Practical Parenting and Maternal Mantras

 

As a parent for over 20 years, there has been some pain, some challenges and some very amusing moments.  Millions of life lessons acquired over the course of a child’s lifetime.  Probably the most important was to surround myself with a bevvy of maternal wisdom to weather the days when you can’t figure out whether to punish the kids or lock yourself in the bathroom to preserve your sanity.

One pal subscribes to the parental guidelines of a popular children’s book series in our kids' generation – Harry Potter.  Otherwise known as the Molly Weasley theory of parenting… children must either be A. Safe in their beds, or B. In MORTAL PERIL!!  Which works until late teens, when excessive bed occupancy becomes its own issue.

From the cadre of moms in my peripheral cupboard of maternal wisdom come the following mantras:

DC: "A trip to the ER is not on the schedule." This was and still is the family motto.

DS:   "Don't call me unless there's blood."

SA: We used to leave the house saying "Don't burn the house down". Directed at one child in particular.  (This child’s sibling is now in paramedic training.)

SC: We had to be more specific. “No lighting anything on fire.”

DL: “Take the dog out in the yard with you, don't leave the chain link fence or you’re going to be 40 living in someone's basement in chains.” Fear factor works.

AJ: "No blood, no flood." "You may be brothers now, but you'll be friends when you grow up. EG: My emergence into adulthood at age 16 taught me these hard and fast rules.  They’ve been proven often:

1. Cover your ass.   2. Give a fool enough rope and they'll hang them self. 

3. If you need help ask for it (inherent in this is the ability to recognize when you are out of your depth, so to speak, and humble enough to request assistance.)

4. whatever happens don't panic (Freak outs are counter productive)

5. Sufficient unto the day are the troubles therein.

Every time we left the house and left the boys to their own devices, “No blood, no broken bones” was the primary directive.  To date – we’ve had neither, knock wood.

For all the parenting platitudes and advice books, it boils down to one thing.  Parenting is not for wimps.  For no other reason will people voluntarily be sleep-deprived for the first 3 years, beaten and fatigued by endless romping for the next 5 years, financially strained for the next 10 due to college planning and succumbing to every fad, need, orthodontia and desire.  Then there is college and getting them launched into adulthood. You thought it ended at 18?  Forgettaboudit. For the most part, it can be boiled down to the chemistry rule – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.   If you feed a child, it will poop. If you need to be somewhere in 15 minutes, it will sleep.  If you dress them up, someone will find a mud puddle.  If you have plans, something with happen to totally foul them up if you have children. The mantra?  Go with the flow for everything from feeding, sleeping, development, etc. 

As a stay at home mom for 12 years, nothing raised my fury faster than the question “Do you work outside the home?” My standard answer was something much more diplomatic like "I stay very busy with all of our boys' activities.  It's quite busy but fulfilling."  When I really wanted to say, "I work 24/7 raising my kids and keeping them from doing insanely stupid things.  I have conquered more challenges by 10am than most people do all day.  Can you simultaneously change a diaper, tie a shoe and make a sandwich?  I have mastered functioning amid major exhaustion for the last 5 years; but it would be nice to converse with adults on a daily basis..."

When I went back to work after a 12 year “hiatus” I had a resume as full as my corporate pals from all the volunteer opportunities with Scouts, church, preschool and family management.  Can I multi-task?  Watch me entertain 10 cub scouts with just the contents of my handbag. 

Anyone who thinks being a stay at home mom “must be so nice and relaxing” has no idea.  It’s the only job where you are absolutely convinced you are a complete failure on a daily basis.  But there is no option to quit and look for another opportunity.  I always told myself as long as they want good night hugs, we must be OK.  Somewhere in the world is a therapist that my boys will keep in gainful employment.  But that is a whole nother story.

Think that moms have no marketable skills?  You won’t find a better person who will multi-task, think outside the box, research any topic and have five different sources by lunch time, be conscientious of the corporate budget and work more efficiently to be able to get home to her family to keep it going for another 5-6 hours.  AND show up on time with panache and skill to do it all again each and every day.

