A very, very, very, very short review of Playful Parenting

Cover of "Playful Parenting"

 

This is by request for a friend mama who’s navigating through toddlerhood for the first time, and asked for my thoughts on this book:

Yes, back when I still read parenting books, I did read Lawrence Cohen’s Playful Parenting. Bear in mind this was aeons ago. I do think  there are quite a few useful insights in it, but what  I still remember best is my immediate reaction… which was this

This is a book written by someone who does not spend all day with HIS children for people who don’t spend all day with THEIR children.

The end.

Merry Christmas, from Mythbusters and Cinder

This is really hilarious, but also a little offensive, so if you’ve got bad language sensitivity, click delete / next now. It’s a story from August 6, 2009, when Cinder was about seven, and it’s our Christmas gift to you.

Christmas tree

We were on a crazy Mythbusters marathon, and Cinder and Flora’s absolute favourite episode, which they watched over and over again, was the Holiday Special, in which the Mythbusters test, among other things, the variety of products that are supposed to keep yer X-Mas tree greener, fresher, and needle-full longer.

Remember the episode? They put the trees in a bleach solution, spray one with hairspray, etc etc and one of them gets a “little blue pill” added to its water.

The little blue pill is Viagra, but they don’t say so. The announcer introduces it as the little blue pill, and then one of the Mythbusters does a “well, how do I describe this, people are probably watching this with their kids—Santa’s little helper?” and make a big deal out of it.

Viagra Clock

Anyway—the first time I watched the episode with me kinder, I said without much reflection, “Viagra? They must mean Viagra?” the kids asked what’s Viagra, I said, a little blue pill, apparently not being in a mood to discuss erectile dysfunction with a 7 year old and a 4 year old, and the episode continued.

Having committed the episode to memory over repeated viewings, Cinder at one point starts telling me what the bleach did to the tree (bad things), what the hairspray (pretty good, actually) and other stuff. I, having only watched parts of the show but once, have no real recollection.

“But you know what the best preservative of all was?” he asks.

“What?”

“The little fuck pill.”

“?????”

“You know—the little fuck pill.”

Words I did not expect to come out of MY seven year old’s mouth, ever—yet a strangely appropriate moniker for Viagra. And I’m naturally curious where and by whom he heard Viagra thus described (and am wondering if that’s something that came out of Sean or my mouth at some point? Cause it sounds like something we might say… but would we be so obtuse as to say it in front of the children? Well… maybe…)

“Where… what…” I start to phrase the question.

“You called it another name, remember? It sounded like Vinegar?”

“Viagra.”

“Yeah, Viagra. But on the show, they said, the little blue pill, and they wouldn’t say the name of it, because kids could be watching, remember?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, so I figured it was probably called the fuck pill. Because that’s the word grown-ups never want kids to hear.”

“Oh…”

“But you know how I know it? Fuck?”

“Well…”

“Cause that’s what you and Daddy say whenever you break something.”

Merry Christmas,

Jane

who breaks a lot of glasses

More Broken Glass

Photo (More Broken Glass) by autowitch

More like this: Want to hear all the swear words I know? and Why parents swear

Keeping them close, letting them roam: what to do when children start to push geo-boundaries

Latino Children Play Swing

Each year as they’ve grown out of the sling-and-stroller phase, and particularly after hitting age five, my children have moved to enlarge their physical world. Their physical boundaries.

In a word, they’ve started to roam. Further and further away from my watchful, paranoid eyes.

And letting them do this has… sometimes been easy and natural, an obvious evolution. And sometimes, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

I believe that if our relationships with our children are anchored in co-respect and co-trust, and that if a core practice of our parenting is listening to our children and being attuned to their needs, wants, challenges and all that as they grown—and, by extension, by talking to our children about our needs, wants, challenges and concerns and expecting them to listen to us with as much care and attention as we listen to them—then this is an easier field to navigate.

Easier. But not easy.

Cinder and Flora are in the process of expanding the scope of their ranges quite a bit this summer (2009)—not just in terms of the “territory” of the neighbourhood that they feel comfortable in roaming, but in the sorts of things they want to do, the people they want to spend time with.

An example of something easy: Cinder rides his bike in loops around the Common area, and we’re all cool with that, no major discussions of any sort necessary. (Last year, he wasn’t interested in doing that, and if he had, I would have had palpitations!)

An example of something harder: he’s also wandering off the Common and onto the wild hill that abuts it—and his little sister wants to be in tow. That’s pushing a boundary that I’m not comfortable with. I’m not sure if I’d be okay if it was just the seven year old wandering off—the five year old definitely cannot, so neither may. And so we talk about it, and find compromises and solutions:

I’ll sit at the playground bench and watch them—or be within ear shot of them.

Or, they go with a group of kids that includes at least one or two much older kids with a brain and a credit of trust with me…

Or, I put away the computer, the laundry and the supper preparations, and go with them, perhaps hand in hand, perhaps some distance away.

The mid-way point between constant hovering / the type of over-protectiveness that essentially impedes the experience of life and the full development of independent personality and hands-off parenting that borders on (or is) neglect is a type of indirect or unobtrusive oversight. I don’t feel comfortable in letting my children walk the four city blocks to the nearest off-Common playground–because they would be walking a totally empty street, with no one walking down it, no one peeking out a window, no one to hear or see anything if they got hurt or spooked.

But, I feel comfortable having them play on the Common for hours on end, because at any given time, there is a parent, older sibling or cranky octogenerian either passing by, peeking out a window, hanging out on the balcony—and always within the distance of a holler away!

We live in a very community-minded, “we live here because we want to live in a real community” kind of place, and I know that affects my thinking and practices in this area hugely. Would I leave my children alone and unsupervised in a suburban six-foot fenced backyard? I dunno… probably less likely to feel comfortable doing that than letting them roam the unfenced, abutting on a public bike path, Common area.

