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November 2009
Mom trying to keep family traditions alive
The holidays are always packed with family traditions. With our little one getting older, the husband and I are trying to keep our traditions going and add some new ones of our own.
My parents always gave my sister and me a new set of pajamas on Christmas Eve. Even to this day, we still get pajamas from them. My mother has already picked out pajamas for the three grandchildren to wear while they wait for Santa Claus.
My husband’s family always makes Christmas cookies so we are continuing that tradition too. Last year, when our daughter was barely five months old, we pressed her little hand down on the cookie cutter and took pictures of her first Christmas cookie. My husband already has all of the ingredients and cookie cutters ready to go for this year’s baking extravaganza.
Our new family tradition has been cutting down our own Christmas tree. We headed out this weekend with our daughter and looked for the perfect Christmas tree. We debated the fullness and height and let our daughter wander around the rows and rows of trees before we finally settled on one.
What are your holiday family traditions?
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Family at the heart of Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving means many things to many people: turkey and pumpkin pie, Pilgrims and Indians, history and tradition, getting dressed up, watching football, giving thanks.
But for many, the most important part of this holiday is the celebration of family — not just the family seated around the dinner table or those we are able to reach by phone, but the ones who are no longer with us.
This is my husband’s first Thanksgiving without his father, who passed away this summer.
I’m sure it will be a tough day for him; in ways he might not even know yet. But I will try to help him through by being there for whatever he needs most — to listen, to hug or to reminisce.
And, maybe most importantly, to tell him that it will get better.
This will be my fourth Thanksgiving without my mom and, although the missing never stops, the hurt has eased.
At first, after she died, we tried to do the holidays just as she would have liked them.
My sister and I had conversations like, “We have to have sweet pickles, black olives, radishes and green onions on the table” — even though we knew the majority would go untouched.
We had to have it that way because that’s the way she would have had it. It also was part of our need for familiarity in a world that had changed so dramatically.
But, what we found was, the problem with trying to keep things the same as they had been caused more hurt more than they helped.
I guess it was inevitable that we would not live up to her memory as we had hoped and that we would learn that it is impossible to re-create a beloved scene without its main character.
There also were parts of the meal that we couldn’t bring ourselves to make, like my mom’s layer salad, because we thought they belonged just to her.
Since then, the holidays slowly have gotten easier. My sister and I continue to learn how to incorporate our mother’s traditions, and have added some of our own.
For example, when we go out shopping for the Thanksgiving dinner, we always stop for a drink first. That is our tradition, but we toast to our mom and sometimes include her in the conversation.
As for the dinner, we now just put black olives on the table, since none of us like the other offerings.
And this year I am going to tackle that layer salad.
I’m sure this is all just part of the natural progression — a combination of time and healing. I know the final stage of grief is acceptance.
The best part of it all, though, is that it feels like we have our mom back in a way. Instead of being focused on why she isn’t physically here or why she had to go so soon, we are able to relish her memory.
My mom wrote in one of her journals in the year before she died that she hoped she would be remembered for the fun person she was before she got sick, rather than the more sober one she became in those final months.
Finally, that’s the mom I picture these days. And that’s the one I know I will have in my heart today and for all the years to come.
Happy Thanksgiving!
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Pulling the Santa card: Be good or else!
Afternoon preschool has been a challenge for my soon-to-be-4-year-old.
The 12:30 p.m. start cuts right into his natural naptime. He gets up at 8 a.m., eats breakfast, plays hard, eats lunch, then gets sleepy. I don’t blame him: My night-shift hours mean I’m generally ready for some shut-eye about that time too.
But four days a week, I pack him off to school and put off his rest period till 3:30. (There wasn’t a spot for him in the morning class, or this wouldn’t be an issue.)
Yes, he’s all hepped up with unspent energy when he comes home (even though they have an active-play program at his school), but he still needs his sleep. Believe me.
When he misses his nap, he is bossy and cranky all afternoon and basically unbearable by dinnertime. It’s like living with a little tyrant.
If he sleeps for a few hours, he wakes up in time for dinner his normal sweet/feisty self then heads off to bed for the night at the same time as his older siblings, about 9:30 p.m. His agreeable mood makes the household so much more pleasant to be a part of!
But Hubby is between jobs right now, and our circadian rhythm has been off-kilter because he wants to stay up and play with his daddy.
