Girl Detective

Mother’s Day in the USA is this Sunday. Mothering Day started in England as a day off for servants to visit their mothers/see their kids. In America, it was transformed to celebrate the homemaker/nanny, perhaps just putting a gloss over Sisyphean attempts to stem the tides of snot, poop, and dirt.

So here are a few ideas, in case you haven’t gotten something for the mothers in your life.

Spring flowers. Narcissus are pretty and have a lovely, delicate scent.

Treats. Raspberry-flavored cherries taste like red Swedish fish! And _good_ chocolate, from near (Legacy) or far (Maison du Chocolat’s plain truffles), is always in good taste.

A spring bag. Candy-colored, croc (mock or not), and black/white bags are in.

Unguents. It’s been a long, hard winter. Good lotion, like Golden Door Eucalyptus, is a soothing, smoothing indulgence.

Rest, peace and quiet. Good luck with this one.

Related reading: This article from the Atlantic on mother-centered architecture. We live in a four-square bungalow similar to those described in the article.

4yo Drake had mastered his trike, riding it back and forth to preschool (a mile round trip) several times. We ordered a bike, and he and G. Grod went to pick it up tonight. They returned with a green bike, a tyrannosaurus-headed horn, and a race-car helmet in youth size, because the child size was too small. (Large heads run in the family.)

The first time out, Drake was nervous with the training wheels, since only one is on the ground at a time. But G. Grod took him out again, and he got the hang of it, and ended up doing four loops of our street block.

By Guppy, age 2 as told to the family at dinner

There were ants outside!
I saw ants and they were crawling
I love ants, Daddy

Tom Hodgkinson, editor of The Idler and father of three small children, is a proponent of what he calls Idle Parenting. (Link from Game Theorist, a blog on economics and child rearing, a la Freakonomics.)

He claims it’s a win/win strategy. Parents get more enjoyment time for themselves, and kids develop self-sufficiency, and aren’t smothered by hovering parents.

I was entertained by the article, and in it I recognized my occasional flailings at non-idle parenting. My elder son is in preschool 3 days a week. He and his 2yo brother also have a music class and a public-schools family class that they take with my husband G. Grod. We’re hardly an overachieving family. But that’s not to say that I don’t feel guilt over this; I do. Every time I hear some other mom talk about the sports class her kid is taking, or the museum they visited, or the whatever the heck it is, I feel like I’m dropping the ball. Really, I’m beginning to think we all just have too much time on our hands, and should figure out how to use it usefully, rather than by competing in Olympic level parenting one-up-mom-ship.

Hodgkinson’s advice is refreshing for its stance against the status quo. He’s hardly the first to suggest that the current parenting climate is overzealous. There’s Confessions of a Slacker Mom, and The Three Martini Playdate. And one of my regular readers, Lazy Cow, who blogs at Only Books All the Time, is a staunch believer in what she calls “slow mothering.”

I’m not sure that slacker parenting is the ideal, but certainly a movement away from the over-scheduled, competitive kid world is a move in the right direction. I do want more time to myself for things I enjoy. That doesn’t mean ignoring the kids, just trying to be present when we’re doing things together, and taking some time to be not together. (I type this as Guppy naps and Drake watches “My Neighbor Totoro”.)

Hodgkinson has a bi-weekly weekend column on idle parenting, too. Here are a few excerpts.

From “Tom Hodgkinson Reads on”

By extending the family, creating a network of mutually supporting friends and neighbours, in short, by helping each other, family life could be made very much easier. Let’s give each other a break and open our doors.

On avoiding competitive sports:

Give me instead a child who can ponder and dream, sit under the oak tree and read, talk and think.

And a recent bout of family illness teaches the astonishing lesson that resting and taking care of oneself is good, and that kids don’t self destruct when left to themselves.

One of the small-talk comments people make to parents is “it goes so fast.” In many ways, I don’t find that’s true. Days are long, and nights are far too short of sleep. One thing I know will pass, though, is the cute way that 2yo Guppy pronounces words. I think back to some of Drake’s mispronunciations (”foozee” for smoothie was a particular favorite, as was “beow” for cat and “kiko” for thank you) , and marvel that at 4 the only vestiges are blurry r’s and l’s.

