I have an abundance of card stock in my art supplies, and Bean has a lunchbox full of stickers. She’s getting to an age where games (taking turns, following rules) are interesting. Instead of buying a card set, I decided to be frugal and make a memory matching card games. There are small sets with large-ish pictures, and bigger sets with smaller stickers. We tried out the butterfly game after dinner and it was a hit!
The inspiration came from this post.
We’ve had a busy week, with someplace to go every day until today. I decided today would be a relax-at-home day, and this morning Bean and I did two crafts. She is still learning how to handle materials, developing fine motor skills, and beginning to grasp the steps of a project. The two crafts we did were from the All Kids Network. We made a paper plate sun and the tissue paper fish.
With the fish, I prepared the materials and gave them to Bean. She put the bits of paper on. I forgot about putting the eye and the smile on, but no biggie.
With the sun, I cut up the pieces; Bean painted the plate and the smile. After it dried, she put glue on the rays and the sunglasses and told me where to position them.
She’s not quite three, so these projects are mostly a collaborative effort. But we have fun, and she’s starting to do more on her own. Here’s a happy child:
I want Bean to have a mailbox for pretend play (inspiration came from No Time For Flash Cards), but we don’t need yet another plastic toy around, and I could use the money on something else. Besides, any day we use paint is considered a good day according to Bean. 🙂
So I dug out a shoebox, and Bean painted it. Blue blue blue! I painted on the word, then gave it a coat of Mod-Podge to seal it. Voila!
Yesterday Bean and I went to Happy Hollow Park and Zoo. We had lots of fun with the rides. One of the featured activities was Cardboard City. Visitors are encouraged to play and create a city of cardboard based on imagination in the Meadow, using old boxes and paint. And this gave me an idea.
I’ve been wanting to give Bean a barn to play with, but many of them are outrageously expensive. So I found an old box and, with a little cutting and taping and painting, ended up with a barn. Bean helped me paint the barn red. Then I took over with the roof and trim, and collaged the inside of the box. I’ve had the paint, paper, and tape on hand for years, so for a very minimal cost we have a toy barn! It may not last as long as a wooden one, but we had fun making it (especially me). Now all we need are some farm animals!
The summer speeds along. It’s astonishing! Our transition into the new home continues. Bean, especially, has difficulty. Her sleeping habits are regular again. However, she has zero interest in being away from me, ever (even for me to be in another part of the house sometimes), and she is especially rejecting of others. It started right after the move, with her Grandma Kay. Whenever Kay would come near her, she told grandma to go into another room, to go away.
One of my sisters visited later in June, and Bean was pretty horrible to her too. After the first day in which Bean was shy and sweet, she would raise her voice to her aunt. “Don’t say words!” “Go away!” “Don’t look at me!” These demands were accompanied by screeching. (Bean didn’t have the same feelings toward her uncle, however; he was just nifty.) We took the opportunity to admonish her about being kind, but the bottom line is that in this new house and new life there was an unfamiliar person taking a lot of my attention and time, and this just didn’t sit well with Bean.
A couple weeks ago a friend of mine came to visit, and Bean behaved similarly. She warmed up to my friend a bit, but would bluntly state her wishes too, such as “Don’t talk to me.” Then last Friday, when her beloved babysitter came for the first time in a month, she decided the babysitter was no good either. After about 45 minutes with A__, she didn’t want the babysitter to sit in the same room, or touch any of her toys, and so on. I got a call about an hour before I was due home; A__ informing me what was happening to let me know. I decided that as long as Bean was safe (not self-injuring or something), that I would come home at my planned time. When I came home she’d been crying and wailing for me and clung to me.
She’s even been mean to her father in this way. And increasingly, Bean says, “I want to go back to the old house.” I conclude that this has been a seismic shift for her. If she can be taken away from her home, then what about Mommy? What if Mommy is taken away, or she is taken from Mommy? Many days she doesn’t want to go anywhere, sometimes not even outside. Not to the grocery store, the park, for a walk. Pushing her is a catalyst for a tantrum; then everyone is miserable, so what’s the point?
And the tantrums! Oh, they have become ever more voluble and frequent.
However, it’s not all negative stuff. Bean is as sweet, playful, and loving as ever — even more so. So much change in a little life…
We’ve done a few activities, such as:
Berry picking in June!
