Tag Archives: Parenting

Marketing Parenting

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Over-praising.

Special snowflakes.

Attachment parenting.

Ferber.

Tiger moms.

Resilience.

Parenting buzz-words are heard on the playground, read on the front pages of newspapers and discussed over lattes and text messages.  You’d best be aware of the latest trend or your child is in danger of winding up on a therapist’s couch at 28 years old unable to zip up her own coat, completely incapable of having a meaningful relationship and an absolute super-star at everything from singing acapella to sewing Christmas stockings and roasting a leg of lamb.

Really?

Keeping up with the latest parenting methodology is a little like keeping up with those Joneses.  The pendulum is in constant motion, swinging liberally from latchkey to helicopter.  We praise too much, we encourage too little.  We hold the reins too tight; we let them grow up too fast.  There is always something that we are doing wrong and there is always someone quick to point out the error of our ways.

We’re suckers for it.

Sadly parenting, like everything else from yoga to book clubs, has been expertly packaged, merchandized and publicized.  Smiling experts with more letters after their names than we can decipher, look down at us from their glossy book covers and claim to have all of the answers.

And for the most part guilt-ridden parents eat it up because no one wants to fuck-up raising their kids.  No one.

And marketers know this.

In my paltry six years of parenting, I have learned a lot, mostly that I won’t know all of the answers but I am not helpless.

In those early years, before making any decision, I would consult “the books”, and scan the Internet.  Terrified of making the wrong decision and being on the receiving end of furtive glances from the other moms in the playgroup, I would appease my anxiety with research.

And the beauty of the bookshelves brimming over with those parenting experts?  If you’re thorough enough you can always find someone to agree with you.

Danusia Lapinski, a Montreal-based parenting coach, suggests that when it comes to parenting ideology parents “have to decide if it’s right for you.  If it resonates with your values and needs.  Everyone’s different and you have to question the ideas you hear.”  (globe and mail)

There are a handful of parenting experts whom I turn to when I am seeking guidance or a helpful suggestion and these experts do echo the values and beliefs that my husband and I hold as our gold standard.

Whenever I am in doubt, I think about my sons as grown men.  I think about the character traits that I believe make up good men: persistence, worth ethic, curiosity, compassion, passion, self-control and kindness and I ask myself, am I helping or hurting their chances of growing up to be the best men that they have the potential to become?

Family Rules

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I’ve been on a bit of an organizing and (re) decoration kick lately, in anticipation of the upcoming holidays and the possibility that someone I’m not related to might visit my house. We live in a typical east-end semi detached house: not huge, but with long hallways just begging to be covered in photos or art.  I’ve been perusing my local Home Sense on a regular basis, looking for cheap and cheerful prints. One trend that I’ve spotted, which I’m sure is just about played out, is those “Family Rules” prints that seem to be everywhere. You’ve probably seen them too: usually printed subway roll style, they list those rules that every family has whether they declare them on canvas or not. Here’s one from the Etsy store Chestnut and Lime:

Cute, right? The best part of these, of course, is that when someone’s not being patient, grateful or forgiving (for example), your kids can just point to the sign and say “Mom, you have to forgive us! It’s the rules!” and there won’t be a darn thing you can do about it.

I keep thinking, though, that I really would need one that outlines OUR rules. I mean, my kids know all about sharing (that’s why they went to daycare) and doing their best (about which I reminded Second Child about eight times between 4:33 pm and 4: 57 pm yesterday). I need a sign that repeats the most frequently repeated rules in our house:

Dirty dishes go in the dishwasher

You don’t need it, you want it. There’s a difference.

The sour gummies belong to Mom

Flush the toilet. PLEASE!

Soap and water are good things. Especially when you use them on your hands (see rule #4)

Socks do NOT live in the Living Room.

Yes, you can always have more broccoli

Snuggling is not optional

And the most important rule?

Love each other. That’s all that matters.

