Lazy, Hazy Days of Summer

Why must we fill our days with activities

I remember long, lazy summers growing up.

My days were spent walking barefoot, playing with friends, and countless adventures fueled by my own imagination and the freedom to roam at will. I spent one summer as a teenager at Bible camp, but for the most part my three months off from school I was home or hanging out in the neighborhood.

As Barcelona wrapped up her first year of grade school, I found myself chatting with other moms about how we planned to spend the summer break. My approach was simple: A week at the coast, swimming at the pool pool, free family films at the Natomas Marketplace movie theater, play dates with friends, and a few family day trips.

When I posed the same question to my peers, I found myself bombarded with lists of preplanned activities designed to occupy every spare minute of their children's' two-month break from school. Bible School – twice. Gymnastics camp. Soccer. Swim lessons – twice. Summer school. Art camp.

Due to poor planning on my part, I booked our trip to the coast during the one week my children normally attend a neighborhood Bible school program. But that was only one week out of the eight. I considered swim lessons, but the idea of having to be somewhere everyday for two weeks did not appeal to me.

And I began to wonder, was I being a good mom? Should I have signed my two children up for a bevy of activities to fill their summer days? Truth be told, I started to feel more than a little inadequate.

That was until I talked to my own mom, who lives a mere 10 minutes from us. She quickly poo-pooed the idea my children would not be doing enough.

“They only have two months off,” she reminded me.

So while many of my kids' friends were at Bible camp, our family was hanging out in a speck of a town on the Mendocino coast called Anchor Bay. We took hikes as a family and spent hours on the beach where we collected shells and played in the sand. I pretended to read a novel, but mostly I enjoyed the quiet the comes with not being in the city.

When we returned to Sacramento, many of the children we knew were on their way to a second Bible school camp. We instead donned our swim suits and the children practiced swimming and made water footprints on the hot cement. My little ones picked blackberries and nectarines in our own backyard, filling their tummies with sweet, homegrown fruit. I made juicy cobblers and froze the extras for later. My son played dragons and my daughter filled pages with her colorful artwork.

Above all, we enjoyed the time spent together. We relished not having to jump out of bed every morning and rush out the door to be somewhere else. My children grew stronger from chasing each other in the yard, climbing the furniture, and eating a lot of freshgrown food. Our skin got tan, our hair a little messy, our hearts full of love for each other.

In the end, it was better for my children to have some long, lazy summer days to do what they do best – be children. There will be plenty of time for the rest.

Parent Tales Column ~ August 2007

Potty Talk

Get a group of moms together and inevitably the conversation will turn to a handful of ever popular parenting topics. For some unexplainable reason, us women cannot talk enough about our birth stories, breastfeeding woes, sleep deprivation, and potty training adventures.

It's no wonder these topics are consistent fodder for parenting magazines. After all, someone is always having a baby, most women give breastfeeding a try, and by the time our kids get to kindergarten they should be both sleeping through the night and toilet trained.

My admiration goes out to those moms who diligently teach their offspring how to the use the toilet at an early age. One gal I know had each of her children trained earlier than the previous one. Her third child was pooping on a baby potty months before she turned 1 year old thanks to the concept of "elimination communication." Elimination communication is a when parents tune into their individual child's body language and pre talking sounds to know when to place said infant on a toilet. Talk about dedication!

I have met more than one mom who swears by this technique, but personally I prefer the path of least resistance and anyone who has children knows potty training is met with resistance more often than it is not. Like eating and sleeping, whether or not to go potty on the toilet is one of the few things children can control.

For those of who chose not to go the elimination communication route, there are countless parenting books which tout the importance of several cues when it is the “right time” to tackle potty training. Some say little ones who stay dry through their naps are ready. Others will tell you a child able to communicate their need to go can be trained, whether it is with spoken words or sign language. Theories vary with each child and, truth be told, successful toilet training depends on the demeanor of the child and their parents.

I ventured into toilet training Barcelona like someone dipping their toe in a swimming pool before diving into the freezing water. My daughter was about two years old and attending an in-home preschool when I first put her in training pants. I asked her frequently whether she needed to go, but she always shook her head and not long after she would be wet – or worse – and in need of a change.

