Last summer, Ben and I hosted a Japanese high school student in our home as part of a program designed to bring some much-needed relief to students living in the region affected by last year’s devastating earthquake and tsunami. It was only for three weeks, but when we put her on the plane to fly back to Japan, I felt like a piece of my own heart was torn from my chest. Risa’s name is written on my heart in permanent marker.
I’m usually the one who puts Brynleigh down for her nap. The flip side of that is that Ben usually gets her up. I can’t tell you how often I’m downstairs, listening to the two of them chatting about whatever, when suddenly the thumping begins.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
More often than not, they’re up to something like this – fancy dress, crazy hair, and all. This is part of what makes Ben such a good dad for Miss B!
Quick question today.
When does the so-called “maternal instinct” kick in? Actually, maybe a better question is, What does it feel like?
For me, motherhood feels like a lot of rules and hard work with some cool chronos moments sprinkled here and there, but mostly just hard, never-ending work. I love Miss B fiercely, but I don’t ever have those “Mama Bear” urges or nesting instincts or crazy-awesome sparks of let’s-fingerpaint-all-day creativity or the “I just can’t stop staring in wonder at my child” kind of feelings. I don’t often feel very nurturing, and I definitely do NOT feel that I was “born to be a mother.”
On the other hand, I do have a deep desire to take care of her – to snuggle and comfort her when she’s sick, to hold her when she’s having a bad day or when she’s overly tired and everything is going “wrong” for her. I hurt when she hurts and I feel great when she feels great. I get concerned when she doesn’t sleep or eat well, and I search doggedly for a cause and a solution. I make sure we always have Little Bunny and Mommy’s Blanket with us because I don’t want her little heart to suffer the pain of missing a beloved object.
Is that normal? Am I totally missing the point? Should I be feeling those other things, too? Am I doing okay with this? Am I anywhere near the “passing” mark on the Pass/Fail Scale of Motherhood, or am I failing miserably?
How am I supposed to feel about this whole thing?
Dear Brynleigh,
You are two years and eight months old. You delight Daddy and me every day with the wildly wonderful sentences that you say and the silly, sweet things you do.
Take today, for example. Today, you said the same phrase over and over and over. It was “thank you.” “Thank you” every time you went to wash your hands (and that was a lot today). “Thank you” when I put you in bed and covered you with my baby blanket. “Thank you,” “thank you,” “thank you,” all day long. Except you said it in Chinese.
Xièxiè.
Xièxiè.
Xièxiè.
There’s a catch to you being so bright, though.
Every night, before we put you to bed, we swing by the bathroom so that you can go potty. You sit there for, oh, a short eternity, brushing your teeth, talking about the duckies in your tub, anything and everything you can think of – except actually going to the bathroom. It makes me crazy, because I know what’s coming next.
After five or six minutes of not going, despite all the pleading and ordering and threatening and bribing on our behalf, you decide you’re “finished” and we take you to your room, read your story, put on your jammies, and say your prayers. Then you and Mommy rock in the rocking chair for a couple of minutes before Mommy puts you in bed. And then you say this:
“Mommy? I have to go potty.”
ARGH!!!!
So I have to get you back out of bed, take you back to the bathroom, sit you back on the potty, and wait another two or three minutes until you finally decide to go – because it is a decision on your part, and you and I both know it – and then we can finally be done with this little game and you go to bed.
You are so, so smart, and sweetheart, I love you so, so much.
But when you’re sixteen and you want to argue with me about your homework or boys or emptying the dishwasher?
Yeah. You owe me, kid.
Love,
Mommy
No one in my house is more excited about the upcoming Royal Wedding than I am.
Image from People.com
(I know this is hard to believe, what with Brynleigh not knowing what a wedding is and Ben’s not caring and all, but it’s true.)
People, I’m even dreaming about it. sigh.
But seriously, all this “Her Royal Highness” talk has me thinking a lot about princesses lately, and trying to sort out my feelings on the topic.
