Dancing Without Rhythm

When Benja was very young, before he could even really talk, we began teaching him to say “I’m sorry”. He has always been such a sweet boy, but like every other kid in the universe, with toys he’d get territorial and attempt to maim or decapitate anyone who dared to touch one of his 532 Lego blocks. First rule of toddlerhood is: One must petition the King or Queen before touching or even eyeing his or her toy. Ownership is determined by proximity and whoever’s slobber glistens more freshly on toy. Petitions are always denied. However, frequently denial is overturned by astute Royal Parent, or by appealing to Parent in the form of wail or scream. Failure to follow these guidelines will result in a fit of Royal proportions. Screaming, biting, kicking, bawling, pinching, or body-slamming will undoubtedly occur.

There were dozens of times I would take Benja into my arms and firmly “impress” upon him that such non-sharing behavior was unacceptable. There were dozens of other times when I just barked orders from across the room. From very early on we were telling him that sharing was part of having friends and we used the word “share” over and over. He didn’t know the word. He didn’t even grasp the concept---but we taught it tirelessly.

Since the concept of sharing doesn’t even click in a child’s mind until they are about 3 years old, we spent a lot of time just hearing ourselves talk. So it seemed. And we spent a lot of time having him repeat “I’m sorry” after he’d reduce an unsuspecting playmate to tears. (Note: unsuspecting playmate excludes Avee, she is very suspecting and a little on the antagonizing side). Being sorry was another concept he didn’t understand. Saying “I’m sorry” could have been pointless at 1 year old. He most likely wasn’t sorry, and definitely didn’t understand what it meant. But as parents, we are in the practice of encouraging good habits and teaching appropriate behavior, long before it is comprehendible. Even today, well into his adult years, and with a perfect ability to share, my husband still finds it useful to say “I’m sorry”, even when he’s not sure why. :)

We also taught the principle of saying, “I’m sorry” by doing it ourselves. I am the mom, and I usually know what’s best, but I make mistakes. A lot. And some of them on my children. When I know I have made a mistake, I apologize. Even if it’s to a 20 month old child who may or may not understand what I’m saying.

A young college student who was staying with us for about a month during a transitioning time in her life, scoffed at me for apologizing to my 2 and a half year old. “Why are you apologizing to him---you’re the mom!” I was a little surprised by this. It had never occurred to me to not apologize to him because I’m the mom. I apologized because I was wrong and I quite possibly hurt his feelings and spirit. Even if he didn’t understand my offense or my apology fully, he felt it, and it was important to me to establish a pattern of saying sorry to him when I’m wrong. I certainly don’t ever want him thinking I purposely hurt him, and that I don’t feel bad if and when I do.

As Benja got older, he started to see the common sense in sharing. He realized that someone else playing with his toy didn’t mean he was never going to see it again. He’d even exclaim, “Look she didn’t take my truck with her!” A pleasant surprise for us all.

Recently Benja has become quite the apologizer. The other day I was so frustrated by his actions, I didn’t readily appreciate his cute apology. I had just changed Avee for bed. She had gotten patches of sticky rice all over her clothes and on parts of her arms and legs. It wasn't even five minutes after changing her, I found Benja rubbing rice all over her by the handfuls. It was mashed into her hair (albeit thin and scarce, her hair can cling to rice like it’s follicles depend on it), covering her entire body, front and back. I was pretty annoyed. I have much better things to do than wrestle with rice grains and bathe and change my 16 month old all night. I scolded Benja. He knows better. Only a couple of words into my scolding he interrupted, “I’m sorry! I won’t evoh do it again! I won’t evoh put rice all over Avee and the table and the floor and off my plate again. Evoh.” Because I wasn’t in the mood to be charmed by his adorable self, I growled, “A lot of good that does me now,” and went about my business of de-rousing Avee.

In the following days, those apologies came frequently. “I’m sorry I didn’t put my lid back on my water and it spilled” “I’m sorry I don’t want to watch Barney, it’s not good” “I’m sorry I put my shoes on the wrong feet, can you help me?” He would apologize appropriately at times and then frequently for things at other times where no apology was needed. It is endearing to me, and at the same time, fascinating to watch him try out the words and grow to understand them.

