Dear Harper,
You and I have had quite a year. QUITE A YEAR. If you'd have told me I'd have a girl as "girly" as you, a child with whom I'd spend hours fighting about clothing, a child who gracefully flits about from place to place like a prima ballerina, I would not have believed you.
I would have told you that gender is manufactured, that it's nurture -- not nature -- that decides these things. I'd tell you that because I encouraged you toward balls and cars and running around outside that I could never have a girl child who doesn't believe in "too many" ruffles, "too much" glitter, or "enough" pink or purple. I would have been wronger than I'd ever been in my life. I don't say this insultingly, just honestly: I cannot believe a child of my body and blood is into frilliness and fanciness as much as you are. It dominates so much of who you are right now, so that's why I'm writing what I'm writing.
But then... I'm speaking as my adult self. When I think back on my childhood (now fuzzy, as there just isn't enough room up there any longer), I remember fighting with my mom at age 4 because I didn't want to wear pants. I remember obsessions with leotards, Annie, Grease, and gymnastics. I remember wearing out the flower girl dress and matching barrette with flowing ribbons I showed off at my aunt and uncle's wedding. I remember my bride costume -- MY BRIDE COSTUME. (I later decided I would never marry, then along came your daddy.)
But I am calmed. Because even though I must have been a walking embodiment of twee, I grew into a feminist with my own mind, rules, and ideas about life. And so shall you.
So this is to say that I don't think that "girly girls" are weak. You, my darling daughter, are anything but. (See: hours of fighting) You know what you want. I simply -- frequently -- disagree. This leads me to my next point about you. You have inherited my control issues, and for that, I am truly sorry. There are good points to this, Harper.
Stuff gets done.
You'll have a clear vision of what you want.
Your need to be right about all things means that you value and retain knowledge (although not always wisdom).
You'll surround yourself with people who have met your high expectations, who have proven they can deal with your crazy shit and planning and need to have things just-so, and you'll therefore have close friends to whom you are devoted.
But this also means that when things don't go your way, you don't react well.
It means when people disappoint you, it makes it extra difficult to get over.
It means that when you want something done your way, and then it's not, that you have hard choices to make about whether/how you can deal with it.
It took me years to accept your father's way of doing things around the house and with the kids. I'm still working on it, and I probably will be for life. I hope I can provide you with the coping mechanisms you need to have a content, fulfilling life in spite of this little personality trait. But ultimately, daughter, it's up to you.
When you are happy, nothing compares. You walk around singing, dancing, twirling. You play with your dolls for loooong periods of time lately, and that is awesome. You are pretty excited about Wonder Woman (who, interestingly, you keeping referring to as Super Woman. Every time, every day, several times a day). You love your sister and you adore your brother. You are so darn smart, so inquisitive, so imaginative. You have a smile that lights up the world, just lights it up. You're kind to your friends. You launch yourself at Daddy when he walks in the door.
Who will you be? What good will you do in the world? Will you always choose skirts and dresses? Will you go cheerleader or goth? Only time will tell. But I love being your mother, and I am proud and hopeful and excited to share your journey with you. I hope you know you can always lean on me. I know you know that I'll always offer unsolicited advice. I love you beyond all measure, beyond my wildest dreams. Be you, Harper, just be you. And the world will continue to love you too.
Love,
Mommy
Monday, April 14, 2014
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Dear Bayla, on your 4th birthday
Dear Bayla,
Here you are, turning four. You light up my life every day.
I write these letters for you because I am terrible with keeping up your baby book. Because I lost my mother far too early and can't ask her about my childhood, and I always have this niggling fear that I too will die before I can answer your parenting questions, I want you to know about you. I wonder all the time if you're like me. I suspect you are, even more so than your brother or your sister. I wonder how my mother dealt with me, and I could sure use her help and advice right now.
When you read these as an adult, I want you to know that these thoughts are written with all the love in my heart, though they are also written from my maternal philosophies of honesty and straightforwardness. With that said, this has been a tough year, Bayla-Boo. I thought Brady's threes were tough because he had new sisters, and I'd been in the hospital so long, but as it turns out, it's just the hardest possible age. You're all programmed to be jerks. Your "threes" really started at about age 2.5. So for 18 months I have dealt with irrational screaming, fighting, and stubbornness all day, everyday. Of course it's all age-appropriate -- you're supposed to be pushing your limits, and thank God, you are not one to back down easily -- but when it's up to me to get you out the door every morning, or to eat, or to go to bed at night, the defiance gets to be too much WHEN IT IS TIMES TWO. If you're not screaming or pushing my buttons, rest assured your sister is taking up your slack. (If you're interested, of the two of you, you have been the [relatively] more rational, easy-to- please daughter. But not lately.)
Apparently, twins often switch personalities. This just happened a few weeks ago, and I've been given frequent reminders of your lung capacity. You loved broccoli up until a few months ago, then one day, you decided you hate it. Sorry, kid. You have the eat the damn broccoli. Some days, you dress yourself proudly, brush your own teeth, and get your own shoes on. Other days, you can't be bothered to do it yourself. And this leads to some disagreement. You have no need to please me. While this secretly thrills the closet punk in me, this infuriates the mother (who's ruling about 95% of my personality these days). Again, totally age appropriate. But no fun when you're in it day in and day out. Every day is a marathon, and every night you go to bed without me running out of your room screaming is a victory.
