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children

Be Prepared

May 15, 2018 By Nicole Kear Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: children, family, lesson, mother, sleep away camp, Summer camp, worrying

 

I never went to sleepaway camp as a child. I never wanted to, really, and it certainly wasn’t the sort of thing my over-protective mother would have suggested. She wouldn’t even let my sisters take candy from strangers on Halloween, opting instead to drive us to pre-arranged trick-or-treating sites, where we could trust the Kit-Kats were razor-blade-free. My mother was what is now called a helicopter parent, though that would be an understatement, I think, for her style of watchful parenting.  

I always thought she went way overboard with her constant worrying.  Then I had children. And I still thought it was pretty overboard. And then I sent those children to sleepaway camp. 

It was the packing list that activated my anxiety. Not so much what was on the list, but what wasn’t. 

“I thought the list would be longer,” I told my husband David, handing over the single–sided sheet. “Can this really be all a ten-year-old needs? For two weeks? In the woods?”

Woods make me nervous. This is mainly because I’m a city girl, but the fairytales I read as a child didn’t help. In fairytales, nothing good every happens in the woods. When kids enter the woods, witches try to eat them and wolves try to eat them and huntsman try to rip their hearts out of their chests. 

“Everything she needs is on there,” said David, a veteran sleepaway camper and former Boy Scout. Despite his experience, I didn’t find this reassuring. He doesn’t really subscribe to the Boy Scout motto, “Be prepared!” He’s a classic under-packer and the few times we’ve hiked, he’s refused to carry bear spray, and only begrudgingly consented to a bear whistle. 

So I decided to trust my instincts and use the camp’s packing list as a first draft, a rough outline on which to build. I wanted to benefit from the experience of other parents so I posted on Facebook, soliciting suggestions of items to add. 

“A bathrobe,” one friend wrote. “So she doesn’t have to walk from the bathrooms to her cabin in a towel.” 

“Flip flops, for the gross showers,” wrote another.

I read these to my husband, with satisfaction. 

“See? This stuff didn’t even occur to us!” I told him. “And we don’t want her walking around in a towel, for God’s sake. In the woods.”

“So pack her a bathrobe.” 

“Of course I’m packing her a bathrobe,” I said. “The point is, we almost overlooked all this stuff.”

“And she would have been fine,” he grumbled.

“And she would have gotten Athlete’s Foot.”

Another friend responded to my post, advising that I treat my daughter’s clothes with permethrin. When I, ignorant, asked what this was, she explained it was a tick repellant. 

Ticks. 

Ticks.

I’d been so busy worrying about bears that I’d forgotten about ticks. Lyme-disease-carrying poppy-seed-sized ticks. What else, I wondered, was I forgetting about? 

I purchased a large vat of Permethrin, which ended up being a sandora’s Box. Where do you draw the line on what gets treated? Shirts and shorts, obviously. But what about pajamas? And sheets? And the now-indispensable bathrobe? 

I chatted with another mom who was also sending her daughter to sleepaway camp for the first time, and at first, this fellow feeling relaxed me.

.“The more you know, the more you worry,” she said. 

“It’s true,” I agreed. 

“Il’s like, I used to enjoy water parks,” she sighed.

“What’s wrong with water parks?”  

“Oh, just the pedophiles.” 

“WHAT PEDOPHILES?” I nearly screamed. 

“Oh, it’s just – you didn’t know that water parks are, like, the number one place to find pedophiles?”

“No,” I said. “I did not know that.” 

There was much I did not know. The awareness of how much was, to say the least, disquieting.

The more I worried, the more stuff I added to my packing list. I could not eradicate ticks, or far worse things, but I could pack stuff to repel them.  My list swelled. 

I packed three different kinds of flashlights, with extra batteries, because if the woods are menacing, imagine the woods in the dark. 

I packed a battery-opened fan to clip onto the bed because what if it was broiling hot at night and she couldn’t fall asleep and that led to insomnia which can really ruin your day, I thought at 2am. 

I packed a large pile of pre-addressed and pre-stamped enough envelopes.

“It couldn’t be easier for her to write to us now?” I showed David with pride. 

“You could write the letters for her,” he said.  

“I’m just worried she won’t communicate with us and we won’t know what’s going on.” 

“Oh I know what you’re worried about,” he said. “Trust me.” 

Drowning. 

Tick bites.

Homicidal maniac loose in the woods.  

Bullying. 

Bears. 

Social isolation.

Meningitis.

Nuclear warfare.

Getting lost in the woods. 

Insomnia. 

Homesickness. 

That she’d have so much fun, her life back at home would pale in comparison, and she’d forever chase the halcyon days of summer camp. 

My list grew. It needed staples.

