Airport security

So here's the thing. I will conceded that a terrorist can look and act like almost everybody else. I've been to the spy museum, I know that a spy can change hair colors, put in different teeth to change their smiles, change their eye color with contacts. Heck, they even look like a totally different gender with the right clothes and make-up. But I'm here to tell you, security people of the world, that no terrorist, ever, will don the costume of being a mother. I mean, I guess they could hide a bomb in a stroller and pretend it was a newborn or something, but by and large, it is just too much darned work to even pretend to be a mother, and do what I imagine needs to be done in order to blow something up, or drop something off, or whatever it is that a terrorist really wants to do. So please, security people, STOP SEARCHING ME AND MY 3 YEAR OLD! Jacob and I embarked on our "Family Fun Marathon", which began by spending the night in an Atlanta hotel room because we missed our connecting flight to Salt Lake. It was a miserable experience all around, but I did wake up the next morning hopeful that it would be a mildly uneventful day. Just get to the airport, get on the rebooked flight to Salt Lake, and everything would be fine. It started out ok, but when we got to the subway, (yes, we had to take public transportation to said hotel, and it wasn't the quick 15-20 minute trip the airport guy said it would be. Let's just say we went to bed much later than expected, and I'm still not sure I've recovered. Stupid airport guy.) there were fully armed law enforcement officials standing around, and they looked pretty darned scary. And then they informed me that I had been selected for a "voluntary" bag search, and they would have to search my stroller, too. You don't exactly say no to a man with a serious looking gun strapped to his chest, but c'mon, people, it's a Spiderman backpack on the back of a cheap $8 umbrella stroller from Walmart--what exactly do you think it has in it? But I let them rifle through my Mother's Bag 'O Crap, and we went on our way. We finally get to the airport, and I get into the ridiculously long security line, only to be told that I had, once again, been selected for another random security search. What do I have to do to convince these people that MOTHERS WITH SMALL CHILDREN ARE NOT TERRORISTS! The most toxic thing we have in our bags is sour chocolate milk that is congealing in our sippy cups because we've been in the airport way past the point of any normal human endurance. Please, just let us be! Jacob starts up a steady stream of pathetic whining, because he had, after all, only had 5 hours of sleep the night before, and I said to the man standing next to me, as we waited to be screened in a small, closed off, extrememly claustrophia inducing glass hallway, "I swear, I'm about this close to just completely flipping out!" He said, "Well, don't flip out here. They'll just think you're a loonbat and it will make everything worse. Just keep it together until you get through security, and then you can flip out all you want at the gate." Good advice. The man with the white gloves decided there was nothing inherently dangerous about runny string cheese, smushed peanutbutter sandwiches, and crumpled granola bars, and finally sent us on our way. We ran to the gate, only to be told that the plane was at a different gate in a different terminal. We ran over there, found the gate, got our seats assigned, and got on the plane, although it took some creative juggling and some generosity on the part of other passengers for me to actually sit next to my own child. And it wasn't until we landed in Salt Lake, when the whole experience was basically over, that I finally lost it. Felt pretty good, actually. So please, I understand the need for national security, and the real threats that face our nation. But don't bother the mothers, just don't. We are not terrorists.We are just women who are doing our best not to flip out.
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Other people's moms

So, swim lessons at the neighborhood pool have begun, and it has been a very good thing. Jacob gets to swim with other kids, I get to chat with other moms, we all get some sun and some exercise and go home happy. But there is this one family whose kids are, frankly, extremely bratty. The first day we pulled up to the pool, they came out and said to Jacob, loudly and in his face, "You can't go in there, you don't have any shoes on!" Jacob is sort of opposed to footwear of any kind, and I had already told him he didn't have to wear shoes at the pool. (We have to pick our battles, ladies.) He looked at me for some sort of confirmation of this new rule, and I gently said, "It's ok, Jacob. Guys, he'll be fine." Jacob looked back at these kids, and they kept saying, again, up and yelling in his face, "Nunh-uh, he can't go swimming. You can't go swimming! You have to go home!" Jacob was seriously close to tears, and he hid behind me and sadly said, "Mommy, they said I can't take swimming lessons! Do we have to go home?" Now, this is not the only time they have done something like this. They are, like I said, pushy, bossy, thug-like little monsters. Their mother, bless her, does nothing about their behavior. She calmly sits by and lets it happen. She never says a word. And it's driving me bananas. Do I say something to her? Do I clue her in that her children should be nicknamed "BratSpawn?" (If I did say something, I probably would come up with something more polite than "BratSpawn", but it has a nice ring to it, don't you think?) Or do I just correct the kids myself whenever they send my 3 year old to me in tears because they refuse to let him on the steps of the pool for whatever evil reason they have come up with at the time? We still go to the pool, and we sort of just ignore those kids or avoid them when we can. But when Jacob gets up into one of their faces and shoots him in the eye with his watergun, you won't hear me complaining.
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Funny Post

