Reaching Out, Staying Sane. Over Drinks.

 

Several friends and I have kicked around the idea of hearkening back to our grandparents’ generation by organizing cocktail hours designed to get us through the late-afternoon push. The idea is that whining and general chaos have a greater chance of being neutralized if we can persuade our kids into thinking it’s not really the end of the day. That they’re not really starved for one-on-one attention right at the hour when we need to be prepping dinner. That what they really need is a little creative play with some peers while their parents sit around or cook over drinks.

A friend and stay-at-home dad said to me the other day, Parenting isn’t like PTSD because it’s ongoing.

Tongue-in-cheek as that may sound, it rings a bell. Constant parenting can make you feel diagnosable.

My advice to him and, had I been able to give it, to myself over the last two years, is this: be as aggressively proactive as your stretched-thin, bleary-eyed self can manage about getting support. Call other parents, grandparents, babysitters. Organize a babysitting co-op, trade kids with friends for the morning, plan a time at the gym together, have play dates every day. Every hour if you need them.

And this: be honest about how difficult staying home with young children can be.

I’m not advocating pity-parties that don’t lead to anything but more despair (no, despair is not an over-statement). I’m not suggesting we ignore the creativity of our kids or moan constantly about lost freedoms or parenting dilemmas (though moaning can be cathartic).

I’m suggesting that no one try to pretend this gig is easy.

My husband said he’s heard parenting referred to as the tyranny of the now. It’s true. It’s not that any of us resent our children for needing to be bathed and clothed and nurtured. Of course not. It’s this: for long, long stretches of time, there isn’t room for anything else.

Our family is lucky, really lucky, to live within driving distance of most our kids’ grandparents (in the case of my in-laws, we’re within a few miles). After living in another part of the country for the first three years of my daughter’s life, I don’t take built-in babysitters for granted one little bit.

But even people with family in town need other folks to help carry the load. We can’t impose on our parents all the time. We want to respect the effort, time and love they give our kids while still holding down full-time jobs and running their own households and social schedules. Plus, we just need other people.

I know I do. So, here’s to friends. Here’s to late-afternoon distraction and play. Here’s to sanity. Here’s to happy hour!

 

These images courtesy of Monocle (via Creative Commons).

Fairy Dust and Health Care Reform

If you’ve read past posts about our son, you know we’ve dealt with screaming fits a lot in the past year. Strident, who-knows-where-they-come-from, all-out wailing episodes.

One morning this summer, when the windows were open and he didn’t want his diaper changed, he launched into a 20-minute fit. During breakfast, just after we managed to help him settle into a normal morning routine, a policeman showed up at our door. Really. It was that bad.

I want to acknowledge that he doesn’t scream all the time. In fact, we’re having a blissful week. He’s cheerful and funny. He shows us dance moves. He comes up with little scenarios. “I tell you about truck, Mommy,” he says, “and you be funny.” That means, “and you laugh.”

Partly, he’s coming into his own.

Partly, he’s just plain feeling better.

Two weeks ago both he and his dad were sick. For my son, this meant grumpy sick. Mild-fever sick. Clingy sick. Mommy’s-going-to-pull-her-hair-out sick. And, yes, screaming-fit sick.

I know his recurrent, uncontrollable outbursts are not usually due to illness. Their absence this week just makes me hyper-aware of how great it is to live in a harmonious, healthy household.

Which makes my thoughts turn, now that I have fewer coughs to dodge, to health care. I know not everyone’s well. I know not everyone will kick their illnesses like our boys did that nasty virus.

For the record, this is what I think:

All people should have access to preventive care to help keep them from getting sick and urgent care when they need it.

People who have chronic illnesses should have access to adequate, affordable health care all the time. These families and individuals should not be obligated to fight a third party so they can have the care and supplies they need.

If people are healthy, they will be more effective, more creative, more involved citizens. It is civilized, and good sense, to ensure that all people are covered.

***

A friend of mine who’s a teacher has a little humorous thing she does with her fourth graders. If they leave their seat to ask her a question during a time when it’s inappropriate for them to be doing so (such as when she’s teaching or when they’re supposed to be working silently on an assignment), she looks at them with her twinkly teacher eye, feigns a tossing of fairy dust and says, Poof! As in, I’m just going to pretend you’re still at your desk!

