All parenting methods (authoritarian, permissive, pro-spanking, "Be the Best Friend", etc.) are built upon an answer to one question. It's an important question. It's so important that if you have never considered it before, you should put all parenting books down until you decide where you stand on it.
Are children born as "clean slates"?
If you answer YES:
You believe that a baby is a perfect, unmarred, angelic creature. Pristine! Uncorrupted! Their clean slate gets cracked, chipped, scuffed, and scratched through the roughness of life--parenting mistakes, bad teachers, nasty friends. Some slates are tougher and can survive horrible upbringings (Oprah) others crack even under normal parenting (Jeffrey Dahmer). Evil within a person--any person--can mostly likely be traced back to a disaster in their childhood.
Signs You're a Clean Slate Believer:
- In moments of despair you say things like "I'm ruining my kids!"
-When your toddler first bit you in anger, you wondered which other already-corrupted-by-bad-parenting kid taught him to do it.
- When a preschool "bully" pushes your kid down on the playground, you stink eye the mother like she did the shoving herself. She's the puppet-master behind that behavior!
If you answer NO:
You believe a baby is a human creature capable of all the highs (and lows) of any other human. Instead of a Clean Slate, you see Wet Clay. Yes, life can leave dents, but they can be worked back out and remolded again. (At least, up until the point when it starts to dry and harden.) Parenting mistakes, bad teachers, nasty friends--they leave impressions, but can't squish that clay into something it was never meant to be. Personalities aren't learned--they're given to us at birth.
Signs You're a Wet Clay Believer:
- You can keep moments of despair in perspective--all is not lost, kids are resilient, try again tomorrow.
- When your toddler first bit you in anger, you didn't blame anyone but the lump of personality screaming at you in rage.
- When a preschool "bully" pushes your kid down in the playground, you notice the mom turning red with embarrassment and cut her some slack. She's got a strong personality to mold with that one.
It's probably very obvious which I believe, but I'm curious--where do you fall?
*Post inspired by Leo Soderman's guest spot at Literal Mom.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
A Turn of Events
Kevin is a much better parent than I am. He's calmer, more patient, and can "lecture" without raising his voice to ugly levels. I suppose I could insert something catty here, like "I could be the better parent if I only saw my kids for 45 minutes each weekday, too!" but I won't. He's handled the Preschool Age with much more grace than I have, period.
He doesn't get home until 6:30/7:00 so I'm left to deal with dinner alone. I pick them up after work. I make dinner while Elodie moans and pulls at my legs from the floor. I spoon food into Elodie's mouth and fight with Elizabeth to eat her dinner. I drag the food-covered baby upstairs and dunk her in the bathtub. I break up the bored-end-of-day-they're-tired fights between the girls. I give Elodie her last bottle. And just when I'm ready to curse god and die, Kevin walks in the door and relieves me. He sees Elodie for about 10 minutes before her bedtime--then chokes down his cold dinner plate while Elizabeth bounces all over him and I slump in the living room chair.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Elizabeth is the wild card in this whole scenario. She might be quiet and glued to a NetFlix movie while I make dinner. She might be helpful and play with her sister. Or, she might scream and fight and snatch toys off Elodie and end up in timeout multiple times. Those are the nights when I'm calling Kevin at 6:20 almost in tears because I'm overwhelmed and can't do anything but put out fires--and those nights happen a lot.
Last night was BAD. Just...bad. The I-called-Kevin-at-5:28 kind of bad. And when he came home, he choked down his cold Fish-in-Foil Packet (dinner sucked) then sat Elizabeth down on a chair for The Lecture.
I sprawled across the couch with a headache and thought, "Yeah. You tell her," but he surprised me. He said, "Let's pray first."
So we prayed. Then we told Elizabeth that she's supposed to love her sister, and asked her to come up with ways that she could love her--then list the ways that she isn't loving her. We told her that Elodie loves her, and smiles and claps her hands when she sees her, and that if Elizabeth is mean to her she isn't going to do that anymore. We talked about what a big responsibility--and an honor--it is to be a Big Sister.
No yelling. No anger. No screamed threats. Just a warning that if she can't love her sister and obey me during those hard hours until Dad comes home, then she won't be allowed to play with her friends the next day. And summer is coming...her friends will be out of school...and not being about to play with friends on a nice summer day will be a really. long. day.
I laid back down on the couch. Kevin took his gross Fish Packet back to the kitchen and tossed it in the garbage. And Elizabeth pulled out an old deck of Numbers flash cards and played quietly with them.
Either God loves to make me the butt of his own little inside jokes, or he's trying to tell me to pray more often (it's a toss up) but the next 10 minutes were pretty miraculous. Elizabeth laid the flash cards on the table--asked a few questions that I answered half-asleep from the couch--and then counted to 20 by herself.
No "eleventeen". No regression. On her own free-will.
I sat up and saw that she had the cards all in order. 1-20. And when I asked if she wanted to know the numbers that came next, she smiled and said, "Yeah!"
