Joey heard that ALL the moms were coming to his class's Thanksgiving celebration at school today, and he begged me to come, too. I did not want to at all, but I could not tell him no. And before I go further, I will say that Im glad I went because Joey was really, really happy every single second I was there.
Still, I've mentioned before how uncomfortable I feel going into classroom situations where I'm not the teacher. It stems, I think, from a combination of two things. One: contrary to popular belief, I'm actually painfully shy. It's taken me a lot of personal effort to portray all the flair and spark you see out there in the world. I think I've become so good at faking it, in fact, that in awkward moments I can't seem to crawl out of, people think I'm being rude or stand-offish.
The second thing is that I'm a total control freak. No need to explain this one; I think it comes across loud and clear to all.
All the same, I didn't want to go today. It also doesn't help that I'm taking time off from teaching, and there I was thrust back into the fray.
Joey's class was set up in centers, several separate tables designed for different activities. I was put in charge of the Indian/Native American headdress station. For a germophobe like me, this was especially tricky because it involved measuring children's heads for headdress sizes. I had to touch their hair. I handled that the same way I handle cleaning vomit. Again, no further explanation necessary.
Anyway, it's been a long while now since I have done the whole teacher thing, and I have to admit, I easily fell into the old groove of dispensing materials, giving directions, and attending to all the various needs of each boy and girl. That's actually what I'm best at, I think, and I did start to enjoy myself a bit.
After the activity was over, however, there was a prayer service. Basically, I'd compare this to any school-wide assembly where all the kids are put together in a large space, whether it's an auditorium or the church where we sat today. And this is where my stomach started to burn.
First of all, let me say that I don't think anybody else present was aware of the small annoying points I'm about to make. I think they are the sorts of things that catch the eye ONLY of the Control Freak Teacher. But certainly, they are the kinds of things I really can't tolerate in my own students.
While the priest was giving a speech on what being thankful is all about, or should be all about, I counted at least two students per class talking.
As an inspiration interlude, the principal pressed Play on a portable CD player and we all listened to a jazzy song about God and giving thanks. Granted, it was completely cheesy, but I was not a fan of the smirks and eye rolls I saw from some overly comfortable older kids in the back.
And this was the kicker: When the priest asked the students to raise their hands and share what they were most grateful for this year, one kid raised his hand, stood up in church, and said, "Noodles." The priest chuckled good-naturedly, but when he picked the next person, that kid stood up and also said, "Noodles." There were about four "Noodle" responses in a row before the priest chose a darling younger child who said, "My family."
It was the Noodles that got me. It was the Noodles that made me really, really glad I'm home with Joey and Noah this year. It was the Noodles that prickled under my skin last year in my own classroom when I would close my eyes and count to ten and think, "Do I really want to be here with these NOODLES when I could be home doing something that matters to me?"
There was a time when I would have laughed at Noodles. I would have laughed AND had a snappy comeback that would have ended an irritation before it started and allowed us to move onto more important things. But right now, I'm doing something way better than coming up with snappy comebacks for Noodles.
I think I know what I'm most thankful for this year.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Monday, November 21, 2011
Nothing Like A Sister
I had to share a pink bedroom with my sister until I was thirteen. Actually, wait. When I was first born, my parents didn't know what to do with me, so they put me in the bathroom. I'm not exactly sure how much time passed before they put my crib in the bedroom with Janie, but I'm willing to bet it was shortly after my grandfather found out and said, "What the hell do you mean, you keep her in the bathroom??"
It was very important to Jane, who is six years older than me, that I understood from the get-go that the pink bedroom--pink being HER favorite color--was primarily hers and that, for me, it was simply a place to rest my head at night. Being me, I couldn't just let that go. I felt an inherent need to stand up for myself. To throw my body against the door slamming in my face and heave my way into a room where, no, I wasn't wanted, but where I felt I had a certain right to be.
At age three, I carved my full name--Mary Pat Michalek--into the window sill.
At age four, I stole my sister's markers and drew all over the walls. And my face, but everyone was more upset about the walls.
At age seven, I created a make-shift swing by swagging a blanket between our bedposts. They collapsed, the canopies falling on top of me. The bedposts could not be repaired, so we could never have canopies again. And the posts always leaned funny after that.
When I was nine I set up a "science lab" using Dixie cups filled with sugar water, which attracted ants (to this day I can hear my sister's shrill voice screaming, "ANTS LOOOOVE SUGAR WATER! How could you NOT KNOW that?").
