- The Best of Times -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
- Having Another? -- Regina Walker
- Lost in Transition -- Elizabeth Katkics Thompson
- Ode to My Family -- Gerry Di Gesu
- Multi-Level Mothering -- Elizabeth Ross
- Under the Influence -- Linda MacKillop
- My First Time -- Jim Turner
- Daddy Says 'Knock You Out' -- Jay Allen
- Tooth Fairy Madness -- Rachel Johnson
- The Morning Chase -- Andrea Harris
- If Only Time Stood Still -- Paula Schmitt
- And We All Sang Happy Birthday -- Avis Drucker
- The Noisy Bath -- Sarah Bain
Showing posts with label June 2004. Show all posts
Showing posts with label June 2004. Show all posts
JUNE 2004
The DADS and GRADS Issue:
The Best of Times
Back when I was in Saint Agnes Elementary School, 8th Grade graduation was taken very seriously. We had pomp and circumstance, caps and gowns, autograph book signings, and all the usual flurry of activity that marked a major academic advancement. For those of us who had attended Saint Agnes from kindergarten all the way up until 8th Grade, it also marked the end of most of our childhoods. We had been thumb-sucking babies when we entered the school. But by graduation we were gawky teens with pimples, leaving the only school and the only learning environment, besides our homes, that most of us had ever really known.
When I think back to that time in my life, more than twenty-years ago, the memories are now distant and faded. But I still remember the buzz of excitement -- the feeling as if I was about to be launched out into the world. With its uniforms and strict Catholic discipline, many of us thought of Saint Agnes as a prison, and graduation was our "escape." We felt as if we were finally "free".
In reality, we had high school looming on the horizon, and college after that. Work or additional post-graduate studies for some would follow. And each of us would experience a series of graduations; continuously moving forward into the world and on with our adult lives.
For some reason when I think back to my Saint Agnes graduation, I always hear the Styx song, The Best of Times playing in my mind. I'm not even sure if this was the theme of my graduation or not. I do know that it was scrawled on one of our graduation programs, but with seven siblings, our graduations all blur together to me. Either way, the song was successfully embedded in my psyche in such a way that each time June rolls around and the world readies for graduations of every shape and size, I get a bit nostalgic, and my mind immediately conjures up the words and melody that Dennis DeYoung sang all so long ago:
Our memories of yesterday will last a lifetime
We'll take the best, forget the rest
And someday we'll find these are the best of times
These are the best of times...
As a graduation anthem, The Best of Times reminded us that even in the midst of celebration and change that we should step back and enjoy the current moment. It reminded us that we were building memories that would last an entire lifetime. And it helped us realize that we wouldn't fully appreciate the present until the future, when we could look back with nostalgia and selective memory.
It also was an incredibly catchy and sentimental tune; the type that lives on and on, long past the band that created it.
In a couple of weeks, my five-year-old son will be graduating from Pre-K. His school holds a rather elaborate ceremony at the local high school, in which all of the kids receive their "diplomas" while wearing caps and gowns. There is a substantial charge to attend the graduation which includes a musical show. This year, the school is performing Grease. When my daughter graduated from Pre-K three years ago, they performed The Wizard of Oz.
As it happens, we're flying to Seattle for a wedding at the end of June so we'll actually miss Jared's Pre-K graduation. In a way, I feel relief, since we can skip the cost of tickets, $40 video, new clothes, etc. But it is also an emotional relief because I'm not sure how I would feel having to watch my "baby" graduate.
Jared isn't upset about missing graduation one bit. He likes practicing the Grease songs for the show, but he's shy and doesn't really like performing for a crowd. He's also still young and probably won't have any real strong memories of his school and thus won't have any regrets about missing graduation. As we all know, the Pre-K graduation is really for us -- the parents, and not the kids.
Events like these that our young children cannot fully appreciate, allow us parents to capture new memories; each of us attempting to take away a snapshot of the moment in which our babies were on the brink of so very much.
I've found that one of the hardest things about being a parent is helping our children make these major transitions while trying to keep up with the speed of life's changes ourselves. Nobody explained to me in my parenting manual that I would be graduating along with my children, but without the "public fanfare".
As Jared prepares for the graduation that he won't attend, I am reminded that I am no longer a mom of two babies . . . or two toddlers . . . or two preschool children. With a blink of an eye, I will officially graduate to MOSAC -- Mother of School-Age Children.
And this major transition for me and millions of other parents will go unacknowledged. We won't get to walk before a crowd, receive our diplomas, have graduation parties or open expensive graduation gifts. We simply celebrate this new stage in our own lives through our children, watching proudly as they move forward in life.
Some of us adapt quickly to life's changes and accept the growth our children experience. Some of us hold on tight and try to ignore the impending changes before us. Most of us, dutifully snap our pictures and smile as our children become graduates and begin the next phase of their lives.
I don't think I'll cry at my children's various graduations through life, but only time will tell. However, I do know that I'll be humming along with Dennis DeYoung, "These are the best of times. . ."
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Copyright 2004 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a mother, freelance writer, and independent filmmaker who lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, and children Olivia (7) and Jared (5). Her essays and articles have appeared in print in Brain,Child Magazine, Pregnancy Magazine, Welcome Home, The Independent (Film & Video Monthly), Nurturing Magazine, and online at Literary Mama, Women's Enews, The Imperfect Parent, MomPlanet.com, PhillyMama.com, AbsoluteWrite.com, and more.
Having Another?
“Are you going to have another?” I get the question often these days as I am approaching the age when Mother Nature slows down the factory in preparation for going out of business.“Are you going to go for the girl?”
I am both amused and bemused by that question. I have two sons and I am the youngest of four daughters, no boys. Many people assume I won’t be happy until I have at least one of each.
I answer in a variety of ways, mostly with humor. “Well, I already have my heir and the spare” or “What if I get another boy? I’ll have to sell it.”
People laugh or not, but they usually don’t ask again.
My mother always wanted a son. And as the youngest of four daughters I can say I’m glad she kept trying for awhile before giving up. But I am done. In a good way done.
I do get in touch with a sense of sadness, at times, that that period of my life has passed. The years of thinking, planning, and anxiously anticipating marked a significant time in my life. Now I am raising my sons which is another chapter fraught with its own perils and distant unknowns.
“We need another baby." I am startled by Zachary’s sense of earnestness when he makes this statement. Zach is eight and is looking at me quite seriously as he says this.
“Why do we need another baby, Zach?” I ask.
“We just do.” is his terse response.
I am surprised, but assume it is more of a reaction formation than anything else. Zach has been fighting with greater frequency lately with his three-year-old brother Sam. Either Zach really doesn’t want us to have another child or he is hoping we can trade Sam in for a better model.
“Well, I don’t think we will be having anymore babies Zach. Is that okay with you?” He looks at me with disappointment then goes off to play with his Star Wars X Wing.
My response stays with me. What I should have said is "I" won’t be having any more babies. Zach on the other hand may someday be the patriarch of a large clan of children if that is what he wants and destiny sees fit to give it to him.
I approach Zach later. “You know,” I say, “someday you may be somone’s daddy. You may have babies.”
“Oh. I am definitely having lots of kids Mom. But I still want Sam to live with me.”
“But Sam is going to grow up too,” I point out. “He may want to have a family of his own.”
“But he will always be my family too, Mom. And so will you and Dad, right?”
“Absolutely right Zach. We are always a family.”
Zach starts recalling a scene from Jimmy Neutron so I know he has lost interest in the topic. But I haven’t. I think about the stages of family. It begins by being the child and eventually becoming the parent, but it actually begins so much longer before that and goes on and on after. I think of my place in the line; the lineage and what a small but integral piece I am.
“Are you going to have another?” Well, maybe in a way I might.
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Copyright 2004 Regina Walker
Since March 2003, Regina Walker has been a monthly contributing writer to The Philosophical Mother magazine. Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, widdershins, The Future Generation, Motherevolution, Commie Mommie and the online magazine www.stickyourneckout.com. Her work will be featured in upcoming issues of Atheist Bear and Motherload. Regina is the author of the Clinical Viewpoint column in the Substance Abuse Letter published by Pace Publications. She received a B.A. from Bennington College and an MSW from Fordham University. Regina is a social worker and addiction treatment specialist in NYC.
Lost in Transition
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“I see Michael’s mom, I see Hannah’s mom, I see Alessandra’s Dad and I see Girard’s mom . . .”
My son’s preschool teacher dismissed her class everyday in the same way. As I waited for my son’s name to be called, I could see him sitting at one of the long tables looking very flushed and a little unhappy.
My son’s teacher continued calling out the rest of the children, except for my son. She must have perceived that I was less than happy waiting with a cranky two-year-old, because she lifted a finger toward me and mouthed the words in a very animated way, “I need to speak with you,” and I instinctively began to worry. Past history dictated that whenever someone “needed” to speak with me, especially one of my children’s’ instructors, it was probably not going to be on a good note.
