At first I engage in all-out battle: Echinacea, Emergen-C, the vaporizer, green tea, an early bedtime. But it’s no use. Surrender is inevitable.

So I wave the white flag: I cancel all my appointments and take up residence on the couch with the comforter and a stack of magazines.

I am lucky enough to be able to indulge in such a luxury. I won’t lose my job (since I’m self-employed, what can my boss do?). The loss of income hurts, but is not catastrophic. My kids are old enough now to fend for themselves.

I remember back to when they were sick and too young to be left alone with a stack of videos and a bottle of Tylenol to see them through the day. Who could best juggle an impossible schedule and skip work, me or my husband? (Answer: neither.) Could I dose them up and send them off without incurring the wrathful phone call from the school nurse as well as the bad-mother guilt? Always, I’d try to bargain my way through anything from minor sniffles to stomach aches.

“They probably just don’t want to go to school,” I’d rationalize. “Best not to encourage them to stay home every time their stomach hurts.”

Then I would lay low to avoid the accusatory comments of stay-at-home friends who just couldn’t imagine how anyone could send a sick child to school.

Sometimes, though, the fever would climb above one hundred, the cough and runny nose suggested that a TB sanitarium might well be in order. Even I could no longer deny reality. My frantic calculations about when the antihistamine would wear off and could I sneak medicine into their backpacks would give way to the calm certainty that I’d just have to forego all control and cancel my plans.

Then, as now, I would relish the surrender to the suspended world the sickbed demands. In fact, some of my favorite times with my daughters were spent curled up on the couch with them in a timeless cocoon, rubbing their fever-hot backs as they dozed, too glazed even to whine.

Now it’s just me, alone and sick on the couch. It’s not exactly a day at the spa, but again, surrender is weirdly delicious. No running on empty at one-hundred mph. The endless To-Do list will have to wait. I not only can, but should, sleep all day.

Without guilt.

By Lorrie Goldin

Labels: daughters, Echinacea, Emergen-C, green tea, Lorrie Goldin, Sick Mommies, sickbed, Tylenol

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I took my ten-year old daughter and two-year old son to Bob's Pumpkin Patch five miles south of Half Moon Bay this morning.

My daughter and I alternated carrying Baby Brother on our backs through the corn maze. Our dog tore off ahead of us, absolutely ecstatic about this set of new smells and sounds.

Then I wheeled my son around in a wheelbarrow through the pumpkin and corn field. My daughter picked out some big fat round orange squashes. I pointed out a flock of red-winged blackbirds. It veered off in varying directions, settling down in a spot in the pumpkin field, then launching off toward another part.

Later, I found a ladybug on the spiny stem of a pumpkin vine. I put it on my son's hand. We watched it for a good while. It stretched out its translucent black wings from underneath its spotted forewings. Then it folded them back in, content I guess with its current location on the warm skin of my son's hand.

I just love those birds and ladybugs and dogs, each with its distinct design and grace.

I make myself look at them again even if I have seen a million before, because if I were to revisit my turbulent feelings regarding my fragile marriage, I might instantly cry again.

Before I had kids, I could just let my tears flow, go write in my journal, then go have a tea or a pint somewhere with or without a friend. Now, I have to keep going. Keep doing the things that I have liked doing with the kids, and let the future shape itself.

While I cannot prevent my daughter from seeing my distress at all times, I can try to focus on the next thing. Is it cleaning? Preparing a meal? Raking the leaves? Scanning craigslist for new job possibilities? Reading "Calvin and Hobbes" with my daughter? Wrestling my son?

By Vicki Inglis

Labels: daughters, fragile marriage, pumpkins, sons, surviving, Vicki Inglis

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I learn a lot about my inner landscape by mapping my endearingly out of proportion overreactions to other people’s behavior. I have the practiced calm exterior, but I boil and pitch with abandon in my head. This week, the object of undeserved wrath is the family across the street. They have two wonderful daughters my kids adore, just older than my girls in a way that will keep their status as cool forever.

