- Resolutions -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Closet Monsters -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Separating the Sexy Men From the Sexy Boys -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Conversations on the Edge of the Bed -- Patti See
- Gravida 5 or The Birth Project -- Carol Zapata-Whelan
- Elevated Blood Levels -- Kristen Hines
- Explaining Brooks -- Dewi Faulkner
- Wicked Stepmother -- Nancy Larner
- A Mother's Legacy -- Janet Cochrane
Showing posts with label January 2003. Show all posts
Showing posts with label January 2003. Show all posts
JANUARY 2003
The RESOLUTIONS Issues:
A Mother's Legacy
By Janet Cochrane
Raising six children left little opportunity for reflection. Today, as a grandmother, I reflect on the daily pattern of our lives then and the imprints on my mind and heart. I remember runaway time, the clock always won. My energy level evaporated by mid-afternoon. Mounds of old-fashioned soiled cloth diapers to be washed, or hung on the clothesline or clean diapers to be folded -- stared back at me. One small television for everyone's interests. Captain Kangaroo and Banjo Billy greeted us each morning. We remained sheltered from discontent by our love for one another and a sense of humor sprinkled with huge doses of reality.
The Joy of Cooking remained unopened, new recipes untried, and fresh flowers on the table consisted of whatever batch of weeds had flowered and been picked by little hands. Spaghetti (we didn't call it pasta then) plus hamburgers, hot dogs, and always a tuna noodle casserole on Friday night became weekly staples. Bob, my husband, and I became adept at dividing the smallest serving or leftover anything into six portions. This seldom happened (the leftovers, I mean). Simple meals cooked with love and flavored with the thoughts, smiles, and sometimes the groans of shared family conversation rivaled the empty plates of any Julia Child's dinner party.
When we first moved to the uncorporated area of Miami, Florida, we lost access to the city library. The local women's club ran a small library in an empty bookstore in a nearby shopping center. The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries soon became highlights of the trips to the store-front library. Years later, an elementary school librarian announced these books were not considered good academic reading. My response at the time and now is "Nonsense!" When your child lies on the floor with arms and legs spread, every which way lost in mysterious adventures or the adventurs of far away lands, any book is a winner. Encourage this wonderful gift of reading. Does it really matter what book captured your child's imagination? Opening a book before bedtime and sharing a story with your child nourishes the seeds of love and trust. My memories of this special time enrich each day with warm colors which the years have not dimmed. Don't let these moments pass by!
The practice of reading before bedtime continued even when I became a salaried working mom (as opposed to a stay-at-home mom who does not get paid for her work). Today, when my beautiful grandchildren read to me, my life is enriched over and over again.
Lest this turn into a discussion of the "old days" vs. "the modern day" with the tremendous pressures of parenting and the challenges faced by modern mothers, allow me to say that the one constant in each mother's day -- is love. Whether in the 60s or now, love bestowed is foremost in a mother's life. This is one lesson I have learned.
If you fall into bed and your tasks are unfinished (and they never are finished), but your child knows that he or she is loved and cherished -- you, mom, are doing a fabulous job. You are a success. The picture perfect house, messy bedrooms, spilled mild -- all that stuff isn't important. You gave your child something money cannot buy; something that nobody can eve take away, and will remain forever at the core of their being.
Not only as children, but as adults, they will carry your love with them -- every day of their lives. As a parent, this is your legacy. Love is the finest gift of all.
********************
Copyright 2003 Janet Cochrane
Raising six children left little opportunity for reflection. Today, as a grandmother, I reflect on the daily pattern of our lives then and the imprints on my mind and heart. I remember runaway time, the clock always won. My energy level evaporated by mid-afternoon. Mounds of old-fashioned soiled cloth diapers to be washed, or hung on the clothesline or clean diapers to be folded -- stared back at me. One small television for everyone's interests. Captain Kangaroo and Banjo Billy greeted us each morning. We remained sheltered from discontent by our love for one another and a sense of humor sprinkled with huge doses of reality.