As the last of my son’s classmates handed a tote bag to his/her parent, I silently entered into the school’s play room and walked over to my son. I ruffled his hair when he didn’t bother to lift his head and asked, “Are you feeling okay, buddy?” He shrugged his shoulders and got up to retrieve his jacket from one of the last hooks on the coat rack. He picked up his tote, said goodbye to his teacher, and waited for me by the front doors.
Honestly, my first reaction was that of irritation. What was it going to be this time? Not that he’s been having any kind of trouble in school; it’s just that my son’s mood hasn’t been exactly predictable. The littlest things either give him tremendous pleasure or intense angst. This could be as complicated as a playground scuffle with a best friend, or as simple as coloring with a blue crayon thinking it was purple. His two older sisters are already at the age where prepubescent mood swings were customary and his youngest sister was asserting herself to be a toddling little drama queen. I was getting to the point where I was spending the entire day consistently putting out one fire after another. And quite frankly, I was worn out.
“Glen seems so sad, lately.” I raised my eyebrows and tentatively nodded my head while she continued, “He’s just not acting like himself. Even in his paintings – he used to be so elaborate and recently he’ll complete a couple of strokes and say that he’s done. Is there anything wrong at home or is there something bothering him in class?” She wasn’t exaggerating and I wasn’t surprised or in the least bit insulted. I put my hand on her shoulder and thanked her for her concern and told her that I would talk to Glen, but I would have to talk to her the following day as I was already running late.
My two-year-old quickly feel asleep in her car seat and I took the opportunity to chat with Glen on the drive to my daughters’ elementary school. He quickly answered his teacher’s concern by telling me that he was sad and scared. Sad, because he didn’t like to leave me during the day and he was worried that I would forget to pick him up from school. Sad, that he might have pushed one too many of my buttons and I didn’t want him to come home. Or, finally and more to the point, he was afraid that something was going to happen to me. As he put it, “There are just too many things changing around here!”
Our family has gone through a tumultuous amount of changes this year and my son’s teacher was very well aware of most of them – my father’s recovering health, my uncle dying, my grandmother dying, my brother’s wedding, my brother’s deployment over seas, just to name a few. I just turned forty and as if that wasn’t change enough, in what seems like just a blink of an eye, my boy grew up and is starting full-day kindergarten in September.
Certainly there were other families going through their share of changes. As most adults know, everyone has at least one sad story to tell. But I felt miserable that I wasn’t able to effectively mask my own feelings of loss and sadness from my son.
There was no sugar-coating the fact that rarely does anything ever stay the same. Nor did I necessarily think that they should. But, quite frankly, ever since 9/11, I fear a lot more than I would ever care to admit – especially to myself. And I’ve tried my best, as a parent, not to emit this fear onto my children, but couldn’t help but feel that these were indeed the times for vigilance. How was I ever going to protect and nurture them, properly, at the same time and with the least amount of scarring possible? This perhaps has been the most wearing for me because my children are at such vastly different stages in their lives, requiring individual levels of maintenance – some higher than others. There are many times when I feel as if I’m literally getting lost in the crowd, clawing my way through one problem after another. On top of that, I sometimes even have to deal with a few demons of my own. And there is definitely no sugar-coating that.
So I began to cry with my son – right there in the middle of downtown traffic – and the best comfort I could give him was to acknowledge that a lot of things scared me too. After all, change happens. He was growing up and surely there were happy and exciting changes coming. But the one thing that would never change is that I would always love him, no matter, and that we would face our fears, together.
I walked him into school the next afternoon with the idea that I would simply tell my son’s teacher that, “Glen is sad, because Mommy is sad. But we’re working on being happy again.”
As he dropped his tote bag and coat, he saw one of his friends already in the class room and pushed passed me when I shouted after him, “You need to give me a kiss, please.” He stomped back toward me, smacked his chunky lips on my cheek and said, “And don’t forget to pick me up – woman!”
Thus, we went our separate ways once more – both of us a little happier and perhaps comforted by the fact that there are some things that just don’t change.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
Ode to My Family
My older son is thirty-eight and was recently installed as the Exalted Ruler of the Elks Lodge in the town where he lives. To some, not a big deal; to me, everything. Chronic asthma, severe learning disabilities and always being the outsider because he was klutzy and different, “not one of the guys”, plagued him throughout his school years. I cried every September, dreading what the new school year would bring. I could have saved my tears, for Kevin is a survivor.
We adopted Kevin when he was one week old and I would love to meet his birth parents. One or both of them has the personality, sense of humor and grit which they passed on to our son, enabling him to conquer his handicaps and problems, and become a wonderful man. My husband and I cope well and I like to think I’m pretty level-headed and a survivor, but neither of us has the degree of mental toughness Kevin required to make it. Nurture or nature – the old story. His wife, Kathy, is a gift, who continues to encourage him and help him become all he can be.
As he walked to the podium for his acceptance speech during the installation ceremonies a few months ago I cried. But when he started to deliver his acceptance speech, a total feeling of joy erased any residual tears. I remembered the boy who stuttered and stammered through grade school. And I marveled at the man who stood before me.
My younger son Chris, thirty-six, has re-located his business, and after working endless hours for the last twelve years has realized a dream by opening a brand new pizzeria-restaurant a few blocks down from his former location. Only his determination, integrity, work-ethic and sense of self enabled him to survive this nightmare experience.
The hardest thing to watch was the erosion of his trust in people and in the ethics and values of the business community. Honest, driven, and self-motivated, he gives only the best of himself and expects honesty and quality in others. That didn’t happen as he climbed over endless roadblocks and faced daily obstacles and disappointments that would have made others quit.
He never felt sorry for himself but kept his sense of humor and balance - how, I don’t know. His wife and two sons are his whole life and his love for them provided the bright spot and reality in each day for him. When I watch a couple work together toward making a successful family and life with great love as Marta and Chris do, I know they will be blessed with joy and success.
My daughter Nancy became engaged in February and when I return to Cape Cod, which is where she lives, I’m looking forward to the joy of watching her and her fiance as they start to make wedding plans. It’s delightful to know that she’s level-headed and wise and as they plan their wedding I’ll be happy to sit on the sidelines. I know, you’re thinking -- “Oh, sure, she thinks she’s going to sit there and agree with everything and not get involved." I’m sure I won’t agree with everything, but after watching my daughter struggle for years to find a sense of self and enjoy the person she found, I’m not about to intrude on her joy.
Nancy has struggled with depression for many years and only through her constant willingness to work hard through therapy and try various medications to find the right one has she been able to achieve a happy and balanced life. Her future husband is a most wonderful man – supportive, caring, loving, and willing to do more than his share to help them achieve their goals in life. Nancy will also become a step-mother (still considered that awful word) to the greatest little seven-year-old guy. He’s a honey and they’re forming a bond through love which can only become stronger and better. I am blessed to have all of them in my life.
My husband and I are happier today than we have ever been. We’ve had the same rocky times as all couples and recent years have been more difficult. But I have to admit that our relationship today is much better because I am finally grown up enough to be able to see that much of his past criticism of me was right on target and I either couldn’t or wouldn’t see it at the time. And he’s gentler, gets aggravated less easily, and is more patient. Older can be better in many ways. Or maybe it was the Medicare cards which arrived to let us know just where we are in life!
I published my first book and it is so exciting, a dream come true. I’m scheduled for my first book signing in June on Cape Cod and I hope to have more of them throughout the summer. I’m finding self-promotion extremely difficult since it’s hard for me to find the balance between selling myself and seeming arrogant. But I’m getting there and surprisingly, starting to get the hang of it and enjoy the process. Maybe there’s a more self-assured me inside that I didn’t know was there.
As I read this over, I’m reminded again of one thing I always told my kids: To love is one of the greatest, most wonderful and most difficult jobs on earth.
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Copyright 2004 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. Gerry has recently published a collection of her essays, Keep Quiet, You're Only A Girl which is available from iUniverse, Amazon, and barnesandnoble.com and at your local bookstore. Email Gerry at gerrycapecod.net@att.net.
Multi-Level Mothering
I watched my own mother do this for almost as long as I can remember, and I believe it must happen to just about every woman at some point or another in her life. Of course I was in a sort of denial about my personal aging, especially since there are still many around me who keep claiming I am still young. Apparently it is only obvious to those select few, since now I’m expected to mother in multiple directions, just as my own mother has.It is a transition, when the mothering moves from just towards the next generation to the previous ones as well. Thankfully, my mother is not completely incapacitated or anything, and what is expected of me is relatively minimal at the moment. But the fact remains that I find myself giving motherly counsel to my own mother. Sometimes it is not-so-friendly reminders about silly little things, like paying bills on time, when I happen to catch a bill-collector’s phone call. Other times it is the little reality check I give her about the impending hazard of her brother putting their mother in a nursing home. My role of daughter is slowly shifting to a more maternal role.
