Voices Carry

Last night the dogged exhaustion of raising a two year old surfaced in my body earlier than usual.  I crawled into bed at eight-thirty and decided to let myself take it easy for the night and to let my husband put our son to bed.  I flipped on the t.v. and skimmed over some family-friendly sitcoms.  You know the shows with the really fat but loveably funny guy who is married to a really skinny, beautiful but nagging wife?  I hate those shows.  They aren’t anywhere close to the realm of believability.  But I like how they desperately try to relate to us, with titles like “My Wife and Kids” or “Family Matters.”  And some of it is funny.   It’s easy for me as a wife to laugh at Debra’s antics on “Everybody Loves Raymond,” because she is saying what any woman would say if she were married to that Kermit sounding buffoon of a husband.  We laugh at her unkempt house, her defensive rapport with her in-laws and of course, we laugh at the cartoonish face of Ray’s brother Robert.  We laugh at all of these things but they have no relevance to what goes on in our own homes.  Every major problem finds a solution and is tidily wrapped up in thirty minutes.  Ray actually apologizes for most of the stupid things he does.  And in real life, Debra has had four plastic surgeries.  This isn’t my life.  These aren’t my problems. 

As I continued to flip through the channels, I stopped at something interesting: “E Investigates: Mothers Who Kill.”  I was struck by the salacious title and decided to park on this channel for a bit.  How horrific, I thought.  How could any mother do that, moreover, how could any human being do that?   If I couldn’t relate to “Everybody Loves Raymond” I certainly wouldn’t be able to relate to this show.  But as I listened to story after story of women who reached their breaking points and snapped under the pressure of motherhood, a strange kind of sympathy arose in me.  One story was of a Midwestern wife whose husband worked out of town and who was raised by a perfectionist, religious mother.  She told her husband every time they spoke on the phone, “I feel like a failure,” but he didn’t listen.  She attempted suicide twice, once by taking sleeping pills and once by slitting her wrists when her son was out of the house.  Something in her soul wasn’t right, and her desperate cries for help were not being taken seriously.  Nobody was listening to this woman.  Nobody put her in therapy or tried to reach out to help her.  As I listened to the horror that followed, I felt an odd and unsettling connection to her.  Not that I would ever or have ever thought of killing anyone, especially my children.  That is unthinkable and unforgivable to me as a mother.  But what she said, “Nobody listens to me,” “I feel like a failure,” “I’m not a good mother,” “The pressure is too much.”  I swear, I’ve said those exact same things at some point over the last two and a half years.  And then I really freaked out; I could relate more to these seemingly unimaginable stories than to the situations on “Raymond.”   Because they were true. 

And then the name Andrea Yates popped into my head.  Remember her, the woman from Texas?  Her husband ignored desperate pleas for help and countless signs of serious depression.  She turned into a psychopathic monster and systematically drowned her children in a bathtub.  When I searched her story online, hundreds of others came up just like hers; mothers who drowned their children, abandoned their children, or drove their children into lakes.  Mothers who were broken, deranged, and passed a point of no return.  It’s easy to assume that these mothers were on the verge of psychoses anyway, so that just one wrong turn or one missed pill set them off.  These women were capable of doing something horrific, but who’s to know that if somebody had just listened to them, maybe their fates and their children’s fates would have turned out differently.  It’s easy to distance yourself from the gruesome acts of others when you are able to think clearly and make good choices.  Don’t get me wrong, I hold these mothers fully accountable for their actions.  They had a choice and they chose wrong.  They are far removed from me, because they had nothing to ground them and no moral center in their distorted realities.  But as I listened to story after story of women who were told that they were bad mothers, who confessed that they felt like nobody cared about them, and that their families and friends had let them down, again, I felt that there but for the grace of God…

Their stories start the same.  Nobody thought they were capable of doing it.  They might not be as different as you or I.  And then they snapped.  We call them monsters, and they are.  But how many times have you felt like a monster, even called yourself one?  How many times have you spanked out of anger, yelled at the top of your lungs in the face of your child, or just plain felt like you had lost your grip temporarily on reality?   I’ve lost count.  I'll tell you a story that I'm not proud to tell.  There was a day not too long ago when I had to call my husband to come home.  It was shortly after my dad had died.  It was on a Saturday and my husband was working on the house we were renovating for my mom.  He worked every weekend on the house.  This was before I enrolled my son in the Parents Day Out program.  I didn’t have any breaks, no free time, no alone time. Some of you mothers are snickering to yourselves because you don’t get breaks either, but I was used to them.  I was used to my husband coming home every night and relieving me for a couple of hours. On one hand, the Romantic in me grew closer to my son and we bonded more during that time than we ever had before. On the other hand, I was alone with my son seven days a week, most nights too.  Every spare moment my husband had he spent working on the house.  We took on that project and we needed to get it done as quickly as we could.   That particular Saturday, my son wouldn’t stop crying.  I was losing it fast.  He had been crying for three straight hours.  The more upset I got, the more upset he got, and we went round and round.  There is nothing more nerve wracking than an inconsolable baby.  At the end of my rational rope, I started crying uncontrollably and screaming, not at my son, just in general.  I had to leave my son in his crib and literally walk outside to cry in the garage.  I punched a wall.  Still crying, I thought, this is nuts.  I have to call for reinforcements.  My husband didn’t want to be interrupted that day, but I made him listen to me and after some hysterical crying and begging, he came home.  When he got home he calmed my son down and he finally went to sleep. I was still shaking so badly that I had to go for a drive just to calm down.  I don’t know if you’ve ever had a day like that, but that day in particular I felt defeated.  I felt like I had come so far just to fail.  I felt like I had to scream at my husband in order for him to hear the desperation in my voice, a voice that told him over and over, I can’t do this.  I need help.  And I have a group of friends who validate me, a good upbringing, a network of support from my parents and siblings, and a good husband who is willing to drop everything to come home to comfort me and my child.  Just think if I didn't have those things and a disastrous series of events occurred.  I am faced with a stinging realization that I am just as susceptible to snapping like a fragile twig as the next mom.

