- Miss Independent -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- An Imaginary World -- Regina Walker
- Operation Evacuation -- Susan Krushenick
- Buddies -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Fresh Starts -- Norene Kelly
- My House is Empty -- Rachel Iverson
- Winging It -- Mary Foglia
- Somebody's Been Sleeping in My Bed -- Tracy C. Alston
- Freedom -- Julien Kane
Showing posts with label July 2003. Show all posts
Showing posts with label July 2003. Show all posts
JULY 2003
The INDEPENDENCE Issue:
Freedom
By Julien Kane
The mother of a toddler stands just inside the doorway with an outstretched hand and a blue-striped diaper bag, once slung over her shoulder, now sliding down her arm towards her wrist.
She is trying to coax her little boy, dressed in jean shorts and a baseball jersey, into the coffee shop. "Come on, we'll get a treat. Do you want a cookie? Come on, come with Mommy," she says, trying to sound patient.
All she wants is to sit at a table that isn't in her kitchen, enjoy a cup of coffee that she can't set down only to rediscover an hour later -- ice cold and the color of a rubber band -- after she's dressed, played, and changed her morning away.
The child finally agrees to the invitation, shunning her hand, and running at high speed towards the other side of the room. She once again hoists the bulging bag, undoubtedly filled with twice as many toys, pacifiers, and books as she would ever need for this desperately-planned field trip. The mother calls out her son's name, anxious to discover if he's gotten in someone's way, or knocked something over. She knows where he is. She knows it all too well.
I sit with my cup of hot coffee, watching. I too know where my children are on this warm spring morning. My oldest, a boy, is in middle school, my daughter is in kindergarten. I have arrived at a place in my parenting journey where there is a little freedom, where every move does not necessarily have to be coerced or cajoled.
On a morning like this, I do not have to watch my son hide under a table, or crumble a cookie onto the floor and cry (loudly) that he wants another one. In those days, my coffee may have grown cold here, as hers probably will, or would have had to be tossed after only minutes when it became clear that it's time to leave.
It was worth a try, I would have thought -- at least he'll be tired and ready for his nap after lunch. I would have looked forward to a reasonable amount of time in the afternoon when I could catch up on laundry or read the morning paper. Maybe make another pot of coffee. Before I know it, he will awaken from his nap, his blond hair plastered to the side of his head drom the heat, his cheeks pink from sleep. He'll be smiling, wanting to play, wanting to go outside, wanting a cookie. Rejuvenated, I want to do it all with him.
I sit and think of those days as I watch this boy's small hand reach for the cookie his mother is offering. At this moment, I have the quiet that I thought I longed for. But somehow, the silence at my table seems deafening.
The mother of a toddler stands just inside the doorway with an outstretched hand and a blue-striped diaper bag, once slung over her shoulder, now sliding down her arm towards her wrist.
She is trying to coax her little boy, dressed in jean shorts and a baseball jersey, into the coffee shop. "Come on, we'll get a treat. Do you want a cookie? Come on, come with Mommy," she says, trying to sound patient.
All she wants is to sit at a table that isn't in her kitchen, enjoy a cup of coffee that she can't set down only to rediscover an hour later -- ice cold and the color of a rubber band -- after she's dressed, played, and changed her morning away.
The child finally agrees to the invitation, shunning her hand, and running at high speed towards the other side of the room. She once again hoists the bulging bag, undoubtedly filled with twice as many toys, pacifiers, and books as she would ever need for this desperately-planned field trip. The mother calls out her son's name, anxious to discover if he's gotten in someone's way, or knocked something over. She knows where he is. She knows it all too well.
I sit with my cup of hot coffee, watching. I too know where my children are on this warm spring morning. My oldest, a boy, is in middle school, my daughter is in kindergarten. I have arrived at a place in my parenting journey where there is a little freedom, where every move does not necessarily have to be coerced or cajoled.
On a morning like this, I do not have to watch my son hide under a table, or crumble a cookie onto the floor and cry (loudly) that he wants another one. In those days, my coffee may have grown cold here, as hers probably will, or would have had to be tossed after only minutes when it became clear that it's time to leave.
It was worth a try, I would have thought -- at least he'll be tired and ready for his nap after lunch. I would have looked forward to a reasonable amount of time in the afternoon when I could catch up on laundry or read the morning paper. Maybe make another pot of coffee. Before I know it, he will awaken from his nap, his blond hair plastered to the side of his head drom the heat, his cheeks pink from sleep. He'll be smiling, wanting to play, wanting to go outside, wanting a cookie. Rejuvenated, I want to do it all with him.
I sit and think of those days as I watch this boy's small hand reach for the cookie his mother is offering. At this moment, I have the quiet that I thought I longed for. But somehow, the silence at my table seems deafening.
Somebody's Been Sleeping in My Bed
By Tracy C. Alston
Okay, so my otherwise independent, five-year-old daughter, Sasha, still sleeps with me at night.
