tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-241666762024-03-13T16:28:26.891-04:00I'm Just Sayin'<p align="right"><i>Holding the strings.<br>
Praying for wind.<br>
Watching them soar.</i></p>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.comBlogger474125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-15070136742906063462011-09-15T21:16:00.000-04:002011-09-15T21:16:39.074-04:00Gone, Baby, GoneHey there, friend! If you've stumbled onto this blog via some outdated link I've forgotten to change, please come visit the new and (dare I say) improved I'm Just Sayin', which is now called <a href="http://robynpassante.com/">Holding the Strings</a>. <br />
<br />
Come on over; you've got some stuff to catch up on....<br />
RobynRobynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-36762133254411336402011-07-16T23:43:00.005-04:002011-07-17T20:12:31.716-04:00Clock Slayers Bring Time Back to Life (or something like that ... I'm too overtired to understand Faulkner)<div style="text-align: center;"><i>“Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.” – William Faulkner</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>This morning I was woken up by my 2-year-old, who slid all the covers off my body, pulled himself onto the bed, climbed onto my back and proceeded to use all four of my limbs as train tracks for the little red engine in his hand.<br />
<br />
Neither one of us said a word, and after opening one eye to see the time — 6:29 a.m. — I closed it and sank back into my pillow, trying to convince myself this was like a little mini massage and I could just go right back to sleep.<br />
<br />
That’s when he turned on the train’s whistle.<br />
<br />
As I lay there listening to the shrill whine and chug-chug-chug of the toy, I thought about how long it had been since I’d woken up on my own. My internal alarm clock is no doubt rusted out and dead from lack of use. Having children has meant their internal alarm clocks trump mine every single time. It doesn’t matter how late I stayed up or how many times they woke up in the middle of the night for feedings or diaper changes or a parental reassurance in the dark. They’re still almost always up earlier than my body would choose to be if it was in charge. Which it isn’t.<br />
<br />
I have friends who tuck in their kids around 7:30 p.m., close their bedroom doors and rarely open them again until 7:30 a.m. I’m sure some of these kids are amazing sleepers. I suppose others are well trained to stay in bed, or at the very least stay quiet. Our boys were never amazing sleepers, and a strict lights out, parents out policy was never our style. So while I’ve always been envious of the predictability of such lavish amounts of free time and uninterrupted sleep, I still prefer the loose system we have of musical beds and multiple wakings. (OK I don’t <i>prefer</i> the multiple wakings, but I’ve made my peace with it.)<br />
<br />
Very young children are acutely aware of their own internal clocks, and nothing else. They wake when they’re ready to wake, no matter how obscene the number is on the bedside clock. And they sleep when they’re ready to sleep, no matter where they are or how high the sun still is in the sky.<br />
<br />
Externally, though, they don’t quite get it. My kids ask what’s for dinner when they mean breakfast. “Yesterday” could be 10 minutes ago or two years ago, depending on what they’re recalling. They think that a return to a local amusement park we went to weeks ago is imminent, even though we’ve told them we’ll go again next year. That’s because “next year” to them is both tomorrow and a million days away.<br />
<br />
Conversely, living with them has shown me how dependent we adults are on schedules and clocks. There are many days I spend 20 minutes or more trying to cajole them into sitting down for lunch “because it’s time for lunch.” They revolt, saying “It’s not time for lunch, Mommy!” What I mean is that it’s noon, and we have to get lunch out of the way so that we can move on to reading books and taking naps. What they mean is that they’re not hungry yet; it will be lunchtime when they are hungry, and until then please leave them alone. I am paying attention to the clock on the wall; they are paying attention to the clock in their brains.<br />
<br />
One of my biggest challenges as a mother has been honing the ability to focus on the brilliance of the moment rather than the five things I have to get done before naptime. To watch their faces instead of the clock, to respond to their wishes and giggles and neediness regardless of what I think they should be doing based on what the big hand and the little hand are pointing to.<br />
<br />
It can be so hard to succumb to the immediacy of childhood, to respond instantly when you feel your covers sliding away and your happily slumbering body being roused prematurely yet again. But doing just that is imperative, if for no other reason than <i>because</i> the tick-tick-tick never actually stops. In fact it’s pretty much on warp speed from the second you give birth until forever. Kids change in a heartbeat. I swear to you, there are days my children wake up from their naps and their faces have matured in that hour while they slept. Two months ago I was still cutting Evan’s sandwiches into bite-sized pieces because he hadn’t yet mastered the whole <i>“Just take a bite!”</i> concept. Now he’s biting his way through an entire PB&J like the big boy that he is quickly becoming.<br />
<br />
Last week Kostyn couldn’t reach the faucet to turn it on and wash his hands by himself. Today he can. I don’t know how this happened, but it did, like magic. And the recognition of this feat, for me, was both wonderful and sobering.<br />
<br />
Time<i> is</i> magic. Now you see it, now you don’t. It is at once a pounding in your head of to-do lists and deadlines and meetings and appointments and dinner to get on the table and one more book to read before lights out. Then, *Poof!* It’s gone. The lights are out.<br />
<br />
One day right around the corner I will once again wake to the persistent, emotionless beep-beep-beep of my alarm clock, and I’ll plod down the hall to the boys’ room to wake them for school. <i>“Time to get up!”</i> I can hear my future mom self calling to them, opening curtains and telling them how much time before the bus gets here. <i>“Hurry or you won’t have time for breakfast.”</i> Because there’s never enough time.<br />
<br />
And in that moment of wishing for more time I will be greedy, as all parents are. I will long to rewind the clock not just to give us all more time for breakfast, or more time to sleep in. I will wish the clock much further back … all the way back to the days when my body became a train track at 6:30 in the morning. Back to when the clock stopped, and time came to life.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuHy870EwiQ4TMeAyAd-u1OuNfsKyjNkKRTnHdITSsB4r5q0uHMppfAZiUJWFpVxqU06IAvJMUEXVQE9751fUc_n8Zbsn-dnPf4GKinf7i1ayNOxIIzKzxDlnTzN3AZ0wlICb/s1600/P1010879.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZuHy870EwiQ4TMeAyAd-u1OuNfsKyjNkKRTnHdITSsB4r5q0uHMppfAZiUJWFpVxqU06IAvJMUEXVQE9751fUc_n8Zbsn-dnPf4GKinf7i1ayNOxIIzKzxDlnTzN3AZ0wlICb/s400/P1010879.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-71739685857585275802011-07-05T22:51:00.000-04:002011-07-05T22:51:27.761-04:00Allies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFhDFipgCAcO7d5SSPRGExAKU0LYejaVKd4GC9aeOfw3QRtZ3NLYzzUIg4VX1cv7iGdyL7Ci1CJdE3ooZ-A7wSHMfQ_QYcjYZ5g-8h6Zrr2HlUiO_jo6FRzK_KsvSmE8gxKKu/s1600/chalk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLFhDFipgCAcO7d5SSPRGExAKU0LYejaVKd4GC9aeOfw3QRtZ3NLYzzUIg4VX1cv7iGdyL7Ci1CJdE3ooZ-A7wSHMfQ_QYcjYZ5g-8h6Zrr2HlUiO_jo6FRzK_KsvSmE8gxKKu/s400/chalk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br />
The boys and I sat on the front porch tonight while they ate ice cream cones and looked for bugs, a summertime routine in the making. When Kostyn finished his treat he grabbed a big piece of sidewalk chalk from the box near the front door and headed down the stairs to draw smiley face after smiley face on the still-hot concrete. Each one was a little bit farther away from our porch than the last. <br />
<br />
After a few minutes Evan handed me his soggy, dripping cone and picked up his own piece of chalk, smearing it with melted ice cream on his way down the steps. He chose a sidewalk square in front of the house and began furiously scribbling. <br />
<br />
Kostyn, meanwhile, took a few steps farther down the street. <br />
<br />
“Kostyn, that’s far enough,” I called to him, wanting to be able to see him from my perch on the porch. He looked at me, whirled around, slashed at the sidewalk with his chalk, and then danced several more feet toward the end of the block, giving me a sideways glance to make sure I’d notice.<br />
<br />
“Kostyn, do you want me to take away the chalk?” I asked calmly. Truth be told, he was just on the other side of the next-door neighbor’s house — hardly a solo trek into uncharted territory. But he wasn’t listening to me; he was testing to see where the boundaries <i>really</i> were. Both kinds. Plus he wasn’t wearing pants. (Long story.)<br />
<br />
“Oh Mommy,” he said dismissively, drawing imaginary figure eights in the air. <br />
<br />
Evan, who’d barely walked 10 feet from the porch steps and was now satisfied with his masterpiece, stood up and looked back at his brother. Kostyn looked from me to Evan but didn’t move.<br />
<br />
“I want you to come back this way,” I said. Then I added, “Where Evan is is far enough.” <br />
<br />
It took less than 2 seconds for Evan to run to his big brother’s side. Then he turned to face me, elbow to shoulder with Kostyn, who was beaming with an even bigger grin than his little partner in crime.<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's right: I was outsmarted by a 2-year-old.<br />
<br />
I think we all learned a valuable, dangerous lesson tonight: Those boys are far more powerful together than they are alone.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-84214541303008535662011-06-21T08:11:00.000-04:002011-06-21T08:11:32.014-04:00Dear Insecurities: You Don't Get to WinI have this recurring daydream where I’m in a terrible accident and have one of my legs amputated. Sometimes both of them are gone, and I’m pushed around in a wheelchair by my husband, who assures me he still loves me just the same as he always did. As he wheels me around I look down at the nothingness that used to be my ability to run and dance, and I try like hell to remember what I looked like and felt like with all my limbs intact. In the dream I love them, my poor hacked-off legs, with a passion generally reserved for treasured family members and dark chocolate. I concentrate on that loss until the yearning for what I had is palpable. Then I let the dream go.<br />
<br />
Because, like I said, it’s not a nightmare. It’s not something I wake from in a sweat, wiggling my toes under the blankets to make sure I’m still in one piece. It’s a daydream. I force it on myself once in awhile, in the light of day, in an attempt to regain my sense of thankfulness for having been blessed with a healthy body. Because it’s a body I’ve been so hopelessly insecure about my whole life that it’s paralyzed me from doing and wearing and feeling the things I should, which I know is pointless, annoying and sad. Hence the daydream. <i>And yet.</i><br />
<br />
Everyone has insecurities. Everyone has something about their appearance they don’t like. Right now you’re thinking of yours. Over the years my “something” has shifted. In my teens it was a general sense of “I don’t think I’m pretty.” I would sit on the couch beside my high school boyfriend and panic if he looked over at me. <i>“He’s too close! He’ll see what I really look like!”</i> Like the idiotic schoolgirl I was, I would hide my face from him, tell him to look away. It wasn’t a flirty ploy; it was a response to real fear. <br />
<br />
In my 20s my “something” became a quantifiable list, a new insecurity always seeming to take the place of one that was fading away. I didn’t like my freckles. I hated my hair, back, legs, feet, chest, fingers, nose, ears, smile. There was something wrong with just about every part of me, and there wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it.<br />
<br />
Perhaps because of that, I settled on one giant insecurity and clung to it: My legs. I decided they were too hideous to be seen. I stopped wearing shorts in public. (And I was living in the South at the time, so that was a fairly stupid, terribly uncomfortable decision.) Then I stopped wearing shorts at home. I didn’t want my husband to see them. I didn’t want to have to look at them either.<br />
<br />
When my college roommate was getting married I spent weeks shopping for a dress that might be stylish but still cover my legs completely. I finally found a black sleeveless dress that went down to my ankles. There were two slits up the sides, reaching almost to the knee, so when I walked the bottom of the dress flapped open a little, revealing just a hint of a calf muscle. I spent an hour of our drive from Florida to Virginia frantically pulling a needle and black thread through that dress, closing up those slits so I’d be comfortable enough in it to relax and have fun. I’m no seamstress, but my hack job worked.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkz9uOaZ9lc6A0CS1pf99k3ikojf4-q3QYPNxLZToflnJBsQp0n8FSFOCmSSU1r3eRUeBFyGf6shfPy-nf7nGDQbOGr3O_3ZtvRyNdz5T5PUZ_q1t6HfCnLIQm74F7J0dbjn1k/s1600/SCN_0006_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkz9uOaZ9lc6A0CS1pf99k3ikojf4-q3QYPNxLZToflnJBsQp0n8FSFOCmSSU1r3eRUeBFyGf6shfPy-nf7nGDQbOGr3O_3ZtvRyNdz5T5PUZ_q1t6HfCnLIQm74F7J0dbjn1k/s400/SCN_0006_2_2.jpg" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My long, cozy cocoon, bought and first worn here in June 1999.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
It worked so well, in fact, that I think that black dress is the only one I owned and wore for the next 12 years. It is downright comical how many photos I have, of various events through the years, in which I am wearing that dress. Other weddings, awards banquets, fancy dinners, my own bridal shower, even a funeral or two.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpysqFRuW8MM99bJ5GdClC3fS7H_cecHHcYVTnTsxIq0y2aO9vPJbuQDxJdR7XixVy4Fu_EMRY4M0WllK0KKDXmPprM3F3PBoB-sQQi8xoU7rboU-TyralcYIVVe4T4_rpL47g/s1600/SCN_0006_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpysqFRuW8MM99bJ5GdClC3fS7H_cecHHcYVTnTsxIq0y2aO9vPJbuQDxJdR7XixVy4Fu_EMRY4M0WllK0KKDXmPprM3F3PBoB-sQQi8xoU7rboU-TyralcYIVVe4T4_rpL47g/s400/SCN_0006_2.jpg" width="387" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Accessorizing with a corsage for my bridal shower. <i>(Pretty china!)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Amazingly my amateur seamstress work has kept those side slits closed, allowing me to feel safe in that polyester blend of a cocoon that for the past six years or so I’ve told myself is “timeless,” even though the sheer length of the frock makes it pretty dated.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhhzYny8tNxLry-zrzF-vJw1MelTizBlgO5hJO7Hq1ZS93nfbk9rtBossZqI_yaE4wiVhKkQSmq9_uwgrpd2xB3bfRRZOqDS97lUsa1E5X6vsPgN50beTpsubWraUuOLmr_gA/s1600/SCN_0006_2_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWhhzYny8tNxLry-zrzF-vJw1MelTizBlgO5hJO7Hq1ZS93nfbk9rtBossZqI_yaE4wiVhKkQSmq9_uwgrpd2xB3bfRRZOqDS97lUsa1E5X6vsPgN50beTpsubWraUuOLmr_gA/s400/SCN_0006_2_2_2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another wedding, years later. <i>(Hey, you made the blog, Chew!)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<b>Insecurities</b>. Everyone has ’em. For a long time I thought age and maturity would take care of mine.<i> I’ll just grow out of it. Get over myself. It’s a phase. </i><br />