The Joy of Cooking remained unopened, new recipes untried, and fresh flowers on the table consisted of whatever batch of weeds had flowered and been picked by little hands. Spaghetti (we didn't call it pasta then) plus hamburgers, hot dogs, and always a tuna noodle casserole on Friday night became weekly staples. Bob, my husband, and I became adept at dividing the smallest serving or leftover anything into six portions. This seldom happened (the leftovers, I mean). Simple meals cooked with love and flavored with the thoughts, smiles, and sometimes the groans of shared family conversation rivaled the empty plates of any Julia Child's dinner party.
When we first moved to the uncorporated area of Miami, Florida, we lost access to the city library. The local women's club ran a small library in an empty bookstore in a nearby shopping center. The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew mysteries soon became highlights of the trips to the store-front library. Years later, an elementary school librarian announced these books were not considered good academic reading. My response at the time and now is "Nonsense!" When your child lies on the floor with arms and legs spread, every which way lost in mysterious adventures or the adventurs of far away lands, any book is a winner. Encourage this wonderful gift of reading. Does it really matter what book captured your child's imagination? Opening a book before bedtime and sharing a story with your child nourishes the seeds of love and trust. My memories of this special time enrich each day with warm colors which the years have not dimmed. Don't let these moments pass by!
The practice of reading before bedtime continued even when I became a salaried working mom (as opposed to a stay-at-home mom who does not get paid for her work). Today, when my beautiful grandchildren read to me, my life is enriched over and over again.
Lest this turn into a discussion of the "old days" vs. "the modern day" with the tremendous pressures of parenting and the challenges faced by modern mothers, allow me to say that the one constant in each mother's day -- is love. Whether in the 60s or now, love bestowed is foremost in a mother's life. This is one lesson I have learned.
If you fall into bed and your tasks are unfinished (and they never are finished), but your child knows that he or she is loved and cherished -- you, mom, are doing a fabulous job. You are a success. The picture perfect house, messy bedrooms, spilled mild -- all that stuff isn't important. You gave your child something money cannot buy; something that nobody can eve take away, and will remain forever at the core of their being.
Not only as children, but as adults, they will carry your love with them -- every day of their lives. As a parent, this is your legacy. Love is the finest gift of all.
********************
Copyright 2003 Janet Cochrane
Wicked Stepmother
By Nancy Larner
When I said, "I do," I took three to have and to hold. And from that day forth becoming a step-mother was like having dual-citizenship, trying to understand the foreign language of instant motherhood.
Should I be friend, big sister, or parent? I was so desirous, so hopeful of capturing your love -- of being your alpine Maria-singing "Do-a-deer" on a mountaintop. That prize could not easily be won. You turned up your pre-adolescent noses at my dinners; used my make-up for your Halloween fantasy, without asking; muttered under your breath (what I was relieved not to hear)at my smallest request.
Had I been blessed with the privilege of your births, my wods would naturally and easily flow. But being the stand-in, "Don't do that," stuck in my throat like a lump of confusion. My feelings were on the spin cycle of the washing machine. Desire became twisted with fear, anger tumbled with understanding, and jealously partnered with pleasing -- until centrifugal force pressed me into a lifeless, unrecognizable form.
I now understand that Cinderella's step-mother should have sued for libel. Perhaps her haughty, uncaring demeanor was a coverup. She may have feared rejection, always the outsider, forever unloved. Perhaps, in her heart, she only wanted to soar with the blessdness of belonging and acceptance.
Love in a step-family doesn't come easily. It has to be earned. When discouraged, I wanted to take flight, but was grounded like wingless birds. Grounded with the responsibility of trying, yet again, because I said, "I do." And thus, I will.
***************
Copyright 2003 Nancy Larner
When I said, "I do," I took three to have and to hold. And from that day forth becoming a step-mother was like having dual-citizenship, trying to understand the foreign language of instant motherhood.
