Happy Mother's Day

Today was a good day.  I woke up and gave myself permission to do nothing.  No laundry; no cleaning; no work.  And, in honor of Mother's Day, Big Bren offered no resistance.  I got my gift, went to brunch with my two favorite members of the male gender, came home and took a nap.  What else could a mother ask for?

How Do Kids Learn These Things?

Yesterday, I gave Brendan a quarter to buy a gumball from the machine at the car wash. It was one of the "new" quarters with the State-specific designs on the back. Yes, they've been around for years, but they still look new to me.

Brendan flipped it over and immediately said what I was thinking: "A quarter just doesn't look like a quarter without an eagle on the back."

"You Can't Play 'Cause You Have Different Skin"

Brendan has been obsessing about color lately.  Last week, he said he no longer wanted to be brown.  When I asked him what color he wanted to be, he paused, then threw his arms around me and said "I love you very much, Mommy."  Then, he hurried away before I could ask him any more questions.

A few days later, he said that he wished I wasn't brown.  I told him that I loved being brown, but given a choice, what color would he make me?  Another pause, then he answered that he wished I was the same color as his cousin Joey's mommy -- who is also brown.  I was puzzled, but before I could question him any more, he hurried away again.

Then, on Sunday, the truth finally reared its head:  in recess recently, four boys that he looks up to and used to play with all the time told him that he couldn't play with them anymore, because he had "different skin."  He tried to tell the story nonchalantly, as if he couldn't care less whether those boys played with him or not, but I could see the pain in his eyes.  It was like I had been stabbed in the chest.  

Big Bren and I have gone out of our way to provide a multicultural environment for Brendan.  He watches multicultural programs; his "people" toys are all different nationalities; even the angel on our Christmas tree was of color.  What we didn't realize was that Brendan would not -- and could not -- grow up in that bubble.  We assumed, I guess, that other parents would be raising their children the same way.

I wonder whether racism occurs through nature or nurture.  Is it in our DNA to discriminate against those who do not look like us or are we raised to do so?  The fact that those boys used that terminology -- different skin -- makes me think that their parents are not necessarily racists.  If so, they would have used other, not so benign, words.  Just the same, if the parents surround themselves and their children with people who all look the same, it's no wonder the kids are so intolerant of change.

Big Bren, who, while not brown, feels strongly about having a child who feels comfortable in his skin, whatever color that may be, marched to the school the very next day and told the Head of School about Brendan's experience.  The point was not to get those boys in trouble, but to steer them in the direction of acceptance of others.  On our end, we will not do anything differently. We are already teaching Brendan not just tolerance, but acceptance, of cultural differences.  And with our wonderfully multi-hued family, he gets to do that every day.

The Most Expensive Thing I've Ever Had ...

... is Brendan.

Kids are frigging expensive. There’s tuition and afterschool and clothing and entertainment and Christmas gifts and birthday gifts and birthday parties. Geez!

Big Bren made fun of me the other day because I bought some eye shadow at the dollar store. I thought about making my usual trip to the Mac store, but when I thought about the amount of gas I would spend to get there, plus the $18 for the actual eye shadow, I decided to go down the hill to the dollar store and called it a day. The damn thing probably contains lead and might dry out my eye lids, but what can I say? I’ve become “frugal” in my old age.

What Donuts Do

Brendan and I were running errands today when we passed by the local Dunkin Donuts and Brendan asked if he could have a donut. While I’m not a big proponent of giving kids what amounts to pretty much unadulterated sugar, I felt like having a little something sweet myself, so to Dunkin Donuts we went. Brendan wanted a powdered donut; I got him 3 powdered donut munchkins and some hot chocolate and we got back in the car.

I focused on driving and totally forgot about Brendan and his donuts until I snuck a peak in the rear-view mirror to see what he was up to. I almost drove off the road when I saw that my child, from head to toe, the booster seat and the backseat immediately surrounding him were covered in white powdered sugar.