Another factor that affects my level of comfort with how far they roam is that I know the parents of the children my children are hanging out with. In some cases, the parents are close friends and I trust their children almost as fully as I trust my own. In other cases, I may not know the parents that well—or particularly like them or their parenting!—but I still have a community relationship with them that ensures that 1) if I speak to their children about their behaviour—or their responsibility towards the other children in the community—they will listen to me, at least in the moment and 2) if I have a larger concern, I have an existing relationship with the parents so it’s quite easy to raise the concern with them and with other parents and to address it as a community. Ditto if my children are not behaving responsibility: there are adults around who will call them on it—and who will appraise me of the situation.

What’s your level of comfort? How do you deal with your children’s boundaries? How do you keep them close… and how far do you let them roam… and what factors are critical in determining that for you?

Adapted from May 19, 2009, Unschooling Canada

Quote Me: The Secret to Happiness

Jane's Double Twisted 3D stars2_rev

If there is such a thing as a secret to happiness, I think a critical part of it must be realizing that the only thing you have the power and ability to change is yourself, your lifestyle–and that is, in the long run, the only really effective way of effecting real change on the world.

“Jane,” as she changes strides yet again
(plagiarizing myself from something I wrote  in a completely irrelevant context)

Photo (Jane’s Double Twisted 3D stars2_rev) by mimickr

Forgive the sappy interlude. It had to come out. Now back to regular programming:

Ender: Mama! I just love your breasts! They are like big, soft meatballs!

(Weep). To other weanies and weaners: it was all worth it, of course. All worth it. But. (Weep.)

Most beautiful thing in my in-box over this weekend comes from Deni Lyn Miller at The Diary of a Reluctant Mother who wrote of her son:

My hope for him is that he loves water as much as I love water.
My prayer for him is that no matter what he decides to love, it brings him much joy and peace.

The most important thing parents need to know from my in-box this weekend comes from Roll Over and Play Dad (what’s your name or handle, btw, dude? ROAPD don’t roll off the typing fingers) via his Twitter feed (@AndPlayDad):

If you are offering parenting advice I assume that you only have 1 kid. If you had 2 or more, you would know that all kids are different.

Yup.

Happy Monday. I’m off to change the world. What are you doing?

How I broke my children

It starts innocently:

Ender: I sorry, Daddy!
Sean: Um… why are you sorry, Ender?
Ender: I am sorry. I peed on your sheet. And now I sorry.
Sean: You peed on my sheet? Like, the sheet on my bed?
Ender: I did. I am sorry. Mama giving you a new sheet right now.
Sean: Oh, good.
Ender: I also peed on your pillow.

And I can’t tell you what Sean said next.

a pillow case (or pillow slip), with the pillo...

But I can tell you what Cinder said a little later when:

Ender: I! PEED!
Cinder: Yeah, so did I, Ender. Y’a know what the difference is? I peed in the toilet.
Ender: I peed on your foot.
Cinder: I know!

And then, their mother had a bit of a struggle with a project and:

Jane: Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Cinder: What’s wrong?
Jane: I’m just having a really hard time focusing on my work.
Cinder: I’m having a really hard time getting this Minecraft mod to work properly. Want to swear together?

And then, there was a horrible, horrible conference call, and the mother lost all moral high ground and self-restraint:

Jane (on telephone to editor): Fucking hell, I don’t fucking believe this==the [bleep bleep bleeps], they’re just [bleep bleep bleep], they’re [bleep bleep] and taking it in the [bleeeeeeep]…
Cinder (on extension): I’d like to apologize for my mother’s language. She’s having a very bad day.

[five minutes later]

Jane (to Sean): And then they [bleeeeeeeeeeep]…
Flora to Cinder: Wow, that was a new one. Are you taking notes?
Cinder: You bet.

It was, may I say in my defence, an exceedingly difficult day.

But I survived.

Although the children are probably permanently scarred.

swearing in cartoon Suomi: Kiroileva sarjakuva...

Quote This: Pam Laricchia on expressing parents’ needs while affirming kids’ needs

English: A jar of coffee-covered chocolate beans

We can express our needs and choose to gift our kids with extra attention, extra supplies, extra anything. Expressing our needs helps them understand when we’re going above and beyond so it doesn’t become an expectation.

Pam Laricchia, Living Joyfully

This is an excerpt from Laricchia’s very thought-provoking post, The Unschooling Family: Considering Everyone’s Needs. You might also want to check out its sister post, Unschooling and the Power Paradigm. For non-homeschooling/unschooling readers, don’t let the label keep you from taking a gander: both of these posts are essentially about respectful parenting. Agree with her point of view, disagree, or fall somewhere in between–I bet her take on power within the family will make you think. And thinking’s always good, right?

Photo (A jar of coffee-covered chocolate beans) from Wikipedia… combining the two elements that are essential to fulfilling my own most critical personal needs… 🙂

English: Weighing scale, Galicia, Spain França...

More like this: It’s not about balance: creating your own family’s harmony.

Why so serious today? Sorry. Want to laugh? How about this one: Mom? Have you noticed I’ve stopped…

And if you want to read more about unschooling, pop over to our new Undogmatic Unschoolers blog. It’s very new and so very thin, but that means you can read everything on it really, really quickly.

How focused attention, freely given, changes everything

I found this fun post I wrote when Ender was eight months old when I was struggling to explain the difference between offering attention freely versus diffused attention. I don’t achieve this very well, because this was when my brain was still leaking out through my nipples. But, there’s a valuable insight in there of what freely offered, fully focused attention is… and a hands-on demonstration of the sort of diffused attention our children and our lives usually get:

Crawling Baby Earthenware Olmec Culture 1200-9...

June 21, 2010. My eight month old–who’s just discovered crawling!–is giving me a hands-on demonstration of just unbabyproofed our house is, so of course I deal with this by sitting down for a moment and writing…

I find there’s a huge difference between offering attention freely, with full focus on the child, and giving diffuse or temporary attention. Most of the time, diffuse attention is great: the kids are there, doing their thing, the adults are there, doing their thing, the two intersect for a while, go their own way… but at some point–at different points of the day, at different points of life stages–children (and spouses! and friends! and grandparents, gosh-darn-it, them needy grandparents!) really crave focused, concentrated attention, and if it’s freely offered–given before it’s asked for–all the better.