<br />
I thought faith would take care of it. <i>God gave me this body, and I should love and exalt it as the gift that it is.</i><br />
<br />
I thought finding the right man would take care of it. <i>He compliments me all the time, says I grow more beautiful every year. Shouldn’t that be enough?</i><br />
<br />
I thought therapy would take care of it. <i>My physical insecurities are apparently an outward manifestation of something inside me that I have not yet come to terms with.</i><br />
<br />
I thought having kids would take care of it. <i>This body grew two human beings. It produced miracles, and fed them for the first year of their lives. This body ROCKS for that reason alone. Show it some respect!</i><br />
<br />
Maybe all of these have added pieces to the puzzle, but there are still these gaping holes and I’ve spent years rolling around like a Shel Silverstein drawing trying to find my missing piece. I’ve done the psychobabble, the <a href="http://robynpassante.blogspot.com/2009/07/power-hungry.html">self-loathing behaviors</a>, the empty relationships. I’ve spent years avoiding mirrors and eye contact because I didn’t want to be seen. For awhile I tried writing down every compliment I received so that they might not dissolve in my mind like snowflakes on my tongue, the way compliments usually do. <br />
<br />
I’ve ruminated and prayed for an answer to this problem of low self-esteem. I’ve cried about it, argued about it, read about it. It sounds so silly, but it has debilitated me for years.<br />
<br />
Finally, in a fit of genius,<b> I gave up</b>.<br />
<br />
I recently decided to <a href="http://robynpassante.blogspot.com/2011/01/as-new-year-dawns-i-realize-we-are-all.html">stop thinking about all the things that are “wrong” with me</a>, because frankly I’m sick to death of thinking about it. Berating myself for not being perfect is exhausting, not to mention pointless, stifling and completely self-centered.<br />
<br />
So instead I thought I’d just try to wear a pair of shorts. Not all the time, mind you (baby steps), but once in awhile. It probably sounds like a simple thing; it’s not. But I bought a pair a few weeks ago (thanks Mom, for your extreme patience during that particular shopping outing) and have worn them three times, including to a 3-year-old’s birthday party, which was excruciatingly difficult for me to do. <br />
<br />
I also bought a new bathing suit — something I haven’t done in about eight years — and a new dress, with a hemline that just brushes my knees, and I'm currently psyching myself up to actually wear it to my cousin's wedding in a few weeks. <br />
<br />
Look out, world. <br />
<br />
It hasn’t been easy, this new strategy. Last weekend I happened to be in a pair of shorts when an impromptu gathering of neighbors and their kids took place on the sidewalk in front of our house. As quickly and casually as I could I excused myself, slipped inside and ran upstairs to change into jeans, sweatpants, anything that would cover up my legs. But I stopped myself, took a deep breath and looked in the mirror instead. I envisioned my insecurity as an object, and I pulled it away from my actual body. <br />
<br />
“<i>Ya know what? Screw you,</i>” I said to the imaginary mass of self-loathing and shame I could practically see. For the first time, I saw it separately from my physical self. I still didn’t like the way my legs looked, but I could see they were just legs. Just freckles. Just shoulders. Just a nose. Taken as a whole they are who I am, but <b>they do not define me unless I let them.</b><br />
<br />
I kept the shorts on and went back outside. I made eye contact. I laughed and joked. I watched the kids dance around, blowing bubbles and chasing them down the sidewalk, totally unaware of their bodies as anything but vehicles for the life that propels them forward, outward, upward. <br />
<br />
It’s too late for me to feel that again, to be unaware of my body in that way. But maybe if I force myself to wear shorts sometimes, after awhile I won’t feel like I’m baring my soul, just my skin.<br />
<br />
When I sat down to write this post, I knew only what I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t want to say something trite that means nothing to anyone, but I didn’t want to make it about you when it’s really about me anyway. I got so muddled I considered deleting the whole thing. And then I remembered French model <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VS2mfWDryPE&feature=related">Isabelle Caro</a>. At 25, she posed for an Italian ad campaign to highlight the tragedy and danger of anorexia in the fashion industry. She was 5’5” and weighed less than 70 pounds at the time. She was a walking skeleton, and she knew it.<br />
<br />
“I saw death coming for me,” she said. “At that stage I freaked out.” She started diligently trying to gain enough weight to live. She knew she’d ravaged her body, but she was hoping it wasn’t too late. What struck me about Isabelle, even more than her skeletal frame, was some dramatic freckles she’d painted around her eyes and cheeks. When an interviewer asked about the makeup, Isabelle said, “I do have freckles naturally but I use makeup to accentuate them because I like to bring out my eyes. Because if someone is looking at my eyes, they are not looking at the rest of me.”<br />
<br />
Isabelle spent her entire life trying like hell to disappear. But she realized, too late, that unless she disappeared completely, her attempts to shrink were actually making her stand out more and more and more, until people literally couldn’t look away. Isabelle died at age 28. <br />
<br />
We all paint on freckles. We highlight what we like about ourselves and downplay what we don’t. But downplaying is different than hiding. Hiding is fear, paralysis, unnecessary tears. Hiding is wearing jeans to the beach in July. Like Isabelle found, the most ironic thing about hiding is that it often captures attention that is unwanted in the first place. (I mean how can you <b>not</b> notice someone sweating like crazy in rolled-up jeans with her two little boys on a beach in the middle of summer among crowds of normal people in bathing suits?)<br />
<br />
So I’m trying to take a vacation from the self-loathing. I’m trying to make eye contact. I’m trying to wear shorts once in awhile. I’m trying to pretend it’s something I do all the time. Basically, I’m trying to fake it ’til I make it. To redefine myself, just in my own mind, in simpler, gentler terms than the ones I’ve used for many years. Because it’s summer, dammit; it’s hot out there. And because, as the sharp-witted <a href="http://www.dooce.com/">Dooce</a> tweeted recently, “Self-confidence is not something you strive to get. It’s something you finally realize.”Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-48957868363924114592011-06-19T07:50:00.000-04:002011-06-19T07:50:20.650-04:00A Father's Hands<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJl50AxEIdAndviwUvnPUZngQ0kIEs9IHV9hk-3jspxxVA5-UclFwlglAd2zMfJADfiTvFdJaEOAYyZjgBI7gx4Jrwby80QbIFk7lP_xgJxYWSQLBQhXFe4YQ1M0EMfXGhSsi/s1600/SCN_0007_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJl50AxEIdAndviwUvnPUZngQ0kIEs9IHV9hk-3jspxxVA5-UclFwlglAd2zMfJADfiTvFdJaEOAYyZjgBI7gx4Jrwby80QbIFk7lP_xgJxYWSQLBQhXFe4YQ1M0EMfXGhSsi/s400/SCN_0007_2.jpg" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poor guy never got to cast his own line when he took my sisters and I fishing. I don't think he cared.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
When I think about my dad, I think about his hands. He’s got these big strong, calloused hands, and though I have a terrible memory I memorized those hands long ago. I can see the huge knuckles, the coarse dark hair on his fingers, the way his fingernails are always nibbled way down below the skin from a lifetime of quietly fretting over finances and family matters. His hands are often dry and cracked; his wedding ring looks like it was permanently fused to his left ring finger. His fingers often smell like the pipe tobacco he smokes, a scent that fills me with both nostalgia for my childhood and guilt for not being harder on him about that habit.<br />
<br />
For the first several years of my life his were the only male hands I would hold. I’m told I broke the hearts of my grandfathers, uncles and close family friends because I refused to have anything to do with them. I was the shy little girl crouched behind her daddy’s leg, holding his hands for safety. <br />
<br />
They still make me feel safer than just about anything in this world. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHpNjl9xeHZXN5eMksEyrwaMDzTKwe2lJGOe8wVlUARSOD_O13K2Mj0qCqevjAXYQw5h5iFew1leyJixplP1S4UAWLuIXj9TCEaPGfpqLr1PIA2rpkD_vGLKH8BpcY61BTaw8/s1600/Rob%253ADad+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLHpNjl9xeHZXN5eMksEyrwaMDzTKwe2lJGOe8wVlUARSOD_O13K2Mj0qCqevjAXYQw5h5iFew1leyJixplP1S4UAWLuIXj9TCEaPGfpqLr1PIA2rpkD_vGLKH8BpcY61BTaw8/s400/Rob%253ADad+wedding.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the sweetest days we ever held hands.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My dad never knew his biological father, never held his hand or even looked him in the eye. To this day the paternal side of his family tree is one ghostly bare branch. His mother was never forthcoming about his father’s identity; over the years the name she told him changed, and her story of him being a police officer killed in the line of duty could never be corroborated with anything in the public record. <br />
<br />
Sometimes I try to imagine what my life would be like without those hands in my every memory, without the feeling they gave me, and still do. Because my father doesn’t have such a memory, and how could anyone possibly grow up well without it? <br />
<br />
The memory my dad has is an opposite one. It’s a memory from when he was a very young boy, the day his stepfather left him alone on a corner in Times Square, purposely slipped away amid the mass of people and then watched from afar to see what his stepson would do. When I hear this story I ache to run and hold that little boy’s hand, to lead him to safety, to be his shelter and his rock. <br />
<br />
And I am in awe that he grew up to be mine. <br />
<br />
I think about my father’s hands sometimes when I see Chris holding our sons’ hands as they cross the street or head into a store. <i>“Give Daddy your hand,”</i> he says, and everyone lines up to form a family chain. I look at Chris’s hands and wonder how immense and strong they must feel when they’re wrapped completely around Kostyn's and Evan's hands. I think about how every trip across the street is imprinting that <i>“<a href="http://robynpassante.blogspot.com/2010/06/not-shadow-of-doubt.html">I’m taking care of you</a>” </i>feeling in their hearts. <br />
<br />
It’s what a father does. It’s what a father should do: Be there, to hold your hand. I am so thankful I married a man who does this (and so, so much more), who will forever be their shelter and their rock. He is the perfect proportion of strong and gentle, leader and follower, fan and friend and teacher. <br />
<br />
Just like my own dad.<br />
<br />
These days Dad holds my heart more than my hand. The last time I saw him he got out his laptop (which has a giant Penn State cover on it, in true “Proud Parent of a PSU Grad” fashion) and said he wanted to show me something. He proceeded to “Google” my name and proudly scrolled through the first few pages of what the search engine turned up. He couldn’t wait to show me my own successes.<br />
<br />
I’d Googled my own name before (hasn’t everyone?), but the results looked different that day. <br />
<br />
<i>He’s such a dad</i>, I thought as I sat there looking at broken links to outdated stories in publications I no longer work for. But I realized that — <i>He’s such a dad</i> — is about the nicest compliment I can give someone, because of how the word has been defined for me throughout my life. <br />
<br />
And I wonder, how did he become what he didn’t have the good fortune to experience first-hand? I’ll never understand that, but I’m so thankful for it. It speaks to the sheer power of fatherhood, how a man with little experience can dig deep within himself and become the parent he wills himself to be. Because every child deserves a strong hand to hold, on every corner and at every turn of his life. <br />
<br />
Thanks, Dad, for giving me so much of yourself, but mostly for giving me your hand. I realize now your heart was in it. Happy Father’s Day.<br />
<br />
And thanks to my husband, my love, for giving our boys the gift of an incredible father. I love you so much.<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<b>And now, a little postscript, just for fun</b>:<br />
Ya know what's awesome? Genes. And fate. And seeing the two little boys that mean the world to you begin to resemble the two men in your life that mean the world to you. Check it out. <i><br />
</i><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxwc3ttOotAxDKK9m2Xj6iomffyUxBYurdnJd5CoW57nhyYkaLCqvZC_p-bK0Sb1ttBs8m3shqFtm6DpwZ5q8BzOnC2mTDToNR1-c37DI7e1oh0eTP7qY2o7swy9u8rrrsT6e/s1600/Dad-baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWxwc3ttOotAxDKK9m2Xj6iomffyUxBYurdnJd5CoW57nhyYkaLCqvZC_p-bK0Sb1ttBs8m3shqFtm6DpwZ5q8BzOnC2mTDToNR1-c37DI7e1oh0eTP7qY2o7swy9u8rrrsT6e/s400/Dad-baby.jpg" width="252" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's my father as a baby...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmTXEwYIHNNwfL9WzPYfFXsAsKC2K_Ayx0O3Z5nzc5eMLPYmZlYEALUpqT_-tuIkjY5MEwF2OEgdr5H_2AuynE4Arqtt7UrBCS1284v9DPwbd4j0A52HE3ExgE1zXja-Qy7Tu/s1600/CIMG0043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPmTXEwYIHNNwfL9WzPYfFXsAsKC2K_Ayx0O3Z5nzc5eMLPYmZlYEALUpqT_-tuIkjY5MEwF2OEgdr5H_2AuynE4Arqtt7UrBCS1284v9DPwbd4j0A52HE3ExgE1zXja-Qy7Tu/s400/CIMG0043.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and Evan Thomas, who happens to be named after Dad.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRohudnK4PeA5YUguhkKJYJyydvBldRZKxtDa-vQRIL504kUnPcG_P16HPzkjCVFVUOpNKzt4GcsU9cX8lrdH5SmgjVxEUIBiho261ir9K1B_8hyphenhyphenHhb6BGwshdhrzYXaSKx0k/s1600/Chris%253AMom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgRohudnK4PeA5YUguhkKJYJyydvBldRZKxtDa-vQRIL504kUnPcG_P16HPzkjCVFVUOpNKzt4GcsU9cX8lrdH5SmgjVxEUIBiho261ir9K1B_8hyphenhyphenHhb6BGwshdhrzYXaSKx0k/s400/Chris%253AMom.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's Chris as an adorable 8-year-old boy (with his mom, who incidentally is 38 in this picture -- the same age as me. Blows my mind that she has five children ranging from 18-8 here.)...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkEwnV1zorMNbujgzZKW-vijoZcl9x0FHN4v8JmsK_rjxV5Reegn08P2DpgzLcoV2vPFf_fG98qbUt1GkwIfv5AAfpdn_gcVnCbwzR-VUbW_Ij4OGAu4smeQ3Hcn1ADAM9wTU/s1600/CIMG0275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmkEwnV1zorMNbujgzZKW-vijoZcl9x0FHN4v8JmsK_rjxV5Reegn08P2DpgzLcoV2vPFf_fG98qbUt1GkwIfv5AAfpdn_gcVnCbwzR-VUbW_Ij4OGAu4smeQ3Hcn1ADAM9wTU/s400/CIMG0275.jpg" width="277" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">....and Kostyn Orrie, named after both his father and his paternal grandfather. I know there's four years difference here but I think the resemblance to his daddy is still pretty striking.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-53707891794956996472011-06-16T07:51:00.000-04:002011-06-16T07:51:09.501-04:00He's Takin' What I'm Givin' 'Cause He's "Workin'" For a Livin'<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiayBIOGZDocDC99yN3jBI0vQnoG37SSwkrX9iAn-YUHZ-lcc-GySBmCaFPSrwY6CIIrnqG87O3nH9cmsxjlOWJHwt7e9MeHZF2NlgXYJkDo30-o29FWIcDKvXwIf7QdBj3hG/s1600/AM-20064-Lg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGiayBIOGZDocDC99yN3jBI0vQnoG37SSwkrX9iAn-YUHZ-lcc-GySBmCaFPSrwY6CIIrnqG87O3nH9cmsxjlOWJHwt7e9MeHZF2NlgXYJkDo30-o29FWIcDKvXwIf7QdBj3hG/s400/AM-20064-Lg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
