I have a proposed change for the library. Move the kids' corner. It needs to be near the door - right next to the door, in fact. Is there any good reason why the kids' section is always in some far off corner toward the back? I understand wanting to keep it as far from the real library as possible, but making toddlers walk through endless aisles of books and movies and manuever their way past kiosks and study desks just to get to the cardboard-paged picture books? It seems counter-productive to me.
Sure, it's all smiles and giggles and "aren't they so cute!" on the way there. Those love-filled looks from the other patrons slowly simmer down, though, as the twins talk just a little to loud, throw just one too many books, and grab just one too many CDs out of the bin that shouldn't be there in the first place. My heart melts when I hear them reciting the alphabet using the cues from the letter rug under their feet. Other people, seated far too close, are less enchanted.
But the real reason the section should not be in the back corner is the knock-down, drag-out tantrums that occur whenever we try to leave. I'm sure there are many parents who have little angels that love to leave a fun place. I am not one of those lucky parents. Whether they're yelling about who gets to hold the new Dora DVD, or freaking out about who's sticker is bigger, or simply flopping around and running away so that we magically don't have to leave, the five minutes it takes me to physically wrench them into the parking lot never fail to be the most humiliating of my week.
Until you've carried two screaming, wriggling, 30-pound, two year olds - one under each arm - through miles and miles of aisles filled with books and "Be Quiet" signs, while what seems like thousands of other library patrons stare at you, mouths agape in horror, you haven't lived.
I'm not kidding when I tell you that often librarians descend upon me, as if to lend a helping hand. The hand never helps though. Now I just get to make my football-hold trek with an audience of three helpless adults staring on, wishing I'd never entered their sacred space - and that's in addition to the flustered patrons.
Simply put, having the kids' section in the back corner is not practical. If the section were near the door, I would be able to do my business and leave with minimal fuss. The checkout desk would be right there. The babies wouldn't even notice as I slipped the librarian our books and videos one at a time and then hid them in my purse. If anyone got too loud, I could guide them outside, not in a frenzied, embarrassed rush, but as part of a game.
"Look babies! Let's check out the sidewalk cracks!" And off we'd go, whether or not we returned depending on their mood.
The only reason I can see for not doing this is that parents who perhaps have children a bit older than mine may want to peruse the library's stock on their own while their children play in their own little area. It's safer in that case to have the section in the back. Still, if one has a child who is likely to wander outside if left alone, perhaps that kid is not ready to be left alone after all.
All I know is that based on my experiences having the kids' area in the back of the library only ends in tears - for everybody there.
___
Don't forget to vote for Tales of an Unlikely Mother if you like it!
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Never Too Young to be a Consumer
As we approach the Christmas season, I'm noticing more commercial time in between Dora and Diego. So are my kids. They've been able to resist the pull of flashy pink Barbie houses and shiny Big Wheels thus far. I can only imagine what next Christmas will bring. Christmas lists filled with glittery junk that they'll never use because those little actors looked so happy playing with their jiggly brain slime. Is the laboratory and lightning strike included? How about the spooky music and voice-over laugh?
Luckily for me, at two and a half, my girls have yet to discover that they can want things they've never had. Still, imagine my surprise this morning when, as I'm getting breakfast ready, one of my little ones yanks on my robe.
"Choc."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Choc, mama. Choc. Mama. Choooooooooooc."
She points to the cabinet.
"My choc."
At this point, I'm down on my haunches, looking her square in the face, trying to read her lips or her eyes, trying to get some indication of what she could possibly be asking for at 8:30 a.m.
"Choc."
She is persistent. I realize that a large part of my ability to understand my children is my knowledge of their routine, of what they would normally want at any given time. With a littany of items to choose from this morning, I am at a complete loss.
Until I hear the TV.
"Give her what she wants this season, a decadent treat of smooth, creamy chocolate."
"Oh," I say, laughing and taking her by the shoulders, "Chocolate? You want chocolate?"
She gives a big smiling nod.
"After breakfast."
She turns off the charm and stomps out of the room. This, apparently, is an outrage.
The funniest part is that my daughter doesn't even really like chocolate. She consistently turns it down as a treat. The power of suggestion is finally starting to take hold. My babies are growing up. They will soon be fine, upstanding, young consumers.
She doesn't even like chocolate.
___
Don't forget to vote for Tales of an Unlikely Mother if you like it!
Luckily for me, at two and a half, my girls have yet to discover that they can want things they've never had. Still, imagine my surprise this morning when, as I'm getting breakfast ready, one of my little ones yanks on my robe.
"Choc."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Choc, mama. Choc. Mama. Choooooooooooc."
She points to the cabinet.
"My choc."
At this point, I'm down on my haunches, looking her square in the face, trying to read her lips or her eyes, trying to get some indication of what she could possibly be asking for at 8:30 a.m.
