A different kind of support

When I made the decision to leave my career and become a stay at home mother to my newborn son, I had no idea how lonely I would be and how desperately I would feel the need to find other women in my situation to feel normal. I was lucky to find MOMS Club when my boy was just a few months old, and found support almost instantaneously. As I met more people, I found increasingly more ways to become involved in the club, first joining the board, then becoming president, volunteering to serve for not one, but two years. As my children grew and my priorities changed, I knew I was ready to move on and let someone else steer the ship.

It was surprisingly bittersweet, choosing to step away from something that had been an integral part of my mothering experience to make room for something new. I planned my exit deliberately, announcing to the membership that not only was I planning to leave the board, but that they would have to step up to continue the good work our club was doing.

I planned the club's year end banquet as carefully as I had my children's birthday parties. It was my last hurrah, and I wanted everyone to know that they mattered to me, and that the club was something special and worthy of their time and energy. I chose gifts for all of the volunteers, found ways to recognize everyone's contributions, hand painted trinkets for the women who had served with me on the executive board, made copies of an inspirational poem for everyone to take home (of course, with a muffin I baked and wrapped myself), and on the evening of the event, I was able to sit back and enjoy the celebration.

At home, though, I'd been a bit of a martyr. Slaving away at baking and being crafty, two things that do not come naturally, I spent more than just my tiny bits of free time working on this party. Sure, my boy was able to help bake, and any time he takes an interest in the kitchen I'm thrilled, but otherwise, I had to keep reminding myself that in a few weeks, I'd be done, that I wanted to do this, and even if no one really appreciated (oh poor me) what I'd given to the club, and this event, it was worth it.

It was a huge surprise when my fellow board members presented me with a gift of appreciation. A card had been signed by everyone, and I was now armed with extra funds to spend at the local shopping mall.

In the days that passed, I was very thoughtful about the gift. I wanted to buy something meaningful. Something that would represent what the club had meant to me. It would be a token of the friendships, the camaraderie, and the hours spent working to improve the lives of the women in our community. It had to be something for me alone, and it would have to be something lasting, something truly symbolic of my commitment and the support I had received as well as what I had given to others. I was stumped.

I did enough shopping to realize how difficult I find shopping now. I rarely buy anything for myself at the mall, choosing among several discount stores to meet my basic needs. Though a gift card to Target would have been more practical and more easiliy spent, I took their gift to mean that they wanted me to treat myself to something special.

Then I figured it out. MOMS Club had been a huge source of support for me as a new mother, but I need a different kind of support now.

This is what I bought.

When I write my first children's book...

...it will be called, Elizabeth Rose, Where Are Your Clothes?

The girl's favorite phrase of the moment (at 23 months) is, "Clothes off! Diaper off! Naked Ellie!"

She has started potty training. She is as surprised by it as I am.

Naked Ellie will run up and down the hall, shouting, "NAKED ELLIE!", will pause and say, "Pee pee potty." She sits on her new potty, and is delighted to make gas. I think this is her idea of the purpose of said potty. She sits, toots, and giggles. Then she smiles and says, "Gas. Hee hee hee." She does this a lot. She thinks it is hilarious. (The girl loves gas. She belches competitive with truck drivers and finds it more than amusing. She'll even do a fake burp if you ask her nicely.)

Following, she gets up, again runs down the hall (NAKED ELLIE), and will then complete her bathroom business anywhere she sees fit (and by the way, thank goodness for this!).

The gist of my book will be something about a little girl who loves to run and be free, but learns that part of being a big girl (one who gets to wear Elmo panties and go to school like her big brother) is keeping one's clothes on throughout the day. Hooray!

Time flies

I swear, I thought I was only 35. How old are you?

Day at the Beach

I met some girlfriends for a day at the beach the other day. We had a great time.

Technically, I took my two young children to a birthday party at the beach, skipping a Mommy & Me class with one and a non-refundable day of summer camp for the other to celebrate the birthday of a boy we really like. (Plus, it didn’t hurt to leave our 100+ degree neighborhood for a change of scene and a bit of ocean breeze!)

We arrived, packed for every possibility. Water. Check. Sunscreen. Check. Hats. Check. Blanket. Towels. Toys. Check, check, check. Snacks, change of clothes, wagon to schlep everything from point A to point B. Done. The little one fought with me tooth and nail for the right to walk alone, but lost. The big one, excited by the outing, the opportunities, the possibility of cake and goody bags, followed my orders with military precision. This would be fun.

