Things My Grandmother Taught Me: The Power of Patience

Recently, I’ve become more aware of a growing epidemic amongst our children: they’ve either never heard the words “excuse me” before, or have not been taught how to use them by their parents. Now, I am NOT a parenting expert. Those people don’t really exist, anyway. But I’m a huge advocate of common courtesy and manners. And there is never an age too early to teach manners to our kids.

I’ve been working with my daughter (6) and son (4) in regard to waiting their turn to speak and how it’s rude to interrupt two adults speaking. As far as I see it, they have it pretty good. If I ever attempted to barge in on a conversation being had between adults, as a child, there was no “polite” explanation about how such behavior is rude and unacceptable. There was only “The Look”….often times accompanied by a “So help me, God… something or other” through grit teeth. Now that I’m an adult, I look back on these memories with fondness. My parents and grandparents were absolutely correct to admonish me this way. For what kind of world would we live in were it not for the glue that holds us together: manners?

So when my little girl runs to me with very “important” information that needs some telling right away and I’m already speaking with someone else, my finger goes up. If she doesn’t get this hint, I remind her she MUST say excuse me. Then, since I’m the PARENT…(we’re in charge, here, folks. let’s remember that.) I will decide if her information is an emergency situation. If it is not, she must wait her turn for my attention. For example: I’m not ending my conversation with someone else if she can’t get a dress on her Barbie doll. I will, however, give her my full attention of she or a friend is bleeding from some part of the body. This will teach her some things: What is an absolute emergency situation, and what can wait…the importance of realizing that the world revolves around no one and that we all…even adults…must wait our turn.

Lately, I noticed, while I am in the middle of conversing with other parents, my child will try to interrupt and as I remind her to say “excuse me” the other parent will ALWAYS say: “Oh, it’s ok, honey. What do you need to say?” This is when I have to control my eyeballs from rolling into the back of my head. Please don’t do this. It’s very nice of you to be sweet to my kid in this way. But I’m teaching her something: The Power of Patience. So, the next time you see me hold up my finger at my kids and you are filled with all kinds of disgust that sound like this in your head :”How can she be so mean to this poor little girl?”, remember who her mother is and how she is devoting her life to raising polite, courteous kids.

 

For Joseph Paul

Dad,

I sat by a stream today in the autumn light, surrounded by a blanket of red leaves and you were with me.

Why are truthful words so hard to speak – even if it is happy truth? The truth given to me today is that of love and that everything involving love in my life was originally a gift from you…

The love of God passed from your soul and into my own because that love can never  be taught, it can only be given – the love of patience and tolerance; also gifts from you. And your strength. Where others saw a quiet, weak man, I saw and still see the courage it takes to remain silent and not give into chaos. In your humility, I see wisdom.

My love for you now has taken another path. As a child, I loved you ferociously. I loved you as your protector because I saw so much of myself within you. In defending you, I defended myself. Forever connected.

Today, I love you as the giver of so many blessings in my life as well as so much knowledge. All of these things I have learned by studying you and accepting your true self.

You most likely will never know the impact you have had on my spiritual and mental growth – because you lead by subtle example and guide while allowing for my own growth to take happen organically. This is the path of the teacher and you are on it. And you have been the most constant, true example of a teacher I have had throughout all my journeys.

My love for you now is based on pure gratitude. And if these words ever reach your ears, if this happy truth brings you tears, let them be. Let them fall and bring joy down your face until you are smiling again.

A*

So, What Does Your Husband Do?

I can’t count how many times I’ve been asked this question. Nor can I count how many issues I have with it. For now, I’ll just give you three.

First: I never even notice I sly glance from the questioner to my hand to see if I’m even wearing a ring. So this means the question is an assumption. What if I’m not married and I’m really a single mom? Or what if the ring I am wearing is a family heirloom? How about I’m really a lesbian and don’t have a man in my life at all? (All not true, but can’t possibly be known by a person I’ve just met.) I hate assumptions. Especially ones that don’t revolve around me.

Second: I cannot possibly explain to you what it is my husband does in accurate terms. I have tried and before I’m  halfway through it, eyes start to wander and scan the rest of the room. I can imagine that they are trying to figure out a way to “get out of this one.” So save yourself the trouble and don’t bother asking.

Third: What about me? How about we try asking a female with kids what it is THEY do instead of always referring to the husband? This is where I become mildly insulted. Do I have an aura about me that gives off the vibe of slacker stay at home mom-part time yoga instructor? You’re speaking to me…addressing me…so let the inquiries be about me. And who knows? Maybe we’ll end up somewhere over coffee and then you can ask me what it is my husband does.

