Phew! Things get really dusty around here when no one's around!
Ah. That's better. Now, where was I? Ah, yes... I was having a birthday. Well, hell. That seems sooooo long ago.
You might be happy to know that I've made a mid-year's resolution. (Perhaps I'll be able to better ward off the New Year's Resolution Jinx this way.) I have resolved to renew my blogging. This past 6 months or so has been very stressful for me for no particular reason that I can determine (other than life, itself). Writing has always helped me sort through my feelings of anger, frustration, fear and inadequacy. For my own mental health, and the sanity of my family, I am back.
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Today I would like to direct your attention to an interesting headline I ran across this morning.
1. Breast cancer treatments impact work status. Well, now. There's a news flash! And worse yet, the article was not much more enlightening.
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In other news, I am reading my internet friend and co-blogger at Mothers With Cancer, Laurie Kingston's book, Not Done Yet: Living Through Breast Cancer. Laurie blogs over at Not Just About Cancer. I am sooooo loving her book and will be writing a review shortly.
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Lastly, as our typical summer would have it, my boys are having an extended visit at Nana's house. I really miss them. In theory. Does it make me a bad mom if I'm content to just hear their voices and see the occasional smiling pictures but don't long to have them back home?
I've pondered this question a lot lately. They've been gone 11 days today. Maybe it's because I know this respite has a finite time period; that they'll be back, larger than life, soon enough. Maybe it's because I welcome the peace that has settled over my house in the last 11 days. Maybe it's because Daddy-O and I realized this week that we don't fight when we don't have kids. We love each other when we don't have kids.
We will attempt to remember that once we DO have kids again.
Showing posts with label mommy dearest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mommy dearest. Show all posts
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Please tell me I'm not alone...
I like to think my boys are intelligent. Certainly above average, anyway. Danny particularly. Therefore, I can only assume all the issues we've been having with potty training must be sight related. Please, let there be a logical excuse for the ridiculousness that has taken place inside our bathroom in the last year...
Danny has been steadfast in his resistance toward potty training... at home. At school and the WonderSitter's house he has been, of course, accident free. We were not so lucky at home. In fact, just two weeks ago, he had gone through every pair of underpants he owned between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning.
There have been lots of problems throughout the process that we've dealt with one at a time: his inability to run to the bathroom at will; his tendency to stand wherever he is and yell for us to come take him to the bathroom; his inability to comprehend the need to "tuck" when seated so as not to pee all over the bathroom and his pants and his severe dislike of having his rear end wiped.
Well, we finally got through most of them or at least found a work around... But the tucking issue has had me stymied. I had tried having him stand to pee but he likes to refer to all bathroom actions as "peeing" which can cause a problem if one is standing. So we had sort of given it up from all the confusion. However, last weekend, my mother-in-law somehow breached the communication gap and in a few short hours had him peeing vertically like a man is supposed to a woman wishes she could. He's been very, very proud of himself and hasn't had an accident since.
Until tonight.
About 30 minutes after he'd gone to bed tonight he called out, as usual. Sigh. He had to go pee. So off we trot to the bathroom across the hall. He lifts the toilet seat. I stand behind him and help him pull down his PJ bottoms and overnight diaper. Then he leans forward to rest his thighs on the toilet bowl. "And what comes next?", I prompt, watching for the beginning trickle.
Nothing.
Grunt.
Uh-oh.
I leaned back and looked down. "Danny! You don't poop standing up!" Too late. "Yes. I want to!"
What a mess that turned out to be. Gah!
Danny has been steadfast in his resistance toward potty training... at home. At school and the WonderSitter's house he has been, of course, accident free. We were not so lucky at home. In fact, just two weeks ago, he had gone through every pair of underpants he owned between Friday afternoon and Sunday morning.
There have been lots of problems throughout the process that we've dealt with one at a time: his inability to run to the bathroom at will; his tendency to stand wherever he is and yell for us to come take him to the bathroom; his inability to comprehend the need to "tuck" when seated so as not to pee all over the bathroom and his pants and his severe dislike of having his rear end wiped.
Well, we finally got through most of them or at least found a work around... But the tucking issue has had me stymied. I had tried having him stand to pee but he likes to refer to all bathroom actions as "peeing" which can cause a problem if one is standing. So we had sort of given it up from all the confusion. However, last weekend, my mother-in-law somehow breached the communication gap and in a few short hours had him peeing vertically like a man is supposed to a woman wishes she could. He's been very, very proud of himself and hasn't had an accident since.
Until tonight.
