New beginnings

It seems like a good time to change the way things roll around here. I started work today, and though this is a thing I have wanted and worked toward for some time, it is not without its challenges. One of those is, naturally, finding ways to keep up with my hobbies. I will continue with full essays at Aspiring Mormon Women, but I think for the school year I am going to try a picture a day(ish). I may still write when the mood really strikes me, but I think a pictorial year in the life of Science Teacher Mommy could be fun.

This might be the last really great meal my family gets for a few weeks, but I wanted to try. Ratatouille over polenta with steak and salad.

The ratatouille was Padawan's idea. We will see if he likes it when he actually tries it!

On The Bus

All three of my babies got on the bus today. I know they aren't babies per se, but they will always be my babies. I'm starting to get that a little bit more all the time.

Boys and More Boys

A new baby born in my extended family today.

And yes, he is a boy.

Of course he is a boy. A lovely boy. Congratulations to my brother and his wife.

I was reading some family history to the boys tonight. We started with my paternal grandfather's parents and worked backwards. He was one of five boys (two daughters died before age 1). He fathered 10 children, 7 of whom were boys. Of his grandchildren, 2/3 of them are boys. It is even more slanted if you just look at his daughters. The three daughters have nine children together. Only ONE of them is a girl.

Now to my generation. My parents had an even split, two boys, two girls, but they have 10 grandsons and two granddaughters. My sister and I only have boys (Six between the ages of 3 and 11). The daughters belong to my brothers. Of all my female cousins (the 1/3 minority that we are) in that line we have only two girls and something like 16 boys. Several of us have ONLY boys. Two others had daughters that died within a month or two of birth.

I don't really think doing the math at this point is very productive, but if it seems a little bit tilted in favor of the boys you wouldn't be wrong.

The same well-meaning sister who has been telling me once a month for four years that I need a daughter spoke up again on Sunday.

I won't scream.

I won't.

But I might want to.

I don't blame anybody or anything for my pretty firm belief that there isn't a daughter waiting for me. I think in my case it might have plenty to do with genetics. I don't mean my husband's seeming x-chromosome problem. On his side of the family things are about as even as can be. Each of his siblings has at least one of each gender (provided the one on the way didn't have her ultrasound read incorrectly). It might just be a body chemistry thing. Maybe I am too logical. Maybe I don't have enough faith.

Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe. . .

Maybe I've just learned to be content with what I have.

Wild Abandon

I took my 7 year old on a mommy-son date yesterday. He wanted to go roller skating. It was some hard work and encouragement to get him going, but the pride on his face for having figured out how to do this thing was so wonderful.

I had a blast.

I made several of my own quick turns around the rink, skating especially fast during the 80's music. I probably haven't been on roller skates in 25 years, but I've still got the magic. What a remarkable day of silly forgetting my old-lady self and remembering the girl still inside.

And not a moment's worry about which boy was holding which girl's hand. The joy of getting older!

The Power of Moms

I would like to welcome any new visitors here today. Perhaps you clicked over from the essay about my dad on The Power of Moms today.

When I was a girl I loved the movie Gidget--the  original with Sandra Dee. It is such a girl-power show. And yet, there was a line at the end of the movie that really bothered my budding teenage sensibility. Gidget's mother asks her to read out from a sampler stitched by her great-grandmother. It says, "To be a real woman is to bring out the best in a man."

What?

Can that be right?

For a long time I would have said, "No way," but a husband and three sons later I'm not so sure anymore. I think that the real power of women does lie in influencing others. Maybe most particularly men.

Today is Father's Day. I'm away from my little men in order to spend the day with my own dad. My dear Plantboy willingly took the boys this weekend without hesitation. I got the real gift this Father's Day: a mom's weekend out! He is such a good man. I'm grateful for the way he has allowed the women in his life--sisters, mother, wife--to mold and shape him. I have truly seen the best of him, and I'm grateful to have been part of his life.

It is a strange thing sometimes being in a houseful of men, but a powerful blessing too. Daily I see the influence that I can have. I understand what Gidget's mother was trying to teach her.

The Big Boy Bike

I'm headed out of town tomorrow morning and have 87.6 things left to accomplish, but I need to digress for a moment.

Those of you who have met my middle son have probably been impressed by him. He is impressive. He saves his less impressive behavior for the four of us who live with him. This is probably pretty typical for a 7 year old, but I have to admit that he can be pretty Jekyll and Hyde. So far I see little evidence of him growing out of this "phase," but I assume it will come eventually. I think he is far too rational a little being for it to continue indefinitely. He will eventually learn to master his temper and see that he can choose for life to be sweet.

An ongoing point this past year has been his bike riding. Though physically dextrous and wonderfully coordinated, he is small. So small. Almost the smallest child at our elementary school though there is a whole class of kindergartners behind him. He has a build like a little gymnast. He will be 8 in December but still wears a size 4T or 5T in pants, when I can find that rather elusive size. We have tried very hard not to make it a deal, but others sometimes do.

Last fall, we upgraded him to the next size bike in the garage with the idea that, at nearly 7, it was time to ride without training wheels. The Youngling was given the little bike and taught to ride. Padawan, on the other hand, let his two-wheeler sit for months in the garage, stubbornly refusing to try and getting angry at the suggestion. He got so good at scootering he could almost keep up with the bike-riding Jedi Knight. We tried retrofitting his bike for training wheels, which turned out to be rather disastrous.

And then, last Saturday, brain wave.

I didn't ride my blue Schwinn banana-seated beauty until I was 8, though I'd had the bike more than two years. It was too big and my short legs wouldn't reach the ground. I was terrified of falling. It wasn't until a weekend at my grandmother's house and cruising around on a very young cousin's bike (the ground easily accessible in case of tipping) that I felt comfortable.

On Saturday a neighbor up the street was getting rid of a tiny bike. Rather than remove the training wheels from the Youngling's bike, I asked if I might borrow the neighbor's for a few weeks.

Instant success.

Within ten minutes of the new bike at the house, a careful explanation of my reasoning to Padawan, as well as the story of my own experience, he was riding all over the street. On Wednesday he rode the tiny bike on a two mile round trip to 7-11 for Slurpees. Last night? He got out the big bike and cruised all over the place, sometimes with only one foot on a pedal, yelling, "This is so easy!"

And now he'll never forget.

Hopefully I won't forget to apply my own childhood experiences to my mothering so I have a little more empathy.

I wish this mothering thing were as easy as riding a bike . . .

Rediscovery

The Youngling found Jedi Knight's trains yesterday. The wooden Thomas tracks. They have been put away in a large box in his room for several months now because once JK became a Star Wars fanatic the other two followed suit  . . . and then to whatever next trend suited his fancy. In recent weeks I had considered putting them in the attic, lamenting that my youngest, five this week, had missed so many little boy phases in his rush to be a big kid. Anyway, without Mom's prompting, I walked in Youngling's bedroom to ask him to wash his hands yesterday and saw that he had built a large, rather disjointed, track all around the floor and under the bunk bed ladder. This morning I am sitting here, trying to find the ambition for my homework, and listening to his sweet little voice tell Thomas stories from the other room. A thing I have not heard around here in a long, long time. My heart is full.