Worrying is really very exhausting but what’s far more exhausting is worrying while pretending you are not – the which is critical, of course. Because you want your child to be unfettered and free and have a great time! And not give a passing thought to secondary drowning!  I thought, more than once, that it was lucky I’d been professionally trained as an actress. 

The monumentally time-consuming and expensive feat of procuring every item on my list was only matched in difficulty by the feat of fitting it all in the oversize duffel bag I had purchased. I was up past midnight on the night before she left, but I managed to make it work. Before I zipped it closed and handed it over to David, I had the idea to write little notes of love and encouragement and to tuck them into pairs of socks and shirts and bathrobe pockets. Then I went to bed and worried that those notes might be embarrassing and lead to public ridicule and potentially bullying, item number four on my list of Stuff to Worry About. But by then, the duffel bag had been lugged out to the car and was out of reach. 

I knew it would be a battle not to cry when we said goodbye, but it was a battle I waged fiercely, knowing she’d take her cue from me, and it was a battle I won. My eyes were dry as I waved brightly and walked, fast, out the screen door. 

What I didn’t know is that immediately after that, I’d start to feel relieved. I waited for the other shoe to drop but it didn’t. My worry was dialed way down from High to a Low Simmer, the kind you can ignore. What took its place was excitement about all the adventures my daughter would have. 

As we drove over the Brooklyn Bridge, almost back home, I said to David: “I’m actually feeling better.”

“Good,” he said. “I thought you would. You like to be prepared. Though you do tend to go way overboard.”

“But I let them go trick-or-treating!” I protested. “And I really never worry about razor blades in the Kit Kats.”

He nodded. “We all have to start somewhere.”

 

 

Nicole C. Kear is the author of The Fix-It Friends chapter book series for children, including the most recent titles, Three’s A Crowd and Eyes on the Prize. You can find more info at nicolekear.com.

Illustration by Heather Heckel

 

 

Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: children, family, lesson, mother, sleep away camp, Summer camp, worrying

Selfish Dreams

December 6, 2017 By Ambika Samarthya-Howard Filed Under: Park Slope Life Tagged With: career, children, dreams, family, life, mother, motherhood

There’s pivotal moment in every mom’s life after the birth or adoption of her child when she decides she has the space, desire, and need for self-care. This can come in the form of returning to the book by the bedside that’s been there since 36 weeks, or returning to her favorite yoga class.  Unfortunately, for working moms, this moment sometimes comes later, and for me, it came a year after my child was born and I went on my first retreat. From there, I was inspired to head back (reluctantly) to the gym.  And that’s where I met Natasha Forrest.

I think there’s a Natasha in many of our lives.  She’s the woman you randomly meet in the library or bar who is just a kick-ass woman, and then you realize that not only is she a mom, but she’s also doing amazing and unconventional things in their career. Natasha is even more of an inspiration for me because she’s a single mom. Natasha was a full time accountant, with crazy hours, doing part time fitness training on the side, when she was let go from her job during a company lay-off.  Her son was one at the time (he’s now five), and she decided she actually liked her part time job more. She had the choice to find a new accountant job, or follow her dreams.

So she decided to go for it.

The irony of having a child is that is gives you a deep awareness of what truly matters to you, but the clarity it shows you is even harder to put into place because you now have another being completely dependent on you.  I left my ad agency job after I had Ananda to go back to writing and filming for social good. I have friends who left their jobs after having a kid to pursue their novel or graduate degree.  I realize this is a position of economic privilege – to be able to leave your stable job to pursue a risky alternative.  With Natasha the courage was even more profound because she is the primary caretaker. “Is it selfish? Of course it is. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. You have to look out for you. At the end of the day no one else is going to,” she said honestly.

It’s a way of being and speaking we are not comfortable with because of many of the parameters of guilt and shame often put onto moms. I myself am often overwhelmed by the guilt that comes with caring about something outside of my child. I feel it both as a social taboo and a biological pull.  Annabel Crabb once said: “The obligation for working moms is a very precise one: the feeling that one ought to work as if one did not have children, while raising one’s children as if one didn’t have a job.”

It’s even more audacious for moms who love their job and pursue dreams, because they love what they do, and want to do more of it. I asked Natasha how she copes with the guilt, and she responded that following what she loves actually enables her more flexibility to be with her son. “I set my own hours, I don’t stay up all night stressed out with work.”

I found myself making similar adjustments when I took on the lead communications role at a global NGO based in South Africa. I start working as soon as I wake up at 6am on most days, to make sure I can pick up Ananda by mid-afternoon.  My job involves deadline pressures, conference presentations, and frequent travel – all of which sit with my personality quite easily. But I still catch myself justifying my career: whenever someone asks “wow, how do you balance all the hours” or “don’t you miss your son when you’re away?” I immediately explain how the job allows me flexibility to be on his schedule so I still spend half the day with him.