Kostyn has recently discovered money. I think that’s partly because his daddy has been talking to him about why he has to go to work every day (which Kostyn hates), and partly because he just likes coins. He likes holding them, collecting them, keeping them from his brother and dropping them into his blue piggy bank that’s actually a bear. <br />
<br />
So now that he kind of understands that people work for money, he has begun asking me if he can work for money. But, it turns out, he doesn’t want to work very hard, and by “very hard” I mean “at all.” <br />
<br />
We had this exchange recently:<br />
<br />
Kostyn: “Look, I have some money for work.” He handed me a penny and a small round piece of rubber. “Mommy, I want some money. I need some money to buy things.”<br />
<br />
“Really?” I said absentmindedly, handing back his stash and continuing to put away his clean laundry.<br />
<br />
“Give me some money,” he said, more to the point. “I need an urn.”<br />
<br />
“You need an urn?” I asked, imagining him filling an urn with found coins and random rubber toy parts. <br />
<br />
“Yes, I want money to earn.”<br />
<br />
“Ohhh, EARN,” I said. “You want to earn some money? You need a job to do?”<br />
<br />
“Yes I need a job,” he said excitedly. “What job can I do?”<br />
<br />
“Well I wish you’d asked me that yesterday, because I just cleaned the whole house,” I said. “But you can help me set the table later.”<br />
<br />
“Uhh, no.”<br />
<br />
“OK,” I said, heading downstairs. He followed me, undeterred by my utter lack of interest in handing over cash for nothing. <br />
<br />
“I need a job, mommy. I need to earn something. Like work,” he said so earnestly I thought he was serious.<br />
<br />
“Well I’m about to sweep the kitchen floor. Want to help me do that?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“No,” he said. “I need an easy job.”<br />
<br />
“Heh. Don’t we all,” I said, getting out the broom.<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
“Nothing.”<br />
<br />
“What about music. I could play music all day long,” he said. <br />
<br />
“For money?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Yes, I can play music and I will earn money!” he said, the scheme coming into focus in his little brain.<br />
<br />
“Well, you could do that someday, sure,” I said, imagining I was giving a pep talk to the next Yo-Yo Ma or Bruce Springsteen. “It will take a lot of practice and hard work, but you could be a musician and make money.”<br />
<br />
“Will you give me money to play music?” he said, apparently aiming to skip the “years of practice and discipline” stage. <br />
<br />
“Uh, no," I said. <i>I might give you some to stop playing,</i> I added under my breath, but he had already disappeared into the other room. Then I heard the faint sounds of the boys’ musical Sit ‘n’ Spin playing. It’s among the most annoying musical toys they own, and every time I hear it I vow to secretly remove the batteries the next time they’re asleep. <br />
<br />
He returned 20 seconds later, stepping all over the pile of crumbs I’d just swept up. <br />
<br />
“OK Mommy! I played music! Where’s my money?!” he said.<br />
<br />
“What? You didn’t play music,” I said. “You pressed a button.”<br />
<br />
He considered this truth, then countered. “But I danced.” <br />
<br />
I looked at him. <br />
<br />
“And sang,” he said. <br />
<br />
We sized each other up, and in that moment I knew I was in for it. Sometime down the line, I would surely lose the argument — any argument — to this little guy. But not today. <br />
<br />
“I’m not giving you any money for playing that toy, sweetie,” I said, smiling.<br />
<br />
“OK,” he said, turning toward the staircase. “Maybe Evan has something for me to earn.”Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-74066809267418617932011-06-08T00:09:00.000-04:002011-06-08T00:09:28.631-04:00The Work-From-Home Mom's Desk Calendar Alternative<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">When the source I'd been trying to reach all day long finally called back to schedule a phone interview with me, I had no laptop handy in which to type the details. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had no pad of paper or pen. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had no idea how to type a note on my phone while talking to her. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I had no desk calendar, secretary, or memory left to rely on. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Luckily my roaming "office" is wherever my kids are at the moment, and my roaming office "supplies" are whatever my kids happen to be using. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ACFiGts6a5w1QfPoizhuT7ErUyPpF6PG6qa0u6NWvWBu_Edi7hZtq0xLCKgTC5jfVfe56Pcvl4B5tI0QeiekZqITkFanmpuhQf7kNVnOkYoW3awB7F4C82kF6-t7GIiFf97Q/s1600/CIMG0076.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ACFiGts6a5w1QfPoizhuT7ErUyPpF6PG6qa0u6NWvWBu_Edi7hZtq0xLCKgTC5jfVfe56Pcvl4B5tI0QeiekZqITkFanmpuhQf7kNVnOkYoW3awB7F4C82kF6-t7GIiFf97Q/s400/CIMG0076.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nobody call me at 9. I'll be busy talking to a NYT best-selling author, and the boys will be thoroughly and silently engrossed in "Sesame Street." OK only one of those is true.</td></tr>
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</div>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-43083923452122689012011-06-01T08:32:00.000-04:002011-06-01T08:32:24.061-04:00Spiking the Football<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6qReNKhUFmXjaBrsgS9zoBbjmq_TmD61RxTooy2jgLK6y-FaU-3P6yae39JwpgZuscBHjh4q92A10k_nwZHXdoB3VIC04tmiBkRfrWMUEurWBOd0y-3gY9Tx7hP30PudywIr/s1600/1400sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM6qReNKhUFmXjaBrsgS9zoBbjmq_TmD61RxTooy2jgLK6y-FaU-3P6yae39JwpgZuscBHjh4q92A10k_nwZHXdoB3VIC04tmiBkRfrWMUEurWBOd0y-3gY9Tx7hP30PudywIr/s400/1400sm.jpg" width="367" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
I got a check in the mail last week that made me wish I was a football player. <br />
<br />
Back in January I started writing a monthly column on family finances for a small handful of regional parenting publications across the country — including the one in my own back yard, <i>Central Penn Parent</i>. It’s a very small handful, and each one pays me very little, so it’s really nothing to brag about. But in another sense it did allow me to realize a lifelong dream of becoming a syndicated columnist. It’s not exactly the topic I dreamed I’d be writing for such a column, nor does it have the kind of widespread audience befitting of such a dream, but there it is.<br />
<br />
See what I did there? I somehow managed to disclose the fact that I met a career-long goal while simultaneously crushing it to bits. I fear that’s a talent too many of us have ... which brings me back to the football players. A few weeks ago I received an email from the editor of <i>Calgary’s Child</i> in Canada, letting me know they were picking up my finance column to run in the May/June issue of their magazine. This means — and I type this with a big smirk on my face — that I’m now technically an <i>internationally syndicated columnist</i>.<br />
<br />
Silly? Absolutely. But still kind of cool, right? I smiled when I read the email, told my husband, who smiled too, and that was it. I considered posting something on Facebook or emailing a friend but decided that would come across sounding self-important and needlessly boastful. So I did nothing. <br />
<br />
Instead I sat there silently and thought about how football players get to at least spike the ball when they get into the end zone. That’s got to feel good, ya know? They train, they sacrifice, they work hard, and when they finally score some points, they take a moment to do a little dance. They thump their hearts and point their fingers toward the sky. They chest-bump teammates who helped them get there. They spike the ball.<br />
<br />
There are days I scoff at some of the Facebook posts people write, moms who pat themselves on the back for having finished two loads of laundry and made dinner. <i>That’s it?</i> I sneer. <i>What did they do the rest of the day?? This is all they need to feel accomplished, folding some laundry? </i><br />
<br />
But the more I think about it, the more I believe those women are onto something. They’re laying their heads on their pillows at night feeling satisfied, accomplished. Perhaps they don’t shut off the light and turn on an endless list of Things I Didn’t Get Done Today in their brains, the way I do. Perhaps they glance at the empty hamper in the corner of their bedroom, smile inwardly, and fall blissfully asleep. <br />
<br />
OK maybe they don’t do that, but my point here is that they allow themselves to feel good about what they DID do, however simple or menial or ordinary or necessary. They spike the ball. <br />
<br />
I’m not suggesting excessive celebration is a good thing. I’m not saying I enjoy watching overpaid thugs doing a terrible Michael Flaherty impression in the end zone or taunting the opposing team and fans. I’ve always loved the way Joe Paterno coaches his kids about end zone celebrations. He says, “Act like you expect to get into the end zone.” Over the years I’ve seen so many Penn State players do just that — simply and nonchalantly hand the football over to the official as if they’ve been in the end zone a million times and will surely be back there in the next series. <br />
<br />
I like the respect and modesty that implies, but I think sometimes if we try too hard to not celebrate the things we’ve worked hard for, our successes become muddled. Our dreams become slighted, pushed from a list of Big-Time Goals onto a merely mundane ‘To Do’ list we discreetly check off without so much as a “Woot woot woot,” Arsenio Hall-style. <br />
<br />
So I think, when the spirit moves us and the stars align and our hard work pays off, we should spike the ball. Which I suppose is what this particular blog post is, really. Consider this my two fist bumps to the chest and an index finger pointed to the sky. I can’t throw a kiss to God in front of 80,000 fans, but I can do this. I can tell nobody in particular, and anybody who reads it, that I got a check in the mail a few days ago for $50 Canadian from my first international publication, and it made me smile.<br />
<br />
(What’s the exchange rate these days, anyway?)Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-33814690167330330072011-05-26T14:42:00.000-04:002011-05-26T14:42:30.573-04:00The Decider CoinIt's no coincidence that the word "mother" is embedded in the saying, "Necessity is the mother of invention." Mothers are constantly inventing tactics and tricks to get their kids to do stuff. <br />
<br />
Moms come up with catchy little "clean up" songs to make picking up a roomful of toys sound like a carnival game. Moms allow their kids to dip every imaginable fruit, vegetable and source of protein in gobs of ketchup just so the important nutrients make it to their little tummies. Moms (and dads too) are constantly inventing new ways to get and keep kids fed, dressed, bathed, helpful and happy. It starts long before the first time they turn a spoonful of baby food into an airplane, and it never stops.<br />
<br />
Last week I had just such a moment of invention, one that is continuing to reap benefits for me and should for at least three more days, when my sons will surely tire of it (or lose it). I call it The Decider Coin.<br />
<br />
My boys are great pals and playmates, but they've hit that point of no return in siblinghood where everything ends up being about Who Goes First, or Who Picks First or Who Picked First Last Time. Seriously, we cannot accomplish anything--ANYTHING--lately without a great debate about who's first.<br />
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Usually it's because neither of them wants to do the task at hand (putting on shoes, getting dressed, washing hands, whatever), unless they're talking about their ladybug night light. Then both of them demand to go first. Oh, how I loathe that ladybug night light. <br />
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The little plastic and plush ladybug has stars and a crescent moon on its back that get projected onto the bedroom ceiling at night. It's a great little night light and the boys love it, as I knew they would. The problem is that the darn night light can shine its stars in three different colors and my sons have yet to agree on one color. Ever. <br />
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This is made far worse by the fact that I can never remember who got to pick the ladybug's color the previous night. It's a serious mental block and one that gets me in trouble every single night, because how can they effectively take turns when they're both telling me the other one picked the color last night, and I don't know which one of them is lying? <br />
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Consequently, the ladybug had become the bane of my existence; the argument at bedtime over the color was getting out of hand. It was no longer a sweet bedtime ritual, it was a power struggle that almost always ended in a tackle and a wrestling match and often tears. Sometimes even they cried, too.<br />
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So last week they were in the throes of whining over whose turn it was when a lightbulb went on in my head. Maybe I didn't need to remember who picked the color the previous night. Maybe we didn't need to agree on a color. Maybe we didn't have to resort to Eeny, Meeny, Miny, Moe. (My 3-year-old had already figured out how to start that one so that it ended in his favor anyway.)<br />