Should I be friend, big sister, or parent? I was so desirous, so hopeful of capturing your love -- of being your alpine Maria-singing "Do-a-deer" on a mountaintop. That prize could not easily be won. You turned up your pre-adolescent noses at my dinners; used my make-up for your Halloween fantasy, without asking; muttered under your breath (what I was relieved not to hear)at my smallest request.
Had I been blessed with the privilege of your births, my wods would naturally and easily flow. But being the stand-in, "Don't do that," stuck in my throat like a lump of confusion. My feelings were on the spin cycle of the washing machine. Desire became twisted with fear, anger tumbled with understanding, and jealously partnered with pleasing -- until centrifugal force pressed me into a lifeless, unrecognizable form.
I now understand that Cinderella's step-mother should have sued for libel. Perhaps her haughty, uncaring demeanor was a coverup. She may have feared rejection, always the outsider, forever unloved. Perhaps, in her heart, she only wanted to soar with the blessdness of belonging and acceptance.
Love in a step-family doesn't come easily. It has to be earned. When discouraged, I wanted to take flight, but was grounded like wingless birds. Grounded with the responsibility of trying, yet again, because I said, "I do." And thus, I will.
***************
Copyright 2003 Nancy Larner
Explaining Brooks
By Dewi Faulkner
Mothers get to watch a lot of sunrises. One of nature's biggest practical jokes is that babies and toddlers most often have needs that are in no way conducive to nighttime sleep. My nine-month-old daughter is cutting two enormous front teeth, and so has taken to living a cranky-baby swing shift: bed at four a.m. up at nine or ten, with a nice big nap around two in the afternoon. My four-year-old son woke up this very morning at five (nighttime in my book), and without any physical malady or discomfort to fall back on, opened his eyes wide in the darkness, searching for my face, and said only, "I sad."
Mothers get to watch a lot of sunrises. One of nature's biggest practical jokes is that babies and toddlers most often have needs that are in no way conducive to nighttime sleep. My nine-month-old daughter is cutting two enormous front teeth, and so has taken to living a cranky-baby swing shift: bed at four a.m. up at nine or ten, with a nice big nap around two in the afternoon. My four-year-old son woke up this very morning at five (nighttime in my book), and without any physical malady or discomfort to fall back on, opened his eyes wide in the darkness, searching for my face, and said only, "I sad."
After the quick climb into what Brooks has dubbed "the mommydaddy bed," he quickly went back into a peaceful sleep, cuddled between and intertwined with his father and I. Gabrielle rolled around in her big pen on the floor (the only place she'll deign to sleep as of late) moaning and whining and cooing and periodically waking herself up by tugging at the strawberry-colored tuft of hair at the top of her head.
This scene just about sums up the difference between my two children. From day one Brooks has been soft, kind, gentle, and accommodating almost to a fault. Gabrielle has a pleasant disposition as well, but can also be demanding, screechy, cranky, and impatient. She also has a high sense of drama and a great love of the taste of carpet fibers. In other words, and as I was told by my son's speech and occupational therapist a couple months ago, Gabrielle is more "normal."
Normal. This is a word I have spent my life avoiding. I've found that what most of the world sees as "abnormal" I consider unique or beautiful, or funny or art. I was raised to appreciate the shades of gray in the world, and I prefer to talk of differences rather than rights and wrongs. I'm not a fan of charts, averages, guidelines, or statistics. I don't care for things whose only purpose seems to be letting me know I'm not quite measuring up. I'm a banner carrying bleeding heart liberal. As of late, this seems to be something many folks are afraid to admit. Not me! I've made the mistake of straying from the left before, and I have to say, it wasn't pretty. My parents were embroidered-jean-wearing, folk-song-singing, seeds-and-sprout-eating hippies. As a child nothing was pounded into my head harder than the notion that one must thoughtfully consider all the angles and really question the rules before she decides something is truly "wrong" with a person.