We made it up to 50.
He doesn't get home until 6:30/7:00 so I'm left to deal with dinner alone. I pick them up after work. I make dinner while Elodie moans and pulls at my legs from the floor. I spoon food into Elodie's mouth and fight with Elizabeth to eat her dinner. I drag the food-covered baby upstairs and dunk her in the bathtub. I break up the bored-end-of-day-they're-tired fights between the girls. I give Elodie her last bottle. And just when I'm ready to curse god and die, Kevin walks in the door and relieves me. He sees Elodie for about 10 minutes before her bedtime--then chokes down his cold dinner plate while Elizabeth bounces all over him and I slump in the living room chair.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
Elizabeth is the wild card in this whole scenario. She might be quiet and glued to a NetFlix movie while I make dinner. She might be helpful and play with her sister. Or, she might scream and fight and snatch toys off Elodie and end up in timeout multiple times. Those are the nights when I'm calling Kevin at 6:20 almost in tears because I'm overwhelmed and can't do anything but put out fires--and those nights happen a lot.
Last night was BAD. Just...bad. The I-called-Kevin-at-5:28 kind of bad. And when he came home, he choked down his cold Fish-in-Foil Packet (dinner sucked) then sat Elizabeth down on a chair for The Lecture.
I sprawled across the couch with a headache and thought, "Yeah. You tell her," but he surprised me. He said, "Let's pray first."
So we prayed. Then we told Elizabeth that she's supposed to love her sister, and asked her to come up with ways that she could love her--then list the ways that she isn't loving her. We told her that Elodie loves her, and smiles and claps her hands when she sees her, and that if Elizabeth is mean to her she isn't going to do that anymore. We talked about what a big responsibility--and an honor--it is to be a Big Sister.
No yelling. No anger. No screamed threats. Just a warning that if she can't love her sister and obey me during those hard hours until Dad comes home, then she won't be allowed to play with her friends the next day. And summer is coming...her friends will be out of school...and not being about to play with friends on a nice summer day will be a really. long. day.
I laid back down on the couch. Kevin took his gross Fish Packet back to the kitchen and tossed it in the garbage. And Elizabeth pulled out an old deck of Numbers flash cards and played quietly with them.
Either God loves to make me the butt of his own little inside jokes, or he's trying to tell me to pray more often (it's a toss up) but the next 10 minutes were pretty miraculous. Elizabeth laid the flash cards on the table--asked a few questions that I answered half-asleep from the couch--and then counted to 20 by herself.
No "eleventeen". No regression. On her own free-will.
I sat up and saw that she had the cards all in order. 1-20. And when I asked if she wanted to know the numbers that came next, she smiled and said, "Yeah!"
We made it up to 50.
Friday, May 20, 2011
The comments on my last post ran in two veins: a.) real advice or b.) judgement. After 15 comments* I felt both sides had been represented and hilariously summed up by Krystle: "Oh for fucks sake, anons are so obnoxious. It's always easier to parent someone else's child."
Indeed.
This morning I summed up the comments for Kevin in the one minute we see each other alone before work. He rolled his eyes at the "grossly inappropriate" accusation while scrubbing out his travel mug and muttered, "Please." I forgot to mention that Kevin, the licensed Child and Family Counselor, was in on THE COUNTING FAILURE (as it will henceforth be known) holding Elizabeth accountable and encouraging her right along with me.
"Jaci, just stop writing about that stuff." He sloped more coffee in his cup before kissing the kids goodbye and heading to the garage. Typical man. Totally blowing off parenting insults like pfft! Whateva.
So why don't I stop writing about this "stuff"? Why don't I delete my last post, pretend it never happened, and move on to safer (funnier) topics about Extreme Couponing and only mention my children in cute anecdotes--if I mention them at all?
Because Mom shouldn't have to censor herself. She shouldn't have to worry that if she admits a parenting struggle, she's opening herself up for attacks from Sanctimommies about her character...her personality**...her parenting techniques...her past failures...and a reminder that she (and only she) has the power to SCREW THIS KID UP.
Mom should be able to say: "I tried this tactic out of frustration and you know what? It blew up in my face. Lesson learned, but I'm still battling over here. Any advice?" And--I know this is shocking but bear with me folks--other mothers should show a little empathy, not scorn.
The simple fact is there are about twenty different ways a parent can handle any given situation--and the parent has to figure out which tactic is going to work best for her child. It's usually done through trail and error. I think admitting my parenting failures in real terms, not some cutesy Chicken Soup for the Soul hindsight, is helpful for other mothers struggling with their own specific parenting battles.
There is nothing helpful in stuffing problems down and presenting a Stepford facade in parenting circles. All it does is isolate we Mothers even more, as we turn on each other for ridiculous things like jamming a 7 year old in a stroller or mommyjacking Facebook posts instead of discussing real, pertinent parenting issues that we ALL have to deal with. And dare I say, the real emotions and reactions that go along with it? And the failures?