“Washing” windows:
Baking cakes (and licking batter off the beater):
Having backyard picnics:
Enjoying the sprinkler:
And making stuff, like sand clay and painting birdhouses! Bean made the bowl with a little shaping help from me, and I made the candle holder.
I painted the white coat and Bean added her flair:
Onward to August!
It had been a rough winter for Bean. She got sick nearly every month since September (and coincidentally she started preschool one day a week that month), had two bouts of pneumonia, and required treatments to help her breathe. The latest illness began on Mother’s Day, and by Thursday she was in a spiral of non-stop coughing. I mean that literally. She couldn’t utter a sentence without coughing between words. She couldn’t eat; she coughed so much and so hard she vomited. She hardly slept. The doctor had me bring her in and gave her breathing treatment, then sent us home with a prescription for prednisone and albuterol treatments. We also discussed whether to forgo attending preschool in the fall.
At our follow-up appointment on Tuesday, we discussed the situation. It turns out that Bean has asthma. This may be something she outgrows, as her respiratory system gets bigger and her immunity builds. She’s very petite. We have an asthma plan. When she’s healthy, it’s the green zone, and we need not do anything. At the sign of any sickness (fever, runny nose, sneezing, congestion, coughing — any one of these) we enter the yellow zone. We are to give her albuterol every four hours round the clock and prednisone twice a day until the cold goes away.
However, if she’s in the yellow zone more than a week, or she falls into a coughing spiral as she has, we enter the red zone and need to seek emergency attention — Urgent Care if they’re open, the ER if not.
At first I felt a little sad about pulling her out of preschool. I really want her to have the social outlet, and I want it too. The doctor pointed out, though, that if she’s sick all the time, she can’t get the social contact anyway. And preschool is a lot more exposure to illness than small play-dates with friends. So, I set about creating an at-home curriculum for us next year: reading/phonics, science, art & craft, music, games, adventure days. I’ll invite a couple friends over to join us now and then. And after more pondering, I realize that I have a gift. Soon enough, Bean will go to school five days a week and enter into her own life away from me. I have the privilege of her company for another year, at least, and maybe two.
I just returned from a day-long retreat with my friend Karen, where I realized something else. We’ve resorted to doing “puffs” — breathing ten times from a little chamber where the medicine is squirted into — because she fought the breathing treatments that took ten minutes every time. And I realized, today, that by sitting with her and helping her count breaths to ten, I am setting the foundation for her to learn how to settle herself and become aware of breath. It also helps me to stop and breathe, and be quiet. Breathing is the foundation of meditation, which leads to attention, which leads to love, which leads to patience, which leads to forgiveness, which leads to peace.
So what first seems like a hindrance has turned out to have aspects to appreciate. I’m grateful for that.
——-
I have written this post quickly, because my life is in flux and I have to give my attention to other things: dinner, and packing. I feel eloquence is lacking in the above reflection, but it will have to do. We move on Tuesday! So much to do before that!
Lookee what I made! I finally took a lesson on how to use the sewing machine I was given for my birthday 11 months ago. Now that I know my way around the machine (the basics, at least) there will be no stopping me. This one is for Bean. (Pillowcases, anyone? When I learned to knit, all I made for the longest time were scarves. You can happily knit just scarves for a long time. I can see the same thing with pillowcases.)
Last week was rough for me and Bean. She had a slight cold, and she simply would not nap. I’d rock her, she was clearly tired, but no sleep came. By dinnertime each day she was strung out and whiny, and I was on edge. I was not ready to give up her nap, dammit! I resisted with all my mental might. And inevitably, her lack of nap and subsequent crankiness and my exasperation combined badly.
On Friday, for the first time ever, I hit Bean. I was feeding her rice (she’d asked to sit on the counter). I asked her to stop squishing the loaf of bread once, twice, and then I moved it out of her reach. She struck at me, knocking the bowl of rice from my hand, and without thinking I smacked her knee hard. She was wearing a skirt.
And the awful bit is, I wasn’t sorry the instant after. I was just angry. She was wide-eyed, shocked, screaming and sobbing, choking on her mouthful of rice, snot running everywhere. And I told her I was really angry, and that I’d HAD it with her hitting. (She’s doing it more, and she’s bigger, so it makes an impact.)
