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.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
When a Mother Runs, Perspective Comes
beat of rock or old school disco. But not even a head-banging dose of mullet rock, courtesy of Judas Priest, can get my motor running today.
I’ve just come from dropping my daughter off at school where her teacher cornered me by the storage cubbies. The look on her face said she didn’t want to have a friendly chat about how nicely my daughter shares or how great her art work is.
As she launched into a description of Phoebe’s out-of-control behavior on picture day earlier that week, I felt sick to my stomach. My daughter brought the already challenging task of trying to get more than 50 pre-schoolers to sit still for a group photo to a grinding halt, she informed me. Refusing to cooperate, Phoebe whirled across the playground like a tiny tornado leaving chaos in her wake.
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard this kind of story about her. Throughout her pre-school career, Phoebe’s teachers have sent notes or talked to me about her sometimes disruptive antics during circle time or other inappropriate conduct.
But a long complaint-free spell had lulled me into the comfortable delusion that everything was okay. Of course my sweet, bright little girl doesn’t have ADHD or some other behavior disorder, I’d told myself. She was just going through a phase.
Now I wasn’t so sure.
When I get to the Mill Valley bike path, I’m fighting back tears. I don’t want to run—I want to go home and crawl into bed. But I force myself to plant one foot in front of the other. Shuffling like an old lady, I make my way toward Sausalito.
I never find that effortless groove I crave. But I finish my run. And as I look up at Mt. Tam in the distance, I know that whatever my daughter’s problem is, we’ll deal with it. The journey might not be easy, but I will go the distance for her—one step at a time.
By Dorothy O’Donnell
Labels: bike path, By Dorothy O'Donnell, distance, iPod, Judas Priest, one step at a time, pre-schoolers, run, teacher
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Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Volunteer for Brainless Tasks and Find Nirvana
I never feel more stupid than when I volunteer in my daughter’s kindergarten class.
Her teacher snaps out instructions. My job, I think, is to help the kids draw three pictures that describe their weekend and then write a one-sentence summation.
I’m supposed to help my daughter, Mimi, her friend, Anni, a boy, David, and a girl, Samantha.
“This way!” I say. Mimi goes the other way, as does giggling Anni, while David heads straight to his seat, as does Samantha.
“Mimi! Anni,” I admonish. The giggling girls slowly come over. “Okay, let’s draw!” David sketches, as does Samantha. That leaves the other two, who do not.
“How are things going?” asks the teacher.
Obviously, not well.
“Mimi and Anni, start drawing please,” she says. “We’re running behind.”
Running behind? I look around at the other parent-volunteers. Paul and his students look extremely absorbed. He seems to display quiet authority.
I can try that. Not that I get the chance. Somewhere between looking up and looking down, another parent-volunteer swoops in and takes over teaching David and Samantha.
Is this a parent-volunteer-student steal? Is somebody saying I can’t handle teaching four children at once, which I obviously can not, but still. . . And why take those two? The easy ones. Why not my daughter and her friend? The challenging duo.
“Good work!” the parent-volunteer-student stealer says proudly to David and Samantha, as they continue to draw. She smiles at me.
After much cajoling, my two remaining little students finally draw their pictures and write a sentence.
“Can you stay for a few minutes?” the teacher asks.
She leads me to a table in the back upon which sits several sheets of black construction paper, a white pencil and scissors. She holds up a circle.
“I need you to make twelve of these.” She draws a circle in the air with her finger. “Think you can do it?”
I look nervously from paper to pencil to scissors and finally nod. “I think I can.”
I carefully lay my pre-cut sample against the very edge of the paper and trace. I leave an inch of space between and then draw another circle and repeat the pattern. I precisely cut, taking deep breaths along the way.
“Your daughter is smart,” says another parent-volunteer who approaches my table.
I protectively cover my circles with my hands, fearful she may take them.
“Your daughter does her work. She’s just taking advantage of you because you’re here.”
“Oh!” I shriek. “I was really worried because I thought she couldn’t draw. I thought she couldn’t write. . .”
