DotMoms

Delivering yourself

By Angela

When my first child was born, I wanted to do everything for him, give him the moon and the stars, even the whole world.

Soon I realized I didn't need to leap buildings in a single bound or even be the next Martha Stewart. It has always been the little things that make my kids feel the most special. I started keeping a list for myself, for those days when I wasn't sure if I was cut out for this job.

It makes them happy when I...

• ...put Stacey's silverware on the left side of her plate instead of the right, because she's left-handed.
• ...don't get offended when they decide to call me new, fun names. Currently, I'm Marc-Ark, and yes, I answer to it.
• ..."get" their jokes and hee-haw like a donkey.
• ...yell silly things at them when they board the school bus, like, "Eat your green beans and learn geometry!"
• ...pretend they have cooties and run when they try to hug me.
• ...sing completely out of tune and dance like a hippo.
• ...reply to the "What's for dinner?" question with "Food!"
• ...wave at them from the back door as if I haven't seen them in years.
• ...hug and kiss them every night at bedtime, even though they aren't babies anymore.

It's so easy to take in all the negative energy floating in Mommy Land, so I'll keep making my list -- and checking it twice -- to remind myself of the positives, and that I can't possibly deliver the world, but I can keep delivering ME.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

Misdirected motherly advice

By Angela

Stacey has been getting too big for her britches since she was born a little over 9 years ago. She is all girl, sass and brass, sugar and spice. I send her off to school and don't have to worry about a fragile personality; I almost worry more about the girls with whom she interacts, because she has such a strong and leading personality. I've worked hard to teach her to be strong and to believe in herself.

But sometimes that motherly advice lands in her pretty little head the wrong way.

One night last week, she made a face in disgust at our dinner. She's a picky little soul, food and all, and she isn't shy about letting me know what she doesn't like. But as she sat turning her food into mush while gibbering away when she was told it was time to eat and stop talking, her dad gave her the first warning. The second warning came only two minutes later.

"I'm just talking," she said, a hint of defiance in her voice.

"And you were just told you need to eat and stop playing with your food," he countered. "Now eat or you're going to bed early."

"I don't care."

"You don't care? You're going to eat, and then clean the table, shower and get to bed," he said.

He shook his head and looked at me, eyes wide. I could read his thoughts: She's too young to be a teenager!

"I don't care if I have to go to bed. I don't like this food and I don't want to eat it," she said, clearly not content with him having the last word.

"Not another word," he warned her.

I was just as baffled. Who stole my baby and gave me this defiant little being?

"Stacey, why are you acting like this?" I asked.

She bowed her head and muttered. She was softening, beginning to look ashamed of herself. "You told me to always stand up for myself, so I am."

I knew this would end up being my fault.

"Baby, there's a difference between being defiant and standing up for yourself."

She looked up and batted her eyelashes at me, then said, "Now you can teach me that."

Yes, I can, because a mother's work is never done.

And she still went to bed early.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

Who's Jack?

By Angela

It's an annual birthday tradition. On each child's birthday, we pull out photo albums and I cry (dramatically) over how tiny they used to be. This year, with Stacey's first-year album still tucked away in a box, we had to settle for her baby book.

As I walked around the house and marveled about the fact that Stacey was now 9, she settled in with her baby book and decided not to wait for me.

"Who's Jack?" she yelled across the house.

"You remember Jack," I said, trying to finish the laundry so I could join her. "He was our cat, silly."

"Huh?"

"Jack. Jack in the Box. Remember?"

I walked into the living room and realized she was confused.

"Mom, it says my dad's name is Jack."

I looked down and realized she was reading her book.

"Oh, sorry honey. Jack was your dad's name. His first name. No one called him that, but it was his real name."

Stacey nodded, looked pensive for a moment, and then flipped the page. As she looked over her birth stats, my mind wandered. All these years I worked so hard not to ever say bad things about my kids' father. I never realized my efforts to avoid the negative led to not talking about him at all.

"What did you call my dad?" she asked, clearly not finished with the subject.

"He went by Dewayne, his middle name."

"Oh, that's Scott's middle name. I didn't know that," she said. "Have you ever told me daddy's name before?"

I shrugged. "I honestly don't know."