What’s shocking is how much I’ve internalized this, to the point that when someone says “sounds like the perfect job for you”, I still respond with the script of “but I do it cause I can make the hours work”. When did following our own dreams feel like such a guilty pleasure?

Motherhood and careers hardly feels a balance – it feels more like an avalanche. Natasha has worked hard the last four years, getting training certificates, putting in extra hours, all while managing drop offs and pick-ups. She’s had a series of promotions – and an insanely toned body – to show for it.  She also has a wonderful, active son.  The worst thing about giving your all to your career and your family is that you’re exhausted. “When I’ve been training all day, I’m tired at 9 and can’t play soccer with my son,” she confides.

Ironically, listening to Natasha’s long-term commitment to herself and family gave me the strength to pursue my last selfish goal: to get back to working out regularly.  I’ve started to see exhaustion as not a reason to not do something, but as part of the journey.

It’s always about trade-offs. But it’s also about being happy. And when a mom is happy, often her children and families are too. Natasha may be an ambitious personal trainer and single mom but she’s one happy woman, and I can imagine her son is better off for it. “I still sometimes ask myself when I’m going to get a real job,” she jokes. Then she turns and asks me to give her another set of mountain climbers.

Filed Under: Park Slope Life Tagged With: career, children, dreams, family, life, mother, motherhood

ONE BAD APPLE

October 18, 2017 By Nicole Kear Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: apple, children, family, love, people, relationships, story

You know when you share something you love with someone you love only to find they don’t love it the way you do? Or, even, at all? I’ve been on the receiving end of this equation frequently. It happens every time my 12 and 10-year old kids show me something on Youtube.

“Isn’t this hilarious?” they’ll ask, peering over at me expectantly.

“Uh huh,” I’ll reply, trying to simulate a smile. “Funny.”

But really I am thinking, “Is the damage done to my children’s brains from this onslaught of insipid garbage reparable?”

I love my kids but I do not always love what they love.  YouTube clips just aren’t my thing.

Recently, I was on the other end of this equation.

Recently, I took my grandmother apple picking.

Apple picking, to my mind, is far less objectionable than YouTube clips. In fact, it seems totally unobjectionable. What’s not to love about apple picking?

The orchard is beautiful. It smells good. You get all the benefits of nature, without having to get too dirty or exhausted, without incurring a lot of expense or doing much preparation. It’s Nature Lite, which is always my preference. And then, of course, there’s the apples. Who doesn’t love sinking their teeth through the taut skin of a perfectly tart Mutsu, newly plucked from its branch?

My grandmother, as it turns out.

It’s not that my grandmother doesn’t enjoy chomping into a nice Mutsu. She’d just prefer it if the Mutsu was eaten first.

My grandmother, Nonny, lived through World War ii, in Italy. This experience has made her averse to several things, not the least of which is wastefulness. It’s one of her defining characteristics — that, her obsessive cleanliness and her addiction to Dr. Phil.

Instead of the ubiquitous parental refrain, “Children in Africa are starving!” in my house, when you didn’t finish your food, you heard, “During the war, we woulda killed for dis rotten tomato!”

My grandmother eats leftovers, exclusively. Consequently, she doesn’t eat meals with us. She waits until we leave, takes stock of her leftovers and feasts on rejects. I can’t be sure because I’m not privy to this part, but I believe that in addition to her enjoyment of the food, there’s an added sense of purpose she feels, not unlike a solider in combat. She is, in a way, a soldier, waging a one-woman war against waste.

I didn’t forget this about Nonny when I invited her apple picking. It’s not something you can forget. It’s like forgetting that Dora’s an explorer or that dogs have fur.

What I’d forgotten is that apple picking is pretty much an exercise in waste.

It was mid-October, and we piled into the car early, positioning Nonny in the backseat with the kids. This is the only seat she will accept, Within an hour and a half, we were pulling through the orchard gate. Spirits were high, though – it’s worth noting – not infection. t

“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked Nonny.

“Sure,” she said shrugging. She did not look displeased, which, sometimes, is the best you can hope for with grandmothers.

We decided our plan of attack while looking for a parking space.  First, Mutsu, if there were any left. Then Empires, Macintoshes and Red Delicious, for my husband. I find Red Delicious apples pedestrian but permissible. Jonagolds, or any other variety of Golden Delicious apples, on the other hand, is where I draw the line. I’d rather eat a pear.

My kids bounded out of the car and sprung into Turbo Picking mode while I helped Nonny out of the backseat.

“Be careful!” I warned Nonny as she stepped out. “The ground is covered in apples – it’s slippery.”

She looked down to the carpet of rotting apples underfoot, so many apples it looked more like a monochromatic ball pit than a grassy knoll. She gasped audibly.

“Whadda heck is dis?”

“Oh, it’s always like that,” I reassured her. “The apples fall and they rot or whatever.”

