I'm completely off my game these days. I think that when something goes wrong, rather when something isn't right with your child, you can't concentrate on anything but that child. You can't concentrate on anything but solving that problem. You're stuck in a place that has you so upset, so petrified, that you can't give any thing to anywhere else because you're giving 100% to your baby. The size of the problem is relative. It doesn't matter what others think and whether or not you're obsessed with solutions is irrelevant.
I'm sort of obsessive on a regular day, so when I'm forced with being mama-bear like I'm shocked that the issue has gotten this far. I'm still friends with people from high school, people who knew me before children, and they aren't the least shocked when I need to flip my bitch switch.
Isaiah is particularly small for his age. He's boisterous and full of personality, but his size is sometimes a bit of a worry for me. He deals with things like the average child, but in some places he has a bit of difficulty. The day before he was born the OBGYN said he'd be a small baby. She said five pounds. (Yeah, right.)
Isaiah was born so small, and so frail-looking, that my heart hurt when I seen him. He came out quiet, not crying, barely awake, and was taken immediately to somewhere else. I seen him for just a minute. My vow to him was, and still is, I WILL PROTECT YOU ON THE OUTSIDE IF I CAN'T PROTECT YOU ON THE INSIDE.
So when I'm forced with a crazy predicament where people think I've lost my mind or people want to argue with me about what he is or isn't I get a little insane. I lose balance. I forget the little things like work and dinner and I absorb the details of whats happening with my baby.
I apologize for the lack of the blog. I was too focused, too crazy to write. I'm ok now. Until the next time.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Teach The Real Stuff...
Since the beginning of kindergarten, I've been trying, almost demanding, a few things for Isaiah. I've tried to get him the things he needs. I've put my time, energy, resources (the fancy word for money) into getting him what he requires to succeed. After the births of both boys I advocated to keep them off of formula. I practice the little things with Josiah. I balance my checkbook. I try to be responsible with my dollars. I pay my bills. I do the laundry. I cook dinner from scratch 95% of the time. I am a good mom. I'm a good person. I am good, but I am tired.
I don't remember learning anything practical in school. I remember math and reading and lunch. I remember my friends. I remember graduation. I don't remember learning how to balance my checkbook, or how to do the laundry, or how to navigate doctor's offices and school officials. The last time I checked bribery wasn't technically legal. Extortion is certainly not. I don't think I can blackmail anyone.
Often, applicants come in to explain themselves to me. You'd be surprised to know that 8 out of 10 high school graduates that come in to see my have a misdemeanor from a little less than five days after their 18th birthday. They didn't know that it would be on their record for at least seven years and they didn't know that marijuana would get them in that much trouble.
What I'm saying is...why don't they teach these things in school?! Why didn't they say that the washing machine only needs one scoop of soap, that your checkbook is linked to your social security number and bouncing checks does not mean throwing your checkbook across the parking lot to see if it literally bounces, or that the pimentos are found next to the sherry?! They never actually said that childbirth hurts. They never said sex feels good. They never said you should use condoms or you will get chlamydia and that sucks, too. They tell you not to smoke, but never give you a visual. They never tell you that when your children are born you are forced to walk with your insides on the outside. They never say if you pay your rent late just three times you will be denied from any other apartment. They never said that marriage is hard. They never said that people skills are more important than literature. They never said history repeats itself.
Why don't we teach this practical stuff?! It will start with me. I will teach my sons this important information. Please do the same. It will help them in real life.
I don't remember learning anything practical in school. I remember math and reading and lunch. I remember my friends. I remember graduation. I don't remember learning how to balance my checkbook, or how to do the laundry, or how to navigate doctor's offices and school officials. The last time I checked bribery wasn't technically legal. Extortion is certainly not. I don't think I can blackmail anyone.
Often, applicants come in to explain themselves to me. You'd be surprised to know that 8 out of 10 high school graduates that come in to see my have a misdemeanor from a little less than five days after their 18th birthday. They didn't know that it would be on their record for at least seven years and they didn't know that marijuana would get them in that much trouble.
