Finding my first list: you know you’re a mom when…

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thinking faces

Showing off our thinking faces

It was one of those weeks. One of those “you know you’re a mom when…” kind of weeks. It started off innocently enough – a moment here, a moment there. But when I started to add up all those moments, the truth was inescapable. The “you know you’re a mom when” reality settles around you in the fog of exhaustion before you even know what happened.

So I am jumping on the parenting blog bandwagon and making a list… the top moments of the “you know you’re a mom when” week:

1. You know you’re a mom when… You reach into your purse to get your keys, and instead end up with a handful of kazoos, stickers from the doctor’s office and soggy Cheerios. And then you realize that your keys were in the other hand the entire time.

2. You know you’re a mom when… You don’t bother grabbing a cupcake at the birthday party de jour because your toddler will inevitably take one, lick the frosting off and then hand it to you expectantly. And you’ll eat it because, really, who wants to waste a perfectly good cupcake?

3. You know you’re a mom when… You finish the last sticky bite of your kid’s fruit leather when there’s no trash can in sight because the other option is to put it in your purse (see #1). After all, being a mom also means being a human garbage disposal (see #2).

pumpkin snuggles4. You know you’re a mom when… Your house is filled with the sounds of the Disney hits Pandora radio station, even when you’re home alone because you’re too exhausted to change it. Or to notice in the first place.

5. You know you’re a mom when…you get up to pee at 3am for the fourth time that hour due to the baby in utero jumping on your bladder, only to return to your bed to find your toddler laying on your pillow spooning your husband, leaving you to sleep at the foot of the bed like the family cat.

6. You know you’re a mom when… Even with numbers 1-5 (and plenty more moments like that) you love every minute of it and wouldn’t change it for anything.

What are your “you know you’re a parent when” moments?

Finding the healing power of bandaids

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I wouldn’t say that I lie to my kids. But I would be lying if I said that I don’t stretch the truth. Sure, you can judge me and drop your jaw incredulously, but we all do it. Sometimes it takes a little white lie to make everything in their world better. It starts pretty simply – “Here, let mommy kiss that boo-boo and make it all better.” Then it escalates a bit – “This is special fairy potion that I will spray in your room to keep the monsters away.” (Yeah, it’s water with a drop of lavender oil in it.)silly girls copy

In general, I do think it’s important to be honest with my children, as it plays an important role in teaching them right from wrong. But sometimes a stretch of the truth is easier and more effective than the hard facts. The perfect example of this: Band-Aids.

My kids fully believe in the healing power of Band-Aids. Maybe that’s because I’ve told them over and over again that a Band-Aid will make their boo-boo all better. They don’t need to know that a Band-Aid actually has no healing power whatsoever, and actually a Band-Aid causes more pain when we have to take it off. Nope, those facts are better left unsaid. If one of them gets a boo-boo, no matter how big or how small, all it takes is me asking them “Do you want a Band-Aid?” and suddenly their world that had become overrun by tears and devastation is righted. More often than not, they wear it for about 30 seconds and then suddenly whatever boo-boo they had is all better.

Of course, this is not a cheap habit since no kid wants the plain and boring beige colored Band-Aid. No, we have to have Jake and the Neverland Pirates Band-Aids. And, when those are not available, good ol’ stand-ins like Doc McStuffins or Dora or the occasional princess themed ones will have to do.

But the truth is that if all it takes is a Band-Aid to make my kids’ pain go away, I’ll take it. And, I’ll continue to stretch that truth as long as it works because there will definitely come a time when healing my kids wounds will take much more than a brightly colored bandage. Raising two girls already makes me aware that the “mean girl” stage is bound to come into play sooner or later. And, while I would never wish them to be the subject of a mean girl’s tormenting, I also can’t stand the idea that they could become mean girls themselves. Sometimes my older daughter comes running to me at the park to tell me about another girl who was mean to her on the slide. We talk about what it means to be a good friend and treating other people the way that we want to be treated, and about making sure that even if somebody is mean to us that we still show respect to them.

