Child's Play

So, I don't particularly enjoy playing with my kids. I guess I should feel bad about that. But, I decided a while ago, I'm not going to do things I don't like to do. I do love to watch my kids play. I love to see Roman with his nose to the ground, spade in hand, digging for worms, hearing David voice his Lego guys, watching Nora push her pink Jeep down the hallway, going "beep, beep". I will occasionally pretend to be a horse for Roman, play a video game with David (Super Mario Brothers, please!), and stack blocks for Nora to knock down. It's not a regular thing, though. I'm pretty sure that if I didn't have to work, there would be a lot more interaction between my kids and I. The fact is, I'm a working mom. Play time for kids is their work. I believe letting them work on their own, or together, is better than when I'm doing it with them. Yeah, I feel guilty when they actually ask me to play and I'm all, "Oh, yeah, I really gotta get dinner ready." I'm on a schedule, damnit! Ugh, schedules: friend to me, enemy to my children.

I don't want to feel guilty about how I mother anymore. I think I'm doing a decent job. I put my kids in sports,so they value teamwork and exercise, because I sure as hell don't. I want them to have social lives because it took me years to get used to socializing with people. I still get nervous when I'm invited to a party and I don't know anyone other than the host. I put my kids in these situations that I don't enjoy, because I want them to be better at life than I feel like I've been. So, what does this have to do with playing with them? Well, I feel like when I'm providing situations for them to grow, I am "playing" with them. This is how I'm teaching them. When you're a kid, playing is your work. It's how you learn about the mechanisms of life. So, if I'm essentially setting them up in the field of life with the opportunity to explore and learn as the go, then I am "playing" with them, right? I'd rather be Lieutenant Dan to their Forest Gump and Bubba, than be Mary Poppins. I associate myself as more of a Roseanne than frickin' Kelly Ripa in any of those obnoxious Electrolux commercials. *burf*

I wish I could sit down and teach my kids stuff, but I lack the patience for them to grasp concepts that take time. So, I utilize preschool. I wish I could be crafty with them and create fun projects with fall leaves and pipe cleaners. Instead, I set up an "art" zone where they have access to paper, safety scissors, crayons, markers and stamps. "Go at it kids. Knock yourselves out being all crafty and stuff. I'll be over here trying to read the Sunday paper on a Thursday afternoon. " I get jealous of moms and dads that are all fun-loving and creative with their kids. That's cool - I commend them on their ability to be 1000 times more pumped about parenthood than me. I think I'm killing it when we make it the the zoo once every four months. I'm tired darn it. I want to lay in bed and watch "Intervention" and drink my coffee while it's still hot and play Words With Friends, take a nap, and read my book. That would be an awesome day. I'm allowed to be lazy, right? YES! Yes, I am, and if any of you disagree, then you're just weird.

Bottom line is this. I refuse to feel guilty about what I don't do for my kids. I focus on what I do DO for my kids. Is it good for them, are they learning? YES. Do I make sure they know they are loved and I am there for them when they need to complain, cry, or just sit and laugh? YES. I am there for all that. And if I'm wrong, then I'm sure their future therapist will let them know they are broken inside because I didn't pretend to be a Ninjago with them when they were 4 or 9, or whatever. We can cross that bridge when/if we get there. Until then, I'm good.

All You Need Is Love...Love...Love.

I am struggling to find my voice for this blog. I want to make you all laugh, but sometimes I'm not in the mood to be humorous. Amazingly enough, it takes a bit of energy to be humous, and really, it helps when I don't feel like the weight of the world is resting on  my shoulders. I do try to keep things from getting heavy, but reading back through my blog posts this week, I am starting to think they take on the tone of Andy Rooney when he was on "60 Minutes" ... and when he was still alive: "mraw" is the sound I hear in my head. I really don't want any readers to read a complaint-stewn blog.

This is an incredibly strange time in my life. I feel incredibly happy with  my husband, my children, and my home life. However, there is quite a bit I feel is uncertain and that we are just waiting on. We are waiting to see if my husband's business takes off, we're waiting to see if I get off probation at work, we are waiting to see if we can save our home - we've had trouble making our mortgage payments, and we are working with the bank to work something out. It's heavy. It's immense the pressure we feel on a daily basis. And the fact of the matter is, we have so much to be thankful for. We truly love each other, my husband and I. After nearly 12 years together, we have finally come to a compromise on the division of labor in the household. We know what needs to get done every night, dinner, clean-up, bathe three kids, put three kids to bed, and find time to watch "Boardwalk Empire" "No Reservations", "Flipping Out", "Friday Family Movie Night" and "Saturday At-Home-Date Movie Night". We've been exhausted and just generally "spent" the last few months. We've been so lucky that David's business has been so busy and that he's been blessed with all this sunny, warm weather that is ideal for painting, and is keeping his ability to make money well into the fall a potential reality.

