DotMoms

Culture clash

By Donna

My mother was born in Havana, Cuba and immigrated to the U.S. in 1953 -- one year before she met my Massachusetts-born dad.

Growing up, I was very aware of the differences between the two sides of my family. Holiday gatherings at my paternal grandparents' home were quiet and proper, and always ended on time.

This is a contrast with my mom's family, who never arrived at our home earlier than an hour past the invitation, and partied -- loudly -- into the wee hours of the morning.

My parents had different temperaments and different reactions to the events that can rock a family. Some of these were a result of their personalities, but I've come to realize that others originated in the fact that they each were raised in very different parts of the world where accepted standards of behavior were sometimes diametrically opposed.

It made life interesting, in the ways of that old Chinese curse: "May you live in interesting times."

After 50 years, my parents are still together. This gives me hope, because I ended up doing much the same thing.

This Cuban-American Jewish girl went off and married a stiff-upper-lip Brit.

My husband tends to wear a suit and tie when everyone else is California casual, because he actually feels better in more formal dress. He winces when I chat familiarly with total strangers, and is forever accusing me of being too loud (in the way that he thinks most Americans are too loud).

I have new respect for my parents and their ability to stick it out for five decades.

I've been thinking of our differences a lot the past couple of weeks, after our return from the U.K. to attend the funeral of my father-in-law.

A death in my mother's family is an emotional thing to behold: Mass displays of weeping. Drama. More weeping. More drama. And this goes on for days.

But when we arrived in London, my brother-in-law greeted us almost as if nothing had changed since the last time we saw him. It was much the same with my husband's mum and just about everyone else in the family. They were all so "life goes on" normal.

I found it admirable, if somewhat disorienting. And not a little bit weird.

Yes, everyone was sad. Yes, my husband's dad was missed. I even detected a few small tears. But there was work to be done, a funeral to plan and an estate to settle. This was no time for histrionics. In fact, my in-laws don't seem to believe any time is right for huge displays of emotion.

We had a nice visit. Our daughter got to spend time playing with her cousins. We took them ice skating. We visited a museum in town. We went shopping. We walked the dog. Aside from the fact that Grandpa wasn't with us -- and the little matter of his very low-key funeral -- it was a lot like every other visit we've made.

And yet it was not. My husband and his family know very well that everything has changed, and now, one month later, they talk about it. Very calmly. My mother-in-law confesses that she has a hard time in the mornings, when she wakes up and remembers that she's alone. Then she gets up and gets on with her day.

I wish I were more like them, but it's not my nature. Like the folks on my mom's side of the family, I'm an emotional person and don't hide it well. When I am upset about something, I am hard pressed to think of anything else, and everyone around me hears about it.

I don't think the way I deal with grief is better or worse - just different. And as I tell my daughter, it is the differences between people that make life interesting.

Like that old Chinese curse.

Donna is a San Fernando Valley wife and mother.

Weighty thoughts for my daughter

By Chris

Does anyone else think that it is incredibly hypocritical that the media has vilified Lindsay Lohan for being too skinny, then expressed relief that she admits to having an eating disorder in a magazine article... all while simultaneously having pictures of her half naked and in her underwear on the pages of the magazine? What is the message that is being sent to us as women, and what about our daughters?

I am 36 years old and I still feel an incredible self-loathing about how I look. It hasn't lessened over time, though the power that it holds over me is less severe now. I can't go for days without eating any longer, though that makes me feel like a failure rather than feel like I have overcome the negative self-talk. It is difficult to talk or write about, because people who are truly overweight don't get it. They laugh and roll their eyes and think that you are just being overly dramatic about what they perceive as a pound or two that you want to lose.

This past weekend, I walked into a store and picked up clothes that fit me. A size 2. But I felt sick to my stomach holding the skirt. I felt like the sales people in the store were all looking at me, snickering to themselves, about how someone who is my size shouldn't be wearing that particular item of clothing.