Kids…

have you ever noticed…it’s all about them?????

take this as a warning, my single, or disgustingly happily married childless friends: 

do not take that leap into parenthood lightly. as the old adage goes: just because you can, doesn’t mean that you should. 

i’m not even putting in the disclaimer: before i go on, i will say that i love my children very much. that would be a weenie move when i’m trying to make a point. it make this whole blog pointless.

let me give you some insight into living with ankle biters when there is no escape:

sleep? forget it. sleeping in? what does that mean, exactly? quiet? ….a dear old departed friend. consider the birth of your child as the funeral for silence. when the day is done and the kids are asleep, expect your ears to ring as if you’ve been at a concert all day. 

ok. those are all the expected things. the talk you get from friends once you tell them you’re expecting.

here’s what you don’t expect and what no one tells you:

kids pooping in the tub, and that poop is undigested dog food, watching and listening to meaningless sing song-y child programming all day while each brain cell in your head slowly goes poof..one by one. a nuclear holocaust would be on its way and i would have no clue. so please, someone, call me and fill me in, (where was i?)

….waking up in the middle of the night to find a child standing next to your bed just staring at you….and then having a tiny heart attack as she asks you for the fifth time to check under her bed. 

bruises. not on your child, but on you. expect to wake up everyday to new bruises on your body that weren’t there the day before and are completely unexplainable. i have considered being stolen and probed by aliens in my sleep to account for the purple spots all over my legs and arms but  have chalked them up to my kids’ elbows and knees.

…a fascination with poop..they play in it, fling it, might even taste it. if you have a weak stomach, parenthood is not for you. if that one sentence made you cringe, time for life time plan B. everything hinges on poop for the first two years. there’s too much of it. and the smell is forever in your nostrils..even when you are in a poop-free safety zone. 

you can often hear me mutter “what’s that smell? is that poop???”….though my kids might be in an entirely different are code. 

…here’s a zinger…be very careful swinging that kid around…especially after a meal or maybe a car ride. i can recall vividly, in a rare carefree happy moment, lifting my beautiful daughter over my head and jiggling her around while she proceeded to throw up…in my open mouth. 

…and because of the two little tyrants occupying my space, time, mind, and every free space on my body, this blog must come to a premature end…just like any sex you plan on having once you’re parents.

Pediatrician Predictions

Yesterday was SHOT day…not in the fun way you and I are thinking about. There were no libations involved. It was vaccination day for the kids. Always a good time.

With the screaming and the shots out of the way…(I actually had to threaten to smack Cate upside the head in front of the nurse just so we could get through the eye exam.) the doctor becomes a little concerned about Sean’s recent growth spurt upward. I have to admit, I haven’t really noticed any new growing in any direction. I’ve been too busy shoveling  food in his screaming hungry mouth.

Anyway, the doctors these days can get out their hand dandy charts (much like the psychics do, if you ask me) and predict how tall your child will be by the time he or she is done growing. Seems as though Sean will land anywhere in between the six foot two six foot four range. To which I respond very professionally and motherly: huh?

What happened to my little “short round”, as I used to call him? Those days are long gone as I sit here and watch him scale to new heights in the house: the windowsill, my enormously tall bed for a child, which cate couldn’t make it onto herself until recently, and the dining room table. 

My only question is: What do I feed him? He’s already snacking on the dog food in between snacks and meals. I can’t keep anything in the fridge for an extended period of time. He has three breakfasts and five poops a day and I have the feeling we’re running out of money.

My only hope is a scholarship…in anything.

In the Hot Seat, Again…with Beowulf

Today is Thursday. Two days ago was Tuesday, and that was my second day back to therapy. Here’s what transpired:

This time, I wore lipstick. Ridiculously red lipstick. And some mascara. I’m in the business of just letting  myself be as ridiculous as possible these days. I’m calling it: being creative. I may introduce hats to my wardrobe, next. Right now, I have on a pair of leggings and have never felt so free in my life. I don’t care that they’re not really pants and they you “shouldn’t” leave the house in them. I fully intend to do so in about half an hour.

So. Jane loved my lipstick. She said I looked much better than the last time she saw me. And this is true. My meds have stabilized, I’m no longer exhausted, and I have my appetite back. These are all “good” steps. Now, all that needs to be done is another tune -up on the cognitive bullshit that keeps getting in my way. This means re-wiring my ultra-dark attitude and thinking. “Dark” was Jane’s word. I’m not the drama queen when it comes to mental illness. If I’m any kind of royalty at all, I’m merely the Ice Princess.

