Leading Mama

Wherever You Rome

Perhaps you’ve wondered “where in the world is Leading Mama these days?” I hope so.

The answer? I’m recently back from a work-related trip to Italy with toddler in tow. Here’s what I learned.

1) Two-year-olds want the window seat but can’t actually see out of the tiny airplane windows when they are belted securely into their CARES restraint system (which, in leading mama’s humble opinion, is one of the best devices ever made for toddler travel). My son’s straining and grunting attempts to see the “choo choos” on the tarmac that carry the luggage to and from the aircraft were amusing for the first 5 minutes, and then…not so amusing.

 

2) Air travel is exciting – so exciting that some toddlers won’t sleep even if they haven’t slept in days. (Okay, not days, but it felt like it!) Fortunately, the rush of jet lag catches up with the weary toddler just as his mama tries to drift off to sleep at 2 a.m. in an Italian hotel.

 

3) Jet lag is like kryptonite to even the most super of parents. Why else would I say “do you want to watch Ice Age: The Meltdown in bed?” or “Let’s have pizza again tonight”?

 

4) A one-to-one parent to toddler ratio reminds you that wherever you are, no matter how tired or frustrated or lost, you are completely responsible for your child’s welfare. This is a heady realization when times are good and a frightening one when times are bad. I came to this conclusion after a 4-hour fiasco in the Rome train station. There’s a lot to be said for having some back-up.

 

5) Even if your toddler won’t patiently visit art galleries and operas abroad, you’ll see the world in a whole new way through his eyes (and hands and mouth). You’ll notice rocks and birds. You’ll dip your fingers into the cool glassy green water in the piazza fountain. And you won’t miss the chance to see street performers juggle glass balls and bowling pins because it is time for the Pope’s appearance at the Vatican,either. Because wherever you Rome, you’re still a mama first and foremost.

Protecting Kids in Cars

A couple of weeks ago, the Washington Post Magazine’s feature story (titled Fatal Distraction) focused on parents who’ve accidentally left their infant or toddler in a locked car, resulting in the child’s death from hyperthermia (overheating). Between 15 and 25 children die like this each year, mostly in the stifling summer months.

 

Though each was in some ways unique, the stories Weingarten described were also eerily similar. Each parent was so absorbed in his or her own thoughts and tasks that they simply forgot the child was there, in the backseat, awaiting daycare drop-off. The parents weren’t deadbeats, they weren’t unloving. They were simply overwhelmed and exhausted. And who among us isn’t?

 

Families are busy. Parents work long hours, often at more than one job, to keep up with their mortgage payments, save for kids’ college, and afford music classes and family vacations. Our brains are constantly buzzing with to-do reminders and the worries of modern life. We travel to work and back largely on auto-pilot, repetition numbs us to the details.

 

Even when we’re driving, we’re not focused – we’re multitasking. Talking, text messaging, reading, eating – you name it, people do it behind the wheel. If you’re a parent, I suspect you sometimes drive to work while talking on the cell phone with colleagues from work, eating your breakfast (black coffee and a power bar, anyone?), and making silly faces in the rear-view mirror to entertain your fussy pint-sized passenger. We’ve all been there. 

 

Leading Man doesn’t often read the Washington Post Magazine. He prefers the newspaper itself, and devours the international news and sports sections while I slurp coffee and read the Magazine. But he usually asks about the feature story, and I give him the highlights.

 

Our discussion of this particular story was somewhat one-sided. I described each of the families Weingarten interviewed, talked about their similarities, the enormity of their losses. For me, it was impossible not to feel some sense of personal connection to these parents – any one of us could (given the right but oh-so-wrong circumstances) forget that we hadn’t dropped our child off on the way to work. Especially if something unexpected happened and our usual routine was upended somehow.

 

Leading Man's response: “That could never happen to me. I’m always focused on being a parent.”

I (mostly) left it at that, since I didn’t want to slip into psychologist mode on Sunday morning. But evidence against his position mounted in my mind.