But make no mistake: you, my darling girl, give me so much joy.
You are a snuggler. One of the best parts of my day is lying down with you at bedtime.
You are full of curiosity.
You are creative. The imagination you've got!
You are an artist. I mean it -- you already have an eye I can only dream of.
You are an actress. I watch your face as you're talking or playing. So expressive.
You are so funny.
You are smart. You can't seem to get enough of learning.
You love animals and babies. You want to pet both.
You want to experience everything. My daughter, I'll do all I can for you to keep your joie de vivre forever.
You still have your belly laugh. It fills me with light and love.
You are aggressive. You go after what you want.
You are kind. You are helpful to your friends -- and even your siblings, often at the expense of your own happiness.
I never seem to have enough time or energy for everything, for everybody. I am sorry that I yell, that I get frustrated, that I rush you from place to place. I am not always the best mother, I am almost never patient, I am torn asunder by my bad mothering choices, by not being who you need me to be all the time. But I love you, I love you. I am proud of the person you are, of whom you are growing up to be.
I predict you will be a strong, smart, assertive woman. I hope you never take any shit from anyone, but that you tell them so nicely. May I be the kind of mother who can give you the wings you need to be the best person you can be. May you be the kind of person who isn't afraid to fly.
Love,
Mommy
Here you are, turning four. You light up my life every day.
I write these letters for you because I am terrible with keeping up your baby book. Because I lost my mother far too early and can't ask her about my childhood, and I always have this niggling fear that I too will die before I can answer your parenting questions, I want you to know about you. I wonder all the time if you're like me. I suspect you are, even more so than your brother or your sister. I wonder how my mother dealt with me, and I could sure use her help and advice right now.
When you read these as an adult, I want you to know that these thoughts are written with all the love in my heart, though they are also written from my maternal philosophies of honesty and straightforwardness. With that said, this has been a tough year, Bayla-Boo. I thought Brady's threes were tough because he had new sisters, and I'd been in the hospital so long, but as it turns out, it's just the hardest possible age. You're all programmed to be jerks. Your "threes" really started at about age 2.5. So for 18 months I have dealt with irrational screaming, fighting, and stubbornness all day, everyday. Of course it's all age-appropriate -- you're supposed to be pushing your limits, and thank God, you are not one to back down easily -- but when it's up to me to get you out the door every morning, or to eat, or to go to bed at night, the defiance gets to be too much WHEN IT IS TIMES TWO. If you're not screaming or pushing my buttons, rest assured your sister is taking up your slack. (If you're interested, of the two of you, you have been the [relatively] more rational, easy-to- please daughter. But not lately.)
Apparently, twins often switch personalities. This just happened a few weeks ago, and I've been given frequent reminders of your lung capacity. You loved broccoli up until a few months ago, then one day, you decided you hate it. Sorry, kid. You have the eat the damn broccoli. Some days, you dress yourself proudly, brush your own teeth, and get your own shoes on. Other days, you can't be bothered to do it yourself. And this leads to some disagreement. You have no need to please me. While this secretly thrills the closet punk in me, this infuriates the mother (who's ruling about 95% of my personality these days). Again, totally age appropriate. But no fun when you're in it day in and day out. Every day is a marathon, and every night you go to bed without me running out of your room screaming is a victory.
But make no mistake: you, my darling girl, give me so much joy.
You are a snuggler. One of the best parts of my day is lying down with you at bedtime.
You are full of curiosity.
You are creative. The imagination you've got!
You are an artist. I mean it -- you already have an eye I can only dream of.
You are an actress. I watch your face as you're talking or playing. So expressive.
You are so funny.
You are smart. You can't seem to get enough of learning.
You love animals and babies. You want to pet both.
You want to experience everything. My daughter, I'll do all I can for you to keep your joie de vivre forever.
You still have your belly laugh. It fills me with light and love.
You are aggressive. You go after what you want.
You are kind. You are helpful to your friends -- and even your siblings, often at the expense of your own happiness.
I never seem to have enough time or energy for everything, for everybody. I am sorry that I yell, that I get frustrated, that I rush you from place to place. I am not always the best mother, I am almost never patient, I am torn asunder by my bad mothering choices, by not being who you need me to be all the time. But I love you, I love you. I am proud of the person you are, of whom you are growing up to be.
I predict you will be a strong, smart, assertive woman. I hope you never take any shit from anyone, but that you tell them so nicely. May I be the kind of mother who can give you the wings you need to be the best person you can be. May you be the kind of person who isn't afraid to fly.