Moms, we need to talk.  We need to talk about why nobody talks about this.  It is okay to be insecure.  It is okay to be unsure.  It is okay to be sad, depressed and lonely.  It is okay to hate your job every once in a while.  Why is that so hard to talk about?  Who said that if you complained about being a mother then you must be a bad mother?  Somebody must have said that at some point, because we are so afraid to talk about it.  My husband complains about his job, that doesn’t mean he’s not good at it.  Maybe you don’t know what I’m talking about, and that’s okay.  But surely you’ve been sleep deprived and have said or done something ridiculous, even destructive.  Or maybe you’re on the brink of doing something intentionally destructive.  Not going so far as hurting your children, but maybe you’re thinking of hurting yourself.  Or leaving your husband.  Or something else as equally damaging.  Listen to me, stop.  Find someone.  Talk to them.  And if you have to scream to be heard, scream.  Open your windows and scream so loud that the neighbors hear you.  Scream so loud that your husband hears you.  So loud that your parents, in-laws, sisters, brothers hear you.  You need to tell someone what is in your head before what’s in your head turns ugly.  You need to tell your friends what you’re going through.  If they’re not going through the same thing, honey, they are lying and you need to call them out on it.   We need to let other moms know that it’s okay to voice what’s going on in our heads, even the terrible insecurities, because the consequences of not doing it are dire.  We need to stick up for each other.  When somebody tells you that pregnancy isn’t all that hard I want you to lift up your shirt and show them your misshapen belly and stretch marks.  When somebody tells you that it doesn’t take a brain to raise children I want you to show them your framed college degree, your SAT scores, your IQ chart.  I want you to challenge them to a battle of wits.  I want you to win!  When someone says that stay at home moms have it easy, bring up Andrea Yates and others like her who cracked under the pressure of parenting.  You have my permission to say to them with all your earned smugness, you wouldn’t be able to handle it like I do.

This is why I started writing.  I had to tell you that I’m scared and I’m insecure.  Last year was the hardest year of my life.  I had to scream.  And because I did scream, or write, as it were, and because of you and your reaction to it, I now feel like I’m starting to heal.  Writing these stories has been more therapeutic than counseling.  I’ve loved telling you about my dad, my mom, my son, all of my defeats and some of my victories.  I implore all of you mothers out there to do the same.  Do not stay silent.  Start healing.  Start a blog.  Start a group.  Write it in a journal, or if writing’s not your thing, make time to sit down and talk to a friend, or a pastor, or a counselor.  You might be surprised at what happens when we tell each other the truth.  You might find that there are others out there who just need someone to say it first.  Be the first.  We know and accept the beautiful and magical parts of being a parent.  We never like to face what’s ugly about it.  Say it, “This is hard.  This is what I chose, but it’s hard.”  You could be reaching out to someone who was on the verge of a breakdown.  Promise me you’ll talk.  We’ll talk about this.  And then let’s sit back and be amazed at the results. 

Dirty Work

I just spent half an hour on my hands and knees cleaning our sofa because somebody (not me) left a pen in the living room overnight and this morning my son saw an opportunity to practice writing “W’s.”  I was on the phone with my mom and not paying the proper amount of attention I should have to my two year old son.  When I looked over, I noticed he had stopped watching “Sesame Street” and instead was fixing his attention on the sofa.  “Big ‘W’ right there!” he said.  It took a few seconds for my brain to register what was happening, to quickly drop the phone and grab the pen out of my son’s hand.  By that time, big W’s covered the arm and seat of our sofa.  Of course, I was so impressed at his penmanship that I wasn't even angry.  I picked him up and showed him that pens are for drawing only on paper, not furniture.  “Mama is still pretty proud of your perfect ‘w’s’ though.”  I laughed and thought, if these w’s don’t come out at least there is proof that my son is a genius.  I’ll show it off the next time those Parents as Teachers reps come for a screening.  And then I pictured myself hanging the sofa on the refrigerator with magnets.  “His first W’s,” I cry. 

Things like this happen all the time.  When you become a parent your house will never look clean and fresh again.  It won’t smell the same, either.  The complete transformation usually happens the second your child becomes mobile. Your carpets will never be spotless, your wood floors always scuffed, your walls never quite as white, or off-white, as in our case.  When we removed the metric ton of toys from our living room floor and into our son’s new room, we discovered so many spots on our carpet, some of which hadn’t seen the light of day since my son was at least six months old.  Our living room carpet is destroyed.  It’s the only room of our house that is carpeted, thank God.  When I suggested to my husband that we replace it with new carpeting, he said, “Not until our kid and future kids are at least ten years old.”  And even then, accidents always happen. 

I’ve always thought of myself as a relatively clean person.  I say this because cleanliness is relative.  My definition of clean varies significantly from my mother in law’s.  She has floors so clean that when my son drops a piece of food on the floor I tell him “Only at Gaga’s house could you still eat that.”  I’d like to think I keep a clean house, but I’m sure those two mean British ladies with the white gloves who inspect homes on that one BBC show would disagree.  I have a cat, hardwood floors and long hair, the combination of which stirs up dust bunnies like you wouldn’t believe.  I dust on a fairly regular basis but it seems that the second I’m done another layer has settled.  I like things orderly, but I don’t freak out if I have a sink full of dishes.  If I don’t get to them today, they will be done tomorrow.  They don’t stay in the sink longer than that.  If you come over to my house on the day that I just cooked a pot of spaghetti, don't gross out.  I might have cleaned the pots and pans and I might not have.  If I haven’t yet, I promise, they will be clean tomorrow.  That’s kind of how I operate.  I am proud of it, actually.  I don’t have to run a tight ship and have a perfect house to feel like I’m a successful stay at home mom.  As long as most things are put in their place and the flat surfaces are not overflowing with stuff, I’m good.  I’m not obsessive by nature and I won’t start now by obsessing over cleanliness.  I want my son to live in our house and not feel like he’s confined to a museum.  I don’t want him (or me) to have a nervous breakdown if he spills something on the floor or writes “W’s” on the sofa.  Most things come right up with a warm washcloth anyway.  So I guess it’s fair to label my house “clean enough.”

