Roughing up the little ones (repost)

Originally posted 9-1-2008

Please note: I tried breaking this post up into two parts. But, they protested and demanded to stay partners. Thus, it is a long post. But worth the read.

With great patience, I have started to come around to my husband's way of parenting. By nature I am worrier, an obsesser, a catastrophe thinker. All fabulous traits in a Mom by the way. Mr. Hall, as a Dad and Husband, is none of those things. When we married and became Mom and Dad, my mission was to change my nature. To be more like him. That way, Pancake and Mac can be more like us. Happy and calm.

When the kids became large enough, the rough play started. This involves my husband, their Daddy, chasing them around. Hoisting them in the air and scaring them till they scream and sometimes pee. They love this. They crave this. It is a ritual now. The stand at the top of the stairs chanting, "Daddy, Daddy, you can't catch us!" They wave their arms and wiggle their hips as they chant. He is around the corner, out of eye sight. But not out of ear shot. He will clear his throat and they get all crazy. He waits for their chants to build to a fever pitch. Then he rushes them, loudly and with great Daddy force. The screams of delight can be heard three states away.

He let's them feel upset when they are upset. No rushing to fix it. Unless of course, it is an emergency. Even then there needs to be blood or a missing limb. This is the hardest part of parenting for me, as a Mom. When they are upset, for whatever reason, I feel it inside. I feel it in my chest and lungs. My breathing becomes short, my chest pounds and my head simply screams, "FIX IT FOR THEM RIGHT NOW!!!" There is little distinction between emergency and non-emergency for me. They don't call it the mother bear instinct for nothing :)

It's a gradual process, and getting easier. It is the art of teaching your children to suck it up really.

And now I going to write something so sad. Good sad. But still sad. So sad it has to stick with it's partner up there.

Yesterday, the wee Pancake went to wake Mac after the nap. I heard her holler, "Mommy come look!!" I found Mac smiling, on the floor with his blanket and pillow. NEXT TO HIS CRIB.

Mr. Hall was still sleeping. Pancake is too small to lift him out of the crib. Therefore, there was only one way he got there. Out of his crib that is. I felt sucker punched. We had bought a cute, second hand Thomas the Train toddler bed a few months ago. The kids love to jump on it. He wasn't ready to use it yet. Oh, wait, maybe that's just me. How and when to transition him to the big boy bed was a decision that was made. Not by me, but for me.

Again, I felt sucker punched. An so, we put him to bed last night. Then we, Mommy and Daddy, turned off the fan. We quietly listened for sounds of him staying in the bed. Listening for sounds of him playing, talking, pulling off the sheets. There was none. He stayed put and snuggled. In his big boy bed. And I sobbed for a good twenty minutes. Mr. Hall held me and does what he does best. Be my husband.

He'll take apart the crib today. I will take the kids to the park. I just can't bear to watch.

The Manning up of Mrs. Hall

Three areas to discuss in the Manning up of Mrs. Hall



1. The House:

Selling a house is not a linear process. Until I sign the closing papers, I can't be sure about anything. It's a bit like poker, you can work the stats on how to best play but in the end, it all depends on the cards you are dealt. And how you play your hand. It's not really fair and it's painful. But, in the end, there is really no choice.

Or as Mr. Hall says,

"Selling the house is a lot like prison sex".


(do yourself a favor and NEVER GOOGLE THE TERM 'PRISON SEX', TRUST ME)






2. My tolerance for suckage and ability to give

By all accounts, I am a spoiled woman. I have my needs taken care of and am well loved. Dealing with pain, frustration and separation from my husband has been tough. Single motherhood, no matter how fleeting, is tough. It is suckage incorporated.

When things get tough, I get kind of selfish. Thus, I have been neglecting Mr. Hall. I actively put a stop to this about a month ago. I consciously increased my tolerance for pain and actively sought to make him happy. To ease his pain.

Or as Mr. Hall says,

"I really like how you are attacking me lately, and the extra massages and such. . . see, that's all I need babe, and extra goodness with you being on top again."







3. My Go-Go Girl skills

Something broke open last night, inside my head. I took the wee Mac on a bike ride, with him in a kid seat behind me. I was really huffin and puffin. I realized that since I have have kids, especially during the summer, we rarely stay indoors. We are always going someplace or doing something.

