snowbelt winter, and my kids at 8 and almost 7

I heard from two different folks that the sunrise this morning was spectacular, but I'm having trouble imagining that because it would require SUN and today is so completely soaked in gray that I feel it press up against me.

Yesterday there was sun. For the first time in a hundred years, a full sunny day, glistening on the snow, amazing, delicious. I walked the dog for a long time, even though the air was cold cold cold. I felt like I was drinking long pulls of cool water, the sun. That was yesterday. Today there is steel gray everything plus hail. 

I definitely have the winter blues. Seasonal affective disorder. Cabin fever. Crazy person syndrome. The conviction that everything is heavy, everything is hard, everyone is tired, life is monotone and endless. Doesn't that sound great? 

We live in the SnowBelt and this is an actual Thing-- four cities in a line, snug up against Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, all writhing under the power of Lake Effect. We get more snow than anyone else in the country (although whenever I see those statistics I never see Alaska listed. Do they just think of Alaska in another class? Are they only interested in continental US? And how on earth does anyone live in the Alaska winter anyway? I cannot imagine. Rather, I can imagine--SnowBelt cold and gray but with less light and more dreary dreariness. What I can't imagine is how people live and work there and come out sane on the other end). 

It hasn't been snowing much this year. Winter is always gray and cold, but usually there is more snow, more of it blowing around in the air. I miss it. It's what makes all this tolerable. 

Ok, I'm done with the weather.

Frances says she wants to grow up and marry a regular guy and he will win the lottery (why he instead of she?) and they will live in a mansion with a pool and go to Disney world and have three kids two boys and a girl. And for work she will be a bartender. 

I said, "That's your plan? That's what you aspire to do with your life?" Wow. 

Clark said he is going to grow up and not have kids although the getting married thing is unclear, and he will have a cabin in the woods and collect shotguns. He will also have a house in the country. And for work he will be an artist. 

Who are these kids? And what on earth does Frances know about tending bar? For the record, they haven't been to Disney and no one in our family owns a gun, shotgun or otherwise. No idea. 

Recently I had two far away friends ask me to post again on the blog, a way to keep up with me and with the kids. And recently two new friends asked to see the blog so I forwarded them a link. Whenever anyone asks to see the blog I take a look at it too, try to see what they will see, and then I get a bit sidetracked reading about my kids when they were littler. So much of it I don't remember, and I'm so glad I have it written down. One of the posts I read was about toddler Clark and how to keep him in his bed at night, and I asked for help and suggestions. One of the comments (by anonymous) said: "OMG. Makes me so glad for picking a sleeping philosophy and sticking with it. Parenting doesn't have to mean giving up your life, your boundaries, and routines.  My suggestion? Toddler bed--not a fancy bribe, just a bed. In his room. (It's where one sleeps.) Put him back. And back. And back. And back. Period. I just don't see it as subjecting him to some awful powerlessness. Kids need to know that a trusted adult will make decisions, provide structure, be in control, and can be relied on to do just that."

Thing is, I wasn't always a trusted adult, I don't think. I wasn't always in control. Sometimes I pulled the van into the garage and sat in the driver's seat with my head on the steering wheel, sobbing. Sometimes when Clark wouldn't stay in his room, I would become every so slightly hysterical and scream a tiny bit and lose my cool. Sometimes the gray and the toddler hysteria and the schlepping of things and the lack of support and the complete tetheredness was simply too much for me and I would break. Just a little. I agree that kids need a trusted adult to help them cope with their big and confusing feelings, but sometimes a trusted adult simply isn't available. It's unfortunate. It's imperfect. It's the way it is. 

But now--now that they are in first and second grades, now that Frances is 8 and Clark is almost 7, now that they can dress themselves and feed themselves and empty the dishwasher and vacuum the family room-- now I can be a trusted adult. Now I can stand solidly on the ground and provide a home base, a place to reground, to regroup, to check in to see if everything is normal, is ok. Now I think of myself as a good parent (thank all that is good and holy). My earlier struggle was the primary impetus for the blog in the first place. Which perhaps is why I slid away.

But since loved ones have requested, and since I'm still teaching the memoir class and wanting to do some writing too, I'm going to spend some time here. Hello again! If anyone is still out there, hello!!

supermom yearning is the pits

I'm exhausted. All from stressing myself out.

Today is Frances's 7th birthday, and I didn't start seriously planning her party or considering gifts until about 4 days ago. Thank you thank you Amazon Prime and your 2 day shipping, else I would be seriously up a creek.

Plus, pinterest. I opened my pinterest app yesterday, knowing full well the danger and believing I could guard against the pressure to be Lunatic Perfect Mama, but still wanting - needing - to get some help and ideas for the party that is going to take place mere days from now. Which I got: thank you beaded fairy bubble wands and mushrooms made from apple slices and marshmallows. But I also - of course - got the other too. The pressure to make a cake like this one, to set up a party that looks like this one (or this one, or this one), to go above and way beyond and create something magical that my child will remember forever. Which of course she won't. Which is why I am having a Perfectly Acceptable party that includes popcorn and grapes for snack, sidewalk chalk on the driveway, and decorate your own cupcakes rather than the masterpiece I usually attempt.

I have to keep reminding myself: Good Enough Mama is actually healthier for the kids, sanely deciding to forego the cake in favor of less stress, being able to enjoy books on the couch instead of rushing stressing short tempered all to win the non-existant pinterest award. Still, I cannot get the voice out of my head that says I'm a bad mama if I can't do this again (the link is the cake I made for her 5th birthday fairy party), when in fact all the kids want to do is play together. That cake does not make me a good mama, although it was fun and I'm very proud of it.

I was going to do away with a cake not only for the party, but even for tonight, the actual birthday night, and was going to take the kids to Wegmans to pick out the these super fancy cupcakes they always beg for. (You gotta see these things. Seriously gross major white flour white sugar all sugar rush and crash. If I ate one of those things I might die. But also amazing for a grocery store. That place may be the #1 reason to live in Rochester. Not kidding.)

Then after school Frances mentioned her cake for tonight, and there I was, 4 pm, turning on the oven and tying my apron. I opened a 1945 Better Homes and Gardens and made a chocolate fudge cake recipe I've never tried before. I used 1/2 whole wheat flour and 1/2 Bob's Red Mill gluten free mix. As we sat down to dinner (take out chinese, at Frances's request) I put the two layers in the fridge to cool enough to frost, which I did with plain whipping cream because I didn't have time to make actual frosting. It was delicious.

