Spank you very much

A facebook friend recently posted this:

Let me begin by saying: I got my butt smacked and survived.

Heck, I have a very sarcastic mouth, so I got much more than my butt smacked!  And I still survived.  And I still love my parents.

But I choose not to use corporal punishment with my children.  And here is why:

#1 I don't want my children seeing violence as a solution.

When Thing 1 and 2 get upset and hit one another, one of my first responses is "DO NOT HIT YOUR BROTHER!"  And we make the boys come together and talk through their issues.  We discuss that if someone is doing something to bother you, you should 1. ask them to stop,  2. tell them you need some space,  3. walk away from them if they won't walk away from you,  4. get a grown up.  In that order.

Does it work all of the time?  No.  But it does work most of the time.

But what about me?  I (along with Superman) am their #1 role model.  What do they learn if I get ticked at something they do and instead of talking it out with them, I reach over and smack their hand or whack their butt.  What have I taught them?

My lips are saying "do not hit people when they do something you don't like" but my actions are saying "it's okay to hit people when they do something you don't like."

Is it hard not to spank?  YES!!  Good god!  Lord knows I have a temper (thanks dad!) and when I get mad at them for being little butts, you'd better believe I want to haul off and smack those rear ends!  In fact, a time or two, I have been so upset and frustrated and mad that I have.

But I know in my heart that that reaction isn't right for me.  It is allowing my anger to control my actions, rather than controlling my anger and dealing rationally with the situation.

#2 I don't think it works.


My parents were spankers.  Spankers, slappers, whippers...nothing abusive, but lets just say my butt was no stranger to the hand or another available object (yes, there was a wire hanger incident).  And I even got backhanded across the face a few times for sarcastic comments. (P.S. Moms and Dads, if you yourself are sarcastic, there is a more than good chance that your kids will learn to be sarcastic too.  Heads up!)

But let me tell you this.  Spanking hurts...for a few minutes.  (My parents never really hit me hard enough to cause major bruising or long lasting pain.)  Then it's over.  You go in your room, cry for a few minutes, then pick up a book.  You give your parents the silent treatment for a few hours, but mostly...no big deal.  Back to life as normal.

But you know what was torture?  Being grounded.  Or being grounded from the tv.  Or the worst of the worst: Having my phone privileges taken away.  Ah man!  I can remember it now, getting a phone call from one of my best friends and hearing my dad say "No, Amber can't come to the phone right now. She is grounded from the phone." Torture!


So when Thing 1 purposefully hit Thing 2 the other day with his new tee-ball bat because "he wasn't moving out of my way and I didn't like that", we didn't spank him.  We took away his bat, put him in time out for 5 minutes while we tended to Thing 2.  Then we told Thing 2 to tell Thing 1 how being hit with the bat made him feel.  And then we told Thing 1 "no baseball for 3 days."  Good grief, the crying that ensued.  You'd have thought I beat the kid with the baseball bat myself.  And over the next 3 days, almost every time he asked to go play ball or went to pick up a bat, ball, or glove, it was evident that this long term punishment effected him much greater than had I done what I really wanted to do (which was spank his little butt!!).

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Look, I'm not saying my way is right and the other way is wrong.  Two of my closest friends are some of the best moms I know, and they both spank their kids with no regrets. I would never say about them "oh, they just don't know how to control their anger" or "they just take the easy way out and spank their kid" or "they are teaching their kids to be violent."  We have had discussions about spanking and they have their justifications for doing it, and I have voiced my justifications for why we don't (or try not to ;).  But in the end, we all have to make the decisions that feel right for us and our families.


I would just encourage parents to think thoughtfully about why you choose the discipline measures you choose.  Because if you thoughtfully consider which method you most believe in and feel works best for your family, then that is the right decision!


Oh, and P.S. to go back to the original comment...Superman was never spanked a day in his life.  He was a model kid (a parent's dream!) and has turned out to be an ace teacher, a fantastic father, and committed husband.  So, I refute the insinuation that kids who aren't spanked are undisciplined and not respectful. Superman is proof that you can discipline without corporal punishment and still raise a lovely, law-abiding, rule following, respectful, contributing member of society. :)

What do you do when you don't like a kid?

Yesterday one of my favorite bloggers posted a blog about having a nanny.  And one of the things I thought was interesting about her justification for being a stay-at-home-mom with a nanny is that only in the United States do we have this "my child, my problems" mentality.  Almost everywhere else still lives by the "it takes a village approach."

It got me thinking: As an American, I am very careful about reprimanding other people's children, because you never know when a parent will go ape-shit on you.

"Oh no you didn't just tell my child to stop kicking that kid!"

The next thing I know I'd be in a youtube video titled "Moms get in cat fight at playground."

So what do you do when a little kid is being a jerk?  

Really, at a playground is the easiest place to deal with this situation.  Tell your kid to stay away from the kid that is hitting/pushing/calling names/spitting/acting a fool.  If he doesn't, just leave.  You will most likely never see that little jerk again.

And while all kids can be little jerks once in a while, what do you do when there is a kid you know that is just generally a little jerk most of the time?

If it is a friend's kid, we just stop hanging out with that friend when the kids are involved.

But what do you do when the kid, the one that you see as a negative influence, is a more permanent fixture in your child's life that you can't simply weed out? What do you do if they are in their class at school, or go to the same church, or are on the same tee-ball team, or live on the same block.  Are you going to have them change classes?  Switch churches?  Transfer leagues?  Move!?!?  Even if you would/could do any of those things, in all likelihood, you'd just run into a new, different problem kid there, too.  You can't just keep moving.

And let me interrupt for a second to say that we in no way think our kids are perfect. All you have to do is read my blog to know that I know my kids can be loud and unruly. They can be mean (but usually only to each other).  But #1 we acknowledge our children's imperfections, and we are constantly working on positive reinforcement and constructive discipline to curb these behaviors. But most parents with the kids I can't stand think that their kid wears a halo and poops rainbows.  (You can't fix it if you can't/won't admit there is something wrong.) #2 I don't want them picking up any more bad behaviors while we are trying to correct the ones they already have!

Am I the only one with these dilemmas?  Are other parents facing similar situations?  What do you do???