All this week, he’s been fighting tooth-and-nail to skip the nap. But I’m not biting. His actions tell me he still needs the extra rest, so I most often insist on it. (There are occasional days when family activities preclude his nap, but we’ve tried to wire our three kids for flexibility.)
And here’s the crux of this blog: Today I pulled the Santa card on him when he was throwing down, violently protesting my nap “suggestion.”
“Santa can see you, you know. And you just made it onto his ‘bad’ list.”
I felt guilty as soon as I uttered the words. But boy did those crocodile tears dry up in a hurry!
He was soon calm and apologizing for his tantrum, asking if he could somehow work his way back into Santa’s good graces.
“Of course!” I said with a reassuring smile as I snuggled into bed beside him and gave him a pat.
Another myth perpetuated. Ah, childhood innocence. It can sometimes be used to our advantage. ;)
I was relating this “mommy confession” to a co-worker, who said she had used the same technique on her 3-year-old daughter, who quit diapers cold turkey when told that Santa Claus only brings toys to big girls who are potty-trained.
It may have seemed a bit cruel and manipulative at the time, but she’s 11 now and hasn’t suffered any ill effects. In fact, that girl will probably pull the Santa card on her own child someday.
And the coal-for-Christmas scare tactic can be employed at any age.
On a recent trip back to my home state of West Virginia, I was actually on the hunt for a gag gift for a mom friend. She said her two teenagers had been naughty and she was threatening to give them lumps of coal for Christmas.
But alas, I couldn’t find what I was looking for: a set of praying hands sculpted out of coal. Wouldn’t those young ladies flip if they opened that box first!
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Little tweaks on road to gender equality
I have never been what you would call a feminist; at least not in the colloquial sense.
Although I whole-heartedly agree that all rights of women should be equal to those of men, I have never been one to broadcast that credo.
To be honest, I didn’t have to. I was lucky enough to be born after most of the women’s rights battles had been waged and most of the speaking out had been done.
As a result, most of the doors had been opened for me and my generation, and our biggest challenge has been dealing with the mindset that remains.
As a kid, the gender bias was just a part of life. My parents had clearly defined roles. Despite the fact that they both worked outside of the home, my father was the bread-winner and my mother took care of the house and kids.
My sister and I were the ones told to do dishes, and weren’t allowed to see some movies that the boys got to see — even though we were both older than one of them. To this day, as a matter of principle, I have never seen “Alien.”
My father scrutinized the boys’ activities more than he did my sister’s and mine. We weren’t barred from taking part in anything, but that participation didn’t seem to matter much either.
But I was OK with that.
When I was around 8, my brother and I started playing Little League baseball. It was a boys’ league, but girls were allowed. There were four or five girls in the league and hundreds of boys.
I didn’t join to make waves; I joined because I wanted to play.
Most of my baseball career went just fine. I was lucky enough to do well and was respected among my peers — well, most of them.
One kid on the other team, I think his name was Hans, kept making fun of the “girl pitcher” on the mound. That is, until I hit him with the first pitch.
The only time I ran into a substantial roadblock in the league was when I was around 12. The coaches were choosing players to move up to the next level of play, and I wasn’t among them.
A coach that knew my mom told her later it was said in the meeting that I shouldn’t move up because I was a girl and they were afraid I might be hurt and “not be able to have children.”
I was less upset by the decision than my mom and some of my former coaches were. I figured it might just be time to go in another direction.
I kept playing my game, and ended up getting around that decision.
As an adult, I have been lucky enough to avoid serious instances of gender bias that some people have had to face, and my lack of a Y chromosome hasn’t prevented me from getting a job or being heard when I really needed to be.
But where I have seen it is, not surprisingly, in sports — and this time with my kids.
Although I have helped coach my sons’ teams at the rec center many times, this year, the fifth-grader moved up to play select basketball and his team was in need of an assistant coach.
Being a more competitive league and knowing some of the personalities involved, I had a feeling they would prefer to have a male coach help out.
After none of the dads stepped forward, I told the head coach I could fill in if needed. I even said, “I know I’m a girl and all, but I played college ball. So, if you need someone to help, let me know.”
I was told not to worry, that they would get by.
It wasn’t until a few weeks later that the coach said the league told him he needed another parent to be an assistant, and asked if I would still be willing to help.
If I had been more surprised by the course of events, I might have been offended. But I don’t think it was personal; I just think it was familiar.
At any rate, it is all going well. And I figure, maybe having a female coach might even help this next generation get even further toward gender equality.
