When it comes to parenting philosophies, I think I'm closest in spirit to Tom Hodgkinson, who last February wrote this lovely article called, "Idle Parenting Means Happy Children." So much of the article resonated me, but I think my favorite was this:

My idea of childcare is a large field. At one side is a marquee serving local ales. This is where the parents gather. On the other side, somewhere in the distance, the children play. I don't bother them and they don't bother me. I give them as much freedom as possible.

I have a garden. I plant things in it. When I remember, I water those plants. Usually I don't. And somehow--fertile ground, good conditions, sheer luck--those plants thrive. I get big bouncing beautiful tomatoes at the end of the summer. I call it Gardening by Neglect.

Now, I'm not saying I'm Child Rearing by Neglect. But I do think that self-sufficiency is a good thing. The other day, Doodles and Pie were playing in the front yard, while I was sitting in a yard chair, leafing through a magazine.
Doodles: Mommy, pitch to me!
Me: No.
Doodles: Pul-lease! Pitch to me!
Me: Mommy does not pitch. Ask Pie to pitch.
Doodles: But Pie doesn't pitch well. You pitch!
Me: The only reason I had Pie was so you could have a playmate. Now go play with her.

Of course, that probably serves me right when five minutes later I heard a thud that was the dull sort of sound that can only mean a child's skull is caving in. The screams of agony didn't help.
Doodles: It was an accident!
Pie [clutching a bright red cheek]: AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaa!
Doodles: It was an accident! You know she doesn't pitch well. So I got close so I could hit the ball.
I call it good parenting that he only had a plastic bat, as I refuse to buy him a wooden bat, so Pie wasn't seriously injured. I assuaged all hurt feelings (and guilt) with a few extra shows.

But as I've mentioned before, Doodles is exhibiting signs of a need for independence. I respect this. I understand this. He's getting ready to enter kindergarten and it's normal for a separation process to begin. He's at an age where he wants to do--and can do--many things on his own. Doodles can use a knife to cut his own French toast. He can turn on the iPod himself, but due to limited reading skills, he has to take whatever song is on. He can get his own yogurt out of the fridge, dress himself (including doing all buttons and tying up lace shoes), go by himself to the bathroom at the Res (the local swimming hole), recite his address and phone number, and countless other things that seem to multiply daily. But there is a limit to what he can--and is allowed--to do. On the no list: Driving a car. Drinking beer. Crossing the street by himself. Swimming in the Res without a grown-up watching him. Jumping from the top of his dresser. All things he will dispute. All things I stand firm on. All things that will cause a serious interval of pouting. The stubbornness and pouting when he doesn't get what he wants and the plain old not listening is making me insane! (I actually heard Adam tell him he was being "fresh" the other night. "Fresh." Take that Ward Cleaver!)

In a quest to conquer our stand-offs, I'm returning to a world I had left behind: the world of parenting books. But finding the right parenting books is a pain. After all, we're cosleepers so we must be attachment parents. But wait! I let my kids scream and don't go running at every tale of woe. So I must be a Babywise parent. But wait! I try to inject strong Jewish values in my parenting. So I must be a follower of Wendy Mogel. Pie actually went to visit the great and good Doctor Ferber, so perhaps it's at his altar we should be bowing?

You see my dilemma? I don't have a stand. And in the world of parenting books, you need a stand. I'm currently reading the highly recommended Playful Parenting, which tells me to do the one thing I really don't have any interest in doing: playing with my kids. For, seemingly, hours on end. This seems to me to be an uber-attachment philosophy, always open to my children to stop, drop, and play.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm always open to a dance party (definitely in if it includes little naked tushies), happy to read stories, and can certainly be talked into doing a craft project or two. But I'm not a "throw the ball, get on the climber, toss 'em into the Res" kind of mom. But this playful parenting thing seems to go to an extreme, as evidenced even by the author who, by his own examples, frequently slips and forgets to be playful.