About 30 minutes after he'd gone to bed tonight he called out, as usual. Sigh. He had to go pee. So off we trot to the bathroom across the hall. He lifts the toilet seat. I stand behind him and help him pull down his PJ bottoms and overnight diaper. Then he leans forward to rest his thighs on the toilet bowl. "And what comes next?", I prompt, watching for the beginning trickle.
Nothing.
Grunt.
Uh-oh.
I leaned back and looked down. "Danny! You don't poop standing up!" Too late. "Yes. I want to!"
What a mess that turned out to be. Gah!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The Mysterious Feeding Habits of Eight Year Olds
Ben doesn't eat.
When he was but a wee babe and I, an impressionable new mother bombarded by advertisements on BabyCenter, I ordered his complete astrological chart over the internet. What can I say? I was curious and apparently in possession of much more discretionary income than I have now.
I have never believed in astrology. That is to say, I think it's fun and interesting in a coincidental, "Ha! That is so you (and also me and her and sixteen other people that I know)!", sort of way. Just like Taro Cards but not as creepy. In retrospect, Ben's 20-something page astrological work up is uncannily accurate. Yes. I kept the damn thing. I paid like $20 for it in 2000. I put it in his baby book and ran across it a year or so ago.
What really sticks in my mind, besides the general right-onness of the whole thing, is the prediction that "food will not be a motivating factor in his life." Truer words were never spoke, er, written.
Ben is far and away, the pickiest eater I have ever seen. He loves chicken nuggets. From McDonalds. Not the ones from Burger King. They are too spicy. But he won't eat plain old chicken in any other form without a continuous barage of threats from all adult-types in the near vacinity. Ditto with fries of the french variety. Loves them. But just try to get him to eat tater tots. Tater tots, for God's sake! I lived for those when I was a kid. He barely does pizza and he won't touch a hamburger. Pasta must be sause-free with butter and, shudder, canned parmesan cheese only. He will eat Kraft Macaroni & Cheese but no other incantation of the stuff. On the other hand, he's happy to eat vegetables with the exceptions of broccoli and asparagus.
I just don't get it. If it weren't for peanut butter and jelly I'm pretty sure he'd waste away to nothing.
Once we started him on ADHD meds things just got worse. At that point we could no longer count on the old "when he gets hungry enough, he'll eat" adage. He was simply never hungry.
Until bedtime.
His medication wears off just about an hour before bedtime these days. That last hour can be trying, to say the least. Ben's behavior can get extremely aggressive and confrontational. And he's got a whole day's worth of hunger built up inside.
The problem: How do you teach an eight year old boy to eat at mealtime, even if he isn't that hungry? Because eating at bedtime just is not appropriate. Don't get me wrong. We let him have apples and bananas, an probably way more dessert than he ought to have at that point in the evening. But he's still hungry. It becomes impossible to tell what is true hunger and what is typical bedtime stalling tactics.
Ben's solution: The other day I was straightening up Ben's bed and I noticed two empty cookie packages and a full cheese it package under his covers. He is getting up in the middle of the night and sneaking food. He admitted as much when confronted. This is not the first time he has done this. We told him his punishment would be no sweets at all, nothing but fruit, for a week.
The next day I found frosting in his bed from the cinnamon twists we'd ordered with our pizza. Again, middle of the night snacking. I added two days to his punishment.
Yesterday Daddy-O found a bannana peel in his bed. OK. He's at least eating better in the middle of the night but still.
Anyone have any bright ideas? We're kind of at a loss here.
When he was but a wee babe and I, an impressionable new mother bombarded by advertisements on BabyCenter, I ordered his complete astrological chart over the internet. What can I say? I was curious and apparently in possession of much more discretionary income than I have now.
I have never believed in astrology. That is to say, I think it's fun and interesting in a coincidental, "Ha! That is so you (and also me and her and sixteen other people that I know)!", sort of way. Just like Taro Cards but not as creepy. In retrospect, Ben's 20-something page astrological work up is uncannily accurate. Yes. I kept the damn thing. I paid like $20 for it in 2000. I put it in his baby book and ran across it a year or so ago.
What really sticks in my mind, besides the general right-onness of the whole thing, is the prediction that "food will not be a motivating factor in his life." Truer words were never spoke, er, written.
Ben is far and away, the pickiest eater I have ever seen. He loves chicken nuggets. From McDonalds. Not the ones from Burger King. They are too spicy. But he won't eat plain old chicken in any other form without a continuous barage of threats from all adult-types in the near vacinity. Ditto with fries of the french variety. Loves them. But just try to get him to eat tater tots. Tater tots, for God's sake! I lived for those when I was a kid. He barely does pizza and he won't touch a hamburger. Pasta must be sause-free with butter and, shudder, canned parmesan cheese only. He will eat Kraft Macaroni & Cheese but no other incantation of the stuff. On the other hand, he's happy to eat vegetables with the exceptions of broccoli and asparagus.
