Chicago Moms Blog

Better late than never?

You know those people who always arrive places at least 30 minutes early? Those people who hate being late so much, the mere idea of lateness makes them break into a cold sweat?

Yeah, those people are annoying. But only because I wish I could be more like them.

In terms of my overall life track record, I think I'm about average when it comes to punctuality. I'm not the one who can be counted on to be on time, all the time. But I'm also not the person who is so chronically late that other people give me event start times that are actually 30 minutes earlier than the real start time. I'd say, on average, my punctuality falls in the range of "on time to 10 minutes late."

Lately, however, I feel like I have been running later and later. This, of course, is due to the fact that I'm raising a toddler. Like all toddlers, he has trouble with transitions. So when I say it's time to put on our shoes and head out to some interesting, enriching activity I have signed up for just for his benefit, he throws a tantrum because he wants to stay and play with his plastic toys at home. And then when he's finally willing to put on his shoes, he doesn't want to wear those shoes. And he wants to bring a toy, which takes him 10 minutes to pick out. And then he walks as slowly as he can to his carseat, and then he wants to buckle his Pooh in before buckling himself in, and oops, let me pick out a CD, and ... oh, you know the drill.

And then we're late for toddler music class, and we miss the Hello Song, and the teacher stops whatever she is doing when we come in and says, "Let's go back and say hello to Nathan." And I'm embarrassed, because this happens every week, and somehow all the other parents of toddlers seem to get there on time. 

My Proudest Accomplishment is Happiness

My yoga teacher begins each class with the admonishment that you should look to other class participants for guidance, but never to compare or judge the quality of your own work.  In the context of yoga, I can almost suspend my tendency to compare myself to others.  Almost. 

In outside real life, though, I spend a lot of time comparing myself to others and judging myself as inferior.  She's thinner than I am.  She has a better relationship with her husband than I do.  She has four kids, works full-time outside the home, and runs a successful blog; I have one kid, no paying job, and a blog scarcely read by my own family.  She is a better parent than I am.  She would never give in to her kids like I do sometimes.  Next to her, I am totally unaccomplished. 

Except, when I think about it, I have accomplished something that I didn't always have, and that some people will never have: happiness.

I think the Internet is stressing me out

I have never been anti-Internet.  I hear people complain about how the Internet has ruined personal communication.  I hear that we, as a society, are more stressed out than ever because of our inability to connect from our responsibilities.  I hear complaints about how self-absorbed we've all become now that we feel the need to update everybody as to our constant doings and whereabouts. 

And I never bought into any of these gripes.  The way I see it, the Internet represents progress, and you have to embrace it.  Roll with the punches, take the good with the bad.  People who complained about the Internet reminded me of this woman I once knew who complained that the demise of the family unit could be directly traced back to the invention of television and the restaurant drive-thru. 

Besides, the Internet is fun.  The Internet is supportive.  The Internet makes your offline life easier, through everything from being able to check store hours online to scheduling playdates via Facebook.  Really, at this point, the Internet is necessary. 

No gifts, please?

My son and I attended a birthday party today for a three-year-old girl.  The invitation said, "Instead of a gift, please bring a book for a book exchange."  The girl's mother, who is a good friend of mine, explained that she didn't want a bunch of new toys for the girl because they had just moved and didn't want to clutter up their new house.  Additionally, she said, allowing each guest to take home a book would eliminate the need to hand out party favor goody bags. 

Keeping the mother's wishes in mind, we showed up with our one wrapped book and nothing else. 

Pretty much everyone else brought a book for the book exchange and a gift for the birthday girl. 

On July 27, 2009, we became part of the problem

It was a Monday afternoon, and my family was two days away from our departure on an epic vacation to Southern California and Maui.  Around 5:00 p.m., my husband came in the door after a routine physical.

"I need an MRI," he said.  "You have to drive me to the hospital right now.  I have to stay overnight."

Apparently my husband had told our doctor, who has a history of over-ordering tests, that he sometimes suffers from headaches accompanied by a tingling sensation in his head.  Bam!  Instant MRI.

Immediately my hypochondriac and catastrophizing brain raced through all kinds of tragic thoughts.  If the doctor ordered the MRI right away, he must be really worried that something serious is wrong.  How will we tell our family and friends?  Will I become one of those tragic wives that other wives can't help but feel sorry for and bring casseroles to?  How can I raise our son alone? 

I found a friend to watch our son and accompanied my husband to the hospital.  I waited with him for two hours, and nothing happened.  Finally I had to leave to pick up our son. 

"Where's Daddy?" he asked.

"Daddy's at the doctor," I answered.

"Daddy's sick?"

How did we get so overscheduled?

