a near constant state of stress, because we almost always had to be somewhere. I also discovered a few things:

Nothing is really just once a month.
Nothing is really just an hour a week.
Even if something is just an hour a week, an hour a week can feel like a lot when you have so many other hours of the week already accounted for.
We parents sometimes lose our minds when it comes to our kids and their activities.

After those few months, only dance and Girl Scouts remained. And yet, the reality is, I still often feel on the verge of a panic attack. Because dance and Girl Scouts sometimes fall back-to-back on the same day. Because its "recital time" when missing dance is highly frowned upon. Because "cookie sales" in Girl Scouts can be like having a part time job. Because I have two younger, very active boys who come with us pretty much everywhere, and yet can't be left to their own devices anywhere. Because about a year-and-a-half ago, when I had a newborn and was, in retrospect, in some hormonal haze, I said being a Girl Scout co-leader sounded like a great idea, and sure I could make it to all of those monthly meetings. (A bit of advice: if you have given birth within the past six years months, do not volunteer for anything. You are operating from a delusional, hormonal state in which you believe you are Superwoman, because after all, you not only grew a baby and gave birth, but are quite possibly feeding said baby from your very own body, all on little to no sleep. In reality, you are not at all equipped to make the decision to lead something like a Girl Scout Troop. In fact, until you are sleeping through the night again, you should probably refrain from leading anything, other than maybe rounds of Row, Row, Row, Your Boat. Remember-- the baby ate your brain cells during pregnancy. Just say no. By the way, I can only say this because I am a woman. If you are a man, do not even think about saying any of this to a woman. Don't say I didn't warn you).

I initially thought that maybe feeling overwhelmed was just an "adjustment issue", since I was new to having a child in school who was involved with activities. Surely when she got a little older I would have a handle on this, and not feel so stressed out. But then I was talking to a friend who has four older kids in school, and she happened to mention that incredibly stressed out feeling that she feels pretty much anytime she has to take anyone anywhere--which, in her case, is, well, always. With four kids in several different activities, and several volunteer commitments of her own, she is always rushing to get somewhere. And yet, to her, the idea that she was going to feel incredibly stressed out for a good part of every day was just a part of life.

I was recently talking to another friend, who finally went to the doctor after feeling that something just wasn't quite right. She just felt "off" and was concerned that something was seriously wrong. Like most of us, she tries to squeeze too much into her days. She works full-time and spends evenings in a whirlwind of homework and activities, before doing it all again the next day. Her diagnosis? Fortunately, nothing more than dehydration. Apparently five cups of coffee to one cup of water is not an acceptable daily ratio. Huh. Who knew? Of course she knows she needs to drink more water, but it's just one.more.thing. And who doesn't need several cups of coffee? But really, now we're not even taking time to drink water? We make sure our kids drink water. We make sure our dogs have water. We even make sure our plants have water. But we, somehow, don't manage to drink enough water.

Knowing I am not alone in this really doesn't make me feel any better. That just means that women running themselves into the ground--to a large extent for the sake of their kids' activities--has become so acceptable that it's now considered the norm. And of course, we're not just driving our kids around. We're also checking our messages, and making phone calls, and talking about homework, and planning what we're going to make for dinner. We are the queens of multi-tasking, and then beat ourselves up when we don't do it all perfectly.

I am thinking about all of this when we get home last night, as I try to get over my guilt that we ditched dance because there was no way we were going to make it anywhere close to on time after the Girl Scout meeting ran late. I am feeding NBO as I wait for the notary who's doing our refinance to show up. I wash the dishes, and help with homework, and give baths--OK fine-I gave one bath, to one child. The other two didn't get one. I justify this by telling myself that their faces get washed five times a day. So do their rear ends. I find a minute to go the bathroom, where I also change the bandage on my knee from when I so gracefully fell in the school parking lot the day before--while I was walking to the car, thinking of what I needed at the store, making sure the kids were all with me, and not paying attention to the huge pot hole I ultimately tripped into.

As I am doing this, O suddenly bursts into the bathroom with a book, and requests that I read it to him. I start to comply, and then realize that reading to my kids while I am, uh, in the bathroom and simultaneously changing a bandage would be taking multi-tasking to a new low. Besides, If I'm going to read in the bathroom, its not going to be Thomas the Train. Its going to be a trashy romance novel Better Homes and Gardens.

