Leading Mama

Hello, ego. Goodbye, stereotype.

Today I'm taking a minute to Pour my Heart Out about a lesson I learned last week at the grocery store. I'll warn you up front, it wasn't pretty.

 

I was just back from a two-week vacation. By 8 a.m., I'd colored my hair, taken a shower, and done my makeup. The baby was happy (so far) and Little Man was dropped off at preschool.   A grocery run seemed do-able.

 

I swept through the commissary, hoping to get all the items on my list before Little Mama had a meltdown.

 

I expected her to get tired. She hadn't slept much the day before because we were traveling. She didn't nap on the plane or in the line for immigration and customs. She didn't nap on the car ride home. As my mom would say, she was pooped. At least for the moment, she was happy to be steering the kid-friendly cart, one hand on each little steering wheel. We flew through produce, meats and dairy. 

 

And then, she was pooped. Yes, the other kind. Stinky, goopy, no-diaper-in-the-world-could-contain-this-mess pooped.  Right there in the frozen food section.

 

So I shopped faster. I jettisoned items from the list that could wait until later. I flew toward the check out, eager to escape with my poopy baby and a shred of mommy dignity in tact.

 

As I approached the check out, the pimply faced teenage checker asked me loudly, "Will you be paying with WIC today?"

 

And the world stopped spinning.

 

I thought, "Do I look like I'll be paying with WIC today?"

 

I'm sure I looked like a bridesmaid who just discovered her dress was tucked into her panty hose as she walked down the aisle. I was caught completely off guard. I was self-conscious and embarrassed. I didn't know what to say.

 

And then my brain caught up with my ego and I thought, "There is no 'look' that describes recipients of WIC." Poverty isn't so obvious.

 

I asked the checker why he thought I might pay with WIC. He responded, "Sometimes moms with babies who come in early in the morning pay with WIC." 

 

Hmm. I nodded. "I see," I said. And then I paid cash for my groceries.

 

As I left the store and pulled Little Mama out of the shopping cart, poop oozed up her back and slathered my forearm. I was mortified.

 

And I felt a wave of compassion for moms who depend on assistance to feed their families.

 

I don't know who they are. Appearances are deceiving.

 

What I do know is those moms are gutting it out day-by-day doing the best they can for their kids. They're wiping noses and changing diapers and trying to get through the grocery store before the baby has a meltdown, just like I am. And the last thing they need is to be called out for paying with WIC. 

 

I regret that I didn't stop and share my thoughts with the checker. I'm sure he hadn't considered how his customer would feel when he asks way too loudly whether she'll be paying with WIC today.

 

Empathy isn't automatic. Apparently mine needed a tune-up. 

Speak Up!

The weight of motherhood isn’t measured in pounds and pants sizes. It’s measured in responsibility. And it hit me almost immediately with both of my children.

 

As a Leading Mama, I speak up for my children when they cannot speak up for themselves. Since my kids are small, that is much of the time.

 

  Here’s how I speak up for them:

 

1)      I ask the doctor about speech delays, hip dysplasia, and the 3^rd percentile for weight. I share my kids’ stories. I advocate for treatment or against treatment. I wait and watch and re-evaluate. I ask more questions. I speak up to protect their health.

 

2)      I recognize their traits, talents, and preferences. Little Man loves to move. He’s a sociable guy. He’s inquisitive and talkative. I look for opportunities to develop those talents. I sign him up when I think a program “fits” and say “no, thanks” to those that don’t. I ask the teacher to work on weaknesses or to expand their learning in new directions. I speak up to nurture their potential.

 

3)      I understand that more isn’t always better, even if it tastes or feels good at the moment. I make or break the rules. I say “no” to sugary snacks and staying up too late to watch another TV show. I say “yes” to thirteen colors of play doh – even if they’re mixed together – and “yes” to playing at the playground as the sun sets, even though we need to cook dinner. I speak up to teach values.

 

4)      I read the hurt or happiness on my kids' faces. I hear joy in Little Mama’s squeaks and squeals. I hear the hurt or hunger in her cry. I see frustration in Little Man’s pout. I read anger in his stomps and scowls. I give their feelings a voice, translating into words what they know with their hearts but can’t yet describe. I speak up to capture their feelings.