In my better moments, I try to write this off to just my mother still having trouble adjusting to my father’s death, but as the time passes by, I realize that this is probably wishful thinking on my part. The fact is that my mother is not as young as she used to be, and the fact that she is the primary caregiver of my grandmother is slowly aging her before her time. The family joke is that my grandmother will outlive us all, basically by wearing the rest of us out in the process of caring for her. Cynical in the best light, and probably a little downright nasty to think such a thing, but I’ve learned that there is no use in building guilt over it. I would just add to the veracity of the statement, making myself ill from self-loathing.
So here I am, barely in my thirties, knowing I’ll soon have to call that mid-thirties, and biding time until I have to really start taking care of my mother in the same way she takes care of hers. My mother is a Baby Boomer, and now I’m starting to truly see the impact that her generation is going to have on all of us. This is not to say that we should be angry or anything; it is just a statement of reality, that many of my friends will be in the same situation as I will, and a great deal of our time and money will be devoted to the care and upkeep of our parents. Forget the debates about whether or not Social Security will be there by the time our generation retires, it won’t. No bitterness involved in that comment, since I’ve been a long advocate of personal savings over dependence on state funding.
It’s a transitional point, between still being my mother’s child, and needing to care for her more than I already do. I look at my children, and hope I don’t end up causing any of them to do this, remaining completely capable to the last of my days. It wouldn’t surprise me if my mother had similar thoughts when she was my age, looking at her own grandmother’s failing health.
So it’s my turn to start caring for multiple generations at once, as that is what I was taught to do from the beginning. I know as a part of my role, I will be making myself well-versed in the world of AARP, MediCare, a myriad of prescription drugs, paid in-home caregivers, and personal-care homes. My bookshelves will have tomes on geriatrics sitting next to the pediatric volumes.
In the end, it’s all a cycle, full of experiences and changes.
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Copyright 2004 Elizabeth Ross
Elizabeth Ross is a 32-year-old mother of four, freelance writer and editor from Pennsylvania. Her work has appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, The Imperfect Parent, MomsVoice, and is slated to appear in Momentum, the magazine of the National Catholic Educational Association. She is the publisher of River Walk Journal, a bi-monthly online literary journal which is an expansion of her online editing group.
Under the Influence
June is graduation time, a season of celebration, endings, and reflection. As my son prepares for his departure from high school and imminent move to a college dorm, I’ve been reflecting on what has influenced him over the years. When we initially meet people in life, after first noticing their dress, facial expressions, mannerisms, and general appearances, we unconsciously move to the presence or absence of influences in their life. Something stands in everyone’s background, and that influence give off hints of company kept and places visited.
Influence is an interesting concept. Authors often reveal their literary influences – the other writers they’ve been reading and absorbing. William Styron admits to being influenced by other Southern writers like William Faulkner, Robert Penn Warren, and Thomas Wolfe. The discerning reader can hear that influence lingering in the background.
Musicians are the same way. A rock and roll band that loves Celtic music includes a tin whistle or the emotional sounding bagpipe and suddenly they are described as having a “Celtic influence.” A musician’s favorite band flows into their own music, and someone else’s sound becomes a part of their own.
The word “influence” began in Latin with the astrological term “influential” which means “to flow in.” It denoted a sort of fluid that was supposed to be given off by the stars to influence human character and destiny. There is also the different notion of “emanation” that had its roots in the Italian word “influenza” or “epidemic.” I find it interesting to think our influence over our children can sometimes be compared to a flu virus you want to destroy.
When we consider a parent’s influence, the word’s definition applies. Our physical characteristics most certainly “flow into” our children – a mother’s nose, a father’s height, a grandfather’s hair texture - but so does our value system, our opinions, our tongue, and our behavior. All these things work together to shape our children’s “destiny.”
When we meet young graduates, either we see that they’ve been left to their own designs and they suffer from a lack of positive influences, or we “see” protection and provision, love and sacrifice, the effects of braces, the teaching of manners, the influence of church, the results of studying, the purchase of clothing. We see that someone planted a value system, turned off the television and introduced good books. Those who have been taken on vacations carry the aroma of distant mountains and oceans, hikes and backpacking trips. They’ve been forced to get a job, taught to pay their way, and to live by truth.
Those who have been left alone often carry sadness or melancholy. A mother told me recently that her son had the tragic experience of spending time in a federal prison – every parent’s nightmare. When the young man had a dental emergency, the prison dentist took one look at her son’s teeth and chided, “Someone cared enough about you to take care of your teeth like this and you wound up in here?” Straightened, strong teeth say lot about past influences, but so do other things.
I know some of my influences in my son’s life have been good, and some I’d like to erase with a big, fat eraser. Thank goodness I’m not the only one who has influenced him. Others have “flowed” into him as well – his friends, and enemies, classmates, teachers, and all of his experiences combined. If you listen, you’ll hear them there in the background of his life. His youth pastor has shown him that it’s worth giving up an engineering career to devote your life to developing future adults, encouraging my son to see people the same way. His wrestling coaches have shown him that they’re excited when he succeeds, but they’ll stick by him when he loses with a hug, and an encouraging word. His peers have both admired and disliked him, leaving him with residues of both confidence and insecurity. He’s been rejected and despised and loved and adored, which shows through in his yearning for the real and the true, mixed with an awareness of the false and worthless.
He’s been around the wise and the foolish, developing a discerning eye between those competing elements. Family has shown up for both the dark and exulting moments, loved him when he was unlovable and asked forgiveness when they were unlovable. Friends have shown him that others can love you as much as your own blood relatives, sometimes more. He’s been influenced by adults who cared enough about an inexperienced, immature teenager to hang out with him on a Friday night and play guitar, egging him along to confidence and never hinting that his guitar was untuned, or that he needed a lot more practice to match their experience level. Those adult friends attend his band concerts and wrestling matches, and help him make video presentations. Their gift of time has influenced his view of his own worth, as well as the worth of others. I know my son is one of the lucky ones.
I’ve been preparing for that emotional moment of watching my son receive his diploma. Always at those major times in life, we see a million elusive memories with all the years melded into one. The same will be true as he walks across that podium in his cap and gown – I’ll see the image of a hyperactive youngster whirling into a seven-year-old washing his father’s station wagon and further into a grown young man driving away in his own car. I’ll hear his voice deepening from the high frequency of youth into the deep tones of young manhood. His hair will be long, short, long and then stand on end in stiff, chaotic tendrils.
All of his life’s influences will be there, too, lingering in the background. They are the hidden authors who have written his prose and provided the detail - the emotional bagpipe and tin whistle that sings of others in his past, resounding in his actions, shaping his attitudes while he goes out and spreads some music on his own.
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Copyright 2004 Linda MacKillop
Linda MacKillop is a mother of four sons, with the last being twins. She lives in Midlothian, Virginia, as a transplanted Yankee. But she loves the speed of life there and its conduciveness to raising a family. Linda has a background in Communications, having spent a number of years as a television engineer before staying home with her boys. While at home, she returned to graduate school and earned a master’s degree in English.
My First Time
I can remember it like it was yesterday, not unlike any other fall day. It would soon be a day I would never forget. I always knew this day would come, but I never knew once it had arrived, I would be so nervous for my inexperience. After all, didn’t everyone know how to do it? Wasn’t this a rite of passage that men had done forever? I had seen this a few times in movies, and I thought I could at least make sure all the right things went in the right place and in the right order.
I was out front with the guys when she beckoned me. They all had a look of knowing my future, none of them wanting to show their knowledge of what was about to happen. I approached the door of her house, and peeked inside. This girl was beautiful, with perfect features, blonde hair, and blue eyes. She was basically everything I had dreamed she would be and more. She had a look that day like she knew we would bond with one another. I had not known her for very long, but I knew I would love her forever. I was about to do it for the first time.
As we went into her bedroom her eyes were shining and she had a sheepish grin. She held my fingers with one hand and with my other hand I caressed her cheek. She had perfect skin, unblemished and without lines, wrinkles, or torture by the sun. Her skin was soft and she turned her mouth to my hand. My hand was somewhat dirty and it was rather rough from playing ball with my buddies. Surely she was not going to put that in her mouth. Dear God! I jerked away my hand showing my awkwardness and she followed it as if I had taken something precious from her.
My hands worked slowly, as I trembled with fear at what was about to take place. My inexperience was showing, and I knew she was able to see the fear in my eyes. She seemed to sense the fear, so I planted a kiss on her forehead ever so gently to reassure her that I knew what I was doing. I actually had no idea, and my confidence, or lack thereof, was beginning to show. I helped her out of her clothes and things began to go much more swiftly. And then, her breathing and mine both quickened as we approached the task at hand. God or nature has a way of giving you just enough knowledge with such things.
I was surprised at how long it lasted. And I began to feel ill at ease, and unsure that what I was doing would get me to the end result. My buddies had told me that once you get started, it goes really fast. I, on the other hand, was taking forever. Maybe, I was taking too long. Was I doing this wrong? Did she want this to be over? My confidence began to wane. Then she shuddered. A small coo came from her mouth. Oh my God! Did I hurt her? What was I doing? What was she doing? The shock on my face was obvious and frozen in time. It had happened so quickly, her accident, that I had no time to react. And so I shouted out and this scared her. I looked at the ceiling and closed my eyes.
