I was blowing my hair out the other morning - YES! On a weekday! - when I thought to myself, "Why did it take me ten years to realize I could take the time to do this once in a while?" Why had I spent so many years shoving my hair under a Yankee hat? And to go even further, why did I feel guilty about sitting down and reading a book for half an hour or making myself a lunch that didn't consist of grilled cheese crust and leftover apple slices? I realized that for the last decade I had been living like a second class citizen in this country that is my own home.
To benefit those of you forming your own domestic principalities, I have put together a list of those things, by your mere existence as the head of your family, that you are entitled to. Demanding them all may be too much for you right now, but eventually attaining them all should be the norm for all stay-at-home parents.
Article I
The right to a shower every twenty-four hours. You might be too exhausted to actually haul yourself out of bed, remove your clothing and step under running water. Perhaps you prefer to sleep an extra twenty minutes and you don't think you smell that bad, but the right to wash off your thighs the applesauce that has seeped through your yoga pants, or been gently massaged through your hair by chubby baby fingers, is inalienable. Exercising it, optional.
Article II
The right to wear (at least) one thing each day that makes you feel any of the following: cute, sexy, attractive, young, hip, strong, sassy or put-together. As Elizabeth Berg wrote, "She wore a sweatshirt and jeans and lovely pearl studs in her ears -- dressing up a bit of herself so she wouldn't forget how, no doubt. You will see this in mothers of small children: they dress up from the neck up. Everything else is in danger of peanut butter." Don't endanger your best duds, but give yourself five minutes to throw on some lipstick, or that t-shirt from college that makes you laugh. It doesn't matter how it makes you look, it matters how it makes you feel - like something other than a peanut butter sandwich-making, Lego-building, carpool-driving autobot.
Article III
The right to exercise for thirty minutes a day. Many women I know feel too guilty taking time to squeeze fitness into an already packed day. Guess what? Doing so will actually make you a better mother. As Phil Dunphy puts it "She has to run everyday or she goes crazy. She's like a border collie." Consider getting a little movement to be the adult version of "shaking your sillies out". I find it much easier to deal with a bowl of cereal being spilt on the floor, splattering milk everywhere, and Little Man walking through it, obliviously tracking wet Cheerios through the house, when I have a nice shot of endorphins running through my system. It's like your body's homemade wine - it takes the edge off of things. So plop your kids on the couch with your ipad so you can do a workout tape. Raising children is a physical challenge, so shouldn't you be training?
Article IV
The right to eat one meal a day sitting down, preferably, with utensils. I think one meal of three is a realistic goal. I laugh at magazines telling me I should be sitting down and savoring my food at each and every meal. While I'm not stuffing a McRib down my throat in the van, I am very often eating a veggie wrap while I help with homework or do a jigsaw puzzle. I draw the line at dinner though. Requests during our evening meal are met with, "When I'm done eating", as I am usually dining sans husband, but when he is home, he runs all interference so I can eat food that hasn't gone stone cold. Choose whichever meal is easiest for you to get some peace. If your kids nap, guess what? That's your lunch hour. Punch out and eat.
Article V
The right to thirty minutes of leisure time a day. Do you have half of The Bachelor finale you still haven't watched since during last night's viewing your husband started yelling about his "testicles actually shrinking back up into his body", or some such nonsense? Do you have a book you've been dying to read, but can't make any dent in during the nine minutes you crack it open before bed each night, only to fall asleep with it on your face? Well here's your permission to enjoy these pastimes freely. I'll let you in on a little secret. At work in an office, most people put in a solid four to five hours of labor, tops. There is plenty of internet surfing, online shopping, office gossip and coffee breaks to break up the day. And let's not even talk about commute time. It's no wonder H got through four season of Mad Men in less than a month. Your day is roughly twelve hours long, if not longer. One episode of Hoarders is only forty minutes on the DVR, go for it.