My future career looks somewhat bleak at the moment and my years off-the-job will certainly not help, but as the tender memories of my oldest child (closer to eleven than ten) and the pattern repeated in my youngest, make me grateful down in my bones today for my decision to stay home. If I had not, then these sweet recollections would belong to somebody else, and Jedi Knight's childhood would be a blur of being too busy and too distracted. I don't fault any woman for working while her kids are young, I'm just fully aware of what a blessing it was to have the choice to be at home during the day.

The train moves on to the next horizon, but boy am I glad for the view from the rear door of the caboose.

Sunset

I find myself terribly discontent when I visit "home." Utah, that is. I'm not sure why. I can never decide if it is that I still miss this place that really is home to me in many ways, or if I wish to move back here to see family more often so that we don't feel like such outsiders when we come. Or is it that the houses are bigger, the hair bleachier and the women prettier? Maybe the discontent stems less from a desire to come to "Zion" and more from the overwhelming feeling of being unsuccessful, at least by a certain standard. After church today, Plantboy, one of the best-looking men I've ever met, said, "I don't think we are good-looking enough to live in Utah."

Whatever it is, this vacation has not been revitalizing in the least. I have loved seeing so much family, but we've been non-stop in the car for three days and really aren't done yet. The longer we stay away from family, however, the stronger the sense of being an outsider fills me. Yet, at the same time, I cannot shake the solid truth that this community in which my parents have been a part for 40 years helped to form exactly the person I have become.

The mission for which I departed 15 years ago today is largely responsible too.

I think the mission might be part of the conflict. For twenty-one years I lived in the same community, surrounded by people who did the same. Even at college I was close to my extended family. Generation after generation with little alteration from the ones before. I suppose that I expected to do the same. Settle close to parents. Visit on Sundays. Have my own children grow up around their cousins doing the things that kids in a certain social strata are expected to do. Dance lessons. Sports. Church. I suppose. Though I think even from a young age I felt vaguely dissatisfied and restless with the cliche.

Enter Australia.

Exit a woman no longer content with the ordinary.

In the next few years it will be important for us to make some decisions because Jedi Knight is getting older, and if Utah has taught me anything this time around, it is that putting down some roots is important. Will we stay put, accepting the economic downturn and the spiritual knowledge given to Plantboy just a few weeks before taking his job in Eugene that the Church in Oregon needed us? Will we trust the Lord enough that our unique little boys will be able to make it in schools where there are the merest handful of LDS kids? Am I willing to sacrifice the kind of childhood I had for one of greater opposition that might make them powerful men? Or will we move closer to family for an idyllic support system that might only be in my head? Will we start over again, economically speaking, in our forties, and be strong enough not to care that we live in a small house that is decidedly in the valley and not on the hill? Do we move where there are more members of the church so that we can slip into blissful anonymity because couples like us abound? Do we stay put because we have a much greater capacity to serve where we are?

I feel so weak right now, and not at all up to the task of navigating my dear little mannies through the next phase we are now entering. But I have to be. There is no one else.

Tonight I was driving straight west from my brother's house to get back to my parents' house when I saw the most gorgeous sunset I've seen for years. My emotions were full as I looked at the scene. My heart was touched at the impression of the Spirit reminding me that God loves me immensely, but that most of my own human accomplishments will be weak and frail compared to what God can do. I felt enormously loved and properly humbled at the same time.

O God, Thou hast always shown us the way forward now. Please see fit to do so again. And if it is the direction I begin to think it will be, then please, O Lord, grant us the strength to hold our family together and to sacrifice cheerfully whatever Thou asks.

Little Women

I love how the girls in Little Women patiently submit to their lots in life with zest, enthusiasm and obedience. Trials stemming from rebelliousness are temporary and soon ended with a kind word from "Marmee."

There should be a personality test for women in which you are identified as a Meg (bustling, domestic, motherly, likes nice things but is willing to sacrifice, proper, musical); a Jo (rebellious, rough, tomboy, restless, literary, unconventional); a Beth (charitable to a fault, kind always, still, faithful, also musical) or an Amy (elegant, tactful, artistic, the center of her social circle).

I've always most identified with Jo, though in some ways the above description isn't necessarily self-fitting. On a recent reading, Jo's main character trait that stands out to me is her restlessness. What suspends belief is that when she is married and more or less settled with her old professor and a houseful of boys is that all restlessness ends for her: maybe the houseful of boys was enough movement for her. Or not. Alcott herself was pretty much Jo, though she never married. The last chapter of her novel reads like her own castle in the air that isn't really grounded in reality. I can almost see Alcott in the garrett of smallish home, writing her prose and pining away for a man who would never come. Her father was a great friend to Thoreau: perhaps he was her ideal man in the way the professor was to Jo.

I am very restless this week. As we plan our annual pilgrimage to Utah, during which Plantboy and Jedi Knight are going to take an awesome canoeing trip, I cannot help but think that women spend a lot of time standing still while men get to move. And I am still having trouble learning to be still. I know that some of it is situational--my kids are still quite young--but it doesn't change things a whole lot. And we train them from a very young age to think this way: our girls go to Girl's Camp for long afternoons of crafts, a few water games, lots of cooking lessons and touchy-feely self-esteem boosting type activities. The teenage boys? They left this morning for a 50 mile backpack trip this week. In my mind it should be pretty clear which type of activity is more character-building, and yet we persist in defining kids almost wholly by their sex.

Oh, I am so restless. Graduate school this summer was very easy as I took an introduction class. Maybe as the challenges arise in the fall I won't feel like my spirit is trying to crawl out of my skin.

Cause I'm a WOMAN!

Let's see how well you remember this old commercial:

I can bring home the bacon . . . .
Fry it up in a pan . . . .

And now the last part?

And never let you forget you're a man
'Cause I'm a WO-man!

I wanted to start with this retrospective today because of a provocative article my brother sent me late last week. With my return to school this month, the article, a New York Times OpEd titled, "Don't Quit This Day Job" has caused me to stop and think about a lot of things.

But let's analyze the commercial first. If you are somewhere near my age, even if you had very limited access to television like we did, then you probably knew not only the lyrics, but the brassy, bluesy music that goes with it. These simple lyrics are the ultimate woman-message of the 80's. Our moms, the first generation of mainstream feminists, were home (often part-time) with young kids.

"I can bring home the bacon . . . " Implies that women, now working, could do just as good a job at providing for their families as their husbands.