My beautiful Flora, 5.6 going on 117, had [writing interrupted to change poopy bum, notice bum had washed the kitchen floor and himself with dog’s water dish, clean up water―hey, now I don’t have to mop the kitchen floor until the next mishap! what was I blathering on about before?] has been going through a rough couple of weeks. Sensitive always, she was uber-sensitive. People looked at her sideways and she burst into tears. [Crap forgot to put a new diaper on and the baby is now playing in his pee, hold on, break to wipe up pee] She was essentially waking up teetering on the edge of a breakdown. [oh, hell, the baby is trying to climb up the stairs… no, he’s backed off ]

Apart from being 5.5, a few disruptive things happening in her life, including chaos from the above mentioned 8 month old [gah, he’s back on the stairs…. ok safe], her best friends’ being sick and away, and her mother not well and not all there. There were so many things that I couldn’t do anything about… but I could do this:

I started sitting down and playing pets and Heart dolls with her. For what seemed like hours–but on the day on which I clocked it (because I’m that sort of anal retentive person), added up to a mere 45 minutes. It made all the difference. It gave her an anchor that was missing before.

OK, he’s determined to climb those stairs today I am done…

FLORA

2012. I’m so glad I found and re-read this post now, because I needed a reminder that beautiful, sensitive Flora needs this freely offered, focused attention so much more than either of her brothers right now. Ender’s fully satisfied to be destroying the house somewhere in my wake; Cinder grabs a quick cuddle and a book reading when he needs to recharge (although I do see him shifting more and more into needing more one-on-one Dad time). Flora needs one-on-one Mama time a lot. She asks for Girls’ Days Out. Girls’ Movie Nights. “Just a Girls’ Hour Out, Mom?”

This is really hard to do when you have three kids. There are only so many nights, only so many days. But I need to make a concentrated effort to give Flora this time, this focused attention, because it anchors her. Fills her up. In Flora’s ideal world, she and I would have a weekly night out. I would love to give this to her―and one day, one day soon, I will. Maybe we’ll take an art class together. Or Spanish. Right now, I can’t give her that weekly night or that schedule. But I can do this:

Flora! I’m going to the library. Ender’s sleeping and Cinder’s going to stay with Daddy. Want to come?

I do this all the time now. Take her with me when I go to my physio training. We have 30 minutes in the car there and 30 minutes back to talk; she has 30 minutes of brother-free chill time while I go through my torture session. Ask her if she wants to run pick up milk from the market with me. Run to the drug store. She almost always says yes.

Now, these opportunities don’t arise, frankly, that often. I have three kids. I work, as does their dad. Most of the time, I’m taking all three of them to the library and the grocery store. But when the opportunities arise―when Cinder wants to stay and home and play Minecraft, when Ender is sleeping, when both boys are engaged with Daddy, when the stars align―I grab my Flora and we run.

I also try to grab her at home when the boys are occupied, and I notice that she’s lost. And I sit with her while she organizes her pets. Or takes me through her art. Or just tells me silly things, important things, weird things. When she wanders into the kitchen when I’m massacring vegetables, I know that she might be looking for a snack―or Mommy-time. I pull her into chopping or stirring with me. And listen.

I don’t do this, let me be clear, very well or naturally. My attention most of the time is diffused―between all three kids, the freakin’ dog who won’t stop peeing in the basement, the house-that-ever-teeters-on-the-edge-of-descending-into-utter-pigdom, the latest three writing projects that are all due yesterday, the committee meeting, the really interesting discussion happening on my Facebook, and the less-interesting professional one I’ve got going on LinkedIn.

But I try. And I know when I’ve done it well or consistently, because I have a much happier, more anchored Flora.

Photos (Crawling Baby Earthenware Olmec Culture 1200-900 BCE Mexico) by  mharrsch and (FLORA) by adafruit

Click-a-lot: Novembers of the Past Retrospective & A Slightly Self-Indulgent Blogosphere Group Hug

November

First, an invitation to take a walk through my fake archive:

One year ago in November (2011): Just in time for Christmas-mania, a reminder of what the 5 best toys of all time are, via Geek Dad. Before Ender: or what the psychic said (one of my most naked moments). Being Ender. Ender says Rock. Of Daddies and Grandpas. Art of War: The Lego Contest. Get Less Today!

Two years ago in November (2010): Baby Seductor.

Three years ago in November (2009): Of Brains and Cartilage. He’s a Keeper.

Photo (November) by Cape Cod Cyclists

Second, a thank you to my blogging friends Tatu at Wonderland by Tatu and Little Poppits (who’s real name or preferred handle I haven’t ferreted out yet) from Little Poppits for very sweetly passing the Beautiful Blogger Award on to me. I should also offer a belated thank you to Taurus Mom Tells The Truth and Oliva at The Slama Family Project for trying to pass the Tell Me About Yourself Award and the  One Lovely Blog Award to me in the very first day of the blog (my archive is all fake. OK, not fake–all the stories are REAL–written in other fora, but I launched the blog with a ready-made archive. Because I’m that kind of overachiever.)

A short interlude for the Beautiful Blogger Award Rules:

The idea behind the Beautiful Blogger Award is to recognize some of the bloggers we follow for their hard work and inspiration.

1. Copy the Beautiful Blogger Award logo and place it in your post.
 (Done. And what a technical achievement on my part.)

2. Thank the person who nominated you and link back to their blog.
 (Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I know there’s a tendency to dismiss these things as an incestuous mutual love fest. But you know what? Moms need that. And Tatu and Little Poppets’ nominations came at a really tough week in my life, and were so appreciated.

3. Tell 7 things about yourself.
 (Coming just below)

4. Nominate 7 other bloggers for their own Beautiful Blogger Award, and comment on their blogs to let them know. (And that’s going to be a toughie… only seven, eh? I’ve only been digging around the blogosphere for a very short while, but I’m gathering a beautiful tribe around me.)