Article VI
The right to have an uninterrupted conversation. We have all had a friend over, or been on the phone, only to have our chat repeatedly brought to a halt with, "Watch me roll my tongue!", "Where are my fairy wings?", or "Can you untie this knot, please?" All of these attempted interjections can be handily turned away with a furrowed brow and a pursed lip. My children call it my "beaver face". They know, unless they are bleeding, or something is on fire, they need to wait. I do not believe children should be seen and not heard, but I firmly believe they do not always need to be heard the second their impulse-driven brains demand it. Mommy needs to dissect the ending of the last Jodi Picoult novel with her pal while you play on the swings. Cram it for two minutes.
Go practice in the mirror until you find a suitable facial expression.
Article VII
The right to have the weekend feel different from the work week. Do ask your significant other to go to the office on Saturday? No, so why should all forty-eight hours of the weekend feel like the rest of the week for you? Along with general splitting of childcare and household work, ask your other to pick up a chore you are just sick and tired of, say, preparing lunch or unloading the dishwasher. I even went as far to declare "I don't do shit on weekends", relegating H to diaper duty (or doody). Just do something, anything to make it feel not like Tuesday every damn day.
Article VIII
The right to six hours of sleep. OK, I realize for some of you that seems an unattainable dream, like getting your old boobs back, but at some point, the baby will stop nursing or the stomach bug will pass. At that point, you have the right to kick any unwanted offspring out of your bed. There is a reason they use sleep-deprivation as a method of torture - you will lose your ever-loving mind without rest. Do not feel guilty about it. Limiting the time they keep you awake limits the time you spend screaming the next day. Simple cause and effect.
So let this be the dawn of a new day in your land! Stand up for your rights! A well-rested, well-fed, well-reality TV'd ruler makes for a happy kingdom.
Treat yourself like the queen you are.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
If you don't have anything nice to say...wait...just don't say anything.
"Two major weight loss companies won't touch Kim Kardashian's 'big fat ass' with a 10-foot pole." -TMZ
For those of you living under a rock, or who never go to a grocery store, Kim Kardashian is pregnant. And for those same, trash-magazine deprived folk, she's gained some weight in the process. On a regular day, I think the publishers of this critical, self-image-destroying poison are evil incarnate. But when they skewer, yet another, celebrity for packing on the LBs while gestating, they have sunk to a new low.
The reason I care so much is that sadly, it's not just the tabloids who participate in the judgement of a woman's body while gestating. The public shaming of pregnant celebrities makes it socially acceptable for anyone to comment on a woman's size during a time when skinny thighs are the last thing on her mind. No, I am not saying these magazines are the ones who invented the cruel baby-weight comments, but US Weekly makes body-shaming the pregnant into a topic of conversation between normal people in the break room. It's the Average Josephine making cracks, no longer just the crazy, old lady on the bus asking a woman if she's having twins. It is bad enough non-pregnant women feel they have to a conform to a very narrow body standard. Now pregnant woman also have to worry about fitting into a mold.
Pregnancy is the first time, for many of us, we feel outside of society's harsh, body-judging glare. Or at least we used to. Do some of us, like Mean Mommy, celebrate the removing of those shackles with a few too many fries and brownies? Sure. Should you say something about it? Abso-fucking-lutely not. I'll let you in on a secret. Pregnant women know when and if they are getting fat and they do not give a shit. I knew perfectly well I was going to have to run off every pint of Ben & Jerry's I made H go get me in the dark of night, I didn't need anyone to tell me. That high fat dairy helped me shove down some of the anxiety about whether my baby was going to be born with all its parts and whether I was going to be a good mother. Emotional eating? Yes? But what else could I do? Drink? OK, maybe get some therapy, but that doesn't taste as good.
Here's where some will say, "But shouldn't something be said about a woman's weight for the health of the baby?" Yes, and unless you have been to medical school and are being paid by this woman's insurance, keep your well-meaning advice to yourself. She and her healthcare provider will have a constructive conversation about her weight. And is the baby's health what's really being talked about when scrutinizing a pregnant woman's weight? No, it's about her fitting into a bikini anytime in the next five years and you know it, so shut up.