When he knows I’m not happy with something he has done, he apologizes immediately. Sometimes it’s sincere; sometimes it’s just to shut me up. Sometimes he apologizes for silly things, “I’m sorry Avee is poopy” (you and me both, babe) and sometimes they are heartfelt, “Mommy, I’m sorry I pushed Avee, now she’s sad.” Sometimes I think he really means he won’t do something again, and sometimes he’s just saying it because I often punctuate my frustrated rants with “Don’t EVER do that again!” Regardless of what those words mean to my son right now---he knows them. He understands (mostly) the importance of them, and frequently the place for them. I feel a little parenting success with this. And it’s made me think about “I’m sorry” in my own life.

From an early age I started gathering data from my surroundings. I was gathering “material” for how I would conduct my life when I was a grownup and could call the shots. Coming from a virtual potpourri of religious beliefs as a youth, I learned early on how to gather what works for me and try to assimilate it into my life. And now, I use the same process with my husband for how we teach our children. I believe there are core values that are always in place, but there are often different approaches to how one applies and/or teaches these things.

One of the things I struggled with a lot was the principle of repentance. I understood the need for it, just didn’t understand the process, or believe fully in its effectuality.

I don’t even remember my parents teaching me about repentance directly. When I was 5 or 6 years old, I stole a candy bar from the store. My mom caught me with it in the parking lot after we had left. With my mom, stealing a candy bar is bad; actually intending to consume that much sugar is deplorable. She says she realized that I understood I had done something wrong because I was hiding it under my shirt (a foreshadowing of my Twinkie smuggling days). She took me right back into the store and got the manager who harangued me behind the stand of sunglasses. Looking back I realize he was very gentle, very appropriate, and handled it perfectly. At 5 or 6 I couldn’t believe my mom was letting him go at me like this. I remember thinking I’d rather be in jail than get yelled at by this man! For years to come, even when the store changed names, I couldn’t look at that rack of sunglasses up by the cash register without getting a nervous pit in my stomach. To this day, when I go home, I still frisk myself at the checkout---just to be sure.

This experience may have been one of my first in learning about repentance. Returning the candy bar was the restitution. Then I had to confess my crime to the man from whom I had stolen. I wanted desperately for my mom to bail me out and just tell him for me, but I had to do it. And then I had to listen to him give me a piece of his mind.

It works that way now with my son. He does something wrong, I make him return the toy, replace whatever contraband he’s acquired, hug his sister, sit alone for a while and think, etc and then he has to listen to me or his dad lecture him for what most likely feels like an eternity to him. And quite frankly, he’d probably gladly take jail time over one of our lectures. Bars to climb, urinals to play in, bunk beds to jump off of….

I often struggled with repenting of the same thing(s) over and over. With friends, or family, and God---didn’t any of them get sick of hearing the same apology? If I kept saying sorry and kept doing it, wouldn’t that lead to the belief that perhaps I wasn’t really sorry? But I really did always feel sorrow if I ever was asking for forgiveness. I felt like a failure if I would ask forgiveness and then repeat the offense. It would lead me to not want to bother with the apology or supplication at all. Why bother, I’m just gonna mess up again. It’s not going to matter if I say I’m sorry or not. Sometimes I could feel like a real heel because I couldn’t get it right.

Enter motherhood. Enter sweet Benja. He “messes up again” all the time. Sure, his offenses are benign. Like making me clean strawberry ice cream off of every surface of my kitchen after he “sneaks” it and carefully “replaces” it in the “bottom freezer” (refrigerator). Lately, he apologizes almost immediately. Sometimes the apology is the confession. “I’m sorry I hit Avee when you were taking a shower.” Sometimes he says them in the middle of committing the crime, with really no intent to stop. “I’m sorry I’m going outside in my underwear mom, I’m sorry.” Sometimes his lower lip trembles and he feels genuine sorrow. “I’m sorry I wasted the 4th bottle of shampoo you have bought for me in the last month” (Okay, so he didn’t say it like that, but I’m the writer and that was what he meant to say and why the lip was trembling!) Often, they are just words---but he says them.

