By Kelly
The state of Minnesota apparently took an Instant Summer pill today. It’s so beautiful outside, it hurts. (Or maybe that’s just the 97-degree sunshine hitting my arms.) The kids in our neighborhood are riding bikes, shouting greetings, begging for another popsicle. According to one little girl, her whole body is boiling! As if we live on the sun or in Houston or something.
But my daughter, my seven-year-old who loves to draw with sidewalk chalk and pet the dogs and ride her bike to the pond on the corner, isn’t outside. Rather, she’s restricted to the kitchen table this fine afternoon, working on a year-end project assigned by her second grade teacher.
Lest I be misunderstood, let me say up front: I revere teachers. I taught high school for a year and a half – a media class, which isn’t even a real subject – and every morning, I woke up and prayed for the flu. It was that miserable. Teaching is a calling, a gift, a ministry. I’m in awe that there are people who love this job and love my kids and pass on knowledge with creativity and wit and patience.
But the homework. Oy. The homework. And in the spring, no less.
This is new territory for me, since Natalie is my oldest. I’m still a guppy in the school of school. But I’ve heard the grumbling about homework for years. What does it really accomplish? Isn’t it just busy work? Wouldn’t it be better for kids to have that time for their family? What happens when projects are assigned that are clearly beyond the ability of the child to handle?
And then, the biggest irritant of all – the year-end project. Seems teachers just can’t resist assigning one last, comprehensive project a mere feet before the student cross the finish line – and that project is almost always something that involves the whole family.
It’s like those college professors who pile on the paperwork near the end of the semester, right before finals, seemingly oblivious to the fact that they aren’t the only professor in the world.
Doubling the pain for us in the Upper Midwest is that, by the middle of May, it’s finally nice enough for the kids to play outside. I don’t mind gigantic projects in January, when there is nothing else to do but watch the snow fall and the thermometer break. But when it’s 85 and sunny and the lilacs are blooming and the gardens are being planted? Homework seems downright malicious.
But what can a guppy parent do? Nothing, I think.
So tonight, we’ll eat ice cream indoors, while we fill her covered wagon with things a typical pioneer family might have taken on their trip out west. (I’m not sure the Ingalls’ horses were as glittery or as purple as the Polly Pocket horse pulling our wagon. Clearly, our wagon is headed for Vegas.) (Come to think of it, Natalie did add a small deck of cards a few minutes ago. Double-down, Pa. Double-down.)
Then we’ll pack it carefully for the trip to school tomorrow and turn it in with a flourish.
Because nothing says Instant Summer like no homework for three months. Hallelujah and amen.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well -- once she's done with her homework, of course.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Do Over
By Kelly
The morning has not gone well.
I had hoped to get up early and write, something I rarely do, but hold as an option of last resort when my brain is too mushy to be creative after the kids go to bed. (And last night, my brain was mushy by 9:00 PM; I almost fell asleep reading “Amelia Bedelia.” Do you have any idea how hard it is to say Amelia Bedelia when your jaw is going slack? Try it. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. That’s almost impossible for me to say on the best of days.)
So. I set my alarm for 6:00 AM and hoped for a few blessed moments alone. To think. To maybe drink some coffee in peace. To hear the quiet.
But ‘twas not to be. The baby got up at 5:30, irritable and scowling, obviously not even sure she wanted to be awake yet. (“You and me both, kid,” I sighed to myself.) I spent the next hour trying to get her back to sleep. But she never settled. At 6:30, I gave up. I carried the cranky baby downstairs, the better not to wake her older siblings, and turned on the TV. Maybe “Blue’s Clues” could buy me a few minutes of peace.
But ‘twas not to be. The older kids, who are tuned in to such things, heard the quiet blip of the TV turning on and quickly joined me on the couch, rubbing their eyes and pleading for an early morning showing of “Special Agent Oso,” their new favorite show. Too tired and annoyed to stick with the household rule of “no TV on school mornings,” I flipped the channel and decided to take a shower before writing. Surely, in the shower, I could find a few moments alone to think and create and generally pull myself out of the Forest of Frustration.
But ‘twas not to be. No sooner had I gotten into the shower than the baby started playing Peek-A-Boo with the curtain. Then, sensing a weakness, she ransacked the cabinets, spilling all the Q-Tips on the floor and shredding the toilet paper, which I had neglected to remove from the holder before I got into the shower.
