Gifts, part 1

For my 30th birthday, my aunt Linda gave me a gingerbread house. Perhaps not the first thing on a 30 year old's birthday wish list, but for me this was perfect. One of my many fond childhood memories is of working on the annual gingerbread house at Linda's house with my sister and our two cousins. In fact, when I think of my aunt and uncle's old house on Powers street, the gingerbread house pops into my head about 50% of the time -- it made that much of an impression. This gift came at an especially perfect time because just a week prior, Jonah had seen a gingerbread house at a store and asked if we could have one. Yes!!

The fantasy...

...the reality. Not too shabby!

The boys attempted to cover their gingerbread man and snowman with colored fondant. Well, what I should say, is that they attempted to *nicely* cover the gingerbread man and the snowman with fondant; you can see that the little figures are definitely covered.

Aunt Linda's note said that, at age 30 and with two young kids and a husband, she wanted to start some of her own family's traditions, and the gingerbread house was one of them. This tradition was shared with many of us outside of her immediate family and has become a treasured memory. I hope to add the house of yum to my own family's traditions so that my own kids might someday look back and remember not just the house, but also the love surrounding it.

On not being Super-Mom, not even close

While on a playdate recently with a new friend, I let it slip that I'd gone to the gym that morning before packing lunch and bussing over to the park to meet her, her daughter and the little girl she cares for during the day.

"You WHAT?!?" my new friend practically shouted at me. "You went to the gym?! Oh, I hate you moms who go to the gym in the morning!"

Instantly, I realized how I'd unintentionally presented myself, and I could imagine the picture that I'd conjured in her mind: Perkily-ponytailed, clad in cute workout clothes, super-fit Super-Mom, bounding to the gym as the sunrise breaks over the horizon. Ta-da! She probably runs marathons, too. Or maybe Perfect-Life Mom: The children awake with nary a snarl, feed themselves, dress themselves and look at books for an hour so Mom can go to the gym and Dad can sleep past 6:00 a.m. Amazing!

Listing excuses, I struggled to kill these Super-Mamas-in-her-mind, my imposters. "No, no, I really don't enjoy going that early. My muscles aren't warmed up enough to really work out. I only go in the morning because it's too stressful to go in the evening: If I wait till then, it's right during the boys' bedtime, which Gabe has to do alone. And I feel like I always return to a messy house, which stresses me out." I rolled my eyes at this point. "I'm one of those moms: I mean, is there anything worse than walking on crumbs first thing in the morning?" To my mind, sweeping the floor is far less a tip-off to a lurking Super-Mama than is early-morning gym-going. I hoped to win my friend over on this one. It worked, at least temporarily. She corrected me a bit, claiming that waking up to a loose hair stuck tangled in the toes was the worst way to start the day.

"Still," she said, doubt returning. "You have three kids. That's pretty impressive." I changed the subject.

Oh, friend, I thought to myself later. Some days I feel like I could vanquish the world; many days I feel like the old man on a poster in my parents' house: "I've only been here a week, but the boss says I'm already two weeks behind." This friend is new. Not knowing me well, she may see me as a young mom of three who manages to keep her stuff mostly together, evidenced, for example, by the fact that I make my own granola bars. And of course by the fact that I go to the gym before my children wake. According to the face that I typically manage to present in public, I may as well be a Super-Mama. Those family and dear friends who have known me for longer and around whom I let down my guard have seen the reality of self-doubt, strained relationships, impatience with my children and husband, and cynicism. And the person that exists where only God can see can be downright scary, far more often than I'd like to admit.

My immediate defense of my gym-going on hearing my friend's reaction make me realize how much I want to be known and accepted for what I am, with all my imperfections and baggage. I am often guilty of assuming that other women, and other mothers, have it all together. I assume that they are invincible, that they are better people than me, that their lives smell like roses. All this I assume based on a single and surprising new piece of information, just as my friend did when I revealed my morning trip. She makes her own yogurt? She grinds all her family's grain? She works on the side? She lost all the baby weight in how much time? Who is she? As much as any of these bits may speak to a woman's drive and motivation, they are hardly indicative of the larger picture of one's life. Going to the gym in the morning doesn't speak to my superpowers or my perfect life at all. I don't go then because I want to: I go to make the evenings run more smoothly. I go because these extra 20 pounds that I'm carrying after my kids consistently do a number on my self-esteem. I go because I don't want to wake up to crumbs on the floor, even two mornings a week. I go, essentially, to smooth even a little bit a day that will inevitably have a bump or two. Or more than I can count. I imagine that plenty of other moms do what they do less because they want to than because they simply need to.

