How to Watch the News and be a Happy Mom

“I read the news today, oh boy…”

For most of my life, I have believed that sadness is deeper than joy. That crying is good, some kind of holy state, closer to the truth about the world. “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” may have been part of the soundtrack of my youth, but the soundtrack of my brain was more, “Don’t Worry, Be Stupid.”

I worried a lot. My angst over tragedies half a world away may never have done one ounce of good for those suffering. And my suffering often drained me of any energy to do something about it theirs. I thought I was holding them in my heart, the way some people pray. It was unthinkable not to think about the suffering of other people, and my own suffering felt like an alliance. No one is free unless we are all free.

And then I had kids.

The single most surprising thing about my children has been that they are not these melancholy, mellow little things. I had always been described that way and that’s what I thought would come out of my body. Instead, both of my babies absolutely hummed with happy. They seemed full of a deep kind of joy that burst forth the moment they entered the world. They are ridiculously happy.

To be with them, really with them, can be very liberating. To forget the world, to feel free of it. To feel free of terror, of war… But it’s only by dumb luck that I am on this side of the world and not one of those fighting or fleeing.

Weeks like this—when the political moment is so drenched with hatred and suffering and hopelessness—are both harder and easier for me as a mom. On the one hand, I want to read and watch and listen to all of the news I can ingest, to be my old self and pay attention to things that need attention paid to them. Kids distract from that kind of immersion, which can really feel like the right place to be.

On the other hand, I could follow them out of this dark cloud. I could tune it all out. There are so many people who refuse to watch, who think paying attention to the news is nothing but crazy making.

Before I had kids, I was so serious. To have fun, to be happy, to feel like I belonged in the place I was, to leave my mind and be in my own body, felt like a betrayal. Like I was looking away when there was so much happening that needed a witness. That’s not a place you can live all the time, staying with the suffering. So imagine how many times I failed myself. The guilt I felt for just being a person in the world where I was born could be overwhelming.

Whatever time I spent with people living their lives like they belonged to them, like they had a right to be happy, I always found my way back to sad. The world crashed in on me all the time. All I needed to do was watch the news, and I did. I wanted to pay attention. I wanted to live with eyes wide open.

All of the truth felt like it lived in this place of suffering. Bliss was ignorance. There is simply so much wrong with the world. All the time. It never ends—war, starvation, rape, poverty, homelessness, death. All the time. That was the true thing. Not to think about it was a betrayal. I couldn’t bear to feel like there was someone hurting somewhere and I wasn’t feeling some part of their pain.

But then, there are my children. Dancing and laughing and spreading their joy all over the place. Right in front of me. And it was just as real, just as true.

As a mother, I felt that same kind of disrespect I used to feel in a whole new way. To ignore the happiness right in front of me, hanging onto some kind of depression or anxiety about something happening to someone else, felt just as disrespectful. Like I was ignoring my children or trivializing their existence.

I realize it may sound insane. But it’s a revelation for me. This simple thing—being able to hold these two different things at the same time and to feel that they are equally true—is what I have learned from being a mother.

Paying attention to suffering is not a better way to be in this world than paying attention to the happiness that is also all around me.

The joy of children is just as true as anything on CNN.

Of course, children are certainly not the only innocent, beautiful thing in the world. And my children are not pure joy, all day, every day. And most importantly, they are not responsible for my happiness. I can’t hug them close and say, “Mommy really needs your help feeling better today.” I would never want to drain them just to fill some kind of emptiness in me.

But their existence is a huge help. When I watch them, I am grounded. They are just as real and true as anything else. What a surprise. It’s not something I expected from motherhood.

Joy is no less real and true and important than sadness. I still think the sadness I feel when I read the news has something important to tell me. There are people who need our help. I need to help them. I need to do something. But then I need to open up to the rest of the world, the beautiful parts that aren’t suffering, and be as happy as I can manage. To be the world I want to see.

