Mama's Musings

Mama Bear Resting

Gaaarrrrrrhhhhhh.

That's the sound that came out of my mouth an hour after lunch. The dimness of mid-November sliced my pupils just so, making driving to my son's hair appointment a real drag.

"You should be a brown bear, Mama," I heard my son's eight-year-old voice rising from the back seat.

"I really need to hibernate," I said in sleepy tones made for bedtime.

"You could work off those thousand kilos like the bears do in the wintertime, Mama." The innocence of my son's insult made me giggle.

Giggle-gaaarrrrrrhhhhhh. There I went again.

Winter is made for hibernation. I claim we redefine the word productivity for the months' until we see the sun again. After all, how can we possibly be be as productive as the month's in which days are lighter?

Love means you really should say you're sorry

Even though my eyes seemed stuck to the back of their sockets in a weirdish, inverted position, I slowly rolled with a groan lept from the bed and into the shower this morning. It was my daughter's first day back to school after fall break, and I had promised her I would drive her to school at the ungodly hour of 6:50 am. She had lain in a puddle of tears the night before, casting off some mean girl saga I missed while I was traipsing about the universe sprinkling messages of slow and abundance.

So here we were, sitting on the kitchen floor and sorting through school supplies and my daughter's feelings to get to the bottom of things.

"And the worst part? She never even apologized!" my daughter exclaimed. I guess she was used to apologies being the normal ending to conflicts. Not so in the real world, I told her. We say we're sorry, but not everyone learns that courtesy.

I am roughly 27 hours into the full-time motherhood/work-from-home consultant gig, and I already feel worse for wear. Some of it has to do with residual jet lag. The other part has to do with getting back into the swing of things after a few weeks on travel. You can never fully simulate the feelings to marrow-deep exhaustion when you are away from home. It's only when you get there that you realize how much energy is required to keep the ship at an even keel.

Luckily, my kids are used to hearing and saying 'I'm sorry.' We've had a lot of practice, and my guess is it won't be the last time they hear it from me!

You gonna change the world, Mama

We have officially entered the tween years, those bittersweet days of little girl turned fire-breathing something or other turned little girl again. Just as you think you are about to hang her by her toes, my daughter does or says something that leads to redemption every time. And when I catch her at the right moment, there's downright love in her eyes.

This morning I awoke to the furious rantings of a ten-year-old whose father wasn't listening. In our adult way, we like to admonish, instruct and guide our young-uns towards, well, what we want them to do. Never mind we don't always do it ourselves.

No, you can't watch TV. Honey, where' the remote?

Because I said so. Now don't do what I'm about to do cuz, uh, it's not allowed.

I want you to come down here. Right. This. Minute. (Then we wonder when they use the same tone right back at us).

Sigh. So in my melodramatic half-sleep state (waving goodbye to the little REM I had acquired in a virtually sleepless night), I stomped down the stairs and into the corner where my daughter cowered with a blend of defiance and fright.

We battled in a weirdish Mom-not-awake way, then said goodbye in softer tones. By the time she had gotten home from school again, I knew she had taken a detour (again. And not allowed) via her old schoolhouse where her fourth grade teacher always listens to my daughter's concerns about getting a bad grade on her test.

She came home dragging her feet and announcing she had gotten a C- in biology. I ignored her for a moment, allowing her to hear herself before jumping in. Then I calmly asked her if she wanted salad. She appeared relieved that I wasn't addressing what she just had. I helped her print out a few pictures of cells for her science poster, then let her type up her text on her computer, something she loves to do.

"You know what, Mama," my daughter said in a wise-like (and not at all wise-a$$) tone. "Your new book** is gonna change the world. All those people are gonna step back and take a moment to actually think before they destroy the planet and themselves. I mean it. It's cool." Then she trounced off the hang up the wash without a single vitriolic huff, leaving me with my mouth agape at the transformation, and the trust, my daughter just displayed.

**Book events calendar here.

Best friends

Because best friends and birthdays go hand in hand. Especially on a Spanish island in the Mediterranean!

