Lessons Not Learned

Lessons Not Learned

These lessons seem to play out over and over again. When am I going to learn?

Since my knee is injured, I did not respond to the construction noises downstairs. Had I smelled smoke or heard screams, power tools, or heavy things falling, I would have hobbled down the stairs to investigate. However, I hoped it was just two young boys building, and to my knowledge I was correct. Later, however, I did respond to the giddy cries of “we're making a volcano!” that were coming from the kitchen. I snapped a few pictures, decided that they couldn't do much damage in the sink, and left the two boys to their own devices. I regrettably did not swipe the open container of food coloring that was sitting on the counter at elbow's reach. I can blame it on my knee, or the fact that I had to make an important phone call, or even the hope that all this time I've had ADD and not known it, but for whatever reason the bottle remained untouched. Until I heard “there's red food coloring all over the floor and I didn't do it!” The kitchen looked like a murder scene. There was, in fact, red food coloring all over the floor, and a little black dog was playing in it and licking it up. There were red paw prints all over the place. I had to get “the man upstairs” (my husband) to stop working and come to the rescue as I couldn't kneel down to wipe up the mess. I put the dog in what looked like a bloodbath, and before long everything was fine except for the permanently stained linoleum. At least the stains detract from the duct tape holding it together.

The boys have since been fed peanut butter bagels, told how many times I have previously told them not to play with the food coloring, and are now safely watching The Magic School Bus. I should use the term “safely” with a pinch of salt, as Ms. Frizzle and her Magic School Bus are partly responsible for all this volcano stuff in the first place.

I can't believe that people still want to send their kids over here, then again, it's not their kitchen floor...

The Bad Mother

I'm going to chop up and post some stuff that I wrote a few years ago, especially since many people I know have recently had babies...Remember it is completely unedited, so you'll have to take it as it is. However, constructive feedback is welcome. Many of my friends have already seen it...At some point I want to come up with a new title. One more note: People who don't know me sometimes don't fully appreciate the tongue-in-cheek, It's-okay-to-laugh-at-yourself tone of my writing. I'm working on better delivery in the future (writing, that is, not babies!)

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THE BAD MOTHER

Author's note: These are the largely unedited ramblings of a mother. They do not claim to be classic literature. I hope that I can collect stories from other mothers and put them into a book later when I have time. This book is likely to serve two purposes apart from the cathartic value for myself. Because we mothers are all different as people, some mothers may read it, think I'm horrible, and feel they are better mothers by comparison. Wonderful! I like to help people. Others may read it and feel that they are less alone in this chaotic world. I would love to be an organized person, but I am not, so I'll have to learn to love creative chaos.

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As I make my way through the squalor and wave a crowd of kids away from the computer like flies from manure, I sit down to write my first book... or perhaps article. With a tacked up flannel sheet on my left that has replaced the torn-down curtain, and Clifford keeping me company on my right, I bask in the oblivion (new found) of the computer screen. I know the kitchen table is covered with rice Crispies and milk (rice Crispies are the worst to scrape off when they dry) but that mess will have to wait. I've often heard of women who spend hours on the computer chatting with a new boyfriend while their kids destroy the house. First, I have neither the time or energy for any kind of boyfriend – cyber or otherwise - and second, Even if I can get a turn on the computer I always have a “helper” who is teaching me how to dismantle the printer while I work. My house gets destroyed anyway.

Let me just say that the first thing I did which in some circles could label me as a bad mother, besides a small amount of coffee and half a beer once prenatally, was to have a C-section. Then I had one more (after trying everything including hypno-birthing not to), and then I had one more (scheduled of course – it's the way to go). It's not having the C-section so much as being naive and unassertive enough to allow the medical profession to bully you into having one that labels one as bad.. Unless you read the kind of magazines I read, this may not affect you. My daughter decided that hanging upside down in a womb was just an uncomfortable way to spend her last month in utero, and she thought she'd stay right where she was, transverse and comfortable, thank you very much. As it turns out, she doesn't like to do ANYTHING the way everyone else does it, just on principle. With my second child, I was determined to have a VBAC. I read a wonderful book called “Labor Without Fear” or Tears, or something like that. It would have all been roses if I were one of the percentage of women (like my mother) who just pop kids out easily as pie with a smile on their faces. In the end, after three days of contractions (hypnobirthing didn't help me although it did wonders for my husband) and no sleep and no dilation past ½ a centimeter, I had to choose between lunch and a C-section. It was 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon and it seemed the nice thing to do to not inconvenience my wonderful doctor and to have the baby at a reasonable hour. Or I could eat lunch and be in great pain for another 24 hours or so and probably have the same result. I just felt like a failure because I didn't successfully imagine enough flowers opening (per the book Labor Without...). It's nice to talk about natural childbirth and women taking control of our own bodies and health care when all turns out nicely. The truth is, childbirth and parenting are among the most humbling of experiences.

