After all, don’t I have kids? Don’t I know what it’s like to be looked at by people who don’t have kids? Don’t I know how frustrating it is to have to miss out on things simply because you’ve given birth to a needy infant?

Don’t I like to take my kids to the movies? (Yes, at the FAMILY DOLLAR THEATER TO SEE KIDS’ SHOWS.)

But really. People pay 8 bucks a ticket (or work hard enough in their careers to be given complimentary tickets) to attend a PG-13 movie on opening weekend, and you bring your crying baby, and sit right behind me.

And I? I have spent two hours of my Friday afternoon making calls to potential sitters, and shelled out twenty-five dollars of my hard-earned blogging money (which you know took me two weeks to earn) for a babysitter, and I’m out on the town on a date with my husband, without my kids, enjoying a fantastic movie, and you expect me to LISTEN TO YOUR FREAKING CRYING BABY THE WHOLE TIME?

Major fail, Mother with the crying baby, major fail.

Please stay home, or get a babysitter, before you give all mothers a bad name, and me a major pain in the hiney.

The kids were tired and Annie’s oldest, who truly is quite articulate, said that he would rather wait in the car than go in with his mom. The kids were in their coats, in their car seats.

A couple walked by and called the police, who came and had been at the car for three minutes when my friend got back to it. The female police officer who wrote up my friend did not know for sure whether the statute Annie had violated was state or federal, though she guessed federal. She was positive that children have to be 8 to be unattended in a car, and 12 if there are any children under 8 present also.

My friend was so upset and ashamed about the whole episode that she didn’t tell anyone but her husband for three weeks. When she finally told me about it, I did some research. I couldn’t find a state or federal law about leaving children unattended in cars. There are groups pushing for legislation to make cars safer for kids unattended in cars, and there are statutes about neglect, harm, and abuse to a child, but no such allegations were made in this case. (The police made no moves to open the car; they could see that the kids were happy and safe.)

Annie and I scoured the internet. She called the DMV and learned it’s not a traffic violation; she called the district court and realized the clerks had no clue beyond suggesting a call to the city police department, and, oh, wasn’t that odd — according to the code on the citation, Annie was charged with “trespass and graffiti.”

Today at the court appearance, the prosecutor’s case paper had the correct code on it. Turns out, there’s a city ordinance about leaving children under the age of 6 unattended in a car in a public place. Annie was too flustered and intimidated by the judge to defend herself; she pled guilty to an infraction and paid the (happily-low) $100 fine.

Now, there are several issues here:

1) Children die in cars every year from hyperthermia.

2) The couple who called the police did the right thing.

3) The American justice system is probably the most defendant-friendly in the history of the whole history, and yet it is still a maze of Kafka-esque proportions.

4) Mothers who care about their children never stop worrying whether they’re doing it right.

1) Children die in cars every year from hyperthermia. This happens in the summer time, when parents forget (or don’t care) that their children are in the car. Recent cases have involved parents forgetting to drop kids off at daycare. I haven’t heard of any cases in the winter time among children running errands with their parents. In the Ohio case of Brenda Nesselroad-Slaby (whose 2 year-old died after 8 hours in the car), no charges were brought because there was no “reckless conduct” present.

I’ve never heard of a kid being kidnapped out of a locked car in a parking lot, but this could happen. I don’t know how it could possibly happen to a five-year old and not a six-year old, but there you go.

2) The couple who called the police did the right thing. My friend might wish that they’d considered waiting a few more minutes to see if a parent would return. But what if Annie had fallen and gotten hurt? What if you walked past a car with two kids in it? Would you walk by? I hope not. (I hope you wouldn’t act smug when the mother got written up for it, either.)

3) The American justice system blah blah blah. Ignorance of the law is a poor defence, but when almost no one knows what the law is, and when there’s no intent to neglect or actual neglect or any harm, what purpose is there in humiliating a mother who is honestly doing her best, which is pretty darn good?

4) Mothers who care about their children always think they’re doing something wrong. And if they’re not doing it wrong, for sure some other mother is.

We parents are so hard on each other. A couple months ago I told another friend how tempted I was to leave Spot napping at home while I ran to the school to pick up Sally. I was SO tempted: Spot had just barely fallen asleep, and I hated to drag her out into the cold. The school is only three minutes away; we live in a very, very safe neighborhood. My friend told me she’d recently left her baby asleep at home in the exact same circumstances, only she took the baby monitor over to the neighbor’s house.

I woke Spot up that day. What if there’s a fire, I thought. My friend who had left her baby at home also recounted a time when she left her kids in the car at the printers’. She could see them through the store window and she was only gone for three minutes. But, she said, she would NEVER leave her kids for twelve minutes in a large parking lot.

Neither would I, for that matter. I think. Except maybe I have, at the grocery store? Or the movie rental place? Sally is almost 8, so she’s probably been at least six any time I’ve done that. And probably I was only in the store for nine minutes, so that’s okay.

I do leave Susan and Spot while I get a drink at the gas station (or used to!) — in fact they were in the car when I locked my keys in it last month.

My point: there are large gray areas, despite laws about booster seats for eight-year olds.

And negotiating the gray areas is tough enough without law enforcers adding unnecessarily to the guilt and uncertainty parents feel every day. Surely police officers can tell a difference between a mother running a quick errand and a mother leaving her kids in a car while she bar-hops.

When I told Dick about Annie’s mistake, he said, “Wow, reminds me of that time your friend Andrea passed a car on the right and the police pulled her over and made her feel so bad for endangering her kid who was in the back seat.”

That happened almost eleven years ago, when Dick and I were dating. I still remember Andrea showing up at my house right after it happened. She was shattered at the idea that she might be (thought) an unfit mother. Dick and I haven’t talked about that in ELEVEN YEARS, and when we did talk about it Sally was the merest twinkle in Dick’s eye, but we both remembered it, and I bet Andrea does too.

I’ve joked before that I’m going to wait to have another kid until the American Academy of Pediatrics decides it’s okay after all for babies to sleep on their stomachs. Because if I have to count the weeks until another newborn can turn over by herself and get some quality sleep, I just won’t make it.

I know I make mistakes as a parent. (And I know I’m not the only one). But I hate the feeling that everyone else is watching, waiting for me to screw up.

