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Active Boy

August 23, 2011 By Jami Rogers 2 Comments

I recently received this comment from my son’s soon-to-be preschool teacher. Well, not just his preschool teacher but from a few of the volunteers as well. He was at his new preschool for their summer school program.

“Your son is very active.”

This statement was not given as an answer to a question from me like ” Oh excuse me, but do you think my son is active or not active?” Nope, this statement was given to me either without solicitation or in response to the general question of  ” how did he do today?”

“Your son is very active.”

So….what does that mean? Does it mean “he did great today because he played all day and did all the activities we asked him to”? Does it mean “your son is so full of life and happiness”?

Nope, I don’t think that this is what was being implied. The tone was not a positive one. It sounded negative and tired…it sounded very tired.

“Your son is very active.”

Here’s what I think it means…I think it means that my son is full of natural energy and you can’t keep up with him. I think it means he is enthusiastic and full of passion and you have been at this job too long and no longer appreciate when a child has spunk. I think it means  you wish my son was a wallflower that just sat quietly and didn’t make sound. I think it means you are trying to classify my son as being hyperactive, having ADD or ADHD when you have only know him for a week!

Have we forgotten that our son’s male ancestors were hunters. Men born to take on danger, find adventure, and to discovery new worlds. God made them to love outdoors, to be full of curiosity, and to be very active.

My son IS very active. But I see that as a good thing. That is how God made him – like his ancestors. He has a lot of energy, he is very social and outgoing, and he isn’t afraid to express his emotions. He is wonderful, loving, and passionate.

Now, I do think I am going to be keeping a very close eye on you Ms. Preschool Teacher and your helpers and how you treat my son. And maybe my comment to you will be:

“You and your school just aren’t active enough for my son.”

Filed Under: Parenting

The Dragon and The Victim

August 11, 2011 By Addison Renick 3 Comments

She is a dragon that is about to scorch her prey.  Her piercing eyes line up the target, deep black smoke clouds billows out of her nostrils, and then in an instant she strikes.  Razor sharp teeth, a long whip-lashing tongue, and finally a fiery explosion launches out from her mouth.  Red hot flames with bright white sparks consume her victim within seconds.

It’s not only her mouth that unleashes this enormousness fury but she uses her physical strength as well.  When attacking. her body grows twice it’s normal size as she rising on her hind legs and spreads her massive wings.  Her skin (normally a smooth texture that is peach in the winter and cinnamon in the summer) morphs scaly and green in order to startle and scare her victim.

Her voice booms and creates an undercurrent of  seismic waves that shakes the whole village.  The snarling, the screaming, the shirking that ensues as she consumes her victim can be heard miles away, up on the highest mountain.

How will this dragon be defeated?

Surely a brave knight will ride gallantly through the village to the dragon’s keep, slay the dragon, and save the victim.  That is how the story always ends….right?

But in truth, the victum doesn’t need saving.  The victim takes the attack willingly.

But why?

If the dragon was more than thirty six inches tall the victim would strike back with her own fiery flames of fury.

If the dragon was a man, a lover, the victim would never take this type of verbal and physical abuse.  The victim would leave the relationship in an instant, with no second thoughts or a glance back.

But the dragon is only thirty six inches tall.

The dragon is not a man.

The dragon is my three year old daughter and I am her mother.

I am the victim.

I am told that this is just what three year olds do.  They can’t control their feelings and emotions, so they lash out and throw temper tantrums.  And since I am always there, I am the one who takes the abuse.

I know she doesn’t mean it but she hurts me.

She hurts me emotionally, verbally, and sometimes physically.

I know she will, as they say, grow out of this phase.  And until then I have to do my best to keep the dragon calm, to keep the dragon under control, and to help the dragon understand that this behavior is not acceptable.

But it’s hard.  And it hurts.  And I’m tired.