Guess what? It ALL MATTERS. I am happy he understands the process. I’m happy he knows that apologies are appropriate after undesirable behavior. I’m happy that sometimes he means it and he probably won’t ever do it again. And I’m happy when he just shows he knows he should be sorry, even if he’s not there yet. And guess what else? I love him even more as I see him learn and grow and apply what he learns. I love him even more when his pink, sticky, hands grab at my waist and with his pink little strawberry-smeared mouth say, “but I putted it away!”

I figured out some monumental things as his mother. It isn’t so much what he does or doesn’t do that makes me love him. It’s more about his very existence. I just don’t think it’s possible to go backwards in loving him, it just grows more immeasurable every day.

This is what having children has taught me about God. I know that He is happy with my efforts. He is happy when I learn and grow and apply what I learn. He is happy when I come to Him, a sticky, miserable mess from the decisions I have made, and tell Him how I tried or how I can’t do it alone. I am His child and He loves me. Always. I still don’t think I fully grasp the concept of His unconditional love---but boy, Benja and Avee sure make it easier.

Posted by Angela at 8/11/2006 | Permalink | Comments

There's an aspect of adulthood, maybe more specifically motherhood, but definitely something not present in my youth, that has come into my awareness slowly, unpleasantly, and what seems to be, unavoidably.

My childhood experiences were somewhat colored, by my obvious physical imperfection of having a fat lip. I was used to being looked at, stared at, sometimes made fun of, but always at the very least, noticed. It's hard for me now, looking back, to determine if my childhood was "hard" or harder than average with or without this. I'm referring to when people talk about how cruel kids can be and how hard 4th grade was, or 7th grade, etc. I can't really tell because I was aware from an early age that there were stupid people in the world who would judge me for my appearance and try to make me feel like less of a person.

And another really amazingly mature part of me was able to separate that from my reality and realize it was their problem, not mine. I'm not trying to toot my own horn, believe me, I'll let you know when I do. I just know that I was conscious of this at a young age and I realize now that those kinds of thoughts couldn't be further from my own child's mine. "He says I'm a turtle head TELL HIM I'M NOOOOOOOOOOT!". My whole point is: I don't think I can look back at my past, my childhood and determine if it was as fraught with as much judgmentalism as I feel like I face now, as a 31 year old adult. And a mother.

As mothers we have this job that is nearly impossible to define. We've all said it at least once, "why isn't there a manual for this?!" or something of that nature. We all sort of know what we are doing, or at least have an idea of what we want the end result to be, and come up with ideas, follow suggestions, and do our darndest to meet that end. There are no yearly interviews or job-performance feedback forms. There are no raises or promotions if we get it right. A good day is not having to wipe yogurt off the walls or 6 uninterrupted hours of sleep. Or not getting bitten by a 3-toothed bandit. Or shot in the eye with a foam bullet that flies at unnatural speeds from a plastic gun your three year old fires. And makes you cry.

What it all comes down to is, each of us really trying to do the best that we can. When we know better, we do better----right? At least that's the hope for all human beings making their way through life. Parent or not.

What I don't get is how nearly every conversation I engage in, since becoming a mother has almost ALWAYS entailed some aspect of apology or "confession" for how things are done. I remember feeling pretty big shame that my almost 2-year-old still took a bottle. I had no intention of taking it away until I was ready and he was ready. That bottle brought him true joy. He swaddled it, cuddled it, sang it lullabies. But when people found out he still had it at 22 months, I was embarrassed. Why? Did that negate how deeply I loved this child, how desperately I wanted the best for him, how hard I worked to be the best mom I knew how?