Amy Lynn over at Unlimited Tater Tots has a great post on swimsuit shopping. Perfect for the summer season! Happy reading.
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Another Civil War Woman

(I know these posts don't actually generate a huge amount of comments, something every good psychotic blogger hopes for, but I do find facts about women in history interesting, and these things I'm learning were not in any Civics class I took. So I hope that even though we are not talking about poop, you will still read and enjoy. At the very least you can think, "Gee whiz, I'm glad that wasn't me!" Ok, disclaimer is over.) Jacob and I went out to the Manassas Battlefield today. He was whining and rubbing his eyes, tripping all over himself, and finding trivial things like stale Saltine crackers seriously offensive, so I loaded him up in the car to get him to fall asleep. He hates just to "go on a drive", as he knows that means, "Take a nap", so he always demands a destination. I vaguely told him, "Manassas. It's a battlefield," mainly just to shut him up. We have to travel mostly by freeway towards Manassas, so I figured 10 minutes on the freeway, he'd be out, and I could turn around and go home and blog. Well, the little booger stayed awake the ENTIRE 40 minute drive, so once we got there I thought, "Hmm. We're here. Might as well get out and wear this crazy child out." We did, and we actually had a great time. Jacob was completely enthralled with the cannons on the battlefield, as well as the miniature replicas in the museum shop. We ran around in the heat for an hour or so, he got a miniature Abraham Lincoln from the gift shop, (which, for some inexplicable reason, he thinks is totally cool) and he fell asleep on the way home and is blissfully dreaming about soldiers as we speak (or blog, I guess is a better word!). But I learned about this woman, one Judith Henry, today. Her farm was on the land where the first Battle of Bull Run was fought, and her family was in the farmhouse when the fighting began. They fled from the house, and tried to take her with them, but she, being 92 years old, or something like that, refused to leave her home. As one might expect, she did not survive the battle. Her home was occupied by sharp shooters (I can't remember if they were Confederate or Union), and she was killed by a bullet shot into the house, one intended for the soldiers. But what interested me most is that she is buried on the battlefield itself, in a small cemetary surrounded by a small gate. I don't know how many men died at both the First and the Second Battles of Bull Run, but no graves mark the battlefield for any man. A makeshift monument built from brick and Parrot Rifle shells, yes. A huge, austentatious statue of Stonewall Jackson, yes (we are in Virginia, after all!). But no graves, except for that of Judith Henry and her family. A woman remembered when the men who died on her farm are not.
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Wife or Mother?

Even before I was married or became a mother, I believed that the ideal home was the parentcentric one. In other words, the Mom and Dad put each other first and the children second. That as unmaternal as it sounds, it's actually in every family member's interest to have a stable happy marraige at the center of the home. Husband and wife have a relationship that will go beyond raising their children and children learn that they are not the center of the universe, but feel loved and secure by seeing the love their parents have for each other and for them.

Now that I am married and a mother I still believe that, but have lately been thinking about that ideal, my reality, and well -- the chasm in between. That's not to say I don't have a stable and happy marraige -- I do, but do I really put him first? What does it even mean to put my husband first? As a SAHM I spend WAY more time with my children than I do my husband. When we're having a conversation and the baby cries -- the baby gets me. When dinnter-time comes around on one of those out-of-control hectic days or it's- so-dang-hot-because-we-have-a-swamp-cooler-and-it's-103-degrees-and-it's-so-not-cutting-it, I make some top ramen or mac & cheese for the kids and tell hubby it's DYOT (do your own thing) night.