I'm a post-divorce single mom (i.e. lonely). My bed is queen-sized, and there are big, scary monsters in her room. No, really, and the toys come alive too (at least the ones with working batteries).
Never mind that she has a room fit for a princess decorated meticulously in sweetheart red, Barbie-pink, and snow white with her own TV/VCR/DVD/stereo combination, and twinkling, glow-in-the-dark stars that illuminate her ceiling like a virtual galaxy. Did I also mention that she is fully equipped with protective night lights and monster repellent (lightly scented water in spray bottle)?
I suppose my bed is just a tad bit more comfortable than hers. I mean, I do have one of those egg-crate mattress covers. Plus the closer she is to my heartbeat, well, the closer she is to recreating the womb-like feeling in her not-so-distant past.
Don't think that I haven't tried to kick her out of my bed on several occasions, but deadlines have come and gone with each new birthday, or life milestone (when you can go to the potty all by yourself, when you start kindergarten, etc.). I've also tried reductions such as "only on the weekend," but that hasn't quite worked. It's not like monsters take the weekend off, you know?
All right, you may be thinking that there could possibly be a little co-dependency going on here. You might be on to something. After all, I must admit that I'm a little scared of the dark. And who isn't afraid of things that go bump in the night? Didn't you ever hear that there is safety in numbers? Having someone nearby to call 911 while I beat up any monsters that manage to get into the monster-free zone is quite comforting.
Besides, I don't have to use cotton balls every single night to silence her snores (not very loud, but consistent). And most of the time, she stays on her side of the pillow we affectionately call "The Wall"-- to reduce the number of times her feet kick my face. But the biggest benefit for this arrangement manifests itself in my bouts with insomnia. It's at those times, that I look at her sweet angelic face sleeping peacefully next to me and I just smile at my blessing. She's an instant cure for loneliness.
So what's the harm? She'll be out of my room by the time I find a Prince Charming and live happily ever after, right?
Of course, she will. But just in case she's my permanent bed partner, I better make sure that I have a nice comfortable couch for Mr. Charming. Oh, yeah, I better have some monster repellent too.
Okay, so my otherwise independent, five-year-old daughter, Sasha, still sleeps with me at night.
I'm a post-divorce single mom (i.e. lonely). My bed is queen-sized, and there are big, scary monsters in her room. No, really, and the toys come alive too (at least the ones with working batteries).
Never mind that she has a room fit for a princess decorated meticulously in sweetheart red, Barbie-pink, and snow white with her own TV/VCR/DVD/stereo combination, and twinkling, glow-in-the-dark stars that illuminate her ceiling like a virtual galaxy. Did I also mention that she is fully equipped with protective night lights and monster repellent (lightly scented water in spray bottle)?
I suppose my bed is just a tad bit more comfortable than hers. I mean, I do have one of those egg-crate mattress covers. Plus the closer she is to my heartbeat, well, the closer she is to recreating the womb-like feeling in her not-so-distant past.
Don't think that I haven't tried to kick her out of my bed on several occasions, but deadlines have come and gone with each new birthday, or life milestone (when you can go to the potty all by yourself, when you start kindergarten, etc.). I've also tried reductions such as "only on the weekend," but that hasn't quite worked. It's not like monsters take the weekend off, you know?
All right, you may be thinking that there could possibly be a little co-dependency going on here. You might be on to something. After all, I must admit that I'm a little scared of the dark. And who isn't afraid of things that go bump in the night? Didn't you ever hear that there is safety in numbers? Having someone nearby to call 911 while I beat up any monsters that manage to get into the monster-free zone is quite comforting.
Besides, I don't have to use cotton balls every single night to silence her snores (not very loud, but consistent). And most of the time, she stays on her side of the pillow we affectionately call "The Wall"-- to reduce the number of times her feet kick my face. But the biggest benefit for this arrangement manifests itself in my bouts with insomnia. It's at those times, that I look at her sweet angelic face sleeping peacefully next to me and I just smile at my blessing. She's an instant cure for loneliness.
So what's the harm? She'll be out of my room by the time I find a Prince Charming and live happily ever after, right?
Of course, she will. But just in case she's my permanent bed partner, I better make sure that I have a nice comfortable couch for Mr. Charming. Oh, yeah, I better have some monster repellent too.
Winging It
By Mary Foglia
I am a mother of three daughters, and all the old cliches hold true. They are the "apples of my eye"-- "my joy" -- "sugar and spice and everything nice" (that is, sometimes). At other times, other cliches hold true. "Spare the rod, spoil the child" -- "children should be seen and not heard" -- "in my day, children showed respect for their elders."
Being a mother these days is different. We grew up with all the old rules, yet as budding parents we infested ourselves with countless childrearing books, and watched countless hours of Oprah, all in an attempt to enlighten ourselves to the secrets of being wonderful parents, to having perfect children. How delusional can one get? There are no secrets. Childrearing is mostly "winging it." At least in my case. Thankfully, I've always been good at winging it.