I was also generally untidy, but I think that was just endearing.
Periodically, I would enter the pink bedroom to find territories marked off by masking tape. My bed would be a lonely little island in the far corner of the room. There was no way to reach the bed without Trespassing, which was strictly forbidden. Obviously.
Buuuuuuut...
When I was five there was a thunderstorm. The huge kind where the windows rattle and the lightning makes it look like daylight in the room. Janie scooched over in her bed and made room for me. She let me share her pillow and she rubbed my back.
When I was six she bought me my first ever Barbie with her own money, and helped me build a dollhouse in our closet out of boxes. She showed me how to make up stories with the dolls and gave me a whole four square feet to play.
When I was thirteen and we got our own rooms, Jane took me out to celebrate. She took me to the mall, and bought me lunch in the food court. We had our pictures taken in one of those little photo booths, and she confided in me about a boy she liked.
When I was sixteen and I liked a boy, she let me lay on her bed and she told me that if any boy got to really know me, he wouldn't be able to help but love me.
When I was nineteen and I hated living at home, she let me visit her at her new house with her new husband any time I wanted. And she took me out for doughnuts.
When I was twenty-two and my life briefly fell to pieces, we both went back to my parents' house, went up to the pink bedroom room, and laid on the bed while she promised me everything would be okay.
When I was twenty-four and looking the absolutely most beautiful I ever had or ever will, she leaned over and whispered, "I've never, ever seen a happier groom than Joe."
When I was twenty-five and afraid my infant son was in life-threatening danger because he'd been asleep for five hours straight, I called her and she said, "He's fine. It's fine. You're doing everything right."
I don't know when she became the best friend I can't live without. Maybe it's just something about starting out life in a bathroom and then moving in together. But...is there anything better than a sister?
It was very important to Jane, who is six years older than me, that I understood from the get-go that the pink bedroom--pink being HER favorite color--was primarily hers and that, for me, it was simply a place to rest my head at night. Being me, I couldn't just let that go. I felt an inherent need to stand up for myself. To throw my body against the door slamming in my face and heave my way into a room where, no, I wasn't wanted, but where I felt I had a certain right to be.
At age three, I carved my full name--Mary Pat Michalek--into the window sill.
At age four, I stole my sister's markers and drew all over the walls. And my face, but everyone was more upset about the walls.
At age seven, I created a make-shift swing by swagging a blanket between our bedposts. They collapsed, the canopies falling on top of me. The bedposts could not be repaired, so we could never have canopies again. And the posts always leaned funny after that.
When I was nine I set up a "science lab" using Dixie cups filled with sugar water, which attracted ants (to this day I can hear my sister's shrill voice screaming, "ANTS LOOOOVE SUGAR WATER! How could you NOT KNOW that?").
I was also generally untidy, but I think that was just endearing.
Periodically, I would enter the pink bedroom to find territories marked off by masking tape. My bed would be a lonely little island in the far corner of the room. There was no way to reach the bed without Trespassing, which was strictly forbidden. Obviously.
Buuuuuuut...
When I was five there was a thunderstorm. The huge kind where the windows rattle and the lightning makes it look like daylight in the room. Janie scooched over in her bed and made room for me. She let me share her pillow and she rubbed my back.
When I was six she bought me my first ever Barbie with her own money, and helped me build a dollhouse in our closet out of boxes. She showed me how to make up stories with the dolls and gave me a whole four square feet to play.
When I was thirteen and we got our own rooms, Jane took me out to celebrate. She took me to the mall, and bought me lunch in the food court. We had our pictures taken in one of those little photo booths, and she confided in me about a boy she liked.
When I was sixteen and I liked a boy, she let me lay on her bed and she told me that if any boy got to really know me, he wouldn't be able to help but love me.
When I was nineteen and I hated living at home, she let me visit her at her new house with her new husband any time I wanted. And she took me out for doughnuts.
When I was twenty-two and my life briefly fell to pieces, we both went back to my parents' house, went up to the pink bedroom room, and laid on the bed while she promised me everything would be okay.
When I was twenty-four and looking the absolutely most beautiful I ever had or ever will, she leaned over and whispered, "I've never, ever seen a happier groom than Joe."
When I was twenty-five and afraid my infant son was in life-threatening danger because he'd been asleep for five hours straight, I called her and she said, "He's fine. It's fine. You're doing everything right."