We potty trained like this off and on for a few months when I decided potty training was not a task I could tackle along with morning sickness. After all, I had read somewhere, children can regress and have accidents upon the arrival of a sibling. So I decided to wait until after Berkeley was born to try toilet training again.

Our family had become the proud owners of a carpet cleaner and Barcelona's fourth birthday loomed on the horizon when I decided to revisit potty training. I vividly remember a four-day weekend during which my husband and I ran our daughter to the toilet, took turns steam cleaning the carpet – and couch – and changing our kid's clothes again and again. At some point we stopped putting any clothes on her and then we were done. I held my breath during our first official outing on day five, and Barcelona held her bladder.

With Berkeley I had hoped he would be inspired by his older sister and toilet train on his own. After all, some of my friends' children had done it! But, alas, my son was not motivated by seeing his sister sit on the toilet. When it became apparent Berkeley would not train himself, I copied another one of my friends and offered to buy my son a “big boy” bed if he used the potty instead of diapers. “No big boy bed!” was his adamant response. I tried rewarding my son with M&Ms, but that only worked until later the same day when I found he had climbed up to the kitchen counter and eaten every candy on the sly.

One day I went to the store and stocked up on several pairs of cartoon character covered underwear. But the possibility of wearing Nemo, Lightning McQueen and Spider Man on his bottom did not delight my son the way it did other little boys we knew. A few months later, I drove to the IKEA store in West Sacramento for the express purpose of buying a large stuffed dragon which I told Berkeley he could have when he went on the potty and no longer wore diapers. The thing gathered dust atop the wardrobe in Berkeley's room as he continued to shun the toilet.

Then, one day when my kids were taking a bath together, Berkeley climbed out of the tub and sat on the toilet. After that I would ask him if he needed to go whenever I changed his diaper, sometimes he did and sometimes he did not. I reintroduced the reward system and started giving him chocolate chips for his positive trips to the potty.

Something shifted in my son and one day his preschool teacher suggested going to the bathroom, like she always did, but this time he ran in there “like it was no big deal,” to quote Miss Dina. Suddenly, Berkeley started talking about chocolate and when he would get to play with his dragon. Since we do not have four solid days to stay homebound, I know the potty training process will not be complete overnight. But as Barcelona would say, “Berkeley, I'm so proud of you.”

Now, if only I could get him to stop saying the word “poop."

Parent Tales Column ~ July 2007

The Secret Language

Every home has its own lingo

My home is multilingual.

Oh, it's not what you are thinking... My family of four do not converse with each other in a lyrical foreign tongue, we speak a language of our own making.

I am certain an evening in our abode would make a linguistics aficionado's head spin like that poor girl in “The Omen.” For our little language lacks structure and there are no grammatical rules to dictate how we speak to each other.

I blame it on the children.

My husband, Bill, and I started this odd talk after the arrival of our first born. We never did speak the stereotypical baby talk – think goo goo, ga ga, ba ba – to Barcelona. But almost as soon as we brought her home, we started to call her everything but her given name. First, we called her Boo Boo, but this became confused with my own identical nickname. So we switched to Little Boo and eventually settled on the shortened version: Boo.

Before Barcelona found her own voice, Bill and I communicated with her using baby sign language. After she started to talk to us, we incorporated her little Boo-isms into our own language. One overnight trip to the San Francisco Bay Area, we booked a hotel room. For some reason Barcelona translated “hotel” to “hotower” and the word stuck. When discussing up a recent trip to Disneyland, both my husband and I could be heard talking up the hotower where we would be staying. I am sure anyone eavesdropping on these conversations would wonder whether our accommodations were real or imaginary.

When Berkeley came along three years ago, we started off calling him Baby Brother. Somehow that moniker evolved and now we often refer to our family's youngest member as Turkey. You would have to ask my husband to explain this one, but I suspect it has something to do with my son's mischievous nature as in “He's such a little turkey!”

Berkeley's translations of words are typical of most children's language development. There is “bapple” for apple, “biper” for diaper, and “pider” for spider. Funny thing, though, the grownups at our house can be heard using these same interpretations in our everyday conversations with each other. I am just as likely to ask if anyone wants bapples with their peanut butter and jelly sandwich as the kids are to request them. The other day I was a little shocked when I asked Berkeley if he wanted a bapple and it was my preschooler who corrected me.