Seven things about me you probably don’t need to know…

1. My children can get me to do pretty much anything they want if they make Bambi eyes at me. Damn you, Calvin & Hobbes. I’m a permissive parent. And I’m ok with that.

2. I once interviewed former Canadian prime minister Brian Mulroney wearing a snot-covered skirt and no underwear. Because, during the “We don’t want you to go! Why do you have to go?” taxi ride to the airport, the toddler snotted all over my skirt and the pre-schooler took my change of clothes, undies and all, out of my carry-all. Fortunately, they did not abscond with the recorder. (If you’re Canadian and you care about the context for this story, it’s here in full. It’s kind of funny if you’re into Canadian politics. And writer-self-de-construction.)

3. If I ever make good on my threat to freecycle everything I own and travel the continent in an RV, I’m taking my Vitamix with me.

4. When I grow up, I want to be Rex Stout. Except for the beard. And the streak of misogyny. What I really mean is, I want to create a character as compelling as Archie Goodwin. Sometimes, late at night, I fantasize that I’m the woman who finally snared Archie Goodwin. We get married and yes, move into the brownstone. Nero Wolfe hates me… but over time, grudgingly comes to respect me. Until I start having babies…

5. My favourite Jane Austen hero is Henry Crawford. I would so reform him. But I worry I might be too tall for him… He’s barely five eight. I’m just five nine… but I have a thing for footwear of a certain type. Um, moving…

6. My house is only clean when I’m depressed and frustrated. When I’m happy and engaged in my work and my life—and when the children are at their most creative and engaged—the floor is crunchy, the walls are splattered with paint, the stove is spattered with deliciousness, the kitchen table is covered with art scraps, papers, science experiments and cookie crumbs, and the entry way is over-crowded with wet and muddy shoes.

So yes, if you ever come into my house and it’s sparking, the appropriate response is, “Honey, what’s wrong?”

7. There are exactly 98,437 reasons I love my husband, and the three beautiful children we made together are right up there, but most important of all is the fact that whenever he goes grocery shopping, he comes home with chocolate and whipped cream for me. That’s love, baby.

Seven Beautiful Bloggers

So because the award came from WonderlandbyTatu and LittlePoppits, they’ve each named a few of the people I’d be inclined to put on the list right away (Keeping It Real, MomTimes4, Best of Two Sisters, Motherhood Is An Art and Roll Over and Play Dad among them), but the purpose of the game is to spread the love, right? So, please let me introduce you to:

1. Fish Tank Mom. Marie’s my real-life soulmate and partner in crime, unschooling mom to four boys who offers me her unconditional love, support and wisdom no matter what I do. She’ll do the same for you through her posts.

2. Book Of Alice. She doesn’t know it yet, but blogger and writer extraordinaire Christine is raising my Ender’s future wife. I’m waiting until I know her a little better before I start the marriage negotiations.

3. Cloudy With a Chance of Wine. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think WonderlandbyTatu and LittlePoppits are absolutely, unquestionably beautiful bloggers. Cloudy’s more of a kick-your-ass with an uber-sexy-boot blogger–which I think is the most beautiful of all. Someone else, I just saw, beat me to nominating her for something, but tough titties. This woman almost cast as a hooker in a Chinese soap opera. I need to give this award to her.

4. Wonder Farm. Patricia Zaballos is a former teacher, current writer, and all-around amazing human being who writes on alternative (or creative? or just awesome) approaches to education–one of my first cyber connections, and one of my most intellectually rewarding ones. And she’s just written a very exciting book! Check out her beautiful body of writing.

5. Confessions of a Mommyholic. Janine is also swimming in awards right now, so I will immediately exempt her (as I do all of you) from any compulsion to continue the madness and pass yet another one one, but I need to introduce her to those of you who don’t know her. She’s nothing like me. Her blog is nothing like mine. I adore her. I think it’s because she’s so thoroughly genuine… and I value and envy that quality.

6. World School Adventures. Amy and her family are living my dream. They’re currently in Thailand. I try to enjoy and not covet their adventures. Mostly, I fail. Mostly, I covet. And you will too.

7. An Untidy Life.  A brand-spanking new blogger. Mom to three funky boys, and one of the most fascinating people I know in real life has just started blogging about her family’s learning adventures, and I’m so thrilled. Connect with her. It will be a worthwhile experience.

And that is that. With the authority vested in me, I absolve all nominees from feeling like that need to perpetuate the award unless they really want to and will enjoy the process.

Come back to Nothing By The Book on Monday for an arrogant exposition on freely given attention.

xoxo

Jane

When kids exclude

English: Agraulis vanillae butterfly.

I am the mother of two social butterflies super-concerned with the sentiments and feelings of others and of one child with limited EQ and social awareness. Over the last few years, I’ve seen both Cinder and Flora (if you’ve been reading Nothing By The Book, you know which is which) in social situations with other children where either one or the other—or both of them—have been excluded from a game by other children—or have done the excluding themselves, either actively or by aligning with the actively excluding party.

 (As a writer, I need to pause here and apologize for that last sentence. Horrid. I hope none of my editors ever read it. If you are an aspiring writer, take note: this is what happens when you try to talk in generalities instead of being specific. Back to the topic at hand.)

A gang of some two dozen neighbourhood children roams our Common area throughout the summer, and every summer we parents witness and try to mitigate some sort of “ditching,” “cliquing,” “I don’t want to play with Jack,” “Patti and Hayley won’t let us play with them!” drama. And every year, on one of my homeschooling or parenting lists, someone brings up the question of “What to do when other children won’t play with mine” or “What to do when my children exclude others.

After years of struggling with this, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s way easier to articulate an over-arching philosophy/principle for this than to react rationally and consistently to specific situations… especially if, in those situations, it’s one or the other of YOUR kids who appears to be unkind and un-inclusive… Frankly, it’s much easier if they’re the victim of such a thing. Then you can get all righteously indignant! When they’re the ones saying “I don’t want to play with you,” it’s a whole different set of reactions, isn’t it?