So the post stays up. The judgmental comments will not...mainly because they serve no purpose other than hurting me, but also because...you know...
MY BLOG.
*Only one comment was deleted for blatant Fear Mongering. That's not normally a criteria I exert the power of MY BLOG over, but something about the whole you're tearing down lines of communication and she won't tell you if she's molested line skeeved me out.
**All I'm going to say about the attacks on my negative personality is that isn't God an awesome god? He put a little girl who struggles with negativity with a mother who suffers the same problem--and can one day pass on a little wisdom. And because my blog is full of snark--obviously I'm an unfit mother ruining her children. It just makes sense, people.
Indeed.
This morning I summed up the comments for Kevin in the one minute we see each other alone before work. He rolled his eyes at the "grossly inappropriate" accusation while scrubbing out his travel mug and muttered, "Please." I forgot to mention that Kevin, the licensed Child and Family Counselor, was in on THE COUNTING FAILURE (as it will henceforth be known) holding Elizabeth accountable and encouraging her right along with me.
"Jaci, just stop writing about that stuff." He sloped more coffee in his cup before kissing the kids goodbye and heading to the garage. Typical man. Totally blowing off parenting insults like pfft! Whateva.
So why don't I stop writing about this "stuff"? Why don't I delete my last post, pretend it never happened, and move on to safer (funnier) topics about Extreme Couponing and only mention my children in cute anecdotes--if I mention them at all?
Because Mom shouldn't have to censor herself. She shouldn't have to worry that if she admits a parenting struggle, she's opening herself up for attacks from Sanctimommies about her character...her personality**...her parenting techniques...her past failures...and a reminder that she (and only she) has the power to SCREW THIS KID UP.
Mom should be able to say: "I tried this tactic out of frustration and you know what? It blew up in my face. Lesson learned, but I'm still battling over here. Any advice?" And--I know this is shocking but bear with me folks--other mothers should show a little empathy, not scorn.
The simple fact is there are about twenty different ways a parent can handle any given situation--and the parent has to figure out which tactic is going to work best for her child. It's usually done through trail and error. I think admitting my parenting failures in real terms, not some cutesy Chicken Soup for the Soul hindsight, is helpful for other mothers struggling with their own specific parenting battles.
There is nothing helpful in stuffing problems down and presenting a Stepford facade in parenting circles. All it does is isolate we Mothers even more, as we turn on each other for ridiculous things like jamming a 7 year old in a stroller or mommyjacking Facebook posts instead of discussing real, pertinent parenting issues that we ALL have to deal with. And dare I say, the real emotions and reactions that go along with it? And the failures?
So the post stays up. The judgmental comments will not...mainly because they serve no purpose other than hurting me, but also because...you know...
MY BLOG.
*Only one comment was deleted for blatant Fear Mongering. That's not normally a criteria I exert the power of MY BLOG over, but something about the whole you're tearing down lines of communication and she won't tell you if she's molested line skeeved me out.
**All I'm going to say about the attacks on my negative personality is that isn't God an awesome god? He put a little girl who struggles with negativity with a mother who suffers the same problem--and can one day pass on a little wisdom. And because my blog is full of snark--obviously I'm an unfit mother ruining her children. It just makes sense, people.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
RE: Teaching Elizabeth
Elizabeth and I butt heads - constantly. She's bullheaded and dramatic and always "wronged" by someone. Life is full of injustice and she must scream about it. Then sulk. Then bring it up again two months later.
"Fool me once--YOU ARE DEAD TO ME." By four she had mortal enemies in Sunday school, people.
The belief floating around is that a child's personality is formed by age five. Elizabeth is 5 1/2. She's formed. From here on out, she'll learn to temper it and show a little grace (dear God please) but I think at her core, her first response will always be defensive wailing at the world.
With her personality, she thrives on negative attention. If you ask her how her day went, the first words out of her mouth are a complaint ("Mary flung a toy around and it HIT ME IN THE EYE!"). Adults try to reason that it was an accident ("No! SHE HIT ME!"), maybe try distracting her with something good that happened ("Yeah, well, AFTER THAT SHE HIT ME!") and it turns into this 15 minute conversation to calm her down and let it go.
It upsets me because I expect a 5 year old to come running up to me in happy excitement, just bubbling over with all the fun things that happened that day--not bitch and vent. As soon as I climb out of the car after work, she airs grievances while my shoulders slump and and the frown lines pop out. Elizabeth, just STOP.
Actually--it's kind of genius on her part. Tales of Good Things are usually met with fake, "Wow! That's nice, sweetie!" response from distracted adults. Complaints get full real attention--even if it is frustration/anger aimed at her own head. Negative attention is better than half-assed attention in Elizabeth World.
It's always been something I rolled my eyes over and blew off--but now it's affecting her willingness to learn.