During a pregnancy, a woman should not be concerned about how her body looks, but rather with how her body is functioning. So it seems strange to me it is the one time in life people who barely know you feel free to comment on your figure. Coming back form our babymoon during my pregnancy with Little Man, the TSA worker in the Virgin Islands told me I was "carrying well", as it was "all in my belly". Bets were even taken among the workers as to the baby's gender. That's my favorite ruse. "Let's pretend we're using the mother's body shape as an indicator of gender so we can talk about her ass". Even while being complimented it felt weird and wrong.*
So can we all make a pact? Can we all stop feeling so free to comment on pregnant women's bodies? Good, bad, indifferent, it's just not OK. (I am of the vast monitory who think it's not OK to talk about non-pregnant women's bodies, but I'll choose my battles for now.) Women have enough to worry about during these nine months, let's not add how they look in those painfully ugly maternity bathing suits to the list.
And any comments after she's had the baby? Punishable by death. Agreed?
*Don't think I never experienced pregnancy fat-shame. I made a conscious effort to stay away from Benjamin and Jerald during LM's time in the oven, knowing I wouldn't have any time to lose the weight with two other kids. I was precariously close to, if not over, two hundred pounds during my other two gestations.
For those of you living under a rock, or who never go to a grocery store, Kim Kardashian is pregnant. And for those same, trash-magazine deprived folk, she's gained some weight in the process. On a regular day, I think the publishers of this critical, self-image-destroying poison are evil incarnate. But when they skewer, yet another, celebrity for packing on the LBs while gestating, they have sunk to a new low.
The reason I care so much is that sadly, it's not just the tabloids who participate in the judgement of a woman's body while gestating. The public shaming of pregnant celebrities makes it socially acceptable for anyone to comment on a woman's size during a time when skinny thighs are the last thing on her mind. No, I am not saying these magazines are the ones who invented the cruel baby-weight comments, but US Weekly makes body-shaming the pregnant into a topic of conversation between normal people in the break room. It's the Average Josephine making cracks, no longer just the crazy, old lady on the bus asking a woman if she's having twins. It is bad enough non-pregnant women feel they have to a conform to a very narrow body standard. Now pregnant woman also have to worry about fitting into a mold.
Pregnancy is the first time, for many of us, we feel outside of society's harsh, body-judging glare. Or at least we used to. Do some of us, like Mean Mommy, celebrate the removing of those shackles with a few too many fries and brownies? Sure. Should you say something about it? Abso-fucking-lutely not. I'll let you in on a secret. Pregnant women know when and if they are getting fat and they do not give a shit. I knew perfectly well I was going to have to run off every pint of Ben & Jerry's I made H go get me in the dark of night, I didn't need anyone to tell me. That high fat dairy helped me shove down some of the anxiety about whether my baby was going to be born with all its parts and whether I was going to be a good mother. Emotional eating? Yes? But what else could I do? Drink? OK, maybe get some therapy, but that doesn't taste as good.
Here's where some will say, "But shouldn't something be said about a woman's weight for the health of the baby?" Yes, and unless you have been to medical school and are being paid by this woman's insurance, keep your well-meaning advice to yourself. She and her healthcare provider will have a constructive conversation about her weight. And is the baby's health what's really being talked about when scrutinizing a pregnant woman's weight? No, it's about her fitting into a bikini anytime in the next five years and you know it, so shut up.