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I marched downstairs into the playroom and grabbed a poker chip from the stack they'd been playing with earlier. Then I rummaged through their craft supplies until I found some stickers with letters on them. I stuck a big green "E" on one side of the coin, and a big blue "K" on the other, marched upstairs and showed them my new Instrument of Peace and Harmony.<br />
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"This is The Decider Coin," I said. "I'm going to throw it up in the air and we will all watch to see it land. If we see a 'K' for Kostyn, then Kostyn gets to pick. If we see an 'E' for Evan, then it's Evan's turn to pick." <br />
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They loved it. I threw the coin. It bounced once and landed. "K" for Kostyn. Kostyn jumped and beamed and Evan did too, excited about this new game. Peace and Harmony, and red stars on the ceiling. And it's been working wonders ever since. <br />
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Nobody wants to be first to put their shoes on? Let's try The Decider Coin. You can't agree on whose book Mommy should read first? Grab The Decider Coin. Can't remember who got out of the tub first last time? Throw The Decider Coin in the air. <br />
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I love this thing. I grew up with two siblings, so we lived by "majority rules." But I'm tellin' ya, parents of two kids, The Decider Coin is the perfect tie-breaker. In fact, the other day Kostyn helped me make one with a "D" for Daddy on one side, and an "M" for Mommy on the other side. We have yet to use it. But rest assured, people, we will.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-77440480086443334392011-05-24T08:54:00.001-04:002011-05-24T08:54:58.351-04:00A Dog and His Boy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCp2C86NCgva9ywijWonxaCvcPUXLUBkhC7-fi1F3DCVO_mNx-zzWyObldUgaAyyVjs_8Kpp0W8fPKpHQzLMu5fGB2WOhaXdriHn1WDVqqxadNpFCuY2W2dnGkaE5Y5GAIExs/s1600/CIMG0276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkCp2C86NCgva9ywijWonxaCvcPUXLUBkhC7-fi1F3DCVO_mNx-zzWyObldUgaAyyVjs_8Kpp0W8fPKpHQzLMu5fGB2WOhaXdriHn1WDVqqxadNpFCuY2W2dnGkaE5Y5GAIExs/s400/CIMG0276.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br />
“I want to play fetch with Sadie,” Kostyn says, nearly getting knocked over as he crosses the dog’s path. Sadie’s on her way back to me with a gnawed, gnarly tennis ball in her mouth. <br />
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“OK,” I tell him reluctantly. She’s a good dog, an obedient dog, but a powerful one. She’s a pit bull/chow mix that jumps when she’s excited, and sharp claws on strong paws can easily bump a little boy to the ground. We didn’t have much luck with Kostyn and Sadie playing fetch last year. <br />
<br />
“Drop it,” I command the dog; she drops the ball at my feet. It bounces down the porch steps where I’m sitting, and Kostyn scrambles to get it. <br />
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“It’s wet!” he says, thrusting it at me. <br />
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“I know," I smile. “It’s been in Sadie’s mouth.” I throw the ball against the garage and Sadie takes off after it. Kostyn whines. <i>“I wanna play fetch with her!”</i> And I know this time he’s serious.<br />
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“OK!” I say. “I didn’t think you wanted to touch the wet ball.” Sadie trots over to us. “Drop it,” I say.<br />
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“Drop it,” Kostyn echoes with all the authority in his voice he can muster (which is a lot, actually, as there has been lots of practicing on his little brother). Sadie drops the ball; Kostyn picks it up. He brings the ball up to the side of his head and Sadie jumps around, excited. I stand up protectively. <br />
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“Down Sadie!” She fidgets and paces but stops jumping. Kostyn’s hand is still poised above his head, frozen, waiting for the perfect moment to throw. With an overly excitable dog, the perfect time is <i>as soon as possible, like right now</i>. <br />
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“Go ahead and throw it,” I urge him. He throws; the ball drops into the bushes directly in front of us. Sadie doubles back, having grossly overestimated how far the ball would be thrown. She noses around in the bushes and comes up with it. Kostyn cheers. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx7dWWokExttbpM4YNS5ZFrWwol0R_f1sezLU1q0IYWAQQaD91GgcDyEDfqZhdlLIqfJWuczLLeDQ_NEgrTd07NZFUcw-0RmgoMJymQKGFEKZA3ucTqz0z1OBAjb_zxyTXQjc/s1600/CIMG0270.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsx7dWWokExttbpM4YNS5ZFrWwol0R_f1sezLU1q0IYWAQQaD91GgcDyEDfqZhdlLIqfJWuczLLeDQ_NEgrTd07NZFUcw-0RmgoMJymQKGFEKZA3ucTqz0z1OBAjb_zxyTXQjc/s400/CIMG0270.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br />
“Drop it,” I say out of habit, and Kostyn once again echoes me. “Drop it. Sadie, drop!” She doesn’t drop it; she brings it over to me and loosens her jaws when I pull it from her mouth. Kostyn starts to protest, but I hand over the ball.<br />
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“Down Sadie,” I say instinctively as she hops on her back paws and paces energetically. Kostyn throws; Sadie fetches; Kostyn giggles and cheers. <br />
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After awhile, I sit back down. I am not so much impressed with the dog, who is overall docile and obedient, but with the boy, who is changing daily in the way he sees the world and the way he is seen in it. A year ago he wouldn’t have held the disgustingly wet ball. Six months ago he wouldn’t have been able to effectively command her to drop it. Two months ago he wouldn’t have had the patience to try again and again to get it right, to throw it straight down the yard, to fetch it himself when Sadie loses sight of it, to pat her head when she retrieves it from the bushes again (and again). (And again.)<br />
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Four years ago next week Chris brought Kostyn’s tiny newborn cap home from the hospital ahead of us so Sadie could familiarize herself with this new scent before we brought the baby home. I remember all those late-night hours of nursing, burping, rocking, and pleading with Kostyn to go to sleep, when Sadie was almost always at my feet. I remember the terrible phases the dog has gone through with both boys as they became mobile and were finally able to chase her, pull her tail, sit on her. Thankfully, we have all emerged from that phase unscathed.<br />
<br />
“Good girl!” Kostyn exclaims as Sadie catches the ball in her mouth. After awhile the dog takes the ball to the corner of the yard and sits down in a patch of dirt, panting. “Come on, Sadie!” Kostyn says. “Where’s the ball?” <br />
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“I think she needs to rest,” I say. He watches her for a minute, asks me why her tongue is sticking out.<br />
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“OK,” he says finally with a glimmer of maturity I see more of lately. “You rest, Sadie.” <br />
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Right here in this tiny back yard on this spring day, she has become his dog. I kind of think in her mind, she’s been his all along.<br />
<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7PwTl2nikJOSJeG6KWQBao-2aCtDaWnRKXphIRyWk-H605XiyRnmDzj3fhzuXuYotOtIjDj4n0gErN5QVLCovcTJjr5fO1UN_sSmGMH7wxvzGIkaIvjRNO-SmhEUI0GyhVl5/s1600/CIMG0398.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX7PwTl2nikJOSJeG6KWQBao-2aCtDaWnRKXphIRyWk-H605XiyRnmDzj3fhzuXuYotOtIjDj4n0gErN5QVLCovcTJjr5fO1UN_sSmGMH7wxvzGIkaIvjRNO-SmhEUI0GyhVl5/s400/CIMG0398.JPG" width="300" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OgoW5CjP1HiYmQfBt9lvbEKe6YyrDr-AxvcRm58W3A3xkc4LXz9-L4ZSt7zhCjTjiCaWhArPhlgWaXN0F-0W-bLMNrvWC_wFSDcIU-enKTdm20r9Ur3Z72hcjVxd5yilN4wG/s1600/CIMG1560.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1OgoW5CjP1HiYmQfBt9lvbEKe6YyrDr-AxvcRm58W3A3xkc4LXz9-L4ZSt7zhCjTjiCaWhArPhlgWaXN0F-0W-bLMNrvWC_wFSDcIU-enKTdm20r9Ur3Z72hcjVxd5yilN4wG/s400/CIMG1560.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvG-2Yx6NgasAhh7_8MZYYMc9e5sBGb5VoNyhv1F4MQQSI0InRgIXJIhQRCE5HhAUbiben3tjkmpLwxso7RahJ8CwKVTH5doT3mmCOCMHupHIOc1WswzOlroXKC6Pr5xoiGMuT/s1600/CIMG0283.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvG-2Yx6NgasAhh7_8MZYYMc9e5sBGb5VoNyhv1F4MQQSI0InRgIXJIhQRCE5HhAUbiben3tjkmpLwxso7RahJ8CwKVTH5doT3mmCOCMHupHIOc1WswzOlroXKC6Pr5xoiGMuT/s400/CIMG0283.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-58045760889033881902011-05-16T21:28:00.000-04:002011-05-16T21:28:48.884-04:00Chew on That?!My niece Cora, who's 7, has four missing front teeth. She is very proud of her increasingly toothless smile, and makes her mom fire up Skype each time she loses another one so she can show off the new hole in her grin. Kostyn saw Cora last month but never mentioned her Jack-O-Lantern appearance until today. <br />
<br />
He was being silly on the way home from the grocery store, saying he was so hungry he was going to eat the store. And then he said he was going to eat a house, eat the world, eat that tree, etc. So when he said "I'm going to eat the car," I challenged him.<br />
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"Eat the car?! I don't know; the tires would be pretty chewy. Are you sure you could eat the car?"<br />
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He giggled. "Yes! I'm going to eat the car." <br />
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"I think if you ate the car you'd break your teeth," I said. "Then you'd have no teeth!" <br />
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Without skipping a beat he said, "I'd be like Cora!" <br />
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I chuckled and said, "Yes, like Cora."<br />
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He paused for a few seconds, then quietly asked: "Did she eat a car?"<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuUNOvajLzhgCM5cFVjkdj-tj1tqjJonjaJDJSY5k1ZE4hCpIfAiWzuPZc2ihp5gcgRaOMXpht-weu-1DGKRRNI95QSK9FmwU-c92_SaJCk-H09eDOoXhhmB98JnCUZXtuu6gP/s1600/Cora+May2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuUNOvajLzhgCM5cFVjkdj-tj1tqjJonjaJDJSY5k1ZE4hCpIfAiWzuPZc2ihp5gcgRaOMXpht-weu-1DGKRRNI95QSK9FmwU-c92_SaJCk-H09eDOoXhhmB98JnCUZXtuu6gP/s400/Cora+May2011.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My sweet niece Cora, rockin' the look favored by hockey goalies who don't wear cages.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-36091620499722869822011-05-10T22:55:00.000-04:002011-05-10T22:55:02.152-04:00Survey Says!<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;"><span></span><i>(The following is a column I wrote for the May issue of <a href="http://www.pageturnpro.com/Central-Penn-Parent/26044-CPP-May-2011/index.html#66">Central Penn Parent</a> magazine. I was asked to write about gender differences in baby care based on a survey Evenflo conducted. Instead I wrote a column calling the survey results hogwash.)</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">Let me preface this by saying I don’t believe mothers are liars, exactly. I think we’re just “book smart.” We know what the right answers are, even if we don’t personally put them into practice. At least that’s my best guess for the contradictory results found in Evenflo’s recent “Savvy Parents Survey.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">And by “contradictory” I mean “completely incompatible with reality.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">When I saw a press release for the survey, I was intrigued by the claim that it found “moms and dads build baby’s brain in different ways.” But when I was given the full survey results I found very little to support this. What I did find was that moms were supposedly considerably more relaxed than dads about their baby’s development and their overall parenting skills. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">This, of course, is false. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">I know because I am a mom. Also because I’m surrounded by moms, I’m involved with online networks of moms, I spend time with other moms at playgroups and story times, and I have a mom. And I can tell you, without any formal survey needed, that most moms are not more relaxed than dads when it comes to babies reaching developmental milestones. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">We’re borderline obsessed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">It’s not our fault. In the first trimester of my first pregnancy, I was given at least six books on pregnancy, baby care, breastfeeding, and something mysterious and frightening called “the fourth trimester.” My husband, on the other hand, was given a smattering of advice — mostly about me, which he can sum up by whispering “Be careful!” while simulating a man tiptoeing on a tightrope over a hormonal volcano that’s spewing lava and incoherent accusations. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">My point here is that from the get-go we mothers are the ones wired with information. We’re the ones with the manuals, the inside scoops, the tips gleaned from pregnancy message boards and parenting magazines. We are the designated drivers on this bumpy road toward parenthood, and the navigation begins at the moment we see those two pink lines on the stick. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">First we’re given those Your Pregnancy Week by Week roadmaps, and we get used to being told what our baby’s doing, how he’s developing, and what size fruit he is. Then the baby arrives, and the “helpful” emails continue, only now they’re about how your 3-week-old might be smiling by now or how most 4-month-olds are rolling over. We read the fine print at the bottom about how every baby develops at his own pace, and we know it’s true intellectually, but we don’t internalize it emotionally. We secretly want our bundle of joy to be an overachiever, or at least a middle-of-the-pack kid. If his development falls behind that month’s email guidelines, we fret. We can’t help ourselves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">But we know better, which is why when a researcher calls to survey mothers of babies younger than 18 months old, we answer “correctly,” not necessarily honestly. That’s the only way I can explain how 25 percent of moms surveyed say they don’t worry about how their child will progress developmentally, whereas just 9 percent of dads say they don’t worry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">And 64 percent of moms say they are “calm, cool and collected” about their child reaching developmental milestones, whereas only 43 percent of dads say they are all zen about their kid’s progression toward being a walking, talking, tantrum-prone toddler. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">But perhaps the greatest evidence of skewed reality is shown by the “neurotic” numbers:<span> </span>12 percent of dads label themselves “neurotic” when it comes to how much they worry about their child meeting proper developmental milestones. Know how many neurotic moms are out there, according to the survey? Only 1 percent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">Yeah, right. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">Look I’m not saying all moms are anxious about their child’s development and second-guess their own approaches toward helping that development along. (<i>Noooooo...</i></span><span style="color: black;">) And I’m not saying dads aren’t interested in their baby’s development or that they’re not taking an active approach toward helping Junior learn how to sit up and eat with a spoon. In fact, I think they are much better at balancing realistic expectations with slightly irrational parental concern. But the online juggernaut Babycenter.com boasts that it reaches more than 8 million U.S. moms each month with its email updates on developmental milestones and other parenting-related articles and tips. Know how many dads it reaches? So few that it doesn’t even mention them. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;">We moms are arsenals of knowledge and anxiety. It’s our privilege, our job, our guilt-spewing cross to bear. And all that knowledge means we’re also smart enough to know we shouldn’t be neurotic, which is why only 1 percent of us is. Wink.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 9pt;"><span style="color: black;"><i>Robyn Passante is a freelance writer and mother of two young boys who are developing just fine, according to the latest Babycenter emails. </i></span><i></i></div>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-23172913058088216582011-05-08T00:19:00.001-04:002011-05-08T00:24:23.099-04:00Thanks a Million, Mom (Parts I, II, and III)I don't have many traditions on this blog (I don't have any), but my Mother's Day post is one of them (it's the only one). <br />