The refinance lady arrives.  I get her a glass of water. I break up a fight in the living room. We sign some forms. I break up another fight. I think the refinance lady must be wondering why our kids are so aggressive. Sign some more forms. Get someone a snack. Break up another fight. Listen to the refinance lady talk about the family she saw last night, and realize that tomorrow, she'll be telling people about these aggressive kids she saw tonight. I sign something else. I say good-bye to the refinance lady. I tuck the kids in. I check my work schedule for tomorrow. I check Jimmy's work email. I think about a glass of wine, and decide I'm too tired. I realize that if water was wine, my friend and I would both be better about drinking as much of it as we should.

This type of multi-tasking, I realize, is largely unavoidable. And this kind, I really don't mind all that much. As for the rest? Well, I've made a decision. I quit. I'm not sure what I am quitting, exactly, but I am quitting...well, something. I have two kids who aren't even really involved in activities yet. At this rate, I'll lose what's left of my mind way sooner than previously anticipated. Besides, when they all sit around the Thanksgiving table twenty years from now, I want their childhood stories to begin with something besides, "Hey, remember that time in the car, on the way to soccer practice?"

I hope NBO will all find things they like to do, and I will encourage them in that, to some extent. I'm trying to keep in mind, though, that there are a few things they need more than dance classes or soccer; more than piano lessons or Girl Scouts.

They need time with their family. They need time to just be kids. And they need a sane mommy.

Boxing gloves probably wouldn't be a bad idea, either.

For the Love of...Sleep

It recently occurred to me that I have turned into a freak. Not about everything. I am not a germaphobe. I don't have to have my children in my eyesight every moment of the day. Their rooms don't have to be spotless (In addition to not being a freak about this, I am also not delusional enough to think that it would ever actually happen--hey, maybe my mental health is better than I thought!).  I am a freak, however, when it comes to sleep--particularly nap time. I admire those parents who are OK with having a child with them every waking moment. I, however, am not one of them. I need some child free time in my day, however brief. This is not optional. It is required. For three reasons:

1) As it is, most days I manage only to repeatedly clean the kitchen, hopefully pick up the living room, run the dishwasher, get dirty laundry out of rooms, continually run the washer and dryer, and possibly fold, but rarely actually put away, laundry. When I try to do these things when my children are awake, I have lots of help. More, in fact, than I ever need. The dishwasher gets filled more quickly, but not run, because I have to remove the assorted cars, trucks, trains, and Little People that O has so helpfully placed in there before I can run it. I'm not sure what would happen if I left them there. Maybe I'll try that next time, but I would hate to have to buy a new dishwasher because, in a moment of weakness, I went along with O's plan to turn the dishwasher into a car wash for Hot Wheels. Meanwhile, B is taking all the toys that I just put in the play room back into the living room. If I attempt to do laundry while they are awake, they start grabbing random clothing items from wherever they happen to find them--including drawers and closets--and throwing them down to me. If I try to make dinner while they are awake, they are cracking eggs for me, even when no eggs are necessary. I'm lucky to have such helpful children. But it doesn't really help with productivity.

2) The stories I write about are, believe it or not, generally from the good days, when they have slept. You don't read about what happens on the days when they haven't slept, because I am licking tequila off the floor nearly asleep by eight o'clock those nights, and have no energy left to write about the day's adventures. Not to mention, I don't want to relive them.

3) If I don't have an hour or two of relative silence during the day, I will lose my mind even sooner than predicted.

So, yes, I have turned into a freak about nap times.

Unfortunately, B and O are not quite on the same page as I am. Recently, in spite of my best efforts, they have started staying awake during nap times. If they stayed in their room playing and talking quietly, I would probably be OK with this, as they would hopefully be getting some rest. As it happens, though, they stay in their room laughing, screaming, yelling, throwing things, and taking O's crib apart. Not exactly restful. For any of us. I have tried to remedy this several different ways. Separate rooms--they just scream louder. Separate nap times-someone gets over tired (usually me), which defeats the whole purpose. Separate houses--the neighbors were unhappy when they found a strange child in their house. Whatever.