So I'm on the search for parenting books that fit my non-philosophical parenting philosophy. I've gotten some recommendations from friends (and I'm dying to know about this $115 parenting book. It's not even anywhere in our entire library system, which consists of "35 public and 6 college libraries in the Metrowest region of Massachusetts"!) and I'm wading through the stacks on my shelves that have been ignored all these years. So, in attempt to embrace all my parenting non-philosophies, my current reading list includes: Raising Your Child to Be A Mensch; Children: The Challenge; the aforementioned Playful Parenting; The No-Cry Discipline Solution; the one my own mother swore by all those years, Parent Effectiveness Training; and just for good measure, Siblings Without Rivalry.

What does this all mean? It means in a matter of minutes after opening each book, I'll throw it down and through a little temper tantrum of my own. "Why oh why," I'll scream, "can't they just get to the point!" These books have so much filler garbage to justify the cover price and all I want is the information. You know, for the same price as I'd pay for the hardcover--no, for more than I'd pay for the hardcover--I'd pay for a pamphlet that distills all the necessary information without all the filler necessary for them to charge a hardcover price. Think about it, publishers!

So, unless anyone can come up with some easy summaries for me, I'm off to bury myself beneath the avalanche of books. Because, let's face it, if I just stay hidden long enough, this phase too shall pass and I'll be looking for the answer to some other problem! Meanwhile, I'll be on the far side of the playground. Drinking my ale. Come join me!

Labels: doodles, meltdowns, parenting

Adam questioned my parenting techniques. Was it "irresponsible" or "idiotic"? Can't remember. He seems to think it isn't a good idea, when it's an hour past your child's bedtime and said child announces, "I'm tired," to then crank up the iPod, hand the kid a drum, and yell at him, "No! Sleep! Till! Brooklyn!"

To my credit, he did rally. The kid that is. Not Adam. And Pie? She never let them see her sweat. She grabbed the guitar, started hopping up and down, singing right along. "Dance, Mommy!" she screamed over the music. I picked her up and did the mommy version of the mosh pit. I yelled, "Are you going to be a party girl, Pie?" and she yelled back, "Yea!" Finally, a child I can identify as my own!

To preschool folks reading this, don't be surprised when Pie shows up to school, bags under her eyes, yelling, "I've got to fight! For my right! To par-tay!"

Rock on, little kiddies. Rock on!

Labels: parenting

Random things said to children on a Sunday night:
Pie, we don't put artichoke leaves on our ears. Pie, seriously. Pie, get the artichokes out of your ears now! Pie, you can't hide artichoke leaves in your hair, either. Pie!

No, Pie, you cannot sleep with your shalach manot.

Me: Doodles, you can't celebrate both Purim and Easter. You have to pick just one.
Doodles: Okay. I'll celebrate Easter.

Questions asked in the car on one thirty-five-minute ride from home to ice skating:

• Why does your shadow follow you?
  
• Why do babies wake up at night?
  
• Why do moms wear bras?
  
• What is that song about? [Song on radio: "Cruel to Be Kind"]
  
• Why is the world going to stop and melt? [Song on radio: "I'll Stop the World and Melt with You"]
  
• Why did the pharaohs get buried in the pyramids the Jewish slaves built?
  
• How do they make the pointy part on the top of the pyramid?
  
• Why do people die in boxes?
  
• Then who puts them in boxes?
  
• Some cars, they have DVD players in them, in the top, and the kids can watch them when they are in the car. Why don't we have a car like that?

Thing on shopping list that Adam insisted the Shaw's didn't carry:
Paper towels made out of recycled paper

The thing I bought three packs of the next day at Shaw's--on special! Buy one, get two free:
Paper towels made out of recycled paper

My week in Facebook status updates:

• Jenny is eating all of her daughter's "potty treats." Good thing there's no danger of her daughter using the potty anytime soon. 3:12pm
  
• Jenny is not sure where she's going to come up with a 4T sized king costume by 4 p.m. tomorrow.... 5:27pm
  
• Jenny can freakin' work miracles. 1:11pm
  
• Jenny is making an--ack--princess potty chart. 11:41am
  
• Jenny is laughing at Adam for not realizing that the "C" in YMCA meant it would be closed on Easter Sunday. 7:08am
  
• Jenny can't believe the things she obsesses about. 11:27pm
  
• Jenny would rather be in Paris. Cafe au lait anyone? 5:19am

Things that surprise Adam:
Pie: I want a Cinderella coloring sheet!
Adam: Look, there's one!
Pie: That's not Cinderella! That's Snow White!
Adam to me: She knows the difference between Cinderella and Snow White?!?