A couple of weeks ago, at the grocery store I passed a woman who had a small child in her cart. He was about 20 months and absolutely darling. Big mess of dark hair, vibrant brown eyes, chubby cheeks and an infectious smile. I couldn't help myself and as I passed her (I was childless as my own preshies were at home oozing from the eyes) I said, "He is darling!" He nodded in a agreement and she quickly turned and fumbled about his face, offering some apology for the condition of his face. Apparently it was covered in crusties from having a bit of a cold. She quickly started dabbing at his face, never once acknowledging the compliment for what it was. She had a cute son. That was it. I didn't even notice the dried snot, mostly because I am certain it was a drastic improvement from the oozing that was going on at home with my own children. I sort of felt stupid as I walked away that what I felt and stated was completely abated by her embarrassment or almost involuntary reaction to another mother or woman commenting on her child.

A few weeks ago at the park a young mother "confessed" to me that her children (2 years and 3 months) sleep with her. She apologized that that's just the way they do it in their home. It was weird to me only because why on earth should I care where her child sleeps? As long as he's not kicking MY ribs, I don't give a dang dittly. I have friends who won't let their kids in or near their beds with a ten foot pole. That's their prerogative. I often pull Benja into my bed for snuggling or comfort that he needs. Or I need. I won't let Avee near my bed with a ten foot pole because I know her well enough to know I'll never get her out. And she has a wicked nocturnal left jab.

The other night I took my kids to a restaurant and a mother across from us had two large bags filled with toys to entertain her son. He was probably a little less than 2 years. She looked at me, alone with my two angelic children, who were actually so hungry from neglect that they couldn't stop eating long enough to even think of misbehaving, and shrugged apologetically saying, "It's the only thing I can do to make him be good." Why have we created a culture where this woman felt like she had to justify her method of parenting to a complete stranger?

Most of the people I know or talk to don't really judge other mothers for their parenting methods. I guess sometimes we have "better solutions" in our heads but in my mind, that is different from judging. I have a friend who has a daughter 7 months younger than Benja. She is a little spitfire, so full of life, and energy, and entered this world with opinions. Juxtaposed to Benja, she made him look like a pliable little blob of babiness (oh-oh, I just called my child a blob, alert the press).

One time I was over at my friends house at lunchtime. Benja was probably just under two and so little S would have been almost 18 months. My friend put her in her highchair where she stood for her entire meal. My friend worked around it and got her child fed. She explained she had tried everything and couldn't get her to stay seated and would rather just have mealtime be pleasant and nourishing. I remember thinking, "yeah, I don't think I could be as flexible---my kid would sit because I would MAKE him sit." Fast forward a year, I have my own opinionated spitfire that makes up the rules everyday and I silently obey them. Do I strap her into her highchair? Yes. Is she skinny enough to get out of even the tightest restraints? Yes. Am I just happy to have her just eat and not stand on her tray with one foot in the apple sauce? Yes. I realize now that when we do make judgments, it is mostly out of ignorance. I had no idea what life with a girl was like when I formed my opinion about how children should eat. This friend reads this blog. She knows I think she's a phenomenal mother, and that I have repented of ALL my sins since having Avee.

What has me thinking about this is the recent Today show piece on mothers who drink at play dates. Another fairly famous blogger (I don't know her, but my world is very, very small you see) was on there, as one of the moms who participates in such play dates. I think she was blindsided---where she thought it was going to be more of a "this is how we do it and it's great" it turned into this thing where she's barely more competent than a hired babysitter and a lush to boot.

I don't drink. I don't really hang out with people who drink. Not so much because I avoid that, as much as, again, my world is very, very small. :) I'm also pretty sure I would not be entirely comfortable at a playgroup where drinking was going on because alcohol and its effects are a complete enigma to me. My earliest and longest running exposure to a drinker was very unpleasant and gave me nightmares until the subject finally died from kidney failure when I was 12. Clearly, I don't have a skewed perspective of alcohol...