Guppy drops his s’s, so spoon is “pooon”. I know there are naughty connotations, but it’s really cute to hear. Balloon is “buh-bloon”, thank you is “senk oo”, Lightning (as in McQueen) is “Lie-ping”, but I think my favorite is how he says dessert–”Buh-zert! Buh-zert!”, always twice and with great excitment.

I’ve been thinking in despair that nothing in the house is safe anymore. Yesterday I went into 4yo Drake’s room and found a pocket knife in his bed. I whisked it away, but didn’t notice the toothpick and tweezers missing–I found those at two different times later in the day.

Last night, when I went up to bed, I found my jewelry box on my bed. I went into Drake’s room. He was asleep, and beside his bed were two pair of earrings, a pendant and a zirconia stud. I feel like I’m back in middle school, and living with my pesky little sister. (Written with all due affection, since she now is a generous lender of her own stuff, rather than just a “borrower” of mine.)

All the kid-sleep books note that children may have trouble sleeping when they’re going through a development stage. Last Sunday, I was up with 2yo Guppy at 1 and 4; he was crying for water. Then at 4:40 am, my husband and I heard 4yo Drake talking in his room; Drake rarely wakes in the night. G. Grod went to investigate.

G: Drake, it’s not morning yet. What’s up?
D: (Holding dinosaur book) I wanted to say the names of the dinosaurs, so I could hear my voice.

I’m not sure what stage it is, but it sure sounds like one to me.

As we set off, late again, for music class this morning, I lamented, “Drake, if you listened, we’d be on time. You didn’t, and we’re late. How can I help you learn to listen?”

Drake replied immediately, and matter of factly, “Go to the Learn to Listen Shop, Mom.”

I took 4yo Drake and 2yo Guppy bowling this morning. A local alley is very kid friendly–they put up bumpers in the gutters, have a ramp to roll the ball down, and serve lunch at the lane.

Guppy won. And not by a little, either. He had 92 to my 74 to Drake’s 60. Was it beginner’s luck? Who knows? But I think I’ll stick to bowling with little kids if I can only manage a 74 WITH BUMPERS.

Sheesh.

On Monday, I took 4yo Drake and 2yo Guppy to our grocery coop. I sent Drake off to get a dozen bulk eggs. He returned, proud of himself, with an intact carton. Unfortunately, he put them in the cart within Guppy’s reach, so when I turned around, Guppy quickly emptied five of them into the cart, where they broke. The other woman shopping in produce thought laughed, not unkindly, as I hustled to scoop up the dripping eggs and see if they could be used in the deli. (The manager said she’d take them home for her dogs.)

In the bulk aisle, Guppy asked for a chocolate chip. I gave him one. ONE. The next time I turned around, he had chocolate all over his face, his hands, his jacket, and the plush mouse I’d borrowed from the cheese case to distract him. The woman at the register laughed, and said he’d used it like a crayon.

At checkout, Drake insisted on taking his little cart of some of our items to the next register, while Guppy began to scream when I told him he couldn’t have chocolate milk, since we had some at home. The nice woman behind me and her 7yo daughter distracted Guppy till he stopped screaming, and assured me that things get easier. A friend distracted Drake so I could sneak over to the next register and scoop up our items that he’d “helpfully” placed on the conveyer. Amazingly, he didn’t scream at my interference.

It was actually very nice that people were kind enough to see the humor, even as I was struggling with damage control. It’s much better than those “whose kid is THIS?” look that I dread.

One of the things I find fascinating about AMC’s show, Mad Men, is the care they take to portray 1960, in costume, set and script.

She’s filled with petty jealousies, and overwhelmed by daily tasks. Not to worry, we see this a lot in housewives. –Betty Draper’s psychiatrist, reporting back to the husband.

Petty and overwhelmed? That describes me on more days than I’d like. At least patient/doctor confidentiality is better after fifty years.

The season finale of Mad Men is re-airing late Sunday night. It’s also on iTunes, and out on DVD July 1, 2008.