“No bapple, mommy.”

“No?”

“No, I want apple.”

I was equally surprised the time I overheard a dispute between my two youngsters. When Berkeley started to talk, we taught him to say “sissy” instead of Barcelona. He still uses sissy when he speaks to her, when he is looking for her, and when he is tattling on her. But one day while they squabbled, I was shocked to hear my son say “Barcelona.” For some reason I mistakingly assumed he did not know his own sister's name. They grow up so fast – sigh.

Then there is the way I talk to my children. There are times I question my college degree in communication. Instead I sound like a military sargeant barking out orders or someone just a little on the side of crazy when I say things like “Take the dinosaur out of your mouth!”

Children have selective hearing when it comes to their parents and for this reasons I can often be heard repeating the same command over and over again. I can be heard saying “go go go” when the children are dawdling, “no.... No... NO!” when they are being naughty, and several other variations all equally aggressive. Sometimes I cringe when I hear my voice say the same word over and over again like a broken record.

Yes, there is something about having children that changed the way my husband and I talk. We refer to our children by their pet names, we incorporate their made-up words into our own language, and we say things we never could have imagined -- “Don't lick daddy's feet!”

My solace is the knowledge other families are also multilingual. They say things that sound a little weird to outsiders and often have to repeat themselves. For this is the language of parenthood.

Parent Tales Column ~ June 2007

Reflections of Motherhood

On friendship, magic and cherishing the moment

I was chatting with a friend this afternoon, comparing busy schedules and our desire to do something more with our time, when she leaned forward and said, one mom to another:

“I completely understand. After all, we would not be doing any of these things if we did not have children.”

Her statement, an epiphany of sorts for me, was so obvious, I resisted the overwhelming urge to smack myself in the forehead with the flat palm of my hand. Duh!

Volunteering in the classroom, shuttling from Daisy meetings to horseback riding lessons to gymnastics classes, memberships with MOMS Club and Mothers of Preschoolers, the babysitting exchange; I would not orbit from one to the other and back again if it were not for my children. And my plane of existence likely would not include writing assignments about education policy, parenting issues – this very column, for that matter!

When I first joined mother's groups and signed up for the SacramentoMommas.Com online chat board, I did so to meet other women. Women who had children. Women like me.

Over the years I have maintained wonderful relationships with girlfriends from high school, those I met at the women's college I attended, writing groups, and past jobs. After I gave birth to my first child, I still craved the company of women, but at the time I felt something was missing from all those B.C. (before children) relationships.

Six years later I understand each friend – whether it's someone I met 20 years ago or just last week – brings something special to my life table. I hold on tight to the notion friendships are for a reason, a season, or a lifetime, and look for the value in each.

With spring showers, come May flowers and Mother's Day. This is the time of year I catch myself reflecting on my station in life as mother to Barcelona, nearly 6, and Berkeley, 3. After all, I gave birth to my first born just days before this annual holiday and found out I was pregnant the second time just two years later. For this reason, Mother's Day is more than a Hallmark holiday for me, it is a day which marks a significant transition in my life.

I find myself doing things now, my high school self would have never imagined! For one, I became a card carrying stay-at-home-mom when I decided to try to write from home. Also, I am technically just a minivan shy of being the quintessential soccer mom. Not to mention the daily cuddle sessions with my offspring and all the magical touches I try to incorporate in their lives.

Last month, I was playing Easter Bunny late one night when I asked my husband, “Would it really bug you if I sprinkled Easter grass on the floor?” This to the man who earlier that same day had vacuumed and scrubbed said floor surface. When he nodded, I asked, “Can I do it anyway?” Then clapped my hands happily when he nodded again.

I assembled the kids' Easter baskets and set them on the family room coffee table then proceeded to create a grass trail from the table back to the front door. I tried to feign surprise the next morning when my daughter discovered the grass and ran through the house to tell her little brother, “Berkeley, the Easter bunny came last night! Do you want to come see?”

