I Think Therefore I Blog

I want to briefly explain why I post here once or twice a week:

I was standing in the laundry room, taking clothes out of the dryer, folding them neatly and placing them into the laundry basket. I paused to sniff one of my sons’ warm shirts and thought, "The smell of this new fabric softener really brightens up my day." I instantly thought: something has got to change; I've hit rock bottom. Is that all I’ve got to look forward to? Fabric softener? I’ve lost my way. I need a lifeline. I need to climb out of this hole.

As a writer I was stalled, or blocked, whatever you want to call it. My first book was published in 2004, and since then I’ve had 2 kids and I got paying jobs. I got laid off from one of my day jobs in 2009. I was drifting, sinking in fact. So, I started a blog.

I had to write about something I know. I'm home all the time with kids, what do I know...? The mom blog was born. My husband thinks I'm cracked, but I know I would be really crazy if I didn't have the outlet and discipline of it. It’s also energised my writing career. I've finished a draft of book two and am also writing on occasion for print publications and online. I also teach writing. I do other bits, too. All this and full time at home with the kids; am I tired? Yes. Short on funds? Yes. However, I'm much happier--and it's not because I changed fabric softeners.

The Tiger Mother in Me

There’ve been visceral reactions to news of the book “Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother” (Penguin Press) written by Yale Law School Professor Amy Chua. I was, however, not so much horrified by her techniques, as wondering if I could apply them effectively.

From http://animals.howstuffworks.com/mammals/tiger-info.htm

My 5 year-old was doing his homework recently: tracing letters and colouring in pictures. At the end, I have to review and sign it. I looked and said, “You weren’t paying attention. I know you can colour in the lines when you’re interested.” As the words came out of my mouth, I thought: is colouring in the lines too much pressure? If I show my displeasure about this, will he feel bad about himself?

After learning about Amy Chua’s book, I felt a little better. At least it wasn’t a birthday card, and I didn’t throw it back in his face telling him it wasn’t good enough. It was homework – it has to be good. Right?

I wonder, if I took it to the extreme, if I ensured that they practiced musical instruments until perfect, would they become neurosurgeons? Would Zach practice piano until he got a piece right if I threatened to burn his toys? I think he would just say, “Burn ‘em,” and walk away.

My stance has always been that I don’t have control, I just try to set limits – really wide limits—within which they operate. But when it comes down to it, I don’t want anything interfering with school work. For example, for sick days I need empirical evidence such as throwing up or high fever before anyone is getting to stay home.

How does she do it? How does Chua get the high standards, the obedience? Screaming and threats, it seems. Apparently, she managed this with one daughter, but the authoritarian approach didn’t work with the other. The child rebelled.

Obedience: Do I want my children to obey? Or do I want them to develop critical thinking skills and creativity? I’d love them to obey, but what I really want to engender is a love of life, an ability to think independently, creativity, and a certain amount of street smarts. Note-I also want achievement at school. Because...well, because I’m a nerd at heart.

I’ve had Asian friends in high school, and I lived in Asia for a while as a teacher. I’m familiar with the work ethic, and I know that sometimes it can be no fun being an Asian-American teenager. My friend in high school was told that she was not allowed to date UNTIL SHE FINISHED COLLEGE. They wanted her to wait until the end of law school, but she negotiated down. Did she stick to this? Not entirely, she's a human female after all. But she wasn't boy chasing or wasting any time on the phone with them. Did her parents relent in the end? Yes – she got to openly date someone during her junior year as an undergraduate at an Ivy League school.

It’s a balancing act between the tiger mother and the tiger cub in me. I think it is for Amy Chua as well.

It's Not Ninja Time

One rainy, winter afternoon...

Max is two, so I couldn’t quite understand what he was saying at first: “Is no nina time...is no nina tiiiiiime!”

He ran out of the living room, fleeing his 5 year old brother, who was flailing dismembered cheese sticks like nunchucks and making funny noises. Max clung to my legs, shivering. “Is no nina time!”

I turned from the sink, “What’s going on here?” 5 Year old kept flailing the cheese. “Are you going to eat that or what?” I asked, sternly.

His brows were knotted. “No. It’s ninja time!”

The 2 year old screamed, “Is no nina time!”

Aaah, that’s what he was saying. “Ninja time? How do you know what a ninja is?”

“I saw it on TV.” He flailed at his brother.