What I also don't do, is begrudge a mother her right to do something she clearly feels is okay and is not impairing her ability to parent. One little bit of the piece on the Today show had this author talking about her drinking with her friends at play dates. She made a good point about this just being another thing women use to judge each other. That crap really should stop. However, in her defending of this choice she sort of made a judgment on people like me. She said, something to the effect of "I'd like to see a mother who stays sober 15-16 hours a day watching her kids, and I'd like to see if she's a great mom." That sort of surprised me. Here I was being open minded about something I wouldn't choose to do, and suddenly, my choice to "remain sober" brings into question whether I can be a good mother. That's absurd. Besides I have significantly bigger impairments to being a good mother than remaining sober. CSI:Miami reruns, David Caruso, you'll never know the amusement you bring to me...

To the mother in the grocery store who's 4 year old is lying on the floor screaming for a package of pop-tarts. I'm not judging you. I'm looking to make sure it isn't my son and I've forgotten he's with me. I want to say, "been there" or "will be there" or "hey, I know he's not always like this" but there's no way to really say that.

To the man at the rec center who kindly turned off the fire alarm my child set off while teasing about there being a spare closet I could leave them in if I needed a break. And for kindly kneeling down and talking to my children like human beings and shaking their hands, thank you. It's Thursday, I'm beat by Thursday---you'll never know how much your kindness and not judging me for not keeping a better handle on my children was appreciated.

To the mom who thinks any "imperfect" development her child has is her fault or something she's not doing right, it's not. Unless you beat them or have pit bulls that chew off their toes. Then it is your fault and you should be judged. And have your toes, and ovaries chewed off.

To the mom who worries she's not doing enough. You are.

To the mom who worries she's messing up. You are. But it's okay. We aren't required to be perfect in anything else, why should you expect it in one of the hardest "jobs" you'll ever have? I don't remember the mistakes my mom made but I do remember her loving me. Always. Everyday. Even after I was a teenager. And even after I said that really bad word when I was 4. I remember her making me practice the piano and the cello and how I hated that and how I love it now. I remember her teaching me not to stare, not to be unkind, to change my underwear, to have self-respect, to stop beating up my brother. Maybe sometimes in teaching these things she made mistakes, but I don't remember them. I also don't beat up my brother anymore, so I'd say there was some definite success.

To the mom who doesn't know how much her children weighed at birth. This makes me laugh every time I think about it. Most women, myself included--fo sho---throw around our children's birth weights like badges of honor, as though ANY size coming out of ANY part of your body is easy or comfortable. "I was a 6 cow wife" "And I was a 9 lb birthing machine..."

Except my sister. That baby was huge.

To the mom who has a martini at her play date---you're the boss. I won't judge you if you don't judge me for getting drunk on Hershey syrup straight from the bottle before noon. I'm still a good parent.

To the dad who is oblivious to this whole culture of judgment and never has conversations with other dads while golfing about how your 3 and a half year old still isn't potty trained and the anxiety it causes you that you're doing something wrong or that other people are judging you for toting around a diapered 3 year old, you're a lucky sonofa gun and we'd be wise to learn a thing or two from you.

Posted by Angela at 2/08/2007 | Permalink | Comments

There is a proverb of sorts that says, "When the cat's away, the mice shall play." I was always offended by such a suggestion because the phrase was usually directed toward me as the playing mouse. I never!

But I have to confess. I live by that saying almost religiously. My poor husband doesn't know what a cat he is and what a mouse he has on his hands. I really try hard, but what with Wal-Mart so close, and those long lonely nights with him in Boston, me in Texas...

So, my apology is two-fold:

For the $15 I spent that absolutely, postively DID NOT need to be spent.

And for the revelation made tonight in just what we have on our hands with our little Avee. I have never seen a 20 month old child's eyes light up and body tremble with glee at the sight of apparel. I have never seen a teency toddler strut through the shoe aisle, or anywhere, for that matter. I have never seen a child so young, so innocent, stop and pose for passers-by. She actually didn't "stop and pose" she stood in the way of carts and insisted her boots be admired.

I have seen those people on television shows or in movies who are obsessed with shoes and have a zillion pairs and live to shop for shoes. I didn't know those people ACTUALLY existed. And that it could be determined at such an early age. And that I would actually give birth to one of them.

As you can see in the last photo, she discovers the boots are not real leather, and it gets ugly.

