Unconditional Parenting

Those of you who know me best are well aware of my obsession with parenting books. I think it's probably safe to say I am, in fact, a parenting book junkie. If it was written in the last five to ten years and it doesn't condone child beating or involve "raising a good Christian" or have a title that includes the phrase "Three Easy Steps," then I have probably read it. That's a LOT of parenting books people.

Now out of all those, there are only two that really stand out as superb. Granted I'm only three years into child rearing so this list will likely (and hopefully) branch out. For example, I can think of a few that were excellent but only targeted to parents of girls or parents of adolescents.

Some of you (Becca) will not be surprised to hear Positive Discipline by Jane Nelson is at the top of the list. I've already touched on this book a little bit in an earlier post so I am not going to go into any great detail about it here except to say it's an excellent place to start if you are a new and/or expecting parent.

My other parenting bible, which I only recently discovered and then wondered why I'd never heard of before, is Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn. In the past few days, I tried to write a review of this book no less than three times. And each time I felt I wasn't doing it justice. I also had a hard time explaining the premise of the book without making it sound wishy-washy. So rather than giving it another go...I suggest you take a look at the book jacket and book reviews available on Kohn's website and at Amazon. This book goes very well with the positive discipline philosophy. In fact, you'd do yourself a big favor by reading Kohn's book first and then referring to Jane Nelson's books for some ideas how to implement unconditional parenting in your home.

While I myself am by no means a parenting expert, I'm pleased to say both these books come highly recommended by all sorts of people involved in early childhood education and development. I was also pleasantly surprised to see they are both on the reading list at M's preschool. Which confirms my sneaking suspicion that I am, in fact, a brilliant mother.

Bedtime at My House

I would like to take this moment to point out to you that this picture does NOT depict the reality of bedtime in nine out of ten American households. No, I don't have any data to back this up but I cannot believe anyone has it this easy unless they drug their chidren. If you or someone you know of has a child who falls asleep this well, PLEASE tell me your secret. PLEASE.

Here's what bedtime looks like at our house. For those of you who are new or expecting parents, I apologize if this post causes insomnia.

The Scene: Post-dinner time in suburbia. Dad is still at work. Mom and two kids are in the living room hanging out. Mom makes the mistake of trying to check email. Chaos ensues.

I'm on the couch responding to an email. Z and M are playing together. M is behind the folding screen partition in our family room playing peek-a-boo with Z. All is well. Cue ominous music. A few minutes later, it's very quiet and I notice a smell. A strong, chemical smell. I look up and see what appears to be small, hand-shaped grease stains on the red silk partitions lining the expensive folding screen we had shipped all the way from Thailand in 2004. M has apparently found a giant can of WD-40 tucked away behind the screen (which K stupidly left out) and is spraying it all over her hands....while also, I suspect, getting high as a kite from the fumes. Z thankfully is elsewhere.

I yank M into the bathroom to wash her hands repeatedly. The smell of WD-40 is still very strong. I check her eyes to make sure they haven't completely dilated. She seems ok...and, let's face it, I haven't a fucking clue what dilated pupils are supposed to look like vs. normal pupils. I leave for a few seconds to check on Z and open the windows to air out the house. In the 4.5 seconds that I'm gone, M starts yelling. I run in and she has pooped herself and it's running down her legs onto the stepstool, bathroom rug, and into her shoes. Lest I worry this happened as a result of the WD-40 incident, she calmy says, "My went poo-poo in the other room. But now poo-poo want to come out of my pants." I strip her down and put her in the tub and then clean up a shit covered bathroom floor while she frolicks merrily in the water....probably wondering what other benevolent gifts the hands of fate have in store for her tonight. A cookie perhaps? A cartoon?

Not too long after, K gets home and wants to talk about some issues he's having with an employee. M is way amped up by now from the our earlier antics and in full crazy mode. Every time K and I try to talk, she inserts herself (physically, verbally) into the conversation and attempts to divert all focus back to her. When that doesn't work, she starts jumping on the couch, then pretends to fall and cries to be helped, then demands to be held, then harasses Z...all in the hopes that someone will look at her RIGHT NOW Goddamnit!!

Bedtime comes, bedtime goes. Z, bless her angelic little heart, is fast asleep in her crib. Meanwhile, across the hall, almost 1.5 hours after being put down for bed...M is still going strong. In the time it took me type this (not long at all) she has: run up and down the hall, asked repeatedly for a glass of water, said she had to go pee, began throwing books on the floor, sat on her bedroom floor and played with toys.