I put the skirt back on the rack and wondered why can't I be a size 0 like I used to be. A zero. A nothing. On the verge of disappearing. I think that is what people who don't have a distorted body image don't understand. Those of us who do have it, well, we secretly wish to disappear, to not be noticed.

I don't notice the weight of anyone else. I think all my friends look perfectly fine at the weight they are, though many say they want to lose 10, 20, even 30 pounds or more. Yet when I look in the mirror I see myself as twice as big as all of them put together. I had a friend once threaten to push me down on the ground and draw an outline around my body so I could see how much space I actually took up. It seemed sadly appropriate at the time to have a chalk outline of my body on the ground.

The only times in my life that I felt comfortable with my body were when I was pregnant. I felt the freedom to eat. It was OK to gain weight and have a plumper body. With my last pregnancy, though, I began to realize that the clothing manufacturers were doing to maternity clothes what had previously been reserved for regular clothing. The styles were form fitting, belly baring. They were things that really only look good on a tall skinny person with a small pillow under her shirt. I was left feeling that nothing is sacred.

And now I have a daughter. One beautiful, smart, strong daughter in a house filled with sons. I watch her twirling around and dancing, full of life and love. My hope for her beyond all else is that she loves herself enough. I hope that she is able to shrug off the distorted images in the media. I want her to think of her body as the outer packaging of herself and not allow it to be a defining term of her self-worth.

I suppose this says as much about me and my place of privilege in the world that I don't worry about my daughter enduring a famine, being killed in a war zone, or being abused in some way. It is a luxury to worry about self-esteem and self-image while mothers in different places in the world can only worry about keeping their daughters alive. A luxury, how is that for the proverbial slap in the face? Women who are just trying to eek out an existence for their family don't have the time to worry about whether their ankles are too thick, their butt too large, or their teeth too yellow.

And so it is for my daughter that I try to love myself. It is for her that I try to project a healthy attitude about my body. It is for her that I try to focus on what my body can do, its strength, to embrace it, flaws and all, and yes, even to appreciate its beauty. For 35 years I was not able to do this for myself, but my love for my daughter is so much greater than my love for myself. For her I can do anything.

Chris is a writer, artist, wife and the mother of seven children. She lives in an historic old house in New England that is perpetually under renovations. 

Ten things I swore I'd never do as a mom... and the reasons I did them

By Lauri Jon

10. Wear the same shirt two days in a row. And even sleep in it one night. (But, hey, I didn't leave the house that day.)

9. Let my daughter wear the same outfit two days in a row. (The laundry didn't do itself that week.)

8. Allow my daughter to wear her Disney Princess pajama top as a shirt after she slept in it. (She wouldn't let me take it off her and put a new shirt on. And now that she's two, I've gotta pick my battles.)

7. Let my daughter eat cookies for breakfast. (Well, at least she ate a waffle first.)

6. Open food in the grocery store and let my daughter eat while we shop. (Well it keeps her seated in the shopping cart and I get to finish all my grocery shopping. Plus she usually eats blueberries and not cookies, yea!)

5. Allow my daughter to eat dinner standing at the living room ottoman while she watched "Dora the Explorer." (At least she ate her dinner.)

4. Let my hair go for a week without washing it. (I think my record is actually a week and two days, but it's hard to get motivated to wash and dry it at 10:30 p.m.)

3. Allow my daughter to eat hot dogs for lunch three days in a row. (OK, one week it was four, but she also eats oranges, strawberries, grapes and blueberries three or four times a week.)

2. Use baby wipes to remove make-up and wash my face. (Whenever I've run out of Olay cleansing cloths and haven't made it to the drug store. At least it has Aloe.)

1. Wash only enough dishes to eat dinner on that evening and serve dry waffles for breakfast on paper towels the next morning. (The dishes didn't load themselves into the dishwasher again.)

What have you done that you'd swore you'd never do?