Love,
Mommy
Thursday, March 13, 2014
To Brady, on Your Seventh Birthday
Dear Brady,
Here you are, 7 years old. You have all of the sudden matured into such a little man, like a switch flipped. You'll get up and make your own breakfast, and sometimes even your sisters' breakfast. It's pretty awesome for this mama, who loves to sleep. You'll do your homework unasked sometimes (whereas other times you'll scream and yell your way through it. Not awesome.). You're learning to really read, and it's amazing to see you expand your world and imagination in that way. But those aren't my favorite things about you. My favorite things about you are these:
-- Your sweet, sweet soul. Just last night you told Daddy and me you want to do chores to earn money to donate to people who don't have homes. This came out of the blue. I assume that you got this idea when we saw a homeless community under one of the bridges on the way to the zoo. And I love that you love your friends and aren't afraid to show them affection. I don't know how much longer they'll let you hug all over them when you see them, but it's pretty great. I was so worried school and mean kids would take away this part of you, but so far, so good.
And we can't forget how wonderful you are with your sisters. When they're upset, you step in to make it better. You put your arms around them, talk gently to them, and do what you can (even when there's nothing you can do because they are NUTS).
-- Your optimism. Maybe Georgia will intercept a ball (with 2 seconds left in the game) and run it back for a TD. Maybe Daddy will win the whole race. Maybe...maybe...maybe. You look for the best in every situation. Unless we tell you "no." Then God help us all.
-- Your smile, which is currently short a front tooth. I didn't think you could get any more adorable, then you started losing teeth.
-- Your terrible, terrible jokes. You occasionally try to tell me a made-up joke. They don't even make any sense! But you always laugh after you tell them, which makes me laugh, so keep on telling those jokes, in the grand tradition of Jewish comedians in America (and Yakov Smirnoff in Russia. And now Branson, Missouri).
-- How much you love our kitty cats. They're keen on you too, although you don't see it yet because they're NOT keen on you picking them up.
-- Your left-brained quirks. You need to be organized, and you can't get enough of math. I am fairly happy about this, as my math skills are about to be surpassed by yours.
I'm also pretty thrilled that your palette is expanding. FINALLY, finally, you willingly try new foods. All of the sudden, you love squash. I am so excited about this development.
It's fascinating to watch you discover the world. There's so much to know, and you are very curious about a wide range of (sometimes) interesting topics. We have not always had as much energy or time as we needed to help you explore these things, but as you get better at reading, you can explore them yourself. I can't wait to be there when you do, to talk and discuss and debate.
I have loved this past year as your mother, and I know I'm going to love 7 even more. You are a joy, a gift, the first best thing that ever happened to us. We are fortunate to be able to raise such a special soul. And frankly, I'm relieved to know that the parenting mistakes we've (okay, I've) made the past 7 years haven't seemed to affect you at all. You are you, and you are a wonderful you. Thank you for that.
We love you always, no matter what, thhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss much,
Mom
Here you are, 7 years old. You have all of the sudden matured into such a little man, like a switch flipped. You'll get up and make your own breakfast, and sometimes even your sisters' breakfast. It's pretty awesome for this mama, who loves to sleep. You'll do your homework unasked sometimes (whereas other times you'll scream and yell your way through it. Not awesome.). You're learning to really read, and it's amazing to see you expand your world and imagination in that way. But those aren't my favorite things about you. My favorite things about you are these:
-- Your sweet, sweet soul. Just last night you told Daddy and me you want to do chores to earn money to donate to people who don't have homes. This came out of the blue. I assume that you got this idea when we saw a homeless community under one of the bridges on the way to the zoo. And I love that you love your friends and aren't afraid to show them affection. I don't know how much longer they'll let you hug all over them when you see them, but it's pretty great. I was so worried school and mean kids would take away this part of you, but so far, so good.
And we can't forget how wonderful you are with your sisters. When they're upset, you step in to make it better. You put your arms around them, talk gently to them, and do what you can (even when there's nothing you can do because they are NUTS).
-- Your optimism. Maybe Georgia will intercept a ball (with 2 seconds left in the game) and run it back for a TD. Maybe Daddy will win the whole race. Maybe...maybe...maybe. You look for the best in every situation. Unless we tell you "no." Then God help us all.
-- Your smile, which is currently short a front tooth. I didn't think you could get any more adorable, then you started losing teeth.
-- Your terrible, terrible jokes. You occasionally try to tell me a made-up joke. They don't even make any sense! But you always laugh after you tell them, which makes me laugh, so keep on telling those jokes, in the grand tradition of Jewish comedians in America (and Yakov Smirnoff in Russia. And now Branson, Missouri).
-- How much you love our kitty cats. They're keen on you too, although you don't see it yet because they're NOT keen on you picking them up.
-- Your left-brained quirks. You need to be organized, and you can't get enough of math. I am fairly happy about this, as my math skills are about to be surpassed by yours.
I'm also pretty thrilled that your palette is expanding. FINALLY, finally, you willingly try new foods. All of the sudden, you love squash. I am so excited about this development.
It's fascinating to watch you discover the world. There's so much to know, and you are very curious about a wide range of (sometimes) interesting topics. We have not always had as much energy or time as we needed to help you explore these things, but as you get better at reading, you can explore them yourself. I can't wait to be there when you do, to talk and discuss and debate.
