I'm the meanest mom ever. I'm unreasonable and strict. I blow things out of proportion that don't require the level of consequence that I impart. I enforce rules above the age level of my sweet, innocent child. I persist in punishing for an issue that isn't that big of a deal. At least that's what I'm told. But guess what?
I'm ok with that.
That's why we have a new rule in our house. Brynna loves to wear dresses. She will choose a dress when going to ride bikes, eating at a restaurant or playing at the park. Unfortunately, that playing (and sometimes just standing in line at the grocery store) ends in her panties being shown. Like most 4 year olds, she hasn't yet mastered the art of being ladylike. She is, however, Phi Beta Kappa in spinning and ending with a finale that includes flipping her dress over her head. Knowing that she's a little girl and these things happen, I invested in bloomers. They are the cutest little things with ruffles on the butt. Adorable. Good, new age parenting. I protected her from being inappropriate but didn't thwart her precious creativity and spirit. The problem is - she didn't learn anything. She didn't behave differently because she didn't have to. When I said "Boys don't need to see your panties," she responded with "They can't. Those are my bloomers." So our new rule is this: If you wear a dress and I see your panties OR BLOOMERS, the next day you wear shorts or pants. The result of this rule: crying and gnashing of teeth. You'd think I were shooting bamboo under her fingernails.
This drama has led to our second issue at the moment. Brynna is going for the academy award daily - in whatever category is at hand. She's even been known to attempt the Best Supporting Actress role when she feels her friend or cousin needs help turning up the showmanship. Recently during a tantrum, Brynna stomped her feet. Yesterday, she slammed a cup down on the table. Each outburst is met with a timeout or swat. Each time we discuss what she did and why it's not appropriate. That's how I know she's aware of her behavior. So today, when she kicked a door, a new rule was born. If you choose to show your anger inappropriately, you also choose to lose something. Before the door swung back to hit the wall a second time, I calmly reached down, took Brynna's coveted Twinkle Toes light up shoes off her feet and sent her to her room. Cue meltdown. After some time alone to recover, I went up to tell her to pick a new pair of shoes. Cue meltdown #2. She then had to put on the new shoes and have her hair combed. Cue meltdown #3. (Are you seeing a pattern?)
Is a cup on a table that big of a deal? Maybe not. She didn't throw anything, make a mess or break anything. Is seeing the ruffly bloomers of an adorable little butt so bad? Maybe not. She isn't making inappropriate gestures. She's just having fun. That's what little girls do.
But the reason I'm ok with holding the title of meanest mom ever is that I am more concerned about who she becomes than what she thinks of me in a moment when she's upset. I care more about being her mom than being her friend. I value being what she needs more than what she likes. And after Miley Cyrus made me and a million other moms tear up this week with the heartbreak of imagining our little girl feeling like that's what she needs to do for attention, I'm ok with that.
Do I like taking away the shoes that make her hop and smile with glee? Absolutely not. Is it easy? Never. Do I enjoy the argument that ensues each time she has to wear shorts? No. Would I rather skip the exhaustion and watch her joyfully twirling in a pretty dress? Yes. All day, yes. But that's not what will shape her character. So pardon my tiredness and haggard appearance. Motherhood is a contact sport and if my pain is her gain...I'm ok with that.
Aug 8, 2013
Just one
I never, ever, ever dreamed I'd have an only child. I wanted a big family. I imagined jockeying schedules and carting kids to other kids' recitals. I dreamed of backyard games where you don't even need to invite neighbors over because you've got enough for a team. I had plans, and as usual, God changed them.
Contrary to popular opinion, I don't have one child because I can't handle more. I don't have one child because I'm too selfish or too obsessed with what things cost. I don't have one child because I'm vainly concerned about what pregnancy would do to my body. I have one child because God asked me to trust His plan and His time rather than mine.
And while any number of kids has its challenges, let me tell you about having an only child.
Just one means I'm "the other kid." I don't go to the park and chat with other moms or get something done while they are in the playroom. I am the other side of the teeter totter, the pusher of the swing, the throw to someone's catch.
Just one means I do everything twice. I have a "helper" whether it helps or not. Laundry, dishes and putting on make up take double (at least) the necessary time because I do them each once with help and then once correctly.
Just one means I'm writing this while someone climbs my rolling chair like a jungle gym. Try typing while chasing your butt around the room. Seriously. Try it.
Just one means I am never alone. Ever.
Just one also means I get to savor every snuggle as long as she'll let me.
Just one means I get to see every gymnastics class, impromptu dance recital in the living room and swim lesson.
Just one means I am the nose she wants to nuzzle.
Just one means she knows how to make friends anywhere she goes.
Just one means she speaks confidently and clearly because she had to learn to do so for herself.
Just one means that as long as I make the choice to give her my attention, that attention is undivided.
For now, I have one. If there are more in your house, you could make a list about how sometimes trying but always rewarding it is to have 2 or 3 or 4 or more. Just do me a favor and remember that the mom you see with "just one" has a long list too. When you're tempted to think the grass is greener, just remember: it all has to be mowed!
Contrary to popular opinion, I don't have one child because I can't handle more. I don't have one child because I'm too selfish or too obsessed with what things cost. I don't have one child because I'm vainly concerned about what pregnancy would do to my body. I have one child because God asked me to trust His plan and His time rather than mine.
And while any number of kids has its challenges, let me tell you about having an only child.
Just one means I'm "the other kid." I don't go to the park and chat with other moms or get something done while they are in the playroom. I am the other side of the teeter totter, the pusher of the swing, the throw to someone's catch.