Or am I just a jerk for thinking little kids can be jerks?

Happy Father's Day Superman

I recently posted this article about Fathers on my facebook page, commenting how I'm so glad that both Superman and my own father are the good kind of fathers.  The kind that have made being active with their kids a priority in their lives.  A father who is actually an equal parent and an equal spouse, doing housework and laundry because it is a household responsibility, not claiming it's woman's work.  (On the same token, I have been known to roll up my sleeves and mow the lawn and take out the trash and grab my tool box to fix a faulty light switch or replace a toilet, because it's not men's work.)

I thought: How sad that this needs to be written in 2011.  It seems like such a 1950s idea of woman as caretaker and man as standoffish provider.  But sadly, I do personally know couples where the mother does do it all while the father works.  And when he comes home he needs his "me time" to unwind from working.  And then spends hours and hours of golfing on the weekends.  For some of them it works (and good for them, who am I to judge), but for most of them...it doesn't.  The women feel over burdened and unappreciated.  And they are sad to see their children who idolize their daddies, getting so little of his time or attention.  And they fume when the absentee fathers suggest having "just one more" baby.  One of my friends even secretly had her tubes tied during her c-section, and as far as I know STILL hasn't told her husband, because he wanted more kids and she didn't.  And some of these women eventually became so tired of being single mothers that they eventually left their husbands to be actual single mothers.

I wouldn't say that I'm lucky Superman turned out to be a good dad, because I always knew he would be.  In fact, that is part of why I fell in love with him.  Part of why I knew I wanted to marry him. We met when we were both working for a non-profit organization that provided care and job opportunities for adults with physical and mental disabilities.  Watching the care, patience, and compassion he had for a population most people are afraid of, I could see the kind of father he would one day be.  And throughout our dating, as I got to know him better and better, I just became more sure of this.

Because remember ladies, we don't live in a patriarchal society with archaic arranged marriages.  We CHOOSE our mates.  We CHOOSE who we want to procreate with.  Who we want to share our genes with and our lives.

In fact, when I first met Superman, I was actually dating someone else.  This guy was fun, funny, interesting, and he adored me (who wouldn't love that?).  I knew he wanted to marry me.  I knew he wanted to have kids with me.  But the thing was, as fun as he was to date...I knew he was not the guy I wanted to be the father of my children.  First of all, he had a son.  And honestly, as much as I liked the guy, I thought he was a pretty lousy father.  True, there are some other factors why I knew he wasn't the one that I won't go into here, but the bottom line was even without any of those other factors, seeing him father his son, I knew I would not be having kids with him.

But I guess maybe I was lucky.

Lucky that Superman didn't change. Some women I know have married men who maybe they thought would be great dads, but somewhere along the line they made their careers a priority over parenting.

Lucky that he turned out to be an even better dad than I ever hope or imagined.

When I found out I was pregnant, we immediately started discussing whether or not we could afford for one of us to stay home.  Even from the beginning, it wasn't how I would stay home.  It was which one of us.  Prior to getting pregnant, we had never discussed how to handle child care.  Which in hindsight was a mistake.  However, as luck would have it we both were in 100% agreeance that we didn't want to put a baby in daycare, and that we would find a way to make sure that, at least for the first year, one of us would stay home to raise it.

Because we had just moved to a new state for my job, and Superman didn't even have a full time job yet (did I mention the pregnancy was unplanned?), he volunteered to stay home.

Then we found out we were having twins.

He didn't bat an eye.  In fact, once he found out we were having twin boys, he seemed pretty excited for his "guy time".

After one year, we both agreed that the arrangement was working so well that he would go ahead and stay home another year.  At the end of year two, we decided to go for another!  For three years, he was the primary caregiver, before we decided it was time for the boys to head to pre-school, and for Superman to re-enter the outside-of-home-workforce again.  I was both happy (for the boys starting a new chapter of their lives and for Superman getting a chance to work among peers again) and sad (because for three years I never had to worry about my children's care and happiness).

But you would not believe how many comments I heard from other women (mothers and non-mothers) saying "I would never let anyone else raise my children".  Excuse me?  I didn't drop them off with some stranger, they were at home with their father.  What makes you think that you have more of a right to raise your children than he does?  What makes you think you'd even be better at it?

Honestly, are there things I probably would have done differently (like more scheduled activities and taking the kids on playdates), but I say probably because I realize some things are easier said than done.  What I think I would have done and what I actually would have done might be two wholly different things...

But I can tell you what they did learn from their daddy that they most likely wouldn't have learned from me (at least not as well):

Patience.  I am much more hot-headed and quick to temper than my calm-demeanored husband; I love that they seem to have acquired his personality.  After all, if I hadn't thought he was pretty great, I wouldn't have married him.

A love for music.  Sure, I love to sing along with the radio, but by three years old, my boys already knew how to keep a beat on drums and hold a guitar the right way as they lip synced to old school 80s rock songs, thanks to hours and hours of home jam sessions.  I swear to you they can tell the difference between Girls, Girls, Girls, Crazy Train, I Love Rock n' Roll, and Jump by just the first two bars of the song.

A love for the outdoors.  Even on the hottest of days, when I would have hidden away in the security of the air conditioning, Superman would venture outside with the boys and find something fun to do.  Whether it was splashing around in the wading pool, looking for bugs, or just taking a short walk.

How to be active.  Superman is an avid runner, and loves being active.  He would take the boys on really long walks, all around our little town.  Often walking them up to my work to visit me during the day.  Now 4 years old, Thing 1 and Thing 2 really show the benefits of being raised by someone so active.  (Not to say that I'm a lazy-ass, but let's just say I find doing a craft project more fun than taking a 5 mile walk pushing a double stroller.)

I could go on.  But, my point is...yes, we are different parents.  But neither one of us is the inherently better parent based on whether we sit or stand when we pee.  We both have our strengths and our weaknesses.  And I like to think that as co-parents we compliment one another well and have raised two amazingly awesome kids because of it.

I think it is time to stop accepting that fathers are some kind of second rate parents.  Quit describing a dad spending time with his kids as "babysitting" or "giving mom a break", he is just doing what he is supposed to be doing...being a parent!  Quit having such low expectations of what a father looks like.  EXPECT a father to be a parent.  A real parent.