We are incredibly blessed to have three healthy children, and that we value their education, their good health, and having a social life. I feel so proud to be a mom to David, Roman and Nora. I know David is proud to be their dad.

What scares the living shit out of me, though, is the thought that everything could collapse out from underneath us. What if we don't have a home by the end of the year? What if I lose my job? What is David's business goes dead again over the winter? What if we can't keep up with keeping our kids in sports, preschool, and all the other activities and events that pop up regularly throughout the year? What if we lose it all?

I know it sounds so incredibly cheesy to say this, but when I think about all this stuff and I remember all the love that resides under this roof, I calm down. A rush of warmth spreads out from my heart and my shoulders relax and I breathe. I have my family. I have my husband, I have my kids, and we will always have love. There is no bottom floor of love.

I believe in miracles. I believe that things happen for a reason. I believe that what is meant to be, shall be. I have a lot of faith. I am, and we are, working hard to save everything that is tangible. I want to know I am standing on solid ground again. Love can carry us, but I know our feet have to touch ground at some point. I am eager to get to that point again.

Like I've said, I'm not perfect. I fumble, quite a bit, actually. I'm am hoping that by being honest, open, and raw about my life that I will find a strength inside that I forgot about, or that I happened to be cultivating in the dark, like a mushroom, and it will help me to bring me and my family back to the comfort and the security of solid, lush, green grassiness of life.

Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me

I originally started writing a blog last year because I wanted to chronicle my attempts to lose weight. I had named it "Weight, Weight, Don't Tell Me". All you radio-philes will get that reference. The following is what I wanted to say about that.

On Hydroxicut

I really *dislike* it when  fat people are made fun of. It's like, You sad, pathetic loser, why can't you "push yourself away from the table" and lose weight? You are a pock on society and it would be better if you would just disappear under the earth until you get over whatever laziness is keeping you fat, you disgusting piece of crap. Well, at least that's what I hear whenever fat people are made fun of, or whenever my own weight is brought up. Most of  my family knows not to discuss my weight with me. It has been a lifelong issue. When I was little, I felt ashamed and mostly confused why clothes didn't look the same on me as they did on my thinner friends, in middle school I believed there was something wrong with me - I literally believed I was disfigured, in high school things started coming into focus and I no longer believed I was a mutant, but I continued to describe myself as fat, even though I really wasn't. I started college and gained my obligatory Freshman 15 (plus another 15), and then I dropped out of college and started taking Hydroxicut and lost 25 pounds. I felt awesome, but did feel a twinge guilty I had used pills that could have potentially sent me into cardiac arrest. Then I got pregnant, so out went the Hydroxicut and in came 60 pounds of "baby" weight gain. After David was born, I lost a good 20 and was left with 40. I felt like the most disgusting blob ever and to top that off, my stomach looked like someone spun my stomach in the air a few times like pizza dough, then threw it in the middle of I-5 and let a few Mac trucks run over it. About two years after David was born, I started seeing a "life coach". I was 175 pounds and 24 years old. I felt gross. I lost about 25 pounds and felt a lot better. I bounced between 150 and 160 for a few years and became pregnant with Roman. Plus one child and plus 15 pounds. I got back down to 160 and was totally motivated to keep going when I found out I was pregnant with Nora. I was so devastated that my weight loss would have to be put on hold until after she was born. The anger of getting sidetracked with my weight loss prompted me to really get serious about losing weight after Nora. When I got home from the hospital I weighed 180, and by June I weighed 158. Between June and October I lost another 14 pounds. I had never been able to lose that amount of weight that fast before, and I felt invincible. I prematurely thought that I had finally found the cure to my "fatness". But by November, the holiday goodies and the debilitating depression of our financial situation sent me searching for something to bring me happiness. That search has lead me to an additional 14 pounds. *shakes fist in the air* Food is happiness. Food is love. Food is what you do to bring families together. When family is together, (generally) there is lots of love and lots of love equals happiness. See how that works? Food is where my happiness can be found, when everything else that brings happiness (ie: financial security, love, confidence) has gone M.I.A.