Addiction to the iPad

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The Merriam-Webster dictionary defines addiction as:

“ a compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful.”

My almost 5 year old does not have a compulsive need for heroin and doesn’t experience with drawl symptoms as one would imagine (like night sweats or the shakes) but he definitely has an addiction.  To the iPad.

Is the substance known to be harmful to the user?  According to most experts who flood our screens, yes!

As usual I find myself balancing on the fence post.  Not quite sure where I come down on this one.  Back when I was a better mom before I had kids, I said that my children would never watch t.v.  That’s before I went days without sleep and even longer without a shower and then Baby Einstein came into my life like a angel sent from the heavens.  The fireworks, puppets and bubbles would transfix my babies with its hypnotic ability.

Since then there’s been a steady stream of Treehouse characters in our home from Ming-Ming, Iggle Piggle, Bob and Thomas.  All them at one time or another were charged with keeping my boys entertained for the twenty minutes it took me to get dinner from the stove to the plate.  Now my family room is flooded with the noise of shrieking tweens and toilet jokes and I find myself longing for a return to the sing-song musical love-ins of yesteryear.

Television viewing at our home has always come with parameters: not before school, only after homework and it goes off when I say so.

But then another vice entered our life.  The iPad.

My oldest son has been known to enjoy a game or two of Joy Ride Jetpack and my littlest occasionally screams for Peek-a-Boo Barn but my middle one . . . he shows all of the signs of a full-blown addict.  And he’s not the only one.  David Pogue of The New York Times wrote about his son’s addiction with the iPad back in February 2011 and received almost one thousand comments.

It’s amazing to me to watch my son navigate apps with finesse and skill that far surpass my own.  I see him developing a genuine interest for how the games work, how to display our family photos and search for music.  Where his brother finds relaxation and inspiration in art projects he finds the same benefits searching for Waldo and playing Letter Buddies.

But limits are needed.  I imagine that even Mark Zuckerberg’s mother told him to put down his computer and get out of the house (after seeing The Social Network, maybe not??).

A friend of mine has a one charge per week rule.  The iPad gets charged once a week and when the charge is done, it’s done.  I imagine that could work in theory but it would also require cooperation (and most likely a few busted lips) between the brothers.

We are testing out iPad free week.  The weekdays it rests on the shelf, gathering its strength for the weekend.  It’s day three and the puzzle pieces are scattered on the floor and mini-cars zoom underneath the couch.

If this keeps up, I think that I can keep balancing on that fence post.

Truths We’re Told

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I’m not sure I can add much to what Nathalie and Beth-Anne have already so eloquently said on this topic.   I will let the other mothers’ writing stand on its own, but I share the sentiment already expressed that entitlement is an unattractive quality, in both children and adults.

I want my boys to grow up to be modest, unassuming, deservedly proud of what they accomplish, without any inflated sense of self-worth, confident but not cocky, and above all, I want them to be grateful for the opportunities they’ve had, and to show that gratitude appropriately. And because I was raised to show appropriate gratitude, I have to give the credit to those people whose words helped shape me, and whose values I want to pass along to my own children:

From my grandfather: “Don’t show off who you are.” In other words, be modest. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself. You gain nothing from it. (Clearly, my grandfather could not have anticipated You Tube, but I digress…)

From my mom’s cousin: “When you’re famous, don’t forget who you come from”, an admonition that also took the form of, “Don’t think we’ll be afraid to knock you down a peg if you get too high and mighty”. I may not be famous, but when I’ve caught myself thinking too highly of myself, these words come back to me.

From my Dad: “You’ve got to make luck to be lucky”. What people think of as “luck” is really the pay-off of hard work.

From my Mom: “You can do anything you set your mind to! Well….except ballet. Honestly Marcelle, you’re not going to be a prima ballerina. You’re too tall and your feet don’t arch.  You don’t have to like it, but it’s the way it is. You DO need to practice your violin ….” Not everyone can do everything. Find what you CAN do, and do it the best you can.