At 2 1/2, she knew her alphabet and could count to 20--the toddler equivalent of a clapping seal. (Sorry, I don't applaud baby genius unless the kid is composing music and playing for the Austrian royal court.) At 5 1/2, she acts like she can't get past 13 and she has no earthly idea what the letter N is.
When I ask her to count, she rolls on the floor and moans out the numbers: "One...two...*sob*...threeeee...ummmmmm....four....*fingers in mouth*...ohhh!" Negative attention! I'm supposed to plead with her to sit up and say it nicely, or yell and jerk her upright. Either way, it's not enough to count and be pleased with her OWN ABILITIES or SHOWING OFF HER KNOWLEDGE to an impressed adult. Oh no...you will pry the numbers out of her.
And then! Then! She will throw out the number "eleven-teen" in a piss poor attempt to play stupid and get out of counting anymore. "Eleven-teen" is supposed to send me off on a tangent about how it's not a number while she falls out on the floor in tears and sobs of "I can't do iiiiiittttt!" until I blow up and she can go back to watching Angelina Ballerina and sneaking in thumb sucks when I'm not looking.
Last weekend we went head to head. You can't count? Really? I snatched away her purse full ofjunk precious things and told her she could have back whatever she could count to. I laid out twenty bits of crap (an old rock? seriously?) and she still...STILL...fell out about how she couldn't do it. I grabbed her hand and forced her to touch each piece and chanted over and over again: "15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--15, 16, 17, 18, 19--YOU'RE NOT COUNTING! SAY IT!-20--AGAIN--15, 16--SIT UP--17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--15, 16--THERE IS NO ELEVENTEEN--17, 18, 19, 20--AGAIN--"
40 minutes later, she counted to 20 on her own in a loud voice and earned all of her junk back. I praised her. Daddy praised her. We told her how proud we were and how happy we are when she sits up and really tries. Then I went to the bathroom and cried.
In retrospect, I should have swept the pieces off the table after the first whiny-fingers-in-the-mouth mention of "eleven-teen" and calmly said, "Nope. We'll try again later tonight," while plopping the bag on top of the fridge. I should have let her sweat it out instead of holding her down kicking and screaming. A little too "The Miracle Worker".
I'm so frustrated, internets. So very, very frustrated. I know she can do it--but she's getting more of a pay off for refusing to do it. Kindergarten starts in a few months and yes, she needs to know her letters and how to count.
I'm laying myself open and desperately asking for advice. From one mother to another--what would you do?
"Fool me once--YOU ARE DEAD TO ME." By four she had mortal enemies in Sunday school, people.
The belief floating around is that a child's personality is formed by age five. Elizabeth is 5 1/2. She's formed. From here on out, she'll learn to temper it and show a little grace (dear God please) but I think at her core, her first response will always be defensive wailing at the world.
With her personality, she thrives on negative attention. If you ask her how her day went, the first words out of her mouth are a complaint ("Mary flung a toy around and it HIT ME IN THE EYE!"). Adults try to reason that it was an accident ("No! SHE HIT ME!"), maybe try distracting her with something good that happened ("Yeah, well, AFTER THAT SHE HIT ME!") and it turns into this 15 minute conversation to calm her down and let it go.
It upsets me because I expect a 5 year old to come running up to me in happy excitement, just bubbling over with all the fun things that happened that day--not bitch and vent. As soon as I climb out of the car after work, she airs grievances while my shoulders slump and and the frown lines pop out. Elizabeth, just STOP.
Actually--it's kind of genius on her part. Tales of Good Things are usually met with fake, "Wow! That's nice, sweetie!" response from distracted adults. Complaints get full real attention--even if it is frustration/anger aimed at her own head. Negative attention is better than half-assed attention in Elizabeth World.
It's always been something I rolled my eyes over and blew off--but now it's affecting her willingness to learn.
At 2 1/2, she knew her alphabet and could count to 20--the toddler equivalent of a clapping seal. (Sorry, I don't applaud baby genius unless the kid is composing music and playing for the Austrian royal court.) At 5 1/2, she acts like she can't get past 13 and she has no earthly idea what the letter N is.
When I ask her to count, she rolls on the floor and moans out the numbers: "One...two...*sob*...threeeee...ummmmmm....four....*fingers in mouth*...ohhh!" Negative attention! I'm supposed to plead with her to sit up and say it nicely, or yell and jerk her upright. Either way, it's not enough to count and be pleased with her OWN ABILITIES or SHOWING OFF HER KNOWLEDGE to an impressed adult. Oh no...you will pry the numbers out of her.
And then! Then! She will throw out the number "eleven-teen" in a piss poor attempt to play stupid and get out of counting anymore. "Eleven-teen" is supposed to send me off on a tangent about how it's not a number while she falls out on the floor in tears and sobs of "I can't do iiiiiittttt!" until I blow up and she can go back to watching Angelina Ballerina and sneaking in thumb sucks when I'm not looking.