When my daughter Jilly asks if she can be excused from the dinner table with hardly a bite of dinner eaten, I simply ask her how old she is. When she answers "six," I tell her she must eat six more bites before she leaves. It works. When my rowdy daughter Kristy climbs to the top of the jungle gym, I ask her how old she is. When she answers "four," I tell her she can climb up four levels. My youngest, Maria, isn't even a year-old, so the age thing doesn't work, though I know it will in the future.
Was this secret of getting my children to obey my wishes by correlating my desired response to their age ever mentioned on Oprah, or in Dr. Spock's books? I know it wasn't. I was winging it, and it worked. Who know why it works. I've tried it on friends' children, and the results are always positive. Give it a try, and see what I mean.
When my older daughters get into on of their drag out fights, I make life a musical. Figuring out who had it first, or who took what from whom, is often a fruitless pursuit with young children. So I break into song. I repeat verbatim their words in high-pitched voices, accompanied with flamboyant gestures. They get angry initially, but once each has heard the other's side being voiced this way, we all end up laughing. Dr. Brazleton wouldn't agree with this method, but these moments happen too often to go into lecture mode. Children sometimes see the nonsense of these arguments. Make the moment lighter, laugh it off. The success rate for this secret depends on your child's temperament. With my own, it works 85% of the time.
My personal favorite "winging it" technique is the Group Hug. When any member of the family declares Group Hug Time, everyone must get up and join together for an embrace. There is no acceptable reason to decline. This technique was instilled from day one. And I call Group Hugs more than anyone. I love them. It often helps after conflicts, but we mostly use it for no reason at all. I love when my daughters call a Group Hug. Some nights, when competing, we've launced a hundred Group Hugs. Since competition between siblings is to be expected, I find this competition to be beneficial to all. The success rate is immeasurable. It's off the scale.
These are but a few of my "winging it" moments or techniques. I find if you let yourself be open to children, to see things through their eyes, not only do you gain insight into how to raise them -- but you also enjoy life much more.
My eyes still flip through childrearing books, but mostly they look into the eyes of my daughters. They are the ones with the secrets. I'm sure of it.
I am a mother of three daughters, and all the old cliches hold true. They are the "apples of my eye"-- "my joy" -- "sugar and spice and everything nice" (that is, sometimes). At other times, other cliches hold true. "Spare the rod, spoil the child" -- "children should be seen and not heard" -- "in my day, children showed respect for their elders."
Being a mother these days is different. We grew up with all the old rules, yet as budding parents we infested ourselves with countless childrearing books, and watched countless hours of Oprah, all in an attempt to enlighten ourselves to the secrets of being wonderful parents, to having perfect children. How delusional can one get? There are no secrets. Childrearing is mostly "winging it." At least in my case. Thankfully, I've always been good at winging it.
When my daughter Jilly asks if she can be excused from the dinner table with hardly a bite of dinner eaten, I simply ask her how old she is. When she answers "six," I tell her she must eat six more bites before she leaves. It works. When my rowdy daughter Kristy climbs to the top of the jungle gym, I ask her how old she is. When she answers "four," I tell her she can climb up four levels. My youngest, Maria, isn't even a year-old, so the age thing doesn't work, though I know it will in the future.
Was this secret of getting my children to obey my wishes by correlating my desired response to their age ever mentioned on Oprah, or in Dr. Spock's books? I know it wasn't. I was winging it, and it worked. Who know why it works. I've tried it on friends' children, and the results are always positive. Give it a try, and see what I mean.
When my older daughters get into on of their drag out fights, I make life a musical. Figuring out who had it first, or who took what from whom, is often a fruitless pursuit with young children. So I break into song. I repeat verbatim their words in high-pitched voices, accompanied with flamboyant gestures. They get angry initially, but once each has heard the other's side being voiced this way, we all end up laughing. Dr. Brazleton wouldn't agree with this method, but these moments happen too often to go into lecture mode. Children sometimes see the nonsense of these arguments. Make the moment lighter, laugh it off. The success rate for this secret depends on your child's temperament. With my own, it works 85% of the time.
My personal favorite "winging it" technique is the Group Hug. When any member of the family declares Group Hug Time, everyone must get up and join together for an embrace. There is no acceptable reason to decline. This technique was instilled from day one. And I call Group Hugs more than anyone. I love them. It often helps after conflicts, but we mostly use it for no reason at all. I love when my daughters call a Group Hug. Some nights, when competing, we've launced a hundred Group Hugs. Since competition between siblings is to be expected, I find this competition to be beneficial to all. The success rate is immeasurable. It's off the scale.
These are but a few of my "winging it" moments or techniques. I find if you let yourself be open to children, to see things through their eyes, not only do you gain insight into how to raise them -- but you also enjoy life much more.
My eyes still flip through childrearing books, but mostly they look into the eyes of my daughters. They are the ones with the secrets. I'm sure of it.