I know there will come a day that they will go running to their friends for help instead of asking me and I can only hope that at that point I’ve prepare them well. I can only hope that the Band-Aids of today become the teaching tools of tomorrow because when that day comes, it won’t be as easy as kissing the boo-boo and sticking a Band-Aid on it to make it all better…though a mom certainly can dream.

Finding my mom-dentity

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baby kissesAs a competitive volleyball player for most of my formative years, it was drilled into me by each of my coaches that there is no “i” in team. Being a good teammate meant putting your own needs aside for the betterment of the team and constantly taking yourself out of it. Playing a team sport is good for many aspects of character development, but if you would have told me at 16 that playing volleyball would also prepare me to be a mom, I would have laughed in your face. But now, as I contribute constantly to my current “team,” it’s safe to say that there is no “i” in mom, either. Which is why the development of my identity as a mom means taking myself out of it. Hence, mom-dentity. (Thanks, loyal readers, for putting up with my plays on words. You can thank – or blame – depending on how you look at it, my dad for instilling in me a love of wordplays.)

I never really had a clear vision of what kind of mom I wanted to be before having kids. To be honest, I hadn’t really thought much about it. And now, after having kids, I feel like I’m running so much that half the time I just have to be whatever kind of mom I can be in that moment because I don’t have time to put a lot of thought into this method or that approach. Mostly, I just live in the moment and do what my instinct says.

The one thing that my husband and I both agreed on from a very early stage was that we wanted to raise our children in a Jewish home. But what a Jewish home truly meant to us was kind of foreign. Neither of us had a clear idea of what it meant to have a “Jewish home” as opposed to a “home.” We knew we wanted to celebrate Jewish holidays and have the occasional Shabbat. We knew we wanted to raise our kids in an environment where they wouldn’t be the only Jews and that they would feel comfortable (and proud) to go to Hebrew school and to Jewish summer camp.

But when it comes to being a “Jewish mom,” that’s harder. The truth is, I don’t really know what that means. I’ve spent most of my professional life on the phone with “Jewish moms” whose children are going to Jewish summer camp, talking about their kids, about why their kids are special, about why they’re worried about their kids and about how I can help them soothe their own concerns while at the same time giving their children a healthy separation. But I’ve always struggled with the concept of a “Jewish mom.” What’s the difference between a “Jewish mom” and being a “mom?” People say that “Jewish moms” are the ones who are most concerned and overly involved in their children’s lives, but isn’t that just what being a good mom is?

Mastering the art of a roast chicken

Mastering the art of a roast chicken

So as a good Jew, I took to being a “Jewish mom” the only way I knew how…with food. Over the past three or so years I’ve become the host of our family’s Jewish holidays including Passover and Rosh Hashanah, sometimes cooking a full meal while, yes, barefoot and pregnant. I’ve mastered the art of the kugel (see my earlier blog post) and learned how to roast a mean chicken. I’m able to get my matzoh balls to be firm on the inside and remain fluffy on the outside. I make haroset like nobody’s business (nut-free no less). But as a born and raised vegetarian who only started eating poultry a few years ago, I think my greatest pride and joy in becoming a quintessential “Jewish mom” happened at this year’s Rosh Hashanah dinner when my husband claimed my brisket was my best yet. What an accomplishment!

We should absolutely teach our children about Jewish history, culture and traditions. But of all the things that stick and the memories that we make, most usually surround the dinner table. So I will continue to master the Jewish table and continue to refine my brisket so I can call myself a pretty good “Jewish mom.” But, all the rest of it is just about being a mom, and I’d like to think I’m pretty good at that, too.

Finding permission to be the parent I am

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family shot copyMotherhood is a wild ride. Expectations get thrown out the window, uncharted territory is the most predictable constant, and just when you think you’ve got it figured out, everything changes again. It’s also an amazing opportunity to continually redefine your approach, experience trial and error, and simultaneously experience overwhelming love, happiness, frustration and doubt. No two days look the same.

