Recently I have tried very hard to finish a parenting book that a couple of people had recommend. While I liked many of the concepts in the book, the main premise is that when disciplining children, a parent should try to minimize emotion and talking. (Really, really hard for me. Really hard.)
I guess as adults we expect children to understand rationally why they can't or shouldn't do something. The book declares that this just isn't the case, and while as adults we have this expectation, our children just don't get it. So trying to talk and explain the whys and wherefores of everything is just like beating ourselves in the head with a cricket bat. The emotion should be taken out just because, bottom line, emotion escalates everything (I would agree with this....!)
The book was actually very helpful, although I think I have to make notes on the ideas in it, just to keep it all straight in my head, before I unleash some new type of discipline on my poor children!
However, last week, I had a rough week with one of my boys and I found that the golden rule of discipline was broken many times in my house. (I talked too much and I was way too emotional.) Consequently, I spent many days (and nights) beating myself up. First, because I broke the bloody golden rule of parenting, and second, because I felt like I failed my child. When any of them are giving me a hard time, I want to be this firm, but fair, disciplined, but kind mother. I want them to feel that when they feel like all is lost (even if it is over whether they get to go and pick out another lego at target), that I am their safe place. If I'm not that place....who the hell, or what the hell is? (This maybe a major presumption on my part, but that's how I felt/feel about my Mum, and I want that for them.)
Fortunately, my very wise sister-in-law wrote in an email to me that she thought that being a perfect mother was showing imperfection. Genius. This is why the aforementioned discipline approach is all very well, I mean, it's a great goal when you really want to shut down that truly annoying, nit-picking kind of behaviour that just drives you nuts on a daily basis, but if I think about big picture stuff, and how I am trying to prepare my children for adulthood, maybe showing imperfection, and yelling (occasionally?!) and being emotional allows them to see that the world is an imperfect place. That people are emotional, and irrational, and make mistakes. I don't mean to cop out of disciplining my kids. That would be a huge mistake, and make my house an unbearable place to live. (And it would make my kids unbearable brats to be around!) I suppose I was just really grateful to think of the silver limning to my little black, rain cloud.
I set the bar for motherhood high in my head, and while I still want to be their safe palce, I have to recognize that I am not perfect. (God, am I ever not perfect....) But I love my kids beyond belief, and I hope that on our bad days, they still know that. I tell them, but there's always one that throws back - "no you don't!"
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
On teenage employment
I was remembering this week all the jobs I had as a teenager. I don't actually know why I got thinking about it...it may have been the rain...my umbrella that jogged a memory of one job at a chintzy handbag (purse) shop where I worked for about 4 weeks. Just long enough to get my store discount and buy my mum a really pretty umbrella for her birthday. Then I quit. That was the story of my life. Work for a few weeks, then quit. (I actually had very noble intentions. I desperately wanted to work, in fact I had a great work ethic. I just kept having panic attacks. So I would quit.)
Anyway, my first job was at this dodgy indoor market, that I think only exist in Essex. That was over Christmas when I was 15 (actually I was working illegally since 16 was minimum employable age. Cash in hand and some sweet flared jeans with suspenders attached and no one was any the wiser.) This job taught me how to add up (in my head - no cash register- easier to run a dodgy market stall) a number of items that ended in 99 pence. Since I am convinced that have mathematical dyslexia (dyslexia can run in familys and can often switch male/female and language/maths with each generation) these calculations were no small feat.