"And fry it up in a pan . . ." Woman can also still be good at all those domestic tasks that are traditionally hers. Our mothers, who largely bought into feminism without even realizing it, (and were beneficiaries in many ways whether they supported it or not) really had a raw deal. They believed in equality a generation ahead of the men. My mother, who worked anywhere from 8 to 40 hours throughout all my growing up years, also worked full-time at home. I've never seen my dad iron or vacuum or change a diaper or dust or mend or start a load of laundry. The extent of his domestic ability is to grill and make pancakes on Saturday morning.

Now, before going to the next part, who remembers what this commercial was actually about? That's right. PERFUME. A now-defunct brand called "Enjoli."

The last couplet implies that not only can woman be the breadwinner and run the household, but she can be ready for an intense sexual experience at any given time. The question she puts to her man is, "Are YOU ready?" (Stupid question, really.) I also think it is funny how she must remind him that he is a man: I guess because modern woman does everything the emasculated modern man needs more reassurance.

My brother, the doctor, forwarded the above-referenced OpEd to me from another doctor--male--who was quick to point out that "he was not in agreement with the article." I suppose that a sensitive, new-age guy (SNAG) must say such a thing. But I am under no such constraints and may say whatever I like to the three or four of you still following Science Teacher Mommy. I am LARGELY in agreement with the sentiments expressed by Dr. Sibert in her OpEd.

For those of you that didn't link to the article I will summarize. Dr. Sibert expresses deep frustration at the vast numbers of women who go into medicine without the intention of practicing full time. She sees a disturbing trend as more and more medical schools are giving spots to individuals who intend to pursue medicine as a part-time career, citing that 48% of all medical school diplomas last year were given to women. She is frustrated by current attitudes that view doctor-ing as a great part-time option for women.

Wait . . . wait. . . haven't I been a part time worker for many years? Putting my teaching on hold for a family?

In a word, yes.

But we aren't talking about teaching, we are talking about medicine. And the good doctor points out that there are other considerations here. Medical school tuition is astronomical, but it still doesn't cover the costs of operating a medical school. The federal government subsidizes them. (In other words, you and I do. Sort of--45% of Americans don't actually pay federal taxes, but that is another discussion for another time.) Even more heavily subsidized are residency programs, with resident salaries coming almost entirely from the Medicaid budget. Dr. Sibert is angry with young doctors who don't recognize the investment poured into them, and maintains that doctors who don't practice full time are not as effective (they don't have as much practice) for their patients. Patients who are the very public who subsidized their education, and now hold all the promissory notes on their student loans too.

She is taking a bold stand by saying, "Newsflash: women CANNOT have it all!" And I agree. The notion that we can be all things to every person and still gain broad personal satisfaction is the biggest fallacy to come out of the Women's Movement of the 1960's and 1970's. I know, I've said it before, but we are at something like 425 posts here, and some things bear repeating.

When it comes to medicine, Dr. Sibert maintains, personal decisions (like the fact that 40% of female doctors in their childbearing years only work part time) have huge consequences for the public. Within just 15 years, this country will be short 150,000 doctors, especially General Practice doctors (the area where more of the residents are women). The Health Care legislation insures more people, and our population is aging. There is a terrible bottleneck in doctor training, with many times more people turned away then actually get into school. And when it comes to women in these professions, they are increasingly choosing them because of the options for part time work.

In addition, funding is becoming increasingly tight for residencies as the government cuts more and more from those areas in an attempt to balance the budget. What a kick in the pants to get through medical school only to learn there is no way for you to actually get the hands-on training needed to become a full doctor . . . perhaps it is a bigger kick in the pants to realize that you didn't get a spot ahead of a woman with excellent test scores whose ambition is to primarily be a stay at home mom.

Now, obviously, my brother's area of concern is the best medical care to the most patients, and his interest in this article is of that nature. I think there are things that could be done: states with a terrible mortality rate (relative) and a lack of doctors where they need to be, could subsidize tuition or even forgive student loans in exchange for a certain number of full-time years as a GP in rural and minority communities or in clinics that service areas with terrible poverty. I think you'd see a lot of people take advantage of that. Dr. Sibert offers few suggestions, though her tone implies that she would not like to see spots given at all without firm commitments about the work people will put back into the system that demands a lot but also gives a lot. She is right on the money in trying to address this difficult issue, and suggests that young female doctor-candidates need to be spoken to more candidly about the detriments of part time work.

For me, however, the article raises broader questions that can be applied to women everywhere, and maybe most particularly to LDS women who feel intense pressure to stay home (and whose husbands feel intense pressure to keep them there), but also near-constant encouragement to get all the education they can and excel at all they do. The feminist movement has finally produced the generation of young women it intended to--women with liberal ideas toward sex, who don't necessarily associate childbearing with sexual experience; women who believe that any career is open to them; women who see having children and/or marriage as one path in many toward self-actualization; women who are ambitious and driven and don't give a fig if they out-compete the men.

But I feel deeply conflicted about it. When Plantboy graduated from his master's program, nearly HALF of the graduates at the campus-wide commencement that day were in the college of education. As secondary teachers actually graduate from the college that was their major focus, this means that all of those COE graduates were either elementary teachers or psychology majors. Most of them were women. The rest of that half was rounded out by those in the college of Family Life--including interior design, social work and family human development. Again, nearly all women. I would have been fascinated, on that campus of mostly LDS people, to learn how many of those women ever worked. Ever intended to work.

Granted, their college experience was still valuable to them and their families, but it was a public college, heavily subsidized by taxpayers. In addition, most students attend college on some mixture of scholarships, grants and loans--all backed by common funds. Governments INVEST in education in the hopes of getting some kind of broad return on society.

Please don't misunderstand. I primarily identify myself as a stay at home mom, and I have done so for the last ten years. I believe that in most circumstances, kids get a better start in life if they have their mothers home with them during the first few years. I think if people are going to have children then they should also make the commitment to raise them.

But I also think that the Women's Movement not only deluded us into thinking that we could have it all, but that we were somehow lesser women if we didn't. So we are a generation of guilt-ridden women, unsure where we belong. We sacrifice career for family, but when the career calls we sacrifice family for that. Years of self-sacrifice can leave us worn down and bitter if we aren't careful.

I feel like every year in my life I have had to re-negotiate the balance between my own wishes and the wishes of the four men who depend on me for nearly everything. I try to be prayerful. I try to listen to the Holy Ghost. And then I act and try not to look back. I try not to feel deeply sad as the novel is shelved for who knows how long because I ran out of time to reach my own deadline. I try to get enthusiastic about another game of Apples to Apples Junior. I try to remember that doing the laundry is my version of clothing the naked, that making dinner is how I feed the hungry. I try to be cheerful about the three a.m. daily alarm knowing that the paper route is a means to an end. I try not to think about how I will possibly balance school, and eventually a full time job with a busy, needy family. I try not to be envious when my husband receives accolades at work. I try to desire motherhood above everything else even when it feels foreign to my nature. I try not to resent that I put my husband through school twice, but that this time around I must largely put myself through.