And that's true. He's been dead almost as long as she's been alive, and my husband has been her dad practically her whole life. In my effort to do what I thought was fair, I completely removed her birth father from her world, photos and conversation alike. 

"Can you tell me about him? Did he love me?" she asked.

I wanted to cry. The truth is I didn't want to tell her about him. I didn't want to talk about him at all. I wanted it to be as easy as just handing her a book one day, the book I'm writing, so I wouldn't have to lie because I didn't know if I could say anything good about him.

"Of course he loved you," I said instead. "Who wouldn't? You're a wonderful girl and a wonderful daughter. Yes, your dad definitely loved you."

She smiled and moved on to another subject, and I sat back and reflected.

Of course he loved his children. I never doubted he loved them. But what I could not say is that his love was never enough, or healthy, or what it should have been. I never knew my dad, but my mom always said bad things about him. I wasn't going to do that, and now I realized the cost of my silence. Three children will want to know more, and though it'll be hard for me, I'll have to dig deep and find the good. They should know there was something good in him.

"I have two dads that love me," she said finally.

I just smiled. It was a good conclusion, and that sat well enough with me.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

An unlikely mother-daughter day

By Angela

I'd grown a little rusty in the "racing to the emergency room" department, so when Stacey (8) broke her arm this summer, I was simply not prepared. Not that anyone is ever ready to see an arm bent in an unnatural way, but we probably could have done without my jumping up and down.

I also wasn't used to being taken care of so quickly. Upon arrival, everyone available immediately jumped to action to help my precious child. All things considered, our ER trip could be chalked up to a quick in-and-out.

We weren't so lucky with the follow-up appointment.

The receptionist warned me by phone that there might be a bit of a wait, since they had to work us in. Those who had standing appointments would be seen first, and they all made their appointments 5 to 6 weeks in advance. Five to 6 weeks before, I hadn't planned for Stacey to break anything, but I understood. Besides, how long could "a bit of a wait" possibly be?

Armed with books, a notebook to write in, and water, Stacey and I set up camp in a corner of the large waiting room. However, we found we were much more interested in the myriad of different people filing in.

As the first couple of hours passed and the lunch hour approached, Stacey asked, "Are we going to be next?"

I shrugged and realized the room had cleared out at least twice, and yet, we still sat waiting our turn.

"Well, so many of these people are in a lot of pain," I said, "So it's good they get to go see the doctor first, right?"

"Yeah, because my arm doesn't hurt at all," she agreed.

I took out my notebook and we spent the next hour or so drawing funny pictures and working on cursive writing. We giggled over portraits we drew of each other, and concentrated on making a perfect S in cursive.

Our turn finally came and we spent a total of five minutes in the examination room. Just long enough for a quick X-ray and a blue wrap to give her cast some color. As we walked out into the sunny day, I glanced at my watch and realized we had been there over four hours. My first thought was a grumble – we'd spent all day sitting in a room, all for five minutes worth of attention? My second thought was how wonderful this day really turned out to be.

"That was fun," Stacey said. "I can't wait for next time."

What could have been my rant of the day -- having to wait so long for such a short exam -- turned into a wonderful day with my daughter. With no distractions of work, computer, phone, etc., we shared a day in the most unlikely of places. And I couldn't wait for the next time.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

The period story

By Angela

There comes a time in every child's life when you must tell them things you would rather not. In fact, you might prefer hanging from your fingernails rather than describe the making of babies. In this case, it was a woman's period, as told to Brian, my second-born son.

Last year, we thought we had to travel to Florida. When Mother Nature visited me a week early, I was boo-hooing my luck. I'm scared enough of sharks in the ocean, you couldn't drag me with promises of fame and fortune into the water at this time of the month, despite so-called facts that it doesn't matter. Sorry, nope, no way.

The trip was canceled at the last moment. The children were a little upset that we would not be going to the beach. Not me.

"Well, at least you won't feel left out of the swimming since we can't go," said my husband, seeking out all possible silver linings.

Brian (age 10), who often sits in a room so quietly you don't know he's there, piped up with, "Why? Why couldn't you go swimming?"

I shrugged it off and said, "Oh, just a woman thing. You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

"Mom! Yes, I do!"