Some of my favorite interactions with my spouse have been those shared moments of parental pride, or joy in our kids' successes, or sadness in their pain -- because after all they are ours. We created them together, we raise them and love them together, but is that enough? I am not despairing, I am happy and in love and see a bright future for us. I look forward to the various stages along our journey to eternity, but for right now as a SAHM mom with three young kids, will someone please tell me who in the heck has time to put hubby first? :)

Seriously, do you think we should put our husbands first? If not, why? If so, how?
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A Normal Mother

I was talking to a friend the other day who has a marriage that is, to put it mildly, difficult. There are a lot of issues going on in the relationship, not the least of which is that his wife has been physically ill for some time. It's not the kind of illness that puts you in the hospital for long periods of time (although she has been hospitalized recently), but just a combination of problems that make her feel basically crappy all the time. The result, he said, is that he feels strongly that his daughter, now 5, has never had a "normal" mother. So, I've been thinking a lot about that conversation, and what it means to be a "normal" mother, and provide a "normal" childhood for my son. Are there certain aspects of a relationship with a mother that one should be able to point to and say, "There. That's normal. Every kid should get at least that"? Does the same thing apply to childhood? My childhood was filled with memories of playing games with my siblings, riding my bike, taking long, long drives in the car from California to Utah every year, and reading the Chronicles of Narnia with my mother, perched on her enormous king-sized bed with my 2 sisters. Are these things normal? I'd like to think they are. But since talking to this friend, I find myself doublechecking the things that I do as a mother, and the experiences I'm providing for my son. Yesterday I let him run barefoot to the pool. I found myself asking, "Would a normal mother do this?" I let him run around naked at home after swimming to help dry him off before I put dry clothes on him. I got a little short with him when he started whining at me. I let him eat popcorn on the carpet while watching a video. Do other mothers do this? I guess that's really the question I should be asking: How many other mothers are doing what I'm doing? If there is a large enough number of mothers screwing up the way I'm screwing up, well, then, it must be normal!
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Fun Limit

A whole day up at Pineview Dam was the perfect outing for our family when I was a kid. Some of my siblings were content to play on the beach for hours on end, while others of us loved flying over the murky weber water in the boat, and the bravest few (myself included once I got over my fear of sharks – yes, it was a man-made lake, but you just never know) took every opportunity to strap on a ski and brace ourselves against the freezing water to enjoy beating the heck out of our bodies as we sort of skipped along the top of the choppy water. There was something for everyone and all of us loved it. We’d be driving home from such an outing in one of those rare moments of collective and complete contentment when one of my more obtuse siblings would ask "Can we stop at Grandma and Grandpa’s?" My Mom or Dad would sigh and say, "We just spent the whole day at the Lake, we’ve had enough fun."

That is just one of many similar scenarios that played out time and time again. When we were a little older, my brother realized my parents had a firmly held moral conviction of a fun limit. It was an unwritten law that said "After four or more hours of doing something really fun there shall be NO expectations of anything for a 24 hour period. If one does have said expectations, one is an ingrate and a spoiled and ruined child. It is immoral to do nothing but play all day." We all used to laugh at their odd ways and misplaced sense of parental propriety.

Fast forward 20 years or so to last Saturday. My husband, three kids and I are driving home from our small town parade and carnival to put the little one down for a nap and get ready for a BBQ with friends in a few hours. My oldest daughter says, "Can we call Miss Julie and ask her if we can swim at her house?" My response was reflexive and immediate, "Anna, are you kidding me? We have just spent one hour at a parade where you got more candy than you did on Halloween, and then 3 more hours at a carnival where you got more junk and got to go on a bunch of rides and tonight we’re having several friends over for a party – we are Not doing anything else fun today!"

Horror of horrors -- the fun limit! Somewhere between puberty and childbearing this doctrine somehow seeped into my unconscious file of parenting values and I am now perpetuating it. How did this happen? I can’t believe it, but seriously – a parade, carnival and BBQ... enough is enough!