Jane

p.s. I’m in the running for a spotlight on Mormon Mommy blogs, if you want to go vote (in the sidebar). Because I AM a good mother, dammit, and even if this post isn’t even “funny in a makes you think sort of way” (as one of my sweet readers said), but just plain “makes you think” (I hope), I’m, uh, sure I’ll have something almost-funny up again soon. (Thanks also to the MomNerd.)

Comment of the day (so far) from Keli:

A most excellent post, thank you. I have done this several times. I admit it. I will run into the “Sev” to grab a hot chocolate, and I admit, I don’t want to unbuckle my 2 year old, and wrastle the 5 year old, and then have to buy them crap they won’t eat or drink in addition to my hot cocoa. It’s purely selfish. But if a mom can’t have her selfish time, what can she do?

I usually try to get a 12 year old to sit with my kids in the car while I bar hop, though. That makes me a much better mother.

{Back to the Bloggy Giveaways Post}

DANG am I glad I reached those goals and can now focus on planting a garden, finishing my basement single-handedly (because I don’t like to use my left hand for construction projects), and learning Farsi for the Foreign Service.

Everybody is resolution writing and year in review-ing. I’m scared to check if I posted my goals last January. And despite often thinking that my latest post is the best thing I’ve written up until five minutes after I hit publish, I won’t be listing my favorite posts of the year. Because six minutes after I hit publish, I want to go snivel in bed, covers pulled tight over the lower half of my face.

Two of my favorite bloggers, one as secular and brazenly-career-minded as possible and the other as devoutly on fire as only the recently-converted can be have led me to think on my resolutions in new ways.

Surprisingly, what Penelope Trunk and Jennifer at Conversion Diary have to say about goals and potential is compatible enough to convince me:

Penelope says:

Living up to your potential is not crossing off everything on your to do list on time, under budget. Or canonizing your ideas in a book deal. Really, no one cares. You are not on this earth to do that. Trust me. No one is. You are on this earth to be kind. That is your only potential.

Jennifer says:

Any list of New Year’s resolutions should having growing closer to God as the ultimate goal. I need to remember this and ask myself with each one, “Is my true desire with this goal to better conform myself to Christ?” This is true not only of the goal itself but the way I approach it (e.g. you could approach a budgeting goal in a God-centered way or a greed-centered way).

I do have goals for this year. I’d like to lose 20 pounds, be more patient, organize the finances, meal planning, and laundry, pray with greater intent, write something. Oh, and plant a garden.

But I want to chose one overall goal, one goal that’ll bring me closer to God and bless my children. One goal that has a hundred applications every day and would correct something that I have rationalized and defended as my right as an overwhelmed mother.

I want to go an entire year without yelling.

Probably I am delirious about the possibility of even approaching this, but I want it. I want it so bad I can taste it. I want to believe in the grace of Christ, the tender mercies of our Lord, that if I try really, really hard, and pray really hard, I can change what is all too often the fundamental dynamic of my interaction with my children.

I would never yell at a friend the way I do my four year old when she won’t put her boots back on. Right. Now.

I would never yell at my boss the way I do my seven-year old when she touches something I’ve told her thirteen times not to touch. (If I had a boss.)

I would never yell at my two-year old in front of my Savior. (I think.) (Unless I somehow forgot He was standing there.) (Like, say, if my two-year old threw her syrup-drenched pancake squares on the floor. Repeatedly.)

So that’s it. The goal I am going to resolute over all others:

No Yelling.

Can I do it?

Yes and no.

Beth at Blog O’Beth has a family tradition of writing predictions rather than resolutions. This makes a lot of sense to me. I could predict, for example, that I will lose 20 pounds but gain back 15 or that I will organize the finances only to give up on meal planning altogether. But I’m too young for that sort of realism.

Instead, I predict that:

1) My kids will disobey, and annoy, and irritate beyond all hope of bearing.

2) I’ll backslide on the yelling. In fact, one day in early February, I will snap in the middle of a crowded grocery store and implore at the top of my lungs “Why, oh everything holy in heaven and in earth, WHY?”

3) I’ll feel bad about this yelling, which means that my goal is working. Because:

4) I’ll learn for sure that it is possible to interact with minors who share my DNA without resorting to threats of violence, and:

5) Just the act of trying, really, really hard, and praying, really hard, will improve the spirit of our home.

Jane

What do you predict or resolute?

You see. Yesterday? The entire day from sunup to bedtime?

I went an entire day without yelling. At anyone. Not Sally, not Susan, not Spot. Not even Dick.

I know what you’re thinking:

Jane, it was Sunday. Who yells on Sunday?

or

Jane, it’s the holidays. A time of cheer and peace and adoration of the sweet baby Jesus. Who yells during Christmas?

or

Jane, your kids were all sick, vomiting and lethargic on the couch. Who yells at sick kids? Even Andrea Yates took the day off on the Sunday after Christmas.

But what you don’t realize (or what you might realize if you have children of your own and you are the kind of person who has two arms, two legs, and a healthy fear of the IRS — Not that people without arms and legs wouldn’t realize this too) is that Sunday is usually the worst offender when it comes to the aggravated provocation of mother-yelling. And that the Christmas holidays, when children have multiple days off of school and there are (heaven forbid) parties and shopping and general merriment are an even worse agent provocateur of the dreaded mean voice. And that Andrea Yates probably went crazy precisely because she worked so hard to never yell at her kids. It just ain’t natural, friends.

But I did it.

And NOTHING can ever take that away from me. No matter what the future holds, I’ll always have December twenty-eighth, in the year of our Lord 2008, as a great, shining monument to the power of clean living, a positive outlook, and medicinal quantities of jet-puffed marshmallow creme.

Who knows what I might accomplish next?

Peace in the Middle East?

Stabilization of the world financial markets?

Kicking of the Mountain Dew dependence once and for all?

Now wait.

Let’s not get carried away here.

Jane

The fading stretchmarks on my calves from the first-pregnancy Entenmann cheese bun cravings.

I have the heart that melts, the lips that yell when my oldest tries to help but is doing it wrong. I have the eyes that tear-up at the intolerable cuteness, the hands that yank hair when a two-year old cannot stand still for five seconds for ponytails so we can see your pretty eyes.

I have the heartbreak for the baby who never swelled and teemed. The regret for the swearing and the yelling and the times I wished they’d just GO AWAY for two minutes. I have the arms that comfort and the lap that is spreading to accommodate my ever-taller almost-eight-year old.

