When I was 16, I got my first real job as a page at the local library. (I know, I know. Page, books. Funny!) It was a great job, really, because there was no food involved, no folding, no lunchtime crowds. When my parents first talked to me about getting a job, I told them in no uncertain terms that I would NOT work at a place where fried food was served. That grease will lie stagnant in the air and sink right into your pores. (It's true. I read it.) I wanted to make some pocket money, but I was NOT willing to trade my clear complexion to get it.
So the library it was. It was just part-time during the week after school and the monthly Saturday from 9-5 that I had to sacrifice. I'm so glad I made that choice, too, particularly because of the best friend that grew out of that job. :) Michelle and I were already acquaintances from school, and had been since we were 10 years old, but it wasn't until our time together working at the library that our friendship achieved "best" status. Those lonely, boring Saturdays stuck at the library became a hell of a lot more fun with a friend around.
Besides, I've always loved the library anyway. It's probably the only time that anyone will appreciate an old, dusty, musty smell. You never hear about people feeling all warm and fuzzy inside when they go to dig out the old Halloween decorations out of the attic.
Recently, the opportunity to volunteer at the kids' elementary school library presented itself. Now with both kids in school full-time, I have a lot more time to do stuff like this. When it was just Alexander in school, I always had Colette in tow and therefore wasn't able to volunteer to be his class parent, chaperone field trips, and the like. So when the school year began, I became inundated with forms and paperwork from the school. Overwhelmed by my choices and unsure as to what and how much I wanted to take on, I lay frozen with indecision until an acquaintance from the school, who also happened to be the library volunteer coordinator, e-mailed me to see if I wanted to offer up some of my time.
I remembered fondly my days working at the Moorestown library, working and talking among the shelves of books (ok, so talking would come first in that instance) and thought it might be nice to get back to a kind of working relationship with the library again. My recent ventures into the library are almost always accompanied by two kids and I peruse the stacks for books I think they'd enjoy reading while Colette plays with the bead maze and Alexander seeks out every rodent-care book that has made it into print.
So last Thursday, I had my first day at the school library. I was excited as I'd chosen both kids' library times to volunteer, 40-minute periods on Thursday (Colette) and Friday (Alexander). They knew I'd be there and were even more excited than I was to see me there. When Colette's class arrived, I saw her look around and she spotted me, smiled, waved several times and went and sat down on the floor with the rest of her class. I was surprised (and maybe a tiny bit disappointed) by her self-control.
After their story, the kids were let loose in search of a book. I sat down at the computer table to check books in and out, and before long, a line of giggly, wriggly 5 year-olds had formed. They were so cute and I kept hearing "Hi Colette's mom! Hi Colette's mom!" About halfway through the line, a little boy came up to me holding a book with a very serious look on his face.
"What's your name, buddy?" I asked him and he stared blankly back at me. It was quiet for a moment.
"This is David," the little girl behind him volunteered. "He doesn't talk."
Mmm, ok. I'm going to assume that he does actually talk but typically chooses not to, which was the case during our encounter. "What's your last name?" I asked him tentatively. "Cui?" I read on the computer screen, trying to pronounce it right. He continued to stare at me, no response, so I went ahead and assumed he was the David in question and sent him on his way with his book.
After books were checked out and a brief and unsuccessful lesson in the computer lab, the little ones were once again lined up to go back to their classroom. After a few hugs and kisses, Colette took her place in line. It was at this time that the librarian decided to ask them a few fun questions from her deck of cards.
"Who were the first two groups of people to celebrate Thanksgiving?" she asked the kindergartners. A few hands went up and she began to call names.
"Harry Potter," said the first girl.
"Me and my brudder," said another.
"Me and my sister," answered the next kid.
"Hocus and pocus!" came the final response.
But the funniest of all were the kids who raised their hands but in actuality didn't have an answer. The librarian would call on the child with the raised hand, and when it came their turn to speak, the kid would open their mouth, nothing would come out, and his or her eyes would begin to scan the ceiling and, eventually, glaze over as if turned into a statue, any hint of an idea obviously having vanished from the kid's head as quickly as it had arrived. Those non-responses were my favorite simply because it happened SO MANY TIMES. The librarian was clearly a pro at this and waited no longer than about 3 seconds to see if the answer was anywhere in the front of the child's brain before seamlessly moving on.
The next day was Alexander's class. He showed more restraint than I thought he would too, which was a good thing, because I didn't want to get head-butted or knocked over in the middle of the school library. I told the kids at dinner the night before how all of Colette's friends kept calling me "Colette's mom" at every turn, which they thought was hilarious. So the next day, Alexander informed me that he told his classmates not to call me Alex's mom but rather "Diane." He seemed a bit confused when I told him I didn't want a bunch of 7 year-olds calling me by my first name, although I did appreciate the thought behind it.
After the librarian gave her lesson for the day, Alexander immediately summoned me to help him find more books about rodent care. I really don't think there are any books left on how to care for gerbils, hamsters, mice or ferrets that he hasn't read yet, but I helped him anyway. And when a classmate of his asked me for a book about bunnies, I was pleased that I could actually assist her... since they were located right next to the rodent books.
The older group was a bit easier as they weren't all throwing books at me or talking all at the same time... plus they could point out their first and last names to me on the computer if need be. (Not to mention there were no mutes in this class, which makes things immeasurably easier.)