My typical Tuesday:

• Argue with Pie about getting into the car.
  
• 8:45 a.m. Argue with Pie about dropping Doodles off at school. No she cannot stay in the car by herself.
  
• Argue with Pie about holding hands crossing the street to go to singalong.
  
• Contemplate a detour to the orphanage.
  
• 10: 15 a.m. Tell Pie she can't order her friend, A, to dance with her, no matter how much Pie wants to dance with A and only with A.
  
• Tell Pie that no, A's mother cannot take Pie to the muffin shop because I am going to take Pie to the muffin shop.
  
• Lose Pie's shoe in the street on the way to the muffin shop, but don't realize that's why she's screaming because she's always screaming.
  
• Sheepishly remove shoe from street when a trucker yells to me, "Hey, your daughter lost her shoe."
  
• Notice teenlike smirk on Pie's face.
  
• Tell Pie that she has to come home with me, she cannot go home with A and her mother.
  
• Argue with Pie about how many pieces her muffin should be cut into.
  
• Consider letting Pie go home with A and conveniently "forgetting" to pick her up--for a week or two.
  
• Reassert with a little less conviction that Pie has to come home with me.
  
• Argue with Pie about taking juice into the car.
  
• Noon: Pick Doodles up from school.
  
• Argue with Pie about lack of snack provided a mere twenty minutes after her juice and muffin.
  
• Drive an extra twenty minutes to make sure Pie falls asleep.
  
• Relax with Doodles. Read a book. Play some Legos. Have lunch. Take a brief nap.
  
• 2:30 p.m. Pie wakes up. Change Pie. Feed Pie. Appease Pie. Pie Pie Pie Pie Pie.
  
• Take kids to swimming class.
  
• Sit alone for thirty glorious minutes.
  
• 5 p.m. Take kids to "Tasty Tuesday" at Whole Foods.
  
• Try to shush kids as they scream at the top of their lungs, "LOOK! THERE'S ANOTHER SAMPLE! GO, MOMMY, GO!!"
  
• Get out of Whole Foods with just two $97 bags full of groceries.
  
• 6:20 p.m. Get kids in bath.
  
• Argue with them about bubbles. "No bubbles!" insists Doodles. "BUBBLES!" insists Pie.
  
• Let them play/fight in the tub.
  
• Tolerate screaming while hair is washed.
  
• 6:45 p.m. Adam walks in. Hand over kids half bathed and hide in the office.
  
• Wonder if Adam could function if I decided to take the summer off to travel and do something that's easier than dealing with Pie, like cure cancer or end poverty.
  
• Spend one and a half hours trying to cajole Pie into bed.
  
• Kids sleep. I zonk.
  
• 9 p.m. Miss the kids. Consider waking them so I can cuddle with them.
  
• 9:01 p.m. Adam blocks stairs to keep me from making huge mistake.
  
• 11:45 p.m. Go to bed after working on top-secret preschool project that is taking way more time than I would have thought.
  
• 11:57 p.m. Set alarm for 5 a.m. Boot camp tomorrow!

Evidence Pie is ready for college:

• She prefers her pizza cold
  
• She's up at all hours
  
• She finds bodily functions hilarious
  
• You can't get that girl off her cell phone
  
• She's a little cliquish
  
• She's perfected the eye roll
  
• She binge eats
  
• She's got the moves

Watch out Dartmouth U Mass Middlesex Community College Blaine Beauty School!