I have the ears that hear phantom crying and panic whenever the snurgling baby suddenly starts breathing quietly. I have the dry, cracked skin from washing endless milk cups and water cups and juice cups and sippy cups.

I have the feet that stomp on the gas as we rush to be on time for school. I have the nose that cringes from smelling another pair of panties, and the miserly practicallity that cannot even consider JUST WASHING a pair that might be clean.

I have the neck my youngest now considers her personal handwarmer and the patience (laziness) to count to three five times before employing a humane time-out. I have the featherbrain that forgets early-out day at school and the knees that remember to pray with the kids, even when I forget to pray by myself.

I have the hormones that insisted at 22 that I have a baby RIGHT NOW, instead of going to graduate school, and the neural-synapse-thingies to wonder if that was a smart choice.

I have the sing-song voice that can cajole and the imagination to make them want to want what I want them to want. And the impatience often to wish that they’d simply do it because I said so.

I have the hopes and the dreams and the remorse and anxiety and fear and the certainties and the what-ifs and the could-have-beens and thank-God-it’s-nots and the thank-God-it-ises.

I have the wisdom to realize, and gratitude to be thankful, that most of what I am today is shaped by being a mother. And the selfishness to resent that three small beings dictate and describe and delineate me.

And I have the desire of a mother to see my three girls become mothers themselves. Because then they’ll know, and they’ll forgive, and they’ll get what’s coming to them, and they’ll love as fiercely and as imperfectly as I do, and they’ll wish I lived close enough to babysit, but I won’t, because I’ll be on a trip around the world.

Until I come home to smell the baby smell, and cuddle the baby warmth close to my mother’s body, and then hand that baby back at the first sign of action in the lower abdominal region.

Jane

I wrote this as part of the Mother Letter Project. I had mixed thoughts on the MLP, ranging from “gimmick” to “how sweet” to “how come Dick couldn’t think up something like this for me?” And then I read that you could purchase, for the low, low price of FORTY-TWO DOLLARS, your very own WOMB (fabric bag) to hold your copy of the Mother Letter Project, and I barfed a little bit in my mouth, even though I hate that phrase, but that’s really what happened.

Then I remembered when I first became a mother, when we lived in the bottom floor of a little A-frame Archie Bunker house in The Bronx and I had no mother friends (22, remember? in NYC?) and my own mother lived two thousand miles away in Utah. And she asked a couple of her young mother friends to write to me and tell me I’d survive. My mother admitted that she’d been out of the trenches long enough to forget how stinky and deep and dark they are. So these wonderful women emailed me, and I printed out their letters and read and re-read them. And I SURVIVED. (so far). And so will you. (I think).

(Back to the Bloggy Giveaways Post)

Mrs. Keil quit her lucrative accountant job to stay home, and she wants to be “compensated” for what is now her “full-time job” of caregiving. “She sees it not only as a battle about income but also about dignity and respect.” She’s never regretted leaving her paying job, she enjoys her new role, and she’s confident in her competence, but she worries about the financial repercussions of working for nothing.

There’s a growing group of caregivers who are lobbying to not be taken advantage of anymore. Advocates for these caregivers suspect that the government does not pay them (so far) because “they know they would do the work anyway.”

Have you guessed who the charges are?

All of the issues in the article could apply to a stay-at-home mom caring for her kids, but instead it’s about soldiers who come home from war in need of full-time care. In many cases the health aides paid for by the government provide unacceptable care, so many wives of soldiers have quit their jobs to care for their loved ones themselves.

I don’t want to make light of the atrocities of war that render grown men and women in need of full-time caregivers. And, of course, the least we could do as a grateful nation is facilitate our veterans’ return to living to their full capacity.

But.

How come we don’t talk about mother-caregivers in similar terms? I’m not saying I’d like the government to pay me for being a mother, though I do find it appealing when Nora Roberts has characters choosing to accept the “professional mother stipend” in her futuristic Eve Dallas crime books.

I’ve pointed out before that the Child Care Tax Credit is unfairly preferential to working mothers (and fathers) who pay non-relatives to care for children.

Why doesn’t anyone talk about “compensating” (or at least not punishing in the tax code) mother-caregivers? After all, it’s not just a matter of income, but of “dignity and respect.”

Also, why weren’t there protests about this betrayal of feminist ideology — this suggestion that people are happier when cared for by a relative rather than a paid aide or in an institutionalized setting? Shouldn’t someone warn these women of all they are giving up and how they are setting feminism back by settling for a mere caregiver role?

Jane

*I’m not saying a man can’t be a caregiver, but all of the examples in this article were female.

{Background: Motrin ran an ad about back pain caused by babywearing that was “consdescending, patronizing and poorly thought-out.” Babywearing mothers everywhere were outraged and twittered until Motrin shamefacedly pulled the ad. You can see it here (via The True Face of Birth). The New York Times Motherlode blog wrote about it (including the full transcript of the ad).}

It was a stupid, stupid ad, though I wonder how much the controversy will hurt Motrin’s bottom line — if there’s no such thing as bad publicity?

But what has driven me to posting is the condescending, patronizing, and poorly thought-out reactions of many babywearing moms to the ad. One reaction in particular:

“If it hurts when you babywear, then you must be doing it wrong.”

This is the same thing you hear when you first start breastfeeding:

“If it hurts when you nurse, then you must be doing it wrong.”

Next, I expect to hear that:

“If it hurts when you give birth, then you must be doing it wrong.”

Or:

“If it hurts when you train for a marathon, then you must be doing it wrong.”

Now, I realize that there ARE wrong ways to do all of these things, of course there are. In nursing, if the baby doesn’t latch-on right, if she sucks on the nipple instead of taking in most of the areola too, it will HURT. And if you don’t warm-up or stretch or strength train for that marathon, it’s going to HURT.

But all of these things hurt (at first, or intermittently) EVEN WHEN YOU DO THEM PERFECTLY.

It hurts to suddenly have another human being sucking on your breasts for hours on end. It hurts to carry around (even in that most ergonomic of carriers, the human body) extra pounds for hours on end. It hurts to run 26.2 miles. It hurts to give birth, whether you do hypnosis or epidural or c-section or midwife or unassisted or meditate or scream or don’t scream.

LIFE hurts. Why say it doesn’t?