Filed Under: Parenting

Adventures in Single Parenting

May 23, 2011 By StaceyRobinson 2 Comments

I got The Call this morning.  No, not a Divine Call to join some religious order or nunnery.  Wrong religion, wrong calling.  Although, come to think of it, that may have been an easier call to have received.  Me and God, we’re tight these days, and I enjoy semi-regular chats with Him/Her.  It was also not the call of the wild, or, sadly, even a call from a telemarketer.  No, I got the Call From School.  My son, far from being sick or being awarded some educational accolade, was being given a detention.  Dammit.

I know, I know: it’s really no big deal.  He’s twelve.  It’s a detention, not hard time on a chain gang.  But, well— it’s a detention.  It’s one more thing I have to deal with.

My first impulse was to reach for my dog-eared copy of The Rule Book: A Parent’s Handy Dandy Guide to Raising Perfect Children.  Oh wait— there is no such book.  Or, if there is, I must have been out grabbing a cup of coffee when They (the omnipotent, omnipresent They)— I was out when all the other parents were getting their copies.  As an added bonus, I had apparently also been absent when They handed out The Single Parent’s Guide as part of the divorce decree.  I was on my own.  Again.

Ah— the joy of single parenting.  It hits at oddly, all sideways and slanted and so totally unexpected.  They say that whatever doesn’t kill you makes you makes you stronger.  Right.  At this point, I am Atlas, and all I want to do is shrug.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my son, fiercely, unconditionally, wholely.  There is nothing I would not do for him.  But these moments, where I am so certain that I’ve committed some grievous parenting error, provided him with fodder for future therapy sessions, these are the moments I would gladly trade.  These are the times I want to call for a timeout.  The Universe is less than obliging.

This isn’t big stuff.   Hell, the big stuff is easy. I am the Fixer of Broken Things.  So I fix.  I act.  I do. You shoulder the big stuff because you can’t do anything less.  I never realized that it would be these small moments that would trip me up, leave me clueless and frustrated and slightly panicked.  You find out the hard way, when it’s 10:00 and you realize you’ve run out of cream for tomorrow’s coffee.  It’s that chasm of infinite guilt as you send your kid off to school with that nasty, nagging cough because you have a meeting that you just can’tmiss.  It’s not signing up for Little League because you work and who calls a practice at 4:00 in the afternoon for God’s sake, and hearing your son say, as you drive past the ball field, in that voice that’s way too mature: “It’s ok, Mommy.  Maybe next year.”  It’s going it alone, again, ever and always, as you try to navigate through all the lonely, silent days.  It’s the easy stuff, the quiet stuff that makes it hard to breathe sometimes.

The falling apart comes later.   It comes in the long, dark night of the soul, when I lie sleepless and wide-eyed and still.  It is the silent rant against my Ex, who of course is absent, of course deflects and defers and derails, who doesn’t realize that twelve year olds are like puppies: you have to discipline them now because in two days it will be meaningless, they will have forgotten their misdemeanor, will have forgotten their remorse, but whom you want, please God, just this once, to show up.

And then I remember: it is a detention, nothing more.  Time served, punishment meted.  Small stuff.

For all that it can be sad and lonely and silent, it is small stuff.  And when I gather in all these moments– not just the minor panic and small fears, but the triumphs and joys, too— I get a life.  My life.  Far from perfect, far from solitary.  Filled with everything and then some.  I remember that it is all small stuff and I am filled.

Go here to read more adventures in parenting and life and faith.

Filed Under: Parenting, Uncategorized

Self-discipline

May 6, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 2 Comments

Now that Spring is (supposedly) here, we should be able to enjoy warm weather and sunshiney days.  It also means that the outside restrictions I accepted for Lent are over now.   I am free to eat what I want, when I want.  This should be good news for me; instead, I find myself struggling.

It turns out that I am not as strong in the area of self-discipline as I would like to be.  Having good choices dictated to me by an outside authority is a lot easier for me than governing myself.

When giving the opportunity, it turns out that I generally don’t make very good choices for myself.  I would rather eat what tastes good in the moment, instead of eating something healthy that will actually make me feel better.  I would rather comfort myself with food than get to the heart of my problem.  I do not make the choice to find out what is really bothering me when I can grab a piece of chocolate instead.