I looked at my husband, who was trying (and failing) to hide his grin, and shrugged again.

"OK, I'll tell you. You sure you want to know? It involves blood."

He nodded, so I continued.

"Once a month, a woman, or girl even, has what is called a menstrual cycle. What that means is, for 4 to 7 days, depending, the woman's uterus cleanses itself. What that means is blood comes out. And..."

I stared at him for a moment, his face eager for me to finish. "Sure you want me to go on?"

He nodded.

"And so, the blood exits the woman's body through her... vagina." I waited, holding my breath, expecting him to run screaming from the room. I know this child. I know what usually embarrasses him.

"OK," he said, still interested.

"Um... OK," I continued, remembering, for some reason, that the sex talk had seemed easier. "So this happens, which means there is pretty much constant bleeding -- please don't make me explain period protection products! -- and since sharks can detect blood, I'm too scared to swim in the ocean while cycling.

"A woman on her period can often seem cranky or want to eat a lot. It's different for every woman. Some can be mean and angry and--"

And then he ran. Blood? No problem. Vagina? OK. Mention anger and the boy runs.

"I'm not an angry woman when I cycle, Brian! Although, I can be moody. So I'll start telling you when to watch your step, OK," I said, following him, trying to make jokes.

"That explains a lot," he said, looking as if he'd discovered the world's best-kept secret. "No wonder my teachers are in bad moods sometimes for no reason!"

Whoops.

Angela lives with her husband and three children in Cartersville, Georgia.

Doing what I have to

By Angela

When I announced to my children that I would be starting a new daytime job soon, they were immediately delighted. Until, that is, I added I wasn't leaving my current weekend job.

"So, when is your day off?" Brian asked.

I laughed, thinking how mothers never get a day off, but in this way, it really wasn't funny. I would now be working away from home seven days a week. There wouldn't be a day off for a long while, save for holidays.

Sometimes, though, we just have to do what we have to do. I hate that my children will miss me, even though it really only comes down to two hours after school each day, but it changes what they've known for years -- Mom is always waiting for them to get home from school.

Taking this second job is what I have to do to pay off medical bills and step up to the next level, so I can leave behind those jobs that keep me away from the kids, and reach career success that gives me more freedom to be with the kids.

For years, I've done all I can to make sure I'm here for my family. I've worked from home as much as possible, and then when I had to go outside my home for a job, I always made sure at least one parent was always with the kids. My oldest was the only one of my children who ever had daycare experience (for a short couple of months) because I never wanted others watching my kids grow instead of me.

We've scrimped on one income throughout most our years, but the medical bills piled up and there was absolutely no fulfillment in jobs that did not challenge or inspire me. And so now I do what I have to do to get ahead in every way possible.

I'll work two jobs for at least two months, or for as long as I feel I can, because it leads somewhere else, somewhere better.

While children don't always see the immediate benefits of a few months' worth of hard work now, they will one day understand. And this isn't forever.

Except, Mommy Guilt never goes away completely, so while they are old enough to not need me for every single thing in their lives, they are still young enough to want Mom around anytime they want me.

I'm doing what I have to, but that doesn't always make it any easier.

How do you deal with this kind of guilt, torn between what you must do and what your children long for?

Where's mine?

By Angela

As happens every year when the children grow older, I sit and look through their first year photo albums. There is, however, one problem with this yearly tradition: Stacey doesn't have one.

It's true what they say, I suppose, about how the third (or fourth or fifth) child seems to lose out on the same things that first and second babies get, including the upkeep of baby books and albums.

Stacey's first year of life was nothing if not traumatic and busy for me, a mom of three, but that was a long time ago. I honestly never thought I'd go so many years without finally getting my act together and finishing ... ahem ... starting her album.

"Do you have pictures of me as a baby?" Stacey asked me on her birthday.

"Of course I do! I have tons of them. I've shown them to you before, remember?"

She looked doubtful. "Yeah, they're in that one box. But where's my first year album like Scott and Brian?"

"Uh ... ummmm ... see, well, ummm ... OK, what happened was ... Never mind. I'll get right to work on it, OK honey, sweetie, pumpkin pie?"