I don't know when she became the best friend I can't live without. Maybe it's just something about starting out life in a bathroom and then moving in together. But...is there anything better than a sister?
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Bubble, Bubble, Pasta Pot
Tonight I did something I've waited all my life to do. I hosted Sunday Dinner.
Sunday Dinners began in my family by accident. My mother cooked Sauce every Sunday because my dad loves it, and then Mondays were leftover days. Over time, it kind of became famous. Everybody who has tried my mother's Sauce loves it, and since it was regularly cooked on Sunday, scoring the big invite (or, these days, inviting oneself) became a Thing.
As a kid I never really understood the appeal. I hated that my family was "weird" and had Sunday Sauce, and I boycotted and protested like crazy. Each week my mother stood at her pot like Strega Nona, and she would ask people, "How hungry are you?" I don't know why she asks, because she gives everyone the same amount: A LOT. But when she got to me, I'd say, "Only a little, and NO SAUCE." My mom never said anything. She always gave me the plain noodles and let it go.
As I got older, it changed from "no sauce" to a "raindrop of sauce." And then when I eventually moved out and realized, Oh, hey, cooking isn't quite as easy as Mom makes it look, well, I really began to look forward to Sundays. And Sauce. Now that we're all grown up, Sunday Dinner is the meeting place for the Original 5. My parents and my brother and sister, and all of our children. And usually, my grandparents come, and then...well, whoever else. My mother will never turn anyone away (not even if she's remodeling and it's the construction workers), and she always has enough. Always.
There are about four Sundays a year when my mother doesn't do Sunday Dinner. They usually involve events taking place elsewhere, and it should be said that my dad gets pretty grumpy about it. Usually, on the D-L, my mom cooks a pot of Sauce anyway and serves my dad his spaghetti BEFORE they go out.
On those Sundays when my mom isn't cooking, my sister usually picks up the slack. Jane's been a grownup pretty much as long as I can remember, so I can't recall the first time she ever made her own Sauce. All I know is, Jane, like my mom, has the whole process down and makes it look, really, really easy. Her meatballs are delicious, her salad dressing is tangy and fabulous, and she thoughtfully remembers everybody's personal preferences for breads, drinks, and desserts. And she uses a tablecloth, a nice touch my mom never bothers with.
I realized yesterday that this would be one of those Sundays my mom wasn't cooking. Before my sister could even think, I blurted, "CAN I MAKE THE SAUCE??" with a level of enthusiasm that I'm pretty sure left her feeling totally obligated. I envisioned lit candles, and a whole lot of oohing and aahing. Basically, since my mom and sister could do it, I figured it was a blood thing. Of course I could do it, too--and it would be worthy of Better Homes and Gardens. HGTV would be knocking at my door wondering what smelled so amazing. Martha Stewart would call for tips. Or, at the very least, my mom and sister would be really proud of me.
Let me put this simply, to save time and embarrassment. Blackened garlic bread. Sour salad. Horrible, horrible meatballs.
I'd like to say that my mom and sister are just plain amazing. And I'm not, apparently.
Not yet. ;)
Sunday Dinners began in my family by accident. My mother cooked Sauce every Sunday because my dad loves it, and then Mondays were leftover days. Over time, it kind of became famous. Everybody who has tried my mother's Sauce loves it, and since it was regularly cooked on Sunday, scoring the big invite (or, these days, inviting oneself) became a Thing.
As a kid I never really understood the appeal. I hated that my family was "weird" and had Sunday Sauce, and I boycotted and protested like crazy. Each week my mother stood at her pot like Strega Nona, and she would ask people, "How hungry are you?" I don't know why she asks, because she gives everyone the same amount: A LOT. But when she got to me, I'd say, "Only a little, and NO SAUCE." My mom never said anything. She always gave me the plain noodles and let it go.
As I got older, it changed from "no sauce" to a "raindrop of sauce." And then when I eventually moved out and realized, Oh, hey, cooking isn't quite as easy as Mom makes it look, well, I really began to look forward to Sundays. And Sauce. Now that we're all grown up, Sunday Dinner is the meeting place for the Original 5. My parents and my brother and sister, and all of our children. And usually, my grandparents come, and then...well, whoever else. My mother will never turn anyone away (not even if she's remodeling and it's the construction workers), and she always has enough. Always.