And because of the cake, because I was able to whip it up at the last minute, from scratch, a double layer frosted in pale yellow with pink sprinkles, for that evening I felt like Supermom. I keep thinking about a post on another mom blog that admits her strengths (pintrest worthy parties in fact) and acknowledges the things she doesn't do so well, not in a self-depreciating way, but in a so what way. (this is an excellent post, btw. Read it.) Cuz we all excel at something, we are all succeeding somewhere in our parenting. And none of us are doing it all. This is the trap pinterest brings us: the illusion that moms should be doing it all, and doing it with perfectly organized houses and great outfits. It's not true.

But it is true that we all do something beautifully, whether because we prioritize or because we're born with it, or because we outsource. (I make cakes!)

Even with that major cake success, the anxiety about the party 3 days from now has decended. I don't have time for perfect party planning. I don't have time. Last year I when I thought of decorate your own cupcakes (her birthday falls in a really inconvenient time for party planning it turns out) I thought of myself as brillant. This year I just feel like a slacker. Which I'm not - I just seriously don't have time, it is clear I don't have time, just acknowledge your limitations forcryingthefuckoutloud.

Sheesh. I've gotta give myself a break. Sometimes the guilty parenting voices are so loud. And not only do they lie to you and take up space in your brain, but they suck your energy and keep you from being the best mom you can be. The good enough mom. That one.

treading, and fighting siblings

Hallooooo! Been a while since I've been here. I've missed you! Missed being here. Much afloat and little time to process in writing. Plus, I've been thinking I will switch over to the new blog about which I keep talking. It will come, it will come. For now we are here. Together.

I am so far behind with - um - everything. Emails I meant to answer ages ago, christmas decorations still to pack away, laundry that has filled up the shute literally from the basement past first floor so we have to go to the second floor to put anything into it. The rental office of the beach house we're renting this summer called about the money I hadn't sent. "We sent you a contract," they said. "It's probably here in this stack of mail I haven't opened," I said. "But we sent it in December...!" they said. "Yes, probably here in this stack," I repeated. They sounded incredulous. I have this tape running through my head, a kind of ticker tape with all the things I need to do. It's very annoying. Things have been a little nutty and I can't seem to get from in front of the plow and back around behind it where I can steer. I'm just moving moving, as fast a clip as I can manage.

This is what parenting is for many people, isn't it?

I'm trying not to think about how behind I am. I'm choosing to look at it as the stuff of the sitcom and just keep rolling.

Today Clark made it clear to me that he needed some normal time at home. What I badly needed was 40 minutes on a treadmill at the gym but I decided to forgo that so Clark could have some time to settle. I thought about the fact that the gym is one of the things I do for me, and that I was giving up something good for me in exchange for something good for him. But this is my job. Not the giving things up, but making sure that he is settled in himself, teaching him how to do it and giving him as much practice as possible so he knows the feeling he's trying to create. Sometimes my job does indeed mean I need to sacrifice things. The trick is finding the balance. As moms we're only doing our kids a disservice if we give it all up. And figuring out when one should hold fast to filling our own needs is a complex art.

I keep singing Bob Dylan's Buckets of Rain: "Life is sad, life is a bust. All you can do is do what you must. Do what you must do, and you do it well."

Frances needs a lot of physical affection. She gets it from us, of course, but she also wants it from her friends, and most importantly from her brother. She loves her brother. Loves him. Thinks he's charming and funny and fun to be around. He loves her too, but she has this habit of pulling the superiority card, to trying to help him with things he cannot yet do by himself. And this drives him crazy. Their 17 months of age difference is so little that often they are on par with each other, more or less. They started activities like karate and swimming at the same time and so are equally experienced. Frances doesn't mean to put him down when she does it, she just so desperately wants to be helpful (and perhaps a bit in control...), wants to show her love this way. And wants for him to be grateful. He's not. He's resentful.

Which means he does not want her to hug him. And since he's 4, he's still unable to clearly say what it is he indeed wants. Instead he pushes or grumps or hollers at her. And these actions, believe it or not, tend to destroy her feelings of affection and good will, at least for the moment.

I don't have any brothers or sisters. I didn't learn how to fight with someone I'm close to. (In fact, this is a skill I've found it necessary to learn as an adult, what with the marriage and all.) So I don't know what healthy conflict looks like between a 6 year old and an almost 5 year old. Do I ignore it? Redirect? Talk to them? Explain? Separate? Drink heavily? Tell them stories about little fox siblings who have a hard time getting along? Waldorf believes this last one is the way to go, but I have to say, it's really hard for me to get up the inner energy for story creation. Maybe I'll work on that. In the meantime, I keep tissues in my ears and hope for the best. 

this crazy year

Here I am again, in the garage while the ever faithful sitter Liz bathes the kids and puts them to bed. It's cozy in here - I have my water and my phone and therefore music, and it's not too cold to type. (We're about done with garage-blogging weather up here in the snow belt, however. Where will I hide then? The basement? I wonder if I have any gloves I can type in? Hm....) The downside is that both lights bulbs have burned out so I can't see a thing except this glowing screen. But I did bring a flashlight! Any event is more enjoyable if you attend to the details.

So. I haven't been here on the blog in a while. I've been trying to get here, longing to come visit this page, but life is, you know, doing that thing it does. I mentioned before that I have one kid in school in the morning, the other in the afternoon. I have about 25 minutes from the time Frances gets on the bus until I leave to pick up Clark. Someone is with me always. In some ways it reminds me of when they were so little. Someone who always needs my attention, never being able to finish a task (laundry, dishes) to completion, these ideas of fun projects (gingerbread houses, paper snowflakes on bunting) swimming around my head and never any time to fit them in, though it's unclear to me where the time actually goes. The biggest difference, besides the amount of contact I have with fecal matter, is that I no longer schlep things. As we were all leaving the house the other evening for Irish Dance I was acutely aware of my lack of preparedness with snacks and drinks. Then I remembered the diapers and wipes and burp cloths and changes of clothes of yore. My body does feel much lighter than in those days.

(This is actually a big point. I think when I was physically more involved in parenting - holding, carrying, lifting, rocking, wiping, schlepping - I was desensitized to the contact. It's these days that I get touched out, when I feel the need for physical space. Interesting.)

(By the way, this blog was created out of that experience - diapers and wipes and burp cloths and changes of clothes. And I've finally realized it really is time to be done with this blog. That doesn't mean I will quit writing. It's time to move on, another blog awaits. It's brewing. It's not ready yet. But just to keep you updated about that issue...)

By the time the kids are (finally) in bed I just don't have the energy for creation (meaning: blogging, or sewing, or painting, or often even email). Or for returning things to the mall. I could this minute go to home depot for lightbulbs and a new toilet seat for instance, but I just don't want to. So I'm here with you instead. A place I'd much rather be.