Veteran moms will tell you that they wouldn’t be sane or have survived the challenging years without many resources.  Good friends, good wine and good prescriptions for anti-depressants being crucial for most.  I remember being at a dinner with my church mother’s support group.  We were telling one new mom with kids 15 months apart that she might want to talk to her doctor about medication.  She was aghast.  In a show of solidarity, we each grabbed the bottle in our purse and shook it like a baby rattle.  By the next week, she was feeling MUCH better!

Survival of the Twittiest

This week, I had the opportunity to participate in a Twitter chat support group.  The topic was “Coming Out with Cancer.”   One thing I’ve learned from support groups is even if you feel you don’t need one, someone participating in the group may need to hear your story.

My cancer story is simple and did not have catastrophic outcome – as evidenced by the fact that I’m still here.  I was diagnosed at age 40 with a Stage 1 cancer tumor in my sigmoid colon.  Had surgery to remove 12” of colon containing the tumor and it was determined that I did not need chemotherapy or radiation.  Does that make me a survivor?  By default, yes. 

Still got the feeling of the floor falling out from under me that the words “you have cancer” cause.  

Still had to face the 3am overwhelming “What if…” questions needing more information, diagnostic tests and medical conferences; not more internet surfing.

Still had to face the stunned and shocked responses from my family members and friends when I told them the news.

Some people stepped up and performed stellar acts of service.  Some people said ridiculous things, vanished or wanted to tell me about every fatal form of cancer known to them personally.  No matter how often we are in the situation, some shine and some stink, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

In our family, we deal with awkward things with humor, so be warned.  My mom was with me as my designated driver the day of my colonoscopy.  She was sitting next to me when I got the “your tumor looks cancerous” talk.  I was on Fentanyl – the drug used during colonoscopies causing amnesia and generalized apathy.  Mom was not on Fentanyl.  We’ve since decided that anyone getting that news needs to be on Fentanyl.  Makes a big difference and is highly recommended.

What do you have if 12” of the sigmoid colon is removed?  You have a semi-colon.  I hear groans on that one from grammar Nazis, medical practitioners and survivors alike.  But I’m one of the few people who can use that line. 

Having a brain MRI to see if there were any lesions that had spread was a sobering experience.  Dad took me to that appointment.  When I came out of the room with the attendant, dad asked “Well?  Did they find a brain in there?”  The attendant even cracked up at that one.  Found a brain, but no lesions to worry about.

The hardest part and the part that most people wanted to discuss on this week’s chat was how to break the news to children.  Our boys were 10 and 13 when I was diagnosed – old enough to understand and care, but mostly about how it was going to affect them.  Their 3 questions were  

Q:“Are you going to die?” A:“Not if I can prevent it.” 

Q:”Is it operable?”  A:”Yes. And then we’ll know if anything else has to be done.”

Q:”OK, can you make us dinner now?”  A:”Sure.  Chicken nuggets OK?”

My focus became how to keep the boys’ life as normal as possible, to tell them as honestly as I could any new information and keep their normal schedule/activities, etc. going despite being stressed, exhausted and anxious.  My oldest son and I attended a rock concert two days before I had surgery.  I wanted him to have that memory should anything go sideways in this process.  The boys came to see me as soon as I was out of surgery and awake to reassure them that we were not hiding anything from them.   Brutal honesty seemed to be the best policy at the time.  They still tell me that they appreciated being considered adults rather than protected from the facts. My spouse was honestly not sure he could handle it if I had to have a colostomy.  You think there is ANY chance I WANT TO?   

Thankfully, we didn’t have to find out. 

It has now been almost 8 years since that sobering experience.  I have some lingering symptoms of a shortened excretory system, a few scars and a wealth of experiences to share.  The biggest things I learned is to be fully present when a scary diagnosis is revealed. 

Don’t make the news about you; deal with your feelings on your own time.

Don’t make the patient take care of you. 

Don’t disappear – offer to mow lawns, clean bathrooms, pick up kids - life goes on.  It doesn't stop out of consideration for the family dealing with a health issue.