What I'm saying is...why don't they teach these things in school?! Why didn't they say that the washing machine only needs one scoop of soap, that your checkbook is linked to your social security number and bouncing checks does not mean throwing your checkbook across the parking lot to see if it literally bounces, or that the pimentos are found next to the sherry?! They never actually said that childbirth hurts. They never said sex feels good. They never said you should use condoms or you will get chlamydia and that sucks, too. They tell you not to smoke, but never give you a visual. They never tell you that when your children are born you are forced to walk with your insides on the outside. They never say if you pay your rent late just three times you will be denied from any other apartment. They never said that marriage is hard. They never said that people skills are more important than literature. They never said history repeats itself.
Why don't we teach this practical stuff?! It will start with me. I will teach my sons this important information. Please do the same. It will help them in real life.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Say Uncle, Bitch!
Robert and I have been going back and forth on an important subject for some time. It's a subject that I'm not ready to share with the world, but one that I think parents deal with often. We've been arguing, rather discussing, a health issue about one of our children. I am opinionated, passionate, almost berserk when it comes to my boys. I have a simple warning: Don't mess with my boys, even the big one, because I will take you out and/or make you feel so small, so worthless about yourself that you will never forget the look on my face for the rest of your entire life. You will remember me because I will belittle you until your insides are on your outsides and you are completely exposed. I use my vocabulary, and my over-confidence, as a protective mechanism.
I feel this way about my children particularly, but my acute insane-ness goes well for Robert, my sister, her kid, my parents. But, my boys, my Isaiah & Josiah, are reasons for my sometimes-rage.
Robert and I are very different in many ways. I'm crazy, he's not. Although, like his farts, his temper is silent, but deadly. That dude is crazy. He parents are boys differently. It is often hard for me to sit back and let him parent. I am not over-protective, my boys are loved and I'm often not right in my head. He believes that the boys need time to grow, I believe in trusting my mother-instinct. He believes they will grow at their own pace, and while I believe that too, I know when things aren't right.
I finally got his attention last week. Thankfully, he is completely on board with my said subject, and I am happy for it. We are a fantastic team. Robert & I are inside each other's heads. We are one when we agree. But we are both Capricorns, so when we don't agree we butt heads until one of cries imaginary, "UNCLE!!!"
My question is though...why does it take men so long to see our way??? Why can't they learn to trust our mother-instinct the way we do so that we're not fighting ourselves, doctors, and our husbands? Why can't he see things when I see them so that when we both start at one and I end up at seven, I don't have to wait for Robert to catch up from four?
I'm sure he wonders why I'm still at four often. Like when I ask him how to use my over-drive button on my truck. I just know that I must turn the light off at 40mph. Who knows what it's for. I certainly don't. What is an over-drive anyway?!
All I know is, I win. I win on this particular subject and I am grateful that my husband cried out the imaginary, "UNCLE!" This just means he is on my side now. He can see my way now. He knows that I need his full attention, and his wallet, and now I have his permission to fight like a crazy person for our kid. Not his permission in an authoritative way, but a permission that simply states that he will fight until the world ends to complete what I've started. Now, we can act like one. Now, we're a team. And, I can't even begin to express how thankful I am.
I feel this way about my children particularly, but my acute insane-ness goes well for Robert, my sister, her kid, my parents. But, my boys, my Isaiah & Josiah, are reasons for my sometimes-rage.
Robert and I are very different in many ways. I'm crazy, he's not. Although, like his farts, his temper is silent, but deadly. That dude is crazy. He parents are boys differently. It is often hard for me to sit back and let him parent. I am not over-protective, my boys are loved and I'm often not right in my head. He believes that the boys need time to grow, I believe in trusting my mother-instinct. He believes they will grow at their own pace, and while I believe that too, I know when things aren't right.
I finally got his attention last week. Thankfully, he is completely on board with my said subject, and I am happy for it. We are a fantastic team. Robert & I are inside each other's heads. We are one when we agree. But we are both Capricorns, so when we don't agree we butt heads until one of cries imaginary, "UNCLE!!!"
My question is though...why does it take men so long to see our way??? Why can't they learn to trust our mother-instinct the way we do so that we're not fighting ourselves, doctors, and our husbands? Why can't he see things when I see them so that when we both start at one and I end up at seven, I don't have to wait for Robert to catch up from four?