My 10-year-old daughter had, by then, already yanked an apple, taken a bite and was hurling it as far as she could over our heads.

“This tree’s no good!” my daughter announced. “Keep moving.”

“Whaddaya doin’?” Nonny shrieked. “You take-a one bite and trow it away?”

“No, No, Nonny, it’s okay,” I clarified. “That’s what you do. You taste the apples, but you don’t eat the whole thing.”

I’ve always enjoyed this part of the picking, because it makes me feel like Ramona Quimby, when she hid in her basement and took one bite out of all those apples. The first bite is the best. You can’t argue with that.

By the time I’d finished explaining the apple tasting system to Nonny, my daughter had already tasted, and discarded, a handful more apples. With every apple abandoned, my grandmother grew more apoplectic, Apple-plectic, if you will.

“Gimme da apples!” she ordered. “I gonna finish dem.”

So we did. We’d take a bite then pass them to Nonny. She ate as fast as she could. But there were many of us and only one of her. Soon, her hands were full of once-bitten apples. Soon, she started to look a little nauseous.

“Stop eating all the apples,” I warned her. “You’re going to get sick.”

“You wanna me to waste all de apples? Come on!” she said, her voice full of disgust.

Several times, I caught her picking apples up off the ground and polishing them on her shirt.

“Nothin’a da matta wit dis one!” she protested.

The kids were happy.

David and I were happy.

Nonny, not so much.

“Nonny, isn’t this fun?” I asked.

“Okay,” she replied, not able to mask the pained expression on her face.

We ate our picnic lunch — cold cuts piled on Italian bread. When asked what kind of sandwich she’d like, my grandmother replied, “Gimme what nobody else wants.”

After a few hours, we loaded everyone in the car, and heaved the massive, bulging bag of apples into the trunk.

“So, what’d you think?” I asked Nonny, turning around to face her.

“Very nice,” she said, but any fool could see it had been a trial. She doesn’t simulate smiles. It’s the prerogative of the over-80 crowd.

“And look at all the apples we got!” I continued, not one to give up easy.

“Please!” she protested. “No more apples! I neva wanna see anotha apple as long as I live!”

Not only had Nonny not enjoyed our excursion but, I realized, it was entirely possible that I had ruined apples for her, forever.

From now on, the only place I’m taking Nonny apple picking is the supermarket.

 

Nicole C. Kear is the author of THE FIX-IT FRIENDS (Macmillan Kids), a chapter book series for children. You can find books 1 through 4 in bookstores now, and more info on FixItFriendsBooks.com.

 

 

Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: apple, children, family, love, people, relationships, story

The Perfect Party

November 9, 2016 By Nicole Kear Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: birthday, childhood, children, Halloween, holidays, parenting, Park Slope, party

Madonna dance-off. Limbo contest. Cannoli cream cake. 

Year after year of my childhood, that was the formula for my birthday party, which took place in the basement of my Staten Island home. It was a three-prong party plan that worked. Well, four prongs, really. Just before the cake was served, came the Chaplin-esque birthday cake pratfall, courtesy of my father. He’d walk down the stairs to the basement, carefully holding the cake box aloft, only to stumble at the bottom, throwing himself down the last few steps and tossing the box extravagantly into the air. The crowd would gasp, and he’d jump to his feet, open the box and reveal that IT WAS EMPTY! Ha! Ha HA! No need to worry, the cannoli cream cake was intact, upstairs.

So:

Madonna dance-off.
Limbo contest.
Father pratfall.
Cannoli cream cake.

After the age of 11, I could have done without the pratfall, but generally speaking, it was a good party. The formula worked. I am reminded of this as I enter the winter, also known as Kear Family Birthday Season. Three kids. Three birthdays. Lots of headaches.

I’m not the sort of parent prone to observing wistfully, “Things were so much simpler when we were kids.” First of all, of course things were simpler. We were kids.  Really, though, I’m just not terribly interested in adjudicating which time period was better/ easier/ simpler/ less stressful. The circumstances of our lives and our world are too fluid to make it a satisfying enterprise. Besides, since I’m not the proud owner of a time machine, there’s not much I can do about it anyway.

If I were that sort, though, I’d definitely observe that birthday celebrations were simpler when I was a kid. Of course, it might just be that birthday celebrations were, and are, simpler when you inhabit a living space in which more than 260 square feet is allocated to each family member (yes, I’ve done the math).

We just don’t have the space to host a birthday celebration at home. This is the party line.
It is part true and part me playing the NYC No Space Card.
“No space” is the golden excuse that comes free with your exorbitant rent in New York City.  I’d say it’s one of the hidden perks except that I think it’s the only one. Regardless, it’s a goody.
Unwanted house guest angling to crash at your place?
“I wish we could but we just don’t have the space.”
Your spouse planning to purchase some hideous piece of furniture on the level of When Harry Met Sally’s wagon wheel:
“I wish we could but we just don’t have the space.”
Your child begging for a dog, or a baby brother:
“I wish we could but we just don’t have the space.”
The No Space card is so valuable it almost makes up for not having any space.