I would also go ahead and label my son as a relatively clean little boy.  He takes a bath every other night.  I would give him one every night, but he’s only two years old and he doesn’t get that dirty, especially in the winter months.  I wipe his butt and every other crevice “down there” so clean that the term “shiny hiney” is applicable every time I change his diaper.  He hates to have sticky hands and always begs “wipe, mama” when he’s messy.  He knows that it’s fun to make messes but doesn’t always like having the mess all over him.  He will have the occasional stain on his shirt or the milk mustache that I have to wrestle with him to wipe off, but usually, he’s pretty clean.  He loves bath time and only occasionally have I had to manipulate him to take one.  After some negotiation he would go willingly after I’ve reminded him that “Buddy, it’s okay to stop playing with the toys in your room because you have some in the tub.”   And that’s an understatement.  There are a million bath toys in my bathtub.  Seriously, take a look in there sometime. I counted them last night.  Total number of actual bath toys, sixteen.  There are five boats, four ducks, two whales, a snail, a seahorse, a butterfly, and two flower shaped things that act as fountains.  No kidding.  I don’t know where to put all of these toys when I myself take a bath, which is rare.  My son has catalogued them in his brain so that if just one is missing, he will refuse a bath.  We never take any toys out of the tub but somehow, more and more are added.  The toys that took over our living room are slowly making their way into the bathtub.  Soon my son will be a human island in a sea of bath toys, just the way he likes it.  His bath time is such bliss.  He loves to be stripped down and to run around naked before he gets into the tub.  Once he’s in the tub any previous resistance is quickly forgotten.  He loves to stay in the tub until the last drop of water goes down the drain.  His sweet little shiny butt stares up at me, “Five more minutes” he’ll beg.  He sings in the tub.  He talks to his toys.  He gets out after some coaxing and is wrapped up in the biggest, fluffiest towel.  His pretty blue eyes peek out from under the towel and he clings tightly to his mama or dada to stay warm.  Sweet, sweet bath time.

Nothing ruins pure and innocent moments like these worse than the mention of the word that makes every parent reach for the Wet Wipes: germs.  Now I myself, being a relatively clean person, don’t freak out when it comes to germs. When I told my mother about how many bath toys my son has and how he can’t bathe without them, she gasped in horror as if I just told her he bathed in human waste.  “Bath toys have so many germs on them!  I heard that the water inside of bath toys is worse than urine.”  So, she did think I was bathing my son in human waste after all.  Mind you, this is the same woman who just a few days ago told me that she heard “Dr. Oz” say that it’s actually okay for kids to eat dirt.  Which reinforces that age old saying, God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.  Apparently, a child eating dirt is okay.  A child bathing with contaminated bath toys is reason for panic.  Of course I bleach the bath toys every now and then but truth is, there is probably old water in them.  I can’t imagine what that water would look like under a microscope and frankly, I don’t want to. 

I don’t want to be one of those mothers that thinks of her children as germ carrying, infectious diseases waiting to happen.  I don’t want to ever picture the microscopic creepy crawlies on the surfaces of all the things my son puts in or has put in his mouth.  I carry hand sanitizer but I admit, I don’t use the wipes at the grocery store to wipe down every inch of the contaminated cart before I sit my son down in it.  When I was growing up, I don’t remember Purell ever touching my hands and I’m sure that my son could probably live without it now.  I’ve heard reports that too much of that stuff will cause your kids immune systems to not fully develop.  But then I’ve heard that not using it in at certain times will leave them vulnerable to catching all kinds of illnesses. What’s a parent to do?  Kids are okay to eat dirt but they can’t play in it because they’ll get worms.  Hand sanitizers help keep kids safe but at the same time hurt them.  Good germs, bad germs, good dirt, bad dirt… it’s a good thing I try not to obsess over things, because the dirty work of parenthood is enough to make my head explode. If my head did explode, being the relatively clean person I am, maybe I’d clean up the bits of head today, or maybe I’d clean them tomorrow.  

The bottom line is this, kids are dirty.  And they make your house dirty.  Whoever said that cleanliness was next to godliness had way too much time on his hands and obviously didn’t have any children.  He didn’t understand that God is in the small things, like spending a few extra minutes tickling and laughing, playing and singing, or five more minutes in a tub full of putrid water-filled toys, enjoying those moments before they are gone forever…and letting the dishes wait until tomorrow. 

Oh Baby, Just You Shut Your Mouth

I recently read an online article from the Wall Street Journal at a friend’s urging titled “Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior.”  Thinking the title was in jest, I read it with an open mind.  I read how the author thought it was okay to call her child garbage when treated disrespectfully and how Western mothers spend too much time worrying about their children’s individuality.  By the time I finished reading the article I admit that I was super defensive and against my better judgment, a little racist.  Thanks Amy Chua.  Remember when I said that women compete over everything, even the way we parent?  A woman saying, “Chinese mothers are superior to Western mothers” is sort of the antagonistic equivalent of an American man saying “My dad can beat up your dad.”   Why is it that these things bring out the monster in me, or as Sarah Palin puts it, the mama grizzly?  Why can’t I just walk away and ignore widespread statements like that?  (The obvious answer being, because then I’d have nothing to write about.)  Is it because anytime anyone claims to be “superior” I automatically delve into my hidden arsenal of nuclear defense and question all of their standards of superiority?  I claim to be so sick of it but I can’t seem to resist a good competition.  I’m feeling a bit like Michael Corleone.  “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” 

I read the article and then re-read it slowly to make sure I wasn’t being too defensive.  Surely, she didn’t really mean that Chinese mothers are superior to Western mothers, did she?  When I realized that yes, that’s what she meant, I was ready for a good old fashioned throw down.  Because if you’re going to make such a challenge, girl you better bring it.  Back it up with more than just your children can play the violin and do math.  I was hot under the collar, but I have to admit that some of Chua’s points were valid.  Like when she suggested that Western mothers care too much about developing their children’s self esteem, not realizing that self esteem is earned by hard work which is its own reward.  I get that.  I agree to some point.  I also think she made a good point about not letting your child give up an instrument or a project just because he or she doesn’t enjoy the required practice it takes to master it.  She used her daughter’s piano lessons as an example, citing that hours upon hours of grueling, insufferable practice yielded a result of perfection.  True.  Anyone can be good at something if they are forced to practice relentlessly.  No argument from me.  And anyone not taught any other way of life can live comfortably in prison if they’ve never breathed free man’s air.  But do they love that prison?  Are they enjoying all that life has to offer and truly attaining happiness?  According to Chua, who cares?  Attaining happiness is not important.  Success and perfection will lead to happiness.  In Chua’s culture, the children live to serve the parents, not the other way around as in modern Western culture.  The two are so vastly different.

Which leads me to this, when two cultures have two completely different benchmarks of success, who is to say which is superior or inferior?  If your measure of success is that Junior is a generous person who spends Friday nights feeding the homeless and he grows up to do those things, then your son is a success.  If you measure success by how much money you make or by how well you can spell, then your son is a success if he can do those things.   You don’t even have to be of different cultures to have different standards of success.  My mother thinks my son will be a success if he grows up to be a missionary.  I think a Pulitzer Prize winning author sounds more like it.  Chances are he will be neither of those things and I will have to love and accept him just the same.

