Entries Tagged 'Self-awarenes' ↓

Are you a parent of a boy? I am. But you probably know that already. Yes, I have been blessed with two healthy, wonderful boys. One brown eyed, thoughtful Star Wars loving kindergartner and one blonde, 40 lb two year old who bubbles over every emotion and sentiment he feels. Good kids. No, they really are. But after almost 6 years as a mom, I feel its time I share with you a certain phenomenon that occurs with boys. Maybe you are already familiar with it. And maybe it happens with girls too (I’m not sure though since I am only in the business of boys). But still. Something happens with boys. And if you don’t understand what its about, the order of your semi put together world will explode into a million lego pieces in the blink of one sweet, long lashed, little boy’s eye.

So yeah. Boys? They get crazy.

No, I mean it.

And I don’t think this kind of “crazy” is a bad thing really, its just some sort of natural occurrence that seems part of their make-up. Beneath the surface of every little boy, nestled within their gears and cogs and built in tendency to recreate bodily functions, there lies a significantly sized reservoir of craziness. And everyday, slowly but surely, it fills right up. And if you don’t get their shoes on, unlock the door and herd those boys right on out and into the light, the crazy will top up and spill out, leaving in its wake the remnants of your living room in unexpected, like a mac truck hit it, tore up shambles.

So everyday I make time and space for the crazy. Like two cute, smiley eyed pressure cookers, I make sure I tap it from both of them. Get that crazy out, OUT, I say. Whether its running in circles or screaming you can’t catch me and nanny nanny boo boos or riding bikes as fast as they can up and down the sidewalk or playing hide and seek at the playground – the result is the same. The crazies get tapped. We can return back inside. They can sit still in their seats. Consuming dinner quietly and carefully. Homework can get done. Peace in the land. The universe returns back into its previous state of (sorta, kinda, if you squint with one eye and don’t look at my kitchen floors) order.

And my boys are certainly self aware about it too.

“Mom, are we going to the park to get my crazies out?”

“You got it.”

“Ok.”

And they know. As soon as they get out of the car, they tear off: yelling, jumping, leaping, spinning, rolling, tagging, screaming, laughing until they finally jog back to me and rest their heads on my hip, almost as if to say “Thanks. I’m good now.”

And they are. My boys are good. And the crazies are good. Its just my job as mommy to know when they need out. Its just my job to know how to manage the wonderful physicality of boys which will eventually be focused into something (hopefully, please make it be) productive. But for now, let them leap. And for now, I’ll do what we can to make sure its just not off my couch.

*********

I wrote this post last night, sitting in my peaceful living room after having tucked my two exhausted boys in for the evening. I saved it as a draft and went to bed. This morning, I woke up to read the news on Twitter that a fellow blogger, Heather Spohr, had lost her daughter over night. I met Heather briefly at BlogHer last year and have followed her blog about her beautiful daughter Maddie ever since. Sure, I can’t say I am a personal friend. And yet this news has utterly broken my heart today. I simply can not imagine the horrible, breath-sucking, searingly painful void the loss of her daughter has left. As any mother does, I think about the quirky little wants and needs our kids have… gone. I think about the sounds they make… gone. Their smell. Their laugh. The weight of them. The light they shine into every crack of a room. Just gone.

And so, as I post today about the outrageous, excessive amount of life my children have, I want to leave you honoring the life that all of our children have. What beautiful, impossible to contain, joyous gifts they are.

Please send thoughts and prayers of peace and love to Heather and her family right now. While her blog has been overwhelmed by visitors and may not always load for you, please visit A Mom Two Boys for more information. And please consider donating to Maddie’s March of Dimes fund to honor her very short life. Thank you.

In the final week of Women’s History Month, I have decided to tackle a topic that has been on my mind for awhile. It is not so much a topic actually but rather an item of clothing. A few years back, my father returned from his time in Afghanistan with a gift. He brought his westernized, feminist, know it all daughter something extraordinary and like nothing I owned. He brought me a burqa. I want to share this burqa with you and try to respectfully encourage some awareness about the experience of wearing this article of clothing in a country very different from our own.