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Spiderman sheets

I am doing my best to raise a responsible, healthy, independent, overall productive member of society. In doing this, there seem to be some clear rules one has to follow in order to ensure the small child's overall mental and physical safety: Hold hands when you cross the street. Eat your vegetables. Don't smoke. (I haven't actually instated that rule yet, I'm just getting ready for it.) There also seem to be clear limitations that need to be set: Don't go past the bend in the road where Mommy can't see you when you are playing outside. Bedtime is before 9pm. We don't drink soda for breakfast, but you can have some after lunch. I try to protect him from scary movies, evil kidnappers, and mean neighborhood kids who swear a lot. These things appear to be quite basic, and easy to manage. But then there are rules that I get into my head that I enforce, and then wonder if I am really protecting him, or if even there is anything to protect him from. Today, for example, we went shopping for new bedding for Jacob's new big boy bed. I looked around for the kid's bedding section, because c'mon, he's 3, he should have some cute sheets. But then when we got to that aisle, we were bombarded by commercialism. Jacob suddenly decided he couldn't possibly go on living if he didn't have a Spiderman sheet set, complete with Spiderman throw pillow. I battled it out, and refused to buy the sheets for him, instead settling on some cute Safari animal print ones. He was furious. We left the store with him in tears and me triumphant. I had held my ground against a 3 year old, something good mothers can do. But then I started thinking about what I had battled about--superhero bedding. For some reason, the animal sheets I bought that were only 3 dollars less than the Spiderman ones seemed more virtuous, although I couldn't tell you why. I probably would have been better off just buying the cheap white ones that were only $10 and could be bleached in the event of the inevitable bodily goo that will get on this child's sheets. What on earth was I protecting him from? Bad, evil commercialism? He has Batman and Spiderman toys, why do superhero sheets seem like something intolerable? I couldn't figure it out, so now I'm blogging about it. I think this is something else about motherhood that I struggle with, where I wonder if the particular battles I fight are worth fighting, and if the negative long term consequences I imagine are really just that-imagined consequences. But then I think about all the things I'm not foreseeing, how I'm screwing my son up without even knowing it, and I get all stressed and confused. I just wish that I could have a little chart that says: Batman and drugs=bad. Safari animals and Buffy the Vampire Slayer= good. Ok, all right, probably Buffy belongs in the other category, but you can't blame me for trying, right?
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Unusual endurance

I was out of town for July 4th, and attended a relative's ward the Sunday immediately prior to the holiday. It's always interesting to be in a different ward, both to see how things are the same, and how they are different. This particular Sunday was, of course, Fast and Testimony meeting, and there were, of course, lots of references to the sacrifices that had been made by those who went before us. Lots of tearful women talked about how grateful they were for those people who had fought for our freedom, and how wonderful it was that the gospel could come forth in a land where religious freedom flourished. And more than one said something like, "I'm sure I couldn't have gone through what my ancestors did. I know I was saved for these days because I wasn't strong enough to go through the trials they had to face." Ok. I'm all for being grateful for brave men who sacrificed their lives for what they believed in, and for honoring the incredible women who supported these men. But must we always insist that these women were stronger than we are? What is it about women that makes us devalue ourselves, and underestimate our own strength? I just don't like it when women talk like that. It makes me feel like they either really think they themselves are weak, or think they are being humble by deliberately undermining their own potential power. Both options just bug me. I recently started reading the book "My Antonia", by Willa Cather. I'm not very far into it, but a few words have already struck me. One description I love is when the main character is describing his grandmother, and he calls her "a woman of unusual endurance." What a powerful description. I would love to be described like that, and when I think of the really cool women I know, I would definitely use that term to describe them. And no, none of them have walked across the plains, or had to send their husbands off on 3 year missions, or anything that we think of about the trials of the early Saints. But they face their own trials and life with strength and optimism, and I am sure that they could accomplish anything that the Lord would ask of them, no matter what it involved. And hey, I just traveled across the country with a 3 year old, and our flight back here to DC left at 5:30am. Yes people, that meant that I had to wake my sleeping child at 3am and make him travel for over 12 hours. Seriously, if dealing with that without completely flipping out isn't unusual endurance, I don't know what is. (Ok, I did lose it just a little bit after I had been awake for about 24 hours, but I didn't have a single Diet Coke the WHOLE plane ride, so cut me some slack people!)
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Welcome Gootchie!