My husband and I often joke about all the ways we were better parents before we had kids and all the things we swore we’d never do as parents. News flash: most of those things are staples in our parenting approach, including but not limited to:

THEN: Our kids will never order off the kid’s menu because they will eat anything. We’ll just order them an adult portion of salmon, rice and veggies and have them share it. (Because, really, they’ll eat anything!)
NOW: Bring on the $5 deal with full meal and drink included!

THEN: Our kids will not survive on a steady diet of chicken nuggets and grilled cheese for dinner. They’ll have refined palates. (See above.)
NOW: “Girls, do you want chicken nuggets or grilled cheese for dinner?”

THEN: Our kids won’t watch TV or use electronics for more than a few minutes each day.
NOW: Peppa Pig is our cheapest babysitter while we make dinner and get laundry done. And forgetting to bring the iPad on a long car drive is the equivalent to forgetting to bring the spare tire when you know your tire is low.

THEN: We won’t be late to meet other people just because we have young kids.
NOW: We’re pretty sure our friends put in buffer time between when we are told to arrive and when they actually expect us.

All this aside, there are also things I never realized about being a parent that have come naturally to me, including but not limited to:

  • Cleaning up some pretty nasty bodily functions – whether it’s pee in the car seat, spit up down my blouse or poop all over my kid’s bed (and pajamas, hands and face), my threshold for gross stuff has significantly increased. The one place I draw the line is vomit – just ask my husband. That’s his domain.
  • Discovering an entirely new level of patience. I always thought of myself as a patient person, but there’s nothing like a toddler in her “no” phase to really test those limits. Until she hits the “why?” phase…
  • Saying beyond ridiculous statements that now seem totally normal. “Take your hands out of your pants at the dinner table” is just the tip of the iceberg of statements I never imagined I’d say and are now second nature.
  • Loving truly unconditionally. The love I feel for my kids is so boundless, so definitive and so deep that I sometimes feel overwhelmed by such a true and intense emotion… In the best possible way.

Like I said, it really is a wild ride. But one I’m so grateful to be on.

What are ways your expectations changed after becoming a parent?

Finding an opportunity to reclaim the day

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It amazes me how one date can simultaneously hold memories of anguish and joy.

Thirteen years ago I was asleep in my dorm room, groggily hitting the snooze button and vaguely aware that the normal pop music that should have been blaring through my clock radio was replaced by somber voices and lots of talking. As I settled back in for another eight minutes of sleep before being awoken by the alarm clock yet again, my phone rang.

“Ryley, it’s dad. A plane just flew into the World Trade Center in New York. We’re okay. Get up and turn on the news.” (At that point, I didn’t question why my parents in Arizona were telling me that they were okay, but have since thought about how smart my dad was to have the foresight to not totally freak me out as he woke me up.)

With my hair frizzed out and retainer still in, I sleepily walked down the hall to a friend’s dorm room where the news was on. For the first time, I saw the images of the planes flying through the towers and was frozen in my spot. One of the deans walked through the hall, making sure that everyone was okay and anyone from the east coast had been able to reach their family. I spent the remainder of the day glued to the tv, watching the same footage over and over again, horrified and riveted all at the same time.

Fast forward nine years later, and I spent the same day, September 11, again immobile, this time connected to medical equipment. Though labor had really started two days earlier, September 11 was a day of intensity, excitement and overwhelming emotion. After hours of pushing, I looked at the clock – it was 11pm – and said to my husband “I can do this for one more hour. Let’s get to the 12th!” (That must have been the meds talking!) My strong-willed daughter had other ideas, though, and she came out ready to party at 11:28pm. It was one of the single greatest moments of my life and changed me forever.

