“And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister,
Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends. For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.” ~ Tina Fey, Bossypants
My kids for sure would call me Miss Bossypants.
There's not a doubt in my mind.
I can just imagine them, huddled together, whispering to each other behind their hands, giving me the stink-eye.
"Just look at her. She thinks she's all that. Never lets us do anything fun. I don't know why she has to say No all the time. Probably wouldn't even recognize Fun if it bit her in the ass."
Look...
There are things I know I do well in life:
For instance, I can bake super good desserts. In addition, I am embarrassingly good at celebrity trivia. Also, I have my morning routine down to super-hero timing - I can do my hair and make-up in 8.5 minutes flat. The extra 30 seconds is for hairspray application. Not bad for a working mom of 4.
There are also things I know I do NOT do well in life:
I do not know how to operate a grill, either charcoal or gas. I'm too afraid I will blow myself up to even attempt it. I do not know how to change a tire (sorry Dad, I know you tried.) I also do not know how to keep my opinions to myself in certain situations.
And there are things that I consider a work in progress:
Parallel parking
Math
Methods of Parenting
It's the last one that I need to remember is a lifelong skill that needs to be fine-tuned and adjusted as needed.
When my kids were little I could safely kick back into the Assembly Line Method with all four of them - feed, give baths, brush teeth, read stories, put to bed. Rinse and repeat every night. It was always a lot of work but there was comfort in that routine. No surprises, nothing much out of the ordinary unless you count an occasional, "Oh my gosh mom he pooped in the tub!"
Then they got older.
Now the routines include sports, after school activities, hanging out with friends. Everything is changing.
One of the most important things I've learned is I cannot treat my children the same. It's impossible. They are four different human beings, with distinct personalities and characteristics. What works on one will not work on another.
During the last few years, each of my kids have morphed into their own special character.
Let me introduce you to my cast:
First we have The Kitty Cat. This is my oldest, my 15 year old daughter. For the most part, she takes care of things by herself. A lot of the time she flies under the radar. She's lovely. Moves through our lives rather stealth-like and quiet. However - rub her the wrong way and you will end up hissed at, with claws shown, and a strange sense you should sleep with one eye open.
Then we have The Pistol. This is my 13 year old daughter. In and of itself a beautiful object to look at and admire. Shiny. Strong. But handle her wrong and accidentally pull the trigger...you could end up with a hole in your foot, and wondering what the hell just happened.
I refer to my 10 year old daughter as The Negotiator. After years of watching her sisters ask for things, this daughter has her system down pat. She knows exactly what works with her mother. She can start a conversation by wanting to experiment on me with makeup techniques she learned on YouTube, to which I'll steadfastly refuse. "I can't. I'm late for work! You know better than to ask me something like that." Within two minutes I'll have my hair pulled back and I'm looking in a mirror and telling her, "Ok, but wash the zebra stripes off my lower lip before I leave for work. I have a meeting at 10."
Finally we have my 8 year old son, The Trailblazer. Trying to raise a boy after three girls is always a new experience. It's not just his outdoor plumbing that makes him different....his entire personality is defined by his Y chromosome. He likes dirt and video games and sports. He has absolutely zero interest in most girl things.
So this is what I've learned:
I can't treat the Kitty Cat like I treat the Pistol. Nor can I discipline the Negotiator and the Trailblazer the same. Whenever I try to hand down a blanket punishment, I am theoretically hissed at, shot at, lectured and assaulted with a foam football.
And that is one of the best things I've learned as a mother - there is no successful cookie-cutter method of parenting.
Sure, I can boss them around as much as I want (not sure it works as well as I'd like to think), but my little cookies are pretty special.
Especially since they put up with their mama, Litte Miss Bossy.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Friday, January 4, 2013
Mom, who's your favorite?
“A mother's body remembers her babies--the folds of soft flesh, the softly furred scalp against her nose. Each child has its own entreaties to body and soul. It's the last one, though, that overtakes you. I can't dare say I loved the others less, but my first three were all babies at once, and motherhood dismayed me entirely. . . . That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are--rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best food forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible
Ok, this quote from one of my favorite books may be a little drawn out and verbose, but it does a semi-decent job of trying to explain how mothers feel differently about their kids.
I can remember when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I was absolutely convinced there was no way I could love her as much as I loved my dalmatian, Smokie. That dog was one of my most favorite things on this planet, how could I possibly feel that strongly for anything else?
Within two minutes of my daughter being born, I was like "Dog? What dog? I have a dog?"
Fast forward just thirteen months later and I was pregnant again. I confessed to my friends, "What if I can't love this next baby as much as I love my first one?"
They would just smile and assure me, "Every mother worries about that. Love multiplies, it doesn't divide."
However, one friend wisely told me something I never forgot: "Of course you'll love your children equally. But there will be different times throughout their lives when they're your favorite."
For a couple years we coasted along nicely, a family of four. Then, I was pregnant AGAIN. By now, my abdominal muscles were screaming "Uncle" and my stretch marks were asking themselves, "Should we even bother fading? This crazy bitch just keeps going."
Before our third daughter was born, I worried yet again that I would be able to love a new addition. I was so used to my first two daughters...how would I feel toward a newbie? Would I think of her as an intruder on our little cozy nest of a family?
And as soon as she was born, and I realized that (finally!) one of my kids had my brown eyes, I was head over heels in love.
Just over a year later...are you sensing the pattern?...I was staring at a pregnancy test stick and thinking, "Holy crap." By now, any muscle in my torso threw in the white towel and said, "We give up. Good luck in ever trying to fit in anything smaller than a size 10, and laughing without peeing."