This is the polar opposite of my upbringing. In fact, my parent's sit and watch their 888 inch flat screen tv with their 8000 channels every day. I use to have the biggest jonez for TV. Then I married a man who downloads a lot and I became selective. Now, I don’t have time to watch nothing. And the kids, they can't sit long enough to watch anything I want. They only have eyes for SpongeBob.

So I go. And go. And GO GO GO. And I love it!!! I never want to go back to a sedentary life. Never want to have a life without adventure, even it if is taking a walk around the block. And it doesn’t even phase me anymore, the huffing and puffing, the taking of two children on my own, out into the wilds of local parks and bike rides.

I could leave this office right now, pick up the kids and drive to Vegas without even packing. It would be no problem what so ever. Wouldn't have to plan or make lists or research or worry or obsess. Because I can do anything and go anywhere.

I can GO GO GO!!!



I am more free than I have ever been lately.

Manning up indeed.

The art of sucking it up

This is my daughter and I--about three years ago.

My baby girl is no longer stroller size. She's six and half now. Last month, she got new rollerblades. When I bought them, I didn't mess around. I took her to a sporting goods store and had her fitted. I had her take a spin around the store and everything. She had been using these up until then.

These are plastic barbie skates. Not quality.

Yet, with the barbie skates, she had gone very far. She had been teaching herself to skate. This involved a lot of falling and failing. All the while, with little or no prompting from either parent, she sucked it up. She was self regulating her determination.

When she picked out a helmet and pads at the sporting goods store, she said, "Mom, I don't really need princess ones anymore." I purchased real pads for her. In black.

We practiced with the new skates on basketball courts and track loops. Then, last night, we took a walk on the regular sidewalks on our block. She skated and fell. And fell. A LOT. Yet, there it was, no tears or whining. Then, after a super harsh fall, she looked up at me while splayed out on someone's lawn. She croaked, "I'm no good at skating." I could see her tiny chin, starting to bounce and quiver. Tiny pink bottom lip, jutting out. Eyes all moist.

I looked straight ahead, "I'm not gonna hear that from you, 'cause it's not true."

I said it calmly. Then I started walking, slowly. Not helping her up.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO that just killed me. Kills me to write it too. Every mommy instinct got all apey inside. I was just burning with crazy mommy urges to rush, to make it better. I was all tense, the inner voice getting growly, Fix it, run to her, make it better, she needs me, make it better!!!

But running over, scooping her up, is not what she needed. Not this time. I am teaching my mommy instinct the art of discernment. To help my daughter in the best way. I bit my lower lip, lowered my shoulders and calmly walked forward. Breathing, breathing, breathing . . .

Then, she got up.

Barreled forward.

Blew passed me.

And barreled all the way home like a bat outta hell.

I had to jog to keep up with her. And when I caught up with her, she was sitting on the front porch, taking her skates off. She was all sweaty and short of breath.

She looked up and said, "MOM! THAT WAS FUN!!!


I WAS GOING SO FAST!!"

The art of sucking it up

I have been too busy lately. The ideas for my posts haven't been allowed to germinate properly. As such, this post might be a disjointed post. Maybe that is just as well, my posts are like essays half the time. I need to mix it up more.

so

Last night was one of the roughest nights of my parenthood. Both of my children tested the boundaries in very age specific ways.

My daughter is in gymnastics. She is one of the younger kids there and it is her first class. I sit on the bleachers and watch her struggle. Add to the fact that she is six, well, she doesn't have many coping skills. In other words, when she can't do cartwheels or tumbles the way the other kids do, she gets all sobby and snot bubble. The teacher does temper this a bit. She acknowledges the beginning of tears and urges her onwards. Pancake responds to this.

This is not my daughter, but close enough for our purposes here :)

Then, more then once now, when class is over, she makes a beeline for me and trys to lets er rip, snot bubble wise. Seeing your child struggle and fail absolutely sucks. I know there are ways to prevent this whole process. I could let her quit gymnastics, I could give her candy or premedicate her with xanax.