Kids laugh when they get poofed and remember the rule the next time.

I wish this approach would work with insurance companies.

You know, Poof! We know you know better than to deny babies health coverage because they’re in the 99th percentile for weight.* Oops! You just forgot common sense! We know you’ll remember next time.

Or, Poof! Uh, oh! We have a little something to talk about. You know that woman who had breast cancer? Well, your job is not to fight bills that come in after her surgery. You forgot? Okay. Since she’s covered by your company, please pay the bills instead of looking for ways to deny coverage. Don’t put her and her family through more stress. They did, after all, live through the horror of cancer.

No. Poof won’t work with these companies. It’s time for reform, folks.

I’m busy. It’s hard for me to find time to read up on health care reform and even more difficult (and exasperating) to wade through the din of the debate.

But now that my family is feeling better, I have more time to keep up with this issue — and more time to devote to lots of other things, too. Just like the people who will benefit from health care reform.

Photo courtesy of hyperscholar (Creative Commons).

*The heavy infant in the linked story above was, in a reversal by the insurance company, approved for coverage following the flurry of media attention.

 

Meanwhile, the Carrots Burn…

Tonight I assembled dinner. (What I did could not really be called cooking: crepes, avocados, bananas and peanut butter, frozen peas, leftover casserole–throw the fridge on the table!) I put the kids in the bath, cleaned the kitchen, prepared the futon (for me), put my son down, watched a video with my daughter (it’s Friday, after all) and then put her to bed.

Have you guessed? My husband came down with our son’s virus last night. By 11:00 a.m. he was home from work, crashed out upstairs. Our son was sick and cranky for over a week. With my husband’s onset of symptoms, I’m fearing a family germ tour.

Weeks like this, I’m prone to having a major pity party, especially about topics for  essays. This week was so unglamorous, it’s painful to recount. I took care of a sick kid and tried to keep the daily grind from grinding to a halt. That’s it.

Where’s the fodder? I’m not organizing a 350 event (or, God help me, even attending one). I’m not globetrotting as a successful…whatever. I’m not doing anything particularly sexy with my life.

I think: What on earth is so interesting about the woes of a stay-at-home mom? What am I supposed to write? Certainly not this whiny mantra: Poor me! I held a screaming child for a solid week! Poor me! The dirty dishes mushroom in the sink while I balance a 33-pound child on my hip and try to hear the nurse on the other end of the phone! Poor me! I feel guilty because I had to ask my in-laws to watch the kids (again) so I can vacuum without damaging their hearing and scrub a week’s worth of spills off the kitchen floor!

I attended a writing conference a few weeks ago. In one of the workshops I attended, the presenting author talked a bit about poorly composed book proposals, particularly those with glaring errors (in one example, the writer referred to the enclosed manuscript as a “fiction novel”) or overall shoddy construction.

The presenter said she often hears her editor say about such things, It’s in the writing, sweetheart. In other words, just write well. Be careful and honest. Prioritize beautiful prose. Or a compelling argument. Or rich language. Or clear phrasing. Or the perfect metaphor. Don’t get too sloppy. But don’t try to get too fancy, either.

It’s in the writing. Not in the adventures I think I’d have if my life had turned out otherwise.

A few days ago, when my son was in the middle of his illness, the kids got into a tangle while I was trying to make dinner. I intervened and waited it out while we sorted through the squabble together. I could smell the carrots burning in the wok (we didn’t have any onions, you know). When I made it back to the kitchen, a number of them were little black discs. A number of them, but not all. Dinner wasn’t ruined. And the house didn’t burn down. I picked them out. I added garlic.

I guess it’s an imperfect comparison, but I see a similarity in writing. Write what is interesting, even if it’s just the wind. Write what is in front of you. And do it well. Attend to it so you can get it right, even if something in the other room has to burn for a little while.

Photo courtesy of Maggie Hoffman (Creative Commons).

A Little Fiction

Tonight we had a conference with our daughter’s kindergarten teacher. The first. Her teacher showed us a number of stories she wrote and illustrated, sweet little three page stories (beginning, middle, end). The best one? The one describing our trip to Hawaii. The beautiful beaches (page one), the house we stayed in (page two) and…the tsunami. Right.