I suddenly stop externalizing my internal insecurities. I don’t even know this mother. “Thank you!” I say displaying all my teeth.
The woman gives me a small, knowing smile back.
I return to my circle cutting.
Sometimes, the most mindless tasks can provide the greatest peace of mind.
By Dawn Yun Stumble This Post
Her teacher snaps out instructions. My job, I think, is to help the kids draw three pictures that describe their weekend and then write a one-sentence summation.
I’m supposed to help my daughter, Mimi, her friend, Anni, a boy, David, and a girl, Samantha.
“This way!” I say. Mimi goes the other way, as does giggling Anni, while David heads straight to his seat, as does Samantha.
“Mimi! Anni,” I admonish. The giggling girls slowly come over. “Okay, let’s draw!” David sketches, as does Samantha. That leaves the other two, who do not.
“How are things going?” asks the teacher.
Obviously, not well.
“Mimi and Anni, start drawing please,” she says. “We’re running behind.”
Running behind? I look around at the other parent-volunteers. Paul and his students look extremely absorbed. He seems to display quiet authority.
I can try that. Not that I get the chance. Somewhere between looking up and looking down, another parent-volunteer swoops in and takes over teaching David and Samantha.
Is this a parent-volunteer-student steal? Is somebody saying I can’t handle teaching four children at once, which I obviously can not, but still. . . And why take those two? The easy ones. Why not my daughter and her friend? The challenging duo.
“Good work!” the parent-volunteer-student stealer says proudly to David and Samantha, as they continue to draw. She smiles at me.
After much cajoling, my two remaining little students finally draw their pictures and write a sentence.
“Can you stay for a few minutes?” the teacher asks.
She leads me to a table in the back upon which sits several sheets of black construction paper, a white pencil and scissors. She holds up a circle.
“I need you to make twelve of these.” She draws a circle in the air with her finger. “Think you can do it?”
I look nervously from paper to pencil to scissors and finally nod. “I think I can.”
I carefully lay my pre-cut sample against the very edge of the paper and trace. I leave an inch of space between and then draw another circle and repeat the pattern. I precisely cut, taking deep breaths along the way.
“Your daughter is smart,” says another parent-volunteer who approaches my table.
I protectively cover my circles with my hands, fearful she may take them.
“Your daughter does her work. She’s just taking advantage of you because you’re here.”
“Oh!” I shriek. “I was really worried because I thought she couldn’t draw. I thought she couldn’t write. . .”
I suddenly stop externalizing my internal insecurities. I don’t even know this mother. “Thank you!” I say displaying all my teeth.
The woman gives me a small, knowing smile back.
I return to my circle cutting.
Sometimes, the most mindless tasks can provide the greatest peace of mind.
By Dawn Yun
Labels: By Dawn Yun, children's school volunteer, construction paper, kindergarten, nirvana, scissors, teacher
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Tuesday, April 07, 2009
The Teased Gene Passed Painfully Down
It was the terrible “T” word.
“I didn’t like school today, Mommy. A girl in my class teased me.” Miranda looked up at me with clear blue eyes, a slight ripple in her forehead indicating a thoughtful frown line would be engraved there someday. It looked like that day was coming sooner than I thought was possible.
I gripped the kitchen counter, resisting the impulse to grab Miranda’s sweater and say, “Who was that bitch? I’ll kill her for you.” Instead, I quietly and calmly asked, “What did she say?”
“She didn’t want to play with me. I asked her and she said, 'No.' It hurt my feelings.”
“Did you tell her?” I asked, trying to understand why some worthless lump of a child wouldn’t want to play with my sparkling, beautiful baby.
"No. She’d just be meaner to me if I told her. Can I have a cookie now, Mommy? Can I watch Pokemon?”
Miranda’s attention span had allowed her to move on. Unlike me, who gave her a cookie, turned on Pokemon, returned to the kitchen, and began crying as memories of childhood meanness paraded in my head.
“Georgie, porgie, pudden and pie. You want to kiss this guy?” I was walking along the playground’s edge as Robert danced in front of me, just out of reach of my leg. I knew better than to respond. To respond invited more taunting. I just kept walking.