Or---I could have her keep going. Which is what I am doing. She doesn't struggle every class and she is making gains. I acknowledge that it is hard and frustrating for her, I tell her it's ok to feel angry and sad, but she needs to suck it up a little. Having full on meltdowns is no good, she's a big girl now. So we practice, her and I, learning how to deal with it all. And not giving up.

After all, what else does she have to do, watch more spongebob?

Then there is the little man in my life, Mac. When you are two feet tall, life is centered around very simple needs. Toys, food, bath time, snuggle while watching Wall-E, chasing the cat . . . Only I am starting to stand in the way of these things. I stand in the way of food from the pantry while I am making dinner. I stand in the way of bath time until he puts away his toys. The toys was last night. He had absolutely no interest in cleaning up.

And last night I finally admitted that he knows better. Yay see, when toddlers don't want to do something, they often act dumb or temporarily lose their hearing. I can buy it, I mean, he's little and very cute. But, he has figured out all the child safety locks and is basically potty training himself. Also, according to his teacher, he always is "such a good helper" during clean up time. The boy knows what he is doing. So, I teach him with time outs.

It was very rough last night. He fought the time out for thirty minutes. I kept having to put him back on the naughty step. All the while he was screaming and snot bubble. These very primal ways of expressing himself, these trigger all my mommy instincts. I kept my cool though, no snot bubbles from mommy.

And I held firm. And after a time out he did indeed put his toys away.

I called and told my husband all of this. He said, we are truly blessed. And if he was there, he would gladly take on all the burden.

He is right, we are very very blessed. And when we get settled, I will divide the discipline duties once again.

This is all of us, all sorts of love and crazy hair in the morning. :)

Mr. Cleans cleans up my head

Here's a situation that demonstrates just how odd my thinking can be.

True story about me.

There is a security guard where I work. Oh, let's call him Mr. Clean. That is what he looks like. Only, he wears a black cop's uniform complete with handgun on his hip. No, not a taser, not pepper spray, but an actual gun.

Last week, he brought these very different peppers from his garden. Small skinny red ones, yellow ones that are bigger than cherries, and shriveled green ones. He also brought ones called Habaneros. Only he said they are hotter than regular habaneros. His own special breed I guess. He is a very nice and relaxed guy. I enjoy seeing him and exchanging pleasantries. He is well liked.

When I leave at night, he walks me and all the female staff to their car. He hangs out, making sure we get in our cars and they start. Now, I park about 20 feet from the clinic entrance. Really, no issues with having to walk far, like say, to a parking garage. It takes thirty seconds to get to my car.

Yet, he does this, every time he works. Also, he opens the clinic door for me as I exit. As he does with all the women. Which I don't mind really. I like having doors opened for me. Well, I like the acknowledgment of being a woman, in this very polite way. I like being a woman. In fact, it rocks.

Yet I am so very, very threatened and put ill at ease by this ritual. Threatened by him, the security guard. It is not the gun, the uniform, the masculine Mr. Clean energy. I feel comfortable with who he is. Yet, I have to breathe through these times at the end of the day.

Figuring out why is a no brainer. I lack a filter to understand what nice and safe male attention is and what is threatening. I lack discernment in my alarm system. My mind goes into over analyze mode during these types of events. Scanning for signs of potential harm. My mind thinks around this situation, scanning, being alert, and leaving me out of breath.

What I need to do, is mentally shut up. I need to cue into what I am feeling. What I am sensing. This, really, is nothing but thanks for walking me to my car. I have worked so many places where I, as a nurse alone, have walked to my car in the pitch black. Many, many times, running to my car at midnight, jumping in and locking the doors. So yes, this is awesome; having a security guard making sure the women are safe.

I am kind of miffed that this type of security escort didn't happen where a nurse was actually raped in the parking garage after her shift. That parking garage had like 20 levels. I always parked where I was not suppose to. Closer to the door. Screw them and thier parking signs, I err on the side of safety.

And maybe this is what I need to do. Instead of shutting up completely, perhaps blend the mind and the senses. Use my senses to feel for danger, using my head to know the danger.

Sounds better than having a taser or pepper spray. This would be a bad idea. After all, I actually sprayed pepper spray in my dorm room to see what it was like. No one can accuse me of being a genius.