"Choc."
She is persistent. I realize that a large part of my ability to understand my children is my knowledge of their routine, of what they would normally want at any given time. With a littany of items to choose from this morning, I am at a complete loss.
Until I hear the TV.
"Give her what she wants this season, a decadent treat of smooth, creamy chocolate."
"Oh," I say, laughing and taking her by the shoulders, "Chocolate? You want chocolate?"
She gives a big smiling nod.
"After breakfast."
She turns off the charm and stomps out of the room. This, apparently, is an outrage.
The funniest part is that my daughter doesn't even really like chocolate. She consistently turns it down as a treat. The power of suggestion is finally starting to take hold. My babies are growing up. They will soon be fine, upstanding, young consumers.
She doesn't even like chocolate.
___
Don't forget to vote for Tales of an Unlikely Mother if you like it!
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Christmas with Toddlers
That right there is exactly what it looks like. A sorry and sad, three-foot tall, fake Christmas tree with half of the lights blown out and only plastic bulbs for decoration. It has only been up for two days. It is beautiful.
Each morning, the babies run to the tree yelling, "Lights! Lights!" I sense a trip to buy more Christmas lights in my immediate future.
It's not the tree of my childhood, and it's not the tree of my dreams, and it falls far short of the warm, Christmas memories I hold dear, but it's ours, and only ours, and I love it.
Take that, Charlie Brown.
Christmas is held up to be a time of peace, joy and happiness. In reality, it's a time of stress, broken things and frustration, at least until the big pay off. But no matter how much cookie dough ends up in my carpets, no matter how many strings of lights I have to buy, no matter how many times I have to pick that piece of plastic up off the floor, unruffle its tendrils of fake green, and fluff it back up, no matter if those bulbs lose all of their tacky glitter to gluttonous toddler hands, this tree is a symbol.
It is the Christmas spirit. It will bend and break. It will lose what little polish it had. It will continue to stand proud, though, as I will continue to prop it back up. During the Christmas season, we would do well to remember that. The peace and joy that could be ours is in our own grasp. It is up to us to make Christmas or whatever holiday we celebrate this time of year special.
Our kids won't remember the broken glass or the tantrums. They'll remember the warmth of their parents carefully setting back up the spirit of Christmas after each new pitfall.
___
Don't forget to vote for Tales of an Unlikely Mother if you like it!
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
WHAT DO YOU WANT?!
Every morning here, it's the same story.
"Hi, mama! Wake up, mama!" Giggling, happy babies race down the stairs.
By the time they get to their room, though, the tide has turned. Somehow, in between my getting up and getting everyone's breakfast ready, the tears switch on - the whining, the crying, the repetitions of half-words half-wails that I just cannot understand. And nothing will pacify, nothing will soothe. I simply want the happy babies I had less than 15 minutes ago to frolic and play while I heat the milk. Is that too much to ask?
Yes.
I know that all I can do is desperately hang on and wait for this phase to end. They understand me now. They know I'm willing to get them what they want (within reason), and, yet, they still find reason to cry at any given moment. Any action has a 50 percent chance of instigating crocodile tears.
The most frustrating tantrums of the bunch happen when I have just given them what they were asking for. It's mind-boggling. Here is a two year old, railing on and on about chocolate milk, and when I hand her the sippy of milk, she throws it on the ground and cries some more. I just want to ask her, what do you want? What do you want?
The problem is they are starting to face what we all have faced and will face again throughout our adult lives. They don't know what they want. At two years old, they only know that they are unhappy. Like any person would, they look to things that have provided them with happiness in the past to fill the void. Chocolate milk, for instance. The baby thinks, "Chocolate milk! That's it! I love chocolate milk. I must be unhappy due to my unjust lack of chocolate milk! I bet if I get some chocolate milk, I will no longer feel sad!"
But when they get the chocolate milk, they are still sad. This compounds the outrage. Now, not only are they sad, but their trusted friend, chocolate milk, has betrayed them. It sits idly by in a puddle on the floor while these angsty feelings continue to simmer within them. It does nothing to help them out of their discontentment.
"I know!" they think. "A lollipop. Surely a lollipop will help!"
But it doesn't help. Nor does the lovey, or the video, or the Raffi song, or the balloon. All of their friends are betraying them, and their mother worst of all because she is allowing this unhappiness to go on.
At this point, I must sadly admit, that the babies usually end up so frazzled that the hug they rejected the first time around eventually does comfort them. They reach the point where nothing but physical touch can reassure them that whatever it is that they wanted is unimportant.
I'm riding out the waves of this now, hoping that this phase will soon pass. I try to remember that just because the twins can now communicate doesn't mean they understand emotional action.
Even I, at 28, don't understand it.