Also, raised as I was by a feminist mother, on Ms. magazine, the sense that you can have it all was instilled in all of us — and I’m really glad that it was. But when motherhood pulls you in one direction, and work pulls you in another, that sense becomes diluted. Somebody said to me long ago that it’s not a question of having it all, but that you can have a lot of most things. That’s a nice way to think about it. Think about if your life is going in the direction you want it to go, and try not to be riddled with self-doubt.

(interview link from Bookslut)

Wolitzer’s new book is a fictional take on the work/home mommy debate, set in NYC. It’s gotten a good review at EW, and at Mental Multivitamin. I keep saying I’m going to get back to my home book shelves, but there’s too much that tempts me, like this.

Last November, children’s book author/illustrator extraordinaire Mo Willems announced that he was writing a new Pigeon book, and that the title began, “The Pigeon Wants A…” School kids were invited to write in with their guesses. The publisher received over 13,000 replies; many schoolteachers galvanized their classes for group replies. (Links thanks to ALoTT5MA)

Well, April 1 was the announcement date. Here is what the Pigeon wants. Unfortunately, it may be what my son, 4yo Drake, wants too.

We’ll get the book. Not the other thing, though.

My no-longer-baby Guppy has decidedly entered his terrible twos. He’s still sweet and good natured, so things are not so much terrible as trying. Yesterday I had to chase him down to get him dressed, as he wouldn’t come to me. I finally got him up in a bear hug.

He turned to me with his frowny face, the one that always makes me laugh, and said, “Have some consideration, Mommy!” (A phrase he parrots of his older brother, 4yo Drake, who gleaned it from a story in George and Martha Round and Round. I think they think it means “Stop bothering me!”)

Drake, overhearing this, called out, “Mom doesn’t need consideration!”

Well, “needs” and “gets” are two very different things.

A few things I’ve said to the kids that didn’t come out right the first time:

“Toilet paper isn’t a toy…um…toilet paper isn’t for playing with.”

“Hammers aren’t for hitting…um…hammers aren’t for hitting PEOPLE.”

Me: Markers are for drawing on paper, not yourself. Why did you do that?

4yo Drake: To make myself pretty.

Me: Drawing on yourself doesn’t make you pretty.

Drake: But, Mom, you draw on yourself with blush and eyeliner.

Me: Um, well, you’re right. But those are for the face. Markers are still for paper. PAPER.

Added fifteen minutes later, when I went to check on strange noises coming from the TV room.

Me: Drake, what are you doing?

Drake: Mom, NOTHING! (Points to the cars lined up in front of the VCR.) It’s the CARS. They’re telling the orange one to come out. She shouldn’t be in there.

Me: (Deep breath) The cars are right. She shouldn’t be in the VCR. She could break it, or get lost. (Pointing at one of the cars) Guido, please tell the orange car to come out.

As Drake approaches age 5, and Guppy advances past 2, I’ve considered returning to the corporate world. There are many benefits: intellectual challenge, salary, healthcare, an excuse to get dressed in clothes that won’t get smeared with snot or drool, people to talk about Project Runway or Top Chef with, and not least, the ability to eat and go to the bathroom by myself.

Yet there is one aspect of stay-at-home-hood, one I’m fortunate to have, that I’m unwilling to give up: my afternoon nap. While Guppy naps, I lie down, read a chapter in my book, and take a short nap. Drake hasn’t napped in years, but he kindly plays quietly while I do this. More often than not, my nights are interrupted by the needs of one child or the other, so I began to nap after having kids out of need and desperation. I am still needy and desperate, but I nap by choice. I can tell it’s a healthy habit, like eating well and doing yoga, and scientific evidence continues to support naps, like this recent piece on power naps in Scientific American (link from The Morning News.)

When I was younger, I thought I couldn’t nap. I was always too busy and had too much to do. Such is the life of an anxious person. I don’t think I was incapable, though. I think napping is a skill, and I just needed more practice.

Few things are more pitiful than the thin, constricted croup-y wail of 2yo Guppy, who is usually robust in both body and voice. I think this is his third bout this winter. I’m hoping we may again be well, and have uninterrupted nights, until whatever the next crisis is.