Because bliss is not always ignorance. Sometimes bliss is just bliss.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

My Stay-at-Home Kid

Yesterday I was driving in the car with my son, who was feeling particularly chatty since his sister wasn’t there to fill the air with her persistent little voice. He was telling me that he wished his dad didn't have to go to work and his sister didn't have to go to school and he didn't have to go to school.

Me too, buddy. Well, at least sometimes. When he didn't say anything about me, I asked "But how would mommy have time to write?" And then back to him, “What about your friends? And your teachers? Wouldn’t you miss them?”

When I was home with my daughter, we got out of the house almost every day. I thought it was me. I thought actually staying at home drove me crazy. I thought people who spent most days at home with their kids were crazy.

One parent tried to explain to me that it was his kids that were crazy—anytime he went anywhere with them. They were just easier at home. I didn’t get it.

When my daughter was fussy at home, all I had to do to change the mood was to leave the house.  My son, on the other hand, loves to be at home. Being out with him is almost always hard. So, all of a sudden, being at home seems like the answer to every problem.

For me, the best part of being a mom at home with kids is being able to make that choice. To go when we want to go and stay when we want to stay. That’s the thing that makes it worth the work. It’s a good choice for me because I feel lucky when I can give them what they need--whether that’s more or less of the world.

I never thought I would be a stay-at-home mom. I had a very specific, retrospectively mockable plan. I thought I would go to college, graduate and travel the world for a few years. I’d see what needed to be seen, and then return home to settle down and have babies. I figured I’d be about 25. I wanted to be a young mom, but not quite as young as my mom, who was 21 when I was born. I never thought I would get married because my parents weren't. I’d be in love, like they were, but marriage wasn’t a part of that vision.

And I assumed I’d work when I had kids. In the 80s, it seemed like a throwback to do anything else. No one was staying home with kids anymore, or so it seemed.

Except: my very own mother was a stay-at-home mom. But I never thought of her that way. It may sound crazy, but it didn’t occur to me that I was raised by a stay-at-home mom until I was pregnant with my first baby.  

My mom was always busy. I didn’t know that she wasn’t paid for the volunteer work she did, or the work she did with my dad in his business. And it never struck me as odd that she always had us in tow. That’s just how it was.

My kids don’t know that I don’t get paid for the volunteer work I do. Or most of the writing I do. Obviously, they know that I’m around during the day and their daddy isn’t. But I don’t know how clear it is to them that I’ve made this choice to “not work.” This “not working” that looks different for every woman.

I remember my mom officially going back to work, seeing her in a suit for the first time. I remember her having an interview and not getting a job, and then getting a job. Mostly what her job meant was a sudden inflexibility. She was there for a year or two. And she left for a reason that a lot of women will understand—to be a caregiver. My sister, then 14, was sick in the hospital for months and my mom wanted to be there with her every day. Jobs don’t work like that. At least not most of them.

It was 1993, the year President Clinton signed the Family and Medical Leave Act. That law was a giant leap forward, but like many workers, my mom wouldn’t have benefitted from it anyway, working for a small nonprofit. Still more work to do on that front!

Ultimately, she chose to devote her time to working with my dad, something she’d always done to some extent, and formalized her role in the business they still run together. They work incredibly hard, but they make their own flexibility. Like when my grandmother was dying and my mom again took time to be a caregiver first and foremost.

After donning my own suit and getting a job of my own, I lasted about a year. It was hard for my family, especially my son, having only known a world with a parent at home. My daughter would be in aftercare every day if she could, but my son cried every morning and every night. I was lucky to be able to choose to step back again, to give that flexibility back to them, at least for another year, at least until my son is in kindergarten.

When my siblings and I were little, when my mom was at home with us, she used to grant us occasional “mental health days.” When we were feeling overwhelmed with school or with the world, she would let us stay home. Give us a day to recharge. Like a sick day for your brain.

I don’t know anyone who doesn’t need occasional “mental health days.” If they’re lucky, people have the kind of job where they can take the occasional fake sick day. That’s the best we can do.

More people don’t have that kind of luxury. Except it’s not a luxury, it’s a necessity. A necessity that many people don’t know.