I can’t really imagine what the motive behind this sort of thing is. Too assert your superiority over other women? (Fine, you’re superior). Too make me feel like an inadequate mother/woman/human being? (Oh, Honey, as if I needed your help to feel that way). Too “prove” that something is worthwhile? (As if something can’t hurt if it’s worth doing?).

This whole thing is odd to me, because — you know how they say “men want solutions and women want sympathy”?

Apparently some women don’t want solutions OR sympathy. They want to simply pretend that nothing is wrong. Nothing hurts. Ever.

If only you DO IT RIGHT, life is pain-free.

Who knew?

If my sisters or my daughters ever ask me if they’re doing something wrong when they cry after a hard day of chasing kids or a frustrating week of no sleep and poopy-diaper blowouts, I’m going to tell them the truth.

Yes, it hurts.

Some days, it hurts so bad I want to hide in a corner and gorge on Cocoa Pebbles and whole milk.

And some days, it’s glorious. Some days, when Spot learns ten new “words” and Susan asks, “Is it time to get Sally from school yet?” and Sally is happy to wear the poorly-crafted witch hat we concocted for Halloween, it really is the best thing ever.

Even though it hurts sometimes.

Jane

*Updated to add*

What Memarie Lane (and others) say about the moms being most offended by the ad portraying women as shallow fashion-followers who merely babywear in order to appear “official” is true. The ad was stupid.

BUT. Dude. Rixa says in her comment “Breastfeeding didn’t hurt for me either.” That’s great, except, I remembered reading in her blog about plugged ducts (“I woke up this morning with a tennis-ball sized lump in my left breast, and a nasty red patch on the skin)” and mastitis (“I think I have mastitis, but it’s getting better. The fever/chills are pretty much gone now.”)

In 43 (total) months of breastfeeding three children, I never once got mastitis, and I once had a plugged duct the size of a nickel that I put a hot pad on and encouraged my baby to nurse a bit longer.

My point is — do I go around telling Rixa that she was obviously breastfeeding WRONG because she  had some pain (but has miraculously forgotten it, apparently).

No, I don’t tell her she did it wrong, because I know plugged ducts and mastitis are normal side effects of breastfeeding.

And here was my main point (and yes, maybe I am just a wimp) — Pain is okay, hurting is okay (if it’s within normal parameters). It’s part of life, and to say that “hurting = doing it wrong” is just not true, or helpful.

The reason I continue to read Rixa (The True Face of Birth) and her work on unassisted childbirth, midwife-homebirths, etc, etc is that she is honest about her experiences, fears, etc despite her obvious desire to promote progessive (or traditional, depending on how you look at it) thoughts about the childbearing experience. Here’s her post about the place of pain in childbirth.

And Beth (and others) are right about life being a unique experience and that there are, possibly, more important things to worry about (YES! Hooters (the restaurant) must die!!). I do think, however, that how women treat other women, whether they respect other women’s choices (whether to breast or bottle-feed, stay-at-home or go back to work, to babywear or not) is really important.

The feminist movement was about making men let us choose our own paths (about demanding/taking the right to self-determine), but maybe it should have been about making women be nice to each other about whichever path she chooses.

(Oh, and I’m not saying these things have to hurt — if you’re lucky enough that they don’t — great, just please don’t tell me that I’m doing it wrong if my experience is different.)

But we needed a break from the emotionally draining business of intense (yet civil) Instant Message fighting discussion.

So what did we do? Took the kids to the dollar theater where we all enjoyed the magnum of giddy nonsense that is . . .

Mamma Mia! (spoiler alert!)

I thought Dick would be mad that I tricked him into taking four females to a musical about . . . hmmm . . . about . . . a wedding, sex with multiple partners, consequences, regrets, boy toys, homosexuality, single parenthood, responsibility, love that survives in the unlikeliest of circumstances, and following one’s dreams.

Maybe it wasn’t such a fluffy movie after all.

Maybe it was . . . hmmm. I’m not really sure whether to be appalled or applauding. It sure was gorgeous — all set in Greece with the white-stuccoed rocks and that blue! sky. Meryl Streep, who I’m realizing is quite amazing.

And it turns out that Dick has quite evolved, affectionate feelings for the music of ABBA, enough so that I’ll be uploading my ABBA Gold CD to our iTunes library tomorrow (if I can find it).

But one thing did bother me:

Why is Sophie (the daughter) choosing between:

1) marriage/settling down/babies

and

2) seeing the world/following her dream/freedom?

when the movie rests on the premise that what Donna (the mother) chose was:

3) seeing the world/following her dream/accidental baby/settling down.

Why is everyone so happy and relieved that Sophie chooses the freedom of travelling the world with a man who remains her boyfriend rather than her husband? Because as long as they’re not married she won’t get pregnant? Do Hollywood types forget how babies are made between the opening scenes and the fadeout? Are Hollywood types really that dumb? (Really?)

And why is marriage the bad guy here?

Marriage doesn’t tie you to a place or a dream or a baby.

Marriage ties you to a person. And if you tie yourself to the right person (even if he is a big fat jerk sometimes), marriage can take you to Japan and Harlem and The Bronx and Iceland and England and Cairo and Florida and Utah.

Marriage ties you to the dreams you build with your favorite person on earth. And even when he is your LEAST FAVORITE person on earth, you remember that the dreams that you have built together are worth working and fighting and sacrificing for.

Marriage can’t even produce a baby (sex does that, my poor, dumb Hollywood types). And it is love that ties you to a baby, whether you’re married or not. And once that baby is here, all the places and dreams and freedoms suddenly seem a little less important.

Until the day that baby starts talking and discovers what a great reaction she can get from saying “I hate you” all day long for seven weeks straight.

Then freedom starts to look more enticing again. And then, hopefully, that person you tied yourself to ten years ago? He offers to watch the kids all weekend so you can get away for a break from your job of 24/7 mothering.

And suddenly you realize that you don’t really want to go anywhere.

You just wanted to know that you could.

Jane

(And this week’s trash has not yet made it to the trash can, and tomorrow is trash day.)

(And he left out the blender. Again.)

Yesterday I walked to my cub scout pack meeting with all three girls (WHO ARE NO MORE WELCOME AT MY SCOUTS THAN THEY WOULD BE AT DICK’S SCOUTS) because Dick took the car to his voice-over lessons that he’s getting in exchange for blog consultation. The voice lessons which appeared on his schedule to help him podcast better. (AS IF I CARED ABOUT HIS DING DANG PODCAST).