I will have to start with my own son.
When I told him I would be the assistant coach on his team, he said, “Oh, you’ll be the team mom?”
Maybe it will just take a little while.
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Even grandson will eat ravioli if it means time with Veteran grandpas
On the eve of Veteran’s Day, I looked at the school lunch menu. Ravioli, salad and breadsticks. Not something Noah usually wants to eat.
I read the menu items to Noah and said, “Do you want to pack or buy your lunch tomorrow?” “Buy,” he replied. “Really? It’s ravioli.” “Yep! I have to show GG and Grandpa how to get through the lunch line,” he said.
I smiled to myself at his eagerness - and willingness to eat something he isn’t a big fan of - for the sake of his grandpa’s.
In addition to a lunch celebration, the students would be singing. Always a performer, Noah couldn’t wait to for his great-grandfathers to see him sing a patriotic song with his class for the visiting veterans. He practiced for days, “This is our flag, red, white and blue …”
When the big day finally arrived, I loaded up the family veterans: Great-Grandpa Paul who served in the Army and Great-Grandpa Charlie (aka “GG”) who served in the Navy during World War II.
We sat hungrily in our seats while the Kindergartners - clad in red, white and blue - marched onto the stage. Following their patriotic performance, Noah promptly gathered up his clan of family members and lined us up for lunch.
True to his word, Noah said, “Now GG, when you get past the black line on the floor, you can pick your milk.”
We sat at the V.I.P. lunch tables and chatted while eating (shock and awe moment: Noah even ate his salad). Students from other grades periodically filed into the lunchroom, sang a song, and matched up with the vets from their families.
It was an enjoyable afternoon - school lunches have definitely improved since my day -and Noah could not have been more proud to have his great-grandfathers in attendance.
Both of my boys are fascinated with the United States Military. Noah is awed by a person in fatigues and Nick can’t get enough of the Air Force planes running patterns over our home. Both of them don their miniature camouflage jackets and clothes with pride, saying they are “Army guys.”
Should they choose to follow in the footsteps of their great-grandfathers, I’ll be a proud, albeit tearful, fearful and prayerful, mother.
Many thanks to our Veterans and active military.
Email this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com.
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Parenting often depends on kids’ birth order
I think that I am ruining my firstborn. It is not intentional; actually, quite the contrary. But, more often than not, I have a tendency to react much less constructively to my oldest son than I do to his little brother.
I believe the problem is twofold: Since he was my first child, he is a test subject by default; and, secondly, I see so much of myself in him.
You might think that sharing characteristics would make a parent more sympathetic to a child’s behavior, and it does … at times. I am more patient with his highs and lows than his father is; but, then again, his father has to deal with me as well.
Most of the time, however, when I see these mirrored traits, it just makes me want to fix the kid; to allow him to skip over some of the stinging life lessons you have to endure and get right to the focused, confident, self-realized state you often don’t get to until your mid-30s.
Of course, I know this attempt to orchestrate his growth is unrealistic and potentially damaging. I know this as I sit here typing at work.
But when I am face to face with the kid, and he is playing with the drapes or writing on his shoe instead of finishing his homework, I can’t help but tell him (again) that he could make his life that much easier if he would just get the work done.
Or to tell him that when he wants something more from a person, the best way to go about it is not to start complaining about what he has — as was the case the other morning after his sleepover.
He was supposed to call when he was ready to be picked up. So, when I saw the caller ID, I was glad to see he was ready and hoped to hear his smiling tales of the fun times that were had.
But when I answered the phone at around 10:30 a.m. Sunday, I was greeted by a melancholy kid.
“Hi,” he said softly.
“Hey! Are you OK? Are you ready to come home?”
“Well, no,” he said, sounding distraught. “Could I at least have until 11:30? Or even 12:30?”
Turns out he had had a great time, but didn’t want it to ever end. So there was much haggling about what was best for the friend’s family and what worked with our day, and a tense compromise was reached.
After I got off the phone, I shook my head and asked my husband, “Why did he even call?”
A veteran mom might expect this call to go this way, brace for it even; but I am still learning. That is another part of my issues with my oldest son: not having a good frame of reference.
This supposedly is another function, or dysfunction, of the parent/firstborn relationship: expectations reportedly are highest for firstborns — both from parents and from themselves.
I do think I expect more from the 10-year-old than I do from the 8-year-old — that seems only natural.