I have loved this past year as your mother, and I know I'm going to love 7 even more. You are a joy, a gift, the first best thing that ever happened to us. We are fortunate to be able to raise such a special soul. And frankly, I'm relieved to know that the parenting mistakes we've (okay, I've) made the past 7 years haven't seemed to affect you at all. You are you, and you are a wonderful you. Thank you for that.
We love you always, no matter what, thhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiisssssssssss much,
Mom
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Deeply personal blog post: disciplining the kids
When you find out you're expecting a child, you think about the sweet kisses, the snuggles, the sleepless nights, the milestones, and the happy, loving home you're sure to create. You might spend hours researching the best bottles/breast pumps/diapers/cribs/diaper creams/organic clothing/gliders/thermometers/bath wash/bathtubs/etc/etc/etc. But I bet, if you're like me, you don't spend too much time thinking about discipline.
And why would you? YOUR child is going to be an absolute angel. That kid losing it at the grocery store? Nope, mine won't ever do that. The kid hitting another at the playground? My precious child would NEVER. Sibling fighting? Oh, no -- mine will all be loved the same, so what would they have to fight about? Six years into this thing, I laugh daily at my circa 2007-08 naivete'.
As it turns out, sometime around age 19 months, they become possessed by demons. It doesn't get any better for a long while. When they're not hungry, tired, or just plain grumpy, they occasionally do what you ask, when it suits them. They hit when they're frustrated. They look you in the eye, then ignore your request. They lose their shit when they want a toy at Target they can't have. And don't get me started about how they act when it's time to get dressed in the morning, have dinner when they're watching their favorite show, clean up the playroom, or even get in the car after school.
So for the past several years, how have I handled this outrageous breach of courtesy? It's a multi-step process:
1. I calmly ask them to comply.
2. I calmly re-ask them to comply.
3. I calmly re-re-ask them to comply.
4. I begin to raise my voice, thinking that maybe they simply didn't hear me.
5. I stalk over to them, thinking the intimidation and reminder of my presence will make them comply.
6. I yell.
7. I yell louder, threatening to take away stuff.
8. If it gets really bad, someone might get a pop on the tush or leg.
9. I feel terrible about the yelling and the spanking, and nothing has gotten done in the meantime.
Now friends, I'm here to tell you: this multi-step process as described above does not work. I usually get yelled back at, laughed at, ignored, or called some name (by Brady). And the house is in an uproar, I'm stressed to the nines, which stresses out Shawn, and everyone's yelling and screaming. This doesn't feel like the loving house I was expecting. And let me reiterate: the request that caused the uproar has not been fulfilled. My blood pressure is through the roof, and it didn't get results. Add this to a lot of exhaustion, the regular demands of work and home, and the fact that Shawn and I rarely get a break, I was beginning to feel like I was creating a recipe for disaster. (Worst-case Scenario Disaster That Keeps me Awake at Night: children who grow up to be angry, in constant therapy, and always sleeping on friends' couches because they can't keep a job after dropping out of high school; parents who die at 60 from stress-related illnesses.)
Backing up a bit, I'll tell you how I was raised. While I'm sure I was perfect, my mom and dad would undoubtedly disagree, and I spent a lot of time in my room. My dad yelled -- a LOT -- and I'm like him in that way. Shawn's parents did some yelling, but he's an extremely mellow person and is unnerved by the loudness and anger. I want to break away from the screaming and the hitting. I don't like it, it doesn't help, and it makes us all feel terrible.
So I figured, there has to be a better way. I think I might have found it. It's called Positive Discipline.
Someone I grew up with in Savannah is a certified instructor, and I'd heard about it here and there, but at first I balked. "Oh," I thought. "Positive discipline? Isn't that an oxymoron? Is this one of those hippy-dippy classes that puts kids' self-esteem as the priority?" (Side note: I am not at all concerned about my kids' self-esteem. They all seem to have that in spades. I don't want to raise any Hannah Horvaths.)
So I learned a little more, attended an informational session, and got inspired. Did you know that "discipline" doesn't mean "punishment" but instead means "teach?" The thing that got me was this quote from the woman who literally wrote the book on PD, Jane Nelsen:
I just completed a two-day course, and I'm encouraged and excited to learn more. Without getting into it too much (although I encourage you to learn more if you're having issues with your kids), I do want to say that it's about mutual respect, connecting with your children, being kind but firm, and focusing on long-term solutions rather than short-term punishments.
The criteria are:
--Helps children feel a sense of connection. (Belonging and significance)
--Is mutually respectful and encouraging. (Kind and firm at the same time.)
--Is effective long-term.(Considers what the child is thinking, feeling, learning, and deciding about himself and his world – and what to do in the future to survive or to thrive.)
--Teaches important social and life skills. (Respect, concern for others, problem solving, and cooperation as well as the skills to contribute to the home, school or larger community.)
--Invites children to discover how capable they are. (Encourages the constructive use of personal power and autonomy.)
Now I ask questions instead of barking orders (Instead of "Put your shoes by the back door, I ask, "Where do your shoes belong?" And damned if they don't put their shoes where they belong.). I ask them WHY they feel a certain way or want a certain something. I get down on their level and look in their eyes instead of screaming at them from across the room. We're going to create routine charts to help move things along at stressful times. And sometimes, I just give hugs when everything has turned to crap.