Now, I know. It could be worse. Dick could be dead. Dick could be a selfish, narcissistic, insensitive creep who left us for a Barbie-type fantasy with LONG HAIR. Dick could be unemployed and uninterested in looking for work. One or all of our children could be terminally-ill with last-stage myofarcoinsentialoma. I could work all day at a real job and then come home to deal with the exact same problems.

But. Could anyone, male or female, explain to me why, when I need to leave the Smoking Brownie-Glass Chunks Everywhere mess in my kitchen for emergency Chik-fil-A fresh-squeezed lemonade (and dinner for the kids), I am car-less because Dick has driven FOUR BLOCKS. (WITHOUT KIDS).

Also, I know. I shouldn’t blame this whole (obviously hormonal) fiasco on being a stay-at-home mom — at least, certainly not on the “mom” part, not when Spot, seeing my weeping while vacuuming glass is intent on hugging my leg in comfort. And not when Susan, even after I spanked her mouth for repeating that very naughty word ONLY MOM CAN SAY says, “It’s okay Mom, you don’t have to be mad.”

But I’m sorry, all of you who have tried to claim some other title, like Homemaker or Soul Sculptors for the King of the Universe. I love my kids. They are the most significant part of my life. The only part of being a stay-at-home mom that I don’t like is the part where I SUDDENLY FEEL LIKE A SECOND-CLASS CITIZEN IN MY OWN LIFE.

Jane

Comment of the day from Emily Jones:

Oh man, I so feel ya. In my blog, I have a separate tag for poo parties, because they happen often enough to necessitate one. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who has days that age me 10 years. I’m also glad to know I’m not the only one who wants to run away from home. It’s almost easier to have a husband that beats on you, because then you can blame him guiltlessly. But when he’s a decent guy who works for a living, it’s harder to tell him he’s being a jerk.

*Not that I want to make light of abuse. If your husband is ANY WORSE THAN MINE in ANY way, please dump him. Right now.

2nd Comment of the day from Maggie:

Some days I feel the same way. Some days, as in days that end in Y. I’m sorry you had a bad day. I’m sorry your husband couldn’t walk his tush and leave you the car. I hope you have a better day today and an awesome weekend.

I’m not talking about the obvious (and unfortunately ineffectual) abuse that’s so embarrassing at the Walmart. You know, the parents who whack their kids while shouting, “Stop hitting your sister” or “I told you not to use the #@%& word, @#%$-it!” And I’m not talking about those who speak to anyone under the age of 10 as though they’re braindead, either. Because let’s face it, my children are often in a sugar-/TV-/breathing- induced coma reminiscent of brain-dead-ism.

And I’m not even talking about people who treat their friends’ or strangers’ kids differently than their own. Those conscientious parents who’ll go out of their way to answer a question or offer condolence to someone else’s kid while their own flesh and blood howls for a half-hearted nod of acknowledgement. (I do this one ALL THE TIME.)

No, those are all posts for another time.

I’m talking about how we handle kid-sized interruptions when we’re lucky enough to be engaged in witty bantering and sparkling repartee with another actual adult human (where witty bantering and sparkling repartee too often equal hammering out the logistics of our next playdate).

What do you do when little Addison/Aidan interrupts a real conversation?

Do you immediately stop your selfish adults-only talk and turn your body so you’re open to your child and generally treat her as though the President-elect himself has asked for a minute of your time?

Or do you swat them aside vaguely, pretending you can’t really hear that screeching coming from the hordes now writhing on the floor?

Too much or too little? What do you think?

1) Children should be seen and not heard

2) Children are my reason for B.E.I.N.G.

3) What Children?

Jane

Comment of the day from Paula:

I think the best way to handle this is to give your attention to the child long enough to take care of anything truly urgent, or to remind them not to interrupt and promise they will have your full attention in a few moments. Then don’t forget to give them your attention at the appropriate time. I’m not in the “children should mold their lives around the expectations/needs of adults” camp, but age-appropriate expectations of politeness are in line.

That being said, most of the time my kids have to be pretty persistent in trying to get my attention before I even notice they are there, LOL.

If you’re reading this when you’re thirteen and looking for a legitimate reason to hate your mother (as if you needed one), you might bring up the fact that I never mentioned that it was your birthday last month, three days after Susan’s. It’s not that I forgot that you turned two, or that we didn’t mark the occasion with the appropriate fanfare, but, well . . . I guess I’m still sore that my calculations were so off two years and ten months ago when I thought that you would be born in November.

Tonight you climbed out of your crib for the first time. Dad pushed you back in as you flung your leg over the railing a few times so you wouldn’t fall, but later, when Sally and Susan were both asleep, and the grown-ups were exploring the wonders of cable tv, you came down the stairs by yourself. You’d taken off your pajamas, again, and you looked so cute, and you’re my third child and still my baby, so I set my laptop aside and snuggled you for a few minutes. Your skin warmed up quickly as I tickled your legs and gobbled your neck.

I asked you “Where’s Spot’s bed?” and pretended to put you down in the washing machine, the kitchen sink, the coat closet, and outside in the cold. You kept saying “no,” until I set you down in a brown plastic bin we have in the corner for toys. You could see the tv from there, and you said that was Spot’s bed, but Mom wasn’t really asking where your bed is. She knows your crib is upstairs in the room you share with Sally.

When I came down from settling you, again, Dad said that I’m so good at getting you kids to want to do what I want you to do. And it’s true, I can cajole you out of a bad mood or make you think that it was your idea to go to sleep or eat your dinner or put your pretty princess boots on. But a lot of the time I can’t muster the energy or time to make you want to do things. Sometimes I just want you kids to put your coats in the closet or get into your car seats without me having to make a game of it. Because sometimes I want to think about other things than how to turn every minute of the day into a “Let’s Tidy up the Nursery or Well-begun is half-done” Mary Poppins game.

Daddy says I need to hide all of the flipflops because next time you fall down the stairs while wearing mine or your older sisters’ you’re going to break your neck. I told him the carpet at the foot of the stairs is pretty thick, especially now that we have an extra rug there, but he worries about things like that, and whether I’ve turned off the stove and the iron and locked the front door. Even though I’ve ironed once in the ten and a half years that we’ve been married, you know that it would be my fault if the house ever burnt down because the iron got left plugged in.