I can trace this way back. When I was little, my parents divorced, my dad moved away, and my mom was running a small business that really only made money during the warm months. We spent the cold months like squirrels, living off what we'd gathered in the spring, summer, and a little bit of the fall. It was just me and my mom for about six years after my parents divorced. She was busting her butt to make her business feed, clothe and house us, so I spent a lot of time alone. I cooked my first meal by myself when I was 6 (chicken strips fried in oil), I started making my own school lunches at 7, and by middle school/high school, I was completely dependent on creating food out of whatever monster sized box of food my mom purchased at Costco. Food was my distraction, food was my "company". In 1st grade I was lean, and by 2nd grade, I changed. I didn't think much about how I looked until one day, a male member of my family informed me I was fat. He grabbed a roll from my 8 year-old stomach and compared it to the tiny pinch of skin on the stomach of my 5 year-old step-brother. I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I didn't know how or why I had more of a handful of skin than my step-brother, but obviously, it wasn't OK. After 6th grade the same family member put me on a diet for a few weeks that summer. I don't remember much about the diet, other than holding my nose shut so I could force myself to eat the canned beets that were on the diet plan, only being able to drink water and iced tea, and having to abstain from snacking while I sat next to my brothers who split a jumbo sized popcorn while we watched "Rookie of the Year" in the theater. I did lose weight that summer, and of course, I gained back most of what I'd lost during the school year. I also gained an incredible about of shame. I wasn't good enough unless I was thin. That has stuck with me most of my life. Whether that shame came from the fact that that family member's methods were archaic and asinine, or whether I have a predisposition for being a pansy is debatable. Either way, I was scarred.

7 year-old thin Rachel

8 year-old "fat" Rachel

I have matured a bit over the years. Despite all my ups and downs with weight, certain things put me in a better mindset. 1) when I met David, never before had a man told me I was beautiful. I didn't believe him at first, but even when I gained 60 pounds and looked like a bloated beached whale, and he still thought I was beautiful did I realize he wasn't lying. He believed I was good enough and pretty enough, even though I wasn't thin, 2) I started taking a look around: a lot of people I love and who I think are warm, loving, and awesome are not all thin. Good people, even good enough people, come in all shapes and sizes. 3) I realized that I don't have the same body as a tall, lean Gap model: I'm a child-bearing woman in my 30's who thinks that an over-priced beer and a basket of nachos at a sporting event is one of the most delicious food combinations ever. Therefore, I have a stretched out tummy and a  pooch, because I enjoy the "finer" things in life. "Fat" people not only come in many different shapes and sizes, they also come in different mindsets. Who knows where they've come from or where they are in their life right now, but I can guarantee that most of them have experienced pain at some time that causes them to seek happiness in food.  

No Hydroxicut, just lots of love.

The reason it is so important to me that people start to change the way they look at fat people is because I have a little boy who has always been my "biggest" boy. He weighed 9 pounds, 5 ounces when he was born and he has maintained a steady weight gain that keeps him in about the 90th percentile, overall, for his age.  He's taller than his brother was at 4, but his body is stockier. He has my body-type, built like a brick, or a Hobbit if you will; albeit, a tallish Hobbit. He loves to eat, too. I have to be very careful about how much he eats, but he does love vegetables and fruit. He also loves to play and be outside. I am the most protective of him, because he is my gentle giant. Well, both of my boys are sensitive, but he is the most sensitive. I will never let anyone, family member or stranger, belittle my boy because of the size of his tummy. He and David and Nora are my joys, my little loves. I am not just protective of them, I am protective of all children who are heavy. They are the ones most scarred by criticism of their weight. Let them learn, let them grow, they may change, they may find out that eating better and playing outside feels better than eating junk and playing video games. But, they will definitely never feel good about themselves if someone implants shame in their heads; if they believe they are not good enough if their stomach is not small enough.

Evolution of Motherhood

Mom & David 2/03

Mom and Roman 7/08

Dad, Mom and Nora 3/11

I became a mom two months shy of my 22nd birthday. I didn't feel too young to become a mom; I was really excited to be in charge of something important, is how I saw it. I would be the conductor to the orchestra of my child's life. I should have known that I did not have absolute control the day David made his arrival. My water broke two days before my due date and I didn't go into active labor on my own. 24 hours after induced labor, I was told I would need a cesarean because I hadn't progressed enough. In addition to that shock, the surgeon ended up putting me under, because I could still feel the incision being made despite a spinal block. I knocked out at the moment I heard little David's first cry. When I woke up two hours later, the first words out of my mouth were, "I'm a mom! I'm a mom." The nurse, Rhoda, smiled down at me as she wheeled me back to my room and said, "I've never seen anyone so excited to be a mom before!" I was beaming with pride. "Where is he? Where's my baby?" they had yet to bring him to me from the nursery. As soon as they placed David in my arms, I looked into his big brown eyes and I just smiled. Here was my baby! I will always remember the look in his eyes, as he so very clearly looked at my face, "There you are. I was wondering where you went." It didn’t matter how he arrived, he was here in my arms and I would forever be his protector, his mother.