“Have you gotten a hold of the remote again? Where is the remote? ... Zach, it is NOT Ninja time.”

Max, still clinging, said, “Yeah, Zach, is no nina time!”

“Why are you scaring your brother?”

“Because...” He pulled the cheese taught between his fists.

“OK, give me the cheese.” I reached out for it, but Zach dodged, turned and ran.

“Enough with the ninja,” I yelled into the livingroom.

Slowly, Max let go of me and made his way back to the living room. Receding, I could hear, “Is no nina time, OK Zach? OK?”

I gave ‘em about 45 seconds before they were out in the kitchen again.

...45 seconds later...

Max came running out of the living room, through the dining room and back to me at the sink where I was trying to wash dishes, yelling, “Is no nina time!”

Zach followed Max out of the living room at speed, like the CIA trained nunchuck expert he clearly is, “It’s ninja time!” He lashed Max with some cheese.

I turned off the tap, “It’s is NOT ninja time, Zach! Eat the cheese or give the cheese to me, I don’t care, but stop waving it around the place. What happened to the train set we set up?”

“Max destroyed it. There are tracks, like, everywhere! All over the living room.” I flinched. Zach sounded just like me, using the Valley-girl “like” I picked up sometime in the 1980s. “That’s why it’s ninja time!”

I peeled my gloves off with a sigh. “I’ll go help you set it up.”

I shepherded them out of the kitchen and back to the living room where I did, indeed, find train tracks everywhere. “Ok, guys, pick up the pieces, come on...”

It was ninja time for the rest of the rainy afternoon indoors, the train set never got set up again properly because of Max. I stopped them killing each other several times. I bribed with popcorn and oranges. Nothing worked, nothing brought down the level of madness. Except sleep, glorious sleep.

Mom, Interrupted

After dinner on Tuesdays and Wednesdays and on Saturday mornings, I leave the common living area by slipping out the hall door, up the stairs and into my bedroom. I get comfy, set the lighting, balance the laptop on my legs, and start typing. Like most humans, I spend the first 30 minutes or so messing around on email, facebook, twitter and so on. I start in on a project (an article, a blog post, my novel, whatever). I ease into it, loosing myself, knowing nothing but the words, not thinking just typing, getting into “the zone”, and then—

Knock, knock

I look up. There’s a small scraping sound at the door. The knob is being turned, tentatively. I furrow my brow and purse my lips because I know that there is a five year old out in the hall.

From bed I shout: “Go away.”

“But mom, I just want to tell you something.”

“Not now, I’m working. Talk to Daddy, he’s in charge.”

“But I want to tell you something. It’s just a little thing.”

I sigh deeply, a burning feeling of annoyance in the centre of my chest. I place the laptop safely on the bed, peel myself off the cushions, and go open the door. “What, darling firstborn?”

Five year old looks up at me with impossibly large, dark blue eyes. They search me, trying to determine my level of impatience. “Why do you, like, always come downstairs and have coffee and then come up and work in the morning times, like, everyday?”

“I don’t do that every day, I do that on Saturdays. One morning a week that daddy is in charge. Now, that is not an urgent question, get out of here.” 

From http://www.psych.usyd.edu.au/psyche/optical/12.html



He scampers away.

I close the door, return to my bed and get settled under the laptop. I keep writing the sentence, and then—

Knock, knock

“WHAT??” I shout from the bed.

“Mom...I need your help. I can’t get my zip up.”

“Go ask Daddy.”

“But I’m cold...he can’t hear me...”

I roll my eyes and make a hard, forced frown with my lips that gives my cheeks a funny chipmunk look. Laptop off, get up, go to the door, open it. There stands five year old, half naked.

“Here.” I zip him up. Rub his hair. “Now, get out of here and don’t bother me again. I’ve only got two hours.”

“What are you doing?” He peers around me and into the room.

“Working.”

“On the computer?”

“Yes, now go.” I try to close the door.

He sticks his little hand out, stopping the door before it meets the frame. I notice that I have to clip his nails. “Can I play a Computer game?”

“You know better than that. Get out of here.”

“Just one. The one with the Australian animals. Putting out the fire.”

“Huh? You can play later. After I’m done. Get out of here and leave me alone or you won’t play on that thing again this month.”

“Oh...OK...” Five year old turns and backs away, capitulating. As he turns, however, the door to the dining room downstairs bangs open. Two year old stands in the doorway below, looking both forlorn and angry at the same time. Through the wooden mesh filigree of the banister rails he spots me in the doorway of my bedroom on the top floor.