When the weather turned cold a few weeks ago, you refused to wear a jacket or sweater, even when I did a Russian folk dance and pretended to put my head in the sleeves. Then you saw Sally and Susan wearing their new pink snow boots one morning when there was .2 millimeters of snow on the grass, and suddenly you wanted to wear your warmest coat and your boots and a fleece hat. I didn’t tell you that it wasn’t really cold enough for the stay-puff look yet; I figured it was good practice and that I shouldn’t dampen your enthusiasm. I think we’ll look for a copy of the Elmo’s Potty Time DVD this weekend for that very reason.

When you start pulling off your diaper and trying to wear your oldest sister’s panties, and excitedly showing people at church the cute bloomers that match your dress and saying “panties! panties!” loud enough to be heard over the speaker, I think it might be a sign that you’re interested in being a big girl.

Happy Birthday!

Love,

Mommy Jane

But Spot refused to put on her skirt. Instead, she insisted on wearing Susan’s shirt and her own blue jewelled flipflops. I tried to shame her into putting on her skirt by telling her I could see her diaper, but she was unashamed.

Which is why, at 12:53 pm, as we pulled into the church parking lot, I surreptitiously took one last (long) swig of my pre-church Mountain Dew.

A man pulled in next to us and got his three sons out of the car. Dick and I speculated later that his wife was terminally ill, or home with a fretful baby. Perhaps he works a hard job on third shift, then comes home in the early dawn to a messy home and three active boys.

Which is why he took one last (long) swig of his Red Bull, directed his son to bring it along, and warned: “Don’t drink all of it!”

A dream that one day I will hang a fresh dish towel at the beginning of the day, and at the end of the day, that same dish towel, limp but undefeated, will be hanging in my kitchen.

It will not have been sacrificed to spilled milk (SPILLED MILK! AGAIN!) or to a clumsy cook (WHY am I clumsier on homemade-marinara day than on frozen-chicken-nugget day?).

It will not be grabbed by a thoughtful husband to mop up the mud on the floor (MUD ON THE FLOOR!), or by a desperate mom to wipe a toddler’s snotty nose (SNOTTY NOSE ON THE DISH TOWEL!).

It will flap gently in the breeze, scented by the herbs growing in terra cotta pots on the windowsill.

And on that day, I shall gather my little children around me and say, “Oh ye that have honored the sacred dish towel, let us go down to the Chick-fil-A for dinner, as I would do anything to prevent the soiling of this most perfect of all days.”

(Not that my friends’ kids eat boogers.)

I used to jog with my friend when we lived in Cairo, so I wasn’t too excited about her seeing me in my post-moving fat slump and with my busy/poor/lazy gray hair. In a toss up between losing 20 pounds and getting a better haircut than the one Dick gave me a few months ago, getting a cut and highlights was the much easier fix.

(Hey, I can hope that if I have striking hair, no one will even notice my fat jeans.)

As my nice (young) stylist worked, I caught up on my trashy magazine reading, though unfortunately they didn’t have any really juicy ones like People or UsWeekly.

Instead I looked through some parenting magazines, and picked up a bunch of expert advice that I’ll be working into my daily routine.

One tip was so potentially life-changing that I thought I’d pass it on to you. It’s from Parents magazine:

If your morning routine is crazy, and the kids are having a meltdown just as you are rushing to get to your own early meeting, gather your kids into a circle and beat on your chests, yelling like Tarzan, for thirty seconds. Everyone will start laughing, and then they’ll magically find the lost tennis shoe and the hidden homework. (I may have made up that last bit, but they definitely talked about everyone laughing off the days’ stresses).

I don’t know about your kids, but when mine are out-of-control, the last thing they want to do is humor Mom in a little team-building role play.

No, if you really want to have a better morning routine, I’m afraid the answer is much less exciting:

1. Go to bed earlier (kids too).

2. Get up earlier (kids too).

3. Plan clothes/lunches/backpacks/outerwear/homework the day before.

4. Eat a good breakfast (kids too). No straight-sugar cereal.

But wait! I have an even more unsexy suggestion: If your morning routine is crazy, and if you really want to fix it:

5. Take a look at your priorities and schedule, and plan things so that you have an hour (or even a half hour) in which to concentrate on your kids in the morning without interruption.

Let me just say that I know these five things work, because I have way too much experience with the staying up late, the waking up late, the scrambling for clean underwear, and the blog posts that need finishing. It’s shocking (SHOCKING!) how much smoother things go in the morning if I’m not trying to talk on the phone to Tara or finish a post or pay a bill that was due last week.

The sad, hard truth is that parenting takes quantity time as well as quality. I can’t blame Parents for wishing that a 30-second screamfest would solve all our problems, though. Wouldn’t that be loverly?

Jane

That’s the Unsexy Morning Routine that works-for-me. Check out Rocks In My Dryer for more tips!

Comment of the day (and why I love Memarie Lane so much):

My midwife always has a stack of free Mothering magazines. The last one had an article about “gentle discipline.” This mom was playing ball with her two little boys and they kept getting upset and fighting. So she had them sit down and told them that the ball is a “talking stick” (why not a talking ball?) And whoever had the talking stick could talk while everyone else had to listen. And then each boy got his turn with the “stick” to talk about how he felt about his brother and the ball and the incident that had occurred. And then there were rebuttals and such, and then they sang a song and hugged.

I prefer my spanking stick.

Sally drew this during church last Sunday. Such a sweet child.

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Last week, when school had been in session for approximately ten seconds, the Parents or Guardian of Sally got a very formal letter from the school expressing concern over her numerous tardies and absences. Two weeks of school and she’s already missed too much = A new personal best at Chez Dick and Jane!!

But really, even though Sally is well above-average, a little part of me still worries that if she doesn’t get in the habit of going to school now, she might want to stay home and talk to me when she is thirteen, and then she’ll never have the character-building experience of being asked to return her half of a BE FRI – ST ENDS necklace.

Which is why I thought it would be good for my girls to play with their Princess-Barbie-loving cousins yesterday. That and the fact that Dick had a late meeting and my sister has a backyard, and a fence, and a lock on the sliding glass door to the backyard.

Since Marcy is just getting used to her new apres-marriage house, we slept over. There’s nothing like extra junk and people sleeping in your basement to make a house feel like home. After we got the kids down, I helped Marcy christen the new house with a ritual viewing of the Keira Knightley/Matthew MacFadyen Pride and Prejudice. It was late; mostly we just fast-forwarded to our favorite Lady Catherine lines like “If I had ever learned, I should have a been a great proficient.”