 

I was determined to show how serious my new job was to me. I read everything I could about proper parenting. I scheduled his doctor appointments at the exact day they were due. I called the doctor about anything suspicious: why hasn't he pooped? (why haven't I pooped?), why is he eating all the damn time?!, oh, my GOD he sucked on my finger right after I used hand sanitizer, did I poison my baby?!, and please-don't-call-CPS, but I fell asleep with my baby on my chest and accidently dropped him on the floor! *crying* As he got older we joined Mommy-and-Me group at the library, we played at the park after I picked him up from his daycare/preschool at the community college I attended, I always had healthy snacks and water in the car, I developed a routine for every day, including a bedtime routine that included reading at least two or three books, I ordered books from Scholastic each time his daycare provided an opportunity, I made sure every holiday was special, and every birthday was a huge success. For his fourth birthday I took the day off work, we went to the Woodland Park Zoo in the morning, had Red Robin (his favorite restaurant) for lunch, went to see "Bridge to Terabithia" at Kent Commons (where I shamelessly cried at the end), and came home and had his favorite dinner of steak, rice and "leaves" (salad). The next day we had a big party with a bounce house, pizza, piñata and all his friends from daycare and our family. I believed I had succeeded at mothering.

Then came kindergarten. I was so excited for my little man to begin school. I felt I had prepared him, he'd been attending preschool, I had created many opportunities for him to explore and socialize. I had been reading to him since the day he was born, afterall. I, I mean, he was prepared, right? Yes. A few months into David starting Kindergarten I got a letter from his teacher, Mrs. Fazio. David would need to take extra classes to help him with his reading. What?! Surely you people must be out of your damn minds and expecting way too much from a Kindergartner. I was pissed. I immediately rattled off an email to his teacher stating that, a-hem, excuse me, but I have been reading to David since he was an infant and he attended preschool with the most awesome of teachers. I beg your pardon, my son needs help reading? Perhaps you need to reassess your expectations! Harrumph. She kindly wrote back that it was normal for Kindergartners to need extra help. I wrote back another email that took on the tone of the little boy from "Big Daddy" when he's being taken away by the Social Worker and he tells Sonny, "But, I wipe my own ass!", I wrote "But I've been reading to him since he was a baaaaay-beeeee!" :( I'm a good mom (!) was what I was trying to say. I took his need for help as a personal attack on my mothering. I had failed my son. His need for help was ALL my fault and I was, officially, the worst mother in the world. I gave up. What's the point in being a good mom now if I've failed? Roman was three months old at this time and I didn't read to him one bit. I remember my mom asked me if I was reading to Roman and I said, "What's the point? It obviously didn't help David." My mom replied, "But, just think, David could have been even further behind if you hadn't read to him." Not wanting to give my mom any indication that she might be accurate, I just shrugged my shoulders. I did start reading to Roman, half-heartedly, knowing it wasn't going to do any darn good. Harrumph.

But, a funny thing happened when Roman was about 18 months old. He started taking a keen interest in books. He actually asked me to read to him. David hadn't ever done that. As Roman started talking more, he started asking me questions about the books. David hadn't done that, either. After a few months in preschool, Roman knew his ABC's. David didn't really recite the alphabet until his second year of preschool. Could it be that each child is different, despite being raised by the same people? Things started coming into focus. Maybe little David didn't share my love of books, maybe little David thought differently than me. As David has gotten older, his reading has greatly improved. However, he does not necessarily enjoy reading the way I did when I was 9. And that is OK. I can live with that. The boy reads. Where David excels is math and mechanics. He is quick with numbers, I was not quick with numbers. In fact, in third grade I needed remedial math classes. He can build planes and guns and other intricate things with Legos. When I was young, hell, even now, my Lego creations consist of cube shaped "buildings". So, I decided to focus on what he was good at and what made him happy, instead of what he did (or how he did it) that reflected well on my mothering. It was hard for me to accept that I had no control over who he is.