WHAT IS YOUR CAMP?
Depending in which circles a woman travels and what she does or doesn't read, she is bound to be perceived as a bad mother by the other “camp”. If you walk into the library during story hour and mention the words “family bed” you're likely to incite a riot complete with flying diaper bags. With my second child I subscribed more religiously than I should have and less religiously than some to the Attachment Parenting Camp. I was doomed from the start considering that I was a working mom and you can only become so attached to someone with whom you are not constantly in contact (or so my camp says). Our daycare provider got our son on a nice routine for four days of the week, and I was his slave the other three. I used to put him in the swing instead of the sling occasionally and joke about the attachment police coming over and citing me for child abuse. Once I pointed to my happy boy smiling away in the bouncy seat, and questioned a friend as to whether she thought he was being damaged because he wasn't being held. She pointed out that from the bouncy seat, he could easily look around and take in the world, whereas in the sling he couldn't see as much. This should have been a no-brainer, but it seems as if parental instinct diminishes with every parenting book read. Although I still lean mostly toward the attachment camp, if I were to do it over again I would at least let myself brush all of my teeth while my little darling fussed a little. Once my brother expressed disbelief and disapproval that I hadn't “sleep-trained” my middle child yet. I immediately assembled a collection of articles to send to him that cited permanent emotional and biochemical damage done to children who are “sleep trained”. Then, in a sleep-deprived state of desperation, I finally ferberized (sleep trained) my son about eight or nine months too late. (all those months of sleep lost!) He's now five (seven), very well attached and sleeps great. So do I. I imagine that, being a counselor, somewhere along the line I confused the term attachment disorder with attachment parenting; the former being a result of a lack in the latter. The fact that it was a complex matter of degree among other things didn't occur to me.

Danger Danger

THIS IS SOMETHING I WROTE A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO: HOPE IT RELATES.
DANGER DANGER
Once you become a parent, apart from the fact that you find out you can talk about all the qualities of poop for hours, you tend to see danger everywhere. We're all on the over/under protective spectrum somewhere. My wonderful husband truly thinks that I just favor fun at all times regardless of the risks. I tell him that I refuse to live in the fetal position all my life. One day as I was reading the Cat in the Hat, It suddenly dawned on me that my idol was the cat and his was the fish. We had a wonderful conversation regarding our cat and fish viewpoints. “Well somebody's got to be the fish” was his viewpoint, well-taken. Children need cats and fish in their lives, of course not battling it out constantly as often happens, but gently tempering each other and settling at some middle ground (that's fine in my house but the middle ground absolutely must be on MY territory). Contrary to what may appear to be NOT going on in my head, when my kids do do dangerous things it's because: A: I have put a lot of thought and calculation into the perceived risk involved - “is someone going to accidentally hang themselves from that rope...exactly how much damage can one do if they fall from the tree house – will they break their arm or their neck (there's a big difference). The relatively low height of the tree house is not an accident. It was all planned out by me, and the danger versus fun and developmental need for -you name it- factor has all been taken into account. Or B: I am just too exhausted to do anything about it and I make a quick calculation of the odds of anything really dangerous happening and just hope for the best. Apparently, I do not “freak out” enough for my husband's taste. He would be much more comfortable if he heard my silent screams audibly. He has finally agreed to settle for the fact that “I'm freaking out inside, OK?” “OK as long as I know you're freaking out”. I didn't spend twenty years perfecting the art of NOT freaking out while working with emotionally whatever-the-current-politically-correct-term-is-now- kids for NOTHING you know! The stories I could tell about the King Street Kids and their antics could chill you to the bone. I know that working with and raising kids is a chess-game. They make a move, we anticipate their next move while planning our own, and so on. You don't see chess players jumping up, flailing their arms and saying “Don't you dare move that pawn there – don't you know you're going to kill yourself?!!!?” I save those antics for really serious things. I certainly did freak out when my fifteen-month old ran into the road when a car was coming. I'm not completely crazy!

Duct Tape Holds Our Lives Together

> Well, something that I can never be accused of now is being pretentious. I have officially applied duct tape to my kitchen floor. It complements the decor of the ripped flannel sheet on the living room window and the broken lamp shade. For you Martha Stewart types, you should be happy to know that it is special white duct tape, which matches the color of the floor when it is clean (as far as I can remember). The crack in the linoleum was exacerbated the day I left the house with the famous last words: Alison, would you mind mopping the floor? I should have noted the over-enthusiasm in her voice and the gleeful look on her friend's face. I had forgotten the glorious afternoon in the recent past when I had the whole daycare skating around "Pippi style" with sponges attached to their feet. When I returned home I nearly slipped on pools of water. The girls were so proud. I was so devastated. I noticed that the crack in the floor was beginning to buckle. Russ had been obliviously working upstairs, knowing nothing of the destruction -rather cleaning- going on below. Thanks again to Pippi Longstocking, my mentor and most admired person from my childhood.
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