This morning Sally was thirty minutes late to school, which I didn’t think was too bad, considering we had to drive 49 minutes from the wild bachelorette house to get there. And I even made her a sandwich for lunch, though I had to use ranch dressing with the turkey, because Marcy had no idea where her mayonnaise was.

So basically I was feeling pretty swell today, confident in my good mothering skills. I read a bunch of books to Susan and Spot before naptime, including Fanny’s Dream, which proves that even the most excellent of books become slightly less compelling after being forced to nod and smile encouragingly about the “a hat” and the “a dog” on every single page.

A few minutes after Spot fell asleep, I got a call from my mom. Sally’s school had called her, because I forgot to pick up Sally, and I didn’t answer my phone when they tried to call me. The phone that I WAS answering, obviously, otherwise how would I be talking to my mom about the fact that I was thirty minutes late for early-release Friday?

Dick pretended he wasn’t disappointed that I had once again forsaken my oldest daughter for the fleeting pleasures of the internet. He even tried to cheer me up by saying he figured the 30 minutes late for drop-off and 30 minutes late for pick-up should cancel each other out. Good point. Oh, public school. How fickle you are! You’re upset when she’s not there and then upset when she is. Make up your mind, already.

You know what they say: raising children is all about being consistent.

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But ever since Sally learned how to read, it’s been kind of nice that they have too many old hardback copies of Nancy Drew, The Secret Garden, and Danny Dunn and the Anti-Gravity Paint. Susan and Spot love Grandma’s picture books. Like toys, someone else’s books are always much more exciting that your own.

A couple months ago, Susan set down Grandma’s copy of Rapunzel long enough to discover Fanny’s Dream, an enchanting pseudo-Cinderella-type fairy tale. Fanny’s fairy godmother doesn’t arrive in time to send Fanny to the ball. Instead, her good friend Heber comes calling and offers her “one hundred and sixty acres, a little log cabin, and dreams of my own . . . and good food and great company.”

Fanny accepts, though she warns him that she doesn’t do windows. So Heber and Fanny settle down to a mundane life of farming, parenting, and laughing.

Here’s my favorite part (and a good candidate for fridge lamination):

As for Heber, he figured that it hadn’t been easy for Fanny to give up her dreams, so he made it a point to wait on her at least once a day, as if she were a princess, and every so often he wiped the grime off the windows.

When Fanny’s fairy godmother finally shows up, after three kids and a house fire and pig slopping, butter churning, and outhouse pranks played on Heber, Fanny has to decide whether she wants her current life or her dream life. I don’t want to give away the plot, but let’s just say I haven’t finished reading it yet without crying.

Last time I read it to the girls, I noticed an inscription on the title page: To Mom and Dad, love Jane and Dick, Christmas 1998. That was just six months after Dick and I were married. And I think I gave it to my mom because I know she gave up a lot of her dreams when she got married at 17, had me at almost-19, and then mothered continues to mother the five of us and grandmother the kids that we have added.

I guess it’s okay to hang on to some books forever.

Obviously, Fanny’s Dream Works for me!

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You know the Christmas letters that sound as if you’re trying to pimp out your kids? Family reunions can be even worse — a full-color, animated Christmas letter you can’t tape to the refrigerator door and ignore.

If you’re in the market for a career, or have children who need a swift kick in the rear career advice, you might want to keep in mind that the bar for bragging has been raised in recent years. Where once it was enough to graduate from a respectable college and enter a respectable profession (engineer, doctor, engineer, lawyer, dentist, engineer), now you need a little something extra to get respect around the family reunion campfire.

My sweet cousin Peter, who’s number 30 of 57 first cousins or something (I lost the cousin chart they handed out the second night) is not someone I’ve talked to much before (I hang with numbers 10-20). He’s returning to college this fall, and it’s a safe guess that his major is chemical/mechanical/civil non-disobedience engineering.

Peter, who knows that I am a stay-at-home mom like all the other female cousins my age, said to me, “You studied at BYU for awhile, right?”

That night around the campfire, we had family sharing time, where each of my dad’s three sisters and six brothers (except that one brother who’s always “busy”) introduced their kids, beaming proudly if they’d managed to produce their kids in the flesh, hoping to produce adequate excuses if their kids couldn’t make it. Being out of the country on a mission for our church earns a pass, barely.

Occupations and recent accomplishments were mentioned, as were their children’s children. My oldest cousin is turning 40 next year, and he and his wife have adopted several — my three girls are a small, if glittering, contribution to the family tree.

So what’s the most coveted bragging point for mostly-Republican, highly-religious, mostly-high-achiever families? (And an automatic get-out-of-family-reunions card?)

Highest honors around the campfire go to those who have at least one child working in a top secret job for somebody like Lockheed or the NSA.* Then you get to say that you’d like to explain what Johnny does, only he can’t tell you because then he’d have to kill you. Or as my dad’s next oldest brother’s wife says her son says: “I can’t tell you or I’d have to do a lot of paperwork.”

Several of my dad’s nine siblings have sons who have every reason to view more paperwork as the kiss of death.

After my grandparent’s youngest kid told us about his youngest kid’s bluegrass band, my dad said he needed to amend his progeny spiel.

Turns out he has daughters, as do all his brothers and sisters, and, though they are not secret undercover operatives, or even doctors or lawyers or engineers, or MAYOR OF WASILLA, they are doing something wonderful: raising children to become secret undercover operatives or doctor or lawyers or engineers.

Or, as in my case: raising mothers. Mothers who will become governor of Alaska, if I and my studying for awhile at BYU had any confidence in the current fairy tale.

Dad even said that his oldest daughter does the blog, and boy! does she post often.

Then, since I am a supportive wife, I pointed out that Dick also has a top-secret, classified, vital job, and since he works for our church, he answers to a higher power. So there. Your sons might be keeping the free world safe, but my husband? He’s protecting God’s secrets.

And I am raising kids and doing the blog.

*My cousins don’t actually work for these people. I’d tell you who they work for, or where in the world they’re deployed, but then I probably wouldn’t be invited back next year . . .

Politics makes you think you can change the world. If you can register an old lady living with seven cats in a weed-choked little house to vote, you can change the world.

Until you grow up and realize that even Republicans cheat on their wives and even Democrats drive gas-guzzling black SUVs.