This is my long winded way of explaining that, when my children do go to sleep, I will do whatever I can to keep it that way. This has the potential, however, to impact my behavior in other areas of my life. I am not proud of this. I wish I could just go with the flow, like I can with so many other things in life. But, my children need me. They need me to be sane. And if that is to happen, they need to take naps.

In general, if people come to our home, I try to be welcoming. We like having company, and that's what we're supposed to do, right? Mi casa es su casa. If you can find a spot that's not covered in trains, fairies, yogurt, or dog hair, by all means, please make yourself at home. I'll even try to find something besides cheerios to feed you. If you stay long enough, I will beg you to drink with me and offer you a couch to sleep on, and then I will make you drink more so you don't notice that it's the one covered in yogurt and dog hair. Jimmy is even more welcoming than I am. He goes right to the part where he offers you beer.

If you come during nap time, however, it's a little different. If I know you're coming, I will meet you at the door and we will quietly go talk outside. You may wonder why I'm taking you outside when it's 30 degrees. It's because they are sleeping. If you don't like the cold, come back in the spring. Or at least when nap time is over. If you unexpectedly come to my door during nap time, all bets are off, but here's what will likely happen from your perspective:

You knock. I don't answer. You are vaguely aware that a dog is barking inside. You knock again. You are vaguely aware of a crying baby. You probably think some warm fuzzy thought about babies and dogs as you wonder why we aren't answering since we're obviously home. You knock again. This time, I answer the door, baby on my hip, dog at my side, three-year-old running in circles behind me, and you briefly wonder about my crazed expression, but you're happy that your mission--whatever reason you have for knocking on my door--is one step closer to being accomplished.

Here's what happens from my end: You knock. I cringe and silently curse, awaiting the barking dog that I know will awaken the sleeping children that it just took an hour and a half to convince to go to sleep. I ignore you, hoping you will go away (unless, of course, it's something important, like you are are locked out of your house, your car has broken down, you haven't eaten in two days, or you have brought me tequila). Nothing personal. I probably don't even know who you are at that point. But did you just see the part about it taking an hour and a half to get those children to sleep? But you don't go away. You knock again. If the dog didn't hear you the first time, she does now, and she is barking. My cursing is no longer silent. I hope she won't bark long enough or loudly enough to wake sleeping children, but she does, and now we have a barking dog and a crying toddler. A minute later, we have a barking dog, a crying toddler, and a three-year-old old repeatedly asking "Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here?"

I know, of course, that these children will not go back to sleep, and that even if they do, I will have to wake them as soon as they fall asleep to go pick up their sister at school. I also know that they will be grumpy and whiny, if not outright combative, by dinner, which will likely consist of something frozen and barely edible, since I will have tried to get dinner together while also attempting to do the three loads of laundry that I didn't get to do while they should have been sleeping. This is why, when I answer the door, I may look like a crazed woman on the verge of tears. It's not that I'm not happy to see you. It's just that, you know, it's nap time.

I've been thinking though, that it's just not right for me to be so unwelcoming. After all, mi casa es su casa, even if you do come to my casa during nap time. So, from now on, I'm going to be more welcoming. I'm going to tell whoever it is to please, by all means, come in. After all , it must be important if you came in person. During nap time. Without calling first. Please, sit down. Don't mind the yogurt on the couch. Just push those toys over. Make yourself at home. Stay a while. Can I get you some cheerios? Or maybe something different--like cornflakes? I'm so glad you're here. Will you hold O for a minute? I'm just going to pop out to get the mail. No, B can stay with you. I'll be back in a flash. Oh no, I always take my car keys to the mailbox. In fact, I like to drive there, so don't worry if you see the car leaving the driveway. Why don't you try to get the kids to lie down? They love that.
I'll be right back.

Just as soon as you get them to sleep.
And don't worry. I'll knock.

Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.

Fairy Tales

Fairies are big in our house. Well, they're not big, since after all, they are fairies. But they are popular.  Some have even left notes at times, or confirmed their existence by leaving little fairy footprints on the notes that were left for them.  It used to just be N who was fascinated with them. At least once a week, she comes home with stories about who she played "Fairies" with at school. She rolls her eyes as she tells me that some girls don't even believe that fairies are real. Silly, silly girls. The fairies that visit us used to be the invisible kind--I liked them the best. At Christmas, though,  N received a total of 12 new fairies. She loves them all, and she recently informed me that, at night, some of them even come to life.