Anyway, busy schedule. Plus kids in Karate 2x a week and all that. So it's hard for me to get to the page. It's hard for me to catch my breath. I'm trying to figure out ways to make it work, to get the support I need so I can fully enjoy what there is to enjoy about this nutty schedule. I have another au pair situation with a college girl I adore but it's only a month while she's off for break. (but she gets here this Friday yayayayayyaay!) During that month I intend to find something more long term. (Please contact me if you have any leads.)

Even amid all that is frantic, I am also very present and aware it's only one year. It's a unique year, different from all the rest to come. It's hard for me, this year. I'm trying to let go of the dishes and of dinner (thank goodness for the new Trader Joes), and instead do puzzles and play Uno and make Magi out of salt dough as I did today. Next year Frances will be in school full day but Clark will still be home half day. The year after that they will both be gone full day. Oh my.

But I also love these days. I love having time alone with each child. I love running errands with them, letting them color or play around me while I cook dinner (at 10am because when else is that going to happen?), I love waiting for the bus with Frances and the ritual the bus adds to our lives. I love packing her snack in her backpack, love the way when she gets home she bounds off the bus with a smile, turns and waves, then runs to me. I love hearing about her day that is so foreign and completely separate from me. On days when Mitch takes Clark to school, I love that Frances and I walk the dog. We have a route of our own that involves a high wooden swing, and then we come home for hot chocolate without marshmallows because it is 9 am after all.

I love it. I love that Clark is learning to play by himself, entertained with his own sound effects, a lot of swooshing and blasting and kabooming as he zooms various cars or figures through the air. I love going to the library more often because I go with them one at a time rather than together. I am acutely aware that these days are but a moment in time, this year something that I will look back on.

Which is why I need support. Because I don't want this year to go by in a blur of dishes and laundry and rides to karate. I want to have enjoyed it, and to have paused and seen it. I want to feel it fully, and I want to be a good mom. In order to do that, given the set up, I need help help help. It's good to know what you need.

household help!

So. Ahem. Let's chat about headaches, shall we?

Frances had one a few months ago, did I tell you that? It was at bedtime. She said her forehead hurt, then she writhed on her bed for some time, and she sometimes liked the cold cloths I put on her head and sometimes pushed them away in pain and frustration. Suddenly she said, "I've gotta throw up" and we made it to the bathroom just in time. A full heaving episode, all her pasta dinner in case you wanted details, and then she felt much better, just exhausted, and fell into her bed and immediately passed out. She was fine in the morning.

But actually, since I go in for the navel gazing full on, I wanted to talk about my headaches.

If you're recently joining us, I have a chronic migraine disorder and have pretty much all my life. I was SO hoping my kids wouldn't get it, but it does run in families - my dad has it too, and my grandmother - but Frances's recent brush with the fabulousness that is migraine is seriously dampening my hope. When untreated I can have 3-4 massive migraines a week, but in the last few years by seriously limiting my diet, taking daily preventative, exercising like a crazy person, and (now!) having botox injections every 3 months, I average one every couple of weeks, and still have low grade headaches pretty frequently. The botox (for those of you who previously overlooked my sincere endorsement) is the only thing I've gotten real relief from but the effect wears off over time. The last few weeks of my treatment cycle the frequency is back up, sometimes daily low grade ones.

Anyhoo, Karen the au pair arrived here 4 weeks after the last round of injections. She was here 2 months, the last of which I should have been having full on headaches since my next treatment was on the very day she left. But in that 2 months she was here - are you ready?? - I only had three (3) headaches. In two months. It's unheard of.

When I told my neurologist, just as she was getting ready to stick my forehead with a needle, she said, "when does the next au pair come?" I told her it was just me again, just me. She paused, looked at me blankly, and she said, "It seems to me that if there's there's a problem that can be solved by throwing money at it, and you have the means, you should throw money at it." Hm.

I don't think it was just the extra pair of hands, though I'm not sure that help can be calculated. I think it was also the adult interaction, the waning of that lonesome feeling.

But now the headaches are back. Hello old companions.

Then! In my brainstorming about a solution to stay-at-home-mom fatigue, I decided what I needed was help with the house rather than the kids. So I gave up one sitter night and instead asked a sitter if she would be interested  in coming two or three evenings for just an hour, and for household help rather than kid entertainment. (When the kids were babies and I so needed a break, I wanted to sitters to entertain them so I could be not be touched for longer than 60 seconds. With Karen here I realized having house help freed me to roll on the floor with the kids or do puzzles or participate in tea parties without stressing that I should be emptying the dishwasher. It made me a better parent.)

Let me tell you, this solution is genius. I am SO pleased with myself for making this happen. Two extra hands for an hour seem like way more than two extra hands. She does the dishes, folds and puts away the laundry, drags the cooler or cat litter (or whatever) down to the basement, generally straightens, and - my favorite - turns down the beds. (hotel turn down service is one of my favorite things ever. It gives me large amounts of pleasure to walk into a room already appropriately lit and ready.)

WE NEED MORE SUPPORT AS PARENTS THAN WE GENERALLY GET!! There it is again, my refrain. Did you know in Europe nurses come visit the home several times after a baby is born, to see how the mom is doing, to check on the baby, to offer any advice or know-how or general encouragement? Here in America, once you leave the hospital, you are on your own. (I'm not going to be on my soap box long here...) The result of this for the US is a much higher maternal mortality rate, did you know?? Not to mention the ridiculous 6 weeks a mom gets for maternity leave here, compared with 12 months there. Really.

Okay, I'm done.

Will see how the household help (plus adult company!) affects the headaches. Right now I'm not seeing magical improvement, but we've just begun.

extracurricular overload

We are enrolled in too many activities.

Aren't we?

I've always erred on the side of too few, have in fact sworn not to have more than one per kid at any given time. I've wondered at friends who are activity-full. So - how did we get here? It's uncertain, and they each are good ideas individually. Thing is, now I don't know how to undo it, or - interestingly - if I even want to.

On one hand, it keeps my house straighter. This is actually a huge plus for me, not just a nice side effect. When the kids aren't here to dump entire bins of superheros on the familyroom floor, we come home in the evening to clutter free-ish, which makes for a much calmer mom. Clutter makes me seriously anxious. There have been times when I've felt anxious and have wondered what in the world I'm anxious about - there was nothing obvious. Then I just straightened the house and the anxiety went away.

My husband doesn't see the clutter. He's not a hoarder or anything, he just isn't bothered by random clothing items heaped on the recliner. Once the piles grow to a certain size he would clean up I'm sure. But even the small ones make me nuts. I don't have many knick knacks, don't collect things, pass on books when I'm done with them unless they are signed or inscribed or something, but there's this pile of papers on one counter that grows like a mold. When the au pair was here she kept the dishes and obvious things clean, so I was free to deal with this asinine pile on the counter and others like it. One of my theories about my crazy happiness when she was here has to do with the decrease in clutter alone.