I’m grateful that my kids do. Especially my stay-at-home kid.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

Helicopter Parenting 101

“I am a helicopter parent,” said no parent, ever.

Call me crazy, but I just think that for something to exist in real life, someone somewhere has to claim it. Of course, things can exist online and in print as mere insults lobbed at straw-men (or straw-women) and they often do.

Making that claim, that “helicopter parent” is a non-phenomenon, of course, makes me worried that I must be one. All the signs are there—

1.      I’m a stay-at-home mom. I mean, I can’t even leave my kids to go out and get a real job. Full-time job? Helicopter!

2.      I love my kids. Admitting that? Totally uncool. Totally something a helicopter parent would do.

3.      I worry about my kids. Set aside the fact that I worry about everything. Oh dear god, am I a helicopter person? Ah!

4.      At the pool or at the beach, I have trouble reading. I have this terrible nagging feeling if I’ve lost sight of my kids. I mean, one can’t swim and the other has just learned, but seriously? If I can’t just toss them in, sink or swim, there must be something wrong with me.

5.      I give my kids band-aids like they’re stickers. Doesn’t matter if there’s no blood. If there are tears, out come the band-aids to make it better! Even the overpriced kids cartoon ones ring in at something like 10 cents a pop. In my helicoptering brain, that’s a small price to pay for no tears.

6.      I give my kids stickers like they’re nothing. Forget giving stickers for good behavior, they have no cache in my house. We’ve got a drawer full with free access, that ship has sailed.

7.      I attend teacher conferences. I even ask questions. Whir, whir, whir…

8.      I show up at dance recitals, soccer practices, lame manufactured random school events. I try to make all of them, if I can. Hover much, helicopter?

9.      At the playground, it’s best if I just don’t look.

10.   They’re 4 and 7 and have never been on a neighborhood adventure all on their own. Case closed.

Is there a license to be a helicopter parent? I’d better apply A.S.A.P. I’ve always felt like there should be some kind of test you should have to pass to get this parenting gig—maybe this is what I’m waiting for! 

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

The Stacked Deck of Motherhood

I have long believed that the whole game of pregnancy, childbirth and parenting holds at least one bad card for all women. For some, getting pregnant is the hard part. Other women have traumatic childbirth experiences that require years of recovery. And there are those for who pregnancy is a breeze, birth is nothing complicated, but parenting doesn’t come so easily. I have yet to meet even one woman who hasn’t struggled somewhere along the way.

When you struggle in the early stages—with getting pregnant, with staying pregnant, with a difficult pregnancy or a difficult childbirth or with breastfeeding or a difficult newborn—it’s hard not to see it as a sign of something. That you shouldn’t be a mom. That you’re a bad mom. That motherhood doesn’t come easy to you.

I’ve held my fair share of bad cards.

I have two kids, but have been pregnant four times. My first was at 19 and ended with an abortion. Even as an ardent pro-choice woman, that decision still colored me, felt like a failing.  I had thought of abortion as something fine for other people, but not something for me. Until I was there.

It wasn’t until many years later, when I wanted to be pregnant, that I realized how much meaning I had assigned my earlier experience. All of a sudden, it was a punishment well-deserved (so I harshly thought to myself) that I didn’t get pregnant the moment the intention popped into my head. In retrospect, it didn’t take long. But for those few months of “trying” (a euphemism if ever there was one), I was worried. Worried that I missed my chance, that I wouldn’t get a second one.

When my second conception ended in a ruptured ectopic pregnancy, that feeling deepened. I was being punished. I wasn’t meant to be a mother. There was something wrong with my body. That experience, complete with the loss of a third of my body’s blood, surgery and a complicated healing process, left me scarred. The scar on my body was deep and made it look like I’ve had a c-section.

The internal scars were more painful, and that awful feeling was deepened by the mystery about when or whether I would ever get pregnant again. The months between my second and third conceptions were sad. It was hard to be around anyone that reminded me of pregnancy or babies or moms.

The third time around, I was much luckier.