And on it went. The kids started fighting as soon as the TV went off. “He hit me! He kicked me and hit me and spit at me and he doesn’t even care!” I couldn’t decide what to wear. The dog sat in her kennel and looked at me with weary eyes, wondering if I was every going to get around to taking her for a walk. The baby picked up a bag of small balloons from the game Balloon Lagoon, spilled them on the kitchen floor and proceeded to throw handfuls of them down the air vent. (Better than eating Polly Pocket’s shoes, though. I think.) Connor refused to brush his teeth unless I helped him. Natalie pouted because I wouldn’t hear her case for “why brothers should get a spanking every time they hit me.” And because my husband, the barista in our family, is out of town, I had no coffee.
I was snarky and exasperated. Like the weather outside my window, I felt gray and hazy and heavy with irritation.
We drove to school – after I ran up three flights of stairs to get a pair of socks for the baby since I couldn’t find her second sandal. The older kids, feeling the tension, ate pretzels (also known as “breakfast” on mornings like today) and tried to make small talk during the drive.
More than anything, I wanted a do over.
Outside Natalie’s classroom, I knelt down and gave her a big hug and said, “You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
She smiled in a knowing sort of way. “I know.”
“And you know I love you, right? More than anything in the world.”
“I know.”
I put on the baby’s socks and shoes, and we continued down the school hallways to take Connor to his preschool class. I was deep in my thoughts, brooding really, when a parent going the other way said, “Wow, someone’s sure happy this morning.”
Ummmm. Excuse me? Happy?!?
Then I realized she was pointing to the baby. The baby, who had woken up grumpy and whiny, was now toddling the hallways, swinging her arms in front of her in a lighthearted fashion. Her eyes were twinkling and inquisitive. Every few feet, she would stop to gaze at the colorful pictures on the wall, remnants of the recent school art show. And at each stop, she would loudly sigh, “Ooooooo!” with a musical, deep voice, then shriek loudly, swing her arms some more and move on to the next attraction.
Yes. Happy. That’s what she was. She was happy. She was in the moment, not weighed down by a morning gone awry. She was awash in the joy of discovery, eager to see what might be around the next corner.
Happy.
And in that instant, she did magic.
She gave me a perfect do over.
This post is dedicated to the box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids that were destroyed while I wrote it. Because even happy babies need entertaining.
Kelly also writes at her personal blog, Love Well. That is, if she has enough Band-Aids.
The morning has not gone well.
I had hoped to get up early and write, something I rarely do, but hold as an option of last resort when my brain is too mushy to be creative after the kids go to bed. (And last night, my brain was mushy by 9:00 PM; I almost fell asleep reading “Amelia Bedelia.” Do you have any idea how hard it is to say Amelia Bedelia when your jaw is going slack? Try it. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. Amelia Bedelia. That’s almost impossible for me to say on the best of days.)
So. I set my alarm for 6:00 AM and hoped for a few blessed moments alone. To think. To maybe drink some coffee in peace. To hear the quiet.
But ‘twas not to be. The baby got up at 5:30, irritable and scowling, obviously not even sure she wanted to be awake yet. (“You and me both, kid,” I sighed to myself.) I spent the next hour trying to get her back to sleep. But she never settled. At 6:30, I gave up. I carried the cranky baby downstairs, the better not to wake her older siblings, and turned on the TV. Maybe “Blue’s Clues” could buy me a few minutes of peace.
But ‘twas not to be. The older kids, who are tuned in to such things, heard the quiet blip of the TV turning on and quickly joined me on the couch, rubbing their eyes and pleading for an early morning showing of “Special Agent Oso,” their new favorite show. Too tired and annoyed to stick with the household rule of “no TV on school mornings,” I flipped the channel and decided to take a shower before writing. Surely, in the shower, I could find a few moments alone to think and create and generally pull myself out of the Forest of Frustration.
But ‘twas not to be. No sooner had I gotten into the shower than the baby started playing Peek-A-Boo with the curtain. Then, sensing a weakness, she ransacked the cabinets, spilling all the Q-Tips on the floor and shredding the toilet paper, which I had neglected to remove from the holder before I got into the shower.