But I've come to find out this isn't exactly the dogma of mainstream medicine. When I became pregnant with my son, I took on the characteristics of the typical nervous mother-to-be. Instead of trusting my upbringing, the strong matriarchal circle I was fortunate enough to be connected to, and my own blossoming maternal instincts, I decided I was going to make every effort to do things the "right" way.
I went a little crazy. I read all the books, had all the tests, hungrily lapped up every morsel of advice handed down by the crew of obstetricians overseeing my pregnancy (there were seven at my obstetrics practice, I rarely saw the same one twice). With each procedure, with each seemingly innocuous medical "recommendation" I ventured further and further away from my strong leftist upbringing. Perhaps there is some hormone combination intrinsic to the state of pregnancy that makes women feel they have to reinvent the wheel - if my mom did X, well then by God I'm going to do Z! In my need to create a pregnancy and birthing experience separate from Mom's, I fell square into the "better safe than sorry" trap that constitutes much of modern medicine today.
Brilliant and curmudgeonly comic George Carlin once said, "The reason the mainstream is referred to as a stream is because of its shallowness." I have watched this unfold time and time again first in my dealings with obstetricians and hospital staff and currently in my dealings with pediatricians and pediatric specialists. I will probably never be able to smile at the irony that when I first became pregnant I turned to modern Western medicine because I figured it would be the safer choice for my baby.
In the hospital delivering my son I was given too much medication through my epidural, and wasn't able to feel anything from the waist down until about three and a half hours after I delivered my son. Yes, I pushed him out completely numb, with the doctor telling me to just do what I would do if I could feel the lower half of my body. When I asked if the extra epidural could have caused any damage to my baby, the OB noddingly reassured me that there was no possibility that my child suffered any harm during the delivery. "You have a healthy, beautiful new son! Enjoy this time instead of worrying!"
Despite the less than perfect labor, I still trusted this doctor at this point, still figured his opinions were the safest, so I did what I was told. At the age of eighteen months my son was accidentally given two polio vaccines, one live virus and one synthetic. When the "nurse" came in and administered two injections, I had no idea that wasn't what was supposed to happen. At the next appointment the pediatrician argued at length with me that there was no way my son was given two vaccinations. When he saw the flush of anger creep up my face and my fists clench, I think he finally started to recognize that it was his staff that had made a mistake, not me. He was obviously not used to, or at least not used to having to admit to, being wrong. His narrow, pale face started to glisten under the office's halogen lights. A few pathetic assurances were bumbled out and then he tried to comfort me by letting me know that the technician who had injected my son was a temporary worker and would never work there again. In the reliable, levelheaded, safe world of mainstream medicine temps are given the responsibility of vaccinating infants.
At the age of almost four years old I am told that my son has -well, that my son has something. None of the circus of medical specialists who have examined and analyzed and tested him seems to know what to call it. The pediatrician simply says he is "behind" in speech, cognition, and physical coordination. The speech therapist the pediatrician hastily referred us to says it is either something called "sensory integration disorder" - or maybe it's just his hearing, but she doesn't think it's that, not enough to test his hearing anyway, but then again she can't be too sure. There are lots of names and terms and charts and things that are "supposed" to be happening in my son's development that are not, but no matter how much I beg for it, there is precious little explanation.
And through it all my mind regularly wanders back to the extra epidural and the double polio vaccine. I bring it up occasionally; ask if we can be sure that neither of these procedures affected my son's development. I'm always told with a serious nod that I have nothing to worry about, and that there is no need to look back and bother with all that anyway, because my son is going to be just fine. After a particularly heated discussion with my husband, the pediatrician even had the head of the CDC call and reassure us that if my son were going to have any adverse reaction to the vaccine it would have occurred within twenty-four hours. "If anything you should be happy!" she exclaimed. "He can pass on antibodies to others! He's super-immune!"