The part I like the best is how PD allows kids to see how much they can do and figure out for themselves. I was raised to be independent, and I deeply value that trait. But I'm kinda raising my kids to need me for everything, and I don't like it. The second day of the course was like a group therapy session. I was reminded about my control issues, which I honestly thought I'd gotten over. NOT SO MUCH. I was actually deflecting the stuff I couldn't control into stuff I thought I could control, and when I realized I had no control, I was losing my shit at the kids. Just realizing this has helped me make better choices around the kids. Not always -- I still get irrationally angry-- but it is helping.
The hardest part for me has been accepting that the consequences that come out of the choices the kids make are not punishments. So, for instance, I'm not going to take away Brady's games for not doing his homework, but when we all come down from the tizzy caused by him not doing his homework, we work out a solution TOGETHER that might result in him not getting to play any games until he finishes his homework. So he sees the cause-and-effect and does have consequences without feeling like crap about them. It's all more complex than this, and there are many more tools. But I'll tell you this: when I use the tools right, it usually works.
It's going to take some practice, some adjustment, and some serious overcoming of my own issues. But I'm willing to work on these issues to raise self-sufficient children with self-control, compassion, and respect for themselves and others. Many people will undoubtedly think this is all bunk, that I'm crazy. I guess we'll see as the kids grow up, as we bring this philosophy into our house. But mutual respect, understanding, and the natural acquisition of life skills makes perfect sense to me. So wish us luck! I'll keep you updated.
And why would you? YOUR child is going to be an absolute angel. That kid losing it at the grocery store? Nope, mine won't ever do that. The kid hitting another at the playground? My precious child would NEVER. Sibling fighting? Oh, no -- mine will all be loved the same, so what would they have to fight about? Six years into this thing, I laugh daily at my circa 2007-08 naivete'.
As it turns out, sometime around age 19 months, they become possessed by demons. It doesn't get any better for a long while. When they're not hungry, tired, or just plain grumpy, they occasionally do what you ask, when it suits them. They hit when they're frustrated. They look you in the eye, then ignore your request. They lose their shit when they want a toy at Target they can't have. And don't get me started about how they act when it's time to get dressed in the morning, have dinner when they're watching their favorite show, clean up the playroom, or even get in the car after school.
So for the past several years, how have I handled this outrageous breach of courtesy? It's a multi-step process:
1. I calmly ask them to comply.
2. I calmly re-ask them to comply.
3. I calmly re-re-ask them to comply.
4. I begin to raise my voice, thinking that maybe they simply didn't hear me.
5. I stalk over to them, thinking the intimidation and reminder of my presence will make them comply.
6. I yell.
7. I yell louder, threatening to take away stuff.
8. If it gets really bad, someone might get a pop on the tush or leg.
9. I feel terrible about the yelling and the spanking, and nothing has gotten done in the meantime.
Now friends, I'm here to tell you: this multi-step process as described above does not work. I usually get yelled back at, laughed at, ignored, or called some name (by Brady). And the house is in an uproar, I'm stressed to the nines, which stresses out Shawn, and everyone's yelling and screaming. This doesn't feel like the loving house I was expecting. And let me reiterate: the request that caused the uproar has not been fulfilled. My blood pressure is through the roof, and it didn't get results. Add this to a lot of exhaustion, the regular demands of work and home, and the fact that Shawn and I rarely get a break, I was beginning to feel like I was creating a recipe for disaster. (Worst-case Scenario Disaster That Keeps me Awake at Night: children who grow up to be angry, in constant therapy, and always sleeping on friends' couches because they can't keep a job after dropping out of high school; parents who die at 60 from stress-related illnesses.)
Backing up a bit, I'll tell you how I was raised. While I'm sure I was perfect, my mom and dad would undoubtedly disagree, and I spent a lot of time in my room. My dad yelled -- a LOT -- and I'm like him in that way. Shawn's parents did some yelling, but he's an extremely mellow person and is unnerved by the loudness and anger. I want to break away from the screaming and the hitting. I don't like it, it doesn't help, and it makes us all feel terrible.
So I figured, there has to be a better way. I think I might have found it. It's called Positive Discipline.
Someone I grew up with in Savannah is a certified instructor, and I'd heard about it here and there, but at first I balked. "Oh," I thought. "Positive discipline? Isn't that an oxymoron? Is this one of those hippy-dippy classes that puts kids' self-esteem as the priority?" (Side note: I am not at all concerned about my kids' self-esteem. They all seem to have that in spades. I don't want to raise any Hannah Horvaths.)
So I learned a little more, attended an informational session, and got inspired. Did you know that "discipline" doesn't mean "punishment" but instead means "teach?" The thing that got me was this quote from the woman who literally wrote the book on PD, Jane Nelsen:
“Where did we ever get the crazy idea that in order to make children do better, first we have to make them feel worse? Think of the last time you felt humiliated or treated unfairly. Did you feel like cooperating or doing better?”
I just completed a two-day course, and I'm encouraged and excited to learn more. Without getting into it too much (although I encourage you to learn more if you're having issues with your kids), I do want to say that it's about mutual respect, connecting with your children, being kind but firm, and focusing on long-term solutions rather than short-term punishments.