When I was legally able to work, my first proper job was at "Words" a small card and gift shop. The woman who owned the shop, on my first day was wearing odd coloured shoes. She also sent me home one day for wearing long shorts. (Aparently the shorts weren't professional looking. For what I made, I don't think I had to look professional!) The job basically consisted of a lot of dusting, polishing brass door plates, and organizing greeting cards. But, alas, after a few months, the panic attacks got the better of me and I left. Then there was the pharmacy that during the interview the manager took my hands and looked at my nails (??!!) and declared that I had major vitamin deficiencies. And that I needed a tonic. English people love to tell you that if you are looking a little peaky you need a tonic. (Think Mary Poppins and the medicine she feeds to the kids with a spoonful of sugar. No one actually finds out why they need the medicine. It was probably a tonic for every nondescript ailment a child, or adult can be suffering from.) The pharmacy guy freaked me out and I turned the job down. I waitressed at Pizza Hut which was a horrible experience. You had to clean tables before you could even serve food. Then, once you had taken a 6 week training course you could become a server. Except...the idea of sitting in a meeting for 6 weeks (once a week of course) absolutely terrified me. (the dreaded panic attacks.) Oh, and the manager had this weird flirty, suggestive thing going on with all the female wait staff. (It was quite suggestive.) And that scared the shit out of me too. English employers/management at the time just didn't think there was anything wrong with hitting on your staff. So, after a couple of weeks I quit Pizza Hut too. But even now, I can never go in one and hit the salad bar without remembering how to re-stock that salad bar.
After Pizza Hut, came the handbag shop. And after that I worked for Wimpy (a smaller hamburger chain, kind of like Burger King, but you sat down and were waited on). I just hated the smell of fried food that followed you home at the end of the day. So I only worked there for 6 weeks. I guess as I got older and I kicked the panic attacks and I was able to hold down a part-time job like a normal teenager.
But my best job story ever was while I was waiting for my visa to move here. The mushroom farm. Oh dear God, possibly the worst job that I have ever had in my life. First, here is some mushroom trivia. Mushrooms grow overnight in big wooden beds that literally look like bunk beds. So, you pick them very early in the morning. You have to climb up these beds (workers insurance?!) and reach over compost/manure type soil to pick white or portabella mushrooms. You have a small paring night and you just fill up as many of those little blue mushroom cartons as you can in one morning. Now, here was what bothered me ('cause the previous stuff was all hunky dory), you had to dip all your equipment at the end of your shift (basket for holding cartons, and knives) in a huge vat of chemicals. (Red flag #1) Chemicals that killed the mushroom mites. (WTF? Red flag #2) Mushroom mites are tiny, little creepy crawlies that are hard to see, but live in the mushroom beds. When I finished, I would ride my bike home and shower. I would lay down to nap and just feel those barely visible mites crawling all over me. So, I ended up leaving that job also. However, what was really sad was that the women I worked with had barely any education. They all had to make money somehow, and mushroom pickers were in high demand. When I asked someone exactly what the chemicals in that big old vat were, they shook their head and told me they didn't know. But they were sure the chemicals were safe. Why else would the management let them use the dip?
Anyway, my first job was at this dodgy indoor market, that I think only exist in Essex. That was over Christmas when I was 15 (actually I was working illegally since 16 was minimum employable age. Cash in hand and some sweet flared jeans with suspenders attached and no one was any the wiser.) This job taught me how to add up (in my head - no cash register- easier to run a dodgy market stall) a number of items that ended in 99 pence. Since I am convinced that have mathematical dyslexia (dyslexia can run in familys and can often switch male/female and language/maths with each generation) these calculations were no small feat.
When I was legally able to work, my first proper job was at "Words" a small card and gift shop. The woman who owned the shop, on my first day was wearing odd coloured shoes. She also sent me home one day for wearing long shorts. (Aparently the shorts weren't professional looking. For what I made, I don't think I had to look professional!) The job basically consisted of a lot of dusting, polishing brass door plates, and organizing greeting cards. But, alas, after a few months, the panic attacks got the better of me and I left. Then there was the pharmacy that during the interview the manager took my hands and looked at my nails (??!!) and declared that I had major vitamin deficiencies. And that I needed a tonic. English people love to tell you that if you are looking a little peaky you need a tonic. (Think Mary Poppins and the medicine she feeds to the kids with a spoonful of sugar. No one actually finds out why they need the medicine. It was probably a tonic for every nondescript ailment a child, or adult can be suffering from.) The pharmacy guy freaked me out and I turned the job down. I waitressed at Pizza Hut which was a horrible experience. You had to clean tables before you could even serve food. Then, once you had taken a 6 week training course you could become a server. Except...the idea of sitting in a meeting for 6 weeks (once a week of course) absolutely terrified me. (the dreaded panic attacks.) Oh, and the manager had this weird flirty, suggestive thing going on with all the female wait staff. (It was quite suggestive.) And that scared the shit out of me too. English employers/management at the time just didn't think there was anything wrong with hitting on your staff. So, after a couple of weeks I quit Pizza Hut too. But even now, I can never go in one and hit the salad bar without remembering how to re-stock that salad bar.