I have only the vaguest memories of what it was like to be a very young child. But based on what I can recall, I know it felt a lot like being a drunk adult. You know how after a few drinks--before you get rip-roaring, incoherently drunk--you feel pleasant and happy and your tongue loosens up and your inhibitions fly out the window and suddenly walking up to someone you haven't seen in years and commenting on how wrinkled she looks or how her husband made a pass at you the last time you saw them seems like a really great idea? Well that, my friends, is exactly the same state of mind I remember having as a small child. You feel good, you feel happy, and you follow your whims without a care in the world. Why am I bringing this up? Because I'm desperately trying to remind myself that M is NOT out to get me. That her behavior, while incredibly challenging, is not completely off the wall for a three-year old. Right?

(please say yes).

Where's J?

You may have noticed my posts have become a tad sporadic as of late. It's not for lack of interest in this blog or lack of new things to write about. The truth is, my evenings have become a bit busier.

First off, I've been spending a lot of my free time reading up on a variety of topics that will hopefully help us with some of M's issues (which, admittedly, have diminished somewhat since she began napping regularly at preschool two weeks ago). I'm still trying to digest the whole "gifted" thing as well as all the other baggage that apparently comes along with those types of kids.

Secondly, I've got a large-ish freelance project that I'm focusing on in the evenings which is taking up a LOT of my time.

Lastly, I am working on some additional stories which I may or may not consider publishing depending on what I find out about the children's book market. Rumor has it times are tough there just like anywhere else so I may be aspiring towards an unachievable goal. But we shall see.

Long story short, please bear with me for now. I don't plan to vanish completely. But my posts will be less frequent for a few weeks until things settle down.

More soon!

The Singing Oak

At the very top of a hill, stood a large oak tree. She was called the Singing Oak. Long ago, when the oak was just an acorn, she fell from her mother and took root in the ground below. Slowly, slowly she grew strong and tall, her branches spread wide and twisting.

From her place on the hill, the Singing Oak saw many things.

The great fires that turned the hills beneath her orange, then black.
The women who collected her acorns to make bread.
The farmer who built a fence around her to keep his horses away.
The fierce storm that blew her brothers and sisters down.

From her place on the hill, the Singing Oak sang many songs.

A song about the green-grass season, the time of rain.
A song about the dry-grass season, the time of heat and buzzing insects.
A song about the big moon time when the nights turned bright as day.
A song about the shaking time when the ground beneath her rocked and jumped.

One day, after the Singing Oak had been silent for many weeks, she sighed long and deep. The family of squirrels in her branches stopped scampering and sat up. The birds stopped chirping and clustered together attentively.

“I have lived a long time,” she said, her voice crackling like autumn leaves. “I have seen much change and beauty. But now I am tired. I am ready to go.”

No one spoke. But the animals wondered where she would go. She had no legs, no wings. Her roots were buried deep in the rich soil beneath her. Finally the smallest squirrel, and the oak’s favorite, asked in a high voice,“Where will you go? And how will you get there?”

The Singing Oak laughed softly, then replied, “I am a living thing, like you. I grow old, as will you. And one day, like you, I will die. That time has come.”

The animals looked at one another in surprise. They had never thought of the tree dying. She had always been there, before any of them were born. And they imagined she would still be there after they themselves had gone. The smallest squirrel, who was a talkative sort, said, “But we do not want you to die!"

There was a long pause. And then the great tree began to sway gently. “I am sorry to leave you my little friends. But this is something I must do.”

The days passed. And the Singing Oak’s leaves turned dull and brittle. The bark on her trunk and branches grew brown and then black.

Finally a day, like any other, arrived. The oak had not spoken for many days. All her leaves had fallen to the ground below. But the animals knew she was still with them because sometimes, in the silent hours of the morning, they heard her singing.

The smallest squirrel crept close to the Singing Oak’s trunk.
“Where will you go?” he whispered.
In a dreamy voice, she replied, “I do not know.”
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
And the tree replied, “I do not know. But I hope so.”
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
And the oak replied, “I am not. Death is part of life and something that comes to us all.”
“I will miss you.” he said.
The Singing Oak bent a withered branch to his small shoulders. “And I you, my little friend.” Then she was silent.