That pregnancy brought me my daughter. While pregnancy was fraught with things that felt worth complaining about at the time, it turned out that all of it was a “normal” part of the process. A happy pregnancy in retrospect, even if it felt awkward to live through.

My labor, though, wasn’t normal. It was a 4-day prodromal affair, a possibility I’d hardly paid attention to in my childbirth class. Kind of like the possibility of the ectopic pregnancy before it.

Again, I saw myself as someone who drew hard cards.

Motherhood had a way of easing me out of the feeling that I was being followed by a dark cloud, even as it had plenty of storms of its own.

But I finally felt lucky. I’d made it to motherhood. From early days, my daughter was easy—smart, beautiful, healthy, happier than I could even understand, a pure blessing. Being a mom was hard, but she was easy. Luck of the draw.

Then we gambled again. My second full-term pregnancy wasn’t nearly as cute as the first one. All those “normal” symptoms were even less fun that time around. But I made it through and wound up with a second birth that made me feel strong and capable and blessed. Another lucky card.

And then came nursing. With my second baby, I got mastitis five times before I gave up nursing. I also suffered some pretty terrible postpartum depression and anxiety. Quitting breastfeeding to return to the antidepressants I needed was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

When I was agonizing over the choice to stop nursing, I felt so judged. I’d nursed my first baby a few months beyond the one-year ideal. And I made it to nine months the second time around—farther than a lot of women can manage. I should have been happy, but it wasn’t my timetable. I was failing in my own mind, and again, my body was failing me. Failing to be able to do this womanly thing it was meant to do. I wasn’t strong enough to give my second child what I gave my first.

With all of that weighing down, I sent an email to our local parenting list-serv about my struggle to stop nursing. I live in a crunchy, hippy kind of town, where midwives and La Leche League rule the roost. I thought I would be attacked from all sides and encouraged to nurse through anything, no matter the cost to me. I secretly wanted to be told to keep nursing, so my contrarian self could somehow feel vindicated in quitting.

Instead, I got nothing but support. Dozens of emails encouraged me to do what was best for me, congratulated me for what I’d already done, sympathized with my struggle with mastitis, empathized with the guilt and the feelings of failure. Not one person told me to keep nursing through the pain—both physical and emotional. Not one woman said the slightest thing to make me feel bad about my body or what it was capable of doing. Not one.

I can’t explain how meaningful their camaraderie was to me.

Those early years of failed pregnancy, pregnancy and mothering of infants felt so fragile. I was so quick to think: Is there something wrong with me as a woman that I can’t do this pregnancy thing easily? Does the fact that I can’t keep nursing mean that I am less of a woman? Some kind of weaker mother?

Looking back now, I think: Those were my cards. That was the hand I was dealt.

Everyone holds different cards and no one has a perfect hand. Just because we can’t see that someone else has struggled—with fertility, with pregnancy, with depression, with nursing… with motherhood—doesn’t mean they’re winning some game we are losing. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. It’s just not easy. At least, all of it isn’t easy. Not for anyone.

Motherhood is a stacked deck. We’re dealt the hand we’re dealt. I think it helps to think that every woman around has had at least one bad card, something she would discard is she could. And we all have our best card, too. Something to hold on to, to build a hand around.

The best part is—we get to discard what doesn’t serve us well. And we get new cards all the time.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

Ten Things Moms Should Be Able to Put on Their Resumes

When I dusted off my resume last year, with the daunting task of updating it with “what I’ve done” during my stay-at-home-mom years, someone said to me, “Just don’t put ‘Mom’ on your resume.” At first, I was horribly insulted. What kind of a lame person did he think I was to consider such a thing? Then I was insulted again! I have learned so much as a mom and—despite the fact that it has made me a much better person to employ—none of it will ever get any respect from anyone in charge of hiring anywhere. It’s the hardest job (that we know!), but it also teaches you more about working hard and fast and smart. More than any other job I’ve ever held.

Since I’ll never actually put any of my many mom skills on an actual back-to-paid-work resume, I’ll share here the list of “skills” I wish I could include:

1.      Strategic Planning—Quiz: Your husband is putting the baby down for nap, do you finally take that shower you’ve been planning for days? No! It’s quiet—type now, shower when naptime is over.