The criteria are:
--Helps children feel a sense of connection. (Belonging and significance)
--Is mutually respectful and encouraging. (Kind and firm at the same time.)
--Is effective long-term.(Considers what the child is thinking, feeling, learning, and deciding about himself and his world – and what to do in the future to survive or to thrive.)
--Teaches important social and life skills. (Respect, concern for others, problem solving, and cooperation as well as the skills to contribute to the home, school or larger community.)
--Invites children to discover how capable they are. (Encourages the constructive use of personal power and autonomy.)
Now I ask questions instead of barking orders (Instead of "Put your shoes by the back door, I ask, "Where do your shoes belong?" And damned if they don't put their shoes where they belong.). I ask them WHY they feel a certain way or want a certain something. I get down on their level and look in their eyes instead of screaming at them from across the room. We're going to create routine charts to help move things along at stressful times. And sometimes, I just give hugs when everything has turned to crap.
The part I like the best is how PD allows kids to see how much they can do and figure out for themselves. I was raised to be independent, and I deeply value that trait. But I'm kinda raising my kids to need me for everything, and I don't like it. The second day of the course was like a group therapy session. I was reminded about my control issues, which I honestly thought I'd gotten over. NOT SO MUCH. I was actually deflecting the stuff I couldn't control into stuff I thought I could control, and when I realized I had no control, I was losing my shit at the kids. Just realizing this has helped me make better choices around the kids. Not always -- I still get irrationally angry-- but it is helping.
The hardest part for me has been accepting that the consequences that come out of the choices the kids make are not punishments. So, for instance, I'm not going to take away Brady's games for not doing his homework, but when we all come down from the tizzy caused by him not doing his homework, we work out a solution TOGETHER that might result in him not getting to play any games until he finishes his homework. So he sees the cause-and-effect and does have consequences without feeling like crap about them. It's all more complex than this, and there are many more tools. But I'll tell you this: when I use the tools right, it usually works.
It's going to take some practice, some adjustment, and some serious overcoming of my own issues. But I'm willing to work on these issues to raise self-sufficient children with self-control, compassion, and respect for themselves and others. Many people will undoubtedly think this is all bunk, that I'm crazy. I guess we'll see as the kids grow up, as we bring this philosophy into our house. But mutual respect, understanding, and the natural acquisition of life skills makes perfect sense to me. So wish us luck! I'll keep you updated.
Monday, April 16, 2012
Dear Harper, on your second birthday
Dear Harper,
You're 2 years old! But you know that, because you keep talking about your birthday party yesterday, and of course, the Yo Gabba Gabba! cake. You love to talk, and I love to listen. You have the sweetest little voice. In all fairness, it does get *pretty* high pitched, and you do love to screech when you're not getting your way. But we're working on it. You're learning to use your words more.
You have a VERY clear opinion on what you want to wear every day. I think you have better taste and style than I do, actually. You're not afraid of mixing prints, I'll tell you that much. I like your boldness, Daughter.
You are so self-sufficient and secure. I LOVE that about you. You want to do everything for yourself. Sometimes I have to step in for the sake of timeliness, or so you won't choke yourself with your shirt, but for the most part, I try to let you do what you want to do. You love your sissy. "Good morning, Sissy!" And my favorite: "Sissy okay too?" You love your brother: "HI! BRADY!" You love slides, and danger, and taking off your clothes and diaper. You throw things when you're angry. You want Daddy and only Daddy to push you on the swing (see: danger, because he pushes you higher). You like jewelry, and riding bikes, and (THANK GOD!) books.
You are sweet as pie when you want to be, and the devil in disguise when you're feeling frisky. And you know, I wouldn't have you any other way. You're you, and I love you so much. I hope that you're just as secure at 12 and 22. I hope that you have a good job so you can afford jewelry and good clothes. I hope that you get exactly what you want out of life, and I have a feeling that your tenacity will help make that happen. I hope you remain true to yourself always, that you look in the mirror and see your eyes and my eyes and my mother's eyes, and you think, "I come from some strong women. I'm strong too." Above all, I hope you'll always know how much Daddy and I love you, and how grateful we are that you came into this world and are ours. You are simply amazing.
Love,
Mommy
You're 2 years old! But you know that, because you keep talking about your birthday party yesterday, and of course, the Yo Gabba Gabba! cake. You love to talk, and I love to listen. You have the sweetest little voice. In all fairness, it does get *pretty* high pitched, and you do love to screech when you're not getting your way. But we're working on it. You're learning to use your words more.
You have a VERY clear opinion on what you want to wear every day. I think you have better taste and style than I do, actually. You're not afraid of mixing prints, I'll tell you that much. I like your boldness, Daughter.
You are so self-sufficient and secure. I LOVE that about you. You want to do everything for yourself. Sometimes I have to step in for the sake of timeliness, or so you won't choke yourself with your shirt, but for the most part, I try to let you do what you want to do. You love your sissy. "Good morning, Sissy!" And my favorite: "Sissy okay too?" You love your brother: "HI! BRADY!" You love slides, and danger, and taking off your clothes and diaper. You throw things when you're angry. You want Daddy and only Daddy to push you on the swing (see: danger, because he pushes you higher). You like jewelry, and riding bikes, and (THANK GOD!) books.
