Tag: parenting

No Drama, Mama

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I was on the receiving end of a shaming attempt last week.

The mama took me unawares because I know I have a big “I don’t care what you think because I’m minding my own business” sign over my head. Well, maybe it says something a little bit different…but either way, other mamas do not usually come at me like this.

My mom could have saved her the time, too. Shame hasn’t worked on me since I’m four.

But she didn’t know. So first there was a long and angry text, thinly veiled as “friendly”.

This mom was upset that we–myself and three other moms–had pulled our kids from a school where we do not support the decision-making anymore. She said that our kids were talking smack about the school–smack they must have heard at home from their parents. In whom she was now “disappointed” and from whom she “expected more”.

I didn’t tell her about my sobbing daughter or how she didn’t sleep much the night before or how we don’t lie to our kids and so yes, my daughter knew the truth of why she was leaving and probably was saying it out loud to process it through and who could blame her.

I don’t know why my decision was causing so much trauma for this woman, but I do know it would have been fruitless to explain or argue.

So I firmly but politely told her it was none of her business and didn’t require her input. And I kept saying that every time she poked.

I didn’t give her what she wanted: a fight. Neither did the other moms, which upset her most of all.

And that’s the part that got me thinking: What’s really going on here?

I wish we would stop taking one of the most sacred jobs on earth and using it to beat others about the head. Or to make ourselves feel seen or heard or important. When we lash out at others in an attempt to look or feel better, we show the world our unhappiness in a way that makes it very hard for anyone to care.

That’s not cool in the sisterhood, where we’re all just trying to hold it together with duct tape and prayer. For reals, mamas. Every single one of us is a dropped shoe away from needing all the help.

So no more shaming. No more drama.

Let’s mind our business and pray for our sisters.

 

 

The Mouse’s House

I’m hot. I’m cold. I’m thirsty. Goofy! I’m hungry. I want. No, I want. But, I want. Well I don’t want. Mom, I picked the wrong one. Yes, I already opened it and dropped it in the fountain. Oh look, Ariel! But I wanted the other one. Can we take it back? Can we? Buzz! Can we, mom? Now?

Last week we went to Disneyland on vacation.

Lots of things happened.

But today, while it’s fresh in my mind, I want to tell you how we beat The Mouse.

We used a little-talked about and absolutely necessary piece of the Disney Experience, whether it be Land, World or Cruise: The Recalibration.

Disney is designed to twist kids up and out of their minds and the corporation is not winning until a certain percentage of parents have been driven by their over-stimulated, sugar-crashing, nap-skipping, parade-missing mini-menaces into the nearest gift shop where only $150 of sour balls and princess dresses will stop the screaming.

The Mouse relies on your compliant herd behavior as a parent. To take their gently proffered toddler tantrum solutions in the form of a stuffie or an ice cream. To use one of their strategically placed and impeccably clean bench nooks to have that discussion with your nine year old about his frowny face.

But this was not our first Toy Story Rodeo.

And sometimes, it needs to rain at The Happiest Place on Earth.

For us, that moment came four hours into the first day, when I realized I was walking with little tyrants only loosely resembling my children.

The urge to whine at them was strong. Come on, you guys. Be nice. We came all this way to have fun.

But I know that showing weakness is how you lose to The Mouse.

And so I found myself holding up ALL THE PEOPLE on their way from Soarin’ to the Little Mermaid while I reminded my chickens loudly at the end of my finger just who is the Queen of this little kingdom.

There are rules for a Disney Recalibration.

Please make it as public as possible, like a PSA for all the other kids walking by.

People will queue up to go around you, because if there’s anything we learn at Disney, it’s how to move through a line in orderly fashion. They don’t judge either, since everyone is a dropped churro away from having the same moment.

Except for the mom who leans into your line of vision, pats you on the back and tells you “Get ‘em, girl!” She has probably already completed a successful Recalibration of her own. High five her without breaking eye contact with your children, because that bad-a**ery will imprint itself on your preteen’s soul. If you will bring the thunder at The Happiest Place on Earth, no telling where you’ll stop. You want him to remember that.