My House is Empty
By Rachel Iverson
My house is empty this morning. Totally empty. Empty in the way it used to be on Saturday mornings before my son was born. My dog, who used to fill up so much space in the house, sleeps in the sun. She seems lifeless compared to the kind of reckless energy my three-year-old boy generates.
I'm not sure how to feel about the quiet. I love it, and I feel guilty for loving it. I know it's temporary. The minutes are ticking and the silence won't last more than another hour. He'll be home from preschool, and I'll be snatching up dropped juice cups, marveling at soccer balls kicked high in the air, and whispering assurances that borrowed toys will be returned.
I'll be a mom again. I want to cry when I think of how much I love mothering -- and how much I want my freedom from it. I hate myself for not being more content, for loving the "child-free silence" of my home with a passion that I imagine would horrify the moms I saw modeled in the Jif and Kool-Aid commercials of my youth.
I close my eyes and project myself into the future. I can see my fifty-five-year-old self. Now I have more time alone than I know what to do with, and I regret my impatience.
I see myself sitting at a desk. It's cluttered and messy, just like all my desks have been since I was a girl. I'm typing and sorting through scraps of papers when I stop to flip open my thesaurus, and I glance at a picture of my kids. My three-year-old is a man. His platinum-blond baby hair has mutated to a head of sandy brown wavy locks, but his smile is the same. The daughter that still kicks inside my belly stands next to him, smiling with a closed mouth. She's growing into a woman.
A squirrel rustles in the leaves on the tree outside my window, and I try to imitate the way my son couldn't say "squirrel" and it came out sounding something like "afierral."
And then I remember skinny bare legs that needed kissing after a fall on cement, balloons that floated into the sunshine before I could anchor them to a wrist, and ketchup-and-dirt-streaked faces smiling at me.
But a lot of the time, I was rushed. Rushed and impatient. I yelled when he pulled his shoes and threw them in a mud puddle. I sighed when I was asked to sing "Wheels on the Bus" for the seventh time. I turned the radio volume up when I couldn't stand to hear another plea for juice coming from the backseat.
I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to write. I wanted to think about profound and challenging philosophical and political issues. I wanted to prove something. I wanted to prove I was more than my peanut butter stained sweatpants and tennis shoes full of park sand. I wanted to prove I was smarter than conversations about potty training, and Halloween costumes.
But now my writings are on a shelf behind me. The stacks of words and paper are a testament to my perseverance, my creativity, and my brilliance. Sure, I'm a little wrinkly around the edges, but I've done the work I longed to do. And I'm still writing. But it doesn't have the whisper of new love on it anymore. It doesn't have the scent of my son's musky breath when I'd lean into his crib late at night. It doesn't have the satisfied sleepy smile of a milk-drunk newborn.
I knew their childhood wouldn't last, but at the time it seemed like it would last forever. I thought I'd be eternally enduring screaming fits because I cut a sandwich into pieces that were deemed too small, or put the orange juice in a blue cup instead of a green cup. I thought wrapping presents for birthday parties, and dropping off and picking up from school would never end. But it has.
Now, I can read the Sunday New York Times in bed without listening to the sing-song voice of Barney in the background. When I have to pee, I can be sure nobody will follow me into the bathroom, and ask me what I'm doing. I can go to the movies anytime I feel like it. Morning matinee, midnight showing. Doesn't matter. Because nobody needs me home to make dinner. Nobody needs a tissue for a runny nose. Nobody needs a haircut, or a new pair of tennis shoes.
Now, it's just me and my books, and my words. All of the words I've collected over the years. The words I've stored away from the time I was young, and I finally have all the time I need to unravel them.
My hands rest on the keyboard a little longer. I wait for a sound, some noise to disturb my work. I listen for a dish breaking, or a little voice yelling, "Mommy, can you help me?"
But it doesn't come. And I begin to type.
My house is empty this morning. Totally empty. Empty in the way it used to be on Saturday mornings before my son was born. My dog, who used to fill up so much space in the house, sleeps in the sun. She seems lifeless compared to the kind of reckless energy my three-year-old boy generates.
I'm not sure how to feel about the quiet. I love it, and I feel guilty for loving it. I know it's temporary. The minutes are ticking and the silence won't last more than another hour. He'll be home from preschool, and I'll be snatching up dropped juice cups, marveling at soccer balls kicked high in the air, and whispering assurances that borrowed toys will be returned.
I'll be a mom again. I want to cry when I think of how much I love mothering -- and how much I want my freedom from it. I hate myself for not being more content, for loving the "child-free silence" of my home with a passion that I imagine would horrify the moms I saw modeled in the Jif and Kool-Aid commercials of my youth.
I close my eyes and project myself into the future. I can see my fifty-five-year-old self. Now I have more time alone than I know what to do with, and I regret my impatience.
I see myself sitting at a desk. It's cluttered and messy, just like all my desks have been since I was a girl. I'm typing and sorting through scraps of papers when I stop to flip open my thesaurus, and I glance at a picture of my kids. My three-year-old is a man. His platinum-blond baby hair has mutated to a head of sandy brown wavy locks, but his smile is the same. The daughter that still kicks inside my belly stands next to him, smiling with a closed mouth. She's growing into a woman.