Just one means I do everything twice. I have a "helper" whether it helps or not. Laundry, dishes and putting on make up take double (at least) the necessary time because I do them each once with help and then once correctly.
Just one means I'm writing this while someone climbs my rolling chair like a jungle gym. Try typing while chasing your butt around the room. Seriously. Try it.
Just one means I am never alone. Ever.
Just one also means I get to savor every snuggle as long as she'll let me.
Just one means I get to see every gymnastics class, impromptu dance recital in the living room and swim lesson.
Just one means I am the nose she wants to nuzzle.
Just one means she knows how to make friends anywhere she goes.
Just one means she speaks confidently and clearly because she had to learn to do so for herself.
Just one means that as long as I make the choice to give her my attention, that attention is undivided.
For now, I have one. If there are more in your house, you could make a list about how sometimes trying but always rewarding it is to have 2 or 3 or 4 or more. Just do me a favor and remember that the mom you see with "just one" has a long list too. When you're tempted to think the grass is greener, just remember: it all has to be mowed!
Aug 6, 2013
U B U
I've always wanted to cut my hair really short. I've started to do it several times and always, at the last minute, I decide to go a more conservative route. I've grown it long only to look in the mirror and not know who's looking back. I can't make it look glamorous like other girls so I end up with a really full head of really blonde hair that's really BLAH. So...I cut it off. I get a short bob that makes me feel more like my spunky self but doesn't say it too loudly. A recent chop session was done in secret. I left for a weekend away with shoulder length hair in a ponytail and came home to surprise Brynna and David with it cut above my chin. Some husbands couldn't handle such a shock (let alone the weekend alone with mini me) but David just smiled and his first words were "You're more yourself when it's short."
That stuck with me for weeks. I do feel more myself. Maybe it's symbolic. Maybe my brain just needs less weight to function properly. Either way, it's freeing. And the more I thought about that freedom, the more of it I wanted. But we've all been there. You finally work up the bravery to do something out of the ordinary, and the first person who doesn't like it or turns up their nose, all the air rushes out of the balloon. You stop seeing what you saw in that moment of abandon and all you see is ugly. Maybe you don't use the word ugly. Maybe they said it was "too short for your face shape" or "too choppy." Maybe they said you're too old or too young or too dark or too light. I've heard and felt them all. But something broke open inside of me that day David said those words. I don't want something that looks great on someone else but doesn't seem to fit right on me. I want to feel like ME. I want to see ME in the mirror.
So I did what I never do. I didn't consult anyone. Not my husband, my girlfriends or my family. I didn't ask opinions. I made an appointment while out of town and I explained what I wanted. We discussed and then he started cutting. I walked out with the most drastic haircut I've ever had, and I care the least what anyone thinks. I love my hair not even because of how it looks, but how I feel. I fully expected looks. I prepared myself for how much people would hate it. And I know some of them do. But what I wasn't prepared for was the number of women who have stopped me, gone out of their way to tell me how much they love my hair. I was walking through the parking lot of Target today and a mom with two kids stopped me. She said, "I saw your hair and thought it was cool. Then I saw your daughter and realized you're a mom, too. You make me want to be more bold."
Wow. It sounds so simple, but how many things have I missed because I was trying to be like someone else when all I needed to be was me? How many things have you? How many women walking through Target could use a little bit of you? You're not just a mom. You're not just working. You're not just ______________. You're YOU. God made only one you. And that's enough to turn someone's day around. Your smile, your words, your help or maybe even your hair...someone needs you to be you so it gives her the courage to be her.
So take a breath, let go of what everyone else thinks and U B U!
...and I'll be ME
That stuck with me for weeks. I do feel more myself. Maybe it's symbolic. Maybe my brain just needs less weight to function properly. Either way, it's freeing. And the more I thought about that freedom, the more of it I wanted. But we've all been there. You finally work up the bravery to do something out of the ordinary, and the first person who doesn't like it or turns up their nose, all the air rushes out of the balloon. You stop seeing what you saw in that moment of abandon and all you see is ugly. Maybe you don't use the word ugly. Maybe they said it was "too short for your face shape" or "too choppy." Maybe they said you're too old or too young or too dark or too light. I've heard and felt them all. But something broke open inside of me that day David said those words. I don't want something that looks great on someone else but doesn't seem to fit right on me. I want to feel like ME. I want to see ME in the mirror.
So I did what I never do. I didn't consult anyone. Not my husband, my girlfriends or my family. I didn't ask opinions. I made an appointment while out of town and I explained what I wanted. We discussed and then he started cutting. I walked out with the most drastic haircut I've ever had, and I care the least what anyone thinks. I love my hair not even because of how it looks, but how I feel. I fully expected looks. I prepared myself for how much people would hate it. And I know some of them do. But what I wasn't prepared for was the number of women who have stopped me, gone out of their way to tell me how much they love my hair. I was walking through the parking lot of Target today and a mom with two kids stopped me. She said, "I saw your hair and thought it was cool. Then I saw your daughter and realized you're a mom, too. You make me want to be more bold."
Wow. It sounds so simple, but how many things have I missed because I was trying to be like someone else when all I needed to be was me? How many things have you? How many women walking through Target could use a little bit of you? You're not just a mom. You're not just working. You're not just ______________. You're YOU. God made only one you. And that's enough to turn someone's day around. Your smile, your words, your help or maybe even your hair...someone needs you to be you so it gives her the courage to be her.
So take a breath, let go of what everyone else thinks and U B U!
...and I'll be ME
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)