After the translation of the tsunami page the teacher got a knowing look on her face and asked us if we’d been to Hawaii. Nnnn-no. Ah! She stepped right in and said to our daughter, You know the difference between fiction and nonfiction, right? (You remember the last post, don’t you? The one about her “lost” — broken, stashed — glasses?) She said to her teacher, earnestly, I’m much better at fiction.

Photo courtesy of epugachev (via Creative Commons).

Thank you, BCharmer!

Yesterday I was reading a new blog post by my neighbor and dear friend, Colleen. I was sighing, looking at yet another of her beautiful images from her garden. This one of “the simple dill weed umbel.”

In the same post she generously included Write the Journey among her nominations for a blog award. Wow! Thank you so much.

Colleen is a beautiful person and artist, inside and out. Just read her post from today about a workshop she attended on color. Colleen is the reason I’m even aware of Etsy — hers was the first shop I had ever visited. Check out her yummy designs here.

As part of the Kreativ Blogger recognition, I need to tell you seven things that most people don’t know about me. Here goes:

1. I grew up going to a summer camp in the Texas Hill Country.

2. I met my husband in college. He was the RA downstairs.

3. I spent the summer after my junior year in college in the inner city community of East Palo Alto, teaching kids. I loved the kids, but learned that I would never be a teacher. This is also when I first saw inequality up close.

4. I bailed out on a high school art requirement by taking art lessons from my grandmother one summer. I think I learned more from her in a few short lessons than I ever would have in art class.

5. One of my earliest memories is of dissecting hosta blooms that hung on the border of our neighbor’s front yard in California.

6. I don’t dislike cats, but I like birds more. This is probably because once a feral cat snagged a titmouse right off our bird feeder in front of my toddler daughter’s eyes.

7. I cried after I got home every day of junior high school.

And, I need to nominate seven wonderful bloggers. Here are some of my regular reads and why I find them inspiring:

1. Liz at Motherlogue. I love her attention to detail in writing fiction (a recent favorite: this story), her dedication to the writing process (see her Sunday Style posts) and poignant observations of her two young ones.

2. Stephanie at The Beautification Project. Stephanie makes me laugh. And laugh. And say, “Oh, yeah! She totally gets it!” Every time I read a post I feel like I relate completely. And like maybe she read my journal.

3. Mary Jo at Writers Inspired. This shingle is chock full of get-up-and-go-write inspiration. And I love the regular (like clockwork!) writing prompts and author interviews.

4. Nathalie at Nathalie’s Notes. Her daily word count is a reminder to me that, yes, a mother of a toddler can write a book. I’m cheering her on every time I check in.

5. Cara at The Hummels: the Assorted Ramblings of a Crafty Momma. My friend Cara posts stunning photos that make her blog feel like a travelogue through their daily family life. Cara makes time for crafting and sewing projects with a school-age daughter and makes it look easy. Even with toddler twins.

6. Louise at Thoughts Happen. She blogs about everything from childhood memories to the Dalai Lama. I especially love her posts on “A Complaint-Free World.” This one is the most recent.

Lost Glasses: A True Story

Our daughter’s glasses had been missing for over a week. And this child doesn’t have much in the way of distance vision without them. My husband was tearing the house apart. Searching. Moving things. Practically pleading with the house itself to cough them up. Under the bed? No. Inside her sleeping bag? No. Between the duvet cover and the comforter? In the playroom? How about under the couch? Nope. The car? Backpack? Bathroom drawers?

We both asked her repeatedly where she may have put them, but she clearly had no idea.

It’s common for her to misplace them. She can’t read with them on, after all. They constantly end up abandoned, dropped wherever she runs across printed words.

Still, it was curious, considering that she went an entire year without losing or breaking her first pair. Once when they went MIA for three weeks — we put up a desperate sign at the park — my husband finally spied them, nestled between the passenger seat and door of our car. Right where she’d put them. She’s downright responsible, if not always clear on the details.