Whenever someone asks me when her birthday is and I tell them September 11, they often react with pity. “Oh…” they say. But I don’t see it that way. I see it as an opportunity to reclaim a day of ugliness and terrible pain and, at least in our little corner of the world, make it into a day of beauty and celebration. It doesn’t mean we don’t remember the day thirteen years ago that changed the landscape of our country and the world in countless ways. We do. And we celebrate new life and the amazing hope, joy and spirit our little one brought into the world four years ago.

Happy birthday baby.

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Finding a spoon full of sugar

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When I was in 2nd grade, I sang Mary Poppins’ well known anthem Just a Spoon Full of Sugar in the school talent show. Anyone who knows me, or has heard me sing, knows why that is a funny scene. (For those who don’t know me and haven’t been blessed with a song, consider yourself lucky! It’s not good!) Over the last week I found myself unabashedly singing it all over again, this time more practically coaxing my three year old to take her post-tonsillectomy pain medication while holding a spoonful of chocolate ice cream in front of her to wash away the terrible faux cherry smell.

Goodbye TonsilsMy husband and I prepared our daughter for her surgery as best we knew how – with honesty, discussions and books, and a “goodbye tonsils” party the night before the extraction. However, there was no way for us to truly prepare her for the hours and days following the surgery because the pain and recovery was totally foreign to both of us and far too conceptual for her to understand. More so, though we’d prepared her and both felt totally confident that having her tonsils and adenoids removed was the only solution to thwarting her sleep apnea, we truly hadn’t prepared ourselves for this intense milestone in parenting.

Some parents go through a situation like this on a grander scale or more frequently, and I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to watch their children undergo procedure after procedure to rectify whatever ailments plague their kids. My heart truly goes out to them. One time was more than enough.

Last Thursday, as we approached the operating room and our spunky, independent daughter’s eyes flashed from confident and happy to frightened and filled with tears, the gravity of the moment hit us. Our “big girl” is, and will always be, our baby. In that moment we had to garner the strength to let go of her hand as the nurse carried her to the operating room while we were ushered to the waiting room for some of the most agonizing and anxiety-ridden 60 minutes of our lives.

Before the surgery... sparing everyone the "after" surgery photo

Before the surgery… sparing everyone the “after” surgery photo

When she came out of surgery and was emerging from her anesthesia-induced state, she was a shell of herself. She was there, but in the sterile white bed, connected to IVs and monitors, inconsolably moaning and crying she was a different kid. And in that moment my husband and I reached an unspoken pact that we had to stay calm, even-keeled and patient despite our growing concerns and fears. Though the nurse continued to assure us that her reaction was normal, it didn’t change the overwhelming shock at what we were seeing. As the minutes and hours ticked by, her altered state was replaced with flashes of herself intermixed with that of a post-surgery patient. She alternated between playing with her new prized Barbie and crying over being coaxed to eat a popsicle.

The last seven days have continued to be a series of ups and downs – moments of normalcy quickly replaced with moments of inconsolable tears.  As each moment of up is replaced with a down, and then up again, I remind myself that parenthood is a series of tests – tests of strength, will power, compassion and love. Some of these tests, I fail miserably. But others seem to go okay. And when it comes to giving her comfort and unconditional love, I pass with flying colors. Singing, however, continues to be a test I just can’t pass. Good thing there’s ice cream to soften the blow!

Finding the right kugel

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One of my lifelong goals has been to be a published writer. I am proud to share this post, which has been published on national parenting blog Raising Kveller.

kugelI buy egg noodles like they’re going out of style. Inside my pantry are bags of noodles– some full, some half empty–and some with the last handful sitting in the bottom of the bag. I wasn’t always such an egg noodle fanatic. In fact, it wasn’t until I started cooking for the Jewish holidays that my love of egg noodles began.

A few years ago, as my husband and I discussed the menu for Rosh Hashanah, we decided on brisket (his mom’s recipe), matzah ball soup (made by his mom), and a veggie dish. But we got stuck on the kugel.

“I want you to make my family’s recipe,” he told me. 

“I want to make my mom’s recipe,” I responded.

Want to read the rest? Go to the Raising Kveller blog to see what happened.