My newest idea is to drop one of my evening sitters and turn that money into one person who comes for maybe an hour 3 days a week.

But that's a different subject.

First both kids were in tennis because it was convenient. Then Frances added Irish Dance and that seemed reasonable. Then Clark wanted Karate and that also seemed fairly reasonable except that it's twice a week, but he's so absolutely nuts about it that I thought we would squeeze it in somehow. Then Frances wanted (at my suggestion) to try out Karate too, and she of course loves it because who wouldn't. And since Frances tried his class Clark thought he would try hers and now they're both in Irish Dance - both in all four activities each week. And one night a week they go with their sitter to her parents house, where they are regular members of that family.

All this leaves little time for the kids to argue (which makes me an insane person), or to wrestle until someone whacks their head on the floor (which makes me an insane person). It channels energy. This is good.

Plus I get to sit and read my book, as well as observe my children from afar, both of which are things I enjoy. And which help keep me sane.

But I'm aware that avoiding their conflicts is just convenience on my part, a sort of laziness. It's admittedly easier to keep them busy than to deal with the hollering and crying - the conflict that helps them learn how to deal with conflict. The only way to the other side is through, right? Is this why so many parents load up on the activities? Because - what it really comes down to - it's easier? It's like never taking them with you to the grocery. I have a friend with four boys and she takes all four of them with her on grocery trips. On purpose. She believes it's important for them to learn how to deal with boring everyday details like groceries, and that they need to learn how to behave in public, and it's okay for them to not always be entertained. The reward she receives for persevering with all four boys in tow is children who are pleasant to be around, and less work teaching them to behave later on.

At the same time, a sane mommy is a good thing.

It seems to me - logically - that it's really a toss up. That this decision for this minute of their lives really doesn't matter. But it sure feels like it does. Maybe that's just the obsessive mind talking.

Will see what happens. 

great

Ok, so the last post really just caught everyone up on the facts. And facts are important, right? I suppose so. But the real truth I need to express - and that all those facts were supposed to express - is that right now, for this sliver of time, this very moment, things are GREAT.

I read another blog post about an email the blog author had received, and the email asked, among other things, "...DO YOU HAVE ANY ADVICE FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME WITH BABIES OR PERHAPS REFLECTIONS OF HOW YOU GOT BY WHEN YOUR KIDS WERE BABIES?  HOW DID YOU NOT JUMP OFF A CLIFF?  ..." I remember those days. I remember wondering how any moms were standing upright, because I certainly felt any uprightness of mine was a trick of light. 

The blog author's response was, "STICK TOGETHER. KEEP BREATHING. ESCAPE OFTEN. TAKE PICTURES and then LOOK AT THE PICTURES AFTER THE BABY IS ASLEEP. IT’S EASIER TO LOVE PICTURES OF BABIES THAN ACTUAL, AWAKE BABIES." Excellent. 

It all reminded me of the first few months, or perhaps years I suppose. 

A friend of mine has a 5 year old and a 9 month old and always feels like she should be accomplishing more than she is. When she's at my house and our daughters are playing together, she's always offering her help while I'm fixing snacks for them, as if she isn't already trying to keep the baby from killing himself by swallowing legos. I mean - really. She has enough to do. Recently she said, "How long will I be tied down like this?" I had enough presence of mind to remind her it's until the kid turns 3. "Oh right," she said. "That's about when I started to feel out of the weeds with the first." So funny how we forget. This forgetting is necessary for survival, I'm certain. 

But Frances will be 6 next week, and Clark is 4.5. I am officially out of the weeds. I still have to tie shoes and sometimes chase and tackle a naked one who's refusing to put on jammies, but really - I'm not in danger of cliff diving any longer. 

Of course, now that I'm out of the weeds, being back in them seems awfully attractive. Thankfully I have reasons not to do it again. The main ones are my age (too old for sleep deprivation), my migraines, and the medications I'm on to control them. Good reasons. But the real reason, when I'm being honest with myself and my brain is functioning well enough for me to remember accurately, is that having a new baby is hell. Hell. Those of you who are saying, "Oh no, it wasn't that bad," are suffering from a case of Refusing To Remember. (It's also Amazing and Wonderful, and thankfully we don't forget that part.)

So here is where I am. Here, where my kids dress themselves (mostly) and feed themselves, though they do not yet fix the food and put it on plates. They can (sort of) clean up messes, and can (generally) quiet down when asked. I can leave the house (with them of course). I can shower without interruption. I can eat an entire meal sitting down. 

Great. That is how I'm feeling. I'm slightly worried that this feeling greatness is due to the help I'm receiving at home with the au pair here, and that when she leaves in 2 weeks I will be feeling a lot less than great. I tend to anticipate the worst that way. I'm trying my best to simply enjoy the weather and the wonderfulness of this place I am in for but a moment. Because it always changes so fast, doesn't it? Whatever the stage is, it will pass. Fabulousness and all. 

summer fever

We are in Michigan now, staying at Mitch's folks' house. They live on a beautiful little lake with a pontoon boat and a paddle boat and a tire swing and hammock and a little beach with a dock to jump off and a whole lot of outdoor loveliness. It's pretty cool that the kids get to visit their grandparents here.

We've all been here together since Tuesday - 5 days ago - and the plan is that tomorrow Mitch and I will go home and leave the kids here.

When we made these plans I was so excited to be at home with my husband and no kids for the better part of a week. He'll be working, of course, but in the evenings we can go out to dinner if we want, at any point in the evening. We can sleep in! Nap mid afternoon! Run spontaneous errands! The plan, of course, is to get some projects done around the house.

But tonight I feel funny about it. I've been away from the kids before - many times - but always when I've gone away for a trip or something. I've never been away from them for any length of time when I was at home. I'm going to miss them.

And Frances is sick. Friday morning we went to see a play, and in the theater she was so cold she was shivering. (Luckily, as a holdover from my living in the south where summer means 50 degrees inside any building, I had a sweater in my bag.) That afternoon she slept and slept and when she woke her temperature was 102.

That was Friday. Today is Sunday, and her temp is still 102. She's a trooper about it, I have to say. We took her to urgent care yesterday to get a strep test, but it seems to be nothing more than a virus, so we're waiting for the fever to pass.