Her tears began and I felt horrible. I had scared her. She had scared me. This was all completely unexpected. I cleaned up the mess with a towel I found next to her dresser, and then I held her until she finished crying, soothing her and whispering in her ear that I loved her. I could feel her heart beat ever so swiftly at first and then it began to settle.
I knew at that moment that this memory was one that I would never forget. It was an instant that I would carry with me, always etched on my brain. I would discuss it with fervor with my friends. I can still see her face, and smell her skin, and feel the softness of her hair.
That first time I changed a diaper, my baby girl had peed all over my hand and down the changing table, completely missing the diaper in my other hand. And my startled shout was to her mommy who, being too tired and sore to come running, did eventually make her way into the room just in time to see me holding and soothing our crying baby girl. I thank God that it had only been the pee pee and not that mustard colored poo poo.
And so you see that fathers may not be masters at changing diapers. But we do learn from our mistakes. And we never, ever forget our first time.
********************************************
Copyright 2004 Jim Turner
Jim Turner is the father to Annika (4) and Jake (3). His wife is expecting a third baby, a boy, in early July. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood. With original blogging style, Jim actually solicited baby names from his readers, allowing them to vote on the name for his soon-to-be born son. The bloggers voted, and the boy will be -- Aidan.
Daddy Says 'Knock You Out'
By Jay Allen
Hi. My name is Jay. I'm a violence hobbyist. I wear that label proudly, and am busily in the process of passing it on to my children.
Despite growing up under the tutelage of my uncle, who exposed me to such cinematic classics as Dawn of the Dead and Videodrome before I'd even sprouted hair on my chest, I never intended to start my kids young - or to start 'em at all. Sure, I had collected stacks of comics with 40-issue-long fight scenes. But my childhood was sung to the tune of Jeremy: I was a "sensitive" kid who served as a fist magnet to any jock or miscreant with a grudge against reality. Little wonder that I identified with those two-dimensional misfits, who held the power to avenge injustice with a snap of their fingers.
But now I was older. Wiser. I wouldn't be enslaved to my past. No, I would be a spiritual parent. Heeding Jiddu Krishnamurti's admonition that we are the cause of the world's suffering, I vowed not to induct my own kids into the culture of violence. No toy swords or guns. No ninja costumes. Nothing but board games and PBS Kids as far as the eye could see.
I can't remember the precise moment when all that spiritual crap went out the window. Problem was, I never went cold turkey. I not only kept my anime stash close at hand, but supplemented it with ass-kicking schoolgirl fare like Sailor Moon and Project A-ko. Pulp Fiction, The Usual Suspects, and L.A. Confidential produced years of guilty pleasure; they were films I "knew" I should shun because of their gore and disreputable characters, but reeled me in nevertheless, like a fish who knows there's a hook somewhere within that worm. Every time I watched Vincent blow Marvin's head off I would laugh my ass to bits, while wondering silently which circle of Hell was reserved for Cathartic Murderers.
So I had little moral standing when my daughter Neve began watching The Powerpuff Girls, or when Jaxon discovered all the animated staples of my youth, from the old Warner Brothers shorts on up to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Life carbon-copied art, and before I could say "Give Peace a Chance", Neve and Jaxon were practicing their kung-fu on one another, with all the sore limbs and bruised egos that entailed.
I wanted to scream "Damn the hypocrisy; full speed ahead!" and clamp down Parents Television Council-style. But what would my wife and I forbid? "Violence" is heterogeneous. Should we forbid just action shows? One of the most-violent Nickelodeon shows on the PTC's 2002 Cable Study is All That, a teen variety show, the 21st-century equivalent of You Can't Do That on Television. What about "pratfall violence" such as characters falling off cliffs, or diving into drained pools? And is "violence" infectious? If a single episode of Spongebob Squarepants depicts Spongebob and Sandy Cheeks pummeling one another with their kah-rah-tay, is the entire series tainted?
And don't get me started about psychic violence. Talking sponges, freefalls that don't kill, explosions that don't maim. Most of these shows play fast-and-loose with the basic laws of physics, not to mention common sense. Shouldn't I be concerned that I'm eroding my kids' very ability to comprehend reality? Next to that, a little ninja sword-clashing seems trivial.
I did what any good parent would do: nothing. Outside of South Park, Sex and the City, and Good Morning Miami, we left the kids to watch what they pleased and kept an eagle-eye on their play, reining them in whenever they emulated the aggressive behavior on the set.
Then came the Xbox. And everything changed.
When the Xbox first released, I spent the first half of the year ridiculing it. "What idiot would spend $300 just to play games? We already have a computer."
I spent the next half drooling and dropping hints. "Well, it is optimized for superior graphics performance. And the controllers do that jiggly thing when you get killed." (I may even have dusted off the old "hand-eye coordination" shtick - it's all a blur now.)
It was just an idle thought, though. I never took action until one month when we came into a spot of money, and my wife suggested I Just Do It. "You hardly ever buy anything like that for yourself," she shrugged. Which was true. On our budget, a latte is a luxury. An Xbox? My head spun. I felt like "The Donald".
I pounced before my wife had a chance to change her mind, swooping into the toy store with a fistful of dollars and swooping out just as fast - the happiest kid they'd seen all day. I hooked it up in minutes, but had to wait until after the kids went down to jack in to the violent fare I had purchased. I was instantly re-hooked, like a heroin addict after a ten-year dry spell.
This wasn't a game console, it was a time machine; a return to the better parts of my childhood, when I was so obsessed with my Atari 2600 that I scrawled my own game designs with crayon on lined paper, and mailed them to Neil Bushnell (Neil never wrote back. Jerk. ) Shredding alien Covenant scum on Halo reminded me of my three-day Metroid marathon when my mom bought me my Nintendo in seventh grade, and gave me enough money to order one additional game from the Sears catalog store.
But I couldn't keep this pleasure to myself. Nick.com had already hooked Neve and Jaxon on low-octane versions of the second-person shoot-'em-up. When they discovered I was buying a machine that did nothing but play games, they demanded a timeshare. So we picked up a Harry Potter game for them, as well as a cute number called Blinx the Time Sweeper, where an anthropomorphic cat sucks up garbage and shoots it at the Time Monsters in his bid to rescue a princess. Jaxon fell hard for Blinx. He'd slap on his jean jacket and run through the house wielding an extended arm grabber as his "time sweeper", telling the Time Monsters to "take dat! and dat! and summore of dat!" Unfortunately, his big sister was often on the negative end of "dat".
Kim had to sit him down several times and remind him, "Blinx is a good guy. Blinx only hurts bad guys. Got it, little man?"
Jaxon would nod vigorously, and return to playing King Kong to Neve's Empire State Building. Kim would pierce me with The Look™, a wilting, eyebrow-cocked glance of death that says, "This is thy negligence, and thou knowest it."
But we both knew it was a lost cause. Come birthdays and holidays, we let the Power Rangers costumes, super capes, Ninja swords, and combat games rain down like manna. Not surprisingly, this didn't make Jaxon any gentler, but it did give him a stable of new moves, including the Running-Clothesline-with-Balled-Fist, which he chose to use on me six days after my vasectomy.
One time, after he had pummeled my abdomen with the Hong-Kong-Fooey-Fists-of-Fury, I had had enough. I shook my finger at him and said, "I don't care what you see on games or on TV, you do not hit people. Are we clear?"
"But daaaddy!" he said in his best whine while bobbing at the knees. "I super 'ero! I beat up the bad guys. Like this!" He proceeded to kick and punch in the air, punctuating each strike with a cartoonish burst of air through his teeth, until he caught his heel on part of his Donatello costume, fell on his butt, and started crying.
I did my best not to laugh. I failed. I couldn't help it: I was relieved. I wasn't corrupting my child. I wasn't raising a monster, or a "man's man". I was fueling the fantasy play of a healthy, happy four-year-old boy, swaddled in innocence. He took his play a little too seriously at times, and we would do well to convince him that making us all villians in perpetuity wasn't our bag. But these were problems I felt fit to conquer.
I still consider myself a very spiritual person, and our home a spiritual haven. We cultivate and maintain a reverence for the Goddess in our house via holidays and household rituals. At bedtime, Kim will often share with Neve the wisdom of the world's great spiritual traditions. Most important, we steer clear of the cultural flypaper that demands one worship material success über alles, and strive to put the needs of our children above our own. But that doesn't translate into a Dalai Lama-style pacifism. The combination of religion and nonviolence is a relatively recent idea even in "peaceful" religions like Buddhism; historically nonviolent traditions such as Jainism are the exception. The Warrior archetype has roots deep in the human psyche. Cultivated properly, it can grow into a fierce sense of moral right and wrong (as defined by one's own spiritual insight), and a knowledge that there are things worth fighting for.
This is why I permit my children to be - well, children: not because I value violence, but because harnessing that moral fire will make them better people.
Or maybe I just want a partner for Halo.