I'm sure he wonders why I'm still at four often. Like when I ask him how to use my over-drive button on my truck. I just know that I must turn the light off at 40mph. Who knows what it's for. I certainly don't. What is an over-drive anyway?!
All I know is, I win. I win on this particular subject and I am grateful that my husband cried out the imaginary, "UNCLE!" This just means he is on my side now. He can see my way now. He knows that I need his full attention, and his wallet, and now I have his permission to fight like a crazy person for our kid. Not his permission in an authoritative way, but a permission that simply states that he will fight until the world ends to complete what I've started. Now, we can act like one. Now, we're a team. And, I can't even begin to express how thankful I am.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Survival Of The Fittest
Most of my friends have children that are school-aged. Our children are about the same ages. Most of them were involved in the same mommy-group. This means our children entered kindergarten at the same time. Much of us are on our 2nd or 3rd child. Life has taken us to the same phases at once, so I'm sure we're all trying to survive something.
Preschool is training for the real fight. In preschool, you're warming up. They're playing and learning social skills. They learn to share. They learn to wipe. They learn to be without. In preschool they are babies.
Kindergarten is different. Now, you're racing. You're in the Olympics. They teach reading and writing and arithmetic. They teach life. They teach this to the parents not the children.
I have wanted to fight a number of people on Isaiah's behalf. It takes a strong mother not to run someone over in the parking lot, not to smack the office ladies, not to take offense when your child can't get the attention that he needs. Kindergarten is survival of the fittest parent--not child.
There is no Parenting 101 class. You don't know when enough is enough. You have to learn these things. You have to learn to forgive--forgive yourself. You have to learn when to let go and when to fight.
Josiah isn't in that stage yet. I haven't had the opportunity to fight for him the way I've been presented with the opportunity to fight for Isaiah. Isaiah is my guinea pig, he is my first for everything. I have to learn to navigate the waters of the education system while fighting the insurance system. Only the fittest survive. Isaiah is ready. So, I must prepare.
Preschool is training for the real fight. In preschool, you're warming up. They're playing and learning social skills. They learn to share. They learn to wipe. They learn to be without. In preschool they are babies.
Kindergarten is different. Now, you're racing. You're in the Olympics. They teach reading and writing and arithmetic. They teach life. They teach this to the parents not the children.
I have wanted to fight a number of people on Isaiah's behalf. It takes a strong mother not to run someone over in the parking lot, not to smack the office ladies, not to take offense when your child can't get the attention that he needs. Kindergarten is survival of the fittest parent--not child.
There is no Parenting 101 class. You don't know when enough is enough. You have to learn these things. You have to learn to forgive--forgive yourself. You have to learn when to let go and when to fight.
Josiah isn't in that stage yet. I haven't had the opportunity to fight for him the way I've been presented with the opportunity to fight for Isaiah. Isaiah is my guinea pig, he is my first for everything. I have to learn to navigate the waters of the education system while fighting the insurance system. Only the fittest survive. Isaiah is ready. So, I must prepare.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Do I Look Like Daddy To You???
Robert and Isaiah share a tiny little ritual. On hot summer days they will walk across a busy, four lane road to buy themselves a small treat. Robert will usually want ice to go with a drink and Isaiah will come running home with a "bug juice" and a package of Peanut M&M's to share. I, for one, do not really care for peanut M&M's, and I hate walking to that little store. I do not partake in their father/son ritual.
It rained yesterday and the wind was abnormally strong. It has been a crazy week. Isaiah's been sick. Josiah thinks he can change his sleeping habits. Robert is recovering from pneumonia. My body is doing something strange--it wakes me up in the night until, according to my husband, I flop around like a fish out of water. Hmm. Sexy.
I forgot one item in our weekly grocery adventure--tomato paste. So, I set out to get it after work yesterday. Isaiah, Josiah, and I walked into Safeway, head strait to our desired merchandise, and stand in the express line that is lined with chocolate candies and magazines. Oh impulse shopping.