English: A 1-litre bottle of Hendrick's Gin wi...

Here’s where my thinking on this idea is right now: I don’t always feel like “playing” with all of my friends. You know? If I invite Emma over for coffee, and she shows up with Laura—or Laura invites herself—and I had my heart set on a tete-a-tete… I won’t be happy. By extension, if Laura and Emma planned a thing, I’m not entitled to crash it/join it just cause I happen to hear about it or see them departing. When we do a Mom’s Night In (or Out), we don’t want a husband to crash it. It’s not a parents/couples night. Ditto when my partner and his buddies go to the shooting range—it’s a testosterone, crazy thing close friends are doing together, and no one’s wife, girlfriend, child – or acquaintance outside that close circle—is welcome, invited or wanted.

(To my know-me-in-real-life readers who are having a hard time picturing Sean holding a gun: He’s ever gone to the shooting range once. But it was the best example I could think of. A wife or casual acquaintance could get away with crashing a movie night or bowling, right? Maybe? Back to the point:)

"Hit The Bull's Eye^ These Are Volunteers...

So if we as adults can set those limits on our sociability—hopefully politely, kindly and respectfully, at least most of the time—surely reasonable for our children to do the same? The difference, I think, is that we need to help our children learn how to articulate those limits and preferences in an… appropriate? considerate? way… and also, to help them figure out how to respond to having those preference communicated to them by others without getting angry, pissy and defensive.

(In fairness to children, we’ve all encountered adults who still suck at both respecting/hearing such messages and communicating them, and sulk if they’re not invited to this or that event, or, worse, use invitation/uninvitation as a social weapon. Especially in this social media world.)

The summer of 2009 was the first that Cinder and Flora started choosing to spend a chunk of their playtime apart from each other, with other friends—often, but not always of the same gender—and it’s required some new learning on my part. When my older boy is building Lego with a friend, and my girl is feeling left out—and tempted to wreck their game because she can’t figure out how to be part of it?—the onus is on me, not to get THEM to include her, but to get ME off my ass and engage HER in something else. And when she and her friends are spinning tales about unicorns at tea parties, and my boy, thinking it’s a stupid game, wants to chuck missiles at them, same thing—I’ve got to gather him up, read a book, set up a science experiment, watch him do stuff on the chin up bar, etc.

The Pigeon and The Unicorn

This is a hard issue. If you have insight to share, I’d love to hear it. I’m really at a point here were I think there can be no hard and fast rule here. Sometimes, the “you can’t play with us” is meant to be nasty and hurtful and then we react in a very different way than when its intent is more benign. Sometimes the child—or the adult—hears “you can’t play with us” when it wasn’t said or intended. Sometimes, the parent hears or sees something the children aren’t aware of—or the children are reacting to an undercurrent the parent doesn’t see.

And sometimes, a quick, “Let’s think of a way that we can tweak the game so that everyone can play” is all that’s needed.

First two photos, uncredited, from Wikipedia; last photo (The Pigeon and The Unicorn by gordon2208)

 Note. The original draft of this post was written on August 23, 2009, in context of a discussion on Unschooling Canada. I’ve modified considerably here… but even with the revisions, as I re-read it, I’m thinking of filing it under “least helpful post ever.” But that’s the nature of the issue, I think. No easy answers. Unless you’ve got one? Do you?

Quote Me: The correlation between infant feeding behaviours and maternal mental capacity

Mother and Child

Breastfeeding. The most beautiful thing the world. Absolutely (once you and babe figure it out… but I digress). But it the things it does to your grey matter… To wit:

“Why can I not complete a coherent sentence?”

Jane, writing when Cinder was two months old

“I was working towards a salient, cohesive point here, but it’s just been sucked out through my nipples.”

Jane, writing when Flora was five months old

“I had a superbly well-articulated argument for what the real cause of this was and had to take a break to nurse tha’ baby and I think he sucked the idea out of my head.”

Jane, writing when Ender was six months old

Bernardino Luini - Nursing Madonna - WGA13767

And finally, she sums it all up:

“My brain is leaking out through my nipples.”

Jane, writing when Ender was nine months old

N.B. Ender is now officially a weanie. I need to start searching for new excuses…

Photos: Mother and Child by naturemandala; Bernardino Luini – Nursing Madonna.

More like this–I don’t write an awful lot about breastfeeding anymore, and I cringe a bit when I read what I used to write about breastfeeding, but Why Isn’t It Natural is still a pretty powerful post…

For funny nurslings-and-boobiesuckers stories, check out From the mouths of nurslings, The most important word and Nipple malaria.

For evidence-based information about “what’s normal” while breastfeeding and weaning and support, get thee to KellyMom or The Leaky Boob.

How we teach children to lie

Cover of "True Lies"

Yes. It is we, the parents, who teach them to lie. And this is how:

Jane: Ender? Did you poop your pants?

Ender: Yes.

Jane: Oh, Jeezus, Ender, how could you? I just asked you if you needed to go 10 minutes ago. Fucking hell, and now I have to change your poopy bum, and it is so disgusting, yuck…

What happens next time?

Jane: Ender? Did you make a poop?

Ender: No.

Jane: Of course you did! Why are you lying to me?

We ask a question. We get the truthful answer. We don’t like what we hear. We freak. We repeat this cycle. The result: we teach the child to lie.

And it’s so simple Do this instead:

 Jane: Ender? Did you poop your pants?

Ender: Yes.

Jane: Let’s go clean your bum. Tell mama next time as soon as you feel you need to go, ok?

Better yet, don’t ask questions to which you know the answer, right? Ya’ know he pooped. Ya’ can smell it. Just say this:

 Jane: Let’s go clean your bum, dude, and then we can go back to playing.