But that's the beauty of raising kids: as you bring out the adult in them, they bring out the kid in you.
*********************************************
Copyright 2004 Jay Allen
Jay Allen lives in the Seattle area with his tolerant wife and five of his six kids. He writes daily about what it means to be The Zero Boss, and is busy writing a book, also entitled, The Zero Boss. Jay's work has also appeared at The Imperfect Parent.
Hi. My name is Jay. I'm a violence hobbyist. I wear that label proudly, and am busily in the process of passing it on to my children.
Despite growing up under the tutelage of my uncle, who exposed me to such cinematic classics as Dawn of the Dead and Videodrome before I'd even sprouted hair on my chest, I never intended to start my kids young - or to start 'em at all. Sure, I had collected stacks of comics with 40-issue-long fight scenes. But my childhood was sung to the tune of Jeremy: I was a "sensitive" kid who served as a fist magnet to any jock or miscreant with a grudge against reality. Little wonder that I identified with those two-dimensional misfits, who held the power to avenge injustice with a snap of their fingers.
But now I was older. Wiser. I wouldn't be enslaved to my past. No, I would be a spiritual parent. Heeding Jiddu Krishnamurti's admonition that we are the cause of the world's suffering, I vowed not to induct my own kids into the culture of violence. No toy swords or guns. No ninja costumes. Nothing but board games and PBS Kids as far as the eye could see.
I can't remember the precise moment when all that spiritual crap went out the window. Problem was, I never went cold turkey. I not only kept my anime stash close at hand, but supplemented it with ass-kicking schoolgirl fare like Sailor Moon and Project A-ko. Pulp Fiction, The Usual Suspects, and L.A. Confidential produced years of guilty pleasure; they were films I "knew" I should shun because of their gore and disreputable characters, but reeled me in nevertheless, like a fish who knows there's a hook somewhere within that worm. Every time I watched Vincent blow Marvin's head off I would laugh my ass to bits, while wondering silently which circle of Hell was reserved for Cathartic Murderers.
So I had little moral standing when my daughter Neve began watching The Powerpuff Girls, or when Jaxon discovered all the animated staples of my youth, from the old Warner Brothers shorts on up to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Life carbon-copied art, and before I could say "Give Peace a Chance", Neve and Jaxon were practicing their kung-fu on one another, with all the sore limbs and bruised egos that entailed.
I wanted to scream "Damn the hypocrisy; full speed ahead!" and clamp down Parents Television Council-style. But what would my wife and I forbid? "Violence" is heterogeneous. Should we forbid just action shows? One of the most-violent Nickelodeon shows on the PTC's 2002 Cable Study is All That, a teen variety show, the 21st-century equivalent of You Can't Do That on Television. What about "pratfall violence" such as characters falling off cliffs, or diving into drained pools? And is "violence" infectious? If a single episode of Spongebob Squarepants depicts Spongebob and Sandy Cheeks pummeling one another with their kah-rah-tay, is the entire series tainted?
And don't get me started about psychic violence. Talking sponges, freefalls that don't kill, explosions that don't maim. Most of these shows play fast-and-loose with the basic laws of physics, not to mention common sense. Shouldn't I be concerned that I'm eroding my kids' very ability to comprehend reality? Next to that, a little ninja sword-clashing seems trivial.
I did what any good parent would do: nothing. Outside of South Park, Sex and the City, and Good Morning Miami, we left the kids to watch what they pleased and kept an eagle-eye on their play, reining them in whenever they emulated the aggressive behavior on the set.
Then came the Xbox. And everything changed.
When the Xbox first released, I spent the first half of the year ridiculing it. "What idiot would spend $300 just to play games? We already have a computer."
I spent the next half drooling and dropping hints. "Well, it is optimized for superior graphics performance. And the controllers do that jiggly thing when you get killed." (I may even have dusted off the old "hand-eye coordination" shtick - it's all a blur now.)
It was just an idle thought, though. I never took action until one month when we came into a spot of money, and my wife suggested I Just Do It. "You hardly ever buy anything like that for yourself," she shrugged. Which was true. On our budget, a latte is a luxury. An Xbox? My head spun. I felt like "The Donald".
I pounced before my wife had a chance to change her mind, swooping into the toy store with a fistful of dollars and swooping out just as fast - the happiest kid they'd seen all day. I hooked it up in minutes, but had to wait until after the kids went down to jack in to the violent fare I had purchased. I was instantly re-hooked, like a heroin addict after a ten-year dry spell.
This wasn't a game console, it was a time machine; a return to the better parts of my childhood, when I was so obsessed with my Atari 2600 that I scrawled my own game designs with crayon on lined paper, and mailed them to Neil Bushnell (Neil never wrote back. Jerk. ) Shredding alien Covenant scum on Halo reminded me of my three-day Metroid marathon when my mom bought me my Nintendo in seventh grade, and gave me enough money to order one additional game from the Sears catalog store.
But I couldn't keep this pleasure to myself. Nick.com had already hooked Neve and Jaxon on low-octane versions of the second-person shoot-'em-up. When they discovered I was buying a machine that did nothing but play games, they demanded a timeshare. So we picked up a Harry Potter game for them, as well as a cute number called Blinx the Time Sweeper, where an anthropomorphic cat sucks up garbage and shoots it at the Time Monsters in his bid to rescue a princess. Jaxon fell hard for Blinx. He'd slap on his jean jacket and run through the house wielding an extended arm grabber as his "time sweeper", telling the Time Monsters to "take dat! and dat! and summore of dat!" Unfortunately, his big sister was often on the negative end of "dat".
Kim had to sit him down several times and remind him, "Blinx is a good guy. Blinx only hurts bad guys. Got it, little man?"
Jaxon would nod vigorously, and return to playing King Kong to Neve's Empire State Building. Kim would pierce me with The Look™, a wilting, eyebrow-cocked glance of death that says, "This is thy negligence, and thou knowest it."
But we both knew it was a lost cause. Come birthdays and holidays, we let the Power Rangers costumes, super capes, Ninja swords, and combat games rain down like manna. Not surprisingly, this didn't make Jaxon any gentler, but it did give him a stable of new moves, including the Running-Clothesline-with-Balled-Fist, which he chose to use on me six days after my vasectomy.
One time, after he had pummeled my abdomen with the Hong-Kong-Fooey-Fists-of-Fury, I had had enough. I shook my finger at him and said, "I don't care what you see on games or on TV, you do not hit people. Are we clear?"
"But daaaddy!" he said in his best whine while bobbing at the knees. "I super 'ero! I beat up the bad guys. Like this!" He proceeded to kick and punch in the air, punctuating each strike with a cartoonish burst of air through his teeth, until he caught his heel on part of his Donatello costume, fell on his butt, and started crying.
I did my best not to laugh. I failed. I couldn't help it: I was relieved. I wasn't corrupting my child. I wasn't raising a monster, or a "man's man". I was fueling the fantasy play of a healthy, happy four-year-old boy, swaddled in innocence. He took his play a little too seriously at times, and we would do well to convince him that making us all villians in perpetuity wasn't our bag. But these were problems I felt fit to conquer.
I still consider myself a very spiritual person, and our home a spiritual haven. We cultivate and maintain a reverence for the Goddess in our house via holidays and household rituals. At bedtime, Kim will often share with Neve the wisdom of the world's great spiritual traditions. Most important, we steer clear of the cultural flypaper that demands one worship material success über alles, and strive to put the needs of our children above our own. But that doesn't translate into a Dalai Lama-style pacifism. The combination of religion and nonviolence is a relatively recent idea even in "peaceful" religions like Buddhism; historically nonviolent traditions such as Jainism are the exception. The Warrior archetype has roots deep in the human psyche. Cultivated properly, it can grow into a fierce sense of moral right and wrong (as defined by one's own spiritual insight), and a knowledge that there are things worth fighting for.
This is why I permit my children to be - well, children: not because I value violence, but because harnessing that moral fire will make them better people.
Or maybe I just want a partner for Halo.
But that's the beauty of raising kids: as you bring out the adult in them, they bring out the kid in you.
*********************************************
Copyright 2004 Jay Allen
Jay Allen lives in the Seattle area with his tolerant wife and five of his six kids. He writes daily about what it means to be The Zero Boss, and is busy writing a book, also entitled, The Zero Boss. Jay's work has also appeared at The Imperfect Parent.
Tooth Fairy Madness
By Rachel Johnson
My five-year old daughter, Alaina, just bit into an apple and lost her first baby tooth. I'm happy for her growth and excitement. At the same time, I am surprised to feel so sad. I don't have a baby anymore and I feel a deep sense of loss. It's all happened so fast. Her first five years are over. Time moves on, and we all go forward, yet it seems so unfair. I'm not ready. I want to rebel and stick that baby tooth back in. Can't it hang by a thread for just a while longer?
I didn't even have time to plan, to mourn. Half an hour ago, Laina said, "My tooth hurts." I looked in her mouth to see a bottom baby tooth hanging askew. We teased her and helped her prepare, as I wailed to myself inside "NO! STOP! NOT YET!" She wanted it to come out so she could put it under her pillow for money from the Tooth Fairy (I guess she still has some innocence left) so we told her about the apple trick. Sure, enough, one bite of a Red Delicious and goodbye babyhood.