That last paragraph is pretty raw and honest . . . maybe nobody made it quite this far. But if you did, then maybe you or someone you love feels as conflicted as I do sometimes. People will often remark on how confident I am, and I feel like kind of a poser. Sometimes that outward display of confidence is the way I blow smoke over all the conflicting forces inside of me. Maybe this is the true essence of modern woman. Bottle that, Enjoli.

Relief

I did it.

I had THE TALK with Jedi Knight.

Two different events in the last week convinced me that it was time, and finally after months of thought and prayer (really, I'm pretty uptight when it comes to finding JUST THE RIGHT WORDS), the exact words and approach I needed finally came.

Ideally, I would have naturally answered questions as they arose, but there weren't enough questions asked in proportion to what he needed to know.

It was great. Uplifting. Science, spirit and love-based. He came away with a hug and smile, and the knowledge that he can ask his mother about anything. Piece of cake.

*whew*

Onto the next major challenge.

Your Daily PSA. Or two.

I scaled back on my feelings about Tiger Mom in the comment section of the piece I wrote on the subject a couple of weeks ago. I think I might have gone too far in the scaling back department. Elizabeth Kohlbert reviewed the actual book for The New Yorker this week. Things were made clearer for me. The book is meant to be a memoir, and not a parenting manual, but Kohlbert maintains that any introspection and changing done by Tiger Mom is brief and half-hearted. Despite the reviewer's subtly disguised distaste for Ms. Chua's parenting approach, she also cites the most recent, dismal findings of how American children in the current generation are stacking up against their global counterparts. There is no justification for how poorly American children are doing academically. There is no justification for calling your children garbage when they come in second on a multiplication test either.

What is clear is that some sort of middle ground must be found soon.

Your second public service announcement is not really for the public, but it will make me feel better.

Note to the newspaper customer with the hundred year-old dog that manages, somehow, to almost daily escape the airtight security you insist exists in your backyard: I don't care how harmless you insist Houdini-dog is. I still don't want her sniffing me. Especially there. And especially at four-thirty in the morning. Oh, I hear you chuckling on the phone, insisting that your gray-muzzled beauty is harmless, and telling me it is ridiculous to be afraid of her. I'm not afraid of her! But why should delivering your paper for the dizzying sum of a dime a day cause me to bring home fleas and need to see the vet for my own, special case of mange?


Now back to your regularly scheduled life.

Panda Mom

Late last week, two different friends sent me the same article. It is titled "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior," and I believe it is creating quite a lot of buzz. Plantboy had heard it talked about on NPR and the author, Amy Chua (a professor at Yale Law School) has been dubbed "Tiger Mom." The first friend who sent me the article, has five sons and is preparing to adopt a daughter. From China. This former roommate is one of the dearest friends I've ever had. She is a woman of faith and determination who somehow manages to balance her toughness with complete tenderness. Any child would be blessed to come to her family. She had little to say about the article--it left both of us equally speechless--but she did mention feeling "bad" about it, at least when she had heard the article reported on.

The second friend, a father, had an entirely different take. He suggested I write a piece talking about the expectations that Latter-day Saints parents have for their children, and ran his own bullet list of things that we do in Mormon culture that would be seen as almost bizarre, not to mention incredibly strict, to some of our friends of other faiths. His list could certainly rival Tiger Mom's expectations. Then he said something that disturbed me almost as much as my other friend's near-guilt. He indicated that part of the reason LDS parent acts this way is that in our own culture we pay great attention to what other parents do and see acts by children as a reflection on the type of parents we are. He obliquely suggested that LDS mothers, a larger stay-at-home group than the population at large, feel enormous pressure from one another to churn out perfect children, more for the sake of themselves than the children themselves.

As interesting as both of my friends comments are, and worthy of discussion, I would like instead here to address an entirely different approach to parenting than Tiger Mom's. Clearly my speechlessness didn't last. I am not talking about Eastern v. Western parenting. Even Tiger Mom points out that many moms of Chinese descent, particularly those living in the West, aren't what she terms "Chinese Mothers" because they don't follow the set mold that is the basis of her discussion. In addition, she uses the term "Western parenting" extremely loosely, so that at times I found myself in agreement with her and other times nearly offended at her implications.

Before I get going, it is important to point out that I don't begrudge Tiger Mom's right to parent how she wishes. I remember some years ago there was a young Cuban boy whose mother and father were divorced. The mother, who had family in the US, absconded with the boy in violation of a joint-custody agreement and attempted to make the crossing to the US. On their journey, the mother died and the boy was united with his Florida relatives who then tried to petition the US government to get custody of the child so he wouldn't have to be returned to his Communist father. No US politician would weigh in seriously in favor of the relatives, recognizing the slippery slope that we embarked upon when we began judging parents as unfit simply because we disagreed with their political beliefs. With that rather lengthy aside, I am only emphasizing that just because I reject emphatically Tiger Mom's tactics, I don't reject her right, or any parent's right, to create a home that reflects their values (within the law, of course).

My fundamental problem with Tiger Mom is not that she is strict, or that she has nearly impossible expectations, it is that her parenting approach is rule-based instead of value-based. I should clarify: parents who make rules the priority probably do have values, but they don't find it necessary to explain these to their children, only to enforce the rules. Similarly, value-based parenting also has rules, but both parents AND the children understand the purpose of the rules. In the first method, the family unit ends up serving the rules which are rigid and sometimes arbitrary or based on tradition. In the second method, the rules serve the family and there is inherent flexibility when things aren't working.

I'll provide an example.

Tiger Mom says that her children, two daughters, are not allowed to play an instrument other than piano or violin, nor are they allowed NOT to play either the piano or the violin. It is a family rule. So is practicing said instrument up to three hours daily.

Okay. Music is certainly a worthy pursuit.

But here is what a values-based parent says. "I want my children to learn self-discipline, diligent hard work, responsibility and be free of anxiety when performing in front of other people." To that end, the child in this scenario would be encouraged and allowed to do a team or individual sport, martial arts, dance, art, drama (Tiger Mom's greatest fear), or any musical instrument of their choosing. Or, heaven forbid, some combination of these.

The first child is valued for strict compliance, excelling and adherence to tradition in their perfect reflection of mother's wishes. The second child is valued for their choice and individuality and unique expression of talent.

Here is a second example of the contrast, again based on Tiger Mom's own words. "My daughters were never allowed NOT to be the number one student in every subject except gym and drama." She then spends hours each day drilling her kids in their subjects, stressing that the Chinese-school model of rote memorization is superior to Western ideals of creative thinking. Other than music practice, Tiger Mom's children are allowed no recreation. If her daughters don't come in first, or especially if anything other than an A is received, coercive techniques that include withholding food, name calling and taking away other "privileges" are invoked.