 

The positive illusions that keep people sane and happy make them unlikely to see the potential for negative events such as leaving your child in a hot car all day. Our identities as loving, capable, devoted parents are 180 degrees out from forgetting about our children. But memory is fickle – when we’re under stress, it fails us miserably. We simply need to believe this could never happen to us. The alternative is too much to bear.

 

I’m sure parents whose errors have injured or killed their children never thought it could happen to them, either. That’s just human nature. But I think it’s healthy for all of us to slow down, tune in, and take precautions so it doesn’t happen to our own children. It’s not so hard to look in the backseat before heading in to the office – I’ve started putting my purse and my laptop back there so it becomes a habit.

Watch Me Pull a Rabbit Out of My Hat

Since I added another job to my Leading Mama juggling routine, I’ve found it’s increasingly difficult to stay sane. If it felt like I had no free time to myself before, I have less than no free time to myself now. I wonder whether mathematicians and physicists would support my contention that working moms have less than no free time – as a social (not rocket) scientist, I say, truly, it’s possible.

 

Frankly, I feel a bit like a magician. On the good days, I amaze even myself. On the not-so-good days, the furry white rabbit who’s supposed to pop magically from my hat never shows, and I pull out a ferocious dingo instead. (I know, you can imagine me dressed in a magician’s cape fending off the dingo with my dainty magic wand. The audience roars, but it isn’t so funny for the magician!)

 

Here are three tricks I’ve found for managing the madness.

Make music. Get a new CD, download new tunes (or old favorites) to your iPod, or pull out the mix tapes you made in the mid-80s and give them a listen. Music has the power to transport and transform. Sing along.

Run away. Even if you have to take your kids with you, get out of the routine long enough to miss it (if you bring the kids with you, you’ll be missing that daily grind in no time!). I traveled to San Diego for 46 hours this month. It was my first nights away from my son. And the longest two days of my life.

Freeze up. When you’re cooking this week, make extra portions of two or three family favorites and freeze them immediately. Put a sticky-note freezer inventory on the side of the fridge so you’ll know what to thaw on those nights when you simply can’t imagine cooking dinner.

Make Mine a Chili Dog

Before I became Carson's mom, I was Houston's mom.

 

I didn't become a dog mom because I wanted practice for the real thing, or because I thought I might never have human children of my own (though my mother sent me an article on how to adopt babies from China when -- at 25 -- I was *still* single and without prospects).

 

I did it for the love. The pure, simple, written-all-over-his-wiggling-furry-body kind of love that only a dog can give.

 

This week, I had to say farewell to Houston after 14 long, full years together. We met in rural Illinois, and lived in nine houses in six states since then. In each, we went for walks, took a Christmas-light viewing car ride, shared popcorn on movie night, and turned in for bed together every night. He grew from my dog baby into my best dog friend. And I miss him terribly

 

On Monday, after the vet left with his body, I cleaned up the artifacts of dog life scattered throughout the house.  A water bowl near the back door, a leash near the front. A food bin and dish in the second-floor bathroom, where I'd placed a special non-slip rug that prevented the door from closing but also kept Houston from falling down while he ate his dinner.  The suede, cedar-smelling dog bed under my desk.  It had to go.

 

These things would only trigger tears, I thought, I needed them out of sight. I put his bowls in the dishwasher and took his bed downstairs. Then I vaccuumed the black hair from the carpet in our bedroom before getting Carson at daycare. I was falling apart but at least the house looked calm and collected.

 

On the way home, I explained that Houston had gone away and wouldn't be there when we got home, but I'm never sure how much my almost-2-year old understands. Not long after we arrived home, Carson pulled his step stool over to the counter near the refrigerator and opened the junk drawer. He loves to look at the screw drivers, tape measure, and other tools in that drawer. But Monday he pulled out Houston's brush, brought it to me, lifted his hands in a quizzical gesture, and asked "Yeesh?" He went room to room looking for Houston while I sobbed in the kitchen and reminded him Houston is gone.

 

He hasn't looked for Houston again.