Those who did not were weaned from my circle of friends.  The people who did are still in my life today to enjoy the afterglow, anecdotes and epic farts. 

Practicing Religiously, or Not so Much

When I married in my 20s, I knew I was marrying a guy who was not habitual in regular church attendance.  My extended family has been Catholic since before Vatican II.  My dad converted to marry my mom, as was the rule in the late 60s.  They raised their kids in the faith, sent us to Catholic grade and high school with the assistance of my grandparents and insisted on Sunday attendance as a family unit unless copious amounts of bodily malfunctions, or imminent death, prevented such.

During the course of my courtship, my boyfriend would attend services on occasion as part of the wooing process.  When I specifically asked him to or there was a special family event or meal afterwards to which he was invited.  After our marriage, I didn’t insist on his attendance as often and his lack of attendance rubbed off my habit.
Any Catholics may get the nun joke there…

When we had children, it was time to up the ante.  They needed to be baptized and we needed to put in face time to achieve that goal.  There are hoops to be jumped through for every sacrament, and Catholic parents are stellar hoop jumpers.   When I was pregnant with our first son, we sampled every Catholic church in a 20-mile radius of us.  We chose one, registered and attended classes and the final baptism class happened the evening that our son was born.  I was recovering in the hospital and my spouse attended the final class alone – and got challenged by the priest. ‘She had a baby this morning? Should be fine to come to class 12 hours later.’  Really?  Have you sneezed a watermelon recently? 

The logic of the celibate - a mystery.

So, our first son was baptized.  By a visiting priest, while the baptismal font was under renovation… in a plastic horse trough.  Literally.  We were in a rural county and the best substitute around was found at the feed store.  That should have been my first clue that his relationship with religion might have a 'hitch' in it.

At age 2, he was with me and we were at our second Catholic church.  This Sunday was another child’s baptism, during the service we repeat the vows made at our own baptism, to which everyone answers “I will,” to various statements of belief.  Our guy was a little uncooperative that day and when we all answered, “I will,” he countered with “I won’t!” in his best Exorcist voice.  I could see the priest looking all over wondering where to throw the holy water and burn the hell out of the little demon.

When our second son was born, we were in a church where all children were baptized naked in a beautiful clear glass font.  Every time I put our son in bath water, he launched the human fountain up front and usually a turd out the back as well.  Needless to say, he was fully clothed when he was baptized to prevent an event requiring the intervention of a hazmat team and subjecting us to excommunication.

As the boys grew older, I did not insist on attendance.  Dad did not attend and it became a losing battle temporarily. I used my church time to refuel my mom tank, while Dad watched the boys – also known as you get what you pay for babysitting service.  We moved and were within walking distance of an Episcopal church that served a hospitality meal after EVERY service – not just donuts once a month!  And that coerced the boys to not only attend and go to Sunday school, but to learn to be acolytes.   For a while, all the relative faithful and faithless coexisted in peace. 

Then the boys recalled that Dad didn’t go to church and the youngest declared himself an apathetic agnostic.  “Don’t know; don’t care.  Not my thing. I’ll go on Christmas only.”  He is more than willing to be of service to keep the elders off ladders and moves chairs and tables readily.  But sitting in a pew for services is just not part of his church experience.

Our older son took part in media service when he lived at home running the responses on the projector from the choir loft where he didn’t have to participate in the sign of Peace – shaking hands with 90% of the congregation.  When he moved to college, his church attendance did not move with him.  Finding the chance to sleep in on Sunday mornings is much more attractive to a college student balancing studies, social life and genetic procrastination.