Okay. Academics are very important.

The values-based parent might say, "I want my child to value education, learn all that they can and become an engaged an interested student." The child is then encouraged, supported and loved. The child's areas of excellence are stressed and encouraged in the hope that a love of learning will spread to other areas of the curriculum also. School activities are supplemented when necessary and a child doing their best is the most important thing.

The problem of parenting with rules at the center is that there is no allowance for unusual circumstances or kids. There is no leeway for mistakes or repentance or reconciliation. There is no buffer system against the inevitable trials that will come into life. A friend once told me that she believed if you went into parenting with two many preconceived ideas (rules) then you were bound to be disappointed. I can't help but wonder what Tiger Mom would have done if she had given birth to a little girl with Down's syndrome, or a boy with Asberger's. Tourettes might have sent her into spasms of horror.

I'd like to share here a few of the values my own parenting is based upon. For some of these I will draw a contrast to Tiger Mom, others not so much. It is hard to tell entirely WHAT Tiger Mom values, other than her kids being "successful." In creating my list, I fully acknowledge that my own parenting values stem in large part from my own cultural biases, which are primarily LDS and secondly American. My ideas have also largely been formed from my training and experience as a teacher.

1. My children are lovely, special and unique. To me. It isn't fair for me to expect other people to treat them the same way. (Saying that all children are unique is really just another way of saying that NONE of them are.) If my children need extra time and attention, then it is primarily my responsibility to give it to them.

2. I must love my children enough to put limits on their behavior.

3. Self-esteem is built when a child makes good choices and enjoys the positive consequences of their behavior. Their sense of self and worth is based on their ability to become independent and strong. (Tiger Mom says that self-esteem is based on being praised for performing certain tasks with perfection. The problem with this approach is that perfection, at least across a broad spectrum of skills, is impossible. And even if you are first, it is only temporary. Somebody smarter, faster, more skilled and better always comes along eventually.) The most important thing I can give my child is independence.

4. I should set high expectations for my children and then do everything in my power to help them become successful.

5. My home needs to be a place of love and understanding and peace so that my kids have a soft place to land.

6. Children, particularly young children, develop their imagination and problem solving skills when they have plenty of unstructured play time. When this time is outdoors, it is even more productive. Dirt doesn't hurt and soap washes almost everything.

7. Children should learn to work, and that work should generally come before play; but they should also learn that work and fun are not dichotomies. Working at something you love brings total joy. And fun might involve all kinds of thinking and sweating.

8. My children might be handsome, charming, intelligent, excel in school, and have loads of friends (etc. etc.) but if they have no compassion, kindness and generosity then they will never build a life of true joy or richness. It is these unmeasurable attributes that make a truly great man or woman.

9. My children are not the center of any universe. Even mine. The most important single entity in my house is our family. The things we do must center on what is best for the family--which may certainly include an individual being spotlighted.

10. Eventually my children will have to determine their own religious values and practices, but in the meantime I will train them up in mine, while teaching them the tools that will help them to choose for themselves one day.

I guess I have a lot of values; I'm sure I could even come up with more. My point is that motivation for parenting has to be based on something more substantial than guilt (particularly that false-guilt that is actually based on comparison and not any inner working), tradition, a slanted idea of success, or on how well a child's behavior reflects on ourselves.

In the end of her essay, Tiger Mom, in my eyes redeems herself with the following two paragraphs,

". . . . For their part, many Chinese secretly believe that they care more about their children and are willing to sacrifice much more for them than Westerners, who seem perfectly content to let their children turn out badly. I think it's a misunderstanding on both sides. All decent parents want to do what's best for their children. The Chinese just have a totally different idea of how to do that.

"Western parents try to respect their children's individuality, encouraging them to pursue their true passions, supporting their choices, and providing positive reinforcement and a nurturing environment. By contrast, the Chinese believe that the best way to protect their children is by preparing them for the future, letting them see what they're capable of, and arming them with skills, work habits and inner confidence that no one can ever take away."

In the end, it seems that most parents want the same things.

What do you value as a parent or grandparent or favorite aunt or teacher? Everyone, regardless of the age or number or even existence of your own children has something to contribute here.

Mirror of Erised

In the book Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, Harry is wandering through his boarding school/castle one night and stumbles across a very curious mirror. Instead of seeing just himself in the mirror, he sees himself surrounded by relatives, with his mother and father at the forefront. For those ten or so remaining people in the world who haven't seen the movie or read the book, this is very strange because Harry's parents died just a few months after his first birthday. The only home he has ever known is that of his mother's sister, a woman who is vicious and shallow and cares nothing for Harry or his freakish magical nature.



Harry quickly wakes his best friend from their dorm so that he might show Ron his parents. Ron, however, the youngest of six boys whose greatest fears involve failure and wondering if his mother only had him because she craved a daughter, sees something else entirely. He sees himself as a Hogwarts Head Boy and leading the Gryffindor Quidditch team to the House Cup. For you American Muggles out there, that is the equivalent of being student body president and the captain of the football team when they take state. Ron hopefully asks if the mirror shows the future, but Harry reminds him that his parents are dead.

The boys realize that the mirror doesn't actually show what you are or might become, but what you want the most. Ron thinks the mirror is cool, but Harry gets a bit obsessed with it. He goes back several times until the school's headmaster finds him gazing at it late one night. He explains a little bit about the Mirror of Erised, and how it shows nothing more or less than the deepest wish of your heart. A perfectly contented man would see only himself. He tells Harry that men have wasted away their lives in front of the mirror, longing for an illusion. He also explains that the mirror will be moved, and he implores Harry not to go looking for it.

And in typical JK Rowling fashion, where a name is never just random, Erised is a palindrome of Desire. In the movie version, they went so far as to create an engraving across the top, which is just more information about the mirror printed backwards. It is a rather tender and pathetic scene, film-wise, the 11 year-old Daniel Radcliffe is adorable and the mother in every woman wants to adopt Harry at that moment.

As I was watching it the other day (I had my Young Women here for a sleepover--they had an HP marathon to get ready for The Deathly Hallows and watched all SIX of them in a row), I wondered what I might see in the Mirror of Erised.

I'm almost embarrassed to say my first thought.

NO, it was not for me to be in a room filled with really fine, milky European chocolate. Sheesh. How shallow do you think I am?

Okay, pretty shallow. I saw myself standing at a podium in a roomful of librarians while I accepted the Newbery Medal with a speech that was witty, self-deprecating and perfectly charming. I was wearing a really great outfit.

But then the picture changed and I saw myself tenderly cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pink.

A third picture came on the heels of that--the Jedi grown into handsome men in the image of their father, dressed as missionaries.

Other pictures followed that of a more sacred and eternal nature.

