Before I Was A Mom…

 

…crying children were like nails on a chalkboard. Now? I frantically search until I find the source to make sure a parent is there taking care of the distraught little one.

…I slept as late as I wanted to on the weekends, which wasn’t very late, but still. I slept until I wanted to get up. Now? Wake up call in our house is 6am. Every day. Every. Single. Day.

…my husband and I could have a little romp in the hay, mid-afternoon, take a little nap afterwards and do it all over again. Now? We have to schedule time. And then keep/remember/have the energy for “the date.” Afterwards we say, “Mmmmm. That was nice. Let’s not wait 3 months for the next time, k?”

…having the money to go out was no big deal. We did what we felt like. When we felt like it. Now? We have to tack on $40-50 more to the budget for the babysitter. Ouch!

…I always remembered to shave my legs. Now? Please don’t look!

…I had seen every single Best Picture nominee for the Academy Awards. Printed out my ballots and threw a big bash so we could eat popcorn and Twizzlers and comment on the tuxes, dresses, and  speeches. Now? Do they still have those awards shows? After our nightly Curious George episode our tv is off.

…I loved my husband. Now? I adore, cherish, am continually amazed by, LOVE my husband. He is such a wonderful father.

…hugs were nice. Now? Hugs are sticky, slimy, sweet smelling, cozy little wonders all day long.

…my skin was fresh with not a wrinkle in sight. Now? I’ve earned every single “laugh line” quite honestly. My children set me into a fit of giggles at least once a day.

…I wondered how I was going to make a difference in the world. Now? I’m shaping the future with my bare hands.

(Sorry for the re-run. My sister is in town (for 10 days!) and she doesn’t even know I blog. And I’m not telling her now. So, I’m going to be a bit scarce. I’ll try to sneak online but in the meantime, here are a few of my favorite posts. Enjoy your week!)

Let’s Go Back. And For Some Of Us, It’s Going To Be Waaaaaaay Back.

A memoir by a 6-year-old still has me stumped. And it got me thinking about what my own memoir would say, if I were still 6. Some of you, in your comments to my previous post, mentioned a bit of what your memoir would contain. (Thanks for the inspiration Dawn and Tori!)

I’d love to hear more!

Let’s all think back. Waaaaaaay back. And post the memoir you would have had as a six-year-old. It can be a poem. It can be prose. It can be long. It can be short. But all of them will be sweet, I’m sure.

We’ll meet back here on Friday and share!

Sound like fun?

Then get those fingers tapping!

One Mistersippi, Two Mistersippi, Three Mistersippi

“One Mistersippi, two Mistersippi, three Mistersippi….”

(I start giggling uncontrollably.)

“What, Mommy? What’s so funny?”

“Mistersippi?” I ask.

“Yeah. ‘Cause that state is a boy state.”

(I try to stifle back another giggle but I’m unsuccessful.)

“Sweetie, it’s Mississippi.”

“Ohhhhh, so it’s a girl state! Thanks, Mom!”

He runs off to continue playing with his brother and I hear, “One Missus-sippi, two Missus-sippi, three Missus-sippi…”

Yep. Must be a girl state.

Jane! Dooooon’t Strike Oouuuuut!

It has to be some of the most heart-breaking moments in parenting.

When you are unable to shield your child from the cruelties of the world.

Or the playground.

Whatever.

My sweet, little #2son was so sad in the back seat of the car today on the way home from school.

“What’s the matter, buddy?” I asked.

“Nuh-fin’,” he said, staring out the window.

I let it go. He always talks when he’s ready. And I guessed that he didn’t want to talk about it with his big brother around.

Changing out of his school clothes, I knocked on the bedroom door. He was sitting, forlornly, on his bed.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“In private,” as he rose to shut the door.

It all came pouring out. How all the kids were playing “Snake” on the playground but he couldn’t always hold on because he wasn’t fast enough and everyone was getting frustrated with him because he couldn’t keep up so they asked him (nicely) not to play. He insisted on playing. He kept trying to keep up, but he couldn’t, so then they demanded (not so nicely) that he go play somewhere else, that he was ruining their game.

He was devastated.