My first reaction to this article was to fire off a snide little comment, once again as if anyone cared what I had to say.  I said something to the extent of if I wanted to raise a bunch of robots then I would adapt this method of parenting.  If I were raised by a communist mother I too would mock individuality.  I would shove my expectations and wants down the throat of my son and strip him of his personality and force him to join the competitive (and I misspelled competitive) army of grey uniformed foot soldiers.  It was a pretty stupid response.  In fact I can’t believe I’m repeating it now except that I told you before, these are my true confessions.  Then I followed that up with apologizing for my misspelling of the word competitive and said, “If I were Chinese I would’ve spelled that right.” 

While I disagree that Chinese women are better mothers, I don’t think we Westerners have it all figured out either.  We’re not better, we’re not worse.  Can’t we all just be on each other’s sides and say that what makes a good mother is if she is doing the best she can with what she has to work with?  That’s what makes our world so great, different cultures with different methods of raising children who grow up to be diverse and interesting adults.  It’s the beauty of the human race.  Why do we as parents look to our children to validate our way of life?  That’s a lot of pressure to put on a kid.  Kids have enough pressure in this world without having to worry about making their parents look good.  Besides, all children, even Chinese ones, blame their parents for all of their problems once they are grown which is why psychiatry is such a booming business. 

My blog is meant to be funny most of the time, but sometimes, I get so knocked over by the need for some people to always out-do the next guy that I forget that I’m supposed to be leading by example and not entering the boxing ring.  Yesterday my pastor talked about leaving a legacy with your life, to use it for good.  That’s how I want to raise my son.  I may never be a published author, or a contributing writer to the WSJ online, but I have a son that I simply adore.  He has all the possibilities of doing great things with his life.  He is a success in my eyes already.  He is special if for no other reason than because he’s mine.  I don’t think that makes me inferior or necessarily Western.  Most cultures want their children to feel strongly connected to their family legacy.  I married an Italian so I know this firsthand.  I want my son to recognize his place in our family and to let it instill confidence in him.  I want him to know it’s not necessarily what he does with his life but who he is that matters.  He is a very specific piece of the puzzle in a very important place on our time line.  He will say someday, I am Carrie’s son.  I want him to be proud when he says that.  I don’t want him to respect me because I’ve beaten it into him or because I’ve scared him into it.  I want to earn his respect by being a person of character based on the decisions I make on a daily basis.

Of course I think it’s important to teach discipline to your children.  But I don’t think my son is my project.  He is a human being.  He will have to navigate his own desires when the time is right, and I will have to make sure that he doesn’t give up too easily and think that it’s okay to walk away from hard work.  I would love for him to play the piano and he’s so musically gifted already that it seems inevitable.  But I have to accept the fact that he might hate it.  If he does, I’d like to think that I could back off enough to see what other talents he could be developing.  Does that make me inferior?  Maybe. What I’ve concluded is this; there is much to be learned from all cultures.  What I should've said in response to this article is that I respectfully disagree and leave it at that.  Life isn’t a competition.  It is not a dog fight.  The term dog-eat-dog applies to dogs, not humans.  I write all of this with no intended disrespect to the Chinese culture.  I fired off those stereotypes, again, because I am defensive to a challenge.  I have Asian and Asian-American friends that I love, and also have friends who’ve adopted Chinese children.  I have great respect for all mothers, in any culture, who are out there trying.  And I will try my best to teach my son better and try to leave the boxing gloves on the shelf.  That is, until some other mom says she’s better than me. 

Hit Me With Your Best Shot

I’m simultaneously proud and ashamed to announce that my two year old has entered two new phases in his development.  Turning these corners of growth can cause such conflicting emotions.  Exhilaration can quickly turn into frustration, as I’ve pointed out many times before.  So first, I’m proud to announce that my big boy is now sleeping in a new bedroom and in his very own big-boy-bed.  We can now fit most of his stuff in this bedroom and it feels like we’ve reclaimed some of our living space back from those monstrous toys.  We set up the bed last week and after playing in there for a few days and mimicking our “Hey, nice roooooom” (we say it with a lot of emphasis on the o’s), he volunteered to sleep there all on his own.  He slept through the first night with no problem except the occasional distraction by our cat, who also wants to sleep in the big boy bed.  Once I figured out what was going on I quickly eliminated that problem by simply closing the door.  Easy enough.  This seemingly scary transition from crib to bed was apparently no big deal to my son.  While I’d like to take some of the credit for it and claim that I prepared him for this big move by hyping up the room and being such a casually cool mom, I have to say that my son deserves it all for being such a brave boy.  He’s the cool one. While turning over this new leaf in his development, he has also started handing his binky over to me in the morning saying “Here mama, let’s put it up.”  He still asks for it at bedtime but I think we’re finally over that hump as well.  I have a misguided feeling that I may not have to fight so hard from now on.  Maybe potty training won’t be out of the question.  And then, I’ll teach him how to drive a stick shift.  No, no, math first.  

I said there were two phases that we’ve entered and I’ve shared the one I’m most proud of first.  There is no grace period when you’re a parent, no taking a breather, no time outs.  I was so proud of my son for being so nonchalant about sleeping in his new big boy bed that I let down my defenses for a split second and forgot that every rose has its thorns.  (This won’t be the only ‘80’s rock reference in this blog entry.)  This next phase is my least favorite of all of his phases so far.  I’d rather have slimy poop in my cupped hands (and on my neck) than to have to deal with this crap.  But here goes.  He has started hitting.  I know that some kids bite, and thank God, I never had to deal with that.  We’re over those biting years anyway so I’m sure that will never become a problem.  I don’t know where this hitting thing came from, if he’s picked it up from other kids or if, God forbid, he’s picked it up from me.  I have admittedly swatted his behind a few times.  When I do it, I do it knowing that he is wearing a diaper and I only strike once, just enough to shock him into listening to me so I could properly scold and punish him.  And it’s worked, so far.  This hitting thing started out as him not actually hitting but pulling back his hand in a threatening position and swatting the air close to me but not actually touching me.  That lasted about a day.  Now he actually hits.  Yesterday he slapped my face.  He doesn’t do it very hard, he’s only two, but it’s a direct hit.  It’s like how my cat bites me when we play, knowing that if he bites down hard the game is over.  My son knows that if he takes it too far his little game is over because mama will go crazy.  Even though I don’t think he means for it to hurt, I feel like my son is hitting out of some pent up anger and I’m not sure why.  When I tell him no, or stop it, it just makes him swing more.  It also makes him point at me and say “Stop it.”  It's really cute and I try not to laugh.  But the hitting thing is definitely not cute.  A few times I’ve turned into a hypocrite and swatted his butt and said “No hitting.”  While that makes sense to an adult it makes absolutely no sense to a kid.  It’s like smoking a cigarette while telling your kids not to smoke.  The kid smoking pot on the public service commercial from my youth screams to his father, “I learned it by watching you!”  I used to laugh at that commercial. 