And on it went. The kids started fighting as soon as the TV went off. “He hit me! He kicked me and hit me and spit at me and he doesn’t even care!” I couldn’t decide what to wear. The dog sat in her kennel and looked at me with weary eyes, wondering if I was every going to get around to taking her for a walk. The baby picked up a bag of small balloons from the game Balloon Lagoon, spilled them on the kitchen floor and proceeded to throw handfuls of them down the air vent. (Better than eating Polly Pocket’s shoes, though. I think.) Connor refused to brush his teeth unless I helped him. Natalie pouted because I wouldn’t hear her case for “why brothers should get a spanking every time they hit me.” And because my husband, the barista in our family, is out of town, I had no coffee.
I was snarky and exasperated. Like the weather outside my window, I felt gray and hazy and heavy with irritation.
We drove to school – after I ran up three flights of stairs to get a pair of socks for the baby since I couldn’t find her second sandal. The older kids, feeling the tension, ate pretzels (also known as “breakfast” on mornings like today) and tried to make small talk during the drive.
More than anything, I wanted a do over.
Outside Natalie’s classroom, I knelt down and gave her a big hug and said, “You know I’m not mad at you, right?”
She smiled in a knowing sort of way. “I know.”
“And you know I love you, right? More than anything in the world.”
“I know.”
I put on the baby’s socks and shoes, and we continued down the school hallways to take Connor to his preschool class. I was deep in my thoughts, brooding really, when a parent going the other way said, “Wow, someone’s sure happy this morning.”
Ummmm. Excuse me? Happy?!?
Then I realized she was pointing to the baby. The baby, who had woken up grumpy and whiny, was now toddling the hallways, swinging her arms in front of her in a lighthearted fashion. Her eyes were twinkling and inquisitive. Every few feet, she would stop to gaze at the colorful pictures on the wall, remnants of the recent school art show. And at each stop, she would loudly sigh, “Ooooooo!” with a musical, deep voice, then shriek loudly, swing her arms some more and move on to the next attraction.
Yes. Happy. That’s what she was. She was happy. She was in the moment, not weighed down by a morning gone awry. She was awash in the joy of discovery, eager to see what might be around the next corner.
Happy.
And in that instant, she did magic.
She gave me a perfect do over.
This post is dedicated to the box of Dora the Explorer Band-Aids that were destroyed while I wrote it. Because even happy babies need entertaining.
Kelly also writes at her personal blog, Love Well. That is, if she has enough Band-Aids.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Shower
By Kelly
It’s dusk.
I sit in the rocking chair and read a book to the freshly bathed baby, who smells like the breath of heaven. On the other side of the wall, the shower runs. I can hear the rush of water, the splattering noise it makes on the curtain liner. But louder than either of those sounds is the contented off-key humming of my older daughter, seven-year-old Natalie.
It was just last week that she stunned my husband and me by announcing, “I think I’d like to take a shower tonight.” Surprised, we agreed she could try.
Up to this point, we, the parents, have been in charge of the nightly anti-germ ritual for all three of our children, and it has always taken the form of a bath. In fact, we sometimes used the shower as a threat when faced with bath time belligerence.
“Fine, if you don’t want a bath tonight, would you rather take a shower?”
“NOOOO! No showers!” the children would wail in return. Because, after all, what kid wants to stand alone in a semi-dark space and fight to keep shampoo from running into their eyes?
But Natalie’s determined yet nonchalant request last week didn’t betray fear. In fact, her voice was excited.
She was ready to move on.
The first night, my husband stood near the shower and told her what to do. “You need to lean your head way back to get out all the shampoo. … Just shut your eyes. … You’re going great!”
By the second night, she was mostly alone, with just a few check-in sessions from one of us.
By the third night, she was showering like a pro, completely unassisted. She took to singing in the stall, humming and dancing and spinning under the falling water.
She’s so proud of herself.
Even now, I can hear her new self-confidence in the lilting notes, the gentle harmony of water and delight.
Then, suddenly, the shower turns off. The curtain screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard as its pulled aside.
And I hear the water, just like the years, drain away faster than I can comprehend.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
It’s dusk.
I sit in the rocking chair and read a book to the freshly bathed baby, who smells like the breath of heaven. On the other side of the wall, the shower runs. I can hear the rush of water, the splattering noise it makes on the curtain liner. But louder than either of those sounds is the contented off-key humming of my older daughter, seven-year-old Natalie.
It was just last week that she stunned my husband and me by announcing, “I think I’d like to take a shower tonight.” Surprised, we agreed she could try.
Up to this point, we, the parents, have been in charge of the nightly anti-germ ritual for all three of our children, and it has always taken the form of a bath. In fact, we sometimes used the shower as a threat when faced with bath time belligerence.
