parenting

Swimming with the Taylers

“Time for swim lessons!”
The call produces instant action from Link, Gleek, and Patch. They all run for their swimsuits. Four days in, swimming is still exciting and new. Will they be laggard and whining by week six, or will they still scramble into their swimsuits at the mere mention of lessons? Only hindsight will tell me if six weeks of daily lessons were a good idea or a bad mistake. The climb into the car is peaceful. We’ve already weathered seating negotiations. The result is a complex schedule of who gets to sit where for which part of the trip and on which days. Fortunately I only had to help negotiate. The kids track the schedule themselves.

Link has the front seat today. This means the trip is mostly quiet. When Gleek has the front seat, I am called upon to acknowledge her observations about the world and answer her questions about how things work. She does not ask simple questions and I frequently find myself mired trying to explain the intricacies of such things as credit cards and payday loans. I am glad that Gleek is so interested in everything, but it is far more relaxing to ride in silence with Link next to me.

The kids always dash ahead of me to the pool building. They run along the top of the low wall next to the sidewalk. My repeated injunctions to walk only slow their feet for moments. The pool beckons and they can’t go slow. Excpet for Patch. He likes to walk next to me. Sometimes he even holds my hand. Gleek is handed off to her teacher and the boys accompany me to the observation deck. I could have registered them all to attend during the same half hour, but I staggered the lessons deliberately. Link and Gleek are in the same swim level and I did not think it would promote familial harmony to have 11-year-old Link out performed by his physically precocious 8-year-old sister. With them in separate classes the comparisons are obscured and they can simply try their best.

During the half hour that Gleek is swimming, the boys and I read. Link has his own book. He’s read it before, but he likes it. If he doesn’t want to read, he’ll simply put it down and watch quietly. Patch sits next to me and we do a lesson out of the big yellow reading book. Each lesson has him practicing letter sounds, blending words, and reading a little story. We’re about halfway through the 100 lessons even though we started it last summer. I was not as diligent with helping Patch practice as I intended to be. But here we are at swim lessons with nothing else to do for 30 minutes. We might get through the rest of the book before the end of the six weeks. Sometimes Patch is eager and willing to do the reading. Today he slumps. He’d rather walk along the benches. We muddle through anyway and reading practice is done.

It is time to go retrieve Gleek and drop off the boys. The boys like this moment. Gleek does not. She does not want to get out of the water. I beckon her with my finger and start counting down from five on one hand. She swishes and dips one more time, but makes sure that she is out of the pool by the time my last finger disappears into a fist. We had a very thorough discussion about the consequences of not getting out of the water when swim time is over and Gleek does not want to lose tomorrow’s swim lesson. Each day she pushes on the rules a new way and we have further discussions about what is acceptable and what is not. It is not that she wants to disobey, it is just that her love for water is almost stronger. Fortunately she is headed for the water of the showers so that eases the pain of leaving the pool.

We spend the entire 30 minutes of the boy’s lessons in the locker room. Gleek showers and splashes endlessly. Other than interrupting to make her use shampoo and conditioner, I just let her play. At first the room is busy, full of other mothers showering their children and leaving. After they are gone it is just Gleek and me. Letting her play in the shower is far better than taking her up to the observation deck where she would fight boredom by making friends with other kids and encouraging them all to run with her along the benches like hoodlums. It is also better than endless circular discussions about how she wants to get back into the pool and why we can’t let her. So she splashes and I sit down. Today I write, but some days I just let my brain wander. It is a peaceful few minutes and I know what will come next.

The kids are always cranky after swim lessons. They’ve had fun, but they wanted more. They’re a little cold and definitely hungry. It is lunch time. Today Link is a little shaken because his teacher tried to get him to dive off the side of the pool. The thought is scary to him. I know that he’ll get used to it, but he won’t believe that today, so I don’t bother to say it. I just give him a hug around his shoulders and let him hold my arm as we walk to the car. Gleek has the front seat on the way home. She is holding a little yellow and green squeaky ball that she found in the parking lot. In Gleek’s hands this little balls has acquired an entire personailty and a gender. The ball is female. Gleek keeps squeezing. To her ears the various squeaks convey meanings and express moods. “See she’s sad. She didn’t like the chlorine.” The sounds just pierce my ear drums in the confined space of the car. It takes three increasingly grouchy orders to get Gleek to put the ball away.