He’s in a mixed age classroom, ages 6 – 9. And quite honestly, he’s not terribly athletic. I asked him if he could go play with his other friends. But he said, no. Everyone wanted to play with the “big kids” and they all were playing “Snake” (whatever that is) so he was left to play by himself.

“Did you talk to your teacher?”

He was alarmed that I would suggest such a thing. “No! This is something I should handle myself.”

So I told him about Mary Kay and how, as much as I loved the game of baseball, as much as I knew about the sport and my beloved Detroit Tigers, I was horrible at it. I struck out. A lot. More times than I ever connected with the ball. And Mary Kay batted after I did. Every time I’d approach home plate she’d taunt, “Jane! Don’t strike out!” To this day I can still hear her whine. How she’d drag out dooooon’t and oouuuut. And every time she’d get into my head, I would fulfill her prophecy. To her dismay. And my great embarrassment.

And then, we talked some more. But we really didn’t come up with any solutions. We talked about feelings. We talked about not always measuring up to others’ expectations. We talked about how sometimes there’s not a whole lot we can do to change how people feel or how they handle things.

He gave me a great big hug and said, “Thanks, Mom! I love you so much!”

He felt so much better.

But I didn’t. I wanted to run back to the school and give those kids a piece of my mind. I wanted to confide in the teachers and have them make those kids play with my son. I wanted to turn back time. I wanted to erase that horrible experience from his memory

But what was I hoping to accomplish? And if he didn’t learn how to deal with this disappointment what would happen when, not if, something bigger came along?

Yep.

These are the moments I hate being a parent. I feel inadequate to protect. I can only arm him with as much love and support I can muster.

And that just has to be enough.

Did You Know…..?

Did you know that your child can be allergic to a whole family of antibiotics…the Keflex family of antibiotics, to be exact?

I learned this last spring when #1son had his very first round of antibiotics at age 6. First round in his life. (Boy, did we luck out.)

Did you know that when your child’s head blows up like a basketball and his skin looks like it’s going to split, crackle and pop that the Urgent Care down the street will be your new best friend?

Thank you sweet nurses and doctors for caring for me just as well as you cared for my child!

Did you know that even if you tell your pharmacist not once, not twice, but three times that your child is allergic to Keflex antibiotics they still won’t put it on his chart?

Yep. It’s true. (Check, double-check and triple-check like I did. It could save your child’s life.)

Did you know that an allergic reaction to some drugs doesn’t typically show up until day 8 of a 10 day drug regimen?

Weird, right? You’d think it would show up immediately. But no. Antibiotics need to build up and then present themselves. When it’s too late to do anything about it because you’ve been dosing your kid two times a day for 8 days now religiously.

Did you know that when your doctor prescribes amoxicillin and you ask the pharmacist if it’s related to Keflex one pharmacist will tell you no and the next one (the one you call 8 days later because your son’s head is blowing up to that familiar basketball shape) will say that yes, they are indeed cousins?

No two pharmacists, or doctors for that matter, will give you the same answer. Do your own research!

Did you know that someone who is allergic to both Keflex antibiotics and penicillin is now in big trouble if another infection were to arise?

That’s what one other doctor and one pharmacist concurred, anyway. Yipee!

Did you know that Keflex/penicillin/antibiotic has been consuming me for the past three days and why I’ve (yet again!) been so absent from Blog World?

(I need a nap. And a new hobby.)

Toddlers & Tiaras: Has Child Protective Services Been Called?

I’ve been snowed in. Trapped in my own home. We’ve baked. We’ve cleaned. We’ve played xBox and board games. The boys have comandeered the computer. There’s a half-finished 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle on the kitchen table. Laundry has been washed twice. 

What to do….what to do?

Watch television.

Has anyone seen Toddlers and Tiaras? Another train wreck of a television show. I got involved and couldn’t look away. I can’t say I’ll ever watch it again. This episode had me catching flies. My boys came downstairs and saw my facial expression and said, “Mommy?!? What’s wrong?”

“Go!” I said firmly, “This show isn’t appropriate for……..well, anyone.”

Prancing around little girls. Waxing a 7 year-olds eyebrows while she screams and cries for them to stop. Spray tanning, mascara, lip gloss and debating fake nails for a 15 month old. Yes, you read right. 15 months old.