During a pregnancy, a woman should not be concerned about how her body looks, but rather with how her body is functioning. So it seems strange to me it is the one time in life people who barely know you feel free to comment on your figure. Coming back form our babymoon during my pregnancy with Little Man, the TSA worker in the Virgin Islands told me I was "carrying well", as it was "all in my belly". Bets were even taken among the workers as to the baby's gender. That's my favorite ruse. "Let's pretend we're using the mother's body shape as an indicator of gender so we can talk about her ass". Even while being complimented it felt weird and wrong.*
So can we all make a pact? Can we all stop feeling so free to comment on pregnant women's bodies? Good, bad, indifferent, it's just not OK. (I am of the vast monitory who think it's not OK to talk about non-pregnant women's bodies, but I'll choose my battles for now.) Women have enough to worry about during these nine months, let's not add how they look in those painfully ugly maternity bathing suits to the list.
And any comments after she's had the baby? Punishable by death. Agreed?
*Don't think I never experienced pregnancy fat-shame. I made a conscious effort to stay away from Benjamin and Jerald during LM's time in the oven, knowing I wouldn't have any time to lose the weight with two other kids. I was precariously close to, if not over, two hundred pounds during my other two gestations.
Monday, March 25, 2013
The gift of time.
The email from the teacher read, "If you have time, could we please meet this Friday? I have a few things I'd like to discuss."
And I knew in my bones exactly what this meeting would be about - having Little Man repeat kindergarten. How did I know? I knew because the universe has been sending my subtle messages about my little guy and I just haven't really wanted to listen. Although I am loathe to quote her, Oprah says, "The universe speaks to us, first in whispers. Then it get louder and louder and louder." The universe wasn't quite shouting at me yet, but it wanted to have a meeting.
A while ago, I wrote about LM and his penchant for hugging. Well, in addition to that, he also cries occasionally when I drop him off at school. He is not ready to sleep without a Pull-up yet, and while other boys in his class are throwing spirals on the playground after school, he can barely run in a straight line. Essentially, LM is immature for his five years. With a late August birthday, one would think I would have held him back and not had him start kindergarten, as is the almost- knee-jerk reaction of parents, especially of boys, who are born in the summer. But come registration time last spring, the behaviors above didn't seem all that immature when he was four, and then he added in an extra twist by becoming an advanced reader. So I made the decision, rather than have an academically bored child, I would send him to school, knowing he would have some catching up to do in other areas. It would happen. Eventually.
But it didn't.
Little Man has made friends in school, some of them quite close, but the other, more mature, boys have no time for him. He can't keep up on the playground, and he doesn't get some of the social nuances that come with time. If I am honest with myself, and it is very painful to be, I have spent the last few months exasperated with my child. I cringe over how many times I said in my own head, "Why is he acting like such a baby???". I have wanted my child to be other than what he is to fit in and I am ashamed of that - even if it was because I wanted his life to be easy. Aren't we all supposed to love our children exactly the way they are? What kind of mother am I? I'm the kind of mother who wants to go open a vein the bathroom when she tries to teach her son to defend himself from a older, playground bully and he asks, not having yet learned anything about that ways of the world, "Why would he hit me if he's my friend?" I thought if he would only grow up a little faster, all of these problems would sort themselves out.
Grow up faster? Isn't that exactly the opposite of the way I have been raising my children? Why was I pushing him ahead? Yes, it will be socially awkward for a while when his friends move up without him, but better a few difficult months than a lifetime of struggle. If I kept on this trajectory, he might always be the slowest or the last in everything. Sure, he might fit in just fine academically, but in all other areas, he might always struggle and that's not a fun way to go through life. So after meeting with the teacher, who said out loud every single one of my fears about LM's development, I decided to give myself and LM the gift of time (yes, I was right about the purpose of the meeting, as I am about where #2 has left her stuffed whale and whether or not #1 has really brushed her hair or just scraped it back into a knotty ponytail). It is such an immense weight off my shoulders, knowing he will have another full year to grow and develop. As for his reading, the teacher and I will put together a plan for him to continue to be challenged next year, so I'm not worried. I also know a few boys in LM's class now who are repeating, and they are such strong, confident kids, who the others look up to, I am reassured I am making the right decision. I think it would be kind of awesome next year if LM winds up setting an example of kindness and empathy for the younger boys.