We pull into the driveway and I say the standard entreaty that they change and hang up their swimsuits before coming to lunch. “We know!” they answer back grouchily. But on the days I don’t say the words, they forget. So I say them and get grouched at. It is a long term mystery to me why my kids will linger in the car upon our arrival home. I stop the car, get out, open the sliding door and they just sit. It is an irremovable safety drill in my brain that I must usher all the kids out of the car, lock the car, and get them all into the house. So I stand there and wait impatiently. I don’t want to stand in the rain, or the sun, or the cold while they decide that maybe they’d like to go inside. So I coax, or harangue, until they move. We then are treated to door slamming and arguments while three kids, of two genders, try to change and hang up swimsuits in one bathroom. Peace is only restored once they begin eating.

We’ve survived another day of swim lessons. Tomorrow we get to do it again.

Parenting a child who is different from me

The grass had grown long over the past two weeks. The need for mowing was urgent, so I declared that Kiki and Link must do it today. Kiki mowed the back without complaint. She is practiced at mowing because it was her job all last summer. Link is in charge of the much smaller front lawn. Mowing is newer to him. He was ready and willing to get the work done, except for one major problem. There were multiple wasps buzzing around in the grass. Link is bee and wasp phobic. He isn’t allergic to them, but the very sight of them sends him into a panic. His preferred reaction is to flee for the house whenever he sees one. His fear is strong enough that there have been times when he wanted to play outside, but didn’t because there might be a wasp out there. Faced with wasps in the lawn that he was to mow, Link froze. He did not flee into the house, but neither did he start mowing. Instead he stood on the sidewalk and dithered in fear.

I am afraid that I did not react well to Link’s paralysis. His increasing size speaks to the instinctual part of my brain which says “we need to be preparing this one to jump from the nest and fly” The problem is that this proto-fledgling would dearly like to stay in the very center of the nest, cuddled in the downy feathers, and let me continue to drop food in his mouth when he squawks. The more logical parts of my brain are also urging me to prepare him for the things that are to come. I worry about him displaying his fears in front of peers who will not be kind. I worry about his ability to work through his emotions in healthy ways. I really want to help him learn the tools he needs so that his quirks will not turn into neuroses. I was also frustrated because the point of paying kids to mow the lawn is so that I don’t have to take the time to do it myself. And yet I ended up having to stand over Link to make sure the work got done. How exactly did that save me any time and stress? With all of those thoughts churning in my brain, I was unable to stay focused on the fact that this is a learning experience for Link. I did not remain encouraging and kind. I was angry and frustrated. Most of my words and actions expressed that frustration to Link. Having mom mad at him did not help poor Link manage his fears. It was not a particularly happy event, but the mowing did get done.

Link and I are in one of those phases where our natures are in conflict. It is his turn to be the child who is driving me to distraction. They’ve all had turns before. They’ll all have turns again. It gets especially interesting when multiple children take simultaneous turns at driving mom crazy. One of the most frustrating things about the conflicts with Link is that I can see that half the problem is in me, not him. I am very goal oriented. I always have been. I identify the things I want and then plow through all the obstacles even if they terrify me. Sometimes the fact that I’ll have to do scary things is part of the attraction of the goal. I like stretching myself and seeing what I am capable of accomplishing. I want to run with long strides into the future. Link is different. He is careful. He moves toward the future with small steps. He wants to assure himself of security and safety. Sometimes he laments the fact that he has to move forward at all, because he can see the wonderful things that are behind him and he does not want to move farther away from them. Logically I comprehend that Link’s approach to the world is as valid as mine. Logically I understand that Link must find his own way and that I should trust him. Emotionally, I keep trying to push him into answering his challenges as I would answer them, because my solutions feel so obviously correct. And they are. For me.

I don’t want to be the pushy mom, but I can’t help it. I can can see so clearly how if he’d only work on this, then it would solve that problem. We particularly come to trouble when I’m pushing him now, hoping to prevent problems that he doesn’t comprehend could even be problems for him. Cleanliness is a good example. I push now to teach him good hygiene habits because I know that someday he’ll want to impress a girl. But I can’t use that argument to get him to shower because he doesn’t currently believe that impressing girls could possibly be important. And yet, part of a mother’s job is to push. It is my job to take that middle-of-the-nest fledgling and teach him how to fly, how to find his own worms. The tricky bit is knowing when I’m nudging him enough for him to find his own way and when I’m pushing him to use my answers instead of finding his own. Even trickier is the fact that Link is a very trusting child. He can see that my ways look impossible to him, but instead of realizing that he needs to find his own solutions, he just feels like a failure for not being able to do what I want him to do in the ways that I’m pushing him to do them.