Still, isn't it clear that I moved from self outward, rather than the other way around? Or skipping the self bit entirely? The last several days I have been cognizant of the thought that my actions aren't always reflective of my deepest desires. Even the selfish ones.

I'll be home a lot over the next couple of weeks. School has started again and I'm going to make a concentrated effort to potty train the Youngling. Nearly nine years of changing diapers may come to an end in just two weeks. No doubt there are many of you out there who did your time for far longer. I salute you. A single child might use upwards of 10,000 diapers and pull-ups before being fully trained. Do the math. Or don't, it might just make you cry.

Anyway, during my couple of weeks of being at home time, I am giving myself a break from Internet technology, as much as is practical. It will be a good time for me to figure out the things that I want the most, and then spend my time accordingly.

What do YOU see in the mirror? And if you only see yourself, please share with us the secret to your contentment.

Summer Wishes

I am looking forward to a lot of things this summer. School doesn't even let out until next week, but we are already facing a calendar (almost) full of wonderful plans. The days in between will have plenty of time for relaxing, running through sprinklers, play groups, reading, gardening, writing and just generally soaking up the sun.

If the sun ever comes out, that is. We've had just a few sunny days in the last six weeks. The weatherman, however, has forecasted the next week and a half to be full of blue skies and NO RAIN. Oh, I hope so.

Next week will bring a day at the coast and a special out-to-dinner to celebrate the end of school. We have playdates, a birthday party and a couple of barbecues to round out June.

The first two weeks of July will mean a trip to Utah and a much-anticipated family reunion, with Plantboy's entire family in attendance. (Every two years his parents and eight siblings have reunion, though it has been a long time since everyone has been able to gather.) After the reunion, Plantboy has to come back home, but I will stay on longer with the kids. We "plan" to swim, visit old friends, have a barbecue, take a ride in Grandpa's boat and whatever else comes up. The thing to which I'm most looking forward is an invite to Desmama's book group, wherein I hope to meet a couple of bloggy buddies for "real." I cannot imagine any group of women I'd prefer to discuss Jane Eyre with. The Bronte girls excepted, of course. (Oh, yes, you want to stop and check out that link.)

When we get back from Utah, Jedi Knight has a week of Cub Scout Camp. The shuttling and volunteering might be a bit of a pain for mom, but he is so excited that his enthusiasm has actually rubbed off on me a bit. We love Cub Scouts around here. No doubt there will Pinewood Derby pictures posted here next.

In August we have a couple of weeks of swimming lessons. The pool has an open time for young families (only their small pools are open) that overlaps our swimming time, so we will probably be down there for a good chunk of every day. Late August should lead us back to the coast, at least once, and on a camping trip or two.

Somewhere along the way I hope to get another manuscript "finished." At least finished to the point where I am ready for a couple of friends to view it. I hope to spend the fall doing heavy re-writing on as many as three manuscripts with the goal to submit all three before the end of the year.

What are you looking forward to? Let's anticipate together and then share memories come September.

What Were YOU Doing Three Years Ago Today?

You probably can't remember, huh?

I do.

Happy 3rd birthday, Scamp.

A Trio of Favorite Things

Mother's Day weekend involved three wonderful things--movie night with my boys, Jane Austen and a culinary creation so sublime that I'm daydreaming about leftovers at nine in the morning.

Last summer we started a tradition of Family Movie Night on Friday nights. These boys forget to tie their laces, change their underwear, make their beds, wipe their bottoms . . . but they never forget a Family Movie Night. Sometimes they start asking about it on Monday. Last weekend we went to How to Train Your Dragon. 2D.

I'm not sure if this movie is for everyone. It was surprisingly violent, at least in a cartoon dragon-y sort of way. The Jedi loved it, even laughing uproariously in parts that I worried would scare them. My gripe with Dreamworks movies (a la Shrek) is that they are generally laden with pop culture references and mild innuendo in an effort to interest parents. How to Train Your Dragon, however, avoids this stupid trap and instead just tells a great story. I loved every part of this movie--the action, the father-son angst, the coming of age bit, the puppy love story--but mostly I loved the dragon. "Toothless" is the sweetest/most terrifying creature in recent imagination. This movie is great family fare. If your kids are old enough/willing to wear the glasses, there were a few scenes in this that would have been completely awesome 3D.





And if the wonderful Astrid doesn't inspire a whole line of Gothic-Viking-Chic this fall, I will be very surprised.




I downloaded a reading of Northanger Abbey onto my iPod last weekend and spent my paper route with Jane Austen's snarky voice in my ear.

But is she too snarky in Northanger?

I know that Northanger Abbey is meant to spoof the Gothic novels that were gaining so much popularity the same time that Austen wrote. She does this rather effectively. In my mind, however, Austen is spoofing far more than the Gothic novel. She is also writing a gentle reproof of romance novels in the way that she characterizes her heroine, and she warns the reader before she takes the protagonist down any path--reassuring the reader that she isn't going to break the expected mold. Catherine Morland is as bland as any heroine anywhere in literature. I can't decide if Austen's point is that even a girl totally average in every respect can have her own kind of adventure, or if her point is that what seems adventurous in a moment is really just entirely mediocre and worth mocking.

Poor Catherine. Her chief charm in attracting her hero is that in adoring him, she becomes adorable. He is funny and sarcastic, when he isn't working hard at forming her opinions, but she misses almost all of it. He likes her for her childlike demeanor, un-sophistication and modesty. I think he is hoping that if he gets her young then he can train her up right. Yuck.

This is one of Austen's last-published novels, and my latest listening of it made me think that her writing tone is tired, jaded and deeply cynical. I was surprised to learn that it was her first written novel. The brilliant Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility are not, therefore, earlier on the spectrum of her biting wit, but are instead a pulling back of Austen's natural inclination to tease, mock and parody. Northanger Abbey has all of the bite and very little of the charm of her more famous works.

I can appreciate the bits that parody the Gothic novels, but Austen's mockery seems to stem from the fact that the gruesome only exists in run-away imagination and doesn't in any way reflect any situation that could actually happen. And yet, two generations after her publication, Jack the Ripper terrorized the streets of London. As lovely as Austen's world is, her's is the truly imaginary one.

As narrator, Austen says some interesting things in defense of the novel and its importance, while complaining that boring authors of history, etc. got all the legitimacy and pay. There is something to be said for this: Austen was paid ten pounds for this novel. A pittance even then. Her brother published it posthumously, as the family was in abject poverty; a situation that might have been entirely avoided if a much younger Austen had not once rejected a wealthy suitor. Even the poverty-stricken Jane couldn't help but appreciate that irony as she lay dying.

As for my Mother's Day dinner, I cooked it myself. If this sounds lame, please realize that this is exactly as I wanted it. I whipped up an amazing dinner, created a huge mess, and didn't do a single dish. Bliss.

