Posts by Kami:
Making the Fun
February 22nd, 2012My kids are Artistes. With a capital A. They draw and draw and draw and draw until we have absolutely no more paper. Or whole crayons. Or useable markers. Because as we all know, Artistes are very hard on their supplies. But, like all good, on their game mommies, I have a plan B. When we run out of all those tired, two dimensional supplies, we turn to sculpture. You can make one out of anything.
And, if you are a tyrant like me, no glue is used. Ever. Hence, it’s easy to deconstruct when we are done and still have stuff to use next time.
My kids have been collecting crap for years. It is fascinating to me how the old adage is so true: one man’s crap is another man’s creative inspiration. I see it in action all the time. My kids can make the most amazing things out of random, recyclable materials. They build and construct and engineer for hours.
And as long as I’m around to cheerlead, I don’t even have to help. It’s awesome. Some may call this laziness, on my part.
I call it imbibing my boys with independence.
What?
So, this is how we work it. Each child has a bag. The bags are full of small cardboard boxes (like the kind oatmeal packets come in), pieces of cardboard (like that come with new bed sheets), corks, post it notes, ribbons from presents, stickers, painters tape, electrical tape, scrap paper, paper clips, toothpicks, bubble wrap, tissue paper, cotton, bottle caps, and fabric from hole-y clothes.
For example.
And quite regularly, the kids get out their bags of crap and make cool shit. Like this:
Spider Mobile
Clothes for Prancey & Stripey
A Guy with Hair
Yeah. My boys can manipulate the hell out of 3D art. When they are done, I take a picture. Then, we disassemble. Because I’m all about recording genius AND saving space.
(Disregard my overflowing drawer full of children’s artwork.)
How do you and your young make the fun?
Sodom and Gomorrah are Places Not People
February 13th, 2012This morning, at 8:20 a.m. this really enthusiastic, and angry, Nation of Islam preachy dude informed me that we are living in the times of Sodom and Gomorrah.
Well, that is depressing.
He didn’t just mean that the divorce rate is rising. For those of you who are biblically challenged, Sodom and Gomorrah were not a hawt couple who engaged in tawdry sex acts the likes of which would make Rick Santorum queasy. They were twin kingdoms of hedonism. Like Minneapolis and St. Paul. Only in the desert. And a little more disco.
Anyway. The Nation of Islam dude got inside my head. Even though I railed against his sentiment, the idea took hold inside me in a way I couldn’t shake off.
Yeah, man. Maybe you’re on to something. Shit in this world is out of control. We as a society no longer have filters. We don’t
self-censor. We are a nation of trash-talkers. We support a culture of entitlement. We give Grammys to wife beaters. We sensationalize celebrity rapists and ensure they benefit financially. We accept that kids, even really young kids, curse out their teachers. On the regular.
It happens. What are ya gonna do?
And, apparently, we need The Occupy Movements to raise consciousness about the fact that rich people do the rest of us 99%-ers dirty.
Also, we are too cool to have socialized medicine. We’re America! We are tough! We tow a hard line! Healthcare for all? Pshaw. Canada is just a bunch of pussies. Real Americans don’t get sick. And if they do, they know better than to complain about it! Pass the “medical” marijuana, please.
But truly, when I think of Sodom and Gomorrah, I think of the drug wars and the rise of crack. Thanks to Nancy Reagan, hard drugs are a thing of the past now. Right? I’ll just pretend gang violence was so 1980s as well.
All this spin is cycling through my brain, while I’m getting on the subway. The train starts, rather abruptly, and a woman in her 70s stumbles down the aisle. A man in his 40s, a stranger to her, quickly gets up from his seat, catches her arm and deposits her gently onto the bench with a warm smile and a “God bless you.”
At the risk of sounding all kumbaya, it was a beautiful moment. It put the brakes on the crazy free association activity I’d been consumed by for the prior 10 minutes.
Hmmm. Maybe we’re not quite Sodom and Gomorrah after all.
Being Mommy
February 6th, 2012
I had a birth plan. I had an iPod playlist, a hospital bag and a birth plan. Three days after his due date, he stopped moving inside me. They discovered my amniotic fluid level was low. Then they discovered he was presenting face first. I had a birth plan. I got a c-section. Involving a crazy amount of blood-loss and an extended, very painful recovery period.
And…a perfect little boy. We named him after his great grandfather. It was love at first sight.
But I couldn’t help feeling like I had failed a little bit. Like I had cheated or something. Yes, it was an emergency cesarean, but…I HAD A BIRTH PLAN! I mean, I read What to Expect When Your Expecting. I knew that there were too many variables and that things would, more likely than not, go a different way. And eventually, I let it go. I had a baby boy. I was a mother.
When I got pregnant for the second time, I was dead set on having a vaginal birth. I was living in Massachusetts and happened to have an Ob/GYN who was more than willing to support me in my decision to go VBAC. Enough time had passed. The c-section incision had been made “the right way.” It was settled. I had a new birth plan.
As the time crept closer, I became more and more freaked out. What if my vaginal canal couldn’t accommodate a baby? What if my scar wasn’t strong enough? What if I broke my body in an effort to prove to myself that I could have a baby the “normal” way – the way “real” mothers were supposed to?
I had a tremendously long labor. I got an epidural that only half-worked. But then my water broke and my cervix dilated from 2 centimeters to 10 and then I pushed and out came my second perfect son.
It was totally magical.
And followed up by a year of walking with a cane. See, with my new baby came an extremely rare condition called Third Trimester Osteoporosis of the hip.
