Posts Tagged Under kids
Marriage is Work
A friend of mine celebrates her first wedding anniversary next week and has noticed that the universe has conspired against her. Total strangers tap her on the shoulder to say, “Remember, marriage is work.” Billboards, bus advertisements, email spam from moveon.org—everyone is telling her how hard marriage is. And that the work gets tripled once you add kids to the equation.
“Is it true?” she asked me, since I have been married seven years. Seven years! That’s as long as an Old Testament famine.
Yes, Laurie, it is true. Marriage is work. But here’s the trick: the implication of “marriage is work” (reads like a Marxist manifesto) is that if marriage is work, then the opposite of all this work is sipping mojitos in Tahiti, and reading the latest Oprah book club selection. I would argue that, yes, marriage requires a lot of effort, but there’s also great payoff. To me the polar opposite of being married is being comatose. A coma requires very little effort. I believe there’s also very little reward.
Put another way: a marriage is a garden. We can probably all agree that weeding a garden is hard work. But while one gardener notices how hot it is, how much her knees hurt, how many weeds there are, and what a thankless job it is—gripe, moan, whine—another gardener might notice how nice it is to be in the fresh air. That the feel of dirt in her fists is a sensual experience. That the garden is beautiful after it’s been weeded. Maybe she’s just proud to even have a garden.
You get the point.
(I must admit with all this gardening talk, that I haven’t weeded since 1981, back when I still had cooperative kneecaps. The metaphor is more real to me than the actual act of gardening.) Continue… »
By Janine KovacSupermarket Parenting
I was doing my weekly schlep to Whole Foods when I noticed something. It was not the new mango-wasabi-beet foam reduction organic chutney for $10.99. Though ordinarily that would capture my attention.
No, it was the sheer proliferation of mothers with twin babies in dual strollers. These mighty mamas were pushing their progeny with one hand in front while behind their backs they lugged shopping carts. Each with that look of utter mommy determination in their eyes. Continue… »
By Dawn YunParents, Start Your Vacation
We decided to drive our Prius to Yellowstone. Our Honda Accord is bigger and has a luggage box on top, but there is something wrong with the starter. Every once in a while the key gets stuck in the ignition. I pictured us in a remote rest stop in Idaho, not being able to start the car, while a bear, or perhaps a group of irate locals incensed by our liberal bumper stickers, pounded on our back window. I decided I’d rather be crowded into our 2007 Prius. I pointed out to my spouse that we could go out for dinner at least twice while camping thanks to all the money we’d save on gas.
The kids moaned as we loaded sleeping bags where their legs could have stretched. I lost my legroom to the emergency snack bag, my backpack, and CD bag. The only person who had any legroom was my husband. Normally, he gets tired and wants me to take the wheel while he naps, but when he saw me sitting Indian style in the passenger seat, he decided to keep driving. Continue… »
Working Mothers Are More Respected
I’m not sure exactly how it happened, but I know I had something to do with it.
Marley and Us
My ten-year old daughter wants a dog when her little sister turns four.
At first I was thankful for the two-year reprieve. Now I’m annoyed by her hypothetical dog. With its hypothetical name. And with the hypothetical questions she feels warrant discussion.
Or worse — answers.
Should it be an Irish coat or an American coat? Can we move Cameron’s toy kitchen and have it sleep there? Should we paper train or outside train? Go to a breeder or adopt? If it was okay for Cameron to be three years old instead of four, could we get the dog in a year?
By adminWhen There is a Big Gap in Your Children’s Ages
The gap between my children has never seemed as large as it does now. I intended to have them three years apart, but infertility interrupted my plans and my son, George, came along nine years after his sister, Venny.
Flying with Children is the Opposite of Silence
Taking young children on an airplane compares to somewhere between having your fingernails ripped out one by one and having them ripped out all at once.
You should probably get exponential bonus miles for flying anywhere in the two rows surrounding young children. Or, at least free drinks. It is only just.
Before I had kids, I will refer to this henceforth as the “Age of Innocence,” I would scowl at the surrounding kids, harrumph at the parents and sometimes, like in the case of the seat-kicking kid all the way to Washington D.C., suggest that the parent do something.
By Jennifer O'ShaughnessyMy First Kid
He arrived with great joy 15 years ago this March. He has absorbed all of my tears, shared my playful joy and loved me unconditionally.
I have, in turn, woke up at night to quiet his screams, cleaned up after his messes, gave him medicine when he was sick, made sure somebody responsible looked after him when I was away, and loved him unconditionally.
Thankfully, he approved of my husband when I got married and my husband willingly accepted the fact that he was part of the package that came with me. My husband gladly adopted him and embraced loving him, holding him and waking up to feed him. He has even put thought into his gifts at Christmas and embraced the fact that he gives me so much joy.
By Jennifer O'ShaughnessyUnsupervised
My 11-year-old son was recently invited to go bowling with the five other boys that make up his close circle of friends. The parent who proposed the bowling outing intended to drop the boys off and pick them up a few hours later.
I hesitated.
The bowling alley includes a full-service bar and an arcade, features that attract a seedy crowd. The local paper lists it as the vicinity of frequent nighttime police calls. However, on weekend afternoons it’s a mecca for school aged birthday parties. It’s anyone’s guess who might be hanging out there in the middle of a weekday during mid-winter break.
By Tina Bournazos