After Pizza Hut, came the handbag shop. And after that I worked for Wimpy (a smaller hamburger chain, kind of like Burger King, but you sat down and were waited on). I just hated the smell of fried food that followed you home at the end of the day. So I only worked there for 6 weeks. I guess as I got older and I kicked the panic attacks and I was able to hold down a part-time job like a normal teenager.
But my best job story ever was while I was waiting for my visa to move here. The mushroom farm. Oh dear God, possibly the worst job that I have ever had in my life. First, here is some mushroom trivia. Mushrooms grow overnight in big wooden beds that literally look like bunk beds. So, you pick them very early in the morning. You have to climb up these beds (workers insurance?!) and reach over compost/manure type soil to pick white or portabella mushrooms. You have a small paring night and you just fill up as many of those little blue mushroom cartons as you can in one morning. Now, here was what bothered me ('cause the previous stuff was all hunky dory), you had to dip all your equipment at the end of your shift (basket for holding cartons, and knives) in a huge vat of chemicals. (Red flag #1) Chemicals that killed the mushroom mites. (WTF? Red flag #2) Mushroom mites are tiny, little creepy crawlies that are hard to see, but live in the mushroom beds. When I finished, I would ride my bike home and shower. I would lay down to nap and just feel those barely visible mites crawling all over me. So, I ended up leaving that job also. However, what was really sad was that the women I worked with had barely any education. They all had to make money somehow, and mushroom pickers were in high demand. When I asked someone exactly what the chemicals in that big old vat were, they shook their head and told me they didn't know. But they were sure the chemicals were safe. Why else would the management let them use the dip?
Monday, May 17, 2010
On Hamilton
I am reading this fascinating book that I picked up in Virginia when we were visiting Montpelier. It's called the Intimate Lives of the Founding Fathers. It's about the FF's personal lives and loves. And no, it's not sordid! The title sounds chintzy I know. But it has been truly interesting because it not only covers the FF's wives and lovers, it also discusses their relationships with their parents and children, and it is all done within the time that they lived. So I am getting a great synopsis of these guys place in history. (I did read about half of a John Adam's autobiography, but you know, it was a but heavy going here and there, and I finally gave up and gave the book back to my father-in-law.) So, the Washington chapter was cool - I mean, he's Washington! The Adam's chapter was great because you really got this picture of a couple that adored each other and found it hard to live without each other. Despite many years of having to live apart. (The Franklin chapter was crap. I just don't care for Benjamin F.) But the Hamilton chapter had me on the edge of my seat! Thus far in my life, I knew little of Hamilton except he was a co-author of the Federalist Papers, that he had something to do with the Treasury and that he and John Adams had ALOT of animosity towards each other. What I didn't know was that he was kind of an orphan from Trinidad and that his parents had a huge influence on his hesitation to marry a rich girl and his infidelity. But what was amazing to me is that this chapter just proved to me that political scandals, backstabbing, and blown-up conspiracy theories have been around for 100's of years! Hamilton has one affair in particular that seemed to cost him his political influence and standing. His enemies get a hold of the letters between Hamilton and his mistress and they try to show that he had dipped into the treasuries money (especially when the country first sold stock to the public). Hamilton's enemies publish the letters!! (I can see the headline now in Us, People and the National Enquirer!) Hamilton comes out and writes this long mini-book about his affair and tried to defend himself in light of the monetary accusations. Once he dies (from a bullet in a duel....the drama!) all his papers are released and it shows that he died bankrupt and never touched a penny that didn't belong to him in a legitimate manner. Wow.
The chapter was reassuring in a troubling way. It helped me realize that our generation is not going to hell...human nature has, apparently always revealed in a scandal. There has always been individuals who cannot wait to top their enemies, with or without legitimate proof of wrong doing. I guess the difference now is that you know, back then there would be no apology, instead a duel would ensue! I wonder how Tiger Woods would have fared in those times? Or John Edwards? At least now, the women who were also wronged could challenge to a duel, instead of being pretty much powerless. However, the general public (and the wives) just have to sit through the pitiful public apology or an interview with Oprah. I think I'd take the duel.