My mama always said, if you can count the number of friends you have on one hand, you're doing well. I have the best friends in the whole world ~and they are spread out all over the world.

To them I say thank you. Even though you're not here, you are in my heart.

Always.

The Grands

My dad and his wife arrived yesterday for their first visit to Germany in fifteen years. The kids were so excited they left for school early. In their child-like minds, they most likely thought if they left early, Grandpa and Grandma J would get there faster. In fact, the kids raced home from school in record time to see their grandparents.

Their first day was amazing. Normally, I fight exhaustion while trying to stay awake until bedtime after an overnight transatlantic flight. In their mid-seventies, they were as perky as ever until 9 pm. I was astounded at their stamina (and a little envious!). They even played a marathon round of Monopoly (my daughter won).

Even though the rain keeps falling, we know we'll have a blast. The kids have been exceptionally good, which makes me proud. It also tells me when push comes to shove, all that parenting has paid off on some level!

A Hug Can Make All the Difference

My aunt once said you need three daily hugs to stay alive, five to thrive, and twelve to make a difference. While every culture has its own acceptable corporal proximity, I am a hugger. Always have been. Always will be.

Germans are not huggers. They are hand-shakers. They greet each other formally, hand extended, eye contact level. If you're on familiar terms, you get a one arm clasp to the bicep. For huggers like me, it can be awkward to do the sidestep greeting dance with a pseudo-hug better left undelivered.

But something has happened recently at the Volksschule in the tiny town where we live. I've seen some full-blown hugging going on in the hallways: adults hugging adults; kids hugging kids. I can see the 'are you going to hug me' glee in the eyes of some of the teachers. And when I do, we laugh, shake hands and exchange hugs again as we discuss bullying, grades and child development.

The first time I experienced Hugville was in my son's classroom.  I was having a chat with the school tutor about my son's school performance. His teacher, the tutor and I had a marvelous time, brainstorming about ways we could empower and encourage without being overbearing. As the bell rang, we stood up from the tiny chairs on which we had been seated. We had just shared a moment with each other and a good hug seemed to be the very thing to end the meeting. So we did. And we laughed again and warmly thanked each other for the commitment we shared. That day I skipped all the way home.

Just this morning I reentered the halls of my children's school to address the challenging mean mom scenario I mentioned a while ago. Heart palpitating, I struggled to maintain control of my emotions. I yearned for the level-headedness a good hug can bring. Then I spied the very first German teacher I had ever embraced. She gave me a big wave from afar, popped into her classroom, then came back out. She walked towards me, arms extended, and gave me the best hug ever.

"I just love your hugs," she told me in a moment of confidence. "Can't do that with everyone, you know!?"

It warms my heart to know there are hugs to be given and received at the lift of an arm. Need a hug? Drop me a line. I give great cyber ones, too.

Reprinted from my parenting newsletter, Powerful Families, Powerful Lives.

Maddening Dads - and why we love them still

I marvel at my husband's in-one-ear-out-the-other ability. If he were to ride the perfect storm, his would be the only boat sailing at an even clip. The man is a rock. I down right envy him for it. I really do.

When asked how his day went, he says, "Good." Then he flips the lid of his soda can and says nothing for two hours.

When asked how my day went, I announce in one breath:

"Thumbing through my wallet while balancing three shopping bags, a PDA and an overfull bladder, I finally found the coupon for 10% off the house shoes I remembered our son needs after shopping for the kids' easily microwaveable lunch since I'm not going to get home when they do because I will be taping a TV show tomorrow and permission slips have to be signed, parent-teacher conferences need to be arranged, friends' parents have to be alerted, and my cell phone must be charged in case of emergency...."

A Big Gulp®-size amount of air enters both lungs as I close my eyes to memorize the next day's details...saddled with unopened mail, a UPS package and a bag of groceries, I plop down the items and run to the bathroom. Two minutes later, hubby enters the kitchen, puts down his briefcase, takes off his shoes, sits himself down, and placidly reads the paper...