And don't accept this "I work hard all day" as an excuse for not parenting nonsense.  Guess what?  For three years I was the working parent with the 9-5 job, yet I somehow managed to come home, change my clothes, and go play with my kids...and my husband (because that is important too).  In fact, everyday I would make sure to 1. notice and give Superman a compliment about the house, 2. give him a rest from the kids (stay-at-homes need this "me time" much more than working parents I think), 3. cook dinner, and we alternated days for who gave the evening bath.  Was it tiring?  Of course.  But who ever said being a parent would be easy?

I'm happy to say that its summertime again, and school is out.  Which means my husband has left his Clark Kent job as high school teacher to resume his role of Superman stay-at-home-dad.  So, for the next 2.5 months, I can rest easing knowing Thing 1 and Thing 2 will be having the summer fun of their lives!

And honestly, I'm pretty jealous.  Because who wouldn't want to spend all day hanging out with this guy --->?

A Mother's Intuition

I really need to learn to trust my mother's intuition.

Monday afternoon, right before lunch time, I got a call from the boys' school that Thing 2 was running a fever.  So, I left work to go pick him up and spend the rest of the day at home with him.  He was definitely feverish (hovering around 102 all night) and moaning and groaning and whimpering the most pitiful "nope" to just about every question I asked.  Around 11 pm, he started vomiting, and continued vomiting over the next few hours. Then, around 3 am, he finally fell into a deep, yet still fitful sleep.

Some things are going on at work right now that make me really anxious about taking too many days off and Superman doesn't have any sick days right now (long story), so I arranged for Grandma Train to come over on Tuesday and stay with him.  These boys tend to bounce back really quickly from sicknesses, so I didn't have too much guilt about abandoning him while he was ill.  I figured he'd be running around like normal in no time.  Besides, I was planning on going home to check on him around lunch time.

Well, Superman beat me to it.  He stopped by on his lunch break to help take Thing 2's temperature and help administer the next dose of pain killer (Grandma Train has a bad back, so while she can read to, play with, and comfort the boys, she can't lift our 36-lb sack of sick potatoes or have the strength to fight him to take his medicine or temperature.).  Around  11:30 or so, I get a phone call, Thing 2's temperature is 104.1.  At this point, I still wasn't positive I was taking him to the doctor's but I knew that a kid this sick needed his mom and Grandma Train needed some relief.

When I got home, it was 45 minutes after a cool bath and a dose of Ibuprofen, and he was still burning up.  I took his temp again (103.5) and called the doctor's office.  My mother's intuition said that my kid was really sick.  I'd never seen him so whiny and moany and miserable.  But, the nurse on the other end said based on his symptoms, and as long as the pain reliever was bringing the fever down some (even if just 1 degree), wait for 3 days and if his fever still didn't subside, to bring him in.

Later that afternoon, you could add diarrhea to the symptoms.

All that night he was feverish (pain killers only brought it down 1/.5 degree or so), lethargic, and all around not feeling good.  Superman slept in the guest room.  While I barely slept with Thing 2 in our bed.

The next day was more of the same.  More high temps.  More moody, whiny, needy boy who didn't know what he wanted, uncomfortable, and couldn't be satisfied.  Papaw Train did come buy with treats.  And he seemed to perk up enough to go downstairs and play trains.  But he fell asleep while playing, and Papaw left.  When he woke up, his temp was back up to 104 and he was as miserable as ever.

Later that afternoon, he started complaining about his belly hurting, rubbing down in his lower abdomen.  All along he has been barely eating, so I figured it must be an empty tummy.  Superman came home and got worried it was appendicitis.  We were on the verge of calling the doctor again when out of nowhere Thing 2 started acting better.  So much better in fact, he was walking around saying his "sick is broken now" and ready to go back to school.  He even ate a fair amount of dinner.  I was thrilled.  It definitely seemed he was on the mend.  And I was telling myself that that nurse had been right...that I just had to wait out the symptoms and they'd disappear on their own.

Bed time came and Thing 2 was whiny and threw a fit that we weren't letting him sleep in our bed yet again.  I explained that sick boys get to sleep in mommy and daddy's bed and well boys sleep in their own bed.

After missing half a day on Monday, half a day on Tuesday, and a full day on Wednesday, I was preparing for a good night sleep to go back to work on Thursday.

Wrong.

At about 1:30 am, our bed was invaded yet again by my whiny feverish hot box.  103.8 and as moany and miserable as ever. I guess his sick wasn't broken after all.

When asking Thing 2 what was hurting, he kept rubbing his lower abdomen and saying his tummy.  Superman gave me the look.  He was really worried about appendicitis.  He had just had his taken out 3 years ago when the boys were babies, and hadn't experienced the typical textbook symptoms.  So he was very convinced it was possible Thing 2's symptoms didn't have to follow the book either.  I wasn't as convinced (or at all), but I was up losing sleep over how to make my baby feel better and why I'd waited so long to take him to the doctor.  Now it was 3:30 am and I was counting down the minutes until 8 am when I could take him to see his doctor.

I guess I finally fell asleep, because around 7 am I woke up.  The first thing I did was feel Thing 2's forehead.  No fever.  But this time, when he woke up, he was not acting fine.  He might not have had a fever, but he was still whiny and moany with sick eyes.  He was still the sick version of himself.  I went ahead and called and make the appointment.  Then we got his brother dressed and dropped him off at school.

Thing 2 at first was upset he couldn't stay at school (mostly because he wanted to do the morning activity), but then perked up when we went to the donut shop.  Here is where I start doubting myself again...in the car to and while at the donut shop he was acting fine again.  Chatty.  Sweet.  Inquisitive.  And he seemed to have an appetite.  He ate 3/4 of his "white donut" (powdered sugar) and 1/4 of his "brown milk".

I'm thinking: Great, I'm taking him in to the doctor's with no fever and acting fine.  A waste of money and time.

But we press on.  At the doctor's office, his temperature is 98.7.  Perfectly normal.  But, he is acting weird again.  Lots of "nope" answers.  When I tell the doctor about the abdomen, she asked him if his belly hurts and he says a pitiful "yea".  Then she asks if his hair hurts and he says a pitiful "yea".  Then she points out that it's hard to diagnose children this age because of their lack of ability to effectively communicate.