I think lots of little girls go through a princess phase. Honestly, I’m still in mine, at least in the sense that I love pink and sparkles – but that’s about as far as it goes. For so many girls, though, “princess” means more than pink and sparkles; it means entitlement. It means “I want;” it means “I deserve.” It means trips to the nail salon while still in preschool, and umpteen pairs of $50+ jeans from stores that used to cater to a college crowd (American Eagle, I’m looking at you), but are now frequented by tweens and middle schoolers. You realize this is why they sell ridiculously tiny sizes like 00 and XXS now, right?
A couple of months ago, I read an article called “Little Girls Gone Wild: Why Daughters Are Acting Too Sexy, Too Soon“. In it, the writer cites Peggy Orenstein, author of the book Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches From the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture. Orenstein makes the case for all of this nonsense beginning with Disney princesses. From the article:
“Princesses are just a phase,” Orenstein writes, but they mark a girl’s “first foray into the mainstream culture…. And what was the first thing that culture told her about being a girl? Not that she was competent, strong, creative, or smart but that every little girl wants — or should want — to be the Fairest of Them All.”
Then the article goes on:
What begins with Cinderella is followed, once girls hit grade school, by less innocent stuff: TV programs like Hannah Montana and iCarly, which center around eye-rolling, miniskirt-clad girls whose idea of success is being a rock diva or a reality star. Their rapt audience — most in the 6-to-11-year-old demographic — follows the shows and the offscreen lives of their stars with wide-eyed curiosity. And then so many of those tween idols — girls such as Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan, even Miley [Cyrus]— wind up as premature sex symbols, headed for a fall. … Now our 24-hour news cycle brings their skimpy outfits and crazy antics straight into our homes, where our kids can get a load of them.
Look, I’m not trying to tell you how to parent your daughter. The reason I’m sharing this at all is because I’ve always had an aversion to princess things as far as Brynleigh is concerned, and I’ve never been able to explain why it bothered me so much. I know it’s going to be weird to some people, and that’s okay – I’m just so relieved to be able to put words to my feelings, and that’s why I’m writing about them. I am really uncomfortable with the way young teen girls present themselves – both in appearance and behavior – these days, and this explanation makes sense to me. And no, I don’t think it was always like this (see: extra extra small).
Some people can do things that other people can’t and they turn out just fine. Case in point: I can’t watch horror movies or television shows like Heroes or LOST. Period. They give me terrible nightmares, and I’m unable to draw a line between reality and fiction. I know they’re just supposed to be stories, but I can’t make my head believe that they’re not true. It’s dangerous ground for me, but I know plenty of people who watch this stuff and enjoy it immensely. You make the decisions that are best for you and your family, and that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned.
My point in saying that is this: There’s a fine line between feeling empowered and feeling entitled, and I think our culture – especially as reflected in the media – encourages girls to embrace the entitled end of the spectrum. For us, for our family, it’s just better that we don’t walk that line at all.
So, in our house, there’s no princess stuff (unless you count the aforementioned pink and sparkles). Brynleigh doesn’t watch non-educational shows, we don’t pretend to be princesses, we don’t call her our “Princess” or buy any clothing with “Daddy’s Little Princess” or tiaras or other royal paraphernalia on it. We don’t own a tutu. The cutest sippy cup I’ve ever seen came in a two-pack, but the other cup had princess stuff on it, so it stayed at the store.
When I compliment or praise my little girl – and I do, often! – I tell her how smart she is, how kind she is, how helpful and sweet she is, how good she is at solving puzzles and counting and saying her letters…and then I tell her she’s beautiful. It’s not that I don’t think she’s gorgeous; I just want to make sure she knows she’s valuable for so many other reasons, too.
I really like the version of “princess” that Kate Middleton represents. She’s confident, savvy, and independent. She’s about to become the wife of the future King, and while we don’t know much about their private lives – a fact I also really appreciate – it’s clear that William sees her as more than just a pretty face for a postage stamp somewhere down the line. She’s well-educated and has a good head on her shoulders. She’s not just going to be his wife; I think she’ll end up being a confidante and advisor – and not just on what to wear to an upcoming charity function, but on matters of State as well. She doesn’t seem the least bit intimidated by him or his position.