I chose the toilet training example because it’s almost invariably the topic of a new parent’s first “My child has started to lie! What do I do?” And we just don’t realize that we’ve been coaching them to lie to us by how we react to the truth.

Children—all people—lie to protect themselves. They lie because they learn that their parents—others around them—do not actually want to hear the truth. They lie because we teach them to.

You do not “teach” a child to be truthful by talking about how important it is to tell the truth.

Instead, you “don’t teach” them to lie by accepting the truth when they tell it to you. By fostering an environment and a relationship, in which saying “I pooped my pants,” “I broke the lamp,” “I lost my mittens,” “I don’t like this supper” is okay and doesn’t lead to a parental shit storm.

Cinder: Mom! I think I broke the X-box! Help!

Music to my ears.

Flora: I’m sorry, Mom, but I just don’t like this soup.

Awesome.

Ender: Mama: I pooped my pants!

That’s what I want to hear.

English: A soapbox at Occupy Boston

This soap box moment brought to you by the fact that I very much need  a reminder not to  teach my children to lie.

•

Digression: the antidote to Black Friday madness: Get Less Today.

Promotion: I’m playing at the More than Mommies Mixer again this Friday:


because last Friday, it introduced me to two of my now-favourite bloggers, Cloudy With a Chance of Wine and Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic, and I wonder where it will take me today…

The mixer blog roll is here, and Fishtank Mom, you should come play too.

If you’re visiting from the MTMM, please feel free to link up below (in the comments) to a specific post you’d think I’d enjoy. And… happy Friday hopping.

The naked truth about working from home, the teaser

"Kellogg" brand "candle stick&q...

I’ve been trying to articulate a really helpful “this is what working from home really looks like” post—again by request—but the working is getting in the way of writing. So in the meantime, I’ve found this post from Life’s Archives, February 28, 2008. Pre-Ender, so life was in some ways less complicated… but also pre-10-year-old in the house. Still, it’s a good glimpse at some of the challenges. The real, more helpful post will come. Promise. Soon.

I work from home, my desk in the middle of our living room-library-playroom-toy room, and my work involves a lot of phone time with interviewees, clients, editors and the like. My son loves answering the telephone now, and is a great answering service. “Cinder speaking. Yes she is. May I tell her who is calling?” OR (“Sorry, she can’t come to the telephone right now. She’s doing something really important. (Like, you know, playing Lego and stuff).” (It’s an awesome reality check for Bay Street types. Almost as good as the time I ‘wore’ my baby to a bunch of interviews and she threw up on an investment banker’s Armani suit.)

My three year old has just started trying to beat him to the punch. Unfortunately, she picks up the receiver, hollers, “Flora speaking!” and then, most of the time, hangs up… then tells me it is a telemarketer. Often it is. Sometimes, it isn’t.

On one of my recent phone tag days, the phone rang while I was in the bowels of the basement changing loads of laundry, and the three year old answered. When I came back to my desk, I had an email from the chairman of a very blue chip Toronto firm, whom I had been anxious to talk to all day, that read something like this:

“Umm… I just tried calling you… I think… but… umm… a small
child answered the phone and yelled at me. Umm… Call me if you still want to talk.”

We had a great interview afterward. He told me about the time his three year old fed some of his closing documents into the garburator.

2012. The more life changes… it’s the same chairman. Different three year old. I call him at 10:30 a.m. after I’ve sold the children for the day to the Grandma. He calls me back at 5:47, as they’re all filtering into the house. Seven year-old Flora grabs the phone. “Flora speaking,” she says. Listens carefully. “Hold on a minute,” she says. “Mom! It’s for you!” she says, and hands me the telephone as Cinder hands me the Ender, who dozed off on the car ride home and is waking up unhappy.

“Now a good time?” the chairman asks me. I’ve been waiting for this call all day. Ender snivels into my shoulder. Cinder, I can tell, is starving. Flora desperately needs to talk.

“My kids have just come home, and the three year old woke up from a nap and needs Mom cuddles,” I tell him. “I can call you back in half-an-hour–or tomorrow morning?”

“Go cuddle your babies,” he says. “We’ll talk in the a.m.”

I ❤ him.

Quote This: “Do I Have a Booger In My Nose?”

The hands-down winner in the category of “Parenting Tip of The Week,” from When Crazy Meets Exhaustion:

Do I Have a Booger in My Nose? Asking this question works wonders when I need my kids to: look up while I rinse their hair (shampoo + little eyes = HUGE fiasco); look into the camera; lift their chin so I can wipe under it; and it’s even been known to squash sibling squabbles. They forget they’re mad at each other and just think I’m an idiot who can’t blow my nose. Whatever works.

The full post, which is a collection of “a list of (mostly helpful) parenting tips. Here’s hoping some of them work so you don’t think I’m a complete moron,” is here.

In keeping with the quote above, the winner in best picture trolling around on my social media feed:

As the creator of original content, I’m rather anal about giving credit where credit is due, but the best I can do in terms of tracking this back to its source is the Facebook page of one Trampus Egerton. Thanks!

And, let’s wrap up with a Quote of the Day from my House:

Cinder: Mom! Flora is being bossy to Ender!

Jane: I need you to focus on the big picture here, Cinder. Yes, Flora is being bossy to Ender. But the important thing is that Ender is not biting you in the butt.

Cinder: Or flushing tampons down the toilet?

Jane: Exactly.

Live. Laugh. Learn.

You’re the adult, Daddy

Child 1

This is a short and sweet one for all the dads out there who sometimes don’t want to be the adult.

November 28, 2005.

Cinder: You pick the book, Daddy.
Sean: I don’t want to pick the book. Why don’t you pick the book?
Cinder: You’re the adult, Daddy. You pick the book.

November 8, 2012.

Sean: Ready to read I Am Number Four?
Cinder: No. I want to read this.
Sean: I am so sick of reading Horrible Science!

(Now, if I was scripting this, the next line would be Sean saying, “I’m the adult. I get to pick the book.” But no.)