There are about four Sundays a year when my mother doesn't do Sunday Dinner. They usually involve events taking place elsewhere, and it should be said that my dad gets pretty grumpy about it. Usually, on the D-L, my mom cooks a pot of Sauce anyway and serves my dad his spaghetti BEFORE they go out.
On those Sundays when my mom isn't cooking, my sister usually picks up the slack. Jane's been a grownup pretty much as long as I can remember, so I can't recall the first time she ever made her own Sauce. All I know is, Jane, like my mom, has the whole process down and makes it look, really, really easy. Her meatballs are delicious, her salad dressing is tangy and fabulous, and she thoughtfully remembers everybody's personal preferences for breads, drinks, and desserts. And she uses a tablecloth, a nice touch my mom never bothers with.
I realized yesterday that this would be one of those Sundays my mom wasn't cooking. Before my sister could even think, I blurted, "CAN I MAKE THE SAUCE??" with a level of enthusiasm that I'm pretty sure left her feeling totally obligated. I envisioned lit candles, and a whole lot of oohing and aahing. Basically, since my mom and sister could do it, I figured it was a blood thing. Of course I could do it, too--and it would be worthy of Better Homes and Gardens. HGTV would be knocking at my door wondering what smelled so amazing. Martha Stewart would call for tips. Or, at the very least, my mom and sister would be really proud of me.
Let me put this simply, to save time and embarrassment. Blackened garlic bread. Sour salad. Horrible, horrible meatballs.
I'd like to say that my mom and sister are just plain amazing. And I'm not, apparently.
Not yet. ;)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Conference Day
Tomorrow morning I have a Parent/Teacher Conference at Joey's school. I'm extremely nervous. I think I've mentioned before that I feel a little uncomfortable on the other side of the desk in a classroom.
I have been a teacher for eleven years. In that time, I have had conferences with parents numbering in the hundreds. I know I'm prone to exaggeration at times, but this isn't one of those times. I can prepare for a parent conference like nobody's business--because that's the business I'm in. Go to the computer. Review the grades. Make a complete printout of all grades for the quarter (and if it's pertinent, previous quarters) to give Mom, Dad, Stepparent, Legal Advocate, Grandparent, and, once, weird guest whose presence no one really understood. Next stop, writing portfolio (I'm an English teacher). Review all writing pieces the child has completed, photocopy anything worth noting--good or bad. Place all things in a paperclip, have pen and paper handy to take notes during the meeting.
When a parent asks me questions, I want to be able to answer honestly and constructively. If the child needs help, I want to know how I can best give it. If I believe the parent can do something fairly simple, I am ready to suggest it. If the home life needs an overhaul, I bite my tongue, smile politely, and ache inside for the child. Unfortunately, the latter is usually the case in my field.
But tomorrow, I am walking in with nothing but Joey's report card. It is a report card filled with glowing comments and praise, and yet, I'm not wholly satisfied. In first grade, where there are no tests and no number grades, I can't help but think the grading system is all a bit arbitrary--and this from a teacher who firmly believes that grades are secondary to the human being earning them. Not all children are smart in the same way, but it doesn't mean they aren't smart. Grades are not always the measure of greatness.
And yet...well, this is my son. I've known him since he was a nugget in my belly, and I'm telling you seriously: he was one smart nugget. He has now grown into a first grader who is reading well beyond what I'm used to seeing in--get ready--the eighth grade. I'm not kidding. He can read out loud with expression and emotion. His comprehension is astonishing, and his ability to process abstract ideas and concepts is above average. And while I hate math myself, I can say that he knows his facts without pause. I have seen him do his work, and it's like watching a little machine. His hand flies over the paper marking answers without error.
So why are his grades not all perfect? I know I can't march into this classroom at 8 am tomorrow morning demanding answers; that was never well-received when I was in the teacher role. But I also can't think of a time when I ever graded a child lower than they deserved. Of course, I deal in points and numbers at the middle school level.
Which brings me to what is actually my biggest fear. Could Joey's teacher not know how smart he is? Could you be reading this and grimacing, wondering if perhaps I have overrated my son?
I definitely have not. I could give a heaping list of his shortcomings, and believe me, he has them. If this were about his artistic ability, I might be chagrined and say, "Well, that particular thing isn't his strong suit." But it isn't about artistic ability. It isn't even about conduct, if you can believe it (although he is a lovely behaved boy).