Sometime later, the birds gathered their families and flew down the hill to another tree. And the squirrels slowly followed.

From their new home, the animals could see what remained of the Singing Oak at the top of the hill. But the sight of her made them very sad. The smallest squirrel would often go up and sit next to what was left of his friend, remembering the many things he loved about her.

One day, when the smallest squirrel was himself quite old and no longer the smallest, he noticed something different about the Singing Oak’s hill. He gathered up his children and grandchildren and they crept through the tall, brown grass to the top. There, not too far from where his beloved tree still stood, was another—much smaller—oak tree.

“Hello tree,” said the smallest squirrel.

“Hello squirrel!” sang the Singing Oak’s daughter.

And they shared a smile.

I have not been impressed with the stories I've found that address death and dying for young children. I'm intrigued by folks tales, especially those that come from old cultures deeply rooted in nature like Native American, African, Southeast Asian, etc. Squirrels with their high energy seem like a great subsitute for young children. And a tree, gnarled and tall and ancient, is very like how children might view a beloved grandparent...someone who was there before they arrived and who they imagine will be there forever.

Brilliant!

On Sunday evening I had my first visit with a family/parent therapist. As I mentioned previously, we've been having some challenges with Miss M. So I decided to contact this woman because a) I wanted to know how much (if any) of M's behavior was outside the norm (for all I know, what we're dealing with could be basic developmental stuff that happens to all three-year olds) and b) I wanted to know what K and I were doing that could be contributing to her behavior. Were we too impatient with her? Not giving her enough downtime? Pushing her too hard? Not nurturing enough?

You know how you feel immediately comfortable with some people while it can take forever to relax around others? This lady was definitely in the former category. Probably a good thing considering I'm paying her $100+ a week to listen to me complain about my child.

As for the appointment itself....well, let's just say it veered in a direction I was not expecting.

First I spent about 25 minutes filling her in on all the drama that had been going on at our house. Then she started asking me some questions. And the more pointed her questions became, the more I began to worry she was going to tell me something I didn't want to hear about M, something along the lines of developmental problems/disabilities, etc. So it would be no exaggeration on my part to say I was completely floored when, roughly 45 minutes into the appointment, she calmly said, "Are you aware you have a gifted child?"

[sound of record scratching as main character does a huge double take]

Say what?!?!?! Gifted? M?!

Don't get me wrong. K and I have always thought M was an intelligent child. But would either of us have ever suspected her of being genius material? Uh...not really. I don't know about you but when someone says "gifted", I immediately think of Mozart, Einstein, and that dude who's life story was portrayed in the film "A Beautiful Mind." And as far as K or I know, M hasn't been secretly composing an opera or inventing a perpetual motion machine in her bedroom.

Now that I've had some time to absorb and process this news, I'm still not sure what to think. On the one hand, there is something compelling about being told that the child who has been driving you batshit crazy for weeks is actually doing it because she's highly intelligent. It lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the daily struggles and tantrums. But on the other hand, the cynic in me has to wonder if the therapist feeds this line to all her clients. Perhaps as a way to ensure they keep coming back?

Anyway, I'm trying to keep an open mind about all of this. The therapist asked K and I to track M's behavior this week to see if we could figure out a pattern. And she referred me to a few websites with lots more info about gifted children, how to identify them, where to get formal testing, etc. I plan on going back next Sunday and I guess I'll keep pursuing this angle until we get some resolution or I realize this gal is simply blowing smoke up my ass in an attempt to drum up business in these tough economic times.

Career Mom

This past Sunday M and I drove up to the city to meet some friends for brunch. One of my friends recently had a baby. She had left her job to care for her child but said she was looking for ways to keep her resume from getting stale while she was out of work. It got me to thinking. In case you haven't noticed, I'm out of work. Meanwhile, my resume is--aside from a handful of freelance projects--slowly festering.

Mind you, I've never been terribly career-oriented and therefore not at all that concerned with what people see when they look at my resume. But at the same time, I don't want to look like a behind-the-times fossil who has had zero growth while staying at home with my kids.

So I started to wonder if being an out-of-work mom really is detrimental to your career.

I mean, does a hiring manager really care what you've been doing for the past year or does it depend more on your ability to spin it to your advantage? For example, I personally think being a full-time mom is quite a feat. It's incredibly challenging and requires a level of multi-tasking, patience, conflict resolution, and household management skills that most of us are rarely ever faced with while at work. Frankly, between you and me, I think it's a hell of a lot easier to hold down a desk job than it is to be a full-time parent.

