Chicago Moms Blog

"I'm Bored" and other things I don't want to hear out of my preschooler's mouth

We don't swear much in our family.  In fact, the only time I really use any explicative is when I a) stub my toe, b) am driving and someone else does something stupid and dangerous, or c) I see a cockroach in our apartment.  Since c) has happened quite a few times in the last month, the 'S' word has escaped my mouth more than usual. 

It must be something to do with creepy black things, because most creatures don't bother me.  Put me in a room with bats or cockroaches, though, and I become unhinged.  The last time I saw a bat, I had a friend overnight and we had just shut the light off and gone to bed (I was in my teens.)  I heard a swoosh, felt the telltale breeze of something flying by, and my instinct to vacate kicked in.  I jumped out of bed, flipped on the light and ran out of the room screaming the 'F' word so many times in front of my mom, I was amazed she even let me live there after that.  My poor friend just ducked under the covers while we called a neighbor to come with his tennis racket and take care of the poor fellow.  (The bat, not my friend.) 

16 Months is the New Terrible Two

Whoever coined the phrase “The Terrible Twos” must have counted wrong, because they start waaay earlier than 24 months.  With both of my children, I can almost pinpoint the week that they changed from Angelic-Babies-Straight-from-Heaven to Screeching-Banshees-with-a-Penchant-for-Violence.  There’s a look in the eye that wasn’t there before, a sneer on their face when you say the word ‘no’, (which enters your vocabulary with a vengeance at about the same date), and no regard whatsoever for the physical pain they cause while kicking and screaming as you remove them from the top of the diningroom table (or whatever dangerously high place they’ve climbed to in the 3 seconds since you removed them from the last dangerously high place.)  All of a sudden, at 16 months, they’re not as cute as they were just a day or a week before.

Now, I know this is all part of normal development, and I do want them to eventually function as independently as possible, but sometimes I have to shake my head and just walk away from these creatures I’ve spawned.  Who taught them to look me straight in the eye and grin when they know they’re doing something wrong?  What is really so horrible about putting on clothes?  Do I not give them enough attention that they have to resort to biting my leg?? Time outs are lasting longer and longer these days just so I have time to nurse my wounds.

Finding space as a job ends

Usually, I have so many unresolved thoughts buzzing around in my head, just waiting to be put into words on a page and sorted through and made sense of. But not today. For the last year, I've have the tension of 'what if', and 'what happens after' peppering my conversations with my husband, family and friends. But not today. For so long, I've had every day scheduled, with no time to shake off the busy-ness before starting again the next morning. But not today.

For the first time since my eldest daughter was born, three and a half years ago, I will have my days and my mind free to focus on her and her little sister. My current job is coming to a close within a month, and the anxiety about how to pay the bills after August was recently replaced with a collective sigh of relief when my husband and I were appointed as Resident Heads in the College while he finishes out graduate school.  Yes, it will come with late nights, and college-age dramas.  But it also means no more scheduling three different babysitters to come in during the week (and then scrambling to reschedule everyone and everything when someone would call in sick.) No more worrying that the house defied all sanitary requirements before said babysitters arrived in the morning, and rushing around to pick up. No more late night trips to the grocery store to make sure there was something ready-to-eat for their lunches. No more cutting plans short to rush back to work. Soon, I will be able to spend an entire, unhurried day, just being with my kids.  I can make them peanut butter and jelly cracker sandwiches for lunch if there's no bread in the house.

The Barter System

The first time I bartered something was almost two years ago when I was pregnant with our second child, quite awhile before the nation's economy officially bottomed out.  (Our family-economy has always been a bit lean, due to these seemingly endless years of graduate student status!)  I was busy with a toddler and two jobs, and really wanted to hire a doula to help me focus on my impending labor and delivery.  My husband and I met with a co-worker's recommendation, and immediately loved her.  The problem was coming up with the extra $750.  Our doula-pick was gracious enough to suggest a flexible payment plan, or even a reduced fee, so I emailed her a couple suggestions that might work for us.  At the end of my email, I half-jokingly added that I could trade piano lessons for her doula services.   Almost two years later, her 10 year old daughter is playing Bach's Minuet in G beautifully, and has a good portion of her scales mastered.  And my labor and delivery?  I had a practically perfect birth and recovery, thanks in great part to my doula's calm and expertise. 

Recently, we decided on another equally advantageous trade - continued piano lessons for her daughter, and regular Shiatsu massage for me.  I know you can argue that massage isn't a necessity, that perhaps money in the bank would be the better choice, but I've changed my mind about that one.  It does this tired mother's body a world of good and it's something I would have a harder time 'paying' for in cash, so I'm grateful for the exchange.  (This woman is multi-talented - we even traded a piano lesson for a knitting lesson, to transition me from scarves to hats.  After finishing my hat, though, it became clear I should have traded a few more lessons.)

Not Just a House

I often wonder how my girls will remember the apartment where they started life. It's comfortable enough, never quite neat enough, but it's home for now. We rent, though. It's not "ours", and so we just haven't invested too much in this space. We're fortunate to share a huge, toy-filled backyard with some great neighbors, but at the same time, it's not a place to run free in bare feet. It's temporary (we hope) until my husband finishes graduate school, and at that point we may move into a charming house with a bucolic back yard. Or not. Nothing is guaranteed anymore, including that perfect job and the perfect house I imagined as a kid. (That house was a red brick colonial, with a manicured lawn, if you were wondering!)