Martha Brockenbrough, author of Things That Makes Us [Sic], has written one of the most poignant articles I've read in a long time in this month's Parenting magazine. It describes why we moms are so exhausted and pissed at the husbands whom we love, yet curse, almost every day. Where is their frenzy? Why do they rest when they're tired while we do not?

The article is entitled "Mad at Dad: We love our husbands -- so why are we so angry at them, so often?" The most eye-catching part has to do with moms being the Encyclopedia Britannica to the dads' brochure. Martha writes:

We carry so much of this life-altering responsibility in our heads: the doctors' appointments, the shoe sizes, the details about the kids' friends. Many dads wouldn't even think to buy valentines for the class, for example, or know when it's time to sign kids up for the pre-camp physical, or that curriculum night is next Thursday at 7:30 and you need to hire a sitter and bring a nut-free vegetarian appetizer that can be eaten without a fork. Even moms who work full-time take it upon themselves to store all this data in our already overstuffed heads. We're the walking, talking encyclopedias of family life, while dads tend to be more like brochures. [Reprinted with Permission from Parenting magazine and Martha Brockenbrough]

At my request, hubby read the article, too. He nodded, smiled, then opened the paper again. Nary a grunt escaped his esophagus, the very one I wanted to choke, but then thought better of it...

Faux Family News - Something to Laugh About

I am blessed to know some of the funniest people on the planet. Many thanks to Leigh Rubin for his permission to post his cartoon here (please do not illegally reprint - ask him yourself. He's a nice guy!).  

Another funny guy I know is my pal Gary (who shall be last nameless). He works in Public Radio in a sparsely populated State and has razor-sharp wit. His down-home humor and occasional cussword make him a fresh read.

I promised not to mention last names so as to protect the hilarious. Nonetheless, he has allowed me to post his faux family holiday newsletter in which nothing is true, yet incredibly funny. If you've ever received one of those over-the-top-aren't-we-all-glamorous-and-perfect-while-you-are-not holiday letters, this one's for you. He writes these every year and sends them to his relatives. They storm their mailboxes the last week before Christmas just to be the first to read it (okay, so I made that up, but it's quite the visual!). And when you write your own holiday letter, remember: Rudolph is listening!

Introducing a new genre: the satirical holiday newsletter!

~~

Christmastime, 2008

Dear Families,

Another year has almost slipped by, a joyous holiday season is here—and there’s not a better time to look at the year and the good fortune it has brought to all of us.

After years of planning and a careful bid process, Our Mother has finally built her long-anticipated addition to her home.  The construction has nearly doubled the size of her house, and includes three screened-in porches, a game room and an Olympic-sized pool.  When asked how the financing came about for the project, Our Mother lit another cigarette and laughed her throaty laugh.  “Nothing to it,” she said.  “You just go to the phone book, call different numbers just after school, and when a kid answers, you say, ‘Listen, Honey, it’s Grandma; I’m in a jam down here at the casino, and I need you to go to Mommy’s purse and take out all the green pieces of paper you find and send them to me.’  They get some quality family time, I get my house re-done—everybody wins!”

A shaky peace has settled once again at Mike and Kathy’s home in Nebraska, after a year largely spent in damage control.  The couple’s two bewildered daughters, Christine and Sarah, have apparently fueled an Internet rumor on Facebook and MySpace, which reads:  “On Friday and Saturday nights, our mother puts on tights, white vinyl boots and a red cape, and runs through the streets of Beatrice fighting crime.”  Asked for his reaction to this news, their father says, “It’s hard to argue with the approach; crime on Friday and Saturday nights in Beatrice is down 40 percent.”   Their son, Mike, stays above the fray, serving his country in the U.S. Marine Corps, while youngest daughter Erin lives in Wisconsin and tours the County Fair circuit, signing autographed photos as “The World’s Tallest Dwarf.”