Do not skimp on the Recalibration. Not unless you want to do it again. And again. And again.

Instead, make it count. Build a wall of consequences around your children that is iron clad.

Then test it. March your three year old to see Elsa. Tell her it’s a 90 minute line. If she offers to wait patiently, you are in business.

But if she shrugs it off completely and asks for the Tower of Terror instead, that’s when you’ll know for sure.

Mama: 1. Mouse: 0

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This was Kate on Day 2. Recalibration pay-off: happy children who pose flawlessly 50 feet off the ground.

Grace

Last week sucked.

Wednesday,  we had to put our beloved Sugar girl down. She was 13 and it was time, but I’ve never had to make a decision like that before and it was awful.

Friday was my Reggie Jackson birthday. It’s a big number. Look it up.

We went to the coast for the day, where a giant seagull got into our car through the open sunroof and ate our picnic.

Shea and Gabe got hit by a scary rogue wave at the beach.

Gabe was carrying a glass bottle off the beach and up the trail when he slipped and smashed the bottle into the rocks with his hand. He cut himself good.

Saturday, I went looking for some Kleenex. There was none. Not one square of facial tissue left in the whole house. And no wonder.

Yep, last week sucked.  And then, in the middle of the crap, this happened:

After the girls shower every night, they get dressed in a tumble of pajamas and towels and dogs. When they got out the shower on Wednesday night, it was the first time there was just a dog.

Kate fell into a sobbing heap on the floor.

I left her with Shea while I dressed Annie and coaxed Lizzie into the kitchen for her medicine. When I came back to the room, Kate had calmed down enough to say “Mama, can we pray?”

I don’t remember her exact words, but she asked for God to take good care of Sugar and make sure she was with her family. She asked Him to tell Sugar that we love her and miss her. She asked Him to help us all feel better.

And then I asked God to send Sugar to Kate in her dreams so that she would know Sugar was ok.

The next morning, Kate came bursting into our room.

“Guess what?! I had a dream about Sugar! I was walking her with Lizzie and they were running and jumping and she was happy and her legs were fixed! I am SO GLAD that God answered our prayer!”

Then she went dancing back out the door. And she’s been ok ever since.

What do you do with a week like this? I don’t know. I’m living in a house with two dog beds, two dog food bowls, one dog and a puppy finder app on my phone. I got nothing, except the only way out is through.

And watch for the grace.

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It will be impossible to replace a dog like Sugar. She was such a good girl. I’ll tell you more about her one day when it doesn’t break my heart to do it.

 

Tales From the Third Row

 

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I’ve been doing after school care for my neighbor whose sweet kids go to the same school as Gabe. This means that Tuesday-Wednesday, I have a full car. My mom has always said that she learned everything she needed to know about our lives by driving us around with our friends. I get it now. It has been fascinating and funny. If you follow us on Facebook, you know that last week, they worked together to figure out how old I was in dog years.

The next day, there was a conversation about Minecraft. I was not really listening to it but then I heard this: “It’s not that bad. Not as bad as Slender Man.”

I broke every smooth mom rule by screeching “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY???”

The children went very still like robots powered down into sleep mode. The rest of the conversation happened under duress, a cross between “You aren’t in trouble” and “You WILL tell me”.

Luckily, their knowledge of Slender Man was playground level. The child who brought it up was throwing around a name he’d heard enough to know it was bad. Probably a little showing off. No way did he expect me to lose my mama cool.

Then another child in the backseat said “Well, if you think that’s bad, you probably don’t want to know how many kids at school play Five Nights With Freddie.”

What in sam hill is THAT? I thought to myself.

Five minutes on my phone told me that it’s a “point and click survival horror video game” where you are the security guard in a pizza joint that becomes over run by murderous animatronic animals at night.