Over the years, we have the unwritten family commandments regarding church services: 

1.  If mom or the grand parents are involved in an event and requests your help, “sure-what time should we be there” is the only answer. You will stay until we say we’re done. 
2.  Christmas service attendance is required, if you wish to open Christmas gifts
3. Your behavior at church is a direct reflection on your family.  If you embarrass me, look out.
4. You need to mumble along with the correct responses.
5.  Now is not the time to have an in-depth dogmatic discussion – see Rule 4.
6. Eucharist is not optional; wine is your choice.  Follow my lead – I dip gingerly.
7. Prepare a 10 second sound bite to answer all the normal questions comments.
8. Obscene tee shirts, sagging trousers, etc. don’t fly. 
9. Bring your best date manners, and leave phones on silent in your pockets.  Not even a prayer app, I don’t want to see it out.
10. We're done when I say we’re done and not before.

Consequently, there have also been commandments developed for the non-church goers in the house:

1. If the Seahawks/Mariners/Huskies are playing during a church service, we will not be there
2. On days of fair weather, there is an option to tend to church grounds instead of attending service inside which counts as attendance.
3. If someone dies, we embrace the Taoist tradition of death = birth to new life and to celebrate births, cake and ice cream will be shared.
4. Treat the earth gently and others in the way you wish them to treat you.  All else is relative.

Over the years, our guys have been called into service to light candles, take out garbage, put up and take down trees/cedar swags/decorations of all kinds, set trees on fire, start a fire, put out a fire, inflate helium balloons, find keys, unlock doors, set up tables, take down tables and rearrange chairs.  I figure with all the hard labor, St. Peter isn’t going to turn them away; he’s going to put them to work.  In the big scheme of things they treat others as they would wish to be treated themselves, honor their parent s and follow all of the commandments even though they could probably not name them all with 100% veracity.  But that is a whole nother story…

Ever Been 86'd from a Yoga Class?

86’d from Yoga for Losing My Zen…
A few years ago, in a moment of uncharacterized delusion, I considered attending a yoga class.  My crazy pal, Thelma, convinced me to attend a yoga class series with her and though yoga has never really been my thing, I wanted the opportunity to spend time with her and conceded.