It was a fun experience with both of them. It won't be weekly but I'll look forward to the days when I get to help out and see them in a class-like setting. I also like to think that it was a bright spot in both of their days to see me at school and get a quick hug before getting back to work. I know that feeling won't last forever, and one day they'll be ducking behind stacks of books instead of smiling and waving, so I'll take advantage of it while I can.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
In like a lion and out like a lamb
My friend Michelle has been talking about the zoo for years now. Every summer she brings it up as a possibility for us and our group of kids to get together, and every summer I hem and haw and say, "Eh, really? The zoo?" And I proceed to point out that the combination of summer heat and animal dung is surely not a pleasant one, we laugh and the idea kind of falls by the wayside for another year.
Besides, I've been to zoos. The big ones, like the Philadelphia Zoo, many years ago, and more recently, little ones like Turtleback Zoo and even the tiny quasi-zoo near us in Monroe that has safe little animals like deer, chickens, and the odd peacock. I could probably toss my gerbils in there and people would probably take pictures of it and feed it hay.
So recently Zach suggested that we take the kids to the zoo. Not just a zoo, but a Zoo, a where they house elephants and lions and giraffes. A smelly place, certainly, and I would need to ensure that the temperature wouldn't rise above the low 80s to help keep animal stink to a minimum. We checked the weather, and fortunately (or unfortunately) we were in for some unseasonably cool weather, at least for late August, and so we decided that Sunday would be the day.
We were undecided between the Bronx Zoo and Philadelphia, and opted for Philadelphia basically because of the hot-air balloon that they have which would be especially attractive to the kids, in particular Alexander who doesn't have much interest in zoos. (Actually, he pretty much dislikes anything we decide to do until we get there and he discovers he's actually having fun.)
So, off to Philly we went. To get to the zoo itself Google Maps said it would be about an hour and a half, although I was confident we'd get there sooner. About an hour or so into the trip, with not much further to go, I heard from the back seat those dreaded words no parent ever wants to hear in the car.
"My stomach hurts in a weird way," Alexander said softly.
Great. Now what does that mean?? I asked him some questions trying to pinpoint the root of the problem and exact location of discomfort to no avail. I offered him some water, which he declined, but Colette accepted readily. "Only about 20 more minutes," I assured him, turning around to stare at the highway in front of me, willing it to somehow pass more quickly.
Soon enough, we were in the city and close to our destination although we weren't exactly sure which way to go. Let's just say that TomTom SUCKS.
"I don't feel well," came Alexander's voice again from the backseat. "We're almost there! We're 5 minutes away!" I chirped encouragingly as I began to scan the front of the car for a plastic bag. I found one, and he started coughing, and then... I was too late. He had already puked down his shirt and shorts.
Now, Alexander is not a barfer. I could probably count on one hand the times he's yakked in the car in his entire life. I hurried the bag under his chin and began wiping down his clothes with antibacterial wipes. He still had some more to go, dutifully holding the bag under his mouth while I feverishly swiped at his clothes, Zach opened all the windows and Colette held her nose and grimaced.
Then we got lost. We knew we were close, and yet somehow, we ended up in a neighborhood that you don't want to get lost in while driving your brand-new SUV. Zach implored me to check out the map on his phone, but I'm sorry, if you ask me to read street names while breathing in the fumes of child vomit, *I* am going to vomit too. It's lucky I didn't anyway, in fact. So Zach pulled over on the outskirts of the neighborhood, near the train tracks, to check directions while I hung my head out the window like a dog, Colette continued to hold her nose, and Alexander diligently held the bag full of barf under his chin (which thankfully had not been filled any more within the past 10 minutes or so).
Finally, we were out. Up the street, left at the light, and bam, signs for the zoo. We were able to pull over on Girard Ave. next to one of the zoo parking lots and I got the kids out of the car. Now we weren't sure if we should take our chances and see the zoo or just quit while we were behind, turn around and head on home.
Since my mom taught me well, I had a backpack full of changes of clothes for everyone in the back of the car. Hiding him next to the open door as well as we could, we stripped Alexander down and put him in clean clothes. Zach and I continued wiping down his seat with antibacterial wipes, although thankfully it was just a small couple of spots - his clothes had sustained most of the damage.
The kids and I walked up and down the sidewalk a bit while I tried to assess Alexander's condition. His stomach was much better and he was acting like his regular old self, so we decided to make a go of it. Although we had a good spot, I suggested Zach park in the zoo lot itself instead of parking on the busy road. A car quickly pulled in to the spot that we vacated, and I apologize to them for the barf bag that my child discarded on the curb right next to where their car door probably opened.
After that, it was smooth sailing. We had some safe soft pretzels for lunch and we saw zebras, rhinos, giraffes and gorillas. The stupid hot air balloon was not even operating that day due to weather conditions (what? Too sunny??) but that was ok. We ended up having a really good time and I'm so glad, because it would have been a real shame to just turn around and go home after what we went through to get there. The temperature ended up being a bit warmer than we'd expected, but you know what? It didn't even smell that bad.
Besides, I've been to zoos. The big ones, like the Philadelphia Zoo, many years ago, and more recently, little ones like Turtleback Zoo and even the tiny quasi-zoo near us in Monroe that has safe little animals like deer, chickens, and the odd peacock. I could probably toss my gerbils in there and people would probably take pictures of it and feed it hay.
So recently Zach suggested that we take the kids to the zoo. Not just a zoo, but a Zoo, a where they house elephants and lions and giraffes. A smelly place, certainly, and I would need to ensure that the temperature wouldn't rise above the low 80s to help keep animal stink to a minimum. We checked the weather, and fortunately (or unfortunately) we were in for some unseasonably cool weather, at least for late August, and so we decided that Sunday would be the day.
We were undecided between the Bronx Zoo and Philadelphia, and opted for Philadelphia basically because of the hot-air balloon that they have which would be especially attractive to the kids, in particular Alexander who doesn't have much interest in zoos. (Actually, he pretty much dislikes anything we decide to do until we get there and he discovers he's actually having fun.)