There are undoubtedly a few mothers out there who actually do have next to everything in their lives together. When I meet them, I want to learn from them: After all, they've got what I want. I expect, though, that many of the women I meet are like me, trying to figure out what works best for self and family, looking for grace and understanding from their friends, and hoping to pass that same grace and understanding along to others. I don't in fact want to wallow in the misery of getting up at 6:00 a.m. to go lift weights, which, let's face it, "misery" accurately describes the reality of some morning trips. Instead, I try to look at these mornings optimistically: I'm doing what I can to achieve what I want. I'm trying to live the life I want instead of complaining as it passes me by, out of control. Getting up to go to the gym doesn't make me Super-Mom or Perfect-Life Mom, but it does give me a chance to grow into the person I want to be. A person with more peace, more patience, more strength, and, as a bonus, more muscley arms.

Mama-dates, part 1

I've joked with friends lately about "mom-dating," that is, the process of finding and getting to know mama-friends with whom I might like to have friendship and what's become known as "playdates." ("Playdates" are what I always called "going to play with" or "going to X's house" when I was a kid; today's mom needs a trendier term for it, apparently.) I've felt the need to begin mama-dating lately for a couple reasons: The first is that I've resolved to put down roots here in Chicago as much as possible despite the fact that there is always a sort of limbo in our lives as to where and when we may be next. (To this end, I also planted a garden this spring, a sign of my commitment.) Second, many of my friends have either moved away or have just been occupied with the general busyness of life. It's taken awhile, but I've finally admitted to myself that I am, in fact, kind of lonely. Attempting to be proactive, I've challenged myself to quit acting like I don't see other moms at the playground or our Music Together class and make some friends, already!

Perhaps you think that mama-dating should be easy? Well, friend, you think wrong. Consider: There are four separate parties involved in any form of mama-dating: oneself; one's children; prospective mama-friend; and prospective mama-friend's child(ren). All four parties must agree that play-dating is a good idea for a successful relationship. Add into this the limitations of coordinating these four parties' schedules (classes, naps and mealtimes) and tastes in activities (inside or outside; free-play or structure; rowdy or more sedate), and some relationships are doomed before they've even begun.

And once you add actual humans into the equation? The difficulties are heightened exponentially. Just look at me: I've always been shy (or have, at least thought of myself as shy, which is virtually the same thing), and this shyness sometimes proves insurmountable when attempting to initiate conversation with a stranger. What's more, the thought of making myself vulnerable can lead to paralysis by over-the-top self-doubt: Does she already have enough friends and doesn't need the mopey mom at the playground hanging around? Does she think I'm funny, "funny"? Will she think that I'm some weirdo stranger if I ask for her number? Will she think that the only explanation for three kids at my young age is that I'm a crazed religious zealot? Do I smell funny, or is my hair just too weird today? Maybe I should've worn makeup! Ack! Lacking the ability to read minds, and imagining the worst, I've missed at least a couple opportunities.

For however many opportunities I've missed, though, the past several weeks have led to a few actual connections, which I consider fairly remarkable. Except, of course, the drama is not over, and now I must figure out what kind of relationship I want with my current suitors. More on that to come.

Shenanigans

A couple weeks ago, I made a "real" snowman with the boys, complete with carrot nose. In the days after we built it, Jonah has frequently requested a "snowman-nose carrot," i.e. a long carrot as opposed to baby-cut. When he was in a defiant mood a few days ago, Jonah was threatened with the loss of dessert; he didn't obey and so promptly lost his dessert. That night after dinner, as I knew would happen, Jonah complained to me that he was "still just a little more hungry." "Too bad, son," I told him. "You lost your dessert." Undetered, Jonah went to the refrigerator and helped himself to -- can you guess? -- a snowman nose carrot. He washed it off in the sink, perched on his chair and munched on it happily while Manny and I finished dinner. As I asked my husband later that night, after he returned home: What's a mother to do? Jonah was essentially eating dessert, since the carrot was an after-dinner treat, but, for heaven's sake, it was a CARROT. Why would I want to stop him from eating a vegetable? If Jonah's rebellions consist of borderline-naughty carrot-eating, well, I should just count my blessings and move on.

Another day, Jonah was resisting taking a nap, though it was obvious to me that he was tired. He came out of his room for about the third time since beginning his quiet time an hour before, unbidden. My hands busy with a kitchen task, I told him firmly that he needed to go back into his room. Pouting and whining, he did, leaving the door open and then returning to close it about a minute later. I washed my hands and opened his door, assuming that he was playing and needed to be reminded to go to sleep. To my surprise, the child was lying on his bed, blanket pulled up over him. While I was happy to see this, Jonah was not happy to see me. "No, no, no, you can't come in here!" he shouted crabbily. "Go out!" Usually I correct Jonah's tone and words when he talks like this. This time, though, after a second's hesitation, I simply turned around and closed the door behind me, shaking my head. If he was actually trying to nap, why should I disturb him? I didn't hear another noise from Jonah until he emerged from his room a couple hours later. He won that one, but so did I.

Danger!(?)

I've entered a new stage of parenting, which I think of loosely as "the danger age." Not that my children are in any imminent danger, but as they grow more independent of me and my husband and begin to pursue their own interests, they will come in contact with more danger. Or, I should say, potential danger.