Yoga, in my opinion, moves much too slowly, which - I realize - is the point, to get centered, balanced, present in the moment, attuned to your breathing and find Zen.  Always being more of a balance beam, skateboard, scooter, bicycle kind of gal and moving at that speed more comfortably, it was a shift.
Having hiked, biked, run 5ks until my knees protested, zumba’d, cardio boxed, weight trained and water aerobicized to extreme boredom, I figured with a suitable partner, yoga might actually be worth trying again.  I did clarify that she was not insisting on hot yoga.
One visit to check that out was all I could manage almost tossed cookies.  The room is 110 degrees and all the yoga bodies are sweating out their toxins. The only thing I like 110 degrees is a jacuzzi. Imagine getting your Zen on in a sweaty locker room that smells like feet. Similar to the McDonald’s ball pit kind of funk. In no way would that ever be happening.  I like my exercise to be sans fragrance.  No Shalimar in the pool, no patchouli in spin class.  The gals who wear full makeup and perfume on the treadmill make me want to strangle them with their iPod ear pod wires. Or douse them with tap water – with no electrolyte enhancements.
Assembling the required accouterments was an investment in and of itself – icky sticky mat (no way was I using a germ-riddled community one), yoga pants that after carefully trying several styles did not result in a wedgie or camel toe result, socks that had holes for each toe (more on this later…), sports bra that resulted in a monoboob shelf of mammary matter, cute sweat-wicking quick-dry top, a water bottle, hair tie and kitschy bag to transport all required paraphernalia.  I had literally bought in to the concept – mat, strap and mantra.  I would downward dog and warrior pose my way to inner tranquility, or require the aid of a chiropractor to once again stand upright.
The day of the inaugural class, I remembered not to ingest any caffeinated beverages or chocolate, so I wouldn’t be fidgety.  The instructor had a very mellow instruction DVD voice intended to extend the Zen.  We started with some stretches and held them way beyond where my brain could be quiet and focused.  “Are we done yet?”  “Ew, sweating.” “Are we going out for drinks and appetizers after this?” Each pose was held for what seemed like an eternity.  Have I mentioned that I have the attention span of a gnat?
The instructor would demonstrate each pose while we observed; then we were invited to descend, stretch, twist and pretzel ourselves in to a variety of uncomfortable positions and then hold without getting a cramp.  The breathing cues are probably something to which I should be paying close attention.  I’d get the hang of it soon.
One thing I was NOT getting the hang of were these socks with individual toe openings.  I am one of the few people in the population who holds complete disdain for flip flops.  Nothing drives me to a state of distraction faster than foreign matter caught between my toes.  The sock thingies had a limited opportunity to impress me or they were toast.  Every single pose, my first brain response was “There is SOMETHING between ALL of my toes – ICK!”  Very hard to come to center oneself and counteract that issue.  The socks were relegated to the bottom of my bag for the rest of the class series. Take that yoga fashionista fascist… I’m going “toe-tally commando”.  Also came to realize that panties and yoga pants are a bad combination and learned to eschew those as well.  That’s a whole nother story we won’t be addressing here.  Semper ubi sub ubi (always wear underwear) has long been a life mantra.
Attendance at class became pretty regularly. More like a lapsed Lutheran than a cradle Catholic.  But, amazingly, I didn’t wimp out.  We approached this evening’s class and fell into our usual routine of stretching – becoming more familiar and somewhat liking it, and then moved on to the poses – which were still taking time to win me over.
THEN, the thing happened.  The instructor demonstrated the BIRD POSE.  For the uninitiated, the bird pose entails hinging at the hips, putting hands and feet on the ground so the body forms a V.  Then the legs fold up with the knees OUTSIDE the elbows and you raise your FEET off the ground and BALANCE on your hands – like a bird with your legs as the wings. You got that – we are people not birds with a VERY different center of gravity.
My actual thought process went something like this:  ‘Bend over, OK.  Hands on the floor, OK.  Knees outside elbows, OK.  Gain balance and… lift your feet off the ground? Oh, what? HELL NO.  I can so see face plant and broken nose happening here, WTF??!!!  How am I going to explain a broken nose and black eye when I face plant?  From yoga class?  I don’t even think so.’  Then in the ensuing stunned silence of concentration, someone passed gas.  Broke wind.  Trouser cough.  Clouded the air.  You get the idea.
At that point, I got the giggles.  Yes, I am a 12 year old boy in a mature woman’s body.  I don’t mean quiet chuckle under my breath.  I mean full-on uncontrollable giggles over the bird pose attempts over the concept of my impending face plant if I even attempted it and then the fart just put me over the edge.  I was sitting on my mat with tears streaming down my face trying to get it together and realizing that I was affecting the equilibrium of the room.
The Zen got zapped.  Namaste was promptly nipped in the bud.
The instructor threw me a stony glare and that set me off even more.  She looked at me like the Grinch who stole Christmas looked at Lucy Who.  Complete disdain and how dare you zap my Zen.  She unfolded herself with more grace than I could muster in ten years of yoga practice and floated to my mat.  “If you are unable to regain your composure, would you please remove yourself from the room?” Wow.  That was some verbiage.  I’d been dissed and dismissed in one line.  I left my stuff on the floor and fled to the nearest door, still snickering nervously.

It was probably not my best strategy to wait in the hallway for class to be over to check in with my pal, and collect my materials, but I did.  When class finished, I was glared at by yoga snobs of all shapes, sizes, ages and ability levels.  To my dismay, they apparently were not similarly blessed with robust senses of humor. Not even the gas passer owned up.  Clearly not chicks hip to my jive.  My pal came out last and let me know that the instructor had asked her to let me know that I was not welcome back to class until I could refrain from outbursts.  Are we still doing bird pose? Not even happening. My refund would be applied to wine and appetizers.
My pal called me after the next class.  She was out too.   When they got to that point in the class, she recalled my response and the face plant fear I had told her about and dissolved into fits of giggles.  We decided that yoga was not our thing and met at the wine bar across the street for the rest of the class series.  At least if we got 86’d from a wine bar for being too giggly, that was legit.  We’d been kicked out of better places than yoga class.  Gay Bingo, for example.  But that’s a whole nother story for another day.