I’ve been drifting slowly leftwards ever since, but I’m still a Republican, except when I entertain Libertarian fantasies.

I’m also a woman. And a Christian. These things should all go well together, but sometimes there’s tension.

At church on Sunday, Sally (7) asked me about the hymn we were singing, which starts: “Tis sweet to sing the matchless love Of Him who left His home above And came to earth — oh wondrous plan — To suffer, bleed, and die for man.”

Why Mom, she wanted to know, Why does it say “man” instead of “girls” or “women”?

I gave her the spiel — man is short for “mankind” and means both men and women, and girls and boys. Like when people say “The Dick and Jane Family,” and they really mean Sally, Susan, and Spot too. That answer satisfied her for now, and it satisfies me.

Mostly. Sometimes, though, I wonder why even the language I speak excludes me.

Wouldn’t it be great to show my daughter a female Commander-in-Chief?

I learned of Sarah Palin‘s being chosen for the VP spot on the Republican ticket from the Mommy Internets on Twitter. It should be a most fantastically exciting political development. I’ve never really liked Hillary: it’s easy for even an unenthusiatic Republican to be pretty disgusted by the whole Clinton machine.

But Sarah Palin! Miss Wasilla! Married to high school sweetheart! Mother of Five! Pro-Life! Something about Polar Bears!

What a dream it would be to have someone interesting and admirable and exciting and female AND Republican to vote for.

So why aren’t I down at the local caucus volunteering for flyer-envelope-licking duty? What could I possibly have against someone who hasn’t done enough in office to have much of a record on issues and policies?

Can a Stay-at-Home Mother be Pro-Palin?

Many pro-lifers are excited about Palin, because she chose to continue her fifth pregnancy even after finding out her son had Downs Syndrome.

Now she has chosen to run for the Vice Presidency of the United States when that baby is four-months-old, and I’d like to know how and why she made that choice, and how it’s going to work.

I’m not saying that mothers shouldn’t work. Each woman has a unique set of circumstances that affects what she wants to do and what she can do and what she has to do. Different women have different energy levels, interests, ambitions, and abilities. We also differ in our family support, number of children, age of children, health, economic resources, and social and academic opportunities, etc.

Most women spend a lot of their time balancing their own needs and wants with those of their families. (Good husbands and fathers do the same).

Marriage is a partnership, and if Palin’s husband were a stay-at-home parent, I’d have no reservations whatsoever about her ambitions. If one partner in a marriage has an extremely unconducive-to-family-life job, it’s nice if the other is able to give greater attention to the children. One benefit of unconducive-to-family life jobs is that they are usually well-compensated enough to allow the other parent this luxury.

Can a Working Mother be Pro-Palin?

Governor Palin was back at the office three days after giving birth. Is that the sort of life-work balance working mothers are striving for?

The winners of November’s election will influence policies that affect mothers, stay-at-home and working. Will we have more tax credits for childcare? An equivalent tax credit for stay-at-home-parent care? Will we raise taxes to expand subsidization of day care and Head Start? Will family leave and maternity/paternity benefits increase or decrease?

Does Governor Palin understand why a woman would choose to stay home and the challenges she faces? Does she understand what most working women struggle with in seeking to balance kids and careers?

Sarah Palin was chosen for the express purpose of appealing to female voters and Hillary Clinton supporters and working mothers and stay-at-home mothers. But I’m not going to vote for someone just because they’re female or just because they’re Republican or just because they’re pro-life. I’d like to know what my candidate’s positions are, in life and in work, before I cast my vote.

Side note on Personal v. Public lives. It’s ridiculous to say that what politicians do in their private lives doesn’t affect their public service. Half (or more) of Palin’s appeal is supposed to be that she’s female, which is as personal as it gets. Also, no one complains when childhood anecdotes illustrate how deprived or hardworking or determined or principled candidates are. Should their actions and choices in adulthood carry less weight than whether or not they chopped down a cherry tree?

Natalie at Politics for Mom said this this morning:

As a mom, I am also not fond of the discussion that’s starting about how [Palin] should stay at home and raise her disabled and troubled kids. We already carry so much guilt as moms . . . especially when it comes to working and not working. It’s bad enough when your family and friends question your decision, but imagine having to answer to an entire nation. Would I be running for vice president if I was in her position? Probably not. But I respect her decision.

Yes, imagine having to answer to an entire nation. And if that doesn’t sound like something you’re interested in, please don’t run for a national office.

Side note on the possibly purloined pregnancy. I’m going to hope that Governor Palin was telling the truth about her baby. CNN agrees, though I don’t know anyone else who hid a pregnancy that well. Not even Shirley Jones in The Music Man.

*Updated* Phyllis @ Aimless Conversation linked to this article about Todd Palin taking a leave of absence to spend more time with the kids and avoid conflicts of interest when Sarah Palin became governor.

So many are enraged that anyone would even talk about her being a mother in the same breath as her candidacy. Well, I just don’t agree. Personal life choices reflect policy positions (or vice versa).

The fact that Palin didn’t abort her Downs baby shows that she’s staunchly pro-life. No one gets mad when this connection is trumpeted, because it’s an obvious conclusion to draw.

The fact that Palin was back at work immediately after giving birth shows that she might not be staunchly pro-maternity leave. Doesn’t it?

Just read this article at the Washington Post, and now don’t know whether to vote for her or ask to be adopted . . . or ask . . . Where can I get a Todd Palin of my own?

Dick goes in for a colonoscopy today. I think I’ve just gotten back at him for criticizing my “mothering” and “homemaking” and “cooking” skills this morning. Since he is on a sad, sad liquid diet in anticipation, and not feeling so well, he is “working” from home today, and wants to know why I am sitting at my computer laughing when the kids are Crying! Yelling for Pancakes! Bleeding from the Knees!

How much time do you have, Dick?

Crying! Yelling for Pancakes! Bleeding from the Knees! This is my life, and sometimes I want to shave my head, strip off all my clothes, and run screaming onto I-15. In rush hour. Which is conveniently scheduled for both the early morning I HATE WAKING UP hour and the 5 o’clock WHERE’S YOUR FATHER hour.

So I asked him — Do you hate being a father so much? Because I don’t see you getting out of your chair to dry the tears, make the pancakes, get the bandaids. Oh, I forgot. You are WORKING.

And I must get back to my life.