She held the tiny tooth in the palm of her hand and looked at it in shocked wonder. We carried her to the mirror so she could see her new look, new smile -- her new self. Unsure but happy, she smiled. Gone is the perfect row of tiny baby teeth. Now a gap sits on the bottom row, and she looks older somehow, as if the Tooth Fairy sucked the babyishness away from her to replace it with a big girl look. PLUCK! My baby one second and a little girl the next.
Laina put her tooth in a baggie and showed it off to all of us. She pranced around the room flashing big grins so we'd comment on her missing tooth and contemplated whether or not she wanted the tooth fairy to take her tooth. I felt proud of her yet sad that her smile has forever changed. Soon, she placed the tooth under her pillow and fell asleep.
Now I'm left to my own thoughts and feelings. They say the first five years are the most important, most formative years of our lives. Did I do the right things for her during her first five years? Have I planted healthful, positive, happy seeds? Did I give her the time and attention she needed? Why are my babies growing up so quickly? What can I do tomorrow? What can I do right now to prepare myself for my children growing up? I really don't want to waste any of the precious time I have with them. To love them. Cherish them. Not miss a minute of their wonderful years. Turn off the TV, put down the book, leave the dishes in the sink and simply talk and play with them.
I'll mourn each rite of passage my children go through, especially since this is my youngest, and probably my last child. But from now on, I resolve to look with peace towards the future and to live the moment that is now.
***************************************
Copyright 2004 Rachel Johnson
Rachel Johnson writes poetry, children's stories, and narratives. She also teaches English as a second language, tutors online and homeschools her two daughters. She loves to read, explore nature, and train for marathons. Rachel lives with her husband and children in Kansas City, Missouri. Visit her at:
Wake Up Running.
My five-year old daughter, Alaina, just bit into an apple and lost her first baby tooth. I'm happy for her growth and excitement. At the same time, I am surprised to feel so sad. I don't have a baby anymore and I feel a deep sense of loss. It's all happened so fast. Her first five years are over. Time moves on, and we all go forward, yet it seems so unfair. I'm not ready. I want to rebel and stick that baby tooth back in. Can't it hang by a thread for just a while longer?
I didn't even have time to plan, to mourn. Half an hour ago, Laina said, "My tooth hurts." I looked in her mouth to see a bottom baby tooth hanging askew. We teased her and helped her prepare, as I wailed to myself inside "NO! STOP! NOT YET!" She wanted it to come out so she could put it under her pillow for money from the Tooth Fairy (I guess she still has some innocence left) so we told her about the apple trick. Sure, enough, one bite of a Red Delicious and goodbye babyhood.
She held the tiny tooth in the palm of her hand and looked at it in shocked wonder. We carried her to the mirror so she could see her new look, new smile -- her new self. Unsure but happy, she smiled. Gone is the perfect row of tiny baby teeth. Now a gap sits on the bottom row, and she looks older somehow, as if the Tooth Fairy sucked the babyishness away from her to replace it with a big girl look. PLUCK! My baby one second and a little girl the next.
Laina put her tooth in a baggie and showed it off to all of us. She pranced around the room flashing big grins so we'd comment on her missing tooth and contemplated whether or not she wanted the tooth fairy to take her tooth. I felt proud of her yet sad that her smile has forever changed. Soon, she placed the tooth under her pillow and fell asleep.
Now I'm left to my own thoughts and feelings. They say the first five years are the most important, most formative years of our lives. Did I do the right things for her during her first five years? Have I planted healthful, positive, happy seeds? Did I give her the time and attention she needed? Why are my babies growing up so quickly? What can I do tomorrow? What can I do right now to prepare myself for my children growing up? I really don't want to waste any of the precious time I have with them. To love them. Cherish them. Not miss a minute of their wonderful years. Turn off the TV, put down the book, leave the dishes in the sink and simply talk and play with them.
I'll mourn each rite of passage my children go through, especially since this is my youngest, and probably my last child. But from now on, I resolve to look with peace towards the future and to live the moment that is now.
***************************************
Copyright 2004 Rachel Johnson
Rachel Johnson writes poetry, children's stories, and narratives. She also teaches English as a second language, tutors online and homeschools her two daughters. She loves to read, explore nature, and train for marathons. Rachel lives with her husband and children in Kansas City, Missouri. Visit her at:
Wake Up Running.
The Morning Chase
By Andrea Harris
And…he’s off! His diaper swishing as his little legs waddle down the hall. The chase is on.
I take off in a sprint behind him. I dodge past the magnetic alphabet letters strewn across the floor and dash beyond covers of Blues Clues videos until he’s trapped between me and his big stuffed tiger.
Ah-hah! I’ve got him. He laughs, struggles a little and then gives in. I get what I want – a good morning kiss on those chubby cheeks.
Every morning I try to get a kiss from my 2-year-old. And every morning it becomes a chase. My husband looks at me like I’m crazy running around the house trying to catch our toddler. But I know my time is limited. He’s growing up fast, so I have to get all my hugs and kisses in now.
When he was born, I remember everyone saying, “Oh, they just grow up so fast. You better cherish every moment.” But my first few weeks as a new mom were not something I wanted to cherish. There was the spit-up in my hair, lack of sleep, worry wrinkles developing under my eyes and sore legs from pacing the floor attempting to stop his crying.
The first six weeks seemed to drag on and on. I couldn’t wait for my husband to get home from work so my arms could have a break. I couldn’t wait to talk to a person who would respond with actual words.
My poor husband probably couldn’t wait to get to work and away from his wife, who now showered only twice a week. His wife, who talked her head off as soon as he got home from work and bombarded him at the garage door with a screaming, colicky baby.
Things are different now. We’ve seen the rapid changes, the growth spurts and the happy moments go by so quickly.
I know it won’t be long before the morning chase turns into the morning rush. Rushing around to get breakfast eaten, books together and off to school. No time to cuddle. If I’m lucky, I’ll still get a few fun, “wrestle-you-down” bear hugs on occasion.
Then comes the teen years when I just won’t be hip enough. And besides, being seen with mom could ruin even the coolest guy’s reputation. Knowing those days are approaching, I don’t mind my morning workout. I know from the sound of those giggles that my 2-year-old doesn’t mind either.
I might look like a nincompoop running around in my PJ’s, jumping over toys and chasing my toddler, but at least I’m getting my kisses now before he does what everyone warned me about – “grows up too fast.”
******************************************
Copyright 2004 Andrea Harris
Andrea Harris, a former teacher, is a stay-at-home mom to son, Sean and new daughter, Sydney Anne. She resides in Collierville, TN. You can read more of her essays by visiting Notes From a Housewife.
And…he’s off! His diaper swishing as his little legs waddle down the hall. The chase is on.
I take off in a sprint behind him. I dodge past the magnetic alphabet letters strewn across the floor and dash beyond covers of Blues Clues videos until he’s trapped between me and his big stuffed tiger.
Ah-hah! I’ve got him. He laughs, struggles a little and then gives in. I get what I want – a good morning kiss on those chubby cheeks.
Every morning I try to get a kiss from my 2-year-old. And every morning it becomes a chase. My husband looks at me like I’m crazy running around the house trying to catch our toddler. But I know my time is limited. He’s growing up fast, so I have to get all my hugs and kisses in now.
When he was born, I remember everyone saying, “Oh, they just grow up so fast. You better cherish every moment.” But my first few weeks as a new mom were not something I wanted to cherish. There was the spit-up in my hair, lack of sleep, worry wrinkles developing under my eyes and sore legs from pacing the floor attempting to stop his crying.
The first six weeks seemed to drag on and on. I couldn’t wait for my husband to get home from work so my arms could have a break. I couldn’t wait to talk to a person who would respond with actual words.
My poor husband probably couldn’t wait to get to work and away from his wife, who now showered only twice a week. His wife, who talked her head off as soon as he got home from work and bombarded him at the garage door with a screaming, colicky baby.
Things are different now. We’ve seen the rapid changes, the growth spurts and the happy moments go by so quickly.
I know it won’t be long before the morning chase turns into the morning rush. Rushing around to get breakfast eaten, books together and off to school. No time to cuddle. If I’m lucky, I’ll still get a few fun, “wrestle-you-down” bear hugs on occasion.
Then comes the teen years when I just won’t be hip enough. And besides, being seen with mom could ruin even the coolest guy’s reputation. Knowing those days are approaching, I don’t mind my morning workout. I know from the sound of those giggles that my 2-year-old doesn’t mind either.
I might look like a nincompoop running around in my PJ’s, jumping over toys and chasing my toddler, but at least I’m getting my kisses now before he does what everyone warned me about – “grows up too fast.”
******************************************
Copyright 2004 Andrea Harris
Andrea Harris, a former teacher, is a stay-at-home mom to son, Sean and new daughter, Sydney Anne. She resides in Collierville, TN. You can read more of her essays by visiting Notes From a Housewife.