Is there a home-grown truth about how to be that you carry with you? I often wonder which of my frequent platitudes will stay with my own children long after I’m no longer there to utter them.  Whatever it is, I hope they take it to heart.

Guest Post: Patsy Spanos on Being a Dancing Queen at 40

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Español: Bailarines en la discoteca Pachá Ibiz...

Español: Bailarines en la discoteca Pachá Ibiza por la noche (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

My situation is a unique one. I am a mother of three young boys — six year old twins and a nine year-old — and for the last five years, I have spent my Julys in Ibiza. For those of you who don’t know Ibiza, it’s a Spanish island close to Barcelona, with a party scene that resembles Babylon during the summer months. Seeing body-painted, half naked women, in their G – strings, is as common here as Lululemon pants are for us in Canada. Bare breasts and string bottoms on the beaches are more accepted than tankinis. In fact, you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who knows what a tankini is in Ibiza.

Along with this eccentric fashion sense is the out-of-this-world nightlife that starts somewhere around at 2 a.m. and goes strong until 7 a.m. Luckily dinner in Spain is usually at 10 p.m. and if I feel like putting my dancing shoes on, I tuck the kids in bed by 1 a.m. and away I go! This 40 year old, Canadian mom turns into a Dancing Queen.

Let me stop right here for a second, and put things into perspective. I am a stay-at-home mom from Stouffville, Ontario. The most excitement I get throughout the school year is scoring two free slices for the school pizza lunches. Dancing in the V.I.P section in all the hottest clubs in Ibiza (thanks to a very connected brother in law) throughout the month of July is a far stretch from my home life in Stouffville.

Needless to say, I feel like a fish out of water in this subculture, kind of like Madonna, with her toned arms, desperately trying to hold on to her youth. But the saving grace in all this is that I am a certified YogaDance instructor and I love to dance. So this old maid feeling I get amongst all the young beautiful ladies quickly disappears for me once I start to dance and allow the music to take over.

It is this passion for dance is that controls my Mother Bee instinct and keeps me from throwing a sweater on these half naked 19 year old girls, or from having a one on one with a go-go dancer and strongly suggesting that she read The Beauty Myth by Naomi Wolf.  If I did, I’d be behaving like a frumpy Oprah in a Lady Gaga world. Nobody asked me for my opinion, and these girls are all having a great time…so maybe I’m the one with the issues…Maybe I’m just too rigid, and uptight…Maybe I have to change my angle, and let loose….

So, last night, at a very happening club, I made an extra effort to embrace this foreign world. When my husband knuckle-chucked the bouncer, who then waved us through the VIP entrance letting us bypass the horde outside, I instantaneously allowed my I.Q. to drop by five notches. I squeezed my husband’s arms and whispered in his ears, “You are HOT!” After 16 years of marriage, no matter how hard you try, a comment like that oozes with sarcasm, so my husband grabbed me by the waist and pulled me in for a long, romantic kiss. For the first time in a long time I felt like he and I were the only people on the crowded dance floor.

I slowly turned into a Solid Gold dancer, twisting and moving, and turning my body into pretzel positions that would make most people blush in Canada. It was fun! I smiled at strangers and danced close to them. I didn’t know their first names, but I definitely knew the size of their waistlines. I laughed, made funny faces, and challenged them with a dance move that would make the shirtless guy with the cowboy hat on City TV’s Electric Circus nervous. Oh yeah! I would have given him a run for his money that night.

Last night, I wasn’t a conservative, Canadian stay at home mom, looking for the latest specials at Wal-Mart. I was a Goddess who was offered a drink while her husband was in the restroom. Of course, my instinctive reaction was to scream, kiss the boy and thank him for reminding me that I still got it. Whatever “it” is, I like “it”! Even though I had to say, “No thank you,” to the young boy with a Mrs. Robinson fetish, at that moment, I was fifty shades happier 40 year old in Ibiza.