Then as soon as those words came out of my mouth, I said, “I’m sorry. I should not have done that. We don’t hit, and that means I don’t hit.” Then I hugged her, and she clung to me. And she said she was sorry. We calmed down, she ate some more. She spent the evening talking about it, about how she knocked the bowl and hit me and I swatted her. How she was sorry she did that. And I? I spent the evening quivering at my actions, feeling guilty, wondering how it had come to this and how to avoid a repeat offense.
The thing is, two days prior to that I almost lost control with her trying to get her down for a nap. She started kicking and hitting after we’d had a long, quiet, lullaby-filled rocking session. I was so angry I wanted to throw her to the floor. Instead, as I was holding her I roared horribly in her face — an animal sound, shocking myself as well — put her in the crib (roughly), tossed her blanket at her and stepped away. I was nearly beside myself. I certainly terrified her. She instantly stood up screaming and crying, reaching for me, saying “Doe a deer, doe a deer” over and over. (That’s the song from the Sound of Music that I sing to her.) I went right to her and scooped her up, said I was sorry over and over, went back to the rocker and sang the song for long minutes. We clung to each other. We calmed down. And then we went downstairs, giving up on the nap.
It’s scary to be a parent sometimes. It’s hard.
I talked with Husband about this. I came to realize that I’m really uptight about our impending move, about feeling no control, feeling daunted, and that I really need to get a grip — or at least to let go of my desire to orchestrate. I know this. But sometimes I slip out of awareness and wind up heading straight to a hell of my own making. The way out is to take deep breaths, and focus on what needs doing right now, this moment. I’m steady again.
Yesterday and today I put Bean down MUCH later for a nap, and each time she went down swiftly and deeply. Ah, so that’s the change we might need for now! (In addition to my return to reality.)
This morning she initiated a game of running away from me to the other side of the room, then telling me “Mommy cry.” So I wailed and bawled and boo-hooed, and she came running to me, throwing herself in my arms and hugging with all her might, kissing my lips, telling me she loves me, she likes me, that she came back. Repeat. After about ten minutes of this, she switched and said, “Mommy be angry.” So I ranted and huffed, said “I’m so mad!”; she repeated the same charge toward me into my arms, covering my face with kisses. This went on for many minutes too. She finally decided to end it by saying, “Let’s read a book together so you won’t be so upset.” And so we did. (She picked The Lorax, of all things!)
So now, good readers, you know that it’s not always about craft projects and shaving cream and goofiness. I was sufficiently unsettled by my behavior. I contacted two wise women about this, and they affirmed what I already know: keep aware, step back, take a deep breath, walk away if need be. Don’t set up the expectation to never ever do that again, because that’s a sure path to failure. Just make amends, and do my best, which is usually pretty good.
Love this girl.
Throughout my life, writing has been a cherished expression for me. At one point I even felt that writing was as important as breathing. I so urgently wanted to tell my story about where I came from, what was done to me, what had happened in my life. I wanted to share tidbits, information, inspiration, resources. It was a form of therapy, a creative outlet, and a way to connect intimately with others (even when those others were anonymous).
I’ve noticed since becoming a mother I have written less. No, I take that back. For the first two years of Bean’s life, I wrote about her. Then I decided to reign that in, since she is developing greater agency over her life. Lately, blogging about my life strikes me as an incredibly narcissistic activity; it always has been, but at one point I actually thought it had value. Increasingly, though, I see that my vignettes, reflections, and insights are not original, and I’m not certain that writing them (here or in a paper journal) effects anything beneficial. I don’t seem to need to do it anymore. So this blog has become a place to link to resources related to my current activity (parenting) and the occasional photo or movie of Bean. This morning I realized there are usually three factors that cause my writing silence; any one of these can be cause for me to abandon writing for while:
As it happens, all of these factors are true at the moment. Hence, my sporadic posts.
I’ve been reading voraciously this year. Some years I barely touch fiction, other years I devour it. This is a fiction year. Yet I’ve also been immersed in a number of existential books by Eckhart Tolle, and most recently I’ve been soaking in Hand Wash Cold: Care Instructions for an Ordinary Life.
At this point, I’ll keep living as usual. There’s a season for all things, and the writing season will probably come ’round again.