Oldest daughter Julie is the toast of the literary world this year, as her latest entry in the “Bracer Lungfish” series, “Damn, Dan!  The Damn Dam!”  is a rousing success.  In this epic tale, the hero, Bracer Lungfish, “A short, stocky young man with a close haircut and a quizzically confounded look about him that suggests he’ll get the joke, though it may be a day or two,” continually has to outwit two local villains, “Guilty Guiltyton” or “Phat Boy”, who connive to wreak havoc in a small Michigan town.  Though the hero often cuts it close, right usually wins in the end.  Daughter Jennie is manager of “Smock on the Water,” an artist supply shop along the Wisconsin River north of town, while son Eric calls square dances (Our Mother says, “he does this whether there’s a dance or not”) Thursday nights at the G.A.R. hall in Boscobel.  

Youngest daughter Jayne and her husband, Doug, are still employed in the Radio Show business, living in Mount Horeb but spending as little time there as possible.  Relationships with townspeople have been strained since this year’s Christmas concert, when every song performed by the Kindergarten classes ended with a loud, “WHAT in the hell was THAT!”  The couple’s twin daughters, Summer and Ana, were relieved to discover it was only their grandma providing the commentary; as Ana explained, “Here we thought it was Daddy.”  Oldest son, Spencer, is counting the days to high school graduation, and appearing in local theatre as car salesman “Randy Randall” in the ground-breaking musical, “Hate Wore Seafoam Taffeta.”

Vivian and Rick report a joyous 2008, as Rick has won another Marksmanship Award from his employer, the U.S. Postal Service.  The honor is only one of several to reach their household in the past year, as youngest daughter, Kayte, won a national mascot contest sponsored by the USPS.  Her winning design, soon to appear on stamps and the side of mail trucks, is a wild-eyed Rottweiler named “Snap.”  Vivian is earning rave reviews with her advice column, “Why is This MY Damn Problem!?” while Mike and Mary spend their days tending to their successful 43-acre commune in the Ocooch Mountains.

Our Fifth Child continues to set impeccably high standards for the World to follow.  He is a compassionate friend to all who meet him, and he lives by the motto, “I never met a man I didn’t at least tolerate.”  Wife Sandy is making a name for herself with the South Dakota Parent Connection, while sons, Preston and Tyler, amaze and delight everyone without exception, in all facets of excellence.

That, dear Families, is our look back at 2008.  We wish you a blessed Christmas and an even more blessed 2009.

~~

What's a grungy?

It's a made-up word. According to Dr. David Wolf, author of Relationships that Work, grungy means an unpleasant, lingering emotion. Getting mad at your kid sister when you were little, then being friends when you're older, is not a grungy. Wanting to clock her as an adult for every little thing she does constitutes as a grungy.

So I got curious. He told me you can do a consciousness-raising exercise to communicate your feelings in a non-blaming, powerful kind of way. Cool, I thought. I'm game. After all, I just finished a book that talks about choice, awareness and consciousness myself.

To de-grungify yourself, you need to do the following:

(1) share with the other person the grungy you maintain; (2) reveal to the person your payoff(s) for using this grungy; (3) commit to the person that you won't run this grungy-payoff racket anymore; and (4) declare to the person what is essentially important in your relationship.

Here is an example:

Spouse to partner: "I sulk a lot so that you'll feel sorry for me and stop being angry with me. I won't do this anymore. What's actually important in our relationship is that we create a loving, cooperative spirit in which to raise our children and set a good example for them." 

Note that the spouse is not justifying the anger or other behaviors of the partner. This process is not a matter of right or wrong. Rather, the spouse is taking full responsibility for his or her contribution to the relationship. This spouse might still have issues with the partner's behavior. Instead of sulking, however, the spouse could learn a healthier, more effective means to address concerns.

Now I'm starting to feel pretty good. Because I actually say stuff like that to my husband. "I'm acting annoying because what I really want is for you to pour unending adoration all over me. Yeah. I'm that insecure." And then I get over myself. I don't promise I won't do it again, but at least I'm being consciously annoying. You've just got to love self-reflection...