She smiled and ran off, content with my promise. A promise I would not keep. A promise she would not let me forget.

"I don't know why Scott has an album and I don't. And Brian has one ... and I do not," she mused a week later, pretending to be speaking into the air, clearly playing on my guilty conscience. I had to give her credit; she was very good at sending people on guilt trips.

When several more days passed without a word, even I forgot. Again. But as we stood in the driveway the other day before school and I bid her fare thee well with all my daily words of wisdom, she sternly looked back at me before boarding the bus and said "And today, you go do my album. Make the right choice."

I stood there a moment, taken back by her pointblank demand that I get to work on that album. Could I blame her? She is 8 now. I've had plenty of time, and it's not like I didn't have the resources to put it together. I wondered about all the reasons why I had NOT done it yet, and nothing came up.

There was no real reason why I hadn't. And so I went to work, and I shed a few tears looking back and remembering, but in the end, I finished it.

As she hopped off the bus in the afternoon, she greeted me briefly and said, "Where's mine? Did you finish?" I said I did and she smiled. She ran inside to find it, flipped through it quickly, I assume to make sure, and then sat to really study it. When she finished, she said, "Now, was that so hard?"

And you know what? It was!

Maybe I never got around to it because it forced me to admit she was the last one. The baby. The end. No more.

I can't say for sure really, but I do know that while finally inserting all the photos in order from the first day of life to those taken on her first birthday, I missed that time so terribly. Born with blonde hair over two inches long, she looked so different from the young lady she was turning into. It didn't make me want another baby; it made me long to have her as my baby all over again. Despite the sleepless nights and the constant mischief and alligator tears, I wanted it all back again.

"No baby, it wasn't hard at all. It was completely worth it," I said, and I meant it for her, not the album.

Make it stop!

By Angela

"I said stop."

Brian and Stacey, who had been doing nothing at all, looked at me. "What are we doing?"

I curled my lip to pout. "Oh no, here she goes," Stacey said, shaking her head.

"You just have to stop growing up! Why do you have to keep getting older?" I whined.

They were used to this. Every time their pants get too short, every time they advance to a new grade level, or every time a new milestone passes by, I pout and demand they stop growing up so fast.

September is particularly hard for me, as both Brian and Stacey turn a year older. As if it isn't bad enough to mourn yet another year that has passed by for one, I have to do so for two. Their birthdays are exactly two weeks apart, and it's just as hard on them as it is on me. They're the ones who have to listen to me cry and moan about them getting too big too fast. They are the ones who have to hear the "10 years ago..." and "8 years ago on this day..." stories.

"It's OK, Mom," Stacey said to me this morning, when I started all over again. "I know what happened. You were going to have me today. And then I didn't get born until tomorrow. And I'm growing too fast. I know."

I couldn't help but feel that she wasn't just tying to soothe me ... she was also making fun. Because that's what happens when they grow older. They begin to find the humor in mommy situations, poking fun where they might have once hugged me. All in good humor, of course, but yet another sign that they just aren't getting any younger.

Obviously, I will be OK. As much as I do look forward to each new day of their lives, I also miss the ones that have gone by, the ones where they relied solely on me for everything, the ones where I could get them to say cutesy things and wear cutesy clothes, and the ones where, well, they weren't so big!

It happens. We will all watch our babies grow into adults. We can't stop it; we can't even demand it stop. It didn't work with Scott, who is now taller than me, and it hasn't been working with Brian and Stacey. All are now a year older, and no amount of pouting about it will change that.

We need to talk

By Angela

If you think the words "we need to talk" strike fear in the hearts of men everywhere, you should try them on your children.

"We need to talk," I said, when all three children came home from school. The panicked look on their faces was hard to miss. Gathering everyone into the living room for an impromptu meeting, I had my speech completely mapped out and ready to deliver, and there was no way I would be weakened by tears or put off with the perfected rolling of eyes.

"I'm not your maid," I began, stopping long enough to allow the moaning to come to an end. Yes, they knew what was coming. "I did not give birth to you children so I could run behind you and pick up your dirty socks, your book bags, your crayons, your shoes, your blankets, your toys or anything else you own. I happen to have wanted children because I knew I would love you and enjoy you every single day of your lives. However, I do not enjoy the assumption that I'm your maid."