<br />
On my first Mother’s Day as a mom I wrote something for my mother about all the little things I never realized I should thank her for until I had my own child. Last year I reposted it, then added more since I'd just survived being a mother of two little ones and had a new list of "thank yous."<br />
<br />
This past year, as my kids have been climbing (literally and figuratively) into and out of toddlerhood, I have yet more accolades to shower on my mother for surviving this stage of the game. So in keeping with tradition (ahem) here are all three posts. I hope there are mothers out there who can relate to some or all of these thank you's, but mostly I just want my mom to feel the sincere gratitude in my words. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I love you.<br />
<br />
<b>My First Mother's Day Post:</b> <br />
<br />
Over the years I’ve thanked my mother again and again for all the support she’s given me in life, for all the chorus and band recitals she sat through, for the birthdays and holidays she made special, for pushing me to be my best, for allowing me to do more and be more and experience more than she was allowed to do and be and experience as a kid.<br />
<br />
But until this past year, I never knew enough to thank her for the less noticeable “mom” stuff, the stuff I don’t remember or couldn’t understand until I experienced it firsthand.<br />
<br />
So thank you, Mom, for enduring the anxiety and discomfort of pregnancy, and the pain and uncertainty and exhilaration and terror of labor, to bring me into the world. Thank you for all the nights you got up from your bed to come to mine and soothe me back to sleep. Thank you for the million tiny prayers you sent up on my behalf, every day, even now, whenever you read or saw something about a child being sick or lost or hurt or, God forbid, killed. Thank you for all the times you surrendered yourself into fits of silliness, making funny faces and blowing raspberries on my tummy and dancing around the living room to make me giggle.<br />
<br />
Thank you for wondering “Is this right? Am I doing okay?” about a thousand times in quiet moments right before you fell asleep at night. Thank you for overcoming your frustrations when I was clingy or whiny or overtired or sick to keep caring for me with tenderness even when you felt like your mother’s deep well of tenderness had surely run dry. Thanks for putting up with every diaper change I squirmed through, every bit of food I threw at you, and every time I spit up on a clean shirt you’d just put on.<br />
<br />
Thank you for giving up your free time, surrendering your privacy, and setting aside some of the dreams you had as a woman to make room for all the new dreams you carried as a mother. Thank you for all the warm baths and bottles, all the practicing you did with me to say “Dada” and “Momma” and “milk.” Thank you for holding onto my chubby fingers and helping me take my first steps. Thank you for all the hugs and kisses and smiles you showered me with in that first year, and know that those tiny acts of love created the foundation of independence and happiness on which I built my life.<br />
<br />
Mom, I always appreciated you as a mother but I couldn’t fully understand who you are — who you’ve been — to me until now. Now I get it. Now I realize that all those years when you hinted and asked and practically begged me to tell you whether I was ever going to “start a family,” it wasn’t because you merely wanted to be a grandma. It was because you desperately, secretly wished for me to experience the same blessings of being a mom that you’ve experienced.<br />
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I’ve learned this past year that parenthood sucks up your time and money and patience, but in their place it leaves this warmth and richness that is quite indescribable until you feel it yourself, from the bottom of your heart to the top of your soul. I hope when I was a baby, and a child, and perhaps even now, I added some of that warmth and richness to your heart, Mom. It’s the least I could do, for all you gave to me.<br />
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<b>My Second Mother's Day Post: On Surviving Two Children</b><br />
<br />
Thank you, Mom, for my siblings. Thank you for finding within yourself the ability to love all of us equally yet differently. And thank you for instilling in us respect for and allegiance to one another.<br />
<br />
Thank you for working so hard to put food on the table for every meal, every day, even when it was met with complaints or downright refusal to eat it. And thank you for all those times you found yourself on your hands and knees picking up the food that was so carelessly dropped, spilled or thrown.<br />
<br />
Thank you for enduring the exhaustion that comes with caring for more than one child in diapers. Thank you for all the juggling and cross-checking that took place just to get us out the door, or into bed. Thank you for dealing with all the extra splashing and water and chaos that comes with bathing two children at the same time.<br />
<br />
Thanks for folding laundry at midnight because that was the only free time you had to do it. And thanks for giving up whatever it was you would have liked to do with that precious free time in favor of making sure your kids had clean clothes to wear the next day.<br />
<br />
Thank you for bearing the days when the whining and fussing of multiple children seemed enough to send you running for the hills. Thank you for the sacrifices you made to be home with us as much as you could be, even in those tiny secret moments when you wished to be somewhere — anywhere — else.<br />
<br />
Thank you for forcing us to share, but for never making us feel like there wasn’t enough of you to go around.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Mom, especially for the laughter, the love and the lullabyes.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>My Third Mother's Day Post: Because Both Boys Are Now Talking. A Lot. </b></span><br />
<br />
Thank you, Mom, for enduring endless hours of whining and fighting. Thanks for finding new and creative ways to break a tie, figure out who did what to whom, dispense punishment, dole out equal amounts of affection and somehow pay attention to more than one busy child at a time. <br />
<br />
Thank you for teaching us that taking turns is one of the most important and universally necessary skills to have. And thanks for teaching us manners, Mom, for instilling in us respect for every living thing and showing us how to be compassionate. <br />
<br />
Thank you for introducing me to God, for praying with me and for me, and for helping me to recognize that still, small voice inside me that has so much power. <br />
<br />
Thank you, Mom, for not completely losing your mind while potty training me. <br />
<br />
Thank you for teaching me how to write my name, put on my own shirt, wash my hands and all the other little skills you taught me when I was too little to thank you for them. Mostly, thanks for rejoicing in my growing independence and for knowing that it didn’t mean I needed you any less. <br />
<br />
Thanks for hanging in there once I figured out how to open, close and lock doors, jump, climb, run, plot, scheme, lie and hide. And thanks for putting up with every single debate over how many more bites of peas I had to eat before getting the cookie. <br />
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Thank you for loving me even when I was being annoying. (<i>Especially</i> when I was being annoying.) <br />
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Thank you for all the times you said “I can’t believe how big you’re getting!” Back then I just thought you meant I was getting taller, but now I know those words convey everything from pride and wonder to nostalgia and even sadness. <br />
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Thanks for pushing aside the self doubt when it creeped in, and for hanging in there when you weren’t sure you could. Thanks for the prayers you whispered and the tears I’m sure you shed, Mom, in quiet moments after losing your patience. Thank you for somehow hanging onto the belief that parenting is a journey and a process, not a test we pass or fail. <br />
<br />
Thank you for living through me, for me and beside me, for carrying me when I needed you to (and sometimes when I didn’t but still whined to be held, again I'm SO SORRY for the whining!) and for letting me run ahead more often than you may have wanted me to. <br />
<br />
Oh, and thanks for all the hugs and kisses I didn’t ask for but got anyway. They were way better than all the treats and toys I begged for but didn’t get. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUImM51STTZuMfCtyK7RoxFZYCd2o7S9EteOs9CGAX-hfFcvVFMJP2qGJc2QFnwmZtH_ko_bkVD28QlU6AUk3gUon5HkT5GEAEp5Noy9-m1PJ5ax-4bT2INEaZHh-nsE8vTWw/s1600/DSCN6247.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpUImM51STTZuMfCtyK7RoxFZYCd2o7S9EteOs9CGAX-hfFcvVFMJP2qGJc2QFnwmZtH_ko_bkVD28QlU6AUk3gUon5HkT5GEAEp5Noy9-m1PJ5ax-4bT2INEaZHh-nsE8vTWw/s400/DSCN6247.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here's mom holding Kostyn when he was just a couple days old. She sang many a lullaby to him in the wee hours of the morning that first week, so we could get some sleep. Still owe her for that, too, come to think of it...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-60625839856151397192011-05-04T22:23:00.000-04:002011-05-04T22:23:49.200-04:00Hamida's HeartbreakHamida married Mohammed, a powerful construction magnate, when she was 22 years old. The Syrian beauty caught Mohammed’s eye later in his life; she was his tenth wife. Muslim law allows men to have up to four wives; Mohammed got around this rule by keeping three long-term wives, and marrying and divorcing other women who filled the fourth slot. Hamida was one of these women. <br />
<br />
She moved to <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304561264_0" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;">Saudi Arabia</span> when they married, but she was reportedly never happy there. An independent woman, Hamida disliked being confined to Mohammed’s family compound. It’s been reported that she didn’t like covering her face with a burka, and was scorned by the other wives and ex-wives. They called her “the slave,” a nickname that conveyed how she felt living in the confines of the family complex, under her husband’s rules. <br />
<br />
She had only one child with Mohammed before they divorced; his name was Osama bin Laden.<br />
<br />
This week I’ve been thinking a lot about her, this woman who mothered one of the most impressively evil terrorist masterminds in modern history. Because he was once merely a baby in her arms, a little boy making her laugh, a child being taught right from wrong. <br />
<br />
It is said that he lived with her off and on during his childhood and was tended to in the early years by nannies and nurses, a common practice there. As one of Mohammed’s reported 50-plus children, Osama no doubt craved the attention of his father, who died in a helicopter crash when the boy was just 10 years old. <br />
<br />
None of this is meant to paint a sympathetic picture of a man who is responsible for the destruction of so many lives. Still, I keep going back to his mother. Hamida eventually remarried and had four more children, yet her first son had to have held a place in her heart, as all children do in their parents’ hearts. When she heard the news of his assassination, was part of her relieved that the hunt for her son was over, that the trouble he’d caused might cease? Or was she just a grief-stricken mother, feeling with absolute clarity once again the babe she rocked in her arms long ago? Did she hear in her heart the echo of his newborn cry one last time?<br />
<br />
I couldn’t find much written about her, which strikes me as a pretty accurate parallel for motherhood. We are at one time the center of our child’s universe, yet by the time they become adults we are mere footnotes to their story, at least to the outside world. And really, that’s the goal, isn’t it: To help them grow up and then get out of the way and allow their lives to unfold as they were meant to. <br />
<br />
How painful to be a footnote in that story, though. I wonder if she disassociated herself from him years ago. I wonder if she felt guilty somehow, culpable in the way we mothers feel responsible for our children’s behavior, the way we believe it reflects our values or our parenting, the best and the worst of who we are and what we taught them. How do you live with knowing you gave birth to a person who would mastermind the deaths of thousands and take up permanent residence on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives and Most Wanted Terrorists lists? Did she choose to marginalize in her head Osama’s ties to Al Qaeda and the large-scale terrorist attacks they carried out? Did he have any contact with her toward the end of his life? Did he say goodbye before he disappeared into hiding? <br />
<br />
I wonder if she was too afraid or ashamed to ever say, or even think, “I still love my son.”<br />
