Category: Parenting

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My Mama Martyr Moment

Have you ever had one of those moments where you’re acting like a complete and total martyr and are powerless to stop yourself?  You know what I mean — the mother martry — the worst kind.  I shudder at the thought, but I think all us moms have them at times.  I think it’s best to acknowledge them, atone for our mothering sins, then move the hell on.  “Hi, my name is Mary Tyler Mom and sometimes I can be a martyr.”  HI, MARY TYLER MOM!

Today is America’s 237th birthday.  I love the 4th of July and most everything closely associated with it — parades, fireworks, hot dogs, stars and stripes, patriotism, carnival rides, cakes over decorated with blueberries and strawberries, the boom from your neighbor’s illegal fireworks late into the night.  I love it all, every last piece of it.

This year we are celebrating with my in-laws in their smallish New England town.  The morning was spent on the town commons, which even sounds New Englandish.  All the kids are encouraged to decorate their preferred mode of transport: tricycles, scooters, bikes, wagons, etc, and scoot or pedal around the town commons while looking exceptionally adorable in their red, white and blue.  There is so much to love in this simple, local celebration.

A couple of days ago we stopped at a craft store to pick up some supplies — ribbon, garland, flags.  The basics.  $12 in and we had everything we needed to trick out Mary Tyler’s Son’s borrowed scooter, USA style.  This morning we woke and as a family decorated the hell out of that scooter.  What a thing of shining beauty.  Mary Tyler Son was beaming and bouncing on the sofa. He loved his tarted up scooter.  I did, too.  I was proud that with 45 minutes of effort, Mary Tyler Son would surely be admired as he scooted around that commons.  That’s my boy!

BEHOLD! Throw me a bone and admire my scooter, will ya?
BEHOLD! Throw me a bone and admire my scooter, will ya?

We headed out to the commons, a little late, but no worries.  I carefully put that beautifully decorated patriotic scooter gently in the trunk and off we went.  As we were walking towards the line-up, Mary Tyler Son tugged at my hand, “I’m tired,” he said, with more than a tinge of whine.  Uh oh.  I know full well what “I’m tired” means.  It’s code for, “Hell no, Mom, I am not gonna do that thing you want me to do, that I was so excited to do up until one minute ago, no freaking way.  I am OUT.”  Dammit.  Seriously.  Damn.  It.

Ugh.  And sure enough I took the bait.  Rather than just let it be, scoop up my tired and overwhelmed four year old, I opted to take the bait.  Ugh.  I dropped down to his level and eye to eye said in my authoritative, “I mean business, little man” tone, warned him to get it together.  That we would, indeed, be walking three times around the commons and that he would, indeed, like it.  Ha!  Joke’s on me.  Mary Tyler Son was done.  Finished.  It was too hot and too crowded and too unfamiliar for him.  He knew it, I didn’t.

Rather than be in the moment and simply enjoy the other little kids and families walking around and waving their flags, I stewed.  It is never fun to stew, but it is especially not fun to stew in 92% humidity.  Throw in a few pouts and there you have it — my moment of mama martyrdom.

Wah, I thought to myself.  I decorated that scooter so damn cute, way cuter than that other scooter over there, and now no one is going to even see it. Wah, wah, wah.  And my boy is such a punk, surely he’s doing this just to spite me.  What a brat.  Wah.  And why does no one love a holiday like I do? Why can’t we just do one thing together without a hassle?  Wah, wah, wah.

Poor mama.  I knew what I was doing.  Mary Tyler Dad did, too.  Ugh, and I am not proud of myself.  Just like I wanted Mary Tyler Son to get it together, I knew I had to get it together, too, and quick.  And a few minutes later I did.  I stopped pouting and martyring myself over $12 of ribbon wrapped (albeit adorably) around a borrowed scooter.  I got it together and moved on.  Mary Tyler Dad graciously gave me the space I needed and tended to the boy while I did.  Teamwork, yo.

My point is that we’re all gonna feel like martyrs at times, right?  It happens. But get over yourself, mama, and move the hell on.  Stew away and resent away and pout away, for a moment or two, and then let it go.  Let.  It.  Go. Feel the feelings and then move on.  Life is too short and parades move too fast to dwell on what is wrong rather than what is right.  Because so much is often right.