“Fine, if you don’t want a bath tonight, would you rather take a shower?”
“NOOOO! No showers!” the children would wail in return. Because, after all, what kid wants to stand alone in a semi-dark space and fight to keep shampoo from running into their eyes?
But Natalie’s determined yet nonchalant request last week didn’t betray fear. In fact, her voice was excited.
She was ready to move on.
The first night, my husband stood near the shower and told her what to do. “You need to lean your head way back to get out all the shampoo. … Just shut your eyes. … You’re going great!”
By the second night, she was mostly alone, with just a few check-in sessions from one of us.
By the third night, she was showering like a pro, completely unassisted. She took to singing in the stall, humming and dancing and spinning under the falling water.
She’s so proud of herself.
Even now, I can hear her new self-confidence in the lilting notes, the gentle harmony of water and delight.
Then, suddenly, the shower turns off. The curtain screeches like fingernails on a chalkboard as its pulled aside.
And I hear the water, just like the years, drain away faster than I can comprehend.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Children's Museum That Wasn't
By Kelly
Imagine with me, if you will, a children’s museum built out of steel, concrete and hard lines. Almost everything is gray, so as not to intrude on a child’s sense of imagination, and the sparse displays are abstract, so as not to dictate to the child what to think or see.
Oh. Wait. You don’t have to imagine. It’s in San Diego.
Before I continue with my rant, let me say unequivocally: I love San Diego. My husband and I lived there for almost a decade, and in many ways, I left my heart there. (I considered leaving it in San Francisco, but it’s too foggy for my sensitivities.) San Diego is a wonderful spot to raise a family (if you can afford a house, which is getting easier all the time), thanks to its you-can-always-go-outside weather, its stay-and-play-in-the-sand beaches and its hey-dude-no-problem people.
But its children’s museum? Pleh.
We visited on a rainy Tuesday in February. Thanks to a reciprocal agreement with our beloved Minnesota Children’s Museum (which I wrote about here), we got in free. We figured we’d spend a couple hours exploring and playing, then hit up Phil’s BBQ or Miguel’s Cocina in Point Loma for lunch.
We were shocked to walk in and discover a mostly empty steel warehouse with concrete floors, odd-angled windows and very little for kids to do. There were a few art stations, with scraps of recycled paper and glue sticks to make cards, or maybe popsicle sticks and felt for shadow puppets. There was a climbing wall covered in graffiti. (Of course.) There was a cavernous room in the basement flashing larger-than-life-sized videos on the concrete walls, while techno music played in the background. (A rave for the toddler set, I guess.) There was a pillow fight room (sounded fun), but you had to wait in line for roughly 30-45 minutes to get in.
Our kids kept running a little ahead of us, looking around the corner, hoping for something fun – not hip.
They left disappointed. And a little annoyed, to be honest. (“I thought you said this was a fun place?!?”)
My husband and I left flabbergasted. And more than a little happy that we didn’t just spend $50 on admission for 30 minutes of bewilderment.
To me, it’s the perfect example of what happens when adults design a place (or a toy or a bedroom) for the way they want kids to be, not the way kids actually are.
As I walked around the New Children's Museum that day (yes, that's really its name), I could almost hear the team of earnest designers, fresh out of grad school, discussing how the building would be “industrial” and “modern” and filled with “clean lines” and “space for unstructured play" and (the kiss of death) “urban.”
But when seen through my kids’ eyes, it was just gray and empty and unfriendly and (the kiss of death) boring.
I understand the designers’ dilemma, to a degree. Before I had kids, I envisioned how my life would look as a parent. Rarely did it involve a living room with more brightly colored plastic than comfy chairs or a kitchen where my best whisks were commandeered to be “bad guys.”
But I’ve learned that kids are who they are, not who I want them to be. Real kids like comfort, not elegance. Real kids are energetic, not contained. Real kids get dirty and spill milk and put back the honey bear when he’s sticky and track Moon Sand into every room of my house.
The best part? Those real kids are teaching me to be a real, too.
It’s messy and loud and slobbery and I tend to fall into bed each night, exhausted.
But I’m also smiling. Because there’s nothing gray or boring or clean about this kind of life.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, as long as the keys on her computer aren't stuck together with peanut butter.
Imagine with me, if you will, a children’s museum built out of steel, concrete and hard lines. Almost everything is gray, so as not to intrude on a child’s sense of imagination, and the sparse displays are abstract, so as not to dictate to the child what to think or see.