Last weekend we went head to head. You can't count? Really? I snatched away her purse full of
40 minutes later, she counted to 20 on her own in a loud voice and earned all of her junk back. I praised her. Daddy praised her. We told her how proud we were and how happy we are when she sits up and really tries. Then I went to the bathroom and cried.
In retrospect, I should have swept the pieces off the table after the first whiny-fingers-in-the-mouth mention of "eleven-teen" and calmly said, "Nope. We'll try again later tonight," while plopping the bag on top of the fridge. I should have let her sweat it out instead of holding her down kicking and screaming. A little too "The Miracle Worker".
I'm so frustrated, internets. So very, very frustrated. I know she can do it--but she's getting more of a pay off for refusing to do it. Kindergarten starts in a few months and yes, she needs to know her letters and how to count.
I'm laying myself open and desperately asking for advice. From one mother to another--what would you do?
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Etiquette vs. Attention
In case you aren't on Twitter: Blogger went down last Friday and ate posts, lost comments, and generally screwed half the blogosphere. Everyone was pissed and threatened violence, riots, and looting. (Probably.) I shrugged my shoulders and took my kids to the park.
I'm a Blogger girl, so my post on interrupting chilluns and the mommas who don't care dried up and blew away. Let's try this again.
Do you teach your children not to interrupt when adults are speaking?
At the age of 5, I have Elizabeth trained to wait for a pause in conversations before speaking. If I have a friend over and she comes bounding into the room rudely interrupting - she gets the evil eye - and that's enough to stop her mid-squeal. I continue talking to my friend. When we are at a natural pause, I will look at Elizabeth and say, "What?"
Other mothers don't do this. When their children come bounding into the room, all adult conversation dies awkwardly mid-word while Mom turns to Precious and pays 100% attention to a factoid about Dung Beetles. And then she encourages Precious with follow up questions while the other adults scuff their feet in the carpet or start a round of Angry Birds.
I don't understand this. I absolutely agree that Precious deserves to be seen and heard, but doesn't s/he also need to learn the art of conversation? And respect for others? And that other people's words are just as important as his/hers?
Even in the privacy of our own family, Kevin and I crack down hard on interrupting. And I mean hard. I remember Elizabeth talking over me at dinner and I pounded my fist on the table and screamed, "I'M TALKING HERE! YOU DON'T TALK OVER ME!" (Mom Of the Year 2011 - Excellence in Anger Management) When she interrupts Kevin, he usually goes off on a 3 minute lecture on how rude it is to interrupt--and after hearing what she just had to say-- pointing out that it had nothing to add to the conversation.
Harsh? I'm sure there are parents crying out in horror for my poor, repressed five year old and her mute presence at the dinner table. Please. The girl runs her mouth from the moment she wakes up until she finally passes out at 8:30. Do you think she sits there silently? She takes advantage of those "conversational pauses" and does her best to change the subject--back to her, of course--and that's perfectly acceptable. Interrupting is not.
Obviously, I'm baffled by the Interruptions Welcome! parenting style. Someone please explain it to me.
I'm a Blogger girl, so my post on interrupting chilluns and the mommas who don't care dried up and blew away. Let's try this again.
EDITED TO ADD: Thank you Patty for e-mailing my lost post to me! Google Readers...God bless you!
Do you teach your children not to interrupt when adults are speaking?
At the age of 5, I have Elizabeth trained to wait for a pause in conversations before speaking. If I have a friend over and she comes bounding into the room rudely interrupting - she gets the evil eye - and that's enough to stop her mid-squeal. I continue talking to my friend. When we are at a natural pause, I will look at Elizabeth and say, "What?"
Other mothers don't do this. When their children come bounding into the room, all adult conversation dies awkwardly mid-word while Mom turns to Precious and pays 100% attention to a factoid about Dung Beetles. And then she encourages Precious with follow up questions while the other adults scuff their feet in the carpet or start a round of Angry Birds.
I don't understand this. I absolutely agree that Precious deserves to be seen and heard, but doesn't s/he also need to learn the art of conversation? And respect for others? And that other people's words are just as important as his/hers?
Even in the privacy of our own family, Kevin and I crack down hard on interrupting. And I mean hard. I remember Elizabeth talking over me at dinner and I pounded my fist on the table and screamed, "I'M TALKING HERE! YOU DON'T TALK OVER ME!" (Mom Of the Year 2011 - Excellence in Anger Management) When she interrupts Kevin, he usually goes off on a 3 minute lecture on how rude it is to interrupt--and after hearing what she just had to say-- pointing out that it had nothing to add to the conversation.
Harsh? I'm sure there are parents crying out in horror for my poor, repressed five year old and her mute presence at the dinner table. Please. The girl runs her mouth from the moment she wakes up until she finally passes out at 8:30. Do you think she sits there silently? She takes advantage of those "conversational pauses" and does her best to change the subject--back to her, of course--and that's perfectly acceptable. Interrupting is not.
Obviously, I'm baffled by the Interruptions Welcome! parenting style. Someone please explain it to me.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
I'm in Redbook! Talking About STDs! (Wait...what?)
