The Writing Mamas Daily Blog
Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Boys Just Take Longer
Boys just take longer, my friend said smugly, as we sat on the zebra bench in front of the sandbox.
My son was three and a half and still in diapers. Her daughter had just turned three and had been wearing big girl panties for nearly six months!
It was humiliating.
There was my big boy with his padded butt running towards the play structure, the crinkle of plastic piercing and painful to my ears.
I felt like a failure. A real looser.
Was this an indication of things to come?
Would my inability to encourage, coerce or cajole my son into mastering the potty be a marker of our continued shared inadequacy?
I vowed to try harder.
To become more focused.
When his aim is accurate and he dunks the Cheerio, I’ll offer a bigger and better reward.
Or maybe I’ll buy the potty toy I saw advertised last week, the Tinkletoon. It plays happy music when ‘hit with number one or number two.”
I read all the books.
Just yesterday we had diaper free time. I’m not quite sure how it is suppose to work. He usually just ends up peeing on the floor.
As I sit pondering a new and more effective approach to potty training, my son calls to me from the top bar of the jungle gym.
“Look at me,” he sings gleefully as he climbs up onto the platform.
Down below, I hear a whine and a grunt as my friend and I watch her daughter struggling to pull herself up to the first level.
“She really wants to be up there,” my friend says wistfully.
Suddenly it all becomes clear to me. Everything is as it should be.
"Don’t worry," I reply. "She’ll eventually do it."
Girls just take longer!
By Rachelle Averbach
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My son was three and a half and still in diapers. Her daughter had just turned three and had been wearing big girl panties for nearly six months!
It was humiliating.
There was my big boy with his padded butt running towards the play structure, the crinkle of plastic piercing and painful to my ears.
I felt like a failure. A real looser.
Was this an indication of things to come?
Would my inability to encourage, coerce or cajole my son into mastering the potty be a marker of our continued shared inadequacy?
I vowed to try harder.
To become more focused.
When his aim is accurate and he dunks the Cheerio, I’ll offer a bigger and better reward.
Or maybe I’ll buy the potty toy I saw advertised last week, the Tinkletoon. It plays happy music when ‘hit with number one or number two.”
I read all the books.
Just yesterday we had diaper free time. I’m not quite sure how it is suppose to work. He usually just ends up peeing on the floor.
As I sit pondering a new and more effective approach to potty training, my son calls to me from the top bar of the jungle gym.
“Look at me,” he sings gleefully as he climbs up onto the platform.
Down below, I hear a whine and a grunt as my friend and I watch her daughter struggling to pull herself up to the first level.
“She really wants to be up there,” my friend says wistfully.
Suddenly it all becomes clear to me. Everything is as it should be.
"Don’t worry," I reply. "She’ll eventually do it."
Girls just take longer!
By Rachelle Averbach
Labels: Rachelle Averbach
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Thursday, October 04, 2007
Move in Day
The student traffic guards are wearing costumes.
Velvet crowns with plastic jewels, brightly colored jackets stitched with added ruffles,
tarnished medals pinned to breast pockets and stiff pink tutus peek out underneath plastic raincoats. A joker’s hat gets caught on an umbrella sprocket.
They direct the cars.
Seated in each,
an expectant college freshman.
Freshman who are eager to get out, get away, begin their journey.
The parents look out behind the glass, hazy-eyed, somber and unsure.
Move-in day has arrived.
It is here with all its wretched glory.
And it’s raining.
Cars are parked, and parents begin scurrying like ants at a picnic.
Arms are loaded with treasures.
Hands are pulling dollies stacked with boxes of sweatshirts & underwear, bottled water and laundry soap.
Freshmen wrap up precious TVs and DVDs, iPo, and iPhones in jackets and towels, and then join the fray.
Bags get wet and break open like blooms.
Everyone has extra long twin sheets
I’m doing well so far.
Jolly enough.
I help unpack. Greet the roommate. Hand out extra cash.
I linger in the desk chair and move it up against the wall.
Sitting quietly, I watch the activity, wishing to be hidden from view.
I don’t want to leave.
Mothers who have gone before me have described a change they see.
“Something is different,” they say. “You notice it when they’re home for holidays, home for summer break.”
I’d look at them blankly, not understanding the particulars of their vagueness.
They seemed to not fully understand it themselves.
But that day,
when my son moved in,
it was raining.
And I stood with him under the eaves waiting for his dad to pull the car around.
Waiting with my hazy eyes.
He put his arm around me and hugged me tight.
When he softly murmured, in a tone that was confident and sure, “I love you Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
I knew the change had just begun.
By Rachelle Averbach Stumble This Post
Velvet crowns with plastic jewels, brightly colored jackets stitched with added ruffles,
tarnished medals pinned to breast pockets and stiff pink tutus peek out underneath plastic raincoats. A joker’s hat gets caught on an umbrella sprocket.
They direct the cars.
Seated in each,
an expectant college freshman.
Freshman who are eager to get out, get away, begin their journey.
The parents look out behind the glass, hazy-eyed, somber and unsure.
Move-in day has arrived.
It is here with all its wretched glory.
And it’s raining.
Cars are parked, and parents begin scurrying like ants at a picnic.
Arms are loaded with treasures.
Hands are pulling dollies stacked with boxes of sweatshirts & underwear, bottled water and laundry soap.