But the truth is, even if I had all the space in the world, even if I lived in Staten Island, I would try to get out of hosting a kid party. Because of the cleaning.

It’s not that I’m against cleaning. For an adult cocktail party, I’d happily scour my bathroom like Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest. But tirelessly cleaning my apartment, top to bottom, only to have a horde of children obliterate it again, within minutes, has always seemed to me a task that only a dupe like Sisyphus would take on. The pointlessness demoralizes me.

For these compelling reasons, I’ve avoided hosting parties at our apartment for over a decade. This would have been impossible financially – since paying for a kiddie birthday party in Park Slope costs what weddings do in other parts of the country – except that my grandmother’s apartment building happens to have a party room.

The party room is the hero of this tale. The party room, spacious and clean and practically free, has made it possible to celebrate my children’s birthdays …  not to mention baptisms, first holy communions, Halloweens and whatever random holidays they’ve had a hankering to observe.

We’ve thrown so many birthday parties at the old party room that my husband, the kids and I are nothing short of a well-oiled party machine. We can set up a party in a tight fifteen minutes if need be.

My husband does streamers. It has taken him years to perfect his streaming technique, and to describe it would be to reveal trade secrets I am not at liberty to disclose. Let’s just say his moves are as intricate as a Simone Biles floor routine: double stranding and full twists and three-point-anchoring. It’s not for novices.

The kids are on balloons. Thankfully, they’ve spent their whole lives training their lungs for the task. At least, that’s what I surmise all the yelling was for.

I set up the folding tables with juice and snacks and paper products. I hang up the charming homemade birthday signs. I spread age-appropriate art supplies and activities in key locations around the room.

Then David turns on the music and the party is on.

We’ve perfected the party the way you nail down anything, through trial and error

PInata?

No, oh no, never again.

Karaoke machine?

Yes, indeed, well worth the investment.

Finding the right number of guests has involved a learning curve, too. Instructive, indeed, was the year I let my daughter invite everyone her heart desired and everybody came, creating a level of mayhem not witnessed since the sinking of the Titanic. She ended up hiding under the table, in tears.

Then, only a month later, there was the party for my other daughter, in which we catapulted to the other end of the guest list spectrum. So eager was I not to repeat my over-inviting mistake, that I severely under-invited kids. That’s not exactly accurate. I invited all the kids in her day care class. I just intentionally threw the party at a time when I knew no one would be able to come. It worked. Only two guests made it. The three toddlers ended up overwhelmed in the large room and I couldn’t handle the strain of having to make conversation with the two parents in attendance. My daughter ended up under the table, in tears. I felt like joining her.

Of course, no sooner did we stumble upon the perfect party formula then the kids outgrew it. Now that my older kids are tweens, it’s all about the sleepover birthday party. And sleepovers, I have found, can’t be shot on location. They are not an away game. You can’t outsource sleepovers. You have to have sleepovers at your house.

I have tried to play the No Space card, but my kids are old enough now to play their own cards. The Guilt cards. The Childhood-Is-So-Fleeting-And-Before-You-Know-It-You’ll-Wish-We-Were-Still-Taking-Up-More-Than-Our-Allotted-260-Square Feet Card.

I’ve got nothing that can trump that one.

And so we begin a whole new trial and error process. Which, I guess, Is parenting in a nutshell.

Nicole C. Kear is the author of the memoir Now I See You (St. Martin’s Press, 2014). Her chapter book series for children, The Fix-It Friends, will be published by Macmillan Kids’ Imprint in spring 2017.

Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: birthday, childhood, children, Halloween, holidays, parenting, Park Slope, party

We Stoop

September 6, 2016 By Rachael Olmi Filed Under: A Thousand Words Tagged With: Brooklyn, brownstone, children, culture, family, photography, stoop, summer

IMG_4757

IMG_4803

Water

Tree

stoop.

noun. steps in front of a house or other building.

verb. to bend one’s head or body forward and downward. to lower one’s moral standards so far as to do something reprehensible.

actually, scratch
that …

verb. to gather and visit and play and hang out on the stoops of our buildings..

in brooklyn we have redefined the verb

to stoop.

we have turned it into an utmost positive.

an act of happiness and joy, filled with laughter.

we stoop..

our children are raised playing on the stoops, in the front yards.

we gather on our stoops to chat.

we stoop.

stooping … it is not a lowering, there is nothing reprehensible about it.

in fact, it is the exact opposite of those things …

we gather on our stoops, to stoop, to visit and to watch our children play and laugh with each other …

to lift each other up.

we stoop.