A few years ago I read this by Kahlil Gibran:

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable."

 
Reading this set me back upright. I have made changes to the way I think and how I do. I used to think that I would be judged for not doing it “by the book”. I used to think that if I didn’t have the answers, it meant I wasn’t supposed to be a mom. I thought if my child struggled, I had failed. I’ve been a mom now for nine and a half years. I have evolved. I went from conductor to farmer. Our children are not our puppets. Our children are the bounty of our garden. It is our responsibility to make sure they have sun, water, and space to grow. Let us not be the pesticides to our children’s growth. Let us raise our children organically and see what kind of original bounties we produce.

Dave loves the ocean

Roman loves worms

 

Nora loves being outside

 

 

 

 

 

Jealousy: A Dirty Word

I suffer from jealousy the way one would suffer from alcoholism. My poison is competition, and I've been trying to stay sober most of my life. I avoid putting myself in the same category as anyone whose skills outweigh mine. I purposefully choose the path less travelled; otherwise, I am crushed by those bigger and more motivated than me (hence my resistance to publishing yet another blog about cooking or crafts).

I used to bake pies and sort of developed a reputation in my family as The Pie Maker. Then a couple male members of my family starting dating and eventually committing to Domestic Divas. After a family party I missed, I heard rave reviews about a pie made by one of those DDs. I immediately tucked my figurative, and literal, apron away indefinitely. I will not compete.

When I was in 7th grade my mom suggested I apply at Annie Wright, an all-girls Episcopal high-school in Tacoma. I was wait-listed, but thanks to a bad boy taking a joy ride in his parents car on Fox Island and getting expelled from the co-ed middle school, I made it in for the last part of the first trimester in 8th grade. Where I'd come from, the "mean streets" of *public school*, I was a cocky bookworm, at the top of my class. At Annie Wright I was at the bottom of the barrel with girls that wrote math programs in their graphing calculators for fun. Who the hell can I be in this school of Super Brains?! Easy: I will be the goofy, brash, inappropriate "dumb" girl. I didn't win too many friends, save for a few misfits in their own right, but I didn't have to fight the crowd. I will not compete.

For those who know me, I am not a girly girl. I started off that way though. I loved pink, I rocked jean skirts, was known for my love of costume jewelry, I played with makeup, tried to wear my mom's heels around the house, idolized Madonna and Jem! Then came Jellies. Those ultra-trendy PVC bling shoe of the 80's. It was at this time I realized I have feet shaped like a Hobbit: fat, square, and incredibly unfeminine. I was henceforth banned from ever wearing cute, trendy shoes that all the other "real" girls were wearing. Thank the sweet Mother for bringing us the 90's and grunge, because it brought Doc Martens (Hobbit-friendly shoes) and flannels.I could dress like a boy and it was ok!!
I carried that look past its prime, because I knew I could not pull off feminine attire, nor would I attempt to stuff my fat paws into cute sandals at the beach next to svelt, feminine feet in Espadrilles. So I marched forward, choosing instead to tromp through the woods in my Birkenstocks (another Hobbit-friendly shoe). I will not compete.

When I compete, jealousy takes over. I become ugly, mean, and ultimately, insecure. So, I cut my own trail and forge my own mold to be the master of my own universe. I want to be the best pie maker in the family, damnit, and if I can't then I'll just take my apron and go home. Totally mature reaction. Admitting I have a problem is the first step toward recovery, right? Right. I heard a thing Mike Birbiglia said on "This American Life" yesterday about being a comedian: “You have to be delusional. Especially early on. Because you have to tell yourself it’s going well when it’s really not going well. Otherwise, you’d never get onstage and you’d just think ‘human beings don’t like me.’” So, maybe the antidote to my insecurity is delusion. I'll just continue believing I am awesome, even while I make grammatical and spelling errors in this blog, even when my strawberry-rhubarb pie comes out both watery and burnt, even when I snort with laughter when I tell a fart joke and I'm surrounded by members of Mensa, and even if I am dressed like Bilbo Baggins while at Fashion Week (should that ever happen). The delusion is that human beings do like me, whether I fail or succeed. Just do it, better to have loved and lost than to never loved at all, you miss 100 percent of the shots you don't take. You know, those old chestnuts. I found this picture of myself today. Look at that girl, totally stylin' with a stained pink tank top, sweatshirt wrapped around her waist and a Kool-Aid smile. Totally unaware that I look like a scrub, the important thing here is that I love Jem. I may not look like Jem or her entourage, but I believe I'm just as awesome as they are.