You Were a Kid Once Too

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Last month I wrote about toilet training my 2 year old.  I have decided to adopt Carol’s attitude and allow myself to follow his lead.  Some days we cruise through the day with barely an accident and other days I am cleaning up poo that has been tracked through the house.  It’s a process.

Recently I took the boys to their favourite store and with money in hand they agonized over their selections.

My eyes were drawn to my four year old.  One leg was crossed over the other.  Then the leg from behind wrapped around the leg in front.

Forget any seasoned parent, an amateur babysitter would be able to tell you that this boy had to pee.  And if experience has taught me anything it’s this:  when kids say that they have to pee now they mean NOW.

The bunch of us hurried over to the nearest sales person and in my sweetest voice asked if we could use the washroom as it was an emergency.

“The washroom is for employees only!” the surly woman snarled at me.

“I completely understand your policy but it’s not for me, it’s my son.  It really is an emergency.”  I pleaded with her, motioning toward to son.  I could tell from the frequency of the legs folding over each other that we had seconds to spare.

“Employees only!” She hissed at me and went back to stocking the shelves.

I wanted to snap back at her, remind her that she was a child once too, tell her that karma is a bitch.

An older man standing behind me gave me a look of sympathy and validated my irritation by saying aloud that this was ridiculous.

Instead, I took a deep breath and walked with my boys out of the store where upon my son just could not hold it a moment longer.

I shrugged my shoulders and through the closed door the older man gave me a thumbs up.

 

image courtesy of: www.funnysigns.net

Curing the Nature Deficit

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July 1, 2012: Milkman’s Lane, Yellow Creek Ravine, Mud Creek Ravine, Don Valley Brickworks.

In his book Accidental City, Robert Fulford wrote about Toronto’s ravines:

The ravines are to Toronto what canals are to Venice and hills are to San Francisco. They are the heart of the city’s emotional geography, and understanding Toronto requires an understanding of the ravines.

If you’re not familiar with Toronto’s ravine system, I recommend the blog, Toronto Ravines and Trails with Abbey. It’s the personal blog of a Toronto father who has chronicled his adventures exploring Toronto’s ravines with his five-year old daughter.  Of course, if you have a literary bent, there’s always Margaret Atwood‘s Cat’s Eye to read,  in which Toronto’s ravines figure prominently.

Walking in Toronto’s ravines has become a Canada Day ritual for us, those years when we can’t get out of the city (read: most years). There is nothing like an amble along a sun-dappled trail to get the imagination flowing. Not five steps on to Milkman’s Lane, and the boys had launched into a new game of their own devising, which continued, unabated, until they finally stopped to smell (or water) the roses at the Evergreen Brickworks, our destination of the day:

P.S.: We’re wishing our American readers, family and friends a very happy, relaxing and restorative Fourth of July.  Whether you spend the day in a ravine, at a beach, at a barbeque or just in the company of people you love, we hope today is a good one.

A Mad Mothering Rant

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It’s kind of been a hard time in my neck of the woods.  My husband recently had two unexpected knee surgeries (that’s six surgeries total in less than four years), we’ve just come off a long-lasting flu and seem to have been constantly sick since February, and my husband’s new job (working afternoons and evenings) means that I really have the lion’s share of the work with my 3 boys (6, 3, and 10 months).

One of the things that makes my day-to-day significantly more difficult is that my husband needs to drive our only car to work.  My kids’ two schools (morning preschool and afternoon kindergarten) are not within easy walking distance (40 and 60 minutes respectively each way with the kids on a very good day), so figuring out transportation takes up a lot of my energy.

At the moment, we are trying to bike.  Sometimes that means my husband drives my older son to school with the bike in the car trunk and leaves it at school.  Then at pick-up time, I ride my my bike with the baby in the baby bike seat alongside my three year old on his two-wheeler.  It’s kind of uphill on the way there, and very urban, with lots of streets and driveways.  The good thing is that my middle child loves to ride, so it’s often kind of fun.  But it’s never easy.