You may wonder if I was involved in the colossal hunt. Well, strangely, no. There just wasn’t a fire in the Mama-belly to find them. She has a good pair of back-ups (we had the lenses of her first pair updated, just in case — pat, pat, pat), so I was only mildly annoyed, feeling certain they would surface any day. After all, our house tends to be in a tiny bit of, um, disarray. We all lose stuff around here. I just figured she does, too.

***

For the record, my husband wins all the intuition points on this one. Sunday night I climbed the stairs to find both kids staring up at him. He was standing in front of a desk on our landing, a drawer open. In each hand he held half of a pair of glasses.

The story? She had snapped them in half (on accident, she says) and stuffed them in the drawer where she hoped, apparently, they would rest in peace silently. Forever.

I know kids make up stories. And I know our daughter is particularly taken with make believe. But, she lied? She told us with a straight face over and over again that she had no idea where they were? Well, yes. She did.

Where are the eyes in the back of my head?

It’s difficult to be pragmatic in the wake of such an obvious breach of family etiquette. I felt immediately angry and, yes, betrayed. My trust in her willingness to tell the truth is compromised as is, clearly, her willingness to tell us the real story. I’ve always assumed that my daughter will trust us, no matter what her age or stage of development. Even, maybe especially, when she’s afraid she’ll be in trouble.

It would be too obvious — and not really true — to say that the broken glasses represent a broken trust between us. No. Instead, I see the creeping approach of ever-more-complicated parenting.

My friends who have older kids always say it’s not necessarily easier when they get older,  just different. The issues shift and become more nuanced. This feels like the beginning of that phase of parenting.

Kids lie. Our kid lies. Now it’s up to us to figure out how to model honesty and present it as a desirable trait. Trying to figure this out feels like I’m walking on a bowling ball that’s been buffed with Vaseline. We will, of course, continue to extend her our trust. But I’m also aware that she won’t learn how to tell the truth unless she’s (gently, directly) called on it when she stretches or fabricates in a way that can do damage to her relationships.

We’re going to have to work this one out as we go along. In the meantime, I’m glad the search — at least for the glasses — is over.

Meat Eater in the House

I’m vegetarian. In my hippie neck of the woods, however, I feel inclined to refer to myself as something more akin to “veggie-lite.” I eat things that swim and can’t even make it through a cup of tea without a product that originates inside an udder.

When we had our daughter, I was excited–no, proud to be feeding her an entirely vegetarian diet. At one of her toddler well-checks, I glowed when our pediatrician lauded the benefits of a veggie diet for kids. I loved it when the doctor asked my daughter if she was eating foods from every color of the rainbow. Secretly smiling. Smug. That was me.

Of course, as tends to happen with these sorts of things, meat was introduced to her without my consent. Prosciutto at a party when she was hardly nine months old (She loves it! beamed a friend while tucking little pink pieces between her little pink lips). A bite (just one) off an enormous burger she dressed herself at a family reunion at age three. And finally, inevitably, a hot dog (cringe!) at a friend’s birthday party. This time, she ate the whole thing.

I should tell you that my decision to forego fowl and meats from large animals had almost nothing to do with ethics. I grew up eating, quite innocently, any and every kind of meat. But the larger the animal, the less I liked the taste. When I was a kid, I remember groaning internally if we arrived at a friend’s house to find burgers on the grill. I’d eat one without complaining because it was, after all, a good source of protein and I didn’t want to be rude.

Years later, a simple, unplanned conversation with a friend from graduate school made me take the leap. It went like this:

Me: I’ve always wanted to become vegetarian.

My friend: Why don’t you?

Relieved, I decided to take meat off the menu.

My personal motive eventually grew a political arm as I learned about the conditions of animals raised for food. This is important (I still get queasy thinking about those poor chickens pecking each other raw). But my newly minted conviction surrounding my veggie diet spread a thin layer of conceit, like mayonnaise on a slice of whole grain bread. As our daughter started to reach for foods on my forbidden list, I built up an internal sandwich of frustration to try and deal with the lack of control. On went a worried lettuce leaf, an annoyed tomato slice and a downright shrill chunk of portobello.

She’s only three! I lamented to my husband after the first burger. She’s not old enough to make this decision! As if she were taking up smoking or contemplating baptism.