One comforting thing is remembering that Kiki and I had a couple of tumultuous years when she was in fifth and sixth grade. I think it is very natural for kids to go through a phase where they want increased independence, but only when it is convenient. They simultaneously want to retain all the perks of being little, and catered to. The expression of this emotional tangle is different for Link than it was for Kiki, but the landscape is familiar. I’ve covered this ground before. But just because I recognize where I’m at, does not make the hike any less weary. (Also, it exhausts me to realize that I’m going to have to hike this ground again with two more kids, and it will probably drive me crazy both times.) The really good news is that there is a lovely place at the end of this road. Kiki is now solidly in her teens and she is a joy to live with. We still have our frustrated moments, but I love the conversations and interactions that I have with her now. I love how responsible and thoughtful she frequently is. I love seeing her step forward and manage her own challenges. I have to believe that Link will get there too. I’ve seen glimpses of it. When he wants something he works very quietly and persistently to make it happen. He is a good kid. I need to remember to trust in that. I need to remember that his solutions are good ones even if they are not the solutions I would have picked. I need to remember that I said almost that exact same sentence when Kiki was this age.

Later, after the mowing was done and we’d both had a break, Link came to me and said “I forgive you for yelling.” His big blue eyes looked at me. He wanted to have an exchange of apologies. He needed to know that everything was all right between us. And it is. I gave him the hugs and apologies that he desired. I also told him a little bit about how we’re different and that being different is okay. I also told him that just because I get mad, does not mean that he is in the wrong. I’m not sure he’s ready yet to believe it, but at least he heard the words.

Conflicting needs, parenting guilt, and brownies

Gleek thrashed in the tub water as I tried to wash her hair. The water was too hot. Sitting up was too cold. Why did she need to wash anyway? Um… maybe because it has been three days and she was grubby, filthy, sweaty. But she did not want a bath. She wanted to be downstairs with her brothers watching Kirby over the internet. Part of the reason she was upstairs bathing was she had been squabbling with those same brothers for the prior 30 minutes. It had been a cranky day. Gleeks emotional space between happy and full-out tantrum was negligible.

In the midst of conditioner application (and complaints about water-in-the-eyes), Kiki shouted from the kitchen. It was a piteous cry for help. I quickly dunked Gleek to rinse her off, then hurried to the kitchen to see what the new emergency might be. Kiki was making brownies for her school class. She was doing it all by herself, her first foray into solo baking. She had added twice the necessary water to the mix. Kiki was emotionally devastated by this disaster. I was trying to wrap my head around the problem and formulate a solution. This was when Gleek wandered in and lit-up like a little spotlight at the bowl full of chocolate batter. Kiki snarled at Gleek to back off because these were for school. Gleek devolved into tears that the bowl full of chocolatey goodness would be completely denied to her. I attempted to placate Gleek. Kiki grumped at me about the still-unsolved too-much-water problem. Then there was the influx of boys drawn like little metal filings to the magnet of the chocolate filled bowl while Kiki growled territorially about her baking efforts. We added another mix to even out the water ratio, but then there was the crisis of the oil not mixing in. Kiki was not calmed by my assurance that continued stirring would solve the problem.

In the midst of all the chaos, with the kids squabbling and the fan humming, and the dishwasher running, I had strong desire just to flee. The kitchen was awash with conflicting needs. Kiki needed me to stand over her shoulder and help her bake. Gleek needed love and reassurance. The boys needed attention. I needed to just sleep, or hide, or something. Moments like that one are fairly common. It is unsurprising that the emotional needs of one child will conflict with those of another. On my good days I can anticipate and prevent conflicts before they occur. On my tired days, I am as bad as the kids about adding to the conflict. Strange how we’ve had so much more conflict and crankiness in the week after I stopped working 10-12 hour days. It is like the kids were waiting to ambush me once the XDM project was complete.