 

5)      I live in the world with an eye toward tomorrow. I see failures in our education system. I worry about our American obsession with reality-show role models. I seek out role models who set an example by acting with kindness, compassion and persistence. I support causes that will make the world better for my kids today and, more importantly, for their kids tomorrow. I sign petitions. I vote. I speak up for their future.

 

That’s what leading parents do.

 

How do you speak up for your kids?

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This post inspired by a prompt from Mama Kat who asked me to "Describe a time you spoke up for someone who couldn't speak up for themselves."

Image © Ken Hurst | Dreamstime.com

Infertile Secrets

Confession: In matters of love and life, I am a keeper of secrets.

 

Why? Because sharing my life means opening myself to criticism. And it means losing control. Driven to avoid anxiety, I cling to insider knowledge like a drowning person hugs a life preserver. Maybe you do the same thing.

 

In my journey through infertility, I was forced to let go my usual secret-keeping ways and reach out for help. I simply had no other choice.

 

Here’s how it happened.

 

In 2008, Leading Man and I started trying to conceive baby #2 in the usual happy, easy, fun way. But no luck. And continued efforts didn’t feel happy, easy or fun anymore.

 

We went through the evaluation process for admission to Walter Reed Army Medical Center’s infertility treatment program, and were accepted into the program in January 2009. Despite lots of doctor’s visits and tests, we didn’t share this with anyone. Living far from our families and friends, it was easier to keep secret than to share. And infertility – no matter what your diagnosis – feels intensely personal.

 

Despite the doctor’s recommendations that we should do IVF right away, we opted to try IUI first, hoping the less-invasive, less-expensive procedure would work for us. We planned to do three cycles, but after two unsuccessful cycles decided to stop wasting time and emotional energy. Both were in short supply.

 

We did our first (secret) cycle of IVF in May of 2009.

 

Those of you who have done IVF know how time consuming and emotionally exhausting the process can be. For those of you who don’t:  Imagine 20 doctor’s visits in 35 days, all scheduled for 0500 at a clinic 45 minutes from your home. Raging hormones and constant feedback about follicle development and estrogen levels make you feel like a stranger in your own skin. The mixing of drugs and self-administered injections is otherworldly. I felt like a mad scientist doing research on myself. This is the stuff of Hollywood sci-fi thrillers and Scooby Doo. I had sharps containers in every bathroom, vials of drugs lined up like soldiers in my refrigerator. And no one knew.

 

The cycle didn’t go well. My body did not respond to the stimulation like the doctors expected. Egg retrieval resulted in only 5 mature eggs. Only 2 eggs fertilized. At every turn, there was more disappointing news.

 

On the day I went in for embryo transfer, the doctor informed us that only one embryo was of sufficient quality. We transferred it knowing the odds of conception were depressingly low.

 

Clinging to the tiny secret life inside me, I went home to rest. Leading Man went back to work at the Pentagon.

He called home that afternoon with the only news that could rip these secrets from my grip. He’d received short-notice orders of another one-year deployment to Afghanistan. He’d depart in two weeks.

 

I’ll never know if that cycle would have worked out if the enormity of his news hadn’t pulled me under the waves. I felt like a drowning woman, clinging to secrets, hoping to stay afloat. I was tossed by waves of hormones, sadness and despair.

 

Before we knew whether cycle one was successful, Leading Man prepared for the cycles I might do alone. Powers of Attorney were written. Vials of tiny swimmers were stored. Next time – if there was a next time – I’d jump into these waters alone.

 

In July of 2009, I started IVF again. Alone, but not alone.

 

You see, I simply could not do this process (0500 doctor’s appointments, restrictions on lifting, self-administered injections) without any help. I had a 2 year old to take care of, and he wasn’t allowed at the clinic. I had a more-than-full-time job with enormous responsibilities. I had no back up at work. My husband was deployed.

 

Keeping this secret was absolutely impossible. I needed an army of babysitters willing to work at 0430 in the morning. I needed overnight care for my son when I went for retrieval and transfer. I needed a chaperone willing to go to surgery with me. I cried at the thought of giving all the painful progesterone in oil injections in the same hip, but couldn’t imagine how I’d give them on the left side.

 

Plus, if it worked, I would have to explain how I got knocked up while my husband was 8,000 miles away! May as well get ahead of the curve, right?

 

So I asked for help.

 

I called friends and asked if they’d babysit. I asked a former nurse at work if she’d give my left-side injections. I asked a coworker to chaperone me for the retrieval and transfer appointments. Although we’d known each other only 7 months, I gave her a medical Power of Attorney. I had no choice but to entrust my secrets to others.