Yes, you read that correctly. I have been published in this month's issue of Redbook!
...
...
Under "Letters to the Editor".
(Shurrrrt up. I've been published.)
Redbook ran an article about AshleyMadison.com and the stomach-churning numbers of married people registered there. *pause while I shudder for humanity* While the undercover journalism and glimpses into the black, tarry souls of serial cheaters didn't phase me, the expert's advice to suspicious wives to keep their grubby paws out of the internet history did. I sent an e-mail that night.
Here's the thing: Affairs are all about secrecy. (No shit, right? Otherwise it would be called dating.) And--this is key--selfishness. Mr. Cheat isn't miserable enough to actually get off his ass and separate from his wife (and throw his life into total upheaval) but he's bored and unhappy and whiny and just too gosh darn special to sink into a mid-life abyss and--
Harf.
An affair is a fantasy. Period. It's Mr. Cheat and an idea of somebody (anybody) to distract him from Wife and Kids and Mid-Level Executive and Receding Hair Line. It's a quicky in a parking lot. A lot of dirty talk over sticky Starbuck's tables. Junk shot pics texted back and forth on the weekends.
And when Mrs. Cheated wonders what the hell is making Mr. Cheat act like a giant douchebag, the first thing she should do is check the Internet History. Not to save her marriage...or her children...or her husband. No--to save herself from perking up when a "may stop recurring outbreaks" commercial comes on TV.
A wedding ring isn't immunity against STDs--but it does mean that Mr. Cheat hasn't thought about protection in any other terms than pregnancy for years. This isn't college--and condoms--and the recent embarrassment of high school Sex Ed. This is an affair fantasy land! It's wild and spontaneous and stupid and reckless and forgetting any consequence than the thrilling thought of "what if I get caught?"
*disgusted full stop*
Most affairs don't involve protection--because most affairs don't involve any planning, period.
When a marriage expert tells a national magazine audience not to "pry" through her husband's e-mail or "snoop" through his phone, I get angry. This isn't just an issue of marital trust! That woman's health could be at risk, and she deserves to know what the hell her husband is doing when he isn't in her bed!
Blech. This is not the sword I wanted to fall on. I hate fear-mongering...and I have no experience with STDs...I don't even know anybody with STDs...and the whole subject is icky and gross and reeks of Ewww. But I want to scream, "WAKE UP MY SISTERS! SNOOP THE SHIT OUT OF HIS JUNK! PROTECT YOURSELF!" Because sticking your head in the sand and "respecting his privacy" is bullshit. Respect yourself.
And let's say you don't find anything--and you feel small and shitty because omg I just snooped on my husband and I'm so so sad and pathetic--and he gets pissed. What's the worst thing that could happen? It leads to a conversation? About how distant you feel? And how much you love him? And how scared you are of losing your marriage? And how you need a little reassurance that everything is still okay between you two?
Unless you're a certified crazy bitch with a history of pawing through his drawers...I think he'll understand.
Check the History.
Comments Off
...
...
Under "Letters to the Editor".
(Shurrrrt up. I've been published.)
Redbook ran an article about AshleyMadison.com and the stomach-churning numbers of married people registered there. *pause while I shudder for humanity* While the undercover journalism and glimpses into the black, tarry souls of serial cheaters didn't phase me, the expert's advice to suspicious wives to keep their grubby paws out of the internet history did. I sent an e-mail that night.
Here's the thing: Affairs are all about secrecy. (No shit, right? Otherwise it would be called dating.) And--this is key--selfishness. Mr. Cheat isn't miserable enough to actually get off his ass and separate from his wife (and throw his life into total upheaval) but he's bored and unhappy and whiny and just too gosh darn special to sink into a mid-life abyss and--
Harf.
An affair is a fantasy. Period. It's Mr. Cheat and an idea of somebody (anybody) to distract him from Wife and Kids and Mid-Level Executive and Receding Hair Line. It's a quicky in a parking lot. A lot of dirty talk over sticky Starbuck's tables. Junk shot pics texted back and forth on the weekends.
And when Mrs. Cheated wonders what the hell is making Mr. Cheat act like a giant douchebag, the first thing she should do is check the Internet History. Not to save her marriage...or her children...or her husband. No--to save herself from perking up when a "may stop recurring outbreaks" commercial comes on TV.
A wedding ring isn't immunity against STDs--but it does mean that Mr. Cheat hasn't thought about protection in any other terms than pregnancy for years. This isn't college--and condoms--and the recent embarrassment of high school Sex Ed. This is an affair fantasy land! It's wild and spontaneous and stupid and reckless and forgetting any consequence than the thrilling thought of "what if I get caught?"
*disgusted full stop*
Most affairs don't involve protection--because most affairs don't involve any planning, period.