 

But I still expect the dog everywhere I look. I wake in the night suprised he isn't lying directly in the path to the bathroom. I turn the corner in the kitchen thinking Houston needs dinner, only to remember he's gone. Houston's death left a hole in my life big enough to fall in and get lost.

 

Last night, I came home from work to find Houston's plastic dog dishes on the kitchen counter. Our Afghan house guest (who I call my Afghan son, though he's 24 years old and has a mother of his own) had partly emptied the dishwasher and partly reloaded it (strange, I know). As I made dinner I found a few dishes out of place, and put them where they belonged. Then I cleaned up the kitchen and took my son up for his bath.

 

As I sat on the bed reading books with him, Leading Man came in the bedroom to report that our houseguest was eating a bowl of chili in Houston's porcelain water dish. The one with the dog decorations on it and the picture at the bottom of the bowl with the word "woof!" It was so surreal, I had to see it myself.

 

Sure enough, there was our guest at the kitchen table eating chili from a dog dish. He didn't know it was a dog dish (obviously) and I don't know where he put the bowl when he emptied the dishwasher, but there it was.

For once I was thinking about Houston and laughing (not crying) on the inside. The universe has a strange sense of humor, that's for sure. But comic relief feels great. So I say, "Go ahead, Universe, make mine a chili dog."

The Drama Drags On

I’ve got that too-much-to-drink-slurred-speech-schouldn’t-operate-heavy-machinery kind of feeling this morning. And no, I didn’t tie one on last night (too bad for Leading Man, huh?).

 

The daycare transition separation anxiety drama drags on. I am having trouble typing because my motor skills are sluggish and my brain is cluttered, but thought I’d fill you in on recent happenings

 

Last week wasn’t great. Here’s the recap:

 

Monday:         

Federal holiday for Martin Luther King Day, no daycare

Tuesday:         

Inauguration Day, another federal holiday here in the DC Metro area. Carson went to daycare for 3 hours, just to ease back into things. Since no other children came that day, he hung out with Christine’s family; her two older girls who are so, so good to him, but he had a rough morning.

Wednesday:    

He woke up on the wrong side of the crib (you know what I mean). Had his milk and got dressed for the day. While I was feeding the dog, he vomited sour, congealed milk all over the floor. Not sure if he was sick, I kept him home for the day. No other symptoms of illness that day, but he was quieter than usual.

Thursday:        

Went to daycare. He cried when I left. (Me, too, but not in front of him!) Woke up from his nap at daycare feeling sad. Sat at the table for snack but didn’t eat much and didn’t get up from the table for the rest of the afternoon despite lots of cajoling from Christine. When I arrived to get him, he perked up but I couldn’t hold back the tears. He was so sad.

Friday:

Woke up way too early but went back to bed with Mama for an hour and got up in a good mood. Had a fun day at daycare. Enjoyed playing with everyone; ate well; napped well. Didn’t want to go home!

Oooh, look. It’s Monday again. (Where DOES the weekend go?)

 

This morning Carson woke up at 4:45 AM and we couldn’t get him back to sleep (drink of water, crying it out, laying with Mama, singing lullabies, warm milk, singing lullabies, laying with Mama, leaving him to cry it out – not necessarily in that order!). I know, inconsistency is the key to failure (and subsequent exhaustion), but I wasn’t firing on all cylinders, okay? At 6:15 I gave up and we “started” our day.

In my sleep-deprived delirium, I am confident I’ve chosen a wonderful caregiver for Carson but I’m unsure how to handle his anxieties. He (and I) need to sleep well, eat well, and enjoy our work/play time.

So, Reading Mamas, I ask you – What other ways do kids show their separation anxiety (I need to know what more to expect!)? And what’s a Mama to do about it?

Empty Car Seat Syndrome

    If I had become a mother right out of high school, I’d be sitting bleary-eyed in an empty nest wondering what I’d do with my time now that the kids are off at college. But I didn’t.