“Oh, crud.” I back away and try to close the door as quickly as possible.

Two year old, alarmed, calls, “Mammy!”

I turn the lock. If two year old gets in, he’ll climb the bed and start pounding on the keyboard. It’ll be mayhem.

I hear clambering up the stairs on all fours. ‘Where the heck is my husband?’ I wonder about now.

Two year old starts pounding on the bedroom door, “Mammy! MAMMY! I WANT MAMMY!”

Guilt creeps up on me. It’s starts at the small of my back and works its way up my spine, leaving a dark shadow at every vertebrae. Following hot on its heels is an even worse feeling: resentment. This one swoops in from above my right side. It’s a bright yellow colour and settles on my shoulder, laying like a chunk of lead I fear I won’t be able to lift on my own.

I huddle on the bed, under blanket and laptop (the combination of which is making my thighs sweat). I start tapping away at the keys, slowly, building in intensity, thoughts in my head fighting their way through the noise of the kids at door yelling for me. I don’t like ignoring them. It’s difficult. But this is my time.

Eventually, after what seems like years but is probably only 60 seconds, husband arrives at the door and ushers our crazed offspring away. The yelling recedes down the hall and is then muffled by the closing of the hall door to the dining room. I continue typing.

2010 Roundup

How was your 2010? I hope it was good and that 2011 brings you happiness.

My 2010 was, on balance, good.

Financially, it was not good. If any of you made a fortune, big or small, in 2010, share it with us in the comment section, below--I’d like to know how you managed it.

Professionally, it was good. I was awarded an arts grant in March, started my blog in July, was appointed fiction leader at a local literature centre in the Fall, got a new literary agent, completed the first draft of my second novel (working on the second now), was featured on mamapedia.com twice, wrote a feature for an Irish newspaper and was asked to submit more, got included in an upcoming literary festival, and did other stuff, too, but these are the highlights.

My father passed away in May. You must think I’m nuts or heartless for thinking 2010 was good, but I’m so happy and grateful that I got to spend the last week of my father’s life with him. I flew home to Florida alone, and without the distraction of children just sat in the hospital room with him every day, until his last.

My kids made it through 2010 intact. They’re always a worry as they spend a huge amount of time bonking each other on the head and pushing each other face down onto grassy lawns, so I always wonder will one of them not make it to see a new year. They did. I’d like to take the credit for keeping them alive, but I suspect chance had more of hand in it than I did.

2011 started as I hope it means to continue: Family together; friends over on New Year’s Day for a visit; me on the computer doing a little writing.

Pizza for Christmas

OK, this isn't an excerpt from the book Alive: we're not about to eat each other. But we are stranded "at altitude." It's not the Andes, exactly, but there are hills the car can't get up. We can go nowhere. And school is cancelled. Cue foreboding music: Maybe we will eat each other? Doubt it, but eating is definitely going on around here - lots of it.

View From The Back of Our House

I now know why there is so much rich, fabulous food associated with this time of year: Because in the olden days, if you were stranded indoors and lucky enough to have a full larder, you cooked and baked.

This past Friday, the weather descended. A full shop was done. Saturday evening: whiskey aperitifs, beef stew, apple sponge cake, red wine. Sunday, I roasted a duck. They take almost 4 hours, so the best day to tend to one, is a day when you can’t get more than a couple of rooms away from the oven. It was accompanied by roasted potatoes and green beans (thrown on the floor by the kids); hot chocolate pudding for afters. We rolled off to bed.

Today, the kids and I made Christmas cookies. I justified this two ways: 1, it was an activity that would keep them engaged and occupied; and 2, we were NOT going to eat these buttery delicacies, we were going to give them away as presents (please don’t laugh). The cookies took almost two hours between the mixing, refrigeration, cutting out shapes, baking and decorating. That was great, as it was two hours where they could fight over who was cracking eggs instead of trying to choke each other on the sofa. OK, yes, we did eat a few. There are enough left to give as presents. Small presents.

Tonight, I tried to take it easy on the calories with fish and salad. Got a text from the school however and, you guessed it: school closed again tomorrow. Now, we move into what’s in the freezer territory...a coconut milk chicken curry or fried liver? It’s almost the 21st of December. I won’t need to lose weight after the holidays; I’m going to need to lose weight before the holidays.