The picture above is case-in-point. Manny looks down on his brother, who is playing outside by himself. Yes, at age three-and-a-half, in the big city, while I'm two storeys away. While this winter hasn't been as rough as I had anticipated that it might be, veritably trapped inside because we've got a newborn and a borderline asthmatic (not to mention the thirty minutes of bundling that stand between indoor and outdoor play here in the Midwest), it has still been long and, well, less than spectacular. (Really, though, it could've been much worse, I realize that!) Two young boys' energy threatening to explode the walls of a city apartment have made me thankful for any moments that shift that energy to another location. Because he's now nearing four and is much more capable of imaginative play (not to mention that he's become fascinated with eating snow), Jonah has come to love playing outside in the snow; he rarely wants to come inside. Manny, on the other hand, often doesn't care to play outside, which not infrequently presents me with a dilemma: Force Manny to play outside? (And what about Iohan?) Forbid Jonah to go out? My solution has been to send Jonah outside all by himself.

Coming to this point has actually been somewhat difficult. If you'd told me at the beginning of the winter that soon I'd be letting Jonah play outside with only intermittent attention, I don't know that I'd have believed you. We live in one of the nations's largest cities, where we only minimally know our neighbors and where it seems that there's an overwhelming concentration of weirdos. We live close to the intersection of a major east-west street and a busy sidestreet. While neither of my boys shows much inclination to wander, the urge could strike at any moment; very few of our neighbors would know where this random child on the sidewalk belongs. I know all of this, and the possibility of just one of these things "happening"... well, it makes me break into a sweat to even let my mind start in that direction.

At the same time, I consider other "things that could happen": Any car ride could result in a car accident, perhaps fatal. There are weirdos on the buses and trains all the time, not to mention random gun violence. While standing two feet away from me, my children could suddenly decide that the street or the tracks look like a fun place to play, or they might lean out a little too far while checking to see if the bus or train is on its way. Our own home is potentially dangerous; I've seen statistics before about how often kids are injured in their own homes in those few seconds that parents turn their backs, and they are frightening.

"The danger age" has now begun, and with it begins the weighing of "what could happen" with what my kids will gain from having some freedom (and, frankly, what I will gain from having a break). As I said above, Jonah shows no propensity to wander, and we live in one of the safest and more well-to-do neigborhoods in the city, right by a church and a school. He loves to play outside and he's proud of what he can accomplish by himself, digging in the snow or rolling snowballs. I've given Jonah the age-appropriate rules of safety and "stranger danger": Don't leave the yard; talking to a neighbor is fine, but don't go by the gate; never leave the yard with anybody besides Mama; and scream, scream, scream if anyone tries to take you (though I wonder if this last one is too scare-inducing).

In conversation with my husband, I've come to realize that I tend to assume that danger is not present unless I see actual signs of it. There is certainly a risk of becoming too lax in this view, and I've realized that I need to temper it with appropriate caution. At the same time, I can't bring myself (nor do I desire) to see danger around every corner, or to assume that my kids will be hurt or injured as soon as I look the other way. Living for two decades with a fairly adventurous father has given me a more exploratory, try-it-and-see, do-it-yourself mentality than seems prevalent in today's near-hysterical parenting world (at least the one that the media presents). I can't keep my children small forever; I can't be with them every moment of every day; I want to give them the tools and the experience to do things by and for themselves. Don't think, though, that I don't say a prayer every time I drop Jonah off in the back yard and head back up the stairs.

(Incidentally, when summer arrives, there is no way that I will leave the kids alone in the backyard with their kiddie pool. I'm far more scared of 3 inches of water than I am some alone time in a snowy yard.)

Independence

This is what independence looks like. A pickle, mustard and "cheese product" slapped on a piece of bread.

Last week, when asked what he wanted for lunch, Jonah refused to answer (not uncommon). I turned to Manny, who answered, "Mac 'n' cheese." When Jonah found out what was on the menu, though, he just about lost it; he was eating no mac 'n' cheese, thank you very much. I told him, "Fine, child, you can make your own lunch." He did. He opened the fridge, placed everything he needed on the counter and assembled the sandwich himself, then ate it happily. (Unfortunately, we were out of both deli turkey and hamburger pickles, so Jonah was stuck with a meatless, pickle-speared sandwich.) While I don't want my child eating pickle and cheese product sandwich every day, there is something amazing and satisfying in seeing him do something all by himself. Jonah was at least a little proud of himself, too, I think. He still relies on me so much and is sometimes a real "Mama's boy," crying when I leave the house to go to the YMCA or run an errand without him. Insignificant though it may seem, Jonah making his own sandwich is one of the ways in which I see him becoming his own little man, separating himself from me and from complete dependence. Bittersweet, it's true, but necessary and important. And, really, there wasn't any mac 'n' cheese left by the time Manny was done with it, so it was a good thing that Jonah had another plan in motion.