As I try to figure out life after Lent, I need to figure out how to live between the extremes of denial and permissiveness.  Just like I try not always to say “no” or always “yes” to my kids, I need to figure out a way to say “yes” and “no” appropriately to myself.  The problem is that I am so exhausted by the work of disciplining my kids, it is hard to work up the energy to do the work of disciplining myself.  However, if I am unhealthy physically and psychologically, then it is hard to discipline my kids well.

Even while writing this post, I find myself unable to come up with any definitive answers.  But I am glad to have this place to make a commitment to continuing the work of finding a way to say “yes” and “no” appropriately to myself.

photo by donald judge

You can find more of Melanie’s musings here.

Filed Under: Parenting, Spirituality Tagged With: , , ,

Noddin’ my head like yea.

March 30, 2011 By Amy 4 Comments
A mix CD came home with my six year old. It was from the birthday girl of a party my daughter had attended a week before. Before I could finish scanning the titles (only a few I recognized), the CD was popped into the player and I was ushered out of the room without so much as a parting gift. The former Hannah Montana slinked out from underneath the door. Noddin’ her head like yea. Mainstream bubblegum pop had just arrived in our house.What was going on?
I had prided myself in exposing my children to an immense variety of music since day one. Mind you, I wasn’t the anal parent who planned specific musical encounters each day with the hope of raising a prodigy. I just dug into our collection and figured that if something sounded good to me, then why not let the baby hear it too. So in addition to ’60s, ’70s and ’80s rock, pop and new wave classics, our kids also heard various Spanish and Celtic artists, plus all of the  traditional nursery rhymes.

I have vivid memories of not only going to sleep to the tune of  “Piojos” (a song about head lice sung by these characters called Los Lunnis, which are like the Muppets, but from Spain) but waking up with the same song in my head. That was  how my days cycled for a few weeks while my children listened to that song and the Vaccaciones con Los Lunnis CD over and over and over. It mysteriously disappeared from the CD collection when I began to dream of singing, head bobbing lice with the faces of Los Lunnis because I didn’t want my children to have to explain that their Mama was taking her own Vacation with the Looney’s, and not by choice.

I could tell the same sleep-wake nightmare again and again with countless other children’s songs and even a few that the kids glommed onto by Bruce Springsteen. But in the end, I had no one to blame but myself (or my husband, who is the Bruce fanatic and has fond childhood memories of Los Lunnis ). If the CD came from me, I could steal it away during the daytime hours without anyone noticing. But a CD from someone else?

When I became a parent, I had to make decisions about everything in their lives from bedtimes and food, to vacations and television. And of course music. I knew that one day my children would prefer “their” music over “mine”, much like I preferred Duran Duran to my mom’s Rod Stewart. I just did not think it would start this early.  She’s only six and we still  listen to the Beatles every Sunday morning together. We talk about the lyrics and instruments and our favorite songs. I love that she has a favorite Beatles song (Currently Octopus’s Garden).  I’m not ready to give up my decisions about things in their lives yet.

The other day I was folding clothes in her room when the six year old put on the mix CD. She began dancing around to the beat, enjoying the rhythm of the music. I began to sing along to the lyrics that I had heard a lot of lately. She smiled at me, the gaps of her freshly lost teeth still present and asked, “Do you know this song, Mama?” I told her, “I’ve heard it a few times.”  We were noddin’ our heads like yea, movin’ our hips like yea. I wasn’t being asked to leave, but rather silently invited to stay.

Read more from Amy on her personal site.

Filed Under: Humor, Parenting

Television IS drugs…and that’s okay with me.

March 2, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 2 Comments

We used to share a garage with a car that had a bumper sticker that read, “Television is drugs.”  The funny thing to us about this was that we always suspected the car’s owner of using recreational drugs.  Obviously, if you are going to turn to drugs, television should not be your drug of choice, according to this family.

Lately, we have been spending more time with families who do not own televisions.  This has made me question our own television practices.  Are we doing some kind of damage by letting our kids watch the occasional TV show or movie?