One look at his throat with her little doctor light though, and the need for communication went out the window.  "Looks pretty red back there.  Let's get a strep test done."

My big boy opened wide and said "ahh" and about 5 minutes later, it was official...he has his first case of strep throat.  Fifteen minutes later, he had his first dose of amoxicillin.

Five hours later, he is feeling much better.  But I feel awful.  How could I have made him suffer through 3 days of aches and fevers when he had a legitimate illness?  When I get strep, I am at the doctor's within hours and getting my antibiotics.  No way I would suffer through without my drugs.  But I didn't want to be that mom bringing her kid to the doctor for some virus that would pass and there was nothing they could give them anyway.  Yet, on Tuesday and Wednesday both I had the nagging doubt of "should I go ahead and just take him in?" and didn't.

I still don't want to be that parent who takes her kid into the doctor for every cough and sneeze, but next time I'll know that if I know my kid is feeling miserable and really not himself, that I'll follow my mother's intuition on when to take him to see the doctor.

Don't Sweat the Small Stuff

Rule number one is, don't sweat the small stuff. Rule number two is, it's all small stuff. ~Robert Eliot

Last Wednesday was like any other evening in our household.  Moments after I got home from work, Superman was out the door for a run, leaving me to deal with Thing 1 and Thing 2 running around rambunctiously and wreaking havoc around the house while I was trying to cook dinner.  They were alternating between trying to "help" me and just helping themselves to anything that would drive me crazy (using a pen to write on the couch, drawing on my table with crayons, spilling an entire tube of go-gurt on the rug).  Needless to say, by the time bedtime came, my last thought as I was shutting out their light was "THANK GOD!"  They were going to bed and I'd have some peace and quiet.

Superman brought some laundry up for us to fold, we turned on the tv to watch our shows, and I popped open my laptop to check my email one last time.   But what I found in my inbox was devastating.  A friend of mine, one of my best childhood friends, had sent me a message letting me know that her son had passed away that afternoon.  I must have re-read the email five times, because I kept thinking I was misunderstanding it.  It wasn't until Superman came and sat next to me did I realize I was crying and quietly saying "oh my god" over and over.  A beautiful, healthy, 16 month old child had suddenly and unexplainably aspirated in his sleep during his afternoon nap.  That poor child.  That poor mother.  That poor family.

Around that time, Thing 1 comes plodding down the hallway crying that his brother had hit him.  Usually my rule is that if you aren't bleeding and nothing is broken, you go back to your room.  But instead I grabbed my child and hugged him and held him while I cried.  Cursing myself for getting angry about spilled yogurt.  Cursing myself for thinking "Thank God" as I put them to bed that night.  Because really, all of the clean carpets and neatly folded laundry in the world isn't worth even one less second with my child.  Yet, in the hum-drum of everyday life, we often forget this.  Death of a child, especially a healthy one, is so unimaginable, unfathomable, that we often take our every days with them for granted.  At least I know I'm guilty of it.

Of all of the poignant and heartfelt things my friend has written about her son since his passing, the thing that made me cry the hardest was this line from a poem she wrote for him:

Next came a bath, where you soaked the whole entire floor,
What I would give right now to clean it up once more.

I don't really subscribe to the everything happens for a reason philosophy.  I can't think of any good reason to take this young child from his loving and doting family.  However, I do believe that good things can come out of even the most terrible of situations.  For my friend and her family, I can't imagine what good will come out of this event for them, however, I'm confident something will.  Eventually.

For me, I know that over the past week as I've dealt with some upsetting news at work and some other bad news (because when it rains it pours), I just keep reminding myself that none of those things really matter in the end.  It's all just small stuff.  Stained carpets and couches and broken lamps can be replaced.  ACs can be repaired.  New jobs can be found.  But you can never, ever, ever, replace your child.

As I sit beside Thing 2, laying in his pajamas in mommy and daddy's bed with sick eyes and a fever of 103<, moaning and groaning, and telling me his head hurts; my heart aches because I can't magically make him feel better.  But, I feel so unbelievably lucky and undeservedly blessed that my baby boy is only momentarily ill.  That overall he is a happy and healthy child.  They both are.  That I have been lucky enough to be their mother for almost 4 years.  And I pray with all of my might that I will be lucky and undeservedly blessed to be their mother for 40 more.

I hate mornings

I hate mornings.  But not for the same reason most people probably hate mornings.

I've always considered myself a morning person.  I'm like my dad in that way.  And it turns out that Thing 1 and Thing 2 follow in our footsteps, because those little guys wake up in amazing moods 99% of the time.  Most mornings, they don't even wake up groggy.  They just seem to pop up excited and ready to play.

But that is the problem.  They want to play.  They are happy, sweet, and playful...  and mommy is all business, trying to get ready for work and school.

It breaks my heart, because mornings are the most one-on-two time I get with them.  Superman leaves for work at about 7:15, which means it's just me and my boys until it's time to take them to school.  I want to just lay in bed and cuddle with them while they tell me about their dreams (which they always seem so excited to tell you about), or get down on the ground and play trains, or play endless scenarios of "doggy", but I can't because I'm racing the clock.

Over and over again, my meanest mommy moments (which are also the most disappointed in myself parenting moments) always happen in the morning, while trying to get them ready for school.  At the time that my kids are perhaps at their sweetest and best, I turn into Momzilla.

They don't want to get dressed (because they want to stay in their pajamas and play) so I find myself physically restraining them to put their clothes on.  They want to play, but I get angry when I walk in the living room and find that they've pushed the coffee table over to the front closet and are standing on it to get their Candy Land game off of the top shelf, spilling dozens of other games in the process.  No matter how many times I promise myself I won't lose my tempter, I invariably end up yelling at some-Thing in the morning for something.  And I hate myself for it.

Some mornings I give in to the desire to just be mommy with them and enjoy their morning mood.  Like this morning.  I had just gotten out of the shower, when I heard Thing 2's soft whispering.  He was sitting in mommy and daddy's bed, next to Thing 1 (who was still sleeping) and saying "Time to get up brother."  Within minutes, both were giggling and laughing under my covers.  So, I abandoned the urge to use the time to blow dry my hair and put on my makeup, and I hopped in bed next to them.  We played tickle monster.  Thing 2 played puppy.  Thing 1 and I took turns giving puppy commands.  We gave lots of sweet kisses.  It was heaven.