Before I became a parent, I was never one of those people who made lofty promises about how I would eventually raise my child.  You know what I mean, the "My child will never _______" promises?  I had taught elementary school, and I knew how quickly ideals could get compromised in the face of an uncooperative child.  The way I saw it, making all kinds of unrealistic and lofty promises would just lead to feelings of disappointment and guilt down the road. 

So whenever I saw those ridiculously overscheduled kids whose harried parents were frantically shuttling them to one sports or enrichment activity after another, I never judged those parents and swore my child would be different.  I knew time was precious and after-school activities were plentiful, so overscheduling was inevitable.  I always assumed that at some point, my son's calendar would be jam-packed with activities. 

I just didn't think it would happen when he was two years old. 

Anybody want to be my business partner in a drive-thru toilet paper store?

Why don't I ever remember to buy toilet paper when I'm shopping at Target/Jewel/Walgreen's for everything else? 

Well, actually, the problem is not actually that I forget to buy toilet paper, it's that I don't want to.  The package is just too big.  And it costs like $10.95, which I don't want added to my already-huge grocery bill. 

So I don't buy toilet paper when it's convenient to do so, because who knows?  This could end up being the one week in our lives when we don't actually need to use toilet paper, and then I'd feel like such a fool for having bought it. 

And then one day when I'm totally frazzled and don't want to do one more errand ever again in my whole life, my husband says, "Shannon, we're out of toilet paper."  Which translates to, "Shannon, you need to go buy toilet paper."

Is the Internet really giving you permission to be a bad parent?

Babble runs a regular feature called "Bad Parent."  It's a series of essays in which various contributors admit to relatively minor parenting transgressions.  Such transgressions include letting kids pick out their own clothing, serving kids fast food, or taking a long time to bond with a baby.  Oh sure, there are some essays that are a little bit weirder, but overall none of these authors deserves to be reported to DCFS.

So while these parents aren't necessarily bad parents, they are honest parents.  They aren't perfect parents, and they're willing to admit it.  Which makes them ... pretty much like every other popular blogger in the parenting blogosphere.  If you're willing to admit you aren't Parent of the Year, you're going to get a gaggle of followers who can totally relate. 

But in a recent essay, Babble's own Katie Aliison Granju argued that our Internet culture of brutal parental honesty is actually giving parents permission to engage in some parenting choices that aren't all that wise or safe.  Granju recounts a situation in which she blogged about accidentally forgetting to pick up her child from the babysitter's.  As is the norm in our supportive mommyblogging culture, readers were quick to reassure Granju that her mistake was normal and she shouldn't beat herself up for it.  Still, Granju argues, her mistake was really no different from parents who accidentally leave their babies in carseats in the sweltering heat, with tragic consequences.  Should people really be so supportive of parents who make mistakes that are just a step away from the kind of mistakes that lead to tragedy?  Does reading brutally honest, supportive parenting blogs actually make you more careless by giving you permission to slack off? 

The Adults-Only Wedding

Recently I called my friend Sarah to arrange a playdate.  During the initial hi, how are you, fine, how are you? pleasantries, she revealed to me that she was angry about an e-mail she had opened just seconds before I called.  The e-mail was from a bride-to-be, RE: the adults-only guest policy at her wedding.  My friend had incorrectly assumed that her three-year-old son was invited, and had RSVPed for him to attend the wedding.  The bride was e-mailing to say that the kid was not invited. 

Shortly thereafter, in an unrelated incident, one of my Facebook "friends" used the status update box to ask people for advice on how to indicate that kids weren't invited to his wedding.  One commenter suggested that he say, "Leave your rugrats and tit-jockeys at home."  Other, slightly less crass, friends commented on the stupidity of parents who can't read the invitation envelope carefully enough to realize that only the adult members of the household are invited. 

It's Finally Here!

This past winter was my fifth in Chicago.  Each winter seems to get successively worse, though I know that can't possibly be true.  In the five years I have added home ownership, which equals shoveling, and a child, which equals stir craziness and a battle to put on winter coats.  And somewhere in there with the shoveling and the kid and the coat wars, I also developed a pretty good case of seasonal depression, which just makes the whole endeavor that much more fun. 

The thing about winter is, it throws you very few bones.  Aside from all that coziness and nesting (which get old around January 10), winter is nothing but hassles.  Getting out of your house is difficult.  Driving is difficult.  It's dark 16 hours a day.  Everything you could possibly do for fun involves a major drive, an expensive fee, and pain-in-the-ass parking.  (Well, except for the McDonald's playland, but there are only so many times you can do that before you feel like the worst parent ever.) 

But in summer?  Everything is awesome!  Recreation is as simple as throwing on flip-flops and walking out into your backyard!  You can go to the pool in your bathing suits (in my case, with a massive cover-up) and leave in your bathing suits; no major dressing and undressing effort like at the indoor pool in the winter.  You don't have to put on coats and boots and gloves and scarves just to go to the gym (or take out the trash, for that matter).  The sun is shining and everything is happy.