 

That cycle went much more smoothly than the first. I had more mature eggs, the fertilization rate was better, and there were three grade 1 embryos to transfer.

 

One of them grew. And grew. And grew.

She is now a happy, healthy 17-pound 11-month old punk. She has seven crooked teeth. She eats cheerios with gusto. She climbs the stairs like she’s been shot from a cannon. It’s no secret that she’s the apple of our eyes.

 What I learned when I let go my infertile secrets was nothing short of life-changing.

 

I didn’t drown. Instead I was buoyed by sources of support I couldn’t fathom. The waves that threatened to pull me under calmed down. I floated above them, able to see them with greater detachment and wisdom. Safe at last.

 

This post inspired by brave travelers on the journey through the land of IF who are participating in IComLeavWe at Stirrup Queens. May your journey be better for sharing it. Post submitted to Wordful Wednesday at Seven Clown Circus and Parenting by Dummies and Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday at Things I Can't Say.

 

Sunday Standpoint: Language Lessons for Parents

If you’re a mom with a tendency to over-think everything – like me – it seems like you need a balanced scorecard to determine if you are “doing the best you can for your children.”

 

Are they eating healthfully?

 

    Translation: How many fruit snacks has he eaten today?

 

Sleeping enough?

 

    Translation: Please, please, please nap now so Mommy can write.

 

Meeting milestones?

 

Translation: Is he supposed to make up words like who-body and yestertime or should I be calling a therapist?

 

Developing character traits like honesty, kindness, and persistence?

 

Translation: How many lies does it take to cover up the first lie? And why is he hiding fruit snacks in his toy drawers anyway?!

 

Learning to write their letters?

 

Translation: Is it okay if he writes from the bottom up? Does it mean anything?

 

And – last but not least – has everyone pooped today? (no translation necessary)

 

 

It’s easy to feel like you can never do enough for your kids, like you can never be enough for them.  It’s my standpoint that you can and you are.

 

If you want to assess your parental bottom line, I heartily recommend Gary Chapman’s 5 Love Languages as a rubric. I came across this model when I was writing an article for the February issue of Military Spouse magazine on rekindling romance after deployment.  You can read that article here if you’re interested.

 

The framework applies to all kinds of love relationships and – in Leading Mama’s opinion – can be really helpful to parents.

 

The love languages are:

 

1.       Physical touch

 

Infants get lots of physical touch by design: it’s hard to feed a baby without holding, cuddling, and burping him. Older kids may cuddle up, too. My 4 year old loves to “nuggle” and – if he misses out on time with Mom – I can be sure he’ll turn up in my bed at 3 a.m. and burrow in for the duration. I try to remember that he needs that physical connection, even if I struggle with a skull to the scapula because of it. Someday when he’s too embarrassed for parental PDA I will miss his clinging monkey ways. Snuggle hugs will give way to pats on the back and fist bumps. (sigh)

 

 

2.       Words of affirmation

 

Words of affirmation are free, but they don’t come as easily as I wish. Noticing what my kids do right isn’t as automatic as noticing what they do wrong. For example, it is hard to ignore it when a kid colors the sofa with a black marker and easy to miss the progress he’s making with his cartwheels at gymnastics class. I try to notice the positive and to give atta-boys for effort. I want my kids to know I am proud of them.

 

3.       Quality Time

 

For me, the best way to get quality time with my kids is to include them in tasks I am doing, even if it means the task will go slowly and the results won’t be picture perfect. Little Man and I do a lot of cooking together. Little Mama unfolds the laundry while I fold it. She and I make it a game. We also love walks, bike rides, and gardening together. Turning off electronics helps, too. Don’t think I won’t flip the breaker if I have to.

 

4.        Receiving Gifts

 

Parents sometimes worry we’ll spoil kids if we give them too much (and you know where I stand on buying big ticket items “Because I Can.”). Chapman’s rubric reminds me that receiving gifts *is* important, and I try to give small gifts frequently. Little Man lights up when I give him a flower from the yard or a picture I printed out from the internet. His taste isn’t expensive. That bears remembering.

 

5.        Acts of Service

 

I sometimes resent all the work parenting requires, especially when Leading Man is so busy at work that he’s no help at home. Cooking breakfast, washing laundry, cleaning the floor, and shopping for groceries are not just housework, they are acts of love. When I need a reminder, I make heart-shaped pancakes. “We cannot all do great things, but we can all do little things with great love.” (Mother Teresa) Attitude is key.