And she’s gorgeous, and she gets to wear all the pink and sparkles she wants.
I love that.
Pssst! In case you’re interested in reading more about how I feel about little girls and the princess mentality, here’s an opinion article from CNN: “Parents, don’t dress your girls like tramps“
If I had it to do all over again, I’d skip the Pack ‘n Play and get this Baby Bjorn Travel Crib instead.
Image from Amazon.com
Don’t get me wrong; I loved our Pack ‘n Play. I just think I would have loved this more.
Brynleigh slept in the Pack ‘n Play until she was nine months old and then we moved her out of our room and into her crib upstairs. We took it with us when we went on road trips and it went with us to friends’ houses when we knew we’d be there at nap time or late at night. It really is a clever little invention!
But now that Brynleigh’s a little older, I’m starting to see the downside. She’s not old enough to sleep in an actual bed – first of all, I can’t trust her to stay in it when I put her to bed, and second, I know she’ll fall out in the middle of the night – so a confined space is still ideal. Remember, too, that she’s a little girl – small for her age – and so it’s not like she doesn’t have plenty of room in the Pack ‘n Play. No, the problem is with the design.
There’s a round hub thing at the bottom of the Pack ‘n Play that you have to lock into place during set-up. It works to lock the entire frame in an open position. It’s small, but it’s a solid, fixed structure in the middle of the bed, directly under the mattress. The little mattress isn’t super thin, but it’s made up of four panels. These panels wrap around the rest of the frame when it’s folded up and the whole thing makes a nice, rectangular package that fits perfectly in the storage bag. This flexibility is part of what makes the design so genius, but it’s also where I’m currently running into a problem.
The mattress helps to add stability and support to the frame. Without it, the bottom of the Pack ‘n Play is just a piece of fabric – with the exception of the aforementioned hub thing. So basically, you’ve got one rock hard spot in the middle of the bed, and because the mattress is a critical piece of the storage function, it can’t be thick and squishy to compensate.
The bottom line is that Brynleigh goes to bed in it just fine, but she inevitably wakes up three or four hours later and has to spend the rest of the night in our bed, kicking us, so that none of us gets a good night’s sleep. Multiply that by a ten-day trip, and your “vacation” is suddenly a lot less fun. And I can’t blame her, because I’d wake up, too, if I had to try to sleep with a boulder under my hips/lower back for hours at a time.
The Baby Bjorn crib is pricey, but it doesn’t have anything on the bottom to keep your little one from sleeping comfortably. If you think you’ll be using your Pack ‘n Play well into the toddler years, it might be a worthwhile investment.
On our recent trip to San Antonio, we discovered another option that works for us: we put this nap mat on the floor next to our bed and surround it with a pillow blockade. Miss B loves it (“Lay dowm on nap mat? Lay dowm on nap mat?”), and it rolls up for easy travel.
So…has anyone out there actually used a Baby Bjorn Travel Crib? Do you love it/hate it? Are my suspicions correct?
…but my goal was to post something on the blog every day this year.
I knew it was probably unrealistic (self-fulfilling prophecy?) but it was worth a shot.
We’ve all been sick anyway. Ben’s finally on the upswing, although Brynleigh continues to run a slight fever. She’s not showing any other symptoms of the flu, so I’m hoping this is just the tail end of the strep infection. Her temperament has returned to normal, so even though she’s a little warm, I know she’s definitely feeling better.
We nearly lost Barkley tonight. Or, at least, I thought we were probably going to. A friend from Denver is in town on business and he met us at our house and we went to dinner. (I ate my weight in Mexican food, but that’s neither here nor there.)
When we got home, our friend decided to head back to his hotel. As soon as the door opened, Barkley – in typical fashion – darted outside. We don’t really know what happened, but suddenly he fell in the street and started yelping and writhing as if he were in extreme pain. Labs were bred to be practically impervious to pain, so it was clear that something was really wrong.
Ben rushed to his side and held him and Barkley calmed down immediately…but then he didn’t move. He wouldn’t stand and his back legs – the left one, especially – just sort of hung there limply. Ben had to pick him up and carry him inside.