<br />
I’m not trying to glorify her plight or slight the <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304561264_1" style="border-bottom: 2px dotted rgb(54, 99, 136); cursor: pointer;">Sept. 11</span> victims or their families. There are plenty of mothers who to this day mourn the loss of their sons and daughters at the hands of Osama bin Laden and his Al Qaeda henchmen, and we, as a nation, have grieved with them. <br />
But as the free world rejoices over the demise of such a commander of hatred and violence, there is a woman, somewhere, perhaps hidden beneath a burka, whose mother’s heart grieves for a life wasted and ultimately lost. <br />
<br />
There is something about that haunting image, however imaginary, that makes me think we might learn a great deal about the soul of a mother by speaking to Hamida al-Attas.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-38019619230671650032011-04-27T15:04:00.000-04:002011-04-27T15:04:59.985-04:00Converting a Kid to Vegetables, One Purple Radish at a Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJmvIKIwtCQkmjgxFjduJs7ESJF-9Smfnd_F1WLEW5cTTK-8TLNyS6KBnmBZTCnJJUnnWjGIYvA1PLa3We0yddKXmN6YtiJHWv-sz6l7ygeHVc7rRxtCWcVhB_BE_kLlIq5p1/s1600/easter-egg-radish1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGJmvIKIwtCQkmjgxFjduJs7ESJF-9Smfnd_F1WLEW5cTTK-8TLNyS6KBnmBZTCnJJUnnWjGIYvA1PLa3We0yddKXmN6YtiJHWv-sz6l7ygeHVc7rRxtCWcVhB_BE_kLlIq5p1/s320/easter-egg-radish1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I need help. <br />
<br />
(Pausing here to give friends and family time for their inevitable jokes.)<br />
<br />
Done? Today I need very specific help, the kind of help I’d get from Pooh’s friend Rabbit if he existed. If I could knock on his rabbit hole door or find him in his garden tending to the cabbage and whatnot, I would introduce myself and ask him for advice. <br />
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“Please tell me,” I’d say, “what to do with radishes.”<br />
<br />
And not just what to do with them, but how to cook them in such a way that delights and entices a 3-year-old boy who refuses to eat any vegetable except raw baby carrots. (SEE, RABBIT, YOU’RE THE PERFECT MAMMAL FOR THE JOB!) Incidentally, the same child also refuses to eat any meat except his father’s homemade meatballs, and then “only the hard parts” around the edges that have been fried to a garlicy crisp in olive oil. (OK, he’ll eat the occasional hot dog, bacon slice and Chicken McNugget, but we can’t really count those as meat now can we?) <br />
<br />
He’s a fantastic fruit eater, I’ll give him that, but veggies he won’t touch. Not even potatoes, sliced and fried, with ketchup. So imagine my shock and awe when he picked up a clump of radishes in the grocery store the other day and said “I want these.” <br />
<br />
“What?” I asked, barely paying attention, busy searching for the fresh basil. <br />
<br />
“These. What are these? I want to try them,” he said, thrusting them at me, then scampering off to fondle and drop as many peppers as he could. <br />
<br />
“These are radishes,” I said as I honest-to-God CHECKED THE LABEL TO MAKE SURE, as these radishes were quite a bit more colorful than I thought radishes normally were but let’s be honest I’ve never bought a radish before, not even when a recipe I was making called for radishes. Turns out these radishes <i>are</i> more colorful; they’re “Easter Egg Radishes,” a clump of brilliant purple and pink and white and red root vegetables I had absolutely no idea what to do with. <br />
<br />
My first instinct was to put them back. <i>He’s never going to eat these, and in two minutes he’s going to forget he even picked them up,</i> I thought. <br />
<br />
“Um, Kostyn, are you sure you want these, or are you just pretending?” I asked. He didn’t reply, and I placed them back on the shelf and went over to the peppers instead. “You want to help me pick some peppers, we can grill them, they’re really yummy.”<br />
<br />
“No, Mommy, I want those.” He pointed back to the radishes. I walked back over and picked them up.<br />
<br />
“These are radishes, honey. You’ve never had them before. Would you really like to try them?” I said. “If I buy them I want you to try them, OK?” <br />
<br />
“Yes I will I will I will” he said in that dismissive way that a child says something when he just wants the parent to stop talking already and move on. I was still doubtful that he’d eat them, and there was no price listed for these pretty puppies, but I felt I had no choice but to buy them. I wasn’t about to deny the child the only vegetable he’d ever been inclined to put in his mouth, no matter how fleeting that desire may be.<br />
<br />
So they’re here now. In my fridge. (They should be refrigerated, yes?) They’re just staring at me each day as I ponder what to do with them. Should I cook them at all, or just slice them raw? I’m sure I could find several quality recipes for radishes online, but I want to do something with these things I know someone out there has actually made and a child has actually eaten and liked. This could be a moment here, people. This could be the Vegetable That Made Kostyn Stop Refusing All Vegetables. It could be his Green Eggs and Ham! <i>"Try them! Try them and you may. Try them and you may, I say!"</i><br />
<br />
So since I can’t ask Rabbit I thought I’d ask you, as many of you are parents and most of you are far more culinarily inclined than I am. I mean we're talking about radishes here, not some exotic vegetable nobody's ever heard of. I'm just really that lame in the kitchen, which brings me full circle, back to the part where I need help: <br />
<br />
How should I “wow” my son with these colorful radishes?Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-3459457928103227022011-04-26T09:26:00.001-04:002011-04-26T09:37:48.865-04:00For God So Loved the World That He Gave Us Public Television, That Whosoever Doesn't Have Cable Still Has Dr. SeussI came downstairs this morning and overheard the end of an exchange between the boys in their playroom. I stood on the stairs and just listened. <br />
<br />
“...and we really, really will, Evan. We will. OK?” Kostyn said. <br />
<br />
“O-Tay.”<br />
<br />
“But first we must go in and sit on the couch and the big chairs,” Kostyn said, then added, “that God gave us.” <br />
<br />
My mother’s pride swelled momentarily at my 3-year-old mentioning God’s creation<i> wait is he talking about the couch?</i><br />
<br />
“What are you boys talking about?” I came around the corner and asked, as they were walking hand in hand toward the living room.<br />
<br />
“I was just telling Evan,” Kostyn said. “He wanted to eat breakfast and I wanted to watch TV and he kept saying ‘No no no,’ so I told him that we had to watch TV first and THEN we could eat breakfast.” <br />
<br />
<i>Thank you, God, for couches, on which we are able to sit and watch “The Cat In The Hat” while our little brother starves obediently beside us. Amen.</i>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-38185682673394138532011-04-18T22:04:00.000-04:002011-04-18T22:04:03.440-04:00Best Part of My Day: A Shocking DiscoveryA couple weeks ago I read a topic prompt for bloggers that asked, “What’s the best event in your day?” The first thing that popped into my head shocked me, because it does not involve dark chocolate, wine, or peace and quiet. In fact it is the moment in my day that usually elicits either an energy-mustering sigh or a muttered curse word.<br />
<br />
It’s the moment my boys wake up from their naps.<br />
<br />
I know, right? Shocking. There’s just something about the way they look when they come trudging down the stairs, with their hair disheveled and their cheeks flushed from the warm blankets. It’s like their eyes grow three sizes in their sleep and the morning's silly defeats are wiped away from their innocent faces. Most of the time they come to me so snuggly and smiley, so genuinely happy to see my face ... it’s simply the best part of my day.<br />
<br />
I think the end of nap time also somehow signals a “Round 2” in my brain. It’s like a reset button, wiping away the silly defeats from MY morning and giving me another go at this parenting gig. In that moment I don’t have to nag them to eat their dinner or scold them for not picking up their toys. I just get to ask them how they slept and what they dreamed and what they’d like to eat for a snack. In those few precious moments before they wake up enough to remember how to whine, fight and push my buttons, it’s all sweetness and light.<br />
<br />
All of that together makes the end* of nap time somehow, miraculously, the best event in my day. So when Kostyn came bounding downstairs and running into my arms this afternoon with a huge smile on his face after an extra-long nap, I cuddled him on my lap on the floor and told him about the best part of my day.<br />
<br />
"You know what my favorite part of my whole day is?" <br />
"What?" he asked, his eyes growing wider with anticipation. <br />
"It's the moment you wake up from your nap and I see your smiling face again!" I said, kissing his big round cheeks. "I miss you when you're sleeping!"<br />
He closed his eyes for a minute and smiled, then popped them open. "You know what <i>my</i> favorite part of <i>my</i> day is?" he asked.<br />
"No, what?" <br />
"It's when I wake up from my nap and I come down and see you smiling at me," he said, a grin from ear to ear.<br />
"Really?" I hugged him tighter, "Really?"<br />
"Yes!" he said, his whole face lit up. "I love when you smile at me. I love your smile!"<br />
<br />
Sweetness and light, people. It's the best part of my day.<br />
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*: The blissfully silent hour and a half leading up to that moment is a very, very, <i>very</i> close second.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-61329387723685417652011-04-06T14:34:00.001-04:002011-04-06T14:35:54.817-04:00SiblingsI listened to this exchange last night after lights out, as the two of them stared at the little blue stars projected onto the ceiling from their ladybug night light. It reminded me of about every third conversation my sisters and I had growing up. <br />
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Kostyn: “Evan, do you know I picked BLUE stars tonight for the ladybug?”<br />
<br />
Evan: “No.”<br />
<br />
Kostyn: "Yes they're blue tonight Evan! See?"<br />
<br />
Evan: "Nooo." <br />
<br />
Kostyn: “Blue is my favorite color Evan.”<br />
<br />
Evan: “No.”<br />
<br />
Kostyn: “Yes it is.”<br />
<br />
Evan: “Uhhh no.”<br />
<br />
Kostyn: “Blue is my favorite color. You like green, and I like blue.”<br />
<br />
Evan: “Uhhhh, no.”<br />
<br />
Kostyn: “EVAN!”<br />
<br />
Evan: “Uhhhh no.”<br />
<br />
Me: “Evan stop teasing Kostyn.”<br />
<br />
Evan: “No.”<br />
<br />
Me:<i> “Evan?”</i><br />
<br />
Evan: “O-tay Nonny.”Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-12719946270455755362011-04-04T14:15:00.000-04:002011-04-04T14:15:07.793-04:00Pulling Double Duty (or 'Exercise In Futility, Work Edition')As a full-time newspaper editor turned part-time freelance journalist, I feel blessed to be able to do my job while I’m home with my kids. The problem is that means I frequently have to do my job while I’m home with my kids.<br />
<br />
Attempting to do two jobs simultaneously — one that calls for no background noise, the other that is the very definition of background noise — is often frustrating and sometimes laughable.<br />
<br />
Case in point: Last Friday I had a scheduled 10:30 a.m. phone interview with a world-renowned doctor in New Jersey. The man has dedicated his life to researching reproductive health and actually invented a diagnostic test to determine a woman’s reproductive capacity. It’s a revolutionary breakthrough in reproductive medicine and is now being used all over the globe. Needless to say, the guy’s kind of important and the subject matter is kind of technical: I really needed to focus.<br />
<br />
Enter the 2-year-old and the 3-year-old.<br />
<br />
It was a gorgeous Spring day and I decided to try my luck with letting them play in our very small, completely fenced-in yard while I sat with my laptop on the back porch steps. I imagined them playing quietly in the new sandbox their dad had just set up while I got all my questions answered and some great quotes to boot.<br />
<br />
And I was right — for about five minutes. That’s when they started removing sand from the sandbox by the shovelful, dumping it on nearby deck chairs, their plastic slide and the sidewalk. I glanced at the pile of sand in the box and tried to calculate how long this could go on, as the game was wreaking havoc on our backyard but was also keeping them quiet. No matter, though, because dumping sand quickly led to throwing sand and that, of course, landed right in Evan’s face.<br />
<br />
Kids cry loudly when sand is thrown in their eyes. Luckily I managed to race over and silently console him while the good doctor talked without faltering through the Bluetooth headset. (Yes!) But the move put me back on the boys’ radar, which means they followed me like gnats back to my base camp on the porch. (No!)<br />
<br />
That’s where Kostyn noticed the snow shovel leaning against the wall behind me and wanted it. He knew I was on the phone and he was supposed to be quiet, so we engaged in a 45-second silent battle of wills that involved me looking wild-eyed, shaking my head violently and pointing my finger toward the yard. It involved him raising his voice incrementally until I handed over the shovel to keep him quiet. He proceeded to <i>SCRAAAAAPE</i> it along the sidewalk, which to someone on the other end of a phone probably sounded like a small aircraft landing in my yard without its landing gear.<br />
<br />
Then they wanted a snack. I’d had the foresight to bring out a bag of Goldfish crackers but I hadn’t brought out plates or napkins, so I hastily dropped my jacket on the steps and dumped Goldfish on it. Evan immediately moved the Goldfish to the dirty sidewalk and ate them off the sand.<br />
<br />
In the middle of their snack Kostyn started dancing around — you know, <i>that dance</i>, the one small children do right before they start whining, <i>“Mommy I have to go poooop!"</i><br />
<br />
Somehow, silently, I managed to get both boys and the dog to follow me inside while carrying my open laptop and my phone and continuing to “Uh-huh....” and “Oh wow...” the source as if he had my undivided attention. Once upstairs, though, Kostyn started crying that he needed help. <i>“I can’t get my pants off! Mommy my shoe is stuck!”</i> (Because for some reason he has to strip naked from the waist down to poop.)<br />
<br />
At this point I was kind of losing my mind. The doctor was giving me awesome quotes, but I couldn’t type them because I was helping a 3-year-old out of his big boy underwear while praying for him to<i> just be quiet already please! </i>In the blink of an eye I got him undressed and on the potty, gave him a handheld game and headed downstairs with my laptop and phone and headset and Evan and the dog.<br />