I look at myself and all that I manage. Then I remember back to the years when 90% of my creative energy was completely engaged by my children. I’m not sure what percentage they get now, 50% maybe. Some of that is the simple result that I’ve made many of the tasks of parenting into routine habit. Those tasks used to require creative energy, but they don’t anymore. And yet I still sometimes feel guilty for spending so much energy on things that do not directly benefit the kids. Part of me believes that 90% is the correct amount to spend on kids, and that if some tasks have become routine, I should then be ramping things up and stretching my parenting in a new direction. Then another part of me argues that children are not benefited by over-parenting.

I guess it comes down to concerns about usage of time. Right this minute I am blogging, trying to wrap words around the thoughts in my head and trying to do it well. This time could be spent preparing for tomorrow. I could be doing laundry so that Gleek will have clean shorts to wear. I could be cleaning the family room so the kids have space to play. I could be planning healthy meals for tomorrow. But I don’t want to do those things. They are boring. I’ve done them thousands of times over, and if I do them instead of blogging, I’ll still have to do them yet again. And yet these maintenance tasks make such a huge difference in how our family runs. If the kitchen had been clean, everyone would have been better able to manage the brownie incidents. On the other hand, if I blog there is the chance that I will say something profound, or funny, or useful. If I do, then the words are pinned to the page and they will always be there. But then I remember that during the course of writing this blog I have told two children “just a minute.” It has been 10 minutes since I said it and I still have not responded to the query. Am I teaching them that sometimes waiting is necessary? Or am I teaching them that Mom is always busy and pre-occupied, Unavailable when they need her? Just today I dashed to Patch’s class, a couple minutes late for his Kindergarten event. I never used to be late for that sort of thing. As we walked back to the car I was only half listening to Patch’s rambling talk until I heard him state that he knows I am always late because I am working.

When did I become the always-late working mom instead of being ready-and-waiting when my kids needed me? Was I too available before, or am I not available enough now? Or have the needs of my family shifted so that I was correct in both times and places? That last one is what I’d like to be true. I want to believe that I am sensing the needs and answering them. That my life is different now because the needs are different.

And this is when I remember Kiki’s brownies. The making of them was chaos. Kids were squabbling. The kitchen was a mess. And Kiki was convinced that they were ruined more than once. Like Kiki, I am in the middle of making something and it feels like I’m ruining it. But those brownies turned out delicious despite Kiki’s fears. Kiki shared them joyfully with those same siblings at whom she grouched while mixing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been afraid that I’m ruining the family I’m trying to build. But somehow I don’t think I am. If I keep trying my best, it will all come out just fine.

Helping stressed kids

Patch stormed into the house and stomped his way into his room. Then the crying began. I excused myself from the kitchen table where I was having a business meeting with a couple of (fortunately very understanding) friends. Patch sobbed out his tale of woe: My neighbor had sliced the hot dog rather than poking it with a fork, thereby ruining it. Then she completely refused to make another hot dog for him. Patch’s emotional reaction to this event was so huge that it required tag-team parenting, fifteen minutes, starting a movie, and a correctly prepared hot dog to calm him down. Usually Patch is a pretty easy-going kid. It is only occasionally that he winds himself up like this. Except that he’s done it several times in the last week. And he has been crawling into bed with us. And he’s been pretty rigid about what food is acceptable. These are all signs of stress. Patch is not the only one. Link has been acting about six years younger than his age. Gleek has gotten screaming mad and stomped to her room several times in the last week as well. She even buried herself under her covers and fell asleep in the middle of the day.

It is tempting for me to attribute all of this to my lack of nurturing attention in the past month. I’m certain that my stress level has been a factor, but it is not the only one. Another major factor is the daylight savings time switch, which makes putting kids to bed on time increasingly difficult. So they’ve been short on sleep, packed with junk food, and lacking in regular adult attention. Not surprising that they’re acting out a bit.

After Patch’s meltdown and the end of my meeting, I decided that the major imperative for the rest of the day was for me to be available to intervene in child conflicts, and to get everyone (including me) to bed on time. In order to get kids to sleep by 8:30, I have to start snack time no later than 7:30. This is because snack time involves me reading aloud while the kids eat. Then there is individual reading time. This reading time helps the kids slow down enough to feel tired. But this was also Monday, which means we have an hour or more of family time prior to snack. To make space for that, dinner had to be pushed earlier. So I started cooking dinner at 4:30. It was served by 5:30. Family Home Evening started at 6 and ran until 7:30. Snack and reading ran until 8. Gleek and Patch were both asleep by 8:30. Link and Kiki stayed up later. It was important for Link to be allowed to stay up and do something fun after the little kids had gone to bed. He needs to be reminded why he likes being one of the bigger kids. So we played Phase 10 for awhile. Pre-bedtime games may need to be a staple for us this summer as Link begins his transition from child to teenager.