In reading Eckhart Tolle’s books, I am reminded that we shore up our egos with stories. Unfortunately, ego can be a monumental obstacle to real peace, real being. At one point in my life, it was very important to me to tell people my story: of where I came from, my family dynamics, the struggles I had, the battles I fought. I wanted to be understood. That is, I wanted to be praised, pitied, cosseted. The older I get, however, the less important all that seems. Perhaps it’s interesting as family history, but it really isn’t vital to how I’m to live now. Or at least, it need not be.
I was given a subscription to The Sun, and I always savor the last few pages, including the section called Sy Safransky’s Notebook (he’s the editor). From the March 2010 edition:
I left my story in a barn so someone else could keep milking it. I left my story in the fitting room; it didn’t fit me anymore. I left my story at the hospital because it wouldn’t stop bleeding. I left my story at the rest stop; it needed a rest. I left my story at the body shop because it always wanted a different one. I left my story with some cash so it could never say, “Poor me.” I left my story without saying where I was going because I didn’t want it to follow me; it never even noticed I was gone.
–Sy Safransky
I just heard a fascinating interview on Fresh Air with Judith Shulevitz as the guest.
She has written a book about the history of the Jewish sabbath and also included a memoir about her own journey into keeping Sabbath customs. I found her lyrical and articulate, and her views impressed me. What I especially appreciate is the concept of resting as a community, and of stepping back from our attempt to manipulate and control the world for one day.
For one day each week, the Sabbath encourages us to enter into a moment outside of ordinary time and all the cares associated with it. I can’t do her ideas justice; it’s worth a listen.
Even for an agnostic such as me, it was worth a listen. And now I want to read the book. It resonates the way the Unplug campaign did. I found that the weekend I unplugged for one day, I felt more centered. Last weekend I did not unplug, and I felt I hadn’t even had a weekend!
Go here for more information and to listen to the interview.
I want to know:
I’m looking to see what other families of 3-4 in the Bay Area spend but am generally curious. Trying to see if we spend more than usual and if we should cut back somehow. Please email me privately if you don’t want to comment, kathryn at pobox dot com.
If you practice the kind of patience that leads to the de-escalation of aggression and the cessation of suffering, you will be cultivating enormous courage. You will really get to know anger and how it breeds violent words and actions. You will see the whole thing without acting it out. When you practice patience, you’re not repressing anger, you’re just sitting there with it—going cold turkey with the aggression. As a result, you really get to know the energy of anger and you also get to know where it leads, even without going there. You’ve expressed your anger so many times, you know where it will lead. The desire to say something mean, to gossip or slander, to complain—to just somehow get rid of that aggression—is like a tidal wave. But you realize that such actions don’t get rid of the aggression; they escalate it. So instead you’re patient, patient with yourself.
–Pema Chodron
Inspired by No Time For Flash Cards
If I’m ever at a loss as to what to do, I head over to No Time For Flash Cards for ideas. I love this site. It’s clear the Allie loves children, especially young ones.
Today we did the letter of the week, small k.
And letter of the week, big E.
…and foam stickers, and construction paper, and color markers, and scissors, and…
This is one of the most inspiring and compelling video snippets I have seen in a long time. Please take a moment to go to his site and watch it!
Motivational Message by Nick Vujicic
Maybe I’ll buy the DVD.
Today as Bean sat on her little potty, she announced she wanted to sit on the Big People potty. And that she wanted big-girl underpants. So we went to Target to get an insert to make the regular toilet kid-sized and to find underwear. She chose Hello Kitty and Tinkerbell underpants.
Then after lunch, she tried to sit on the big toilet, but the position was not quite right. So she sat on her potty and managed to complete her business after 45 minutes. (I sit on the floor to read to her, and man, it gets cold and hard!) She wanted to wear underpants then, but I said it was nap time, and after nap she could. Besides, the undies were in the washer.
So she just woke from a nap and asked to wear the undies. She sat on the potty but nothing happened, so we decided she would wear undies and go play. I told her to tell me if she feels pee or poop coming and we’d go sit. I’ve also set the timer for 30 minutes and will remind her then. Then I’ll re-set it for 30 minutes and we’ll go sit, etc. until bedtime.
I thought also that she was going to skip nap for the third day in the row. But eventually, about 45 minutes after putting her down, there was silence from her room for an hour and half. She needed the sleep! It seems, however, that changes are afoot. Big strides tend to happen in bunches with Bean. Her language is more complex (see the story she told that I posted a couple days ago), she’s needing fewer naps, and she’s potty training. There’s a lot going on!