Despite the (insert throat clearing) exposure, she decided firmly by the time she was five that she didn’t want to eat meat. Mommy doesn’t eat meat and I don’t either, she said. Now that was music to an overly controlling Mommy’s ears.

And just picture my heart (breaking!) when she protested earnestly against ordering a chicken from a local farm (I had actually suggested this to my meat-craving husband, figuring it would be better to pick up a fresh bird rather than one wrapped in cellophane).

A few weeks ago we had dinner for 10 family members at our house. Someone offered a brief blessing, returning thanks for the food and the gathering. A chord of amens introduced what is, in many households, a quiet moment before conversation resumes and food begins circling the table.

Into this reverent pause, our two-year-old son crowed, beaming and practically jumping out of his seat to point at the stacks of smoked ribs on the table: I want meat!

The moral is the same as for so many things in parenthood. We can’t control our kids. From the time they are born, we are letting go. Good parents guide rather than direct. Our job is to support rather than dominate our kids.

I’m glad, for his sake, that our little guy is the second one. This time around, I don’t really care. Though it will be awhile before we offer him meat on a regular basis, in my mind I already call him my “meat and potatoes boy.” His palate is his own.

And mine is my own. So I’ll be letting Daddy handle the meat eaters in the house. It will be a long time, folks, (and a cold day…) before I find myself cooking up a roast.

Photo courtesy of inuyaki.com (via Creative Commons).

I Miss Her…I Miss Her Not…

Yesterday I went on a hike with our son and a group of friends. One parent asked me how the transition to school was going so far. Is it really as…, he asked, and made a motion of liberation in the air with his hand. Yes, I said. It is.

I feel like I’m living my shiny new life. It feels positively golden, like I’m a kid who gets to pick a pretty new penny from a jar every day. Behavior problems and screaming fits still find their way into our daily doings, but now it feels like I have the internal resources to deal with them since I’m not on the parenting bus all day, every day. Since she’s at school, I have time to observe and interact with our son. And write while he’s sleeping.

In the next breath, I told my friend I also feel guilty. He laughed, saying he’s heard the same from other parents who have pushed off from the school starting blocks. But guilt isn’t really what I meant. It’s not the right expression.

It’s more this: I’m wondering why it has to be so much and then so little. Why the intensity of parenting round-the-clock is followed suddenly by a gulf: open blocks of time. (This must be a tiny foretaste of the empty nest.)

In the summer, the afternoon blahs sapped our energy for projects and swept me into a half-sleep so that something as simple as reading aloud became a nudging session. That is, she would have to bump my shoulder with hers. Often. Wake UP, Mommy! We nit-picked more. We worked around each other, bored and stuck around home for my son’s naps.

Now that we’re swept up in the school schedule, I feel lucky-pennyish that we’re separated, both of us doing our daily work. But I also feel the need to be together. I miss her. I’m craving a game night or mother-daughter outing.

It’s a transition I’m not familiar with yet. From what I gather, I should enjoy the lull while it lasts. I hear that the school years become busy with school activities, volunteer hours and juggling new responsibilities. One writer said the only thing busier than the summer is the school year (really?).

Before that reality hits, I’ll take a deep breath into the quiet afternoons and draw out my pennies reverently.

Photo courtesy of totalAldo (via Creative Commons).

I’m Dizzy (And My Health Care Provider, Well…Cares)

I had dizzy spells on and off this week. The most recent one started early Friday evening, pushing me to go to bed around 9:00. I woke at 3:30 in the morning still dizzy, even though I was lying down. I headed downstairs and, though I wasn’t hungry, made myself eat two scrambled eggs, wondering if it wasn’t a bout of anemia.

In the morning, the dizziness hadn’t subsided, so I spent much of the morning in bed, reading and trying multiple times to get up and start the day. After rallying and spending a brief time downtown to get some fresh air, I finally decided to ask for some medical advice.

It went like this:

1. I called an RN through our insurance company who asked a number of questions and recommended I go in to an Urgent Care clinic to be seen.