Lauri Jon is a forty-something-else mother and wife who lives with her family in California.

Buying birthday party gifts

By Michelle

Every time my child gets an invitation to a birthday party, there's a moment of dread. I want to buy the birthday child a nice gift that's a reasonable price ($15 or less).  But whenever I enter the store, my brain fogs up in a haze of dolls, trucks, and games.  What if they already have this toy? Shouldn't they be doing something more creative, like coloring or building with blocks? Once, I tried asking my son what he thought his friend would like, and he, of course, picked out one of the most expensive items in the store. Right. Like that'll happen.

I'll meander through the aisles and eventually when my brain hits overload, I'll randomly choose something. One time, I bought a doll for my goddaughter that said "Mama" and "Papa." You can't go wrong with a gift like this, right? Even if they already have one, most girls like dolls. Apparently I should have shuffled through the remainder of the sounds because my sister-in-law called me later. The last sound made by the doll bears a strong resemblance to the word "Boogers." We still don't know what the doll was trying to say. This Christmas, she paid me back by giving my daughter a doll that sounds like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." I haven't bought dolls for birthday parties since.

Now, I'm facing not one, but two birthday gifts to buy. One is for my son's friend and another for my son, whose birthday is in a few weeks. I'm already in panic mode. Not so much for the friend, but now for my son who is turning four. He has far too many toys, and I really don't want to add to the madness. He's getting a booster seat for the car, but it's hard to get excited about that. And he already has enough books to start a children's library.

I'm also grimacing at the cost of the paper products. He wants to have cupcakes and a party in his pre-K class, which is in the neighborhood of  24 kids. All the party products are in sets of eight. It would cost over $100 in paper products, if I bought themed plates. I believe this year we will be using the Styrofoam theme. I can hear the conversation now. 

"Sweetie, don't you just love this gleaming white Styrofoam? Isn't it just wonderful?"

My son, "Mommy, I want Spiderman."

"But you can imagine Spiderman on there, can't you?"

I still haven't figured out the solution to this one.

So what did you buy your child on his/her last birthday? Any suggestions?

Michelle lives with her husband and children in southeastern Virginia, where she teaches sixth-graders and also writes historical romances.

Preschooler wins gold, scores perfect 10 in extreme tantrum event

By Kris

Parents of tantrum throwers should unite to share war stories:

• “He cried for 6 hours straight!”
• “She screamed so loud my glasses cracked!”
• “He turned blue and passed out!”

John always had tantrums but now has extreme tantrums: vein-popping hollers, streaming tears, kicking and punching, lose-lose setups.

• “I don’t want this much juice!”
• “I’m not taking off my coat, I don’t like the shirt underneath it!”
• And a new one: “I can’t eat this grilled cheese, someone took a bite out of it!” Of course, he took a bite out of it, but I’m just a big liar when I remind him of that.

Things that spark extreme tantrums include having juice/not having juice, staying home/going to school, getting dressed/getting undressed, getting into the tub/getting out of the tub. Pretty much anything that involves being alive and on planet Earth.

He has his reasons:

• The new baby’s so cute and never does anything wrong.
• Mom’s always doing laundry or dishes, cooing at the baby or staring at her computer.
• He entered a new school after Christmas and now has to go four mornings instead of two.

He's crying out for attention, at least in part, and I’m all over that. But right now, nothing pleases this kid.

We had two awful incidents last week. First, I had to bathe John when Brian was working late. I had a fussy baby, a rambunctious 5-year-old and John, who fought so hard you'd think I’d filled the tub with battery acid.

I coaxed him into the bathroom (he had to pee), rhapsodized about the bubbles and bath toys, and managed to undress him without wrestling him to the ground. Then I snatched him up and plopped him into the water.

He settled right in and looked up at me with red, tear-stained cheeks.

“Thanks, Mama.”

What I heard: “Thanks for being my mom, Mom. And for not throttling me."