A squirrel rustles in the leaves on the tree outside my window, and I try to imitate the way my son couldn't say "squirrel" and it came out sounding something like "afierral."
And then I remember skinny bare legs that needed kissing after a fall on cement, balloons that floated into the sunshine before I could anchor them to a wrist, and ketchup-and-dirt-streaked faces smiling at me.
But a lot of the time, I was rushed. Rushed and impatient. I yelled when he pulled his shoes and threw them in a mud puddle. I sighed when I was asked to sing "Wheels on the Bus" for the seventh time. I turned the radio volume up when I couldn't stand to hear another plea for juice coming from the backseat.
I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to write. I wanted to think about profound and challenging philosophical and political issues. I wanted to prove something. I wanted to prove I was more than my peanut butter stained sweatpants and tennis shoes full of park sand. I wanted to prove I was smarter than conversations about potty training, and Halloween costumes.
But now my writings are on a shelf behind me. The stacks of words and paper are a testament to my perseverance, my creativity, and my brilliance. Sure, I'm a little wrinkly around the edges, but I've done the work I longed to do. And I'm still writing. But it doesn't have the whisper of new love on it anymore. It doesn't have the scent of my son's musky breath when I'd lean into his crib late at night. It doesn't have the satisfied sleepy smile of a milk-drunk newborn.
I knew their childhood wouldn't last, but at the time it seemed like it would last forever. I thought I'd be eternally enduring screaming fits because I cut a sandwich into pieces that were deemed too small, or put the orange juice in a blue cup instead of a green cup. I thought wrapping presents for birthday parties, and dropping off and picking up from school would never end. But it has.
Now, I can read the Sunday New York Times in bed without listening to the sing-song voice of Barney in the background. When I have to pee, I can be sure nobody will follow me into the bathroom, and ask me what I'm doing. I can go to the movies anytime I feel like it. Morning matinee, midnight showing. Doesn't matter. Because nobody needs me home to make dinner. Nobody needs a tissue for a runny nose. Nobody needs a haircut, or a new pair of tennis shoes.
Now, it's just me and my books, and my words. All of the words I've collected over the years. The words I've stored away from the time I was young, and I finally have all the time I need to unravel them.
My hands rest on the keyboard a little longer. I wait for a sound, some noise to disturb my work. I listen for a dish breaking, or a little voice yelling, "Mommy, can you help me?"
But it doesn't come. And I begin to type.
Fresh Starts
By Norene Kelly
I am making a fresh start. I let my daughter cry today. Twice. And I didn't yell back. I just took it in, and breathed it out, and decided that it was okay.
Claire is almost 18-months-old. I try to respond to all her cries, all her whines, all her wants. I want to give. I don't believe that attention spoils a child. But this protocol is makng me not want to be with her. I want to escape the Claire-prison.
She is in daycare full-time, and my husband John takes her half the time. The rest is up to me, and still it can seem too much.
I made this decision today, because I wanted to make dinner. I was hungry. I wanted to make a meal for myself and my family - something I don't do very often, and miss accomplishing. But I know that she will cry upon my leaving her and Dr. Seuss, so that I can cut, and fry, and microwave. I dread that cry. It is fingernails clawing my eardrums and heart.
So I decided to put Claire in the baby sling and carry her on my hip while I cook (as numerous progressive baby books suggest). These books extol the virtue of staying physically close to your child -- because that engenders emotional closeness. These same books rebuke the parent who ignores a crying child.
I think I am progressive, and do not want to be rebuked. I look all over the house (Claire in arms, of course) for this baby sling that babies are supposed to love, but Claire never did. I find it in the basement.
I put her in the sling, which, of course, she doesn't like. I tell her to shush up because I am doing what is right. How can she complain about that? I get the tater tots in the pan. I put the veggie burgers in the microwave. She grows heavier, and I grow resentful. Claire grabs things, and I tell her to stop it because here I am, doing her this great favor -- keeping her close, and lugging her around (like all those baby books tell me).
But I can't cut the bread with her slung on my hip. So that is the end of that. I put her down and brace myself. Tears pour, noise escalates, snot flows, as she hovers about and under my feet. I maneuver around her and put on NPR, as loud as I need to hear it above the pleas.
I work on dinner. I focus on the radio to suppress my desire to scream SHUT UP! They are talking about toy factories in China. They say that there are more child laborers in the world than there are people in the United States.
My guilt, my anger, are put into perspective -- and ebb. Claire's cries are simply there. Dinner is getting made. By the end of the segment, Claire calms herself, and goes to the cupboard. And I say, happily, to reward her for giving me peace, "Where's Claire? Where's my sweetie?"
A few minutes later, when I give her pieces of veggie burger and tater tot, I think -- So what? Give Claire what you can, and let her cry. Let it be okay, and it will.