So, off to Philly we went. To get to the zoo itself Google Maps said it would be about an hour and a half, although I was confident we'd get there sooner. About an hour or so into the trip, with not much further to go, I heard from the back seat those dreaded words no parent ever wants to hear in the car.
"My stomach hurts in a weird way," Alexander said softly.
Great. Now what does that mean?? I asked him some questions trying to pinpoint the root of the problem and exact location of discomfort to no avail. I offered him some water, which he declined, but Colette accepted readily. "Only about 20 more minutes," I assured him, turning around to stare at the highway in front of me, willing it to somehow pass more quickly.
Soon enough, we were in the city and close to our destination although we weren't exactly sure which way to go. Let's just say that TomTom SUCKS.
"I don't feel well," came Alexander's voice again from the backseat. "We're almost there! We're 5 minutes away!" I chirped encouragingly as I began to scan the front of the car for a plastic bag. I found one, and he started coughing, and then... I was too late. He had already puked down his shirt and shorts.
Now, Alexander is not a barfer. I could probably count on one hand the times he's yakked in the car in his entire life. I hurried the bag under his chin and began wiping down his clothes with antibacterial wipes. He still had some more to go, dutifully holding the bag under his mouth while I feverishly swiped at his clothes, Zach opened all the windows and Colette held her nose and grimaced.
Then we got lost. We knew we were close, and yet somehow, we ended up in a neighborhood that you don't want to get lost in while driving your brand-new SUV. Zach implored me to check out the map on his phone, but I'm sorry, if you ask me to read street names while breathing in the fumes of child vomit, *I* am going to vomit too. It's lucky I didn't anyway, in fact. So Zach pulled over on the outskirts of the neighborhood, near the train tracks, to check directions while I hung my head out the window like a dog, Colette continued to hold her nose, and Alexander diligently held the bag full of barf under his chin (which thankfully had not been filled any more within the past 10 minutes or so).
Finally, we were out. Up the street, left at the light, and bam, signs for the zoo. We were able to pull over on Girard Ave. next to one of the zoo parking lots and I got the kids out of the car. Now we weren't sure if we should take our chances and see the zoo or just quit while we were behind, turn around and head on home.
Since my mom taught me well, I had a backpack full of changes of clothes for everyone in the back of the car. Hiding him next to the open door as well as we could, we stripped Alexander down and put him in clean clothes. Zach and I continued wiping down his seat with antibacterial wipes, although thankfully it was just a small couple of spots - his clothes had sustained most of the damage.
The kids and I walked up and down the sidewalk a bit while I tried to assess Alexander's condition. His stomach was much better and he was acting like his regular old self, so we decided to make a go of it. Although we had a good spot, I suggested Zach park in the zoo lot itself instead of parking on the busy road. A car quickly pulled in to the spot that we vacated, and I apologize to them for the barf bag that my child discarded on the curb right next to where their car door probably opened.
After that, it was smooth sailing. We had some safe soft pretzels for lunch and we saw zebras, rhinos, giraffes and gorillas. The stupid hot air balloon was not even operating that day due to weather conditions (what? Too sunny??) but that was ok. We ended up having a really good time and I'm so glad, because it would have been a real shame to just turn around and go home after what we went through to get there. The temperature ended up being a bit warmer than we'd expected, but you know what? It didn't even smell that bad.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Here we go again.
Sigh. It's here. Again.
Most of you probably didn't say those words to yourself when you saw the newest Time magazine cover (here it is if somehow you missed it: http://lightbox.time.com/2012/05/10/parenting/#1), but I did. Being a mom, especially one who has been part of a moms board, the whole breastfeeding debate is not a new one to me. And being a mom, I would be remiss if I didn't address this magazine cover controversy. :)
There are so many mommy debates to engage in, and when you're part of a moms board, "hiding" behind a computer as they say, those debates are often sparked. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by way of someone saying mischievously, "So, what can we discuss today?" Working moms vs. stay-at-home moms, cloth diapering vs. disposables, co-sleeping or crib sleeping - and the big mama bear of them all, breastfeeding vs. formula feeding. A greater categorization of all of these smaller arguments could be condensed into attachment parenting vs.... well, "regular" parenting. Many women on the moms board I was on, and many others I'm sure, are proud to label themselves as "AP." I suppose this is because the child is, in theory, attached to you... your breast, your hip, your whole body. Regular moms don't have a label.
The "everybody else" group isn't as easy to categorize. In my case, I seemed to straddle both groups. It seemed right on par with my Libra personality that I saw both sides because, to an extent, I experienced both sides. I co-slept with my kids... when they were babies, sometimes, out of necessity, when it was the only way I could get some sleep and also because it made it easier to breastfeed. I made baby food... sometimes. I cloth diapered... for about 2 minutes, in the beginning, with my first, and then gave up and guiltily used disposables. I used a baby sling with my daughter and "wore" her in the beginning (I hate that stupid term... she's not a coat), at least until she got too heavy. (Weighing in at 10 pounds at birth, my son was ALWAYS too heavy for that.)