You are sweet as pie when you want to be, and the devil in disguise when you're feeling frisky. And you know, I wouldn't have you any other way. You're you, and I love you so much. I hope that you're just as secure at 12 and 22. I hope that you have a good job so you can afford jewelry and good clothes. I hope that you get exactly what you want out of life, and I have a feeling that your tenacity will help make that happen. I hope you remain true to yourself always, that you look in the mirror and see your eyes and my eyes and my mother's eyes, and you think, "I come from some strong women. I'm strong too." Above all, I hope you'll always know how much Daddy and I love you, and how grateful we are that you came into this world and are ours. You are simply amazing.
Love,
Mommy
Dear Bayla, on your second birthday
Dear Bayla,
You're 2 years old! What an unbelievable 2 years this has been. Last year, I talked about how feisty you are. That trait has stuck around. You are truly a force of nature. You see what you want, and you take it. It's very Don Draper. I can respect that, except when you grab the desired object out of Harper's hands when she's quietly playing with it. Or when you knock down Brady's Legos so you can have the one you want. Or when you run away from me in pursuit of said object, are looking back at me to see where I am, and bang smack into the door frame. But mostly, I like your "World Be Damned" attitude.
You are still my snuggly bunny. You are always up for a good hug and kiss. You come to me when you need me, and you handle it when you don't. You wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed. You have a clear sense of fashion, and the cutest little tushie. You loooooooooooove your brother. You hear him from across the house, then scream his name and go looking for him. You absolutely adore Yo Gabba Gabba! You love to listen to Shabbat songs, and you help when I light the candles every Friday night. God help anyone who comes between you and your fruit snacks. And last night we discovered you can roll your tongue, so that's a fun new skill you've been trying out all day.
You have the best laugh -- it comes straight from your belly, and I just can't help but smile when you give a good giggle. You love to talk and make animal sounds. Your "waddle waddle" when you see a penguin will undoubtedly be one of my favorite memories of you when you're older. You love babies. I love to watch you go down to baby level, smile at them, and pat their heads.
Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I'll look at you, and I just can't believe my good fortune. I look at you and see my mom, for whom you are named. I don't think it's an accident that you, your sister, and your brother all have her eyes. It's so bittersweet to watch you grow and be your funny, feisty self and know that she's not around to experience it too. But I hope you'll take after her with kindness, caring, and compassion. I hope you'll find happiness but deal well with life's disappointments. I hope you will always be quintessentially Bayla, no matter where life takes you. Above all, I hope you'll always know how much Daddy and I love you, and how grateful we are that you came into this world and are ours. You are simply amazing.
Love,
Mommy
You're 2 years old! What an unbelievable 2 years this has been. Last year, I talked about how feisty you are. That trait has stuck around. You are truly a force of nature. You see what you want, and you take it. It's very Don Draper. I can respect that, except when you grab the desired object out of Harper's hands when she's quietly playing with it. Or when you knock down Brady's Legos so you can have the one you want. Or when you run away from me in pursuit of said object, are looking back at me to see where I am, and bang smack into the door frame. But mostly, I like your "World Be Damned" attitude.
You are still my snuggly bunny. You are always up for a good hug and kiss. You come to me when you need me, and you handle it when you don't. You wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed. You have a clear sense of fashion, and the cutest little tushie. You loooooooooooove your brother. You hear him from across the house, then scream his name and go looking for him. You absolutely adore Yo Gabba Gabba! You love to listen to Shabbat songs, and you help when I light the candles every Friday night. God help anyone who comes between you and your fruit snacks. And last night we discovered you can roll your tongue, so that's a fun new skill you've been trying out all day.
You have the best laugh -- it comes straight from your belly, and I just can't help but smile when you give a good giggle. You love to talk and make animal sounds. Your "waddle waddle" when you see a penguin will undoubtedly be one of my favorite memories of you when you're older. You love babies. I love to watch you go down to baby level, smile at them, and pat their heads.
Sometimes, in a quiet moment, I'll look at you, and I just can't believe my good fortune. I look at you and see my mom, for whom you are named. I don't think it's an accident that you, your sister, and your brother all have her eyes. It's so bittersweet to watch you grow and be your funny, feisty self and know that she's not around to experience it too. But I hope you'll take after her with kindness, caring, and compassion. I hope you'll find happiness but deal well with life's disappointments. I hope you will always be quintessentially Bayla, no matter where life takes you. Above all, I hope you'll always know how much Daddy and I love you, and how grateful we are that you came into this world and are ours. You are simply amazing.
Love,
Mommy
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Dear Brady, on Your 5th Birthday
Dear Brady,
Today is your 5th birthday. I can't believe it either! I went back and checked your birth certificate to make sure it said "2007," and it did. Then, because math is not my strong subject, I counted on my fingers to 2012. The result: you are in fact 5 years old today. It went by so fast. And apparently, it means that I'm just "Mom" now -- no "Mommy" for you anymore.