On further consideration, I don’t think so.  Our kids watch a minimal amount of television, compared to the national average.  We have a family movie night on Sunday nights.  Throughout the week, my older kids may end up not watching any television at all.  Computer time is also hit or miss, since the kids only occasionally ask to play games on the computer.  Overall, we never allow more than 1-2 hours of screentime total each day.

I do let my 3-year-old son watch a show or a short video when he gets home from preschool.  In my opinion, he has had a fairly intense morning of navigating the world of the classroom.  As a transition from school to naptime, I let him relax in front of the “boob tube.”  I think he deserves a mental break and a chance to unwind.  Everything he watches is “educational” or at least geared for a preschool level.  If he isn’t actually learning while he watches, he certainly isn’t watching anything inappropriate.

My husband and I also enjoy unwinding in front of the television in the evening once the kids are in bed.  When the clock says,”8:00,” there is nothing I want to do more than plop down on the couch and let my mind and body unravel from all the stress of the daily demands of life with four kids.  Since I still manage to read three or more books during the week, the kids are healthy physically and psychologically and our house is clean enough, I don’t think that I need to feel guilty about this.

Some people drink, others smoke, others may choose other ways to unwind or relax.  At this point in my life, television is my drug of choice.  And, so far, the kids and I are just fine.

photo by phrenzee

You can read more about Melanie’s life choices here.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Parenting Tagged With: ,

How do you know if a bone is broken?

February 23, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 4 Comments

#1 – Do not ask Google.  If you type in, “how do you know if a bone is broken?” you would think that you would find wise and calm(ing) advice from fatherly (or motherly) doctors telling you to stay calm, don’t worry and go ahead and get an x-ray to be sure.  Instead, you will find a wide variety of gruesome and harrowing tales from people with absolutely no medical experience whatsoever.  These people apparently are looking for a platform to share about the time they broke a bone; they way they knew that usually involves some kind of bone sticking out, or an arm dangling to their knees, or some other picture you will never be able to erase from your mind.

#2 – Do not ask the teacher.  Even though you have a great relationship with your child’s teacher, and even though she seems to have a great deal of wisdom and experience in a lot of areas, it turns out that she did not take a class in identifying broken bones.  If you try to ask her for advice, she will just look at you like you have lost a few marbles and you will lose the little bit of credibility as a parent that you have managed to scrape together this year.

#3 – Do not ask your husband.  He will come up with some kind of crazy idea about going to sit and wait for an appointment with your pediatrician for two hours or more.  Do not even think about going to the doctor’s office.  This path only leads to insanity.  Instead, trust your instincts to go right to the emergency room.  You know that the only way they can tell if a bone is broken is with an x-ray.  Since you will have to wait two or more hours for an x-ray, do not “pass go;” go directly to the emergency room.

#4 – Apparently, do not ask the emergency room doctors either.  It turns out the children have a part of their bone called the “growth plate” that does not show up on the x-ray because it doesn’t have any calcium (?!).  Since the admitting nurse just told you an incomprehensible story about her daughter’s broken finger (broken on the growth plate) that grew up deformed and may or may not have had to be re-broken in three places, this will not fill you with confidence.

The Answer?  You can only trust your mama instincts.  Everyone talks about these in those magazine articles about the kids who would have died from some dire disease if it weren’t for their moms battling it out with the doctors, because these moms knew that there was something wrong with their child, even if the doctors thought those moms were crazy.  You may have wondered if you would ever be able to trust your instincts if it ever came down to it with one of your children.  It turns out that you can, you do and you will.  If you believe your child has a broken bone, you will do whatever it takes to get someone to listen to you and take care of that little tiny bone.

Can I get an “amen”?

Photo by Trace Meek

Find out the “rest of the story” here.

Filed Under: Parenting Tagged With: , , , , ,

Never Say Never – A True Story

January 17, 2011 By LinaNicklin 12 Comments

I consider myself to be a moderately adventurous person. Not too lazy, not too crazy. Bungee jumping? Done it. Cliff diving? Check. There are things, however, I have sworn I will NEVER try. For instance, jumping out of an airplane does not appeal to me. Nor will I ever risk eating that poisonous blowfish sushi from Japan. No way. Other things on my not-to-do list? Intentionally putting my children in harm’s way. It’s an obvious promise, but it is one I broke a few short weeks ago. Never say never, I suppose.