I've cut back on our impulse shopping considerably. I enjoy a good smut magazine. I love me some Dove Milk Chocolate. And, oh the Odwalla Juice. Delish. We usually start the mini-spree because Robert wants a beer. He is the impulse instigator. (Everyone point and gasp.)
I'm standing in line and Isaiah spots the yellow package from behind me. I'm reading a Portland Magazine that is featuring schools. (I didn't buy it. See. Progress.) Isaiah says, "Mama, Daddy buys me these." He holds up the M&M's and shakes it in my face. I say, "Do I look like daddy to you?" He shakes his head no. "But Mama, Daddy buys these." My turn to shake my head. "I am not Daddy. I am a mommy. What do mommy's buy?" He sighs. "Mama buys oranges and tomato paste." And everyone in line laughs, including Josiah. Isaiah puts down the package and smiles. We check out and I say, "Marcus, push Lucas." And, he laughs. (Get it? Isaiah and Josiah. Marcus and Lucas. haha.)
I load the boys in the truck. I buckle them up. I check my cell phone. I wonder where my sister is. I think about the boys and their laughter in the line. I chuckle to myself. I need more moments like these. They replenish me. They remind me why I set out to have two. We go home. We make dinner. I ask for the tomato paste. Isaiah says, "I think you forgot it cause I can't find it." Hmm.
It rained yesterday and the wind was abnormally strong. It has been a crazy week. Isaiah's been sick. Josiah thinks he can change his sleeping habits. Robert is recovering from pneumonia. My body is doing something strange--it wakes me up in the night until, according to my husband, I flop around like a fish out of water. Hmm. Sexy.
I forgot one item in our weekly grocery adventure--tomato paste. So, I set out to get it after work yesterday. Isaiah, Josiah, and I walked into Safeway, head strait to our desired merchandise, and stand in the express line that is lined with chocolate candies and magazines. Oh impulse shopping.
I've cut back on our impulse shopping considerably. I enjoy a good smut magazine. I love me some Dove Milk Chocolate. And, oh the Odwalla Juice. Delish. We usually start the mini-spree because Robert wants a beer. He is the impulse instigator. (Everyone point and gasp.)
I'm standing in line and Isaiah spots the yellow package from behind me. I'm reading a Portland Magazine that is featuring schools. (I didn't buy it. See. Progress.) Isaiah says, "Mama, Daddy buys me these." He holds up the M&M's and shakes it in my face. I say, "Do I look like daddy to you?" He shakes his head no. "But Mama, Daddy buys these." My turn to shake my head. "I am not Daddy. I am a mommy. What do mommy's buy?" He sighs. "Mama buys oranges and tomato paste." And everyone in line laughs, including Josiah. Isaiah puts down the package and smiles. We check out and I say, "Marcus, push Lucas." And, he laughs. (Get it? Isaiah and Josiah. Marcus and Lucas. haha.)
I load the boys in the truck. I buckle them up. I check my cell phone. I wonder where my sister is. I think about the boys and their laughter in the line. I chuckle to myself. I need more moments like these. They replenish me. They remind me why I set out to have two. We go home. We make dinner. I ask for the tomato paste. Isaiah says, "I think you forgot it cause I can't find it." Hmm.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Oh Maui...
We planned to use some of our tax return money to take the children to Hawaii. Okay, we planned to use some of our tax return money to take US to Hawaii. Maui to be exact. Every time I decide to go home for a vacation it doesn't feel like a vacation at all. It feels like WORK. We are required to visit family. In Hawaii, family isn't just your immediate family. Family is the entire island. Word spreads quickly that you're there. Someone who knows someone who has a cousin who knows your dad spots you at the airport and it is no longer a vacation, but a family reunion. You visit immediate family first, uncles and aunts and cousins next, there is a myriad of parties you must attend, a luau of course, there are phone calls to be made, dinners to attend, and lots of conversations to be had. Only after those things are through are you allowed to go to the beach. Oh, the beach.
There is something so soothing about sand in places you never had. You jump off rocks to remember that the real thrill isn't the ocean below, but the fact that you're able to keep your top on. No one wants to see working breasts from above. Gravity does exist.