Posted by Angela at 12/13/2006 | Permalink | Comments

I think I might have forgotten a little of why I started blogging in the first place.

Today I have some kid stories.

About their names....I just don't trust myself to be on the ball enough to call them something other than their names. I'm lame like that. And I was SO tempted to just become Lucy myself and call the kids Fred and Ethel cuz that's funny, but I know my limits.
So I decided on Benja and Avee. That's what they are called around here, so it's fitting.

Avee has managed to commandeer the one chair in our house that resembles a throne. High back, arm rests, best view of the action in both the living room and the kitchen. She will sit/stand/hang on it for an hour at a time, shouting her one syllable orders. "Kaaaah!" "Nooooooo!" "Baaaaaaaa!" Today, much to her chagrin, we finished our business in her court before she was ready to dismiss us. As we all moved to different parts of the house, she remained on her throne yelling for her subjects to return. As the true ruler she is, it never occurred to her to lower herself before the common, and find Erica at the computer or me trapped under 17 loads of laundry, or Ben racing Thomas through every tunnel known to a 3 year-old's bedroom. Her loss.

Yesterday at church she tried to push Erica (my 13 year old niece visiting us) off the pew. Perhaps she thought there was one too many adorable girls at worship. I mumbled an apology to Erica about "Her Highness" being out of control. Erica reminded me of a conversation we had when I was pregnant with Avee. J had picked out the name even before we knew we were having Avee. I mentioned to Erica that the name Avee meant "Ruler of Elves". I didn't much care for that, and name meanings are important to me. I have since found a more suitable name meaning, but for the longest time, that was all I could find. I just pictured a bad scene from Lord of the Rings or a little midget dictator with pointy ears. Well, minus the ears, we got the latter. I had completely forgotten about the "undesireable" name meaning. I have this unexplainably petite little thing who thinks she rules the universe.

Today we are puttering around shifting too-small clothes for just-a-little-too-big clothes, elminating all the dumb happy meal toys (I'm sure I only have 2 or 3 buckets full, trying to get organized. Avee is loving the piles of things to dig through and undo as I try futilely to accomplish something. She has actually removed wet clothes from the dryer and put them back in the washer as I am reaching for another handful of wet clothes. What is THAT!?

Benja got to go with Daddio to drop off Uncle Sam at his scout camp. They were gone all morning and when they returned, I thought I'd be a nice wife and make a healthy, low-calorie smoothie (J weighed himself yesterday and couldn't stop talking about it the rest of the day. Yeah well, go see what this dude ate last week....and I didn't have the heart to tell him that the number he was horrified to see on his scale is a number I fantasize of seeing on mine). Well, I offered and he declined. I was sure he didn't understand me so I offered again. Denied. Maybe he thinks I want him to make the smoothie---gracias, no. Then I did what I have done a hundred times in our relationship. I figure things out a little later, but without any help from him.
"You stopped at Chic Fil A, didn't you?"
Eyes flicker, hesitation...."No, I didn't."
"McDonalds?"
"Yes."
Sheesh.

Ben has had a sort of Dr Suess induced tourettes today. 2 weeks ago my mom read "Green Eggs and Ham" to him and he's obsessed over owning the book since then. So I bought it a few days ago and have had to read it to him 572 times in the last 6 days. But today he's just been happy to clutch the book while he watches Thomas or plays with his cars or eats watermelon and just shout out "I DO NOT WANT THEM IN A BOX, I DO NOT WANT THEM WITH A MOUSE, I DO NOT, I DO NOT, I DO NOT LIKE YOUR HAT!" For those of you not well versed in children's literature, the hat part is from "Go Dog Go" another favorite of his. It's all so fitting for where he's at in life right now. He's in a very contradictory stage. It just makes sense that yelling contradictions, whether in a book or in his real life, is where his real focus is. A common conversation these days will go something like this, "Mom what are you making for dinner?"
"Rice and chicken"
"Nuh-UHH!"
At this point we both just laugh because there's little else to do.

Posted by Angela at 7/03/2006 | Permalink | Comments