It was a Tuesday, around midday, when I was driving with my almost three year old son. We were coming back from a day of Christmas shopping on Chicago’s festively decorated Mag Mile. Our route to and from the city is far from humdrum. It takes us through two college campus, lakefront parks, beaches, and a wide array of urban and suburban communities. Some safe. Some not-so-safe.

As I pulled up to a stoplight in one of those not-so-safe areas, my eyes were drawn to two young girls standing on the street corner. They were in a panic. Crying, out of breath, and clutching one another. As I tried to make sense of their situation, one of the girls screamed at the top of her lungs and began running down the middle of the cross street. A man in dark jeans, a black leather jacket, and black knit hat was chasing her.

What do I do?

She’s screaming for help.

This young girl is someone’s daughter.

No one is stopping.

The stoplight was still red. Without thinking, I ignored the light, slammed on the gas, and pulled a left turn in front of traffic to follow the girl. She was desperately flagging down cars. Begging for anyone to pull over. I braked right next to her, rolled down the window and yelled, “Get in!” As she turned to look at me, all I could see was a wet, puffy, bloodied face. She ran around the back of the car and climbed in. Unbeknownst to me, the man in dark clothing had caught up with us.

What happened next scared me.

The man reached his hand into my car and grabbed the girl by her hair. He started pulling violently and commanded, “C’mon! Get out!” The girl gave me a scared and desperate look, as though she were ready to give up and go with him. My son had his hands over his ears and appeared petrified with fear.

It was at that moment I had to make a choice – let the girl go and protect our safety? Or, take a risk and get this poor girl as far away from this SOB as I can? I quickly yelled, “Shut the door! Just shut the door!” I stepped on the gas and hoped for the best. As the door slammed shut, pieces of the girl’s hair fell into her lap. She collapsed her head into her knees and sobbed as I drove further and further away from her attacker.

“Thank you… thank you… thank you,” the girl wept. “He was gonna kill me.”

The girl’s name was Noel. She was only 21 years old. As I drove to find the nearest policeman, she told me her story. That was her dominant and possessive husband back there. She had told him she didn’t want to be married anymore. The girl with Noel on the street corner was her best friend. She was with her for support. Noel felt forced into the marriage and wasn’t ready to “grow up so quick”. When she broke the news to her husband, he beat her… badly. Her puffy eyes and bleeding lips were clear evidence of that.

As she wiped her face with a packet of baby wipes from my backpack, I located a police officer near an el train station. Before I could bat an eyelash, three of Chicago’s finest pulled up, got a description of Noel’s husband, and drove off. Noel was instructed to go with the police. As she was leaving the temporary safety of my car, she turned and hugged me. With a quivering voice, she said, “I don’t know what would’ve happened to me if you didn’t stop. Thank you for stopping.” I nearly cried as I heard that last bit… “Thank you for stopping.”

Looking back, was this a stupid move? Yes.

Could that man have had a gun? Yes.

Did I put myself and my child in serious danger? Yes.

Did we get hurt? No. Thank goodness.

I called Noel later that evening (her best friend’s number was still in my phone after I let her borrow it). She was at her apartment with a police escort. Noel was gathering her things and moving out. She sounded relieved, happy… and grateful.

Whenever I feel a little regretful for putting my son in harm’s way that day, I play Noel’s voice over and over like a tape recorder to ease my mind…

“Thank you for stopping.”

Photo by Visionello from flickr.com

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Parenting Tagged With: , ,

Midwesterners, ho!

January 11, 2011 By Melanie Myatt 3 Comments

“Look guys!  We’re about to go down a really big hill!” my son exclaimed on the way to my aunt’s house for New Year’s Day.

What you need to know is that we were in Michigan for the holidays.  The flat part of Michigan to be exact.  The “really big hill” wouldn’t even be that much of a thrill if you were on a sled, let alone in a car.