I once heard a fellow mom sharing the tale of her first Parent/Teacher Conference. "The teacher told me he was just average," she said. "And I had to accept that. Nothing wrong with average. They can't all be superstars."
I think that is just about the worst thing I've ever heard. She walked into that meeting believing her son was special, and walked out thinking different because someone told her to? That's going to shape that boy's life! There are certainly exceptions to everything, and certainly I get that if every child was "above average" they would be simply be, by definition, average. But doesn't everyone have their stellar qualities? Aren't I more above average at some things (like complaining, for example) than others?
We cannot ever, ever forget that children will carry our impressions of them around for their entire lives. If my mother and father had looked at me once in my life and said, "Sorry, kiddo, you're just mediocre," I don't think I would be half of what I am today. I would never have set goals, I would never have worked to reach them. I would have sat back, shrugged my shoulders, taken what came, and said, "It's fine. It's not great, but it's fine." What the hell kind of way is that to live your life? To settle? To not strive for the very best you can make your life become? And seeing the gifts that Joey has, seeing the environment he is growing in, I can't think for a moment that the best he is is anything less than Absolute Superstar.
I have no idea what will happen tomorrow morning. I can't beat up Joey's teacher if she doesn't say what I want her to. Besides it being illegal, she's quite old and it wouldn't be a fair fight. But I do know that I need there to be a consensus that Yes, my son is extremely intelligent, and Yes, there is something that can be done about raising these marks to be what I think they should be. Maybe he rushes. Maybe he's sloppy. Maybe he burps out loud. As a teacher, I can say I don't much care for the Burpers (or the Nose Pickers: GAG).
But what if this teacher won't acknowledge what I know to be true? What then?
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Vacation, Please
Highlights of my day.
Kidney stone surgery at 6:30 am. I completely love going to Buffalo Ambulatory Surgery Center because the nurses are like fairy godmothers, the anesthesiologist tells really funny jokes, and my urologist makes me blush and giggle like a moron.
Arrived home at 9:30 am to a blessedly quiet and empty house to rest. Drank 900 gallons of water and slept. Woke often to make sure I didn't drown.
11:45 am: Noah comes home.
Noah has decided it is no longer okay that Mommy doesn't feel well. He has decided he will be as bad as a three-year-old can be to just to be clear that it's not acceptable for me to be lazying around in pain. Awesome afternoon, let me tell you.
Joey's bus arrived home fifteen minutes early. I was in the bathroom saving myself from drowning (and by the way, without giving TMI, this is a really big deal when you've just had kidney stones blasted). I exited the bathroom and noticed my Greek neighbors staring in my windows. The wife was wearing a full length fur coat and I'm pretty sure they were trying to see me in the bathroom. I felt violated. But then I heard the bus beeping and I realized the neighbors (who really are lovely people and way too couth to be staring into people's bathrooms from their driveways) were wondering where the heck I was. I raced to the door, flung it open, just as the bus driver was ushering Joey back on the bus to take him God-knows-where. I yelled, "NO! WAIT! I'm HERE!!!!!!!" The road is about three hundred feet from my house, so I'm hoping the gesture the bus driver gave me was all five fingers, and not just one. Luckily, Joey was permitted to leave the bus.
Joey clearly forgot that I had surgery today, and came in like wildfire. "Mom! I have to read THREE stories! You have to read TWO IMPORTANT NOTES in my backpack! I got invited to a birthday party! I want popcorn! I'm really thirsty! Where's my change of clothes? Where's Grandma?"
This litany quickly progressed into a Loudness Competition with Noah, until the two began shoving each other out of the way (all the better for me to focus on one of them--so thoughtful).
The day really exploded from here, and now, at 7:21 my boys are in bed and I am, too.
A lot of people might think me taking this year off from work is a lovely vacation, and let me be clear: I have never been happier. Seriously.
But seriously. I need a vacation from this "vacation."
Kidney stone surgery at 6:30 am. I completely love going to Buffalo Ambulatory Surgery Center because the nurses are like fairy godmothers, the anesthesiologist tells really funny jokes, and my urologist makes me blush and giggle like a moron.
Arrived home at 9:30 am to a blessedly quiet and empty house to rest. Drank 900 gallons of water and slept. Woke often to make sure I didn't drown.
11:45 am: Noah comes home.