Before I had kids, I assumed that sleep deprivation was something that was terrible at the beginning, and that got better and eventually disappeared. I didn’t expect it to come and go, waxing and waning like the moon over the years. No wonder so many mothers have sleep disorders.

While pregnant with now-4yo Drake, I read about possible links between vaccines and autism. I also read about negative effects of vaccines. So I did my own research. I asked not one doctor, but several. From the doctors and from the research, I found no hard science that proved vaccines to be harmful. Again and again, the proven, duplicated studies showed that vaccines were effective not only in preventing diseases in individuals, but in populations. And mercury-containing thimerosol is no longer used as a preservative in children’s vaccines, and hasn’t been in some years.

This NYT article reports an outbreak of measles in California, where many parents have exercised their right not to vaccinate. My research, but also my own medical history, led me to choose to vaccinate my kids.

When my sisters and I were young, my father chose not to vaccinate us for mumps. He was trained in pediatrics, and didn’t feel the vaccination was effective. For my sixth birthday, I got mumps. I have vivid sensory memories of heat, and pain. Family pictures show me smiling feebly in front of a cake with huge cheeks. I had no party that year. A month later my sister Ruthie got mumps, just in time for her 4th birthday. Dad promptly got 2yo Sydney vaccinated. She was the only one of us not to get mumps.

This story is an anecdote. It’s not statistically significant. But along with the science, it’s part of why I think not vaccinating kids is short sighted. I also find it troubling that parents would choose to subject their kids to a chicken pox or measles “party”. Yes, there’s _some_ good science behind that–getting the virus would build a stronger, more natural immunity than that from a vaccine. But suppose you’re a kid–would you choose to be deliberately exposed to something that means high fever, severe discomfort, and possibly serious complications, up to and including DEATH?

Not me, and therefore, not my kids.

Degree of Difficulty: Easy

Q: Mom, is this a berry?

A: No, that’s rabbit poop. Please put it back on the ground.

Degree of Difficulty: Medium

Q: Mom, why couldn’t the old man get up in the morning?

A: Because if you bump your head, you need more sleep.

(Not a word about how drunk he must’ve been to bump his head AFTER he went to bed. Wow, I don’t know anyone who got so drunk they fell and got a concussion. Oh, wait, yes I do. Ah, college. Good times. And no, it wasn’t me. You know who you are if you’re reading.)

Degree of Difficulty: Hard

Q: Mom, what is ‘killed’?

A: Um, where did you hear that? Oh, the Disney movie we watched yesterday? (Grrr.) It means your body gets hurt so badly that it can’t get up.

(Hmm, maybe the old man wasn’t just sleeping it off.)

Last night I took 4yo Drake and 2yo Guppy out for what I hoped was a quick trike ride and toddler walk up and down the street while G. Grod made dinner. (Chicken Piccata, which I wanted to try because one of the contestants on Top Chef last week didn’t know what it was.)

I told them clearly that dinner was soon, and we could only go up and down our side of the street. Guppy kept going down the street, toward the busy intersection by the park. Drake pedaled up the street, then began to scream that he didn’t want to turn around, he wanted to cross the street or turn the corner. I told both of them no; both began to scream.

Prioritizing, I left Drake at the corner, since he had his trike and because he was less likely to go into the street than his brother. I ran down the block after Guppy, picked him up, carried him home under my arm and deposited him on the front porch. I went outside; Drake was still screaming up the street at the corner, and the neighbor whose house he was in front of was asking him where his mom was. I called out that I was coming, jogged to the end of the street and asked Drake to come with me. When he refused, I picked him up, put him under my arm, and took him back to our porch. I then went back to the corner to fetch the tricycle. The neighbor poked her head out the front door.

“Good job, Mom!” She called. “Way to remain calm. You never lost your temper. Gold stars for you.”

I felt quite cheered by her praise as I lugged the tricycle home. Many people would have responded with judgment that the kids were throwing fits, or that I couldn’t “make” them behave. Why don’t more people praise mothers for muddling through as best we can?