<br />
Any other time, Kostyn would have happily begun playing his little Mobigo game. This day, he started screaming that he didn’t want to be alone. It was the only time the doctor mentioned being able to hear any sort of background noise. “Well, it sounds like someone’s not happy,” he said as good-naturedly as he could muster. I was thinking “NO. I’M NOT.”<br />
<br />
I suppose I could have given up then. Taken a rain check. Asked to follow up via email. But I was almost done with the interview. There were just two crucial questions I still had to ask, <i>and I'm a professional, dammit!</i> Kostyn was neither dying nor in pain; I knew he was fine. So I made an excuse for my son, an excuse that most certainly did not involve disclosing where he was sitting at the moment, and forged ahead with my follow-up question from my new makeshift office space in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
The good doc started in on his answer and I had both hands typing notes but both eyes on Evan, who was climbing onto one of the kitchen stools. <i>Maybe he'll just sit there</i>, I thought, still typing. <i>Maybe I can finish this interview in the next two minutes before</i><br />
<br />
“I WANT TO EEEEEAT.”<br />
<br />
“I WANT TOAST!!”<br />
<br />
“AND WATER! MOMMY, WATER!”<br />
<br />
There was only one way to shut his sweet little trap, and that was to fill it with toast. So I stopped taking notes again. I fetched the toaster, the peanut butter, the paper plates. Then I took furious catch-up notes while making sure the toaster didn’t set off the smoke alarm, which happens every day. (No, really, every day.) Luckily it didn’t go off, but that’s really because my son didn’t actually have “toast” so much as “warm bread” for lunch that day.<br />
<br />
And all the while, Kostyn continued to cry from his perch on the potty upstairs. He sobbed right up until he heard me say the word “Goodbye.” In the second it took for my headset to beep in my ear and my phone to go silent, I had one son happily playing a video game and another with his mouth stuck shut with peanut butter. The lack of background noise was deafening, and maddening. And laughable.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-70111462405104041182011-03-25T22:27:00.000-04:002011-03-25T22:27:19.407-04:00Exercise in FutilityI gave up my gym membership when we moved in January. Instead we’ve set up a small but adequate workout space on one side of the basement. On the other side is a rec room of sorts, complete with the boys’ train table, Kostyn’s drum set, an electronic keyboard, some large push toys and a cabinet full of puzzles and toys.<br />
<br />
One recent morning I decided to exercise while the boys played with the instruments and toys. To ensure success with this endeavor, I set up their indoor Thomas the Tank Engine fort with two detachable tunnels. Pleased with myself for having this kind of foresight, I imagined they’d spend the entire time conspiring in the fort and racing through the tunnels, practically oblivious to my very existence.<br />
<br />
This did not happen.<br />
<br />
10:30: I got Kostyn settled on his drum set and Evan playing with a truck before hopping on my elliptical and punching in a 30-minute cardio program. <br />
<br />
10:32: Evan wandered over to the drums and tried to edge his brother off the seat. “My turn! My turn!” Kostyn countered by screaming “NOOOOOOOO” Fearing he’d eventually use his brother’s head as a drum, I hopped off and refereed the fight.<br />
<br />
10:35: Evan couldn’t get a push toy over a rolled-up carpet and needed help. Paused the iPod, hopped off the elliptical, mom to the rescue.<br />
<br />
10:36: Kostyn grew bored with the drums and managed to get down by himself. Score one for mom’s warmup.<br />
<br />
10:36:05: Evan wanted a turn on the drums and needed to be helped onto the stool. Off the elliptical I went.<br />
<br />
10:38:50: “All done! Mommy? All done. Get down?” Fourth stop to my cardio in under nine minutes.<br />
<br />
10:40: Paused the iPod but stayed on the elliptical as I talked Kostyn through how to turn on a remote control car. Instantly regretted that decision. <br />
<br />
10:43: Broke up a fight over the car.<br />
<br />
10:44: “The car’s stuck.”<br />
<br />
10:44:20: “The car’s stuck.”<br />
<br />
10:45: “The car’s stuck.” <br />
<br />
10:45:02: The car got put on a high shelf. <br />
<br />
10:50: “Mommy can you get this?” “No, Kostyn, find something else to do. Why don’t you play with your train. <i>Or that awesome fort sitting right there in the middle of the room?!</i>” <br />
<br />
Turns out nobody wanted to play in the fort, or build a train track. What they wanted to do was take a turn on the elliptical machine. Barring that, they wanted to keep me from staying on it. Nas and Damian Marley were piping through my earbuds telling me “the strong will continue....,” but I was starting to doubt I had it in me. As if sensing their victory was close at hand, they began an onslaught of questions:<br />
<br />
“Mommy can you reach this?” <br />
<br />
“Can I do this?” <br />
<br />
“What are you doing?”<br />
<br />
“Where are the people that go in this camper?” <br />
<br />
“Can you go get them?” <br />
<br />
“Can I go get them?”<br />
<br />
“Mommy, I need to be pushed out. The stool is too close to the drums.”<br />
<br />
“Help me, Mommy. How does this go?”<br />
<br />
After a few minutes of this needy nonsense I realized, perhaps more clearly than ever before, that my workout time is as much about peace and focus for me as it is about cardio and strength training. And I was not really getting any of those things. <br />
<br />
At 10:53 a.m., I gave up. I turned off the iPod, rounded up the kids, and felt the defeat and frustration wash over me as we climbed the stairs. I silently vowed to move the VCR/DVD player combo from the main floor to the basement, and try again the next day with the help of an old Disney movie. <br />
<br />
I was wallowing in self pity, feeling like the morning was a total waste, when we reached the top of the stairs and Kostyn exclaimed, “We had SO MUCH FUN playing downstairs!” The laugh I got out of that statement did more for my abs — and my attitude — than all the effort put forth in the previous 23 minutes. <br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>(This post first appeared on my other blog, </i><i><a href="http://www.centralpennparent.com/category/Community/Blogs/TrainingWheels.aspx">Training Wheels</a>.) </i>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-74951111744470575052011-03-22T23:23:00.003-04:002011-03-23T10:43:10.849-04:00Everything Was Better In The '50s, Unless You Were A Woman Or A BabyA bunch of these old ads were forwarded to me the other day and I was so impressed by their collective ignorance I felt the need to pass them along. What amazes me most is the fact that we're not all that far removed from them. These are the images and values and ideals thrust upon our mothers, and their mothers. <br />
<br />
These are perhaps the scariest ones to me, a parent who doesn't plan on giving my kids soda, beer, cocaine or guns anytime soon. (I'd say "Call me old-fashioned," but I suppose that doesn't really make sense here.)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, it's never too soon to start baby on a diet of chemicals and carbonation. For those who can't read the fine print, it tells parents that laboratory tests have "proven that babies who start drinking soda during that early formative period have a much higher chance of gaining acceptance and 'fitting in' during those awkward pre-teen and teen years."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixavZfD24TGhXnpLIt2lxrG9q8-WP9609VLrcxWXTqesu6ouBdyFMRtkHRc3_XkXLtZe1jronCPonXqyfRkl3SpYhKsfSqbSjHs3sE9_pHkhX5gmTVRgZ_133YJmsnyGZIblnu/s1600/download-14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixavZfD24TGhXnpLIt2lxrG9q8-WP9609VLrcxWXTqesu6ouBdyFMRtkHRc3_XkXLtZe1jronCPonXqyfRkl3SpYhKsfSqbSjHs3sE9_pHkhX5gmTVRgZ_133YJmsnyGZIblnu/s400/download-14.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I remember the days of breastfeeding, when I daydreamed that sipping an occasional glass of wine would help my son sleep better. It never worked for me, but then again I wasn't drinking Blatz beer, with its "nourishing qualities that are essential at this time." Shame on me.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlovnhlngPftNVL08JlBP-vcI3tD3qAKItwrovh0NSo8-eR13qI2tYdZXCJSz1YZkWocPWI1l9H3mai8vLhIBM6E4iUaoA9zUwrOlSCV9gbLfGwBj-WKT_S9lNoy18ui2xfXA/s1600/CokeDrops.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZlovnhlngPftNVL08JlBP-vcI3tD3qAKItwrovh0NSo8-eR13qI2tYdZXCJSz1YZkWocPWI1l9H3mai8vLhIBM6E4iUaoA9zUwrOlSCV9gbLfGwBj-WKT_S9lNoy18ui2xfXA/s400/CokeDrops.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No idea what the little stick house has to do with cocaine, but it all looks sort of darling, doesn't it? </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nothing does WHAT like Seven-Up? Rot your teeth? Stunt your growth? Add zero nutritional value to your infant's delicate system?</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREwFArCFBAkXdnOSN7FTHunRcYS7umJh6qrKmBorV_UzR55K7nv9wD6rRsNmtL0NZUj_FY6S1wlUmIQa1cYE6i2d2ySDi76mTPHh8PcmqFvyQx7ulK-g_JTdbVpaTExxbro0C/s1600/download-12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgREwFArCFBAkXdnOSN7FTHunRcYS7umJh6qrKmBorV_UzR55K7nv9wD6rRsNmtL0NZUj_FY6S1wlUmIQa1cYE6i2d2ySDi76mTPHh8PcmqFvyQx7ulK-g_JTdbVpaTExxbro0C/s400/download-12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Papa says it won't hurt us." Papa's a liar, kids. Apparently the only thing more dangerous than that gun is your papa.</td></tr>
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</div>But these are also pretty terrible. I love seeing women being respected and honored as equals, don't you?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Before the invention of the screw-on cap, were ketchup bottle tops welded shut?</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frankly I'm not sure what this is about with the whole "store-testing for fresh coffee" thing. But I am sure nobody should be pushing violence against women for any reason.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is twisted on so many levels.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh THAT'S what wives are for. </td></tr>
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Also, the advertising industry telling us how we should look has pretty deep(ly disturbing) roots.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Screw the sensible diet, I'll just eat these tape worms. They're "easy to swallow," with "no ill effects."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WRHj118lP8BA9z19-LbTqv5Eu77T2qAgropmotBd5YUivyWkrzrPhqLBKCMErUhdGk9quVk7qtoEliId-rJPQqchtyfI3LAf8CGErd2hKdc5KdiBV26ykZ9QsrGfQBfwYJke/s1600/download-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3WRHj118lP8BA9z19-LbTqv5Eu77T2qAgropmotBd5YUivyWkrzrPhqLBKCMErUhdGk9quVk7qtoEliId-rJPQqchtyfI3LAf8CGErd2hKdc5KdiBV26ykZ9QsrGfQBfwYJke/s400/download-16.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Freckles once made her "actually homely." I wonder how many jars of this stuff it would take to cover all of mine.</td></tr>
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</a></div> And, of course, the cigarette ads. Oh those cigarettes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WZRk3PlUbpE6EVPZKtUi19gI5__XmGbLp6lgcH5OVxqgNYikHEoKbOMHKXMZp7opOOOqHNF4T_Ms4BR1TNPCJ1cgXB1j2uABen2hygFi5nHgzLuNe3s7UiGzu0yzkYMnp9wl/s1600/download-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2WZRk3PlUbpE6EVPZKtUi19gI5__XmGbLp6lgcH5OVxqgNYikHEoKbOMHKXMZp7opOOOqHNF4T_Ms4BR1TNPCJ1cgXB1j2uABen2hygFi5nHgzLuNe3s7UiGzu0yzkYMnp9wl/s400/download-4.jpg" width="303" /></a></div><br />
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It makes me wonder what ads we see today will be laughed at in 50 years. I have a few ideas...Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-7449330614074378582011-03-03T21:27:00.000-05:002011-03-03T21:27:47.329-05:00I Stole My Kids' Bath ... And Made a Clean Getaway<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhxeNcBZ2N1U5vsW46eNG93frgq_vwbE-8IS4wycpE3pBUJGN2wtrgc0x3qgIdruHLwxNFS_q_iW1rpPAzPIoZDm6Zr7V96-7jVJLKz2cjgAL7AdUO2up4quQGOg1QsoYHNKa/s1600/45682893_152f502b2b-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQhxeNcBZ2N1U5vsW46eNG93frgq_vwbE-8IS4wycpE3pBUJGN2wtrgc0x3qgIdruHLwxNFS_q_iW1rpPAzPIoZDm6Zr7V96-7jVJLKz2cjgAL7AdUO2up4quQGOg1QsoYHNKa/s320/45682893_152f502b2b-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I’m often torn about the rap we stay-at-home moms get, specifically about the “letting go of ourselves” cliche. There’s the image of us at home all day in our pajamas, or running errands in our slippers with spit-up on our shirts and not so much as a brush having been run through our hair. <br />
<br />
I bristle at this partly because I don’t want anyone to think I’ve “let myself go,” and partly because it’s, um, sometimes true. There are days I don’t take a shower. (Gasp!) There are days I remember at 3 p.m. that<i> I never brushed my teeth that morning.</i><br />
<br />
Being a stay-at-home parent — really, a parent in general — is all about compromise. You don’t have to let yourself go, but you do have to let go of some things. This morning I let go of a shower in favor of squeezing in a workout while the boys were happily playing drums and watching TV. But then right afterward we got busy building a giant race track, and then there were lunches to make, eat and clean up, books to read and naps to take. And while they slept, I worked; as soon as I hung up the phone from doing an interview for a story I’m working on, Evan woke up. <br />
<br />
Before I knew it it was 7:45 p.m. and I was still in my workout clothes, unshowered, a fact I’d honestly completely forgotten until I wandered into the bathroom and noticed the nice big bubble bath Chris had just drawn for the boys. Their plastic boats and foam letters were floating amid Johnson & Johnson baby bubbles, and I could see their little blue mat on the bottom of the tub. My first thought was one of mild regret, realizing I had missed my window of opportunity to grab a shower before their bath and bedtime routine started. I glanced at the clock and sighed, knowing I’d have wet hair at 10 p.m. at the rate the night was going. <br />
<br />
But as I stood looking longingly at the bubbles, I could hear the boys happily playing downstairs. Completely engrossed in their cars and toy garage, they hadn’t heard Chris call to them that it was bath time. And since Chris had school work to do, he’d handed over his usual bath time duties to me and was already buried in his laptop in the living room. <br />
<br />
I had two choices: I could go herd them upstairs to take their bath, <i>or I could take their bath. </i><br />
<br />
I probably stared at that water for another 20 seconds before kicking off my sneakers (and everything else), ever-so-quietly closing the door, and climbing in. I pushed aside boats and ducks and plastic fishermen and sank back into the bubbles. <br />