If Only Time Stood Still
By Paula Schmitt
When I was a young child I remember hearing grown-ups talk about time slipping through their hands and how time flies. I didn’t understand what they meant and how time could actually fly. Part of the beauty and innocence of being a child is their carefree ways and simply living for the moment. That was me as a child and I remember it well.
As I approached my wonderful teenage years my parents actually held on tight not wanting to let me grow up and venture out. You would think with all the hell I raised that they would have my bags packed and ready to go. Not my parents. They were enjoying and holding on to every single minute with their young daughter before letting her go. Of course, I did not understand this at the time, how could I? I was a young, rebellious woman, still carefree and ready to adventure out in to the world. I did not see that my parents were still clinging to sweet memories of me as a child, their only daughter, and that they loved me.
Years have passed and time moves on as expected. I got married, as my parents prayed that I would, and now have a family of my own. From the time I held my first born son in my arms I started to realize what my parents were feeling. Even though my precious baby was just minutes in to this world I couldn’t bear the thought of him growing up and leaving me. Silly, I know, to be having such thoughts when your child is all wrinkly and new, but now as a parent, those thoughts were real.
When my son Tony was seven we lived in a small, friendly neighborhood that we were very comfortable in. He wanted to show his three younger brothers how grown up he really was. He called us all outside to watch his dare devil event and announced that he was going to ride his two-wheeler down the street and back. Not just in circles in front of our home, but down the street. How adorable. How innocent.
This same child, only three years later, wanted to drive his father’s pick-up truck. Seriously. We would find him out in the driveway in the driver’s seat ready to go -- minus the car keys obviously. How could this be happening to me? My baby was growing up. He wanted to grow up. I realized how time was passing so quickly and not only were my children growing up, but I was getting older. Could this be a good thing? I tried not to think about it, but as I saw my children experimenting with riding their bikes further away from their homes and jumping into their father’s truck and getting behind the wheel pretending to be driving away, I felt that I was starting to hold on a bit tighter. I had become my parents.
Now my baby, Tony, is a sixteen-years-old junior in high school, actually driving his father’s pick-up truck with the keys. He’s even been dating the same girl for over a year. I feel so old. Wasn’t I just sixteen, ready to conquer the world? Time’s flying.
My son Nick, who is fifteen, is taking a drivers ed class at school. My God, not another child ready to drive away in his father’s truck! Meanwhile, my son Phillip, who just turned twelve, is starting to get phone calls from girls. Yikes! Not my innocent, sweet Phillip. He is still just a little boy. MY little boy. I don’t want him to grow up. We had a conversation the other day and it went something like this:
“Hey, Mom. Do you think I could go on your computer in a few minutes?” he asked while shuffling his feet and looking down.
“Sure. What’s up?” I asked.
“Well, Katie and Olivia are going to be on IM and we’re going to chat, ” he replied blushing three shades of red.
My grip got a bit tighter. And with each day I can feel it. I know I should be a cool, hip and groovy Mom, but it’s just not that easy. What am I going to do after my children are all grown up and out of the home? I’m not saying that my husband is a bore or my life is dull. It’s just that I’m used to picking up legos and Matchbox race cars. I’m used to making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cutting them in half, and I’m definitely in the habit of tucking my children into bed at night and telling them how much I love them.
My youngest son, Joseph, who just turned nine a few weeks ago, recently came to me and matter-of-factly stated that he is going to be a professional basketball player in the NBA. I don’t doubt it, as this child was born with a basketball in his hands. I couldn’t help but smile and give him a great big hug. He didn’t want to be hugged. He pulled away from me and asked, “Mom, NBA basketball players don’t hug their moms do they?”
I took him in my arms and replied, “Yes, Joseph, they most certainly do.”
I’m still holding on today.
*************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Paula Schmitt
Paula Schmitt is a writer and mother of four boys and one daughter living in Central Vermont. She writes a regular column, Mommy Mediator, at JustForMom.com and a regular column, The All Sports Mom, at SanityCentral.com and at SanDiegoMama.com. Paula has been published in the Herald of Randolph and several other parenting sites. She is writing her first fiction novel and non-fiction parenting humor book. She will be co-hosting a parenting radio talk show, launching summer 2004. To read more of her columns and parenting tips visit her site and for some much needed adult conversation email her at pj5@sover.net
When I was a young child I remember hearing grown-ups talk about time slipping through their hands and how time flies. I didn’t understand what they meant and how time could actually fly. Part of the beauty and innocence of being a child is their carefree ways and simply living for the moment. That was me as a child and I remember it well.
As I approached my wonderful teenage years my parents actually held on tight not wanting to let me grow up and venture out. You would think with all the hell I raised that they would have my bags packed and ready to go. Not my parents. They were enjoying and holding on to every single minute with their young daughter before letting her go. Of course, I did not understand this at the time, how could I? I was a young, rebellious woman, still carefree and ready to adventure out in to the world. I did not see that my parents were still clinging to sweet memories of me as a child, their only daughter, and that they loved me.
Years have passed and time moves on as expected. I got married, as my parents prayed that I would, and now have a family of my own. From the time I held my first born son in my arms I started to realize what my parents were feeling. Even though my precious baby was just minutes in to this world I couldn’t bear the thought of him growing up and leaving me. Silly, I know, to be having such thoughts when your child is all wrinkly and new, but now as a parent, those thoughts were real.
When my son Tony was seven we lived in a small, friendly neighborhood that we were very comfortable in. He wanted to show his three younger brothers how grown up he really was. He called us all outside to watch his dare devil event and announced that he was going to ride his two-wheeler down the street and back. Not just in circles in front of our home, but down the street. How adorable. How innocent.
This same child, only three years later, wanted to drive his father’s pick-up truck. Seriously. We would find him out in the driveway in the driver’s seat ready to go -- minus the car keys obviously. How could this be happening to me? My baby was growing up. He wanted to grow up. I realized how time was passing so quickly and not only were my children growing up, but I was getting older. Could this be a good thing? I tried not to think about it, but as I saw my children experimenting with riding their bikes further away from their homes and jumping into their father’s truck and getting behind the wheel pretending to be driving away, I felt that I was starting to hold on a bit tighter. I had become my parents.
Now my baby, Tony, is a sixteen-years-old junior in high school, actually driving his father’s pick-up truck with the keys. He’s even been dating the same girl for over a year. I feel so old. Wasn’t I just sixteen, ready to conquer the world? Time’s flying.
My son Nick, who is fifteen, is taking a drivers ed class at school. My God, not another child ready to drive away in his father’s truck! Meanwhile, my son Phillip, who just turned twelve, is starting to get phone calls from girls. Yikes! Not my innocent, sweet Phillip. He is still just a little boy. MY little boy. I don’t want him to grow up. We had a conversation the other day and it went something like this:
“Hey, Mom. Do you think I could go on your computer in a few minutes?” he asked while shuffling his feet and looking down.
“Sure. What’s up?” I asked.
“Well, Katie and Olivia are going to be on IM and we’re going to chat, ” he replied blushing three shades of red.
My grip got a bit tighter. And with each day I can feel it. I know I should be a cool, hip and groovy Mom, but it’s just not that easy. What am I going to do after my children are all grown up and out of the home? I’m not saying that my husband is a bore or my life is dull. It’s just that I’m used to picking up legos and Matchbox race cars. I’m used to making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and cutting them in half, and I’m definitely in the habit of tucking my children into bed at night and telling them how much I love them.
My youngest son, Joseph, who just turned nine a few weeks ago, recently came to me and matter-of-factly stated that he is going to be a professional basketball player in the NBA. I don’t doubt it, as this child was born with a basketball in his hands. I couldn’t help but smile and give him a great big hug. He didn’t want to be hugged. He pulled away from me and asked, “Mom, NBA basketball players don’t hug their moms do they?”
I took him in my arms and replied, “Yes, Joseph, they most certainly do.”
I’m still holding on today.
*************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Paula Schmitt
Paula Schmitt is a writer and mother of four boys and one daughter living in Central Vermont. She writes a regular column, Mommy Mediator, at JustForMom.com and a regular column, The All Sports Mom, at SanityCentral.com and at SanDiegoMama.com. Paula has been published in the Herald of Randolph and several other parenting sites. She is writing her first fiction novel and non-fiction parenting humor book. She will be co-hosting a parenting radio talk show, launching summer 2004. To read more of her columns and parenting tips visit her site and for some much needed adult conversation email her at pj5@sover.net
And We All Sang Happy Birthday
By Avis Drucker
Baby’s first birthday was amazing – she, all in pink, curly blond ringlets around her little face, those deep blue eyes and shy smile charming all her quests. The all important guest list included her Grandparents, Aunties, Uncles and of course, Mummy and Daddy.