    I had my first child at 37, and now – nearing 40 – I find myself sitting bleary-eyed behind the wheel of our Volvo S80 looking at an empty car seat in the rear-view mirror. I can’t hold back the tears. As I drive past the cranes doing highway construction on the Capital Beltway, I have to stop myself from pointing them out and narrating, “The cranes are helping workers build a new bridge. Look at what they are lifting on their hooks.” There’s no one in the backseat to notice the cranes and marvel at their size. No one pointing and questioning “Whazzat?"

    Carson is at daycare. He’s eating breakfast, playing with toys, hearing stories and doing crafts. Later he’ll take his first nap in a bed that isn’t his. And I miss him. 

    The daycare provider assures me he is going to get through it. She says he’s cried more each day – on Monday he didn’t know what was happening, by Tuesday he knew I was leaving. Wednesday he stood pointing at the window where our car was parked and pulled at my zipper to say “Take off your coat, Mom. Stay awhile.” This morning he clinged to me like a monkey. He may be a man of few words but my son communicates very clearly.

    My current strategy for dealing with this transition includes drinking coffee from a porcelain mug, sampling chocolate in its many glorious forms, throwing myself into my work with abandon and going to an occasional MOMS Club event so I can see my friends’ kids.

    It’s sick, I know. But toddlers smile with their eyes, and those crinkly-eyed smiles are like a tonic when a mama suffers from Empty Car Seat Syndrome. Really.

    So to my pint-sized buddies Cooper and Jack, Abby and Julia, I say THANKS. Your smiling faces and toddling play helped dry my tears yesterday. I’m sure Carson will adapt to his new surroundings soon. And so will I. 

Mixed Emotions

    My son, Carson, is 22-months old today – and it will be his first day in daycare. To say I have mixed feelings is an understatement. My emotions fluctuate between anxiety, guilt, excitement, and relief.

    The anxiety is easy to understand. Anytime we feel we’re losing control of something extremely important and special, we get anxious. And trusting someone else with caring for your child is certainly one of those times. I worked hard to find a daycare provider whose views I agree with, whose daycare center is small, attentive to children’s needs, and well-run. But she isn’t me and I won’t be there. There’s a knot in my stomach that twists just a little tighter and grows just a bit bigger each time I acknowledge that.

    The guilt is more complex. Moms feel guilt over every little thing, it seems. When I get a good workout but learn my son has been crying in the gym daycare the whole time I’ve been gone, I feel guilty. When I’ve scheduled a phone interview mid-day that requires me to plunk him in front of Finding Nemo and sequester myself in the bathroom instead of taking him out for a play date, I feel guilty. When the pediatrician harps on the number of words my son says, and directs a speech pathology consult, I feel guilty. It’s hard to have a life, be a mother, and NOT feel guilty.

    As I contemplate dropping Carson at Ms. Christine’s house this morning, I get a little bit excited, too. I’ve really missed being able to focus on my work. That isn’t to say I haven’t worked (I have) or that I haven’t focused (absolutely, I have). Working from home makes mama focus in a way no traditional job can. If you want to produce a professional, well-written product in no time, ask someone with no time. She’ll get it done in the time her kids nap – she has to. 

    But I’m excited to have the chance to pour myself into a project without constantly thinking about when Carson will wake. I’m relieved that he’ll be busy playing with other kids and enjoying Christine’s fantastic fenced backyard. Keeping Carson busy hasn’t been easy for me, and some days the boredom and isolation of being a stay-at-home mom makes me crazy. 

    As I head back to work outside these walls, I recognize that being a work-from-home mom for 22 months has been a wonderful luxury. Few women have the opportunity to stay home with their children without financial worries or career concerns. I treasure the time I share with Carson, always have and always will. But now our time together will be even more precious – because I won’t always be there.   

The Business of Education

At a time when family budgets are shrinking and unemployment is on the rise, more and more schools are paying students for academic achievement. In Chicago, financial incentives are offered as part of “Green for Grades.” In more than 100 Texas high schools, the nonprofit group Advanced Placement Strategies pays up to $500 to kids earning top scores on AP English, math and science tests. 