Well, they have been spring cleaning way too much. They are sprucing up the front yard, power washing the exterior, making trips to Goodwill. From my vantage point across the cul-de-sac, it’s clear that they are doing these things with singular purpose and great efficiency.

Saturday, their older daughter spilled the beans, validating my dark fears. Rather than build the addition they had planned, they are probably opting to sell their house. We are being left by THE same-age kids on the street that fuse with my kids into a giggling feminine mob, roaming between houses, playing dress up, eating pizza, making a boring Sunday hilarious as they trade secrets and songs about butt cracks and poop.

I feel personally betrayed. How dare they make their own decisions and take away one cornerstone of my hometown, brotherly feeling that makes me love our block. How could they turn their backs on how I want things to be! So what if I absolutely agree it’s a better decision. They didn’t consult with us! My older daughter is going to be crushed. The younger one will, too. Okay, so she just started walking and mostly points at their house and drools, but I know she’ll feel abandoned, too. I graciously feel the pain for them. Now, my hello wave is tainted with bitterness. I become a petulant, sulking middle-schooler when I see them arrive home.

Hah! They’re probably meeting with another realtor, I say to myself. They’re going to find new neighbors. People with nicer houses, who effortlessly cook gourmet feasts with better backyard setups than ours and probably work with the blind after a long day at the brokerage firm.

Here I sit. . . the scorned neighbor.

When my daughter shrieked at me tonight about bedtime, “No, you need to do it MY way!!!” I act mature and consistent, but inside my head, she’d be amazed at how the same sentiment is thumping in my head too.

By Avvy Mar

Labels: Avvy Mar, daughters, neighbors, realtor

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Making the bed is a metaphor for my life.

If I make it -- the day will go well. If I don’t -- bad things can happen.

I make my bed.

Since I can’t reach my son’s top bunk bed, I leave it undone. But I figure that since it’s up so high, I get a metaphoric pass.

I stop in front of my daughter’s bed. Her Hello Kitty! sheets and blanket are askew.

The bed must be made.

I arrange her stuffed animals at the end, tuck the sheets tight into hospital corners and take care to evenly spread the blanket.

As I sit on top of the bed, near the headboard, this is where the sheets and cover really need to be evened out.

But I am overcome with the thought that rather than make them, I want to go under them.

I don’t have time for this. I have too many things to do. This is too much of an indulgence.

I lie on the bed and tuck the covers all around me up to my neck, and then I draw them over my head.

This is nice.

I have time alone. Nobody knows I’m here. I don’t have to deal with my son not doing his homework. I don’t have to explain to my daughter why I won’t buy her something/anything new. I don’t have to tell my husband why it was necessary for me to buy Orgins skincare products from Nordstrom's rather than ones at Walgreens. I don’t have to throw the ball to my cat. I don’t have to worry about my cancer. I don’t have to answer the phone. I don’t need to return e-mails. I don’t have to feel guilty about not writing.

I -- can -- just – be.

“Mommy?”

Or maybe I can’t.

“Why are you under the bed like that?” my daughter, Mimi, says. “Are you hiding!”

“Yes.”

“Can I climb in with you?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer. Together we snuggle, in the dark, under the covers.

“I like to hide,” she says.

I do, too, but when you’re a mother -- it's not often that you get the chance.

By Dawn Yun

Labels: breast cancer, bunk bed, By Dawn Yun, cats, daughters, Hello Kitty, hospital corners, Norstrom's, snuggle, Walgreen's

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My seven-year daughter isn’t into Barbies. Or the lip-lined Bratz dolls with their wide, disinterested gazes.

She’s not into princesses either ­– “They don’t do anything,” she once explained – or the color pink.

None of the “girly stuff” for her.

Instead she loves animals (both herbivores and carnivores, but prefers those whose native habitat is on the African continent). She immerses herself in art (which our overflowing craft shelves can attest to) from crayoning to painting to building mosaics from colored blocks.

She also enjoys running, swimming, speeding about on her scooter and playing on the monkey bars. Anything with speed and motion, like a lot of her girlfriends.