The magic is the Easter grass, colored eggs, silver coins underneath pillows, mini Christmas trees left decorated in my children's rooms, and their stuffed animals circled around the tree with piles of gifts on Christmas morning... One of the best things about being a mom is reinforcing their childlike wonder and I loath the day my children stop believing in the Easter bunny, tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and worse yet, in everything I may say to them.

I know real challenges of parenthood loom on the horizon. After every sunset, the sun will rise again and bring with it another day. My children will continue to grow and evolve.

In the coming years, I expect to log many more miles driving my kids from place to place and later I expect to wait up once they are – God forbid! – driving themselves. I would be surprised if my children did homework and chores without being asked repeatedly to perform these tasks. And I do not doubt there will be the dreaded “sex talk” as well as tangles over shaving, make up, dating and curfews with both children.

This Mother's Day I resist imagining my children as their future selves. Today they are still so small and fit so easily within my arms. I fight the urge to hold them tighter in an effort to fend off the inevitable. Instead, I focus on the knowledge there is a reason to enjoy this very season. I may not always be my children's best friend, but for a lifetime I will be their mom.

Parent Tales Column ~ May 2007

It Takes a Village

The business of childhood is learning

The African proverb “It takes a village to raise a child” appeared to be everywhere in popular culture almost as soon as Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton used it for the basis of a book by the same name published in 1996. I never realized the validity of these words until my own daughter started kindergarten 10 years later.

My husband and I were among the dozens of parents who turned out for that seasonably warm first day of school. Even those with older children, already kindergarten “veterans,” walked their children to Mr. Turner's classroom door and stood huddled together in anticipation.

The call for parent volunteers went out immediately in the form of a sign up sheet posted on the outside wall next to the door. I never imagined myself in the role of “class mom” even after I had children and decided to write from home.

But on that first day, after most parents finally kissed their little ones farewell, I stayed behind. Those first 3 ｽ hours of school were filled with more than 20 children going about the business of being official kindergarteners. There was some dancing to get the wiggles out, there was a story to ease their minds about the first day of school, and there were projects, projects and more projects.

This is where the parent helpers were to come in handy.

Everyday in Barcelona's class, there is an hour or more dedicated to what has been dubbed “workshop” time. It is during this period when children rotate between four to five different stations to work on everything from writing their letters to reading to creating art to performing scientific experiments. At times, the children perform these necessary tasks with the precision of well-tuned machinery. At other times, chaos reigns supreme as they struggle to stay on task.

I volunteered more than once that first week of school in part due to my own separation anxiety, but mostly to aid Mr. Turner and his teaching partner with the daily juggling of active learning. Finally, another mom and I agreed to take turns watching our younger offspring so the other could volunteer in the classroom only once a week (something I was happy to sign up to do after that exhaustive first few days).

It was surprising how quickly I learned the names and faces of all the 22 kindergarteners in my daughter's class. It probably didn't hurt I already knew a few from preschool. Each child presented a unique personality from the offset and each brought with them to kindergarten some strengths – as well as a few weaknesses.

I remember early on in the school year when one particularly advanced child turned to her peer and asked, “How old are you anyway?”

The quiet girl replied somewhat timidly, “I'm 6 years old.”

“Then why are you scribbling?” asked the girl who carefully colored within the lines on the page in front of her.

I was appalled, but truth be told I was also surprised how much the some children struggled to hold crayons and scissors while others already appeared to be masters of these skills, a few of them already budding artists. I quickly assured both girls they were doing their projects correctly and later slunk over to Mr. Turner for advice. How much should a parent volunteer say or do in these situations? I asked.

Six months later, my child volunteered me to work the dreaded workbook table where children practice writing upper case and lower case letters and try their hand at sounding out and writing down words. One of the students, who started the school year not speaking much English, was among the group of children still writing down only the starting sounds of the words. At Mr. Turner's encouragement, I asked this student to sound out word one word, then another until he completed both pages in his workbook.

I probably could not have been more excited if it had been my own child and I was bubbling over all day as a result!

There is no question in my that mind teachers are people who answer a special calling. Their ability to instruct a group of children – with learning styles and abilities at opposite ends of the spectrum – continues to amaze me. And the patience with which they handle the occasional unruly child and classroom dispute is also admirable as I myself struggle daily with two of own bickering children at home.