“Hey George, did you come from the jungle, do you swing from trees?” My name was full of teasing possibilities that both genders of my classmates loved to use.
“Mommy, mommy? Pokemon’s over now. What’s for dinner?” The angelic voice called me back across the vastness of time.
I kept walking. Though the terrain had been rough at times, it had brought me here to a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter.
“Honey, if someone keeps teasing you, let’s talk to the teacher about it.”
I gripped the kitchen counter, resisting the impulse to grab Miranda’s sweater and say, “Who was that bitch? I’ll kill her for you.” Instead, I quietly and calmly asked, “What did she say?”
“She didn’t want to play with me. I asked her and she said, 'No.' It hurt my feelings.”
“Did you tell her?” I asked, trying to understand why some worthless lump of a child wouldn’t want to play with my sparkling, beautiful baby.
"No. She’d just be meaner to me if I told her. Can I have a cookie now, Mommy? Can I watch Pokemon?”
Miranda’s attention span had allowed her to move on. Unlike me, who gave her a cookie, turned on Pokemon, returned to the kitchen, and began crying as memories of childhood meanness paraded in my head.
“Georgie, porgie, pudden and pie. You want to kiss this guy?” I was walking along the playground’s edge as Robert danced in front of me, just out of reach of my leg. I knew better than to respond. To respond invited more taunting. I just kept walking.
“Hey George, did you come from the jungle, do you swing from trees?” My name was full of teasing possibilities that both genders of my classmates loved to use.
“Mommy, mommy? Pokemon’s over now. What’s for dinner?” The angelic voice called me back across the vastness of time.
I kept walking. Though the terrain had been rough at times, it had brought me here to a wonderful husband and a beautiful daughter.
“Honey, if someone keeps teasing you, let’s talk to the teacher about it.”
“Okay,” Miranda said. “But what’s for dinner?”
By Georgie Dennison
By Georgie Dennison
Labels: classmates, cookies, Georgie Dennison, mean girl, mommy, Pokemon, teacher, teasing
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Wednesday, January 28, 2009
A Full-Time Working Mother IS a Good Mother
One of my favorite things about my job is that warm and fuzzy feeling I get because I am doing something good for others; contributing to my community I live in by teaching its smallest members the basics of life.
What can be more rewarding?
Yet, my altruistic bubble was burst the other day by my seven-year old son’s comment, “Mom, I wish you had some other kind of job, so that you are not all done playing when you get home.”
He pretty much nailed it.
My work typically consists of eight hours per day of the following, in no particular order: playing, finger painting, singing, cutting and gluing, reading, hugging and laughing. Of course, there is also curriculum planning, graduate student-teachers supervising (we are a lab school for graduate-level students), talking to irate parents and cleaning up all the artsy messes.
When I get home after five p.m., I’ve had enough of kids. On most nights, this upbeat, energetic and fun teacher turns into a surly-burly mom. And this is the mom my son is stuck with. I am just not a very fun mom.
Most of my friends who work outside of the house spend their days in front of a computer monitor, communicating with other adults in proper complete sentences and with outstanding vocabulary.
I get to teach language arts to four-year olds using puppets and songs. My corporate world friends’ ideas of a great, relaxing weekend often include combining several other families of kids for a game of basketball, or having a noisy kid-filled pizza party in their backyard.
I usually want to find the most secluded spot at the beach and read or write, while Alex is playing in the sand by me.
Their ideas of weekend relaxation are often my ultimate weekend nightmare. It just feels like work. I try to justify myself thinking how would all these moms/execs feel if I made them sit in front of a laptop in a contained environment droning through endless spreadsheets on their weekend?
And, yet, sometimes I am worried sick. I love being a teacher, but will my son resent me for not having enough “kid-time” left in me by the time I get to be with him?
I know I am a good teacher.
Am I a good mom, too?
By Svetlana Nikitina
By Svetlana Nikitina
Labels: full-time working mom, good mom, pre-school, Svetlana Nikitina, teacher, working moms
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