We would just like to extend a welcome to our newest Permablogger, Gootchie. She's a new mom, a good friend of mine, as well as a good friend of The Wiz, and we love her to death. We are thrilled to have her join our team, and we hope to be hearing lots of her amazing thoughts on motherhood. I will let her do her own introductionary post, or whatever she wants to do. Hooray for new moms, and new bloggers!
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Guest Post--Mom needs some advice

This is an anonymous guest post from a mom who is worried and would like some advice on a serious issue that is facing her family. Thanks in advance for your comments and help. I just returned from the Pediatrician and am feeling a bit weighed down. I have an almost 7-yr. old daughter who is bright and loving and wonderful. She has certain traits which can be traced back to right after she was born that are getting more pronounced as she gets older. Mostly she gets more delightful, but we have for about a year or so had a growing concern. Here are the behaviors that have worried us: Every night before bedtime she walks around the house and shuts all closet, bedroom, and bathroom doors. She will not get in bed without doing this. On school mornings when I would let her sleep in because she’d been up late the night before, I’d wake her and tell her to skip her chores and quickly get dressed and eat breakfast and we’d go. 10 minutes later I would find her in her room making her bed and tidying up and would get very upset if I forced her to leave it undone. After she goes to the bathroom she will often complain about still feeling wet and go back to the bathroom until she is satisfied that she is completely dry. She is ultra-sensitive to clothing. She hates pants or shorts with a button at the waist because they dig into her when she sits (she is not at all chubby – she’s quite small for her age). She hates denim or other stiff or itchy fabrics. I made her a satin nightgown (her preferred pajama fabric) but it had a seam in the front across her chest and she couldn’t stand it until I sewed a piece of satin fabric over the seam so it wasn’t "itchy" anymore. None of these things are really all that bad especially since they've come on gradually. The most frustrating one for me is the clothes issue, because she wears 2% of her wardrobe and is very difficult to shop for. Even so, it’s just inconvenient and frustrating at times, but what child isn’t at times? We could certainly deal with it all as it stands, but our concern is that if left unchecked, these issues will only get worse and new ones will arise the older she gets. We decided to seek the advice of our trusted Pediatrician. Our appointment was this afternoon, so in we went and I explained the above issues to him. He listened and asked questions and then began talking about the chemicals in her brain and the two medications available to someone her age: Prozac and Zoloft. What? Was I hearing correctly? I have a little Princess and Pea daughter who likes the doors shut, why are we talking anti-depressants? I don’t know why I was so shocked, I knew that it’s fairly common to prescribe those drugs for children with OCD, but is she really at that point and are those drugs really necessary? He went on to say that if she were his child, he would put her on Prozac for 5 or 6 months to help balance the chemicals in her brain and then slowly take her off and see if she could maintain that balance without the drugs. He said that often that is the case, but there may be times we would need them again, but that he didn’t think she would need them forever. I love and trust my Pediatrician and therefore felt free to express my concerns. #1 - Isn’t there anything that we can do through therapy to help free her of her obsessive/compulsive tendencies? He said in his opinion, there really wasn’t – that it comes down to the way her brain is wired which creates the perceptions that create these issues. #2 - I’ve heard that Prozac often sort of dulls the emotions and senses? He said that it’s a matter of finding the right dose. He would never be comfortable with that outcome and would be very diligent in communicating with us regarding her reactions and adjusting her dosage very carefully. He also reassured me that her particular condition would require a very low dose as opposed to depression/anxiety. He didn’t write the prescription, but told me to go home and talk to my husband (who was unable to be there) and call him with our decision. So there it is – the weight I’m feeling. She is not even 7 years old and the thought of giving her an anti-depressant is ... well.. depressing to me. I don’t want a her to be dependant on a drug her whole life, but I certainly don’t want her to be trapped by her obsessive/compulsive behavior for the rest of her life either. We have the utmost trust in and respect for our Pediatrician, but ultimately this decision is my husband’s and my responsibility. Neither one of us has struggled with depression or anxiety or used anti-depressants. We have family members who have and who have been greatly helped by medications, but we still feel very ignorant and sort of nervous about the whole psychological realm. We will consider this decision carefully and prayerfully and will ultimately do what we feel good about, but I am wondering if any of you have had experience in these matters and what you’ve learned and what you would do in our situation?
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The kind of mother I want to be