Jane still believes that I need to change my living conditions. Specifically she says that I “belong in Brooklyn”. Yes, I agreed. But it is a bit out of our price range at the moment. Maybe next year. Until then, my goal is going to have to keep as busy and creative as possible with my time in this wasteland. Less complaining. More doing. But complaining is one of my charming attributes. And no one makes complaining as funny as I do. I’ve turned it into an art. But when the complaining turns into a record stuck on a hook over and over in my head, that’s the darkness Jane was talking about. That’s when dishes fly and I begin to feel like a caged animal…held against my will in an unbearable situation.

Then we talked about Cate. She’s seen me in a really bad way. And now she’s old enough to see and understand that there’s something wrong. Jane agreed that she’s probably experiencing some anxiety over my moods in the previous weeks up until now. I worry that I’ve damaged her in a way that cannot be repaired. Jane assures me that all Cate will need to feel better is to see me feel better. There were years in my life when I sought no help at all. I was fine wallowing in my pathetic state. I think I even enjoyed it…like spending time with an old friend. Now, I’ll do whatever I need to so that my kids don’t get stuck with my baggage. I”m already lugging around my own plus some duffel bags from my folks. Hopefully, all Cate will have to check is one carry on bag.

Jess, I love you enough to begin reading your favorite epic poem: Beowulf. I want to experience your feelings of awe that you  have often expressed in discussing it. But do I love you enough to actually finish it? That is another story, altogether.

This is Sparta

Just a quick note about what a minute in my life can be like:

The other day I’m on all fours, searching under the couch for  either a sippy cup, a binkie, or a grape when, suddenly, I hear from behind me a tiny warrior cry. I can’t turn around quick enough, for my 16 month old assailant has leaped into the air and landed on my back while taking a chunk of my shoulder in between his tiny teeth.

I can’t turn my back on this kid for a second. It’s survival-mode from here on out.

Motrin Moms, Prank Door Bell Ringing, & The Stressful Stroller

Motrin Moms…I don’t get it. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go to youtube and search for it. In brief: Motrin puts out a commercial targeting moms who carry their babies in slings or bjorns or whathaveyou. Not such a bad idea, I’m thinking. But…what Motrin doesn’t realize (most likely b/c their brainstorming sessions are headed by a bunch of suits) is that moms are more militant than ever in their views these days.

In other words…you cannot get them to shut up about breastfeeding, babycarrying, co-sleeping…you name it. I’m not against ANY of these things. I’vedone one or two of them myself, as a mom. I am against jamming “what a good mother should do” rhetoric down someone’s throat. Every mom is different. Every baby is different. Every sling is different. And I would be an even crazier version of myself as a mother if it weren’t for my trusty friend…the orange pill.

To the moms who claim that every baby needs to be carried in a sling at all times because it promotes bonding: both my kids HATED that contraption. They screamed. I cried. And then I took a motrin. We bonded just great without the sling. Infact, my son’s nickname around the house is Magnet..b/c he’s drawn to everywhere I happen to be.

When your life begins to revolve too much around what advertisers are trying to sell you in the thirty seconds in between Desperate Houswives takes, you need another point of interest…one that doesn’t involve your kids.

So, kind of on the same topic…research has come out of London that forward facing strollers are stressful on the baby because he/she cannot see the parent and therefore cannot have constant interaction with said parent. Ahem. That’s the friggen point! Stroller time is Me-Time, people. It’s when the kid can observe the world around him and I can zone out or meditate while walking or some made up crap like that. My kids love to look at different faces and interact with poeple besides me all the time.

What do these “researchers” expect us parents to do? Get our retard on all day long for our kids? Wanna see how fast a parent’s brain will turn to baby mush? Take away the forward facing stroller.

In other news, someone keeps ringing our doorbell every night at the same time. When we get to the door, no one is there. Neighbour Shenanigans? Possibly.

Current Reading, Bin Laden’s Health Concerns, & Growing out of the Flat

As usual, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I just know that it’s time to write about anything. There are…also as usual…too many things floating around in my brain to make sense of. Once again, I beg your pardon in advance.

So, right now I’m reading Norman Mailer’s last book : On God: An Uncommon Conversation.  The last Mailer book I read was Why We Are At War. I finished it in an afternoon on the beach and passed it around the circle for everyone else to read. I think about four of us read that book that summer afternoon. It was memorable enough of a piece to make me snatch up this next one in the english book store. It’s a very thin paperback and ended up costing me about 30 CHFs. At home…I don’t even want to think about how much it would have cost me.

I’m not yet finished with it, but I know how it’s going to end…with more questions. Even Mailer quotes another philosopher in saying that “there are no answers, only questions.” 

 In short, he speaks about how, at this point in his life (which I find suspicious) he has abandonded his previous belief (?) of atheism and now believes that there is a Being of Creation and that Being is an Artist who is constantly trying to improve upon his art (us) and makes just as many mistakes along the way as the rest of us do. To Mailer, God is not All Powerful/All Knowing.  He/She/It does have a considerable amount of power in order to create and then learn from mistakes in creation to improve upon his art.