[If I may take a soap box moment here: I've stopped treating fevers. The fever is, after all, the body's way of killing the virus, so letting it run is best, the literature says. Unless it's crazy high, of course. In addition to that, bringing a fever down means the kid feels again like having pillow fights with her brother, so in addition to helping the kid heal, leaving the fever alone helps her get rest. Yet somehow the pharmaceutical companies and the doctors have most folks convinced that a fever gets tylenol immediately. Ridiculous what a hold they have on us.]

I've never before missed them. This has in the past disconcerted me a small bit. Funny - I've had the baby yearning so badly lately, but when they were babies I felt only relief about being away. Now, now that they are big and don't need me so much, now I will miss having them with me.

Perhaps it's all about my not having my own thing, which I definitely need to find. Who will I be if they're not with me?

Will be interesting to see how it goes, how I feel about it once we get back to NY. 

forward

This parenting gig is emotional business. I dropped both kids off this morning for their first day at camp - Frances went there last year but this is Clark's first experience - and I almost wept watching them go off with their group. They were so big; they were so little. My heart was so full it ached.

And why? Why is it all so emotional? I suppose because we know we can't hold it, can't hold onto it, these moments. Can't hold onto them and their babyness.

I've been feeling the baby pull again lately, but I think it's nothing more than the longing for all of this to stay. It's the desire to hang onto the time when they need and love me so desperately. It's amazingly satisfying to be needed by another creature so completely. But, if I think back with honesty, being needed so is also extremely taxing and sometimes resentment making. Which is why I'm trying to keep my head about this and know that another baby is not the answer to the question.

The answer to the question is for me to get off my ass and go get something of my own.

The kids are signed up for this camp this week and next, 9-1 each day. This is the first time EVER that I've had both kids in activities all morning for FIVE WHOLE DAYS IN A ROW. I almost don't know what to do with myself.

My joy over this limited freedom makes me know that the answer to the question is not another baby, but me me me. What do I want to do in this world? How do I want to spend my time, my energy? Do I want to write? Paint? Organize food drops for a homeless organization?

I read a quote recently that said something like: midlife is when the universe takes you by the shoulders and says, stop fucking around and use the gifts you've been given!!

It's less scary to turn back to what we know - which for me these days is certainly babies and little children. But that's not the best reason to do it. Especially when I struggle with post pardem depression, etc. No, I need to go forward, into the world, not retreat from it to care for an infant. It is time. 

state of the union

I've gotten word that my far flung friends, the ones who use this blog as a way to keep up with the general tilt of my life, have been wondering what became of me. I've been stuck lately - unable to put down my thoughts, perhaps to collect them in the first place. And so, this here post will not be a theoretical comment on the general state of 21st century parenting, but a simple state of the union.

About 8 weeks ago, during the end of my last botox cycle - the time in which the migraines come back and I forget all about the miracle of being without them, and the noise that is my children feels like a thousand horses galloping across my brain - I called a friend who has his hands in a bunch of projects to ask if he needed help with any of them. One of the things he's doing is running a CSA (community supported agriculture - see here if unfamiliar), and he said one of the farms he uses needed folks during the spring crunch time. (Actually, he first said, "You want to work on the books?" to which I said, "Noooooo!!") So I set up a sitter for 2 afternoons a week and off I went to transplant seedlings to containers to sell at farmers' markets. I had been inside the greenhouse for all of five minutes, my hands in the dirt, before I thought, "Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh. This is heaven."

I wanted to keep my two afternoons out there forever, and I somehow tricked myself into thinking that was going to be the case. Then a couple of weeks ago the crunch time ended, the college students came home to work their full time summer jobs, and the farm didn't need me anymore. I cried. 

Working out there did my spirit enormous good. It was a very very good thing for me to have something outside of this house. Something of my own. Adults with whom to interact. Sunshine and vitamin D and open sky. And relative quiet. 

I was only away from the kids about 10 hours a week, yet it felt like ages, and it completely revived me as a parent. (Vacations don't even do that.) I've said before that bedtime is the worst time of day for me. The. Worst. I read a blog post about this issue recently and the author said bedtime should be in the morning when everyone still has their patience and good humor. Yes! But it's not. It's at the very end of everyone's rope, including mine. I've accepted this and no longer berate myself for passing off this time of day as much as I absolutely can. But! When I left the house after lunch and came home around 6:30, I found I loved bedtime! So much so I even told Mitch more than once that he could stay and work late if he needed.

I've been thinking about asking the other farms here (and there are many) if someone else can use my help. But then, the kids struggled with the change. Yet as I write this I am aware that their struggles were probably temporary - adjustment is hard - and the specific issues are ones I could certainly address with the sitter. For example, they discovered a new game - a sneaking game. Sneaking candy, sneaking into the attic into things packed neatly away (disaster in their wake), sneaking into my make up, sneaking off and covering Clark's face with marker. Maybe it's just a stage that would be happening with me here? Anyway.

Yet, they would adjust. And as I write this it's plainly clear to me that their having a mommy who hasn't run through all of her emotional patience would be a good thing.

In other news, we have a German university student coming to live with us for two months beginning in August. We got hooked up with her through a german colleague of Mitch's, who is a friend of the family. She forwarded us an email from this student who was looking for an au pair position. We emailed her back to say that we can't offer her that since I don't work, but if she just wanted a place to stay and a little spending money for sitting the kids now and then... We've skyped with her, and the kids are so excited. I'm excited too - it seems like too much to ask that I will be able to just say, "you okay w the kids while I make a quick grocery run?" Oh my. Not having the shlep everyone over there? Oh my. What worries me is how I'm going to take it when she leaves. I think everyone had better be prepared for the winds of depression to blow in.

Change of subject again: I think - I think? - that this blog is nearly done. I think, unless I go crazy and decide to have another baby. It's pretty clear to me now that this blog has been about how to exist in our adult bodies while caring for baby humans. How to do this thing with some grace. And although grace is what I'm trying to achieve now too (always, always), I'm not doing it with baby humans anymore. I'm doing it with small children. They are different creatures; it's a different planet, with a different colored sunset. I'm finding I'm not prepared to talk about it, at least in the same way. I would need to talk in riddles, or verse. Maybe that will be the next blog.

I'll leave you with:
Last night at dinner I was commenting that, because of my fabulous sinus infection, I can't taste anything. Dinner tasted like nothing.

Frances: What is nothing?

Clark: Nothing is nothing!

pause.

Clark: Mama?

Me: Yes?

pause.

Clark: Nothing.

big changes afoot

So. I've realized something. I've realized we have a situation here and that I created it. This was not by accident, not for lack of attention; I willingly created a breeding ground for lunatics in my home. Oops. They're not lunatics elsewhere, and everyone is surprised when I tell them they are here. In fact, I don't generally think of them as lunatics, which is why by role in all this escaped my attention.