One balmy day, with the biking arrangements I’ve just described, I went to pick up my oldest from school.  Getting ready to leave school, the boys were starving, and we decided to pick up a pastry at a cafe a couple of blocks away cafe.  The city street was busy so I’d be kind of walking/riding (very slowly) on the sidewalk.  Because of the close proximity, and the fact that baby ought to have been napping and can hate wearing the helmet, I didn’t put it on.

A woman from my son’s school was getting into her minivan as I prepared to go.  She then asked me if I had a helmet for baby, and I said yes.  And there it was, hanging off the handlebars, I had used it riding to school.  Then she said, “Can I put it on for you?” and started to walk over.  And because I know that this is a supposedly enlightened way of saying “You should put the helmet on”, it made me peevish and I said no.  Then she told me that the police can stop me for this (like I don’t have experience with police) and this made me smile just a bit wider as I continued to refuse to put it on.

And then.  To my utter disbelief – for I had stopped and was straddling my bike to talk to this woman – my completely stationary bicycle somehow released itself from my hands, gently sliding to the ground as if in slow motion.  With my helmetless baby in it.

He wasn’t hurt as he had only fluttered down slowly with the bike and didn’t make any contact with the ground, but he didn’t like it and cried.  I picked him up quickly and I stared hard at this woman while she looked back at me.  I assume her eyes were saying something like “I told you so.  You’re really lucky this time”, while mine were barking “What kind of voodoo hex did you just throw on me, you bitch?!”

But I couldn’t actually say this, because I was the mother whose baby had just dropped to the ground.  Proving the casting of spells is also difficult.  But I was really pissed.  I shouldn’t even have stopped to talk to her.  Doing so meant my other boys had ridden up ahead and were yelling for me, plus she made my baby somehow fall off my motionless bike; by trying to “help”, this witch had inadvertently caused a much more dangerous scenario than if she had just let me walk/ride to the cafe!

I put on the freaking helmet for my two block walk/ride to the cafe.  Because what was I supposed to do, now that she manifested my baby’s fall and I couldn’t defend againt her sorcery?  Sure, she was decent enough to not make a big deal out of the “fall”, saying “he’s not hurt, there are no scratches, he’s just scared.”  But it made me mad to imagine the thoughts that she didn’t say, like “She’s learned an easy lesson – good thing I taught it to her”.

Except that she didn’t!  She ‘s the one who created the whole freaking scene!  She’s the demon that made the bike ooze from my hands!  I wasn’t even moving!  Of course I know he needs a helmet!  That’s why I have said helmet!  It’s right here!  I use it all the time!  Except for the short walk/ride that got intercepted by nosy do-gooders who drive around in cars with no children in them!

And there it appeared for the second time.  The clue.  Because of course I had to think about why I was so pissed off.  In calmer moments, I had to assume this woman trying to do what she thought best – doing her duty as a good citizen/concerned fellow mother/whatever – so why was the encounter driving me crazy?

Well, firstly and foremostly, because it resulted in my baby sliding to the sidewalk, that’s why.  And I hold her totally responsible for that.  I am aware of how crazy that sounds, but I don’t care.  I’m telling you she did it.

But another reason was linked to the clue, which was minivan and the lack of children in it.  That this woman had leisure enough to look up from what she was doing to fix her evil eye on me (recall that that would be the woman trying to bike with 3 kids, 6 and under) in the first place.  I mean, how idle can you be?

Or, to flip that around, how overfull can you be?  When I turned my thoughts away from her and back to me, I  realized that I’m sometimes so overwhelmed, I want to fling myself off a bridge.  There’s been too much surgery and nurse visitation and flu and vomitting and stomach pain and tiredness and taking care of everybody and not doing that especially well and wondering why no one is taking care of me and too few cars.  The reason I’m riding the bike with the kids like some rabid urbanite is because there’s no damn car.  I’m trying desperately (and on my way to failing) to be a one-car family.  Watching this woman get into some big vehicle all by her lonesome – well, it just pissed me off to think of her judging me when she doesn’t know a thing about me.  Zilch.