Truth be told, this is my second burqa. When I was a child, my father went to Afghanistan and brought me back a smaller burqa, one that actually fit on one of my Barbie’s perfectly. This burqa seemed part of another world, a piece of clothing I didn’t exactly understand but my Barbie wore from time to time while she went about her very important Barbie business.

While I was pregnant with my second child, my father brought me my second burqa. This time is was large enough for me to wear. I couldn‘t thank him enough, I was grateful to finally own one myself.

Why would that be?

First let me explain the burqa – or try to. The burka is worn by women in Afghanistan. Traditionally, it has been expected that women cover themselves entirely in a burqa whenever in public. It is said to be a matter of honor and one both men and women have upheld respectfully. And while this tradition has given way to western influences and fashion trends in recent years – perhaps with simple head coverings rather than a full length burqa – the Taliban do enforce the burka. In fact, in the eyes of the Taliban, it has meant a woman’s death if she doesn’t wear one in public. Regardless, enforced or not, women in provinces all over Afghanistan wear these coverings. (Please note that women cover themselves in many Islamic countries also, each garment having different names and social expectations.)

Are you a mother? If so, imagine yourself doing what you do: working, chasing down children, doing errands, cleaning, cooking, caring for your families entirely covered head to toe in a burka while in public. It is an awesome feat. Whether a cultural choice or not, I truly respect the women who wear them.

But you see this is all I understand about the burqa. I know what my father tells me and what I have read in books. So what do I really know or truly understand about its history or its meaning – positive or otherwise? I don’t. All that I do know now is what it feels like to wear one – and that has only been briefly.

(Oh yes, here I am. A privileged, American woman – annoyed when she has to wear a bra in public – and now I have a burqa and I want to see what its like. Groan. How condescending that sounds. But I don’t mean it that way. I am simply wanting to learn, to get it, to share this experience, if only for a moment.)

So I have tried on my burqa many times and here is what this western woman experienced. First of all, the burqa is hot. I guess they used to be made of more breathable cotton but newer ones are made with synthetic material so that they keep their color and their creases. And it is very hard to see through the burqa, but maybe I’m just not used to it. Also I initially thought my head was really big because the top of the burqa did not fit on my head well, it was constricting. After doing further research, I have learned this is typical for most women wearing one and it is not comfortable at all. And finally, its not at all easy to breathe in. There is no vent for the nose or mouth. I just can’t breathe in it for long. That’s why I always take it right off. I can’t breathe. I feel claustrophobic and closed in. So chasing children? Carrying food back from the store? I can’t imagine.

Now I am sure there are readers ready to discuss the matter of women’s repression in Afghanistan. And I am sure there are readers who feel offended by any lack of respect for the burqa and its place in Afghanistan tradition. While I certainly have my views, my post is not meant to judge the purpose behind the burqa. I am simply sharing the experience of a burqa, an experience many women have daily and I don’t. If you ever have the chance to try one on, please do if only to honor a woman’s lifestyle someplace far from our streets of Main Street, U.S.A.

And finally, a quick note. Do you know where I keep my burqa? It is kept in my closet, draped over the box which contains my carefully preserved wedding dress. It just seems fitting. After all, we too wear constricting garments which are expected of us. It’s just what women do here.

Cross posted at Type A Moms.

Sometimes I start into my day only to realize the world is out to get me. Before the sun has even begun to peak through the trees beyond our back ponds, I have got it alllll figured out – the universe has my backside in its cross hairs.

Oh, you think I’m over reacting? I’m not. This is real. This is war and apparently I am decidedly the axis of evil. Stay on my side, ok? Don’t turn against me too. We need to round up our forces. Let me repeat myself. The world is out to get me. Help.

Here’s what happens. When I wake up on those mornings, right away I know. Something isn’t quite right. As soon as they run out to the living room, my pajama clad children have upped their whines to decibels which call dogs for miles. I know their shtick. They probably have it all planned (you know, who would nag me about what and for how long) way before I get them out of bed. Oh and one of my boys has coincidentally sprouted a cold- green boogers flowing forth, awaiting my tissue. What – did he spend the entire day before licking shopping cart handles in preparation?