And I nursed. My son for 9 months, my daughter for 14. Alexander was a huge eater from the beginning, and when he was done with me, he would cry for more, and so we supplemented with formula. After Colette was born, she was losing weight rapidly in the beginning, and I was instructed to supplement to get her weight up. Thankfully this lasted only a few weeks, and I was able to breastfeed exclusively from then on until it was time to introduce regular milk. It was a fantastic experience for me and, fortunately, I had no problems at all with breastfeeding... no pain - not even in the beginning, no bleeding, not one instance of thrush or mastitis. I lucked out. It was always my intention to breastfeed, but for the sake of my sanity, I went into it with low expectations. I know that despite their hardest efforts, some women suffer numerous problems and their best-laid plans fall through. I remember my mother-in-law asking me if I planned to nurse, and I answered that I hoped to. I didn't want to make any assumptions... just in case. Maybe that was part of my good fortune. :)
So when I saw the Time magazine cover, I didn't quite know what to make of it. Why did they publish that photo? Are subscriptions down? Wanted to stir things up a bit? They have to know that such a cover and subject matter is going to accomplish only one of three things: 1) kick off World War III between moms, 2) cause said moms hate Time magazine or 3) make moms who apparently are not "mom enough" feel bad about themselves or guilty about what they, for whatever reason, did not accomplish when it came to breastfeeding or any other parenting choices. I think that #3 is the most likely.
Seriously, Time. Has this subject not been beaten to death by now? Was it a slow news week? Why did the magazine feel the need to pit moms against each other, against Time, against themselves? In other words, what good does this article accomplish?! (Aside from potentially making moms who have chosen extended breastfeeding feel smug and secure in their decision.) Both new and seasoned moms have enough to deal contend with without something like this smacking them in the face. There are enough aspects of parenthood that are going to result in stress, sleepless nights, second-guessing, guilt, etc. How about supporting us instead of making us angry? There's enough competition going on. All you need to do is make a choice and you're competing with someone else who has made the opposite choice. Not everyone is going to view this as a competition, but even if you don't, you can't help but feel your way is the "right" way... or else, you know, you wouldn't be doing it. This goes all the way from how you feed your child to how you sleep to what kind of stroller you buy. If you let it, it becomes a huge competition that essentially has no end.
And to answer your question, Time... well, I really can't. What does that even mean? Am I mom enough to breastfeed my kid while he's playing video games? COULD I have? Well, sure, I could have. Did I WANT to? No sir. I didn't want to, and that's why I didn't. And don't. Nursing your child until he or she is in elementary school doesn't make you the grand champion of motherhood, and I don't understand why it's made out to be that way. I'm a big supporter (hee hee) of breastfeeding, but this is just unnecessary. Plus, I just don't like the smug, superior look on her face, dammit.
The magazine cover set me off in and of itself, but to be fair, I thought I should read the article inside. It wasn't easy to pin down (checked out of the library, no copies at the extensive magazine section at Target, and I wasn't about to subscribe to time.com just to read it), but I was finally able to access it via my local library's web site. Not as inflammatory as one might expect... not inflammatory at all, in fact. Most of it focused on Dr. Bill Sears, famous baby doctor who embraces much of the AP style, and his family life. It seems almost a shame that such a non-accusatory, almost gentle article should have such an in-your-face cover to represent it. It certainly got a lot of people to read the article, that's for sure, and I guess at the end of the day that's all that really matters to the editors. But in my opinion it's misleading and instantly puts women on the offensive before they even read one word.
For "established" mothers (ok, let's say for argument sake those who have been parenting for five years or more. Not that that's really ESTABLISHED, but just to say that they're not brand-new moms with newborn babies), I think that Time's cover doesn't incite so much of a "mommy war." At this point, we've taken the road that we have, accepted it and are doing the best we can. The exception, of course, is with those who are harboring some kind of regret over whether or not they should have breastfed... or tried a home birth... or established a "family bed" from the very beginning instead of letting their baby cry for a while in the crib. Most of us are just left feeling pissed-off at Time magazine for such a stupid cover.
The so-called mommy wars, I fear, will be ignited in the new moms and moms-to-be who may not know yet which road they're going to take. Those who want to go one way, no matter what it is, but fear judgment from others. Like I said before... there's enough competition without this kind of fuel thrown on the fire. Basically, it all comes back to... whatever works for you. What works for one doesn't work for all, and trying to force women into one particular kind of parenting is only going to backfire and cause hurt feelings. Some of the elements of the article that I found to be gentle and non-accusatory are going to completely set off the next person, so. Big shocker there. We're all not exactly alike.
Am I mom enough? I'm mom enough not to be bullied by an asinine magazine cover, a gentle and well-meaning doctor, or any other moms whose parenting viewpoints differ from mine. I'm mom to my own kids, no one else's, and the choices I've made seem to have worked out pretty well for them so far and I think they'd agree. And speaking of bullies, I'm sure my kids also appreciate my not throwing them to the wolves at school after having them pose for the cover of Time magazine like that with their mom. That poor, poor kid.
Most of you probably didn't say those words to yourself when you saw the newest Time magazine cover (here it is if somehow you missed it: http://lightbox.time.com/2012/05/10/parenting/#1), but I did. Being a mom, especially one who has been part of a moms board, the whole breastfeeding debate is not a new one to me. And being a mom, I would be remiss if I didn't address this magazine cover controversy. :)
There are so many mommy debates to engage in, and when you're part of a moms board, "hiding" behind a computer as they say, those debates are often sparked. Sometimes by accident, sometimes by way of someone saying mischievously, "So, what can we discuss today?" Working moms vs. stay-at-home moms, cloth diapering vs. disposables, co-sleeping or crib sleeping - and the big mama bear of them all, breastfeeding vs. formula feeding. A greater categorization of all of these smaller arguments could be condensed into attachment parenting vs.... well, "regular" parenting. Many women on the moms board I was on, and many others I'm sure, are proud to label themselves as "AP." I suppose this is because the child is, in theory, attached to you... your breast, your hip, your whole body. Regular moms don't have a label.