Have I lost touch with reality or does this seem like a really bad idea to you, too?

 

Psychological research consistently shows when you pay people to perform tasks, they lose interest in them. It’s as if they think to themselves “If she’s got to pay me to do this, it must be really boring.” Kids paid to color pictures decide they aren’t so fond of coloring anymore. Professional athletes lose touch with the thrill of the sport when they’re overpaid and under pressure. What’s worse, when external incentives disappear, most people stop doing what you paid them to do.

 

Remind me – what makes the cash-for-grades exchange a good idea?

 

Business leaders might compare this practice to incentive systems for employees. There are several similar systems in business practice – profit sharing, working on commission, bonuses for exceptional performance.

 

Since school funding depends on student test scores, the practice of paying students for grades amounts to an educational profit sharing plan. Sort of – but not really. In profit sharing programs, employees typically share in the company’s profits as a group, not as individuals. Profit sharing programs encourage employees to work as a team for the good of the organization. One employee’s success is irrelevant if profits are down across the board. Everyone has to achieve or no one does.

 

WashingtonD.C.’s “Capital Gains” incentive system and other programs nationwide reward individual performance. These programs amount to work on commission for students. The more good grades they post, the greater their individual financial rewards. Other students’ success is irrelevant. And no work means no pay.

 

I know it’s tempting to believe financial incentives will motivate kids to stay in school and get good grades. But if school is work, and education is business, then we know paying people more can’t make them care. And it can’t make them stay where they don’t want to be. 

 

Nearly a quarter of all American’s change jobs each year, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Though 89% of managers think their employees quit because they could make more money elsewhere, only 12% of employees leave for more money. The #1 reason people quit their jobs is BAD MANAGEMENT. 

 

Bad bosses fail to involve people in decision making. They fail to appreciate employees’ contributions. And they fail to develop employees’ talents and abilities. One study found workers are almost four times more likely to leave because their skills are not being used and their careers are not being developed than because of salary.

 

Before paying another poor student to earn a passing score on the state-mandated math test this year, maybe educators need to re-think what truly motivates students. Just like adults, kids appreciate opportunities to contribute to something bigger than themselves. They like being part of a team. They want to make a difference in the world. Not later – NOW.

 

Kids’ enthusiasm for learning new skills (animation, photography, auto mechanics) and developing talents (art, music, athletics, drama) is automatic. We don’t have to pay them to play baseball. We don’t offer incentives for drawing or singing or photography. Because learning is incentive enough.

 

Unfortunately the intrinsically satisfying nature of learning is undermined by teach-the-test academics. There’s no room left for exploring what is interesting to students. No time for group projects and service learning. Education has been reduced to assembly line production – no room for creativity remains.

 

If assessment-centric decision making, educational inequity, and an inability to see how education matters in life have de-motivated students to the point we must pay them to learn, we’ve got a problem no amount of money can fix. Really.

 

The Myth of Independent-Mindedness

While I was pedaling the recumbent bike at the health club this morning, (yet another) political ad caught my attention. I can’t recall the name of the candidate, as his selling proposition wasn’t particularly unique. Behind his headshot, in large letters, were the words “Independent-Minded.”

 

I guess all candidates want us to believe that they’re independent minded, insofar as none of them boast they’re “in-tight-with-the-Washington-fatcats-who-created-the-mess-we’re-in” or “swayed-by-Wall-Street-bankers-lawyers-and-lobbyists.” Never mind that my slogans won’t fit the TV screen, even in wide screen mode. You get my point.

 

I’ve been thinking of the dependence—independence continuum this week as I’m writing a piece on teenagers, whose headstrong independence in our big, scary world frightens many Moms and Dads. Parents of teenagers emphasize taking care of and thinking for oneself – we don’t want them to be swayed by the half-baked arguments of some other newly independent teenager we hardly know. “If Johnny jumped off a cliff, would you follow him?”

 

Independent-mindedness is prized in our culture – we measure skill and success largely by individual achievements (test scores, promotions, contests won, opponents defeated). But independent-mindedness isn’t enough – and it can be arrogant or dangerous.