Once settled, we made our way to a point just north of where the sand met the ocean. The big one sat a few paces back to insure he would not be surprised by a wave. The little one found delight in sitting and letting the sand fall through her tiny outstretched hands. My errand was to fetch water for our sand castles (which happen to include swimming pools).

While my children sat with their friends under the watchful eye of the other moms, I made my trips to the edge of the sea, buckets in hand, with a job to do. I caught myself watching a couple of teenage girls as they walked along the shore, and suddenly, I was twenty years back in time, down at Salt Creek Beach.

I wasn’t on a water run for my babies, I was picking up a missing Smashball, looking back to see if any of the boys were watching so I could tell my girlfriends who my next crush might be when school started. I was young and the most important thing I’d do that day was return to the parking lot by 4:00 when one of our moms would meet us to drive us home while we giggled and gossiped in the back seat. Neither gravity nor childbirth had yet taken their toll on my young body, nor would I have considered slathering myself in SPF 45, wearing a sensible one-piece or a wide-brimmed hat. I had pink Zinka on my nose, a cute bikini, and highlights in my hair from a summer in the sun. Life did not get better than this.

Then I turned around and recognized two little people on the beach who look just like me, and in an instant, the moment was over. I was Mommy again.

Life did get better than that summer long ago. I grew up, met the love of my life, and made two beautiful children. I love my family, my home, and all we’ve accomplished. I would rather be here and now than anywhere else. But feeling transported back to a time in my life when I had not a care in the world, even if just for a few seconds, was a wonderful escape. I hadn’t felt that free in a long time.

I’m hoping to find a way to make those glimpses of tranquility last a little longer than the time it takes for the next wave to crash on the sand.

Shame on Me

“Ellie! Shame on you!” said my almost 4-year old boy to his sister one morning for no apparent reason, after no obvious squabble or controversy. I quickly rushed over to see if the toddler had actually done anything to merit such a strongly worded scolding, but it seemed she hadn’t. After a brief assessment of the scene, my interrogation began and it went something like this:

Mommy: Jake, that is not okay. You don’t talk to your sister that way. She didn’t do anything wrong and those are very angry words to use.

Jake: Sorry.

Mommy: Jake, who said that to you? Those aren’t words we use in our house.

Jake: I don’t know.

Mommy: (turns off television) Jake, did Mommy say that? (This was a test.)

Jake: Yes. (He failed. Though I have used some choice phrases in my time, “shame on you” is not one of mine.)

Mommy: No, Jake. I didn’t say that. Did a teacher say that? (Another test. Do we need to start the preschool hunt again?)

Jake: No.

Mommy: Jake, did a grownup say that or a kid?

Jake: A kid. (Aha! Now we're getting somewhere.)

Mommy: (turns television back on because the toddler is now screaming for her morning Elmo fix. For some it’s coffee, but E needs a few minutes with her furry red friend in his crayon-sketched world to start her day.) Jake, who said those words?

Jake: I don’t know. (Without boring you, I'll summarize. This went on for some time until the boy was removed from the television and carried to the kitchen for further discussion in which the truth would soon be discovered.)

As it turns out, one of his good friends used those words at school and hurt my boy’s feelings. Though he knew it was bad, Jake had no idea what it meant. When he tested out the phrase on his baby sister, he quickly understood the power of language and the consequences that can come with harsh words.

I thought for a moment of speaking to my son’s teachers about the boy who uttered this phrase to my son during their watch, but reconsidered. I know the kid’s mom. I respect her and empathize with the battles she fights in her own home as she has children about the same age as mine. After dropping him at school, I spent the morning wondering what could have happened in the presence of this boy that he would hear the response, “Shame on you!” and then decide to use it as his own, directing it at my child, his friend.

It is a quick and valuable lesson to learn to watch ones words when little ears (who seem to hear only selectively) are listening. I can only imagine which persuasive techniques my child is using on the others that he has learned from me. Is he bribing children with chocolate? Perhaps promising stars and toys for good behavior? I’ve heard him say “Enough!” enough times to know that children are excellent mimics, and I wonder to whom he has shared that exasperation, with hands held in the air for emphasis.

So I let it go. I let it go because I’m not entirely innocent of evocative speech. Not only have I made empty threats and reacted irresponsibly when a more calm and collected response would have been more suitable, I’ve even done so deliberately to get a reaction. I’ve used tones of voice I’d prefer not to be used on me. It is one thing to be critical of another, finding fault to explain away bad behaviors, it is another thing entirely to acknowledge making the same mistakes, and take responsibility for doing the same thing, even if it is ever so subtly different. What is the better message to my child?

So I’ve been wrong, too. Shame on me.