The chapter was reassuring in a troubling way. It helped me realize that our generation is not going to hell...human nature has, apparently always revealed in a scandal. There has always been individuals who cannot wait to top their enemies, with or without legitimate proof of wrong doing. I guess the difference now is that you know, back then there would be no apology, instead a duel would ensue! I wonder how Tiger Woods would have fared in those times? Or John Edwards? At least now, the women who were also wronged could challenge to a duel, instead of being pretty much powerless. However, the general public (and the wives) just have to sit through the pitiful public apology or an interview with Oprah. I think I'd take the duel.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Article
I just read an interesting article in Newsweek on Motherhood (surprise, surprise). The author (Julie something or other) wrote about how mothers are setting the bar for themselves too high. She begins the article by describing mothers who pursued their carers, their need for creativity, their individuality while other women raised their children. Her two examples (Julia Baird...I found the magazine) were Doris Lessing and Dorothea Lange. Both women left their children while they carved out their careers. I think the point of the article was to show that while women are no longer held back by men, we are now held back by our children. More specifically, we are held back by the idea of a perfect mother. (Whom I am sure does not exist.)
"Today, women no longer need to escape their families to work or be happy - now they need to escape their own unrealistic expectation of what a good mother is" (J. Baird)
The author talks about how we are allowed now to be more than mothers, but that we wonder whether we have time to be anything else but a mother if we are to be a perfect one. I guess I do beat myself up about things that maybe previous generations didn't worry about. But in my defense I think this is a totally different era to raise children in. In some ways it's a more honest and open era. I think women are more willing to talk about what is hard about being a parent, a working parent, a career women, a caretaker, a wife, or a friend. On the other hand we are bombarded with what to do, (do use conflict resolution with your child and positive reinforcement at all times) and what not to do (don't praise too much - you may ruin their inner motivation and intrinsic reward systems). Advice changes as quickly as I change my socks. One baby could have whole milk at one. Two babies later and whole milk has too many calories and at one you can switch to skim milk. But wait, I thought fat was good for brain development? Or only good until one?
Motherhood at least isn't as public and scrutinized as being pregnant was. (Well, it might be, but in a kind of different way.) I have never felt as watched as when when I was expecting. Over the space of 7 years the list of things that were off limits grew and grew. It turned something beautiful into a medicalized condition. (I know, I know, it's all for the best, health of the baby etc, but I got the feeling I was smear on a slide, under a microscope.)
It seems like pregnancy is just the beginning of this hyperscrutinity that evolves into eventual complete paranoia that nothing you do as a mother is right. I hope by the next generation of women, they will find a balance between doing what makes them happy and what makes them a better parent and feeling like a good mother because they love their kids. Bottom line, they love their kids, like we love our kids. Whether we give them the right milk at the right time. Or whether we forget to praise them or we praise them too much. We just love them. And at the end of the day...isn't that all we need? All they need?
"Today, women no longer need to escape their families to work or be happy - now they need to escape their own unrealistic expectation of what a good mother is" (J. Baird)
The author talks about how we are allowed now to be more than mothers, but that we wonder whether we have time to be anything else but a mother if we are to be a perfect one. I guess I do beat myself up about things that maybe previous generations didn't worry about. But in my defense I think this is a totally different era to raise children in. In some ways it's a more honest and open era. I think women are more willing to talk about what is hard about being a parent, a working parent, a career women, a caretaker, a wife, or a friend. On the other hand we are bombarded with what to do, (do use conflict resolution with your child and positive reinforcement at all times) and what not to do (don't praise too much - you may ruin their inner motivation and intrinsic reward systems). Advice changes as quickly as I change my socks. One baby could have whole milk at one. Two babies later and whole milk has too many calories and at one you can switch to skim milk. But wait, I thought fat was good for brain development? Or only good until one?