We called the emergency vet clinic and Ben prepared to load Barkley into the car and take him in. I was SO upset, because Ben and I don’t really see eye to eye when it comes to Barkley. He’s my furry baby; he’s the thorn in Ben’s side. Barkley helped me get through some really hard times; Ben would be fine if he never saw him again. I knew that if it was something serious, like a torn ligament that would require a costly surgery to fix, Ben wouldn’t hesitate to make the “difficult” choice.
As Ben went to pull my car around to load Barkley in, I was pretty sure these were the last few seconds I’d ever have with him.
He was panting like crazy, and I thought the least I could do was offer him some water. I told him I’d get him some, and the strangest thing happened: he stood up. Then he took a step. And another. He walked all the way to the kitchen before sitting down again.
Ben came back inside, and Barkley walked to him. With each step, he got a little more lively and a little less fragile-looking. Then Ben mentioned taking him outside to watch him walk, and suddenly he was jumping and whining for his collar.
Ben took him out and they walked a few houses down and back again. He didn’t limp, and he even lifted his leg to claim a mailbox as his own. He put his weight on the back left leg, the one we thought was hurt.
And now he seems just fine. I gave him a couple of aspirin, but the plan is to just keep an eye on him and see how he does over the next day or so. It’s possible that he just got spooked by something; he’s done the yelping/writhing thing one other time, when he was a puppy and he got his paw caught in the refrigerator door handle. Scared the poo out of him. Literally. That happened again tonight.
Anyway, I’m so relieved that he’s still here with us. I don’t know what I’d do if we lost him.
Yesterday was such a fantastic day.
Ben and I went to (separate) counseling sessions at our church last night. It’s something we used to do pretty regularly when we lived in Colorado, but haven’t since we moved to Texas almost six years ago. After a couple of years of feeling less-than-satisfied with our marriage – not that it was bad, we just knew it could be better – we finally decided it was time.
Um, it was amazing.
There were three big issues that I went in wanting to discuss, and that’s exactly what we did in my session. I feel like we really got to the root of the problems, and I’m confident that both Ben and I are going to notice some big changes pretty much right away.
I’ll spare you all the gory details, but I did want to fill you in on the final concern I addressed last night because I suspect what I learned isn’t just a lesson for me, but for many, many women – and maybe some men.
Here’s my public confession, for all the world to see:
I love my baby. I HATE being a mom.
I know, I know. It’s kind of intense. Maybe even a little shocking. But ladies, let’s be real honest with ourselves for just a moment: is there any part of you – any so-minuscule-it’s-easy-to-ignore part of you – that can empathize?
If not, well, that’s great! Everyone struggles with different things, and if this isn’t yours, then fantastic.
But if so….
Here’s the question I was asked last night in response to that statement: What is it that you REALLY hate? Because this isn’t really about being a mom; it’s about something deeper. I knew the answer almost before the end of the question:
I hate the expectations.
I hate – and I mean really, really loathe – the idea, perpetuated in mother-to-another conversations that happen on playgrounds and in small groups and Mommy & Me playdates and MOPS meetings and chance encounters, that when you become a mother, you’re supposed to feel ___________, or act __________, or be __________, or do ___________. It’s not always explicitly stated, but the insinuation is there.
I hate the Oh, you just wait ____ and the You’re going to wish you _____ statements that just get tossed out casually, as if what is true for one person is automatically true for everyone else.
You know what statements like that do? They plant seeds of self doubt. When we insinuate with our body language or tone of voice, or think we’re being subtle with hints when really, we know we’re just using our words to poke at, or even outright tell a woman that she’s supposed to think/feel/act/be/do ________ and she doesn’t, she uses that against herself. She starts to believe she’s abnormal, that there’s something wrong with her because she isn’t the same as “everyone” else.
My experience of motherhood – and honestly, of being a woman; maybe even of being human – is that there is an enormous, soul-crushing, life-sucking pressure to conform, to be like everyone else, to keep up, to be something other than who you really are.
People, it’s a LIE.