My husband was crimson livid about the vaccination mistake. And he agrees with me that the notion of a chicken pox vaccine, let alone a heavily commercialized, advertised chicken pox vaccine is absolutely ludicrous. But he thinks I overreact sometimes, thinks I over-worry; draw lines and conclusions that aren't necessarily there. He doesn't yet see the mainstream as a stagnant, shallow pool of water to be regarded with suspicion and sometimes even avoided. Maybe he never will. Maybe I am too radical. Battling these issues out with my husband has been one of the murkier aspects of childrearing for us so far.
And through it all there is Brooks. Precious, joyful Brooks. Brooks who I dutifully take to a speech and occupational therapist once a month because there is something "wrong" with him. Brooks who I want to do the right thing for. Brooks who I am, to this very moment, terrified of letting down. That's the only reason I don't tell all these people who want to cram my son into some arbitrarily-decided, homogenized little box to kiss my ass. Because what if this really will not straighten itself out on its own? What if he really needs this intervention, and I deny him that? Herein lies the true evil, horror-show of mothering: the endless stream of questions, second-guesses, and questioning of the questions that comes with wanting to do what's best for your child.
If I sound frazzled and unsure of myself, it's because I am. If it sounds like I argue vehemently for homeopathy and liberalism, but live well within the bounds of the mainstream, it's because I do. This is going on every day for me: another doctor, another opinion - another alternative, and despite my instincts I still have no idea what to do.
At Brooks' last speech appointment the therapist--young, bouncy, eager, with the loudest, most nasally obnoxious voice I have ever heard, corrected Brooks when he said "woo-woo" train instead of "choo-choo" train. I'm sorry, but don't both of these phrases fall directly into the category of nonsense gibberish baby talk? When was the last time you heard of a forty year old business man rush out of a meeting calling over his shoulder, "Sorry! Gotta run! Can't miss the choo-choo!" But choo-choo is the one we all say, the silly baby-talk phrase we've all come to agree on as "correct." It's in children's books, toy commercials, it's simply how you refer to a train if you're talking to a three year old. And I suppose this is all well and good except for one tiny problem: I don't want my son admonished because he is using the wrong made-up words. What will they get him on next? The rules of gibberish grammar?
And this is where I clash a lot with the therapists. I see a lot of what is different and "wrong" with my son as unique and wonderful - sometimes even a little bit magical. You can imagine the looks I get when I try to explain this, so I've pretty much stopped.
When Gabrielle was born I was fully, wholly prepared for that natural "normal" sibling jealousy, that subconscious hatred thing that happens when a new baby comes into the home. I was ready to be extra-forgiving and understanding of any anger or confusion Brooks had toward his new sister. I vowed to make sure they were never left alone in a room together, not even for a second, lest Brooks find himself overcome with emotions he didn't know how to handle. Everyone warned me of this phenomenon, and I was fully prepared. But the thing is, it never happened, not once, not even a little bit. And I have never seen anything like the torrent of unadulterated love that flows out of that little boy whenever he is near his sister. On more than one morning my husband and I have peeked into the kids' room to see Brooks lying in Gabrielle's crib, patting her head and singing "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" to soothe her back to sleep. How I wonder what you are. Up above the world so high, like a dinosaur in the sky.
When Brooks has an upset stomach he calls it a "bread tummy." He came up with this phrase all on his own, and if you think about it, doesn't it perfectly describe the feeling of nausea? Sort of a bloated, doughy, spongy kind of ailment. I love this phrase, and the whole family uses it now. According to the therapist, we're not supposed to encourage Brooks' "silly talk." But I think this one works; I think all of America should adopt it.
When he can't get his arms through the sleeves of his shirt he says, "My hands can't see!" When he's locked out of the bathroom he shouts, "I can't get over the door!" He refers to any living room as the part of the house that is "home." For example one might hear him shout from the bathroom: "All done bath! I want go home!"
I know I run the risk of sounding like a loving, but incredibly desperate parent. A mother who, in an attempt to see her child in the brightest light possible, is skewing the facts and realities of what is going on in the mind and body of her son. I know Brooks is different. I've watched him struggle with simple directions, answer yes or no to either/or questions, listened to him trail off the at the end of a babbled sentence because he has forgotten what he was trying to communicate. I know the reasons for all the concerns. I've been with him just about every single day, all day, since he was born.