But then at some point, I thought "Ugh, we are going to be so late."  So I got up and got back to getting ready.  The rest of the morning included a Thing 2 not wanting to get dressed fit.  A Thing 1 not wanting the breakfast Superman had set out for them.  And me walking into the coffee table incident described above after I finished blow drying my hair.

Our utopic morning in bed was long forgotten as my frustration and irritation grew.

I don't know what the solution is.  Some people say "wake them up earlier so you don't feel so rushed"  However... 1. when you wake them up, they wake up grumpy, 2. we'd have to put them to bed earlier, and I already feel like I barely get any time with them in the evening.

I need a different job.  I need to be a free-lance something or other, working from home.  Or a professor, where I could set my teaching time for afternoons.  Something where I didn't have to push my happy children out of bed and into the arms of others at 8:30 am every morning.

Sometimes I really miss Superman being a stay at home dad.  The boys could stay in their pajamas as long as they wanted!  Often, I'd come home for lunch and the three of them would still be in their pajamas with disheveled hair and in the happiest of moods.

Happy Birthday to me!

Na-na-na-na-na-na...You say it's your birthday
Na-na-na-na-na-na...It's my birthday too--yeah

Today is my 32nd birthday.  I am one of those people who loves their birthday.  I usually start counting down in my head about a month out.  My mom and brother both have birthdays in early March, so as soon as theirs pass, I start thinking of mine.  But this year, my birthday really crept up on me.  It wasn't until this past Friday, April Fool's Day, that I thought oh yeah, my birthday is in a few days.  (That is also the first day my husband seemed to remember I had a looming birthday as well.)

Don't worry, I'm not turning into one of those "my birthday doesn't mean anything people," because I still love my birthday!  I love receiving cards.  Unwrapping presents.  Blowing out birthday candles.  Eating cake!  And all of the other it's-your-day specialness that comes with turning one year older.  The 21st century has brought even more virtual birthday goodness in the form of birthday text messages and Facebook messages.  So far this morning, I've been wished Happy Birthday by at least 35 people!  It's a nice surprise to open your email and find the inbox overflowing with wishes for you to have the best day ever.  Especially when you didn't get one at home.

I'm not saying Superman forgot my birthday, but I am saying that in the rush to get ready this morning, he did not wish me a Happy Birthday.  Nor did he make me breakfast, leave me a card, or in any other way indicate that he remembered or cared.  It brought back memories of my 10th birthday, the year that my parents forgot.  Okay, they didn't Sixteen Candles me and forget completely, but they did forget to wish me a Happy Birthday in the morning.  It wasn't until they were both at work did they realize and call one another... "Did you?"  "No.  Did you?"  "No."  Uh-oh!  I ended up getting my first  delivery of flowers that day.  I remember because my dad had always said flowers were a waste of money, and they both agreed I was too young to appreciate them anyway.  But guilt trumps practicality!

Meanwhile, I'm not one to sit and mope about not getting what I want.  Instead, I decided to make my own birthday treat.  There is a cute locally owned donut shop in town that I haven't been to since we moved back almost two years ago.  After getting Thing 1 and Thing 2 ready for school, I asked them if they wanted to go get a birthday treat with Mommy, and we headed to Crescent Donuts.  I let each of the boys pick out one donut.  Thing 1 got a cherry filled donut with cream cheese icing.  Thing 2 got a powdered sugar donut.  And I got my favorite: Boston Cream.  We completed our order with two cold milks and sat down at a table.

The boys were especially cute this morning.  They were dressed in jeans and coordinating personalized baseball t-shirts (Thing 1's was blue of course, and Thing 2's was red), and they were so well behaved as they sat and ate their doughnuts.  The feisty old men at the counter sipping coffee were enamored with my little guys.  They asked them their names, ages, and if they had girlfriends.  They got a big kick out of Thing 2 saying his girlfriend was "R---" and then Thing 1 saying "two R---s", with Thing 2 nodding and saying "yea, two R----s" (because he has two little girl friends with the same name).  "That's right son, start early!" they chuckled.

I should point out that when Thing 1 was about about halfway through eating his jelly filled donut, he decided he didn't like it and that we should trade.  So, he ended up eating my Boston Cream.  My-oh-my how motherhood changes things.  Even my day is really still their day.

We'll see what Superman does this evening to make up for his birthday faux-pas this morning.  Let me give you a hint: it'd better include chocolate!

**Update: No phone call, email, text, NOTHING from Superman during the workday.  I came home from work a little early and caught him with Thing 1 and Thing 2 in the kitchen, covered with chocolate cake batter.  The boys were screaming "Happy Birthday Mommy!  We made you a cake!"  Then Superman gave me two cards, one from him and one from the boys, and a dozen roses.  Then he took me out for dinner at the restaurant of my choice (yes, I CHOSE Steak n' Shake!).  Then it was to Lowe's to buy my birthday present...a few Closetmaid pieces for additional storage in my craft room.  But the real present is that he never once bitched about my craft room being the most expensive room in the house.  And, he even helped me turn the screws a few times putting it together.


Later that night, I asked him point blank if he realized he had never wished me Happy Birthday that morning.  And he said yes.  But he said by the time he realized it when he got to work, he decided not to call or text me, but to make it seem like he'd totally forgotten and surprise me with the cake and flowers when I got home.


In the end, I had a pretty rocking birthday, so I won't complain.


P.S.  A shout out to my parents who bought me an awesome new craft table for my craft room!  In my mom's words "because we know you wouldn't spend the money on yourself."  Ah, she knows me too well.

Child Worship

In the early 21st century, the late comedian George Carlin defined "Child Worship" as an "excessive devotion to children by professional parents."  Of course, he is a comedian, so he also described these parents as "obsessive diaper sniffers," who are "over-managing their children and robbing them of their childhood."  He refers to those who fill their child's day planners with structured play dates and tutors and teams, etc. instead of allowing them good ol' fashioned play time (playing in the dirt with a stick).