I burst out laughing when little Sami Jo’s mother said, with a serious-as-a-heart-attack-expression on her face, “I just don’t know HOW she’s going to react if she doesn’t win her division!”

How she’s going to react? Are you kidding me? She’s 15 months old. Your daughter “uses three words regularly, walks backwards, scribbles with a crayon and has adopted “no” as her favorite word.” She can’t spell the word pageant, let alone say it. She doesn’t know she’s in a pageant. She doesn’t know what a pageant is. And she certainly doesn’t know what it means to win or lose a pageant.

Your daughter? Adorable.

Toddlers & Tiaras? Crazy.

The moms that put their daughters through the pageant paces?

……

(I’ve already been smacked down by Monday’s post. You’re welcome to fill in this blank.)

Yes, Dear Bloggers, There IS A Santa Claus

(Below is an edited version of a post from last season. It has the same message. And I am as passionate today about the message as when I first wrote it. It needed to be said again.)

I believe in Santa Claus.

I’m shocked when I meet someone who doesn’t.

Recently, I was perusing your blogs out there and I found not one, not two, but three blogs dedicating posts to the evils of Santa Claus.

Santa = Evil?!?

And there were comments, lots and lots of comments agreeing with them.

I was angry. I was outraged. I vowed never to read those blogs again. I started taking names to avoid reading the blogs of people agreeing with such blasphemy.

And then I stopped myself. Jane, I said to myself, You believe in God. You have friends who don’t. You read their blogs. You’re fine with their difference of opinion, faith and beliefs. You preach, “One mountain, many paths.” How can you completely disregard another blogger’s right to disagree with your belief in Santa Claus? How can ONE post nullify all the other posts you read by them and enjoyed?

So….reluctantly….because logic won with this internal struggle…..I re-bookmarked all three of those blogs and I tore up my McCarthy list.

But not without defending my stand!

When my daughter was about three-years-old a friend told me about a wonderful Santa that I absolutely must take her to. We did. He was elderly. (Of course) He had a genuine white beard and longer white hair. (Of course)  He wore a red suit with shiny buttons and he sat out in his sleigh every night between Thanksgiving and December 23 (because he’s very busy on the 24th!) listening to children, finding out about their lives, helping them to narrow their lists (he only allowed 2 toys because his sleigh was only so big!) and chatted with the parents.

He must have had an eidetic memory. Through the years he would remember what school my daughter attended, her love of gymnastics, that she had a cat, even a few of the gifts he had brought her in the past. Before any of you start jumping up and down yelling, “Creepy!” I can assure you (and I’m quite sensitive to creepiness) it never, ever, ever, ever appeared creepy.

He was genuine. He was sweet. He was Santa Claus. And he did this out of the goodness of his heart. He was a member of our community – recently retired. His many acres of property were decorated with Christmas lights that brought people from miles around. He dedicated his time to help children believe in kindness, in goodness, in unconditional giving. He cared about the children in his community and took collections to “pay his light bill” and to give to the local Boys and Girls Club. He reminded them to study hard in school, mind their parents, brush their teeth. He reinforced strong values and the “real” reason for the season.

There is a 10 year age difference between my daughter and my sons. So for a time – she felt too old to see Santa in person – we skipped visiting. Oh sure, we always rode by to see the lights. If he wasn’t busy with another child he always waved to those passing by. But then we moved to another part of the county and once my boys arrived we skipped seeing Santa because we felt they were too young.

Then, they were 3 and 2 years old. They were ready! And I was so excited. I couldn’t wait for Santa to see how our daughter had grown. To meet her two new brothers. We talked to the boys about Santa. My daughter filled them in on what was to come Christmas morning. She helped them make a list. Just before we turned down the street I cried, “Let’s look for Santa!” But the street was dark. Only a porch light was on at the house. The area for parking wasn’t marked off anymore. My #1son asked, “Where Santa?” My husband quickly piped up, “Oh no! He’s not here tonight. I forget to check the schedule. I’ll bet he’s at the mall this evening.”

It’s a good thing my husband spoke up. I couldn’t. A tear made its way down my cheek.