The "everybody else" group isn't as easy to categorize. In my case, I seemed to straddle both groups. It seemed right on par with my Libra personality that I saw both sides because, to an extent, I experienced both sides. I co-slept with my kids... when they were babies, sometimes, out of necessity, when it was the only way I could get some sleep and also because it made it easier to breastfeed. I made baby food... sometimes. I cloth diapered... for about 2 minutes, in the beginning, with my first, and then gave up and guiltily used disposables. I used a baby sling with my daughter and "wore" her in the beginning (I hate that stupid term... she's not a coat), at least until she got too heavy. (Weighing in at 10 pounds at birth, my son was ALWAYS too heavy for that.)
And I nursed. My son for 9 months, my daughter for 14. Alexander was a huge eater from the beginning, and when he was done with me, he would cry for more, and so we supplemented with formula. After Colette was born, she was losing weight rapidly in the beginning, and I was instructed to supplement to get her weight up. Thankfully this lasted only a few weeks, and I was able to breastfeed exclusively from then on until it was time to introduce regular milk. It was a fantastic experience for me and, fortunately, I had no problems at all with breastfeeding... no pain - not even in the beginning, no bleeding, not one instance of thrush or mastitis. I lucked out. It was always my intention to breastfeed, but for the sake of my sanity, I went into it with low expectations. I know that despite their hardest efforts, some women suffer numerous problems and their best-laid plans fall through. I remember my mother-in-law asking me if I planned to nurse, and I answered that I hoped to. I didn't want to make any assumptions... just in case. Maybe that was part of my good fortune. :)
So when I saw the Time magazine cover, I didn't quite know what to make of it. Why did they publish that photo? Are subscriptions down? Wanted to stir things up a bit? They have to know that such a cover and subject matter is going to accomplish only one of three things: 1) kick off World War III between moms, 2) cause said moms hate Time magazine or 3) make moms who apparently are not "mom enough" feel bad about themselves or guilty about what they, for whatever reason, did not accomplish when it came to breastfeeding or any other parenting choices. I think that #3 is the most likely.
Seriously, Time. Has this subject not been beaten to death by now? Was it a slow news week? Why did the magazine feel the need to pit moms against each other, against Time, against themselves? In other words, what good does this article accomplish?! (Aside from potentially making moms who have chosen extended breastfeeding feel smug and secure in their decision.) Both new and seasoned moms have enough to deal contend with without something like this smacking them in the face. There are enough aspects of parenthood that are going to result in stress, sleepless nights, second-guessing, guilt, etc. How about supporting us instead of making us angry? There's enough competition going on. All you need to do is make a choice and you're competing with someone else who has made the opposite choice. Not everyone is going to view this as a competition, but even if you don't, you can't help but feel your way is the "right" way... or else, you know, you wouldn't be doing it. This goes all the way from how you feed your child to how you sleep to what kind of stroller you buy. If you let it, it becomes a huge competition that essentially has no end.
And to answer your question, Time... well, I really can't. What does that even mean? Am I mom enough to breastfeed my kid while he's playing video games? COULD I have? Well, sure, I could have. Did I WANT to? No sir. I didn't want to, and that's why I didn't. And don't. Nursing your child until he or she is in elementary school doesn't make you the grand champion of motherhood, and I don't understand why it's made out to be that way. I'm a big supporter (hee hee) of breastfeeding, but this is just unnecessary. Plus, I just don't like the smug, superior look on her face, dammit.
The magazine cover set me off in and of itself, but to be fair, I thought I should read the article inside. It wasn't easy to pin down (checked out of the library, no copies at the extensive magazine section at Target, and I wasn't about to subscribe to time.com just to read it), but I was finally able to access it via my local library's web site. Not as inflammatory as one might expect... not inflammatory at all, in fact. Most of it focused on Dr. Bill Sears, famous baby doctor who embraces much of the AP style, and his family life. It seems almost a shame that such a non-accusatory, almost gentle article should have such an in-your-face cover to represent it. It certainly got a lot of people to read the article, that's for sure, and I guess at the end of the day that's all that really matters to the editors. But in my opinion it's misleading and instantly puts women on the offensive before they even read one word.
For "established" mothers (ok, let's say for argument sake those who have been parenting for five years or more. Not that that's really ESTABLISHED, but just to say that they're not brand-new moms with newborn babies), I think that Time's cover doesn't incite so much of a "mommy war." At this point, we've taken the road that we have, accepted it and are doing the best we can. The exception, of course, is with those who are harboring some kind of regret over whether or not they should have breastfed... or tried a home birth... or established a "family bed" from the very beginning instead of letting their baby cry for a while in the crib. Most of us are just left feeling pissed-off at Time magazine for such a stupid cover.
The so-called mommy wars, I fear, will be ignited in the new moms and moms-to-be who may not know yet which road they're going to take. Those who want to go one way, no matter what it is, but fear judgment from others. Like I said before... there's enough competition without this kind of fuel thrown on the fire. Basically, it all comes back to... whatever works for you. What works for one doesn't work for all, and trying to force women into one particular kind of parenting is only going to backfire and cause hurt feelings. Some of the elements of the article that I found to be gentle and non-accusatory are going to completely set off the next person, so. Big shocker there. We're all not exactly alike.
Am I mom enough? I'm mom enough not to be bullied by an asinine magazine cover, a gentle and well-meaning doctor, or any other moms whose parenting viewpoints differ from mine. I'm mom to my own kids, no one else's, and the choices I've made seem to have worked out pretty well for them so far and I think they'd agree. And speaking of bullies, I'm sure my kids also appreciate my not throwing them to the wolves at school after having them pose for the cover of Time magazine like that with their mom. That poor, poor kid.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Losing my religious language
There are few constants in life.