My eyebrows came together in a frown. At the next stop light, I turned around and said, “Brendan, look at the mess you’ve made back there.” He looked down at himself and his chair and over at the backseat, then shrugging slightly, he said “But, Mommy, that’s what donuts do!” Despite myself, I had to laugh. He was absolutely right, powdered donuts will no doubt create a mushroom cloud of sugar and little boys will undoubtedly make a mess.

From the Horse's Mouth

With all the Christmas shows featuring Rudolph and Santa Claus, Brendan decided that he wanted to be a reindeer when he grows up.  His goals were lofty -- he didn't want to be just any old reindeer, he was going to be one of Santa's reindeer (the ones that fly).  I let the reindeer fantasy go on for a while, but, being the realist that I am, I felt duty-bound to tell my child that people did not simply turn into beasts at whim.  I cornered him as he ran around the house, holding his hands up to his head and spreading his fingers to look like antlers.

"Brendan?"

He stopped, antler-hands still in position, "yes, Mommy?"

"Baby boy, you know that people can't turn into reindeer, right?"

Long pause.  "Why not?"

"I don't know why, but they just don't.  People are people and reindeer are reindeer.  You can pretend you're a reindeer, though."

He looked off to the side.  Then, slowly, he unspread his fingers and brought his hands down from his head.  He started to walk away.  Great, now I had crushed the kid's spirit.

When he was halfway across the room, I called out to him again.

"Honey Bunny?"

He trotted back, "yes, Mommy?"

"Are you upset because you can't be a reindeer someday?"

He gave me a toothy grin.  "Not at all, Mommy.  I didn't want to be a reindeer anyway. ... What I really want to be is a horse!"  And he galloped off, neighing as he went.  (Sigh)    

Good Genes

I have a confession to make: I am a celebrity gossip junkie. I can spend hours on the internet just reading trash. My latest fascination is with celebrity moms. You know, the Heidi Klums, Nicole Richies, Angelina Jolies and Gwyneth Paltrows of the world. The ones who are back to a size 2 even before the afterbirth comes out. I understand that these women have to look a certain way for their jobs, but it still makes the rest of us look bad (literally) when Katie Holmes and Jennifer Lopez can run marathons within 3 months of giving birth. At 6 months post-partum, I was lucky just to get out of the house without a soggy Cheerio stuck to some part of my head.

So, how do they do it? I have read everything (I mean it -- I have read every celebrity rag out there). And the answers range from coy non-answers, to giving all the credit to breast-feeding, to good genes (yeah, I’m calling you out, J. Lo), to my all-time favorite “I already have a toddler. Keeping up with him/her is all the exercise I need!” Cough ** Bullshit ** Cough.

So imagine my surprise when I read an interview with Jessica Alba not too long ago where she answered the inevitable “how did you lose the baby weight?” question, with something like (I’m paraphrasing here): “It was hard. I worked out for several hours almost every day and went on a diet.” I almost fell out of my chair. An honest celebrity. What an oxymoron. That’s almost as rare as a truthful attorney. Of course, she had to ruin the lovefest I had going on with her when she then declared, “Everything about having a baby is fun! Even the explosive diarrhea!” Okay, Jessica, I would’ve sooner believed that you got your six-pack back by breast-feeding.

It’s tough being a woman in this society, what with the pressure to look a certain way, to have breasts of a certain size, and to have color and hair of a certain hue. But it is also getting increasingly difficult to be a mom as well. My mother’s generation was, I believe, the first generation to be pressured to not just be moms, but to be providers for their families. My mom was under no delusions about what she could and couldn’t do. She knew she had to work (sometimes she worked two jobs); she also knew that, as a result, quality time and real parenting would have to move to the back burner. Ask my mom today and she will tell you – very loudly – in no uncertain terms that she did what she had to do and has no regrets about it.