On Sunday I went to Wegmans by myself at 3pm. If you have a Wegmans near you, you know what folly this was, though to my credit I at least did it without kids. It was a ZOO in there. As I was walking in, a dad and three kids were coming in at the same time. I had plenty of opportunity to study this family, as we weaved in and out of each other's aisles the rest of my visit. I took a good long look at these kids: the one in the cart probably 3 1/2 - Clark's age - and two on their feet, probably 5 and 7. Everyone was calm. The dad did not once have to rein them in, tell them to be quiet or calm down. They browsed the produce, discussed which color pears to buy, hung out. If I had been there with my kids, they would have been laughing, pulling at each other, making faces, getting wound up until I shushed and reminded about the Great Big Bribe at the end of the trip.

Thing is, Clark and Frances love each other so much, and they love to be together, to play together. I have friends with kids further apart in age (mine are 17 months for those of you who are just joining the regularly scheduled program) and their kids just don't really interact. They're not interested in creating pretend games together in the plastic car attached to the front of the cart. They don't laugh with each other. Generally, what they do is tolerate. But my kids think all time is playtime. Anytime they are together is the opportunity for play. Of course, eventually someone gets hurt, gets offended, whacks the other over the head. This I want to avoid, which is why I shush - before it happens.

But the shushing makes me crabby. Who wants to be the person telling everyone to calm down? Sometimes Frances looks at me with pure hate in her eyes. No wonder she feels that way; I'm constantly grouching at her.

We've allowed them to run wild in the house, did it on purpose. We have this great big rambling house and little furniture, and I've purposely not furnished it so the kids can have the space to tear around. When they were toddlers it made sense to me: it felt like a privilege that I could offer them unlimited exploration of their world. Now, however, they are bigger. They are louder. They are making me insane.

No wonder I always feel like I need a break from them.

So I just decided: no running in the house, no jumping on the furniture, no wrestling or carrying each other around (I don't know why this is a big activity), no climbing over the back of the couch, no no no screaming. I know plenty of people who have these rules in their house, and I have until now thought of those people as uptight and unfair. Ha! A lot I know.

The kids forget, of course, but they really are adapting pretty well to the new rules. Mitch thinks it will take them about 3 weeks to acclimate. Will see. I'm holding the line for sure. We have a bouncy house in the basement and they are willingly and quickly going down there when I tell them it's the only place they can play like that.

The most interesting thing to me are the side effects I didn't see coming. The kids are calmer overall. Usually I have to force them apart to calm them down, which is why we have strict alone play for at least an hour each day. But today they played for ages and didn't get exhausted, found ways to regroup and recharge in each other's space. They would be playing Mama and Baby, for example, and Frances would go to her room to fetch the plastic fruit or whatever, and she'd get distracted in her closet. Meanwhile Clark was distracted with his trains, and they played a little while alone before coming back (calmly!) together. This is radically different from, say, last week, when all their play consisted of shrieking and grabbing and chasing and having an uproariously good time until it wasn't anymore. You know where that story ends. With a grumpy mama.

Not only are they calmer in the house, but - surprise surprise! - I am a more patient parent! I don't watch the clock for Mitch to come home or the sitter to get here! I LIKE being near and with the kids! And here I thought maybe I simply wasn't cut out for this. Holy crow.

I do see the irony that I did this to myself.

That's okay. I'm going to undo this thing.

I'd forgotten how much children love discipline, how much they thrive when they understand the rules and the limits. I've known this before, but I'd forgotten.

Also, I've started using different language. We had a big long discussion about Community, being a part of a community and which ones we participate in - school, neighborhood, family etc - and what the community rules are. And how, since we are part of a community of family, we have to have some rules that take into account everyone in the community. I've also started to talk about Playtime. As in "now it is dinnertime, not playtime. Now it is time to get ready for school, not playtime." The rules make everything so much simpler. I just remind them of the rule (in my calm mom voice), rather than try to impose my own agenda (generally after becoming irritated), which I'm pretty sure is how they see any limitations without specific rules anyway, as the grownups' agendas.

And here I was trying to come up with schedules and routines and approaches and techniques when all I had to do was change the house rules. Funny when the answers are surprisingly simple.

Will keep you updated.

in the garage

I am this minute squeezed into a cushioned kids chair in the garage in the dark with the computer on my lap. I can't turn the lights on because the kids might see me from inside the house, and they think I'm at the grocery or walking the dog but probably not sitting in the garage with a bottle of wine. In fact, I am listening to some impressive music while on hold with applecare. (Who picks their playlist? Sometimes Apple marketing astounds me.) I've spent many an hour recently entertained by their playlist while on hold with applecare. Generally I'm holding while the good spirited front line fella named Jake talks with someone in the back who knows which end is up. Not that Jake doesn't. Just somehow I've dug myself into a digital hole from which only experts can save me.

We had swim lessons tonight, which end later than the kids should be in their pjs, and Mitch is at a work dinner. Sometimes I pressure myself about doing it alone - feel that if I'm a good mom I should be able to put them to bed by myself forcryingoutloud, but other times I'm pretty clear about acknowledging my limitations. Given Clark's incessant screaming and general volatility, my limitations these days come sooner than they have other times. Good Enough Mommy, right? So tonight I have a sitter just for bathing them and putting them to bed. It's someone they love, and whom they haven't seen for a while. Everyone was happy when I lugged my electronics out here.

You may be pleased to know that as long as I don't die from a spider bite I might soon have pictures on a computer again. I have pictures, but I can't get them off the camera. So many I've wanted to post here recently! I have faith in this round of computer support. Maybe it's the wine.

A few minutes ago I nearly killed myself tripping over a trike while unplugging the computer from the wall as requested by Applecare Jake. Besides that, and the spiders, it's rather nice out here. I can hear the rain and smell the sawdust left by the guys who've been working on our house. I can also hear my son screaming absolute bloody murder in the upstairs bathroom. My guess is it's about getting out of the bath, though really, it could be about anything. It's hard to be three. Poor Sitter Liz, but she's a capable human and besides, it's good for Clark to have to receive comfort (and reactions) from people who are not Mommy.

Sometimes Mommy needs a break. I'm pretty sure I would not have believed you if prekids you'd told me that a satisfying break would involve sitting in my dark garage in a kids' chair drinking wine and listening to music akin to The Shins while on applecare hold. Ah, the poetic twists our lives take. I hope Clark doesn't scare away Liz. She's a great sitter, and she folds laundry and does dishes. What more?

we welcome all comments here!