Death and taxes are the big two that always get top billing. Death, which isn't even life, I mean people say that it's a "part" of life but, come on. How can it be a part of life if you're not alive? But, still, we'll count that because it's the next step after life. After it, you know, finishes.
And then taxes. The other thing we can unfortunately all count on.
Another constant, according to me, is that if you were raised Catholic and went to church and Catholic school and/or CCD for many, many years, you can return to Mass after being absent for 79 consecutive years and recite all of the prayers and responses without skipping a beat.
That one? Yeah, that is now GONE.
I went to Mass today for the first time in, well, a LONG time with family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 89 today, and after a brief and quiet visit to the chapel where she rests in peace, we attended church. This also happens to be the second Sunday of Lent, which pleased me as I could kind of count it as going to church at Easter (close enough).
As long as it may be since I've gone to church (and I can't even venture a guess here), I find solace in the fact that all of the prayers and responses are as ingrained in my brain as multiplication tables. (Which might not be the best analogy as I'm afraid those are starting to erode a bit.) So imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of them have CHANGED!
Now, it wasn't a complete shock. I did have a small amount of warning from a regular churchgoing friend on Facebook, although to be completely honest I never paid too close attention. I didn't know if it was for a specific holiday Mass, or rite, or was something so small I wouldn't even notice.
Well. I noticed. And I clapped my hand over my mouth so many times during that Mass because I was saying the wrong thing, you know, the "old" way. But my question is WHY? I mean, what's wrong with "And also with you"? It rolls off the tongue and is perfectly polite without being too sappy. And why make it holy church instead of just church? It's a church. Isn't the holiness implied?
I mentioned this change to my uncle who was seated beside me, and he confirmed that there were several changes made to the Mass. "Like a lot of the music. They've changed it to rap to appeal to young people," he said.
I found this to not be true.
Still, I wondered why the change. So I looked it up online. This is reportedly only the THIRD time in the 1700-year history of the church that the Mass has been formally changed. And this couldn't have happened before *I* was born?! (And no, I'm not that old.) Until 1965, Catholic Mass was said only in Latin and so they thought, and rightfully so, that this might exclude a whole heck of a lot of people who came to Mass, and therefore it was translated into many different languages also meant to reflect the everyday vernacular. Apparently the whole point of this newest change is to try and bring the Mass a bit closer to its Latin roots.
Now, not being a regular churchgoer anymore, maybe I don't have a lot of room to complain when they decide to change the wording of the Mass. But I am anyway. Still, I thought I'd ask a friend who does attend church on a regular basis what he thought.
Surprisingly to me, he wasn't up in arms about it. (And he gets up in arms about a lot of stuff.)
"Personally, I don't have a problem with the new language. Of course, I'm also the kind of Catholic who likes going to the Latin Mass occasionally," says my good little churchgoing friend Mike. "I like that the new English version is more accurate and a little more solemn, although I agree that it can be jarring.
"However, even after 5 months of using the new language every week, I still go to 'And also with you' instead of 'And with your spirit.' But you can't expect 40 years of Catholic training to be replaced in just a few months."
Yes. THAT.
But still, it may not be for *me* to say what's right and what's wrong. Maybe if I start attending church again on a regular basis, I'll get used to the "new" way... after many, many years have gone by. And then they'll probably just go and change it on me again. But at least by that point I'll have the right to complain.
Death and taxes are the big two that always get top billing. Death, which isn't even life, I mean people say that it's a "part" of life but, come on. How can it be a part of life if you're not alive? But, still, we'll count that because it's the next step after life. After it, you know, finishes.
And then taxes. The other thing we can unfortunately all count on.
Another constant, according to me, is that if you were raised Catholic and went to church and Catholic school and/or CCD for many, many years, you can return to Mass after being absent for 79 consecutive years and recite all of the prayers and responses without skipping a beat.
That one? Yeah, that is now GONE.
I went to Mass today for the first time in, well, a LONG time with family to celebrate my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 89 today, and after a brief and quiet visit to the chapel where she rests in peace, we attended church. This also happens to be the second Sunday of Lent, which pleased me as I could kind of count it as going to church at Easter (close enough).
As long as it may be since I've gone to church (and I can't even venture a guess here), I find solace in the fact that all of the prayers and responses are as ingrained in my brain as multiplication tables. (Which might not be the best analogy as I'm afraid those are starting to erode a bit.) So imagine my surprise when I discovered that some of them have CHANGED!
Now, it wasn't a complete shock. I did have a small amount of warning from a regular churchgoing friend on Facebook, although to be completely honest I never paid too close attention. I didn't know if it was for a specific holiday Mass, or rite, or was something so small I wouldn't even notice.
Well. I noticed. And I clapped my hand over my mouth so many times during that Mass because I was saying the wrong thing, you know, the "old" way. But my question is WHY? I mean, what's wrong with "And also with you"? It rolls off the tongue and is perfectly polite without being too sappy. And why make it holy church instead of just church? It's a church. Isn't the holiness implied?
I mentioned this change to my uncle who was seated beside me, and he confirmed that there were several changes made to the Mass. "Like a lot of the music. They've changed it to rap to appeal to young people," he said.
I found this to not be true.
Still, I wondered why the change. So I looked it up online. This is reportedly only the THIRD time in the 1700-year history of the church that the Mass has been formally changed. And this couldn't have happened before *I* was born?! (And no, I'm not that old.) Until 1965, Catholic Mass was said only in Latin and so they thought, and rightfully so, that this might exclude a whole heck of a lot of people who came to Mass, and therefore it was translated into many different languages also meant to reflect the everyday vernacular. Apparently the whole point of this newest change is to try and bring the Mass a bit closer to its Latin roots.