Oh. Wait. You don’t have to imagine. It’s in San Diego.
Before I continue with my rant, let me say unequivocally: I love San Diego. My husband and I lived there for almost a decade, and in many ways, I left my heart there. (I considered leaving it in San Francisco, but it’s too foggy for my sensitivities.) San Diego is a wonderful spot to raise a family (if you can afford a house, which is getting easier all the time), thanks to its you-can-always-go-outside weather, its stay-and-play-in-the-sand beaches and its hey-dude-no-problem people.
But its children’s museum? Pleh.
We visited on a rainy Tuesday in February. Thanks to a reciprocal agreement with our beloved Minnesota Children’s Museum (which I wrote about here), we got in free. We figured we’d spend a couple hours exploring and playing, then hit up Phil’s BBQ or Miguel’s Cocina in Point Loma for lunch.
We were shocked to walk in and discover a mostly empty steel warehouse with concrete floors, odd-angled windows and very little for kids to do. There were a few art stations, with scraps of recycled paper and glue sticks to make cards, or maybe popsicle sticks and felt for shadow puppets. There was a climbing wall covered in graffiti. (Of course.) There was a cavernous room in the basement flashing larger-than-life-sized videos on the concrete walls, while techno music played in the background. (A rave for the toddler set, I guess.) There was a pillow fight room (sounded fun), but you had to wait in line for roughly 30-45 minutes to get in.
Our kids kept running a little ahead of us, looking around the corner, hoping for something fun – not hip.
They left disappointed. And a little annoyed, to be honest. (“I thought you said this was a fun place?!?”)
My husband and I left flabbergasted. And more than a little happy that we didn’t just spend $50 on admission for 30 minutes of bewilderment.
To me, it’s the perfect example of what happens when adults design a place (or a toy or a bedroom) for the way they want kids to be, not the way kids actually are.
As I walked around the New Children's Museum that day (yes, that's really its name), I could almost hear the team of earnest designers, fresh out of grad school, discussing how the building would be “industrial” and “modern” and filled with “clean lines” and “space for unstructured play" and (the kiss of death) “urban.”
But when seen through my kids’ eyes, it was just gray and empty and unfriendly and (the kiss of death) boring.
I understand the designers’ dilemma, to a degree. Before I had kids, I envisioned how my life would look as a parent. Rarely did it involve a living room with more brightly colored plastic than comfy chairs or a kitchen where my best whisks were commandeered to be “bad guys.”
But I’ve learned that kids are who they are, not who I want them to be. Real kids like comfort, not elegance. Real kids are energetic, not contained. Real kids get dirty and spill milk and put back the honey bear when he’s sticky and track Moon Sand into every room of my house.
The best part? Those real kids are teaching me to be a real, too.
It’s messy and loud and slobbery and I tend to fall into bed each night, exhausted.
But I’m also smiling. Because there’s nothing gray or boring or clean about this kind of life.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well, as long as the keys on her computer aren't stuck together with peanut butter.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Happy Winds-Day
By Kelly
It's an afternoon worthy of Pooh -- blustery and wild.
The clouds, puffs of translucent white, scuttle across the sky.
They seem to be in a rush, racing across the turquoise canvas, casting a swirl of shadows on the baby grass outside my window. (Grasslets?)
I wonder if they see the glory surrounding them.
I wonder if the frenzied pace they are keeping distracts them from the sunlight which makes them sparkle as golden as the sand.
Hurry does that, you know. The destination is the prize, not the journey. There is no room for purposefulness when you are pushed along at the whims of the wind.
The clouds, these vaporous whispers, these creations of God, they don’t know that I’m studying them through the glass. They aren’t aware that I’m watching their breakneck tumble.
But I do.
And I am not unaware of the urgent winds which push and pull me.
I wonder how much glory I miss.
Oh bother.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
It's an afternoon worthy of Pooh -- blustery and wild.
The clouds, puffs of translucent white, scuttle across the sky.
They seem to be in a rush, racing across the turquoise canvas, casting a swirl of shadows on the baby grass outside my window. (Grasslets?)
I wonder if they see the glory surrounding them.
I wonder if the frenzied pace they are keeping distracts them from the sunlight which makes them sparkle as golden as the sand.
Hurry does that, you know. The destination is the prize, not the journey. There is no room for purposefulness when you are pushed along at the whims of the wind.