Carlin's main objection to Child Worship seems to be it's contribution to the "self-esteem movement," which he said causes children to experience an artificially indoctrinated notion that they're "special" and "perfect" as if everything they do is wonderful and they have no flaws.  Not to say Carlin implied that all children are terrible, rather he asserts that they are merely "incomplete works."  You know, still learning things.  Making plenty of mistakes in the process.  The biggest fault Carlin finds with this "specialness training" is that we are breeding a generation of narcissist. 

What's so great about having high self-esteem he quips?  "All sociopaths have high self-esteem."

He goes on to say "A lot of kids never get to hear the truth about themselves until they're in their twenties when their boss fires them."

I will admit that as a parent, I can be guilty of Child Worship.  I adore my children.  Beyond adore.  I talk about them all the time.  It's hard for me to have a conversation with someone and not bring up a reference to them (or Superman).  What's funny is that I'm aware I do it, self-conscious of it really.  I can sometimes sense people's disinterest or even annoyance.  But I can't seem to stop.  The more I try to suppress it, the more it seems to pour out like word-vomit. Because they are my world.  My life revolves around those three guys, and I feel like most things I experience are somehow entwined with at least one of them.  

My office is filled, and I mean FILLED, with pictures of my family.  Baby pictures.  School pictures.  Old Christmas cards.  A wall calendar with collages of their pictures.  A digital picture frame on constant rotate of their faces.

Even on Valentine's Day, a day meant for lovers, Superman and I gave one another cards*, but made bags filled with candy and treats attached to heart shaped balloons for the loves of our lives...our boys.

*Although, I must brag on Superman for sneaking a cute balloon into my car while I was at work.  It was a sweet surprise to come out to at 5 pm.

Hello, I even started a blog about them!

But as much as I allow my life and love to be consumed by these 3.5 foot creatures, I do try to keep it in perspective.  I admit my kids aren't perfect.  Far from.  I know they are super rambunctious, loud, obstinate, stubborn, and independent to a point of being frustrating.  And we are working on that.  They are behind in speech development.  We are working on that.  They took almost 15 months to completely potty train.  Luckily, I think we are done (knock on wood) working on that.

And I know Superman and I aren't perfect parents.  I won't dare to speak for him on his parenting-weaknesses, but I will admit that I have plenty.  I'm impatient, get frustrated and lose my temper.  I yell too much.  I complain about being gone from them all day, but once I get home I will use just about any excuse to try and keep from playing trains on the ground with them.  And I can be lazy, letting things I know they should do slide because I'm too tired to force them to do it (flossing!).

But I don't beat myself up too much.  Sure, somedays I feel like the world's worst mother.  But then my son says an unprompted "I love you mommy" or I get a hand drawn Valentine's Day card with a train on it that says "I choo-choo-choose you Valentine" and all of that melts away.  I don't need my sons to become doctors that cure cancer, go to Harvard, or even get all As to feel like I succeeded as a parent.  I just want them to be happy, healthy, and normal.

Sure, I sign them up for music class, swim class, and tee-ball, but that's not because I think they need it to get ahead in this world, but because I have fond memories of being involved with these kinds of things when I was a kid.  The majority of my best childhood friendships formed not on a playground, but as part of an extracurricular activity.

And much more than wanting my boys to  be accomplished or to "feel special", I just want to teach them to be kind, loving, good people who are thoughtful and considerate of others and their feelings. I want them to be the kids in the class that are nice to everyone...from the little ESL boy who doesn't speak any English to the chubby kid everyone else teases to yes, even the bully who is mean to them.

It broke my heart yesterday to hear certain kids in their preschool class say "I'm not giving Valentine's to Thing1 and Thing2".  And I wondered, what in the world would make a child at 3, 4, or 5 years old already be so mean?  Do their parents know their child would say something like this?  Would their parents care or chalk it up to "Oh, you know kids..."?  To me, this is unacceptable behavior.  If Thing1 or Thing2 ever said such a thing about one of their classmates, I would tell them they gave out cards to everyone or no one.  Because I feel strongly that we are teaching our children right now how to treat others.  Are the kids who are exclusionary of their peers in preschool the ones who start hate-campaigns on Facebook as teenagers?  The ones that are cliquy and backstabbing as adults?  Or is it merely a stage all kids go through and will simply outgrow?  I don't know, but I'm not taking that chance with my kids.  "Do unto others as you would have done unto you" is something I strongly believe in and am determined to teach my children to observe.  And that means that not everyone has to be your friend, but you still have to be nice to them.

I'm just glad that right now Thing1 and Thing2 are too young to truly understood the whole Valentine's Day thing.  They didn't seem to hear the offending statements, or at least understand or care, nor notice in the mass confusion of card giving if they were missing a few from certain classmates.  They were perfectly happy handing out their cards with treats to ALL of their classmates.  Which made me happy and proud of them.

And if being concerned about my 3 year olds' feelings over something as trivial as Valentine's Day cards makes George Carlin categorize me as a "Child Worshipping" parent, than bring on the religious car emblem, because I'll display it proudly.  Right next to my "My child is nice to your Honor Roll student" bumper sticker.

My how date nights have changed

Last week, Superman and I were feeling very frustrated with parenthood and mentioned to his parents that we'd love a night off.  So, they offered to take the boys overnight one night this weekend.  Let the countdown begin!  Everyday it was "# more sleeps til your sleepover at Grandma and Papaw's."  The boys were looking forward to their slumber party at their grandparents' house, but not as much as we were looking forward to our night alone.

Then Saturday came.  Grandma and Papaw came to pick up the boys, and Superman and I still didn't know what we were going to do for our night alone.  At first, we busied ourself around the house working on individual projects.  But as it started getting dark I started bugging him, "what are we going to do tonight?"

Going to a movie sounded too overpriced and there wasn't anything we particularly wanted to see anyway. Dot Dot Dot was playing at the Bluebird, but we couldn't imagine staying up that late to go see a band at a bar.  We didn't want to go out to dinner because I'm back on Weight Watchers and eating out can be tough for me right now.  Basically, none of the traditional date night things were working for us.