So I’ve had to get creative once again and switch my methods and so far, I think it’s working.  When my son starts swinging, I grab both of his hands and get real close to his face, like I would a dog, and I calmly say “No hitting,” while holding his hands.  Then I say, “Say you’re sorry and let’s kiss on it.”  The first couple of times I did this he turned his head away, which is to be expected.  He’s a pretty strong boy.  I’m stronger.  He wiggles to try to get free.  He feels trapped because I’m in his face and basically taking away all of his imagined power.  My calm (okay, not all of the time, but I try to keep it cool most of the time) demeanor is an immediate juxtaposition to his fit of anger and it disables him.  He squeezes out a “sorry” sometimes only in a whisper, but it’s a sorry, so it counts.  We kiss.  I think that’s his favorite part of the punishment because one time he did it and then wanted a “kiss mama,” skipping the sorry part altogether.  I hope some psychoanalyst doesn’t think I’m raising a future wife beater who associates love with violence.  Listen guys, I kiss him all day long, not just when he’s in trouble.  Anytime he gets close to me I kiss those cheeks and those sweet lips.  So I think you’re wrong, psychoanalyst.

I wish I could say the spanking thing has stopped completely but it hasn’t.  This new, calm method of punishment is very new school and requires dedication and patience, something I tend to run out of by the end of the day. The words of Guns N’ Roses are so true; it’ll work itself out right.  All we need is just a little patience.  No matter what your position is on spanking, you have to admit that sometimes it’s effective and sometimes it’s not.  I know some people who are dead set against it and some who use it exclusively as their preferred form of punishment.  The verdict is still out for me.  I myself never received a spanking growing up, but I think it’s because my siblings were such horrible children that my parents were too exhausted to deal with me.  Also, just watching them get spanked was threat enough for me to behave.  I don’t think my brother and sister have any severe psychological damage because they were spanked as children.  On the other hand, I don’t think they are better citizens because of it either.  I mean, they are good citizens, just not because they were spanked.  Shut up Carrie.

This punishment thing is harder on me than breastfeeding was, and that’s saying something.  It has even more potential to make me feel like an utter failure and a complete hypocrite.  I’m working through it, like I do.  Right now I’m inconsistent because I’m trying to figure it all out.  Whatever I choose to do, I definitely need to follow through and be consistent.  I’ve figured out from the numerous trips through the check out lanes that lectures do not work on my two-year-old.  My voice in his ears probably starts to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher.  My mastery of the English language does me no good when dealing with a kid who has a limited vocabulary.  I’ve also figured out that I'm not one of those moms who can ignore her child when he acts up.  It completely goes against my nature.  I can’t just ignore my son when he’s screaming at the top of his lungs.  I definitely can’t ignore him when he hits me.  I guess some children act out because they need attention, so not giving it to them ends the whole negative reinforcement thing.  I am not one of those people.  My son gets plenty of attention.  In fact, he gets all of it.  It’s the cat who never gets any attention.  That’s why he poops on the floor.  I’m afraid my husband is going to start doing the same thing soon…

I know that I have to be aware of this hitting thing and I must make sure my son knows it’s not okay to do it.  I also have to be aware of myself all the more.  This is uncharted territory for me, just like everything else I write about.  It’s another great adventure, another lesson learned.  As a parent who wants to raise good children, I know I'll make some mistakes but I always mean well.  In disciplining my son I know I'll have hits and misses.  But I’ll be damned if those hits are coming from my son.

The Rainbow Connection

I was watching “Yo Gabba Gabba” today with my son and my brother.  After just a few minutes my brother, who’s gay, said, “This is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.”  I said, “I know, right?  He loves it.”  Cut to my son spinning in circles and dancing in the living room, singing along to every song and laughing hysterically.  (Now, let me clarify.  The word gay is used way too much to describe things that are stupid or lame and I am not a huge fan of using “gay” in that pejorative sense.  So, just to be clear, the word “gay” in the context of this entry actually refers to “of homosexual nature.”)  I said, “I think all kids’ shows are a little gay, don’t you?”  My brain was flooded with all of the seemingly gay aspects of the children’s shows that I let my son watch on a daily basis and even some from my own childhood. 

There’s a street in Maplewood called Gayola and my brother and I often use that word to describe things are just too gay.  I think it describes most musicals and some children’s shows perfectly.   I’m not just talking about “Yo Gabba Gabba,” but since we started with that show, I will admit that for the longest time I didn’t let my son watch it because of the big, red, one eyed monster.  You heard me correctly.  There’s a one eyed monster on the show.  By sheer principal I was dead set against it.  I thought the creators of this show must be total perverts.  Why would they possibly put something like that in a kid’s show?  Then I watched an episode where Jack Black gets lost and ends up in Gabba Land and, oh my.  It is like one long acid trip.  And not the scary kind, like the "Letter People," but the cool kind, like "Pee Wee's Playhouse" (which, by the way, was my favorite kids show growing up and I'm not ashamed to admit that I would sit down for a full half hour and watch it right now if it came on.)  Suddenly it all became clear to me.  This show is freaking awesome.  DJ Lance Rock is a trip in and of himself.  I found myself loving this quirky and slightly disturbing show because it is so cheerful and creative. Its messages are clear, its purpose obvious. Its themes are sharing, caring, and not being afraid of others’ differences.  Tolerant, the way I think the world should be.