Bean turned two-and-a-half on Monday. Tonight Bean wanted to tell a story. She dictated, and I wrote it down word-for-word. Are you ready?
Once upon a time there was a girl named Stacy the Firefighter. She had a dog named Sparky. He was a Dalmatian. They liked to ride the fire engine and make the siren go. Stacy squirted the whole building. Stacy was sad that she ran away. She was scared of a monster. The dragon gave her a kiss to make her feel better. She didn’t know that a monster would be the same as a dinosaur. Stacy got down and got hurt. She got hurt by a plant. Stacy poked her finger on it. It was a cactus. This time Stacy said ouch because her finger got hurt. And Stacy went all the way home and she told her Mom and Dad how much her finger hurted. Her Mom and Dad gave her a kiss to make it feel better.
The End.
–by Bean Harper, age 2.5 years
What an imagination!
She also, as of two days ago, decided to start potty-training herself. She has asked several times each day to sit on the potty, and she has indeed succeeded in using it each time. I do end up sitting on the floor reading her book after book for about 30-40 minutes, but whatever works to get her started! She is very interested in what comes out of her body and in the process of disposal, flushing, and washing her hands. It’s as if some switch got flipped internally. Other people in our lives have been eager to start training her, and I have gently held my ground; I felt forcing this was a recipe for frustration and failure. I had a feeling she’d proceed on her own schedule. It may not be fast and efficient, but I have a sense that it will be emotionally easier for us all.
Last night I saw a movie based on a book called Half the Sky, written by Nicholas D. Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn. Their work through this book and Nicholas’s New York Times column is an effort to galvanize the world to pay attention to women’s rights all over the world. I could get on my soapbox and provide statistics about poverty, sexual abuse, maternal death, but I think sharing my reflections about one story might be more compelling. Before I do, though, I will share one statistic with you: globally, at least one in three women are beaten or sexually abused in her lifetime. Since I myself am among the group of “one in three” (although I don’t discuss it often here), I want to focus on how one woman has catalyzed major change in her culture.
I want to talk about Woineshet, a young woman who was featured in short film directed by Marisa Tomei. She transformed her experience of being brutally raped into a forum for changing her culture for the betterment of women and therefore, also of men. In Ethiopian villages a common practice — which has been upheld by the law — is that of men raping women and girls, who are then usually forced into marriage with their attackers. As a result of making the offer of marriage later, men cannot be prosecuted for their attacks. In one village, about 70 percent of the marriages found their genesis in this practice.
Woineshet was 13 when she was raped. She journeyed two days for a physical exam in order to provide proof for authorities, only to be told that her virginity was in doubt because the wound looked old. Her attacker was arrested and released on bail; then he abducted Woineshet again and held her for a month, forcing her to sign a marriage certificate before she escaped. Before a judge — who suggested that she was fortunate that her attacker wanted to marry her even though she was no longer a “fresh virgin” — she replied to the question of whether she would marry her rapist with the simple answer: “I refuse.”
She has since, with the steadfast help of her father, gone on to complete her basic education and is pursuing a law degree. She has pursued her case through the legal system in order to win the right for women to prosecute their attackers. What is more heartening, however, is her work to educate people to effect change in the culture which supports this practice.
There is a scene in the film where Woineshet has visited a village, and the men and women gathered to hear her story. A young woman who was forced into marriage after her rape spoke about how she felt. She was unhappy; she wanted to have an education; she wanted to be someone; she was angry. Then the man who attacked her — her husband — spoke from his perspective, of how his actions made him feel like a successful man. It is tempting to feel outrage toward him, but instead I felt something else: hope. I listened to this man talk about how he felt at the time, and how he has come to understand how devastating his actions have been. And he offered to apologize to the woman he’d hurt, and kissed her feet. I realize those actions don’t “make it all better,” but that’s not the point. This enlightenment must occur for change and healing to occur. He cannot undo his actions, but he can atone. Person by person, culture changes. Woineshet is an example of resilience and perseverance at the young age of 21; imagine how she might improve the world throughout her lifetime.
Join the movement: Half the Sky. Women aren’t the problem; they’re the solution, along with men.