Here is what we had:

Chicken Florentine Fonduta
Spring Greens (from the garden)
Lemon Rosemary Bread
Rhubarb Crumble with French Vanilla Ice Cream

I will only give the recipe for the first. The second is one of Plantboy's delicious salads including every vegetable available in my fridge or garden; I've posted Lemon Rosemary bread before, and if you haven't made it by now then there is no hope for you; I modified the crisp recipe so heavily that it doesn't really bear writing down. The biggest difference in rhubarb crumble as opposed to an apple or berry one, is that you need to find a recipe that makes some kind of super sweet batter mixed with the rhubarb. I believe the one I used is a modification of one that Desmama posted a year or two ago? I forget.

But here is the piece de resistance:

Serves 4

2 large chicken breasts, pounded to uniform thickness
Olive Oil
3 cloves garlic
2 shallots
2 TBSP butter
3/4 cup apple juice
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup heavy cream
4-6 ounces of some kind of Italian cheese (like fontina or parmesan) or a blend that isn't too heavy on mozarella
Spinach and/or asparagus for four
Short, rough pasta for four (like penne or radiatori or farfalle)

Cook lightly salted chicken in olive oil one medium heat until browned on both sides and cooked through. Pull out of pan and set aside. Add butter to pan with chopped shallots and garlic. Saute over medium heat until they are translucent and soft. At this point, the smell in your house will be so fabulous that you might need to pick yourself up off the ground.

Add stock and juice to the pan and turn the heat up to medium high. Whisk it to deglaze the bottom of the pan. Boil about three minutes until the liquid reduces by half. Reduce heat to medium and whisk in the cup of cream. Allow the mixture to boil until it further reduces and thickens slightly. Stir often. Add cheese and wisk until it is all melted. If the sauce is too thick or stringy, add another 1/4 cup of juice. Keep the sauce covered on low, stirring every few minutes.

While the sauce simmers, put two pots of water on to boil and cut up chicken. Return the chicken to the pan and coat it with sauce. In one pot of boiling water, cook the pasta according to package directions for al dente. Put a steamer on top of the second pot and add loose, frozen spinach into it until warmed through; or steam the tender parts of the asparagus with the woodiest bits cut off. The veggies will only take about five minutes. On Sunday I had both kinds of veggies and it is impossible for me to say which tasted the best. They were both so good. Of course, if you sub the spinach for asparagus, you can't really call this dish chicken "florentine" as that designation is reserved for Italian chicken dishes with spinach in them.

Layer pasta, vegetables, and sauce on each plate or in each pasta bowl. Sprinkle a few pine nuts on top if you are feeling especially Mormet. Wow. So good. I found this picture on line for a very similar recipe. Mine was prettier.



The crumble was a lovely, sweet and tart finish to a wonderful meal. Those chocolate lava cakes wouldn't have been bad either . . . .



I was going to post about getting older as tomorrow is my birthday. This one feels like a milestone in many ways, but this post is already lengthy enough. I will think of you tomorrow as I take a slice of red velvet cake around to my local friends. This might have to do for the rest of you:

Dear Mom

I am not sure if I will ever have a daughter. Oh, certainly one day there will be daughters-in-law, but I am not at all sure that there will ever be a teenaged woman in the same household as myself. In some ways that makes me very sad. Yes, really. I got into the whole teaching gig to begin with because I really love young people. I love watching them grow, change, develop and learn. Even when I was an older teenager, I loved taking the younger girls under my wing--showing them around the junior high school, helping them transition into our Young Women group, listening to all their problems and stories at Girls' Camp. Though I have no actual parenting experience when it comes to teenage girls, I have loads of experience observing them in almost every other setting. In the last 12 years, I have continuously been serving in the Young Women, teaching teenagers at school, or tutoring them one-on-one.

It is interesting to note that these three activities have seldom overlapped. It is as if the Lord knows exactly what I need or something.

For Mother's Day, here is a letter from the young woman living in your house. . . . or who one day will be. It is not a letter she would ever dream of sending herself, it is only in retrospect that she will come to see just how important some of this might have been. The trick with parenting is figuring out ahead of time what is important.


Dear Mom,

Let me tell you first of all that I love you very much. Yes, yes, I know I yelled at you just yesterday about the skirt you told me was too tight for me to wear anymore, but my temper really is short-lived. I won't make any promises about not letting it happen again. I'm sure it will. Please forgive me anyway. Your love and forgiveness is my soft place to land.

I know I grumble about early morning seminary and scripture study with the family. Oh, and sometimes prayer too. But it really is such an important part of my day. I know that when I am part of these things the bad influences at school don't seem as hard to deal with. Please don't give up on these habits, even when my attitude leaves a lot to be desired. Completing my Personal Progress program would also be easier if I had your help.

School is hard. Please remember just how hard. There are pressures there that don't seem at all temporary. If I complain a lot about a class, it is probably because I don't understand the material all that well, or I think the teacher is mean, or the kids in the class are really getting under my skin. And if I tell you that a teacher is out to get me, or hates me in particular, it is probably not true. Again, my talk like that is most likely hiding other issues. But if you don't listen to me long enough; yes, even through all my ranting, then you will never learn what is really behind my surface comments.

That friend I casually mentioned 10 times yesterday? He's a boy. And I'm crazy about him. Maybe even in love with him. And while my version of love seems very immature and even silly to you, to me it is very real. Don't you dare belittle or tease me about it. The same goes for when this same boy breaks my heart. One day I will see it as a learning experience; right now it just hurts. Validate me.

If I have a regular boyfriend, there is no doubt that we are kissing more than would make you comfortable. If I don't have a boyfriend, there is still somebody I have my eye on. Maybe more than one somebodies. My hormones are powerful. If you haven't talked with me candidly about sex then it isn't too late. Even if I roll my eyes a lot and try to tell you that I know all that stuff, I'm just blowing smoke. I need to know what you think about sex, and how intimacy between men and women fits into our belief system.

When I say candidly, I need to know more than just the biology and the mechanics. We watched THAT movie in 7th grade health. I need you to tell me what effect my specific actions will have on the young men I know--whether I'm trying to get away with a two-piece swimming suit at the water slide, or sitting on a boyfriend's lap, or French kissing . . . . if I haven't exhibited some of these behaviors yet, well, my friends probably have. And if not my friends then kids at school. Please help me to know how boys tick so that I can be careful.

At the same time, don't reinforce my negative stereotypes about boys. Don't teach me to manipulate and tease. Don't use dad as an ATM to support a shopping habit. Don't give my dad the silent treatment when you are angry. When you act that way, you are teaching me things about relationships that will not help me to create a pleasant home-life, and they will undermine my respect for men. It might even effect my desire to get married.