Finding intriguing toys for her this holiday season should have been relatively easy. Instead, it was a grapple in the distinctions and assumptions made about boys and girls.

My three-year old son loves anything with buttons, blasting and creating. As obscure as that sounds, finding toys for him is effortless. Store shelves are stocked full of tough superhero guys that shoot rockets, building sets, explorer compass/flashlight sets, etc.

Those toys also do something. They aren’t inanimate objects that can only pose. They may require three-dimensional thinking and execution through building. Or they reward instruction following with a cool effect. Kids can actually learn something while honing their motor skills manipulating small linking pieces to create a rocket ship or operating motor.

These same toys are considered “boy stuff” to most girls. The majority of the toy themes are geared to boys from war games to male rescue squads or racer cars with boys shown cheering the cars on the box lid. Generally these toys are also grouped in the “boy” section of the major toy chains. (To find the “girl stuff” follow the pastel hue until you reach the shelves of dolls, stuffed animals and craft kits.)

I see Lauren eye the gifts that William gets with envy and interest. He is given a head lamp to use for exploring. She, in turn, is given a beading craft. William gets spy goggles and a flashlight that can fit on his belt loop. She is given a set of nail polishes and a Beanie Baby.

I don’t know who cringes more, her or me.

As a Mom of two daughters I’m conscious of the concerns young girls continue to face around body image, esteem and eating disorders. As the sister to three brothers, I am also pleased that organizations are working to encourage young women to consider careers in math and science. But I also have to question why encouragement is needed.

Yet, I wander through the stores trying to find what is so obviously missing from the shelves for my inquisitive, engaging daughter who just so happens to not be into “girly” stuff.

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of. Sugar and spice and everything nice. That’s what little girls are made of. . .

By Maija Threlkeld

Labels: Barbie, boys, Bratz, daughters, girls, Maija Threlkeld, sons, toys

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I am writing this blog inspired by a blog I read last week.

A mother was recalling reading a bedtime story to her son.  She then remembered singing a lullaby to him.  She started singing, remembering all the words though evidently several years had passed since she had sung it to him. 

He did not find the words familiar.

We all have memories for different things, one child remembers the music, another the words, one the setting or circumstances, the people assembled, etc. 

My story is about my fourth daughter who remembered. 

I think some felt that Ann should have been a boy, but I always knew she was the perfect fourth child. Coming from an all-girl family, I thought having all girls was normal.  I always sang my children to sleep after reading a bedtime story, as they were so non-critical to the pitch and talent of my singing.

I often made up the words and rambled on until they slept peacefully.  I remember reading somewhere that lullabies often reflected the mother’s feelings or situation. A poor mother might be singing her woes such as in the song, “Poor little lamb what will I do wee you.” Or the rich mother’s chanting, “All the pretty little horses.”

My song for Ann was that of a mother who had three older children and knew that no matter how hard you tried, you could not guarantee your child a lifetime of happiness. Each child must strive to fulfill his or her own needs.

And so I wrote and sang: 

Oh Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

       Protect you but for infants night.

                                                And from these arms soon you must go.

                                                Into the world, where I don’t know.

And I will try to cast a spell.

To keep you safe and warm and well.

But I have no magic on which

time will not tell.

 

For Ann, these arms that hold you tight.

Cannot stop time in its flight.

And from these arms soon you will fly.

Into the worlds arms opened wide.

And since I cannot cast a spell.

I will try to teach you well.

To stand alone and find a home,

in which your heart can peacefully dwell.

Ann asked for this song over the years and soon remembered the words better than I. Then came the day of her informal outdoor wedding and she had found the home where her heart would peacefully dwell. 

At the reception there was an open mike where friends and relatives were invited to speak, congratulate the happy couple or relate how they happened to have met Ann and Paul. Then Ann invited me to sing her song with her.  She had the words in case I’d forgotten, but together we remembered. 

Today she is an OBGYN in Portland and has three children of her own.  I must remember to ask her if she sings our song to them.

By Ruth Scott

Labels: daughters, lullabies, mothers, Ruth Scott

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