The Devil is also as equally powerful as God and is always trying to throw a wrench into the works to keep humanity from advancing. The Devil’s weapon is technology.  Mailer believes that technology pushes us further away from the way God intended us to live.

Take media. Mailer wonders if humans were originally outfitted with such psychic powers as to create our own movies, operas, songs, or novels in our heads and then be able to transmit them throughout the world to others via telepathy. Maybe our “advances” in technology are actually hinderances. I can dig this. If you know me at all, then you know why. If you don’t know me, then leave a comment and I’ll get back to you. But before you leave a comment, just think about one thing first: The Atom Bomb.

That’s where I’m at with Norman. I haven’t decided if I completely buy his take on God, but it’s a much more creative, refreshing perspective than say, Catholicism or Atheism…which I see as both cop outs on someone’s part to actually think.

So…Bin Laden. Why am I getting breaking news from CNN in my email from the CIA about Bin Laden’s failing health? If we know this much about his medical circumstances, how is it that we haven’t snatched him up by now? I have an idea. The CIA can stop worrying about his health and take him to a god dam hospital if it’s that news worthy. I’d rather read about the California wildfires for the umpteenth time. They happen every year, folks. Stop building your homes so close to the damn trees.

We have outgrown our current digs. When we moved into the flat, Cate wasn’t yet three. There is a big difference between two and three. Most of it has to do with very loud negotiations, stomping feet, and screaming from the naughty spot. At two, “No” still holds some weight as an answer for why. You can forget about that at three. Our neighbors have tapped on the walls, rung the doorbell, and asked repeatedly if everything is ok. I just assumed that kids made noise. I was ok with this assumption when I decided to have them. I don’t even mind the noise. Let’s be honest, I don’t even hear it anymore. But I know it’s only a matter of time before the Swiss police ring my bell and then we’ll have a whole other set of problems; one of them being a language barrier.

It is time to go home to our house..as tiny as it is. The only horrendous trade off, is that I have to go back to suburbia and live under the microscope again. Suburbia…also a tool of the devil? I think so.

Elections, Fog, Passive Aggressive Swiss Confrontation, & A Thousand Splendid Suns

So….here we are…another election kaput. Only this time it looks like half the country elected a guy who actually gives a crap about the rest of us. At the risk of sounding completely cliche…I have to say it: I never thought I’d see a black man elected in my lifetime. I’m feeling oddly emotional about the whole thing and jealous that I’m not at home celebrating in the streets with the half of the country that still has some sense left in them. I was beginning to doubt that there was anyone left in the nation with half a gnat’s worth of logic to do the right thing. I love being proved wrong. And I love love love seeing Palin pack up and get the hell out of dodge. Please, someone get her a library card so she can have access to the volumes of research done proving that dinosaurs did actually once roam the planet.

In case you were wondering, this is what Zurich looks like in November…all of November, so we’ve been told:

<a href=”http://s288.photobucket.com/albums/ll186/amlongstreet/?action=view&current=fog001.jpg” target=”_blank”><img src=”http://i288.photobucket.com/albums/ll186/amlongstreet/fog001.jpg” border=”0″ alt=”Photobucket”></a>

Latest developments with the neighbors are verging on hostile…but keep in mind, we are in Switzerland. Hostile usually means nasty looks, tongue clicking, and letter writing to the management…lots and lots of letter writing. Or, in our case, as happaned last night: knocking on the walls. Seems as though, the more than middle aged couple next door doesn’t like the sound of Sean teething at 3am. Guess what? Neither do I. As if it wasn’t noisy enough in #55 last night, the folks next door start rapping on the walls. And why? Would they have liked it if I stuffed a sock in his mouth? By the way, #56, thanks for waking up the three year old.  I wonder what will happen tonight. Most likely it will go something like this: Sean screaming his head off, rapping on the walls, Cate getting up a thousand times to pee, and my disheveled, bleary eyed self kicking some swiss granny ass.

In book news: just finished A Thousand Spendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini…the same guy who wrote The Kite Runner (which I have not read).  I give it 5 out of 5 stars. In brief, it’s all about the plight of the Afghan woman. How they keep getting so close to having basic human rights and then it all goes to hell with the help of either the Soviets, the fighting warlords, the Taliban or the U.S. It also has a boat load of historical and political facts about the country and some horrendously grim, but I suppose all too real, descriptions of the casualties of war. Read it, then go to www.UNrefugees.org and do something. If any country has been shit on over and over again since Genghis Khan, it’s Afghanistan.

And uh, that’s about it. Good night, my cheeky monkeys.