I am making a fresh start. I let my daughter cry today. Twice. And I didn't yell back. I just took it in, and breathed it out, and decided that it was okay.
Claire is almost 18-months-old. I try to respond to all her cries, all her whines, all her wants. I want to give. I don't believe that attention spoils a child. But this protocol is makng me not want to be with her. I want to escape the Claire-prison.
She is in daycare full-time, and my husband John takes her half the time. The rest is up to me, and still it can seem too much.
I made this decision today, because I wanted to make dinner. I was hungry. I wanted to make a meal for myself and my family - something I don't do very often, and miss accomplishing. But I know that she will cry upon my leaving her and Dr. Seuss, so that I can cut, and fry, and microwave. I dread that cry. It is fingernails clawing my eardrums and heart.
So I decided to put Claire in the baby sling and carry her on my hip while I cook (as numerous progressive baby books suggest). These books extol the virtue of staying physically close to your child -- because that engenders emotional closeness. These same books rebuke the parent who ignores a crying child.
I think I am progressive, and do not want to be rebuked. I look all over the house (Claire in arms, of course) for this baby sling that babies are supposed to love, but Claire never did. I find it in the basement.
I put her in the sling, which, of course, she doesn't like. I tell her to shush up because I am doing what is right. How can she complain about that? I get the tater tots in the pan. I put the veggie burgers in the microwave. She grows heavier, and I grow resentful. Claire grabs things, and I tell her to stop it because here I am, doing her this great favor -- keeping her close, and lugging her around (like all those baby books tell me).
But I can't cut the bread with her slung on my hip. So that is the end of that. I put her down and brace myself. Tears pour, noise escalates, snot flows, as she hovers about and under my feet. I maneuver around her and put on NPR, as loud as I need to hear it above the pleas.
I work on dinner. I focus on the radio to suppress my desire to scream SHUT UP! They are talking about toy factories in China. They say that there are more child laborers in the world than there are people in the United States.
My guilt, my anger, are put into perspective -- and ebb. Claire's cries are simply there. Dinner is getting made. By the end of the segment, Claire calms herself, and goes to the cupboard. And I say, happily, to reward her for giving me peace, "Where's Claire? Where's my sweetie?"
A few minutes later, when I give her pieces of veggie burger and tater tot, I think -- So what? Give Claire what you can, and let her cry. Let it be okay, and it will.
Buddies
The sun bakes my back as I walk toward the lakefront, my ten-year-old daughter's hand in mine. My husband and two sons are out fishing for the day, so Nancy and I will have this time to ourselves. Vacation allows me to make up to her for all the hours I had pushed her aside during a busy, hectic year."Hi Sheila." Nancy scampers off toward the tall teenager headed down the path, another guest in our cottage colony. For just a minute I feel hurt and then grin. Who needs this time together for reassurance, Nancy or me?
I settle myself on the blanket in the soft sand listening to her squeal with delight as she reaches the raft with Sheila and Amy, who is also vacationing here. Nancy proudly jumps off the raft and swims back quickly "just like the big girls." I feel proud of her abilities and self-assurance.
Tired at last, she drops onto the blanket next to me proclaiming, "I want to be an athlete when I grow
up, Mommy."
My daughter is seeking a lifestyle for herself, following her role models who still frolic jubilantly in the shimmering water. "Want to go for a walk, Nan?"
"Gee, Mom, I'm kind of tired right now." Her sideways glance and sheepish look amuse me. Trying not to hurt my feelings, she gives me a reassuring pat on the arm.
After a rest, Nan and I plunge into the cold pond together for the first time. She's solicitous, making
sure it's not too cold for me.
"Oooh, Mommy I love you!" she squeals, giving me a giant bear hug and submerging me at the same time. I tire easily and see the disappointment on her face as I leave the water after only a short time to collapse on the blanket. In a moment, she sits beside me and rests her arm on my shoulder. As she sun warms us I can feel the water bubbles prickle my skin as they evaporate. Gulls soar overhead; crows surrounding the lake gossip noisily. I'm aware for the first time in endless months that I feel and this awareness brings the realization I'm coming alive again after the numbing winter with its responsibilities and hectic pace.
Nancy soon disappears up the hill to get herself a snack from the cabin and I'm alone again, amused.
She returns and shares her potato chips and iced tea with Sheila and Amy and then charges into the pond with them trying to match their proficient backstroke. I'm impressed with the loveliness of one and the athletic ability of the other. Both are bright, sharing girls who are now vacation friends. Their openness and honesty toward each other is refreshing as they compare notes about their abilities, school, parents, and boys. Nancy's beaming face reveals her delight at being included. I watch my daughter as she frolics in the water; all inhibitions have dropped away. She sings, twirls and churns through the green coolness.
Finally, she hauls herself up onto the raft, blue swimsuit glistening, tossing the water from her hair in mitation of her new friends. She's leaner, older, more independent. I picture my daughter in a few short years, a young lady maturing and growing away from me. But somehow it doesn't bother me.