Filed Under: A Thousand Words Tagged With: Brooklyn, brownstone, children, culture, family, photography, stoop, summer

THE MOTHER’S DAY MINDFIELD

May 9, 2016 By Nicole Kear Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: advice, Brooklyn, children, dispatches, humor, Kids yoga, lifestyle, Mother’s Day, parenting, raising children

In my first few years as a mother, I totally fell for the Mother’s Day hype. It’s very name, and the Kay jewelers commercials that run constantly, led one to believe that it’s a day in which those who constantly cater to the needs of others finally have their needs catered to, the one day among the other 364 in which mothers are given their due, honored for the terrific martyrs they are.

Awesome idea. Stellar. Too bad it’s a load of malarkey. I should clarify here that I’m a holiday person. I make homemade costumes for Halloween and throw elaborate themed birthday parties for my kids. I hurtle myself headlong into Christmas, like a moony teenager falling in love for the first time. Once, when my kids and I boarded a bus only to discover the meter was broken and no fare required, I declared it “Free Bus Day” and we sang jubilant songs on the theme, on and off all day.

I like celebrations. And I especially like celebrations in which the person being celebrated is me.

I respect, but do not understood, folks who try to ignore their birthdays, people who forbid their spouses and co-workers to make a big deal. David, my husband, is one such person, and it caused some arguments in our early years together.

[pullquote]

I’VE RECONCILED MYSELF TO THE FACT THAT I WILL NEVER GET A WHOLE DAY OF HUGS AND KISSES AND GRATITUDE.  BUT I CAN GET FIVE TO TEN MINUTES. 

[/pullquote]He has a particularly strong aversion to surprise parties, which I discovered when I threw him one for his twenty-third birthday in our living room. I convinced him to take a nap, and while he was sleeping, I hung streamers, sneaked out the German Chocolate Cake I’d spent two hours baking according to his mother’s recipe, and ushered in the guests. When everything was ready, I woke him from a dead sleep by crying: “The kitchen sink! It’s flooding! Come quick!” Still half asleep, he stumbled into the living room in his boxers and T-shirt and when everyone yelled “Surprise!” he about-faced with nary a word and marched right back into the bedroom.

Looking back, my surprise party plan was not as well-conceived as I’d thought. I nailed the surprise part—the party part, not so much.

Of course, in marriages we give our partners what we want. I have been waiting patiently for several decades for someone to throw me a surprise party—for my birthday, Mother’s Day, International Women’s Day, even Free Bus Day, I’m not picky.

Sometimes, I wonder if maybe David has been planning a surprise party all this time, and he’s just playing a long game, so that I’ll be absolutely flabbergasted when it happens. It’ll be Mother’s Day in my seventy-sixth year of life and David will contrive for me to play mah jong with my girlfriends (by that time, I will have started playing mah jong and calling my ladies “girlfriends”). But when I arrive, instead of being greeted just by Ethel and Martha and Frances (my friends’ names will age along with them), I’ll be greeted by a room packed full of friends, my children, my grandchildren, maybe even the barista of my favorite coffee joint, who’s always thought of me as a mother figure. The mayor might swing by for a minute, say a few words.

There will be not only a chocolate fountain but a prosecco fountain and a marble bust in the exact likeness of me. This will all be possible because one of my three kids will have become a billionaire, having invented the cure for the common cold. After everyone yells “Surprise!” David will turn to face me, leaning on his walker, and he will say: “All these years, you thought we were slacking off, but we were really planning this. Happy Mother’s Day “

And I will finally feel satisfied on Mother’s Day. I will finally feel adequately honored.

It is no surprise that on a recent Mother’s Day, David’s card to me read: “I love you. I hope you have a great day. Just manage your expectations.”

For my part, I think my needs are fairly simple. While I would certainly enjoy a ticker tape parade, I don’t expect one. All I want are heartfelt, homemade cards from each of my children, some kind of dessert with so many calories it’s illegal in some states, and the privilege of choosing the afternoon’s activity.

Of course, I can’t help but hope that, on this one day, my kids will tone down the bickering, or even eliminate it—for one day, how hard is that? I can’t help but dream that they might toss me a moment of gratitude, in the vein of, “Thank you for your joie de vivre and the priceless gift of hope”—that, and maybe pick up their dirty clothes off the bathroom floor.

I always tell my kids that “practice makes perfect—or at least, better” and this is true of Mother’s Day celebrations, as well. Over the past eleven years, David and I have gotten better at hopping around the Mother’s Day minefield, without detonating any explosives.

The primary lesson David had to learn was that it is his job to oversee the children’s card-making. This came as something of a surprise to him. It was a little like watching the sausages get made.