Last week I got what might be my favorite comment ever. It was in response to this post. I've been thinking about it some and thought you'd appreciate seeing it. Here's the comment:

wow...to call your little baby a "little fucker" ?? you should be ASHAMED of yourself for even thinking that, let alone posting that on the internet. some of these posts are pathetic. grow up. if you can't handle kids, you shouldn't be a mother. i know plenty of single working moms who don't bitch and moan about how hard their lives are and they don't have the luxury of being a stay at home mom while their husband provides everything. you need to get your priorities straight, and think a little more about your children, and the good things you do have in life. you may have been an only child and gotten your way all the time, but it's time to stop being the drama queen and focus on your children, white trash mama.


Well! Let's take a look at this, shall we? I like particularly that she tells me I should be ASHAMED for even thinking those thoughts. Sigh. This is exactly the public's attitude I talk about all the time. This is the reason I started the blog in the first place (you can read more about that here). I believe it's the main contributor postpartum depression and anxiety, because we are taught that in order to be good mothers, we can never have a negative thought about our children. Yet all worthwhile relationships in this world are complex. They have multiple sides, attitudes, feelings; both positive and negative. To think otherwise is to ignore reality.


After all, we feel what we feel. Ignoring our feelings - or even worse - being ashamed of them, only bottles everything up and creates a big mess. In order to move past these feelings to the other ones, the ones in joy, we have to acknowledge the hard ones, respect their power, see what they have to teach us, then let them go. 


It's true that plenty of single working mothers don't bitch and moan as much as I do. There are plenty of stay-at-home ones that don't either. I'll be the first to admit that I do more moaning than is ever necessary, and my navel gazing does indeed reach irrational proportions. She got me on that one. I even admit my over-complaining in this post.


At the same time, this blog is about the trials of being a mom (as it says right in the subtitle up on the banner), particularly a stay at home mom, and I'm willing to bet that any working single mother would have plenty to bitch about were she to write her own blog. There are other blogs that celebrate momdom rather than bitch about it, and they are great. They, in fact, provide me with a lot of inspiration in my daily life. I choose not to write about those moments, however, and I talk about why in this post. All in all, I find writing about the struggles cathartic. Sometimes it helps me regain my sense of humor, even if it doesn't always come across on the page. 


As for how I should "think a little more about my children," I don't even know how to respond to that. My concern for my children, and how to wade through these young child years gracefully while also giving them every opportunity and support, and indeed sheltering them from my negative feelings, is my prime motivator in writing. Maybe this was the only post she actually read from the blog.


AND I'd like to point out that she left her comment anonymously. I mean, really. If you're going to land that kind of trip on someone else, you should at least own up to it, doncha think? 


Now that I think about it, maybe she doesn't have kids. If I had to take a guess, she's pregnant, is dreamily looking forward to the moment she first lays eyes on her beautiful baby, at which time all the pieces of her life will come together in a magical fusion that leaves her complete. She's trolling the internet for information about being a mom, and my post's proposition - the idea that she might have negative feelings about her sweet baby - threatens her sense of self and maybe even the steadiness of the world. Well, all I can say is bless her heart, and she'll find out when the time comes. 

non yelling mama

Riddle.
Clark: "I am a person, and I yell a lot."
Me: "Is it Mommy?"
Clark: "Yes! Good job, Mama."

I don't like to yell. It makes me feel like a crappy mom and sometimes a crazy person. And I've noticed lately that they've started to yell at each other. It does not escape me from where they learned this.

So on Monday I decided to go the whole day without yelling. It was great! I didn't yell once, and I found (very interestingly) that, having promised myself this, it was easy. I was actually not even tempted to yell. When those moments came, when I would usually yell, I just took a deep breath, stooped down to look them straight in the face, and talked. Plus, I became acutely aware of my Job - meaning, the time I yell is when we're in a hurry to get out the door and short people are dragging their feet, or still playing with the trains, or ignoring my requests to don rainboots, or simply refusing directly - and I think I believed my Job was to make things run on time, to deliver bodies to school on time, to get to my gym class on time, to go to the playground with enough time to play before dinner. But that's not my job. My job is to be kind and to teach them how to function well in this time-driven world. There's no reason we can't sometimes be late to preschool, or to my gym class, or skip the park all together if there's too much dawdling. Natural consequences.

The things we struggle with are often so simple.

That was Monday. Later in the day, after I saw I was successful, I told Frances the promise I'd made to myself, and told her how proud I was that I hadn't yelled even once. Then I did it again on Tuesday, and again on Wednesday. I'm marking it on the calender, going to see how long I can go. I hope it's long long long. Because yelling is only a habit, and habits can be broken.

I do find that in order to be successful in this, I have to have tissue in my ears at all times. Earplugs block too much, but with tissue I can still hear conversation. It just takes the sharp edge off the shrill, and I'm much more able to be patient.

Now there can be a No Yelling rule in the house. I'm noticing already that it's helping with how they talk to each other. Yay me!

creative me

I've had a revelation about craft projects with the kids.

Recently I've spent a fair amount of time perusing mom/craft blogs and ogling the projects of these energetic and creative women. (Blogs such as this one, and this one, and this one, and this one.) It's exciting for me; I have an art degree, after all, and want to be creating things myself, and what better excuse than to do it with my kids? Thing is, once I get past being inspired to try new projects, these lovely blogs end up having the same effect as parenting books: they make me feel depressed. Supermom I am not.

I used to attempt more craft projects but they made me crazy. This was about the time I was envying all my friends who parent only one child. These projects, rather than being a creative outlet for me, seemed to be only about setting up paint and brushes and glitter glue that my kids then flung around for about 10 minutes before running off laughing and wrestling. Then I would wipe paint off the walls and the chairs and the dog. Wrestling was much more the activity of choice, for sure. So I gave up for a while.

Clark is a sensory creature rather than a visual one, which means his love of art materials is limited and his love of wrestling is not. He does like playdoh, feels good on the fingers, and he can stick with that for a good while. He's not much for crayons or markers or drawing in general; he scribbles on the appropriate paper for about 20 seconds and then either dumps the crayons/markers/colored pencils on the floor because he thinks dumping boxes of things on the floor is glorious fun, or he turns the coloring implement to his skin or the wall. What I need, and I'm serious, is some warmer weather and a project that involves painting one's own body. Perhaps while we potty train this summer. Ha!

I thought for a good while about why these lovely blogs had me so turned around. Where did these moms get the energy? Why didn't I have it? Where did they get the time to come up with the projects, go to Michaels and Kmart and the hardware store for materials, set up the project, photograph it in process, and blog about it???? Maybe other things are falling off their radar; maybe their houses are a mess. Maybe they have a family who take the kids from time to time. Probably they don't wrestle with migraines three days a week.