2.      Executive Function—Apparently, I am in charge.

3.      Prioritization & Decision Making—I have never made so many decisions in my life. And whenever my careful planning is met with resistance (all day long), I ask myself, “Does this really need to happen? Is this really important?” What if no one gets a bath tonight? What if my sick kid only eats ice cream today? Would I rather get groceries with two kids today or spend my alone time with a shopping cart this weekend?

4.      Building Strategic Networks—Hopefully, we can all agree that It-Takes-a-Village, but… How do you find your village? No one does it for you!

5.      Change Management—If you’re going through a tough time, rest assured it will pass. Things looking nice and calm and steady? This too shall pass. Change is the only sure thing.

6.      Community & Stakeholder Engagement—If you can make doing laundry and errands sound exciting to a toddler, you can get anyone on board for anything.

7.      Risk Management— This one may be the most important skill a parent can learn and is a particularly hard one for me. I know I need to give them enough space to make mistakes, to get hurt, but knowing when they’re ready and making sure they have everything they need to succeed… Not easy to know when to let go of the back of the bike, but these are everyday decisions for parents.

8.      Relationship Management—You can’t call a big meeting and take care of everyone at once. It’s all about one-on-one contact. With your kids. Individually. With your spouse. Alone, outside of the home. Yourself. Alone, at home. Not to mention friends, co-workers, extended family. You’re going to need a calendar.

9.      Flexibility—Not talking yoga here, though that helps with all kinds of flexibility. Not one single plan ever goes the way you actually plan, but you know how to bend yourself into a pretzel to make it work for everyone.

10.   Accountability—Ain’t no one else to blame (or claim credit). 

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

Why We Parent the Hard Way

Our local parent ed organization has the slogan, “Take a class . . . because loving your child is instinctive, but parenting is learned.”

It seems to me that you don’t have to read very deeply to come across an article or even a whole book decrying the amount of thought people put into parenting these days. The basic idea behind the complaint is that people have been parenting for ages and not thinking about it, so we're doing it wrong if we dwell.

Truth is, the world is a pretty f'ed up place full of unreflective parents who think their kids will be fine no matter what they do. Abuse is far too common and horrifying and makes all of our lives a worse place to live. And yelling constantly at your kids, and thinking they'll be fine as long as you also hug them when it's over, is walking through the world not paying attention to how you impact those around you. There are plenty of people like that. I think they could do with a little more self-reflection.

When people talk about the good old days when people didn’t think about parenting, I think about how much the family structure has changed since then. It’s not so long ago that the family was a vertical chain of command, with husbands on top, wives below and children at rock bottom. That’s just not how we do it anymore. And the logic that put men on top and kids at the bottom was a pretty ugly philosophy that had broad reaching ugly consequences.

Parenting through fear, back when people put less thought into being a parent, was not the good old days. People unapologetically taking out their frustration on children was not the good old days. There is less acceptance of child abuse of all sorts today, and we are all better for it. From the impact on an individual abused child to the impact such violence has on society as a whole, we are better for it.

Studies have shown that—while child abuse continues to be an intractable problem we need to face together as parent communities—it is on a downward trend that can’t be explained away by any single factor. We are simply less tolerant of violence toward children than previous generations.

Domestic violence of all sorts is no longer a joke you can make in advertising, which has actually been true in the past. Spanking is still a highly charged debate that ignites from time to time, but I think there is less social acceptance of that, too. Just imagine watching someone spank a child in public. Not a lot of people will be standing by thinking, “Yup, that’s what we do with kids who step out of line.”

From yelling to spanking to ongoing verbal and physical and sexual abuse, the idea of a husband or a mother ruling their household by threatened or actual violence is no longer acceptable in our society. I'm sure there was something "easier" about scaring your kids—and probably your wife, too—into "behaving." Children afraid of physical and emotional violence may be easier to keep in line than children who need to be spoken to and reasoned with and convinced to cooperate.