Labels: doodles, parenting, pie

Pie's in a big girl bed. I really, really didn't want to do it, but she was starting to sling her leg over the side of her crib, and I feared for the splat.

Last Thursday morning, she was up at 3:47 a.m. Adam tried bringing her into our already overcrowded bed (Doodles had climbed in at about 11:30 p.m. and had a kickful night), but it was clear by 4:20 that she wasn't going back to sleep and by 4:40 that Doodles too was up for the day. I got up, but was absolutely miserable, so I left the kids to their father, went back to bed and finally fell back asleep shortly after 5:30. At 7:30, Adam wakes me up. I'm having a hard time getting out of bed, not made easier by my darling children.

Pie: Mommy! Read me! Read me Valentine and Cheerio book! Mommy, I have slippers! Mommy, where are your feet?
Doodles: Why do you have cracks in your eyes?
Adam [who is trying--and failing--to convince me to get out of bed]: What cracks?
Doodles: Those red cracks. In Mommy's eyes. Why does she have them?

Mommy looks haggard because you made her that way. Now let me go back to sleep!!!
Let's just say that after that comment, Adam had a hell of a time

Labels: parenting

Do you ever just have one of those days? When your toddler hasn't napped, your preschooler is hopped up on sugar, and everything seems to be slightly off kilter? Like you turn around and your dinner (Shabbat dinner, no less) is setting off the smoke alarm, your daughter has peed on the floor and is crying for dry clothes, and your son is trying to cram the elephant he's brought home for the weekend from school into a pair of doll pajamas. And the next thing you know, everyone is hungry and tired and you're in the basement, frantically looking for some outgrown pajamas for Hippo the Patamus, because if your son's animal has pajamas, then you know damn well your daughter's animal needs some, too, and you can hear the timer going off for the food, and you can hear your husband come clomping in and the sounds of him riling up the kids and all you can think is, "Where can I possibly find pajamas for a hippo?" and then you think, "What the hell am I doing?"

Yeah, that's what it's been like for me, too.

Labels: parenting

Men think football is tough. Those Brits say rugby is even tougher. I've seen players get wailed in baseball. And how many hockey players have a full set of teeth.

You know what I say to all those players? Ha! You only think you know what tough is. Hockey? Bring it on. Football? Tom Brady doesn't scare me (well, the idea of an undefeated Patriots scares me a little, but it's not the point here). Rugby? Who needs a wussy helmet?

I've got a sport that puts them all to shame, a sport I may lobby the Olympic Committee to have added to the games. My sport? Oh, all you moms of preschoolers and toddlers already know what I'm talking about: It's the search for a car cart.

Yes, the car cart. It's a game of skill, of speed, of cunning. And lucky us, we get to play it two or three times a week.

It starts innocuously enough. Enter any Shaw's, any Stop N Shop, any Whole Foods, or whatever your supermarket of choice is, and you'll hear that plaintive whine, "Mommy! I need a car cart!" As everyone knows, the grocery stores keep approximately 2.1 car carts for every 27 preschoolers who enter the store, ensuring a good battle every time.

Some days, at some times, it's shooting fish in a barrel. You spot a lone one in the parking lot, with nary a soul around. It's yours. But other times, say five o'clock at the Whole Foods, and it's a blood sport. You leap from your car. Your teammates run ahead, to see if, by chance, there's one sitting at the entrance. From the corner of your eye, you see another minivan pulling in. "Run!" you yell. "Run faster! Don't forget to check the other side!" Little feet are huffing and puffing, while the younger of the two throws out additional challenges, just to make things more exciting. "Car cart! The space shuttle one!" The bigger ones, "I see one! I see one!" until you point out that someone's actually already sitting in that card. So you scour the parking lot, all the while keeping an eye of the other family emerging from the van, the one that is sending out their own pattering feet of car cart emissaries. You eye the other parent, mentally shooting rays of death, or at least, regular carts, at them.