The clouds, these vaporous whispers, these creations of God, they don’t know that I’m studying them through the glass. They aren’t aware that I’m watching their breakneck tumble.
But I do.
And I am not unaware of the urgent winds which push and pull me.
I wonder how much glory I miss.
Oh bother.
Kelly also blogs at Love Well.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Great Expectations
By Kelly
If you want to know what kind of day I’m having, you need ask only one simple question: Has the baby napped?
If yes, then I’m having a glorious day, abounding in productivity and sprinkled with sunshine and rainbows.
If no, then I’m having a frustrating day, thick with clouds and whining. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not getting anything done with a cranky toddler grasping my knees, so you might as well expect leftovers for dinner, because who can cook with Her High Grumpiness at the helm?
At least, that’s how it used to be. But after months of living at the whim of a baby, I decided to take back control.
I acknowledged I couldn’t control Teyla’s sleep – but I could control my attitude. I decided to make peace with my inefficient life and forget about having a chunk of “me” time each afternoon. I downsized my To Do list. I slowly learned to expect less from my day and much, much less from myself. And with my attitude thusly adjusted, I found life to be joyful again. When the baby woke up after another 20-minute nap, I would sigh, shelve the frustration and resolve to enjoy the baby.
Behold, the power of expectations.
When Corey and I were newly married, most of our fights would end on the battlefield of expectations. Seems I had them for our relationship, and I held him responsible for meeting them. Problem was, I never communicated them. Or so he claimed. My response tended to be: How can I communicate something that is so ingrained I don’t even know it’s there? My expectations only materialize to me when they aren’t met.
Still, it’s not a fair thing to do to another person, expect them to meet an expectation you can’t even verbalize. Ever since, I’ve tried to do a lot of introspection when I get frustrated or hurt or angry. Is it truly someone else? Or are my expectations slightly out of whack?
Thankfully, I had a few years to practice this before we had kids. It’s proven invaluable in parenting. Thus, when the baby makes it a practice to avoid taking naps, I try to adjust my expectations and hopefully, reap a happier mental state.
But darn it if those initial expectations don’t just keep coming back. Which is why I was annoyed this weekend when Teyla didn’t nap, even though she’d only been consistently taking real naps – which are defined by baby sleep experts as naps that are at least an hour in length; any less, and the baby’s brain doesn’t have time to reboot and renew – for a week. A week! And already my expectations about what my life should look like have reformed.
This parenting stuff. It’s hard work. Especially when the baby doesn’t nap.
I’d love to write more, but my husband’s home, and he expects dinner.
Kelly always expects to blog daily at her personal blog Love Well. But if the baby doens't nap, she expects to put the writing off for a day or two.
If you want to know what kind of day I’m having, you need ask only one simple question: Has the baby napped?
If yes, then I’m having a glorious day, abounding in productivity and sprinkled with sunshine and rainbows.
If no, then I’m having a frustrating day, thick with clouds and whining. Of course, it goes without saying that I’m not getting anything done with a cranky toddler grasping my knees, so you might as well expect leftovers for dinner, because who can cook with Her High Grumpiness at the helm?
At least, that’s how it used to be. But after months of living at the whim of a baby, I decided to take back control.
I acknowledged I couldn’t control Teyla’s sleep – but I could control my attitude. I decided to make peace with my inefficient life and forget about having a chunk of “me” time each afternoon. I downsized my To Do list. I slowly learned to expect less from my day and much, much less from myself. And with my attitude thusly adjusted, I found life to be joyful again. When the baby woke up after another 20-minute nap, I would sigh, shelve the frustration and resolve to enjoy the baby.
Behold, the power of expectations.
When Corey and I were newly married, most of our fights would end on the battlefield of expectations. Seems I had them for our relationship, and I held him responsible for meeting them. Problem was, I never communicated them. Or so he claimed. My response tended to be: How can I communicate something that is so ingrained I don’t even know it’s there? My expectations only materialize to me when they aren’t met.
Still, it’s not a fair thing to do to another person, expect them to meet an expectation you can’t even verbalize. Ever since, I’ve tried to do a lot of introspection when I get frustrated or hurt or angry. Is it truly someone else? Or are my expectations slightly out of whack?
Thankfully, I had a few years to practice this before we had kids. It’s proven invaluable in parenting. Thus, when the baby makes it a practice to avoid taking naps, I try to adjust my expectations and hopefully, reap a happier mental state.