Man, I have just loved the past year with you. I think we've finally reconnected. I had NO idea how hard it would be to try to keep our lives together. I missed you. Not to say we didn't have our moments, but for the most part, you've been sweet, kind to your sisters, helpful, and oh-so-lovable. One day when you read this, you may not remember that you had an articulation disorder and were in speech therapy for months and months. But because of that, you were a late, unconfident talker. Well, no more! You are a chatterbox. From the moment you wake up until the moment you (finally) fall asleep, you are observing, asking, telling, cajoling, storytelling, and fact checking. (You also whine sometimes. But I love you anyway.)
And you are FUNNY. (I would like to think it comes from the Jewish side, but really, your dad is the funny one in the family.) You tell jokes, you recognize silliness, you dance all crazy and make funny faces. You seek out humor. You do pratfalls to make your sisters laugh. (Well, maybe that IS your Jewish vaudeville side.)
You want me to lay down with you at night until you fall asleep. The books tell parents not to do this, but I say screw the books. In a few years, you won't want me to do this, and I will miss it immensely.
You love superheroes, dinosaurs, Hot Wheels cars (but not Matchbox, for some reason), Legos, and playing with your older friends in the neighborhood. Your perfect day would be spent at a park with climbing walls. Your favorite foods are quesadillas with sour cream and salsa, hot dogs, cheese puffs, olives, and chocolate. THIS is your favorite song right now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDG0c3saE4I&noredirect=1
You are the best big brother I could ever ask to have birthed. You want to come with me to wake up your sisters, and my God, they are thrilled to see you. You teach them about the world. You protect them. You help me with them in a million different ways.
I think back to your birth 5 years ago, and I realize what a long road we've traveled together. I'm not always as kind, patient, or involved as I'd like to be, but I always love you more than life itself. I hope one day, maybe when you have kids of your own, you'll look back and realize that I WANTED to play pirate ship with you all morning, but I had to get everybody ready for school, and we were already late. I WANTED to hang out and watch dinosaur movies all day, but I had to get dinner ready, or clean up the mess from lunch, or do laundry. It wasn't because I wouldn't rather have snuggled with you all day on the couch.
So all of this to say, I am so lucky, so fortunate, so blessed to have you for a son. I am so proud of you every day. I watch you grow and mature, and learn to be the person you've yet to become, and I can't wait to see who that is.
Love,
Mom(my)
Today is your 5th birthday. I can't believe it either! I went back and checked your birth certificate to make sure it said "2007," and it did. Then, because math is not my strong subject, I counted on my fingers to 2012. The result: you are in fact 5 years old today. It went by so fast. And apparently, it means that I'm just "Mom" now -- no "Mommy" for you anymore.
Man, I have just loved the past year with you. I think we've finally reconnected. I had NO idea how hard it would be to try to keep our lives together. I missed you. Not to say we didn't have our moments, but for the most part, you've been sweet, kind to your sisters, helpful, and oh-so-lovable. One day when you read this, you may not remember that you had an articulation disorder and were in speech therapy for months and months. But because of that, you were a late, unconfident talker. Well, no more! You are a chatterbox. From the moment you wake up until the moment you (finally) fall asleep, you are observing, asking, telling, cajoling, storytelling, and fact checking. (You also whine sometimes. But I love you anyway.)
And you are FUNNY. (I would like to think it comes from the Jewish side, but really, your dad is the funny one in the family.) You tell jokes, you recognize silliness, you dance all crazy and make funny faces. You seek out humor. You do pratfalls to make your sisters laugh. (Well, maybe that IS your Jewish vaudeville side.)
You want me to lay down with you at night until you fall asleep. The books tell parents not to do this, but I say screw the books. In a few years, you won't want me to do this, and I will miss it immensely.
You love superheroes, dinosaurs, Hot Wheels cars (but not Matchbox, for some reason), Legos, and playing with your older friends in the neighborhood. Your perfect day would be spent at a park with climbing walls. Your favorite foods are quesadillas with sour cream and salsa, hot dogs, cheese puffs, olives, and chocolate. THIS is your favorite song right now: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rDG0c3saE4I&noredirect=1
You are the best big brother I could ever ask to have birthed. You want to come with me to wake up your sisters, and my God, they are thrilled to see you. You teach them about the world. You protect them. You help me with them in a million different ways.
I think back to your birth 5 years ago, and I realize what a long road we've traveled together. I'm not always as kind, patient, or involved as I'd like to be, but I always love you more than life itself. I hope one day, maybe when you have kids of your own, you'll look back and realize that I WANTED to play pirate ship with you all morning, but I had to get everybody ready for school, and we were already late. I WANTED to hang out and watch dinosaur movies all day, but I had to get dinner ready, or clean up the mess from lunch, or do laundry. It wasn't because I wouldn't rather have snuggled with you all day on the couch.
So all of this to say, I am so lucky, so fortunate, so blessed to have you for a son. I am so proud of you every day. I watch you grow and mature, and learn to be the person you've yet to become, and I can't wait to see who that is.
Love,
Mom(my)
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