When you really think about it, the creators of children’s shows have a fine line to walk.  Kids never read into anything because they’re not cynical.  They haven’t had time to adapt a sick and twisted worldview.  Adults on the other hand, we read into everything. We’re such sickos.  In my own perverted brainstorming of all the children’s shows with “colorful” characters or themes I came up with everything from Dumbledore to the purple Teletubby to Bert and Ernie.  Fred from “Scooby Doo” wore an ascot.  Smurfette was the only girl in the village.  (Google "Vanity Smurf" if you don’t know where I’m going with that.) Gonzo had that weird nose.  And don’t tell me that you thought He-Man was straight. One of my favorites was this show called “Today’s Special” on PBS that aired from 1982 to about 1987. The mannequin, Jeff, came to life and sang and danced when you put his favorite accessory, a newsboys’ cap, on his head and said the magical words, “Hocus Pocus Ala-Magokus.”  It was pretty gayola.

When I assumed the tremendous responsibility of raising children, I swore I would be one of those parents who wouldn’t let my kid watch T.V. all the time.  He wouldn’t dare watch as much as I did growing up.  I can still sing nearly every theme song to any show from the 80’s or 90’s.  Most of my childhood years are self categorized as television shows, i.e. “The year of Small Wonder” or “The Year of the Gummy Bears.”  I remember what happened in what year based on what I was watching on the tube.  Remember when we had that horrible winter and that blizzard where we were stuck in the house for days?  Yep, that was The Year of Thundercats.  

While I started out with good intentions, it’s practically impossible to keep my son from watching a little T.V. every now and then.  The internet makes it really convenient to pull them up anytime I need a little break.  And I have to give modern children’s shows respect.  There’s a show for just about every child of every ethnicity out there.  Hispanic, Asian, British…I think my son is going to speak about three different languages and have an accent by the time he’s four years old.  There are shows that exclusively teach math and shapes.  Some talk about dinosaurs and use these scientific words that are difficult for me to even pronounce.  Some teach problem solving skills. And some are just weird head-scratchers, like “Yo Gabba Gabba.”  There’s shows that focus solely on conflict resolution, teaching kids to talk about their feelings and share their emotions.  My son’s current favorite is “Super Why” on PBS, which transports its characters into a story and uses letters to figure out problems.  Sometimes, if he’s lucky, they will even showcase the letter “W.”

I hate to admit this, but, I think my son’s a little smarter from watching T.V.  There, I said it.  I can just hear the American Family Association beating down my door as soon as I typed those words. (But let’s be honest, I blew my chances of being endorsed by them because I’ve used the word “gay” too much in a non-judgmental way.  Oh well.)  Let it be known that I work with my son on a daily basis and we spell words, read books and play games.  We also pray.  He’s the only two-year-old I know who can spell “lullaby.”  He’s up to about thirteen words now. Ask him to spell for you next time you see him.  In other words, I don’t just park him in front of the old telly all day.  But when he does watch it, he’s so engrossed in some of these shows that he’s learning without even realizing it.  Whoever said T.V. was bad for kids does not realize that everything I needed to know I learned from “Duck Tales.”  It was the smartest show on television in my day.  No kidding, I even referred to it when I read “The Odyssey” for the first time in college.  “Pennies, Nickles, Quarters, Dimes…Come to us while there’s still time!”  If you are laughing right now, you are a child of the ‘80’s and probably watched way too much T.V.  Also, you are probably my best friend. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I ain't got no problem with television.  I don’t want my boy to be glued to the tube all day but in moderation, entertainment that’s educational is not going to kill him.  I see nothing wrong with letting my son watch shows that teach him basic things like respecting differences and trying new things, making new friends and caring about others, even if some of the shows are a little gay.  And anyway, I can’t help but think that all of these shows are helping to make the world a more sensitive place, encouraging a generation of kids who think before they speak and who act out of kindness and compassion.  It doesn’t sound so bad.  Maybe it’s us adults who could stand to learn a thing or two. There are no grown-up shows as good as “Yo Gabba Gabba” to be sure, but I keep waiting.  Someday I’ll find it.  “…The lovers, the dreamers, and me.”

Mama Said

Let me get this off of my chest, because I have a feeling you don’t know this already.  Women, you can ignore this.  This doesn’t pertain to you because you should already know the rules on this one.  Guys, listen up.  Unless you see an actual baby’s head exiting a woman’s private area, do not assume that she is pregnant.  And never, I mean, never ask her if she is pregnant unless, again, you actually see her giving birth or going into labor.  I know modern fashion makes it difficult to tell.  There are a lot of maternity looking shirts (they cover a multitude of sins) that are very billowy and can make a woman (cough, cough) look like she is pregnant.  Don’t ask her if she is pregnant.  You have a fifty-fifty chance of being wrong and hurting her feelings.  You are not prepared for whatever response she gives anyway.  I’ll repeat this, because I just don’t think you’re hearing me.  Don’t.  Ask. 

I know that women do it too but more often than not, it’s the men that are completely tactless when it comes to this sort of thing.

This very thing happened to me today.  I’m kind of bitter about it, if you can’t tell.  It’s completely my fault because I wore a loose fitting shirt with an empire waist.  I did look pregnant. But the difference is that I can say that.  You can’t.  I ask now to the guy who asked me if I’m “expecting again,” didn’t your mother teach you any better?  And, why do you need to know so badly?  Apparently, there is a severe shortage of manners in the good ole’ US of A.  We’re overstocked with opinions but apparently not enough manners.  And not just when it comes to this subject.  Everywhere I go now it seems like I am always running into the rudest of people.  They are at the grocery stores, malls, parking lots, even in the most seemingly safe places of all, churches.  Are my defenses on a super-sensitive setting? 

Let’s look at the evidence.

Exhibit A:  The woman at Target who stared at me for what seemed like forever.  Didn’t your mother tell you not to stare? Well I’ll tell you.  Don’t stare.  That’s not polite.  When my son is staring at someone I say those very words to him.  It’s only cute for a second when you’re a baby.  When you’re an adult, it’s creepy and rude.  And for that matter, hey buddy, my eyeballs are up here.  Rude.

Exhibit B:  Please and thank you.  I can’t tell you how many people do not say those two simple words.  Ever since my son started talking I’ve been drilling those two words into his head.  He will say please when he asks for something.  He will say thank you when he receives it.  Because I refuse to have a child who thinks he’s entitled to everything, who thinks the world was somehow created for him alone (it was, I just don’t want him to think that) and who thinks that everyone owes him something.  Besides snobbishness and bigotry, my biggest pet peeve is an undeserved sense of entitlement.  Don’t be a jerk.  Nobody owes you anything. Be thankful.