But darn it if those initial expectations don’t just keep coming back. Which is why I was annoyed this weekend when Teyla didn’t nap, even though she’d only been consistently taking real naps – which are defined by baby sleep experts as naps that are at least an hour in length; any less, and the baby’s brain doesn’t have time to reboot and renew – for a week. A week! And already my expectations about what my life should look like have reformed.
This parenting stuff. It’s hard work. Especially when the baby doesn’t nap.
I’d love to write more, but my husband’s home, and he expects dinner.
Kelly always expects to blog daily at her personal blog Love Well. But if the baby doens't nap, she expects to put the writing off for a day or two.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Eating Out, Minus the Eating
By Kelly
I distinctly remember my birthday last year.
Teyla was just four days old. We had only gotten home from the hospital the day before. But since it was my birthday, and a Sunday, my husband bundled everyone up and took us to a fabulous brunch at a quaint, old inn near our house.
It was a perfect morning. Teyla slept in a cocoon of fleece. The older kids colored quietly on their menus and ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed. Corey and I drank coffee and sipped mimosas and shelled jumbo shrimp while we talked. (We also ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed, but it seems more romantic to leave that part out.)
When babies are young, eating out is simple. You eat, they sleep, end of story.
But now that Teyla is 15 months old, eating out is akin to torture. Or maybe sumo wrestling, if sumo wrestlers were 20 pounds of twisting, contorting muscle who defy all attempts by normal high chairs to restrain them.
I should have remembered this phase, but it always seems to sneak up on me. Just a few months ago, we were able to spontaneously take the kids to a nearby restaurant and make it through a meal with nothing more than a bottle and a few Cheerios. Then, overnight and without warning, our formerly tame infant, who used to sit contentedly in the sticky high chairs and bang on the table with a spoon while we would eat our salads, morphed into an irascible toddler, who will not sit still in a restaurant even when tempted with M&Ms.
The last time we ate out, Corey and I took turns following Teyla around the tiny lobby of The Roman Market, snatching jars of marinated olives out of her hands, making chit-chat with the grandparents who were casting us sympathetic smiles. Occasionally, we would try to sit again, but Teyla would magically make all the bones in her body disappear while simultaneously twisting like a candy cane.
I took my margherita pizza to go. It was cold. And my abs were bruised.
For now, we’re eating in. So I can actually eat.
I estimate we'll be out and about again by 2011. Maybe we'll go to brunch for my birthday.
Kelly also writes about her family, her life and her eating habits at her personal blog, Love Well.
I distinctly remember my birthday last year.
Teyla was just four days old. We had only gotten home from the hospital the day before. But since it was my birthday, and a Sunday, my husband bundled everyone up and took us to a fabulous brunch at a quaint, old inn near our house.
It was a perfect morning. Teyla slept in a cocoon of fleece. The older kids colored quietly on their menus and ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed. Corey and I drank coffee and sipped mimosas and shelled jumbo shrimp while we talked. (We also ate more caramel rolls than usually allowed, but it seems more romantic to leave that part out.)
When babies are young, eating out is simple. You eat, they sleep, end of story.
But now that Teyla is 15 months old, eating out is akin to torture. Or maybe sumo wrestling, if sumo wrestlers were 20 pounds of twisting, contorting muscle who defy all attempts by normal high chairs to restrain them.
I should have remembered this phase, but it always seems to sneak up on me. Just a few months ago, we were able to spontaneously take the kids to a nearby restaurant and make it through a meal with nothing more than a bottle and a few Cheerios. Then, overnight and without warning, our formerly tame infant, who used to sit contentedly in the sticky high chairs and bang on the table with a spoon while we would eat our salads, morphed into an irascible toddler, who will not sit still in a restaurant even when tempted with M&Ms.
The last time we ate out, Corey and I took turns following Teyla around the tiny lobby of The Roman Market, snatching jars of marinated olives out of her hands, making chit-chat with the grandparents who were casting us sympathetic smiles. Occasionally, we would try to sit again, but Teyla would magically make all the bones in her body disappear while simultaneously twisting like a candy cane.
I took my margherita pizza to go. It was cold. And my abs were bruised.
For now, we’re eating in. So I can actually eat.
I estimate we'll be out and about again by 2011. Maybe we'll go to brunch for my birthday.
Kelly also writes about her family, her life and her eating habits at her personal blog, Love Well.
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