My generation thinks that we can do and be everything. We want to be great workers, great friends, great mothers and great wives and look great doing it, damn it. I will be honest and say that, on any given day, I drop one or more of the balls I am juggling. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s home, but most times, it’s me. I don’t have the benefit of J.Lo-ian genes (I wonder where her “genes” were when she was a Fly Girl on In Living Color and very obviously a big girl – but I digress) or the money to hire a nanny, a trainer and a live-in cook. So, I, too, will do the best I can (albeit with saggy abs and a flabby bottom) and, hopefully, have no regrets about it.

Wrong Side of the Bed

Brendan is, thankfully, a good kid.  He has his moments, but they pass quickly.  Today, however, he just could not get a handle on his emotions.  The day started with him crying in his sleep and went downhill from there.  He whined about breakfast (cereal) so much, that I had no choice but to make his breakfast of choice ("crema" - cream of wheat made with milk, sugar and cinnamon).  Then he didn't want to get dressed.  That was followed by an all-out temper tantrum because he wanted to bring in a box that was delivered in the morning, but we didn't let him (the box was twice his size and very heavy).  Every meal was objectionable to him; all he wanted to eat was pound cake.

After his 1,713th request for cake was answered with a resounding "no," he furrowed his unibrow at me, stomped his little feet and proclaimed, "today was a bad day."  Really?  I never would've noticed ...

Everything You Should Know About Kids, But No One Bothers to Tell You

Everything you should know about kids ...

• Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper cry; and they pee and poop.
• The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
• A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
• At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
• All young kids are fascinated by poop.
• A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
• Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
• You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
• "Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
• Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
• The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
• After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
• Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

My Little Cross

My mother always says that each child a woman has is a cross to bear: some children are easy-going and light to carry (like paper machier); others are difficult and get heavier with each passing year (like steel).  (Yes, it's all very maternal of her.)

Well, one day not too long ago, when I tried to get out of bed, the room persisted on spinning.  I eased myself back down and thanked God that it was the weekend.  Then it dawned on me that -- it being Saturday -- Brendan would have no school; which meant that I would have to deal with an energetic four-year-old the entire day with vertigo.  At that moment, I am ashamed to say that I resented the little guy.  I mean, if I didn't have him, I could lay in bed, get some rest and perhaps, just perhaps, that would be enough to chase away the dizziness.  No sooner had these thoughts passed my mind that I heard his little chipmunk voice from the bathroom, "Mommy, can you wipe my butt?"  Great start to a crappy day.

I finished wiping and headed back to bed.  "Mommy, may I have some juice?"  I gritted my teeth. A cross indeed.  I just wanted to lay down; anything to stop the infernal spinning.  Was that really so much to ask?  I felt angry; annoyed that this was my lot in life.  Now I'd have to navigate the stairs and try not to kill myself in the process of going down to make breakfast.

With breakfast duty completed, I dragged myself back up the stairs, climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to my neck.  I fell into the kind of sleep that only mothers have -- you now, the kind where you're asleep, but can still hear everything going on around you.  In this altered state, I heard the "choo choo" of his toy train; he was trying to entertain himself as quietly as a four-year-old could.  In that moment, my heart flooded with so much love for my little man that I could barely stand it.

I got up and went to his room.  As soon as he saw me, he ran over and threw his arms around me.  Even after my shortness with him the whole day, he was still giving me unconditional love. I knelt down and he kissed my forehead. "There, that should make it all better, Mommy."  And it did.  Suddenly, I realized that he wasn't a cross I had to bear; he was a blessing that God had bestowed upon me.  In fact, he's the one carrying the cross of a tired, cranky, often stressed mother.  He didn't ask to be here -- I made the choice to have a child.

With that, I got Bren dressed and took him to the park.  Then we had ice cream.  And, what do you know?  Getting moving alleviated my vertigo.  Later in the evening, when he was bathed and ready for bed, I took him in my arms and gave him a huge hug.  Were it not for him, I probably would've lain in bed feeling sorry for myself and letting the vertigo take over. Sometimes, carrying a cross is the just the exercise one needs.