Noah has decided it is no longer okay that Mommy doesn't feel well. He has decided he will be as bad as a three-year-old can be to just to be clear that it's not acceptable for me to be lazying around in pain. Awesome afternoon, let me tell you.
Joey's bus arrived home fifteen minutes early. I was in the bathroom saving myself from drowning (and by the way, without giving TMI, this is a really big deal when you've just had kidney stones blasted). I exited the bathroom and noticed my Greek neighbors staring in my windows. The wife was wearing a full length fur coat and I'm pretty sure they were trying to see me in the bathroom. I felt violated. But then I heard the bus beeping and I realized the neighbors (who really are lovely people and way too couth to be staring into people's bathrooms from their driveways) were wondering where the heck I was. I raced to the door, flung it open, just as the bus driver was ushering Joey back on the bus to take him God-knows-where. I yelled, "NO! WAIT! I'm HERE!!!!!!!" The road is about three hundred feet from my house, so I'm hoping the gesture the bus driver gave me was all five fingers, and not just one. Luckily, Joey was permitted to leave the bus.
Joey clearly forgot that I had surgery today, and came in like wildfire. "Mom! I have to read THREE stories! You have to read TWO IMPORTANT NOTES in my backpack! I got invited to a birthday party! I want popcorn! I'm really thirsty! Where's my change of clothes? Where's Grandma?"
This litany quickly progressed into a Loudness Competition with Noah, until the two began shoving each other out of the way (all the better for me to focus on one of them--so thoughtful).
The day really exploded from here, and now, at 7:21 my boys are in bed and I am, too.
A lot of people might think me taking this year off from work is a lovely vacation, and let me be clear: I have never been happier. Seriously.
But seriously. I need a vacation from this "vacation."
Monday, November 14, 2011
Best Fictional Moms
Here are some of my "Mom" role models: Andy's Mom (Toy Story). Caroline Ingalls. The Wicked Stepmother (Cinderella). June Cleaver. And of course, all the real-life moms I've been surrounded by my whole life: my grandma, my aunts, family friends, my sister, and my own off-the-charts Mom.
I think there's a recipe for greatness. I don't have any idea about what turns out good humans as I'm only a beginner, but I definitely am learning what it takes just to survive being a mom and to do a decent daily job of it. It is a combination of the people I've named above. Without shooting glory at anyone I actually know (the real-life moms), I'll just point out a few of the more admirable qualities in the fictional matrons. (I know Caroline Ingalls actually lived, but be real here: I'm totally zeroing in on the TV series one played by Karen Grassle.)
Andy's Mom from Toy Story. What makes her great? Well, for starters, she's a single mom but doesn't let it drag her down. In the first movie, she's moving her children to a better neighborhood (she's successful). In the second movie, she refuses to sell Woody to Al (of Al's Toy Barn) despite his generous offer. In the third movie, we see the amazing person she has raised: a kind yet sentimental young man who's going off to college. Andy's Mom is patient, she has a sense of humor, she's firm, and she really, really loves her children. And they know it. She's also fun. She let Andy leave those birthday decorations up even after his party was over in Movie 1.
Caroline Ingalls. Where do I begin? Seriously, this is the woman who made it a joy to be "Mom" when you played house as a kid. I remember when I scored the coveted role, I'd instantly bun my hair and smile serenely. So is that it? Her serenity? But we mustn't forget how much she laughed, the way her eyes danced so merrily at the husband she loved so much or the way her girls constantly surprised her. She was firm: homework and Bible study every day. And of course, she could cook. She opened her own restaurant for goodness sake! How progressive! And like Andy's Mom: she always put her family first. They knew she cared.
The Wicked Stepmother. Perhaps you thought I was kidding? Not at all. I actually believe there has to be a point where the children fear you. I'm not confusing this with respect at all, which is quite nice on its own. I mean that when things go too far (and they generally do with children, at some point or another), a tone in my voice and an expression on my face needs to put a healthy fear of God (and me) in my boys so that they will stop, drop, and be silenced. There's a lot of hype about how children should want to be good, do well, and succeed for themselves. That's all well and good, but there needs to be a starting point where simply learn to do the things first. And I really begins that starts with a fear of, "What will Mom say?"
June Cleaver. Patient, kind, loving, a good cook. But also, she looked really good day after day. I think that counts for a lot. Take care of yourself, too--it gives you the energy and the willpower to maintain all the other qualities necessary for successful mothering.