Motherhood at least isn't as public and scrutinized as being pregnant was. (Well, it might be, but in a kind of different way.) I have never felt as watched as when when I was expecting. Over the space of 7 years the list of things that were off limits grew and grew. It turned something beautiful into a medicalized condition. (I know, I know, it's all for the best, health of the baby etc, but I got the feeling I was smear on a slide, under a microscope.)
It seems like pregnancy is just the beginning of this hyperscrutinity that evolves into eventual complete paranoia that nothing you do as a mother is right. I hope by the next generation of women, they will find a balance between doing what makes them happy and what makes them a better parent and feeling like a good mother because they love their kids. Bottom line, they love their kids, like we love our kids. Whether we give them the right milk at the right time. Or whether we forget to praise them or we praise them too much. We just love them. And at the end of the day...isn't that all we need? All they need?
Monday, May 10, 2010
On Parenthood
Well. Where to start? I remember how clueless and deliciously oblivious I was to the hard work that goes into raising a family. My sister started her family before me and I now cringe at how completely ignorant I was to how hard it was for her. I was always willing to help out - babysitting, sleeping over when her husband was out of town, a pizza out when she needed it (restaurants didn't happen much back in the day) making lunch for her toddler when she was so sick in her second pregnancy, and washing her kitchen floor when she couldn't bend over. But, I really had no idea of how hard it is being a parent. When babies are little and you are so sleep deprived that you can hardly string a sentence together, you think that once your baby sleeps through the night, your life will just magically become easier again. Ha! The sleep deprivation is just the first on a long list of worries. Then the list may encompass the worry that they don't say much or eat enough. Then you add the concerns over biting other kids or throwing everything that can be picked up. Do they play well with others? Do they pay attention in class? Can they read well enough to write the journal sentences? Can they participate in team sports? The list is endless. And....it doesn't seem to get easier. Sure, you're not having to watch a crawling baby navigate the world or making sure that a baby gets enough milk when you decide to quit nursing, but, it looks like it changes to other psychological mind-fucks that just seems to get harder as the kids get older. Because you're not in control of their life anymore. You can't tell them when to sleep, when to eat, how to play nice, or the best way to sit on a potty. You have to watch them learn through making their own mistakes and poor decisions. Then it appears that you have to sit and listen to them pour out their heartbreak without saying 'I told you so'.
I remember asking a friend who had a baby before me if she felt she was working harder than before her baby when she worked a job with physically and mentally handicapped adults. Her answer? Yes. She felt she was absolutely working harder than she ever had in her life before. Three kids later and I totally agree. Those 16 2 and 3 year olds that I taught before my boys came along were hard work, but here's the difference - I got to give them back at 6pm. I didn't work weekends. I got sick days and vacation days. And I could discipline them fairly without feeling guilty. I got paid for that gig!! Now I am paid with giggles and smiles. I am rewarded with the hope that I am (hopefully) preparing these 3 boys for the world. And while I may not sufficiently detach emotionally when I try to discipline, I think I am teaching them that emotions are part of what makes us human. And that no matter what, I will love them until the day I die. And hopefully they will remember all that and if i am lucky they will do the same for their children.
I remember asking a friend who had a baby before me if she felt she was working harder than before her baby when she worked a job with physically and mentally handicapped adults. Her answer? Yes. She felt she was absolutely working harder than she ever had in her life before. Three kids later and I totally agree. Those 16 2 and 3 year olds that I taught before my boys came along were hard work, but here's the difference - I got to give them back at 6pm. I didn't work weekends. I got sick days and vacation days. And I could discipline them fairly without feeling guilty. I got paid for that gig!! Now I am paid with giggles and smiles. I am rewarded with the hope that I am (hopefully) preparing these 3 boys for the world. And while I may not sufficiently detach emotionally when I try to discipline, I think I am teaching them that emotions are part of what makes us human. And that no matter what, I will love them until the day I die. And hopefully they will remember all that and if i am lucky they will do the same for their children.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Closing a chapter in your life
What makes it SO hard to close the baby chapter? I have been pondering this a lot recently. Mainly because I tend to over think everything and because perfect strangers come up constantly and ask if I am going to "go for the girl?" or they ask, "didn't you want a girl?" (To which my response - in my head of course is - "sure I wanted a girl, what one should I trade in? the sassy one? the one that throws fits? or the one still in diapers?!") All joking aside, I wouldn't trade a single thing about my life. (Unless my mum/dad/sister and family all lived in the OP.) And I am perfectly happy that I don't have a girl - there's only room for one crazy bitch in our house.