 

I hope you’ll find Chapman’s theory useful for evaluating what matters most and for building a parenting “to do” list. Bottom line: show love in a variety of ways and to stay tuned in to your kids’ love languages. If you listen, they’ll tell you how they want to be loved.

 

What languages do your kids speak? Link up and share.

 

 

Image credit: © Mariaam | Dreamstime.com

Because I Can

Sometimes a word, phrase or idea gets planted in my brain and takes root. It grows, tendrils reaching into other parts of my consciousness, roots thrusting down into my unconscious and permeating ideas yet to surface.

 

Right now, the phrase "Because I Can," has a hold of my mind like kudzu takes over Southern highway roadsides. I can't let it go. It begs me to notice, to think about it, to chop through and see what's underneath.

 

The phrase burrowed into my brain several weeks ago. Leading Man was watching a television program about posh parties for kids. He joked with me about the cost of Little Man's upcoming party, and said the mom on screen had spent $15,000 on her child's birthday party. When the interviewer asked her "Why?" she responded:

 

BECAUSE I CAN.

 

(Please excuse me while I get my soapbox. I'll need it right about now.)

 

Ahem.

 

BECAUSE I CAN?!

 

What an arrogant, obnoxious thing to say. "Because I Can" says "I have more money than sense."  It says "Because I am not responsible to others." It says "I care more about making my kids feel good than teaching them financial responsibility, value and compassion."

 

It says "I dare you to judge me."

 

In my upper-middle-class mentality, I cannot fathom spending this kind of cash on a party. Any party. No matter how much I have -- and we're comfortable, I admit that -- I don't want my kids to think this kind of spending is wise. Money can do immense good. It can also do harm.

 

"Because I Can" is a safer, softer way of saying "Because you can't."

 

It is a claim to power.  Power over other people. Power wielded with no regard for the consequences. Power that divides.

 

In my world, "Because I Can" doesn't excuse wreckless behavior.

 

Applied with compassion, Because I Can is not "power over," it is "power to." The power to improve people's lives. The power to heal wounded hearts. The power to lift sagging spririts. The power to change what ails us locally, nationally, and globally.

 

Use your power to send donations to tsunami relief agencies. Why? Because you can.

 

Send words of comfort to the parents of a rural Pennsylvania farm family who lost 7 of their 8 children to a house fire last week while they, the parents, worked through the night in the dairy barn. Why? Because you can.

 

Find a military family near you and pay a lawn service to mow their grass all summer so that military mom doesn't have to do her it all herself. She'll never ask for it. But you'll make a difference. 

 

Volunteer your time. It is just as powerful as money, maybe moreso. 

 

Do these things BECAUSE YOU CAN.

 

Bottom line: "Because I Can" is no excuse. "Because I Can" is a privilege. Honor it.

 

This post prepared for Pour Your Heart Out Wednesday at Things I Can't Say. Thanks to reality TV for the inspiration. I am stepping down from the soapbox now.

 

Sunday Standpoint: Know Thyself

Leaders complain that they don't get feedback. Moms, not so much.

 

Before kids get the gift of gab, other mothers tell us how to do our job better. “If you don’t breastfeed, you’re flushing his health down the toilet.” “She’s probably overdue for a diaper change. I can't believe you're using disposables.” Shell  at Things I Can't Say calls these judging others motherbitches. They're mean girls turned meaner mommies.   

 

Family members and perfect strangers chime in. “She’s over-tired.” “You should have his speech evaluated.” “My kids never threw fits like that in public.”

 

Kids give their own feedback, too. I cried when my then three-year-old called me a bad mommy. I know he was responding to the boundaries I'd set, but it didn't matter. Criticism cuts me deeply.

 

I sometimes ignore feedback. But more often, I overreact.

 

I lose all sense of proportion.

 

Leading Man can make some innocuous comment and I act like I’ve been attacked by my worst enemy. I snap angrily. Or I dissolve into tears and adjourn to a self-hosted pity-party.

 

I don’t respond well to criticism. At all.

 

But I can sure dish it out.

 

A high-school boyfriend once quipped that I probably corrected his love letters with a big fat red pen. I didn’t. At least not literally.

 

Metaphorically? Probably so.