I know that I'm busy, but it is really good for me to have a set of expectations at home regarding my help. What I don't realize now is that when I am one day married with a husband and children of my own, much of my time each day will be consumed with the business of running a household. Before I leave home, I should know how to budget my money, change a diaper, clean a bathroom, wash and iron clothes, and how to cook some basic meals. To say the least.

As you teach me these things, your attitude towards these tasks will largely determine how happy I am doing similar things. If you treat your work of the home as drudgery, I will either feel the same, or reject my potential as a homemaker all together.

Even as you go about your many and varied household tasks, it is really good for me to see you doing other things as well. It is even good for me to be told that my own agenda needs to be put off because you are doing something else--even if that something else in non-essential. I need to be reminded pretty often that I am part of something greater than myself: a family, and that the needs of the family overshadow the needs of any one person in that family.

Manners are important. Teach me to be gracious, polite and grateful. I know it is a fine line to help me act with dignity while also teaching me to be strong and assertive. But I know you can do it! This is the same balance I see in you and the other women I look up to and respect. To me, the very essence of womanhood is that perfect mix of tough and tender that you seem to have figured out. Help me figure it out too.

I have a lot of friends; perhaps there are times when even you and I are great friends. I hope so. But there are times when I mostly need a mother--even if it means coming down on me in the way my friends never would. I will only have one mother, and you have a short amount of time to get it right. Please love me enough to put limits on my behavior.

Chances are that my friends and I are more ambitious regarding education and careers than the women in your generation were. Bear in mind that very few women have the inclination, let alone the luxury, of staying home with their children full time anymore. If I am ambitious then it greatly increases the chances of me finding a career that is fulfilling and joyful to me.

Having to chose between the many activities that I love will be really good for me. And it won't hurt me to have to earn my own money for some of these things either. When I have to start helping pay my way, chances are that I will get a lot more selective about what I participate in. You would be naive to believe me if I tell you that I will "pay you back" after you shell out money for band camp or EFY or another cheerleading uniform.

It doesn't matter how compelling my arguments are, there is no reason for me to have exclusive and unlimited use of a cell phone all the time, particularly if that phone has Internet on it. If I have one on my person, then I can almost guarantee I am abusing it. I'm texting at church and in class, I'm talking on it when I'm supposed to be studying; I've gotten inappropriate pictures, jokes and websites sent to me, even when I haven't asked for them. My generation's use of technology is teaching me that every random thought that pops into my head is worth sharing. My emotional status updates are seldom appropriate; it is up to you to follow me on Facebook or Twitter or Myspace to help me keep my public behavior in check.

I will resist you at nearly every turn, but please don't give up on me. My potential is beyond what either of us see.

Love,

Your Daughter


Feel free to add your own PS in the comment section.

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 20

I love a clean garage. Thank you, thank you, thank you, Plantboy. We've had the freezer less than a week, but it is filling up fast. What on earth were we doing before?


Day 21

I love the funny things kids say. Here are some recent highlights:

Jedi Knight, "Mommy, doesn't it make your heart feel so tender that I will always be your oldest son?"

Padawan, to The Youngling while they are playing with their Star Wars Lego guys, "This is Episode 3000, Revenge of the Ewoks and its all about when the Ewoks have to fight the clones."

Last week at church Plantboy whispered to me that he thinks the beloved wubby is part of the source of The Youngling's naughtiness, to which I replied that there is no chance I'm taking it until he is potty trained. The Youngling happened to be sitting between us and yelled, as loud as he could, during the passing of the sacrament, "I HATE POTTY TRAIN! I NOT POTTY TRAIN EVER!!!!" Uh. . . .

My youngest is a pillbox. I have to keep reminding myself to be firm with him because his grouchiness is sometimes ridiculously cute. Cute at two is not so much at say, age 5. My oldest learned "naughty" words later (hate, butt, stupid, idiot, etc.), my second learned them early but had this hilarious way of saying them under his breath or trailing off his sentences. Not boy number three, no sir. He likes to shout them. "I NOT EAT DINNER! I HATE DINNER!" "I NOT HAPPY I SAD; SAD MEANS I GRUMPY!" "NO KISSES MOMMY! I HATE ICKY, SOOPID KISSES!" "I DID STINKY TOOT!" (That last was during dinner, of course, and was followed by the laughter of three little boys.) "I NOT GO ON TIME OUT. NO WAY, SOOPID MOMMY!" These choice phrases may or may not be followed by the throwing of whatever toy is handy. And the little flipper has an arm.

Charming. Just charming. His other favorite recent thing is to run around naked, stopping every ten feet or so, turning his adorable little butt right around to me, shaking it while looking over his shoulder and saying, "Shake you booty. Naked baby, I shake booty." Oh my gosh, he's cute. Does anybody want to borrow him for the day?

28 Days of L-O-V-E

Day 9

A couple of Sundays ago I volunteered to hold a friend's baby while she actually sat through the end of a meeting. Before I had children of my own, I was always kind of anxious around babies--adorable from afar, downright scary up close. I didn't really play with baby dolls when I was little, nor did I really want the kitchen set to use for playing house. The kitchen I did like was a Barbie kitchen, and we pretended it was the kitchen for the sorority house. I never wanted the Barbie with babies, only the one who had a career. And I loved my Rocker Barbies the most.

Coming back the point now . . .

Now that I've had my own kids, I like babies a lot better; probably because I feel more comfortable around them. My initial thought in picking up my friend's baby was to help her out, as my own Church-of-the-Hallway days are not that far past. But as I held his cherubic, chunky, five month-old self close, I inhaled deeply and thought my reasons for holding him were probably entirely selfish. I do love the smell of a baby.

Not that Baby Magic smell--my own kids were too sensitive for any scented soap. Nor that poop smell--formula or breast milk, both are equally toxic. I mean that natural baby smell that makes you want to bury your face in their furry little heads and just forget any bad thing that has ever happened to you. Not every baby has that wonderful smell in equal measures: my first smelled lovely but I was too stressed to appreciate just how unique and fleeting that scent is. Isn't he cute?






My second child didn't really have a good helping of that baby smelliness, but he more than made up for it in cuteness. He was honestly the best-looking baby I've ever seen. I mean, look at this kid! In the first picture he is just a month old and we used to laugh until our sides hurt over that gorgeous head of hair. I mean, honestly, he looks like he is wearing a wig. He wore this delightful, pensive expression when he was trying to figure things out. Now and then I still catch that same expression on the face my little boy. (*wipes tear*) He smiled by the time he was a month old.




Baby number three smelled great, and I was smart enough to enjoy it. He spent the first several weeks of his life being a baby to a temporarily single mother. I did a lot of couch sitting and sniffing of him while my kids ran amok. I just let everything go. Guess what? The world didn't end. Here are a few pictures of #3. Oh, heck, he is just so cute too.





Conclusion: I love baby smell, but mostly I love(d!) my own babies. Oh, good grief! Where did the time go?