Both my sons marked me on their journeys into this world.
And I think, in retrospect, I might have held that against them. A little bit. They are both my greatest accomplishment. But I still have those fleeting moments even now that they are 4 and 6 years old, when I look at them and think, “I can’t believe I’m your mom!”
I grew these people inside of me. And now I have the immense privilege of watching them grow outside of me. And I’m their mom, not because of how they came out, but because of how things have been since they came out. Recognizing myself as a mother isn’t something that simply happened in a particular moment. It happens all the time, every day, in the way they look at me, in their smiles, in their goodbye hugs and kisses when I drop them off at school each morning.
I’m not a mother. I’m their mother. And at least for now, unless my 6 year old is trying to make some kind of point (“Maaaaoom!”), I get to be mommy.
Working Mom Choices
February 3rd, 2012Calling all overscheduled moms (that would be pretty much all of us)! I’m going to be live on The Motherhood‘s live talk series Monday, 2/6 (that’s this Monday, peeps!). Join this stellar panel to get tips and tricks on ways to better manage your time, separate work and home life, learn to say no and so much more! Bring your lunch to work and tune in 1-1:30pm EST. ____________________________________________________________________________________
This morning, my son had a publishing party. He’s now on a book tour. (He got a great review in The Times. He is a prodigy, you know.)
A publishing party is a writing celebration where students present their pieces to an audience of mommies and daddies for the first time. It is a fucking awesome way to applaud kids as they navigate the muddy waters of story-telling, spelling, and denouement. Because all kindergarteners must master denouement. Didn’t you, when you were 5? How else will we possibly produce the next V.I.J? (Very Important Jonathan. See Lethem, Safron Foer, and Franzen. Unfortunately, Dave Eggers is not included in this list.)
Anyway, I could go on about how deftly my son labels his wonderfully detailed artwork and how creative his invented spelling is for “long” words (see “princibls” for “principals.”). And most notably how all 6 of the “list books” that he published (Things Dads Can Do, Kinds of Cats, etc) end with a question that both draws the reader in and ties the story together: “what kind of cats do you like?”
But this post isn’t about how awesome my oldest child is. (He’s totally awesome, btw.). It’s about that this publishing party was scheduled at his school in Brooklyn from 8:40-9:15am. Meanwhile, my work calendar had me down for a team meeting starting at 9:30. In Manhattan.
If.
My compulsively prompt ass doesn’t operate that way though. Thinking through this kind of stuff makes my brain sweat. I couldn’t miss the publishing party. I don’t want to be the mom that misses shit like that. I want to be the mom who actively participates in her kids educations. (Not as PTA president mind you. More as an involved wallflower…) but missing a work meeting like goes against my whole work ethic and paints me as the team member who has better things to do than show up.
Historically, I’ve been able to dodge these conflicts because I can be pretty slippery when I wanna be. This time though, I I couldn’t juggle stuff around.
So, I’m going late to the meeting. With clammy palms and a racing heart. I’m psyched I got some alone time with my son. He was so proud of his hard work. I’m so proud of his hard work. And when that room full of child-less people at my office inquires about my lateness…ummm…
No. I can totally walk into this grown up meeting late with my head held high.
Can’t I? Can’t I?!
(p.s. The meeting totally started 30 minutes after it was supposed to. Sometimes everybody does win!)
A Morning to Hold on to
January 31st, 2012It’s only 8:17 a.m. but I’m gonna say it.
I WON, MUTHAFUCKAS! THIS MORNING WAS MY BITCH!
(OMG. Did I just lose all my feminist readers?)
It totally warrants a primal shout out from the rooftops because having a good morning, like a really good morning, is no small victory. It requires pizazz and finesse and mom-savviness.
That means I have to smile, joke around and make low stakes requests of anyone three feet tall or under.
People, I’m no morning person. Nor do I benefit from a well of patience. I didn’t realize those were mandatory qualifications for my position as a working mom until…er…I had kids.
But today? Well, let’s just say I was invaded by the Don’t-Sweat-the-Small-Stuff body snatchers.
This is how I did it.
6:00 a.m.
3 year old: (Stands at stairs. Fusses)
Me: It’s not 7 yet, babe. Go back to sleep.
3 year old: (Comes upstairs. Throws his body on the couch. Fusses.)
Me: (Sighs)
3 year old: Mommy? (Pregnant pause.) What does an oxpecker look like?
Me: Ok, you don’t have to go back to sleep.
7:00 a.m.
Me: Will one of you please go downstairs and turn off your alarm? Please? Pretty please? With sugar on top? (I will not yell I will not yell I will not yell)
7:30 a.m.
Me: Ok boys, time to go!
3 year old: But we didn’t get to play! (Fusses.)
6 year old: And I don’t have a sweatshirt! (Fusses.)
Me: So don’t wear a sweatshirt (please don’t be that cold outside) and we’ll play…on the way to school. Yeah, that’s the ticket…
Boys: Awesome!
7:40 a.m. (on walk to school)
3 year old: I forgot my lunchbox.
Me: no biggie! (All smiles, I will not yell I will not yell I will not yell.)
3 year old: I’m really really sorry Mommy!
8:15 (at drop off)
3 year old: Mommy, you’re the prettiest mommy of all the mommies.
Me: (Swoons.)
And then, on my way to the subway, I overheard a gentleman yelling at his wife on his cell phone. “Great!” he shouted. “Now I have to go all the way back to the house to pick up another check!” On many days, my mornings look more like that. But today? I had a morning to hold on to.
