Isn’t It Ironic

(Originally published March 2012)

Irony. Some (okay, few) people understand how it works. Some (most) people tend to confuse it with coincidence. According to Merriam-Webster dictionary, one technical definition of irony is “incongruity between the actual result of a sequence of events and the normal or expected result.”

So basically, as Alanis would say, “a black fly in your Chardonnay” isn’t ironic so much as crappy luck. A person who makes themself sick with worry over their health? Ironic.

Credit: The Oatmeal

Why this little lesson in grammar? Because of something I discovered about myself recently. Now, to be honest, I’m not sure if this is truly irony. But it seems so to me.

I was reading an advance copy of a book called “Easy to Love but Hard to Raise”. (Check them out on Facebook.) It’s about parents’ experiences raising their special needs children. Most books tend to focus on different techniques for raising our kids – what do they experience? How can we help them succeed? But very few address the parental experience. Obviously, I tend to focus on the latter. But this entire book is devoted to and features parents. It’s a collection of essays from the parents’ point-of-view but it also gives input from various professionals with their perspective. It’s an interesting concept and I thought it would be perfect for me.

The irony? I couldn’t read it. It hits too close to home. I write a column talking about our experiences raising a special needs child, yet I can’t bring myself to read others. I was taking a break sitting at work and thought I’d spent some time reading. The first thing I did was to turn to the section of the person who referred me to the book. She’s one of the professionals who contributed. It was cool to read words in a published book by someone I know. Then I started back at the beginning.

The first essay was about a mother trying to give her son some simple instructions and his inability to follow them. Not because he was defiant, but because it just wasn’t processing.

I cried. I got a few paragraphs in and had to stop. We have so been there! Sometimes trying to talk to Monkey Man is like trying to talk to a brick wall. Is he paying attention? Is he ignoring us on purpose? Is he just distracted by what’s on TV or the book he’s reading or the car he’s playing with? The author writes about having to put her hands on her son’s shoulders and look into his eyes to get his attention. And all the times I’ve had to do that while saying, “Look at me, buddy. Hey, look here. Look. Look at me!” just came flooding in. As the author writes, it’s never said out of anger. It’s just a necessity sometimes if we want him to hear what we’re trying to tell him.

And so I cried. I had to put the book down. I know other essays would have been different – some poignant, some frustrating, some funny, all relevant. But I’d started and stopped twice and couldn’t bring myself to try it a third time.

Selfishness or irony? You tell me. I’m sure I’ll get to the point where I’ll be able to read about it, not just talk about it. But that time is not now. I Just. Can’t. Do it.

When will I? Why can’t I? Who knows? Is it because I still don’t consider my boy to be “special needs” and feel a tad guilty using the label when reading other stories? Is it because it truly IS our life? I just don’t know. Hopefully, it’ll change soon because living irony, not just talking about irony, is irony in and of itself.

The Siblings that Play Together, Stay Together

 

My children are insane.

They are currently playing a game where they take turns jumping on pillows then vaulting themselves over the side and onto the sofa. This is apparently EXTREMELY fun and exciting. They’ve been doing this non-stop for at least 15 minutes now. Perhaps it will wear them down for bedtime.

It made me realize that kids can turn pretty much anything into a game. My daughter was rather cross with me when I made her turn off the tv after dinner. I’ll be the first to admit that I probably let them watch way too much tv. But as a television lover myself, it runs in the family. She was very upset when – heaven forbid – I told her to turn off the tv which meant she couldn’t watch the end of some random show on PBS Kids that she’d never seen before so really didn’t even know what it was about. I got the “but I want to watch the end of the shoooooowwww!” whine, followed by the fake tears, followed by (apparently) acceptance as she started reading a book. And now they are playing this glorious game that does not have a name but is clearly the coolest thing they’ve ever done in the History of Ever.

I realize that if they keep going one of them will probably get hurt. I am sitting right here and supervising. Sort of. But then I think back to the best games we played when I was a kid. I’m sure my parents will be horrified to read about some of the things we used to do, unless they already know (which is probable).

We would pile all the pillows at the bottom of the stairs and see what was the highest step we could jump from and land without injury. This is scary in and of itself but to make matters worse, there was a bizarre overhang just above our stairs that added an extra layer of danger and excitement. Good times.

Then we had the obligatory “let’s see what we can use to slide down the stairs”. We tried cardboard boxes, pillows (we weren’t exactly geniuses), and of course the laundry basket.

And we had our own sofa games. If I remember correctly ours also involved jumping over the arm of the sofa and seeing what gymnastic feats we could perform before landing.

So I would feel slightly hypocritical if I fussed at the children for being children and enjoying their game. A part of me wants to play with them. But mostly I think I’ll just sit here and enjoy listening to their laughter and smiling that they still enjoy playing together so much.

Big Sister is the New Mommy

(Originally published Feb 14, 2012)

You know how they say “40 is the new 20”? Well, in this house, apparently Big Sister is the new Mommy.

There’s a reason I use the nickname Princess for our daughter (written in my very first article. Ah, memories.) She is Princess Bossy McBossypants. She is the leader. She is the mother hen. She is The Big Sister.

For any activity the kids do together she takes the lead. Hide and Seek? She tells them the rules and when to start. Playing Wii? She decides who takes what turn. Board games? It’s always, “Mommy, can I go first?” (At least she asks, right?)

When she was younger, she wanted to play a game of Princess checkers. It’s just like real checkers only, you know, with princesses. Cinderella and Aurora, to be exact. She said to me, “Mommy, which princess do you want to be? Don’t say Aurora because I’m going to be her.” So basically my choices were Cinderella and…..okay, then. I was Cinderella.