Finding thirty one cents

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I had a quintessential parenting moment today. To fully understand the magnitude of it, I have to back up a bit…

About three weeks ago, my husband and I took the girls to the county fair. After eating our fair (ha! No pun intended) share of garlic fries, corn on the cob, and deep fried Oreos for good measure, we wandered our way to the kid area, complete with the requisite rides and overpriced games that yield subpar stuffed animals. Nonetheless, we got caught up in the romanticism of it all, and paid far too much money to let our older daughter shoot a watergun at a target that would pop a balloon. You know the one – the race to fill the balloon, and the winner gets the aforementioned stuffed animal.

Well, we came in second (out of two), and though our daughter tried to act brave, her disappointment spilled out in tears down her cheeks. I did my best to explain to a three year old the concept of “you win some, you lose some,” but still, her sadness was palpable. So, we sought out another game, one where our odds of winning were better and a prize was guaranteed. Apparently at the fair, the only guaranteed win is the one you pay for. So, we doubled down and played the fish game. Yep, the one where you throw ping pong balls into jars to win your very own pet goldfish. Not a single ping pong ball made it in the jar, but a few extra bucks guaranteed a win, and, yes, bought a bit of our daughters’ happiness. Best $10 we ever spent.

new fishAs the proud owners of two new goldfish, our girls have spent the last few weeks feeding the fish, changing their water, naming them (Anna and Elsa, of course) and marveling at their fish faces. Then, last night as I was tucking them into bed, I noticed one of the fish had gone belly up. So, I slyly took the bowl to the kitchen and told our oldest that I was going to change the water.

“Just don’t spill them down the sink,” she told me. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it wasn’t the sink where the fish would be spilled, but rather down the toilet.

And that brings us to today, where I went to Petco and dished out $0.31 to replace the flushed fish. The girls are none the wiser, still marveling at their fish and completely oblivious to Anna, or Elsa, being a stand-in for the original.

replacement fishHowever, the few coins I spent today represent more than a fish. They represent a parent’s desire to protect her kids. To keep them happy. To keep the “bad things” away. To shield them from pain. Though plenty of people (and probably some of you reading this) would argue that I should have used the death of a goldfish as an opportunity to teach an important life lesson, I couldn’t do it. Life is full of teachable moments and I opted to skip this one in favor of protecting my kids a bit longer from some of life’s harsh realities. Raising kids is a perpetual dance in protecting our little ones and setting them free, teaching them the values we hope they will carry with them when we’re not around, and eventually seeing them make their own mark on the world.

And, let’s be honest, in a few weeks I’ll likely be faced with a similar choice – teachable moment or dishing out another thirty-one cents.

 

On a related side note, the saga of our goldfish reminded me of a scene from one of the best TV shows of all time – The Cosby Show.

Finding my own bias… and overcoming it

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When I was a little girl, I told my parents I wanted to be a veterinarian for kittens. Not any other type of animal. Not even grown cats. Just kittens. As a young girl, I dreamed of doing just that. Of course, as I got older, my aspirations changed and I started following a path toward medicine, public health, social advocacy, and so on. Now I work for a summer camp overseeing the customer service, family relations, and communications – a path I never could have predicted but greatly enjoy.

princess in jerseyA few weeks ago, I asked my three year old what she wanted to be when she grows up, thinking she’d tell me she wanted to be a firefighter, an astronaut, or any one of the other professions little kids seem to say when asked. Instead, she told me that when she grows up she wants to be “a mommy.” My first inclination was to cringe – was I not doing something right that my daughter wasn’t aspiring to be a doctor or superhero or any other world-changing type of profession? Then it made me sad that I cringed at this – what a wonderful aspiration to want to be a mom. It is the most selfless and rewarding (and exhausting) job I know. She wants to care for others, take care of others, and put their needs in front of her own.

As I came to terms with my own bias and her aspirations, I decided to ask her again a few days later “what do you want to be when you grow up?” I was hoping to redeem myself and react perfectly (one can dream, right?). So I asked her. And she responded to me “a princess.”