I get that it's probably not kosher to list "Mom" as a job description on your resume. But why couldn't you mention it in a job interview or in a cover letter? Look. I've hired quite a few folks over the past several years. And I can tell you some of the best employees--and managers--have been those (men or women) with kids. They were dedicated to their jobs, completely trustworthy, and capable of juggling a number of tasks with relative ease. (For the record, some of the worst employees I've ever had were "go getter" twenty-somethings with big egos, big demands, and in desperate need of a reality check).

And frankly, if a hiring manager is going to think less of me for taking time to be with my child, then I highly doubt it's the right company for me. Let your parent flag fly! Don't be ashamed to say, "Well, the reason I have an employment gap between this year and last year on is because I took time off to take care of my baby. And it was, by far, one of my most challenging and rewarding career moves. I can now multitask with my eyes shut, deal with the most recalictrant of people, function on minimal sleep, manage a budget, coordinate events, and roll up my sleeves and get dirty like no body's business."

I say, if you have the time and desire to freelance or volunteer, go for it. But don't kill yourself. And don't do it simply because you're worried you might not be as viable to a hiring manager when/if the times comes. I've known women who took off five years from work and were able to return to the work force with a little bit of fancy footwork. Remember, and this is just a hunch from someone who is admittedly not very career motivated, it's less about what you've done than how you sell yourself.

The Peace Quilt

In a village between the sea and the mountain, a girl was born. Her name was Daughter.

Like all children, like you little one, she had a talent. But it was hidden. Until one day, when she sat at the foot of her mother’s chair watching the village women’s hands dive like fish and rise like birds across bright strips of cloth. Mother saw how closely the girl watched. She handed her a thin, shining needle. “Sharp,” mother said. “Be careful.” Daughter slipped a slender thread through the needle’s eye. The women nodded knowingly to each other as Daughter’s hands dove like a fish and rose like a bird across the scrap of cloth her mother gave her. “What talent,” they said.

One day a man came to the door. After he left, father spoke to the family, “Tonight you and all the other women and children must go up the mountain. Do not return until one of us comes for you.” That night, while the moon hid behind swollen clouds, Daughter, her mother, and all the other women and children of the village climbed up past the vineyards and olive groves, bringing only as much as they could carry. Daughter could not bring her sewing basket. She only had a single needle tucked into the sleeve of her dress.

At the top of the mountain, the women and children wondered when they would see the men again. Daughter grew tired of waiting and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Strength,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the women replied. “I will take your sorrow. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your worry. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of resolve flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was gray as stone and blue as the sea with lines of bright gold running through it.

Not long after, a man arrived. He was tired and hurt and filled with despair. “We have nowhere to go. We are surrounded. The only way out is by sea.” The women began to shake and cry. Daughter grew tired of the fear and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Courage,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the women replied. “I will take your distress. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your despair. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of bravery flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the deep purple of wine and the ruby red of pomegranates with circles of bronze.

One day another man came up the mountain. His clothes were in tatters and he walked with a limp. But he was smiling. “A ship has arrived! We are saved! Gather your children and come quickly with me!” And the women and children of the village followed the man down, down, down the mountain to the sea where a large ship waited. “But where are the others? Where is my father?” Daughter asked. The man laughed and Daughter saw the whiteness of his teeth against his nut-brown skin. “He is there waiting,” he said, pointing to the ship. So the villagers climbed into the boat and stood on deck holding hands until the mountain was just a small, dark speck at the edge of the sea.

The ship brought the villagers to a place with tents and dust and hunger where the hot air shimmered like water. They were unhappy. They missed their home. Their children were always crying for food. The villagers were angry and wondered what they had done to deserve this. Daughter grew tired of feeling discouraged and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Hope,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the people replied. “I will take your regret. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your rage. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of anticipation flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the bright white of the sand and the glowing orange of the sun with squares of silver.

Soon the villagers decided to find a new home. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with a deep blue sea and mountains. Somewhere with olives and grapes and pomegranates. And they did.

Years passed. One day Daughter sat in her favorite chair listening to her grandchildren speak in a language that was not her own. She worried that her history and traditions would not take root in this new land. That her children’s children were too soft and spoiled. Daughter grew tired of her frustration and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Memory,” she said. “But you have no cloth, grandmother!” her grandchildren replied. “I will take your apathy. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread, grandmother!” they said. “I will take your ignorance. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, her grandchildren began to feel a surge of understanding and respect flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the dark green of an olive and the rich brown of coffee with stars of copper.