I shouldn’t worry as there are only a couple of dinners in the freezer. If this weather keeps up much longer we’ll be having frozen pizza for Christmas dinner.

Happy Holidays!

I Max

As you may have gathered from previous posts, Max (2 years old, gorgeous, spirited, smart, curious, humorous, outgoing, friendly Max) is our wild child. By that I mean – he’s wild. All of Zach’s books and toys made it through his infancy and toddler years intact. Max comes along, and two years later, everything is broken. Pages torn, blades ripped off helicopters, teddies decapitated. As an infant, upon entering a room full of strange adults and babies, Zach would cling to me for a very long time – say, an hour--before joining in the fun with the other kids. Max, upon entering a room full of strange adults and babies, goes up to one of them and says, “Hi, I Max,” blows a big, wet raspberry, then smiles. They are different children.

I was in the grocery store today with Max. Trips to the grocery store with Zach were no bother. You gave him a cracker or piece of bread and he sat in the trolley seat quietly for ages amusing himself. Max in the grocery store is the proverbial bull in the china shop. I try not to take him if I don’t have to, but if I have to take him I try and make it quick. Supervalu in Glanmire has many good attributes and excellent customer service, but what they don’t have is restraining belts on their supermarket trolleys. So, after about 10 minutes (or less) Max gets bored, sick of snacking, stands up in the seat and starts yelling, “Out! OUT!” I struggle and distract and try to bribe, but he is single minded and in the end it’s too dangerous – he has to be put on the floor. That’s when the fun begins. I spend the rest of the trip trying to keep him away from bottle displays, towers of tinned beans, and so forth. Today, he went behind the meat counter and had to be dragged out; and in a new low, literally got down on his hands and knees and started clicking switches on one of those refrigerated bins displaying meat. I tried to keep him engaged by having him help me shop, but, he throwed things into the trolley ran away from me.

Today, I lost him around the baby wipes. I rounded the corner to pick out a bottle of wine, turned to have a look at him and make sure all the wipes were still on the shelf, and noticed that he was gone. Now, when I’m in the States I suffer a moment of panic if I can’t see my kids. I just think: kidnapping! But, in Ireland, I’m a bit more relaxed. Strangers kidnapping children is virtually unheard of over here (not that we’re crime free).

Anyway, then I started shouting his name, going up and down the aisles. A woman with a boy about Max’s age (sitting quietly in his trolley) started to help me. I was grateful for this. We found Max riding a tricycle for sale.

Later on, I lose Max again for an instant at the check outs. He’s just short – he was actually at the end of the checkout looking at wrapping paper displays. Anyway – the same woman pointed him out.

This woman was then checking out at the counter next to mine. I found out her boy is two and a half as well, and I said, “Oh, look how nicely he’s sitting in his trolley. I wonder why Max isn’t!” As in, ha ha, aren’t you lucky your boy is so well behaved but pity me, poor beleaguered mother, with a lunatic for a son. Further subtext however should imply to her: isn’t he spirited and fabulous?

She turns to me and says, “That’s because I don’t allow him to get out.” I rolled my eyes at her and ignored her for the rest of the grocery visit. Like you have a choice, I thought. You have a Zach on your hands now; but lady if you get pregnant again, the next one might be a Max! Then I thought: I wish a thousand Maxes upon your head.

Maybe I was overreacting a little bit. The bottom line is: I love Max, and I love him the way he is. The destructive nature is his nature, and I think it’s just part of the package. I’m sure I will get some parenting expert commentary on this, but I think that it’s a myth that we have that much control over our kids. With Max, I limit the battles to: you have to hold my hand when we cross the street; you have to wear a seatbelt; you can’t hit people; you can’t throw food or breakables. Beyond that, it’s just damage control. I can’t fight all the time with him – and, frankly, I don’t want to kill his spirit. I have adopted a let Max be Max policy since he was born. That meant: unlimited breastfeeding; sleeping as he needed with no schedules, not cajoling him into falling asleep at a certain time so he could make it through the night; walking when he pleased; talking when he pleased; etc. Turns out that even without worrying or using any special devises such as baby walkers, etc., Max learned to walk. He’s talking well (when he’s not blowing raspberries) and, with the assistance of a lot of time outs, he’s learning to control himself. It will take a while, but Max will also learn how to behave in the Supervalu, too.

Actually, a thousand Maxes on that woman’s head would be a blessing.