So, I said "Do you remember B.C. when we used to cook together all the time?  Let's both cook dinner tonight, just like the old days."  So we did.  We made a delicious shrimp stir-fry and ate it slowly, without having to tell anyone to sit down or take "just two more bites."  Then, we both did the dishes together without having to decide who was going to clean up and who was going to give the bath.

Then, we decided to do something that we never get to do anymore...go shopping alone.  Together.  What a quiet, peaceful, relaxing evening of walking around a store and having the luxury to not hurry.  Not have to worry that something will get broken.  That a boy will wonder off.  Or throw a fit when he doesn't get what he wants.

After thoroughly browsing through some of our favorite stores, we headed home and whipped up a batch of popcorn.  Then, we cuddled up on the couch to watch a movie on Netflix.

We enjoyed a wonderful night of sleeping with no little boys coming in and taking up space, kicking us, stealing blankets, or waking us up early.

Speaking of waking up early... We slept in.  Then took our time getting ready for church in the morning (although we still managed to be late!), and then afterwards continued our shopping spree.  We went to the mall and just enjoyed walking around.  It was heavenly.

This afternoon, Grandma and Papaw brought the boys home and we all enjoyed a big Brinner while the boys excitedly told us about their sleepover.  Eating chicken nuggets, playing with Grandpa's train, and talking to their cousin.

It is wonderful to have the boys home, because we did miss them even after just 24 hours.  But, it was so incredibly nice to have some time to just be us again.  Back to the us we were for almost 5 years before becoming the us we are as parents.

Are they identical?

Are they identical?

Over the past three years, I've learned that there is no easy way to answer this question asked often by well meaning and curious people (friends and strangers alike).

If I say "No, they're fraternal," the response is "No, I think they are identical."  If I say "Yes, they are," the response is "No, I don't think so.  Look, his face is much rounder.  And he is just a little taller."  Either way, I never win.  And honestly, I don't even know which answer is right, myself.

What do I mean?  Well, let's take a brief detour for a quick science lesson, shall we?

Identical twins, technically known as monozygotic twins, are spontaneously formed when one egg and one sperm have joined together and start dividing, just like any normal pregnancy.  However, at some point in this division process, the cell splits into two, which results in not one, but two embryos.  Because of the split, the fetuses will typically end up sharing either a placenta, an embryonic sac, or both, all depending on how early/late in the process the cell splits.  Identical twins, do not "run in families," are not a result of fertility treatments, and do not result in perfect carbon copy children.  While it's true that they share the same initial DNA, there are a other factors that are involved: environmental, lifestyle, etc.  Many of these affect how the twins look over time, however identical twins can come into the world differently too.  Especially since they are more at risk for Twin-to-Twin Transfusion Syndrome (TTTS), which is when the two fetuses receive a disproportionate amount of the blood supply.

Fraternal twins, technically dizygotic twins, are formed when the mother's ovaries release two eggs and both eggs are individually fertilized by sperm.  These twins are genetically no different than any other sibling pair.  They just happen to share a birthday.  However, that doesn't mean that can't look a ton a like (Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen are fraternal twins).  Think about it.  How many times have you heard/seen parents compare pictures of their non-twin children around the same ages and proclaim "They look identical."  My best friend's sons look so much alike that I literally thought two side by side framed pictures were of the same baby.

So, which kind are my boys?  Well, when my doctor found out I was having twins, the first thing she did was look for two sacs and two placentas, because she was concerned about TTTS.  She was glad to report that they did indeed each have their own of both.  She then quickly explained that they were most likely fraternal, with a very small chance of being identical.  I could have a DNA test done, but they are very expensive.  At the time finding out they were most likely fraternal was really good news to me.  I wish I could say it was because I was worried about TTTS.  But really, it was because I was really hoping for one boy and one girl.  And identical twins alway have the same sex.*

*Okay, not always, but almost always with very very few freak exceptions.

Fast forward a few years.  I have two boys who I was told are fraternal, but really do LOOK identical.  And it's not just strangers who can't tell them apart.  It's our friends, our family, and sometimes us! Curiosity takes me to the internet to find out what is the statistical likelihood that they could in fact be identical despite having all their own "parts". Imagine my surprise when I found out that the liklihood is not 1% like I thought, but more like 20% (they just have to have split within the first 72 hours)!.  It's still not huge, but it is 1 in 5.  Those are much better odds than 1 in 100.

So now, I'm thinking "maybe they are identical."  Which then leads me to search for blood tests.  I find out that there are a lot of websites that offer DNA testing for twins.  And, the tests aren't $500 like my doctor told me.  They run about $160 (including shipping).  You order your kit, swab both boys' cheeks, package the swabs up, send them back, and in about 7 days you receive your results.  Easy-peesy.  I'm psyched!  I've got my credit card out and am ready to order.

But something holds me back.  When we got married, Superman and I made a pact not to spend over a certain amount of money without consulting the other.  This was over that amount.  So I put my credit card away and started building my case for why I'd spend $160 on a blood test for absolutely zero medical necessity.  I should have built a better case, because I was DE-NIED!  It was an 'unnecessary expense."  I couldn't argue that it was necessary, because was it?  Really?

With my head hanging low, I called the person with whom I most like to bitch about Superman's stingy nature... my mother-in-law.  Yes, believe it or not, my MIL is my favorite confidant for my complaints about her son.  See, Superman is just like his dad.  And if there is one person who understands my frustrations, it is the woman that has been married to the older version for 40+ years.  Every one of my "ughs" is followed with a reassuring "I know, he does the same thing."

But guess what?  MIL is really interested in the test.  She too thinks they might be identical and really wants to find out for sure.  She offers to pay for the test.  Hmm, so that would take the money issue off the table.

Then I mention the issue to my own mother.  She too wants to find out.  She offers to split the cost with my MIL.

So back to the husband.

And he says... "Nah".  What?  "Nah."  But you said it was an 'unnecessary cost.'  Now, it would be free.  "I just don't want to."

After much "discussion,"  I can best explain that Superman doesn't want the boys to take the test because he doesn't want them to be identical.  He doesn't want them to be one unit split in half, but rather two separate beings with separate identities.  I explain that the test doesn't make them identical.  Whether they are identical or fraternal was determined a long time ago in my uterus, the test would just tell us...  But he won't budge.  He doesn't want to know.  He wants to just go on assuming they are fraternal.  What I don't know doesn't hurt me kind of thinking.