When we got home I scoured the internet. I found our local online paper. The headline read “County Santa Will Return to the North Pole.” I was crushed. But he was getting older. His health wasn’t as good. And he just couldn’t keep up the hours anymore. He had been doing it for 13 years from 6pm until 8pm every night between Thanksgiving and Christmas. The article showcased parent after parent talking about all he meant to their child’s vision of Christmas and to our community.

He truly was Santa to all of us.

Santa is not about commercialism. He’s not about greed. He’s about giving for the sake of making someone else’s eyes light up. He’s about wonder and imagination. He’s about love and kindness.

And if you’re looking, you will see him. He may not be dressed up in a red suit. His beard may not have grown in. You will find his spirit in every act of generosity and grace during this wonderful season.

But you have to be willing to suspend your cynicism. You have to be willing to accept gifts without the expectation of something in return. To my knowledge, Santa doesn’t discriminate. As long as you believe, the gifts will come. Some are wrapped. Some are not. Some are obvious gifts. Some you realize as a gift only later.

But Santa is real.

If only you believe.

Trading Sociological Spaces. The Kid Version.

Fade in. Interior of Jane’s car, complete with discarded straw wrappers, miscellaneous school papers, sand and errant leaves. Two disgruntled boys sit in the back seat with arms folded.

#1son: Why do we have to go to church?

Jane: Because it’s good for you. It’s a place where you can learn how to do good things.

#1son: We already know. Ms. Park (#1son’s teacher) always teaches us about that. How to “do unto others” and help people and give to the poor. Stuff like that.

Jane: Well, that’s great. I love it that she’s teaching you those things, too. But church is another place where we can learn those things.

#2son: But we don’t want to go. Plus, we’re already good.

Jane: I beg to differ. What about the two arguments over xbox I had to break up this morning?

Silence.

More silence.

#2son: If we already know what we’re supposed to do to be good, why do we still have to go to church?

Jane: Because we want to show God that we’re making an effort to do good things. And when you listen to the sermon, you might learn something new, something you hadn’t thought of before to continue to do good things. You might be reminded of ways that you could do better.

Silence. Arms still folded in defiance. (The boys in the back seat, not driver Jane.)

#1son: Mom? What’s a gangster?

Jane: A person who does bad things to people.

#1son: Like kill them?

Jane: Yes. Like kill them.

#2son: Do gangsters go to church?

Jane: Probably not.

#2son: Well, maybe they should be going to church this morning instead of us.

Ahh, from the mouths of babes.

 

Deep Thoughts With Jane (And Samuel Taylor Coleridge)

 

“I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.” ~ Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Divorce: Standing Alone In The Wreck

If I could have a regret in my life that is wrapped up in a wonderful gift it would be my first marriage. All by itself, I regret that marriage. Oh sure, I learned so much about myself. I grew. I became a better person.

And most of all, I received an amazing, wonderful, beautiful daughter. If the way she had to come to be was through that marriage, fine. I accept it. But I don’t have to like it.

Because I hate what she has had to go through. I hate what it’s done to her self-esteem. I hate the choices she has had to make because of the split. All because I chose him for her dad.

When I was going through the divorce my attorney advised me on many things. She predicted things that would come to be and I nodded. Not in agreement. Because my ex would never, ever do the things she described. Never. Ever. (Insert wry laugh here.)

Boy. Was I wrong.

I have watched my beautiful daughter experience such dysfunction. Promises broken. Lies told. A step-mother who is insanely jealous. A woman who treats my daughter like “the other woman.” Since she was 6 years old she has had to keep secret any activity with her father that doesn’t involve her step-mother. Every movie. Every ice cream cone. Every shopping trip.

Recently, we have been weathering an amazing storm. A situation I never dreamed would happen. Out of respect for my daughter, I won’t air the dirty details. But it has ripped my daughter to the core. She wants to change her name. She wants to never see him again. She feels abandoned and unappreciated. And what tears my heart apart is that she feels unimportant, unworthy and unloved by him.

If I could go back and change something, anything – I would. Quite honestly, I have no idea what I’d change. If it means me not being her mother, I would sacrifice that for her to be treated better by a father. I only want the best for her.

And she doesn’t deserve this.

She deserves so much better.