When the kids were in nursery school or Pre K, this was a non-issue because their teachers made the construction of such cards mandatory. Those cards were the best, the Rolls Royce of Mother’s Day cards. Quality materials, like heavy weight card stock and tempera paint, were used. Time was devoted to the enterprise. The cards were both funny and sweet, including phrases like: “Today, I wish for you a donkey!” and “I lov u mame beecaws u ar nis and pretee and giv me candee.”

But when the children were either too young for too old for nursery school, they fell into a dead zone of cardlessness. A two-year-old will not think to make a card for her mother. A six-year-old will think to do it but lack the follow-through to make it happen, hatching extraordinary plans and then getting distracted, permanently, by a stale gummy bear under the couch. Thus, there was one Mother’s Day early on in which I waited and waited for the official Presentation Of the Cards and alas, I waited in vain.

“Why didn’t you have the kids make cards for me?” I asked David.

“That’s their responsibility,” he countered.

Then I let forth a bitter laugh. An “Oh, to be as ignorant as you!” chuckle.

“Why do you think you get Father’s Day cards every year?” I asked. “I stand over them and make sure they do it. And not just a two-second scribble either. I make them go back and revise and give you the good stuff. Acrostics, Haikus. Drawings with verisimilitude.”

So David started overseeing card construction. He doesn’t have the natural ability of a Pre K teacher, and I’ve yet to receive a sonnet, but he gets the job done.

I’ve learned a thing or two myself. I’ve learned to lower my expectations. The lower, the better. If I could bring those expectations to street level, and then pulverize them underfoot, that would be ideal. As it stands, I’ve managed to get them from Sky High to about Fifteen Stories High, which isn’t half bad.

I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I will never get a whole day of hugs and kisses and gratitude. But I can get five to ten minutes. And the good news is, I don’t just have the chance for these moments on Mother’s Day. Because I’m a mother every day.

Much as I’d like to shout “Action!” and instantly call up Hallmark moments, these moments tend to happen spontaneously, sometimes at the most inconvenient times. I’ve noticed children get very lovey when it’s way past their bedtime or you’re in the middle of talking to someone else about something very important or when you really, really have to go to the bathroom. No matter when they occur, I try to savor the tender moments. I have a whole folder full of heart-melting, no-occasion notes from my kids, as well as drawings of me and them holding hands in a field of flowers and hugging in a room full of cats and smiling while standing next to Frankenstein (mysteriously, I am always wearing a pearl necklace, though I do not own one. Pearl necklace, I’ve learned is the signifier for “Mother”).

That’s to say nothing of the moments we share for which there is no paper trail. The early mornings when my three-year-old clambers into my bed and nuzzles in my shoulder. The bedtimes when my nine-year-old will curl up next to me as I read Little Women aloud. The sporadic, sudden hugs from my eleven-year-old who is so much taller than me that my head nearly rests on his shoulder now.

String these moments together and you get one hell of a Mother’s Day. n

Nicole C. Kear is the author of the memoir Now I See You (St. Martin’s, 2014), and the forthcoming chapter book series for kids, The Fix-It Friends (Imprint, 2017).

Filed Under: Dispatches From Babyville Tagged With: advice, Brooklyn, children, dispatches, humor, Kids yoga, lifestyle, Mother’s Day, parenting, raising children

Toddlers, Tantrums, and Tree Pose

January 28, 2016 By Jessica Phillips Lorenz Filed Under: Bending Towards Brooklyn (Yoga) Tagged With: children, Kids yoga, Park Slope, postnatal, prenatal, toddler yoga, yoga classes

Uh oh. We have a hitter. A shover to be precise. As soon as any of my other students get close to him, he turns his body square to face them, pauses, and then pushes them, sometimes to the ground. There are tears. Can you imagine this happening in an adult yoga class? Power Vinyasa yoga would take on a whole new meaning, eh?

But in my world of teaching yoga to toddlers, this is just part of business as usual. Because, sometimes, small children hit or push or pull hair or take something that doesn’t belong to them. Because they are toddlers! They are walking babies who may or may not be able to communicate their complex feelings and discoveries. There are countless developmental arguments to support the simple fact that very young children are learning how to be in the world. What better place to nurture the nebulous transition from being the center of the universe to part of a community than a yoga class?

Why yoga?

The benefits of yoga for tiny practitioners mirror the benefits for adults. Yoga cultivates a practice of meditative concentration or focus. I am easily distracted. It can be difficult for me to dig in and concentrate on something, like writing an article for the Park Slope Reader, say. My own yoga practice has helped me tremendously on this front. Little children are building up the mental muscle it takes to focus, too! And all the while the bright, new world beckons from all angles. Focusing is a skill and takes practice!

Brianna Klemm’s original objective for coming to a yoga class with her twenty-month-old son Casper was, “to get my toddler out of the house!” Over time, yoga became a big part of how Klemm understood her son; “Because of this class I know how quickly he can learn, I know how many of his body parts he can identify, I know he can follow instructions and pay attention. Class has been an amazing tool for learning about my kid.