Photo (Child 1) by Tony Trần

I’ve filed my mega-beast of a story and and, because nature abhors a vacuum, I’m playing around in the blogosphere. I’m visiting the posts and blogs from the More Than Mommies Mixer. See you there?

MOST POPULAR POSTS

My current favourite: The Authoritative New Parents’ Guide to Sex After Children (of course)

Serious: When toddlers attack (surviving “That Hitting Things”) • Five is hard: can you attachment parent an older child •  The ultimate secret behind parenting: it’s evolution, baby

Funny: Floor peas • Mom? Have you noticed I’ve stopped…  • Poisonous Volvo

And, if you’re a homeschooling reader, you might want to check out our sister blog, Undogmatic Unschoolers.

Surviving 3.5 and 5.5: a cheat sheet

Illustration for Cheating Français : Illustrat...

In the spirit of the Orange Rhino “No Yelling” Challenge:

If you’ve been reading me for a while—and if you know me in real life—then you know I’m usually this “pee in the driveway if you want” kind of parent. Just a leetle on this side of permissive, you could say. But I hope you’ve also noticed that Saint Jane also, ya’ know, loses it with her children—yells, gets irritated, frustrated, wants to run away…

And, to date, never more so than at three-and-a-half and five-and-a-half. Cinder and Flora, at both of those ages, drove me to the very edge of sanity and made me mine for immense reservoirs of patience within myself I didn’t know I had. And despite those, I still yelled and snapped. But without them, I would have snapped ever so much more…

As Ender, who has been simultaneously my easiest baby and my most frustrating child (paradoxes are what makes life interesting, right?), starts the path towards three-and-a-half, I thought I should remind myself of a few strategies that saw me through it the first two times. The cheat sheet strategy was an absolute lifesaver with Cinder—and as I dug it up out of old journals, I wish I had put it into action when Flora was struggling through Sensitive Seven… I think I might still, because I suspect Sensitive Seven might become Extra-Sensitive Eight—and I hope it sees me through Ender’s crazy 3.5 with some sanity intact. Without further ado, here it is.

The premise is this: a certain level of crazy on the kids’ part is normal at this stage. I can’t control it. What I can control is my own behaviour and my own reactions. To that end:

I made a three column cheat sheet that looked like this:

1. When Cinder says/does…[thing that drives me crazy]

2. DO NOT SAY [in small print my knee-jerk, channeling the worst of my angry-inner-voice response]

3. SAY or DO THIS [desired response in big letters]

and taped it to the fridge, because somehow, most of the unstellar performance on my part occurred in the kitchen. Upon reflection, I should have had another copy by the front door, because that would be conflict spot number two.

With Ender, I might put this sheet up in the bathroom as well. And maybe have another one in the car…

So…

1. When Ender yanks Flora’s hair / tries to destroy her art work

2. DO NOT SAY Stop it you little monster!

3. DO SAY: Ow, that hurts! AND Take Ender away and redirect him to something.

Because most of the time we all know WHAT we WANT to say or do, right? The problem is remembering that ideal in the frustration of the moment.

Related life hack: It also helps me at times like this to remind myself of my long-term parenting and living goals are and how most daily irritants don’t really impact them. Writing them down somewhere on the cheat sheet might be helpful—I might try that this time ‘round. You know, something like, “What’s really important to me is a peaceful, respectful house. Not a clean house.” Or “I want my children to be confident, strong willed-adults. That means I do not get instant obedience now.”

And… persevere, with a smile when possible.

Unrelated life hack: It’s not even that I’m an introvert; some days, I’m an outright misantrope. Here’s a an interesting post on Finding Balance as an Introverted Parent, by Vanessa Pruitt, from Natural Family Today. Now, I’m not a great fan of looking for balance myself (I prefer to seek harmony), but although Pruitt uses the “B” word, she writes about useful strategies.

 

 

Quote This: The universe’s random messages to you

Awards

From my fab friend and neighbour Crystal Moontree, who needed to hear this yesterday and thought someone else might too:

No heavenly being is waiting at the end of the line, giving out awards for sadomasochism. Give yourself a break.

Read In Praise of Calling It Quits at the Gala Darling Radical Self-Love Project for the full  context.

English: A Swingline-brand Stapler

From my “how could you move so far away from me” friend LD, via Unlawful Humour:

Whoever said nothing is impossible has obviously never tried to staple water to a tree.

I’d add… or clean a house with a three-year-old awake in it…

Agatha Christie

From Agatha Christie, via those annoying quotes WordPress chucks at you each time you post:

The best time for planning a book is while you’re doing the dishes.

No, Agatha, it’s not. But the kitchen sink’s not a bad place at which to rough draft blog posts.

What children mean when they say “I’m bored”

English: A bored person

I feel like I ought to apologize for a string of didactic posts. Just remember as you read–I’m no expert. I’m a mom thinking out loud… this is my point of view. What’s yours?

“What do I say when my children say ‘I’m bored?’”
or
“Help! They keep on saying they’re bored! In this house? With all this stuff?”

Is this something you hear a lot? I’ve recently unearthed an exchange on this topic that had been a life-changer for me and I was lucky enough to encounter it just as my kids were starting to talk. So it means that I hardly ever hear “I’m bored.” It doesn’t mean they don’t say it, though… Paradox? Not really. Read on.

It’s a pretty simple reframing, really. When you hear “I’m bored,” do not treat it not as a synonym for “entertain me!” or “find me something to do.” Instead, think of it as a child’s attempt to communicate to the obtuse parent in simple words the child hopes the parent will understand a very complex feeling.

The conventional advice on “I’m bored” tends to be to present the child with a list of tasks, ranging from fun (“Do you want to go swimming?”) to unpleasant (“You’re bored? Here’s a list of household chores to do. Which one are you doing first?”). People who dispense the latter form of advice swear by it, saying that if they do it for a while, they never hear “I’m bored” again. Of course they don’t. They’ve “trained” the child not to say it. But the feelings that prompt that statement probably remain, and the child is left to cope with them on her own, for better or for worse, and generally, in those tender years, for the worse.