Sometimes, your baby will want to be happy and will look for things to make him happy. When those things fail, he will be understandably even more upset than he was before. But if we can take a step back from the fire, we will realize that what is happening is glorious. Our babies are trying to figure out the world on their own terms. They may fail at two, or three, or 15, or 28, but maybe someday they'll figure it out. At the very least, they'll find their own peace - a peace which right now, as their parents, we must give to them, screaming and crying aside.
Of course, it could just be teething, right?
"Hi, mama! Wake up, mama!" Giggling, happy babies race down the stairs.
By the time they get to their room, though, the tide has turned. Somehow, in between my getting up and getting everyone's breakfast ready, the tears switch on - the whining, the crying, the repetitions of half-words half-wails that I just cannot understand. And nothing will pacify, nothing will soothe. I simply want the happy babies I had less than 15 minutes ago to frolic and play while I heat the milk. Is that too much to ask?
Yes.
I know that all I can do is desperately hang on and wait for this phase to end. They understand me now. They know I'm willing to get them what they want (within reason), and, yet, they still find reason to cry at any given moment. Any action has a 50 percent chance of instigating crocodile tears.
The most frustrating tantrums of the bunch happen when I have just given them what they were asking for. It's mind-boggling. Here is a two year old, railing on and on about chocolate milk, and when I hand her the sippy of milk, she throws it on the ground and cries some more. I just want to ask her, what do you want? What do you want?
The problem is they are starting to face what we all have faced and will face again throughout our adult lives. They don't know what they want. At two years old, they only know that they are unhappy. Like any person would, they look to things that have provided them with happiness in the past to fill the void. Chocolate milk, for instance. The baby thinks, "Chocolate milk! That's it! I love chocolate milk. I must be unhappy due to my unjust lack of chocolate milk! I bet if I get some chocolate milk, I will no longer feel sad!"
But when they get the chocolate milk, they are still sad. This compounds the outrage. Now, not only are they sad, but their trusted friend, chocolate milk, has betrayed them. It sits idly by in a puddle on the floor while these angsty feelings continue to simmer within them. It does nothing to help them out of their discontentment.
"I know!" they think. "A lollipop. Surely a lollipop will help!"
But it doesn't help. Nor does the lovey, or the video, or the Raffi song, or the balloon. All of their friends are betraying them, and their mother worst of all because she is allowing this unhappiness to go on.
At this point, I must sadly admit, that the babies usually end up so frazzled that the hug they rejected the first time around eventually does comfort them. They reach the point where nothing but physical touch can reassure them that whatever it is that they wanted is unimportant.
I'm riding out the waves of this now, hoping that this phase will soon pass. I try to remember that just because the twins can now communicate doesn't mean they understand emotional action.
Even I, at 28, don't understand it.
Sometimes, your baby will want to be happy and will look for things to make him happy. When those things fail, he will be understandably even more upset than he was before. But if we can take a step back from the fire, we will realize that what is happening is glorious. Our babies are trying to figure out the world on their own terms. They may fail at two, or three, or 15, or 28, but maybe someday they'll figure it out. At the very least, they'll find their own peace - a peace which right now, as their parents, we must give to them, screaming and crying aside.
Of course, it could just be teething, right?
Monday, December 6, 2010
Women Stay
Women stay. Not all women, of course, there are some who break away, who take off despite the risks, who take the first step in liberating themselves from a violent situation and bettering their lives. But the fact remains that too many (even one is too many, but we're talking thousands, millions, of women) stay in abusive relationships.
Many see no alternative, or the alternative they do see seems even worse than where they are. Those who have children are in an even more precarious position. They fear for their children's wellbeing, both while they remain in their relationship and even moreso should they choose to leave.
When you are a parent, your decisions directly affect your children. For me, that means dealing with excess whining as we board a plane home for the Christmas holiday. For others, it means being painted into a corner with no way out.
How will a woman with no car, no income, no friends or family, and no shelter be able to provide for her children out on her own? How will that woman be able to survive in hiding, should her partner choose to look for her, find her, bring her back? Will her children bear part of 'her punishment' for leaving? How will she be able to feed them, clothe them, care for them if she's on the run?
It's easy to type this from my warm living room on my laptop as my babies sleep. When I'm done with this piece, I'll start dinner in the crock pot. I'll set up our Christmas tree.
Easier still would be for me to simply write: make the call. Call a shelter, an ambulance, the police, your mother. Call someone. Act. Get out. This message, while best intended, is completely lacking in empathy. Women in violent situations cannot just make a call. Something that seems innocuous - simple - to someone like me, can be a matter of life or death to a woman surrounded by such volatility.
For all I know, that woman's phone is tapped or her computer is keylogged. Even reading this post could set off a chain reaction of abuse. And that's assuming she even has access to a phone or a computer. One doesn't need to be locked in the basement to be held prisoner.