I know she will be fine.
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Copyright 2003 Gerry Di Gesu
Gerry Di Gesu is a retired school secretary who divides her time between homes in New Jersey and Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Her essays and poems have appeared in The New York Times, Catholic Digest, The National Enquirer, Cape Women Magazine, and in a variety of publications, journals, and anthologies. She hopes to publish a collection of her work next year. Gerry says, "Retirement has allowed me to write full-time and totally enjoy days spent with my husband, children, and grandchildren. My life is full of joy; I am blessed."
Operation Evacuation
Sponsored by the Secret Society for Parental StrategiesThe following instructions are for the proper removal of waste, toxins, old food particles, dishes, dumb little toys from fast food restaurants, and other gross items that gravitate into the rooms of children. If followed correctly, you should feel a sense of productivity, cleanliness, and mastery over the "waste lands" in your home. Good luck, and may the Cleaning Force be with you.
Please read all warnings and cautions before attempting this operation. Failure to do so may result in you being forced to listen to the ravings and rantings of a child screaming, "Get out of my room!" "You can't throw that away!" "It's not fair!" And the ever popular, angry-child declaration of "I Hate You!"
WARNING: Operation Evacuation is not recommended for:
* Those with a weak gag reflex
* Pregnant women (six-months-or more, as you may get stuck under bed)
* Pack rats
* Those who cannot withstand the pressure of interrogations that begin with, "Have you seen my --?"
* Those who would answer "Have you seen my --?" with "I threw it away."
CAUTION:
DO NOT perform this procedure in the presence of anyone under 18-years-old.
Keep this information OUT OF REACH OF CHILDREN who can read.
FAILURE to follow all steps may result in "getting caught".
In the event of ACCIDENTAL EXPOSURE, deny everything and say, "I didn't mean to throw that away, I was simply tidying up a bit." Promptly terminate operation and resume in a few weeks when you are sure the coast is clear.
BEFORE YOU BEGIN:
To obtain optimal results you will need the following:
Econo-size box of lawn and leaf bags (Do not use clear plastic)
Heavy duty gloves (the type used for garbage collecting)
Surgical facemask
Vacuum with attachments and three spare bags
Phone numbers to Poison Control, Hazardous Waste, Game Warden, and Center for UFO
Sightings
Hospital strength disinfectant
Several cups of strongly brewed coffee
A Three hour block of time
OPERATION INSTRUCTIONS:
If you've read the above information and feel confident, you may begin following the step-by-step instructions.
Step 1: Give child a hug and kiss good-bye and remember to wave as the school bus disappears from sight.
Step 2: Suck down a minimum of two cups of coffee, gather equipment, and head for the room intended for evacuation.
Step 3: Using foot, kick away all debris, creating a pathway to the bed.
Step 4: Apply surgical mask and gloves.
Step 5: With garbage bag in hand, shimmy under the bed. (If anything moves, GET OUT QUICKLY and call the Game Warden and the Center for UFOs)
Step 6: Place in garbage bag the following: all things green and hairy, broken toys, small foreign objects that defy the human mind's capacity to make sense of what they might be, packaging of all varieties, ripped papers, all dolls-regardless of gender-who have suffered immeasurable amputations, every bit of Play Doh that has yucky stuff embedded in it, and anything else that appears to hold no value what-so-ever.
Step 7: Place all crusty dishes and milk-stained glasses in one pile and all dirty underwear, single socks, and the pantyhose (you've been looking for since last spring), in another.
Step 8: Attach hose to vacuum and in Rambo-style suck up all dust bunnies, dust buffalos, and anything you are afraid to touch even with gloves.
Step 9: Working clockwise around the room, continue the same search and destroy procedure you performed while under the bed.
Step 10: When all garbage and bacterially-infested objects have been removed from the area, vacuum thoroughly. *Remember that small pieces of lint and string may need to be picked up and dropped several times before vacuum sucks them up.
Step 11: Spray area with disinfectant.
Step 12: Remove surgical mask and gloves. Triple knot or twist tie all trash bags.
Step 13: Take all trash to dump, pronto! If this is not an option, hide all bags in trunk of car until trash day.
Step 14: Launder all soiled clothing, and depending upon your personality type, you may either soak the filthy dishes and glasses for a period of 1.3 years, or donate them to science.
Step 15: Every four minutes or so, compulsively step into the room to admire your work as well as the beautiful carpeting that surfaced once all the crap was gone.
___________________________________________________
CONGRATULATIONS! You've successfully completed Operation Evacuation.
Do you have a question, comment, or concern? Please feel free to write us at:
What A Pig Sty
123 It's Outta Here
Ain't Life Grand, VT 11111
Or
Call us toll free, Monday thru Friday 8-3
1-800-CHUCK IT
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Copyright 2003 Susan Krushenick
Susan Krushenick graduated from Vermont College in June 2002. Her first published essay, "Are You A Candidate for Mother-of-the-Year?" appeared in the May issue of The Philosophical Mother, where she has since joined as a Regular Contributing Writer. Susan lives in Warren, Vermont with her husband and children.
