What I’ve learned in a year…for anyone who gives
Holy Cow, I just read my first post, which was posted over a year ago, and all I can say is, what a difference a year makes. I am prompted to write a quick post entitled:
Five Things I’ve Learned in a Year, for whatever it’s worth
1. Not All Infants are Created Equal: Now please don’t think this is a “poor me” quest, because the truth is I wouldn’t change a single thing about the wild indians I call children. But I have observed many babies/toddlers over the past year and now I understand why several mothers couldn’t understand how my first year with Vera was so difficult. Besides the fact that I had a high-spirited 16 month old, I had an unhappy baby. Over the past year, a handful of my friends have had second and third babies and upon stealth observation I noticed every baby sitting in it’s infant car seat laughing and googling while their mother carries on with the other children.
At first, I was baffled by this thinking, “there’s no way this child is always like this!” So, I asked. “Is this baby always this good?” “Oh, yeah, she is the most mellow baby ever. My husband and I fight over who gets to hold her because she calms us.” This sent me metaphorically reeling across the room. My husband and I, I thought, fought over who got to wear the ear plugs. Ok, so this was one baby, she must be rare. Then several other of my friends had similar experiences. I would see them with the car seats all over the place, carrying on a normal life, as if they were wearing a very heavy bracelet that just needed to be shifted from time to time. One time my friend forgot she had her baby with her at the playground. “Oops,” she said, “I forgot she was even here.” When I peered in on the saintly child, thinking for sure she must be napping, that being the only way a baby could be so content, she was just smiling at the sky…smiling at the sky!!!!!
I don’t even need to say that Vera wouldn’t even go in her infant seat without turning purple with fury, and by some concoction of dynamic genetics, neither did my son.
Suffice it to say, my mother pleads with me not to have another child. And I don’t blame her. The odds are against us. But maybe, just maybe…
2. My Children Need Constant Movement:
I am constantly telling my now 19 month old, Vera, that she has ants in her pants. I have never, and I do mean never, seen a young child so in need of constant motion, and/or unable to put together more than 30 seconds in one position. When I gave birth to my first child, the love of my life, the unstoppable force of nature, Austin, I was not at all surprised to observe the male dominant gene of hyperactivity passed down from many generations on my paternal side.
My father, whose nickname was “bare-ass Jay” on the U.S. Alpine ski team, was a downhill racer, hmmm. His male off-spring, my brother Jay, was an all-world lacrosse player, whose nickname was “The Janitor” because he cleaned up, hmmm. He still can’t sit still, unless he’s watching sports, of course. So, suffice it to say, when my son shot out of the womb (actually he didn’t shoot out, he was stalled, but that’s another story) he came out pissed off that he couldn’t run yet, and continued to be pissed off, translation made his parent’s miserable, until he could run.
Alas, when daughter appeared on my sweaty chest after grueling natural labor in my own bed, I was relieved. “Oh, I thought, a girl, now we’ll have a little peace.” Oh, but how the subtle hand of fate, and/or karma, came and slapped me silly. Not only was she not peaceful, by the time she could run herself, she wanted to beat on her older brother for tormenting her throughout her immobile months. Shoot me!
Here’s an idea for a mamaprenaur, which I have neither the time nor motivation to be, a giant child-safe treadmill.
3. Memory Fades So Keep Using Birth Control
Yesterday, after, literally seconds after, Vera took a toy truck to Austin’s head, she hugged him. As her mane of sandy blond curls nestled into his baby/boy chest, I melted. Oh, imagine another, I thought. Three baboons. My thought was interrupted by a shrill so loud the neighbors peered through their blinds again. My neighbors, the fifty something couple with no children who, since our arrival two years ago, thank the Lord every night they are childless. Upon said shrill, I retracted previous thought of three children. Such capricious thought processes occur often. When I mention my maternal mania to my husband he reminds me, in this order, of birthing, nursing, driving with wailing infant, and pretty much every other age 0-2 milestone. Oh, yeah, I think, though my memory is cloudy, and continues to get cloudier as time goes and the kids get easier. But the scars remain if I allow myself to be honest. The truth is, if I could be guaranteed one of those ubiquitous serenity babies, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but the odds are slim, and slim just left town (yes, I did just use that 70′s slogan). The other night I suggested to my husband we adopt an Asian child, they are so mellow. Maybe he/or she would balance our kinetic brood. He laughed at me, though I wasn’t kidding.
4. Your Children Are Your Mirror
I read this truth the other day in one of my twenty parenting books in my Kindle cue. This book, “Mindful Parenting,” is right underneath “How to raise your Spirited Child.” The “Mindful Parenting” book talked about how your children are your mirror. This fact is something that honestly haunts me. Mainly, because I am fully aware of all it’s truth. When my collicky son was born, I begged the doula/baby-whisperer we hired to help us, to explain to me why my son was like this. She simply said, “you need to be calm.” I thought, “what the f- is that suppose to mean? I am calm!!!!!!” I screamed in my head as my heart rate reached an unhealthy level. The problem was, I wasn’t sleeping and when I don’t sleep I’m basically a panic attack waiting to happen. But I knew doula had a point. I need to get calm so my son could get calm. Still, I remember thinking, if he could just do it first, it would make it a hell of a lot easier. Fast forward three years and I have been reminded of this subtle truth over and over. When I am stressed, they are stressed. The other morning I was having a bad one, PMS, third day in a row my husband worked from 9-9, lifeless, etc. I was snapping at the kids left and right until I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I asked God to help me shift, and took a deep breath. I walked back out and the rest of the day was nothing short of a miracle. Granted, it’s tough to do this day in and day out, to harness the energy to act like Howdy Doody, to put on a happy face when all you want is quiet, to kiss your children instead of yell at them, but if I can at least try, I am happy. Because really, they are just forcing me to be a happier, healthier, more in control person. By wanting the best from them I am getting the best out of me. Still, i forget about this mirror often. Like the other day when I said to Austin, “All you do is snack and you never eat meals!” As I was munching on some nuts.
