Growing With Our Kids

Every now and then, I am reminded of what my colleague once said to me when I
complained about life with little kids: “Little people give you little problems; big people give you big problems.”

The other day I saw a wavy blonde two-year old take off his rain boots in the middle of a busy intersection during a blustery storm. I was so happy not to be the mother, who was trying to hold his hand, balance an umbrella under the torrential rainfall, and coax him to get his boots back on so they could get out of the middle of the street.

After the mom managed to get to the sidewalk, and traffic resumed its pulse around the elementary school drop-off at 8:00 a.m., I realized that I am indeed getting older. Continue… »

Long Ago & Faraway Memories of An Endless Summer

It is the end of August and school starts in 89 hours and 56 minutes.

Since mid-June, when school recessed for the summer, I have lived with three headstrong daughters, day-in and day-out, on a tight budget, with no camps to fill their days or free me from mine.

This is like enrolling in a mountaineering rope course, but instead of teaching you to climb Kilimanjaro, you hang mid-air, cold and naked against the raw edge of tween-age angst!

To make this more fun than a cushy career and a fat paycheck, I have become — a pothead.

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How to Find a Place of Comfort When Your Kids Drive You Insane

It’s 7:55 a.m. I’ve made breakfast, changed the toddler’s diaper and clothes, consumed one cup of coffee, made and packed lunches, and am waiting for the outcome of one of two classic getting-to-school-scenarios: 1) everything moves according to plan; 2) nothing moves according to plan.

I stand by the front door, open it, glance at my watch. “It’s time to leave!” I announce hopefully, trying not to betray the mounting tension, doubt and anxiety the last five minutes at home often produces on school days.

The third grader arrives. She has spent the last fifteen minutes wrapping her forearm in toilet paper, held together like a cast with scotch tape, because she “hurt it falling out of bed.” The voice inside my head, disbelieving, scornfully asks, “What IS it with you?” I would never have gotten away with this kind of plea for attention.

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Too Much Homework, Not Enough Childhood

My eight-year old is clearly overwhelmed.

I sit in front of the computer listening to, and striving to maintain, some level of empathy for my daughter’s crying jag. But I realize that it’s the byproduct of a life-long collision course in self-discipline. She lies on her bed at once pouting and sobbing.

“I’d rather spend the whole day in bed than do this project!”

And how best do you respond to a third grader who bemoans the fact that she can’t spend her Sunday afternoon shopping with Dad because her first real research project is due in two days? You talk to her. You show her how. You convince her to take the reigns of her own self and break the task into smaller pieces. It’s fun! I used to LOVE homework!

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Full-On, Full-Time Mama

Is it them or me?  I investigate the roots of my foul mood on Father’s Day as Sweetie fishes in Mazatlan, Mexico, with his father.

Friday: the fourth grade graduates with big fan fare. We go out for lunch, the toy store, home, and to the park for a four-family picnic. We meet the world champion slack-liner. 10 has a friend sleep over. 

Having fun.

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School

School: It’s 7:55 a.m. I’ve made breakfast, changed the toddler’s diaper and clothes, consumed one cup of coffee, made and packed lunches, and am waiting for the outcome of one of two classic getting-to-school-scenarios: 1) everything moves according to plan; 2) nothing moves according to plan.

I stand by the front door, open it, glance at my watch. “It’s time to leave!” I announce hopefully, trying not to betray the mounting tension, doubt and anxiety the last five minutes at home often produces on school days.

The third grader arrives. She has spent the last fifteen minutes wrapping her forearm in toilet paper, held together like a cast with scotch tape, because she “hurt it falling out of bed.” The voice inside my head, disbelieving, scornfully asks, “What IS it with you?”

Continue… »