The goal is to survive the night. And then the next one. And so on.

This game is described as a “point and click survival horror video game” where the one thing everyone agrees on is that you will be scared out of your shoes.

I’m all for corrective behavior fairy tales. But this is something else. Now the monsters have come to life with Facebook pages and Twitters.

Awesome.

I sat on my phone on the drive home so that I wouldn’t text my friend in the middle of her meeting. There was no good way to tell her our kids had more than a passing knowledge of survival horror video games, especially one infamous for attempted murder committed by 13 year olds in its name.

But I definitely felt like I was sitting at PARCon 4 all by myself.

I know that the kids have got to walk in the world. And I am confident that we are doing all we can to grow them with strong warrior hearts for Jesus.

But that doesn’t stop me from dreaming of a world where I am in charge and all parents have to do what I say, like pay stricter attention to the games their children play and follow the age limitations and not let 8 years old have phones and emails and Facebook accounts.  Just in case.

The next day it was business as usual in the back seats. My friend’s son has decided to pool all his money and buy donuts for when he and Gabe play their 30 minutes of Minecraft. And not one donut each, either. As many donuts as $20 will buy.

No, he hasn’t run it by his mom. I told him I wasn’t saying no, but he should ask his mom first and then have her come talk to me about it.

Then he wondered if they should get cookies instead, maybe to make it more palatable to the mamas. Or maybe cookies and donuts? Or maybe–

“Hey, what do you call a donut crossed with a cookie?” he asked Gabe.

“A DOOOOOOOKIE!!!!!” Gabe yelled. And the backseats erupted into raucous laughter.

I put my head on the steering wheel and thanked God for the attention spans of 8 and 9 year olds.

#talesfromthethirdrow

 

The True Curse of Eve

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Peri-menopause is when you haven’t had your period in so long that your Natural Family Planning app thinks you’re pregnant.

I’m not. My body temperature chart looks like a heart rate monitor: up, down, up, down. 44 days and counting. That’s nothing for me the last few years. I had a stretch from Thanksgiving to Easter with no visit from my good friend Lu. I finally went to the doctor because I was terrified to end up on a segment of “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant!”

And no period doesn’t mean no hormones. It doesn’t mean no cravings, no weepiness and no PMS. In fact, it means MORE cravings, weepiness and PMS.

Don’t ask for whom the bell tolls in my home right now—it tolls for you until further notice. The best bet is to stand still.

There are headaches. I refuse to call them migraines because I know some chronic migraine sufferers and this is nothing like that. More like a hangover without the wild night to show for it, or even one alcoholic drink.

And nausea, reminiscent of morning sickness. I have peed on pregnancy tests when my rational mind knows I am not pregnant but my first trimester PTSD is screaming “Holy Mother of God! Here we go again!!!”

It’s also hot flashes in the middle of the night in January. Last week it was 28 degrees outside and I was sleeping with the windows open and no covers. Sometimes I think I’m going to burn up into a tiny ball and frrrp! disappear.

It’s itchy skin. Mad, itchy skin. CRAZY ITCHY SKIN.

It’s repeat mammograms, which will take a few years off your life.

It’s gray hairs in the oddest places and less hair on the top of your head. Well, my head anyway. This is probably exacerbated by my thyroid issues, but hair loss is a symptom of menopause so I can’t offer any real hope on this one.

It’s brain fog so thick that reasonable conversations are almost impossible. I used to wonder about women who talked with their hands. But now I know that talking with your hands is a menopause coping skill. It invites others to supply the missing words in your sentence, like a giant social game of $100,000 Pyramid–everyone ends up red-faced and screaming, but all you have to show for it is a lousy finished sentence.

When my mom made this journey, I was a late teenager. Made for some interesting moments in our home.

My girls are young still and my fervent prayer is that I complete my trip on the hormonal rollercoaster before they get on.

Otherwise, to paraphrase Betty Davis: buckle up—it’s going to be a bumpy ride.