Before Robert and I became parents we spent payday Fridays doing anything we wanted. Late night shows. (Matinee? What is that?) Sushi at 10pm at 1/2 price. (Delish.) Sneaking into the Grand Wailea for a quick swim. (Then, being chased by security guards.) Night trips to the bamboo forest to find some prawns. (Then, taking the long way home through Hana.) And, Sunday mornings going to Kapalua. (Taking the other way, of course.)
We moved shortly after Isaiah was born to seek adventure. We moved to become our own family...away from family. We moved to discover ourselves while discovering America. Eventually, we settled in the northwest, but for those few months that we were in the truck we still lived on an island.
I got pregnant with Josiah in Sunriver, OR. I found out I was pregnant in Vancouver, WA. I spent my 1st trimester on Maui, Hawaii. Now that Josiah is here I want so badly to take him to Hawaii. I want to show him off. I want to show Isaiah off. Robert's cousins LOVE Isaiah and I want them to see Josiah in all of his baby-ness.
I think that the problem with raising children away from your home-home is that when you have more children the feelings of home-home grow stronger. When you are from Hawaii, when the ocean courses through your veins like your own blood, you feel a strange connection to it. It calls to you when you are not expecting. You hear the waves in the middle of the winter. You smell salt water when you're in the tub. You see palm trees when you're staring at pine. You imagine things when you miss it most. I want so badly to give my children memories of home-home. Washington, Oregon, the mainland...these places don't really belong to them. They eat local food. Isaiah browns like me. I want to feed Josiah fresh mangoes and bananas and avocados from my dad's property in misty Haiku. I want them to ride their horses in damp Kula air. I want to take them home.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Box Tops Are...
So, I missed the PTA meeting that happened earlier this week. I hate the PTA. It is boring and ridiculous. The first time I went, I paid my $8 dues. Dues are $16 if you're husband wants to go. If he does go, you're welcome to to vote 2x. Whatever that means. What does that mean?!
My first PTA meeting went ok. I got to hang out with a friend. It is not a coincidence that I got to hang out there. She is partly to blame for that horrible night.
I grew up in Hawaii. I remember only a few fundraisers. I remember those hole punchie things at Ooka's. I remember the girl scout cookies. Oh, I remember Campbell Noodle Soup labels, too. I do not, however, remember box tops.
Just FYI...never say you don't know what a boxtop is. The PTA people will look at you like you're crazy. They will gaze in your direction and attempt to fill you in while they stare at you in disgust. I was shocked by this. I should know these things. I am, after all, a mom! Cassey, my friend, later took pictures to show me what a boxtop is. Thanks to her I am no longer PTA freak.
I have two kids. I should take advantage of these boxtop meals. I think my life would be easier. I think dinner would come together in a less rushed fashion. We might be given the chance to eat at a decent time.
The truth is that I enjoy cooking. I enjoy putting the energy into making my family a home cooked supper. I like that slow cooked taste. I enjoy putting a meal together from a group of ingredients. I love fresh vegetables.
Oh well. Lesson learned. I like that I found out what a box top is. Now I can nod my head and act like I know what people are talking about.
My first PTA meeting went ok. I got to hang out with a friend. It is not a coincidence that I got to hang out there. She is partly to blame for that horrible night.
I grew up in Hawaii. I remember only a few fundraisers. I remember those hole punchie things at Ooka's. I remember the girl scout cookies. Oh, I remember Campbell Noodle Soup labels, too. I do not, however, remember box tops.
Just FYI...never say you don't know what a boxtop is. The PTA people will look at you like you're crazy. They will gaze in your direction and attempt to fill you in while they stare at you in disgust. I was shocked by this. I should know these things. I am, after all, a mom! Cassey, my friend, later took pictures to show me what a boxtop is. Thanks to her I am no longer PTA freak.
I have two kids. I should take advantage of these boxtop meals. I think my life would be easier. I think dinner would come together in a less rushed fashion. We might be given the chance to eat at a decent time.
The truth is that I enjoy cooking. I enjoy putting the energy into making my family a home cooked supper. I like that slow cooked taste. I enjoy putting a meal together from a group of ingredients. I love fresh vegetables.
Oh well. Lesson learned. I like that I found out what a box top is. Now I can nod my head and act like I know what people are talking about.
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