The sun was shining, the kids were beaming, the old ladies were waving their flags.  Despite not walking around the commons with strangers admiring my Pinterest worthy decorated scooter, life was very, very good this morning. This afternoon, too.  Happy birthday, America!  Be safe and don’t wallow.

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When Friendship Blooms

There is something really beautiful about seeing your child develop into a little human, separate and apart from you.  As Mary Tyler Son wraps up his first year of pre-school, we roll into a summer of Camp Mom, and nearing Donna’s 8th would be/should be birthday next month, I find myself a little reflective, a lot grateful.

This past year I have watched my boy negotiate and enjoy his first friendships.  What a gift.  All of me is fascinated by this, part of me is surprised, and part of me already hurts for the inevitable troubles that are a part of friendships that Mary Tyler Son will discover soon enough.

I have these visceral memories of walking my boy into school.  On the way to the school doors, we would pass the pre-school playground.  It was a good day if some of the other boys spied Mary Tyler Son.  They would run, screaming, to the fence, shouting his name, faces full of smiles.  My boy would beam when this happened.  BEAM.  Who wouldn’t, really?  On the days the boys were across the playground or too busy to see him, my boy would walk even more quickly, eager to join them.

Two of those boys have become good friends, first friends, really, to my son.  And though both boys are older and will be on to kindergarten next year, I have politely informed their parents that they are stuck with us.  I want to nourish these friendships, I want to help them grow.  I know new friends will be found next year and other friends will come and go through life, but something about watching these first seeds of friendship bloom for my boy makes my heart burst, it is so full.

It could be that Donna never made it to the stage of friendship.  She had playmates, sure, but playmates are different than friends.  It could be that watching my boy is leading me to recall my own first friendships and makes me wistful.  It could be that the addition of friends is another whole circle of influence, expanding Mary Tyler Son’s world past the walls of our home.

Sigh.

Yesterday I picked up the boy from Lego camp — a week sponsored by the local park district that involves a bunch of kids playing with tubs of Legos then running to the nearby playground before running back to the Legos.  Unstructured and the boy is loving it.  It is a perfect and cheap summer distraction.  He is in the camp because of one of his school friends who told us about it.  Mary Tyler Son is obsessed with Legos, so it was an easy decision.

When I got there yesterday, nearing the end of a long and stressful day involving conference calls and hospital time and too many unknowns, there was my boy, running towards me full throttle, arms outstretched, shouting about what a great day he had had.  “Can we go get ice cream with L?”  Yes.  Yes, we can.  Let’s do it.  It was an unexpectedly perfect ending to camp day.  And just as Mary Tyler Son and L get closer, I find myself getting closer with L’s mom, too.  The perfect parallel process of friendship.

Watching my boy grow is a gift.  My little boy, nee toddler, nee baby, nee bump, nee love.  He is off and running, finding his way, meeting and choosing his friends, expanding his world.  Just as he should.  And here I am watching, a happy bystander to his growing life.

#bestoffriends #firstfriends
#bestoffriends #firstfriends

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Thank You, Teachers!

Well, here it is.  I finally know what all you mothers have been talking about every late spring — the end of school is upon us (insert musically dramatic DUH DUH DUH here).  I get it.  This is the first end of school year for Mary Tyler Son.  Summer is a shiny, oppressively hot, blank calendar unfolding before us.  The kids are no longer in school and they need entertaining, education, sunscreen, and a plan.  NOW.

Before panic sets in (see future blog post entitled Camp Mommy), I thought I would take the esteemed advice of my blogging manager, Jimmy.  Last week he posted this on Facebook for all us ChicagoNow bloggers to consider:

Wednesday Discussion Topic: To commemorate the end of the school year, tell us something about a teacher who had an impact on your life. And perhaps blog about it later.

Cool.  I can do that.  I’ve had a slew of great teachers.  There was Mrs. C from junior high.  She had a Betamax in 1982, which was beyond super cool.  I thought she must be rich.  There was Mr. K in high school.  He taught me everything I ever needed to know about semicolons.  There was Dr. S. from college who just now happens to be the Illinois Poet Laureate.  Poet Laureate, people.  Yeah, I have been beyond lucky in the gifted teacher department.