Remember that. If you are in a violent situation, and you think that it's not bad enough to attempt to get out, if you worry that the consequences of your attempt will make life worse for you and your kids, remember: one doesn't need to be locked in the basement to be held prisoner.
Abuse is rarely as concrete as basement walls. It permeates. If you are being abused, it sullies every pocket of every safe space you think you might have in your mind. Do you think you are good? Do you think you are good enough? Do you think he is right? Do you think you deserve better? These are the important questions.
More important still: Do you think your children deserve better? Because they are worth that shot in the dark. You are worth that shot in the dark.
And maybe it's not so dark after all. Of course, that is my entitlement speaking. It is that dark. But it is still worth it. This essay is worthless. It is rhetoric, it is lip service. Pretty words on a page do not dial phones.
What we need to do in the face of violence against women is act, not speak. Speaking is useful only in its capacity to bring about action. The readers here don't have to donate money, they don't have to hold signs in rallies to promote awareness, they don't have to change their Facebook pictures. They simply have to think. If each of us thinks hard enough, I bet we'll each come up with at least one person we know, personally, who is suffering some kind of abuse. We cannot sit idly by and callously tell them to call the people. We must show them that it can be done. We must personally illuminate the path for them. Not for all of them - that is daunting, that is impossible. For that one person we know. For her kids. We must act, not speak. We must be there for her. We must help her emerge from the trap of her own esteem and thinking.
One hand outstretched in the darkness is worth a million words on this computer screen. Call your friend. Stop by for a visit. Help her. She needs you.
(This post is in participation with the One Wee Voice Violence Against Women Campaign. Please visit Life - Inspired by the Wee Man for more information and links on this issue.)
Many see no alternative, or the alternative they do see seems even worse than where they are. Those who have children are in an even more precarious position. They fear for their children's wellbeing, both while they remain in their relationship and even moreso should they choose to leave.
When you are a parent, your decisions directly affect your children. For me, that means dealing with excess whining as we board a plane home for the Christmas holiday. For others, it means being painted into a corner with no way out.
How will a woman with no car, no income, no friends or family, and no shelter be able to provide for her children out on her own? How will that woman be able to survive in hiding, should her partner choose to look for her, find her, bring her back? Will her children bear part of 'her punishment' for leaving? How will she be able to feed them, clothe them, care for them if she's on the run?
It's easy to type this from my warm living room on my laptop as my babies sleep. When I'm done with this piece, I'll start dinner in the crock pot. I'll set up our Christmas tree.
Easier still would be for me to simply write: make the call. Call a shelter, an ambulance, the police, your mother. Call someone. Act. Get out. This message, while best intended, is completely lacking in empathy. Women in violent situations cannot just make a call. Something that seems innocuous - simple - to someone like me, can be a matter of life or death to a woman surrounded by such volatility.
For all I know, that woman's phone is tapped or her computer is keylogged. Even reading this post could set off a chain reaction of abuse. And that's assuming she even has access to a phone or a computer. One doesn't need to be locked in the basement to be held prisoner.
Remember that. If you are in a violent situation, and you think that it's not bad enough to attempt to get out, if you worry that the consequences of your attempt will make life worse for you and your kids, remember: one doesn't need to be locked in the basement to be held prisoner.
Abuse is rarely as concrete as basement walls. It permeates. If you are being abused, it sullies every pocket of every safe space you think you might have in your mind. Do you think you are good? Do you think you are good enough? Do you think he is right? Do you think you deserve better? These are the important questions.
More important still: Do you think your children deserve better? Because they are worth that shot in the dark. You are worth that shot in the dark.
And maybe it's not so dark after all. Of course, that is my entitlement speaking. It is that dark. But it is still worth it. This essay is worthless. It is rhetoric, it is lip service. Pretty words on a page do not dial phones.
What we need to do in the face of violence against women is act, not speak. Speaking is useful only in its capacity to bring about action. The readers here don't have to donate money, they don't have to hold signs in rallies to promote awareness, they don't have to change their Facebook pictures. They simply have to think. If each of us thinks hard enough, I bet we'll each come up with at least one person we know, personally, who is suffering some kind of abuse. We cannot sit idly by and callously tell them to call the people. We must show them that it can be done. We must personally illuminate the path for them. Not for all of them - that is daunting, that is impossible. For that one person we know. For her kids. We must act, not speak. We must be there for her. We must help her emerge from the trap of her own esteem and thinking.
One hand outstretched in the darkness is worth a million words on this computer screen. Call your friend. Stop by for a visit. Help her. She needs you.
(This post is in participation with the One Wee Voice Violence Against Women Campaign. Please visit Life - Inspired by the Wee Man for more information and links on this issue.)
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