I was talking to an old friend last night, a woman I desperately needed to catch up with. She's got 3 great kids, and we were laughing about all of the crazy stuff that goes on when you are a mom. She started to get serious, though, about how she hoped that her mistakes wouldn't screw up her kids too much. I assured her that everybody makes mistakes, and that we all yell at our kids, spank them more than we should, lose it over insignificant things, etc. Then she said something that made me think. She said, "Just because we are all doing it doesn't mean it's right. It's so much easier to whine and complain with each other about what bad mothers we are than try to actually be the mothers that we want to be." I thought about what she said all night, and thought about this blog. It's true that I'm a lot better at complaining about being a mother and the hardships that come with it, than focusing on the positive and trying to realize what kind of mother I want to be. The problem, of course, is that once I start trying to figure out what kind of mother I want to be, Mormon Woman Stress Syndrom kicks in, and the stress of realizing exactly how big a failure I am becomes overwhelming, and something that started out as a positive exercise ends in tears about how I suck as a mother because I can't scrapbook. So I think I'm going to start out easy. I'm just going to focus on small things, one thing at a time, to become a better mother. I'm going to try to cut my kid some more slack when he's tired and hungry. I'm going to try and keep things in better persepective, and know that Pringles ground up into a fine powder onto my newly clean floor is not the end of the world, and just hope that the child had a great time seeing exactly how small he could pound those potato chips. I will try to think of the positive things I remember about my own mother, the things I liked, the things I wished she had done, and try to duplicate those things for my own family. And I'll be sure to take some time every day to appreciate the perfection that is my son, and to aim to just get to know him better while he still has patience for his mother. I think we can do it. I really think we can be the kind of mothers we want to be without getting overwhelmed at our own mistakes. The Savior can help with that, too. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a beach date with my son.
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Boys and Girls

Yesterday I babysat a friend's little girl. She's 4, and she and Jacob are friends at church. She came to Jacob's Superhero Party dressed as Violet (her mother MADE her a great costume, complete with boots), and Jacob has referred to her as "The Girl Who Came To My Party Dressed Up Like Violet" ever since. Since she was so enthusiastic about the party, he automatically assumes she likes the same things he does. He's wrong. During lunchtime, he kept getting in her face and saying things like, "Let's play lightsabers!" Friend: "No, I don't want to." Jacob: "Let's play 'Fight'!" Friend: "No, Jacob, I don't want to fight." Jacob: "Want to see my city of trains and blocks? Let's go!" Friend: "No, I just want to sit here and eat my watermelon." Jacob was frustrated at her lack of enthusiasm for his violent intentions, and showed it by pretending to shoot at her with his "lightsaber" (a stick that he found in the woods that he insists is a lightsaber). She was not amused, and informed him more emphatically that she didn't want to play, that she just wanted to eat her watermelon! They finally settled on a rousing came of hide-n-seek. Later, we went to the pool, and I sat them down at a table, told them to sit still while I went and checked on something. When I got back, minutes later, the girl was sitting dutifully on the bench. Jacob was literally (I am not making this up) climbing the flagpole next to the bench. When he saw me, he let go and jumped down about 5 feet. He came up grinning. Those are just 2 examples of how the rest of our day went. The contrast between these two kids was just startling, and they're not that far apart in age. Is it a gender gap? Are all boys more violent and aggressive than girls, or is my kid just crazy? We'll be watching this little girl again, I'm sure. Maybe I'll tell her to being her lightsaber next time, just so she can defend herself against the beast!
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