 

I truly don’t believe independent-mindedness is possible – 60 years of psychological research shows our judgments and behavior are influenced by social and environmental cues far outside our awareness. But even if it were possible, I’m not sure it’s desirable. 

 

Leadership matters precisely because we’re all connected to each other and to our environment in ways we can scarcely fathom. It requires interdependent-mindedness. 

 

As a parent, I want my son to be both capable and caring. I want him to see how his actions can build up or tear down, and how his words can hurt or inspire. I want him to appreciate the interdependent nature of people, plants, and animals and act accordingly. If his actions do damage, I want him to make amends – and to do better next time. Now that’s leadership for an interdependent world.

 

To Err is Human, To Admit It Is Leadership

I'm reading a book by Carol Tavris and Elliot Aronson entitled Mistakes Were Made (But Not by Me): Why We Justify Foolish Beliefs, Bad Decisions, and Hurtful Acts. Both giants in the field of social psychology, Tavris and Aronson review 50 years of research on cognitive dissonance and self-justification, explaining how we tend to rationalize, justify, ignore, and evade evidence suggesting we’ve erred. 

 

The fragile ego needs protection, after all.

 

Tavris and Aronson remark, “To err is human, but humans have a choice between covering up and fessing up.” And most often, when confronted with proof we’re wrong, become even more tenacious in our own self-deception and self-defense.

 

It’s easy to find public examples in politics and on Wall Street these days. Just last night as we watched 60 Minutes, I wondered how hedge fund managers who made MILLIONS of dollars on credit default swaps and derivatives could live with themselves as they watch the US economy crumble before their eyes. People are losing their homes, their retirement savings, their jobs. 

 

The answer, of course, is that bankers and hedge fund managers and legislators responsible for the credit crunch live with themselves “exactly the way the rest of us do.” Now I’m not saying you or I have made bad decisions that impacted millions and millions of people (and Tavris and Aronson didn’t say that either). 

 

What I am saying is the psychological process of self-justification that allows them to sleep at night is the same one that allows you or I to live with the knowledge we’ve screwed up and hurt those we love, perhaps deeply.

 

In the last 24 hours, I’ve had two opportunities to admit a mistake. I confess in the more emotional, personally meaningful situation, I responded just like social psychologists would predict (and their predictions are not usually very favorable). In the less emotional, more black-and-white business-related situation, I very quickly (though not without embarrassment) admitted my error, explained how it happened, expressed my sincerest apologies, and asked for a gracious response from the individual I wronged. (And I'm happy to say the situation was resolved positively.)

 

The difficult situation was an argument with my husband, who felt I was critical of his parenting behavior. I fairly quickly dug in my heels (“I did not criticize you”), justified my behavior (“You started it”), and walked away from additional confrontation (literally).  

 

In the minutes that followed, what flashed through my mind was all the evidence to support my position, and a host of unspoken arguments to counteract his. I won’t list them here, and I’m glad that – at least this time – I kept all those not-so-kind words to myself. Keeping my mouth shut certainly isn’t my nature. 

 

Without the prompting of Mistakes Were Made, I’m not sure I would have re-evaluated what happened yesterday. Actually, I’m fairly certain I wouldn’t have. 

 

While I easily find fault with my hair (it’s flat today), my thighs (not as thin as they should be), my housekeeping (not a high priority), it’s much harder to see mistakes in my own behavior. I think that’s true for most of us. Real life requires a little (well, maybe a lot) of self-deception. We all make bad decisions at times, and sometimes our behavior hurts others. In order to feel like good, honest, caring, capable people, we justify it. Then we remember it selectively, culling out the parts that aren’t so flattering like we cut bad boyfriends out of our college photo albums. 

 

While I still don’t believe I criticized him directly, I certainly see how my husband interpreted it that way. And I am truly sorry I hurt him. That seems like a step in the right direction. I admit I’ve got a ways to go.

 

Now if those hedge fund managers would fess up, we could all sleep better tonight.