But despite this, I can't help feeling that the further I remove Brooks from therapies, measurements, tests, and percentages the better off he'll be later in life. Brooks has a certain kind of inexplicable grace and light I don't feel should be messed with. Yes, I'm his mother. Yes, I love him with abandon. But I love both my children, and while Gabrielle is amazing in her own right, there is something in Brooks I have never before seen in anyone else, not even my own precious baby daughter. Brooks has a shine and a peace I don't want damaged with "better safe than sorry" intervention. Above all else, I feel my job is to preserve that glow. And if I can't convey this to Westernized pediatric therapy, well, we'll have to part ways.
Right or wrong, I know I won't ever be convinced that there is something deficient or lacking in my son. Can't they see that every morning, when I look into his face, I see the sun rise?
Separating the Sexy Men From the Sexy Boys
This year, People Magazine named Ben Affleck as their "Sexiest Man Alive." If you're like me (a 35-year-old married mother of two) or over the age of twenty, you probably have a bit of trouble accepting this declaration. I mean, sure he's cute, and sometimes even appears to be devilishly handsome (in a JFK Jr. sort of way). But "The Sexiest?" Call me crazy, but I like my men to have a bit more hair on their chest (if you know what I mean). Young hunks with puppy dog crushes do absolutely nothing for me.
Yes, isn't Ben romantic? We've all heard how he got down on one knee and proposed to his beloved J.Lo while surrounded with candles and flowers and armed with some outrageously expensive engagement ring.
But here's the thing: we've all been there, done that, blah blah blah. We all have a really romantic engagement proposal story within us. We all married our "supposed" princes. We all walked down the aisle in our magical wedding dresses and believed we would have our "happily ever afters."
However, we're mothers now. We're not naive schoolgirls who believe in all that fairy tale stuff. And we've been with our guys long enough to know the one truth in life: ALL MEN are romantic when they are wooing us.
But it's what happens after the "I do's" that really separates the "sexy men" from the "silly boys."
This is not meant to denigrate Ben Affleck. As a grown woman with children and almost a decade of married life, I simply have a hard time finding men without children sexy in any way. To me, a man without a child, is like...well....just a big baby, or a simple little boy.
It doesn't help Ben's case any that he had his "Mommy" help him secretly prepare for his proposal surprise. Sure that sounds really sweet right now and makes for good copy in People. But believe me Jen, when I tell you "It won't be so cute having his Mommy so involved in your romantic life after you've been married for twelve years!" In fact, it will be downright irritating.
JOHN AND JON:
My own idea for the "Sexiest Man" is a tie between John Travolta and Jon Bon Jovi. I don't know what it is about John and Jon, but these guys have the right stuff according to my book. These guys rule, because:
1) THEY ARE BOTH FATHERS
2) THEY ARE BOTH MARRIED TO THE MOTHERS OF THEIR CHILDREN.
3)They were cute when I was a teeny-bopper and they are still really cute.
4) They are both Jersey Boys, and being a Jersey Girl myself, that gives them an extra heads-up.
5) Maturity, commitment, and responsibility are sexy traits.
Now I'm sure someday Ben will grow into a "Sexy Man", but right now he's still a boy. If by chance he and Jen do marry (and stay married for more than a Hollywood minute) and raise a family of adorable little rugrats, he will surely gain my approval (Yes, I'm sure Ben is really losing sleep over my opinion).
The way I see it, you can't really judge how sexy a man is until:
1) You've spent a lifetime with him (or what seems like a lifetime)
2) The man has the ability to grow facial hair and raise a family at the same time and,
3) The man still knows how to make his partner (mate, wife, whatever) smile.
And I'll let you in on a little secret Ben: Yes, women like all that girl stuff - diamonds, flowers, poems, etc. But what we really love is a man who is committed to us and sticks around when things get sticky.