Then, during Friday’s morning rush, John didn’t want to eat his bagel. I didn’t want to give in. I’m all for choices, but come on, people. We’re talking about bread.

He screamed, he cried. I gave timeouts, I yelled. We hugged and regained our composure. Watching the clock tick toward 8:30, I relented.

“Oatmeal or cold cereal?”

“Grilled cheese.”

“Apple or orange?” He chose an orange, which I peeled, sectioned and presented in about 10 seconds.

“No, don’t PEEL IT! I wanted to stick my FINGER in it!”

Muttering obscenities about sticking fingers in places, I walked out of the room to catch my breath. When I came back, he had pitched the orange segments all over the table. I told him he’d have to stay home from school, and went to my desk to cry for a minute.

Back in the kitchen, Ben ate the rejected orange while John got another and ate about half of it. I declared breakfast over. His class would start in three minutes.

We got on our hats, coats and mittens. I put the baby in her car seat, and we stepped out the front door together. John thrust his rainbow-mittened hand into mine.

“Thanks, Mama,” he said again.

I smiled. How does this child manage to push and pull me, angering and beguiling in equal measure? And, now that he's mastered the tantrum, when will he move on to something else, like soccer?

I stroked his hand a bit as we walked, and thought about that.

How do you handle tantrums? Do you have any "war stories"?

Kris is a thirtysomething stay-at-home mom who lives north of Boston with her family.

Two (tenuous) lines

By Kristin

I have a bit of a secret. But I thought I would be safe telling you. It's actually probably safer than telling one of the women in my family, as their standard response always is, "Oh yes, I'll keep it quiet." The reality always ends up being more like, "I have some news but you can't tell anyone, but if you do, just don't tell them I told you." So this post will be a test of the speed of the information superhighway compared to the power of gossipy women who work somewhat closer to the speed of light. 

I'm pregnant with number two. 

But as I tell everyone else when I convey my secret, "It's still very early."

It's not that I am not excited. Or freaked out. Or trying to reconcile how this news is going to impact my three-person family, which is operating somewhat smoothly for the first time in four years. (Did I mention that I was finally getting happy with my body again, that I bought some nice new bras, and was really enjoying the time I had in the mornings while Madeline was at preschool?) 

It's just that before my pregnancy with Madeline, I had a miscarriage at about 9 weeks. I didn't find out until 11 weeks, when they did an ultrasound and saw that the baby was not alive. So, as I am sure anyone who has been through that experience can tell you, it's hard to get yourself geared up to start thinking about boy or girl, nursery colors, or the most important question, the number of days until you can have a glass of wine. You tend to just meander through a surreal state knowing that it could all be taken from you. You are thrilled that you feel absolutely disgusting because it is one more clue that the pregnancy is actually happening. The minute your symptoms change or you feel less like throwing up at the sight of any food group, you instantly ask why. Has something gone wrong? The moments before doctor appointments are spent in a state of anxiety fearing the look on the doctor's face when she can't find the heartbeat.   

I think the way we deal with miscarriage in our culture is pathetic. When it actually happened to me, women came out of the woodwork to tell me that it had happened to them too. Many stories were much worse than my own. But you don't realize how common it is until it happens to you, how many women unfortunately know what "D&C" means. The worst part about keeping things quiet is that if something ultimately does go wrong, you have to keep that quiet too. You have to suffer by yourself through what can be a very painful and stunning loss. 

But what I found out was this: I tried to keep things quiet until that first trimester mark. But the unthinkable happened and something went wrong. And I had to tell people. I had to tell my boss and coworkers, I had to tell my extended family, I had to tell my friends. For both procedural reasons ("I won't be at work for a while") and my own sanity. 

So, forget the whole secret part. I am pregnant. Tell whomever you like. Because if something happens yet again, I will need you.   

Kristin is married to her high school sweetheart and the mother of one daughter, Madeline.