Freshmen wrap up precious TVs and DVDs, iPo, and iPhones in jackets and towels, and then join the fray.
Bags get wet and break open like blooms.
Everyone has extra long twin sheets
I’m doing well so far.
Jolly enough.
I help unpack. Greet the roommate. Hand out extra cash.
I linger in the desk chair and move it up against the wall.
Sitting quietly, I watch the activity, wishing to be hidden from view.
I don’t want to leave.
Mothers who have gone before me have described a change they see.
“Something is different,” they say. “You notice it when they’re home for holidays, home for summer break.”
I’d look at them blankly, not understanding the particulars of their vagueness.
They seemed to not fully understand it themselves.
But that day,
when my son moved in,
it was raining.
And I stood with him under the eaves waiting for his dad to pull the car around.
Waiting with my hazy eyes.
He put his arm around me and hugged me tight.
When he softly murmured, in a tone that was confident and sure, “I love you Mom. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
I knew the change had just begun.
By Rachelle Averbach
Labels: Rachelle Averbach
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Saturday, July 28, 2007
Be the Lighthouse
My teenage son left this morning on a four-hour drive up to Pine Crest.
This is a maiden voyage.
His first time driving so far for so long without parental guidance or supervision. A bunch of kids are up there camping already, so it should be fun. . . for him anyway.
But. . . for me?
A four-hour drive on that highway? The thought was killing me!
Why just yesterday didn't he decide to make a last-minute quick left turn (without looking, mind you), and nearly plow into an oncoming car?
It took hours for my heart to begin beating again!
As much as I tried to control my anxiety, it managed to ooze forth turning me into that "spastic mother," you probably know her.
The one who is controlled by perceived and imagined tragedies.
I frantically followed him around, trying to give him
whatever I thought it was that he needed to have in order to be able to survive another moment on the planet.
"Did you pack this? Did you think of that? You might want one of these!"
"Mom," he said, "Back off. I can do it."
He was right.
But without any conscious thought on my part, when his back was turned, I started packing stuff for him. A towel discretely shoved in his bag. An extra blanket folded neatly on top of the ice chest.
"Mom," he said when he finally discovered my transgressions, "if you pack up my stuff for me, how will I know what's there? I can do it."
He was right.
When I left the parenting workshop last Saturday, I casually said to the person sitting next to me, "it was worth it."
The two-hour drive home was important because it reminded me of some common sense parenting philosophy.
"Be the lighthouse," I heard the facilitator’s voice in my mind's eye.
To become my son's guide, I had to behave as a solid, grounded force.
"Be the lighthouse."
I calmed down a bit, took a deep breath. How could he stay centered and do his job of growing up if I was coming unglued all around him?
I then realized with much clarity, (finally) that the best way I could be helpful to my son was to terminate this negative feedback loop, walk away from the crime scene and support him in the manner that he loves best.
I got in the car, turned my beacon toward the nearest ATM machine and withdrew an ample supply of spending cash for him to take on this fate-less journey!
I took my time returning.
When I got back, the car was all packed. He even remembered sunscreen.
"Thanks for helping, Mom and don’t worry, I’ll be fine," he said, with a genuine smile as he folded the twenties in his pocket.
He was right!
By Rachelle Averbach Stumble This Post
This is a maiden voyage.
His first time driving so far for so long without parental guidance or supervision. A bunch of kids are up there camping already, so it should be fun. . . for him anyway.
But. . . for me?
A four-hour drive on that highway? The thought was killing me!
Why just yesterday didn't he decide to make a last-minute quick left turn (without looking, mind you), and nearly plow into an oncoming car?
It took hours for my heart to begin beating again!
As much as I tried to control my anxiety, it managed to ooze forth turning me into that "spastic mother," you probably know her.
The one who is controlled by perceived and imagined tragedies.
I frantically followed him around, trying to give him
whatever I thought it was that he needed to have in order to be able to survive another moment on the planet.
"Did you pack this? Did you think of that? You might want one of these!"
"Mom," he said, "Back off. I can do it."
He was right.
But without any conscious thought on my part, when his back was turned, I started packing stuff for him. A towel discretely shoved in his bag. An extra blanket folded neatly on top of the ice chest.
"Mom," he said when he finally discovered my transgressions, "if you pack up my stuff for me, how will I know what's there? I can do it."
He was right.
When I left the parenting workshop last Saturday, I casually said to the person sitting next to me, "it was worth it."
The two-hour drive home was important because it reminded me of some common sense parenting philosophy.
"Be the lighthouse," I heard the facilitator’s voice in my mind's eye.
To become my son's guide, I had to behave as a solid, grounded force.
"Be the lighthouse."
I calmed down a bit, took a deep breath. How could he stay centered and do his job of growing up if I was coming unglued all around him?
I then realized with much clarity, (finally) that the best way I could be helpful to my son was to terminate this negative feedback loop, walk away from the crime scene and support him in the manner that he loves best.
I got in the car, turned my beacon toward the nearest ATM machine and withdrew an ample supply of spending cash for him to take on this fate-less journey!
I took my time returning.
When I got back, the car was all packed. He even remembered sunscreen.
"Thanks for helping, Mom and don’t worry, I’ll be fine," he said, with a genuine smile as he folded the twenties in his pocket.
He was right!
By Rachelle Averbach
Labels: Rachelle Averbach
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