Just as I knew would happen, Brian (10) immediately began nervously twirling his hair, Stacey (7) was working hard to produce her famous crocodile tears, and Scott (14) was already throwing his head back, making that clucking sound every parent is familiar with -- the one that insinuates we're wasting precious moments of said child's life.

I went on for a half-hour about how things better shape up, especially now that I was working away from home again. I even went so far as to tell them how much work I had to do at their ages and how their chores are nothing compared to what I went through.

As all parents know, this goes over just about as well as the speech about walking to school in the snow ... barefoot ... 10 miles ... up a hill ... both ways. But I tried it anyway. I just wanted them to understand I need their help and that I would not be the only team player on this family team of ours.

Right away, Brian and Stacey jumped up and began performing above and beyond what I had asked of them, dragging the hamper to the laundry room, asking me if every piece of paper in my office was garbage (no matter that I specifically noted my office is always off-limits for any and all cleaning attempts), and generally going overboard in their enthusiasm to please. Scott, meanwhile, sulked away to his room, I'm sure to map out an extensive plan on how to join yet another club so he'd never be home long enough to be required to do a thing.

The next day, when they left for school, all lights had been turned off, dirty clothes were picked up, and the house looked as peaceful as it was before I awakened them. I smiled smugly.

The following day, though, all was the same as before. The way I figure it, with practice, I can cut the "we need to talk" lecture into a five-minute-every-other-day event, and the house should be a well-oiled running machine in no time. Or not.

What kind of example are you?

By Angela

Wow, I thought, staring at my reflection. That's really bright.

I walked out of the bathroom and faced the children. There were no snickers, no surprised looks. Instead, there was a chorus of my own first thought: "Wow!"

"Anyone here going to be embarrassed?" I asked.

They all shook their heads quickly, and my daughter jumped up to stroke my new funky orange-red hair. "It's sooooo cool!" she gushed, twisting and fluffing it.

For years I've wanted to do something fun. Something different. I allowed the fact that I was a mother to keep me from appearing as anything less than "normal." So I stayed safe. I kept my hair color choices within reason, always fearful of stepping outside the box, giving people the chance to look and make judgments.

I was afraid to be a person, not just a mom. A unique individual instead of one of the mommy masses. I had to set a good example, after all!

In the last year, the idea of dying my hair a punk color was revisited many, many times. Each time, though, I would shy away. Good mothers look normal. Good mothers don't do weird things. I let ideals like these chase me away each time I was close to giving in to what I really wanted.

So when a charity event came up and I was working hard to raise money, I decided this was the time. "I'll color my hair tangerine orange if we beat my set goal," I promised. This was easy for me, too. I could always say, "Yes, weird hair, huh? But I did it for charity!"

When the charity event came and went, I had raised well over the set goal. And I had made a promise. It was time to live up to that promise. Orange hair it was.

Once it was done and my head glowed reddish-orange, I was happy. Nervous? Oh yeah! But also very happy. I liked what I saw, and better yet, I recognized the reflection in the mirror. That was the real me staring back, looking oh so ultra cool and funky, just as I had imagined it. And all three kids immediately loved it, even the boldly honest to a fault nine-year-old.

I fretted some the days immediately following the big hair change. Hanging out around the house with this new 'do was one thing, but how would the kids feel once we went out in public? And really, what kind of example was I setting?

With the help of many friends, I realized I was only setting positive examples. I was showing my offspring how to be unafraid of being themselves; how to live life without fear of what others may think; how to lead, not follow; how to always live up to promises made, both to others and to themselves; and how to listen to what we want within ourselves, being unafraid to follow our own dreams and desires.

Such a small but drastic change really had a huge effect on how I feel about myself. I look in the mirror and see now a woman who is unafraid to listen to her "silly" little desires, not caring how others look and snicker, because my children aren't laughing. My children are looking up to me, seeing a brave woman who did something she wanted to do without allowing what others expect to hold her back. Sure, the glowing of my hair might almost blind them, but they also see the aura of example, shining around me just as brightly.

Have you ever done something you felt set a positive example, despite what others might have thought?