And then I arrive in the kitchen and the dishes are certainly dirtier than they were when I went to bed. What? Was my husband up late night dirtying extra plates just for fun? And no PRE-RINSE!?!?!!!!! No pre-rinse??? So now its all crusted FOREVER!!!!!! I’m speechless.

And what was that? The garbage men have come and gone a full hour before they normally do? Oh, right. Bloody typical. And then, while I try and make a hasty one slipper on, one slipper off mad dash out to the corner with the trash anyway, the whole thing dumps over. Someone over filled it, someone broke its wheel, someone wants to make me miserable.

Don’t you SEE whats going on here?

I know then and there, while my children pretend not to scheme behind my back over their bowls of cereal, its time to get my game face on. Oh yeah. I wasn’t born yesterday. I know when someone has pasted a “drive me frickin’ nuts today” sign on my back. I can hear the snickering from my children, my husband, the trash men. I know their game.

And then my husband emerges and my anger turns inward. He hasn’t even made eye contact. He hasn’t even said good morning. He hardly knows I exist.

I look like shit, don’t I?

That’s right. My husband doesn’t even think his own wife is attractive. What should I expect. Not like I even have time to look nice EVER. Not like we ever GO on any DATES or anything so why should I bother, right? I’m going to be 36 this year. I am merely the dried up, raisin husk of the woman he married 9 years go.

“Good morning.” He says. Pffft. If you say so. Don’t toy with me. There will be no response back, thank you very much.

Shoes are lost. Uniform shirts aren’t clean. SOMEONE forgot to tell me the yogurt drinks for packed lunches are out (what am I, a mind reader). The cat is clawing the priceless Afghan carpet (that my father brought home from Kabul, hand woven by a woman with nothing and here my cat CLAWS at it?!?!). And I am pretty sure it’s going to be overcast and cool today. (Hello? It’s Florida!? We don’t DO imperfect weather.)

And my husband thinks I am unattractive. I don’t get on the Wii Fit enough. I keep eating those damn Hershey’s kisses. What is it with the chocolate lately? And I am quite sure it was planted in my house to make me fat anyway.

Fine so then my husband and son leave for the day. Fine. Just leave me here. Alone with my tantruming two year old where we will be stuck in “same shit, different groundhog day” hell. In 10 minutes I am going to get hassled for a snack and “not that one, not that one either, NOOOOO not THAT one NOOOOOO!!!!!” In an hour I am going to be picking up what didn’t get in a potty. Awesome. And in 5 hours and 23 minutes, I will spend 56 minutes battling said child, wooing him to nap while he refuses to and immediately loses his mind because in actuality he needs that frickin nap like I need my sanity. Like I need those bloody Hershey’s kisses. (Guess whats for lunch.) So good-bye husband. Dessert me again. Go enjoy adults and conversation and quiet trips to the bathroom BY YOURSELF.

Oh and I need to write. That’s right. I need to find inspiration and get about five posts written. Because I need to bust my ass for a job that pays me chump change on a GOOD day. Right. So lets figure out what I’m going to write. Ok. While I sit here alone on groundhog day and get repeatedly whacked by a light saber. Sure. There are so many interesting things to write about that inspire me daily. WHACK. Yes, so many new and fascinating things which happen in my very own house  that I must write them ALL down. WHACK. I am simply brimming with inspiration. WHACK WHACK.

So finally, I give up. A shower is my only hope. A shower always helps. Assuming there is still hot water. Assuming the soap isn’t all out leaving me with an empty container in its place or my two year old doesn’t decide to pull the entire entertainment system down on top of himself right when I turn on the water because that could very well happen – he’s plotting it all right now I tell you, cackling evilly to himself.

So, however resigned, I wander into the bathroom. And there I see it. A blue plastic case, popped open and… empty but for the last week of placebo pills.

OH.

OOOOHHHHHH.

Oh.

So I am just…

Pimping My Sanity

Purely up in My own Shit

Periodically Mental, So what.

Whatever. Its time for lunch.