But it’s not all bossiness. She is also the nurturer. If one of the boys is hurt or upset, she’s often first on the scene to console and ask what’s wrong. I always laugh a little when I hear her say, “awww….it’s okay. Come to your big sister.”  Unless it’s because of her that they’re upset. That’s a different story.

Last year she was nominated for a Character Trait award at school. In our school system, each month has a different Character Trait that’s the focus for the month (respect, responsibility, and honesty are just a few examples). The month’s trait was Caring and her teacher felt that she just goes above and beyond in caring for her classmates and her teachers. She’s always bringing in cards for her friends, talking about when it’s someone’s birthday, and empathizing with others. So it’s not just at home. She’s the nurturer everywhere she goes.

But it does beg the question: Who decides the rules when they play games at recess? My money’s on Princess.

Here at home, I know she’ll always be looking out for her brothers because she’s the Big Sister. It’s not a requirement for her. It’s just what she does because she loves them and they love her. And I am so proud at what a great big sister she’s become.

Magnet Mommy

(Originally published Feb 7 ,2012)

 

I work full-time and, aside from maternity leave (x3) and a (not so) brief stint in unemployment, I’ve worked since the kids were born. Yes, I enjoy getting out of the house and the fact that I regularly get to have actual adult conversations. But at the same time, I miss my children terribly all day, every day. It’s no secret that I’m sometimes jealous that my husband is the one who’s the stay-at-home parent. But at the same time, during my unemployment I learned that I’d go insane if I was to stay-at-home. I have this mental conflict on a daily basis and I’m not gonna lie. A lot of times it weighs on my heart.

It’s especially difficult on those days when the children clearly miss me, too. When I get home from work, there is often one, two, or even all three of them at the door to the garage, just waiting for me to pull in and turn of the car so they can charge in and yell “MOMMMMYYYYYYYY!!” They hear the outside garage door open and that’s their cue to run to the door and wait. There are times when an overexcited Monkey Man will try entering the garage before the car has come to a full and complete stop. GAH!!! But, thankfully, that’s rare.

When I get home from work – and especially on my days off, we experience Magnet Mommy. It’s usually the boys, but it’s mostly Monkey Man. If I’m sitting, he’s sitting on me. If I go upstairs, he goes with me. If I go into the bathroom….well, you get the idea. He’s like a little baby duckling.

It can be ugly when Bubs gets involved. They fight over Mommy-time. Or Bubs will insist that I’m the only one who can do things for him.  Whining and crying ensues if, heaven forbid, Grandma Sue tries to get him milk or a snack.

Then there’s bedtime. It’s relatively recent, but Monkey Man has started being very upset if I’m not home in time for bed. He cries, asking “Where’s Mommy?”

I love going to Mom’s Night Out events, but I don’t do it often. In part it’s because I haven’t seen my kids all day. I get home an hour before their bedtime. Since my husband is the one who gets up with them and puts them on the school bus, technically I haven’t seen them since the night before. But Monkey Man’s new reaction to my absence makes it that much more difficult to justify.

If they ask me to stay late at work, I often have to say no because I don’t want to cause bedtime drama. Oddly enough, it’s different if he knows I won’t be home. If I know I’m going out, or I’ll be working late, and we let him know in the morning, he’s fine at bedtime. Most of the time, anyway. But if he’s expecting me to be there and I’m not, it’s not pretty.

Recently, I posted this on Facebook:

It was so sweet. Not to get all mushy or anything but it’s times like this that I think my chest may burst with the love I have for these children. They are my world. I hate that I have to leave them during the day, but it makes the time we do have together that much sweeter.

Ghost Whoin’ the What-now?

“Ghost-Ridin’ the Whip.” Yes, this is a thing. I was challenged by someone at work to write an article on this bizarre yet fascinating phenomenon.

Challenge Accepted.

How does this relate to parenting, you ask? Just wait. I’ll get there.

Ghost-Ridin’ the Whip is a term for putting your car in gear and letting it coast down the road, parking lot, or wherever, while you and your friends step out of the vehicle to have yourselves a little dance party. It’s like making your own parade! Only, you know, TOTALLY NOT SAFE. Who on earth first thought this was a good idea?? I’m guessing teenagers. Or that guy who invented the game where you all run around the car like crazy people at a traffic light. Although, admittedly, that can be fun. (I mean could. COULD be fun. Because I’d never do anything like that as an adult. *ahem*)

Before today the only Ghost Rider I’d ever heard of was the one from the comics and the movie starring Nicolas Cage, because I am a nerd. (Although my nerdy self is slightly embarrassed that I know Ghost Rider from the movie, not the comics.)

Ghost-Ridin’ is not new. It’s been around since at least 2006. And that shows how in-the-know I am, doesn’t it? It appears to have started in the San Francisco Bay area. It even has its own theme song! Here’s the video.

This is magnificent. They sampled Ghostbusters. Normally I’d be annoyed since I hate sampling. But in this case, it totally works. It makes it better, actually. Especially since they’re dancing in the Ectomobile and that makes me LOL.

This video shows what NOT to do. At first it’s all good. Their ensembles are a little weird but this whole thing is bizarre so whatever. My fabulous friend even said, “I don’t know where the fail is. So far this is all winning.” And that made me laugh. But start the clip at about 1:29 and wait for it…..waaaait for it……..

There it is. I’ll bet that hurt.

And now we know how this relates to parenting. Parents, don’t ever, EVER let your kids do this. Ever. In the history of ever. Never.

Until they go to college. Or they get to be Grandmas and Grandpas.