Since the arrival of the twelve fairies,  we are all developing an interest in them. My own interest is generally limited to trying to figure out if they can really fly, and if so, why they don't fly themselves back to N's room at night. I gave up trying to figure out their names. When I was N's age, there were two fairies: Tinkerbell and the Tooth Fairy. Easy to keep track of. Not anymore. Now we have Iradessa, Rosetta, Fawn, and Silvermist, among others. Or maybe it's Iradescent, Risotto, Bambi, and Goldenfrost--I can't keep track. I can pretty much tell you which shoes go on which fairy, though, since I find their magical little shoes everywhere and put them back on 12 times a day--that is, when their magical little shoes don't magically find their way into the magic trashcan first. Jimmy spends time with the fairies, too. I wouldn't really call his interactions with them an "interest", though. He usually just curses at them when he steps on one or finds one under his pillow. Geesh--what kind of a way is that to treat visitors?

I've recently noticed that B and O are becoming enamored with the fairies. In O's case, I'm pretty sure he just wants their teeny tiny little fairy shoes so he can stick them up his nose. Occasionally, he sticks a fairy in his mouth, looks disappointed that she doesn't taste nearly as good as she looks, and throws her across the room (huh? what happened to flying, fairy?). Then he goes back to looking for other things to put up his nose.

B, on the other hand, has been spending a lot of time playing with the fairies lately. Since the fairies are "off limits" in N's room during the day, he has to be sneaky to get to them. (But we already know that he's a sneak). Somehow, he found a way, and I would occasionally catch him with a fairy. Whatever. He's only three. It's probably just a phase. After finding him with Fawn, or maybe it was Rosetta, for the third time in as many days, I started thinking maybe there was more to it. Fine. So maybe it's not a phase. This is the 21st century. Boys can play with dolls all they want. Gender roles are over-rated. And then, when I found him sneaking out of N's room yet again today with a fairy, I thought, well, maybe this is just part of who he is. That's OK, too. He's my son. I will love and accept him no matter what.

Today, he had Silvermist, or Goldenfog, or whatever her name is, and since I figured this would start World War III when N saw him, I told him he needed to go put her back in N's room. N overheard and, to my surprise, said "It's OK, mom. He can play with her". Wow. What a sweet girl, letting her brother play with one of her favorite toys. "Mom, " N tells me, "She's the mean fairy anyway." The mean fairy? I ask N to elaborate, but all I get is a shrug and "She's just mean" as N goes in search of the other, kinder fairies.

I watch B play with the mean fairy for a few minutes, making sure she is behaving herself. And, as I do this, I realize that I haven't really looked at this particular fairy, or her outfit, before. I mean, I've looked at her as I throw her help her fly up to N's room at night, or as I put her freakishly small pain in the @$$  adorable little shoes back on, but I haven't really looked at her. Until now. And as I look at her, I realize...this fairy is dressed like a hoochie mama. Cleavage? Why does a fairy need cleavage? And her dress is way too short. Or, does it just look like that because B has it hiked up to her belly button? I can't really tell. But, as I remember what N said about this being "the mean one", I decide it's that her dress is too short.

B is holding her in front of me, a leg in each hand. "Look mom! She can do the SPLITS!". I force a smile and say "Oh, yeah, she sure can".  Only it's not really the splits she's doing. It's...close to the splits. It's....kind of similar to the splits. But it is NOT the splits. I look to see if Tarty Fairy is even wearing undies, and see only something that resembles a g-string. And then I finally get it. B doesn't like fairies. He likes fairies. I can't decide if this makes me feel better or worse. I picture him in twenty years, bringing home a real life version of Tarty Fairy, minus the wings-- someone named Bambi or Fawn, who is wearing a human version of Tarty Fairy's dress. I imagine him telling me, "But mom, she can do the SPLITS!".

I grab a truck and give it to him as I take Tarty Fairy away. I look her right in the eye. "Look here, Angeldust, you stay away from my baby boy." And then, I got my answer. Fairies really can fly. Sometimes they just need a little help.

Copyright 2012 Author of The NBO Chronicles. All Rights Reserved. No reproduction without permission.. Simple template. Template images by Ailime. Powered by Blogger.