And yet, I can't stop thinking about home - the house and land I grew up on since the age of 4, and where my mother still lives. There's just something about that house and the surrounding fields and woods and swamp that I can't get out of my head as being the most perfect spot on earth. It was built in the mid-19th century alongside a cider mill, and the machinery is still there, rusting away. I even dug up some beautiful old Mason jars in the cellar that now reside in my bathroom, holding my Q-tips and cotton balls. The foundation of one of the out-buildings provided me that biggest sandbox around, and the outhouse was left up to provide fodder for many jokes. At night, you can see a million stars, and during the mornings, you can usually see a family of deer out in the field.  The air is peaceful, there.  The house itself went through a major overhaul when my parents bought it, and many friends and family helped repair the wraparound porch, and restore the original shutters and gingerbread. I remember like yesterday the smell of new carpet and the excitement when the plumbing was finally installed and we had a real bathtub instead of the stand up shower stall.

Gun Violence in My Neighborhood

We live on the edge of an island in Chicago.  Not quite a Manhattan-style island, but a cultural and high socio-economic island.  Hyde Park, and in particular, the University of Chicago, is a mecca of ideas, contains some of the most beautiful homes untouched by the Great Chicago Fire, is residence to a number of Nobel Laureates, and is one of the most stimulating and interesting places I've ever lived. (Not to mention our wonderful neighbor, Barack Obama.  You might have heard of him?)  It is surrounded by a sea of poverty and violence, however, and it's getting harder to remain insulated.  This is what I received in my email inbox on Monday:

*Security Alert*
At 5:05 p.m., Thursday, April 2 - A man, 18, standing on the sidewalk with several acquaintances on Cottage Grove Avenue between 61st and 62nd Street was fatally shot by an unknown assailant.

Waste Not, Want Not

Recently, my neighbor had a Waste Not, Want Not party.  I had never heard of one before this, but after reading the invitation, I was intrigued.   “Empty out your pantries, freezers and refrigerators and bring all the extra food items to this brunch. We can then trade with each other and take home new and much needed goodies. Whatever is left over we will donate to a food pantry. Times are tough and there is no reason to waste perfectly good food. So don't!”  It was the kind of party that would have been fun in any economy, but seemed all the more relevant in the current climate.    I’ve never thought of giving someone a half-opened jar of food, but hey, why not?  If it’s something someone else would use…

Cleaning House

It’s crazy how much a clean or dirty house can affect my sense of well-being.  If the bed is made, the clothes are put away, and the dishes are washed, I can relax with a smile on my face, read a book without guilt, and even have a conversation with my husband without nervously glancing at the socks balled up on the floor.  But if all those things are not done, then I feel a tightening in my jaw and a shortness of breath.  My husband said half-jokingly one day that I couldn’t have sex if the house wasn’t clean.  Since there seems to be perma-dirt on every surface, and children’s clothes and toys on every bit of floor space these days, it’s true, there ain’t much goin’ on in the bedroom. 

 It’s not that I was born a neat-freak.  I lived on my own little island of dirty clothes and dishes fermenting under the bed throughout high school.  My mom just closed the door to my room, and cleaned the rest of the house.  (Let me tell you, my children will never be allowed to be the slob that I was!)  It wasn’t until I got to college and shared a room with two neat-freaks that I was forced to adopt their lifestyle – and it stuck.  Since then, I’ve liked having a place for everything, and having everything in its place.  Jumping into a made bed at night brings me joy.  Trying to find where the sheet is under a big mound of comforter at the bottom of the bed does not.

They're Not My Kids - I'm Just Borrowing Them

My girls look just like me - whispy blonde hair, big blue eyes, pale skin that burns within 5 minutes in the summer, and noses that stay red and blotchy when they cry. I spend almost all of my waking hours (and some of my dreaming hours!) planning their days, worrying about them, taking care of their needs. I carried them both for 9 months each, delivered them, and nursed them. That makes me their mother, right? Absolutely. That also makes them mine, right? Absolutely...not.

It's really taken me quite awhile to fully comprehend it, but I have very little control over these babies that I call "mine." I'm just borrowing them for awhile, entrusted with the itty bitty job of shaping them into physically and emotionally healthy people and good citizens and good stewards of our world. It's my job to feed them, clothe them and love them now, but also to teach them to feed, clothe, and love themselves (and others) later. I guess I'm essentially working myself out of a job.

Girl's Night Out - Good for the Soul

The last time I was out with just a couple of good girlfriends was, oh...3 years ago. For breakfast. I've spent only two nights away from my oldest daughter, and that was when I was in the hospital having her little sister, and I have never spent more than a few hours away from her. So you can imagine how excited I was that two of my dear friends were coming into town this weekend for girl-time. 24 hours of child-free conversation, shopping, dining, and sleeping-in!

Saturday morning, I squelched all apprehensions I had about leaving the babies and walked outside into the SUNSHINE AND 50 DEGREE WEATHER!!! (I think everyone in Chicago was probably drunk on the spring-like weather that day.) I practically danced up the stairs to the EL, (no searching for the elevator to accommodate my double stroller,) and sat down in the train with my itty-bitty,  non-diaper bag. I pulled out a book that didn't have pictures in it, and opened up to the Introduction. It happened to be The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho, and the author seemed to speak right to me on that particular day. "The mere possibility of getting what we want fills the soul of the ordinary person with guilt." He spoke to so much of what my mind and heart have been struggling with since having children. Sitting on a train headed downtown and reading these first few pages filled me with anticipation - for the meeting ahead, for the chance to evaluate my life on the backdrop of our friendship, and for the ability to feel challenged by the way they were living their lives.

I know that sounds so dramatic, but I knew that having time to talk non-stop with these women would make a difference and help me see myself and my situation more clearly.