So today was a good family day. Now I need to figure out how to not lose ground on the new family initiatives while also getting some work done.

Success and criticism

“I did it myself!” Patch announced.
I looked down at him. He was wearing his Sunday dress shirt and the buttons were already buttoned. Maneuvering those tiny buttons into the tiny holes is a major accomplishment for six-year-old fingers. Another major accomplishment is making sure that the buttons and holes are aligned correctly. Patch had managed the first, but not the second. His shirt hung crookedly on his front. I looked down into his bright blue eyes. He was so pleased with his accomplishment. I had no heart to criticize, to steal the joy of his triumph and replace it with embarrassment. I hugged him tight and told him what a great job he had done. Then I let him wear his crooked shirt to church. He never noticed the mistake. Next Sunday when I hand him his shirt, I’ll casually drop the hint that buttons and holes are easier to line up if he starts from the bottom instead of the top. He’ll be set up to succeed again, rather than doubting his capabilities because of the prior week’s failure. Sometimes it is far more important to let people bask in the joy of a difficult task accomplished, than to tell them how to do it better next time.

Practicing

The summer when I was 9, my older brother and I spent two weeks at Grandma’s House in the mountains. Somehow it was always Grandma’s House even though Grandpa lived there too. The house belonged to Grandma, but the large workshop/garage behind it was Grandpa’s space. I loved Grandpa’s garage. It was huge, and dark, and smelled of metal. I was only allowed inside if Grandpa was right with me. He frequently escorted me in and let me help with his projects. Grandpa was always tinkering with something. This particular summer he was very focused on physical fitness. He rearranged the area around his garage into a sort of military-style obstacle course. He bolted a chin-up bar between two trees, set out rows of tires on the ground, there were things to climb over and under. The piece de resistance was a rope spanning the distance between two trees 30 feet apart. One end of the rope was close to the ground, the other end 15 feet up. It looked impossibly high to my nine year old self, but I think I would have turned myself inside out if Grandpa asked me to, so I gave it a try.

I suspect my brother and I complained on multiple occasions as Grandpa ran us through this fitness course. I seem to remember Grandma scolding him to not push us so hard. But I don’t remember complaining and I don’t think he pushed us all that hard really. What I do remember is climbing along that rope as high as I dared. Grandpa helped me down and praised me for my efforts. I was so glad to have done well. Then I stood and watched as my older brother attempted the same feat. He only managed about a third of what I had done. My pleasure withered and part of me wished I had not done so well. I did not want my brother to feel bad. It was one of many times that I became forcibly aware that some things which came to me easily were a struggle for my brother. Looking back, I know there is an advantage to being petite when doing a rope climb like that one. My brother was 11 and had developed the stockiness that most boys do at that age. It is a physical preparation for the growth spurt that is to come, but while it lasts, it makes all sorts of physical things more difficult to accomplish. At the time I only knew thatl I had earned praise and my brother had earned admonitions to work harder.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that rope climb lately. I think about it as I watch Link, who lags in both fine and large motor control, and then I watch Gleek, who excels in these same areas. Link is two and a half years older than Gleek. My brother is two years older than me. I can see the same pattern. I try to buffer it. I try to praise Gleek for her accomplishments without making Link feel bad. I pay close attention so I can praise Link for the things he does well, particularly if I can find one where Gleek does not outshine him. The whole situation became much easier when I read this article about praising kids for efforts rather than results. Suddenly I was able to praise all of my kids equally and in front of each other. I was able to make clear to Link that part of the reason Gleek excels in physical things is the amount of time she spends practicing them. She is constantly running, jumping, climbing, or dancing. It should surprise no one that she has gotten very adept at these things.