When a marriage expert tells a national magazine audience not to "pry" through her husband's e-mail or "snoop" through his phone, I get angry. This isn't just an issue of marital trust! That woman's health could be at risk, and she deserves to know what the hell her husband is doing when he isn't in her bed!
Blech. This is not the sword I wanted to fall on. I hate fear-mongering...and I have no experience with STDs...I don't even know anybody with STDs...and the whole subject is icky and gross and reeks of Ewww. But I want to scream, "WAKE UP MY SISTERS! SNOOP THE SHIT OUT OF HIS JUNK! PROTECT YOURSELF!" Because sticking your head in the sand and "respecting his privacy" is bullshit. Respect yourself.
And let's say you don't find anything--and you feel small and shitty because omg I just snooped on my husband and I'm so so sad and pathetic--and he gets pissed. What's the worst thing that could happen? It leads to a conversation? About how distant you feel? And how much you love him? And how scared you are of losing your marriage? And how you need a little reassurance that everything is still okay between you two?
Unless you're a certified crazy bitch with a history of pawing through his drawers...I think he'll understand.
Check the History.
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Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Mom Blog Glossary
Mommyblogger - term thrown on every female blogger with children, even if she never ever ever writes about her children.
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Blogger - a blogger who lost every identity except MOTHER! in labor and delivery. Writes nothing but Cute Kid Stories and usually refers to her children in super secret code words (Boy Child #1) because who wouldn't stalk her blog and attempt to kidnap her glorious spawn???
Blessed Blogger - always counts her blessings and will only admit to "problems" if they are in the past tense with a corny Focus on the Family lesson learned.
Bitter Blogger - rants and vents about how everything in her life pisses her off. Easily spotted by her posts dedicated to tearing trolls (i.e., anyone who anonymously disagrees with her) a new asshole and angry insistence that she does not need anti-depressants. *see Ravings of a Mad Housewife archives June 2010 to whenever PPD wore off - February 2011? Maybe?
Jenny Who? Blogger - shamelessly copies The Bloggess' kooky writing style and comes off looking...stupid.
How To Be a MOM Blogger - sparkling toilet bowl tips and coupon savings from the CEO of the Home.
Empire Blogger - her site has multiple layers of blogs, chat rooms, Facebook pages, legions of fans, and a couple assistants to keep her business running.
Blog Whore - Big Pimpin' and clawing her way to an Empire--or else. Easily recognized by her constant ass kissing tweets @BigNameBloggers and attempts to draw internet uproars over to her blog through flaming posts.
Drama Blogger - How?!? Will?!? She?!? DEAL?!?! She always needs advice, hand holding, and reassurance of her awesomeness.
Brand Blogger - Giveaways! Reviews! She swears on everything that is holy that *insert product here* is life changing! If you showed her a quarter in ad revenue, she'd leap on it.
Twitterific Blogger - Gave up blogging (with her 50 readers) to pursue Twitter (with her 10,000 followers) full-time.
Whine-O Blogger - Motherhood is so hard it drives her to drinking...and pill popping...and martyrdom...and bitter resignation that life is going to suck until the kids hit 18.
Blog Clique - Group of mom bloggers who only read/comment/acknowledge their small circle of BFFs. Most often found on Twitter making inside jokes publicly.
Conference Attendees - Upper middle-class white mothers who have the expendable income to drop thousands onweekend getaways Informative Blog Conferences laughing and boozing with Twitter friends.
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Blogger - a blogger who lost every identity except MOTHER! in labor and delivery. Writes nothing but Cute Kid Stories and usually refers to her children in super secret code words (Boy Child #1) because who wouldn't stalk her blog and attempt to kidnap her glorious spawn???
Blessed Blogger - always counts her blessings and will only admit to "problems" if they are in the past tense with a corny Focus on the Family lesson learned.
Bitter Blogger - rants and vents about how everything in her life pisses her off. Easily spotted by her posts dedicated to tearing trolls (i.e., anyone who anonymously disagrees with her) a new asshole and angry insistence that she does not need anti-depressants. *see Ravings of a Mad Housewife archives June 2010 to whenever PPD wore off - February 2011? Maybe?
Jenny Who? Blogger - shamelessly copies The Bloggess' kooky writing style and comes off looking...stupid.
How To Be a MOM Blogger - sparkling toilet bowl tips and coupon savings from the CEO of the Home.
Empire Blogger - her site has multiple layers of blogs, chat rooms, Facebook pages, legions of fans, and a couple assistants to keep her business running.
Blog Whore - Big Pimpin' and clawing her way to an Empire--or else. Easily recognized by her constant ass kissing tweets @BigNameBloggers and attempts to draw internet uproars over to her blog through flaming posts.
Drama Blogger - How?!? Will?!? She?!? DEAL?!?! She always needs advice, hand holding, and reassurance of her awesomeness.
Brand Blogger - Giveaways! Reviews! She swears on everything that is holy that *insert product here* is life changing! If you showed her a quarter in ad revenue, she'd leap on it.