A visit to the dentist

By Kimberly

I started 2006 with high hopes of putting 2005 and its difficult, terrible memories far, far behind my family. Apparently, that was not to be. 

We saw the pediatric dentist earler this week -- the specialist who can sedate the kids in office to make procedures easier. Ironically, giving the number of times she's been sedated, it turns out that Regan is not a good candidate for sedation. Her history of desating, combined with her tiny size, makes the dentist nervous. So, instead of a blissfully unaware baby, we had the full-on terrified version to contend with as we tried to figure out is up with that dark spot on her tooth that I've tried to convince myself that it was nothing to worry about.

It was. Regan has cavities. On ALL FOUR of her front teeth. She has to be put under general anaesthetic so that the dentist can clean them. And then put crowns on. Oh, and possibly do a root canal. My worst nightmares of the past year are coming true.  Regan is headed back to The Hospital. To the sterile room with the bright shiny lights and the sharp pointy things for another "scary nap." I am once again going to assist in holding my baby down so that tubes can be inserted and procedures can be performed. She's not having actual cut-you-open surgery this time but it's still going to traumatize her. Or should I say, Re-traumatize her.

We'd made such progress lately, too. She was OK in the waiting room, talking and even leaving my side to explore the fishtank. And while she was deeply suspicious of the dentisit during the sit and chat portion of the consult, there no screaming. No. That was saved for the deja vu portion of the experience in which I assisted in holding the flailing toddler down while the dentist put her in a headlock and counted teeth around her screaming "NO!" over and over and over again.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to run and hide. But I held her down. Again. And watched every gain we've made in the realm of interacting with people fly right out of her screaming mouth.

Soon I will starve her all night, take her into the too bright room and lay her on the notbed to once again be put unwillingly to sleep for the scary nap and to awake disoriented and in pain.

How long will this child continue to trust me, I wonder?

Kimberly is a proudly lazy, solo mom by choice to Sabrina (6) and Regan (1). She lives with them in Ontario, Canada.

Real-world Wonder Women

By Jo

Do you know that television’s Wonder Woman, Lynda Carter, left acting for several years to stay home and raise her two children? I mention this because to me, when Ms. Carter stopped “playing” Wonder Woman on TV she then took on the role of a lifetime: Motherhood. That is when she became a real life Wonder Woman.

We moms may not have bulletproof wrist cuffs (can you imagine doing dishes in those?), a magic lasso (though it would come in handy for wild children), or an Invisible Jet (how many carseats could fit in that thing anyway?) but who needs fancy accessories? We moms come specially equipped with many extraordinary superpowers like:

• Magic Kisses. Our magic mommy kisses can heal booboos, vanquish bad dreams, stop tears, and charm grumpy husbands.
• Soft Arms. These amazing arms provide safety from closet monsters, lovingly snuggle many children at once, and one hug can make all sadness in a child’s world just melt away.
• Super Senses. Every mommy comes standard with this awesome power. We can hear mischievous whispers from two rooms away, know a lie the moment it leaves our child's or husband’s lips, see through the back of our heads, and we always know who wrote on the wall without ever asking. Nothing gets past our super senses!

As mothers, our powers are endless. While TV’s Wonder Woman did a wonderful job of teaching a generation of girls about strength and self-worth, today’s real life Wonder Women go even further. We are raising the male and female “superheroes” of tomorrow. The future of the world truly rests in our hands.

So Lynda Carter’s character can keep the costume and fancy extras, for us real world Wonder Women they’d just get in the way. From the moment we hear our child’s first cry of life we instantly have everything we’ll ever need. How could a piece of rope top that?

Okay so maybe we really would love one of those bustier’s with the “W’s” on it for date night with the hubby, but that’ll just be our little secret.

What “superpowers” do you possess (or wish you did)?

Jo is a 30-year-old mother of three miracles (14, 11, and 2 1/2), a wife to Vinny, a poet, an aspiring writer, and a three-time cancer survivor.