At the same time I realize what an important role parents play in the learning process. Those of us who are lucky enough to help in the classroom and those who make time to sit down and do assignments with our children at home have front-row seats. We can applaud all the children's accomplishments, for we are part of the village it takes to raise a child – not just our own.

Parent Tales Column ~ April 2007

The Changeable Child

Nothing stays the same where kids are concerned

As soon as we announced we were pregnant with our first child, people were quick to enlighten my husband and I with: “A baby will completely change your lives.”

To this oft-heard quip, I resisted the urge to reply, “Duh!” I mean, really, how would a person not know that becoming a parent is a life-changing event? Instead, they should have said, “Enjoy each moment because children are always changing.”

I mean always changing.

These transitions start very early on. I remember when I first started to distinguish the different sounds my first born made. There was one to eat, there was one for a dirty diaper, and there was one – a cute little high pitched squeal – which translated “come pick me up, Mommy!”

With my son, I recall how during a visit from out-of-town family he slept through each night of their stay. “Finally,” I thought to myself, “I can get some sleep.” That all changed the day (or should I say night?) my inlaws left and the little guy switched right back to wanting those two early-morning feedings I so hoped he had outgrown.

Nearly all the changes I have witness in my children are positive and mark exciting new milestones. The more they talk, the more physically daring they become, how they play with each other, what they like to draw with crayons... These things come with each day as my son and daughter grow into their unique selves.

But I do not welcome all aspects of their growth with open arms.

Sibling rivalry, for one, is just something I do not get. As an only child growing up I always yearned for a brother or sister with whom to play. Now, as my children bicker over everything from who gets to turn off the television to who can get out of the car first, I can actually feel my hair graying.

The other day I was talking to a woman whose daughter and son are a few years older than my own. When my little ones started tousling over who could open the door to leave, I asked over my shoulder, “Tell me: is this what I have to look forward to the rest of my life?”

My friend laughed. “Oh, yes, just this morning my daughter complained her brother was looking at her.” The horror!

My husband, one of four boys, is adamant we do not allow the bickering and teasing which comes with sibling territory to go unchecked. And I agree, for the simple fact I cannot bear to listen to it.

I choose not to ignore the wailing and accusations of “Mommy, sissy not nice,” but rather I have started to lay down the law. Unless one of them does something glaringly wrong – like hit the other – I am resolved not to pick sides. Thankfully, the threat of being sent to their rooms, where there is no one else to play with, still carries enough weight in my house to work. Most of the time.

Another change for which I was ill prepared was my daughter's recent shift from sweet little girl to sassy kindergartener. Seemingly overnight she started picking battles with me whenever I ask her to do something. Lately, I am faced with resistance whether I tell her to get dressed, pick up toys or go to the bathroom before we head out to school.

Each encounter plays out pretty much the same way. I say something like, “Sissy, in 10 minutes we have to get ready to go to school so please help clean up the toys.” Her response almost always starts with her little arms crossed “that's not fair,” she “doesn't like (getting dressed, picking up toys, going to the bathroom – fill in the blank),” topped off with a rousing “I'm not going to marry you anymore!”

I have tempered my response to these outbursts because I do not believe a negative reaction on my part will change the behaviour. My husband, my mother, and even my daughter's kindergarten teacher have spoken to her about “being nice to Mommy.” Just the other day I overheard one of these conversations while I was preparing dinner, when my daughter confessed “I don't know how.”

These words would have broken my heart if not spoken so candidly by my own offspring. Who among us has not experienced moments when our mouths say something before we have thought it through? I know I am guilty of both saying and doing things I later regret, but am unsure how to make amends.

I trust our pediatrician's diagnosis which is my daughter is testing her boundaries. Perhaps she wants to make sure I will love her no matter what, much like the little girl in the book I read to her “Mama do you love me?” by Barbara Joosse. I am still trying to figure out the best way to let my daughter express her frustrations while still being respectful, but I know once I do something else will change and I with it.