An Imaginary World
Zachary has many imaginary friends and since they are all his brothers, I have many children. They have the same name, Bob; so it is confusing and we have taken to calling them Bob1, Bob2, Bob3, etc. Their lives are fluid and though I am their mother sometimes, they have many mothers and many homes.Zachary created a map for me once of imaginary world that included lakes and streets and buildings. Zachary says he has visited and possibly his brother Sam too, though Sam would never tell.
More often, the Bobs visit us and though they are invisible to all but Zachary, they are very much a part of our lives. For quite awhile I would inadvertently sit on them until finally Zach told me they were actually jumping beneath me before I sat down. Apparently the Bobs have a sense of humor similar to Zach's.
As time goes on I learn more about the Bobs and their world which has become more complicated. They have pets; a dog named Spot and a hippopotamus named Elbert and they live in Imaginary Town. I am told by Zach that imaginary town is small (approximately 3 or 4 miles across) and is characterized by perpetual ice and snow. This allows for limitless snow ball fights, sledding, and the making of snow angels which Zach says occupies most of the Bobs' time.
Imaginary town is encircled by a sea and within this sea are small islands that are inhabited by what are thought to be extinct animals. There is Dodo Island, Mammoth Island, Saber Tooth Island, and there is a wall around the whole shebang of Imaginary World. Zachary says there is a gate through which one can gain entrance but you have to be a kid and even most kids don't know about it. The gated entrance can be reached through secret portholes which are under the bed, in the back of the closet, through the storm sewer, and under manhole covers.
Oh, and everyone in Imaginary World is a vegetarian including the Bobs, though Zach himself eats hamburgers and chicken nuggets.
I am mesmerized by Zach's creation and though I recognize elements of Imaginary World from books we have read or movies we have seen, there is much in Imaginary World that is truly Zach. The Bobs feel real to me too and lately so do Spot and Elbert. Last weekend, Zach and Sam and I were taking a walk and
talking a great deal about Imaginary World. I had been asking a lot of questions and I could see the wheels turning when I asked a particularly intricate question. Zachary started off slowly saying "Well, you see Mommy, things are very, very, very different in Imaginary World."
He seemed to be both buying time while also channeling this alternate universe when we were interrupted by a homeless man who asked in a loud, theatrical voice to no one in particular, "If olive oil is made of olives and corn oil is made of corn, what is baby oil made of?"
Zachary paused then looked at me and said "Mommy, real people can be so strange."
And though I smiled and said nothing to Zachary, I did strongly agree.
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Copyright 2003 Regina Walker
Miss Independent
Mothers, it seems, collectively desire much more "freedom" in their lives.Did we have any idea when we embarked on motherhood that our darling babies would take over so completely? I know I didn't.
Did we ever imagine ourselves begging and bargaining with a non-verbal human being in a diaper just so that we could score a couple hours or even minutes to ourself? Of course, we didn't.
Do we sometimes now daydream about jumping into a classic sky blue convertible and driving off alone into the sunset hoping to find Brad Pitt hitchhiking? Of course, we do. We're moms, we're not dead.
Freedom is a precious gift to moms. Most of us probably don't feel we have enough of it; at least not from the toddler who still accompanies us to the bathroom, latches on to our bodies, or insists on sleeping between us and our partner at night. But we also know that we are lucky to have our families. And while we sometimes feel overwhelmed, crowded in, and even chained down, we also wouldn't change a thing. We are happy to trade in the carefree lifestyles of our unattached child-free-selves, for the fleeting and irreplaceable moments we currently share with our dependents.
Besides, compared to women from other countries, we moms in America do enjoy a great amount of personal, political, and creative freedom. And this July 4th, as our soldiers come home from a war, or we read about atrocities towards women in other countries, we are aware of and grateful for our liberties more than ever.
But we also know how much farther we have to go. According to the non-profit grassroots organization, MOTHERS, "correcting the economic disadvantages facing caregivers is the big unfinished business of the women's movement." Women who decide to stay home as their children's primary unpaid caregivers, or even those who opt for flextime, or work-at-home options, become "dependents" as far as our government is concerned. Ironically, by choosing to make our children a priority, we may sacrifice our future personal and financial success. MOTHERS states that "Motherhood has become the single greatest risk factor for poverty in America."
As a writer and artist, I am grateful to live in a country that grants its citizens the great Freedom of Speech. I'm not forcing anyone to agree with me on any of my own personal or political ideas. I am, however, exercising my freedom to express them. And I respect the opinion of others to disagree with me. One of the advantages of being an independently-owned-and-operated webzine is that I do not have to answer to advertisers or others.
Of course, in choosing independence, I have also (once again) chosen a route of little financial reward. Freedom, does have its price, after all.
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Copyright 2003 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
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