Throw in a couple of diaper changes, take out the garbage without complaining, and add a complementary back rub once in a while, and you might even have our vote for "Man of the Year."
**********************************************************************************
Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Closet Monsters
"Courage is not the absence of fear, it is the conquest of it." (Anonymous)
"Mommy," I hear a voice whisper in the darkness. I open my eyes, but without my contacts, I can't see a thing. Still, I know that the voice in the darkness belongs to my four-year-old daughter, Olivia.
"Go back to sleep," I groan.
"I want to sleep with you," she whispers.
"Go back to bed," my husband says from beside me.
"But Mommy, I want to sleep with you. I'm afraid!" Olivia starts to cry. My resolve crumbles easily with tears, especially at 3:00 a.m. in the morning.
"Come on," I say, as I draw back the blankets making room for my daughter to join me. In an instant, I feel the warmth of her body wash over me as our legs and arms become fused together as one.
This has been our little routine now for quite awhile. We all go to sleep; Olivia wakes up; then she rouses us; we protest; she sobs; we relent and tell her she can stay; and then, and only then are we finally able to resume our slumber.
These nightly battles are beginning to take their toll on my husband and me. We have become haggard, lethargic, and decidedly short-tempered.
"We have to put an end to this," my husband proclaims each morning. "Unless we're planning on going away to college with her, eventually Olivia is going to need to sleep without us."
It appears that our darling daughter desperately dreads the dark and the demons that she imagines reside there. I want to calm my daughter's fears and help slay her monsters. But how do I do that?
With nowhere else to turn, I look for a solution in several popular parenting magazines. I finally come across a scheme that seems like it might work. One night when my husband comes home from work, I present him with my creation.
"What is it?" Mike says, as he looks quizzically at the spray bottle of blue water I have concocted.
"It's Monster Spray," I tell him.
"It's Monster Spray," Olivia echoes.
"O.K. So what is it?" he says.
"Daddy it kills the monsters in my room," Olivia says with authority. My four-year-old then proudly takes the Monster Spray upstairs to place beside her bed. My husband continues to look at me as if I were insane.
"I got the idea from a magazine," I explain. "You give it to your child and tell her to spray under the bed and in the closets so that she can kill the monsters. Eventually the child is supposed to feel safe just by knowing she can use the Monster Spray if and when she needs it."
Mike balks at the idea. "You can't tell her that her monsters are real."
"To her, they are real," I say.
"But there's no such thing as monsters," Mike replies.
"I know that and you know that. But how do we explain to a four-year-old that her imaginary monsters are nothing more than a manifestation of her anxiety at being separated from her mother and father?"
"You can't tell her monsters are real," my husband says. "It's silly," he tells me.
Silly or not, I simply want to provide my frightened child with a weapon to fight her fears.
Besides, I disagree with my husband. I believe some monsters are absolutely real.
How else can you explain the fact that we live in a world where evil people commit unspeakable and heinous crimes against our children? Sleeping babies are kidnapped out of their bedrooms and brutalized. Mass murders occur in our schoolyards. Children are caught in the crossfire between gangs. Parish priests are perverts and pedophiles. And thanks to the constant media blitz on child abductions, assaults, and murders, it's difficult to imagine that our children aren't in imminent peril.
The truth is that we cannot guarantee the safety of our children. And this knowledge terrifies every single mother I know. None of us wants to believe that we can't protect the babies we once kept safely guarded within our wombs. And our deepest wish is that we could arm our children with a real Monster Spray that could protect them against any evil they might encounter out in the world.
But we can't and so even the simple act of dropping our children off at school can be incredibly anxiety-provoking. Sure we smile and assure our children that they will be fine. Then we get in our cars to leave and have flashes of panic in which our children are the victims of grisly and disturbing crimes or accidents.
Still most of us can quickly subdue these monstrous thoughts and reassure ourselves that our babies are being watched by benevolent caretakers who will safeguard them in our absence. We remind ourselves that the gruesome and sensational stories we hear about in the news are the rarest of exception, not the rule. Intellectually, we know that the majority of our children will never be the victim of a violent crime. And ultimately, we have to trust that the world is a safe place.