Twitterific Blogger - Gave up blogging (with her 50 readers) to pursue Twitter (with her 10,000 followers) full-time.
Whine-O Blogger - Motherhood is so hard it drives her to drinking...and pill popping...and martyrdom...and bitter resignation that life is going to suck until the kids hit 18.
Blog Clique - Group of mom bloggers who only read/comment/acknowledge their small circle of BFFs. Most often found on Twitter making inside jokes publicly.
Conference Attendees - Upper middle-class white mothers who have the expendable income to drop thousands on
Friday, May 6, 2011
Thursday, May 5, 2011
My Last Baby
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My last baby is now a toddler. Happy 1st birthday, Elodie!
After a few months of consistent sleep, I'm feeling a bit sentimental over my last baby. She's it! My last taste of New Motherhood. There will be no more babies...or ducky sleepers...or teensie-weensie newborn diapers...
I teared up for about 1/2 a second, then thought of all the hateful baby stuff I'll never have to do again (colic) and felt relief - which is a pretty clear sign that I'm done.
But I'm going to miss cuddling a squishy baby...
...really, really miss it.
Monday, May 2, 2011
My Newest Unstable Idea Is...(drumroll please)
A friend took a look around my house the other day and told me I really AM a housewife. It's your calling! You cook! You sew! You make fancy pants cakes! She meant it as a compliment, and I was kind of like...Ewww.
But I don't want to be a housewife!
There's truth in her words--and no matter how blind and stupid I may be, I can usually spot truth staring me in the face. I'm a great cook, even with kids hanging off my legs. I'm weirdly thrilled by paint chips and fabric swatches. I own (and actually use) a sewing machine so much I have a "sewing corner" in the family room. *embarrassing* I have a creative bent, and yes, damn it--I play around with Fancy Pants Baked Goods.
Okay--so I'm a good fit for the Domestic Engineer/CEO of the Home! career path. (Sorry, I can't even write that without massive eye rolls and snorting.) But my friend's next words knocked all the air out of me: "Maybe you already are where you're supposed to be?"
Here? No! I'm meant for better things! Power suits and...and...briefcases and...I don't know...underlings to scurry around me in fear and awe.
Here is no make up and yoga pants and listening to kids scream while my brain goes dumb and I forget how to write a cursive Z. (true story)
Then I realized I think entirely in sterotypes--aaaaand maybe I can create my own career path that takes a little from both worlds?
Here's my unstable idea: start a home-based Specialty Cake Business.
My mom made wedding cakes out of her house for years--she even made mine--and she's teaching me her tricks. (Like transportation because my last cake? Uh...it died in my trunk when I slammed on the brakes. I don't want to talk about it.) At first we thought I could do cakes under-the-table just for extra cash, but...
Pennsylvania is a state where a home-based bakery is perfectly legal. I have to be locally zoned for it--I am!--and my normal, everyday kitchen will have to pass a health inspection (uh, how gross would it be if it DIDN'T?!?) and then I can open for business. Real business. From home. With almost no start up costs.
Awe, look. I'll be following in Paula's buttery footsteps. Only I'll be using Crisco and lots of powdered sugar...and no one will want to film me chewing my cheeks as I work...and my accent screams "Western PA Cracker".
What do yinz think?
But I don't want to be a housewife!
There's truth in her words--and no matter how blind and stupid I may be, I can usually spot truth staring me in the face. I'm a great cook, even with kids hanging off my legs. I'm weirdly thrilled by paint chips and fabric swatches. I own (and actually use) a sewing machine so much I have a "sewing corner" in the family room. *embarrassing* I have a creative bent, and yes, damn it--I play around with Fancy Pants Baked Goods.
Okay--so I'm a good fit for the Domestic Engineer/CEO of the Home! career path. (Sorry, I can't even write that without massive eye rolls and snorting.) But my friend's next words knocked all the air out of me: "Maybe you already are where you're supposed to be?"
Here? No! I'm meant for better things! Power suits and...and...briefcases and...I don't know...underlings to scurry around me in fear and awe.
 |
Then I realized I think entirely in sterotypes--aaaaand maybe I can create my own career path that takes a little from both worlds?
Here's my unstable idea: start a home-based Specialty Cake Business.
My mom made wedding cakes out of her house for years--she even made mine--and she's teaching me her tricks. (Like transportation because my last cake? Uh...it died in my trunk when I slammed on the brakes. I don't want to talk about it.) At first we thought I could do cakes under-the-table just for extra cash, but...
Pennsylvania is a state where a home-based bakery is perfectly legal. I have to be locally zoned for it--I am!--and my normal, everyday kitchen will have to pass a health inspection (uh, how gross would it be if it DIDN'T?!?) and then I can open for business. Real business. From home. With almost no start up costs.
Awe, look. I'll be following in Paula's buttery footsteps. Only I'll be using Crisco and lots of powdered sugar...and no one will want to film me chewing my cheeks as I work...and my accent screams "Western PA Cracker".
What do yinz think?
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