Yep, I cringed again. That’s what a hashtagger would call #parentingfail. As a mom of two little girls, I’ve avoided the princess world like the plague. I don’t believe in little girls wearing only pink and purple (though my daughters choose those colors every time). I don’t believe in the idea of the maiden in distress needing to be rescued by her prince. And, I definitely don’t buy into society’s collective belief that girls are princesses and boys are superheroes, sports stars, etc. etc. etc. When we talk about princesses in our house, I tell my girls that princesses are just girls with crowns on.

So, when my older one’s aspirations changed from being a mommy to being a princess, not only did my internal battle over the past few weeks rear its ugly head but also one of my parenting philosophies and principles got thrown into the mix too. Again, I grappled with my own bias – why did I cringe? And what difference does it make what a three year old says she wants to be later in life? As I continue to look inward at my beliefs, philosophies, and parenting practices, I try to remind myself that at this age, it’s about exploration, imagination, discovery and growth. Too often we are looking so far ahead at the future we miss what’s right in front of us.doctor kit

So, I decided to ask my daughter the same question, one more time, and promised myself that no matter what she said, my answer would be anything other than a cringe.

“Honey, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

“I want to be a doctor… for stuffed animals. Just like Doc McStuffins.”

And with a big smile, I gave her a hug and said “Okay, let’s go get your doctor kit because ‘purple bear’ has a belly ache.”

Finding uncharted territory

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princess sistersWhile doing the dishes in the kitchen a few nights ago, I heard the wonderful sounds of my two little girls in the other room giggling and talking to each other (well, as much talking as a bossy three year old and a babbling one year old can do). I heard them “ssshing” their baby dolls, falling into laughing fits while rolling around on the floor and generally being sweet with each other.

Just as I let out a sigh of relief and thanked my lucky stars that my little ones could entertain each other while I got things done around the house, the giggling turned to arguing. Where there had been “conversations” about caring for their babies, there were now the not-so-sweet shrieks of “mine!” “noooo!” “mommy!” And just like that, my short-lived efficiency of getting chores done faded into playing referee over whose turn it was to use the baby bottle.

Motherhood is uncharted territory in it of itself. Every day is fresh and new, and with each day comes a curve ball, a moment of celebration and a moment of exasperation. Just when I think I’ve figured it all out and gotten to know the patterns, tendencies and likes/dislikes of my kids, everything changes. Just like that.

Even more so, though, deep within the folds of motherhood is another area of uncharted territory for me. As an only child, I have never known what it feels like to share my parents (except for one amazing year in high school when we hosted an exchange student, my “sister”, from Brazil). I’ve never known the incredible bond of a sibling… nor have I had someone to wrestle with over any particular toy. I don’t know what it’s like to have a brother or sister who will ALWAYS be there, for better or for worse, nor do I know what it feels like to swing so quickly from getting along, to fighting, and back again. I loved my childhood, and I loved being an only child. But as I now raise my girls, I’m quickly learning that this sibling thing is quite complex.

While I observe my kids interacting and watch their own pendulum swing from loving each other to wanting nothing to do with the other, I have to make a continual choice: when do I step in and when do I let them work it out themselves? Do they need me to always step in as their referee and count out turns in ten second intervals, or can they learn to self regulate? (Yes, I know, at their age that’s quite the dream.)

wrestling girlsWhether raising two kids, twenty kids (nice work Duggars), or just one, as parents we have to decide when to step up and when to step back. When a child on the playground takes the shovel away from our kid, do we step up and do something about it? Or step back and let our kid learn to stand up for herself? I find myself questioning this all the time – step up or step back? Step in or let it unfold naturally? What will they learn with me involved? What will they learn if I fade into the background? How would a situation unfold differently if I’d stepped back, or if I’d stepped up? (Note that when their safety is at risk, my answer is to always step up!)

When do you step up or step back? What uncharted territory are you navigating?