It is so, so hard to admit when you have made a mistake as a parent - and this one could have been a doozy. Sometimes, expectations and reality are never going to match up and you have to adjust accordingly. Thankfully, the universe got the message across before it was too late and before my little guy ever had the chance to feel his mother didn't appreciate the sweet, gentle soul he is. I could never, ever forgive myself for that.
See your children for who they are, not what you want them to be. The universe gave them to you that way for a reason.
And I knew in my bones exactly what this meeting would be about - having Little Man repeat kindergarten. How did I know? I knew because the universe has been sending my subtle messages about my little guy and I just haven't really wanted to listen. Although I am loathe to quote her, Oprah says, "The universe speaks to us, first in whispers. Then it get louder and louder and louder." The universe wasn't quite shouting at me yet, but it wanted to have a meeting.
A while ago, I wrote about LM and his penchant for hugging. Well, in addition to that, he also cries occasionally when I drop him off at school. He is not ready to sleep without a Pull-up yet, and while other boys in his class are throwing spirals on the playground after school, he can barely run in a straight line. Essentially, LM is immature for his five years. With a late August birthday, one would think I would have held him back and not had him start kindergarten, as is the almost- knee-jerk reaction of parents, especially of boys, who are born in the summer. But come registration time last spring, the behaviors above didn't seem all that immature when he was four, and then he added in an extra twist by becoming an advanced reader. So I made the decision, rather than have an academically bored child, I would send him to school, knowing he would have some catching up to do in other areas. It would happen. Eventually.
But it didn't.
Little Man has made friends in school, some of them quite close, but the other, more mature, boys have no time for him. He can't keep up on the playground, and he doesn't get some of the social nuances that come with time. If I am honest with myself, and it is very painful to be, I have spent the last few months exasperated with my child. I cringe over how many times I said in my own head, "Why is he acting like such a baby???". I have wanted my child to be other than what he is to fit in and I am ashamed of that - even if it was because I wanted his life to be easy. Aren't we all supposed to love our children exactly the way they are? What kind of mother am I? I'm the kind of mother who wants to go open a vein the bathroom when she tries to teach her son to defend himself from a older, playground bully and he asks, not having yet learned anything about that ways of the world, "Why would he hit me if he's my friend?" I thought if he would only grow up a little faster, all of these problems would sort themselves out.
Grow up faster? Isn't that exactly the opposite of the way I have been raising my children? Why was I pushing him ahead? Yes, it will be socially awkward for a while when his friends move up without him, but better a few difficult months than a lifetime of struggle. If I kept on this trajectory, he might always be the slowest or the last in everything. Sure, he might fit in just fine academically, but in all other areas, he might always struggle and that's not a fun way to go through life. So after meeting with the teacher, who said out loud every single one of my fears about LM's development, I decided to give myself and LM the gift of time (yes, I was right about the purpose of the meeting, as I am about where #2 has left her stuffed whale and whether or not #1 has really brushed her hair or just scraped it back into a knotty ponytail). It is such an immense weight off my shoulders, knowing he will have another full year to grow and develop. As for his reading, the teacher and I will put together a plan for him to continue to be challenged next year, so I'm not worried. I also know a few boys in LM's class now who are repeating, and they are such strong, confident kids, who the others look up to, I am reassured I am making the right decision. I think it would be kind of awesome next year if LM winds up setting an example of kindness and empathy for the younger boys.
It is so, so hard to admit when you have made a mistake as a parent - and this one could have been a doozy. Sometimes, expectations and reality are never going to match up and you have to adjust accordingly. Thankfully, the universe got the message across before it was too late and before my little guy ever had the chance to feel his mother didn't appreciate the sweet, gentle soul he is. I could never, ever forgive myself for that.
See your children for who they are, not what you want them to be. The universe gave them to you that way for a reason.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)