It is good to have a solution for what to say to the kids, but it still leaves the underlying problem that Link has with motor development. It is a negative feedback loop. Link does not feel good about his physical capabilities and so he avoid situations where he’ll need to use them. This means he never practices them, which in turn means he never improves. Like my brother, Link is a quieter person. His thoughts and feelings turn inward and he always seems fairly content with life. But time and again I discover that he notices and feels bad about his differences. He does not like feeling weak. In his own quiet way, Link has been processing the information about practice and he has begun applying it to physical things. Taking tumbling was his idea. It is a good idea, but the tumbling classes focus on advanced skills. Link needs to practice more basic things. He needs to become comfortable climbing ladders. He needs to be able to cross a set of monkey bars. He needs to jump confidently and land on his feet rather than in a giggling heap. And so I am taking a page out of Grandpa’s book. We have begun using our swing set and that of our backyard neighbor as a sort of fitness ground for Link. So he practices climbing up to the monkey bars and then back down. At first he was nervous to even try. In very short order, he got comfortable doing it. Soon we’ll have him kick off from the ladder to hang and drop. Day by day he will get better until he can swing himself across the monkey bars solo.

That is the practice that Link knows he is doing. I’ve also instituted some practicing that he does not recognize as such. I’ve begun to require him struggle through fine-motor tasks that he usually asks me to do for him. Pouring milk is something that is so easy for me, but for him it is a struggle to lift that heavy jug and balance it carefully while pouring. It is hard to watch him pour, knowing that spills are inevitable, but unless I let him practice he has no chance to master these skills and he needs them. He needs to open containers, and cut his own nails, and fix his own hair. I have even begun to suspect that some of his lingering childishness (he comes across as young for his age) is because he is still physically dependent in dozens of small ways. I’ll be watching with interest to see if that ebbs as his capability and confidence grows.

I want Link to have more confidence before he is sent forth into the wilds of Junior High. I know how cruel peers can be at that age. My brother had a rough time. He survived because he fell in with a very good group of friends. I can not guarantee that the necessary friends will appear for Link, but I can help him practice the things he needs so that he will not be so inviting a target. The good news for Link is that video games are far more widely accepted now than they were when my brother was his age. Being good at video games actually counts for something with peers where it used to be additional cause for ridicule. Link and I have one more year before he makes that transition. I hope I can make it count. For now I just send a silent thank you back to my Grandpa for a helpful key in seeing a problem and finding a solution.

It’s my job

I’d just spent two hours talking Kiki into believing that she can handle her homework load. Talking her through the process of organizing and drafting a novel (her English project) and the process of organizing and finding pictures for an illustrated Revolutionary War ABC book (her History project.) This intensive effort was interrupted by visitors I’d forgotten were coming, who sat in the messy front room to talk with Gleek about her upcoming baptism. I had to help Gleek reign herself in because it was all Very! Exciting! Then there were the video game squabbles which resulted in making everyone mad because I turned the game off. Then I had kids pinging around the kitchen because they were hungry and bored. I realized I had no clue what to make for dinner and Kiki, while much calmer, was still requiring a considerable amount of hand holding on her two huge projects.

In the midst of all of that, Link came to the top of the stairs and said “Mom. I need your help with the universe.”

This sums up my life. To my kids, I’m supposed to help with everything. I am the solver of all problems. If they just hand it to mom, it will all be okay again. And I scramble not to fail them, even if I am tired and frazzled from a hundred things all at once. I try my best to turn the world back right side up. In this case it was easy. Link’s “universe” was a set of nine plastic planets that needed to be hung from his ceiling. He’d been unable to think of the words Solar System.

Some days I miss all the clues

Gleek trudged to the car, the very picture of forlorn sadness. She scraped each foot across the snow slowly, shoulders slumped, mouth turned down.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as she climbed in.
She did not answer. I put the car into gear and drove toward home. Link still needed to pack for a scout snowy camp out. We had already waited a long time for Gleek to arrive at the car. I did not want to spend more time in the parking lot trying to coax Gleek into talking. Instead I launched into a described outline of the afternoon schedule. This included packing for Link and piano lessons for Gleek.

Gleek objected immediately. She was not ready for piano lessons. She had not practiced. She did not want to go. I though this was probably the cause of the sadness. We scrambled through the piano lessons and the packing. When the chaos was done, we headed through the back yard for an afternoon with friends. Gleek and her friend got to watch a movie. Patch and his friend got to play Bionicles. My friend and I got to talk for hours. It was fun for everyone. But several times Gleek got shrieking mad with other people over very small issues. I was focused on relaxing and talking. I helped resolve each incident as it occurred, but gave no thought to the fact that Gleek was acting over the top, even by her standards.