Now, not being a regular churchgoer anymore, maybe I don't have a lot of room to complain when they decide to change the wording of the Mass. But I am anyway. Still, I thought I'd ask a friend who does attend church on a regular basis what he thought.
Surprisingly to me, he wasn't up in arms about it. (And he gets up in arms about a lot of stuff.)
"Personally, I don't have a problem with the new language. Of course, I'm also the kind of Catholic who likes going to the Latin Mass occasionally," says my good little churchgoing friend Mike. "I like that the new English version is more accurate and a little more solemn, although I agree that it can be jarring.
"However, even after 5 months of using the new language every week, I still go to 'And also with you' instead of 'And with your spirit.' But you can't expect 40 years of Catholic training to be replaced in just a few months."
Yes. THAT.
But still, it may not be for *me* to say what's right and what's wrong. Maybe if I start attending church again on a regular basis, I'll get used to the "new" way... after many, many years have gone by. And then they'll probably just go and change it on me again. But at least by that point I'll have the right to complain.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Childhood lost
There is a conspiracy going on here. Someone is trying to kill my childhood, little by little.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.
In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.
THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.
Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.
Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).
And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.
Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.
Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.
People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.
So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
A plague on our house
Since about mid-December, at least one person in my house has been sick at any given time. This by far is the sickest winter our household has ever experienced, and it's beginning to wear on me. I do wash, I do disinfect, I've Lysoled the entire house, and yet it continues to happen. At this point I'm getting ready to drink a glass of bleach.
Unfortunately, the hardest hit has been the littlest one. Maybe it's just because she hasn't been around as long as the rest of us that her immune system still has some toughening up to do. So, it seems like every single time she finishes a round of antibiotics, and we celebrate "no more medicine!" before bed every night, just a few days later, she's coughing again. Which no doubt signals the beginning of yet another bout of illness.
Colette is a little ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest, most dismal winter days, so for her to get sick over and over again just doesn't seem fair. Every single day, she's an explorer looking for treasure... or an agent trying to diffuse bombs (masked as air vents in the walls)... or she is a princess waving to her subjects in front of the castle. Every day, I hear dramatic screams of terror coming from her squinkies, her zhu-zhu pets are attending a ball in her wooden play castle, or marbles and flower-shaped buttons are having in-depth conversations with each other. She says "ribbit" and hops like a frog around the house, or she is jumping out from behind a door and yelling "BOO!" (Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she doesn't.)
When she's really sick, the pretend play wanes and she lies on the couch looking tired and miserable. That's when I know that she can skip dinner, get a cold washcloth placed on her head, and watch as much TV as she wants before an early bedtime comes around. But, usually, even when she's feeling under the weather, her imagination still feels perfectly fine and new adventures arise every day.
The mundanity of stay-at-home parenthood hiccups when a child is sick. As sick and tired as I am of the ongoing sickness in my house, a sick child is something special. It's true that while an ill child will tack on at least an extra half an hour of prep before bedtime (ibuprofen, cold medicine, blowing noses, putting aquaphor on that same red, irritated nose, temperature-taking, and Vicks out the wazoo), tending to your ailing child is always a bit of a smack in the face to remind you that what you're doing really is Important. (I hate seemingly random capitalizations, but that one deserved it.)
I was reminded of this the other night when Colette woke up, crying and sweaty, nearly choking on her own phlegm that once again was proving to be too much for her little body. She needed relief, and unfortunately she was already medicated to the max at that particular point. We tried to sit her up to help relieve some of the congestion, which was hard to do as she was so tired she kept flopping back down onto the bed, and I got a washcloth dampened with cold water and put it on her head. Instantly, she started to calm down... I cooled her head, her neck, and unzipped the top of her sleeper to cool her neck and chest. She was still stuffy, and not entirely comfortable, but for the time, she was at least comforted.
After a while, I told her she needed some more rest. As I was leaving the room, I said our customary "I love you" which is our last exchange before I leave her to sleep. She said something low. I couldn't understand what it was and tried to figure out what she wanted. Water? A tissue? Another hug?
"What is it, honey?" I asked tentatively.
A pause, and then she spoke. "Ribbit," she said weakly.
My poor sick little sweetie. Don't worry, you're getting better again.
Unfortunately, the hardest hit has been the littlest one. Maybe it's just because she hasn't been around as long as the rest of us that her immune system still has some toughening up to do. So, it seems like every single time she finishes a round of antibiotics, and we celebrate "no more medicine!" before bed every night, just a few days later, she's coughing again. Which no doubt signals the beginning of yet another bout of illness.
Colette is a little ray of sunshine, even on the cloudiest, most dismal winter days, so for her to get sick over and over again just doesn't seem fair. Every single day, she's an explorer looking for treasure... or an agent trying to diffuse bombs (masked as air vents in the walls)... or she is a princess waving to her subjects in front of the castle. Every day, I hear dramatic screams of terror coming from her squinkies, her zhu-zhu pets are attending a ball in her wooden play castle, or marbles and flower-shaped buttons are having in-depth conversations with each other. She says "ribbit" and hops like a frog around the house, or she is jumping out from behind a door and yelling "BOO!" (Sometimes she succeeds, sometimes she doesn't.)
When she's really sick, the pretend play wanes and she lies on the couch looking tired and miserable. That's when I know that she can skip dinner, get a cold washcloth placed on her head, and watch as much TV as she wants before an early bedtime comes around. But, usually, even when she's feeling under the weather, her imagination still feels perfectly fine and new adventures arise every day.