At first, I was baffled by this thinking, “there’s no way this child is always like this!” So, I asked. “Is this baby always this good?” “Oh, yeah, she is the most mellow baby ever. My husband and I fight over who gets to hold her because she calms us.” This sent me metaphorically reeling across the room. My husband and I, I thought, fought over who got to wear the ear plugs. Ok, so this was one baby, she must be rare. Then several other of my friends had similar experiences. I would see them with the car seats all over the place, carrying on a normal life, as if they were wearing a very heavy bracelet that just needed to be shifted from time to time. One time my friend forgot she had her baby with her at the playground. “Oops,” she said, “I forgot she was even here.” When I peered in on the saintly child, thinking for sure she must be napping, that being the only way a baby could be so content, she was just smiling at the sky…smiling at the sky!!!!!
I don’t even need to say that Vera wouldn’t even go in her infant seat without turning purple with fury, and by some concoction of dynamic genetics, neither did my son.
Suffice it to say, my mother pleads with me not to have another child. And I don’t blame her. The odds are against us. But maybe, just maybe…
2. My Children Need Constant Movement:
I am constantly telling my now 19 month old, Vera, that she has ants in her pants. I have never, and I do mean never, seen a young child so in need of constant motion, and/or unable to put together more than 30 seconds in one position. When I gave birth to my first child, the love of my life, the unstoppable force of nature, Austin, I was not at all surprised to observe the male dominant gene of hyperactivity passed down from many generations on my paternal side.
My father, whose nickname was “bare-ass Jay” on the U.S. Alpine ski team, was a downhill racer, hmmm. His male off-spring, my brother Jay, was an all-world lacrosse player, whose nickname was “The Janitor” because he cleaned up, hmmm. He still can’t sit still, unless he’s watching sports, of course. So, suffice it to say, when my son shot out of the womb (actually he didn’t shoot out, he was stalled, but that’s another story) he came out pissed off that he couldn’t run yet, and continued to be pissed off, translation made his parent’s miserable, until he could run.
Alas, when daughter appeared on my sweaty chest after grueling natural labor in my own bed, I was relieved. “Oh, I thought, a girl, now we’ll have a little peace.” Oh, but how the subtle hand of fate, and/or karma, came and slapped me silly. Not only was she not peaceful, by the time she could run herself, she wanted to beat on her older brother for tormenting her throughout her immobile months. Shoot me!
Here’s an idea for a mamaprenaur, which I have neither the time nor motivation to be, a giant child-safe treadmill.
3. Memory Fades So Keep Using Birth Control
Yesterday, after, literally seconds after, Vera took a toy truck to Austin’s head, she hugged him. As her mane of sandy blond curls nestled into his baby/boy chest, I melted. Oh, imagine another, I thought. Three baboons. My thought was interrupted by a shrill so loud the neighbors peered through their blinds again. My neighbors, the fifty something couple with no children who, since our arrival two years ago, thank the Lord every night they are childless. Upon said shrill, I retracted previous thought of three children. Such capricious thought processes occur often. When I mention my maternal mania to my husband he reminds me, in this order, of birthing, nursing, driving with wailing infant, and pretty much every other age 0-2 milestone. Oh, yeah, I think, though my memory is cloudy, and continues to get cloudier as time goes and the kids get easier. But the scars remain if I allow myself to be honest. The truth is, if I could be guaranteed one of those ubiquitous serenity babies, I’d do it in a heartbeat, but the odds are slim, and slim just left town (yes, I did just use that 70′s slogan). The other night I suggested to my husband we adopt an Asian child, they are so mellow. Maybe he/or she would balance our kinetic brood. He laughed at me, though I wasn’t kidding.
4. Your Children Are Your Mirror
I read this truth the other day in one of my twenty parenting books in my Kindle cue. This book, “Mindful Parenting,” is right underneath “How to raise your Spirited Child.” The “Mindful Parenting” book talked about how your children are your mirror. This fact is something that honestly haunts me. Mainly, because I am fully aware of all it’s truth. When my collicky son was born, I begged the doula/baby-whisperer we hired to help us, to explain to me why my son was like this. She simply said, “you need to be calm.” I thought, “what the f- is that suppose to mean? I am calm!!!!!!” I screamed in my head as my heart rate reached an unhealthy level. The problem was, I wasn’t sleeping and when I don’t sleep I’m basically a panic attack waiting to happen. But I knew doula had a point. I need to get calm so my son could get calm. Still, I remember thinking, if he could just do it first, it would make it a hell of a lot easier. Fast forward three years and I have been reminded of this subtle truth over and over. When I am stressed, they are stressed. The other morning I was having a bad one, PMS, third day in a row my husband worked from 9-9, lifeless, etc. I was snapping at the kids left and right until I went into the bathroom and shut the door. I asked God to help me shift, and took a deep breath. I walked back out and the rest of the day was nothing short of a miracle. Granted, it’s tough to do this day in and day out, to harness the energy to act like Howdy Doody, to put on a happy face when all you want is quiet, to kiss your children instead of yell at them, but if I can at least try, I am happy. Because really, they are just forcing me to be a happier, healthier, more in control person. By wanting the best from them I am getting the best out of me. Still, i forget about this mirror often. Like the other day when I said to Austin, “All you do is snack and you never eat meals!” As I was munching on some nuts.
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