This is one of the drawbacks of raising my kids in the Midwest, if you ask me.  Since I grew up in the Midwest, I know what it is to be mocked for thinking that any legitimate snow skiing can happen in a state like Michigan.  I wasn’t introduced to mountains like the Rockies until after college.  The Midwest may be a wonderful place to grow up for a number of reasons, but having a firm grasp of elevation and incline is not one of them.

We are in a limbo time right now, waiting for my husband to finish his doctorate before he gets a job, hopefully teaching in a college or university somewhere.  When he sends me links to various job postings for consideration, I find myself thinking as much about the effect each place will have on my kids’ future identity as how I feel about living there myself.

If he gets a job in California, sure it means we will be far from friends and family, but even more to consider is that our kids will grow up to be Californians.  There is nothing inherently good or bad about that, but it is a truth to consider.  They will grow up thinking it is supposed to be summery and warm at Christmas.  Air conditioning will be a necessity, not a luxury.  Strappy sandals and shirts will be the uniform, instead of flannel-lined jeans and fur-lined boots.  Instead of cross-country skiing, surfing would be the activity of choice.

Northeast, Northwest, Southeast, Southwest:  each region has a distinctive identity and characteristics that my kids will pick up and align themselves with.  As a Midwesterner married to a Southerner, I know the cross-cultural work that has to be done when those worlds come together.  I will always stand a little apart from the rest of my husband’s family, no matter how many “y’alls” i throw into my sentences.  My husband will always stick out at my family’s get-togethers, no matter how nasally he pronounces his words.  We are products of our regional cultures.

The question is: am I comfortable enough with my regional identity to raise my kids in that same region?  Maybe what I should be asking myself is, am I comfortable enough with my own regional identity to move somewhere else and have people show me the shortcomings and weaknesses of being a Midwesterner?

This is going to require some thought.  At this point in our economic condition, the choice may not be mine.

photo by Norman B. Leventhal Map Center at the BPL

You can read more from Melanie here.

Filed Under: Parenting Tagged With:

Help! My eight-year-old likes a boy…

December 16, 2010 By Melanie Myatt 2 Comments

I had deluded myself into thinking this school year was just like any other.  Then I saw a letter my daughter was writing to her friend.  (What?!  She left it sitting out…I didn’t even know what it was when I started reading it…Honest!)  It described a boy in her class that she thought was “cute.”  Then I found out my mom had already heard about this boy and my daughter’s crush.  What was going on?  This is not the way I wanted our relationship to be, particularly as we head into boy-awareness.

She finally mentioned in passing that her “friend” had told the boy that my daughter liked him, in spite of being sworn to secrecy.  My daughter didn’t like the way the boy was acting after finding out this bit of information.  She was starting to think that maybe she didn’t like him that much after all.  Some of his “cuteness” was wearing off.

I know the days of hearthrobs and heartaches are coming.  I just thought we would be starting closer to age ten than eight.

I want to do a good job preparing her to navigate the turbulent waters of boys and, eventually, dating.  But I don’t know if there is any other area of parenting in which I feel so inadequate.

We ended up having a nice conversation about this season of her life being a time to figure out what kind of boys she likes.  Does she like boys who are good-looking, even if they don’t have a nice personality? Does a great personality make up for less than the best looks?  Does she like someone athletic or someone who prefers to do home-chemistry experiments?  Now she can take the time to figure out what kind of boy she likes, when she doesn’t have to worry about the pressures of dating.  I even shared with her that I wish I had taken the time to figure out what kind of boy I liked before I started dating.  She seemed to appreciate my honesty. Then she asked me what we were having for supper.

For now, the embers of her crush seem to have died out, to my great relief.  Hopefully, we have a little more time to continue to develop our own relationship, before she begins a more serious relationship with someone else.

This much I do know:  when she enters the dating world for real, I will have tissues, my shoulder and the cookie-dough ice cream ready and waiting.

Photo by Pink Sherbet Photography

You can find more of Melanie’s writing here.

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