Anyone in the current grandparent generation will tell you that the way we parent is a lot harder than it used to be. Parent wasn’t even a verb back then. Children were seen and not heard.

We do put more thought into it and do make it harder for ourselves. I think we do things the harder way—we have time-outs that don’t always work, time-ins where we’re not quite sure we’re saying the right thing, we bribe inconsistently, we try to talk it out, we have consequences. And I think the hard way, rocky road as it is, is a better way.

We work our butts off trying to do the right thing. Trying to be good parents. Trying not to yell. And sometimes, I can admit, when we are at the absolute end of our ropes, even trying not to spank or shove or grab with hands that are too strong and too tight. But we work hard to build up our parenting toolbox with all kinds of tricks so we don’t go to that bad place. And mostly, the place where we fail is with yelling. And we continue to work on that.

To build up this toolbox, of tools to pull out when things aren’t going right, you have to talk about parenting. Hitting when you’re mad is instinct. Yelling at your kids comes easily. Learning how to be a better parent? That requires thought.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.

Dry Cleaning, Car Seats & Other Reasons I Yell At My Kids

Do you yell at your kids? Apparently, we all do. From toddlers to teenagers, the number one complaint our kids have about our parenting is that we yell too much (according to studies I read about in All Joy and No Fun).

When I started writing this blog post, I couldn’t think of any fresh anecdotes about yelling. Well, all it took was picking up the kids from school and trying to drop off dry cleaning for that no longer to be true. (Oh, how I hate dropping off dry cleaning! So thankless! Such a high ratio of buckling and unbuckling to length of errand!)

There we were, the three of us, trying to cross the street to the cleaners, when a driver stopped to let us pass. This, my son decided, was just the time to pause in the middle of the road for the sole purpose of biting his sister. Apparently, she’d committed the crime of not wanting to hold his hand. Punishment: one bite. So, as the patient driver looked on, I yelled. Expletives were involved. I’m sure it was ugly to watch.

It happens. I hate to admit that I yell, but I also know that this isn’t the sort of shocking confession for which anyone is likely to be criticized. No one’s throwing stones at glass houses on that one. But I still think it’s important that I hate to say it and that I really do hate that I do it. Even if we all do it.

When we stop feeling bad about those times when we really, really yell at our kids, we open the door a little too much to social acceptance of yelling at children. And on the other side of that door is a place I'd rather not live with my kids.

I share this because I think it's important to share what a normal bad parenting day looks and feels like. So, I do think we should talk about yelling—why we yell, when we yell, what we do that works to stop the yelling.

It’s important to talk about this, because there’s yelling, and then there’s yelling. If we don’t talk out loud about the kind of yelling that is human imperfection, we risk it being equated with the kind of yelling that is as damaging as physical abuse. And I think there is a distinction—a know-it-when-you-see-it difference.

There is a huge difference between occasional, bad day yelling and unapologetic, unreflective, constant yelling. It’s the feeling bad about it and the trying to do better that is the difference. It’s the ability to learn from a bad day so you can have more good days that makes the difference. It’s finding more patience and more love so that, when your kids behave in age-appropriate but not situationally-appropriate ways, you can set boundaries and be their teacher.

There’s one scene I picture in my mind whenever I think of yelling at my kids. Putting my kids in their car seats. Some days I put my son in his car seat and I’m sweet with him, maybe even give him a kiss. And other days, going through the exact same motions, I’m putting him in his car seat and yelling at him, “Get in your seat! You’re not paying attention! Focus! Where’s the strap? This shouldn’t take so long!” I think it must seem so crazy to him, how sometimes he gets yelled at and sometimes he gets kissed.

He doesn’t know how crazy being late makes me feel. But I do. And I need it not to be a reason I yell at my kids. That and dry cleaning. 

PS. If you feel like you yell too much, you definitely need to know about the Orange Rhino lady.  She has said more smart things about yelling that I ever could.

IF YOU LIKE this article, don't forget to like me on Facebook or follow me onTwitter to see future blogs from Crazy Like a Mom.