In the meantime, when these battles start to weigh me down, I remind myself I am facing the same little girl who is just as quick to tell me I am her “best Mommy ever” as she is to pick a fight. This is the same little girl who likes to give me nose kisses. And I love her.

Parent Tales Column ~ March 2007

The First Step

The End of Babyhood Starts at the Preschool Door

Not so long ago I picked Berkeley up from the St. Francis Parish nursery. After signing him out, I was handed a blue piece of construction paper covered in a pattern of lines drawn with colored pens.

“Berkeley was really into this today,” said Carole, the nursery coordinator.

My son's caregiver explained the little ones in the nursery worked with stencils that day and my son, in particular, spent a lot of time on his “project”. She pointed to areas on the page which alluded to possible designs, telling me these were from tracing stencils.

“He starts preschool tomorrow,” I said with a resigned sigh. “He turns 3 years old in a few days.”

Carole offered her mother-to-mother condolences and gave me a hug of reassurance. Even though our family had been talking about Berkeley starting preschool for several days at that point, the reality he was no longer a baby was not a concept I was quite ready to embrace.

My daughter started her preschool career on the earlier side. Barcelona was only 2 years old and a few months on her first day.

The decision to enroll my first born in preschool at this age was influenced by several factors. A child development specialist suggested she would benefit from peer modeling when it came to her speech and gross motor development. I was also pregnant with her little brother and decided I did not want his arrival to be associated with the start of preschool. The fact we already knew most of the other children in the class did not hurt either.

Within a month of starting preschool Barcelona's use of sign language started to give way to spoken words. As the only girl in her class at the time, she was physically challenged to keep up with all the boys though, thankfully, they refrained from wrestling her as they did each other.

By the time Berkeley was born five months later, Barcelona had graduated to a big girl bed and could say “baby brother” clearly when referring to our newest family member. She was only 2 ½ years old at the time.

Flash forward to the night before Berkeley's first day of school... Whenever one of us in the family asked him whether he was ready for preschool, he said without pause, shaking his head, “No, not yet.”

“What about tomorrow?” We inquired.

“Yes, tomorrow.” And he continued playing with his sister unconcerned with the fact we had broached the topic of his passage from toddler to preschooler.

The next morning I remembered to put Barcelona's backpack in the car, but forgot his – probably in a subconscious attempt to delay the inevitable. After we dropped his sister off at school, I told Berkeley we would have to swing back by the house to get his backpack.

“What happened? Mommy lost it?” Asked my little guy, clearly lacking confidence of his mother to keep track of his Nemo backpack.

“No, no, mommy just forgot it,” I said, referring to myself in third person the way most parents find themselves doing when conversing with their children.

Berkeley accepted this answer in silence and lifted his window shade to get a better view of the neighborhood whizzing by him at a mere 25 mph. He sat in the same car seat as his sister had before him, clearly unfazed by the fate facing him, while I thought waxed nostalgic.

On the way to preschool, I tried to remind Berkeley of his new teacher's name. But instead of practicing “Miss Dina” my munchkin repeated “Dina dude” and “teacher dude” to my chagrin. I could thank his older sister for bringing that particular vocabulary word home with her from kindergarten and worried, though briefly, what kind of impression this would make on my son's new classmates.

When the two of us pulled up to the preschool I immediately recognized one of the moms making a drop off of her own. Our daughter had taken dance classes together when our boys were much smaller. Her presence comforted me and I started to feel excited about Berkeley's new journey.

Ever the big boy, Berkeley pulled his wheeled backpack behind him as we walked up the path to the school door where he briefly hesitated before crossing the threshold. Once inside, my son surveyed the room and before I knew it had removed both his Stride Rites and quickly made his way over to the toy bulldozers. Berkeley's new teacher gave a little chuckle at the ease with which he made the transition.

I showed Berkeley his cubby where he placed his shoes and I tucked in his backpack. After Miss Dina and I reviewed the necessary paperwork, we looked over at Berkeley who had since reunited with the bulldozers.

“I think he will be OK,” I told her with a resigned tone and a slight shrug of my shoulders.

“I think so,” she agreed with a nod. I tried not to look back on my way out the door, but turned around to steal a quick kiss from my little guy before sneaking out the door.

Parent Tales Column ~ February 2007