Fictional Moms I'm not that into: Carol Brady. Auntie Em (not a mom, but in the role nonetheless). And what's up with the mom in Sleeping Beauty? It's not selfless to send your infant daughter off with addle-brained fairies (much as I enjoy watching the movie). It's stupid. Fake your own death and escape with the daughter in the night. Raise her yourself in the woodcutter's cottage. Or maybe that's just the control freak in me.
Now for the confession. I'm not always patient. Sometimes I'm more Wicked Stepmother than Caroline Ingalls. Sometimes, I just wear sweatpants and think, "Screw you, June." But these are the faces swirling in my mind when I'm wondering, "What do I want to look like to my children? How do I want them to perceive me?"
There are days when Joey grumbles, "Get Mom some coffee." When Noah says, "You're a MEAN Mommy!" And there are even days when my husband says, "Geez, Mar."
But I was feeling pretty good tonight when we were superhero-ing ourselves at bedtime. Joey said, "My superpower would be my IMAGINATION!"
Noah said, "My superpower is my--" he leapt into the air and landed with jazz hands, "DANCE MOVES."
"What's mine?" I asked them.
"Your love," said Joey. "It's your magic power that keeps us safe."
I may not be perfect at it, but I really love being a Mom.
I think there's a recipe for greatness. I don't have any idea about what turns out good humans as I'm only a beginner, but I definitely am learning what it takes just to survive being a mom and to do a decent daily job of it. It is a combination of the people I've named above. Without shooting glory at anyone I actually know (the real-life moms), I'll just point out a few of the more admirable qualities in the fictional matrons. (I know Caroline Ingalls actually lived, but be real here: I'm totally zeroing in on the TV series one played by Karen Grassle.)
Andy's Mom from Toy Story. What makes her great? Well, for starters, she's a single mom but doesn't let it drag her down. In the first movie, she's moving her children to a better neighborhood (she's successful). In the second movie, she refuses to sell Woody to Al (of Al's Toy Barn) despite his generous offer. In the third movie, we see the amazing person she has raised: a kind yet sentimental young man who's going off to college. Andy's Mom is patient, she has a sense of humor, she's firm, and she really, really loves her children. And they know it. She's also fun. She let Andy leave those birthday decorations up even after his party was over in Movie 1.
Caroline Ingalls. Where do I begin? Seriously, this is the woman who made it a joy to be "Mom" when you played house as a kid. I remember when I scored the coveted role, I'd instantly bun my hair and smile serenely. So is that it? Her serenity? But we mustn't forget how much she laughed, the way her eyes danced so merrily at the husband she loved so much or the way her girls constantly surprised her. She was firm: homework and Bible study every day. And of course, she could cook. She opened her own restaurant for goodness sake! How progressive! And like Andy's Mom: she always put her family first. They knew she cared.
The Wicked Stepmother. Perhaps you thought I was kidding? Not at all. I actually believe there has to be a point where the children fear you. I'm not confusing this with respect at all, which is quite nice on its own. I mean that when things go too far (and they generally do with children, at some point or another), a tone in my voice and an expression on my face needs to put a healthy fear of God (and me) in my boys so that they will stop, drop, and be silenced. There's a lot of hype about how children should want to be good, do well, and succeed for themselves. That's all well and good, but there needs to be a starting point where simply learn to do the things first. And I really begins that starts with a fear of, "What will Mom say?"
June Cleaver. Patient, kind, loving, a good cook. But also, she looked really good day after day. I think that counts for a lot. Take care of yourself, too--it gives you the energy and the willpower to maintain all the other qualities necessary for successful mothering.
Fictional Moms I'm not that into: Carol Brady. Auntie Em (not a mom, but in the role nonetheless). And what's up with the mom in Sleeping Beauty? It's not selfless to send your infant daughter off with addle-brained fairies (much as I enjoy watching the movie). It's stupid. Fake your own death and escape with the daughter in the night. Raise her yourself in the woodcutter's cottage. Or maybe that's just the control freak in me.
Now for the confession. I'm not always patient. Sometimes I'm more Wicked Stepmother than Caroline Ingalls. Sometimes, I just wear sweatpants and think, "Screw you, June." But these are the faces swirling in my mind when I'm wondering, "What do I want to look like to my children? How do I want them to perceive me?"
There are days when Joey grumbles, "Get Mom some coffee." When Noah says, "You're a MEAN Mommy!" And there are even days when my husband says, "Geez, Mar."