Other benefits for toddlers include body awareness, reinforcing gross and fine-tune motor skills with playful activities, and learning how to balance. Most new walkers have an adorable wobbliness and, like older humans, tend to favor their dominant side. When we practice yoga with our tots, it becomes an even richer experience. Let’s model for our children how good it feels to move our bodies and hope this healthy habit lasts a lifetime. Oh. And it’s fun! Yoga can be a lot of fun. (Even if you hate real, grown up style yoga.)

So what does a toddler yoga class look like?

When most people think of yoga, they imagine a quiet, calm room, sitar music, and healthy people stretching their sweaty bodies in complicated ways. They may even imagine shivasana—the comfy copse-pose relaxation that happens at the end of class. Then, using some sort of mental photoshop, they replace the adults in their mental image with seventeen-month-olds and everything short circuits. A robot voice goes off inside their heads: Does not compute. Toddlers scream. Toddlers bang walls. Toddlers eat sand. Will not yoga. Repeat. Will not yoga.

Yoga is not a practice reserved only for strong, fit adults! For young children, yoga can be a way of exploring animals and shapes, overcoming obstacles, learning about their bodies, embodying dramatic play, balancing and stretching, and discovering what they didn’t know they could do.

Let’s get rid of that image of the relaxing, quiet yoga class, OK? This is different! Toddler yoga classes are typically lead as a ‘mommy & me’ partner style class. Every child has an adult to accompany them. Parents and caregivers are the key to having a great class. The more involved the parents are, the more both the child and the adult will get out of the experience.

Yoga Play Activities

So what do you do with new walkers through threes in a group yoga class, then? I believe that very young children do well with structured group activities. It gives them a sense of security to know what’s coming next.

Don’t worry that your little one needs to behave in a certain way. My job, as the instructor, is to help support that learning through safe, age appropriate, engagement. That’s it. Your little one may seriously not do a single thing I say—and I don’t expect them to. They may be taking in more than you think. There is a bit of leap of faith that my parents have to take.

Abstract thought is lost on most small children. That’s why I like to use lots of puppets and stuffed animals in my classes. Not only do the puppets represent a concrete image of the animals, they also help small children understand compassion and gentleness. I like to let students feed the puppets and give them kisses. Then it’s time to become the animal! In tot yoga the down dogs bark, frogs hop and say ribbit, and trees balance with their leaves blowing in the breeze.

Can’t make it to class? Here are a couple of games you can play at home.

I Went to the Farm and I Saw a…

This game is a playful way to organize some traditional yoga postures around a kid- friendly viewpoint. You can play at home by having a few varied stuffed animals at hand. Say, “ I went to the farm and I saw an…” and then pull a stuffed animal out from your pile. If your child is verbal, see if they can say the name of the animal. If not, tell them the name and then show them the yoga pose. This game can become very silly if you find an octopus at the farm! (Again, have fun with it.)

Poses and Pages

Reading a book to fifteen walking babies is a bit like being approached by tiny zombies. They just keep getting closer and closer and closer. Every time a new animal character is introduced in the book, we do a yoga pose associated with that animal. That means you, too, mom! Find a small open space at home, pick a couple of stories, and have at it. The stories will come to life as you embody the animals. This is a great way to share books with an active child who may have a harder time sitting still for an entire story.

Songs and Music

Music is a terrific way for a young yogi to access poses. Songs have had a big impact on Davina Wilner’s daughter Adelaide. Wilner writes, “It’s been fun to watch her language progression through yoga. She started off just repeating a few words from class, such as, “tree pose” and “down dog.” Now she likes to sing every single one of the songs she’s learned at class when we’re at home.”

When Adelaide broke her arm and had to spend hours in the ER in the middle of the night, “the only thing that would keep her calm was when I would sing the final song we sing at the end of yoga class, “My little light shines to your little light, Namaste.” I have never in my life been so thankful to know a song!

But what about “the shover”?

It’s important to remember that nobody is teaching their tot how to pull a barrette out of someone’s hair or push a kid over when they are off balance. That’s not real life. Being in a group with the same families each week gives us a chance to support one another. Incidents at the playground have a fleeting quality; it’s easy to vilify “the shover” and “the shover’s” parents there. As a parent, I love knowing that other people in my community care about my kids! It’s tough to be a human animal. I’d much rather kick up my heels in horse pose. Nay!


Jessica Phillips Lorenz teaches yoga to babies, tots, and families at Bend and Bloom in Park Slope on Fridays and Saturdays.

Filed Under: Bending Towards Brooklyn (Yoga) Tagged With: children, Kids yoga, Park Slope, postnatal, prenatal, toddler yoga, yoga classes

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