In the news: Boys struggle with school

Just over a decade ago, the “gender gap in education” discussion emphasized helping lagging girls to achieve, but recently the focus has shifted to the struggle of failing boys. The January 30th Newsweek cover story on this topic, “The Trouble with Boys” by Peg Tyre, has not yet hit newsstands but is already creating a buzz with bloggers (see recent comments on the article here).

The Newsweek article indicates that “boys across the nation and in every demographic group are falling behind.” Tyre notes that boys are more likely to be diagnosed with a learning disability and twice as likely to be placed in special education in elementary school. Boys are reportedly receiving lower scores than girls on standardized tests in high school, and they now make up only 44 percent of undergraduate enrollment compared to 58 percent thirty years ago. What is causing boys to lose ground in the schools and what can be done to address the problem?

Many possible causes have been proposed. The Newsweek cover story points to changes in the educational system over the past two decades that include a rigid and verbal-rich curriculum aimed at preparing students for new information-based careers. Despite the good intentions of administrators, these changes may underscore the limitations of the “boy brain” and create less freedom for teachers to individualize instruction. In an article published last week by The New Republic, Richard Whitmire writes, “It's not that schools have changed their ways to favor girls; it's that they haven't changed their ways to help boys adjust to this new world.”

Attempting to identify possible solutions for the situation, Tyre suggests that fast-moving, active lessons, separating the genders for some classes, and male role models may help boys to regain some of their educational losses. Whitmire emphasizes the importance of literary skills and specifies ways that boys might be enticed into reading more often (e.g., making comic books available in the classroom and observing their fathers reading at home).

The Newsweek package also covers biological gender differences and how they play out ("Very well-meaning people," says Dr. Bruce Perry, a Houston neurologist who advocates for troubled kids, "have created a biologically disrespectful model of education"); the transition to middle school; male role models; and what girls can teach us about boys.

Now it’s your turn to chime in on the discussion. Do you think that the current gender gap in education is one that will touch your life? Have you already witnessed some of this in your own family? Please share with us your thoughts on what should be done to address boy’s struggles with school.

A quantum physics fantasy

By Amy H.

One of my son’s favorite DVDs is a Japanese live-action movie called Ultraman, and he watches it dubbed (hilariously) in English. The other day as Javi watched from the backseat of our van I listened as Ultraman’s alter ego, Gaia, described the quantum physics idea of “multiple worlds” that is a key plot-point to the film. Truth be told, the theory that we might be simultaneously living multiple lives in different reality dimensions is probably farther over my head than my 4-year-old's, but it got me thinking about the different lives I might be leading.

Perhaps there is an Amy who never finished high school. Perhaps she got pregnant and dropped out just before the end of her senior year. What is she doing now? Is she happy? Is she miserable? Is she working to make her dream of graduate school a reality? Will she be attending college in the fall along with her 19-year-old child?

Then maybe there is an Amy who lives and tours with a rock star. What did she give up so that she could have the flexibility to pick up and leave on a moment's notice? Does she enjoy the spontaneity and travel and dinners with famous people? Does she long for some stability and quiet? Will she hang in there until she meets someone who can give her that?

I’m guessing there might be an Amy who will never have children (due to choice or circumstance). Is she satisfied? Does she take hot bubble baths by herself and make long, uninterrupted phone calls in the middle of the day? Does she look at couples with unruly children in restaurants and smile smugly as she takes her time to finish her dessert? Does she go home at night and wish for noise?

My fantasy in the van was cut short when my daughter squealed impatiently for her sippy cup, and I realized I’d missed a turn. I chuckled to myself as I allowed one final and unlikely thought that there is a meat-eating, politically conservative Amy out there in a galaxy far, far away.

Then, I peeked at my kids in the rearview mirror and was overcome with a sense of gratitude for my reality. I continued on down the road.

Amy H. is a thirty-something SAHM and part-time psychology professor living in the deep South with her husband and two children.