It was a perfect spring day for a lawn party. Two long tables were covered with pale yellow tablecloths, yellow and lavender plates and cups, and little glass jars filled with violets and lilies of the valley. Each wooden chair was tied with pastel balloons and curly ribbons that hung down to the ground - a colorful miniature banquet sitting on a carpet of fresh-mowed spring lawn and shaded by tall hedges of fragrant lilacs.
Daddy proudly grilled chicken and shish-kebob and corn on the cob, and then a tall layer cake with one big candle was marched out from the kitchen by Mummy to surprise Baby, who gleefully grabbed at the frosting flowers with both hands. A cheering round of “Happy Birthday”, followed by lots of cake and ice cream, marked this monumental milestone.
On Baby’s next birthday - red, white and blue - the weather was a little cloudy, and when it started to drizzle a bit, Daddy moved the grill closer to the back door awning, and that’s when the glass door cracked and pieces of glass exploded into the food. And then it started to pour and everyone ran for the kitchen.
Daddy got a little excited so we called the pizza truck, and except for the huge white rings left by the hot pizza boxes on the brand new dining room table, all went fairly well. Most of us still sang a round of “Happy Birthday”.
The following year I invited just babies and mommies, much calmer I thought. Pastry and coffee was set out on the kitchen table for the moms, while the children played games and ate cake. But the mommies drank lots and lots of coffee, and chatted feverishly, and totally forgot about their children and the party. I raced, chased, refereed, bandaged, served, supervised, pampered, placated, and except for a brief chaotic round of “Happy Birthday”, don’t remember seeing my child at all that day.
The mommies finally left at 7:00 p.m.
“OK, just me and the kids”, I thought. “That’s the only sensible plan for birthday #4.”
I invited the whole nursery school class - I didn’t want anyone to feel left out. The party was from 2-4 p.m. What on earth was I thinking?
In one hour we were finished with all the activities and four-year-olds were pouring in and out of every door and window, rearranging furniture, testing every appliance, using Harold, our pet guinea pig, as a football, and beating up the birthday girl.
I was frantic. “Let’s sing”, I screamed calmly. I took out my guitar, knowing only three chords, and sat down on the floor. Immediately they sat down on the floor around me so tightly I could hardly breathe. I was euphoric! Being in the same nursery class, they knew all the same songs, so all I had to do was strum one chord, right or wrong, and off they went beginning to end.
And that’s where their parents found us one hour later, sitting on the floor, singing sweetly together, me the Mary Poppins of birthday parties. I did a record fast “Happy Birthday” thing, cut and wrapped the cake, and sent them home.
There were theme parties: bowling, museums, magicians, and a piñata that wouldn’t break and had to be sawed in half to chants of “kill, kill” - followed by a dismal scene of greed on the floor, chasing candy. But at least I never hired that pony like my friend did, that left a few surprises on her back lawn, and sent her six-year old daughter, holding her nose and screaming into the house, never to return.
Last but not least, let’s not forget those memorable birthday sleepovers where the fighting begins weeks in advance and continues for weeks afterward over being “chosen”. That endless mean-spirited popularity contest that disguises itself as a birthday celebration. Half a dozen of the “chosen” arrive with their pillows, and sleeping bags, and retainers to start an all night marathon of bickering, backstabbing, and bellyaches.
And of course, that one child who wants to go home at 3:30 in the morning. So I make the call: “Hi Bill, sorry to bother you, but your daughter wants to come home. Well, she says it has to be now. Can you come and pick her up? Yes, I do know its 3:30 in the morning, Bill!”
But alas, they do grow up. And then it’s a lovely lunch together at a fashionable restaurant, a big fat birthday check, and everyone goes home happy.
The Noisy Bath
By Sarah Bain
I truly have the best husband in the world. My friends think so and so do I. He rubs my back and shoulders nearly every night. He sends me love letters through the mail. He waits patiently and silently when I rant in the middle of the night as my 15-month-old daughter wakes me for the third or fourth time wanting to nurse. I of course encourage this behavior by allowing her to sleep right up against my breast. And never once at the end of the day has he said, “What’s for dinner?” Never once has he said, “Why is the house such a wreck?”
So today, on a windy and cool Sunday afternoon when I say, “I’d like to take a bath,” the best husband in the world says, “Great idea, go right ahead and I’ll watch the kids. Take as long as you need.”
So as I draw the bath and grab my favorite magazine, I think, I truly am the luckiest girl around.
Moments into the bath, I hear my daughter cry, “mama.” Then my son and husband do something to make her laugh. A few moments later, she cries inconsolably, and then after what seems like a really, really long time, the crying stops. My bath, though relaxing at first, is getting less so. Then I think, well, since he is the best husband in the world, I’m sure he’ll take both kids outside any minute or upstairs where I can’t hear them. I turn a few more pages in the magazine. Unable to really concentrate on the content, I look at the pictures and pine after the figures and the haircuts and beauty makeovers. I wonder if I will ever lose that last 10 pounds of pregnancy weight.
My daughter starts crying again. I know she’s not hungry because I just nursed her. I know that she is truly okay without me, but for some reason, she’s fussy. She cries some more. She doesn’t want her papa or her brother. “Mama,” I hear her shout louder each time. My bath, lukewarm now, is still warm enough to be relaxing, but I am getting increasingly tense. I sit up.
I give my husband the benefit of the doubt and one more time I think, I’m sure he’ll take the kids somewhere, outside, upstairs, for a drive, anywhere -- so that this relaxing bath on a Sunday afternoon stays relaxing.
She cries again and I realize that as much as I love my husband, and as much as he is better than the rest, I truly think he believes that I am relaxing. I don't think he realizes that the baby's crying is making me crazy. He believes he is doing a virtuous and kind thing. But I realize that they are never going to leave the living room just around the corner from the bathroom. They are going to stay there until I get out.
And so I do get out. Then, dripping wet, I wrap a towel around me, pick up my daughter and the crying stops immediately. I look at my husband, smile and when my son asks, “ Mama, how was your bath?” I say, “A little noisy.”
***************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Sarah Bain
Sarah Bain is a writer and a mother of three children, Carver, Sophia and beloved daughter and much-anticipated sister, Grace, who was stillborn on June 1, 2003. Sarah's previous publications include an article in New Beginnings: A La Leche League Breastfeeding Journal, as well as a poem and essay in The Loss Journal (May 2004) found at kotapress.com. Sarah can be reached at sarah@bainbooks.com.
I truly have the best husband in the world. My friends think so and so do I. He rubs my back and shoulders nearly every night. He sends me love letters through the mail. He waits patiently and silently when I rant in the middle of the night as my 15-month-old daughter wakes me for the third or fourth time wanting to nurse. I of course encourage this behavior by allowing her to sleep right up against my breast. And never once at the end of the day has he said, “What’s for dinner?” Never once has he said, “Why is the house such a wreck?”
So today, on a windy and cool Sunday afternoon when I say, “I’d like to take a bath,” the best husband in the world says, “Great idea, go right ahead and I’ll watch the kids. Take as long as you need.”
So as I draw the bath and grab my favorite magazine, I think, I truly am the luckiest girl around.
Moments into the bath, I hear my daughter cry, “mama.” Then my son and husband do something to make her laugh. A few moments later, she cries inconsolably, and then after what seems like a really, really long time, the crying stops. My bath, though relaxing at first, is getting less so. Then I think, well, since he is the best husband in the world, I’m sure he’ll take both kids outside any minute or upstairs where I can’t hear them. I turn a few more pages in the magazine. Unable to really concentrate on the content, I look at the pictures and pine after the figures and the haircuts and beauty makeovers. I wonder if I will ever lose that last 10 pounds of pregnancy weight.
My daughter starts crying again. I know she’s not hungry because I just nursed her. I know that she is truly okay without me, but for some reason, she’s fussy. She cries some more. She doesn’t want her papa or her brother. “Mama,” I hear her shout louder each time. My bath, lukewarm now, is still warm enough to be relaxing, but I am getting increasingly tense. I sit up.
I give my husband the benefit of the doubt and one more time I think, I’m sure he’ll take the kids somewhere, outside, upstairs, for a drive, anywhere -- so that this relaxing bath on a Sunday afternoon stays relaxing.
She cries again and I realize that as much as I love my husband, and as much as he is better than the rest, I truly think he believes that I am relaxing. I don't think he realizes that the baby's crying is making me crazy. He believes he is doing a virtuous and kind thing. But I realize that they are never going to leave the living room just around the corner from the bathroom. They are going to stay there until I get out.
And so I do get out. Then, dripping wet, I wrap a towel around me, pick up my daughter and the crying stops immediately. I look at my husband, smile and when my son asks, “ Mama, how was your bath?” I say, “A little noisy.”
***************************************************************************************
Copyright 2004 Sarah Bain
Sarah Bain is a writer and a mother of three children, Carver, Sophia and beloved daughter and much-anticipated sister, Grace, who was stillborn on June 1, 2003. Sarah's previous publications include an article in New Beginnings: A La Leche League Breastfeeding Journal, as well as a poem and essay in The Loss Journal (May 2004) found at kotapress.com. Sarah can be reached at sarah@bainbooks.com.
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