I didn't know if I was going to have a boy or a girl, and I didn't find out until that incredibly painful and vagina-punishing 10 pound bowling ball made its entrance into our lives. Imagine our surprise at finally having a boy. And of course, I secretly worried that I would not be able to love a little boy as much as I knew how to love a little girl.
Silly, silly, silly.
I do love them all, not one more than the other.
But yes, I do have my favorites at times.
And honestly, with a houseful of four kids - all within 7 years of each other, it's not difficult to declare a favorite. Sometimes multiple times during the same day. Sometimes it boils down to whoever butters a piece of toast for me and brings it over, sits next to me quietly and doesn't tattle for a five minute stretch. Sometimes that's all it takes to be my current favorite.
If you ask my daughters who their mother's favorite is, they will answer without hesitation: "Wyatt. Because he's the boy."
That is not entirely true. But he is my baby. And just like the quote from the Poisonwood Bible, there is something about your last child that makes you want to hold on to them and their "littleness" as long as you can. That's why you rock them a little longer at night, and let them crawl into bed with you during the middle of the night - even years after you made their older siblings stop.
For so many years my identity was tied into being a mother of young children. They're still young, but they're not babies any more. Now my identity is shifting into the murky waters of being a mom to teenagers. And trust me on this one, my kids have absolutely zero problem of letting me know when I am far from being their favorite.
So for now, I will continue in my smug confidence that I love all my children equally, without fail.
I will not apologize for declaring them favorites at different times. I will do my best to cherish and remember when they're sweet to me, when they're sweet to each other, when they just want to cuddle with me and whisper secrets in my ear.
I will call them my favorite during that moment and feel no remorse.
Us mothers know how short-lived and fleeting those moments are.
Because seriously? Sometimes they can really be a monstrous pain in the ass.
But the last one: the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life when there will be no more coming after--oh, that's love by a different name. She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep. If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away. So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams. Your heart bays to the double crescent moons of closed lashes on her cheeks. She's the one you can't put down.”
― Barbara Kingsolver, The Poisonwood Bible
Ok, this quote from one of my favorite books may be a little drawn out and verbose, but it does a semi-decent job of trying to explain how mothers feel differently about their kids.
I can remember when I was pregnant with my first daughter. I was absolutely convinced there was no way I could love her as much as I loved my dalmatian, Smokie. That dog was one of my most favorite things on this planet, how could I possibly feel that strongly for anything else?
Within two minutes of my daughter being born, I was like "Dog? What dog? I have a dog?"
Fast forward just thirteen months later and I was pregnant again. I confessed to my friends, "What if I can't love this next baby as much as I love my first one?"
They would just smile and assure me, "Every mother worries about that. Love multiplies, it doesn't divide."
However, one friend wisely told me something I never forgot: "Of course you'll love your children equally. But there will be different times throughout their lives when they're your favorite."
For a couple years we coasted along nicely, a family of four. Then, I was pregnant AGAIN. By now, my abdominal muscles were screaming "Uncle" and my stretch marks were asking themselves, "Should we even bother fading? This crazy bitch just keeps going."
Before our third daughter was born, I worried yet again that I would be able to love a new addition. I was so used to my first two daughters...how would I feel toward a newbie? Would I think of her as an intruder on our little cozy nest of a family?
And as soon as she was born, and I realized that (finally!) one of my kids had my brown eyes, I was head over heels in love.
Just over a year later...are you sensing the pattern?...I was staring at a pregnancy test stick and thinking, "Holy crap." By now, any muscle in my torso threw in the white towel and said, "We give up. Good luck in ever trying to fit in anything smaller than a size 10, and laughing without peeing."
I didn't know if I was going to have a boy or a girl, and I didn't find out until that incredibly painful and vagina-punishing 10 pound bowling ball made its entrance into our lives. Imagine our surprise at finally having a boy. And of course, I secretly worried that I would not be able to love a little boy as much as I knew how to love a little girl.
Silly, silly, silly.
I do love them all, not one more than the other.
But yes, I do have my favorites at times.
And honestly, with a houseful of four kids - all within 7 years of each other, it's not difficult to declare a favorite. Sometimes multiple times during the same day. Sometimes it boils down to whoever butters a piece of toast for me and brings it over, sits next to me quietly and doesn't tattle for a five minute stretch. Sometimes that's all it takes to be my current favorite.
If you ask my daughters who their mother's favorite is, they will answer without hesitation: "Wyatt. Because he's the boy."
That is not entirely true. But he is my baby. And just like the quote from the Poisonwood Bible, there is something about your last child that makes you want to hold on to them and their "littleness" as long as you can. That's why you rock them a little longer at night, and let them crawl into bed with you during the middle of the night - even years after you made their older siblings stop.
For so many years my identity was tied into being a mother of young children. They're still young, but they're not babies any more. Now my identity is shifting into the murky waters of being a mom to teenagers. And trust me on this one, my kids have absolutely zero problem of letting me know when I am far from being their favorite.
So for now, I will continue in my smug confidence that I love all my children equally, without fail.
I will not apologize for declaring them favorites at different times. I will do my best to cherish and remember when they're sweet to me, when they're sweet to each other, when they just want to cuddle with me and whisper secrets in my ear.
I will call them my favorite during that moment and feel no remorse.
Us mothers know how short-lived and fleeting those moments are.
Because seriously? Sometimes they can really be a monstrous pain in the ass.
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