I am of the age where many of my friends are finished having babies or close to it. (Where the heck did that time go?) And while I love babies, and so does Kyle (oh and they love him, he is a baby magnet), I can't quite get my head around having one more. And it's not like I should have one more, but I don't always feel 100% done. But is that because I am just feeling the sadness that comes when you decide to pack in the baby gig. This brings me back to the original question: what makes it so hard to close the baby chapter. Here are my thoughts so far -
1. The ability to create life is awesome. It's the coolest thing my body has ever done. And as I liked to point out to kyle - my body did it out of nothing. (I know that's not entirely true, but that's how it felt.) I am not a raging feminist, but I am sorry women are pretty fantastic. I know guys are pretty cool, you know, they can pee standing up for goodness sake....but come on. Creating life? We only need you at the start and then you can toot your horn about your peeing ability. But realistically? Not that impressive in comparison.
2. The life of a mother, while wonderful and full of, um....love....it's just not that glamorous. But when you are expecting a baby, you're special. Just for a bit. Just until the wee thing comes out and then you're chopped liver. But when else do you get to talk about yourself (even if it is just to your obgyn?) and focus on yourself? Well, OK, that only happens with the first one, but you all know how I love to talk about myself, so this is a nice time in my life!
3. I wasn't a fabby career woman (although I Loved my job and that job ultimately led me to my graduate degree), I still felt like I was just kind of waiting to start the whole family thing. Now what do I wait for? Really? Wait for the boys to be stinky, hairy teenagers who mumble at me, think I am embarrassing and lie about what they get up to? Or maybe I should be on the edge of my seat for them all to leave for college? Right. then I'll be all psyched about empty-nest-syndrome. Oh I know what I'm waiting for! The menopause!! Or even better - the perimenopause. (Which I didn't know even existed until recently.) I assume that Kyle will kick me out and/or trade me in for a younger, more supple, less depressed/whinny chippie. (She'll probably be blonde too....)
I think I preferred the blissfully 'ignorant to life with children' kind of waiting.
4. I'm not really going to elaborate on this thought since it's a blog in itself - pre-baby body versus post-baby body. All I will say is, you pick apart your body before you had babies and then you totally romanticize that body after you have them. (See, only room for one crazy in our house.)
Maybe it's like university. You can't really believe it's over and you figure you'll miss all that delicious time you could waste and procrastinate about what you should be doing, but at some point it ends, and real life kicks in. It seems to me that life is all about adjusting to changes, and finding balance in your life. So, that means I have to adjust to the idea that I will not be cute and pregnant (I never felt cute, but I think you should.) but I will be fabby, with a graduate degree, and three handsome young men. Then I will find balance in my emotions about giving up that miraculous process of pregnancy/birth/nursing. I will put that process on one side of a scale, and on the other side I will put sleep/running out without having to pump milk/having my body to myself. Then I may be able to close the baby chapter a little more easily.
I am of the age where many of my friends are finished having babies or close to it. (Where the heck did that time go?) And while I love babies, and so does Kyle (oh and they love him, he is a baby magnet), I can't quite get my head around having one more. And it's not like I should have one more, but I don't always feel 100% done. But is that because I am just feeling the sadness that comes when you decide to pack in the baby gig. This brings me back to the original question: what makes it so hard to close the baby chapter. Here are my thoughts so far -
1. The ability to create life is awesome. It's the coolest thing my body has ever done. And as I liked to point out to kyle - my body did it out of nothing. (I know that's not entirely true, but that's how it felt.) I am not a raging feminist, but I am sorry women are pretty fantastic. I know guys are pretty cool, you know, they can pee standing up for goodness sake....but come on. Creating life? We only need you at the start and then you can toot your horn about your peeing ability. But realistically? Not that impressive in comparison.
2. The life of a mother, while wonderful and full of, um....love....it's just not that glamorous. But when you are expecting a baby, you're special. Just for a bit. Just until the wee thing comes out and then you're chopped liver. But when else do you get to talk about yourself (even if it is just to your obgyn?) and focus on yourself? Well, OK, that only happens with the first one, but you all know how I love to talk about myself, so this is a nice time in my life!