2. I went to Urgent Care with my husband (we had dropped the kids off on the way) and paid my $10 co-pay.

3. I was taken back right away. I dozed off waiting for the doctor under a heated blanket.

4. The doctor listened carefully to my symptoms, asked for clarification and had me perform a number of tasks.

5. He concluded that it was likely a virus but, just in case, ordered a round of blood work “just so there are no surprises.”

6. I went home and rested, checked the blood test results online (they were done in about half an hour) and listened to a voicemail from the doctor letting me know that everything looked okay.

If you read my thoughts often, you probably know where I’m going with this.

I’m one of the lucky ones. I have excellent health coverage thanks to my husband’s job. I didn’t hesitate to call for help and go in when instructed to do so because I knew it wouldn’t break the bank, only costing us the ten bucks and hassle of a couple of hours.

I’m perplexed by the protests launched at town halls by people who say they are terrified of “socialized medicine.” I understand but don’t share the fear that health care in our country under a single-payer system will somehow be inferior.

Many people more informed than I are weighing in on this subject. Check out, for instance, Nicolas Kristof’s September 2 column, “Health Care That Works” here and, if you have some time while folding laundry (I know I always do), listen to this Terry Gross interview with T.R. Reid, author of The Healing of America: A Global Quest for Better, Cheaper and Fairer Health Care. Reid has been in the media lately relaying his story of traveling the world to  look not only at the health care systems of wealthy nations but to ask specialists in those nations what they would do to help him with an old wound in his shoulder.

There’s also an excellent interview with Reid here, at Real Change News. Incidentally, if you live in the Seattle area, consider picking up a copy of this weekly publication to support the homeless and low income men and women who sell the paper at $1/copy (the vendors keep $.65 for every dollar they collect). Today is the first time I’ve cracked open the publication and I’m impressed.

A sampling of Reid’s quotes from the Real Change interview by Adam Hyla:

***

Most people don’t know that 20,000 Americans die every year because they can’t see a doctor. They don’t know that an appallingly large number of people [around 700,000] lose everything they have because they get sick or get hit by a car. If they did, they wouldn’t stand for it; they don’t want to live in that kind of society.

Do you know how many people in Britain go bankrupt because of medical bills? Zero. France? Zero. Canada? Zero. Japan? Zero. No other country lets that happen.

***

…the idea that these other countries shove Granny off a cliff: We know that’s wrong. In all the other rich countries a person turning 60 has a longer life expectancy than an American of the same age.

***

…the biggest mistruth is that other countries ration medical care. The fact is, the U.S. rations medical care every single day.When insurance companies deny a claim, saying we won’t cover that, that’s rationing care. When they say we won’t buy that drug for you, you’ve got to buy the cheap drug, that’s rationing care. When some people get the greatest care in the world with no waiting, and others, tens of millions, don’t even get in the door: That’s rationing.

My family is covered, but the man who sold me the paper where I read this interview likely doesn’t have any way to get care if he has dizzy spells or falls or becomes too ill to stand and work.

Let’s stop the anger and get to work. Surely we’re capable of coming up with a system that breaks open access for everyone.

Photo courtesy of littledan77 (via Creative Commons).

Surprise Reprieve

I didn’t realize until this week that my summer would end so easily. We have family in town this week, which means A) my husband took the majority of the week off so we can all go do fun things together and B) there are many sets of hands to brush little teeth and help with the dishes. So I am A) happier and B) less swamped with caregiving and housework.

For many years (over a decade) we lived away from family, on our own to orbit graduate programs in other parts of the country. Before we left the Northwest, a family friend (she’s really more like an aunt) said to my just-married, ready-to-go-see-the-world self, “After you study, I want to encourage you to come back. Especially when you have kids, being around family is so important. For them and for you.”

I appreciated her thoughts but, as so many parents have said in retrospect, just didn’t understand.

So now, I want to officially say thank you to her for speaking those words. They settled down deep somewhere and became buoyant as soon as I was changing diapers 2,600 miles from Douglas firs, rainy mornings and the tight circle of family.

The beautiful, easy time this week makes me remember how lucky we are to be home. Our move back is reaching its third anniversary and we’re surrounded by grandparents. School, have I mentioned it lately?, is just around the corner. After all the bellyaching this summer, it feels good to be grateful and heading into the fall.

Photo courtesy of D G Brown (via Creative Commons).