Not long afterward, Daughter felt her time had come. But her family did not want her to go. They wept softly. Daughter grew tired of the sadness and decided to make a quilt. “This will be my last quilt. I will call it Peace,” she said. “But you are too sick to sew!” her family replied. “Go to my cedar chest and take out the four quilts inside. Bring them to me.” Her family did as she asked. “That is my cloth,” she said pointing at Strength, Courage, Hope, and Memory. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your love and sorrow. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she snipped and sewed, her family began to feel a deep calm flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was radiant with the colors of the village between the sea and the mountain. And Daughter closed her eyes.

If you liked this: Yes, I wrote this. Today. It all started with another story I wrote for M about giving up the pacifier (I might post that one another time, if you're interested). After I finished, the idea for this popped in my head. I decided I wanted to write something about quilting, in honor of my mom whose rheumatoid arthritis has returned and caused her poor hands to swell up like balloons. She's an avid quilter but can't do much right now. Anyway, what started out as a story for M about her grandma making quilts turned into something completely different and not necessarily for young children. Oh well. This is still for my mom...but also for my Armenian grandfather.
If you thought this sucked: I have no idea who put this piece of crap together!!

Therapy for Parents

I'd been toying with the idea of getting outside help for weeks. I mean, why the hell not? If there's someone who can provide me with parenting advice and act as a sounding board when things get crazy, why shouldn't I take advantage of it? Yeah, I know you old-school parents will tell me to suck it up and take it like a (wo)man. But if your kid is driving you crazy to the point that you don't really look forward to spending time with them, shouldn't you do what you can to fix things? Even if it means going to a family therapist AKA parenting coach?

Well, that's what I decided to do.

I realize I risk making M sound like something out of the Exorcist. Trust me when I say she is a wonderful little girl and I love her dearly. But lately, I'm not liking her so much. I haven't a clue what's going on but it's as if my adorable sweety has been--as in the tales of old--abducted by fairies
and swapped with a cranky, aggressive changeling.

Who knew parenting could inspire such raw and ragged emotions? All most of us ever hear about (aside from horrible stories of abuse) are the happy feelings....the deep, abiding love and connection between parents and their offspring. No one ever tells you much about the other side of parenting...the dark place we go to when faced with a child who has been screaming and physically lashing out for 30 minutes straight--for the third time that day.

Yes, I'm well aware that the early years are fraught with tantrums of all shapes and sizes. I have read all the books. I get it. But while I know what to expect from my kid, I'm still trying to sort out how best to respond to this constant onslaught of emotional intensity.

Anyway, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth...I decided the time had come to bring in the big guns. So I sent an email out to the parent community I belong to and asked for recommendations for parent coaches and/or therapists. After a few false starts, I found someone who sounds great, is affordable, and--best of all--has open slots on the weekend. My first appointment is this Sunday.

What do I hope to get out of this? Well, here's the deal. I know I was an intense child. And I strongly suspect my dad was the same. I remember how wretched it felt when my emotions would overwhelm me to the extent that I was incapable of controlling myself. So I want to do what I can to help M cope with these intense feelings and learn how to manage them. I also want someone I can vent to about the un-parental feelings I've been having as of late...someone who will either tell me I'm normal or help me to adjust as needed so I don't turn into Joan Crawfor a la Mommy Dearest.

Wish me luck.

PS Apparently there is a lot of controversy brewing over Christina Crawford's portrayal of her mother, Joan, as a controlling, abusive beyotch. Check it out.

Weekend from Hell

I don't believe in pussyfooting around. So let me just call it like I see it: this weekend sucked.

1) K spent the entire two days working on a launch
2) Which may (or may not) have contributed to M acting like she was posessed by Satan
3) Which most certainly drove me to acting like an escaped mental patient minus the straight jacket and Thorazine

M, God love her, is not what most people would call an easy child. My parents take great delight in telling me I was worse. Just as I will probably take great delight in saying the same to M when/if she has children of her own some day.