Unfortunately, not all mothers or fathers can do that. Some anxious parents cling to their own imaginary fears even more ferociously than my daughter. Ironically, these anxious parents don't see that their imaginary demons and Bogeymen only have life -- because they feed them and give them power.
In the end, my husband was right about the Monster Spray. Once the initial novelty wore off, it didn't magically eradicate all of Olivia's fears. Olivia only began sleeping in her room when we created a simple bedtime routine for her that allowed her to feel comfortable separating from us and going to bed alone. It took a lot of patience and perseverance, including many nights of marching her back to her room and letting her know that was where she belonged.
What I've learned from our battle with Olivia's monsters, is that mommies have demons of their very own. Just like toddlers, we too sometimes feel small and overwhelmed in a world that can be magnificent, colossal, and monstrous all at the same time. We too feel threatened by the disturbing thoughts that lodge in the darkest recesses of our mind. We too become anxious when we feel powerless to fight and control the unknown.
But as parents, we have a responsibility to our children to subdue our own fears. We must control our anxiety, rather than let it control us. We must show our children that the dark isn't such a scary place. We must reach for our very own metaphorical Monster Spray and absolutely refuse to let our anxiety manifest itself into its hideous monstrous form.
After all, sometimes there is nothing to fear -- but our own closet monsters.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Cleaning Out My Closets
Whew, am I glad the holidays are over. The damage is done though. I gained five pounds, lost a couple hundred bucks in Vegas, attended family's gatherings, and worst of all -- got distracted from my writing.
With my husband off from work, and my kids off from school for almost two weeks, we quickly got the heck out of New Jersey and headed for Lake Havasu City, Arizona (via Vegas) to visit with my in-laws.
I was actually able to relax for a couple days, but I felt so disconnected. I only checked my e-mail twice during the entire trip and I didn't do any writing (unless you consider the one tiny rewrite I did on a press release on my laptop on the floor of my room in the Luxor Hotel while my kids watched cartoons and my husband slept).
Well, I've been back in chilly New Jersey for about three days now and I'm still not done sorting through the mounds of laundry, mail, or my family's New Year's Eve tragedies. But as I embark on a new year, I am resolutely determined to continue with my writing and to keep the momentum going on The Philosophical Mother.
The first day back from vacation, I purposely wiped out my ailing hard drive on my computer and restored it back to it's factory condition. I dumped all the accumulated junk and saved just the important stuff. A new year, a fresh start.
The second day back, I did a lot of laundry, foolishly returned phone calls (and was filled in on more family tragedies), and took part in an online production meeting for the short film I am currently producing.
And the third day back I really got back to business. First, I found out that my script, The Indies, was selected as a Semi-finalist in the People's Pilot Competition. This was just the good news I needed to remind me why I continue to write screenplays and enough of an incentive to keep me motivated and focused. Writing is sometimes frustrating, lonely, and difficult. But on days where you get just a little positive response, writing is absolutely fabulous.
Secondly, I found my inbox full of essay submissions for The Philosophical Mother. So after months of toiling alone, trying to simultaneously write articles, design and update the magazine, and also promote the site, I finally feel as if I'm starting to make contact with the outside world. And I'm ecstatic to know that I was right -- I am not alone -- other mothers like me do exist out there! I enjoy reading every single submission and I promise to get as many in the publication as I can. Keep them coming, girls.
Finally, with the new year beginning, I solemnly resolved not to fall back into toxic relationships. A new year, a fresh start. Just like Eminem, "I'm cleaning out my closets." With that in mind, this month I'm sharing an essay entitled Closet Monsters for everyone, young and old, who cling to irrational fears, afraid to open their closets and face their demons.
As Nicole Kidman says (as Virginia Woolf) in the film The Hours, "You can't find peace by avoiding life."
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
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