My mother and MIL both encourage me to try and convince him to let the boys take the test, but just don't tell him the results.

Uh, so how does that work?  It'd be like saying "Honey, can I find out the sex of our unborn baby?  I promise I won't tell you."  Meanwhile I'm picking out pink paint for the nursery and buying frilly dresses.  !?!?!?!  There are certain things that are all or nothing.

So far, I've been unable to convince him to change his mind.  And really, should I try?  I mean,  isn't it I who complain that people don't treat them as individuals?

In the end, we made a compromise.  When the boys are older.  If they want to find out for themselves, we will have the test done.  If they don't really care or don't want to know, we won't.  We'll leave it up to them to make that decision.

And I guess I'm happy with that compromise.

Mostly because I'm 100% positive they'll want to find out.

Please don't call them "the twins"

I love being a mom.  And I especially love being the mother of twins.  There is something so sweet and special about the bond my boys share, and have shared since they were womb mates kicking around in my tummy.

When my cousin's wife (who also had twins) found out our good news she told me "parents of twins are the rock stars of parents".  And she was right.  People are drawn to double strollers with two little pink-nosed bundles of joy.  I couldn't go anywhere without throngs of people who would ooh-and-ahh over how beautiful they were and how lucky I was.  I actually sometimes got embarrassed when I'd be out with a friend who also had a baby and strangers would seem to ignore their singleton to fawn over mine.  I would say it's because my boys are especially beautiful, but I know deep down it is because double the baby equals double the cuteness.  Period.

 It seemed that for the first year I had my sons the soundtrack of my life was on a track repeat of "I always wanted to have twins" and stories of "my cousin's sister's neighbor's ex-boyfriend's mother was a twin."  And other parents of twins alternating between "don't worry, I survived" and "it gets better, honey".

And don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining.  I actually liked the attention.  What mother isn't proud to show off her new baby(ies)?!  And believe you me, I played up the twins aspect by keeping them in coordinating outfits.  Even their bibs and blankets were coordinating with each other.  And yes, if one messed up his outfit, they both got changed!  (Even when it was just us at home.)

But as much as I worked to keep them in coordinating outfits, I steered clear of exactly matching.  You see, whether or not my sons are genetically identical (we'll discuss this in a later blog) they look almost exactly alike.  They have the same hair color, the same eye color, the same nose, the same mouth, and since they've been born they have never been more than a few ounces and a 1/4 inch different in size.  Sure, their father and I can tell them apart by their subtle differences (one's face is rounder while the other's is more oval...one has pointy eyebrows while the other's are more arched), but we are their parents.  We have been with them day and night since they were born.  We can tell their laughs apart.  Their voices.  The way they say our names.  We don't expect other people who have just met them, or only see them a few times a year, or even a few times a month, to be able to pick up on those slight differences.  So, since they were born, I have used a color coding system.  Thing1 is almost always dressed in blue and Thing2 is almost always dressed in red.  Which is handy because Thing1's name and blue both have four letters and Thing2's name and red both have three letters."  Of course, not every outfit can match up exactly to this pattern. Sometimes Thing1 ends up in green (almost blue) and Thing2 in orange (almost red).  Again I didn't do this so we could tell them apart, I did this so OTHER people could.  I wanted people to be able to call them by their name, without always having to ask me "which one do I have again?"  (Although, I will admit that three years later as I'm belatedly working on their scrapbooks, it comes in very handy for recognizing who is who in pictures, which is often harder to tell.)

So, you see, I really don't understand why after all of the trouble I go to to make sure the kids are dressed in code, some people don't even bother to try and tell them apart.  The worst was the woman who called them "the twin" and "the other twin".  I didn't say anything right away, but I did let her know later that that really bothered me.  See, I don't even refer to my sons as "the twins."  I will call them "the boys," "my sons," "my kids," but never "the twins" or "my twins".  I do occasionally say "I have twin boys" or "my three year old twin sons", but I try to always use "twin" as an adjective not a noun.

I can't even really clear explain why this bothers me so much.  I guess for me being a twin is a description of them (adjective), not a definition of who they are (noun).  Sure, they are the same age, look amazingly alike, and both love trains, but there are a lot of differences too.  Thing2 loves fruit.  Any fruit.  And will steal it off your plate if you aren't looking.  Thing1 loves carbs and junk food (pray he gets Daddy's metabolism!).  Thing2 is very independent and wants to do everything himself.  He'll play by himself and doesn't care who is playing with him.  Thing1 always wants help and is always trying to recruit someone to come play with him.  He loves to be cuddled and often asks for extra kisses at bedtime.  Thing2 is stingy with affection and rations how much you can kiss and hug him.  Just to name a few.

To me they aren't "my twins" they are two very different children.  Sure, like I said, I call them my boys, but so does any mom with multiple male children, regardless of age.  Or my kids, like moms who have multiple children of different ages and sexes.  But to call them "the twins" to me conjures up creepy images of pale faced dark haired girls in bobby socks willing you to "come play with me".  Or silly twins in movies who laugh alike, walk alike, and even times they talk alike, finishing each other's sentences and trying to switch places to fool their teachers.  I feel like that word "twin" carries so much connotative meaning that I don't want to pigeon hole my children with.

I should say that not all mothers of twin children agree with me.  I know plenty that they themselves call their children "my twins".  So, my suggestion is that you listen for what the mother says and follow her lead.  And if that isn't clear, I think it is always safe to call the children by their names.  I will never get upset with someone for calling them the wrong name.  To me, what is important is the effort.  How would you feel if I called your son or daughter "the baby" or "the kid" all of the time instead of learning their name?

In any case, they are finally at the age where they can correct you!  Which is really a good thing, because their other new thing to show individuality is their desire to pick out their own clothes.  Yesterday Thing2 picked out a blue Thomas the Tank Engine to wear to school, and Thing1 picked out a red shirt with James on it.  And wouldn't you know that I forgot to mention it to their teacher and she confessed to Superman at pick up that she spent the first part of the morning calling them by the wrong names!

My worry...how will I be able to tell them apart in pictures now!