Some might say M is a "difficult" child. I try very hard to think of other, less negative, terms to describe her: complex, spirited, highly sensitive. She's not always a challenge. In fact, there was a time not too long ago when she was a real pleasure to be around 80% to 90% of the time. But in the last year, with the arrival of the terrible twos and threes (and Z), things have changed. And I find myself having moments where it's all I can do not to hop in my car and drive off into the sunset.

To look at M, you'd never suspect her of having it in her. She's a lovely little girl and usually comes off as sweet, funny, and gentle. But those of us in the know (I'm looking at you Becca) know she can sometimes be a tough little nut to crack.

Anyway, long story short, I'm in no shape to come up with a scintillating post for Monday. I'm tired as only a parent can be who spent the past 48-hours trying to convince an overtired preschooler to stop acting out and go to bed. And on that note, I'm off to bed.

Farewell My Pacifier

Soon...very soon...a small, winged, and completely fictitious person will enter our home in the dark, wee hours of the morning. She is called the Bot Fairy (bot = pacifier, binky, dummy, soother, etc in M-speak) and her sole purpose in her albeit imaginary life is to come to the homes of little boys and girls to relieve them of their bots. She will come bearing gifts--a doll, a book--to sweeten the deal. But frankly, I have doubts that anything short of more bots will make this an easy transition for M and the rest of our family.

The truth is, we should have done this a lot sooner. I suspect it might have been easier to manage. But the distance between when our dentist told us the time had come to give the bot the boot and it becoming a reality has widened significantly.

K and I wanted to do it last year after M turned two. But we had to make a call between transitioning her to a bed vs. removing the bot. And the bed won since we needed the crib for Z. Then after Z was born, we were worried about pushing more changes on her since I think it's safe to say the arrival of a new sibling is one of the biggest changes a young child can go through. So the months passed by. Then we started potty training. Then her third birthday arrived along with the transition to preschool. And with every change, the bot become more and more important to her.

We're not completely screwed. In the midst of last year I managed to impose a new bot rule: the bot shall only be used during sleep and promptly removed if seen in M's mouth during any other time. But the whole preschool thing has proved to be much more challenging for her than I'd imagined which means the bot has once again become a critical part of her naptime and nighttime comfort routine.

When I hear parents who bemoan their child's continued use of a blanky or other comfort item, all I can say is, "I wish." Last I heard, no kid had a serious case of brace face thanks to the effects of a blanky.

Meanwhile, I am spending precious minutes each day worrying about how to make the whole thing as painless as possible. I've been trying to find books about pacifier weaning but most of them look pretty lame. And the only one that seemed to get high ratings is apparently out of print and not available in our library. So I continue to allude to the Bot Fairy visit while looking for the right moment to set things into motion.

Siblings. Please Advise.

I'm an only child. Therefore, I haven't a clue how siblings are supposed to interact....aside from witnessing the sibling relationships of a handful of childhood friends and relatives. Very few of my friends had sisters. This means almost every sibling relationship I saw was fraught with merciless teasing just a hair's breadth away from Torquemada-like torture (Exhibit A: my close friend Jen spent a large portion of her early years having her face farted on by one of two older brothers. Exhibit B: another friend was regularly locked in the hall closet by her brother. It goes without saying she now suffers from acute claustrophobia).

Apparently sister relationships are much more complex (and complicated) than the ones between brothers or brothers and sisters. I know of some sisters who haven't spoken to one another for years. I know of others who never bothered to make close friends because they have each other. And there are myriad relationships that fall somewhere in-between.

When I was a child, I desperately longed for a sibling. I always felt like I'd missed out on something very important. And as an adult, I wonder who I will be able to share my past with when my parents have gone. A sibling isn't just a companion/arch enemy but also an important link to shared experiences and family memories, idiosyncracies, etc. This is the main reason why I swore to have no less than two children.

But being an only child isn't the lonely, selfish exile so many people make it out to be. As an only child I was able to befriend myself (something many people spend years of therapy trying to do) and happily embrace long periods of solitude. I also was given many opporunities by my parents that would never have happened had we had an extra mouth to feed (trips to Europe anyone? private school?)

I guess what I'm trying to say is there are pros and cons to both. And as an only-child parent of two little girls, I feel pulled in two directions. I feel totally unqualified to provide any guidance whatsoever to my girls with regards to the whole sibling thing. For example, M constantly roughhouses with Z when she's feeling particularly tired and cranky. Yes, I realize this is the norm for siblings. But I can't help but feel protective of poor Z who is clearly too young to defend herself. However I also don't want to discourage M from interacting with Z....nor do I want M to feel like I always take Z's side. And I feel guilty that I can't give them both the full attention I received from my parents.