One of the blogs in particular impressed itself on me. (You'll just have to stroll through my Creative Parent Blog List and speculate on which one.) After coming back to it several times I realized something. These, for the most part, didn't appear to be kid projects; they were projects that the mom built and that the kids could enjoy in finished form. Perhaps the kid could help in process - sort of - but mostly it was a creative outlet for mom.

Oh my. Was I allowed to simply create? Was I allowed to create things for the kids without inviting them to help??? Could it be?

So. I got online and immediately ordered some peg people for me to paint. And yesterday while Frances was outside behind the garage moving rocks into a circle for her 'campfire', I built (out of cardboard) and upholstered (with scrap flannel) a barbie couch for the barbie house I am going to put together.


I'm having so much fun!!!


It's possible you will never see pictures of these things, but maybe...

a new mom at 35

A friend asked me today what motivated me to start the blog, and I talked about the early days as a mom, about feeling that no one had warned me how difficult being a parent is, and how moms don't talk about it; it's some kind of forbidden topic. At that time, when I talked to other moms of small babies, everyone pretended they were okay and not sleep deprived, that having a baby was just jolly all the time. I found that when I told the truth, when I said that actually, I have no idea what I'm doing, am holding it together only by sheer hope, and one more exploding diaper might send me over the edge completely, all the other moms widened their eyes and said, "Oh, you feel that way too? You seem so together, I was afraid to admit how I really feel."

So I started talking about it outloud. 

My friend, though, was interesting: she didn't find the first baby very hard. It was when the others (three total) came along that it started to look impossible to her. 

And here's what I think is the difference - she was twenty three when she had the first one, and I was thirty five. I could see how taking care of a baby at twenty three could be viewed as fun. But at thirty five, the reality is that a baby is a freedom-sucking-anxiety-producing upheaval. At thirty five what you've had is your own life, planned (possibly) and cultivated (hopefully); you've maybe had a career, the freedom to go from relationship to relationship, possibly city to city, and at least apartment to apartment. Freedom. Freedom to go to the movies, or not. To choose to go to work, or not. To eat in restaurants and travel and take hour long baths. At twenty-three, you don't have as much life or history to give up. 

The reason becoming a parent is so hard at thirty five is the resentment. Though the baby is amazing and you love it with every cell of your body, you also resent the little fucker for completely destroying the life you knew and replacing it with one covered in exploding diapers and clogged milk ducts and vomit. Plus, sleep deprivation is much more taxing on a thirty-something body and mind. The twenty-three year old rarely has solid regular sleep in the first place. I was probably more sleep deprived when I was 23 than I was with an infant. Okay, not quite. But it's close. 

I've taken to the ipod lately. One earbud in, my low music the soundtrack to this movie. It creates a little bit of distance for me, a little bit of space all my own, a little elbow room. Being an only child, I think, makes me less used to sharing my personal space, and makes me feel the resentment even more keenly. I've been lately feeling smothered, and just the ipod can bring me back to myself, make me remember that I still have my own internal life, even though I give and give and give. Though it sometimes feels like it, we never give it all away. 

not that kind

I've been thinking about all this (see prev post) pretty much constantly the last few days and trying it all out with my kids. Here's where I've landed:

1) I think my friend Erynn is right (ebp from the comments section) that this kind of constant play and attention gives children a deep sense of security.

2) What I want to be able to do (and what I think Wendy does) is incorporate my children into all my activities rather than compartmentalize and see playing with them as one thing and my housework as another, etc.

3) It's possible that temperamentally I will not be able to do this.

The only thing I've ever aspired to be (when I'm honest with myself) is a mom. The only thing I deeply want for my children is a sense of security. I've been taught to believe that if you want something badly enough you can work for it and get it. But this--maybe not. Parenting pushes me sometimes to my edges, and then I'm not the parent I want to be. It's possible I'm not acknowledging my limitations, not looking realistically at who I am and of what I'm capable. My husband is convinced that I would be happier if I were working part time, and maybe he's right. It makes me sad, frankly, because I so badly want to be successful at this. But perhaps being successful at mothering, for me, means being with them only part time.

Acknowledging my limitations.

Today is the third day I've been alone with them, Mitch in Chicago for a conference. I'm stretched, I'm tired, I'm frazzled. I have a feeling that the post nap activities might involve a good bit of the idiot box. And right now I feel great about that decision, certain that it's the healthiest thing for me and for the group in general.

independent play

Just read a great article about overparenting, a subject I could write and write about. One of the smaller points it makes is that letting children play on their own actually helps the brain make more connections and grow more than if you always play with them and facilitate their play. This, in fact, "causes their nervous systems to literally shrink." Whew! Finally support for not feeling guilty for cleaning the kitchen rather than getting down on the floor with the duplos. My instinct has been that playing on their own is good for them but I so often override my instinct with the social pressures and other voices in my head, a thing that makes me nuts.

It's good to have support.

preschool

Things here have been changing a bit. Used to be that Frances stayed with sitters a couple of times a week and she loved it. But in response to my recent anxiety about hiring sitters and figuring out which hours I need them, I got rid of them all together. (I know, I know, a bit extreme.) It's been nice being home with her, frankly, and we've finally been able to get into a routine, of which the lack was making me crazy. But now M and I notice that F is suddenly more dependent on me, sometimes to the point of not allowing even her dad to soothe her. She hollers, "No! Mommy! Go way Daddy! Mommy!" and wants only me. She doesn't want me to leave her in the kidtown at the gym, though before she had no problem and would in fact wave at me and say, "Bye bye Mommy." Now she gets this panic stricken look and holds her arms out to me. It breaks my heart, though my resolve has gotten more steely and I just smile at her like it isn't happening and say, "Have fun, Frances. I'll be back in a little while." The first time it happened I thought I would melt right there on the linoleum and considered turning around and taking her home. M reminds me that exercise is not just for me but for her too because it makes me a healthier person and better mom (both of which are more true than I can express here). But that's hard to remember when her lip is trembling and she's huddling around my legs for protection.

So we've decided two things. One is to continue on with the preschool (perhaps I forgot to say in my last post about it that it's only 2 half days/week--a total of 6 hours for goodness sake) and in addition, get a sitter for her one afternoon. I think she needs both. M pointed out that having someone other than me (or him even) is what she's used to--having someone else to comfort her, pay attention to her, soothe her, discipline her. Being only with me is a change in her life, something to which she's had to adjust. I've always been so pleased with how little separation anxiety she's had, how easily she goes to other people. So we're going to try to fix this recent regression.

ALSO--I want to say something about comments on the blog. I think I didn't realize the protocol about blog comments--that I should be responding to them here on the blog rather than privately to you, when I do. I love comments. I heart them. So please feel free to leave them, and I will now post responses to them here.