The parking lot is empty. There's only one move left. The checkout line block. With screaming child in hand ("Mommy! I need a car cart! Where are the car carts?" you head to the checkout lines, where you dash up and down the aisles, just steps ahead of the other minivan parent. And then you see it. A car cart. In the far aisle. Warily, you approach the grown-up attached to the cart. "Would you mind?" you ask. "May I follow you out to your car?" No need to explain. They've all done it before themselves. So in the bitter cold, you carry one screaming toddler under your arm, with a preschooler hanging on for dear life to your jacket, as the other mom tells her two kids, "It's okay. We're all done with the cart. It's someone else's turn." Of course, this family is parked in Siberia, but it doesn't matter because you can push the kids back to the store.

Wait for bags to be unloaded. Wait for kids to stop screaming. Wait for kids to be unloaded. Unload your two in. Referee the "I wanted to sit on the other side!" commotion that happens no matter which side you seat your child. Head back into the store to buy the three items you actually came for, carefully maneuvering the cart, which is designed to hit as many endcaps as possible. Make sure to gloat to the other minivan family on your way in.

Football? Yea. I don't think so. Bring it on, boys.

Labels: parenting

Once upon a time, my husband was a lowly HBS student, and I blogged with a sense of impunity. I had strong feeling about my compatriot “partners” (read: wives of students), whom I almost fondly referred to as CWITs, which stands for “Corporate Wives in Training.” I lost many a frenemie with my blog posts, although a few of the hardy stood by me and are friends today. In those days, I knew the only person who would suffer from my blog posts was my HBS husband, and I figured since he walked into this marriage with his eyes open, then anything that hit him was, if not well deserved, at least not a surprise.

But now. Now. Now my son is preparing to enter the world of public school education. Tonight was our first informational meeting about navigating the school system. Brief speeches by the superintendent about how children are going to learn all their lives. A little talk from the school nurse about health issues. And questions and answers for the parents. Oh, how my little fingers are twitching to write about my parental peers. About their concerns. Their worries. Their, their, their, well, idiocies. But alas, I find I can’t do it. Because while Adam was well aware of what he was getting into when he married me, my poor Doodles had me thrust upon him, with no say in the matter. And if there are repercussions to be had because of my blog, it would be unfair to have him suffer. So you, my dear reader, will never know of the utter ridiculousness that plague my fellow parents. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm withholding good information. But I owe it to my Doodles.

On a serious note, this has been a tumultuous time. My baby is starting to prepare for kindergarten. We debated holding him back, as he makes the cut-off by a mere a week, but his preschool teachers seem to feel strongly that he wouldn't benefit from another year in preschool and that he's just as mature as his peers, so off he'll go. I know there are plenty of arguments for holding him back based on the later years, but I think it's impossible to know now what kind of kid he'll be at thirteen, so we send him, hope for the best, and deal with any problems as they arise. But looking at the school tonight, it just seemed so big. My little munchkin in a class of eighteen to twenty-one? No way! It just doesn't seem possible.

And then there's the other big change in my life. I did it. I finally weaned Pie. It's been ten days since she's last had Ming Ming, and we're both surviving, although I'm going through a hormonal roller coaster that's just not letting up. I'm reclaiming my body, although I barely remember what that was like. I got pregnant with Doodles in late November/early December 2002. And that was the last time my body was mine. I was pregnant till August 2003, nursed until September 2004, and then was pregnant again in November 2004. I've been pregnant or nursing for a solid five years now. I'm all done. Adam and I briefly debated having a third child, but have finally come to the conclusion that two is the right number for us, so that's that. Pie is doing okay with it, although she's been a bit crankier lately. And you know? I kind of miss it. Oh, not the Ming Ming part. I really didn't like that. But just before she was so cuddly and happy and she'd snuggle and laugh and she was always so sated and delighted after. I miss happy Pie. I still get the snuggles and laughs, but not as reliably and it's not the same. Makes me almost--almost!--wish I had kept going, but really, enough is enough. Extended breastfeeding is a wonderful thing... for other moms.

So there we are. Pie is off the boob and Doodles is preparing for kindergarten. It's a brave new world out there, people.

Labels: parenting