Then at the very end of the evening, as we were preparing to leave, I was standing right next to Gleek when she shoved her friend and declared something to the effect of: “I’m not your friend anymore. I’ll never play with you again.” My rebuke was at a fairly high volume “Gleek! You don’t treat people that way!” Then I carried her upstairs to discuss before the necessary apology.

This is when I learned that Gleek had lost her bracelet, the one she had made herself. She lost it at school right at the end. Then she was scolded for crying loudly in the hallways. I am not yet ready to second guess the scolding. I am certain that Gleek’s grief was quite loud and very disruptive to the kids who were still studying. I’ll have to ask about the incident further to decide what, if anything, needs addressing.

Gleek carried the sadness of the lost bracelet all afternoon. She also carried shame from making a fuss and being scolded. She also carried anger that I had not tied the bracelet tighter. Those emotions roiled inside her and put her on a hair trigger. Then each incident with friends added to the anger and shame as each incident convinced Gleek even more thoroughly that she is a naughty girl who will never be able to behave herself.

I was too busy to see it. I was busy with good things, but that does not change the fact that I did not see Gleek’s emotional need until it exploded. I am often busy. I like being busy. But because I am busy, I sometimes miss things I could have caught. This is not me scolding myself or holding myself accountable. It is not possible for any human being to catch every warning sign of every trouble. I would go crazy if I tried. All I can do is try to pay attention and act on the things I do see when I see them.

Gleek and I had a good talk. Apologies were made. Emotions have been vented. Gleek will probably be more at peace with herself tomorrow. Hopefully this incident will add to the store of knowledge Gleek needs in order to moderate herself and play well with others. It is just hard to watch her having to learn lessons for herself when I already know the answers.

When seconds count

It had been a normal school morning, kids dawdling and my commands increasingly grouchy. I’d reached the point where Patch, Gleek, and Kiki were all in the car. Link was putting on his coat and I decided to take a second to throw some salt on the icy patch I’d slid on twice. I was in the garage when the screaming started. Parental ears are very good at picking out the different flavors of childhood screams, but like recognizing a voice on the phone, it takes a moment to figure out what you’re hearing. This was full-on shrieking panic from both Gleek and Kiki.

Time stretches in a crisis. In the next 10 seconds I:
Realized that although they were right next to me, they were on the other side of the closed garage door. The fastest route to get there was back through the house.
Wondered who I was going to need to scold because obviously someone had picked on another child.
Wondered if someone had somehow gotten smashed in a door or tangled in a seat belt.
Was met halfway through the house by Gleek shrieking that Patch was choking.
Ran out the front door.
I shouted “What’s wrong?!” uselessly.
Wondered how on earth Patch was choking and what he could possibly be choking on.
Realized that I was still holding the cup of salt.
Realized I was going to need both hands free.
Threw the salt at the icy patch as I ran past.
Tried to find the right balance between speed and not falling on my face.
Reached the car to find Patch and Kiki both crying in panic.

Patch was crying. This meant he could breathe. No heimlich necessary.

The next 5 minutes were spent attending primarily to Patch. He’d accidentally swallowed a hard candy (that I’d no idea he was even eating) and it got lodged in his throat. He panicked, which caused Kiki and Gleek to panic. Kiki had him half out of his seatbelt, ready to give him the heimlich, but she was afraid of hurting him and was not certain how to do it. The candy went down, but not before Patch gagged and threw up on himself. I took all the kids back into the house. The older three stood by while I helped Patch calm down and change clothes. As I was helping Patch, I also talked all the kids through the experience.
I told them that if someone is crying while they choke, that is good news because it means the choker can breathe.
I told them that the heimlich is most effective on cases where breathing is blocked completely.
I told them they had all done exactly right. I thanked Gleek for running to get me. I thanked Kiki for staying with Patch.
I explained about hard candies and why they’re not a good idea for small children.

Then I handed Patch off to Howard. Patch gets to miss school today. He was still too shaken to deal with going. The other three I took to school. We could spend all morning talking and debriefing and decompressing, but that would merely cement this in the kids’ minds as a Huge Traumatic Event. Much better for them if we just deal with the crisis, pass on useful information, and then continue as normal. That is part of Mommy crisis management. I always tamp down my emotional reactions until they won’t increase the upset of the kids. My tears came after the kids were all dropped at school and after I’d come home to find Patch sitting happily next to Howard and playing. That is when I take my time to cry a little and think all of those “what if” thoughts and say a prayer of gratitude that the crisis was minor.