And the final thing, the one that really cuts… is the stark reminder of how I wasn’t taking care of my baby as well as he deserves.  Like, listen She-Thing, I know.  I know my cherub’s face is always marred with some goose egg or purple splotch, and that he’s gotten more of these in his 10 months on earth than his two brothers combined.  I know he cries more than he should, even though he’s probably the easiest baby on the block.  I’m trying – I’m trying so hard – but I can’t always do well by him.  I know that I’m letting him down, and I don’t need it thrown in my face by the likes of you.

But does my anger flirt with fate?  How powerful are you, anyway?  What happens if I ignore you when you tell me to stop letting him eat dirt?  Will you take his usual fodder of earwigs and compost and produce a  razor blade in the soil?  Will you see my little kids cooking with me at the stove, cluck disapprovingly, then make me mistake my baby for some kale chips and roast him in the oven?

Take your curses and your empty van and go find something to do.  And let a ragged, car-less mother going through a rough patch make a mistake in peace.

Raskullz

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Something I am loving this spring is my son’s Raskullz bike helmet.  The boys wear their helmets pretty much all spring and summer, and Raskullz offers a fun alternative to the traditional style.

Styles range from princesses and ladybugs to sharks and gorillas.

If you see a red mohawk with a skull and crossbones emblazoned on the side, barreling down the street on a bike, chances are that he belongs to me.  Every crazy bone of him.

Ps – I received no compensation for recommending Raskullz but should they wish to, they know where to find me.

photo courtesy of: http://www.raskullz.com

Dear Mom

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Dear Mom,

You made it look so easy – mothering young children. Between balancing the needs of two small kids, the operations involved in running a household, being an attentive wife and excelling at your career; you made it seem as though there were never any sacrifices or heartache, loneliness or times of unease.  Like a director behind the camera, you orchestrated our lives without ever taking the spotlight.

Six years ago I learned one of the guarded secrets of motherhood, one that won’t be found in any book or on any blog, but revealed itself the instant my newborn was placed in my arms. With motherhood came a realization that I will never again think just of myself. Every thought from the most mundane to the dreamiest fantasies that occupy my mind will always carry with it the needs of three little people.

I thought you did this mothering job effortlessly. But I was wrong. You worked. You worked tirelessly, selflessly and endlessly to give us a solid foundation of values upon which to build our independence. You did this while reading stories, walking us to school, building forts, snuggling in on movie nights and never ceasing to cheer us on.  You gave us a childhood that storybook tales are based on.

I know now that you silently struggled too. You were not a deity that immaculately bore her children, but just a regular girl who had babies. You struggled to find your self, your voice and balance, just like me.  Just like most moms.

The bar is set high. There are days when I feel so selfish for wanting more, wanting it all and yet I am humbled by what you did for us without ever acknowledging that some of the choices you made mustn’t have been easy.  But that’s what a good mother does.  A good mother doesn’t push the weight of their world onto their children.  Like an illusionist, she allows her children to see only what she wants them to.

I wish that I had your patience, your calm and your perspective. I admit that I often feel as though I am losing my way and not only myself but the kind of mother I strive to be. Still when I feel like I am faltering I turn to you for support, guidance, and reassurance. Instead of looking up at you for answers and love like I once did, I look to you. And you have yet to let me down.

Once I became a mother you told me that the hardest part about mothering was learning how to not be a mother.  It took me years to understand what you meant by that and although my boys still cling to my skirt, I am terrified for the day when I will have to loosen my grip and eventually let go.

It is true, mom, that I do not need you anymore. You have given me direction, your strength and a ground on which to stand.  You have nourished my mind, body and soul for years and given me the fundamentals to raise my boys with the same unconditional love and immeasurable encouragement that you gave me.

You’re right, mom.  I do not need you anymore.  But I will always want you.