The mundanity of stay-at-home parenthood hiccups when a child is sick. As sick and tired as I am of the ongoing sickness in my house, a sick child is something special. It's true that while an ill child will tack on at least an extra half an hour of prep before bedtime (ibuprofen, cold medicine, blowing noses, putting aquaphor on that same red, irritated nose, temperature-taking, and Vicks out the wazoo), tending to your ailing child is always a bit of a smack in the face to remind you that what you're doing really is Important. (I hate seemingly random capitalizations, but that one deserved it.)
I was reminded of this the other night when Colette woke up, crying and sweaty, nearly choking on her own phlegm that once again was proving to be too much for her little body. She needed relief, and unfortunately she was already medicated to the max at that particular point. We tried to sit her up to help relieve some of the congestion, which was hard to do as she was so tired she kept flopping back down onto the bed, and I got a washcloth dampened with cold water and put it on her head. Instantly, she started to calm down... I cooled her head, her neck, and unzipped the top of her sleeper to cool her neck and chest. She was still stuffy, and not entirely comfortable, but for the time, she was at least comforted.
After a while, I told her she needed some more rest. As I was leaving the room, I said our customary "I love you" which is our last exchange before I leave her to sleep. She said something low. I couldn't understand what it was and tried to figure out what she wanted. Water? A tissue? Another hug?
"What is it, honey?" I asked tentatively.
A pause, and then she spoke. "Ribbit," she said weakly.
My poor sick little sweetie. Don't worry, you're getting better again.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Have you made your New Year's re-delusion yet?
Happy new year!
It's 2012. What does that mean to me? I quickly scan the list in my mind. Well, it means that in September, Colette will start kindergarten and Alexander will begin second grade. Colette will turn 5 and in December, Alexander turns 8! My delusional husband will turn 40 this September, whether he believes it will actually happen or not. And in October I will turn... well, whatever. Something that ends with a 2. Who's counting?
That's a lot for the last three months of the year. But what about NOW? Zach asked me the other night if I have any resolutions for the new year. I knew the question was coming, at some point, and even though I was aware of this, I didn't have an answer at the ready. Do I have any resolutions?
Well, of course I do... pretty much the same ones I have every year. Read more, eat healthier, have more date nights (with my husband, that is) and exercise more so that I can finally lose those stupid 15 or so pounds that I've wanted to lose since before Zach and I even met. Those are my standbys. But when exactly do they stop counting as resolutions and become more, say, vague hopes? And isn't saying that just pretty much giving up? Am I just deluding myself over and over again?
Resolutions used to be kind of fun. Maybe they still are for some people, I don't know. Maybe I've become old at heart and jaded that any of the resolutions will ever actually pan out. ;) Maybe I need to change my resolutions... or perhaps I just need to change how I look at them. Perhaps they don't have to be so insurmountable if you just take small steps at a time instead of attempting a huge life change all at once.
The other day, I brought up the whole notion of New Year's resolutions to Alexander. We talked about what resolve is, what resolutions are, and examples of some typical New Year's resolutions. Afterward, I asked him what his New Year's resolution might be and I waited with bated breath to hear the answer. His blue eyes glazed over a bit, looking past me. "I don't know," he said finally. "Hey, can I have a cookie?"
Well. Maybe I'll ask him another day.
Maybe they are just re-delusions by this point, but perhaps baby steps really are the way to go. Viewing instituting life changes as all-or-nothing is probably the key to failure, or at least to starting things off on the wrong foot.
That's ok. I can do baby steps. Here's a perfect example: I hear that those little snack baggies are perfect for 100-calorie snacks. You can pack it full and rest assured that you'll only consume 100 calories. Here is my first one:
So I'm excited about that. Now I mean business!
Yep. Baby steps.
It's 2012. What does that mean to me? I quickly scan the list in my mind. Well, it means that in September, Colette will start kindergarten and Alexander will begin second grade. Colette will turn 5 and in December, Alexander turns 8! My delusional husband will turn 40 this September, whether he believes it will actually happen or not. And in October I will turn... well, whatever. Something that ends with a 2. Who's counting?
That's a lot for the last three months of the year. But what about NOW? Zach asked me the other night if I have any resolutions for the new year. I knew the question was coming, at some point, and even though I was aware of this, I didn't have an answer at the ready. Do I have any resolutions?
Well, of course I do... pretty much the same ones I have every year. Read more, eat healthier, have more date nights (with my husband, that is) and exercise more so that I can finally lose those stupid 15 or so pounds that I've wanted to lose since before Zach and I even met. Those are my standbys. But when exactly do they stop counting as resolutions and become more, say, vague hopes? And isn't saying that just pretty much giving up? Am I just deluding myself over and over again?
Resolutions used to be kind of fun. Maybe they still are for some people, I don't know. Maybe I've become old at heart and jaded that any of the resolutions will ever actually pan out. ;) Maybe I need to change my resolutions... or perhaps I just need to change how I look at them. Perhaps they don't have to be so insurmountable if you just take small steps at a time instead of attempting a huge life change all at once.
The other day, I brought up the whole notion of New Year's resolutions to Alexander. We talked about what resolve is, what resolutions are, and examples of some typical New Year's resolutions. Afterward, I asked him what his New Year's resolution might be and I waited with bated breath to hear the answer. His blue eyes glazed over a bit, looking past me. "I don't know," he said finally. "Hey, can I have a cookie?"
Well. Maybe I'll ask him another day.
Maybe they are just re-delusions by this point, but perhaps baby steps really are the way to go. Viewing instituting life changes as all-or-nothing is probably the key to failure, or at least to starting things off on the wrong foot.
That's ok. I can do baby steps. Here's a perfect example: I hear that those little snack baggies are perfect for 100-calorie snacks. You can pack it full and rest assured that you'll only consume 100 calories. Here is my first one:
So I'm excited about that. Now I mean business!
Yep. Baby steps.
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