Remember how I said I don’t hear “I’m bored,” even though they say it? That’s because when I hear “I’m bored” I run the little translator, and instead I hear:

“I’m out of sorts, I have these weird, unsettled feelings, I’m not happy, but I don’t know why, I can’t settle down to anything, Help!”

When I hear this, instead of “I’m bored,” I realize it requires a totally different response.

There are other code phrases my children―and perhaps yours―may use instead of “I’m bored.” In our house, it’s often “I don’t know what to do,” or “I’m lonely” (in a house full of people, with a backyard generally full of kids!) and the like.

My response to all of these phrases is generally some variation on detaching myself from whatever I’m working on and attaching myself to them―focusing on them fully. I might ask them to come sit with me, have a cuddle, talk nonsense for a while, and see if I can help them figure out what’s going on. Often, I don’t need to do much figuring: they just need a bit of that reconnect time to ground and move on.

I resist the urge to become a calendar coordinator and offer them ideas for things they could do. That is not what they are asking for.

Sometimes, they can’t settle no matter how much cuddling or listening I give, and they can’t sort or articulate what’s going on. That’s when I do become an activities coordinator, but an autocratic one. I don’t offer a list of choices. I unilaterally implement a change of scenery. “Let’s go for ice cream.” “Let’s go check out the garden.” Or, two birds with one stone: “Help me get supper going, and then we’ll read.” Or, “Let’s go to Banff,” if I’m feeling extra adventurous and able to do a whole day trip! And we go.

Try it the next time you hear “I’m bored.” Activate that little translator, and hear:

“I’m out of sorts, I have these weird, unsettled feelings, I’m not happy, but I don’t know why, I can’t settle down to anything, Help!”

And watch your response change.

Quote Me: Just say nothing…

Gator34

I’ve been in a series of conversations lately that orbit round the question “What do you say when [your relatives–co-workers–step-uncle’s common-law wife’s brother’s drinking buddy–strangers at the bus stop] asks you a personally invasive question about your children / parenting / life choices?”

I have an answer.

Say nothing.

And just look. With a  “Did you honestly say that incredibly stupid–invasive–offensive thing or did I slip into some kind of alternative universe” look.

That’s all. If you have difficulty maintaining eye contact during the look, look at the forehead, or just to the right of the questioner’s right ear. And watch the conversation–and its power dynamic–shift.

This has been a huge epiphany for me in the last few years:

that I don’t have to answer people’s questions just because they ask.

You can ask anything you like. Sure. But I don’t have to answer. I don’t have to share. I don’t have to defend or justify.

What do you do or say when people ask you questions they really, really have no right to ask?

Check This Out: The Orange Rhino 365 Days of No Yelling Challenge

 

Orange you glad...

This challenge has been going on for 266 days for the “Orange Rhino” mom (a mom to four BOYS ages 5, 3 1/2, 2, and 6 months), since the day she decided she yelled at her kids more than she wanted to–and she was going to do something about it! She’s got 99 days to go, and for those of us just discovering her now, that just means there are a lot of resources and back posts for you to tap into. Start with Alternatives to Yelling, and then mine the site for other ideas.

One of my favourite tips that OR offers is this:

88.  Look at TV and pretend there is a hidden camera (fear of judgment works wonders)

… “Pretend there are witnesses” is a great tool for getting through “those days.” And if you can’t make yourself “pretend”–get out of the house to somewhere with witnesses. 🙂

Similar to this on Nothing By The Book:

Ice cream discipline • Love letter discipline • What do you mean you don’t punish your kids you permissive freak?

Photo (Orange you glad…) by Timmy F.

Of boys and their toys

Ancient Egyptian goddess Isis, wife of Osiris....

I.

Jane: “…but Isis was such a powerful goddess, that she gathered up all the bits of her husband, and put him back together…”

Cinder: Except for his weenie, which got eaten by a fish.

Jane: Um… yes, actually, “…except for the dangly bits.”

Cinder: Does it really say that?

Jane: Yes.

Cinder: Ah, penis jokes. Never not funny.

Flora: I don’t get it. I don’t go around making vulva jokes all the time. And neither do my friends.

Cinder: That’s because you’re all girls. And it’s a well known fact girls are not funny.

Flora: Mom! Cinder’s being sexist!

Cinder: Okay, fine, girls can be funny. But it’s a well known fact that dangly bits are funnier than non-dangly bits. That’s just the way it is.

Ba-dum-bum.

II.

Cinder: I can’t wait to read more of Cleopatra and her Ass.

Jane: Asp! Cleopatra and Her Asp!

Cinder: I just love reading about Ancient Egypt. The ASS-yrians. The PARP-ians.

Jane: Parthians!

Cinder: Fartians. No matter how you pronounce it–hilarious.

Flora: Mom? Are all boys like this?

Jane: Like this? All boys? Well, not all boys…

Cinder: But most are. Isn’t it great?

Flora: Do they grow out of it as they become men?

Jane: Um, well, some do…

Cinder: And most don’t. Isn’t that great?

Flora: And suddenly, I think maybe getting married to a boy isn’t such a great idea.

Ah. Yeah. We’ve had a “If Flora ends up a lesbian, this is why” moment in the past (read about here). And here’s another one. It will be her brother’s fault.

III.

And just one more…

Jane: Ender, what the heck are you doing?

Ender: I protecting my penis so you don’t zip it!

Jane: Sweetie, I’d never–I never have!

Ender: You zipped Cinder!

Jane: Cinder! That was like eight years ago! Once! You told Ender?

Cinder: Hey, that sort of thing scars you forever.

Dangly bits. Funny. Yet vulnerable. Therein lies the humour, I guess?

Pharaoh, the king of ancient Egypt, is often d...

Want more?

There’s a vintage Cinder story on Unschooling Roman Numerals from earlier this week on our new Undogmatic Unschoolers blog you might enjoy as well.

Or do a search for anatomy talk.

Boys.