The ONLY person you need to be is yourself. You know why you’re not comfortable in your skin? Because it’s not your skin you’re trying to be comfortable in. You’re trying to fit into someone else’s. Or maybe you’re trying to fit into someone else’s idea about what your skin should be. Maybe you’re trying to fit into your own ideas about your skin. Regardless, the root of all of that is buying into false expectations. You’ve bought into the lie that you’re supposed to ______________ (be skinny/get married/have children/keep your house clean/put your kids in sports/wear trendy clothes/spend more than you can really afford) in order to be happy, or to feel fulfilled, or to have worth as a person.
You guys, we have GOT to start being honest. We have to be honest with ourselves about who we are, and we have to quit being ashamed of it so that we can be honest in front of others.
For me, it’s about holding on to my faith. Look, telling you this is uncomfortable for me, but here I am, in the middle of this post about being honest about who we are, and if I’m going to talk about it, I have to be prepared to walk it out. So last night I confronted these lies with what I believe is the truth:
There’s only one standard I need to listen to, and it wasn’t created by man. The only skin I have to fit into is the skin that was created for me by the One who knit me together in my mother’s womb.
When I focus on that, it’s so much easier to let go of all the expectations that I’ve allowed others to put on me.
I made a decision last night that I’m done. I’m done with trying to fit in by trying to force myself to feel something I don’t. I’m done with feeling guilty over not finding motherhood particularly fulfilling right now. I’m done with feeling like a failure because my house is cluttered. I’ve got stuff to work on, but so do all of us. My faults don’t devalue me as a human being; they just make me human. I’m a square peg, I’m never going to fit into a round hole, and whether others accept that about me or not doesn’t matter because I’ve accepted it for myself.
So, whose skin are you going to wear today? When you go pick up your kids from school and you find yourself in a conversation with other parents, whose words are you going to allow to come out of your mouth? Who are you going to be when the sun sets this evening?
For better or for worse, I’m going to be me. I was made to be me. And you were made to be you.
Please, please, please – please feel free to be you.
Image via Wikipedia
While we were in Denver last week, Brynleigh developed a case of diaper rash. I’ve written before about using an oatmeal bath to soothe my baby’s skin, but I tried a new product over the holidays and it was so great that I want to pass on the info to you.
I was getting ready to run the bath and add the oatmeal like I usually do: plain oats, in a sock that’s been slipped over the faucet so the oats don’t go directly into the tub (I did that once before realizing it wouldn’t be prudent to put oats down the drain; what a mess to clean up!). My mom was helping me collect the necessary paraphernalia when she remembered she had some Aveeno Soothing Bath Treatment.
It comes in packets that look very similar to instant oatmeal packets. You just tear open the packet and dump the contents into the bath. It looks like pulverized oats – just a nice, fine powder. It was SO easy to use, and best of all, clean-up was a cinch. The product basically dissolves in the water, and after Brynleigh soaked for 15-20 minutes, all I had to do was pull the drain plug. Done.
No squishy oats to scoop out of a sock and throw away, no lone sock to launder, just a clean baby with soothed skin. I let Miss B air dry for a couple of minutes, slathered the rash in a layer of Aquaphor and antifungal cream, and put her to bed. Her rash was significantly better the next morning, and I know it was thanks in no small part to the oatmeal.
We used the “adult” version of the bath treatment, but they do make a baby version as well.
I was able to find both versions at my local Target; Mom got hers at King Soopers (that’s Kroger in the Rockies!). I know that Kroger also makes a generic version that I’m sure works just as well and probably costs a little less. And, of course, there’s always Amazon, should you decide you need to purchase in bulk.
Note: I’m not being compensated for this review; I just like the product and thought you might, too!
Concourse B at Denver International Airport. Image via Wikipedia
Our little family traveled to Denver over the holidays and had such a great airport experience on the way back that we thought we’d share some of our favorite air travel tips. I’ve written them with specific hints for parents of small children, but the tips can really apply to anyone.
I can’t say enough good things about the curbside check-in. Really, I might just take advantage of it from now on. It’s worth it to me to not have to stand in line!
Got any good air travel tips you’d like to pass on? Share them in the comments!
The Seifipour Family 