But I was feeling pretty good tonight when we were superhero-ing ourselves at bedtime. Joey said, "My superpower would be my IMAGINATION!"
Noah said, "My superpower is my--" he leapt into the air and landed with jazz hands, "DANCE MOVES."
"What's mine?" I asked them.
"Your love," said Joey. "It's your magic power that keeps us safe."
I may not be perfect at it, but I really love being a Mom.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Facebook Freak
I don't think I'm alone when I say that I'm a little addicted to Facebook (and also: SCARVES, but that's not really pertinent here). I love seeing what the people I know are up to. I've scored some pretty great ideas for family activities, outings, and things to tell my children in picklish situations. I've received moral support, been mocked by my family (a given both online and reality), shared secrets, and, apparently, made many people laugh at my general tendency toward comical misfortune.
But here's a major drawback. Picture this.
I'm shopping at Wegmans, pushing my really huge cart through the overwhelmingly wonderful aisles. I'm navigating around angry old people and slow perusers (at whom I mentally holler, GET OUT OF THE WAY!). I am waiting for access to the milk fridge. And then it happens. A seemingly random person turns around. Maybe they're wearing a signature ear-flap hat, or distinctive blue eye shadow, but the point is: I recognize them.
I recognize them, and I know their name. I possibly know their likes and dislikes, and the types of things they say in various situations. Who are they? They are the Friends of Friends.
The Friends of Friends cause me grief. At these moments when I'm waiting for the skim milk, or the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, or the Clorox wipes, I see their faces and my brain is instantly screaming, "Hi, Barbara!" or whoever this person is that I most certainly know of. But that's just it: I don't actually know them, and there's no guarantee that they have ever heard of me. And it's only been really good luck thus far that I haven't embarrassed myself by actually crying out the person's name, along with DETAILS: "I completely agreed with you that the Water For Elephants book was so much better than the movie!" Because technically, I'm not really supposed to know that this person thinks that. They weren't actually talking to me about Water For Elephants.
Yet Facebook has created this reality where I know far more about people than they realize. I know what their children look like, what they do on weekends, and sometimes where they live. With some people, I think of them in terms of their full names: First, Middle, Last, or First, Maiden, Married. So in Wegmans, I not only recognize Barbara, but my mind is frenetically saying, "Barbara Broms Bernstead! Barbara Broms Bernstead!" And if I scream THAT out in Wegmans, Barbara would probably assume I was some insane freak from her high school class who has been "following" her life for the last twenty years, when I really, I'm...I'm....
I'm a Facebook freak. :(
But here's a major drawback. Picture this.
I'm shopping at Wegmans, pushing my really huge cart through the overwhelmingly wonderful aisles. I'm navigating around angry old people and slow perusers (at whom I mentally holler, GET OUT OF THE WAY!). I am waiting for access to the milk fridge. And then it happens. A seemingly random person turns around. Maybe they're wearing a signature ear-flap hat, or distinctive blue eye shadow, but the point is: I recognize them.
I recognize them, and I know their name. I possibly know their likes and dislikes, and the types of things they say in various situations. Who are they? They are the Friends of Friends.
The Friends of Friends cause me grief. At these moments when I'm waiting for the skim milk, or the Cinnamon Toast Crunch, or the Clorox wipes, I see their faces and my brain is instantly screaming, "Hi, Barbara!" or whoever this person is that I most certainly know of. But that's just it: I don't actually know them, and there's no guarantee that they have ever heard of me. And it's only been really good luck thus far that I haven't embarrassed myself by actually crying out the person's name, along with DETAILS: "I completely agreed with you that the Water For Elephants book was so much better than the movie!" Because technically, I'm not really supposed to know that this person thinks that. They weren't actually talking to me about Water For Elephants.
Yet Facebook has created this reality where I know far more about people than they realize. I know what their children look like, what they do on weekends, and sometimes where they live. With some people, I think of them in terms of their full names: First, Middle, Last, or First, Maiden, Married. So in Wegmans, I not only recognize Barbara, but my mind is frenetically saying, "Barbara Broms Bernstead! Barbara Broms Bernstead!" And if I scream THAT out in Wegmans, Barbara would probably assume I was some insane freak from her high school class who has been "following" her life for the last twenty years, when I really, I'm...I'm....
I'm a Facebook freak. :(
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