Exhibit C:  Parking Lots.  They turn normal people into homicidal maniacs.  Here is where I was almost broadsided by a woman driving a jeep making a left turn while I was in the oncoming lane.  There was no one behind me.  All she had to do was wait for me to pass her and then she could go ahead and make her left turn.  She inched out as I was starting to pass.  She inched out some more and folks, I’m not exaggerating, she came within inches of hitting me.  I stared right at her, which isn’t rude in this scenario, but a completely appropriate response.  I held my hand out like I do to my son to indicate “WAIT!”  It’s a good thing I was all alone in the car because my Irish/Italian/Whatever-I-am temper flared up and I screamed it.  "WAIT WOMAN!"  She laughed at me.  Rude. 

Exhibit D:  Fast food.  The only place I want to go out to eat anymore is Chick-Fil-A.  They are the only restaurant where a prerequisite for working there is good manners.  Must be because they are a Southern based company.  They make their employees say please and thank you, or sorry about your wait.  They say things like “it will be my pleasure.”  This is a ridiculously high standard for fast food chains.  I don’t think other places realize the current state of the economy.  Hey, kid behind the counter, I know you’re only fifteen, I can tell by the constellation of pimples on your cheeks, but didn’t your manager teach you to say, May I Help You?  This should be standard procedure but I’m convinced it’s not included in training sessions anymore.  I’m not lucky to be eating your food, I say to a certain local fast food chain.  You’re lucky I’m spending my tightly budgeted money on your fried stuff.  So tell that little hipster with the nose ring behind the counter to say thank you after I’ve ordered.  Or at least hello as I walk up to the counter.

Since I’m on a roll with these grievances and feeling my most Mr. Heckles, let’s talk about “hello.”  When someone you know looks right at you and says “hello,” you should go ahead and say hello or hi back.  It won’t kill you.  I get the whole “stranger danger” thing but I’ve seen people I actually know, have known for years, who didn’t say hello to me when I said it to them.  No kidding, this happened to me in a church.  I looked right at someone I knew and said hello in my most chipper voice and nothing.  Nada.  No acknowledgement whatsoever.  She couldn’t be bothered to say “hello.”  In church.  Come on, don’t be rude in church.  God doesn’t want us to be rude anywhere but especially in church.  I don’t want to be your best friend, lady.  I’m just saying hello because my mother taught me good manners.  It’s one thing to be quiet, or shy, and doing your own thing.  It’s another thing to be blatantly rude to someone who’s just trying to be nice.  In church.  It still makes me incredulous.  (I know, I know.  Forgiveness and all that stuff.  It’s a good thing I love God so much and that my faith is not affected by people because I’m telling you, some of his followers are just mean.)

My mom is a saint.  She has strict codes about what to say and what not to say, and one of her standards is that if you can’t say something nice about someone, you shouldn’t say anything.  She takes it a step further and will stretch and search until she actually finds something redeeming about the person.  If a morbidly obese woman walks in the room, my mom will point out the smoothness of her skin or her pretty eyes.  We have some relatives who are poor old drunks, but she always notes how talented they used to be or how attractive their kids are.  That’s her generous spirit in action.  In fact, that’s the very definition of generosity.  I’m envious of it.  I don’t want to be rude, so I wait to insult people behind their backs, or on my blog.  I mean, that’s just good manners. 

Of course, my mom never taught me to stand up for myself because it was rude to confront people or to fight.  I learned how to fight when I married an Italian.  I still have a hard time speaking up for myself, believe it or not.  It’s easy to fire off a rant on a blog that nobody reads.  It’s quite another to tell someone that no, you may not talk (or not talk) to me that way.  Most of the time, when something incredibly rude is said to me, I become completely paralyzed.  It’s still shocking to me that grown ups can be so imbecilic.  It’s unnerving.

I’d like to enter 2011 with a better attitude which is why I’m unloading these things now.  I’d like to just leave them here and be done with them.  No more wasting anymore time complaining about things I can’t change.  I can’t teach everyone good manners. I confess, yes even perfect little me, that sometimes I myself do not practice good manners.  (Although I always say please and thank you.  Mama taught me at least that.)  I can only be responsible for me and my son.  I think that as a mother now I have to make sure my son does not grow up to be a jerk.  I want him to be thankful.  I want him to acknowledge when people go out of their ways (or if they just do their jobs well) to serve him.  I want him to take pride in everything he does so he’s confident and doesn’t need to cut other people down just to build himself up.  I want him to be sincere and look people in their eyes, not at their chests, but not to stare for too long.  I don’t want him to hurt anyone but on the same token, I don’t want him to get hurt.  But I can’t let the fear of him getting hurt justify my being rude to anyone.  I have to set the standard.  I have to be the example.  I don’t want him to be rude, but I also don’t want him to be a door mat or fall victim to rude people.  Unfortunately, I’m not everyone’s mama.  If I were, oh man, there would be a lot more people who would get the smack put down on them. 

Venting complete.  Deep breath.  Thank you for your time.

You Don't Know Me Like That

Someone decided a long time ago that women should compete with each other over everything and unfortunately, that competition is in full swing today. Women compete over the way we look, the way we live, the way we work, the way we dress, the way we cook, and yes, as I’m finding out more and more every time I go out in public with my two year old son, the way we parent.  It can all be traced back, I suppose, to that great beauty pageant known as natural selection. Advancing the human race turns nice, normal women into cat-clawed vultures.  It’s what encourages T.V. execs to come up with ideas like The Bachelor.  It’s what forces tramps on a Rock of Love bus to fight over a sleazy, dirty, washed-up aging rocker.  As if I have to tell you, that is only "reality" if you live in a trash can or in New Jersey, apparently.  Don't get me started on the “Real Housewives.”   Their stretched out faces make them look like cartoon characters and most of their body parts are anything but real.  All they do is compete with one another and fight over who’s the prettiest, who has the most money, who can wear the shortest skirts.  It’s a joke.  Sadly enough, it’s only perpetuated by its popularity.