I’m not sure when I learned to shunt my emotions aside as part of crisis management. It is a skill I’m grateful for. Learning to stop and feel those emotions later has been harder to learn. It seems a little silly to collapse after the crisis is over and everyone is already safe. But I guess I’m like Grandpa Smedry in the Alcatraz books. I arrive late to the emotional reaction, but I can’t skip it entirely.

Everyone is fine. And I am grateful for that.

The intersection of writing and parenting

On a writers forum to which I belong, there is a discussion about how being a parent affects being a writer. The thread was begun by a writer who is not yet a parent and who is worried that becoming a parent will be detrimental to the writing. She was particularly concerned about becoming a mother while also being a writer, since current societal norms place far more parenting pressure on women than on men.

She is right to be concerned. During the years when my children were babies and toddlers, I did not write. Since I have four kids spaced two to three years apart, that meant I did not write for about a decade. In fact during the middle of those years there were a couple of times when I looked at my life and decided to completely abandon the dream of becoming a published writer. I simply could not see any way that I could ever make writing fit with parenting. Interestingly, each decision to quit was immediately followed by a surge of creativity that made me renounce my decision to quit. But the surges were small and short lived, while parenting was a long haul. I really picked up writing again about the time my youngest learned to walk.

I’ve often thought about that 10 year hiatus. It was like all my writing thoughts and dreams went into a winter dormancy just as a plant does. A dormant plant often appears dead, but it is just waiting. In the past I wondered if that dormancy was an inevitable result of becoming a parent. I’ve decided that it is not. It was a result of my choice. I’d always dreamed of becoming a writer, but I’d also always dreamed of becoming a parent. I was at a stage in my life where I’d only just begun to achieve both of those huge tasks. I only had enough emotional time/energy to master one at a time. I chose parenting. But then I reached a point where parenting was not new anymore. Oh, it still had new things in it, but mostly it was refining systems that I had already put into place. I was ready for a new challenge, and writing was waiting patiently with buds ready to leaf out. Even better, some of the skills I learned while parenting have been applicable to writing. I believe I could have done things the other way around. I could have become a practiced writer first and then taken on parenting. It makes me wonder what new thing I’ll take on a decade from now when melding writing with parenting has become routine.

My answer to the forum thread was less introspective than this post. The core of my answer was this: Any large project in which you have to invest emotional energy will affect any other large project in which you have to invest emotional energy. Of course being a parent will affect your writing. Of course being a writer will affect your parenting. That writing/writer could be replaced with any career or pursuit you could name. This point was excellently made by another forum respondent (quotes used with permission):

Admittedly, when one is writing there is a desire (and sometimes an absolute need) to tell anyone who tries to get your attention “Go away!I am unavailable! Not now!” But then, the same reaction can come from people who are doing crossword puzzles or making ships in bottles or watching TV or playing video games or talking with a friend on the phone.

My belief that I could have become a practiced writer first is supported by another mother/writer who also responded in the thread:

Two data points. (1) I wrote four hours a day before I had children,and I wrote one book a year. (2) I write one hour a day (maaaaybe), now that I have children, and I still write one book a year.

Will having a children affect your devotion to writing, your time available, the ease at which you can write? YES. It will make it much,much harder.

Can you learn to deal with it and write anyway? YES. Time management,using slivers of time, writing through distractions, doing more in less, etc are all skills that can be learned.

If I had four hours (and I will, as they get older) to write a day now,what could I accomplish with it, given the skills I now have?

She has been there and knows what she is talking about.

I’m tempted to squint back through time at my new mother self and tell her not to give up the writing quite so easily. After all, where would my writing be now if I’d spent those ten years sneaking writing practice in between the diaper changes? But then I realize that she never truly gave it up. I never gave it up. I just let it lay dormant in the corner until the time came to grow again. Some plants require a period of dormancy before they can truly thrive. Other plants never go dormant at all. The world needs all kinds of plants to be truly beautiful. I just need to be the kind of writer I am, even if I grow and bloom differently than other writers I know.