THANK YOU, Mrs. C!  You saw something in me that I didn’t quite see myself in the 7th grade.  Hell, I didn’t see it in myself until I was 42 freaking years old.  You saw a writer and encouraged me to nurture the words that came from my head.  You suggested I publish.  Wow.  I haven’t thought about that in years, but WOW.  Thank you for that.  I was a mess in 7th grade.  A smart kid burdened by social anxiety and a brain that was a wee bit out of place in the sea of lip gloss I was surrounded by.

In the end, I did try to publish.  My little old 7th grade self submitted a short story to Highlights Magazine.  I wrote a piece about a child conceived in rape and submitted that shit to Highlights Freaking Magazine.  I just shake my head today.  What on earth was I thinking?  It’s no wonder I never quite fit in with the cool kids.  Oy.  I wish I could go back and thank Mrs. C. for all the support and encouragement she provided.  Somewhere in a dusty box I have both the story and the gently worded rejection letter I received.

What I love most, though, is that Mrs. C. never raised an eyebrow after reading my story.  She handled the poem I wrote about church being full of hypocrites pretty damn well, too.  Now mind you, this was parochial school in the time when nuns still taught.  I think of that now and feel a whole new appreciation for Mrs. C.  Thank you!  What an amazing teacher you were to me.

THANK YOU, Mr. K!  Lordy, lordy did you intimidate me, Sir.  You also made me work harder than any teacher ever did before or since.  I am most grateful to you for your enthusiasm, your wit, and your ability to see the kids in your classroom as capable of things far greater than we ever imagined.  You demanded excellence, Mr. K., and then made us want to give it to you, helping us to embrace that excellence in ourselves.  What a gift that was.

In your classroom I was known as Queen of the Universe.  It was, no doubt, a throwaway comment you made in one of your many wry, witty moments, but I cherished that moniker.  I still do, when I come across it in the yearbook inscription you left me.  Thank you for challenging me and your other students.  Thank you for teaching us how to think critically — a trait that is more and more uncommon these days.

Last week I had the pleasure of joining you and your lovely wife in your home to celebrate the Memorial Day holiday.  There was food and good company and your still identifiable brand of wit and hilarity.  I appreciate it as much today as I did in 1986.  And when you shouted out from the grill telling another guest that they should read my words as I write so well that someone would throw their baby out the window to write as well, wow.  Let me just say that you may have made my life with a compliment like that.  Ahoy, Sir!

THANK YOU, Dr. S!  You made college better for me.  If I had more guts, I would have followed in your literary footsteps and majored in English, rather than the psych degree that seemed more manageable at the time.  No foreign language required for psychology majors.  Pfffft, how lazy a choice was that?  I am honestly ashamed.

I was kind of a groupie of yours, and hoping that you didn’t realize it.  Your class was a bit of a haven for me.  You were a real adult — older than us 20 year olds, but not by much, and there you were doing your thing.  Teaching your passion and writing at the same time.  You were living the life, modeling what one could make of theirs.  It was inspiring.  It still is.

A few weeks ago I shared with my husband about the day in class you came in, dazed and shell shocked.  You explained that you had had a plane scare the night before.  I don’t remember the circumstances, if it was faulty mechanics or severe weather.  You came into class and poured your heart out to a room full of young adults who surely had no idea what you were talking about, and yet it moved me.  I have thought many times, as I got older myself, that I wish I could be in that classroom today, hearing your wisdom, your words.  Today I could learn from them.  In 1990 I was too young to appreciate their import, despite recognizing their emotion, their weight.  Thank you for sharing so much of yourself.

So, yes, I have been blessed with the finest of teachers.  They have shaped and molded me in ways I am still learning from, all these years later.  I hope the same for Mary Tyler Son — a childhood full of caring, enthusiastic, gifted educators.

We don’t appreciate you enough, teachers.  I am sorry for that.  Thank you for all the light you bring into the world.  You make it a significantly changed and better place.  I am grateful to you.

Thank you teachers

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