I just don't get it. If it weren't for peanut butter and jelly I'm pretty sure he'd waste away to nothing.
Once we started him on ADHD meds things just got worse. At that point we could no longer count on the old "when he gets hungry enough, he'll eat" adage. He was simply never hungry.
Until bedtime.
His medication wears off just about an hour before bedtime these days. That last hour can be trying, to say the least. Ben's behavior can get extremely aggressive and confrontational. And he's got a whole day's worth of hunger built up inside.
The problem: How do you teach an eight year old boy to eat at mealtime, even if he isn't that hungry? Because eating at bedtime just is not appropriate. Don't get me wrong. We let him have apples and bananas, an probably way more dessert than he ought to have at that point in the evening. But he's still hungry. It becomes impossible to tell what is true hunger and what is typical bedtime stalling tactics.
Ben's solution: The other day I was straightening up Ben's bed and I noticed two empty cookie packages and a full cheese it package under his covers. He is getting up in the middle of the night and sneaking food. He admitted as much when confronted. This is not the first time he has done this. We told him his punishment would be no sweets at all, nothing but fruit, for a week.
The next day I found frosting in his bed from the cinnamon twists we'd ordered with our pizza. Again, middle of the night snacking. I added two days to his punishment.
Yesterday Daddy-O found a bannana peel in his bed. OK. He's at least eating better in the middle of the night but still.
Anyone have any bright ideas? We're kind of at a loss here.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Uncomfortable Truth
Two days and counting, until we pick Ben* up in Oregon on the way to our family reunion. (*I have decided to do away with the initials for the boys as I have links to Flickr and other sites with their real names. Beside, I'm easily confused not to mention lazy.) I'm very excited. So is Danny. He told me last night that Ben is not allowed to leave home again! In case you were wondering how long he had to be gone before I really missed him... I know I was... The answer is six weeks.
Up until the six week mark I was thriving on the peace and general lack of raised voices around our house in the evenings. I guess around that time the yelling faded far enough into the distance that I could miss him again. Does that make me a bad parent? Because I have come to a very uncomfortable realization this summer.
I am not a good parent to two children. Or rather, I am not the parent I want to be when I have two children. If I have both Ben and Danny I am stretched too thin. Ben is impossible in the morning before his pills kick in and incorrigible in the evening because of their rebound effect. In contrast, Danny is a joy in the morning - a smile personified. Mid to late afternoon is his witching hour. Between the two they grump, yell and otherwise bemoan the very existence of parental authority - all during the hours I am home from work. And it doesn't let up until they finally fall asleep. It just wears away at my patience. I yell. I am short tempered. I have no reserves to draw from.
But when I am alone with Danny I have the mental energy to slowly walk him through his little autistic quirks. If it's just Ben & I we fall into an easy routine that comes from the close mother/son bond seasoned well over these past 8 years.
I am ashamed to say that is not who I am when our whole family is together. I have enjoyed the mother I have been this summer, though I have missed my oldest boy. And I dread the return of the stressed-out harridan that cannot handle her own emotions or her children.
Up until the six week mark I was thriving on the peace and general lack of raised voices around our house in the evenings. I guess around that time the yelling faded far enough into the distance that I could miss him again. Does that make me a bad parent? Because I have come to a very uncomfortable realization this summer.
I am not a good parent to two children. Or rather, I am not the parent I want to be when I have two children. If I have both Ben and Danny I am stretched too thin. Ben is impossible in the morning before his pills kick in and incorrigible in the evening because of their rebound effect. In contrast, Danny is a joy in the morning - a smile personified. Mid to late afternoon is his witching hour. Between the two they grump, yell and otherwise bemoan the very existence of parental authority - all during the hours I am home from work. And it doesn't let up until they finally fall asleep. It just wears away at my patience. I yell. I am short tempered. I have no reserves to draw from.
But when I am alone with Danny I have the mental energy to slowly walk him through his little autistic quirks. If it's just Ben & I we fall into an easy routine that comes from the close mother/son bond seasoned well over these past 8 years.
I am ashamed to say that is not who I am when our whole family is together. I have enjoyed the mother I have been this summer, though I have missed my oldest boy. And I dread the return of the stressed-out harridan that cannot handle her own emotions or her children.
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