I hate to admit this but when I was younger, I got caught up in competition.  I felt like in order to be successful at something I needed to be the best at it.  I needed to win.  If I wasn’t the prettiest girl in the room then it somehow meant I wasn’t pretty at all.  If I didn’t sing better than the person next to me then I guess I wasn’t a good singer.  If I wasn’t the most valuable employee then I wasn’t valuable at all.  This way of thinking sets you up to always feel superior or inferior to others.  In other words, you’re either a jerk or you’re a loser.  Or, in those classy words of Ricky Bobby, “If you’re not first, you’re last.”  That’s where I found myself a lot, before I grew up. Before this life I have now where I’ve seen and done things that have redefined my purpose and where I place my value, I was just as susceptible to the cat-claws as the next woman.  But now that I’ve grown up (for the most part) and in this day to day work of motherhood, I’ve found that my opinion of myself matters so much more than "winning" or being the best.  I have to be accountable to myself.  Competition is too exhausting.  I'm way too tired to get involved in it.  I’ve decidedly removed myself from most of the rounds and therefore have no time for women who want to compete with me.  You think you’re prettier than me?  You probably are.  You think you’re smarter than me?  You’re probably right.  You think your house is cleaner and better than mine?  Yes.  It is. 

But my son’s cuter.

No I’m just kidding.  But, truth be told, I’m not always that confident and sometimes the opinions of others really do get to me, sending me right back to the immaturity of my yester years.  Like today at Target.  We were checking out and my son was in an especially “testing the boundaries” sort of mood.  You know that mood.  I started getting annoyed with my own voice because I was either saying “No” or “Don’t touch that” or “Come over here” every five seconds.  By the time we left everyone in the store knew his first and middle names.  Negotiations with a two year old can be so draining.  I can bribe him with a sucker but then I feel like I’m contributing to his delinquency by fueling his rage with sugar.  Rationalizing with a two year old is even more of a moot point.  I tried to do this today in the check out line as my son picked up every single piece of candy that he came across.  “Want this, mama,” he said.  “No buddy, put it back,” I said, about a hundred times.  He saw an empty register and quickly went over to look at it.  “Come back here!” I said.  Then I sent dada over to forcibly remove him from the cash register area which resulted in a meltdown of epic proportions, complete with screaming and gnashing of teeth.  Everyone looked. 

I guess I’m so used to hearing a child scream that when I am out in public and another kid does it, I don’t even blink or turn my head.  I know what my own son’s scream sounds like and as long as he’s next to me, not screaming, I don’t even care if another kid is throwing a fit.  Ignoring it, to me, is just good manners.  Turning around, making eye contact with me for an uncomfortable length of time, and then smiling a patronizing smile is not good manners.  But that’s exactly what some woman did to me, right there in Target as I was checking out. 

We know my son has a history of throwing fits in check out lines.  Think back to the over priced soap store in the mall.  It happens everywhere we go.  If he’s going to have a melt down, it’s going to be at the exact moment I am ready to pay for my stuff and leave the store.  It’s kind of convenient in that way.  But in an inconvenient way, especially at places like Target or the grocery store, it’s the one place where I’m stuck and can’t remove myself quickly from the situation.  I am solely at the mercy of the pace of the line and the speediness of the checker. 

What really made me mad about the woman who stared at me was that her husband was holding a child that looked to be right about my son’s age.  Her son had a binky in his mouth, conveniently enough, so of course he wasn’t screaming.  I said out loud to my husband, “That woman is looking at me.”  And then I said, passive aggressively, under my voice but loud enough for her to hear, “Ooh, you just wait.  It’ll be your turn soon.” 

My husband thinks I’m paranoid.  I might be.  In hindsight, it was rude of me to say that, even if it was true.  She will find out soon enough.  What goes around comes around, you reap what you sow, etc.  In other words, karma is a real b-word.  My husband just sort of blew the whole thing off.  He thought I read too much into her eye contact.  But he didn’t see it.  He doesn’t get it.  It’s a very rare occasion that he accompanies us on a shopping trip.  I usually keep my son in the cart the whole time we’re at the store but when dada’s with us, he's supposedly keeping an eye on things and lets Junior run around.  That’s the only reason he was getting into things in the first place.  So I was on edge.  Okay.  Sensitive?  Sure.  But I have seen the look on that woman’s face many, many times.  He hasn’t.  I recognized it for what it is, a strange combination of relief and condescension.  She had a child on a shopping trip who wasn’t throwing a fit, which was proof that it can be done.  She looked at me as if to say, “See, I can do it. Why can’t you?  My Junior is behaving, because I am a better mother than you.”  Oh, it was there.  What I wanted to do was shout “What are you looking at?” and get up in her face as she stared at me for what seemed like a good two minutes, which is way too long to be looking at someone. (When you’re staring at someone and they catch you, immediately smile and look away.  It’s the polite thing to do.)  I wanted to scream, “YOU DON’T KNOW ME!” like they do on Jerry Springer.  But I am better than that.  I remembered that this was Target, not Wal-Mart.  I thought, no.  I’ll go home and write about you on my blog and that will serve you right, you judgmental hag.

Okay, so maybe I am paranoid.  None of this sounds very Christian of me.  My friend, who’s a pastor’s wife, reminded me of a verse.  I’m paraphrasing here but it has to do with mercy triumphing over judgment.  I confess, I should’ve ignored the woman and let down my defenses.  It’s possible that, okay, maybe I was a bit jealous that she hadn’t forced her son to give up his binky yet.  He was behaving like a good boy because he was plugged up.  Or maybe, and this is probably the case, he just hadn’t hit those two-year-old tumults yet.  I admit this only to you.  I was embarrassed.  Because, listen, and I’m not exaggerating, this has happened every single time I’ve checked out at every single store I’ve been to with my son in the last two months.  Every time it happens I list off in my head all the things I’ve done wrong to let this kind of situation get out of hand.  I get mad at myself for being mad.  I start attacking myself in the most vicious way.  Today, I felt that another woman, who didn’t even say anything to me, passed me up on the track.  I fell victim to the great competition.  This woman was winning.  It really, really pissed me off.

When we got in the car my husband said, “You’re crazy,” which always helps situations like these.  (Men, listen to me.  No.  It doesn’t.)  But then he said, “Two year olds are supposed to act like that.  Stop being so hard on yourself.”  And once again, I smacked my head up against a brick wall.  I need to tell myself this every day.  Stop being so hard on yourself.  He said, “He was doing what every kid does.  It doesn’t mean we’re terrible parents.  It means we’re in the process of teaching him the things he can and can’t do.  We just happen to be doing it in the middle of Target, that’s all.”  Don’t tell my husband this, but he’s right.  Sometimes I need to keep reminding myself that this isn’t a reality show competition for “America’s Best Mom.”  This is real life.

So if you ever see me and my son out in public and he’s mid-meltdown, please, just ignore us.  Be patient with us.  We’re working on it.