3. I wasn't a fabby career woman (although I Loved my job and that job ultimately led me to my graduate degree), I still felt like I was just kind of waiting to start the whole family thing. Now what do I wait for? Really? Wait for the boys to be stinky, hairy teenagers who mumble at me, think I am embarrassing and lie about what they get up to? Or maybe I should be on the edge of my seat for them all to leave for college? Right. then I'll be all psyched about empty-nest-syndrome. Oh I know what I'm waiting for! The menopause!! Or even better - the perimenopause. (Which I didn't know even existed until recently.) I assume that Kyle will kick me out and/or trade me in for a younger, more supple, less depressed/whinny chippie. (She'll probably be blonde too....)
I think I preferred the blissfully 'ignorant to life with children' kind of waiting.
4. I'm not really going to elaborate on this thought since it's a blog in itself - pre-baby body versus post-baby body. All I will say is, you pick apart your body before you had babies and then you totally romanticize that body after you have them. (See, only room for one crazy in our house.)
Maybe it's like university. You can't really believe it's over and you figure you'll miss all that delicious time you could waste and procrastinate about what you should be doing, but at some point it ends, and real life kicks in. It seems to me that life is all about adjusting to changes, and finding balance in your life. So, that means I have to adjust to the idea that I will not be cute and pregnant (I never felt cute, but I think you should.) but I will be fabby, with a graduate degree, and three handsome young men. Then I will find balance in my emotions about giving up that miraculous process of pregnancy/birth/nursing. I will put that process on one side of a scale, and on the other side I will put sleep/running out without having to pump milk/having my body to myself. Then I may be able to close the baby chapter a little more easily.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
So I am sitting in the kitchen, listening to my ipod, waiting to start dinner, and a Christmas carol comes up. (Once In Royal David's City to be exact.) I have this CD that Mum gave me of Christmas carols from some old cathedral in Limeyland. Everyone but me dislikes it because, you know, it sounds like church music. (Which I love.) It got me thinking about the Christmases of my childhood....since when I hear that music I can almost picture I am back, as a little girl in Mum and Dad's house. The memory and feeling is so strong that it can bring tears to my eyes and a lump to my throat.
I can't work out if it's being English and the whole kind of Dickensian type of Christmas...the pudding (will it turn out? won't it? will it be as delicious as last year? See The Christmas Carol and Mrs. Cratchitt's pudding for a true appreciation of the importance of this delectable dessert), the roast turkey and roast potatoes (fluffy inside and roasted to a golden crisp on the outside), the carol singers or Salvation army singers in the high street on a Saturday that sing those almost melancholy Christmas carols that with a wind band accompanying them sound strangely sad and at the same time sweet. Or whether my family have some special attachment to the holiday. I know this is part of it because my sister feels the same way as do about Christmas. All the traditions as children that we partook in (and believe me they weren't big or fancy) we still want to do now at the grand ages of 36 and 43. My sister gets to do most of them whereas the years we are in America, I make do with the memory of them.
Most of our traditions were centered around food. The making of the pudding, usually around November time, the baking of the Christmas cake (stir it, make a wish and inhale the heavenly scent of brown sugar, butter, lemon, orange and spice), mince pies (luxury ones with the sweet filling and sweetened cream cheese enclosed in an orange, buttery short crust pastry). Or, when I was really small, we made peppermint candies, marzipan sweets dipped into melted chocolate, and my Mum wrapped dates around almonds for my Dad to enjoy over Christmas. My children have all kinds of traditions but they are way fancier - a child's production of Christmas Carol with Grandma (my personal favourite), a gingerbread house (made from scratch and assembled by yours truly), and a big Christmas Eve party at their Uncles (who knows how to party!!).