But where I misstep is when I evaluate the older one on what I think he should be doing based on projection, rather than based on what might be more likely for his age.
At least this is somewhere in which the relationship with my younger son benefits: There is less pressure on him, and less on me to guide him because our roles are more defined.
My mother always said she felt my siblings and I all had different parents, due to a combination of each of our personalities and needs, her personality and ability to fulfill those needs and what was going on at the various stages in our lives.
It is just the luck, or lack thereof, of the draw.
My younger son used to ask me when he was little why he didn’t get to be born first. I bet he is glad he didn’t now.
Then again, he has issues over being the baby. Currently he is driving his father and me a bit crazy by taking everything we say literally.
As my husband recently yelled to him, exasperated, for the umpteenth time: “Just roll with it!”
Then he turned to me and said, “I gotta have more patience with him.”
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “At least we’ll ruin the kids together.”
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10% off at MattelShop.com — Nov. 11 only!
We, dear readers, are invited to an “exclusive” Virtual Shopping Day at the new Mattel online store, MattelShop.com!
TODAY ONLY — Nov. 11, 2009 — shoppers can purchase all the Mattel goodies that their virtual shopping cart can hold and receive free shipping and 10% off the bill using the promotional code MATTELMOM30.
Barbies, Hot Wheels, WHAC-A-MOLE, whatever: Bug your kids for their Christmas lists and start pointing and clicking.
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Are parents spanking less and yelling more?
There was an article in the New York Times last month that hit a little too close to home for me.
The article was titled, “For Some Parents, Shouting Is the New Spanking.”
It talked about how many of today’s parents find it less socially acceptable to spank their children and, as a result or for lack of a better option, have “incongruously and with regularity” become a generation that yells.
The article also said the yelling may be partly a releasing of stress for multitasking, overachieving, time-crunched adults.
Of course, as is the cosmic way of the world, I read this article the day after I had screamed at my 8- and 10-year-olds for coming to blows over a few pieces of leftover pizza.
In general, I feel like I yell at my kids too much, and it is true I have only spanked them a handful of times. And even by “spanked” I mean giving their bottoms a swat when they were little.
It is nothing like the spankings I remember as a kid; well, at least the spankings my older brother and sister got. Since they are seven and five years older than I, they were more subject to my father’s manner of discipline, which primarily was spanking.
Since I shared a room with my sister, I saw firsthand the many spankings she received. Although, stubborn as she is, she got good at hiding her pain — at least until my dad left the room.
My parents separated when I was very young, so I was rarely (if ever) spanked. Between that and the fact that I would burst into tears whenever I did anything wrong, I managed to stay pretty safe from corporal punishment.
I do remember being yelled at, though, and feeling pretty awful about it. It wasn’t even that I felt so bad about what I had done, but bad about myself.
And, thinking back to that time, it makes me want to watch my parental volume even more.
Those memories also made me want to check in with my kids, and get their perspective on the topic.
So the other night when just the kids and I were having dinner, I asked them: “Do you think parents yell a lot?”
They each said, “Yeah, some,” and wanted to know why. So I told them I was mentioning the idea in this week’s column.
“I am writing how parents tend to yell more these days, but when Daddy and I were younger and before that, parents did more spanking,” I said.
After thinking about that for a minute, the fifth-grader said: “I think I’d rather be spanked. At least then it would be over with and I wouldn’t have to sit there thinking my life was over while you guys yelled at me.”
Ouch. I told him that he should never think his life was over because of something he did or how we were reacting.
And then I wondered, since he mentioned both my husband and me, who was the bigger yeller.
So I asked them: “Who do you think yells at you more? Daddy or me?”
The older one, the confirmed Mom-camper, answered quickly: “Dad.”
Whew! As biased as the source was, it made me feel better.
Then I turned to the younger one, who conveniently had just taken a big bite of his hamburger.
The third-grader pointed at his mouth to say that he couldn’t answer right now. I didn’t even know the kid knew that signal, having watched food fly out of his mouth nearly every day of the last eight years.
As we waited, his brother and I started to laugh, saying the younger one might take another bite before he could answer.
When he did swallow and collect his thoughts, he said: “Well, you do catch me doing more stuff than Dad does.”
He was fair, as is his quirky, second-born way. But his implication was noted.
At any rate, I am glad I asked and glad I read the article.
With any luck, I will yell less in the future.
And, with even more luck, maybe the kids will hear me better this way.
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