What's Hard to Swallow

One thing I don’t enjoy is getting advice about my girls, especially on an already sensitive topic. You better believe I am not reading the magazine at the doctor’s office featuring a 22-year-old model without stretch marks holding what is obviously not her baby next to the headline, “How to get your child to stop whining in 3 easy steps”.

The millennial in me is not open to suggestions, especially as it pertains to what I consider to be my most glorious achievements: my daughters. I would rather stand naked in the middle of the street than say, “I need help understanding my kids!” I’m the expert because I know when they are outside shrieking like elephants they have come into contact with a bee, or a fly, or a spider which they also call a “bee”. Turns out I am not an expert in knowing how to get Charlotte to pick up food and place it in her mouth, chew and then swallow. Whether it be a vegetable or quinoa, I was bribing her, pleading and losing the daily war on food.

My husband arrived home one night last week to me ugly crying while chopping bok choy. He assumed, based on my theatrics, that I had severed a finger, so imagine his confusion when I told him that with the help of my sister, I had sought counsel with a nutritionist. My husband, having been on this carousel with me for quite a while responded with, “Is this one of those times that you want me to problem solve or do you just need me to nod and agree with you?” Sigh, love him.

I allowed myself just that night to grieve the end of the era of me knowing everything and I woke up in the morning full of hope that no matter what the day looked like we were going to do what was suggested. That day was a lot like Britney’s 2007 performance on the VMAs the year she shaved her head: too much unnecessary nudity, a lot of mis-steps and over all just a hot mess. But we got through it (as did Britney) and every day since, we have continued to have success at the table.

Madeleine enjoying her lunch of spinach and broccoli.

The crux of it is, is that somebody else knew better than I did how to help my kids with nutrition. And me accepting her help doesn’t make me any less of a mother, but it does make me a better one. They say it takes a village to raise a child and sometimes, for us moms, that can be hard to swallow.

Love is a Battlefield

I’m pretty sure when Pat Benatar wrote this song, she was singing about her two daughters, “Woah, we are strong, no one can tell us we're wrong”... sound familiar? Welcome to every single moment my children are awake.

These battles start out small like wanting the blue cup over the red cup and slowly as they get older become more elaborate—take my oldest who cannot sit in her car seat while wearing a jacket, sweater, long sleeve shirt or certain dresses because she claims, “they pinch” which is then followed by screaming, then crying and lastly a naked drive to the supermarket.

Short of, “Would you like ice cream for dinner?” there is almost always some sort of back and forth. Now all you child psychologists out there can slow your roll, I’m not talking power struggles where I bribe them, give them their way and then praise them for being such good little angels. I’m talking about things like, after giving them fair time warnings and mental preparations when we are about to leave some place fun to some place not as fun.

Now sometimes it goes like this:

Me: “Your two-minute warning is up; it’s time to leave the playground.”

Both kids: “No.”

Me: “If you don’t get into the bike trailer yourself, then I’m going to have to move your body for you.” (Thank you Janet Lansbury, No Bad Kids)

One child walks over and the other one does not.

Me: “Excellent job listening, Madeleine!”

Charlotte wants praise too so she wanders over.

Me: “Thank you Charlotte for making a good choice.”

End battle scene.

This is an example of a win. I don’t need to paint a picture of a loss because you would likely have to only think back 30 minutes ago to create your own example. Even though this was a success, I still consider it a battle because of the amount of effort it took for me to put on my patient mom face and utilize respectful, direct language which frankly feels about as difficult as me learning to speak Korean at the age of 32. Especially when every ounce of me just wants to snap my fingers and say, “Let’s go.”

We walk a fine line in this day and age between raising children and spoiling them. You want to go to the zoo but only if we get to ride the train? How about we stay home and I read to you about kids living in 3rd world countries that are lucky if they have shoes on their feet instead? Just today I overheard my dear friend’s 5-year-old explain a better schedule for him than the one she had proposed. These are just the little encounters, I won’t even begin to discuss the ones that have you Googling ways to manage stress other than screaming into pillows.   

I am a firm supporter of picking your battles with your little ones. I can tell you right now we do not: bathe, brush hair/teeth, eat a healthy meal, play outside, read books and go to bed singing lullaby’s every day. Something in that equation will have to give way for the epic amount of energy that was required to do the simplest item on that list.

When my girls are passionate about something they come at me full force with their arsenal of pouty lips, tears, and the flail. However, I need only look in the mirror to see where they might have inherited that strong-will and recognize how important it is to keep on fighting the good fight.

#EpicPout

I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE EASIER

Recently several parents that I love have taken the leap from 2 children to 3 and a few others have decided to open their homes to foster children. While I am over the moon happy for them and thrilled that there are such loving people in the world, I can’t help but whimper from the depths of my pantry, “But this is really hard, right?” Please tell me it’s not just me. Yesterday Madeleine pulled out a pretty good chunk of her sister’s hair, while I was wrist deep in the toilet fishing out 4 Lego men that just wanted to go “swim-bing”. Sure we have moments of raw, indescribable joy, like today when the girls met a friendly dog at the park and Charlotte protectively put her arm around Maddie, but life with two is no picnic. In fact, when we try and go for a picnic we last about 4 minutes before the bees arrive then everyone is screaming and we leave hungry.

Everyone's threshold for the daily parenting shenanigans we are responsible for varies. For example their patience for whining may be higher than say their tolerance of bodily fluids. I like to think that I’m starting to understand this. But then my mommy-mind starts to wander and I wonder, is what occurs in my house somehow different than those who have opted for 3 or more? Was nobody else spending nap time Googling how to get crayon stains out of white carpet? Were their first 2 children “easy babies” or are they simply better parents than me? Then once that can of worms opens, I circle back to my naïve pre-child assumption, I thought it would be easier. Easier because I’m college educated, I came from a loving family, I have a wonderful husband, to name a few. And yet sometimes I am completely at a loss at the depths of internal patience and strength I need to muster because I haven’t gotten anyone to eat a single vegetable in 6 days.

Is mustard a vegetable?

I took my girls to the community pool yesterday and we stayed until close when all the teenage lifeguards got to do their free swimming and awkward flirting with their acne spotted faces peeking out over their cell phones. Their biggest worry was the chlorine turning their blonde hair green and Hayden flirting with Jayden when he’s clearly with Chloe.

As I held both girls in my arms I remembered what it felt like to have no responsibility and a much lighter load. It is tempting to feel nostalgic for a simpler time, but what we know to be true is our hearts sure are fuller today and whether you have 1 child or 7, no parent is living on Easy Street.