<br />
It felt fantastic. <br />
<br />
It wasn’t one of those hourlong, candlelit, book-in-one-hand-and-wine-glass-in-the-other bubble baths, but it still felt totally indulgent. Like I was cheating the system. Getting one over on my own chaotic life.<br />
<br />
Finally, a parental compromise that felt more like a win.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-46704642083796987992011-02-22T07:33:00.000-05:002011-02-22T07:33:06.385-05:00Looking Like a Movie Mom Isn't All It's Cracked Up to Be<i><span id="tmpPasteIE1295365499880"><span id="tmpPasteIE1295365504431">(Originally posted on <a href="http://www.centralpennparent.com/category/Community/Blogs.aspx">Training Wheels</a> for <a href="http://www.centralpennparent.com/">Central Penn Parent</a>.)</span></span></i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgId_2FoDZ57FXrHLm7TAnmw1G5KjuzA_qWS-kTMyob9CMnOMzBrGEnjYf9C2jju51h28tnaHvekFNVqr1GmtiIb7kWIqJndMiyrNFhhqHlSEuRmnxigLPUt-nvjtwtAltwYFgg/s1600/13054-8694.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgId_2FoDZ57FXrHLm7TAnmw1G5KjuzA_qWS-kTMyob9CMnOMzBrGEnjYf9C2jju51h28tnaHvekFNVqr1GmtiIb7kWIqJndMiyrNFhhqHlSEuRmnxigLPUt-nvjtwtAltwYFgg/s1600/13054-8694.gif" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgId_2FoDZ57FXrHLm7TAnmw1G5KjuzA_qWS-kTMyob9CMnOMzBrGEnjYf9C2jju51h28tnaHvekFNVqr1GmtiIb7kWIqJndMiyrNFhhqHlSEuRmnxigLPUt-nvjtwtAltwYFgg/s1600/13054-8694.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><span id="tmpPasteIE1295365499880"><span id="tmpPasteIE1295365504431">I was working in our church nursery on a recent Sunday when a 13-year-old kid who was there to help did anything but. <br />
<br />
“You know who you look like?” he said, his eyes focusing on me intently for a moment, as if he was confirming his suspicion. <br />
<br />
“Uh, who?” I asked nervously, suddenly feeling 13 myself.<br />
<br />
“Have you ever seen the movie ‘Home Alone’?” he asked. <br />
<br />
“Yeah, of course,” I said nonchalantly, searching my brain for whether Kate Beckinsale or Natalie Portman or some equally fetching twentysomething might have been featured in that movie. The only people I could recall were Macaulay Culkin and Joe Pesci. <i>Please don’t say I look like Joe Pesci, I thought.</i><br />
<br />
“You look like Kevin’s mom,” he said, and in that moment two thoughts came rushing at me in quick succession: The first was the full-on realization that I now, at least to anyone younger than 30, look like a mom. That’s it. People who are too young to drink legally no longer see Robyn. They don’t see my super-cute shoes (um, if I owned any); they see my diaper bag. They don’t notice my new haircut; they notice my son holding a lock of it like a security blanket. In short, they no longer see me: They see mom.<br />
<br />
The second thought came fast and furious and played like a loop in my head until after church was done and I could look it up: Who was Kevin’s mom? Who was Kevin’s mom? WHO WAS KEVIN’S MOM?! Clutching every ounce of self-esteem I had left, I let my husband gleefully and curiously queue up IMDB.com on his phone while I sat next to him, hoping Kevin’s mom was either young and pretty or looked absolutely nothing like me. <br />
<br />
Turns out perhaps a little of both was true, as Kevin’s mom was played by Catherine O’Hara, a red-haired, blue-eyed actress who really sort of looked like ... a mom. Perfectly mom-like, in typical mom clothes and a reasonably stylish mom hairdo, not to mention a very mom-like way of speaking. In all the photos and video clips I saw of her from the movie she was sort of wild-eyed and shifty, most likely from the guilt and manic fear associated with leaving the country and forgetting to pack your son. <br />
<br />
While I lamented the fact that such a nondescript mom figure is someone I am now and forever will be compared to, I did the math and realized something: Catherine O’Hara was born in 1954, which means she was 36 when “Home Alone” came out in 1990, which means she was two years younger than I am right now. This probably should have struck me as a win, because it meant the 13-year-old thought I looked like someone who was actually a bit younger than I am.<br />
<br />
But it didn’t feel like a win. It felt like yet another confirmation that I’m old, and getting older, and won’t ever be young again. Young is done. I mean of course age is relative, but let’s be honest, I’m way closer to 40 than 30, and 20 is nothing but a hazy memory. (Not that I’d go back to being 20, but it sure would be nice to look 20. Or even 30, for that matter.)<br />
<br />
I have nothing against Catherine O’Hara; she’s really quite lovely and from what I can tell a talented actress with a solid career. The problem isn’t with O’Hara, it’s with me becoming more comfortable in my skin as I age and mature and redefine a life that is at the moment largely centered around my sons. None of that is bad, necessarily, but it takes time to process and fully welcome (with open, mom-like arms).<br />
<br />
So when it’s pointed out by a pubescent boy with a Bieber haircut, it’s a little bit hard to swallow.</span></span>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-17152741863491466072011-02-20T21:02:00.000-05:002011-02-20T21:02:09.111-05:00A Belatedly Happy BirthdayI spent a lot of my birthday last week thinking about my kids’ birthdays. If that makes me a hopeless sap, so be it. I suppose it’s partly due to the fact that theirs are the only <i>birth days</i> I remember so vividly. But also because so much of me wasn’t born until they were.<br />
<br />
So I peeked under their shirts at their belly buttons and gently poked my fingers into their doughy soft skin, telling them they were once connected to me <i>right there</i>. This of course they didn’t understand, but it hardly mattered because they were engulfed in giggles from me tickling their tummies.<br />
<br />
I held my younger son against me and felt his hair on my cheek as he lay his head on my shoulder. I felt how long his body is now, how he stretches so far beyond the stomach he was once curled up inside. Later I did the same with his older brother, who is so impossibly big I cannot fathom the fact that he was just 7 pounds the day I first held him.<br />
<br />
It’s funny that for most of my life I equated February 13th with the day I was born. But now it’s February 13, and June 2, and March 10. I think if we are really lucky, we are forever being born again, our eyes opening ever wider to life as it unfolds. <br />
<br />
On our birthdays Chris and I often play that memory game, the one couples who’ve been together forever like to play. We search our collective memory for what we did on that day last year to make it special. And what we did 5 years ago, and 10 years ago, and 15. <i>Where were we living then? Did we eat at our favorite restaurant? Was that the year you bought me that super-expensive shirt I wore twice?</i> <i>Which birthday did I spend in the hospital since you were sick? </i><br />
<br />
This year one of us wondered aloud what we were doing seven years ago on my birthday. Neither of us could really remember any specifics, and we mumbled that was probably because it wasn’t the best time for us and we’d both rather block it out. Every relationship has its ups and downs, and seven years ago we were beginning to tumble down.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5ljMqJl_AdOc-pwKgsuFFXPXelintRAX-zh77BPicxxkg3HtjZDXXEMRCRRWd-5iaaZcElVqpIU4XyFcJuQnJPlXkn6sHMYQCL9wzdIKuLyhmmv-JHaqR3lNA-xx3Da6iybs/s1600/SCN_0003_2_2_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib5ljMqJl_AdOc-pwKgsuFFXPXelintRAX-zh77BPicxxkg3HtjZDXXEMRCRRWd-5iaaZcElVqpIU4XyFcJuQnJPlXkn6sHMYQCL9wzdIKuLyhmmv-JHaqR3lNA-xx3Da6iybs/s320/SCN_0003_2_2_2.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>But half a world away, on Feb. 13, 2004, this little girl was born. Aniska Victorien was born into poverty in Haiti to parents who work when they can find it, which isn’t often. She couldn’t have imagined, nor could we, that our paths would cross nearly seven years later when something tugged at me to click on her picture on a website filled with similar faces of children in similarly desperate situations. And the first thing I noticed, apart from the dusty knees and scuffed shoes, was her birthday: Feb. 13, 2004.<br />
<br />
My birthday girl.<br />
<br />
We didn’t know seven years ago, when we were wallowing in our own rut, that God had just given us a little miracle, one He knew we wouldn’t be ready to find and accept for several more years (and two kids of our own). I smile at the new memory that creates. <br />
<br />
So on my birthday this year I spent a little time writing to Aniska, introducing us as her new sponsors through <a href="http://www.compassion.com/">Compassion International</a>, and wishing her a happy birthday. I told her how beautiful she is. If I get a letter back, I will consider it a belated birthday present. But in reality, this opportunity to impact her life is the coolest gift.Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24166676.post-32875636788963332812011-02-10T07:28:00.006-05:002011-02-11T17:52:36.277-05:00Haunted by History: When A Priest Betrays Our Ultimate Trust<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3weTcX9r0x6ylBD7aykARSrg9oZsdkf_s19Hk6lcE2lChWbPwp9RhWYK07BpK1UXvsMPwhKyrLlLpGwvs6WuBPwLqPrtwG8VLgFwPV-X7yHJIj0937OhOOYvBbhuAyim7QBmZ/s1600/Heart%252BBroken-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3weTcX9r0x6ylBD7aykARSrg9oZsdkf_s19Hk6lcE2lChWbPwp9RhWYK07BpK1UXvsMPwhKyrLlLpGwvs6WuBPwLqPrtwG8VLgFwPV-X7yHJIj0937OhOOYvBbhuAyim7QBmZ/s400/Heart%252BBroken-1.JPG" width="392" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">For the past week or so I’ve been obsessively thinking about junior high. I’ve never before had an urge to return to those days -- that dawn of knowing my carefully feathered bangs and name brand clothes bought at discount stores were no match for the stylish perms and preppy outfits worn by the popular girls with the cute bubble handwriting. I always knew I was shy but in junior high it was made official, at least in my head: I was a wallflower in every sense of the word. Stand back away from the action; smile; try to blend. I wasn’t an outcast, but I wasn’t in the “in” crowd either. I was background, not foreground, and I was happy about that.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
I remember being terribly uncomfortable with myself, as I’m sure most junior high school kids are, and because of that the one passing interest from a boy I received was squashed on the false assertion that I wasn’t interested. There was never a word spoken between us, just a note passed through friends, a sweet note really, telling me I was a good person and seemed really nice and would I like to go to the dance with him.<br />
<br />
I wish I could remember the exact wording of that note, but I ripped it up in a fit of embarrassment when my sister found it in my bedroom. I so wish I hadn’t done that. It only punished me.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
Truth is I’d had a crush on that boy for a long time, which made the next day’s act of telling my friend to tell her friend to tell him that I wasn’t interested especially privately painful. I was simply too afraid to say yes.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
I’ve thought about that many times over the years. I’ve thought about how terrible it felt to rip up the nicest thing anyone outside my family had ever given me, and how powerless I felt to the embarrassment that made me do it. I’ve thought about saying “no” when I wanted so badly to say “yes,” and I’ve tried to use that disappointment in myself as a springboard to more confident decisions in later years.<br />
<br />
I’ve thought about that brief moment in my life only as it pertained to me, not thinking much about how the boy felt by my rejection, not spending any time considering how he’d carefully chosen his words to me. It was not a romantic note, even by junior high standards. It was more like “You seem kind and good. Can I be with you?” I even learned that this boy had asked my friend who he should ask out, me or another girl he knew was also nice. She’d picked me, so he had too.<br />
<br />
Some time ago I learned that he, this crush from my youth, was terribly, repeatedly abused by our town’s Catholic priest. The abuse started at about the time we entered junior high. He told no one for years.<br />
<br />
I am not so drenched in self-importance that I think if I’d said yes to his note he would have confided in me. I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have said a word, he probably didn’t even understand or couldn’t yet register the hell that was happening to him. But the thought that he might have needed a friend, despite all the ones he already had, haunts me. I want to turn back the clock. I want to snatch the note back from my sister and not rip it up. I want to say yes, on the off chance.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
In my fantasy we go to the dance together, we become friends. He trusts me. He tells me. I help him.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
In reality, I can do nothing but send encouraging text messages and emails as he waits for a verdict in the trial just ending that hopefully will convict this demon who demolished his youth and the lives of so many others. It has been a great test of my faith to pray for not only my friend, but for this broken man, this lost soul who forced boys to close their eyes and pray while he betrayed them and God.<br />
<br />
To seek justice in the courts seems too shallow for this crime. I rest easier knowing God is just, and mighty, and this criminal will be made accountable for his sins. But shaking my fists feels empty; I hate what he did to my friend, who I love. I am filled with sorrow that anyone, any child, endures such agony. I know other victims of sexual abuse, and I know it never goes away. For my friend, there is no embrace warm enough today to erase the cold and bitter history of junior high.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
Unfortunately, that’s all I have to give him, that and my prayers — for peace, that he might find it, and closure, that he might reach it. Mostly, though, I pray that he still has faith. That he didn’t completely lose sight of God when surely God seemed hidden, or cruel, or simply nonexistent.<span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span><br />
<br />
My friend today is a man of integrity. He is beautiful and intelligent and funny and kind and loving. What happened to him may cause some to question God’s existence. But I say his life, the very man he has become, is proof of it.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-converted-space"><i>[This post was published with my friend's blessing, and at his urging. The priest was convicted today of all four charges against him. He is facing possible life in prison.]</i> </span></span>Robynhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00909838671931250540noreply@blogger.com4