Ack!

I suspect most of you had a sibling or two growing up. So I'd like to hear what you recommend in terms of dos and don'ts. What worked? What didn't? What can you now see the wisdom of in retrospect? Do tell.

In Summary...

I'm back. Thank GOD. Not that the trip was miserable. But let's just say taking a vacation with small children is really not a vacation in the usual sense of the word. It is not relaxing. It is not a time to unwind. It doesn't involve gourmet meals at fancy restaurants, lying beside the pool with a good book, or lingering over cocktails while watching the sunset. In fact, I think it's safe to say it's not a vacation AT ALL. I think we should change the name to something like Xtreme Parenting or Parent Bootcamp.

However I suspect the kids had a fantastic time.

I don't know about you but some of my fondest childhood memories are of vacations I took with my extended family. I recall long days filled with sunshine, swimming, exploring and long nights filled with roasting marshmallows, the sound of cicadas, and shared beds where my cousins and I whispered scary stories to one another until finally falling into a deep, boneless sleep.

My guess is the older kids may just be old enough to file this trip away in their memory banks as one example of what a vacation should be like. While we adults will fervently hope next year we can bribe a kickass babysitter or grandparent to accompany us.

Nevertheless, Becca and I have already been discussing where we can go next year. And who might be up for joining us (any takers?). We're thinking the whole car trip thing has been WAY overrated. Perhaps a plane is the way to go. And maybe we can go someplace that feels like a vacation...like Mexico or Hawaii (as if swaying palm trees, azure seas, and white sand beaches will somehow dull the sound of screaming children).

For now, I'm happy to be back in my own bug-free home where my kids can scream bloody murder and I don't have to worry about them waking anyone up or driving anyone (besides us) crazy. At the same time, I'll miss the communal meals, the evening alchoholic beverages, and the shared looks of commiseration when one or all the kids devolved into their nightly demon-spawn antics.

On that note, a few final photos.

Does anyone have a clue what type of bird this is? It sat on the chair next to our table during lunch at the SB zoo.

How Do You Spell Tourist Trap?

S-O-L-V-A-N-G.

Seriously folks. Maybe this place used to be super cool, etc. But right now, it rivals Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, Underground Atlanta (back in the heyday), and Fisherman's Wharf in sheer tackiness. We went yesterday in a fit of spontaneaity (never, btw, a good idea with small children in tow). It was hot and the kids were incredibly cranky. Even ice cream didn't do much to calm them down. However instead of doing the sane thing--hopping immediately back into our cars and heading straight home--we (Mike) thought it would be a fabulous idea to drive another ten miles out into the middle of nowhere to visit Michael Jackson's Ranch.

Don't ask.

We did finally make it home after an agonizing trip during which Z and M alternated whining, moaning, and screaming for 40 minutes straight. Never again my friends.

And here's the photographic evidence:

K and M at an "authentic" windmill in Solvang.

The drive to MJs ranch

Some kind soul decided to place port-a-potties just outside the ranch.

Lots of news vehicles parked along the road.

The white boards upon which people were writing various sentiments. And which, I suspect, were promptly erased and stored away at the end of the day.

Somewhere beyond this throng of people (and man selling $4 bottles of water) were the main gates.

Santa Barbara: Day 1 and Part of Day 2

We're here. And thank God. Because I must say, we had the drive from H-E-L-L yesterday. It started out just fine. Everyone was in good spirits, no issues. But less than halfway through the trip, Z decided she'd been far too quiet and began wailing for at least 30 minutes straight. After multiple stops and attempts to calm her, I handed her some keys and it seemed to do the trick. Of course M was concerned it might be too calm for us so she started in with some hardcore whining and two tantrums, one of which ended in a bite to my finger. Fabulous. Needless to say, when our asses rolled into the driveway of our home-away-from-home, I understood exactly how the mariners of yore felt upon disembarking from a ship and stepping onto land after months at sea.

Now a few pics.

This is the lovely (and very underrated and under visited) San Miguel Mission. It's in the process of being restored.

And here's a pic of the three older kids getting a MUCH needed bath.

Last night Becca and I made a run to Trader Joe's. We left the kids with the dads. M decided it would be an excellent opportunity to draw on her face.

The view from the back of the rental house.

My view from the hammock.