 

Critical thinking is my strong suit. My brain spots errors with lightning speed and extraordinary accuracy.  I automatically see what is wrong, even if it's a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect specimen. 

 

I have to work very, very hard to see what’s right.

 

I used to answer that favorite question of job-interviewers everywhere – “What’s your biggest weakness?” – by saying "I tend to say 'yes' too much and get over-committed." This is totally true. And it *is* a weakness.

 

But this week I came to the conclusion that my biggest weakness is that I can dish out criticism but I can’t take it.

 

They say confession is good for the soul, but admitting that doesn’t feel good. It isn’t liberating or cathartic.

 

I want to build people up, not tear people down. Especially my husband and kids.

 

My critical nature means I'll have to work extra hard to make sure I tell them what they do right. I have to be conscious about searching for strengths. Otherwise, I'll give them unfairly negative feedback.

 

Knowing this makes me sad, but it also gives me hope,  because I know where I need to improve. Self-knowledge helps good leaders get better. 

 

What do you know about yourself? Link up below to join the conversation and share some comment love. We could all use some supportive feedback, right?

A Song with Significance: Virulence Vanquished

I woke up in a virulent mood on Saturday. Bitter feelings, hostile thoughts, surly demeanor. The whole toxic trifecta.

 

I don’t really know why.

 

I slept pretty well, considering. Little Man joined us in bed sometime after midnight. He kicks, burrows, punches, and snores. But in a good way.  Little Mama cried “milk” every two hours. She thinks I am her personal Dairy Queen. And she’s right.

 

I woke up, went downstairs and made coffee. I caught a glimpse of the dishes piled in the sink and wondered “Am I the only one who EVER cleans anything up around here?”

 

Little Man demanded bread pudding for breakfast. Normally, I’d say yes to this, because bread pudding is basically bread, eggs, and milk, so it’s breakfast-y enough for me.

 

“No eggs,” I said. “How about cereal or a bagel?”

 

Whining, crying, and stomping ensued. Little Man loses it when he doesn’t get the breakfast he wants. I know that, but I’m out of eggs. “Deal with it,” I thought.

 

Leading Man came in to the kitchen, made his own coffee, and sensed my foul mood like a baby bunny catches the scent of the dingo, just before he’s snapped up and torn limb from limb.  

 

He bumbled around making attempts to soothe me. He cleaned up some dishes. He made small talk. He asked about plans for the day.

 

On any normal day, game show bells would be ringing around here if he acted like that. Dishes, “Ding!” Conversation, “ding, ding!” Family activity planning, “ding, ding, ding!  Bob, tell Leading Man what he’s won!” These are just the things Leading Mama likes.

 

But on Saturday? There were no bells. Just hostile silence. Me: Loud footsteps. Him: Egg-shell walking.

 

Because there’s no way to soothe an angry dingo who has already latched on to the bunny.

 

I slammed around the house getting breakfast for the kids , taking a shower and packing up the diaper bag. We left the house just as Little Mama started melting down. She likes to nap at 9. It was nearly 10. We put her in the car and drove off.

 

I fumed in the front seat while Leading Man switched the channels on the radio back and forth. He turned it up loud to drown out the crying in the back seat. He searched for a song he likes. The baby kept crying.

 

My nerves were jangled.  I couldn’t snap out of it. I'm not sure I wanted to snap out of it.

 

I was seriously pissed off about nothing. I was wallowing in frustration about how no one ever does anything around here except me, about all the pressure I put on myself, about how underappreciated I feel. I was seriously pissed off about everything.

 

The baby was wailing. Bruno Mars was singing about how he’d catch a grenade for me. Right then, I’d probably throw one at him.

 

And then I heard it, from the backseat. 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little ‘tar,

How I wonder whatchu are,”

 

Little Man started singing to his sister, trying to calm her down, trying to lull her to sleep.

 

“Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the ‘ky,”

 

I thought to myself: “I love his little voice. I love that he sings for his sister. And I love it that he keeps singing until she quiets down. He’s so patient and tender.”

 

“Twinkle, twinkle, little ‘tar,

How I wonder whatchu are.”

 

As Little Man sang, my anger vanished. I let go the bunny. And I wondered what set me off in the first place. 

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This post brought to you by the letter V. Visit Jenny Matlock's blog for a variety of Alphabe-Thursday Voices and Visuals.

 

Song with Significance prompted by:

Image credit: © Dmitry Maslov