We had very little as children. I received one present from my parents, one from each of my siblings (I have 2), one from my Grandad or as we got older maybe five pounds from him and five from Great Auntie Ruth. Oh, and my stocking from Father Christmas. Wow. That was the thing I LOVED the most. Mum and Dad would leave them at the bottom of our beds and when you woke up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, you could feel the bulky, heavy-ish, stuffed stocking at the foot of your bed. My brother and I would spend many days leading up to Christmas making plans. We'd plan on sleeping in the same room, and we'd plan on staying up to see Father Christmas. We'd practice creeping around his room, or trying to turn on his light without anyone else hearing the switch flick. We'd hide his flashlight under his wicker rubbish basket, so that the light would filter out of the tiny, crisscross holes in the basket which would then shed a dim constellation-like pattern on the floor around it. Of course, we never made it that late. But the preparation and anticipation of that night was the best part of all.
I didn't have a big extended family. No big parties, and lots of cousins or Aunties and Uncles. Our Christmases were kind of quiet with Grandad and Nanny Self staying for a couple of days. And after Nanny passed away, just Grandad, who would get us all excited about making eggs and bacon for breakfast on Christmas morning instead of our usual weetabix or cereal. But, despite the quietness I can still remember how wonderful it all felt. I guess it'strue that it isn't the presents (see the Grinch - the Who's know it), it's it really just time spent with loved ones, eating food that you only get once a year, and hearing that really old-fashioned church music. Priceless.
I can't work out if it's being English and the whole kind of Dickensian type of Christmas...the pudding (will it turn out? won't it? will it be as delicious as last year? See The Christmas Carol and Mrs. Cratchitt's pudding for a true appreciation of the importance of this delectable dessert), the roast turkey and roast potatoes (fluffy inside and roasted to a golden crisp on the outside), the carol singers or Salvation army singers in the high street on a Saturday that sing those almost melancholy Christmas carols that with a wind band accompanying them sound strangely sad and at the same time sweet. Or whether my family have some special attachment to the holiday. I know this is part of it because my sister feels the same way as do about Christmas. All the traditions as children that we partook in (and believe me they weren't big or fancy) we still want to do now at the grand ages of 36 and 43. My sister gets to do most of them whereas the years we are in America, I make do with the memory of them.
Most of our traditions were centered around food. The making of the pudding, usually around November time, the baking of the Christmas cake (stir it, make a wish and inhale the heavenly scent of brown sugar, butter, lemon, orange and spice), mince pies (luxury ones with the sweet filling and sweetened cream cheese enclosed in an orange, buttery short crust pastry). Or, when I was really small, we made peppermint candies, marzipan sweets dipped into melted chocolate, and my Mum wrapped dates around almonds for my Dad to enjoy over Christmas. My children have all kinds of traditions but they are way fancier - a child's production of Christmas Carol with Grandma (my personal favourite), a gingerbread house (made from scratch and assembled by yours truly), and a big Christmas Eve party at their Uncles (who knows how to party!!).
We had very little as children. I received one present from my parents, one from each of my siblings (I have 2), one from my Grandad or as we got older maybe five pounds from him and five from Great Auntie Ruth. Oh, and my stocking from Father Christmas. Wow. That was the thing I LOVED the most. Mum and Dad would leave them at the bottom of our beds and when you woke up at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning, you could feel the bulky, heavy-ish, stuffed stocking at the foot of your bed. My brother and I would spend many days leading up to Christmas making plans. We'd plan on sleeping in the same room, and we'd plan on staying up to see Father Christmas. We'd practice creeping around his room, or trying to turn on his light without anyone else hearing the switch flick. We'd hide his flashlight under his wicker rubbish basket, so that the light would filter out of the tiny, crisscross holes in the basket which would then shed a dim constellation-like pattern on the floor around it. Of course, we never made it that late. But the preparation and anticipation of that night was the best part of all.
I didn't have a big extended family. No big parties, and lots of cousins or Aunties and Uncles. Our Christmases were kind of quiet with Grandad and Nanny Self staying for a couple of days. And after Nanny passed away, just Grandad, who would get us all excited about making eggs and bacon for breakfast on Christmas morning instead of our usual weetabix or cereal. But, despite the quietness I can still remember how wonderful it all felt. I guess it'strue that it isn't the presents (see the Grinch - the Who's know it), it's it really just time spent with loved ones, eating food that you only get once a year, and hearing that really old-fashioned church music. Priceless.
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